^=^2^n^<^n. : ^A.t/riJtJ /c-V ^.^'Mau^rna^. a/n^y/ne efAel t^yrcAUet7*'ui,M''22. \ 0% y ELEGANT EFISTLES / A COPIOUS COLLECTION OF FAMILIAR AND AMUSING LETTERS, SELECTED FOR THE IMPROVEMENT OF YOUNG PERSONS, AND FOR GENERAL ENTERTAINMENT, CICERO, POPE, LUXBOROUGH, RICHARDSON, PLINY, SWIFT, WEST, YOUNG, SYDNEY, ADDISON, STERNE, LADY M. W. MONTAGUE BACON, STEELE, CHATHAiM, ELIZABETH MONTAGU, RALEIGH, ARBUTHNOT, JOHNSON, SEWARD, HOWEL, GAY, LYTTLETON, WARBURTON, RUSSELL, ATTERBURY, CHESTERFIELD, HURD, CLARENDON, TILLOTSON, GIBBON. FOX, TEMPLE, SHENSTONE, COWPER, WALPOLE,. LOCKE, SOMERSET, BEATTIE, FRANKLIN, SHAFTESBURY, GRAY, JONES, AND OTHERS. Absentes adsunt. — Cic. A NEW EDITION, CORRECTED AND IMPROVED. LONDON: Printed for F. C. and J, Rivington ; J. Nunn ; J. Cuthell ; J. and W. T. Clarke ; T. Cadell ; J. Scatcherd ; Longman and Co.; Lackington and Co. ; Boosey and Sons ; J. and A. Arch; John Richardson ; J.M.Richardson; E. Coy; Newman and Co.; Lloyd and Son; J. Booker; S. Bagster; Harvey and Darton; Black, Kingsbury, and Co.; W. Baynes and Son; E.Williams; W. Stewart; J. Mawman ; H.T.Hodgson; J. Booth; Hatchard and Son; W. GiLger; R. Scholey; T. Tegg; Baldwin and Co.; Sherwood and Co.; Taylor and Hessey; J. Bohn ; R. Saunders; C. Brown; W.Mason; Ogle and Co.; T.Hamilton; J.Robinson; G. and W. B. WTiittaker; Edwards and Knibb; J. Collingwood; Cowie and Co.; Simpkin and Marshall; G. Mackie; T. Hughes; R. Hill ; J. Arnould; J. Hearne ; C. Taylor ; Wilson and Sons, York; and Stirling and Slade, Edinburgh. Frinted hy Charles Wood, Poppins Court, Fleet Street. 1822. rR Mc Library of Congross By tranefor from State Department. MAY 3 1 1327 P R E F A C E, The following Collection of Letters is a part of a design, which the Editor had formed, to select and publish, in large volumes, such compositions, both in verse and prose, as he judged might be useful to young persons, by conducing to their improvement in their own language, while they were cultivating an acquaintance with the ancients, and pursuing all other accomplishments of a liberal education. The first two parts of his plan, Elegant Extracts in Prose and Poetry, already published, and repeatedly printed, have been received with a degree of favour, which evinces that the preconceived idea of their utility has been amply con- firmed by the decisions of experience. Animated by their good reception, the Editor determined to proceed in his design, and to add, in a similar volume, a copious Collection of Letters. It occurred to him, that no literary exercise is in such constant request as Letter- writing. All are not to be Poets, Orators, or Historians ; but all, at least above the lowest rank, are to be sometimes Letter-writers. The daily intercourse of common life cannot be duly preserved without this mode of communication. That much pleasure, and much advantage, of various kinds, is derived from it, is obvious and incontestable. Every emergence furnishes occasion for it. It is necessary to friendship, and to love ; to interest, and to ambition. In every pureuit, and in every department of polished life, to write Letters is an indis- pensable requisite; and to write them well, a powerful recommendation. By epistolary correspondence the most important business, commercial, political, and private, is usually transacted. Who is there, who at some period of his life, finds it not of consequence to him to draw up an address with propriety, to narrate an event, to describe a character faithfully, or to write letters of compliment, condolence, or congratulation ? Many natives of this country spend their youth in foreign climes. How greatly does it contribute to raise their characters at home, when they are able to write correct and judicious letters to their relations, their friends, their patrons, and their employers ? A clear, a discreet, and an elegant letter, establishes their character in their native country, while perhaps their persons are at the distance of the antipodes, raises esteem among all who read it, and often lays a foundation for future emi- nence. It goes before them, like a pioneer, and smooths the road, and levels the hill that leads up to honour and to fortune. Add to these considerations, that, as an easy exercise to improve the style, and prepare for that composition, which several of the professions require, no- a 2 IV PREFACE. thing is more advantageous than the practice of Letter-writing at an early age. In every view of the subject, Letter-writing appeared to the Editor so useful and important, that he thought he could not render a more acceptable service to young students than to present them with a great variety of epistolary MODELS, comprised^ for their more convenient use, in one capacious volume. Models in art are certainly more instructive than rules; as examples in life are more efficacious than precepts. Rules, indeed, for Letter-writing, of which there is a great abundance, appear to be little more than the idle effusions of pedantry ; the superfluous inventions of ingenuity misemployed. The Letters, which the writers of rules have given as examples for imitation, are often no- thing more than mere centos in the expression, and servile copies in the senti- ments. They have nothing in them of the healthy hue and lively vigour of nature. They resemble puny plants raised in a clime ungenial, by the gardener's incessant labour, yet possessing, after all, neither beauty, flavour, noT stamina for duration. The few rules necessary in the art, as it is called, of Letter-writing, are such as will always be prescribed to itself by a competent share of common sense, duly informed by a common education. A regard must always be shewn to time, place, and person. He, who has good sense, will of course observe these things; and he who has it not will not learn to observe them by the rules of rhetoricians. But to assist invention and to promote order, it may be sometimes expedient to make, in the mind, a division of a Letter into three parts, the Aristotelian beginning, middle, and end : or, in other words, into the exordium or introduction, the statement, proposition, or narrative, and the conclusion. The exordium or introduction should be employed, not indeed with the for- mality of rhetoric, but with the ease of natural politeness and benevolence, in conciliating esteem, favour, and attention; the proposition or narrative, in stating the business with clearness and precision; the conclusion, in confirming what has been premised, in making apologies, in extenuating offence, and in cordial expressions of respect and affection ; but is there any thing in these precepts not already obvious to common sense ? As to the epistolary style, of which so much has been said, those who wish to confine it to the easy and familiar have formed too narrow ideas of epistolary composition. The Epistle admits every subject: and every subject has its appropriate style. Ease is not to be confounded with negligence. In the most familiar Letter on the commonest subject an Attic neatness is required. Ease in writing, like ease in dress, notwithstanding all its charms, is but too apt to degenerate to the carelessness of the sloven. In the daily attire of a gentleman, gold lace may not be requisite ; but rags or filth are not to be borne. In the face, paint is not to be approved ; but cleanliness cannot be neglected, without occasioning still greater disgust than rouge and ceruse. That epistolary style is clearly the best, whether easy or elaborate, simple or PREFACE. V adorned, which is best adapted to the subject, to time, to place, and to person . which upon grave and momentous topics is solemn and dignified; on common themes, terse, easy, and only not careless ; on little and trifling niatters, gay, airy, lively, and facetious; on jocular subjects, sparkling and humorous; in formal and complimentary addresses, embellished with rhetorical figures, and finished with polished periods; in persuasion, bland, insinuating, and ardent; in exhortation, serious and sententious; on prosperous affairs, open and joyous; on adverse, pensive and tender. A different style is often necessary on the same topics, to old people and to young; to men and to women; to rich and to poor; to the great and to the little; to scholars and to the illiterate; to strangers and to familiar companions. And thus indeed might one proceed to great extent, with all the parade ©f precept; but though this, and much more that might be repeated, may be certainly true, yet it is all sufficiently obvious to that COMMON SENSE, whose claims ought at all times to be asserted against the encroachments of pedantic tyranny*. A good understanding, as it has been already observed^ improved by reading the best writers, by accurate observation of men and manners, and, above all, by use and practice^ will be sufficient to form an accomplished Letter-writer, without restraining the vigour of his genius, and the flights of his fancy, by a rigid observance of the line and rule. The best Letters, and indeed the best compositions of every kind, were produced before the boasted rules to teach how to write them were written or invented. The rules prescribed by critics for writing Letters are so minute and particular as to remind one of the recipes in Hannah Glasse's Cookery. They pretend to teach how to express thoughts on paper with a mechanical process, similar to that in which the culinary authoress instructs her disciples in the composition of a minced-pie. It is indeed a remark confirmed by long experience, that merchants, men of business, and particularly the ladies, who have never read, or even heard of the rules of an Erasmus, a Vives, a Melchior Junius, or a Lipsius, write Letters with admirable ease, perspicuity, propriety, and elegance ; far better, * The writers on the Epistolary Art divide Episdes into various kinds : EPISTOLJE SUNT, Commendatitia — Communicatoria — Cohortatoria, — quo pertinent Suasorits, DissuasoricE — Peti- toria — Consolatoria — Officios^ — Conciliatoria — MandatoricB — Gratulatoria — Laudator ia — JReprehensoria — Gratiarum actiones — Nuncupatoria sen Dedicatorie — Accusatoria seu Expos- tulat&riiB — Querula et Indignatoria — ComminatoricE — Nunciatorice — DenunciatoricB — Jocosce. But these distinctions display more of ostentation than they furnish of utility. Every man of sense must know the tendency of his Letter, from which it takes its technical name, though he may not have heard the rhetorician's appellation of it. To persons, however, wha read with a critical eye, it may not be unpleasant to class letters under some of the titles in the above table, which it would be easy to enlarge. I refer the reader, who is curious to learn what critics have written on the art of writing letters, to Erasmus's very ingenious treatise, " De conscribendis EplstoUs" where he will find much to entertain him. The genius of Erasmus diffuses a sunshine over the dreary fields of didactic information. vi PREFACE. in every respect, than some of the most celebrated dictators of rules to teach that epistolary correspondence, which themselves could never successfully practise. The learned Manutius, who had studied every rule, used to employ a month in writing a Letter of moderate length, which many an English lady could surpass in an hour. It may not be improper in this place to mention, for the honour of the ladies, that, according to learned authors, the very first Letter ever written was written by a lady. Clemens Alexandrinus^ and Tatian also, who copies from Hellanicus the historian*, expressly affirm, that the first epistle ever composed was the production of Atossa, a Persian empress. The learned Dodwell, as well as others, controverts the fact ; and many suppose, that the Letter which Homer's Prsetus gave to Bellerophon, as well as that which David sent to accomplish the death of Uriah, preceded the Letter of Atossa. Without entering into a chronological discussion, one may assert the proba- bility, that a lady was the first writer of Letters ; as ladies have, in modern times, displayed peculiar grace and spirit in epistolary correspondence. Dod- well's opinion required not the learning of Dodwell to support it, when he supposes that epistles were written, in some form or other, as soon as the art of marking thoughts by written signs was discovered and divulged. But instead of dwelling any longer on topics, either obvious of themselves, or rather curious than useful, it is more expedient to inform the Reader what he is to expect in the subsequent volume. The First Book in the Collection is formed from the Letters of Cicero and Pliny. To attempt to raise their characters by praises at this period, after the world has agreed in the admiration of them near two thousand years, would be no less superfluous than to pronounce an eulogium on the sun, or to describe the beauties of the rainbow. From them a few of their most enter- taining Letters, and such as have a reference to familiar life, have been prin- cipally selected ; and there is little doubt, but that an attentive student, not deficient in ability, may catch, from the perusal of what is here inserted, much of their politeness, both of sentiment and expression. If he possesses taste, he must be entertained by them. It is but justice to add, that great praise is due to the translator, whose polished understanding seems to have assimilated the grace of his celebrated originals. The next Book consists of Letters from many great and distinguished per- sons of our own nation, written at an early period of English literature. The correspondence of the Sydney family forms one part of it. To the generality of readers this will be new and curious, as it was never published but in expensive folios. The Sydney family appear to have been, in their time, the most enlightened, polished, and virtuous, which the nation could boast. Many of their Letters are written in a strong, a nervous, and, in many respects, an excellent style for the age ; and all that are here selected may be considered * E7ri<7ToAaf crmruffauv sfeu^Ei; y, Utgau), wore r,yriaa[xm) yui/7,, Ka^Knt^ — ibid. 12 From the same to Mr. Foley, at Paris 410 13 From the same to J — H — S , Esq 411 14 From the same to Mr. Foley 412 15 From the same to the same ibid. 16 From the same to the same 413 17 From the same to the same. ibid, 18 From the same to the same ibid. 19 From the same to the same 414 20 From the same to the same ibid. 21 From the same to the same 415 22 From the same to Mrs. F ibid. 23 From the same to Miss Sterne 416 24 From the same to J — H — S , Esq ibid. 25 From the same to Mr. Foley 417 26 From the same to David Garrick, Esq , ibid. 97 From the same to Mr. W 418 28 From the same to Miss Sterne ibid. 29 David Hume, Esq. to 419 30 From the same to Dr. Campbell .... 420 Letter Page 31 Dr. Smollett to Daniel Mackercher, Esq 421 32 Dr. Isaac Sohomberg to a Lady, on the Method of Reading for Female Improvement 424 33 To Colonel R s, in Spain 425 34 John Garden to Archbishop Seeker .. 426 35 Archbishop Seeker to John Garden... ibid. 36 John Garden to Archbishop Seeker... ibid. 37 Archbishop Seeker to a Clergyman... 428 SECTION III. From the Letters of the late Earl of Chatham^ Mrs. Elizabeth Monta- gu, Lady Mary Wortley Monta- gue, Lord Chesterfield, Dr. John- son, and others. 1 From the late Earl of Chatham to his Nephew, Thomas Pitt, Esq. (after- wards Lord Camelford) 429 2 From the same to the same ibid. 3 From the same to the same , 430 4 From the same to the same 431 5 From the same to the same 433 6 From the same to the same 434 7 From the same to the same 435 8 From the same to the same 436 9 From the same to the same ibid. 10 From the same to the same 437 11 From the same to the same .. ibid. 12 From the same to the same 438 13 From the same to the same ibid. 14 From the same to the same 439 15 From the same to the same ibid. 16 From the same to the same ibid. 17 From the same to the same 440 18 From the same to the same ibid. 19 From the same to the same ibid. 20 From the same to the same 441 21 From the same to the same ibid. 22 From the same to the same ibid. 23 From the same to the same 442 24 From Mrs, Elizabeth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland ibid. 25 From the same to the same 443 26 From the same to the same 444 27 From the same to the same ibid. 28 From the same to the same 445 29 From the same to the same 446 30 From the same to the same 447 31 From the same to the same .. ibid. 32 From the same to Miss S. Robinson 448 33 From the same to the same 449 34 From the same to the same 450 35 From the same to the Rev.W. Friend ibid. 36 From the same to the Duchess of Portland 451 37 From the same to the same 452 38 From the same to the same 453 39 From the same to the same.. 454 40 From the same to the same 456 41 From the same to the same 457 42 From the same to the Rev. Mr. and Mrs.Friend 458 43 From the same to Miss S. Robinson 459 44 From the same to Mrs. Donnellan... 460 45 From tlie same to Miss S.Robinson 461 XVI CONTENTS. 462 64 Letter Page 46 From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland 47 From the same to the Rev. Dr. Shaw, F.R. S., &c. &c 48 From the same to the Duchess of Portland 466 49 From the same to the same ?. 467 50 From the same to the same 468 51 From the same to the same 469 52 From the same to the same 470 53 From the same to the same ibid. Letter 54 From the same to Mrs. Donnellan .. 55 Lady M. W. Montague to the Coun- tess of 56 From the same to Mrs. S 57 From the same to Mrs. S. C 58 From the same to the Lady 59 From the same to the Countess of B CO From the same to Mrs. P 61 From the same to the Countess of 62 From the same to Mr. P 63 From the same to the Countess of 471 472 473 ibid. 474 475 476 477 478 479 481 ibid. 482 483 484 69 From the same to the same 485 70 From the same to the same 486 71 From the same to the Countess of B ibid. 72 From the same to the Lady R ... 487 73 From the same^ to the Countess of , 488 489 490 100 101 102 103 104 105 Dr. Johnson to Mr. Boswell From the same to Mr. James Mac- pherson From the same to Mrs. Boswell From the same to Mr. Elphinstone. From the same to 106 64 From the same to the Lady R- 65 From the same to Mrs. J*** ., 66 From the same to the Lady X 67 From the same to Mr. 68 From the same to the Countess of 492 49^ 74 From the same to the Lady .... 75 From the same to Mr. Pope 76 Lord Chesterfield to Dr. R. Chenevix, Lord Bishop of Waterford ibid. 77 From the same to the same ibid. 78 From the same to the same 491 79 From the same to the same ibid. 80 Dr. Swift to the Earl of Chesterfield ibid. 81 The Earl of Chesterfield to Dr. Swift 82 Dean Swift to the Earl of Chester- field 83 Lord Chesterfield to Sir Thomas Ro- binson, Bart ibid. 84 The same to Dr. Cheyne of Bath 494 85 John Dunning, Esq. to a Gentleman of the Inner Temple ibid. 86 Dr. Johnson to Mr. Elphinstone 495 87 From the same to the same 496 88 From the same to the Rev. Dr. Taylor ibid. 89 From the same to Miss Boothby 497 90 From the same to the same ibid, 91 From the same to the Earl of Ches- terfield ibid. 92 From the same to Miss »•»*»* 498 93 From the same to Miss Boothby ibid. 94 From the same to the same 499 95 From the same to Joseph Baretti ibid. 96 From the same to the same 501 97 From the same to the same 502 98 Mrs. Thrale to Mr. , on his Marriage 503 99 Dr. Johnson to Mr. Boswell 505 .22 12: From the same to Mrs. Thrale, on the Death of Mr. Thrale From the same to the same 107 From the same to Mr. Hector 108 From the same to James Boswell, Esq 109 From the same to the same 110 From the same to the same 111 From the same to Mrs. Thrale 112 From the same to the same 113 From the same to Miss Susanna Thrale 114 From the same to Mrs. Thrale 115 From the same to the same 116 From the same to the same 117 From the same to Mrs. Chapone.... 118 From the same to Mrs. Thrale 119 From the same to the same 120 From the same to the same. 121 From the same to the same From the same to the Rev. Dr. Taylor From the same to Lord Chancellor Thurlow 124 Miss to the Rev. Dr. Home.... 125 Dr. Home to Miss 126 Lord Lyttleton to Sir Thomas Lyt- tleton, at Hagley 127 From the same to the same 128 From the same to the same 129 From the same to the same 130 From the same to the same 151 From the same to the same 132 S. Poyntz, Esq. to Sir Thomas Lyt- tleton 133 Lord Lyttleton to Sir Thomas Lyt- tleton 134 From the same to the same. 135 From the same to the same 136 From the same to the same 137 From the same to the same 138 S. Poyntz, Esq. to Sir Thomas Lyt- tleton 139 Lord Lyttleton to Sir Thomas Lyt- tleton 140 The late Bishop Home to a young Clergyman 141 William Cowper, Esq. to Joseph Hill, Esq 142 From the same to Lady Hesketh. ... 143 From the same to the same 144 From the same to the same 145 From the same to the same 146 From the same to Major Cowper .. 147 From the same to Mrs. t'owper 148 From the same to the same 149 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 150 From the same to the same 151 From the same to the same 152 From the same to the Rev. John Newton 153 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 154 From the same to Mrs. Cowper Page 506 507 508 ibid. ibid. 509 510 ibid. ibid. 511 512 ibid. 513 514 ibid. 515 ibid. 516 ibid. 517 ibid. 518 ibid. 519 ibid. 520 521 522 ibid. 523 ibid. 526 ibid. 527 ibid. 528 529 ibid. ibid. 530 531 532 ibid. 533 535 ibid. 536 ibid. 537 538 ibid. 539 540 ibid. 541 CONTENTS. XT Letter J 5.5 Wiliiaai Cowper, Esq. to the Rev. William Unwin ]5(i From the same to the same 157 From the same to Mrs Cowper 158 From the same to the Rev. William Unn-jn 139 From the same to the same 1 60 From the same to Joseph Hill, Esq. 161 From the same to the Rev. William Unv/in 162 From the same to the same 163 From the same to the same I(j4 From the same to the same 165 From the same to the same 1{)6 From the same to the same 167 From the same to the same 16S From the same to the same 169 From the same to the same 170 From the same to the same 171 From the same to the same 17'2 From the same to the same 173 From the same to the Rev. John Newton 174 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 175 From the same to the Rev. John Newton 176 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 177 From the same to the same 178 From the same to the Rev. John Newton 1 79 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 180 From the same to the same 181 From the same to the same 1 8'2 From the same to the same 183 From the same to the same 184 From the same to the Rev. John Newton 1 85 From the same to the same 1 86 From the same to the same 187 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 188 P'rom the same to the same 189 From the same to the same 190 From the same to the Rev. John Newton From the same to the same From the same to the Rev. William Unwin From the same to the Rev. John Newton 194 From the same to the same 1 95 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin From the same to the Rev. John Newton From the same to Joseph Hill, Esq. From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 199 From the same to the same 200 From the same to Joseph Hill, Esq. 201 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 202 rrom the same to Lady Hesketh ... 203 From the same to the same 204 From the same to the same 205 From the same to the same. 20t From the same to the same 307 From the same to the same 191 192 19 196 197 195 Page 542 ibid. 543 544 ibid. 545 546 547 548 549 ibid. 550 551 552 ibid. -553 554 556 557 ibid. 558 559 560 561 562 563 564 565 566 567 568 569 ibid. 570 571 572 573 574 575 576 577 578 579 ibid. 580 581 582 583 584 ibid. 585 586 587 1 Letter Page 208 William Cowper, Esq. to Lady Hes- keth 588 209 From the same to the Rev. Walter Bagot 589 210 From the same to Lady Hesketh ... ibid. 211 From the same to the same 591 212 From the same to the same 592 213 From the same to the same 593 214 From the same to the same 594 215 From the same to the Rev. William Unwin 595 216 From the same to the same 596 217 From the same to Lady Hesketh ... 597 218 From the same to the same 598 219 From the same to Sam. Rose, Esq. ibid. 220 From the same to Lady Hesketh ... 599 221 From the same to the same ibid. 222 From the same to the same. 600 223 From the same to the same 601 SECTION IV. From the Letters of Dr. Beattie.. Sir William Jones, and others. 1 Dr. Beattie to Robert Arbuthnot, Esq 603 2 From the same to Sir Wm. Forbes ibid. 3 From the same to the same 604 4 From the same to Dr. Blacklock .... 606 5 From the same to the Hon. Charles Boyd 607 6 From the same to Sir Wm. Forbes 608 7 From the same to the same ibid. 8 From the same to Dr. Blacklock ... 610 9 From the same to Mrs. Inglis 611 10 From the same to the Right Hon. the Dowager Lady Forbes 613 11 From the same to Sir W. Forbes .... 614 12 From the same to Mrs. Montagu.... ibid. 13 From the same to the same 615 14 From the same to the same 616 15 The Rev. Dr. Porteus to Dr. Beattie 617 16 Dr. Beattie to the Rev. Dr. Porteus ibid. 17 From the same to the same 619 18 Mrs. Montagu to Dr. Beattie 620 19 Dr. Beattie to Mrs. Montagu 621 20 From the same to the Hon. Mr. Ba- ron Gordon 622 21 From the same to the Duchess of Gordon 625 22 From the same to the same 624 23 From the same to the same 626 24 From the same to Sir W. Forbes ... ibid. 25 Mr. Jones, at the age of fourteen, to his Sister 627 26 From the same to Lady Spencer. .. 628 27 From the same to N. B. Halhed 629 28 From the same to Lady Spencer ... 630 29 From the same to the same ibid. SO From the same to C Reviczki 631 31 From the same to J. Wilmot, Esq... 632 32 From the same to Mr. Hawkins 633 33 Dr. Hunt to Mr. Jones ibid. 34 Mr. Jones to F. P. Bayer 634 S5 From the same to Lord Althorpe ... 635 36 Edmund Burke to Mr. Jones 636 37 Mr. Jones to Lord Althorpe ibid. 38 From the same to the same 637 b xvm CONTENTS. Letter Page 3^ Mr. Jones to the Rev. E. Cartwright 038 40 From the same to Dr. Wheeler ibid. 41 From the same to the Bishop of St. Asaph , 639 42 The Bishop of bt Asaph to Mr. Jones ibitl. 43 Mr. Jones to Lord Althorpe 640 44 From the same to Mr. Thomas Yeates 641 45 From the same to the Bishop of St. Asaph ibid. 46 From the same to Lady Spencer.... 642 47 Sir William Jones to Lord Ashbur- ton 643 48 From the same to Dr. Patrick Rus- sell ibid. 49 From the same to — 644 50 From the same to Charles Chap- man, Esq ibid. 51 From the same to Miss E. Shipley.. 645 52 From the same to J. Shore, Esq. ... ibid. 53 From the same to the same 646 54 From the same to Thomas Caldicot, Esq ibid. 55 From the same to Mr. Justice Hyde 647 56 From the same to Sir Joseph Banks., ibid. 57 From the sametoSir J. Macpherson, Bart 648 58 From the same toAVarren Hastings, Esq 649 59 From the same to Lord Teignmouth ibid. 60 From Dr. Young to Mr. Richardson 650 61 Mr. Richardson to Dr. Young ibid. 62 Miss Collier to Mr. Kichardson 651 63 Mr. Richardson to Miss Collier 652 64 From the same to the same ... 653 65 Miss Collier to Mr. Richardson 654 66 Mr. Richardson to Miss Highmore.. 655 67 From the same to the same 656 68 From the same to the same 658 69 From the same to the same 659 70 Lady Kchlin to Mr. Richardson 660 71 Mr.Richardson to Lady Echlin...... 661 72 Lady Echlin to Mr. Richardson 662 73 Mr Richardson to Lady Echlin 663 74 Lady Echlin to Mr.Richardson ibid. 75 Mr. Richardson to Lady Echlin 664 76 Lady Bradshaigh to Mr. Richardson ibid. 77 Mr. Richardson to Lady Bradshaigh 666 78 From the same to the same 667 79 From the same to the same 668 80 Lady Bradshaigh to Mr. Pvichardson 670 81 Mr. Richardson to Lady Bradshaigh 672 82 From the same to the same 674 83 From the same to the same 677 84 Lady Bradshaigh to Mr. Richardson 678 85 Edward Gibbon, Esq. to his Father.. 680 86 FromthesametoJ. B. Holroyd,Esq. 681 87 From the same to the same 682 88 From the same to the same, at Edinburgh 685 89 From the same to the same 684 90 From the same to the same 685 91 From the same to the Right Hon. Lord Sheffield ibid. 92 From the same to the Right Hon. Lady Sheffield 686 93 From the same to the Right Hon. Lord Sheffield 687 94 From the same to the same 688 95 From the same to Mrs. Porten 689 Letter Page 96 Edward Gibbon, to the Right Hon. Lord Sheffield 691 97 From the same to the same 692 98 From the same to the same 693 99 Anna Seward to George Hardinge, Esq 694 100 From the same to Captain Seward . 695 101 From the same to Miss Weston 697 102 From the same to Thomas Swift, Esq , 69^* 103 From the same to, Thomas Christie, Esq 700 104 From the same to Lady Gresley ... 701 105 From the same to Mrs. Stokes 704 106 From the same to Thomas Park, Esq 705 1 07 From the same to Walter Scott, Esq. 708 108 From the same to Miss Fern 710 109 Mr. Warburton to Mr. Hurd 7l2 110 Mr. Hurd to Dr. Warburton ibid. 111 From the same to the same 713 1J2 Dr. Warburton to Mr. Hurd ibid. 113 From the same to the same 714 114 Mr. Hurd to Dr. Warburton ibid. 115 From the same to the Bishop of Gloucester 716 116 The Bishop of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd ibid. 117 Mr. Hurd to the Bishop of Glouces- ter ibid. 118 The Bishop of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd 717 119 From the same to the same ibid. 120 Mr. Hurd to the Bp. of Gloucester... 718 121 The Bishop of Gloucester to Mr, Hurd 719 122 From the same to the same 720 123 Mr. Hurd to the Bp. of Gloucester... 721 124 The Bp. of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd 722 125 From the same to the same ibid. 126 From the same to the same 723 127 Dr. Hurd to the Bp. of Gloucester... ibid. 128 The Bp. of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd 724 129 The RiL-ht Hon. C. J. Fox to Mr. WakeQeld 725 130 From the same to the same ibid. 131 From the same to the same ibid. 132 From the same to the same ibid. 133 From the same to the same 726 134 From the same to the same ibid. 135 From the same to the same 727 136 From the same to the same ibid. 137 From the same to the same ibid. 138 From the same lo the same 728 139 From the same to the same ibid. 140 From the same to the same ibid. 141 From the same to the same 729 142 From the same to the same ibid. 143 From the same to the same .. ibid. 144 From the same to the same 750 145 From the same to the same ibid. 146 From the same to the same 731 SECTION V. From the Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford, and Dr. Frank- lin. 1 The Hon. Horace Walpole to Richard West, Esq 735 CONTENTS. XIX Letter Page 2 The Hon. Horace Walpole to Richard West, Esq 734 3 From the same to the same 735 4 From the same to the same 736 5 The Hou. Horace Walpole and Mr. Gray to Richard West, Esq 737 6 The Hon. Horace Walpole to Richard West, Esq 739 7 From the same to John Chute, Esq... 740 8 From the same to Richard Bentlev, Esq , ;.. 742 9 From the same to the same 743 10 From the same to George Montague, Esq 746 11 From the same to the same 747 12 From the same to the same,. 748 13 From the same to the same 749 I'l From the same to the same 751 15 From the same to the same 752 16 From the same to the same 753 17 From the same to the Hon. H. S. Con- way 754 18 From the same to the same 755 19 From the same to George Montague, Esq ibid. 20 From the same to the same 757 21 From the same to the Hon. H. S. Conway ibid. 22 From the same to the same 758 23 From the same to the same 759 24 From the same to George Montague, Esq. ibid. 25 From the same to the Rev. Mr. Cole 760 26 From the same to George Montague, Esq 761 27 From the same to the same 762 68 From the same to the same 763 29 From the same to Mr. Gray 764 30 From the same to the same 768 31 From the same to George Montague, Esq 769 32 From the same to M. de Voltaire 770 33 From the same to the same 771 34 From the same to the Hon. H. S. Conway 772 35 From the same to the same 773 36 From the same to Dr. Gem 775 37 From the same to the Rev. Mr. Cole 776 38 From the same to the same 777 39 From the same to the Earl of Straf- ford ibid. 40 From the same to the Rev. Mr. Cole 778 41 From the same to the Earl of Straf- ford 779 42 From the same to the same 780 43 From the same to Mr. Pinkerton...... 781 Letter Page 44 The Hon. Horace Wapole to the Earl of Strafford 783 45 From the same to Lady Craven 784 46 The Earl of Orford to Mrs. H. More.. 785 47 From the same to the Hon. H. S. Conway 786 48 From the same to William Roscoe, Esq 787 49 From the same to the Countess of **** 788 50 From Dr. Franklin to Mr. George Whitfield ibid. 51 From the same to Miss Stevenson at Wanstead , 789 52 From the same to John Alleyne, Esq 790 53 From the same to Governor Franklin, New Jersey , 791 54 From the same to Dr. Priestley ibid; 55 From the same to Mrs. Thomas, at Lisle.; 792 56 From the same to Dr. Cowper, Bos- ton , 793 57 From the same to Dr. Price, London ibid. 58 From the same to General Washing- ton 794< 59 From the same to Mr. Small, Paris., ibid. 60 From the same to Miss Georgiana Shipley 795 61 From the same to the Rev. William Nixon 796 69 From the same to Edmund Burke, Esq. M. P ibid. 63 From the same to the Rev. Dr. Priest- ley ibid. 64 From the same to Dr. Shipley, Bishop of St. Asaph 797 65 From the same to Miss Alexander.... 798 66 From the same to Mrs. Hewson ibid. 67 From the same to the Bishop of St. Asaph (Dr. Shipley) 799 68 From the same to Sir Joseph Banks... 800 69 From the same to Mrs. Bache ibid. 70 From the same to B. Vaughan, Esq. 803 71 From the same to David Hartley, Esq. M. P 806 72 From the same to Dr. Shipley, Bishop of St. Asaph ibid. 73 From the same to Mrs. Hewson, London 808 74 From the same to M. le Marquis do la Fayette 809 75 From the same to Count de Buffon, Paris 810 76 From the same to Dr. Rush ibid. 77 From the same to David Hartley, Esq. 81 1 78 From the same to ***** ibid. ELEGANT EPISTLES. BOOK THE FIRST. ANCIENT AND CLASSICAL. SECTION I. FROM THE LETTERS OF MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO, TO SEVERAL OF HIS FRIENDS, AS TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ. LETTER I. To Terentia, to my dearest Tullia, and to my Son, Brundisium, April the 30th. [A. U. 695.] If you do not hear from me so fre- quently as you might, it Is because I can neither write to you nor read your letters, without falling into greater grief than I am able to support ; for though I am at all times indeed completely miser- able, yet I feel my misfortunes with a particular sensibility upon those tender occasions. Oh that I had been more indiflFerent to life ! Our days would then have been, if not wholly unacquainted with sorrow, yet by no means thus wretched. How- ever, if any hopes are still reserved to us of recovering some part at least of what we have lost, I shall not think that I have made altogether so imprudent a choice. But if our present fate is unalterably fixed— Ah! my dearest Terentia, if we are utterly and for ever abandoned by those gods whom you have so religi- ously adored, and by those men whom I have so faithfully served, let me see you as soon as possible, that I may have the satisfaction of breathing out my last de- parting sigh in your arms. I have spent about a fortnight in this place*, with my friend Marcus Flaccus. This worthy man did not scruple to ex- ercise the rights of friendship and hospi- tality towards me, notwithstanding the severe penalties of that iniquitous law against those who should venture to give me reception f. May I one day have it in my power to make him a return to those generous services, which I shall ever most gratefully remember ! I am just going to embark, and pirt*- pose to pass through Macedonia in my way to CyzicumJ. And now, my Te- rentia, thus wretched and ruined as I am, can I intreat you under all that weight of pain and sorrow with which, 1 too well know, you are oppressed, can I intreat you to be the partner and companion of my exile ? — But must I then live without you ? I know not how to reconcile my- self to that hard condition ; unless your * Brundisium j a maritime town in the king- dom of Naples, now called Brindisi. Cicero, when he first withdrew from Rome, intended to have retired into Sicily ; but being denied entrance by the governor of that island, he changed his direction, and came to Brundi- sium in his way to Greece. f As soon as Cicero had withdrawn from Rome Clodius procured a law, Avhich among other things enacted, " that no person should presume to harbour or receive him on pain of death." X A considerable town in an island of the Propontis, which lay so close to the continent of Asia as to be joined with it by a bridge. B 2 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. presence at Rome may be a mean of for- warding my return : if any hopes of that kind should indeed subsist. But should there, as I sadly suspect, be absolutely none ; come to me, I conjure you, if it be possible : for never can I think myself completely ruined, whilst I shall enjoy my Terentia's company. But how will my dearest daughter dispose of herself? A question which you yourselves must consider : for, as to my own part, I am utterly at a loss what to advise. At all events, however, that dear unhappy girl must not take any measures that may in- jure her conjugal repose*, or affect her in the good opinion of the world. As for my son — let me not at least be de- prived of the consolation of folding him for ever in my arms. But I must lay down my pen a few moments : my tears flow too fast to suffer me to proceed. I am under the utmost solicitude, as I know not whether you have been able to preserve any part of your estate, or (what I sadly fear) are cruelly robbed of your whole fortune. I hope Pisof will always continue what you represent him to be, entirely ours. — As to the manumission of the slaves, I think you have no occasion to be uneasy. For with regard to your own, you only promised them their li- berty as they should deserve it : but ex- cepting Orpheus, there are none of them that have any great claim to this favour. As to mine, I told them, if my estate should be forfeited, I would give them their freedom, provided I could obtain the confirmation of that grant ; but if I preserved my estate, that they should all of them, excepting only a few whom I particularly named, remain in their pre- sent condition. But this is a matter of little consequence. With regard to the advice you give me, of keeping up my spirits, in the belief that I shall again be restored to my coun- try ; I only wish that I may have reason to encourage so desirable an expectation. In the mean time, I am greatly miserable, in the uncertainty when I shall hear from you, or what hand you will find to convey your letters. I would have waited for them at this place ; but the master of the ship on which I am going to embark * Tullia was at this time married to Caius Piso Frugi, a young nobleman of one of the best families in Rome. f Cicero's son-in-law. could not be prevailed upon to lose the present opportunity of sailing. For the rest, let me conjure you in my turn, to bear up under the pressure of our afilictions with as much resolution as pos- sible. Remember that my days have all been honourable ; and that I now suffer, not for my crimes, but my virtues. No, my Terentia, nothing can justly be im- puted to me, but that I survived the loss of my dignities. However, if it was more agreeable to our children that I should thus live, let that reflection teach us to submit to our misfortunes with cheerfulness ; insupportable as upon all other considerations they would undoubt- edly be. But, alas ! whilst I am endea- vouring to keep up your spirits, I am utterly unable to preserve my own. I have sent back the faithful Philetae- rus ; as the v/eakness of his eyes made him incapable of rendering me any ser- vice. Nothing can equal the good offices I receive from Sallustius. Pescennius likewise has given me strong marks of his affection : and I hope he will not fail in his respect also to you. Sicca pro- mised to attend me in my exile ; but he changed his mind, and has left me at this place. I intreat you to take all possible care of your health : and be assured, your misfortunes more sensibly affect me than my own. Adieu, my Terentia, thou most faithful and best of wives ! Adieu. And thou, my dearest daughter, together with that other consolation of my life, my dear son, I bid you both most tenderly farewell. LETTER 11. To Terentia, to my dearest Tullia, and to my Son. Thessalonicat, Oct. the 5th. [A. U. fi95.] Imagine not, my Terentia, that I write longer^ letters to others than to your- self: be assured at least, if ever I do, it is merely because those 1 receive from them require a more particular answer. The truth of it is, I am always at a loss what to write : and as there is nothing in the present dejection of my mind, that I perform with greater reluctance in ge- neral ; so I never attempt it with regard to you and my dearest daughter, that it I A city in Macedonia, now called Salonichi. Sect. I. CICERO. does not cost me a flood of tears. For how can 1 think of you without being pierced with grief in the reflection, that I have made those completely miserable, whom I ought, and ^vished, to have ren- dered perfectly happy? And I should have rendered them so, if I had acted with less timidity. Piso's behaviour towards us, in this season of our afflictions, has greatly en- deared him to my heart : and I have, as well as I was able in the present discom- posure of my mind, exhorted him to continue them. I perceive you much depend upon the new tribunes : and if Pompey perseveres in his present disposition, I am inclined to think that your hopes will not be disap- pointed ; though I must confess, I have some fears with respect to Crassus. In the mean while I have the satisfaction to And, what indeed I had reason to expect, that you act with great spirit and tender- ness in all my concerns. But I lament it should be my cruel fate to expose you to so many calamities, whilst you are thus generously endeavouring to ease the weight of mine. Be assured it was with the utmost grief I read the account which Publius sent me, of the opprobrious man- ner in which you were dragged from the temple of Vesta to the office of Valerius*. Sad reverse indeed ! that thou, the dear- est object of my fondest desires, that my Terentia, to whom such numbers were wont to look up for relief, should he herself a spectacle of the most affect- ing distress ! and that I, who have saved so many others from ruin, should have ruined both myself and my family by my own indiscretion ! As to what you mention with regard to the area belonging to my house ; I shall never look upon myself as restored to my country, till that spot of ground is again in my possessionf. But this is a point that does not depend upon our- selves. Let me rather express my con- cern for what does : and lament that dis- * Terentia had taken sanctuary in the temple of Vesta; but was foicibly dragged out from thence by the directions of Clodius, in order to be examined at a public office, concerning her husband's effects. f After Clodius had procured the law against Cicero already taken notice of, he consecrated the area where his house in Rome stood, to the perpetual service of religioo, and erected a temple upon it to the Goddess of Liberty. tressed as your circumstances already are, you should engage yourself in a share of those expenses which are incurred upon my account. Be assured, if ever I should return to Rome, I shall easily re- cover my estate : but should fortune con- tinue to prosecute me, will you, thou dear unhappy woman, will you fondly throw away in gaining friends to a desperate cause, the last scanty remains of your broken fortunes ? I conjure you then , my dearest Terentia, not to involve yourself in any charges of that kind : let them be borne by those who are able, if they are willing, to support the weight. In a word, if you have any affection for me, let not your anxiety upon my account in- jui-e your health ; which, alas ! is already but too much impaired. Believe me, you are the perpetual subject of my waking and sleeping thoughts : and as I know the assiduity you exert on my behalf, I have a thousand fears lest your strength should not be equal to so continued a fa- tigue. I am sensible at the same time, that my affairs depend entirely upon your assistance ; and therefore that they may be attended with the success you hope and so zealously endeavour to obtain, let me earnestly intreat you to take care of yoiu* health. I know iiot whom to write to, unless to those who first write to me, or whom you particularly mention in your letters. As you and Tullia are of opinion that 1 should not retreat farther from Italy, I have laid aside that design. Let me hear from you both as soon as possible, par- ticularly if there should be any fairer prospect of my return. Farewell, ye dearest objects of my most tender affec- LETTER III. To the same. Dyrrachiumt, Nov. 26. [A. U. G95.] I LEARN hy the letters of several of my friends, as well as from general report, that you discover the greatest fortitude of mind, and that you solicit my affairs with unwearied application. Oh, my Teren- tia, how truly wretched am I, to be the -+ A city in Macedonia, now called Durazzo, in the Turkish dominions. This letter, though dated from Dyrrachium, appears to have been wholly written, except the postscript, at Thes- salonica. B 2 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. occasion of such severe misfortunes to so faithful, so generous, and so excellent a woman ! And my dearest Tullia too ! that she, who was once so happy in her father, should now derive from him such bitter sorrows ! But how shall I express the anguish I feel for my little boy ! who became acquainted with grief as soon as he was capable of any reflection*. Had these afflictions happened, as you ten- derly represent them, by an unavoidable fate, they would have sat less heavy on my heart. But they are altogether owing to my own folly, in imagining I was loved where I was secretly envied, and in not joining with those who were sincerely desirous of my friendshipf. Had I been governed, indeed, by my own sentiments, without relying so much on those of my weak or wicked advisers, we might still, my Terentia, have been happy. However, since my friends encourage me to hope, I will end-eavour to restrain my grief, lest the effect it may have upon my health should disappoint your tender efforts for my restoration. I am sensible at the same time of the many difficulties that must be conquered ere that point can be affected ; and that it would have been much easier to have maintained my post, than it is to recover It. Nevertheless, if all the tribunes are in my interest ; if Lentulus is really as zealous in my cause as he appears ; and if Pompey and Caesar likewise concur with him in the same views, I ought not, most certainly, to despair. With regard to our slaves ; I am will- ing to act as our friends, you tell me, ad- vise. As to your concern in respect to the plague Avhich broke out here ; it is entirely cesaed : and I had the good for- tune to escape all infection. However, it was my desire to have changed my pre- sent situation for some more retired place in Epirus, where I might be secure from Piso and his soldiers]:. But the obliging * Cicero's son was at this time about eight years of age, f Csesar and Crassus frequently solicited Ci- cero to unite himself to their party, promising to protect him from the outrages of Clodius, pro- vided he would fall in with their measures. + Lucius Calphurnius Piso, who was consul this year with Gabinius: they were both the professed enemies of Cicero, and supported Clodius in his violent measures. The province of Macedonia had fallen to the former, and he was now preparing to set out for his govern- ment, where his troops were daily arriving. Plancius was unwilling to part with me, and still indeed detains me here, in the hope that we may return together to Rome§. If ever I should live to see that happy day ; if ever I should be restored to my Terentia, to my children, and to myself, I shall think all the tender solici- tudes we have suffered during this sad separation abundantly repaid. Nothing can exceed the affection and humanity of Piso's|| behaviour towards every one of us : and 1 wish he may re- ceive from it as much satisfaction as I am persuaded he will honour. — I was far from intending to blame you with respect to my brother ; but it is much my desire, especially as there are so few of you, that you should live together in the most per- fect harmony. I have made my acknow- ledgments where you desired, and ac- quainted the persons you mention that you had informed me of their services. As to the estate you propose to sell ; alas ! my dear Terentia, think well of the consequence : think what would be- come of our unhappy boy, should for- tune still continue to persecute us. But my eyes stream too fast to suffer me to add more : nor would I draw the same tender flood from yours. I will only say, that if my friends should not desert me, I shall be in no distress for money : and if they should, the money you can raise by the sale of this estate will little avail. I conjure you then by all our misfortunes, let us not absolutely ruin our poor boy, who is well nigh totally undone already. If we can but raise him above indigence, a moderate share of good fortune and merit will be sufficient to open his way to whatever else we can wish him to ob- tain. Take care of your health, and let me know by an express how your negocia- tions proceed, and how affairs in general stand. — My fate must now be soon deter- mined. — I tenderly salute my son and daughter, and bid you all farewell. P. S. I came hither not only as it is a free city^, and much in my interest, but as it is situated likewise near Italy. But if I should find any inconvenience from its being a town of such great re- § Plancius was at this time quagstor in Ma- cedonia, and distinguished himself by many generous offices to Cicero in his exile. II Cicero's son-in-law. ^ That is, a city which had the privilege, though in the dominions of the Roman repub- lic, to be governed by its own laws. Sect. I. CICERO. sort, I sliail remove elsewhere, and give you due notice. LETTER IV. To Terentia. Dyrrachiiun, Nov. the 30th. [A. U. C95 ] 1 RECEIVED three letters from you by the hands of Aristocritus, and have wept over them till they are almost de- faced with my tears. Ah ! my Terentia, I am worn out with grief : nor do my own personal misfortunes more severely torture my mind, than those with which you and my children are oppressed. Un- happy indeed as you are, I am stili infi- nitely more so ; as our common afflic- tions are attended with this ag'gravating circumstance to myself, that they are justly to be imputed to my imprudence alone . I ought, most undoubtedly, either to have avoided the danger, by accepting the commission which was offered me ; or to have repelled force by force, or bravely to have perished in the attempt. Wliereas nothing could have been more unworthy of my character, or more preg- nant with misery, than the scheme I have pursued. I am overwhelmed, therefore, not only with sorrow, but with shame : yes, my Terentia, I blush to reflect that I did not exert that spirit I ought for the sake of so excellent a wife and such ami- able children. The distress in which you are all equally involved, and your own ill state of health in particular, are ever in my thoughts : as I have the mortifi- cation at the same time to observe, that there appear but slender hopes of my be- ing recalled. My enemies, in truth, are many ; while those who are jealous of me are almost innumerable ; and though they found great difficulty in driving me from my country, it will be extremely easy for them to prevent my return. How- ever, as long as you have any hopes that my restoration may be effected, I will not cease to co-operate with your endeavours for that purpose, lest my weakness should seem upon all occasions to frustrate every measure in my favour. In the mean while, my person (for which you are so tenderly concerned) is secure from all danger : as in truth I am so completely wretched, that even my enemies them- selves must wish, in mere malice, to pre- serve my life. Nevertheless, I shall not fail to observe the caution you kindly give me. I have sent my acknowledgments by Dexippus to the persons you desired me, and mentioned at the same time, that you had informed me of their good offices. I am perfectly sensible of those which Piso exerts towards us with so uncommon a zeal : and indeed it is a circumstance which all the world speaks of to his ho- nour. Heaven grant I may live to enjoy with you and our children the common happiness of so valuable a relation^. The only hope I have now left, arises from the new tribunes ; and that too de- pends upon the steps they shall take in the com.mencement of their office : for if they should postpone my affair, I shall give up all expectations of its ever being effected. Accordingly I have dispatched Aristocritus, that you may send me im- mediate notice of the first measures they shall pursue, together with the general plan upon which they purpose to conduct themselves. I have likewise ordered Dexippus to return to me with all expe- dition, and have written to my brother to request he v/ould give me frequent in- formation in what manner affairs pro- ceed. It is with a view of receiving the earliest intelligence from Rome, that I continue at Dyrrachium ; a place v/liere I can remain in perfect security, as I have upon all occasions distinguished this city by my particular patronage. However, as soon as I shall receive intimation that my enemies t are approaching, it is my resolution to retire into Epirus. In answer to your tender proposal of accompanying me in my exile : I rather choose you should continue in Rome ; as I am sensible it is upon you that the principal burthen of my affairs must rest. If your generous negociations should succeed, my return will prevent the neces- sity of that joui'ney ; if otherwise But I need not add the rest. The next letter I shall receive from you, or at * He had the gieat misfortune to be disap- pointed of his wish; for Piso died soon after this letter was written. Cicero represents him as a young nobleman of the greatest talents and application, who devoted his whole time to the improveinents of his mind, and the exercise of eloquence: as one whose moral qualifications were no less extraordinary thaiihis intellectual, and in short as possessed of every accomplish- ment and virtue that could endear him to his friends, to his family, and to the public. f The troops of Piso. ELEGANT EPISTLES, Book I. most the subsequent one, will determine me in what manner to act. In the mean time I desire you will give me a full and faithful information how things go on : though indeed I have now more reason to expect the final result of this ajffair, than an account of its progress. Take care of your health I conjure you ; assuring yourself that you are, as you ever have been, the object of my fondest wishes. Farewell, my dear Te- rentia ! I see you so strongly before me whilst I am writing, that I am utterly spent with the tears I have shed. Once more, farewell. LETTER V. To Marcus Marius*. [A. U. 698 ] If your general valetudinary disposi- tion prevented you from being a specta- tor of our late public entertainments f, it is more to fortune than to philosophy that I am to impute your absence. But if you declined our party for no other reason than as holding in just contempt what the generality of the world so ab- surdly admire, I must at once congratu- late you both on your health and your judgment. I say this upon a supposition, however, that you were enjoying the phi- losophical advantages of that delightful scene, in which, I imagine, you were al- most v/holly deserted. At the same time that your neighbours, probably, were nodding over the dull humour of our trite farces, my friend, I dare say, was indulging his morning meditations in that elegant apartment from whence you have opened a prospect to Sejanum, through the Stabian hills |. And whilst * The person to whom this letter is addressed seems to have been of a temper and constitu- tion that placed him far below the ambition of being known to posterity. But a private letter from Cicero's hand has been sufficient to dis- pel the obscurity he appears to have loved, and to render his retirement conspicuous. f They were exhibited by Pompey at the opening of his theatre ; one of the most magnifi- cent structures of ancient Rome; and so exten- sive as to contain no less than 30,000 specta- tors. It was built after the model of one which he saw at Mitylene, in his return from the Mithridatic war ; and adorned with the noblest ornaments of statuary and painting. Some re- mains of this immense building still subsist. X Sejanum is found in no other ancient author. Stabiae was a maritime town in Campania, situ- ated upon the bay of Naples, from whence the adjoining hills here mentioned took their name. you were employing the rest of the day in those various polite amusements which you have the happy privilege to plan out for yourself ; we, alas! had the mortifi- cation of tamely enduring those drama- tical representations, to which Msetius, it seems, our professed critic, had given his infallible sanction : but as you will have the curiosity, perhaps, to require a more particular account, I must tell you, that though our entertainments were extremely magnificent indeed, yet they were by no means such as you would have relished ; at least if I may judge of your taste by my own. Some of those actors who had formerly distinguished themselves with great applause, but had long since retired, I imagined, in order to preserve the reputation they had raised, were now again introduced upon the stage ; as in honour, it seems, of the fes- tival. Among these was my old friend iEsopus : but so difi^erent from what we once knew him, that the whole audience agreed he ought to be excused from act- ing any more. For when he was pro- nouncing the celebrated oath, If I deceive, be Jove's dread vengeance hurl'd, &c. the poor old man's voice failed him ; and he had not strength to go through with the speech. As to the other parts of our theatrical entertainments, you know the nature of them so well, that it is scarce necessary to mention them. They had less indeed to plead in their favour than even the most ordinary represen- tations of this kind can usually claim. The enormous parade with which they were attended, and which, I dare say, you would very willingly have spared, destroyed all the grace of the perform- ance. What pleasure could it afford to a judicious spectator, to see a thousand mules prancing about the stage, in the tragedy of Clytsemnestra ; or whole re- giments accoutred in foreign armour, in that of the Trojan Horse F In a word, what man of sense could be entertained with viewing a mock army drawn up on the stage in battle array ? These, I con- fess, are spectacles extremely well adapt- ed to captivate vulgar eyes ; but un- doubtedly would have had no charm in your's. In plain truth, my friend, you would have received more amusement from the dullest piece that Protogenes Sect. I. CICERO. could possibly have read to you* (my own orations, however, let me always except), than we meet with at these ridiculous shows. 1 am well persuaded, at least, you could not regret the loss of our Os- cian and Grecian farces f. Your own noble senate will always furnish you with drollery sufficient of the former kind 'I ; and as to the latter, I know you have such an utter aversion to every thing- that bears the name of Greek, that you will not even travel the Grecian road to your ^dlla. As 1 remember you once despised our formidable gla- diators, I cannot suppose you would have looked with less contempt on our athletic performers : and, indeed, Pom- pey himself acknowledges, that they did not answer the pains and expense they had cost him. The remainder of our diversions consisted in combats of wild beasts §, which were exhibited every morning and afternoon during five days successively ; and it must be owned, they were magnificent. Yet, after all, what entertainment can possibly arise to an elegant and humanised mind, from seeing a noble beast struck to the heart by its merciless hunter, or one of our own weak species cruelly mangled by an animal of much superior strength ? But were there any thing really v/orth ob- serving in spectacles of this savage kind, they are spectacles extremely familiar to you ; and those I am speaking of had not any peculiar novelty to recom- mend them. The last day's sport was ^composed entirely of elephants, which, though they made the common people * It was usual with persons of distinction amongst the Romans to keep a slave in their family, whose sole business it was to read to thera. Protogenes seems to have attended Marius in that capacity. f The Oscian farces were so called from the Osci, an ancient people of Campania, from whom the Romans received them. They seem to have been of the same kind with our Bartholomew drolls, and to have consisted of low and obscene humour. X The municipal or corporate towns in Italy were governed by magistrates of their own, who probably made much the same sort of figure in their rural senate, as our burgesses in their town hall. § Beasts of the wildest and most uncommon kinds were sent for, upon these occasions, from every corner of the known world : and Dion Cassius relates, that no less than 500 lions were killed at these hunting matches with which Pompey entertained the people. stare indeed, did not seem, however, to afford them any great satisfaction. On the contrary, the terrible slaughter of these poor animals created a general commiseration ; as it is a prevailing no- tion, that these creatures in some degree participate of our rational faculties. That you may not imagine I had the happiness of being perfectly at my ease during the whole of this pompous festi- val, I must acquaint you, that while the people v»^ere amusing themselves at the plays, I was almost killed with the fa- tigue of pleading for your friend Gallus Caninus. Were the world as much in- clined to favour my retreat, as they shewed themselves in the case of ^sopus, believe me, I would for ever renounce my art, and spend the remainder of my days with you and some others of the same philosophical turn. The truth of it is, I began to grow weary of this employ- ment, even at a time when youth and ambition prompted my perseverance ; and I will add too, when I was at full liberty to exercise it in defence of those only whom I was inclined to assist. But in my present circumstances, it is abso- lute slavery : for, on the one side, I never expect to reap any advantage from my labours of this kind ; and, on the other, in compliance with solicitations which I cannot refuse, I am sometimes under the disagreeable necessity of ap- pearing as an advocate in behalf of those who ill deserve that favour at my hands. For these reasons, I am framing every possible pretence for living hereafter ac- cording to my own taste and sentiments ; as I highly both approve and applaud that retired scene of life which you have so judiciously chosen. I am sensible at the same time, that this is the reason you so seldom visit Rome. However, I the less regret that you do not see it oftener, as the numberless unpleasing occupations in which I am engaged would prevent me from enjoying the en- tertainment of your conversation, or giving you that of mine ; if mine, in- deed, can afford you any. But if ever I should be so fortunate as to disentangle myself, in some degree fit least (for I am contented not to be wholly released), from these perplexing embarrassments, I will undertake to shew even my elegant friend, wherein the truest re- finements of life consist. In the mean while, continue to take care of yriir ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book f. health, that you may be able, when that happy time shall arrive, to accompany mjd in my litter to my several villas. You must impute it to the excess of my friendship, and not to the abundance of my leisure, that I have leng-thened this letter beyond my usual extent. It was merely in compliance with a request in one of yours, where you intimate a desire that I would compensate in this manner what you lost by not being pre- sent at our public diversions. I shall be extremely glad, if I have succeeded ; if not, I shall have the satisfaction how- ever to think, that you will for the future be more inclined to give us your com- pany on these occasions, than to rely on my letters for your amusement. Fare- well. LETTER VI. To Marcus Licinius Crassus. [A. U. 699.] I AM persuaded that all your friends have informed you of the zeal with which I lately both defended and promoted your dignities ; as indeed it was too warm and too conspicuous to have been passed over in silence. The opposition I met with from the consuls*, as well as from several others of consular rank, was the strongest I ever encountered : and you must now look upon me as your declared advocate upon all occasions where your glory is concerned. Thus have I abundantly compensated for the intermission of those good offices, which the friendship between us had long given you a right to claim, but which, by a variety of accidents, have lately been somewhat interrupted. There never was a time, believe me, when I wanted an inclination to cultivate your esteem^ or promote your interest ; though, it must be owned, a certain set of men, who are the bane of all amicable intercourse, and who envied us the mutual honour that resulted from ours, have upon some occa- sions been so unhappily successful as to create a coolness between us. It has happened, however (what I rather wished than expected), that I have found an op- portunity, even when your affairs were * The consuls of this year were L. Domitius Ahenobarbus, and Appiug Claudius Pulcher. in the most prosperous train, of giving a public testimony by my services to you, that I always most sincerely preserved the remembrance of our former amity. The truth is, I have approved myself your friend, not only to the full convic- tion of your family in particular, but of all Rome in general. In consequence of which, that most valuable of women, your excellent wife f, together with those illustrious models of virtue and filial piety, your two amiable sons, have per- petual recourse to my assistance and advice : and the whole world is sensible that no one is more zealously disposed to serve you than myself. Your family correspondents have in- formed you, I imagine, of what has hi- therto passed in your affair, as well as of what is at present in agitation. As for myself, I intreat you to do me the jus- tice to believe, that it was not any sud- den start of inclination, which disposed me to embrace this opportunity of vin- dicating your honour ; on the contrary, it was my ambition, from the first mo- ment I entered the Forum, to be ranked in the number of your friends X- I have the satisfaction to reflect, that I have never, from that time to this hour, failed in the highest sentiments of esteem for you ; and I doubt not, you have always retained the same affectionate regard to- wards me. If the effects of this mutual disposition have been interrupted by any little suspicions (for suspicions only I am sure they were), be the remembrance of them for ever blotted out of our hearts, I am persuaded, indeed, fi'om those vir- tues which form your character, and from those which I am desirous should distinguish onine, that our friendly union in the present conjuncture cannot but be attended with equal honour to us both. Wliat instances you may be vei- ling to give me of your esteem, must be left to your own determination : but they will be such, I flatter myself, as may tend most to advance my dignities. For my own part, I faithfully promise the utmost exertion of my best services in every article wherein I can contribute to increase yours. Many, I know, will be f This lady's name was TertuUa. J Crassus was almost ten years older than Ciceroj so that when the latter first appeared at the bar, the former had already established a character by his oratorical abilities. Sect. I. CICERO. my rivals in these amicable offices : but it is a contention in which all the world, I question not, and particularly your two sons, will acknowledge my superiority. Be assured, I love them both in a very uncommon degree, though I will own that Publius is my favourite. From his infancy, indeed, he discovered a singular regard to me ; as he particularly distin- guishes me at this time with all the marks even of filial respect and affection. Let me desire you to consider this let- ter, not as a strain of unmeaning com- pliment, but as a sacred and solemn co- venant of friendship, which I shall most sincerely and religiously observe. I shall now persevere in being the advocate of your honours, not only from a motive of affection, but from a principle of con- stancy : and without any application on your part, you may depend on my em- bracing every opportunity, wherein I shall think my services may prove agree- able to your interest or your inclinations. Can you once doubt, then, that any re- quest to me for this purpose, either by yourself or your family, will meet with a most punctual observance ? I hope, there- fore, you will not scruple to employ me in all your concerns, of what nature or importance soever, as one who is most faithfully your friend : and that you will direct your family to apply to me in all their affairs of every kind, whether re- lating to you or to themselves, to their friends or their dependents. And be as- sured, I shall spare no pains to render your absence as little uneasy to them as j^ossible. Farewell. LETTER Vn. To Julius Ccesar*. [A. U. 699.-\ I AM going to give an instance how much I rely upon your affectionate ser- vices, not only towards myseK, but in favour also of my friends. It was my intention, if I had gone abroad in any foreign employment, that Trebatiusf * Caesar was at this time in Gaul, preparing for his first expedition into Britain. f This person seems to have been in the number of Cjesar's particular favourites. He appears in this earlier part of his life to have been of a more gay and indolent disposition than is consistent with making a figure in bu- siness; but he afterwards, however, became a should have accompanied me: and he would not have returned without receiv- ing the highest and most advantageous honours I should have been able to have conferred upon him. But as Pompey, I find, defers setting out upon his com- mission longer than I imagined, and I am apprehensive likewise that the doubts you know I entertain in regard to my at- tending him, may possibly prevent, as they will certainly at least delay, my journey ; I take the liberty to refer Tre- batius to vour good offices, for those be- nefits he expected to have received from mine. I have ventured indeed to pro- mise, that he will find you full as well disposed to advance his interest, as I have always assured him he would find me ; and a very extraordinary circum- stance occurred, which seemed to confirm this opinion I entertained of your gene- rosity. For, in the very instant I was talking with Balbus upon this subject, your letter was delivered to me : in the close of which you pleasantly tell me, that " in compliance with my request, you will make Orfius king of Gaul, or assign him over to Lepta, and advance any other person whom I should be in- clined to recommend.'" This had so re- markable a coincidence with our discourse that it struck both Balbus and myself as a sort of happy omen that had some- thing in it more than accidental. As it was my intention, therefore, before I received your letter, to have transmitted Trebatius to you ; so I now consign him to your patronage as upon your own in- vitation. Receive him, then, my dear Csesar, with your usual generosity, and distinguish him with every honour that my solicitations can induce you to con- fer. I do not recommend him in the manner you so justly rallied, when I wrote to you in favour of Orfius : but I will take upon me to assure you, in true Roman sincerity, that there lives not a man of greater modesty and merit. I must not forget to mention also (what indeed is his distinguishing qualifica- tion), that he is eminently skilled in the laws of his country, and happy in an un- common strength of memory. I will not point out any particular piece of prefer- ment, which I wish you to bestow upon very celebrated lawyer ; and one of the most agreeable satires of Horace is addressed to him under that honourable character. 10 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. him : I will only in general intreat you to admit him into a share of your friend- ship. Nevertheless, if you should think proper to distinguish him with the tri- bunate or prsefecture*, or any other little honours of that nature, I shall have no manner of objection. In good earnest, I entirely resign him out of my hands into yours, which never were lifted up in battle, or pledged in friendship, without effect. But I fear I have pressed you farther upon this occasion than was ne- cessary : however, I know you will ex- cuse my warmth in the cause of a friend. Take care of your health, and continue to love me. Farewell. LETTER Vin. To Trehatius. [A. U. 699.] I NEVER write to Csesar or Balbus with- out taking occasion to mention you in the advantageous terms you deserve ; and this in a style that evidently distin- guishes me for your sincere well-wisher. I hope therefore you will check this idle passion for the elegancies of Rome, and resolutely persevere in the purpose of your journey, till your merit and assi- duity shall have obtained the desired effect. In the mean time, your friends here will excuse your absence, no less than the ladies of Corinth did that of Medea in the playf, when she artfully persuades them not to impute it to her as a crime, that she had forsaken her country : for, as she tells them. There are who distant from their native soil. Still for their own and country's glory toil : While some, fast rooted to their parent spot, In life are useless, and in death forgot. In this last inglorious class you would * The military tribunes were next in rank to the lieutenants or commanders in chief under the general ; as the prtefectus legionis was the most honourable post in the Roman armies after that of the military tribunes. The busi- ness of the former was, among other articles, to decide all controversies that arose among the soldiers; and that of the latter was to carry the chief standard of the legion. f Medea, being enamoured of Jason, assisted him in obtaining.the golden fleece, and then fled with him from her father's court. He afterwards however deserted her for Creusa, the daughter of Creon king of Corinth, whom Medea de- stroyed by certain magical arts. Ennius, a Roman poet, who flourished about a century before the date of this letter, formed a play upon this story. most certainly have been numbered, had not your friends all conspired in forcing you from Rome. — But more of this an- other time : in the mean while let me advise you, who know so well how to manage securities for others, to secure yourself from the British charioteers if. And since I have heen playing the Medea, let me make my exit with the following lines of the same tragedy, which are well worth your constant remembrance : — His wisdom, sure, on folly's confines lies, Who, wise for others, for himself's unwise. Farewell. LETTER IX. To the same. [A. U. 099.] I TAKE all opportunities of writing in your favour ; and I should be glad you would let me know with what success. My chief reliance is on Balbus : in my letters to whom I frequently and warmly recommend your interest. But why do you not let me hear from you every time my brother dispatches a courier ? I am informed there is neither gold nor silver in all Britain §. If that should be the case, I would advise you to seize one of the enemy's military cars, and drive back to us with all expedition. But if you think you shall be able to make your fortune without the assistance of British spoils, by all means establish yourself in Ceesar's friendship. To be serious, both my brother and Balbus will be of great service to you for that purpose ; but, believe me, your own merit and assiduity will prove your best recom- mendation. You have every favourable circumstance indeed for your advance- ment that can be wished. On the one hand, you are in the prime and vigour of X The armies of the ancient Britons were partly composed of troops who fought in open chariots, to the axletrees of which were fixed a kind of short scythe. § A notion had prevailed among the Romans that Britain abounded in gold and silver mines, and this report, it is probable, first suggested to Caesar the design of conquering Britain. It was soon discovered, however, that these sources of wealth existed only in their own imagina- tion ; and all their hopes of plunder ended in the little advantage they could make by the sale of their prisoners. Cicero, taking notice of this circumstance to Atticus, ridicules the po- verty and ignorance of our British ancestors. Sect. I. CICERO. 11 your years ; as on the other, you are serv- ing under a commander distinguished for the generosity of his disposition, and to whom you have been recommended in the strongest terms. In a word, there is not the least fear of your success, if your own concurrence be not wanting. Fare- well. LETTER X. To Trehatius, [A. U. 699.] I HAVE received a very obliging letter from Csesar, wherein he tells me, that though his numberless occupations have hitherto prevented him from seeing you so often as he wishes, he will certainly find an opportunity of being better ac- quainted with you. 1 have assured him, in return, how extremely acceptable his generous services to you would prove to myself. But surely you are much too precipitate in your determinations ; and I could not but wonder that you should have refused the advantages of a tribune's commission, especially as you might have been excused, it seems, from the func- tions of that post. If you continue to act thus indiscreetly, I shall certainly exhibit an information against you to your friends Vacerra and Manilius. I dare not venture, however, to lay the case before Cornelius : for, as you profess to have learned all your wisdom from his instructions ; to arraign the pupil of im- prudence, would be a tacit reflection, you know, upon the tutor. But in good earnest, I conjure you not to lose the fairest opportunity of making your for- tune, that probably will ever fall again in your way. I frequently recommend your interests to Precianus, whom you mention ; and he writes me word that he has done you some good offices. Let me know of what kind they are. I expect a letter upon your arrival in Britain. Farewell. LETTER XL To the same. [A. U. 699.] I HAVE made your acknowledgments to my brother, in pursuance of your re- quest ; and am glad to have an occasion of applauding you for being fixed at last in some settled resolution. The style of your former letters, I will own, gave me a good deal of uneasiness. And al- low me to say, that in some of them you discovered an impatience to return to the polite refinements of Rome, which had the appearance of much levity ; that in some I regretted your indolence, and in others your timidity. They frequently likewise gave me occasion to think, that you were not altogether so reasonable in your expectations, as is agreeable to your usual modesty. One would have ima- gined, indeed, you had carried a bill of exchange upon Cffisar, instead of a letter of recommendation : for you seemed to think you had nothing more to do than to receive your money and hasten home again. But money, my friend, is not so easily acquired ; and I could name some of our acquaintance who have been obliged to travel as far as Alexandria in pursuit of it, without having yet been able to obtain even their just demands*. If my inclinations were governed solely by my interest, I should certainly choose to have you here ; as nothing affords me more pleasure than your company, or more advantage than your advice and assistance. But as you sought my friend- ship and patronage from your earliest youth, I always thought it incumbent upon me to act with a disinterested view to your welfare; and not only to give you my protection, but to advance, by every means in my power, both your fortunes and your dignities. In conse- quence of which, I dare say you have not forgotten those unsolicited offers I made you, when I had thoughts of being em- ployed abroad. I no sooner gave up my intentions of this kind, and perceived that Csesar treated me with great distinc- tion and friendship, than I recommended you in the strongest and warmest terms to his favour ; perfectly well knowing the singular probity and benevolence of his heart. Accordingly he shewed, not only by his letters to me, but by his conduct towards you, the great regard he paid to my recommendation. If you have any opinion, therefore, of my judg- ment, or imagine that I sincerely wish you well, let me persuade you to con- * Alluding to those who supplied Ptolemy with money when he was soliciting his affairs in Rome. 12 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I, tinue with him. And notwithstanding you should meet with some things to disgust you, as business, perhaps, or other obstructions, may render him less expeditious in gratifying your views than you had reason to expect, still, however, persevere ; and trust me, you will find it prove in the end both for your interest and your honour. To exhort you any farther might look like impertinence : let me only remind you, that if you lose this opportunity of improving your for- tune, you will never meet again with so generous a patron, so rich a province, or so convenient a season for this purpose. And (to express myself in the style of your lawyers) Cornelius has given his opinion to the same effect. I am glad for my sake, as well as yours, that you did not attend Csesar into Britain; as it has not only saved you the fatigue of a very disagreeable expedition, but me likewise that of be- ing the perpetual auditor of your won- derful exploits. Let me know in what part of the world you are likely to take up your winter quarters, and in what post you are, or expect to be, employed. Farewell. LETTER XIL To the same. [A. U. 699.] It is a considerable time since I have heard any thing from you. As for myself, if I have not written these three months, it was because, after you were separated from my brother, I neither knew where to address my letters, nor by what hand to convey them. I much wish to be informed how your affairs go on, and in what part of the world your winter quarters are likely to be fixed. I should be glad they might be with Cae- sar ; but, as I would not venture in his present affliction* to trouble him with a * Caesar about this time lost his daughter Julia, who died in childbed. She was married to Pompey, who was so passionately fond of her, that she seems, during the short time they lived together, to have taken entire possession of his whole heart, and to have turned all his ambition into the single desire of appearing amiable in her eye. The death of this young lady proved a public calamity, as it dissolved the only forcible bond of union between her father and her husband, and hastened that rupture, which ended in the destruction of the commonwealth. letter I have written upon that subject to Balbus. In the mean while, let me intreat you not to be wanting to yourself: and for my own part, I am contented to give up so much more of your company, provided the longer you stay abroad the richer you should return. There is no- thing, I think, particularly to hasten you home, now that Vacerra is dead. However, you are the best judge : and I should be glad to know what you have determined. There is a queer fellow of your ac- quaintance, one Octavius or Cornelius (I do not perfectly recollect his name), who is perpetually inviting me, as a friend of yours, to sup with him. He has not yet prevailed with me to accept his compliment : however, I am obliged to the man. Farewell. LETTER XIII. To the same. [A. U. 699.J I PERCEIVE by your letter, that my friend Csesar looks upon you as a most wonderful lawyer : and are you not hap- py in being thus placed in a country where you make so considerable a figure upon so small a stock? But with how much greater advantage would your no- ble talents have appeared had you gone into Britain ? Undoubtedly there would not have been so profound a sage in the law throughout all that extensive island. Since your epistle has provoked me to be thus jocose, I will proceed in the same strain, and tell you there was one part of it I could not read without some envy. And how indeed could it be otherwise, when I found, that, Avhilst much greater men were in vain at- tempting to get admittance to Csesar, you were singled out from the crowd, and even summoned to an audience t ? But after giving me an account of af- fairs which concern others, why were you silent as to your own ; assured as you are that I interest myself in them f Trebatius, it is probable, had informed Cicero, in the letter to which this is an answer, that he had been summoned by Csesar to attend him as his assessor upon some trial ^ which seems to have led this author into the rail- leries of this and the preceding passages. Sect. I. CICERO. 1,1 with as muck zeal as if they immediately related to myself? Accordingly, as I am extremely afraid you will have no employment to keep you warm in your winter quarters, I would by all means advise you to lay in a sufficient quan- tity of fuel. Botli Mucins and Ma- nilius * have given their opinions to the same purpose ; especially as your regi- mentals, they apprehend, will scarce be ready soon enough to secure you against the approaching cold. We hear, how- ever, that there has been hcd work in your part of the world ; which somewhat alarmed me for your safety. But I com- forted myself with considering, that you are not altogether so desperate a soldier as you are a lawyer. It is a wonderful consolation indeed to your friends, to be assured that your passions are not an overmatch for your prudence. Thus, as much as I know you love the water f, you would not venture, I find, to cross it with Ceesar : and though nothing could keep you from the combats X in Rome, you were much too wise, I perceive, to attend them in Britain. But pleasantry apart : you know with- out my telling you, with what zeal I have recommended you to Ceesar ; though perhaps you may not be apprised, that I have frequently, as well as warmly, writ- ten to him upon that subject. I had for some time indeed, intermitted my solici- tations, as I would not seem to distrust his friendship and generosity : however, I thought proper in my last to remind him once more of his promise. I desire you would let me know what effect my letter has produced : and at the same time give me a full account of every thing that concerns you. For I am ex- ceedingly anxious to be informed of the ^^ Mucius and Manilius, i': must be sup- posed, were two lawyers and particular friends of Trebatius. f The art of swimming was among the num- ber of polite exercises in ancient Rome, and esteemed a necessary qualification for every gentleman. It was indeed one of the essential arts in military discipline, as both the soldiers and officers had frequently no other means of pursuing or retreating from the enemy. Ac- cordingly, the Campus Martins, a place where the Roman youth were taught the science of arms, was situated on the banks of the Tiber; and they constantly finished their exercises of this kind, by throwing themselves into the river. X Alluding to his fondness of the gladiato- rial games. prospect and situation of your affairs ; as well as how long you imagine your absence is likely to continue. Be per- suaded, that nothing could reconcile me to this separation, but the hopes of its proving to your advantage. In any other view I should not be so impolitic as not to insist on your return : as you would be too prudent, I dare say, to de- lay it. The truth is, one hour's gay or serious conversation together, is of more importance to us, than all the foes and all the friends that the whole nation of Gaul can produce. I intreat you, there- fore, to send me an immediate account in what posture your affairs stand : and be assured, as honest Chremes says to his neighbour in the play §, Whatever cares thy lab'ring bosom grieve, My tongue shall smooth them, or my hand relieve. Farewell. LETTER XIV. To ^liinfus Philippus, Proconsul. [A. U. 699.] I CONGRATULATE your safc return from your province in the fulness of your fame, and amidst the general tranquillity of the republic. If I were in Rome, I should have waited upon you for this purpose in person, and in order like- wise to make my acknowledgments to you for your favours to my friends Eg- natius and Oppius. I am extremely sorry to hear that you have taken great offence against my friend and host Antipater. I cannot pre- tend to judge of the merits of the case : but I know your character too well not to be persuaded, that you are incapable of indulging an unreasonable resent- ment. I conjure you, however, by our long friendship, to pardon for my sake his sons, who lie entirely at your mercy. If I imagined you could not grant this favour consistently with your honour, I should be far from making the request : as my regard for your reputation is much superior to all considerations of friendship which I owe to this family. But if I am not mistaken (and indeed I very possibly may), your clemency to- wards them will rather add to your character, than derogate from it. If it be not too much trouble, therefore, I In Terence's play called Thr Self-tormenlor. 14 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. should be glad you would let me know how far a compliance with my request is in your power : for that it is in your inclination, I have not the least reason to doubt. Farewell. LETTER XV. To Lucius Valerius^, the Lawyer. [A. U. 699.} FoRf why should I not gratify your vanity with that honourable appellation ? Since, as the times go, my friend, con- fidence will readily pass upon the world for skill. I have executed the commission you sent me, and made your acknowledg- ments to Lentulus. But I wish you would render my offices of this kind un- necessary, by putting an end to your te- dious absence. Is it not more worthy of your mighty ambition to be blended with your learned brethren at Rome, than to stand the sole great wonder of wisdom amidst a parcel of paltry Provincials? But I long to rally you in person : for which merry purpose I desire you would hasten hither as expeditiously as possi- ble. I would by no means, however, ad- vise you to take Apulia in the way, lest some disastrous adventure in those un- lucky regions should prevent our wel- coming your safe arrival. And in truth, to what purpose should you visit this your native province^ ? For, like Ulysses when he first returned to his Ithaca, you will be much too prudent, un- doubtedly, to lay claim to your noble kindred. Farewell. LETTER XVI. To Trehatius. [A. U. 700.] I WAS wondering at the long intermission * Valerius is only known by this letter and another, wherein Cicero recommends him to Appius, as a person who lived in his family, and for whom he entertained a very singular affec- tion. He seems to have been one of that sort of lawyers who may more properly be said to be of the profession than the science. f The abrupt beginning of this letter has in- duced some of the commentators to suspect that it is not entire. But Manutius has very justly observed, that it evidently refers to the inscription : and he produces an instance of the same kind from one of the epistles to Atticus. X Manutius imagines that Cicero means to rally the obscurity of his friend's birth. of your letters, when my friend Pansa accounted for your indolence, by as- suring me that you were turned an Epicurean. Glorious effect indeed of camp conversation ! But if a meta- morphosis so extraordinary has been wrought in you amidst the martial air of Samarobriva, what would have been the consequence had I sent you to the softer regions of Tarentum§? I have been in some pain for your principles, I confess, ever since youf intimacy with my friend Seius. But how will you reconcile your tenets to your pro- fession, and act for the interest of your client, now that you have adopted the maxim of doing nothing but for your own ? With what grace can you insert the usual clause in your deeds of agree- ment : The parties to these presents, as becomes good men and true, 8cc. ? For neither truth nor trust can there be in those who professedly govern them- selves upon motives of absolute selfish- ness. I am in some pain, likewise, how you will settle the law concerning the partition of " rights in common;" as there can be nothing in commoji between those who make their own pri- vate gratification the sole criterion of right and wrong. Or can you think it proper to administer an oath, while you maintain that Jupiter is incapable of all resentment? In a word, what will become of the good people of Ulubrasjl, who have placed themselves under your protection, if you hold the maxim of your sect, that " a wise man ought not to engage himself in public affairs?" In good earnest, I shall be extremely sorry, if it is true, that you have really deserted us. But if your conversation is nothing more than a convenient compliment to the opinions of Pansa, I will forgive your dissimula- tion, provided you let me know soon how your affairs go on, and in what manner I can be of any service in them. Farewell. § Tarentum was a city in Italy, distin- guished for the softness and luxury of its in- habitants. II Cicero jocosely speaks of this people, as if they belonged to the most considerable town in Italy; whereas it was so mean and contemptible a place, that Horace, in order to show the power of contentment, says, that a person possessed of that excellent temper of mind, may be happy even at UlubrEB. Sect. I. CICERO. 15 LETTER XVII. To Cuius Curio. [A. U. 700.] Our friendship, I trust, needs not any other evidence to confirm its sincerity, than what arises from the testimony of our own hearts. I cannot, however, but consider the death of your illustrious father as depriving me of a most vene- rable witness to that singular affection I bear you. I regret that he had not the satisfaction of taking a last farewell of you, before he closed his eyes : it was the only circumstance wanting to render him as much superior to the rest of the world in his domestic happiness, as in his public fame*. I sincerely wish you the happy enjoy- ment of your estate : and be assured, you will find in me a friend who loves and values you with the same tenderness as your father himself conceived for you. Farewell. LETTER XVIII. To Trebatius. March the 24th. [A. U. 700.] Can you seriously suppose me so un- reasonable as to be angry, because I thought you discovered too inconstant a disposition in your impatience to leave Gaul } And can you possibly believe it was for that reason I have thus long omitted writing? The truth is, I was only concerned at the uneasiness which seemed to have overcast your mind : and I forbore to write, upon no other account but as being entirely ignorant where to direct my letters, i suppose, however, that this, is a plea which your loftiness will scarce condescend to admit. But tell me then, is it the weight of your purse, or the honour of being the counsellor of Caesar, that most disposes you to be thus insufferably arrogant ? Let me perish if I do not believe that thy vanity is so im- * He was consul in the year of Rome 676, when he acted with great spirit in opposition to the attempts of Sicinius for restoring the tribunitial power, which had been much abridged by Sylia. In the following j-^ear he went governor into Macedonia, and by his military conduct in that province obtained the honour of a triumph. He distinguished himself among the friends of Cicero when he was attacked by Clodius. moderate as to choose rather to share in his council than his coffers. But should he admit you into a participation of both, you will undoubtedly swell into such in- tolerable airs, that no mortal will be able to endure you : or none at least except myself, who am philosopher enough, you knowj to endure any thing. But I was going to tell you, that as I regretted the uneasiness you formerly expressed; so I rejoice to hear, that you are better reconciled to your situation. My only fear is, that your wonderful skill in the law will little avail you in your present quarters : for I am told that the people you have to deal with, Rest the strength of their cause on the force of their might. And the sword is supreme arbitrator of rightf , As I know you do not choose to be con- cerned in forcible entries, and are much too peaceably disposed to be fond of making assaults, let me leave a piece of advice with my lawyer, and by all means recommend it to you to avoid the Tre- viri X ; for I hear they are most formi- dable fellows. I wish from my heart they were as harmless as their name- sakes round the edges of our coin§. But I must reserve the rest of my jokes to another opportunity : in the mean time, let me desire you would send me a full account of whatever is going for- ward in your province. Farewell. LETTER XIX. To Cuius Curio. [A. U. 700.] You must not impute it to any neglect in Rupa, that he has not executed your commission ; as he omitted it merely in compliance with the opinion of myself and the rest of your friends. We thought it most prudent that no steps should be taken during your absence, which might preclude you from a change of measures after your return : and therefore, that it f Ennius. X The Treviri were a most warlike people bordering on Germany. They were defeated about this time by Labienus, one of Caesar's lieutenants in Gaul. § The public coin was under the inspection of three officers called Treviri monetales: and several pieces of money are still extant in the cabinets of the curious, inscribed with the names of these magistrates. 16 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. would be best he should not signify your intentions of entertaining the people with public games. I may perhaps in some future letter give you my reasons at large against your executing that design : or rather, that you may not come prepared to answer my objections, I believe it wDl be the wisest way to reserve them till we meet. If I should not bring you over to my sentiments, I shall have the satisfac- tion, at least, of discharging the part of a friend : and should it happen (which I hope, however, it will not) that you should hereafter have occasion to repent of your scheme ; you may then remem- ber, that I endeavoured to dissuade you from it. But this much I will now say, that those advantages which fortune, in conjunction with your own industry and natural endowments, have put into your possession, supply a far surer method of opening your way to the highest dig- nities, than any ostentatious display of the most splendid spectacles. The truth of it is, exhibitions of ^-his kind, as they are instances of wealth only, not of merit, are by no means considered as reflecting any honour on the authors of them : not to mention, that the public is quite satiated with their frequent re- turns. But I am fallen unawares into what I designed to have avoided, and pointing out my particular reasons against your scheme. I will wave all farther discussion, therefore, of this matter till we meet; and in the mean time inform you, that the world en- tertains the highest opinion of your virtues. Whatever advantages may be hoped from the most exalted patriotism united with the greatest abilities, the public, believe me, expects from you. And should you come prepared (as I am sure you ought, and I trust you will) to act up to these its glorious expectations ; then, indeed, you will exhibit to your ifriends, and to the commonwealth in general, a spectacle of the noblest and most affecting kind*. In the mean while be assured, no man has a greater * Curio was not of a disposition to listen to this prudent counsel of his friend : but, in op- position to all the grave advice of Cicero, he persevered in his resolution, and executed it with great magnificence. The consequence was just what Cicero foresaw and dreaded : he contracted debts which he was incapable of discharging, and then sold himself to Caesar in order to satisfj' the clamours of his creditors. share of my affection and esteem than yourself. Farewell. LETTER XX. To Trebatius, April the 8th. [A. U. 700.] Two or three of your letters which lately came to my hands at the same time, though of different dates, have af- forded me great pleasure : as they were proofs that you have reconciled yourself, with much spirit and resolution, to the inconveniences of a military life. I had some little suspicion, I confess, of the contrary : not that I questioned your courage, but as imputing your uneasi- ness to the regret of our separation. Let me intreat you then to persevere in your present temper of mind : and be- lieve me, you will derive many and con- siderable advantages from the service in which you are engaged. In the mean while, I shall not fail to renew my so- licitations to Csesar in your favour upon all proper occasions ; and have herewith sent you a Greek letter to deliver to him for that purpose : for, in truth, you can- not be more anxious than I am that this expedition may prove to your benefit. In return, 1 desire you would send me a full relation of the Gallic war ; for you must know, 1 always depend most upon the accounts of those who are least en- gaged in the action. As I do not imagine you are altogether so considerable a person as to retain a secretary in your service, I could not but wonder you should trouble yourself with the precaution of sending me several co- pies of the same letter. Your parsimony, however, deserves to be applauded ; as one of them, I observed, was written upon a tablet that had been used before. I cannot conceive what unhappy com- position could be so very miserable as to deserve to give place upon this occasion : unless it were one of your own convey- ances. I flatter myself, at least, it was not any sprightly epistle of mine that you thus disgraced, in order to scribble over it a dull one of your own. Or was it your intention to intimate affairs go so ill with you, that you could not afford any better materials? If that should be your case, you must even thank yourself for hot leaving your modesty behind you. Sect. I. CICERO. I shall recommend you in very strong terms to Balbiis, when he returns into Oaul. But you must not be surprised if you should not hear from me again so soon as usual ; as I shall be absent from Rome during- all this month. I write this from Pomptinus, at the villa of Me- trilius Philemon, where I am placed within hearing- of those croaking- clients whom you recommended to my protec- tion : for a prodigious number, it seems, of your Ulubrean frogs * are assembled, in order to compliment my arrival among them. Farewell. P. S. I have destroyed the letter I re- ceived from you by the hands of Lucius Aruntius, though it was much too inno- cent to deserve so severe a treatment ; for it contained nothing that might not have been proclaimed before a general assembly of the people. However, it was your express desire I should destroy it ; and I have complied accordingly. I will only add, that I w onder much at not having heard from you since ; especially as so many extraordinary events have lately happened in vo-ar province. LETTER XXL To Cuius Curio. [A. U. 700.] Public affairs are so circumstanced, that I dare not communicate my senti- ments of them in a letter. This, how- ever, I will venture in general to say, that I have reason to congratulate you on your removal from the scene in which w^e are engaged. But I must add, that in whatever part of the world you might be placed, you would still (as I told you in my last) be embarked in the same com- mon bottom with your friends here. I have another reason likewise for rejoicing in your absence, as it has placed your merit in full view of so considerable a number of the most illustrious citizens, and allies of Rome : and indeed the re- putation you have acquired is universally, and without the least exception, con- firmed to us on all hands. But there is one circumstance attending you, upon which I know not whether I ought to * Cicero ludicrously gives the inhabitants of Ulubrae this appellation, in allusion to the low and marshy situation of their town. send you my congratulations or not : I mean with respect to those high and sin- gular advantages which the common- w^ealth promises itself from your return amongst us. Not that I suspect your proving unequal to the opinion which the world entertains of your virtues ; but as fearing that whatever is most worthy of your care will be irrecoverably lost ere your arrival to prevent it : such, alas ! is the v/eak and well-nigh expiring condition of your unhappy republic ! But prudence, perhaps, wall scarce jus- tify me in trusting even this to a letter : for the rest, therefore, I must refer you to others. In the mean w^hile, whatever your fears or your hopes of public affairs may be ; think, my friend, incessantly think on those virtues which that ge- nerous patriot must possess, who in these evil times, and amidst such a general depravation of manners, gloriously pro- poses to vindicate the ancient dignity and liberties of his oppressed country. Farewell. LETTER XXII. To Trehatius. [A. U. 700.] If it were not for the compliments you sent me by Chrysippus the freeman of Cyrus the architect, 1 should have ima- gined I no longer possessed a place in your thoughts. But surely you are be- come a most intolerable fine gentleman, that you could not bear the fatigue of writing to me ; when you had the op- portunity of doing so by a man Avhom, you know, I look upon as one almost of my owTi family. Perhaps, however, you may have forgotten the use of your pen, and so much the better, let me tell you, for your clients ; as they will lose no more causes by its blunders. But if it is myself only that has escaped your re- membrance ; I must endeavour to refresh it by a visit, before I am w^orn out of your mind beyond all power of recollec- tion. After all, is it not the apprehen- sions of the next summer's campaign, that has rendered your hand too unsteady to perform its ofiice ? If so you must e'en play over again the same gallant strata- gem you practised last year in relation to your Britisli expedition, and frame some heroic excuse for your absence, How^ *c («^ 18 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I, ever, I was extremely glad to hear by Chrysippus, that you are much in Cse- sar's good graces. But it would be more like a man of equity, methinks, as well as more agreeable to my inclinations, if you were to give me frequent notice of what concerns you, by your own hand : a sa- tisfaction I should undoubtedly enjoy, if you had chosen to study the lazvs of good fellowship, rather than those of conten- tion. You see I rally you, as usual, in your own way, not to say a little in mine. But to end seriously ; be assured, as I greatly love you, I am no less confident than desirous of your affection in return. Farewell. LETTER XXin. To Titus Fadius. [A. U. TOO.] I KNOW not any event which has lately happened, that more sensibly affects me than your disgrace. Far therefore from being capable of giving you the con- solation I wish, I greatly stand in need of the same good office myself. Never- theless, I cannot forbear, not only to exhort, but to conjure you likewise by our friendship, to collect your whole strength of reason, in order to oppose your affliction with a firm and manly fortitude. Remember, my friend, that calamities are incident to all mankind, but particui'arly to us who live in these miserable and distracted times. Let it be your consolation, however, to reflect, that you have lost far less by fortune than you have acquired by merit : as there are few, under the circumstances of your birth, who ever raised themselves to the same dignities ; though there are numbers of the highest quality who have sunk into the same disgrace. To say truth ; so wretched is the fate which threatens our laws, our liberties, and our constitution in general, that well may he esteem himself happily dealt with, who is dismissed from such a distempered go- vernment upon the least injurious terms. As to your own case in particular, when you reflect that you are still undeprived of your estate ; that you are happy in the affections of your children, your fa- mily, and your friends ; and that in all probability you are only separated from them for a short interval : when you re- flect, that among the gTeat number of impeachments which have lately been carried on, yours is the only one that was considered as entirely groundless ; that you were condemned by a majority only of one single vote, and that too uni- versally supposed to have been given in compliance with some powerful influ- ence — these, undoubtedly, are con- siderations which ought greatly to alle- viate the weight of your misfortune. I will only add, that you may always de- pend upon finding in me that disposition both towards yourself and your family, which is agreeable to your wishes, as well as to what you have a right to ex- pect. Farewell. LETTER XXIV. To Marcus Calius. July the 6th. [A. U. 702.] Could you seriously then imagine, my friend, that I commissioned yon to send me the idle news of the town ; matches of gladiators, adjournments of causes, robberies, and the ^est of those unin- teresting occurrences, which no one ventures to mention to me, even when 1 am in the midst of them at Rome ? Far other are the accounts which I expect from your hand : as I know not any man whose judgment in politics I have more reason to value. I should esteem it a misemployment of your talents, even were you to transmit to me those more important transactions that daily arise in the republic ; unless they should happen to relate immediately to myself. There are other less penetrating politicians, who will send me intelligence of this sort : and I shall be abundandtly supplied with it likewise by common fame. In short, it is not an account either of what has lately been transacted, or is in present agitation, that 1 require in your letters : I expect, as from one whose discernment is capable of looking far into futurity, your opinion of what is likely to happen. Thus, by seeing a plan, as it were, of the republic, I shall be enabled to judge what kind of structure will probably arise. Hitherto, however, I have no reason to charge you with having been negligent in communicating to me your prophetic conjectures. For the events which have lately happened in the commonwealth, Sect. I. CICERO. 19 were much beyond any man's penetra- tion : I am sure at least tliey were beyond mine. I passed several days with Pompey, in conversation upon public affairs : but it is neither prudent, nor possible, to give you the particulars in a letter. In gene- ral, however, I will assure you, that he is animated with the most patriotic sen- timents, and is prudently prepared, as well as resolutely determined, to act as the interest of the republic shall require. I would advise you therefore wnolly to attach yourself to him : and believe me, he will rejoice to embrace you as his friend. He now indeed entertains the same opinion both with you and myself, of the good and ill intendons of the dif- ferent parties in the republic. I have spent the last ten days at Athens ; from whence I am this moment setting out. During my continuance in this city, I have frequently enjoyed the company of our friend Gallus C animus. I recommend all my affairs to your care and protection, but particularly (what indeed is my principal concern) that my residence in the province may not be prolonged. I will not prescribe the methods you should employ for that purpose ; as you are the most competent judge by what means, and by whose intervention, it may be best effected. Farewell. LETTER XXV. To Terentia and Tullia. Athens, October the 18th. [A. U. 703.] The amiable young Cicero and myself are perfectly well, if you and my dearest Tully are so. We arrived here^ on the 14th of this month, after a very tedious and disagreeable passage, occasioned by contrary winds. Acastusf met me upon my landing, with letters fi-om Rome ; having been so expeditious as to perform his journey in one-and-twenty days. In the packet which he delivered to me, I found yours, wherein you ex- press some uneasiness lest your former letters should not have reached my hands. They have, my Terentia : and I am ex- tremely obliged to you for the very full accounts you gave me of every thing I was concerned to know. * Athens. -f- A freed-man belonging to Cicero. I am by no means surprised at tlie shortness of your last, as you had reason to expect us so soon. It is with great impadence I wish for that meeting : though I am sensible, at the same time, of the unhappy situ a ion in which I shall find the republic. All the letters, in- deed, which I received by Acastus, agree in assuring me, that there is a general tendency »,o a civil war : so that when I come to Rome I shall be under a neces- sity of declaring myself on one side or the other. However, since there is no avoiding the scene which fortune has pre- pared for me, I shall be the more expe- ditious in my journey, that I may the better deliberate on the several circum- stances which must determine my choice. Let me intreat you to meet me as far on my way as your health wiU permit. The legacy, which Precius has left me, is an acquisition that I receive with great concern, as I tenderly loved him, and extremely lament his death. If his estate should be put up to auction before my arrival, I beg you would recommend my interest in it to the care of Atticus : or in case his affairs should not aUow him to undertake the office, that you would request the same favour of Camillus. And if this should not find you at Rome, I desire you would send proper direc- tions thither for that purpose. As for my other affairs, I hope I shall be able to settle them myself: for I purpose to be in Italy, if the gods favom* my voy- age, about the 13th of November. In the mean time I conjure you, my amiable and excellent Terentia, and thou my dearest Tullia, I conjure you both by all the tender regards you bear me, to take care of your healths. Farewell. LETTER XXVI. To Tirol. November the 3d. [A. U. 703.] I DID not imagine I should have been so little able to support your absence : X He was a favourite slave of Cicero, who trained him up in his family, and formed him under his own immediate tuition. The pro- bity of his manners, the elegance of his genius, and his uncommon erudition, recommended him to his master's peculiar esteem and affec- tion. C 2 20 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. but, indeed, it is more than 1 can well bear. Accordingly, notwithstanding it is of the last importance to my interest* that I should hasten to Rome, yet I can- not but severely reproach myself for having thus deserted you. However, as you seemed altogether averse from pur- suing your voyage till you sliould re- establish your health, I approve of your scheme ; and I still approve of it, if you continue in the same sentiments. Ne- vertheless, if, after having taken some refreshment, you should think yourself in a condition to follow me ; you may do so, or not, as you shall judge proper. If you should determine in the affirma- tive, I have sent Mario to attend you : if not, I have ordered him to return immediately. Be well assured, there is nothing I more ardently desire than to have you with me, provided I may enjoy that pleasure without prejudice to your- self. But be assured too, that if your continuing somewhat longer at Patr8e| should be thought necessary, I prefer your health to all other considerations. If you should embark immediately, you may overtake me at LeucasJ. But if you are more inclined to defer your voyage till your recovery shall be better confirmed, let me intreat you to be very careful in choosing a safe ship ; and that you would neither sail at an improper season, nor without a convoy. I par- ticularly charge you also, my dear Tiro, by all the regard you bear me, not to suffer the arrival of Mario, or any thing that I have said in this letter, in the least to influence your resolution. Be- lieve me, whatever will be most agree- able to your health, will be most agree- able likewise to my inclinations : and, therefore, I desire you would be wholly governed by your own prudence. 'Tis true, I am extremely desirous of your * As Cicero was full of the hopes of obtain- ing a triumph, he was desirous of hastening to Rome before the dissensions between CjEsar and Pompey should be arrived at so great a height as to render it impossible for him to enjoy that honour. f A city in Peloponnesus, which still sub- sists under the name of Patras. Cicero had left Tiro indisposed in this place, the day be- fore the date of the present letter. X A little Grecian island in the Ionian sea, now called Saint Maure. It was on this island that the celebrated promontory stood, from whence the tender Sappho is said to have /thrown herself in a fit of amorous despair. company, and of enjoying it as early as possible : but the same affection, which makes me wish to see you soon, makes me wish to see you well. Let your health, therefore, be your first and prin- cipal care ; assuring yourself, that among all the numberless good offices I have re- ceived at your hands, I shall esteem this by far the most acceptable. LETTER XXVII. To the same. Lencas, Nov. the Tth. [A. U. 703 )■ Your letter produced very different ef- fects on my mind ; as the latter part somewhat alleviated the concern which the former had occasioned. I am now convinced tliat it will not be safe for you to proceed on your voyage, till your health shall be entirely re-established : and I shall see you soon enough, if I see you perfectly recovered. I find by your letter that you have a good opinion of your physician : and I am told he deserves it. However, I can by no means approve of the regimen he prescribed: for broths cannot certainly be suitable to so weak a stomach. I have written to him very fully concern- ing you ; as also to Lyso. I have done the same likewise to my very obliging friend Curius : and have particularly re- quested him, if it should be agreeable to yourself, that he would remove you into his house. I am apprehensive, indeed, that Lyso will not give you proper at- tendance : in the first place, because carelessness is the general characteristic of all his countrymen § ; and in the next, because he has returned no answer to my letter. Nevertheless, as you mention him with esteem, I leave it to you to continue with him, or not, just as you shall think proper. Let me only enjoin you, my dear Tiro, not to spare any expence that may be necessary towards your recovery. To this end, I have desired Curius to supply you with what- ever money you shall require : and I think it would be proper, in order to render your physician the more careftd in his attendance, to make him some present. Numberless are the services I have § The Grecians. Sect. I. CICERO. 21 received from you, both at home and abroad ; in my public and my private transactions ; in the course of my studies and the concerns of my family. But woidd you crown them all, let it be by your care that I may see you (as I hope I soon shall) perfectly recovered. If your health should permit, I think you cannot do better than to take the oppor- tunity of embarking with my quaestor Mescinius ; for he is a good-natured man, and seems to have conceived a friendship for you. The care of your voyage in- deed is the next thing I would recom- mend to you, after that of your health. However, I would now by no means have you hurry yourself ; as my single concern is for your recovery. Be as- sured, my dear Tiro, that all my friends are yours ; and consequently, as your health is of the greatest importance to me as well as to yourself, there are num- bers who are solicitous for its preserva- tion. Your assiduous attendance upon me has hitherto prevented you from paying due regard to it. But nov/ that you are wholly at leisure, I conjure you to devote all your application to that single object : and I shall judge of the aflfection you bear me, by your com- pliance with this request. Adieu, my dear Tiro, adieu ! adieu ! may you soon be restored to the perfect enjoyment of your health ! Lepta, together with aU your other friends, salute you. Farewell, yourself so surrounded v/ith the army as to render it impossible to withdraw, though you should be ever so much in- clined. The next question is (and it is a question which you yourselves are best able to determine), whether any ladies of your rank venture to continue in the city : if not, will it be consistent with your character to appear singular in that point? But be that as it will, yon cannot, I think, as affairs are now situated, be more com- modiously placed, than either with me or at some of our farms in this district ; supposing, I mean, that I should be able to maintain my present post. I must add likewise, that a short time, 'tis to be feared, will produce a great scarcity in Rome. However, I shoidd be glad you would take the sentiments of Atticus, or Camillus, or any other friend whom you may choose to consult upon this subject. In the mean while, let me conjure you both to keep up your spirits. The coming over of Labienus to our party has given affairs a much better aspect. And Piso having withdrawn himself from the city, is likewise another very favour- able circumstance : as it is a plain indi- cation, that he disapproves the impious measures of his son-in-law. I intreat you, my dearest creatures, to write to me as frequently as possible, and let me know how it is with you, as well as what is going forward in Rome. My brother and nephew, together with Rufus, affectionately salute you. Fare- well LETTER XXYIII. To Terentia and to TuUia. MintunicE, Jan. the 25th. [A. U. 704.] In what manner it may be proper to dispose of yourselves, during the pre- sent conjuncture, is a question which must now be decided by your own judg- ments as much as by mine. Should Csesar advance to Rome without committing hostilities, you may certainly for the present at least remain there unmolested : but if this madman should give up tlie city to the rapine of his soldiers, I must doubt whether even Dolabella's credit and authority will be sufficient to protect you. I am under some apprehension likewise, lest whilst you are deliberating in what manner to act, you triiould find LETTER XXIX. To the same. Formias*, the 25th. [A, U. 704.] It well deserves consideration, whether it will be more prudent for you to con- tinue in Rome, or to remove to some se- cure place within my department ; and it is a consideration, my dearest creatures, in which your own judgments must as- sist mine. What occurs to my present thoughts is this ; on the one hand, as you will probably find a safe protection in Dolabella, your residing in Rome may prove a mean of secui'ing our house from being plundered, should the soldiers be * A maritime citj' in Cainj)ania, not far from Minturna?, the place fiom whence the preceding letter is dated. ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. suffered to commit any violences of that kind. But on the other, when I reflect that all the worthier part of the republic have withdrawn themselves and their families from the city ; I am inclined to advise you to foUow their example. I must add likewise, that there are several towns in this canton of Italy under my command, which are particularly in our interest : as also, that great part of our estate lies in the same district. If there- fore you should remove thither, you may not only very frequently he with me, but whenever we shall be obliged to se- parate, you may be safely lodged at one or other of my farms. However, I am utterly unable to determine, at present, which of these schemes is preferable ; only let me intreat you to observe whai, steps other ladies of your rank pursue in this conjuncture : and be caut'ous like- wise that you be not prevented from re- tiring, should it prove your choice. In the mean time, I hope you will maturely deliberate upon this point between your- selves ; and take the opinion also of our friends. At all events, I desire you would direct Philotimus to procure a strong guard to defend our house ; to which request I must add, that you would engage a proper number of regular cou- riers, in order to give me the satisfac- tion of hearing from you every day. But above aU, let me conjure you both, to take care of your healths as you wish to preserve mine. Farewell. LETTER XXX. To Terentia. June the 11th. [A. U. T04.] I AM entirely free from the disorder in my stomach ; which was the more pain- ful, as I saw it occasioned both you and that dear girl, whom I love better than my life, so much uneasiness. I dis- covered the cause of this complaint the night after I left you, having discharged a great quantity of phlegm. This gave me so immediate a relief, that I cannot but believe I owe my cure to some hea- venly interposition : to Apollo, no doubt, and iEsculapius. You will offer up your grateful tributes therefore to these re- storing powers, with all the ardency of your usual devotion. I am this moment embarked * ; and have procured a ship which I hope is well able to perform her voyage. As soon as I shaU have fiinshed this letter, I propose to write to several of my friends recommending you and our dearest Tullia in the strongest terms to their protection. In the mean time, I should exhort you to keep up your spirits, if I did not know that you are both animated with a more than manly fortitude. And indeed I hope there is a fair prospect of your re- maining in Italy without any inconve- nience, and of my returning to the de- fence of the republic, in conjunction with those who are no less faithfully devoted to its interest. After earnestly recommending to you the care of your health, let me make it my next request, that you would dispose of yourself in such of my villas as are at the greatest distance from the army. And if provisions should become scarce in Rome, I should think you will find it most convenient to remove with your servants to Arpinumf. The amiable young Cicero most ten- derly salutes you. Again and again I bid you farewell. LETTER XXXI. To the samei, [A. U. 704.3 I AM informed by the letters of my friends as well as by other accounts, that you have had a sudden attack of a fever. I entreat you, therefore, to em- ploy the utmost care in re-establishing your health. The early notice you gave me of Caesar's letter was extremely agreeable to me : and let me desire you would send me the same expeditious intelli- gence, if any thing should hereafter oc- cur that concerns me to know. Once more I conjure you to take care of your health. Farewell. * In order to join Pompey in Greece; who had left Italy about three months before the date of this letter. f A city in the country of the Volsci : a district of Italy, which now comprehends part of the Campagna di Roma, and of the Terra di Lavoro. Cicero was born in this town, which still subsists under the name of Arpino. X This letter was written by Cicero in the camp at Dyrrachium. Sect. I. CICERO. 23 LETTER XXXII. To the same *. [A. U. 704..] I INTREAT you to take all proper mea- sures for the recovery of your health. Let me request, likewise, that you would provide whatever may be necessary in the present conjuncture : and that you would send me frequent accounts how every thing goes on. Farewell. LETTER XXXIII. To the same. July the 15th. [A. U. 704] I HAVE seldom an opportunity of writ- ing; and scarce any thing to say that I choose to trust in a letter. I find by your last, that you cannot meet with a purchaser for any of our farms. I beg therefore, you would consider of some other method of raising money, in or- der to satisfy that person, who you are sensible I am very desirous should be paid f. I am bjr no means surprised that you should have received the thanks of our friend, as I dare say she had great reason to acknowledge your kindness. If Pollux X is not yet set out, I desire you would exercise your authority, and force the loiterer to depart immediately. Farewell. LETTER XXXIV. To Tci^entia. Brundisium, Nov. the 5tb. [A. U. 704.] May the joy you express at my safe arrival in Italy § be never interrupted ! * This letter was probably written soon after the foregoing, and from the same place. •f- This letter, as well as the two former, was written while Cicero was with Pompey in Greece. The business at which he so obscurely hints has been thought to relate to the pay- ment of part of Tullia's portion to Dolabella. X It appears by a letter to Atticus, that this person acted as a sort of steward in Cicero's family. § After the battle of Pharsalia Cicero would not engage himself any farther with the Pom- peian party ; but having endeavoured to make his peace with Caesar by the mediation of Do- labella, he seems to have received no other answer, than an order to return immediately into Italy. And this he accordingly did a few days before the date of the present letter. But my mind was so much discomposed by those atrocious injuries I had re- ceived, that I have taken a step, I fear, which may be attended with great dif- ficulties. Let me then intreat your ut- most assistance : though I must confess, at the same time, that I know not wherein it can avail me. I would by no means have you think of coming hither. For the journey is both long and dangerous : and I do not see in what manner you could be of any service. Farewell. LETTER XXXV. To the same. [A. U. 704.] The ill state of health into which TuUia is fallen, is a very severe addition to the many and great disquietudes that afflict my mind. But I need say nothing farther upon this subject, as I am sure her welfare is no less a part of your ten- der concern than it is of mine. I agree both with you and her in thinking it proper that I should ad- vance nearer to Rome : and I should have done so before now, if I had not been prevented by several difficulties, which I am not yet able to remove. But I am in expectation of a letter from Atticus, with his sentiments upon this subject : and I beg you would forward it to me by the earliest opportunity. Farewell* LETTER XXXVI. To the same. [A. U. 704.] In addition to my other misfortunes, I have now to lament the illness both of Dolabella and Tullia. The whole frame of my mind is indeed so utterly discom- posed, that I know not what to resolve, or how to act, in any of my affairs. I can only conjure you to take care of yourself and of Tullia. Farewell. LETTER XXXVII. To the same. [A. U. 70l.i If any thing occurred worth communi- cating to you, my letters would be more 24 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L frequent and much longer. But I need not tell you the situation of my affairs ; and as to the effect they have upon my mind, 1 leave it to Lepta and Trebatius to inform you. I have only to add my intreaties, that you would take care of your own and Tullia's health. Fare- well. LETTER XXXVUL To Titius. [A. U. 704.] There is none of your friends less ca- pable than I am, to offer consolation to you under your present affliction ; as the share I take in your loss renders me gpreatly in need of the same g-ood ofiice myself. However, as my grief does not rise to the same extreme degree as yours, I should not think I discharged the duty which my connection and friendship with you require, if I remained altogether silent at a time when you are thus overwhelmed with sorrow. 1 determined therefore to suggest a few reflections to you which may alleviate at least, if not entirely re- move, the anguish of your heart. There is no maxim of consolation more common, yet at the same time there is none which deserves to be more fre- quently in our thoughts, than that we ought to remember, " We are men;" that is, creatures who are born to be exposed to calamities of every kind : and therefore, " that it becomes us to submit to the conditions by which we hold our existence, without being too much dejected by accidents which no prudence can prevent." In a word, that we should learn by " reflecting on tlie misfortunes which have attended others, that there is nothing singular in those v/hicli befal ourselves." But neither these, nor other arguments to the same ])urpose, which are inculcated in the writings of the philosophers, seem to have so strong a claim to success, as those which may be drawn from the present unhapj)y situation of public affairs, and that endless scries of misfortunes which is rising upon our country. They are such, indeed, that one cannot but account those to he most fortunate, who never knev/ what it was to be a parent ; and as to those persons who are deprived of their chihlren, in these times of general anarchy and misrule," they have much less reason to regret their loss, than if it had happened in a more flourishing period of the commonwealth, or while yet the republic had any existence. If your tears flow, indeed, from this ac- cident merely as it affects your own per- sonal happiness, it may be difficult per- haps entirely to restrain them. But if your sorrow takes its rise from a more enlarged and benevolent principle ; if it be for the sake of the dead themselves that you lament, it may be an easier task to assuage your grief. I shall not here insist upon an argument, which I have frequently heard maintained in specula- tive conversations, as well as often read likewise, in treatises that have been writ- ten upon the subject. " Death," say those philosophers, " cannot be consi- dered as an evil; because if any con- sciousness remains after our dissolu- tion, it is rather an entrance into im- mortality, than an extinction of life : and if none remains, there can be no misery where there is no sensibility." Not to insist, I say, upon any reasonings of this nature ; let me remind you of an argument which I can urge with much more confidence. He who has made his exit from a scene where such dreadful confusion prevails, and where so many approaching calamities are in prospect, cannot possibly, it should seem, be a loser by the exchange. Let me ask, not only where honour, virtue, and probity, where true philosophy and the useful arts can nov/ fly for refuge ; but where even our liberties and our lives can be secure ? For my own part, I have never once heard of the death of any youth during all this last sad year whom I have not considered as kindly delivered by the immortal gods from the miseries of these wretched times. If, therefore, you can be persuaded to think that their condition is by no means unhappy, v^hose loss you so tenderly de- plore ; it must undoubtedly prove a very considerable abatement of your present affliction. For it will then entirely arise from what you feel upon your own ac- count ; and have no relation to the per- sons whose death you regret. Now it would ill agree with those wise and ge- nerous maxims which have ever inspired your breast, to be too sensible of misfor- tunes which terminate in your own per- son, and affect not the happiness of those Sect. I. CICERO. 25 you love. You have upon all occasions, both public and private, shewn your- self animated with the firmest fortitude : and it becomes you to act up to the character you have thus justly acquired. Time necessarily wears out the deepest impressions of sorrow : and the weakest mother, that ever lost a child, has found some period to her grief. But we should wisely anticipate that effect which a cer- tain revolution of days will undoubtedly produce : and not wait for a remedy from time, which we may much sooner receive from reason. If what I have said can any thing- avail in lessening the weight of your affliction, I shall have obtained my wish ; if not, I shall at least have dis- charged the duties of that friendship and affection which, believe me, 1 ever have preserved, and ever shall preserve, towards you. Farewell. LETTER XXXIX. To Tereniia. December the 31st. [A. U. 705.] My affairs are at present in such a situ- ation, that I have no reason to expect a letter on your part, and have nothing to communicate to you on mine. Yet I know not how it is, I can no more forbear flattering myself that I may hear from you, than I can refrain from writ- ing to you whenever I meet mth a con- veyance. Volumnia ought to have shewn her- self more zealous for your interest : and in the particular instance you mention she might have acted with greater care and caution. This, however, is but a slight grievance amongst others which I far more severely feel and lament. They have the effect upon me, indeed, which those persons undoubtedly wished, who compelled nie into measures utterly op- posite to my own sentiments. Farewell. LETTER XL. To the same. [A. U. 706.] TuLLiA arrived here* on the 12th of this month f. It extremely affected * Brundisium ; where Cicero was still wait- ing for Csesar's arrival from Egypt. f June. me to see a woman of her singular and amiable virtues reduced (and reduced too by my own negligence) to a situation far other than is agreeable to her rank and filial piety:}:. I have some thoughts of sending my son, accompanied by Sallustius, with a letter to Ccesar § ; and if I should execute this design, I will let you know when he sets out. In the mean time be careful of your health, I conjure you. Farewell. LETTER XLI. To the same. June the 20th. [A. U. 70(5.] I HAD determined, agreeably to what I mentioned in my former, to send my son to meet Caesar on his return to Italy. But I have since altered my resolution, as I hear no news of his arrival. For the rest I refer you to Sicca, who will inform you what measures I think ne- cessary to be taken, though I must add, that nothing new has occured since I wrote last. Tullia is still with me. — Adieu, and take all possible care of your health. LETTER XLII. To the same. July the 9th. [A. U. 706. J I WROTE to Atticus (somewhat later in- deed than I ought) concerning the af- fair you mention. \Ylien you talk with him upon that head, he will inform you of my inclinations ; and I need not be more explicit here, after having written so fully to him. Let me know as soon as possible what steps are taken in that business ; and acquaint me at the same time with every thing else which con- cerns me. I have only to add my re- quest, that you woidd be carefid of your health. Farewell. X Dolabella was greatly embarrassed in his affairs; and it seems by this passage as if he had not allowed Tullia a maintenance duiing his absence abroad, sufficient to support her rank and dignity. § In order to supplicate Ciesar's pardon for having engaged against him on the side of Pompey. 26 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. LETTER XLin. To the same, July the 10th. [A. U. 706.] In answer to what you object concern- ing- the divorce I mentioned in my last*, I can only say that I am perfectly ignorant what power Dolabella may at this time possess, or what ferments there may be among the populace. However, if you think there is any thing to be ap- prehended from his resentment, let the matter rest ; and perhaps the first pro- posal may come from himself. Never- theless I leave you to act as you shall judge proper ; not doubting that you will take such measures in this most un- fortunate affair as shall appear to be at- tended with the fewest unhappy conse- quences. Farewell. LETTER XLIV. To Lucius Papirius Pectus, [A. U. 706.] Is it true, my friend, that you look up- on yourself as having been guilty of a most ridiculous piece of folly in attempt- ing to imitate the thunder, as you call it, of my eloquence ? With reason, indeed, you might have thought so, had you failed in your attempt : but since you have ex- celled the model you had in view, the disgrace surely is on my side, not on yours. The verse, tlierefore, which you apply to yourself from one of Trabea's comedies, may with much more justice be turned upon me, as my own eloquence falls far short of that perfection at which I aim. But tell me, what sort of figure do my letters make ; are they not written, think you, in the true familiar ? They do not constantly, however, preserve one uni- form manner, as this species of compo- sition bears no resemblance to that of the oratorical kind ; though indeed in judicial matters we vary our style according to the nature of the causes in which we are engaged. Those, for example, in which private interests of little moment are con- cerned, we treat with a suitable simplicity of diction ; but where the reputation or the life of our client is in question, we rise into greater pomp and dignity of phrase. But whatever may be the sub- * Uctwccn Tullia and Dolabella. ject of my letters, they still speak the language of conversation. Farewell. LETTER XLV. To Lucius Mescinius. [A. U. 707.] Your letter afforded me great pleasure, as it gave me an assurance (though indeed I wanted none) that you earnestly wish for my company. Believe me, I am equally desirous of yours ; and in truth, when there was a much greater abund- dance of patriot citizens and agreeable companions who were in the number of my friends, there was no man with whom I rather chose to associate, and few whose company I liked so well. But now that death, absence, or change of disposition, has so greatly contracted this social cir- cle, I should prefer a single day with you, to a whole life with the generality of those with whom I am at present obliged to live f. Solitude itself indeed (if solitude, alas ! I were at liberty to enjoy) would be far more eligible than the conversation of those who frequent my house ; one or two of them at most excepted. I seek my relief therefore (where I would advise you to look for yours) in amusements of a literary kind, and in the consciousness of having always intended well to my country. I have the satisfaction to reflect (as I dare say you will readily believe), that I never sacrificed the public good to my own private views ; that if a certain person (whom for my sake, I am sure, you never loved) had not looked upon me with a jealous eye |, both himself and every friend to liberty had been happy : that I always endeavoured that it should not be in the power of any man to disturb the public tranquillity ; and in a word, that when I perceived those arms which I had ever dreaded would prove an over- match for that patriot-coalition I had my- self formed in the republic, I thought it better to accept of a safe peace upon any terms, than impotently to contend with a superior force. But I hope shortly to f The chiefs of the Caesarean party, with whom Cicero now found it convenient to culti- vate a friendship, in order to ingratiate him- self with CjEsar. X Pornpey, who being jealous of the popula- rity which Cicero had acquired during his con- sulship, struck in with the designs of Caesar, and others who had formed a party against our author. Sect. I. CICERO. 27 talk over these and many more points with you in person. Nothing indeed de- tains me in Rome, but to wait the event of the war in Africa, which, I imagine, must now he soon decided. And though it seems of little importance on which side the victory shall turn, yet I think it may he of some advantage to be near my friends when the news shall arrive, in or- der to consult with them on the measures it may be advisable for me to pursue. Affairs are now reduced to such an un- happy situation, that though there is considerable difference, 'tis true, between the cause of the contending parties, I be- lieve there will be very little as to the consequence of their success. However, though my spirits were too much dejected, perhaps, whilst our affairs remained in suspense, I find myself much more com- posed now that they are utterly des- perate. Your last letter has contributed to confirm me in this disposition ; as it is an instance of the magnanimity with which you support your unjust disgrace *. It is with particular satisfaction I observe that you owe this heroic calmness not only to philosophy, but to temper. For I will confess, that I imagined your mind was softened with that too delicate sen- sibility which we, who passed our lives in the ease and freedom of Rome, were apt in general to contract. But as we bore our prosperous days with moderation, it becomes us to bear our adverse fortune, or more properly indeed our irretrievable ruin, with fortitude. This advantage we may at least derive from our extreme ca- lamities, that they will teach us to look upon death with contempt ; which, even if we were happy, we ought to despise, as a state of total insensibility ; but which, under our present auctions, should be the object of our constant wishes. Let not any fears, then, I conjure you, by your affection for me, disturb the peace of your retirement ; and be well persuaded, nothing can befal a man that deserves to raise his dread and horror, but (what I am sure ever was, and ever will be, far from you) the reproaches of a guilty heart. I purpose to pay you a visit very soon, if nothing should happen to make it ne- cessary for me to change my resolution : and if there should, I will immediately * Mescinius, it is probable, was banished by Caesar, as a partisan of Pompey, to a cer- tain distance from Rome. let you know. But I hope you will not, whilst you are in so weak a condition, be tempted, by your impatience of seeing me, to remove from your present situa- tion, at least not without previously con- sulting me. In the mean time, continue to love me, and take care both of your health and your repose. FareweD. LETTER XLVI. To Varro. [A. U. 707.] Though I have nothing to write, yet I could not suffer Caninius to pay you a visit, without taking the opportunity of conveying a letter by his hands. And now I know not what else to say, but that I propose to be with you very soon : an information, however, which I am per- suaded you will be glad to receive. But will it be altogether decent to appear in so gay a scene f at a time when Rome is in such a general flame ? And shall we not furnish an occasion of censure to those who do not know that we observe the same sober philosophical life, in all sea- sons, and in every place ? Yet after all, what imports it, since the world wiU talk of us, in spite of our utmost caution ? And indeed whilst our censurers are immersed in every kind of flagitious debauchery, it is much worth our concern, truly, what they say of our innocent relaxations. In just contempt, therefore, of these illite- rate barbarians, it is my resolution to join you very speedily. I know not how it is, indeed, but it should seem that our fa- vourite studies are- attended with much greater advantages in these wretched times than formerly ; whether it be that they are now our only resource ; or that we were less sensible of their salutary ef- fects when we were in too happy a state to have occasion to experience them. But this is sending owls to Athens:}:, as we say ; and suggesting reflections which your own mind will far better supply. All that I mean by them, however, is to f Varro seems to have requested Cassar to give him a meeting at Baiae, a place much fre- quented by the Romans on account of its hot baths ; as the agreeableness of its situation on the bay of Naples rendered it at the same time the general resort of the pleasurable world. X A proverbial expression of the same im- port with that of ♦* sending coals to New- castle." It alludes to the Athenian coin, which was stamped (as Manutius observes) with the figure of an owl. 28 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book draw a letter from you in return, at the same time that I give you notice to ex- pect me soon. Farewell. LETTER XLVIL To Papirius Patiis. [A. U. 707.] Your letter afforded me a very agree- able instance of your friendship, in the concern it expressed lest I should he un- easy at the report which had been brought hither by Silius*. I was before indeed perfectly sensible how much you were disturbed at this circumstance, by your care in sending me duplicates of a former letter upon the same subject : and I then returned such an answer as I thought would be sufficient to abate at least, if not entirely remove, this your generous solicitude. But since I perceive, by your last letter, how much this affair still dwells upon your mind ; let me assure you, my dear Psetus, that I have employed every artifice (for we must now, my friend, be armed with cunning as well as prudence) to conciliate the good graces of the persons you mention ; and, if I mistake not, my endeavours have not proved in vain. I received indeed so many marks of respect and esteem from those who are most in Ceesar's favour, that 1 cannot but flatter myself they have a true regard for me. It must be confessed at the same time, that a pretended affection is not easily discernible from a real one, unless in seasons of distress. For adversity is to friendship what fire is to gold ; the only infallible test to discover the genuine from tlie counterfeit ; in all other circum- stances they both bear the same common signatures. I have one strong reason, how- ever, to persuade me of their sincerity ; as neither their situation nor mine can by any means tempt them to dissemble with me. As to that person f in whom all power is now centred, 1 am not sensible that I have any thing to fear from him ; or nothing more, at least, than what arises from that general jirecarious state in which all things must stand where the fence of laws is broken down ; and from its being impossible to pronounce with * Silius, it should seem, had brought an ac- count from the army, that some witticisms of Cicero had been reported to Cocsar, which had given him ofVencc. f Caisar. assurance concerning any event, which depends wholly upon the will, not to say the caprice, of another. But this I can with confidence affirm, that I have not in any single instance given him just oc- casion to take offence ; and in the article you point out, I have been particularly cautious. Tliere was a time, 'tis true, when I thought it well became me, by Avhom Rome itself was free|, to speak my sentiments with freedom : but now that our liberties are no more, I deem it equally agreeable to my present situ- ation, not to say any thing that may dis- gust either Caesar or his favourites . But were I to suppress every rising raillery that might pique those at whom it is directed, I must renounce, you know, all my reputation as a wit. And in good earnest, it is a character upon which I do not set so high a value, as to be unwill- ing to resign it if it were in my power. However, I am in no danger of suffering in Caesar's opinion, by being represented as the author of any sarcasms to which I have no claim ; for his judgment is much too penetrating ever to be deceived by any imposition of this nature. I remember your brother Servius, whom 1 look upon to have been one of the most learned critics that this age has produced, was so conversant in the writings of the poets, and had acquired such an excellent and judicious ear, that he could immediately distinguish the numbers of Plautus from those of any other author. Thus Caesar, I am told, when he made his large col- lection of apophthegms §, constantly re- jected any piece of wit that was brought to him as mine, if it happened to be spurious : a distinction which he is much more able to make at present, as his par- ticular friends jjass almost every day of their lives in my company. As our con- versation generally turns upon a variety of subjects, I frequently strike out thoughts which they look upon as not altogether void, perhaps, of spirit and ingenuity. Now these little sallies of pleasantry, to- gether with the general occurrences of Rome, are constantly transmitted to Cae- sar, in pursuance of his own express di- X Alluding to his services in the suppression of Catiline's conspiracy. § This collection was made by Caesar when he was very young; and probably it. was a per- formance by no means to his honour. For Augustus, into whose hands it came after his death, would not suffer it to be published. Sect. I. CICERO. 29 rection : so that if any thing* of this kind be mentioned by others as coming- from me, he always disregards it. You see. then, that the lines yon quote with so much propriety from the tragedy of (Enomaus*, contain a caution aitog'ether imnecessary. For tell me, my friend, what jealousies can I possibly create ? Or who will look witli envy upon a man in my humble situation? But granting that I were in ever so enviable a state ; jet let me observe, that it is the opinion of those philosophers, who alone seem to have understood the true nature of virtue, that a good man is answerable for nothing farther than his own innocence. Now in this respect I think mj self doubly ir- reproachable ; in the first place, by hav- ing recommended such public measures as were for the interest of the common- wealth ; and in the next, that finding I was not sufficiently supported to render my coinisels effectual, I did not deem it advisable to contend for them by arms against a superior strength. Most cer- tainly, therefore, I cannot justly be ac- cused of having failed in the duty of a good citizen. Tlie only part then that now remains for me, is to be cautious not to expose myself, by any indiscreet word or action, to the resentment of those in power : a part which I hold likewise to be agreeable to the character of true wisdom. As to the rest ; what liberties any man may take in imputing words to me which I never spoke ; what credit Csesar may give to such reports ; and how far those who court my friendship, are really sincere ; these are points for which it is by no means in my power to be answerable. My tranquillity arises, therefore, from the conscious integrity of my counsels in the times that are past, and from the moderation of my conduct in these that are present. Accordingly, I apply the simile you quote from Ac- ciusf, not only to Envj-, but to Fortune ; that weak and inconstant power, whom every wise and resolute mind should re- sist, with as much firmness as a rock re- pels the waves. Grecian story Avill abun- dantly supply examples of the greatest men, both at Athens and Syracuse, who have in some sort preserved their inde- pendency amidst the general servitude of their respective communities. May I not * Written by Accius, a tragic poet, who flou- rished about the year of Rome 617. f The poet mentioned in the preceding re- mark. hope then to be able so to comport my- self under the same circumstances, as neither to give offence to oiu' riders, on the one hand, nor to injure the dignity of my character, on the other ? But to tiu-n from the serious to the jocose part of your letter.— The strain of pleasantry you break into, immediately after having quoted the tragedy of (Eno- maus, puts me in mind of the modern method of introducing at the end of those graver dramatic pieces, the buffoon hu- mour of our low mimes, instead of the more delicate burlesque of the old Atel- lan farces I Why else do you talk of yoiu- paltry pol^^us§, and your mouldy cheese ? In pure good-nature, 'tis true, I formerly submitted to sit dovm v/itli you to such homely fare : but more refined company has improved me into a better taste. For Hirtius and DolabeUa, let me tell you, are my preceptors in the science of the table ; as in return, they are my disciples in that of the bar. But I suppose you have already heard, at least if all the town-news be transmitted to you, that they frequently declaim at my house|!, and that I as often sup at theirs. You must not however hope to escape my intended visit, by pleading poverty in bar to the admission of so luxui'ious a guest. Wliilst you were raising a fortune indeed, I bore with your parsimonious humour : but now that you are in circum- stances to support the loss of half your wealth, I expect that you receive me in another manner than you would one of your compounding debtors^ . And though J These Atellan farces, which in the earlier periods of the Roman stage were acted at the end of the more serious dramatic perform- ances, derived their name from Atella, a town in Italy; from whence they were first introduced at Rome. They consisted of a more liberal and genteel kind of humour than the mimes, a species of comedy, which seems to have taken its subject from low life. § A sea-fish so extremely tough, that it was necessary to beat it a considerable time before it could be rendered fit for the table. II Cicero had lately instituted a kind of aca- demy for eloquence in his own house ; at which several of the leading young men in Rome used to meet, in order to exercise them- selves in the art of oratory. ^ This alludes to a law which Caesar passed in favour of those who had contracted debts before the commencement of the civil war. By this law commissioners were appointed to take an accountof the estate and effects ofthese debtors, which were to be assigned to their respective creditors according to their valuation before 30 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L your finances may somewhat suffer by my visit, remember it is better tbey should be impaired by treating a friend, than by lending to a stranger. I do not insist, however, that you spread your ta- ble with so unbounded a profus'on as to furnish out a splendid treat with the re- mains ; I am so wonderftilly moderate, as to desire nothing more than what is perfectly elegant and exquisite in its kind. I remember to have heard you describe an entertainment which was given by Phameas. Let yours be the exact copy of his : only I should be glad not to wait for it quite so long. Should you still persist, after all, to invite me, as usual, to a penurious supper, dished out by the sparing hand of maternal oeconomy ; even this, perhaps, I may be able to support. But I would fain see that hero bold who should dare to set before me the vil- lanous trash you mention ; or even one of your boasted polypuses, with an hue as florid as vermilioned Jove*. Take my word for it, my friend, your prudence will not suffer you to be thus adventu- rous. Fame, no doubi, will have pro- claimed at your villa my late conversion to luxury, long before my arrival : and you will shiver at the sound of her tre- mendous report. Nor must you flatter yourself with the hope of abating the edge of my appetite, by your cloying sweet wines before supper : a silly custom which I have now entirely renounced : being much wiser than when I used to damp my stomach with your antepasts of olives and Lucanian sausages. — But not to run on any longer in this jocose strain ; my only serious wish is, that I may be able to make you a visit. You may compose your countenance, therefore, and return to your mouldy cheese in full security : for my being your guest will occasion you, as usual, no other expence than that of heating your baths. As for all the rest, you are to look upon it as mere pleasantry. The trouble you have given yourself about Selicius's villaf, is extremely ob- the civil war broke out^ and whatever sums had been paid for interest, were to be consi- dered as in discharge of the principal. By this ordinance Paitus, it seems, had been a particular sufferer. * Pliny, the naturalist, mentions a statue of Jupiter erected in the Capitol, which on cer- tain festival days it was customary to paint with vermilion. * f In Naples. liging ; as your description of it was ex- cessively droU. I believe therefore, from the account you give me, I shall renounce all thoughts of making that purchase : for though the country, it seems, abounds in salt, the neighbourhood, I find, is but insipid. Farewell. LETTER XLVIIL To Papirius Pcetus. [A. U. 701.] Your letter gave me a double pleasure : for it not only diverted me extremely, but was a proof likewise that you are so well recovered as to be able to indulge your usual gaiety. I was well contented at the same time to find myself the sub- ject of your raillery ; and, in truth, the repeated provocations, I had given you, were sufficient to call forth all the severity of your satire. My only regret is, that I am prevented from taking my intended journey into your part of the world ; where I proposed to have made myself, I do not say your guest, but one of your family. You would have found me won- derfully changed from the man I for- merly was, when you used to cram me with your cloying antepasts |. For I now more prudently sit down to table with an appetite altogether unimpaired, and most heroically make my way through every dish that comes before me, from the e^^^ that leads the van, to the roast veal that brings up the rear||. The temperate and unexpensive guest whom you were wont to applaud, is now no more. I have bidden a total farewell to all the cares of the patriot ; and have joined the professed enemies of my for- mer principles ; in short, I am become an absolute Epicurean. You are by no means however to consider me as a friend to that injudicious profusion, which is X These antepasts seem to have been a kind of collation preparatory to the principal enter- tainment. They generally consisted, it is pro- bable, of such dishes ds were provocatives to appetite : but prudent oeconomists, as may be collecJ-cd from the turn of Cicero's raillery, sometimes contrived them in such a manner as to damp rather than improve the stomach of their guests. § The first dish at every Roman table was constantly eggs; which maintained their post of honour even at the most magnificent enter- tainments. II It appears by a passage which Manutius cites from TertuUian, that the Romans usually concluded their feasts with broiled or roast meat. Sect. I. CICERO. 31 now the prevailing- taste of our modern entertainments : on the contrary, it is that more elegant luxury I admire, which you formerly used to display when your finances were more flourishing, though your farms were not more numerous than at present. Be prepared therefore for my reception accordingly ; and remem- ber you are to entertain a man who has not only a most enormous appetite, hut who has some little knowledge, let me tell you, in the science of elegant eating. You know there is a peculiar air of self- sufficiency, that generally distinguishes those who enter late into the study of any art. You wiU not wonder, therefore, when I take upon me to inform you, that you must banish your cakes and your sweetmeats, as articles that are now ut- terly discarded from aU fashionable bills of fare. I am become indeed such a pro- ficient in this science, that I frequently venture to invite to my table those re- fined friends of yours, the delicate Vir- rius and Camillus. Nay I am bolder still, and have presumed to give a supper even to Hirtius himself ; though, I must own, I could not advance so far as to honour him with a peacock. To tell you the truth, my honest cook had not skill enough to imitate any other part of his splendid entertainments, except only his smoking soups. But to give you a general sketch of my manner of life ; I spend the first part of the morning in receiving the compli- ments of several, both of oui* dejected patriots and our gay victors : the latter of whom treat me with great marks of civility and esteem. As soon as that ceremo ly is over, I retire to my library ; where I employ myself either with my books or my pen. And here I am some- times surrounded by an audience, who look upon me as a man of most profound erudition, for no other reason, perhaps, than because I am not altogether so ig- norant as themselves. The rest of my time I wholly devote to indulgences of a less intellectual kind. I have sufficiently indeed paid the tribute of sorrow to my unhappy country ; the miseries whereof I have longer and more bitterly lamented, than ever tender mother bewailed the loss of her only son. Let me desire you, as you would se- cure your magazine of provisions from falling into my hands, to take care of your health ; for I have most unmerci- fully resolved that no pretence of indis- position shall preserve your larder from my depredations. Farewell. LETTER XLIX. To Gallus. [A. U. 707.] 1 AM much surprised at your reproaches ; as I am sure they are altogether v/ithout foundation. But were they ever so just, they would come with a very ill grace from you, who ought to have remem- bered those marks of distinction you received from me during my consulate. It seems, however (for so you are pleased to inform me) , that Caesar will certainly restore you. I know you are never sparing of your boasts : but I know too, that they have the ill luck never to be credited. It is in the same spirit you re- mind me, that you offered yourself as a candidate for the tribunitial office, merely in order to serve me*. Now to shew you how much I am in your interest, I wish you were a tribune still : as in that case you could not be at a loss for an in- tercessor ■\. You go on to reproach me, with not daring to speak my sentiments. In proof however of the contrary, I need only refer you to the reply I made, when you had the front to solicit my assistance. Thus (to let you see how absolutely impotent you are, where you most af- fect to appear formidable) I thought proper to answer you in your own style. If you had made your remonstrances in the spirit of good manners, I should with pleasure, as I could with ease, have vin- dicated myself from your charge : and in truth, it is not your conduct, but your language, that I have reason to resent. I am astonished indeed that you, of all men living, should accuse' me of want of freedom, who are sensible it is by my means that there is any freedom left in * Probablj' during Cicero's exile. f Cicero's witticism in this passage, turns upon the doxible sense of the word intercessor : which, besides its general meaning, hasrelation likewise to a particular privilege annexed to the tribunitial office. For every tribune had the liberty of interposing his negative upon the proceedings of the senate: which act was called intercessio, and the person who executed it was said to be the intercessor of the particular law, or other matter in deliberation. 32 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. the republic"*. I say j/oz* of all men liv- ing: tiecause, if the informations you gave me concerning Catiline's conspiracy were false ; where are the services of which you remind me ? If they were true, you yourself are the best judge how great those obligations are which I have conferred upon every Roman in general. Farewell. LETTER L. To CcBsar. [A. U. 708.] I VERY particularly recommend to your favour the son of our worthy and com- mon friend Prfecilias : a youth whose modest and polite behaviour, together with his singular attachment to myself, have exceedingly endeared him to me. His father likewise, as experience has now fully convinced me, was always my most sincere well-wisher. For to confess the truth, he was the first and most zeal- ous of those who used both to rally and reproach me for not joining in your cause : especially after you had invited me by so many honourable overtures. But, All unavailing prov'd his every art, To shake the purpose of my stedfast heart. HoM. Odyss. vii. 258. For whilst the gallant chiefs of our party were on the other side perpetually exclaiming to me. Rise thou, distinguish'd midst the sons of fame, And fair transmit to times unborn thy name. HoM. Odyss, i. 502. Too easy dupe of flattery's specious voice, Darkling I stray'd from -wisdom's better choice. HoM. Odyss. xxiv. 314. And fain would they still raise my spi- rits, while they endeavour, insensible as I now am to the charms of glory, to re- kindle that passion in my heart. With this view they are ever repeating — O let me not inglorious sink in death, And yield like vulgar souls my parting breath: In some brave effort give me to expire, That distant ages may the deed admire ! HoM. II. xxii. But I am immoveable, as you see, by all their persuasions. Renouncing there- * Alluding to his having suppressed Cati- line's conspiracy. fore, the pompous heroics of Homer, I turn to the just maxims of Euripides, and say with that poet. Curse on the sage, who,, impotently wise, O'erlooks the paths where humbler pru- dence lies. My old friend Preecilius is a great ad- mirer of the sentiment in these lines ; insisting, that a patriot may preserve a prudential regard to his own safety, and yet, Above his peers the first in honour shine. HoM. II. vi. 208. But to return from this digression : you will greatly oblige me by extending to this young man that uncommon ge- nerosity which so peculiarly marks your character ; and by suffering my recom- mendation to increase the number of those favours which I am persuaded you are disposed to confer upon him for the sake of his family. I have not addressed you in the usual style of recommendatory letters, that you might see I did not intend this as an application of common form. Fare- well. LETTER LI. To Dolabcllaf. [A. U. 708.] Oh ! that the silence you so kindly re- gret, had been occasioned by my own death, rather than by the severe loss I have suffered^ ; a loss I should be better able to support, if I had you with me. For your judicious counsels, and singular af- fection towards me, would greatly con- tribute to alleviate its weight. This good office indeed I may yet perhaps receive ; for as I imagine we shall soon see you here, you will find me still so deeply af- fected, as to have an opportunity of afford- ing me great assistance. Not that this affliction has so broken my spirit as to render me unmindftd that I am a man, or apprehensive that I must totally sink under its pressure. But all that cheer- fulness and vivacity of temper, which you once so particularly admired, has now, alas ! entirely forsaken me. My fortitude and resolution, nevertheless (if these virtues were ever mine), I still retain, f He was at this time with Csesar in Spain. X The death of his daughter TuUia. Sect. I. CICERO. 33 and retain them too in the same vig'our as when you left me. As to those battles which, you tell me, you have sustained upon my account ; I am far less solicitous that you should confute my detractors, than that the world should know (as it unquestionably does) that I enjoy a place in your aifec- tion : and may you still continue to ren- der that truth conspicuous. To this re- quest I will add another, and intreat you to excuse me for not sending you a longer letter. I shorten it, not only as ima- gining we shall soon meet, but because my mind is at present by no means suffi- ciently composed for writing. Farewell. LETTER LIL Servius Sulpicius to Cicet'o. [A. U. 708.] I RECEIVED the news of your daughters death with all the concern it so justly deserves ; and indeed I cannot but con- sider it as a misfortune in which I bear an equal share with yourself. If I had been near you when this fatal accident happened, I should not only have min- gled my tears with yours, but assisted you with all the consolation in my power. I am sensible, at the same time, that offices of this kind afford at best but a wretched relief ; for as none are qualified to per- form them, but those who stand near to us by the ties either of blood or affection, such persons are generally too much af- flicted themselves to be capable of admi- nistering comfort to others. Neverthe- less, I thought proper to suggest a few reflections which occurred to me upon this occasion ; not as imagining they would be new to you, but believing that in your present discomposure of mind they might possibly have escaped your attention. Tell me, then, my friend, wherefore do you indulge this excess of sorrow ? Reflect, I entreat you, in what manner fortune has dealt with every one of us ; that she has deprived us of what ought to be no less dear than our chil- dren, and overwhelmed in one general ruin our honours, our liberties, and our country. And after these losses, is it pos- sible tliat any other should increase our tears ? Is it possible that a mind long- exercised in calamities so truly severe, sltould not become totally callous and indifferent to every event ? But you will tell me, perhaps, that your grief arises not so much on your own account as on that of Tullia. Yet surely you must often, as well as myself, have had occasion in these wretched times to reflect, that their condition by no means deserves to be re- gretted, whom death has gently removed from this unhappy scene. What is there, let me ask, in the present circumstances of our country, that could have rendered life greatly desirable to your daughter ? What pleasing hopes, what agreeable views, what rational satisfaction could she possibly have proposed to herself from a more extended period ? Was it in the prospect of conjugal happiness in the society of some distinguished youth ? as if, indeed, you could have found a son-in- law amongst our present set of young men, worthy of being intrusted with the care of your daughter ! Or was it in the expectation of being the joyful mother of a flourishing race, who might possess their patrimony with independence, who might gradually rise through the several dignities of the state, and exert the li- berty to which they were born in the service and defence of their friends and country ? But is there one amongst all these desirable privileges, of which we were not deprived before she was in a capacity of transmitting them to her de- scendants ? Yet, after all, you may still allege, perhaps, that the loss of our chil- dren is a severe affiiction ; and unques- tionably it would be so, if it were not a much greater to see them live to endure those indignities which their parents suffer. I lately fell into a reflection, which as it afforded great relief to the disquietude of my own heart, it may possibly contri- bute likewise to assuage the anguish of yours. In my return out of Asia, as I was sailing from JEgmn towards Mq- gara*, I amused myself with contem- plating the circumjacent countries. Be- hind me lay ^Egina, before me Megara ; on my right I saw Piraeus t, and on my left Corinth I . These cities, once so flourishing and magnificent, now pre- * yTF-giiia, now called Engia, is an island situated in the gulf that runs between the Pe- loponnesus and Attica, to which it gives its name. — Megara was a city near the isthmus of Corinth. f A celebrated sea-port at a small distance from Athens, now called Port Lion. :|: A city in the Peloponnesus. D 34 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L sented nothing to my view but a sad spectacle of desolation. " Alas," I said to myself, "^ shall such a short-lived crea- ture as man complain, when one of his species falls either by the hand of vio- lence, or by the common covu'se of na- ture : whilst in this narrow compass so many great and glorious cities, formed for a much longer duration, thus lie ex- tended in ruins ? Remember, then, oh my heart ! the general lot to wiiicli man is born, and let that thought suppress thy unreasonable murmurs." Believe me, I found ray mind greatly refreshed and comforted by these reflections. Let me advise you in tlie same manner to repre- sent to yourself what numbers of our illustrious countrymen have lately been cut oif at once * ; how much the strength of the Roman republic is impaired, and what dreadful devastation has gone forth throughout all its provinces ! And can you, with the impression of these greater calamities upon your mind, be so immo- derately afflicted for the loss of a single individual, a poor, little, tender woman ? who, if she had not died at this time, must in a few fleeting years more have inevitably undergone that common fate to which she was born. Reasonable, however, as these reflec- tions are, I would call you from them a while, in order to lead your thoughts to others more pecidiarly suitable to your circumstances and character. Remember then tliat your daughter lived as long as life was worth possessing, that is, till li- berty was no more : that she lived to see you in the illustrious oflices of prretor, consul, and augur; to be married to some of the noblest youths in Rome f ; to be blessed with almost every valuable enjoyment ; and at length to exnire with the republic itself. Tell me, now, what is there in this view of her fate that €Ould give either her or yourself Just rea- son to complain ? In fine, do not forget that you are Cicero, the wise, the philo- sophical Cicero, who were wont to give advice to others ; nor resemble those un- skilful empirics, who, at the same time that they pretend to be furnished with remedies for other men's disorders, arc altogether incapable of finding a cure for their own. On the contrary, apjdy to your private use those judicious pre- * In the civil wars. t To Piso, Crassipes, ami Dolabolla. cepts you have administered to the pub- lic. Time necessarily weakens the strongest impressions of sorrow ; but it would be a reproach to your character not to anticipate this its certain effect, by the force of your own good sense and judgment. If the dead retain any con- sciousness of what is here transacted, your daughter's affection, I am sure, was such, both to you and to all her relations, that she can by no means desire you should abandon yourself to this excess of grief. Restrain it, then, I conjure you, for her sake, and for the sake of the rest of your family and friends, who lament to see you thus afflicted. Restrain it, too, I beseech you, for the sake of your coun- try ; that whenever the opportunity shall serve, it may reap the benefit of your counsels and assistance. In short, since such is our fortune that we must neces- sarily submit to the present system of public affairs, suffer it not to be sus- pected, that it is not so much the death of your daughter, as the fate of the re- public, and the success of our victors, that you deplore. But it would be ill manners to dwell any longer upon this subject, as I should seem to question the efficacy of your own good sense. I will only add, there- fore, that as we have often seen you bear prosperity in the noblest manner, and with the highest applause, shew us like- wise that you are not too sensible of ad- versity, but know how to support it with the same advantage to your character. In a word, let it not be said, that forti- tude is the single virtue to which my friend is a stranger. As for what concerns myself, I will send you an account of the state of this l)rovince, and of what is transacting in this part of the world, as soon as I shall hear that you are sufficiently composed to receive the information. Farewell. LETTER LIII. To Servius Sulpicius. [A. U. 708.] I JOIN with you, my dear Sulpicius, in wishing that you had been in Rome when this most severe calamity befel me. I am sensible of the advantage I should have received from your presence, and I had almost said your equal participation Sect. 1. CICERO. 35 of my grief, by having found myself somewhat more composed after 1 had read your letter. It fiiniished me indeed witli arguments extremely proper to sooth the anguish of affliction ; and evi- dently flov/ed from a heart that sympa- thised with the sorrows it endeavoured to assuage. But although I could not en- joy the benefit of your own good offices in person, I had the advantage, however, of your son's, v/ho gave me a proof, by every tender assistance that could be con- tributed upon so melancholy an occasion, how much he imagined that he was act- ing agreeably to your sentiments, when he thus discovered the affection of his own. More pleasing instances of his friendship I have frequently received, but never any that were more obliging. As to those for which I am indebted to yourself, it is not only the force of your reasonings, and the very considerable share you take in my afflictions, that have contributed to compose my mind ; it is the deference, likevrise, which I al- ways pay to the authority of your senti- ments. For knowing, as I perfectly do, the superior wisdom with which you are enlightened, I should be ashamed not to support my distresses in the manner you think I ought. I will acknowledge, nevertheless, that they sometimes al- most entirely overcome me : and I am scarce able to resist the force of my grief when I reflect, that I am destitute of those consolations which attended others, whose examples I propose to my imitation. Thus Quintus Maximus lost a son of consular rank, and distinguished by many brave, and illustrious actions ; Lucius Paulus was deprived of two sons in the space of a single week ; and your relation Gallus, together with Mar- cus Cato, had both of them the unhap- piness to survive their respective sons, who were endowed with the highest abilities and \qrtues. Yet? these unfor- tunate parents lived in times when the honours they derived from the republic might in some measure alleviate the weight of their domestic misfortunes. But as for myself, after having been stripped of those dignities you mention, and which I had acquired by the most laborious exertion of my abilities, I had one only consolation remaining : and of that I am now bereaved, I could no longer divert the disquietude of my thoughts, by employing myself in the causes of my friends, or the business of the state : for I could no longer with any satisfaction appear either in the Forum or the Senate. In short, I justly con- sidered myself as cut off from the benefit of all those alleviating occupations in which fortune and industry had qualified me to engage. But I considered, too, that this was a deprivation which I suf- fered in common with yourself and some others : and whilst I was endea- vouring to reconcile my mind to a patient endurance of those ills, there was one to whose tender offices I could have recourse, and in the sweetness of whose conversation I could discharge all the cares and anxiety of my heart. But this last fatal stab to my peace has torn open those wounds, which seemed in some measure to have been tolerably healed. For I can now no longer lose my private sorrows in the prosperity of the common- wealth, as I was wont to dispel the imea= siness I suffered upon the public account, in the happiness I received at home. Ac- cordingly I have equally banished myself from my house*, and from the public ; as finding no relief in either, from the calamities I lament in both. It is this, therefore, that heightens my desire of seeing you here ; as nothing can afford me a more effectual consolation than the renewal of our friendly intercourse : a happiness which I hope, and am informed, indeed , that I shall shortly enj oy . Among the many reasons I have for impatiently wishing your arrival, one is, that we may previously concert together our scheme of conduct in the present conjuncture ; Avhich, however, must now be entirely accommodated to another's will. This person f, 'tis true, is a man of great abi- lities and generosity ; and one, if I mis- take not, who is by no means my enemy ; and I am sure he is extremely your friend. Nevertheless it requires much conside- ration, I do not say in wdiat manner we shall act with respect to public affairs, but by what methods we may best obtain his permission to retire from them. Farewell. 5^- Cicero, upon the death of his daughter, retired from his own house, to one helongincc to Atticus, near Rome, from which, perh^p*!, this letter was Avritton, f Ca^sav, D 2 36 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. LETTER LIV. To Lucius Lucceius. [A. U. 708.] All the letters I have received from you, upon the subject of my late misfor- tune, were extremely acceptable to me, as instances of the hig-Jiest affection and good sense. But the great advantage I have derived from them, principally results from the animating contempt with which you look down upon human affairs, and that exemplary fortitude which arms you against all the various assaults of fortune. I esteem it the most glorious privilege of philosophy to be thus superior to external accidents, and to depend for happiness on ourselves alone : a sentiment, which, although it was too deeply planted in my heart to be totally eradicated, has been somewhat weakened, I confess, by the violence of those repeated storms to which I have been lately exposed. But you have en- deavoured, and with great success in- deed, to restore it to all its usual strength and vigour. I cannot, therefore, either too often or too strongly assure you, that nor thing could give me a higher satisfac- tion than your letter. But powerful as the various arguments of consolation are which you have collected for my use, and elegantly as you have enforced them ; I must acknowledge, that nothing proved more effectual than that firmness of mind which I remarked in your letters, and which I should esteem as the utmost re- proach not to imitate. But if I imitate I must necessarily excel my guide and in- structor in this lesson of fortitude : for I am altogether unsupported by the same hopes which I find you entertain, that public affairs will improve. Those il- lustrations indeed which you draw from the gladiatorial combats, together with the whole tendency of your reasoning in general, all concur in forbidding me to despair of the commonwealth. It would be nothing extraordinary, therefore, if you should be more composed than my- self, whilst you are in possession of these pleasing hopes : the only wonder is, how you can possibly entertain any. P'or say, my friend, what is there of our constitu- tion that is not utterly subverted ? Look round the republic and tell me (you who 80 well understand the nature of our go- vernment) what part of it remains un- broken or unimpaired ? Most unquestion- ably there is not one, as I would prove in detail, if I imagined my own discern- ment was superior to yours, or were ca- pable (notwithstanding all your powerful admonitions and precepts) to dwell upon so melancholy a subject without being extremely affected. But I will bear my domestic misfortunes in the manner you assure me that I ought ; and as to those of the public, I shall support them, per- haps, with greater equanimity than even my friend. For (to repeat it again) you are not, it seems, v/ithout some sort of hopes ; whereas for myself, I have absolutely nxjne, and shall, therefore, in pursuance of your advice, preserve my spirits even in the midst of despair. The pleasing recollection of those actions you recal to my remembrance, and which, indeed, I performed chiefly by your en- couragement and recommendation, will greatly contribute to this end. To say the truth, I have done every thing for the service of my country that I ought, and more than could have been expected from the courage and counsels of any man. You will pardon me, I hope, for speak- ing in this advantageous manner of my own conduct : but as you advise me to alleviate my present uneasiness by a re- trospect of my past actions, I will con- fess, that in thus commemorating them I find great consolation. I shall punctually observe your admo- nitions, by calling off my mind as much as possible from every thing that may disturb its peace, and fixing it on those speculations which are at once an orna- ment to prosperity and the support of adversity. For this purpose I shall en- deavour to spend as much of my time with you, as our health and years will mutually permit : and if v/e cannot meet so often as I am sure we both wish, we shall always at least seem present to each other by a sympathy of hearts, and an union in the same philosophical contem- plations. Farewell. LETTER LV. Lucceius to Cicero* [A. U. 708.] I SHALL rejoice to hear that you are well. As to my own health, it is much as usual; or rather, I think, somewhat worse. Sect. 1. CICERO. 37 I have frequently called at your door, and am much surprised to find that you have not been in Rome since Ceesar left it. Wliat is it that so strongly draws you fi'om hence ? If any of your usual engagements of the literary kind renders you thus enamoured of solitude, I am so far from condemning your retii-ement that I think of it with pleasure. There is no sort of life indeed that can be more agreeable, not only in times so disturbed as the present, but even in those of the most desirable calm and serenity ; espe- cially to a mind like yours, which may have occasion for repose from its public labours, and which is always capable of producing something that will afford both pleasiu-e to others and honour to youi'self. But if you have withdravvn from the world, in order to give a free vent to those tears which you so immoderately indulged when you were here, I shall la- ment indeed your grief ; but (if you will allow me to speak the truth) I never can excuse it. For tell me, my friend, is it possible that a man of your uncommon discernment should not perceive what is obvious to all mankind ? Is it possible you can be ignorant that your perpetual complaints can profit nothing, and only serve to increase those disquietudes which your good sense requires you to subdue ? But if argLunents cannot prevail, intrea- ties perhaps may. Let me conjure you, then, by all the regard you bear me, to dispel this gloom that hangs upon your heart ; to return to that society and to those occupations which were either common to us both, or peculiar to your- self. But though I would fain dissuade you from continuing your present way of life, yet I would by no means suffei my zeal to be troublesome. In the diffi- culty therefore of steering between these two inclinations, I will only add my request, that you would either comply with my advice, or excuse me for offer^ ing it. Farewell. LETTER LVI. To Lucius Lucceius. [A. U. 70S.] Every part of your last letter glowed with that warmth of friendship, which, though it was by no means new to me, I could not but observe with peculiar satis- faction ; I would Shyplccmae, if that were not a word to which I have now for ever bidden adieu ; not merely, however, for the cause you suspect, and for which, under the gentlest and most affectionate terms, you in fact very severely reproach me ; but because all that ought in reason to assuage the anguish of so deep a wound , is absolutely no more. For whither shall I fly for consolation? Is it to the bo- som of my friends ? But tell me (for we have generally shared the same com- mon amities together), how few of that number are remaining? how few that have not perished by the sword, or that are not become strangely insensible ? You will say, perhaps, that I might seek my relief in your society ; and there indeed I would willingly seek it. The same ha- bitudes and studies, a long intercourse of friend sliip — in short, is there any sort of bond, any single circumstance of connec- tion wanting to unite us together ? Why then are we such strangers to one ano- ther ? For my own part, I know not : but this I know, that we have hitherto seldom met, I do not say in Rome, where the Forum usually brings every body together^, but w^hen we were near neighbours at Tusculum and Puteolse. I know not by what ill fate it has happened, that at an age when I might expect to flourish in the greatest credit and dignity, I should find myself in so wretched a situation as to be ashamed that I am still in being. Despoiled indeed of every honour and every comfort that adorned my public life, or smoothed my private ; vrhat is it that can now afford me any refuge ? My books, I imagine you will tell me ; and to these indeed I very assiduously apply. For to wliat else can I possibly have recourse ? Yet even these seem to exclude me from that peaceful port which I fain would reach, and re- proach me, as it were, for prolonging that life which only increases my sorrows with my years. Can you wonder, then, that I absent myself from Rome, where there is nothing under my own roof to afford me any satisfaction, and where I abhor both public men and public mea- sures, both the Forum and the Senate ? For this reason it is that I wear away my days in a total application to literary pur- * The Forum was a place of general resort for the whole city. It was here that tlie lawyers pleaded their causes, that the poets recited their works, and that funeral orations were spoken in honour of the dead. It was here, in short, every thing was going forward that could en- gage the active or amuse the idle. 38 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. suits ; not indeed as entertammg so vain a hope, that 1 may find in tliem a com- plete cure for my misfortunes, hut in or- der to obtain at least some little respite from their bitter remembrance. If those dangers, with v/hich we were daily menaced, had not formerly pre- vented both you and myself from re- flecting with that coolness we ought, we sliould never have been thus separated. Had that proved to have been the case, we should both of us have spared our- selves much uneasiness ; as I should not have indulged so many groundless fears for your health, nor you for the conse- quences of my grief. Let us repair then this unlucky mistake as well as we may : and as nothing can be more suit- able to both of us than the company of each other, I purpose to be with you in a few days. Farewell. LETTER LVIL To Tiro- [A. U. 708.] Eelieve me, my dear Tiro, I am greatly anxious for your health : however, if you persevere in the same cautious regimen which you have hitherto ob- served, you will soon, I trust, be well. As to my library, I beg you would put the books in order, and take a catalogue of them, when your physician shall give you his consent : for it is by his direc- tions you must novv^ be governed. With respect to the garden, I leave you to adjust matters as you shall judge pro- j)cr. I think you might come to Rome on the first of next month, in order to see tbe gladiatorial combats, and return the following day : but let this be entirely as is most agreeable to your own inclina- tions. In the mean time, if you have any affection for me, take care of your lualth. Farewell. LETTER LVllL To the sa??ie. [A. U. 708.] Wiiv should you not direct your letters to uk; with the familiar superscription which one friend generally uses to ano- iluH- ? llowcvei-, if you are unwilling to hazard the envy which this privilege may draw upon you, be it as you think l)roper; though lor my own part it is a inaKim v/hich I have generally pur-' sued with respect to myself, to treat envy with the utmost disregard. 1 rejoice that you found so much bene- fit by your sudorific ; and should the air of Tusculum be attended with the same happy effect, how infinitely will it in- crease my fondness for that favourite scene ! If you love me then (and if you do not, you are undoubtedly the most successful of all dissemblers), consecrate your whole time to the care of your liealtli ; which hitherto indeed your as« siduous attendance upon myself has but too much prevented. You well know the rules which it is necessary you should observe for this purpose ; and 1 need not tell you that your diet should be light, and your exercises moderate : that you should keep your body open, «and your mind amused. Ee it your care, in short, to return to me perfectly recovered : and I shall ever aftervi'^ards not only love you, but Tusculum so much the more ardently. I vt'isli you could prevail with your neighbour to take my garden, as it will be the most effectual means of vexing that rascal Helico. TJiis fellow, although he paid a thousand sesterces* for the rent of a piece of cold barren ground, that had not so much as a walFor a shed upon it, or was supplied with a single drop of water, has yet the assurance to laugh at the price I require for mine ; notwithstanding all the money I have laid out upon the improvements. But let it be your business to spirit the man into our terms ; as it shall be mine to make the same artful attack upon Otho. Let me know what you have done with respect to the fountain ; though possibly this wet season may now have oversupplied it with water. If the wea- ther should prove fair, I will send the dial, together with the books you desire. But how happened it that you took none with you? Was it that you were em- ployed in some poetical composition upon the model of your admired So- phocles? If so, 1 hope you Avill soon oblige the world with your performance. Ligurius, Ccesar's great favourite, is dead. He was a very worthy man, and much my friend. Let me know when I may expect you : in the mean time be careful of your health. Farewell. * About 8/. of our money. BOOK THE FIRST. ANCIENT AND CLASSICAL. SECTION 11. FROM THE LETTERS OF PLINY THE CONSUL*, TO SEVERAL OF HIS FRIENDS, AS TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ. LETTER I. To Caninius Rufus. How stands Comiimt, tliat favourite scene of yours and mine ? What becomes of the pleasant villa, the vernal portico, the shady planetree walk, the crystal canal so agreeably winding- along- its * Pliny was born in the reign of Nero, about the eight hundred and fifteenth year of Rome, and the sixty-second of the Christian aera. As to the time of his death antiquity has given us no information ; but it is conjectured that he died either a little before, or soon after, that excellent prince, his admired Trajan ; that is, about the year of Christ one hundred and sixteen. The elegance of this author's manner adds force to the most interesting, at the same time that it enlivens the most common subjects. But the polite and spirited turn of these let- ters is by no means their principal recom- mendation : they receive a much higher value, as they exhibit one of the most amiable and animating characters in all antiquity. Pliny's whole life seems to have been employed in the exercise of every generous and social affection. To forward modest merit, to encourage in- genious talents, to vindicate oppressed inno- cence, are some of the glorious purposes to which he devoted his power, his fortune, and his abilities. But how does he rise in our esteem and admiration, when we see him exer- cising (with a grace that discovers his huma- nity as well as his politeness) the noblest acts both of public and private munificence, not so much from the abundance of his wealth, as the wisdom of his oeconomy ! f The city where Pliny was born : it still subsists, and is now called Como. situated upon the lake Larius, or Lago di Como, in the dachv of Milan, flowery banks, together with the charm- ing lake X below, that serves at once the purposes of use and beauty ? What have you to tell me of the firm yet soft ges- tatio §, the sunny bath, the public saloon, the private dining-room, and all the ele- gant apartments for repose both at noon and night 1 1 ? Do these enjoy my friend, and divide his .time with pleasing vicis- situde ? Or do the affairs of the world, as usual, call you frequently out from this agreeable retreat ? If the scene of your enjoyment lies vdioily there, you are happy ; if not, you are under the common error of mankind. But leave, my friend (for certainly it is high time), the sordid pursuits of life to others, and devote yourself, in this calm and undis- turbed recess, entirely to pleasures of the studious kind. Let these employ your idle as well as serious hours ; let them be at once your business and your amusement, the subjects of your waking and even sleeping thoughts : produce something that shall be really and for ever your own. All your other posses- sions will pass on from one master to another : this alone, when once it is X The lake Larius, upon the banks of which this villa was situated. § A piece of ground set apart for the purpose of exercise, either on horseback, or in their ve- hicles; it was generally contiguous to their gardens, and laid out in the form of a circus. II It was customary among the Romans to sleep in the middle of the day, and they had apavtmcuts for that purpose distinct from their bed-chambers. 40 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. yours, Avill for ever be so. As I well know the temper and genius of him to whom I am addressing myself, 1 must exhort you to think as well of your abilities as they deserve : do justice to those excellent talents you possess, and the world, believe me, will certainly do so too. Farewell. LETTER IL To Pcmpeia Cderina. You might perceive, by my last short letter, I had no occasion of yours to in- form me of the various conveniences you enjoy at your several villas. The elegant accommodations which are to be found at Narnia^, Ocriculumf, Car- sola |, Perusia§, particularly the pretty bath at Narnia, I am extremely well ac- quainted with. The truth is, I have a property in every thing which belongs to you ; and I know of no other difference between your house and my own, than that I am more carefully attended in the former than the latter. You may, per- haps, have occasion to make the same observation in your turn, whenever you shall give me your company here, which I wish for, not only that you may par- take of mine with the same ease and free- dom that I do of yours, but to awaken the industry of my domestics, who are grown something careless in their attend- ance upon me. A long course of mild treatment is apt to wear out the impres- sions of awe in servants ; whereas new faces quicken their diligence, as they are generally more inclined to please their master by attention to his guest, than to himself. Farewell. LETTER III. To Cornelius Tacitus. Ceiitainly you will laugh (and laugh you may) when I tell you that your old acquaintance is turned sportsman, and has taken three noble boars. What ! (methinks I hear you say with astonish- ment) Pliny ! — Even he. However, I indulged at the same time my beloved * Now called Narni, a city in Ombria, in the duchy of Spoleto. f Otricoli, in the same duchy. X Carsola, in the same ducliy, § Perugia, in Tuscany. inactivity, and while I sat at my nets, you would have found me, not with my spear, but my pen by my side. I mused and wrote, being resolved, if I returned with my hands empty, at least to come home with my papers full. Believe me, this manner of studying is not to be despised : you cannot conceive how greatly exercise contributes to enliven the imagination. There is, besides, something in the solemnity of the vene- rable woods with which one is sur- rounded, together with that awful si- lence |j which is observed on these occa- sions, that strongly inclines the mind to meditation. For the future, therefore, let me advise you, whenever you hunt, to take along with you your pen and paper, as well as your basket and bottle ; for be assured you will find Minerva as fond of traversing the hills as Diana. Farewell. LETTER IV. To Minutius Fundanus, When one considers how the time passes at Rome, one cannot but be surprised that take any single day, and it either is, or at least seems to be, spent reason- ably enough ; and yet upon casting up the whole sum, the amount will appear quite otherwise. Ask any one how he has been employed to-day ? he mil tell you, perhaps, " I have been at the cere- mony of taking up the ?nanli/ robe^ ; this friend invited me to a wedding ; that desired me to attend the hearing of his cause : one begged me to be wit- ness to his will ; another called me to consultation." These are offices which seem, while one is engaged in them, ex- tremely necessary; and yet when, in the quiet of some retirement, we look back upon the many hours thus employed, we cannot but condemn them as solemn II By the circumstance of silence here men- tioned, as well as by the whole air of this let- ter, it is plain the hunting here recommended was of a very different kind from what is prac- tised amongst us. It is probable the wild boars were allured into their nets by some kind of prey, with which they were baited, while the sportsman watched at a distance in silence and concealment. ^ The Roman youths at the age of seven- teen changed their habit, and took up the toga virilis, or manly gown, upon which occa- sion they were conducted by the friends of the family with great ceremony either into the Forum or Capitol, and there invested with this new robe. Sect. II. PLINY. 41 impertinences. At such a season one is apt to reflect, How much of my life has been lost in trifles ! At least it is a re- flection which frequently comes across me at Laurentum, after I have been em- ploying- myself in my studies, or even in the necessary care of the animal ma- chine (for the body must be repaired and supported^ if we would preserve the mind in all its vigour). In that peace- ful retreat I neither hear nor speak any thing of which I have occasion to repent. I suffer none to repeat to me the whispers of malice ; nor do I censure any man, unless myself, when I am dissatisfied with my compositions. There I live un- disturbed by rumour, and free from the anxious solicitudes of hope or fear, con- versing- only with myself and my books. True and genuine life ! Pleasing and ho- nourable repose ! More, perhaps, to be desired than the noblest employments ! Thou solemn sea and solitary shore, best and most retired scene for contemplation, with how many noble thoughts have you inspired me ! Snatch, then, my friend, as I have, the first occasion of leaving the noisy town, with all its very empty pur- suits, and devote your days to study, or even resign them to ease ; for, as my in- genious friend Attilius pleasantly said, " It is better to do nothing, than to be doing of nothing.'" FarcAvell. LETTER V. To Atrius Clemens. If ever polite literature flourished at Rome, it certainly does now, of which I could give you many eminent in- stances ; I mil content myself, however, with naming only Euphrates the philo- sopher. I first made Acquaintance with this excellent person in my youth, when I served in the army in Syria. I had an opportunity of conversing with him fa- miliarly, and took some pains to gain his affection ; though that indeed was no- thing difficult, for he is exceedingly open to access, and full of that humanity which he professes. I should think my- self extremely happy if I had as much answered the expectations he at that time conceived of me, as he exceeds every thing that I had imagined of him. But perhaps I admire his excellencies more now than I did then, because I under- stand them better ; if I can with truth say I understand them yet. For as none but those who are skilled in painting, statuary, or the plastic art, can form a right judgment of any performance in those sciences ; so a man must himself have made great advances in learning, before he is capable of forming a just notion of the learned. However, as far as I am qualified to determine, Euphrates is possessed of so many shining talents, that he cannot fail to strike the most injudicious observer. He reasons with much force, penetration, and elegance, and frequently launches out in'o all the sublime and luxuriant eloquence of Plato. His style is rich and flowing, , and at the same time so wonderfully sweet, that with a pleasing violence he forces the attention of the most unwilling hearer. His outward appearance is agreeable to all the rest x he has a good shape, a comely aspect, long hair, and a. large white beard ; circumstances which, though they may probably be thought trifling and accidental, contribute how- ever to gain him much reverence. There is no affected negligence in his habit ; his countenance is grave, but not austere ; and his approach commands respect without creating awe. Distinguished as he is by the sanctity of his manners, he is no less so by his polite and affable ad- dress. He points his eloquence against the vices, not the persons of mankind, and without chastising reclaims the wanderer. His exhortations so captivate your attention, that you hang as it were upon his lips ; and even after the heart is convinced, the ear still wishes to listen to the harmonious reasoner. His family consists of three children (two of which are sons), whom he educates with the utmost care. His father-in-law, Pompeius Julianus, as he gi-eatly distinguished him- self in every other part of his life, so particularly in this, that though he was himself of the highest rank in his pro- vince, yet among many considerable competitors for his daughter, he pre- ferred Euphrates, as first in merit, though not in dignity. But to dwell any longer upon the virtues of a man, whose con- versation I am so unfortunate as not to have leisure to enjoy, what Avould it avail but to increase my uneasiness that 1 can- not enjoy it ? ]My time is Svholly taken up in the execution of a very honourable^ 42 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L indeed, l)ut very troublesome employ- ment ; in licaring of causes, answering petitions, passing accounts, and v/riting of letters: but letters, alas! where genius has no share. I sometimes complain to Euphrates (for I have leisure at least for that) of these unpleasing occupations. He endeavours to comfort me, by atlirm- ing, tliat to be engaged in the service of the public, to hear and determine causes, to explain the laws, and administer jus- tice, is a part, and the noblest part too, of philosophy, as it is reducing to prac- tice what her professors teach in specu- lation. It may be so : but that it is as agreeable as to spend whole days in at- tending to his useful conversation — even this rhetoric will never be able to con- vince me. I cannot therefore but strong- ly recommend it to you, who have lei- sure, the next time you come to Rome (and you will come, I dare say, so much the sooner) to take the benefit of his ele- gant and refined instructions. I am not, you see, in the number of those who envy others the happiness they cannot share themselves : on the contrary, it is a very sensible pleasure to me, when I find my friends in possession of an enjoyment from which I have the misfortune to be excluded. Farev/ell. LETTER VL To Calestrius Tiro. I HAVE suffered a most sensible loss ; if that word is strong enough to express the misfortune which has deprived me of so excellent a man. Cornelius Rufus is dead ! and dead too by his own act ! a circumstance of great aggravation to my afliiction ; as that sort of death which we cannot impute either to the course of na- ture, or the hand of Providence, is of all otherh the most to be lamented. It af- fords some consolation in the loss of those friends whom disease snatches from us, that they fall by the general fate of mankind : but those, who destroy them- /selves, leave us under the inconsolable reflection that they had it in their power to have lived longer. ^Tis true, Corne- lius had many inducements to be fond of life ; a blameU^ss conscien(;c, high rejRi- tation, and great dignity, together with ail the tender endearments of a \vife, a daughter, a i>randson, and sisters ; and amidtjt thcye considerable j)leflges of haj)- piness, many and faithful friends. Still it must be owned he had the highest reason (which to a wise man will always have the force of the strongest obliga- tion) to determine him in this resolution. He had long laboured under so tedious and painful a distemper, that even these blessings, great and valuable as they are, could not balance the evils he suffered. In his thirty-third year (as I Iiave fre- quently heard him say) he was seized with the gout in his feet. This he re- ceived from his father ; for diseases, as well as possessions, are sometimes trans- mitted by a kind of inheritance. A life of abstinence and virtue had something broke the force of this distemper while he had strength and youth to struggle with it ; as a manly courage supported him under the increasing weight of it in his old age. I remember in the reigrji of Domitian, I made him a visit at his villa near Rome, where I found him under the most incredible and unde- served tortures ; for the gout was now not only in his feet, but had spread itself over his whole body. As soon as I en- tered his chamber, his servants with- drew : for it was his constant rule never to suffer them to be present when any very intimate friend was with him : he even carried it so far as to dismiss his wife upon such occasions, though wor- thy of the highest confidence. Looking round about him, Do you know (says he) why I endure life under these cruel agonies ? It is with the hope that I may outlive, at least for one day, that vil- lain^. And O ! ye Gods, had you given me strength, as you have given me re solution, I would infallibly have that pleasure ! Heaven heard his prayer, and having survived that tyrant, and lived to see liberty restored, he broke through those great, but however now less forcible attachments to the world, since he could leave it in possession of security and freedom. His distemper in- creased ; and as it now grew too violent to admit of any relief from temperance, he resolutely determined to put an end to its uninterrupted attacks by an effort of heroism. He had refused all sustenance for four days, when his wife HispuUa sent to me our common friend Gfeminius, with the melancholy news that he was resolved to die ; and that she and her ^' Domitian. Sect. II. PLINY. 43 daughter having in vain joined in their most tender persuasions to divert liim from his purpose, the only hope they had now left was in my endeavours to reconcile him to life. I ran to his house with the utmost precipitation. As I ap- proached it, I met a second messenger from Hispulla, who informed me there was nothing to he hoped for, even from me, as he now seemed more inflexible than ever in his resolution. What con- firmed their fears was an expression he made use of to his physician, who pressed him to take some nourishment: " 'Tis resolved," said he : an expression which, as it raised my admiration of his great- ness of soul, so it does my grief for the loss of him. I am every moment re- flecting wliat a valuable friend, what an excellent man I am deprived of. That he was arrived to his sixty-seventh year, which is an age even the strongest sel- dom exceed, I well know : that he is de- livered from a life of continual pain ; that he left his family and (what he loved even more) his country in a flourishing state ; all this I know. Still I cannot forbear to weep for him, as if he had been in the prime and vigour of his days ; and 1 weep. (shall 1 own my weakness?) upon a private account. For I have lost, oh ! my friend, I have lost the witness, the guide, and the director of my life ! And to confess to you what I did to Cal- visius in the first transport of my grief, I sadly fear, nov/ that 1 am no longer under his eye, I shall not keep so strict a guard over my conduct. Speak com- fort to me, therefore, I intreat you ; not by telling me that he was old, that he was infirm ; all this I know ; but by supply- ing me with some arguments that are uncommon and resistless, that neither the commerce of the world, nor the pre- cepts of the philosophers, can teach me. For all that I have heard, and all that I have read, occur to me of themselves ; but all these are by far too weak to support me under so heavy an aifiiction. Farewell. LETTER VII. To Junius Mauricus. You desii*e me to look out a husband for your niece ; and it is with justice you enjoin me that oflice. You were a wit- ness to the esteem and affection I bore that great man her father, and with what noble instructions he formed my youth, and taught me to deserve those praises he was pleased to bestow upon me. You could not give me then a more important, or more agreeable com- mission ; nor could I be employed in an office of higher honour, than of choosing a young man worthy of continuing the family of Rusticus Arulenus ! a choice I should be long in determining if I were not acquainted with Miiuitius ^mi- lianus, who seems formed for our pur- pose. While he loves me with that warmth of affection which is usual be- tween young men of equal years (as in- deed I have the advance of him bat by a very few), he reveres me at the same time with all the deference due to age ; and is as desirous to model himself by my instructions, as I was by those of yourself and your brother. He is a na- tive of Brixia*, one of those provinces in Italy which still retains much of the frugal simplicity and purity of ancient manners. He is son to Minutius Macri- nus, whose humble desires were satis- fied with being first in rank of the Equestrian order ; for though he was nominated by Vespasian in the number of those whom that prince dignified with the Praetorian honours, yet with a de- termined greatness of mind, he rather preferred an elegant repose, to the am- bitious, shall I call them, or honourable pursuits in which we in public life are engaged. His grandmother on the mo- ther's side is Serrana Procula, of Padua : you are no stranger to the manners of that place ; yet Serrana is looked upon, even among these reserved people, as an exemplary instance of strict virtue. Acilius, his uncle, is a man of singular gravity, wisdom, and integrity. In a word, you will find nothing throughout his family unworthy of yours. Minutius himself has great vivacity, as weU as ap- plication, joined at the same time with a most amiable and becoming modesty. He has already, with much credit, passed through the offices of Qutestor, Tribune, and Praetor, so that you will be spared the trouble of soliciting for him those honourable employments. He has a gen- teel and ruddy countenance, with a cer- tain noble mien that speaks the man of X A town iu the tenitorics of Venice, now called Brescia. 44 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. distinction ; advantages, I think, by no means to be slighted, and which I look upon as the proper tribute to virgin inno- cence. I am doubtful whether I should add, that his father is very rich. When I consider the character of those who re- quire a husband of my choosing, I know it is unnecessary to mention wealth ; but when 1 reflect upon the prevailing man- ners of the age, and even the laws of Rome, which rank a man according to his possessions, it certainly claims some notice ; and indeed in establishments of this nature, where children and many other circumstances are to be considered, it is an article that well deserves to be taken into the account. You will be in- clined perhaps to suspect, that affection has had too great a share in the character I have been drawing, and that I have heightened it beyond the truth. But I will stake all my credit, you will find every thing far beyond what I have re- presented. I confess, indeed, I love Mi- nutius (as he justly deserves) with all tlie warmth of the most ardent affection ; but for that very reason 1 would not ascribe more to his merit, than I know it will support. Farewell. LETTER VIIL To Septitius Clarus. How happened it, my friend, that you did not keep your engagement the other night to sup witli me ? But take notice, justice is to be had, and I expect' you shall fully reimburse me the expense I was at to treat you ; which, let me tell you, was no small sum. I had prepared, you must know, a lettuce a-piece, three snails*, two eggs, and a barley cake, with some sweet wine and snow f ; the * A dish of snails was very common at a Roman table. The manner used to fatten them is related by some very grave authors of antiquity; and Pliny the Elder mentions one Fulvius Hirpinus, who had studied that art with so much success, that the shells of some of his snails would contain about ten quarts. In some parts of Switzerland this food is still in high repute. f The Romans used snow not only to cool their liquors, but their stomachs, after having inflamed themselves witii high eating. This custom still prevails in Italy, especially in Naples, where tliey drink very few liquors,' not so much as water, that hav(; not lain in fresco, and everybody from the hi u best to the lowest n)akcs use of it: insomuch that a scarcity of snow most certainly I shall charge to your account, as a rarity that will not keep. Besides all these curious dishes, there were olives of Andalusia, gourds, shalots, and a hundred other dainties equally sum.ptuous. You should like- wise have been entertained either with an interlude, the rehearsal of a poem, or a piece of music, as you liked best ; or (such was my liberality) with all three. But the luxurious delicacies :j: and Spa- nish dancers of a certain 1 know not who, v«'ere it seems more to your taste. However, 1 shall have my revenge of you, depend upon it — in v/hat manner, shall be at present a secret. In good truth it was not kind thus to mortify your friend, I had almost said yourself; — and upon second thoughts I do say so : for how agreeably should we have spent the even- ing, in laughing, trifling, and deep specu- lation ! You may sup, 1 confess, at many places more splendidly ; but you can be treated nowhere, believe me, with more unconstrained cheerfulness, simplicity, and freedom : only make the experiment : and if you do not ever afterwards prefer my table to any other, never favour me with your company again. Farewell. LETTER IX. To Erucius, 1 CONCEIVED an affection for my friend Pompeius Saturnius, and admired his genius, even long before I knew the ex- tensive variety of his talents : but he has now taken full and unreserved pos- session of my whole heart. 1 have heard him in the unpremeditated, as well as studied speech, plead with no less warmth and energy, than grace and eloquence. He abounds with just reflections ; his periods are graceful and majestic ; his words harmonious, and stamped with snow would raise a mutiny at Naples, as much as a dearth of corn or provisions in another country. X In the original the dishes are specified, viz. oysters, the matrices of sows, and a certain sea shell-fish, prickly like a hedge-ho?, called echinus, all in the highest estimation among the Koman admirers of table luxury ; as aj)- pears by numberless passages in the classic writers. Our own country had the honour to furnish them with oysters, which they fetched from Sandwich: Montanus, mentioned by Ju- venal, was so well skilled in the science of good eating, that he could tell by the first taste whether they came from thence or not. Sect. II. PLINY. 45 the authority of genuine antiquity. These united qualities infinitely delight you, not only when you are carried along, if I may so say, with the resistless flow of his charming and emphatical elocution ; but when considered distinct and apart from the advantage. 1 am persuaded you will he of this opinion when you peruse his orations, and will not hesitate to place him in the same rank with the ancients, whom he so happily imitates. But you will view him with still higher pleasure in the character of an historian, where his style is at once concise and clear, smooth and sublime ; and the same energy of expression, though with more closeness, runs through his harangues, which so eminently distinguishes and adorns his pleadings. But these are not all his ex- cellencies ; he has composed several poetical pieces in the manner of my fa- vourite Calvus and Catullus. What strokes of wit, what sweetness of num- bers, what pointed satire, and what touches of the tender passion appear in his verses ! in the midst of which he sometimes designedly falls into an agree- able negligence in his metre, in imitation too of those admired poets. He read to me, the other day, some letters which he assured me were wrote by his wife. I fancied I was hearing Plautus or Terence in prose. If they were that lady's (as he positively affirms), or his own (which he absolutely denies), either way he deserves equal applause ; whether for writing so politely himself, or for having so highly improved and refined the genius of his wife, whom he married young and unin- structed. His works are never out of my hands ; and whether I sit down to write any thing myself, or to revise what I have already wrote, or am in a disposition to amuse myself, I constantly take up this agreeable author ; and as often as I do so, he is still new. Let me strongly recommend him to the same degree of intimacy with you ; nor be it any pre- judice to his merit that he is a cotempo- rary writer. Had he flourished in some distant age, not only his works, but the very pictures and statues of him, would have been passionately inquired after ; and shall we then, from a sort of satiety, and merely because he is present among us, suffer his talents to languish and fade away unhonoured and unadmired? It is surely a very perverse and envious dis- position, to look with indifference upon a man worthy of the highest approbation for no other reason but because we have it in our power to see him and to con- verse with him, and not only to give him our applause, but to receive him into our friendship. Farewell. LETTER X. To Cornelius Tacitus. I HAVE frequent debates with a learned and judicious person of my acquaint- ance, who admires nothing so much in the eloquence of the bar as conciseness. I agree with him, where the cause will admit of this manner, it may be properly enough pursued ; but to insist, that to omit what is material to be mentioned, or only slightly to touch upon those points which should be strongly incul- cated, and urged home to the minds of the audience, is in effect to desert the cause one has undertaken. In many cases a copious manner of expression gives strength and weight to our ideas, which frequently make impressions upon the mind, as iron does upon the solid bodies, rather by repeated strokes than a single blow. In answer to this he usually has recourse to authorities ; and produces Lysias among the Grecians, and Cato and the two Gracchi among our own countrymen, as instances in favour of the concise style. In return, I name De- mosthenes, ^schynes, Hisperides, and many others, in opposition to Lysias ; while I confront Cato and the Gracchi, with Csesar, PoUio, Cffilius, and above all Cicero, whose longest oration is generally esteemed the best. It is in good com- positions, as in every thing else that is valuable; the more there is of them, the better. You may observe in statues, basso-relievos, pictures, and the bodies of men, and even in animals and trees, that nothing is more graceful than magnitude, if it is accompanied with proportion. The same holds true in pleading ; and even in books, a large volume carries something of beauty and authority in its very size. My antagonist, who is ex- tremely dexterous at evading an argu- ment, eludes all this, and much more which I usually urge to the same purpose, by insisting that those very persons, upon 40 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L whose works i found my opinion, made considerable additions to their orations when they published them. This I deny : and appeal to the harangues of numberless orators ; particularly to those of Cicero for Murena and Varenus, where he seems to have given us little more than the general charge. Wlience it appears, that many things which he enlarged upon at the time he delivered those ora- tions, were retrenched when he gave them to the public. The same excellent orator informs us, that, agreeably to the ancient custom which allowed only one counsel on a side, Cluentius had no other advocate but himself : and tells us far- ther, that he employed four whole days in defence of Cornelius : by which it plainly appears that those orations which, wlien delivered at their fnli length, had necessarily taken up so much time at the bar, were greatly altered and abridged when he afterwards comprised them in a sing-le volume, though I must confess, indeed, a large one. But it is objected, there is a great difference between good pleading and just composition. This opinion, I acknowledge, has some fa- vourers, and it may be true ; neverthe- less I am persuaded (though I may per- haps be mistaken), that, as it is possible a pleading may be well received by the audience, which has not merit enough to recommend it to the reader, so a good oration cannot be a bad pleading ; for the oration upon paper is, in truth, the original and model of the speech that is to be pronounced. It is for this reason we find in many of the best orations ex- tant, numberless expressions which have the air of unpremeditated discourse ; and tliis even where v/e are sure they Avere never spoken at all : as for instance in the following passage from the oration against Verres, — " A certain mechanic — what's his name ? Oh, I am obliged to you for helping me to it; yes, I mean I'olycletus." It cannot then be denied, that the nearer ap])roacli a speak- er makes to the rules of just compo- sition, the more perfect he will be in his art ; always supposiiig, however, that he lias the necessary indulgence in point of time ; for if he be abridged of that, no imputation can justly be fixed upon the advocate, thougli certainly a very great one is chargeable upon the judge. The sense of the laws is, I am sure, on my side, Avliich are by no means sparing of the orator's time ; it is not brevity, but an enlarged scope, a full attention to every thing material, which they recommend. And how is it possible for an advocate to acquit himself of that duty, unless in the most insignificant causes, if he affects to be concise ? Let me add what experience, that unerring guide, has taught me : it has frequently been my province to act both as an advocate and as a judge, as I have often assisted as an assessor *, where I have ever found the judgments of man- kind are to be influenced by different ap- plications ; and that the slightest circum- stances often produce the most important consequences. There is so vast a variety in the dispositions and understandings of men, that they seldom agree in their opinions about any one point in debate before them ; or if they do, it is gene- rally from the movement of different passions. Besides, as every man natu- rally favours his own discoveries, and when he hears an argument made use of which had before occurred to himself, will certainly embrace it as extremely convincing, the orator therefore should so adapt himself to his audience as to throw out something to every one of them, that he may receive and approve as his own peculiar thought. I remem- ber when Regulus and I were concerned together in a cause, he said to me. You seem to think it necessary to insist upon every point ; whereas I always take aim at my adversary's throat, and there 1 closely press him. ('Tis true, he tena- ciously holds whatever part he has once fixed upon : but the misfortune is, he is extremely apt to mistake the right place.) I answered. It might possibly happen that what he took for what he called the throat, was in reality some other part. As for me, said I, who do not pretend ^ to direct my aim with so much certainty, I attack every part, and push at every opening ; in short, to use a vulgar proverb, I leave no stone un- turned. As in agriculture, it is not my vineyards, or my woods alone, but my fields also that I cultivate ; and (to pur- sue the allusion) as I do not content myself with sowing those fields with * The Prastor was assisted by ten assessors, five of whom were senators, and the rest kniglits. Willi these he was obliged to consult before he pronoiincci] sentence. Sect. II. PLINY. 47 only one kind of grain, but employ several different sorts : so in my plead- ings at the bar, I spread at large a variety of matter like so many different seeds, in order to reap from thence whatever may happen to hit : for the dis- position of your jiidg'es is as precarious and as little to be ascertained, as that of soils and seasons. I remember the comic writer Eupolis mentions it in praise of that excellent orator Pericles, that On his lips persuasiou hung", And powerful reason rul'd his tongue: Thus he alone could boast the art, To charm at once and sting the heart. But could Pericles, without the richest variety of expression , and merely by force of the concise or the rapid style, or both together (for they are extremely dif- ferent), have exerted that charm and that sting of which the poet here speaks ? To delight and to persuade requires time and a great compass of language ; and to leave a sting in the minds of his audience is an effect not to be expected from an orator who slightly pushes, but from him, and him only, who thrusts home and deep. Another comic poet*, speaking of the same orator, says. His mighty words like Jove's owa thunder roll; Greece hears and trembles to her inmost soul. But it is not the concise and the reserved, it is the copious, the majestic, and the sublime orator, who with the blaze and thunder of his eloquence hurries impe- tuously along, and bears down all before him. There is a just mean, I own, in every thing ; but he equally deviates from that true mark, who falls short of it, as he who goes beyond it ; he who confines himself in too narrow a compass, as he who launches out with too great a lati- tude. Hence it is as common to hear our orators condemned for being too bar- ren, as too luxuriant ; for not reaching, as well as for overflowing the bounds of their subject. Both, no doubt, are equally distant from the proper medium ; but with this difference, however, that in the one the fault arises from an excess, in the other from a deficiency ; an error which if it be not a sign of a more correct, yet is certainly of a more exalted genius. ^Vlien I say this, I would not be under- * Aristophanes. Stood to approve that everlasting talker^ mentioned in Homer, but tliat other:}: described in the following lines : Frequent and soft as falls the winter snow, Thus from his lips the copious periods flow. Not but I extremely admire him too §, of whom the poet says, Fevy- were his word?, but wonderfuU}"- strons:. Yet if I were to choose, I should clearly give the preference to the style resembling winter snov/, that is, to the full and dif- fusive : in short, to that pomp of elo- quence which seems all heavenly and divine. But ('tis urged) the harangue of a more moderate length is most ge- nerally admired. It is so, I confess ; but by whom? By the indolent only; and to fix the standard by the laziness and false delicacy of these would surely be the highest absurdity. Wsre you to consult persons of this cast, they would tell you, not only that it is best to say little, but that it is best to say nothing. — Thus, my friend, I have laid before you my sentiments upon this subject, which I shall readily abandon, if I find they are not agreeable to yours. But if you should dissent from me, I beg you would com- mu nicate to me your reasons . For th ougli I ought to yield in this case to your more enlightened judgment, yet in a point of such consequence, I had rather receive my conviction from the force of argu- ment than authority. If you should be of my opinion in this matter, a line or two from you in return, intimating your concurrence, will be sufficient to confirm me in the justness of my sentiments. On the contrary, if you think me mistaken, I beg you would give me your objections at large. Yet has it not, think you, something of the air of bribery, to ask only a short letter if you agree with me ; but enjoin you the trouble of a very long one,- if you are of a contrary opinion ? Farewell. LETTER XI. To Catiliiis Sevcrus. I AM at present detained in Rome (and have been so a considerable time) under the most alarming apprciiensions . Titus f Thersitcs, Iliad ii. v. 212. t Ulysses, Iliad iii. v. 222. § Menelans., ihid. 48 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. Aristo, whom 1 infinitely love and es- teem, is fallen into a dangerous and ob- stinate illness, wliicli deejily affects me. Virtue, knowledge, and good sense, shine out with so superior a lustre in this ex- cellent man, that learning herself and every valuable endowment seems in- volved in the danger of his single per- son. How consummate is his know- ledge, both in the political and civil laws of his country ! How thoroughly conversant is he in every branch of his- tory and antiquity ! There is no article of science, in short, you would wish to be informed of, in which he is not skill- ed. As for my OAvn part, whenever I would acquaint myself with any abstruse point of literature, I have recourse to him, as to one who supplies me with its most hidden treasures. What an amia- ble sincerity, what a noble dignity is there in his conversation ! How hum- ble, yet how graceful is his diffidence ! Though he conceives at once every point in debate, yet he is as slow to de- cide as he is quick to apprehend, calmly and deliberately v/eighing every opposite reason that is offered, and tracing it, with a most judicious penetration, from its source through all its remotest con- sequences. His diet is frugal, his dress plain ; and whenever I enter his cham- ber, and view him upon his couch, I consider the scene before me as a true image of ancient simplicity, to which his illustrious mind reflects the noblest ornament. He places no part of his liappiness in ostentation, but refers the whole of it to conscience ; and seeks the reward of his virtue, not in the clamor- ous applauses of the world, but in the silent satisfaction which results from liaving acted well. In short, you will not easily find his equal even among our philosophers by profession. He frequents not the places of public disputations*, nor idly amuses himself and others with vain and endless controversies. His nobler talents are exerted to more use- ful purposes ; in the scenes of civil and active life. Many has he assisted with his interest, still more with his advice. But though he dedicates his time to the affairs of the world, he regulates his conduct by the prece|)ts of the philoso- phers ; and in the [)ractice of temper- * The philosophers nspcl to ho1say, you once heard him. Farewell. LETTER XVL To Caninius. Howls my friend employed? Is it in the pleasures of study, or in those of the field ? Or does he unite both together, as he well may, on the banks of our fa- vourite Larius * ? The fish in that noble lake will supply you with sport of that kind ; as the woods that surround it will afford you game ; while the solemnity of that sequestered scene will at the same time dispose your mind to contemplation. Whether you are entertained with all, or any of these agreeable amusements, far be it that I should say I envy you ; but, I must confess, I greatly regret that I cannot partake of them too ; a happi- ness I as earnestly long for, as a man in a fever does for drink to allay his thirst, or baths and fountains to assuage his heat. Shall I never break loose (if I may not disentangle myself) from these ties that thus closely withhold me ? . I doubt, in- deed, never ; for new affairs are daily increasing, while yet the former remain unfinished ; such an endless train of busi- ness rises upon me, and rivets my chains still faster ! Farewell. LETTER XVn. To Octavius. nestly expected them, and you ought not to disappoint or delay it any longer. Some few poems of yours have already, contrary to your inclination, indeed, broke their prison, and escaped to light ; these if you do not collect together, some person or other will claim the agree- able wanderers as their own. Remember, my friend, the mortality of human na- ture, and that there is nothing so likely to preserve your name as a monument of this kind ; all others are as frail and pe- rishable as the men whose memory they pretend to perpetuate. You will say, I suppose, as usual, let my friends see to that. May you find many whose care, fidelity, and learning, render them able and willing to undertake so considerable a charge ! But surely it is not altogether prudent to expect from others, what a man will not do for himself. However, as to publishing of them, I will press you no farther ; be that when you shall think proper. But let me, at least, prevail with you to recite them, that you may be more disposed to send them abroad; and may receive the satisfaction of that applause, which I will venture, upon very just grounds, to assure you of beforehand. I please myself with imagining the crowd, the admiration, the applause, and even the silence that will attend you : for the silence of an audience, when it proceeds from an earnest desire of hearing, is as agreeable to me as the loudest approba- tion. Do not then, by this unreasonable reserve, defraud your labours any longer of a fruit so certain and so desirable ; if you should, the world, I fear, will be apt to charge you with carelessness and in- dolence, or, perhaps, with timidity. Farewell. You are certainly a most obstinate, I had almost said a most cruel man, thus to withliold from the Avorld such excellent compositions ! How long do you intend to deny your friends the pleasure of your verses, and yourself the glory of them.^ Suffer them, I entreat you, to come abroad, and to be admired ; as admired they undoubtedly will be, wherever the Roman language is understood. The public, believe me, has long and ear- * Now called Lago di Como, in the Milanese. Comum, the place where Pliny was born, and near to which Caninius had a country house, was situated tipon the border of this lake. LETTER XVin. To Priscus. As I know you gladly embrace every opportunity of obliging me, so there is no man to whom I had rather lay myself under an obligation. I apply to you, therefore, preferably to any body else, for a favour which I am extremely de- sirous of obtaining. You, who are at the head of a very considerable army, have many opportunities of exercising your generosity ; and the length of time you have enjoyed that post, must have enabled Sect. II. PLINY. 53 you to provide for ali your own friends. I hope you will nO'>-/ turn your eyes upon some of mine : they are but a few indeed for whom I shall solicit you ; though your g-enerous disposition, I know, would be better pleased if tlie number were greater. But it would ill become me to trouble you with recommending more than one or two ; at present I will only mention Voconius Romanus. His father was of great distinction among the Roman knights ; and his father-in-law, or, as I might more properly call him, his second father (for his affectionate treatment of Voconius entitles him to that appella- tion), was still more conspicuous. His mother was one of the most considerable ladies of Upper Spain : you know what character the people of that province bear, and how remarkable they are for the strictness of their manners. As for himself, he has been lately admitted into the sacred order of priesthood. Our friendship began with our studies, and we were early united in the closest in- timacy. We lived together under the same roof in town and country, as he shared with me my most serious and my gayest hours : and where, indeed, could I have found a more faithful friend, or more agreeable companion ? In his con- versation, and even in his very voice and countenance, there is the most amiable sweetness ; as at the bar he discovers an elevated genius, an easy and harmonious elocution, a clear and penetrating appre- hension. He has so happy a turn for epistolary writing^, that were you to read his letters, you would imagine they had been dictated by the Muses them- selves. I love him with a more than common affection, and I know he returns it with equal ardour. Even in the earlier part of our lives, I warmly embraced every opportunity of doing him all the good offices which then lay in my power ; as I have lately obtained for him of the emperor f, the privilege granted to those who have three children J. A favour * It appears from this and some other pas- sages in these letters, that the art of epistolary writing was esteemed by the Romans in the number of liberal and polite accomplish- ments. f Trajan. ;|: By a law passed A. U. 762, it was enacted, that whatever citizen of Rome had three chil- dren, should be excused from all troublesome offices where he lived. This privilege the ein- which though Csesar very rarely bestows, and always with great caution, yet he conferred, at my request, in such a man- ner as to give it the air and grace of being his own choice. The best way of shewing that I think he deserves the obligations he has already received from me, is, by adding more to them, espe- cially as he always accepts my favours with so much gratitude as to merit far- ther. Thus I have given you a faithful account of Romanus, and informed you how thoroughly I have experienced his worth, and how much I love him. Let me intreat you to honour him with your patronage in a way suitable to the gene- rosity of your heart and the eminence of your station. But above all, admit him into a share of your affection ; for though you were to confer upon him the utmost you have in your power to bestow, you can give him nothing so valuable as your friendship. That you may see he is worthy of it, even to the highest degree of intimacy, I have sent you this short sketch of his character. I should continue my intercessions in his behalf, but that I am sure you do not love to be pressed, and I have already repeated them in every line of this letter ; for to shew a just reason for what one asks, is to intercede in the strongest manner. Farewell. LETTER XIX, t To Valerianus. How goes on your old estate at Marsi § ? and how do you approve of your new purchase ? Has it as many beauties in your eye now, as before you bought it ? That- would be extraordinary indeed ! for an objectin possession seldom retains the same charms it had in pursuit. As for myself, the estate left nie by my mo- ther uses me but ill ; however, I value it for her sake, and am besides grown a good deal insensible by a long course of bad treatment. Thus, frequent com- plaints generally end at last in being ashamed of complaining any more. peror sometimes extended to those who were not legally entitled to it. § One of the ancient divisions of Italy., com- prehendins: part of what is now called the Far- ther Abruzzo. 54 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L LETTER XX. To Mauricus. What can be more agreeable to me than the office you have enjoined me, of choosing a proper tutor for your nephews ? It gives me an opportunity of revisiting the scene of my education, and of turn- ing back again to the most pleasing part of my life. I take my seat, as formerly, among the young lads, and have the pleasure to experience the respect my character in eloquence meets with from them. I lately came in upon them while they were warmly declaiming before a very full audience of persons of the first rank ; the moment I appeared, they were silent. I mention this for their honour, rather than my own ; and to let you see the just hopes you may conceive of placing your nephews here to their ad- vantage. I purpose to hear aU the seve- ral professors ; and when I have done so, I shall write you such an account of them as will enable you (as far as a letter can) to judge of their respective abilities. The faithful execution of this important commission is what I owe to the friend- ship that subsists between us, and to the memory of your brother. Nothing cer- tainly is more your concern, than that his children (I would have said yours, but that I know you now look upon them even with more tenderness than your own) may be found worthy of such a fa- ther, and such an uncle ; and I should have claimed a part in that care, though you had not required it of me. I am sensible, in choosing a preceptor, I shall draw upon me the displeasure of all the rest of that profession : but when the in- terest of these young men is concerned, I esteem it my duty to hazard the dis- pleasure, or even enmity, of any man, with as mucJi resolution as a parent would for his own children. Farewell. LETTER XXI. To Cerealis. You advise me to read my late speech before an assembly of my friends. I shall do so, since it is agreeable to your opinion, though I have many scruples about it. Compositions of this kind lose, I well know, all tbeir fire and force, and even almost their very name, by a plain recital. It is the solemnity of the tribu- nal, the concourse of one's friends, the expectation of the success, the emulation between the several orators concerned, the different parties formed amongst the audience in their favour ; in a word, it is the air, the motion*, the attitude of the speaker, with ail the corresponding ges- tures of his body, which conspire to give a spirit and grace to what he delivers. Hence those who sit when they plead, though they have most of the other ad- vantages 1 just now mentioned, yet, from that single circumstance, weaken and de- press the whole force of their eloquence. The eyes and hands of the reader, those important instances of graceful elocu- tion, being engaged, it is no wonder the hearer grows languid while he has none of those awakening charms to excite and engage his attention. To these general considerations I must add this particular disadvantageous circumstance, which at- tends the speech in question, that it is chiefly of the argumentative kind ; and it is natural for an author to suspect, that what he wrote with labour will not be read with pleasure. For who is there so unprejudiced as not to prefer the flowing and florid oration, to one in this close and unornamented style ? It is very unreason- able there should be any difference ; how- ever, it is certain the judges generally ex- pect one manner of pleading, and the audience another ; whereas in truth an auditor ought to be affected only with those things which would strike himj were he in the place of the judge. Ne- vertheless, it is possible the objections which lie against this piece may be got over, in consideration of the novelty it has to recommend it ; the novelty I mean with respect to us, for the Greek orators have a method, though upon a different occasion, not altogether unlike what I made use of. They, when they would throw out a law, as contrary to some former one unrepealed, argue by com- paring those laws together ; so I, on the contrary, endeavoured to shew that the crime, which I was insisting upon as * Some of the Roman orators were as much too vehement in their action, as those of our own country are too calm and spiritless. In the violence of their elocution they not only used all the warmth of gesture, but actually •walked backwards and forwards. Sect. II. PLINY. 55 falling within the intent and meaning of the law relating to public extortions, was agreeable not only to that, but likewise to other laws of the same name. Those, who are not conversant in the laws of their country, can have no taste for rea- sonings of this kind ; but those, who are, ought to be so much the more pleased with them. I shall endeavour, therefore, if you persist in my reciting it, to collect a judicious audience. But before you de- termine this point, I intreat you tho- roughly to weigh the difficulties I have laid before you, and then decide as reason shall direct ; for it is reason that must justify you : obedience to your com- mands will be a sufficient apology for me. Farewell. LETTER XXII. To Calvisius. I NEVER spent my time more agreeably, I think, than I did lately with Spurinna. I am so much pleased with the uninter- rupted regularity of his way of life, that if ever I should arrive at old age, there is no man whom I would sooner choose for my model. I look upon order in hu- man actions, especially at that advanced period, with the same sort of pleasure as I behold the settled course of the heavenly bodies. In youth, indeed, there is a certain irregularity and agita- tion by no means unbecoming ; but in age, when business is unseasonable, and ambition indecent, all should be calm and uniform. This rule Spurinna religi- ously pursues throughout his whole con- duct. Even in those transactions which one might call minute and inconsiderable did they not occur every day, he observes a certain periodical season and method. The first part of the morning he devotes to study ; at eight he dresses and walks about three miles, in which he enjoys at once contemplation and exercise. At his return, if he has any friends with him in his house, he enters upon some polite and usefid topic of conversation ; if he is alone, somebody reads to him ; and some- times too when he is not, if it is agree- able to his company. When this is over he reposes himself, and then again either takes up a book, or falls into some dis- course even more entertaining and in- structive. He afterwards takes the air in his chariot, either with his wife (who is a lady of uncommon merit) or with some friend : a happiness which lately was mine ! — How agreeable, how noble is the enjoyment of him in that hour of privacy ! You would fancy you were hearing some worthy of ancient times, inflaming your breast with the most he- roic examples, and instructing your mind with the most exalted precepts ; which yet he delivers with so modest an air, that there is not the least appearance of dictating in his conversation. When he has thus taken a tour of about seven miles, he gets out of his chariot and walks a mile more, after which he returns home, and either reposes himself, or re- tires to his study. He has an excellent taste for poetry, and composes in the lyric manner, both in Greek and liatin, with great judgment. It is surprising what an ease and spirit of gaiety runs through his verses, which the merit of the author renders still more valuable. ^VTien the baths are ready, which in winter is about three o'clock, and in summer about two, he undresses himself; and if there hap- pens to be no wind, he Avalks for some time in the sun. After this he plays a considerable time at tennis ; for by this sort of exercise too, he combats the effects of old age. When he has bathed, he throws himself upon his couch till supper time *, and in the mean while some agree- able and entertaining author is read to him. In this, as in all the rest, his friends are at full liberty to partake ; or to em- ploy themselves in any other manner more suitable to their taste. You sit down to an elegant yet frugal repast, which is served up in pure and antique plate. He has likewise a complete equipage for his side-board, in Corinthian metal f, which is his pleasure, not his passion. At his table he is frequently entertained with * This was the principal meal among the Romans, at which all their feasts and invita- tions were made; they usually began it about their ninth hour, answering pretty nearly to our three o'clock in the afternoon. But as Spurinna, we find, did not enter upon the exer- cises which always preceded this meal till the eighth or ninth hour, if we allow about three hours for that purpose, he could not sit down to table till towards six or seven o'clock. f This metal, whatever it was composed of (for that point is by no means clear), was so highly esteemed among the ancients, that they preferred it even to gold. 56 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Boor I. comedians, that even his very amuse- ments may be seasoned with good sense ; and though he continues there, even in summer, till the night is something ad- vanced, yet he prolongs the feast with so much affability and politeness, that none of his guests ever think it tedious. By this method of living he has preserved all his senses entire, and his body active and vigorous to his seventy-eighth year, without discovering any appearance of old age, but the wisdom. This is a sort of life which I ardently aspire after ; as I purpose to enjoy it, when I shall arrive at those years which will justify a retreat from business. In the mean while I am embarrassed with a thousand affairs, in which Spurinna is at once my support and my example. As long as it became him he entered into all the duties of pub- lic life. It was by passing through the various offices of the state, by governing of provinces, and by indefatigable toil, that he merited the repose he now enjoys. I propose to myself the same course and the same end ; and I gi\e it to you under my hand that I do so. If an ill-timed ambition should carry me beyond it, pro- duce this letter against me, and condemn me to repose, whenever I can enjoy it without being reproached with indolence. Farewell. LETTER XXIII. To Hispulla. It is not easy to determine whether my love or esteem were greater for that wise and excellent man your father : but this is most certain, that in respect to his memory and your virtues, I have the ten- derest value for you. Can I fail then to wish (as I shall by every means in my power endeavour) that your son may copy the virtues of both his grandfathers, particularly his maternal ? as indeed his father and his uncle will furnisli him also with very illustrious examples. The surest method to train him up in the steps of these valuable men, is early to season his mind with polite learning and useful knowledge ; and it is of the last conse- quence from whom he receives these in- structions. Hitherto he has had his edu- cation under your eye, and in your house, where he is exposed to few, I should ra- ther say to no wrong impressions. But he is now of an age to be sent from home, and it is time to place him with some professor of rhetoric ; of whose dis- cipline and method, but above all, of whose morals, you may be well satisfied. Among the many advantages for which this amiable youth is indebted to nature and fortune, he has that of a most beau- tiful person : it is necessary, therefore, in this loose and slippery age, to find out one who will not only be his tutor, but his guardian and his guide. I will ven- ture to recommend Julius Genitor to you under that character. I love him, I con- fess, extremely ; but my affection does by no means prejudice my judgment ; on the contrary it is, in truth, the effect of it. His behaviour is grave, and his mo- rals irreproachable ; perhaps something too severe and rigid for the libertine manners of these times. His qualifica- tions in his profession you may learn from many others ; for the art of elo- quence, as it is open to all the world, is soon discovered ; but the qualities of the heart lie more concealed, and out of the reach of common observation ; and it is on that side I undertake to be answerable for my friend. Your son will hear no- thing from this worthy man, but what will be for his advantage to know, nor learn any thing of which it would be happier he should be ignorant. He will represent to him as often, and with as much zeal as you or I should, the virtues of his family, and what a glorious weight of characters he has to support. You will not hesitate then to place him with a tutor, whose first care will be to form his manners, and afterwards to instruct him in eloquence ; an attainment ill ac- quired if with the neglect of moral im- provements. Farewell, LETTER XXIV. To Tra quillus. The obliging manner in which you de- sire me to confer the military tribunate upon your relation, which I had obtamed of the most illustrious* Neratius Mar- cellus for yourself, is agreeable to that respect with which you always treat me. As it would have given me great plea- * This was a title given to all senators, in the times of the latter emperors. Sect. II. PLINY* 57 sure to have seen you in that post, so it will not be less acceptable to me to have it bestowed upon one whom you recom- mend. For hardly, I think, would it be consistent to wish a man advanced to honours, and yet envy him a title far nobler than any other he can receive, even that of a generous and an affec- tionate relation. To deserve and to grant favours, is the fairest point of view in which we can be placed ; and this ami- able character will be yours, if you re- sign to your friend what is due to your own merit. I must acknov/ledge at the same time I am by this means advancing my own reputation, as the world will learn from hence, that my friends not only have it in their power to enjoy such an honourable post, but to dispose of it. I readily therefore comply with your ge- nerous request ; and as your name is not yet entered upon the roll, I can without difficulty insert Silvanus's in its stead : and may he accept this good office at your hands with the same grateful dis- position that I am sure you will receive mine. Farewell. LETTER XXV. To Catilius. I ACCEPT of your invitation to supper ; but I must make this agreement before- hand, that you dismiss me soon, and treat me frugally. Let our entertain- ment abound only in philosophical con- versation, and even that too with mode- ration. There are certain midnight par- ties, which Cato himself could not safely faU in with ; though I must confess at the same time, that Julius Caesar*, when he reproaches him upon that head, ex- alts the character he endeavours to ex- pose ; for he describes those persons who met this reeling patriot, as blushing when they discovered who he was ; and adds, you would have thought that Cato had detected them, and not they Cato. Could he place the dignity of Cato in a stronger light than by representing him thus ve- nerable, even in his cups ? As for our- selves, nevertheless, let temperance not only spread our table, but regulate our * Julius Caesar wrote an invective against Cato of Utica, to which, it is probable, Pliny here alludes. hours ; for we are not arrived at so Iiigh a reputation, that our enemies cannot censure us but to our honour. Farewell, LETTER XXVI. To Proculus. You desire me to read your poems in my retirement, and to examine whether they are fit for public view ; and after requesting me to turn some of my lei- sure hours from my own studies to yours, you remind me that Tully was remark- able for his generous encouragement and patronage of poetical geniuses. But you did not do me justice, if you supposed I wanted either intreaty or example upon this occasion, who not only honour the Muses with the most religious regard, but have also the warmest friendship fjpr yourself : 1 shall therefore do what you require, with as much pleasure as care. I believe I may venture to declare before- hand, that your performance is extremely beautiful, and ought by no means to be suppressed ; at least that was my opinion when I heard you recite it : if indeed your manner did not impose upon me : for the skill and harmony of your elo- cution is certainly enchanting. I trust, however, the charming cadence did not entirely overcome the force of my criti- cism ; it might possibly a little soften its severity, but could not totally, I imagine, disarm me of it. I think therefore I may now safely pronounce my opinion of your poems in general ; what they are in their several parts I shall judge when I read them. LETTER XXVII. To Nepos. I HAVE frequently observed, that, amongst the noble actions and remarkable say- ings of distinguished persons in either sex, those which have been most cele- brated have not always been the most illustrious ; and I am confirmed in this opinion, by a conversation I had yester- day with Fannia. This lady is grand- daughter to that celebrated Arria, who animated her husband to meet death by her own glorious example. She informed me of several particulars relating to Arria, 58 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 1. not less lieroical than this famous action of hers, though less taken notice of: which I am persuaded will raise your ad- miration as much as they did mine. Her husband Caecinna Pectus, and her son, were both at the same time iattacked with a dangerous illness, of which the son died. This youth, who had a most beautiful person and amiable behaviour, was not less endeared to his parents by his virtues than by the ties of affection. His mother manag-ed his funeral so privately, that Pectus did not know of his death. When- ever she came into his bed-chamber, she pretended her son was better : and as often as he inquired after his health, would answer that he had rested well, or had ate with an appetite. When she found she could no longer restrain her grief, but her tears were gushing out, she would leave the room, and having given vent to her passion, return again with dry eyes and a serene countenance, as if she had dismissed every sentiment of sorrow at her entrance. The action^ was, no doubt, truly noble, when draw- ing the dagger she plunged it in her breast, and then presented it to her hus- band with that ever memorable, I had al- most said, that divine expression, " Pgetus it is not painful." It must, however, be considered, when she spoke and acted thus, she had the prospect of immortal glory before her eyes to encourage and support her. But was it not something much greater, without the view, of such powerful motives, to hide her tears, to conceal her grief, and cheerfully seem the mother when she was so no more ? Scribonianus had taken up arms in II- lyria against Claudius, where having lost his life, Pectus, who was of his party, was brought prisoner to Rome. When * The story, as mentioned by several of the ancient historians, is to this purpose: Pfletus having joined Scribonianus, who was in arms in Illyria against Claudius, was taken after the death of the latter, and condemned to death. Arria, having in vain solicited his life, per- suaded liim to destroy himself, rather than suffer the ignominy of falling by the execu- tioner's hands j and in order to encourage him to an act, to which it seems he was not much inclined, she set him the example in •the manner Pliny relates. In a pleasure house belonging to the Villa Ludovisa at Rome there is a fine statue repre- senting the action : Paetus is stabbing himself with one hand, and holds up the dying Arria with the other. Her sinking body han'^s so loose, as if every joint were relaxed. they were going to put him on board a ship, Arria besought the soldiers that she might be permitted to go with him : Certainly, said she, you cannot refuse a man of consular dignity, as he is, a few slaves to wait upon him ; but if yoa will take me, I alone will perform their of- fice. This favour, however, she could not obtain ; upon which she hired a small fishing vessel, and boldly ventured to follow the ship. At her return to Rome, she met the wife of Scribonianus in the emperor's palace, who pressing her to discover all she knew of that in- surrection, What ! said she, shall I re- gard thy advice, who saw thy husband murdered even in thy very arms, and yet survivest him? An expression which plainly shews, that the noble manner in which she put an end to her life was no unpremeditated effect of sudden passion. When Thrasea, who married her daugh- ter, was dissuading her from her purpose of destroying herself, and, among other arguments which he used, said to her. Would you then advise your daughter to die with me, if my life were to be taken from me ? Most certainly I would, she replied, if she had lived as long and in as much harmony with you as I have with my Psetus. This answer greatly heightened the alarm of her fa- mily, and made them observe her for the future more narrowly, which when she perceived, she assured them all their caution would be to no purpose. You may oblige me, said she, to execute my resolution in a way that will give me more pain, but it is impossible you should prevent it. She had scarce said this, when she sprang from her chair, and running her head with the utmost vio- lence against the wall, she fell down, in appearance dead. But being brought to herself, I told you, said she, if you would not suffer me to take the easy paths to death, I should make my way to it through some more difficult passage. Now, is there not, my friend, something much greater in all this, than the so much talked of " Psetus, it is not pain- ful?" to which, indeed, it seems to have led the way : and yet this last is the fa- vourite topic of fame, while all the for- mer are passed over in profound silence. Whence I cannot but infer, what I ob- served in the beginning of my letter, that the most famous actions are not always the most noble. Farewell. Sect. 11. PLINY. 59 LETTER XXVIII. To Servianus. To what shall I attrihute your long si- lence ? Is it want of health, or want of leisure, that prevents your writing ? Or is it, perhaps, that you have no oppor- tunity of conveying your letters ? Free me, I in treat you, from the perplexity of these doubts ; for they are more, he assured, than I am able to support ; and do so, even though it be at the expense of an express messenger : 1 will gladly bear his charges, and even reward him too, should he bring me the news I wish. As for myself, 1 am well ; if that, with any propriety, can be said of a man who lives in the utmost suspense and anxiety, under the apprehensions of all the acci- dents which can possibly befal the friend he most tenderly loves. Farewell. LETTER XXIX. To Maximus. You remember, no doubt, to have read what commotions were occasioned by the law which directs that the elections of magistrates shall be by balloting, and how much the author* of it was both approved and condemned. Yet this very law the senate lately unanimously re- ceived, and upon the election day, with one consent, called for the ballots. It must be owned, the method by open votes had introduced into the senate more riot and disorder than is seen even in the assemblies of the people ; ail order in speaking, all decency of silence, all dig- nity of character, was broke through ; and it was universal dissonance and cla- mour ; here, the several candidates run- ning from side to side with their patrons ; there, a troop collected together in the middle of the senate-house ; and, in short, the whole assembly divided into separate I»arties, created the most indecent con- * The author of this law was one Gabinius, a tribune of the people, A. U. 614. It gave a very considerable blow to the influence of the nobility, as in this way of balloting it could not be discovered on which side the people gave their votes, and consequently took off that restraint they before lay under, by the fear of offending their superiors. fusion. Thus widely had we departed from the manners of our ancestors, who conducted these elections with a calmness and regularity suitable to the reverence which is due to the majesty of the senate. I have been infonned by some who re- member those times, that the method observed in their assemblies was this : the name of the person who offered himself for any office being called over, a pro- found silence ensued, v/hen immediately the candidate appeared, who, after he had spoken for himself, and given an account to the senate of his life and manners, called witnesses in support of his cha- racter. These were, either the person under whom he had served in the army, or to whom he had been quaestor, or both (if the case admitted of it) ; to whom he also joined some of those friends who espoused his interest. They delivered what they had to say in his favour in few words, but with great dignity ; and this had far more influence than the modern method of humble solicitation. Sometimes the candidate would object either to the birth, or age, or character of his competitor ; to which the senate would listen with a severe and impartial attention ; and thus was merit generally preferred to interest. But corruption having abused this wise institution of our ancestors, we were obliged to have re- course to the way of balloting, as the most probable remedy for this evil. The method being new, and immediately put in practice, it answered the present pur- pose very well : but, I am afraid, in pro- cess of time it vdll introduce new incon- veniences ; as this manner of balloting seems to afl^ord a sort of screen to injustice and partiality. For how few are there who preserve the same delicacy of con- duct in secret, as when exposed to the view of the world? The truth is, the generality of mankind revere Fame more than Conscience. But this, perhaps, may be pronouncing too hastily upon a future contingency : be it therefore as it may, we have in the mean time obtained by this method an election of such ma- gistrates as best deserved the honour. For it was with us as with those sort of judges who are named upon the spot ; we were taken before we had time to be biassed, and therefore determined im- partially. I have given you this detail, not only as a piece of news, but because I am glad 60 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L to seize every opportunity of speaking of the republic ; a subject, which as we have fewer occasions of mentioning than our ancestors, so we ought to be more careful not to let any of them slip. In good earnest, t am tired with repeating over and over the same compliments, How d'ye do ? and I hope you are well. Why should our letters for ever turn upon trivial and domestic concerns ? It is true, indeed, the direction of the pub- lic weal is in the hands of a single per- son, who, for the general good, takes upon himself solely to ease us of the care and weight of government ; but still that bountiful source of power permits, by a very generous dispensation, some streams to flow down to us ; and of these we may not only taste ourselves, but thus, as it were, administer them to our absent friends. Farewell. LETTER XXX. To Fabatus, You have long desired a visit from your grand-daughter* and myself. Nothing, be assured, could be more agreeable to us both ; for we equally wish to see you, and are determined to delay that plea- sure no longer. For this purpose, our baggage is actually making ready, and we are hastening to you with all the expedition the roads will permit. We shall stop only once, and that for a short time, intending to turn a little out of the way in order to go into Tuscany ; not for the sake of looking upon our estate and into our family concerns, for that we could defer to another opportunity ; but to perform an indispensable duty. There is a town near my estate, called Tifer- num-upon-the-Tiberf, which put itself under my patronage when I was yet a youth. These people enter extremely into my interest, celebrate my arrival among them, express the greatest con- cern when I leave them, and, in short, give every proof of an aflfection towards me, as strong as it is undeserved. That I may return their good offices (for what generous mind can bear to be excelled in acts of friendship ? ) I have built a temple in this place, at my own expense; * Caiphurnia, Pliny's wife, t Now Citta di Castello, and as it is finished, it would be a sort of impiety to omit the dedication of it any longer. We design, therefore, to be there on the day that ceremony is to be performed, and I have resolved to cele- brate it with a grand feast. We may possibly continue there all the next day, but we shall make so much the more ex- pedition upon the road. May we have the happiness to find you and your daughter in good health ! as I am sure we shall in good spirits, if you see us safely arrived. Farewell. LETTER XXXL To Clemens. Regulus has lost his son, and it is per- haps the only undeserved misfortune which could have befallen him ; for I much doubt whether he thinks it one. The boy was of a sprightly but ambi- guous turn ; however, he seemed capable enough of steering right, if he could have avoided splitting upon his father's exam- ple. Regulus gave him his freedom]:, in order to entitle him to the estate left him by his mother ; and when he got into possession of it, endeavoured (as the character of the man made it generally believed) to wheedle him out of it, by the most singular and indecent complaisance. This perhaps you will scarce think cre- dible ; but if you consider Regulus, you wiU not be long of that opinion. How- ever, he now expresses his concern for the loss of this youth in a most outrageous manner. The boy had a great number of little coach and saddle horses ; dogs of diiferent sorts, together with parrots, blackbirds, and nightingales § in abun- dance ; all these Regulus slew || round % The Romans had an absolute power over their children, of which no age or station of the latter deprived them. § This bird was much esteemed among nice eaters, and was sold at a high price. Horace mentions, as an instance of great extravagance, two brothers who used to dine upon them : 2uinti progenies Arri, par nobile fratrum — Luscinias soliti impenso prandere co'e'mtas. L. 2. Sat. 3. A noble pair of brothers — On nightingales of monstrous purchase din'd. Mu. Francis. II From an unaccountable notion that pre- vailed among the ancients, that the ghosts de- lighted in blood, itwas customary to kill a great Sect. II. PLINY. ei the funeral pile of his son, in the osten- tation of an affected grief. He is visited upon this occasion hy a surprising num- ber of people, who though they secretly detest and abhor him, yet are as assiduous in their attendance upon him, as if they were influenced by a principle of real esteem and affection : or, to speak my sentiments in few words, they endeavour to recommend themselves to his favour by following his example. He has retired to his villa across the Tiber ; where he has covered a vast extent of ground with his porticos, and crowded all the shore with his statues : for he blends prodi- gality with covetousness, and vain-glory with infamy. By his continuing there, he lays his visitors under the great incon- venience of coming to him at this un- wholesome season ; and he seems to con- sider the trouble they put themselves to, as a matter of consolation. He gives out, with his usual absurdity, that he de- signs to marry. You must expect, there- fore, to hear shortly of the wedding of a man opprest with sorrow and years ; that is, of one who marries both too soon and too late. Do you ask me why I conjec- ture thus ? Certainly, not because he af- firms it himself (for never was there so infamous a liar), but because there is no doubt that Regulus will do every thing he ought not. Farewell. as difficult as it is great : yet these un- common qualities you have most happily united in those wonderful charms, which not only grace your conversation, but particularly distinguish your writings. Your lips, like the venerable old man's in Homer*, drop honey, and one would imagine the bee had diffused her sweet- ness over all you compose. These were the sentiments I had when I lately read your Greek epigrams and satires. What elegance, what beauties shine in this col- lection ! how sweetly the numbers flow, and how exactly are they wrought up in the true spirit of the ancients ! What a vein of wit runs through every line, and how conformable is the whole to the rules of just criticism ! I fancied I had got in my hands Callimachus or Hesiod; or, if possible, some poet even superior to these ; though indeed neither of those authors excelled, as you have, in both those species of poetry. Is it pospble, that a Roman can write Greek in so much perfection ? I protest I do not be- lieve Athens herself can be more Attic. To own the truth, I cannot but envy Greece the honour of your preference. And since yon can write thus elegantly in a foreign language, it is past conjec- ture what you could have performed in your own. Farewell, LETTER XXXII. To Antoninus. That you have twice enjoyed the dig- nity of consul, with a conduct equal to that of our most illustrious ancestors ; that few (your modesty will not suffer me to say none) ever have, or ever will come up to the integrity and wisdom of your Asiatic administration : that in vir- tue, in authority, and even in years, you are the first of Romans ; these, most certainly, are shining and noble parts of your character ; nevertheless, I own it is in your retired hours that I most ad- mire you. To season the severity of business with the sprightliness of wit, and to temper wisdom with politeness, is number of beasts, and throw them on the fune- ral pile. In the more ignorant and barbarous ages, men were the unhappy victims of this horrid rite. LETTER XXXIII. To Naso. A STORM of hail, I am informed, has destroyed all the produce of my estate in Tuscany; whilst that which I have on the other side the Po, though it has proved extremely fruitful this season, yet from the excessive cheapness of every thing, turns to small account. Lauren- tinum is the single possession which yields me any advantage. I have no- thing there, indeed, but a house and gar- dens ; all the rest is barren sands ; still, however, my best productions rise at Laurentinum. It is there I cultivate, if H8u£7r>jf avapovas, Ktyog HbKiwv ayaprinrig, Tou xa< aTTo y'Kwacrr\g fieXiTog yKvxiwv peev auSjj. II. i. 247. Experienc'd Nestor, in persuasion skilPd ; Words sweet as honey from his lips distill'd. Pops. 62 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L not my lapds, at least my mind, and form many a composition. As in other places I can shew you full barns, so there I can entertain 5^ou with good store of the literary kind. Let me advise you then, if you wish for a never-failing re- venue, to purchase something upon this contemplative coast. Farewell. LETTER XXXIV. To Lepidus. I HAVE often told you that Regulus is a man of spirit ; whatever he engages in, he is sure to execute it in a most ex- traordinary manner. He chose lately to be extremely concerned for the loss of his son: accordingly he mourned for him in a way which no man ever mourned before. He took it into his head that he would have several statues and represen- tations of him ; immediately all the arti- sans in Rome are set to work. Colours, wax, brass, silver, ivory, marble, all exhibit the figure of young Regulus. Not long ago he read, before a numerous audience, a panegyric upon the life of his son : a large book upon the life of a boy ! then a thousand transcribers were employed to copy this curious anecdote, which he dispersed all over the empire. He wrote likewise a sort of circular let- ter to the several Decurii, to desire they would choose out one of their order who had a strong clear voice, to read this eu- logy to the people ; and I am informed it has been done accordingly. Had this spirit (or whatever else you will call an earnestness in executing all one under- takes) been rightly applied, what infi- nite good might it have produced ! The misfortune is, this active cast is generally strongest in men of vicious characters : for as ignorance begets rashness, and knowledge inspires caution ; so modesty is apt to depress and weaken the great and well-formed genius, whilst boldness supports and strengthens low and little minds. Regulus is a strong proof of the truth of this observation ; he has a weak voice, an awkward address, a thick speech, a slow imagination, and no memory ; in a word, he has nothing but an extravagant genius : and yet by the assistance of this flighty turn and much impudence, he passes with many for a finished orator. Herennius Sene- cio reversed Cato's definition of an ora- tor"*, and applied it with great justness to Regulus : An orator, said he, is a bad man unskilled in the art of speaking. And, in good earnest, Cato's definition is not a more exact description of a true orator, than Senecio's is of the character of this man. Would you make a suit- able return to this letter, let me know if you, or any of my friends in your town have with an air of pleasantry mouthed (as Demosthenes calls it) this melancholy piece to the people, like a stroller in the market-place. For so absurd a performance must move rather laughter than compassion ; and indeed the composition is as puerile as the sub- ject. Farev/ell. LETTER XXXV. To Cornelius Tacitus. I REJOICE that you are safely arrived in Rome ; for though I am always desirous to see you, I am more particularly so now. I purpose to continue a few days longer at my house at Tusculum, in order to finish a work which I have upon my hands. For I am afraid, should I put a stop to this design now that it is so nearly completed, I shall find it difficult to resume it. In the mean while, that I may lose no time, I send this letter be- fore me, to request a favour of you, which I hope shortly to ask in person. But before I inform you what my request is, I must let you into the occasion of it. Being lately at Comum, the place of my nativity, a young lad, son to one of my neighbours, made me a visit. I asked him whether he studied oratory, and where ? He told me he did, and at Me- diolanumf. And why not here? Be- cause (said his father, who came with him) we have no masters. " No ! (said I), surely it nearly concerns you who are fathers (and very opportunely se- veral of the company were so) that your sons should receive their educa- tion here, rather than any where else. * Cato, as we learn from Nonius, composed a treatise upon rhetoric, for the use of his son, wherein he defined an orator to be, A good man skilled in the art of speaking. f Milan. Sect. II. PLINY. 63 For where can they be placed more agreeably than in their own country, or instructed with more safety and less expense than at home and under the €ye of their parents ? Upon what very easy terms might you, by a general contribution, procure proper masters, if you would only apply towards the raising a salary for them, tlie extraor- dinary expense it costs you for your sons' journeys, lodgings, and whatever else you pay for upon account of their being abroad ; as pay, indeed, you must in such a case for every thing. Though I have no children myself, yet I shall willingly contribute to a design so beneficial to (what I look upon as a child or a parent) my country ; and therefore I will advance a third part of any sum you shall think proper to raise for this purpose. I would take upon myself the whole expense, were I not apprehensive that my benefaction might hereafter be abused and per- verted to private ends ; as I have ob- served to be the case in several places where public foundations of this nature have been established. The single means to prevent this mischief is, to leave the choice of the masters entirely in the breast of the parents, who will be so much the more careful to de- termine properly, as they shall be obliged to share the expense of main- taining them. For though they may be careless in disposing of another's bounty, they will certainly be cautious how they apply their own ; and will see that none but those who deserve it shall receive my money, when they must at the same time receive theirs too. Let my example then encourage you to unite heartily in this useful de- sign ; and be assured the greater the sum my share shall amount to, the more agreeable it will be to me. You can undertake nothing that will be more advantageous to your children, nor more acceptable to your country. They will by this means receive their education where they receive their birth, and be accustomed from their infancy to in- habit and affect their native soil. May you be able to procure professors of such distinguished abilities, that the neighbouring towns shall be glad to draw their learning from hence ; and as you now send your children to foreigners for education, may foreigners in their turn flock hither for their in- struction." I thought proper thus to lay open to you the rise of this affair, that you might be the more sensible how agree- able it will be to me, if you undertake the office I request. I intreat you, therefore, with all the earnestness a matter of so much importance deserves, to look out, amongst the great numbers of men of letters which the reputation of your genius brings to you, proper persons to whom we may apply for this purpose ; but without entering into any agreement with them on my part. For I would leave it entirely free to the pa- rents to judge and choose as they shall see proper : all the share I pretend to claim is, that of contributing my care and my money. If, therefore, any one shall be found who thinks himself quali- fied for the undertaking, he may repair thither ; but without relying upon any thing but his merit. Farewell. LETTER XXXVI. To Valerius Paulinus. Rejoice with me, my friend, not only upon my account, but your own, and that of the public ; for eloquence is still held in honour. Being lately engaged to plead in a cause before the Centum- viri, the crowd was so great that I could not get to my place, but in passing by the tribunal where the judges sat. And I have this pleasing circumstance to add farther, that a young nobleman, having lost his robe in the press, stood in his vest to hear me for seven hours to- gether : for so long I was speaking ; and with a success equal to my great fatigue. Come on then, my friend, and let us earnestly pursue our studies, nor screen our own indolence under pre- tence of that of the public. Never, we may rest assured, will there be wanting hearers and readers, so long as we can supply them with orators and authors worthy of their attention. Farewell. ^4 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 1. LETTER XXXVn. To Galium. You acquaint me that Coecilius, the consul elect, has commenced a suit against Correllia, and earnestly beg- me to undertake her cause in her absence. As I have reason to thank you for your information, so I have to complain of your intreaties : without the first, indeed, I should have been ignorant of this affair, but the last was unnecessary, as I want no solicitations to comply, where it would be ungenerous in me to refuse ; for can I hesitate a moment to take upon myself the protection of a daughter of Correl- lius } It is true, indeed, though there is no particular intimacy between her ad- versary and me, we are, however, upon good terms. It is true likewise, that he is a person of great rank, and who has a claim to particular regard from me, as he is entering upon an office which I have had the honour to fill ; and it is natural for a man to be desirous those dignities should be treated with the highest re- spect, which he himself once possessed. Yet these considerations have little weight, when I reflect that it is the daughter of Correllius whom I am to de- fend. The memory of that excellent person, than whom this age has not pro- duced a man of greater dignity, rectitude, and good sense, is indelibly impressed upon my mind. I admired him before I was acquainted with him ; and, contrary to what is usually the case, my esteem increased in proportion as I knew him better : and indeed I knew him tho- roughly, for he treated me v»^ithout re- serve, and admitted me to share in his joys and his sorrows, in his gay and his serious hours. When I was but a youth, he esteemed, and (I will even venture to say) revered me as if I had been his equal. When I solicited any post of ho- nour, he supported me with his interest, and recommended me by his testimony : when I entered upon it, he was my in- troducer and my attendant : when I exer- cised it, he was my guide and my counsel- lor. In a word, wherever my interest was concerned, he exerted himself with as much alacrity as if he had been in all his health and vigour. In private, in public, and at court, how often has he advanced and supported my reputation ! It happened once, that the conversation before the emperor Nerva turned upon the hopeful young men of that time, and several of the company were pleased to mention me with applause : he sat for a little while silent, which gave what he said the greater weight ; and then with that air of dignity, to which you are no stranger, I must be reserved, said he, in my praises of Pliny, because he does nothing without my advice. By wjiich single sentence he gave me a greater character than I would presume even to wish for, as he represented my conduct to be always such as wisdom must ap- prove, since it was wholly under the di- rection of one of the wisest of men. Even in his last moments he said to his daughter (as she often mentions), I have in the course of a long life raised up many friends to you ; but there is none that you may more assuredly depend upon, than Pliny and Cornutus. A cir- cumstance I cannot reflect upon, without being deeply sensible how much it is in- cumbent upon me, to endeavour to act up to the opinion so excellent a judge of mankind conceived of me. I shall there- fore most readily give my assistance to Correllia in this afl'air ; and willingly hazard any displeasure I may incur by appearing in her cause. Though I should imagine, if in the course of my pleadings I should find an opportunity to explain and enforce, more at large than I can do in a letter, the reasons I have here men- tioned, upon which I rest at once my apology and my glory ; her adversary (whose suit may perhaps, as you say, be entirely vmprecedented, as it is against a woman) wiU not only excuse, but ap- prove my conduct. Farewell. LETTER XXXVIII. , To HispuUa. As you are an exemplary instance of tender regard to your family in general, and to your late excellent brother in par- ticular, whose affection you returned with an equal warmth of sentiment ; and have not only shewn the kindness of an aunt, but supplied the loss of a ten- der parent to his daughter*, you wiU hear, I am well persuaded, with infinite pleasure, that she behaves worthy of her father, her grandfather, and yourself. * Calphuri^ia, Pliny's wife. Sbct. U. PLINY. 65 She possesses an excellent understanding, together with a consummate prudence, and gives the strongest testimony of the purity of her heart by her fondness of me. Her affection to me has given her a turn to books ; and my compositions, which she takes a pleasure in reading, and even getting by heart, are conti- nually in her hands. How full of tender solicitude is she when I am entermg upon any cause ! How kmdly does she rejoice with me when it is over ! WliUe I am pleading, she places persons to inform her from time to time how I am heard, what applauses I receive, and what suc- cess attends the cause. When at any time I recite my works, she conceals her- self behind some ciu'tain, and with secret rapture enjoys my praises. She sings my verses to her lyre, with no other master but love, the best instructor, for her guide. From these happy circumstances I draw my most assured liOpeS;, that the harmony between us v/iU increase with our days, and be as lasting as our lives. For it is not my youth or my person, which time gTadually impairs ; it is my reputation and my glory of which she is enamoured. But what less coidd be ex- pected from one who was trained by your hands, and formed by your instructions ; who was early familiarised under your roof with all that is worthy and amiable, and was first taught to conceive an affec- tion for me, by the advantageous colours in which you were pleased to represent me ? And as you revered my mother with all the respect due even to ^ parent, so you kindly directed and encouraged my infancy, presaging of me from that early period aU that my viife now fondly imagines I really am. Accept therefore of our mutual thanks, that you have thus, as it were designedly, formed us for each other. Farewell. LETTER XXXIX. To Maximus. I HAVE already acquainted you with my opinion of each particular part of your work, as I perused it ; I must now teU you my general thoughts of the whole. It is a strong and beautiful perfonnance ; the sentiments are sublime and mascu- line, and conceived in aU the variety of a pregnant imagination; the diction is chaste and elegant ; the figures are hap- pily chosen, and a copious and diffusive vein of eloquence runs through the whole, and raises a very high idea of the author. You seem borne away by the full tide of a strong imagination and deep sorrow, which mutually assist and heighten each other ; for your genius gives sublimity and majesty to your passion : and your passion adds strength and poignancy to your genius. Farewell. LETTER XL. To Velius Cerealis. How severe a fate has attended the daughters of Helvidius ! These two sisters are both dead in child-bed, after having each of them been delivered of a girl. This misfortime pierces me with the deepest sorrow ; as indeed, to see two such amiable young ladies fall a sacrifice to their fruitfuhiess, in the pume and flower of their years, is a misfortune which 1 cannot too greatly lament. I lament for the unhappy condition of the poor infants, who are thus become or- phans from their birth : I lament for the sake of the disconsolate husbands of these ladies ; and I lament too for my own. The affection I bear to the memory of their late father is inviolable, as my de- . fence of him in the senate, and all my writings, will witness for me. Of three children which survived him, there now remains but one ; and his family, tliat had lately so many noble supports, rests only upon a single person ! It will however be a great mitigation of my afiliction, if for- tune shall kindly spare that one, and ren- der him worthy of his father and grand- father * : and I am so much the more anxious for his welfare and good conduct, as he is the only branch of the family remaining. You know the softness and solicitude, of my heart where I have any tender attachments ; you must not won- * The famous Helvidius Priscus, who signa- lized himself in the senate by the freedom of his speeches in favoiu- of libert)'-, during the reigns of Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Vespa- sian ', in whose time he was put to death by the order of the senate, though contrary to the in- clination of the emperor, who countermanded the execution : but it was too late, the execu- tioner having performed his office before the messenger arrived. Tacitus represents him as acting in all the various duties of social life with one consistent tenor of uniform virtue; superior to all temptations of wealth, of inflex- ible integrity, and unbroken courage. 66 ELEGANT EPISTLES, Book I, der then that I have many fears where I have great hopes. Farewell. LETTER XLL To Valens. Being engaged lately in a cause before the Centumviri, it occurred to me that when I was a youth I was also concerned in one which passed through the same courts. I coidd not forbear, as usual, t6 pursue the reflection my mind had started, and to consider if there were any of those advocates then present, who were joined with me in the former cause ; but I found I was the only person re- maining who had been counsel in both : such changes does the instability of hu- man nature, or the vicissitudes of fortune, produce ! Death had removed some ; ba- nishment others ; age and infirmities had silenced those, while these were with- drawn to enjoy the happiness of retire- ment ; one was at the head of an army ; and the indulgence of the prince had ex- empted another from the burthen of civil employments. What turns of fortune have I experienced even in my own per- son ! It was eloquence that first raised me ; it was eloquence that occasioned my disgrace ; and it was eloquence that ad- vanced me again. The friendships of the wise and good, at my first appearance in the world, were highly serviceable to me ; the same friendships proved after- ward extremely prejudicial to my interest ; and now again they are my ornament and support. If you compute the time in which these incidents have happened, it is but a few years ; if you number the events, it seems an age. A lesson that will teach us to check both our despair and presumption, when we observe such a variety of revolutions roll round in so swift and narrow a circle. It is my cus- tom to communicate to my friend all my thoughts, and to set before him the same rules and examples by which I regulate my own conduct ; and such was my de- iiign in this letter. Farewell. LETTER XLII. To Maximus. ' I MENTIONED to you in a former letter, that I apprehended the method of voting by ballots would be attended with in"^ iBonveniences ; and so it has proved. At the last election of magistrates, upon some of the tablets were Avritten several pieces of pleasantry, and even indecen- cies ; in one particularly, instead of the name of the candidate, were inserted the names of those who espoused his interest. The senate was extremely exasperated at this insolence ; and with one voice threat- ened the vengeance of the emperar upon the author. But he lay concealed, and possibly might be in the number of those who expressed the greatest indignation. What must one think of such a man's private conduct, who in public, upon so important an affair, and at so solemn a time, could indulge himself in such scur- rilous liberties, and dare to act the droU in the face of the senate ? Who will know it? is the argument that prompts little and base minds to commit these indecen- cies. Secure from being discovered by others, and unawed by any self-respect, they take their pen and tablets ; and hence arise these buffooneries, which are fit only for the stage. What course shall we take, what remedy apply against this abuse ? Our disorders indeed in general have everywhere eluded all attempts to restrain them. But this is a point much too high for us, and will be the care of that superior power, who by these low but daring insults has daily fresh occa- sions of exerting all his pains and vigi- lance. Farewell. LETTER XLIII. To Nepos, The request you make me to supervise the correction of my works, which you have taken the pains to collect, I shall most willingly comply with ; as indeed there is nothing I ought to do with more readiness, especially at your instance. When a man of such dignity, learning, and eloquence, deeply engaged in busi- ness, and entering upon the important government of a province, has so good an opinion of my works as to think them worth taking with him, how am I obliged to endeavour that this part of his baggage may not seem an useless embarrassment ! My first care therefore shall be, that they may attend you with all the advantages possible ; and my next, to supply you at your return with others, which you may not think undeserving to be added to them ; for I can have no Sect. II. PLINY. 67 strong-er encouragement to enter upon some new work, than being* assured of finding a reader of your taste and dis- cernment. Farewell. LETTER XLIV. To Liciniiis. i HAVE brought you as a present out of the country, a query which well de- serves the consideration of your extensive erudition. There is a spring which rises in a neighbouring mountain, and run- ning among the rocks is received into a little banqueting-room, from whence, after being detained a short time, it falls into the Larian lake. The nature of this spring is extremely surprising : it ebbs and flows regularly three times a day. This increase and decrease is plainly visible, and very entertaining to observe. You sit down by the side of the fountain, and whilst you are taking a repast, and drinking its water, which is extremely cool, you see it gradually rise and fall. If you place a ring, or any thing else at the bottom when it is dry, the stream reaches it by degrees till it is entirely covered, and then again gently retires from it ; and this you may see it do for three times successively. Shall we say, that some secret current of air stops and opens the fountain-head, as it advances to or recedes from it ; as we see in bottles and other vessels of that nature, where there is not a free and open passage, though you turn their necks downwards, yet the outward air obstructing the vent, they discharge their contents as it were by starts ? Or may it not be accounted for upon the same prin- ciple as the flux and reflux of the sea? or, as those rivers, which discharge themselves into the sea, meeting with contrary winds and the swell of the ocean, are forced back in their channels ; so may there not be something that checks this fountain, for a time, in its progress? or is there rather a certain reservoir that contains these waters in the bowels of the earth, which while it is recruiting its discharges, the stream flows more slowly and in less quantity, but when it has collected its due mea- sure, it runs again into its usual strength and fulness? or lastly, is there not I know not what kind of subterraneous poise, tliat throws up the water when the fountain is dry, and repels it when it is full ? You, who are so well qualified for the inquiry, will examine the reasons of this wonderful appearance * ; it will be sufficient for me if I have given you a clear description of it. Farewell. LETTER XLV. To Maximus, I A^i deeply afflicted with the news I have received of the death of Fannius, not only as I have lost in him a friend whose eloquence and politeness I ad- mired, but a guide whose judgment I pursued ; and indeed he possessed a most penetrating genius, improved and quick- ened by great experience. There are some circumstances attending his death, which aggravate my concern : he left be- hind him a will which had been made a considerable time, by which it happens his estate has fallen into the hands of those who had incurred his displeasure, while his greatest favourites have no share of it. But what I particularly re- gi-et is, that he has left unfinished a very noble work in which he was engaged. Notwithstanding his full employment at the bar, he had undertaken a history of those persons who had been put to death or banished by Nero ; of which he had perfected three books. They are written with great delicacy and exactness : the style is pure, and preserves a proper medium between the plain narrative and the historical : and as they were very fa- vourably received by the public, he was the more desirous of being able to com- plete the rest. The hand of death, is ever, in my estimation, too severe and too sudden when it falls upon such as are employed in some immortal work. The sons of sensuality, wlio have no views beyond the present hour, terminate with each day the whole purpose of their lives ; but those who look forward to posterity, and endeavour to extend their memories to future generations by useful labours : to such, death is always immature, as it still snatches them from amidst some unfinished design. Fannius, long before * There are several of these peviodical foun- tains in different parts of the world ; as we have some in England. Lay-well near 'forbay is mentioned in the Philosophical Transactions (No. 104, p. r09.) to ebb and flow several times everv hour. F 2 6S ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L his death, had a strong presentiment of what has happened : he dreamed one night, that as he was in his study with his papers before him. Nero came in, and placing liimself by his side, took up the three first books of his history, which he read through, and then went away. Tliis di'eam greatly alarmed him, and he looked upon it as an intimation that he should not carry on his history any far- ther than Nero had read : and so the event proved. I cannot reflect upon this accident without lamenting tliat he should not be able to accomplish a work, which had cost liim so much pains and vigilance, as it suggests to me at the same time the thoughts of my own mor- tality-, and the fate of my writings : and I am persuaded the same reflection alaiTus your apprehensions for those in wliich you are employed. Let us then, my friend, while yet we live, exert all our endeavours, that death, whenever it arrives, may find as little as possible to destroy. Farewell. LETTER XLVL To Capito. You are not singular in the advice you give me to imdertake the writing of history ; it is a work which has been frequently pressed upon me by several others of my friends ; and what I have some thoughts of engaging in. Not that I have any confidence of succeeding in this way ; that would be too rashly pre- suming upon the success of an experi- ment vrhich I have never yet made : but because it is a noble employment to res- cue from oblivion those who deserve to be eternally remembered, and extend the reputation of others at the same time that we advance our own. Nothing, I con- fess, so strongly affects me as the desire of a lasting name : a passion highly worthy of the himian breast, especially of one who, not being conscious to him- self of any iU, is not afraid of being known to posterity. It is the continual subject therefore of my thoughts, Hy what fair deed I too may raise my name* j for to that I moderate my >vishes ; the rest, And gather round the world immortal fame, Ls much beyond my hopes : * Virgil 1 Georg. sub. init. "Though yetf" However, the first is sufficient, and history perhaps is the single means that can ensure it to me. Oraton- and poetry, unless carried to the liighest point of eloquence, are talents but of small recommendation to those who possess them ; but history, however executed, is always entertaining. Man- kind are naturally inquisitive, and are so fond of having this iiirn gratified, that they will listen with attention to the plainest matter of fact, and the most idle tale. But besides this, I have an example in my own family that inclines me to engage in this study, my uncle and adoptive father having acquired great reputation as a very accurate historian ; and the philosophers, you know, recom- mend it to us to tread in the steps of our ancestors, when they have gone before us in the right path. If you ask me then, why I do not immediately enter upon the task ? my reason is this : I have pleaded some verj' important causes, and (though I am not extremely sanguine in my hopes concerning' them) I have de- termined to revise my speeches, lest, for want of this remaining labour, all the pplns they cost me should be throvvn away, and they with their author be bu- ried in oblivion ; for with respect to pos- terity, the work that was never finished was never begim. You ^vill think, per- haps, I might correct my pleadings and write history at the same time. I wish indeed I were capable of doing so ; but they are both such great undertakings, that either of them is abundantly suf- ficient. I was but nineteen when I first appeared at the bar ; and yet it is only now at last I imderstand (and that in truth but imperfectly) what is essential to a complete orator. How then shall I be able to support the weight of an ad- ditional burthen ? It is true indeed, his- tory and oratory have in many points a general resemblance ; yet in those very things in which they seem to agree, there are several circumstances wherein they differ. Narration is common to tliem both, but it is a narration of a dis- tinct kind : the fonner contents itself fre- quently with low and vidgar facts ; the f Part of a verse from the fifth jEneid, where Mnestheus, one of the competitors in the naval games, who was in some danj,'er of being distanced, exhorts his men to exert their utmost vigour to prevent such a dis- grace. Sect. II. P L I N Y. 69 latter requires every thing splendid, ele- vated, and extraordinary ; strength and nerves is sufficient in that, but beauty and ornament is essential to this : tlie excellen- cy of the one consists in a strong, severe, and close style ; of the other, in a diflPu- sive, flowing, and harmonious narration : m short, the words, the emphasis, and the whole turn and structure of the periods, are extremely different in these two arts ; for, as Thucydides observes, there is a wide distance between compositions which are calculated for a present pur- pose, and those which are designed to re- main as lasting monuments to posterity ; by the first of v/liich expressions he al- ludes to oratory, and by the other to history. For these reasons I am not in- clined to blend together two perform- ances of such distinct natures, which, as they are both of the highest rank, neces- sarily therefore require a separate atten- tion ; lest, confounded by a crowd of different ideas, I should introduce into the one what is only proper to the other. Therefore (to speak in our language of the bar) I must beg leave the cause may be adjourned some time longer. In the mean while, I refer it to your considera- tion from what period I shall commence my history. Shall I take it up from those remote times which have been treated of already by others ? In this way, indeed, the materials will be ready pre- pared to my hands, but the collating of the several historians will be extremely troublesome ; or shall I write only of the present times, and those wherein no other author has gone before me ? If so, I may probably give offence to many, and please but few. For, in an age so overrun with vice, you will find infinitely more to con- demn than approve ; yet your praise, though ever so lavish, will be thought too reserved ; and your censure, though ever so cautious, too i3rofuse. However, this does not at aU discourage me ; for I want not sufficient resolution to bear testimony to truth. I expect then that you pre- pare the way which you have pointed out to me, and determine what subject I shall fix upon for my history, that when I am ready to enter upon the task you have assigned me, I may not be delayed by any new difficulty. Farewell. LETTER XLVII. To Saturninus. Your letter made very different im- pressions upon me, as it brought me news which I both rejoiced and grieved to receive. It gave me a pleasure when it informed me you were detained in Rome ; which though you will tell me is a cir- cmnstance that affords you none, yet I cannot but rejoice at it, since you assure me you continue there upon my account, and defer the recital of your work till my return, for which I am greatly obliged to you. But I was much concerned at that part of your letter which men- tioned the dangerous illness of Julius Valens ; though, indeed, with respect to himself it ought to affect me with other sentiments, as it cannot but be for his advantage the sooner he is relieved by death from a distemper of which there is no hope he can ever be cured. But what you add concerning Avitus, who died in his return from the province where he had been qusestor, is an accident that justly demands our sorrow. That he died on board a ship, at a distance from his brother whom he tenderly loved, and from his mother and sisters, are cir- cumstances, which though they cannot affect him now, yet undoubtedly did in his last moments, as well as tend to heighten the affliction of those he has left behind. How severe is the reflection, that a youth of his weU-formed disposi- tion should be extinct in the prime of life, and snatched from those high ho- nours to which his virtues, had they been permitted to grow to their full maturity, would certainly have raised him ! How did his bosom glow with the love of the fine arts ! How many books has he perused ! How many volumes has he transcribed ! But the fruits of his labours are now perished with him, and for ever lost to posterity. — Yet why indulge my sorrow ? a passion which, if we once give a loose to it, will aggravate every the slightest circumstance. 1 will put an end therefore to my letter, that I may to the tears which yours has drawn from me. Farewell. LETTER XLVIII. To Marcellinus. I WRITE this to you under the utmost oppression of sorrow : the youngest 70 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I, daughter of my friend Fimdanus is dead ? Never surely was there a more agreeable and more amiable young person, or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I had ahnost said an immortal life ! She was scarce fourteen, and yet had all the wisdom of age and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sv/eetness and virgin modesty. With what an en- gaging fondness did she behave to her father ! How kindly and respectfully re- ceive his friends ! How affectionately treat all those who in their respective offices had the care and education of her ! She employed much of her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of judgment ; she indulged herself in few diversions, and those with much caution. With what forbearance, with what pa- tience, with what courage did she endure her last illness *, she complied with aU the directions of her physicians ; she en- couraged her sister and her father ; and when all her strength of body was ex- hausted, supported herself by the single vigour of her mind. That, indeed, con- tinued even to her last moments, un- broken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death ; and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely severe ! and more severe by the particular conjuncture in which it happened ! She was contracted to a most worthy youth ; the wedding day was fixed, and we were aU invited. How sad a change from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow ! How shall I express the wound that pierced my heart, when I heard Fundanus himself (as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggravate its melancholy) ordering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral ! He is a man of great learning and good sense, who bas applied himself from his earliest youth to the nobler and most elevated studies ; but all the maxims of fortitude which he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now ab- solutely rejects, and every other virtue of his lieart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. You will excuse, you will even approve his sorrow, when you con- sider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter who resembled him in his man- ners as well as his person, and exactly copied out all her father. If you shall tliink proper to write to him upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind you not to use the rougher argu- ments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them, but those of kind and sympathizing humani- ty. Time will render him more open to the dictates of reason ; for, as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means of its cure, so a mind under the first impressions of a misfortune shuns and rejects all argu- ments of consolation, but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and will- ingly acquiesces in them. Farewell. LETTER XLIX. To Spurinna. Knowing, as I do, how much you ad- mire the polite arts, and what satisfac- tion you take in seeing young men of quality pursue the steps of their ances- tors, I seize this earliest opportunity of informing you, that I went to-day to hear Calpumius Piso read a poem he has composed upon a very bright and learned subject, entitled the Constellations. His numbers, which were elegiac, Avere soft, flowing, and easy, at the same time that they had all the sublimity suitable to such a noble topic. He varied his style from the lofty to the simple, from the close to the copious, from the grave to the florid, with equal genius and judgment. These beauties were extremely heightened and recommended by a most harmonious voice, which a very becoming modesty rendered still more pleasing. A confu- sion and concern in the countenance of a speaker throws a grace upon all he utters ; for there is a certain decent ti- midity, which, I know not how, is infi- nitely more engaging than the assured and self-sufficient air of confidence. I might mention several other circum- stances to his advantage, which I am the more inclined to take notice of, as they are most striking in a person of his age, and most uncommon in a youth of his quality ; but not to enter into a farther detail of his merit, I will only tell you, that when he had finished his poem, I embraced him with the utmost complacency ; and being persuaded that nothing is a greater encouragement Sect. II. PLINY. 71 than applause, I exhorted him to per- severe in the paths he had entered, and to shme out to posterity with the same glorious lustre which reflected from his ancestors to himself. I congratulated his excellent mother, and his hrother, who gained as much honour hy the generous affection he discovered upon this occasion, as Calpurnius did by his eloquence, so remarkable a concern he shewed for him when he began to recite his poem, and so much pleasure in his sucess. May the gods grant me fre- quent occasions of giving you accounts of this nature ! for I have a partiality to the age in which I live, and should re- joice to find it not barren of merit. To this end I ardently vrish our young men of quality would not derive all their glory from the images of their ances- tors*. As for those which are placed in the house of these excellent youths, I now figure them to myself as silently applauding and encouraging their pur- suits, and (what is a sufficient degree of honour to them both) as owning and confessing them to be their kindred. Farewell. LETTER L. To Servianus. I AM extremely rejoiced to hear that you design your daughter for Fuscus Salinator, and congratulate you upon it. His family is patrician f, and both his father and mother are persons of the most exalted merit. As for himself, he is stu- dious, learned, and eloquent, and with aU the innocence of a child, unites the sprightliness of youth to the wisdom of age. I am not, believe me, deceived by my affection, when I give him this cha- racter ; for though I love him, I confess, beyond measure (as his friendship and esteem for me weU deserve), yet partiality has no share in my judgment ; on the contrary, the stronger my fondness of him is, the more rigorously I weigh his * None had the right of using family pic- tures or statues, but those whose ancestors or themselves had borne some of the highest dig- nities. So that the jus imagbiis was much the same thing among the Romans, as the right of bearing a coat of arms among us. f Those families were styled Patrician, whose ancestors had been members of the senate in the earliest times of the legal or consular government. merit. I will venture then to assure you (and I speak it upon my own experience) you could not have formed to your wish a more accomplished son-in-law. May he soon present you with a grandson, Avho shaU be the exact copy of his father ! And with what pleasure shall I receive from the arms of two such friends their children or grandchildren, whom I shall claim a sort of right to embrace as my own ! Farewell. LETTER LI. To Sluintilian, Though your desires, I know, are ex- tremely moderate, and the education which your daughter has received is suitable to your character, and that of Tutilius her grandfather ; yet as she is going to be married to a person of so great distinction as Nonius Celer, whose station requires a certain splendour of liv- ing, it wiU be necessary to consider the rank of her husband in her clothes and equipage ; circumstances which, though they do not augment our real dignity, yet certainly adorn and grace it. But as I am sensible your fortune is not equal to the greatness of your mind, I claim to myself a part in your expense, and like another father, present the young lady with fifty thousand sesterces %. The sum should be larger, but that I am well persuaded the smallness of the pre- sent is the only consideration that can prevail with your modesty not to refuse it. Farewell. LETTER LII. To Restitutus. This obstinate distemper which hangs upon you greatly alarms me : and though I know how extremely tem- perate you are, yet I am afraid your dis- ease should get the better of your mo- deration. Let me intreat you then to resist it with a determined abstemious- ness : a remedy, be assured, of all others the most noble as well as the most salutary. There is nothing impractica- ble in what I recommend ; it is a rule, at least, which I always direct my fa- mily to observe with respect to myself. I hope, I tell them, that should I be «at- tacked with any disorder, I shall desire + About 400/. of ©ur money. 72 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. nothing of which I either ought to be ashamed, or have reason to repent : however, if my distemper should prevail over my resolution, I forbid that any thing be given me but by the consent of my physicians ; and I assure the people about me, that I shall resent their com- pliance with me in things improper, as much as another man would their re- fusal. I had once a most violent fever ; when the fit was a little abated, and I had been anointed*, my physician offered me something to drink ; I desired he would first feel my pulse, and upon his seeming to think the fit was not quite off, I instantly returned the cup, though it was just at my lips. Afterwards, when I was preparing to go into the bath, twenty days from the first attack of my illness, perceiving the physicians whispering together, I enqtiired what they were saying. They replied, they were of opinion I might possibly bathe with safety, however, that they were not wthout some suspicion of hazard. What occasion is there, said I, of doing it at all? And thus, with great complacency, I gave up a pleasure I was upon the point of enjoying, and abstained from the bath with the same composure I was going to enter it. I mention this not only in order to enforce my ad- vice by example, but also that this let- ter may be a sort of tie upon me to per- severe in the same resolute abstinence for the future. Farewell. LETTER LIII. To Prwsens. Are you determined then to pass your whole time between Lucaniaf and Campania I? Your answer, I suppose, will be, that the former is your native country ; and the latter that of your wife. This, I admit, may justify a long absence, but I cannot allow it as a reason for a perpetual one. But are you resolved in good earnest never to return to Rome, that theatre of dignities, pre- ferment, and society of every sort ? Are you obstinately bent to live your own * Unction was much esteemed and prescribed by the ancients. Celsus, who flourished, it is supposed, about this time, expressly recom- mends it in the remission of acute distempers. t Comprehending? the Basilicata, a pro- vince in the kingdom of Naples. X Now called Campagna di Roma, master, and sleep aiid rise when you think proper? Will you never change your country dress for the habit of the town, but spend your whole days unem- barrassed by business ? It is time, how- ever, you should revisit our scene of hurry , were it only that your rural pleasures may not grow languid by enjoyment ; appear at the levees of the gi-eat, that you may enjoy the same honour yourself with more satisfaction ; and mix in our crowd, that you may have a stronger re- lish for the charms of solitude. But am I not imprudently retarding the friend I would recal ? It is these very circum- stances, perhaps, that induce you every day more and more to wrap yourself up in retirement. All, however, I mean to persuade you to, is only to intermit, not renounce your repose. If I were to in- vite you to a feast, as I would blend dishes of a sharper taste with those of a more luscious kind, in order to raise the edge of your palate by the one, which has been flattened by the other ; so I now advise you to enliven the smooth pleasures of life with those of a quicker relish. Farewell. LETTER LIV. To Calphurnia%. It is incredible how impatiently I wish for your return ; such is the tenderness of my affection for you, and so un- accustomed am I to a separation ! I lie awake the greatest part of the night in thinking of you, and (to use a very common, but very true expression) my feet carry ^me of tlieir own accord to your apartment at those hours I used to visit you ; but not finding you there, I return with as much sorrow and disappoint- ment as an excluded lover. The only intermission my anxiety knows, is when I am engaged at the bar, and in the causes of my friends. Judge how wretched must his life be, who finds no repose but in business, no consolation but in a crowd. Farewell. LETTER LV. To Tuscus. You desire my sentiments concerning the method of study you should pursue, in that retirement to which you have § His wife. Sect. II. PLINY. 73 long since withdrawn. In the first place, then, I look upon it as a very advan- tageous practice (and it is what many re- commend) to translate either from Greek into Latin, or from Latin into Greek. By this means you will furnish yourself with nohle and proper expressions, with variety of beautiful figiu-es, and an ease and strength of style. Besides, by imi- tating* the most approved authors, you wiU find your imagination heated, and fall insensibly into a similar turn of thought, at the same time that those things which you may possibly have overlooked in a common way of reading, cannot escape you in translating ; and this method wUl open your understand- ing and improve your judgment. It may not be amiss, after you have read an au- thor, in order to make yourself master of his subject and argument, from his reader to turn, as it were, his rival, and attempt something of your own in the same way ; and then make an impartial comparison between your performance and his, in t)rder to see in what point either you or he most happily succeeded. It will be a matter of very pleasing congratulation to yourself, if you should find in some things that you have the advantage of him, as it will be a gTeat mortification if he should rise above you in all. You may sometimes venture in these little assays to try your strength upon the most shining passages of a distinguished author. The attempt, indeed, will be something bold ; but as it is a conten- tion which passes in secret, it cannot be taxed with presumption. Not but that we have seen instances of persons, who have publicly entered this sort of lists with great success, and while they did not despair of overtaking, have gloriously advanced before those whom they thought it sufficient honour to follow. After you have thus finished a composition, you may lay it aside, till it is no longer fi-esh in your memory, and then take it up in order to revise and cor- rect it. You will find several things to retain, but still more to reject ; you will add a new thought here, and alter another there. It is a laborious and tedious task, I own, thus to re- inflame the mind after the first heat is over, to recover an impulse when its force has been checked and spent; in a word, to interweave new parts into the texture of a composition with- out disturbing or confounding the original plan ; but the advantage at- tending this method will overbalance the difficulty. I know the bent of your pre- sent attention is directed towards the eloquence of the bar ; but I would not for that reason advise you never to quit the style of dispute and contention. As land is improved by sowing it with va- rious seeds, so is the mind by exercising it with different studies. I would re- commend it to you, therefore, sometimes to single out a fine passage of history ; sometimes to exercise yourself in the epistolary style, and sometimes the poe- tical. For it frequently happens, that in pleading one has occasion to make use not only of historical, but even poe- tical descriptions ; as by the epistolary manner of writing you will acquire a close and easy expression. It will be extremely proper also to unbend your mind with poetry ; when I say so, I do not mean that species of it which turns upon subjects of great length (for that is fit only for persons of much leisure), but those little pieces of the epigrammatic kind, which serve as proper reliefs to, and are consistent with employments of every sort. They commonly go under the title of Poetical Amusements ; but these amusements have sometimes gained as much reputation to their authors, as works of a more serious nature. In this manner the greatest men, as well as the greatest orators, used either to exercise or amuse themselves, or ra- ther indeed did both. It is surprising how much the mind is entertained and enlivened by these little poetical com- positions, as they turn upon subjects of gallantry, satire, tenderness, polite- ness, and every thing, in short, that concerns life and the affairs of the world. Besides, the same advantage attends these, as every other sort of poems, that we turn from them to prose with so much the more plea- sure, after having experienced the dif- ficulty of being constrained and fet- tered by numbers. And now, perhaps, I have troubled you upon this subject longer than you desired ; however, there is one thing which I have omitted, I have not told you what kind of authors you shoidd read, though indeed that was sufficiently implied when I men- tioned what subjects I would recom- mend for your compositions. You will 74 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L remember, that the most approved writers of each sort are to be carefully chosen ; for, as it has been well observed, " thoug-h we should read much, we should not read many books*." Who those authors are is so clearly settled, and so generally knov/n, that I need not point them out to you : besides, I have already extended this letter to such an immoderate length, that I have inter- rupted, I fear, too long those studies I have been recommending. I will here resign you therefore to your papers, which you will now resume : and either pursue the studies you were before en- gaged in, or enter upon some of those Avhich I have advised. Farewell. LETTER LVL To Prisons. I AM deeply affected at the ill state of health of my friend Fannia, which she contracted during her attendance on Junia, one of the Vestal virgins. She engaged in this good office at first vo- luntarily, Junia being her relation ; as she was afterwards appointed to do it by an order from the college of priests : for these virgins, when any indisposition makes it necessary to remove them from the temple of Vesta, are always delivered * Thus the noble and polite moralist, speak- ing of the influence which our reading has upon our taste and manners, thinks it improper "to call a man well read, who reads many authors; since he must of necessity have more ill models than good ; and be more stuffed with bombast, ill fancy, and wry thought, than filled with solid sense and just imagination." [Character, v. 1. 142.] When the Goths overran Greece, the li- braries escaped their destruction, by a notion which some of their leaders industriously pro- pagated among them, that it would be more for theirinterest to leave those spoils untouched to their enemies; as being proper to enervate their minds, and amuse them with vain and idle speculations. Truth, perhaps, has been less a gainerby this multiplicity of books, than error : and it may be a question, whether the excellent models which have been delivered down to us from antiquity, together with those few which modern times liave produced, by any means ba- lance the immoderate weight which must be thrown into the opposite scale of writers. The truth is, though we may be learned by other men's reflections, wise we can only be by our own : and the maxim here recommended by Pliny would well deserve the attention of the studious, though no other inconvenience at- tended the reading of many books, than that which Sir William Temple apprehends from it; the lessening the force and growth of a man's own genius. to the care and custody of some venera- ble matron. It was her assiduity in the execution of this charge that occasioned her present disorder, which is a continual fever, attended with a cough that in- creases daily. She is extremely emaci- ated, and seems in a total decay of every thing but spirits ; those indeed she pre- serves in their full vigour ; and in a manner worthy the wife of Helvidius, and the daughter of Thrasea. In all the rest she is so greatly impaired, that I am more than apprehensive upon her account ; I am deeply afflicted. I grieve, my friend, that so excellent a woman is going to be removed from the eyes of the world, which will never, perhaps, again behold her equal. How consum- mate is her virtue, her piety, her wisdom, her courage ! She twice followed her husband into exile, and once was ba- nished herself upon his account. For Senecio, when he was tried for writing the life of Helvidius, having said in his defence that he composed that work at the request of Fannia ; Metius Carus, with a stern and threatening air, asked her whether it was true ? She acknow- ledged it was : and when her father questioned her, whether she supplied him likewise with materials for that purpose, and whether her mother was privy to that transaction? she boldly confessed the former, but absolutely de- nied the latter. In short, throughout her whole examination not a word es- caped her that betrayed the least emotion of fear. On the contrary, she had the courage to preserve a copy of those very books, which the senate, overawed by the tyranny of the times, had ordered to be suppressed, and at the same time the effects of the author to be confiscated ; and took with her as the companions of her exile, what had been the cause of it. How pleasing is her conversation, how polite her address, and (which' seldom unites in the same character) how vene- rable is she as well as amiable ! She will hereafter, I am well persuaded, be point- ed out as a model to all wives ; and per- haps be esteemed worthy to be set forth as an example of fortitude even to our sex ; since, while yet we have the plea- sure of seeing and conversing with her, we contemplate her with the same ad- miration as those heroines who are cele- brated in ancient history. For myself, I confess I cannot but tremble for this Sect. II. PLINY. 75 illustrious house, which seems shaken to its very foundations, and ready to fall into ruins with her : for though she will leave descendants behind her, yet what a height of virtue must they attain, what glorious actions must they perform, ere the world will be persuaded that this ex- cellent woman was not the last of her family ! It is an aggravating circum- stance of affliction to me, that by her death I seem to lose a second time her mother ; that wiorthy mother (and what can I say higher in her praise ?) of so amiable a person ! who, as she was re- stored to me in her daughter, so she will now again be taken from me, and the loss of Fannia will thus pierce my heart at once with a fresh stab, and at the same time tear open a former wound. I loved and honoured them both so highly, that I knew not which had the greatest share of my esteem and affection ; a point they desired might ever remain undetermined. In their prosperity and their adversity I did them every good office in my power, and was their comforter in exile, as well as their avenger at their return. But I have not yet paid them what I owe, and am so much the more solicitous for the recovery of this lady, that I may have time to acquit what is due from me to her. Such is the anxiety under which I write this letter ! But if some friendly power should happily give me occasion to exchange it for sentiments of joy, I shall not complain of the alarms I now suffer. Farewell. LETTER LVII. To Rufus, What numbers of learned men does modesty conceal, or love of ease with- draw from the notice of the world ! and yet when we are going to speak or recite in public, it is the judgment only of os- tentatious talents which we stand in awe of : whereas in truth, those who silently cultivate the sciences have so much a higher claim to regard, as they pay a calm veneration to whatever is great in works of genius : an observation which I give you upon experience. Terentius Junior, having passed through the mili- tary offices suitable to a person of equestrian rank, and executed with great integrity the post of receiver- general of the revenues in Narbonensian Gaul*, retired to his estate, preferring the enjoyment of an uninterrupted tran- quillity, to those honours which his ser- vices had merited. He invited me lately to his house, where, looking upon him only as a worthy master of a family, and an industrious farmer, I started such topics of conversation in which I ima- gined he was most versed. But he soon turned the discourse, and with a great fund of knowledge entered upon points of literature. With what ele- gance did he express himself in Latin and Greek ; for he is so perfectly well skilled in both, that whichever he uses, seems to be the language v/herein he particularly excels. How extensive is his reading ! how tenacious his memory ! You would not imagine him the inha- bitant of a country village, but of polite Athens herself. In short, his conversa- tion has increased my solicitude con- cerning my works, and taught me to fear the judgment of those refined country gentlemen, as much as of those of more known a;nd conspicuous learn- ing. And let' me persuade you to con- sider them in the same light : for, be- lieve me, upon a careful observation, you will often find in the literary as well as military world, most formidable abilities concealed under a very unpromising appearance. Farewell. LETTER LVIII. To Maximus. The lingering disorder of a friend of mine gave me occasion lately to reflect that we are never so virtuous as when oppressed with sickness. Where is the man who under the pain of any distem- per is either solicited by avarice or in- flamed with lust ? At such a season he is neither a slave of love, nor the fool of ambition : he looks with indifference upon the charms of wealth, and is con- tented with ever so small a portion of it, as being upon the point of leaving even that little. It is then he recollects there are gods, and that he himself is but a man : no mortal is then the object of his envy, his admiration, or his con- * One of the four principal divisions of an- cient Gaul ; it extended from the Pyrena?an mountain?, which separate France from Spain, to the Alps, which divide it from Italy, and comprehended Langucdoc, Provence, Dau- l)iiiny, and Savoy. 76 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book I. tempt : and the reports of slander nei- ther raise his attention nor feed his curiosity : his imagination is wholly employed upon baths and fountains*. These are the subjects of his cares and wishes, while he resolves, if he should recover, to pass the remainder of his days in ease and tranquillity, that is, in innocence and happiness. I may there- fore lay down to you and myself a short rule, wliicli the philosophers have endea- voured to inculcate at the expense of many words, and even many volumes ; that " we should practise in health those resolutions we form in sickness." Farewell. LETTER LIX. To Genitor. 1 AM extremely concerned that you have lost your pupil, a youth, as your letter assures me, of such great hopes. Can I want to be informed, that his sickness and death must have interrupted your studies, knowing, as I do, with what ex- actness you fill up every duty of life, and how unlimited your affection is to all those to whom you give your esteem? As for myself, business pursues me even hither, and I am not out of the reach of people who oblige me to act either as their judge or their arbitrator. To this I must add, not only the continual com- plaints of the farmers, who claim a sort of prescription to try my patience as they please ; but the necessity of letting out my farms : an affair which gives me much trouble, as it is exceedingly diffi- cult to find out proper tenants. For these reasons I can only study by snatches ; still, however, I study. I sometimes read, and sometimes I com- pose ; but my reading teaches me, by a very mortifying comparison, with what ill success I attempt to be an author myself. Though indeed you give me great encouragement, when you com- pare the piece I wrote in vindication of Helvidius, to the oration of Demos- thenes against Midias. I confess I had that harangue in my view when I com- posed mine ; not that I pretend to rival it (that would be an absurd and mad at- * It is probable that fevers were the peculiar distemper of Rome, as Pliny, in his general al- lusions to disorders of the l)ody, seems always to consider them of the inflammatory kind. tempt indeed), but I endeavoured, I own, to imitate it, as far as the differ- ence of our subjects would admit, and as nearly as a genius of the lowest rank can copy one of the highest. Farewell. LETTER LX. To Geminius. Our friend Macrinus is pierced with the severest affliction. He has lost his wife ! a lady whose uncommon virtues would have rendered her an ornament even to ancient times. He lived with her thirty-nine years in the most unin- terrupted harmony. How respectful was her behaviour to him ! and how did she herself deserve the highest venera- tion, as she blended and united in her character all those amiable virtues that adorn and distinguish the different periods of female life ! It should, me- thinks, afford great consolation to Ma- crinus, that he has thus long enjoyed so exquisite a blessing ; but that reflection seems only so much the more to im- bitter his loss ; as indeed the pain of parting with our happines still rises in proportion to the length of its continu- ance. I cannot therefore but be greatly anxious for so valuable a friend, till this wound to his peace shall be in a condition to admit of proper applica- tions. Time, however, together with the necessity of the thing, and even a satiety of grief itself, will best effect his cure. Farewell. LETTER LXI. To Romanus. Have you ever seen the source of the river Clitumnus f ? as I never heard you mention it, I imagine not ; let me therefore advise you to do so imme- diately. It is but lately indeed I had that pleasure, and I condemn myself for not having seen it sooner. At the foot of a little hill, covered with vene- rable and shady cypress-trees, a spring f Now called Clitumno: it rises a little be- low the village of Campello in Ombria. The inhabitants near this river still retain a notion that its waters are attended with a supernatural property, imagining it makes the cattle white that drink of it : a quality for which it is like- v/ise celebrated by many of the Latin poets. See Addison's Travels. Sect. II. PLINY 77 issues out, which, gushing in different and unequal streams, forms itself, after several windings, into a spacious bason, so extremely clear that you may see the pebbles and the little pieces of money which are thrown into it*, as they lie at the bottom. From thence it is carried off not so much by the declivity of the ground, as by its own strength and fulness. It is navigable almost as soon as it has quitted its source, and wide enough to admit a free passage for vessels to pass by each other, as they sail with or against the stream. The cur- rent runs so strong, though the ground is level, that the large barges which go down the river have no occasion to make use of their oars ; while those which ascend find it difficult to advance, ^ven with the assistance of oars and poles ; and this vicissitude of labour and ease is exceedingly amusing when one sails up and down merely for pleasure. Tlie banks on each side are shaded with the verdure of great numbers of ash and poplar trees, as clearly and distinct- ly seen in the stream, as if they were ac- tually sunk in it. The water is cold as snow, and as white too. Near it stands an ancient and venerable temple, where- in is placed the river-god Clitumnus, clothed in a robe, whose immediate pre- sence the prophetic oracles here deliver- ed sufficiently testify. Severval little cha- pels are scattered round, dedicated to particular gods, distinguished by diffe- rent names, and some of them too pre- siding over different fountains. For, besides the principal one, which is as it were the parent of all the rest, there are several other lesser streams, which, tak- ing their rise from various sources, lose themselves in the river : over v/hich a bridge is built, that separates the sacred * The heads of considerable rivers, hot springs, large bodies of standing water, &e. were esteemed holy among the Romans, and cultivated with religious ceremonies. " Mag- norum fluminum," says Seneca, " capita re- veremur; subita et ex abdito vasti amnis eruptio aras habet^ coluntur aquaram calen- tium fontes, et stagna quaedara, vel opacitas, vel immensa altitude sacravit." Ep. 41. It was customary to throw little pieces of money into those fountains, lakes, &c., which had the reputation of being sacred, as a mark of vene- ration for those places, and to render the pre- siding deities propitious. Suetonius mentions this practice in the annual vows which he says the Roman people made for the health of Augustus. part from that which lies open to com- mon use. Vessels are allowed to come above this bridge, but no person is per- mitted to swim except below itf. The Hispalletes|, to whom Augustus gave this place, furnish a public bath, and likewise entertain ail strangers at their own expense. Several villas, attracted by the beauty of this river, are situated upon its borders. In short, every object that presents itself will afford you en- tertainment. You may also amuse yourself with numberless inscriptions, that are fixed upon the pillars and walls by different persons, celebrating the virtues of the fountain, and the divinity that presides over it. There are many of them you will greatly admire, as there are some that will make you laugh ; but I must correct myself when I say so : you are too humane, I know, to laugh upon such an occasion. Farewell. LETTER LXII. To Ursus. It is long since I have taken either a book or pen in my hand. It is long since I have known the sweets of leisure and repose ; since I have known, in short, that indolent but agreeable situa- tion of doing nothing, and being no- thing ; so much have the affairs of my friends engaged me, and prevented me from enjoying the pleasures of retire- ment and contemplation. There is no sort of studies, however, of consequence enough to supersede the duty of friend- ship : on the contrary, it is a sacred tie which they themselves teach us most religiously to preserve. Farewell. LETTER LXIII. To Fabatus^. Your concern to hear of my wife's miscarriage will be equal, I know, to the earnest desire you have that we should make you a great-grandfather. The inexperience of her youth rendered her ignorant that she was breeding ; so that she not only neglected the proper precautions, but managed herself in a f The touch of a naked body was thought to pollute these consecrated waters, as appears from a passage in Tacitus, 1. 14. an. c. '22. X Inhabitants of a town in Ombria, now called Spello. § His wife's grandfather. IS ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L way extremely unsuitable to a person in her circumstances. But she has severely atoned for her mistake by the utmost hazard of her life. Though you should (as most certainly you will) be afflicted to see yourself thus disappointed in your old age, of the immediate hopes of leav- ing- a family behind you ; yet it deserves your gratitude to the gods, that in the preservation of your grand -daughter, you have still reason to expect that bless- ing ; an expectation so much the more certain, as she has given this proof, though an unhappy one indeed, of her be- ing capable of bearing children. These, at least, are the reflections by which I endeavour to confirm my own hopes, and comfort myself under my present disappointment. You cannot more ar- dently wish to have great-grandchildren than I do to have children, as the dignity of both our families seems to open to them a sure road to honours, and we shall leave them the glory of descending from a long race of ancestors, whose fame is as extensive as their nobility is ancient. May we but Lave the pleasure of seeing them born, it will make us amends for the present disappointment. Farewell. LETTER LXIV. To Hispulla''^ . When I consider that you love your niece even more tenderly than if she were your own daughter, I ought in the first place to inform you of her recovery before I tell you she has been ill ; that the sentiments of joy at the one may leave you no leisure to be afilicted at the other ; though I fear indeed, after your first transports of gratulation are over, you will feel some concern, and in the midst of your joy for the danger she has escaped, will tremble at the thought of that which she has undergone. She is now, however, in good spirits, and again restored to herself and to me, as she is making the same progress in the recovery of her strength and health that she did in the loss of them. To say the truth (and I may now safely tell it you), she was in the utmost hazard of her life ; not indeed from any fault of her own, but a little from the inexperience of her ■•*'• fJis wife's aunt. youth. To this must be imputed the cause of her miscarriage, and the sad experience she has had of the conse- quence of not knowing she was breed- ing. But though this misfortune has deprived you of the consolation of a nephew, or neice, to supply the loss of your brother ; you must remember that blessing seems rather to be deferred than denied, since her life is preserved from whom that happiness is to be ex- pected. I entreat you then to repre- sent this accident to your father f in the most favourable light : as your sex are the best advocates in cases of this kind. Farewell. LETTER LXV. To Minutianus. I BEG you would excuse me this one day : Titinius Capito is to recite a per- formance of his, and I know not whether it is most my inclination or my duty to attend him. He is a man of a most amiable disposition, and justly to be num- bered among the brightest ornaments of our age : he studiously cultivates the po- lite arts himself, and generously admires and encourages them in others. To se- veral who have distinguished themselves by their compositions, he has been the defence, the refuge, and the reward ; as he affords a glorious model and example to all in general. In a word, he is the restorer and reformer of learning, now, alas ! well nigh grown obsolete and de- cayed. His house is open to every man of genius who has any works to rehearse ; and it is not there alone that he attends these assemblies with the most obliging good-nature. I am sure, at least,' he never once excused himself from mine, if he happened to be at Rome. I should therefore with a more than ordinary jll grace refuse to return him the same fa- vour, as the occasion of doing it is pe- culiarly glorious. Should not I think myself obliged to a man, who, if I were engaged in any law-suit, generously at- tended the cause in which I was interest- ed? And am I less indebted, now that my whole care and business is of the literary kind, for his assiduity in my con- cerns of this sort? A point which, if not the only, is however the principal in- f Fabatns, grandfathci Pliny's wife. to Calphurnia, Sect. II, PLINY. 79 stance wherein I can be obliged. But though I owed him no return of this nature ; though I were not engaged to him by the reciprocal tie of the same good offices he has done me ; yet not only the beauty of his extensive genius, as polite as it is severely correct, but the dignity of his subject would strongly incite me to be of his audience. He has written an account of the deaths of several illustrious persons, some of which were my particular friends. It is a pious office then, it should seem, as I could not be present at their obse- quies, to attend, at least, this (as I may call it) their funeral oration ; which, though a late, is, however, for that rea- son, a more unsuspected tribute to their memories. Farewell. LETTER LXVI. To Sabinicmus. Your freed-man, whom you lately men- tioned to me with displeasure, has been with me, and threw himself at my feet with as much submission as he could have done at yours. He earnestly re- quested me with many tears, and even with all the eloquence of silent sorrow, to intercede for him ; in short, he con- vinced me by his whole behaviour, that he sincerely repents of his fault. And I am persuaded he is thoroughly reform- ed, because he seems entirely sensible of his guilt. I know you are angry with him, and I know too it is not without reason ; but clemency can never exert itself with more applause, than when there is the justest cause for re- sentment. You once had an affection for this man, and, I hope, will have again : in the mean while, let me only prevail with you to pardon him. If he should incur your displeasure hereafter, you will have so much the stronger plea in excuse for your anger, as you shew yourself more exorable to him now. Allow something to his youth, to his tears, and to your own natural mildness of temper : do not make him uneasy any longer, and I will add too, do not make yourself so : for a man of your benevo- lence of heart cannot be angry without feeling great regret. I am afraid, Avere I to join my intreaties with his, I should seem rather to compel, than request you to forgive him. Yet I will not scruple to do it : and in so much the stronger terms, as I have very sharply and se- verely reproved him, positively threat- ening never to interpose again in his behalf. But though it was proper to say this to him, in order to make him more fearful of offending, I do not say so to you. I may, perhaps, again have oc- casion to intreat you upon his account, and again obtain your forgiveness ; supposing, I mean, his error should be such as may become me to intercede for, and you to pardon. Farewell. LETTER LXVII. To the same. I GREATLY approve of your having, in compliance with my letter, received again into your family and favour, a freed-man, whom you once admitted into a share of your affection. It will afford you, I doubt not, great satisfac- tion. It certainly, at least, has me, both as it is a proof that you are capa- ble of being governed in your passion, and as it is an instance of your paying so much regard to me, as either to yield to my authority, or to comply with my request. You will accept, therefore, at once, both of my applause and my thanks. At the same ti^iie I must ad- vise you to be disposed for the future to pardon the errors of your people, though there should be none to inter- pose in their behalf. Farewell. LETTER LXVIII. To Fuscus. You desire to know in what manner I dispose of my time in my summer viUa at Tuscum. I rise just when I find myself in the humour, though generally with the sun ; sometimes indeed sooner, but seldom later. When 1 am up, I continue to keep the shutters of my chamber-windov/s closed, as darkness and silence wonderfully promote me- ditation. Thus free and abstracted from those outward objects which dissi- pate attention, I am left to my own thoughts ; nor suffer my mind to wan- der with my eyes, but keep my eyes in subjection to my mind, which, when they are not distracted by a multiplicity of external objects, see nothing but what the imagination represents to them. 80 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book L If I have any composition upon my hands, this is the time I choose to con- sider it, not only with respect to the general plan, but even the style and ex- pression, which I settle and correct as if I were actually writing. In this man- ner I compose more or less as the sub- ject is more or less difficult, and I find myself able to retain it. Then I call my secretary, and, opening the shutters, I dictate to him what I have composed, after which I dismiss him for a little while, and then call him in again. About ten or eleven of the clock (for I do not observe one fixed hour), accord- ing as the weather proves, I either walk upon my terrace, or in the covered por- tico, and there I continue to meditate or dictate what remains upon the sub- ject in which I am engaged. From thence I get into my chariot, where I employ myself as before, vdien I was walking or in my study ; and find this changing of the scene preserves and enlivens my attention. At my return home, I repose myself; then I take a walk ; and after that, x'epeat aloud some Greek or Latin oration, not so much for the sake of strengthening my elo- cution, as my digestion ; though indeed the voice at the same time finds its ac- count in this practice. Then I walk again, am anointed, take my exercises, and go into the bath. At supper, if I have only my wife or a few friends with me, some author is read to us ; and after supper we are entertained either with music or an interlude. When that is finished, I take my walk with my family, in the number of which I am not with- out some persons of literature. Thus we pass our evenings in various conver- sation ; and the day, even when it is at the longest, steals away imperceptibly. Upon some occasions, I change the order in certain of the articles above- mentioned. For instance, if I have studied longer or walked more than usual, after my second sleep and read- ing an oration or two aloud, instead of using my chariot I get on horseback ; by which means I take as much exercise and lose less time. The visits of my friends from the neighbouring villages claim some part of the day ; and some- times, by an agreeable interruption, they come in very seasonably to relieve me when I am fatigued. I now and then amuse myself with sporting, but always take my tablets into the field, that though I shoidd not meet with game, I may at least bring home some- thing. Part of my time too (though not so much as they desire) is allotted to my tenants ; and I find their rustic complaints give a zest to my studies and engagements of the politer kind. Fare- well. LETTER LXIX. To the same. You are much pleased, I find, with the account I gave you in my former letter, of the manner in v.^hicli I spend the summer season at Tuscum ; and desire to know what alteration I make in my method, when I am at Laurentinum in the winter. None at all, except abridg- ing myself of my sleep at noon, and em- ploying part of the night in study : and if any cause requires my attendance at Rome (which in winter very frequently happens), instead of having interludes or music after supper, I meditate upon what I have dictated, and by often re- vising it in my own mind, fix it in my memory. Thus I have given you my scheme of life in summer and winter ; to which you may add the intermediate seasons of spring and autumn. As at those times I lose nothing of the day, so I study but little in the night. Farewell. BOOK THE SECOND. MODERN AND MISCELLANEOUS, OF EARLY DATE. SECTION I. LETTER I. Mueen Anne Bullen to King Henry, Sir, Your grace's displeasure and my im- prisonment are tilings so strange unto me, as what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant. Wliereas you send unto me (willing me to confess a truth, and so obtain your favour) by such an one whom you know to be mine an- cient professed enemy, I no sooner re- ceived this message by him, than I rightly conceived your meaning ; and if, as you say, confessing a truth, indeed, may procure my safety, I shall, with all willingness and duty, perform your com- mand. But let not your gi'ace ever imagine, that your poor wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, where not so much as a thought thereof preceded. And, to speak a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Bullen ; with which name and place I could willingly have contented myself, if God and your grace's pleasure had been so pleased. Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my ex- altation, or received queenship, but that I always looked for such an alteration as now I find ; for the ground of my pre- ferment being on no surer foundation ton your grace's fancy, the least alter- ation, I know, was fit and sufficient to draw that fancy to some other subject. You have chosen me from a low estate to be your queen and companion, far be- yond my desert and desire. If then you found me worthy of such honour, good your grace let not any light fancy, or bad counsel of mine enemies, withdraw your princely favour from me ; neither let that stain, that unworthy stain, of a disloyal heart towards your good grace, ever cast so foul a blot on your most du- tiful wife, and the infant princess, your daughter. Try me, good king, but let me have a lawful trial ; and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and judges ; yea, let me receive an open trial (for my truth shall fear no open shame) ; then shall you see either mine innocence cleared, your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that whatsoever God or you may determine of me, your grace may be freed from an open censure, and mine offence being so lawfully proved, your grace is at liberty, both before God and man, not only to execute worthy punishment on me, as an unlawful wife, but to follow yoiu* affection, already settled on that party, for whose sake I am now as I am, whose name I could some good while since have pointed unto your grace, being not ignorant of my suspicion therein. But if you have al- ready determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander G 82 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book II. must bring you the enjoying of your de- sired happiness, then I desire of God that he will pardon your great sin there- in, and likewise mine enemies the in- struments thereof : and that he will not call you to a strict account for your un- princely and cruel usage of me, at his general judgment-seat, where both you and myself must shortly appear, and in whose judgment, I doubt not (what- soever the world may think of me), mine innocence shall be openly known and sufficiently cleared. My last and oidy request shall be, that myself may only bear the burthen of your grace's displeasure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor gentle- men, who, as I understand, are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. If ever I found favour in your sight, if ever the name of Anne Bullen hath been pleasing in your ears, then let me obtain this request ; and I will so leave to trouble your grace any farther, with my earnest prayers to the Trinity to have your grace in his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions. From my doleful prison in the Tower, the 6th of May. Your most loyal and ever faithful wife. LETTER II. A Letter from Lady More to Mr. Secre- tary Cromwell. Right honourable and my especial good master secretary : in my most humble wise I recommend me unto your good mastership, acknowledging myself to be most deeply bound to your good master- ship for your manifold goodness and loving favour, both before this time and yet daily, now also shewn towards my poor husband and me. I pray Almighty God continue your goodness so still, for thereupon hangeth the greatest part of ray poor husband's comfort and mine. The cause of my writing at this time is to certify your especial good mastership of my great and extreme necessity ; which, on and besides the charge of mine own house, do pay weekly fifteen shillings for the board wages of my poor husband and his servant ; for the main- taining whereof I have been compelled, of very necessity, to sell part of my ap- parel, for lack of other substance to make money of. Wherefore my most humble petition and suit to your mas- tership at this time is, to desire your mastership's favourable advice and coun- sel, whether I may be so bold to attend upon the king's most gracious highness. I trust there is no doubt in the cause of my impediment ; for the young man being a ploughman, had been diseased with the ague by the space of three years before that he departed. And besides this, it is now five weeks since he departed, and no other person dis- eased in the house since that time ; wherefore I most humbly beseech your especial good mastership (as my only trust is, and else know not what to do, but utterly in this world to be undone) for the love of God to consider the pre- mises, and thereupon, of your most abundant goodness, to shew your most I favourable help to the comforting of my ■ poor husband and me, in this our great heaviness, extreme age, and necessity. And thus we and all ours shall daily, during our lives, pray to God for the prosperous success of your right honour- able dignity. By your poor continual oratrix. LETTER III. Lady Stafford to Mr. Secretary Crom- well. Master secretary, after my poor re- commendations, which are little to be regarded of me that am a poor banished creature, this shall be to desire you to be good to my poor husband and to me. I am sure it is not unknown to you the high displeasure that both he and I have both of the king's highness and the queen's grace, by the reason of our mar- riage without their knowledge, wherein we both do yield ourselves faulty, and do acknowledge that we did not well to be so hasty or so bold without their knowledge. But one thing, good master secretary, consider, that he was young, and love overcame reason ; and for my part, I saw so much honesty in him that I loved him as well as he did me, and was in bondage, and glad I was to be at liberty : so that for my part, I saw that all the world did set so little by me, and he so much, that I thought I could take no better way but to take him and to forsake ail other ways, and live a poor honest life with him ; and Sect, 1. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 83 so I do put no doubts but v^e should, if ■we might once be so happy to recover the king's gracious favour and the queen's. For well I riiight liave had a greater man of birth, and a higher ; but I as- sure you I could never have had one that should have loved me so well, nor a more honest man. And besides that, he is both come of an ancient stock, and again as meet (if it was his grace's plea- sure) to do the king service as any young gentleman in his court. There- fore, good master secretary, this shall be my suit to you, that for the love that well I know you do bear to all my blood, though for my part I have not deserved it but little, by the reason of my vile con- ditions, as to put my husband to the king's grace, that he may do his duty as all other gentlemen do. And, good master secretary, sue for us to the king's highness, and beseech his highness, which ever was wont to take pity, to have pity on us : and that it would please his grace of his goodness, to speak to the queen's grace for us ; for as far as I can perceive, her grace is so highly displeased with us both, that without the king be so good lord to us as to withdraw his rigour and sue for us, we are never like to recover her grace's favour, which is too heavy to bear. And seeing there is no remedy, for God's sake help us, for we have been now a quarter of a year married, I thank God, and too late now to call that again ; wherefore there is the more need to help. But if I were at my liberty, and might choose, I assure you, master secretary, for my little time, 1 have tried so much honesty to be in him, that I would rather beg my bread with him than to be the greatest queen christened ; and 1 believe verily he is in the same case with me, for I believe verily he would not forsake me to be a king; therefore, good master secretary, being we are so well together, and do intend to live so honest a life, though it be but poor, shew part of your goodness to us, as well as you do to all the world besides ; for I promise you ye have the name to help all them that have need ; and amongst all your suitors, I dare be bold to say that you have no matter more to be pitied than ours ; and therefore for God's sake be good to us, for in you is all our trust ; and I be- seech you, good master secretary, pray my lord my father, and my lady, to be good to us, and to let me have their blessings, and my husband their good will, and 1 will never desire more of them. Also I pray you desire my lord of Norfolk, and my lord my brother to be good to us ; I dare not write to them, they are so cruel against us ; but if with any pain that I could take with my life, I might win their good wills, I promise you there is no child living would ven- ture more than I ; and so I pray you to report by me, and you shall find my writing true ; and in all points which I may please them in, I shall be ready to obey them nearest my husband, whom. I am most bound to, to whom I most hear- tily beseech you to be good unto, which for my sake is a poor banished man, for an honest and a godly cause ; and being that I have read in old books that some for as just causes have by kings and queens been pardoned by the suit of good folks, I trust it shall be our chance, through your good help, to come to the same, as knoweth the God who sendeth you health and heart's ease. Scribbled with her ill hand, who is your poor humble suitor always to command. LETTER IV. Earl of Essex to 2,ueen Elizaheth. From a mind delighting in sorrow, from spirits wasted in passion, from a heart torn in pieces with care, grief, and travel, from a man that hateth himself and all things that keepeth him alive, what ser- vice can your majesty expect, since your service past deserves no more than ba- nishment or prescription in the cursedest of all other countries ? Nay, nay, it is your rebels' pride and success that must give me leave to ransom my life out of this hateful prison of ray loathed body ; which if it happen so, your majesty shall have no cause to mislike the fashion of my death, since the course of my life could never please you. Your majesty's exiled servant. LETTER V. Lord Chancellor Egerton to the Earl of Essex. It is often seen, that he that stands by seeth more than he that playeth the game ; and, for the most part, every one in his OAvn cause standetli in his own lisfht, and seeth not so clearly as. he G 2 84 ELEGANT EPISTLEiS. Book If, should. Your lordship hath dealt in other men's causes, and in great and weighty affairs, with great wisdom and judgment ; now your own is in hand, you are not to contemn or refuse the advice of any that love you, how simple soever. In this order I rank myself amon^ others that love you, none more simple, and none that love you with more true and honest affection ; which shall plead my excuse if you shall either mistake or mistrust my words or mean- ing. But, in your lordship's honourable wisdom, I neither doubt nor suspect the one nor the other. I will not presume to advise you, but shoot my bolt and tell you what I think. The beginning and long continuance of this so unsea- sonable discontentment you have seen and proved, by which you aim at the end ; if you hold still this course, which hitherto you find to be worse and worse (and the longer you go the further you go out of the way), there is little hope or likelihood the end will be better : you are not yet gone so far but that you may well return : the return is safe, but the progress is dangerous and desperate in this course you hold. If you have any enemies, you do that for them which they could never do for themselves. Your friends you leave to scorn and con- tempt : you forsake yourself and over- throw your fortunes, and ruin your ho- nour and reputation : you give that com- fort and courage to the foreign enemies, as greater they cannot have ; for what can be more welcome and pleasing news than to hear that her majesty and the realm are maimed of so worthy a mem- ber, who hath so often and so valiantly quelled and daunted them ? You forsake your country when it hath most need of your counsel and aid ; and, lastly, you fail in your indissoluble duty which you owe unto your most gracious sovereign, a duty imposed upon you not by nature and policy only, but by the religious and sacred bond wherein the divine majesty of Almighty God hath by the rule of Christianity obliged you. For the four first, your constant reso- lution may perhaps move you to esteem them as light ; but being well Aveighed, they are not light, nor lightly to be re- garded. And for the four last, it may be that the clearness of your own con- science may seem to content yourself; but that is not enough ; for these duties stand not only in contemplation or in- ward meditation, and cannot be per- formed but by external actions, and where that faileth the substance also faileth. This being your present state and condition, what is to be done ? What is the remedy, my good lord? I lack judgment and wisdom to advise you, but I will never want an honest true heart to wish you well ; nor, being warranted by a good conscience, will fear to speak that I think. I have begun plainly, be not offended if I proceed so. Bene credit qui cedii tempori : and Seneca saith, Cedendum est fortunce. The me- dicine and remedy is liot to contend and strive, but humbly to yield and submit. Have you given cause, and ye take a scandal unto ydu? then all you can do is too little to make satisfaction. Is cause of scandal given unto you ? Yet policy, duty, and religion enforce you to sue, yield, and submit to our sovereign, be- tween whom and you there can be no equal proportion of duty, where God re- quires it as a principal duty and care to himself, and when it is evident that great good may ensue of it to your friends, yourself, your country, and your sove- reign, and extreme harm by the contrary. There can be no dishonour to yield ; but in denying, dishonour and impiety. The difficulty, my good lord, is to conquer yourself, vdiich is the height of true valour and fortitude, whereunto all your honourable actions have tended. Do it in this, and God will be pleased, her majesty (no doubt) well satisfied, your country will take good, and your friends comfort by it ; and yourself (I mention you last, for that of all these you es- teem yourself least) shall receive ho- nour ; and your enemies (if you have any) shall be disappointed of their bitter sweet hope. I have delivered what I think simply and plainly : I leave you to determine according to your own wisdom. If I have erred, it is error amor is, and not amor erroris. Construe and accept it, I be- seech you, as I meant it ; not as an ad- vice, but as an opinion to be allowed or cancelled at your pleasure. If I might conveniently have conferred with your- self in person, I would not have troubled you with so many idle blots. Whatso- ever yon judge of this my opinion, yet be assured my desire is to further all good means that may tend to your lordship's Sect. 1. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 85 good. And so wishing you all happiness and jionour, I cease. Your lordship's most ready and faithful, though unable poor friend. LETTER VL The EarVs Answer. My very good lord, thougli there is not that man this day living whom I would sooner make judge of any question that might concern me than yourself ; yet you must give me leave to tell you, that in some cases I must appeal from all eartlily judges ; and if in any, then surely in this, when the highest judge on earth hath imposed upon me the heaviest pu- nishment, without trial or hearing. Since then I must either answer your lordship's arguments, or else forsake mine own just defence, I will force mine aking head to do me service for an hour. I must first deny my discontentment (which was forced to he an humorous discontent) ; and in that it was unseasonable, or is so long continuing, your lordship should ra- ther condole with me than expostulate : natural seasons are expected here below, but violent and unseasonable storms come from above ; there is no tempest to the passionate indignation of a prince, nor yet at any time so unseasonable as when it lighteth on those that might expect an harvest of their careful and painful la- bours. He that is once wounded must needs feel smart till his hurt be cured, or the part hurt become senseless. But cure I expect none, her majesty's heart being obdurate ; and be without sense I cannot, being of flesh and blood. But you may say, I aim at the end ; I do more than aim, for I see an end of all my fortunes, I have set an end to all my desires. In this course do I any thing for mine ene- mies ? When I was present I found them absolute, and therefore I had rather they should triumph alone, than have me at- tendant upon their chariots. Or do I leave my friends ? When I was a courtier I could sell them no fruit of my love, and now that I am an hermit, they shall bear no envy for their love to me. Or do I forsake myself, because I do not enjoy myself? Or do I overthrow my fortunes, because I build not a fortune of paper walls, which every puff of wind bloweth down? Or do I ruinate mine honour, because i leave following' the pursuit, or wearing the false mark or the shadow of honour ? Do I give courage or comfort to the enemies, because I neglect myself to encounter them, or because I keep my heart from business, though I cannot keep my fortune from declining? No, no, I give every one of those considerations his due right, and the more 1 weigh them, the more I find myself justified from of- fending in any of them. As for the two last objections, that I forsake my country when it hath most need of me, and fail in that indissoluble duty which I owe to my sovereign ; I answer. That if my country had at this time any need of my public service, her majesty that governetli it v/ould not have driven me to a private life. I am tied to my country by tAvo bonds ; one public, to discharge carefully and industriously that trust which is com- mitted to me ; the other private, to sa- crifice for it my life and carcass, which hath been nourished in it. Of the first I am free, being dismissed by her majesty : of the other, nothing can free me but death, and therefore no occasion of per- formance shall sooner offer itself, but I will meet it half way. The indissoluble duty I owe unto her majesty, the service of an earl and of marshal of England, and I have been content to do her the service of a clerk, but I can never serve her as a villain or a slave. But you say I must give way to time. So I do ; for now that I see the storm come, I have put myself into harbour. Seneca saitli. We must give way to fortune : I know that fortune is both blind and strong, and therefore I go as far as I can out of the way. You say the remedy is not to strive : I neither strive nor seek for remedy. But you say, I must yield and submit : I can neither yield myself to be guilty, nor this my imprisonment, lately laid upon me, to be just : I ow^e so much to the Author of truth, as I can never yield truth to be falsehood , nor falsehood to be truth. Have I given cause, you ask, and yet take a scandal? No, I gave no cause to take up vso much as Fimbria his complaint : for I did totuin telum corpore accipere ; I pa- tiently bear and sensibly feel all that I then received when this scandal was given me. Nay, when the vilpst of all indig- nities are done unto me, doth religion en- force me to sue? Doth God require it? Is it impiety not to ^0 it ? Why ? Can- not princes err? Cannot subjects receive m ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book II. wrong ? Is an earthly power infinite ? Pardon me, pardon me, my lord, I can never subscribe to these principles. Let Solomon's fool laugh when he is stricken ; let those that mean to make their profit of princes, shew to have no sense of princes' injuries ; let them acknowledge an infinite absoluteness on earth, that do not believe an absolute infiniteness in heaven. Asforme, I have received wrong, I feel it ; my cause is good, I know it ; and whatsoever comes, all the powers on earth can never shew more strength or constancy in oppressing, than I can shew in suffering whatsoever can or shall be imposed upon me. Your lordship in the beginning of your letter makes me a player, and yourself a looker-on ; and me a player of my own game, so you may see more than I ; but give me leave to tell you, that since you do but see, and I do suffer, I must of necessity feel more than you. I must crave your lordship's pa- tience to give him that hath a crabbed fortune leave to use a crooked style. But whatsoever my style is, there is no heart more humble, nor more affected, towards your lordship, than that of your lordship's poor friend. LETTER VII. Sii' Henri/ Sidney to his son Philip Sid- ney, at school at Shrewsbury, an. 1566, 9 Eliz. then being of the age of twelve years. I HAVE received two letters from you, one written in Latin, the other in French, which I take in good part, and will you to exercise that practice of learning often ; for that will stand you in most stead, in that profession of life that you are born to live in. And, since this is my first letter that ever I did write to you, I v/ill not, that it be all empty of some advices, which my natural care of you provoketh me to wish you to folio v/, as documents to you in this your tender age. Let your first action be, the lifting up of your mind to Almighty God, by hearty prayer, and feelingly digest the words you speak in prayer with con- tinual meditation, and thinking of him to whom you pray, and of the matter for whicli you pray. And use this as an ordinary, at, and at an ordinary hour. Whereby the time itself will put you in remembrance to do that which you are accustomed to do. In that time apply your study to such hours as your discreet master doth assign you earnestly ; and the time (I know) he will so limit, as shall be both sufficient for your learning, and safe for your health. And mark the sense and the matter of that you read, as well as the words. So shall you both enrich your tongue with words and your wit with matter ; and judgment will grow as years groweth in you. Be humble and obedient to your master, for unless you frame yourself to obey others, yea, and feel in yourself what obedience is, you shall never be able to teach others how to obey you. Be courteous of gesture, and affable to all men, with diversity of reverence, according to the dignity of the person. There is nothing that winneth so much with so little cost. Use mo- derate diet, so as, after your meat, you may find your wit fresher, and not duller, and your body more lively, and not more heavy. Seldom drink wine, and yet some- time do, lest being enforced to drink upon the sudden, you should find your- self inflamed. Use exercise of body, but such as is without perU of your joints or bones. It will increase your force, and enlarge your breath. Delight to be cleanly, as well in all parts of your body as in your garments. It shall make you grateful in each company, and otherwise loathsome. Give yourself to be merry, for you degenerate from your father, if you find not yourself most able in wit and body, to do any thing, when you be most merry ; but let your mirth be ever void of aU scurrility, and biting words to any man, for a wound given by a word is oftentimes harder to be cured, than that which is given with the sword. Be you rather a hearer and bearer away of other men's talk than a beginner or procurer of speech, otherwise you shall be counted to delight to hear yourself speak. If you hear a wise sentence, or an apt phrase, commit it to your memory, with respect of the circumstance, when you shall speak it. Lei never oath be heard to come out of your mouth, nor words of ribaldry : detest it in others, so shall custom make to yourself a law against it in yourself. Be modest in each assembly, and rather be rebuked of light fellows, for maiden-like shamefacedness, than of your sad friends for pert boldness. Think upon every word that you will speak^ I Sect. I. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 87 before you utter it, and remember how nature liatli rampired up (as it were) the tongue with teeth, lips, yea, and hair without the lips, and all betokening' reins, or bridles, for the loose use of that mem- ber. Above all things tell no untruth, no not in trifles. The custom of it is nauglity ; and let it not satisfy you, that, for a time, the hearers take it for a truth, for after it will be known as it is , to your shame ; for there cannot be a greater reproach to a gentleman than to be ac- counted a liar. Study and endeavour yourself to be virtuously occupied. So shall you make such an habit of well doing in you, that you shall not know how to do evil, though you would. Re- member, my son, the noble blood you are descended of, by your mother's side ; and think, that only by virtuous life and good action you may be an ornament to that illustrious family ; and otherwise, through vice and sloth, you shall be counted lahes generis, one of the greatest curses that can happen to man. Well (my little Philip), this is enough for me, and too much 1 fear for you. But if I shall find that this light meal of digestion nourish any thing the weak stomach of your young capacity, I will, as I find the same grow stronger, feed it with tougher food. Your loving father, so long as you live in the fear of God. LETTER VIIL Sir Henry Sidney to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. My dearest lord. Since this gentleman, sir Nicholas Ar- nold, doth now repair into England to render account of his long and painful service, lest my silence might be an ar- gument of my condemnation of him, I thought good to accompany him with these my letters, certifying your lordship, by the same, that I find he hath been a marvellous painful man, and very diligent in inquiry for the queen's advantage, and in proceeding in the same more severe than I would have wished him, or would have been myself in semblable service ; but he saitli he followed his instructions. Doubtless the things which he did deal in are very dark and intricate, by reason of the long time passed without account ; and he greatly impeadied, for lack of an auditor, as I take it. In truth, what will fall out of it, I cannot say ; but I fear he hath written too affirmatively upon Birmingham's information : it is reported by some of his adversaries, that he should triumph greatly upon a letter, supposed to be sent him lately from your lordship, as though, by the same, he should be encouraged to proceed more vehemently against the earl of Sussex, and to make his abode longer here than else he would. And that he should use this bravery, either by shewing this let- ter, or by speech to me and to others. My lord, I believe the whole of this to be untrue ; and, for so much as con- cernetli myself, I assure your lordship is a stark lie ; for albeit he hath shewed me, as I believe, all the letters your lordship hath sent him, since my arrival here, and a good many sent before, yet in none of them is there any such matter contained ; neither yet did he to me, or to my know- ledge to any other, of any letter sent by your lordship, make any such bravery, or like construction, as is reported. My dearest lord and brother, without any respect of me, or any brotherlike love borne me by you, but even for our natural country's cause (whereunto, of late, not a little to your far spreading fame, you shew yourself most willingly to put your indefatigable and much help- ing hand), help to revoke me from this regiment, for being not credited, this realm will ruin under my rule, perhaps to my shame, but undovibtedly to Eng- land's harm : yea, and will under any man whom the queen shall send, though he have the force of Hercules, the mag- nanimity of Caesar, the diligence of Alex- ander, and the eloquence of TuUy ; her highness withdrawing her gracious coun- tenance. Yea if it be but thought that her highness hath not a resolute and un- removeable liking of him ; as for no tale she will direct him to sail by any other compass than his own ; his ship of re- giment, whosoever he be, ghall sooner rush on a rock, than rest in a haven. I write not this, as tliough I tliought go- vernors here could not err, and so err, as they should be revoked. For I know and confess, that any one may so err, yea, without any evil intent to her highness's crown or country, as it shall be conve- nient and necessary to revoke him ; but let it be done then with speed. Yet if it be but conceived, that he be insufficient to ELEOANT EPISTLES. Book IL govern here, I mean of the sovereign, or magistrates, retire him, and send a new man to the helm. Episcopatum ejus accipiat alter: so as my counsel is (and you shall find it the soundest) that the governor's continuance here, and his continuance there, be concurrent and correlative. For while her highness wiU employ any man here, all the counte- nance, all the credit, all the commenda- tion, yea, and most absolute trust that may be, is little enough. Cause once appearing to withdraw that opinion, withdraw him, too, if it be possible, even in that instant. Of this I would write more largely and more particularly, and to the queen's majesty, and to aU my lords, were it not that my many letters in this form already written, together with sundry arguments of my crazy credit there, did put me in hope of a speedy redemption fi*om this my miserable thraldom. A resolution of which my hope, my dearest lord, procure me with speed : I have no more, but sub umhra alarum tuarum protegaf me Deus. In haste I take my leave of youF lordship, wishing to the hame present, increasing, and immortal felicity. From Kilmain- ham, the 28th of June, 1566. Your lordship's bounden, fast, and obedient brother. P. S. I assure your lordship I do know that sir Nicholas Arnold hath spent, above all his entertainment, 500^. ster- ling in this realm. I mean he hath spent so much in this realm. LETTER IX. Tlie Right Honourable Thomas Sackvil, Lord Buckhurst, to Sir Henry Sidney. My lord, I TRUST your lordsbip nill pardon me, in that I have not (as indeed possibly I could not) attend to make a meeting, for the end of this variance betwixt your lordship and me ; and now being this day also so wrapt in business that I can- not by any means be a suretyer, I thought to write these few to your lordship, and therein to ascertain you, that, because our meeting with the master of the rolls, and Mr. Hensias meeting, will be so un- certain, that, therefore, what time so- ever you shall like to appoint I will come to the rolls, and there your lordship and I, as good neighbours and friends, will, if we can, compound the cause of our- selves. If we cannot, we will both pray the master of the rolls, as indifferent, as I know he is, to persuade him to the right, that stands in the wrong. And thus, I doubt not, but there shall be a good end to both our contentions : your lordship not seeking that which is not yours ; nor I, in any sort, meaning to detain from you your own. This 23d May, 1574. All yours to command. LETTER X. Sir Henry Sidney to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, My dearest lord, I RECEIVED not your letter of the 25th of November until the 24th of this January, by James Prescot, who was seven times at tlie sea, and put back again, before he coidd recover this coast. I trust I have satisfied your lordship with my wi'iting, and others by my pro- curement, sent by Pakenham, touching the false and malicious bruit of the earl of Essex's poisoning. If not, what you will have more done, shall be done. I am sorry I hear not how you like of that I have done, and the more, for that I ajn advertised of Pagnaney's arrival there. I would not have doubted to have made Knell to have retracted his inconsiderate and foolish speech and writing ; but God hath prevented me by taking him away, dying of the same disease that the earl died, which, most certainly, was free from any poison, and a mere flux ; a dis- ease appropriated to this country, and whereof there died many in the latter part of the last year, and some out of mine own household ; and yet free from any suspicion of poison. And for my lord of Ormond's causes, I humbly beseech your lordship be my pawn, that I will to him justice as in- differently and speedily as I will to any man, considering the cause and necessary circumstances incident to the same ; but for love and loving offices, I will do as I find cause » I crave nothing at his hand, but that which he oweth to the queen, and that which her gi'eat libera- lity, beside natural duty, bindeth him to. And if he wiU have of me that I owe him not, as he hath had, he cannot win it by crossing me, as I hear lie doth in the court ; and as I have cause to deem be Sect. I M O D E R N, O F EARLY DATE. 80 doth in this country. In fine, my lord, I am ready to accord with him ; but, my most dear lord and brother, be you upon your keeping for him, for if Essex had lived, you should have found him as violent an enemy, as his heart, power, and cunning, would have served him to have been ; and for that their malice, I take God to record, I could brook no- thing of them both. Your lordship's latter written letter I received the same day I did the first, together with one from my lord of Pem- broke to your lordship ; by both which I find, to my exceeding great comfort, the likelihood of a marriage between his lordship and my daughter, which great honour to me, my mean lineage and kin, I attribute to my match in your noble house ; for which I acknowledge myself bound to honour and serve the same, to the uttermost of my power ; yea, so joyfully have I at heart, that my dear child's so happy an advancement as this is, as, in truth, I would lie a year in close prison rather than it should break. But, alas ! my dearest lord, mine ability answereth not my hearty desire. I am poor ; mine estate, as well in livelihood and moveable, is not unknown to your lordship, which wanteth much to make me able to equal that, which I know my lord of Pembroke may have. Two thou- sand pounds I confess I have bequeathed her, which your lordship knoweth 1 might better spare her when I were dead, than one thousand living ; and in truth, my lord, I have it not, but bor- row it I must, and so I will : and if your lordship will get me leave, that I may feed my eyes with that joyful sight of their coupling, I will give her a cup worth five hundred pounds. Good my lord, bear with my poverty, for if I had it, little would I regard any sum of mo- ney, but willingly woidd give it, pro- testing before the Almighty God, that if he, and all the powers on earth, would give me my choice for a husband for her, I would choose the earl of Pembroke. I writ to my lord of Pembroke, which herewith I send your lordship ; and thus I end, in answering your most welcome and honourable letter, with my hearty prayer to Almighty God to perfect your lordship's good work, and requite you for the same, for I am not able. For myself, I am in great despair to obtain the fee farm of mv small leases, which grieveth me more for the discredit, dur- ing mine own time, than the lack of the gain to my succession, be it as God will. I find, by divers means, that there is great expectation of my wishing her ma- jesty's treasure appointed for the service of this country ; and, in truth, no man living would fainer nourish it than I ; and, in proof thereof, I will abate one thousand pounds of the quarterage due the last of March, so as L may have the other four thousand due, then delivered to the treasurer's assign, together with that due the last of December last ; and, if I can, I will abate every quarter one thousand pounds. The actual rebellion of the Clanricardines, the O'Connors, and O'Mores, the sums of money de- livered in discharge of those soldiers which were of my lord of Essex's regi- ment, and the great sums imprested in the beginning of my charge, well con- sidered ; it may and will appear a good offer ; and, I pray your lordship, let it have your favourable recommendation. Now, my dearest lord, I have a suit unto you for a necessary and honest ser- vant of mine, Hercules Rainsford, whose father, and whole lineage, are devout followers to your lordship and family. My suit is, that whereas by composition with James Wingfield, he is constable of the castle of Dublin, and therein both painfully and carefully serveth, that it would please your lordship to obtain it for him during his life. Truly, my lord, like as you should bind the poor gen- tleman, and all his honest friends, always to serve you, for your bounty done to him ; so shall I take it as a great mercy done to myself ; for truly I have found him a faithful aiid profitable servant, and beside, he hath married a good and old servant of my wife's. Good my lord, send Philip to me ; there was never father had more need of his son, than I have of him. Once again, good my lord, let me have him. For the state of this country, it may please you to give credit to Prescot. I am now, even now, deadly weary of writing, and therefore I end, praying to the Almighty to bless you with all your noble heart's desires. From Dundalk, this 4tli of February, 1576. Your most assured brother at commandment. 90 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL LETTER XL Sir Henry Sidney to Sueen Elizabeth. May it please your most excellent ma- jesty, To understand, that of late it hath pleased Almighty God to caU to his mercy the hishop of Ossory, and so the room of that see is become void, and to be now by your highness conferred. I have therefore thought it my duty, moved in zeal for the reformation of the coun- try and good of the people, humbly to beseech your majesty, that good care were had, that the church might be sup- plied with a fit man, and such a person as is acquainted with the language and man- ners of this country people might be promoted to succeed in the place ; of which number I humbly recommend unto your excellent majesty Mr. Davy Cleere, one that hath been long bred and brought up in the University of Ox- ford, a master of arts of good continu- ance, a man esteemed not meanly learned, besides well given in religion, and of a modest discreet government, and com- mendable conversation, being a man spe- cially noted unto me, by the good report of the lord archbishop of Dublin, for his sufficiency to the place, with a very earnest desire that (the same being the place of a suffragan under him) the said Cleere might be preferred unto it. The bishopric is but a mean living, yet a suf- ficient finding for an honest man. And because the sooner the place shall be full of an able man (such a one for his integrity as this man is esteemed), the greater fruit will thereby grow to the church, honour to your majesty, and no small hope to be conceived of good to the people ; whereof, as it becometh me (having the principal charge of this realm under your majesty), I have a special care. I write not only to your majesty in this case, by a report of others, but partly by knovv^ledge and experience I have had of the man my- self. And therefore am the more desirous that your majesty should graciously al- low of my commendation and choice, and give order for his admission and consecration, when it shall be your ma- jesty's pleasure to signify the same. And even so, with my most earnest and humble hearty prayer to the Almighty, long and happily to preserve your high- ness to reign over us, your majesty's humble and obedient subjects, to our in- estimable comforts, 1 humbly take my leave. From your majesty's castle of Athlone, the 4th of September, 1576. Your majesty's most humble, faithful, and obedient servant. LETTER XII. Sir Henry Sidney to Mr. Secretary Wal- singham, concerning the reports of the Earl of Essex's death. Sir, Immediately upon my return out of Connaught to this city, which was the 13th of this present October, and know- ing of the death of the earl of Essex, which I did not certainly till I came within thirty miles of this town, and that his body was gone to be buried at Car- marthen, and hearing besides, that let- ters had been sent over, as well before his death as after, that he died of poison, 1 thought good to examine the matter as far as I could learn, and certify you, to the end you might impart the same to the lords, and both satisfy them therein, and all others, whom it might please you to participate the same unto, and would believe the truth. For, in truth, there was no appearance or cause of suspicion that could be gathered that he died of poison. For the manner of his disease was this ; a flux took him on the Thurs- day at night, being the 30th of August last past, in his own house, where he had that day both supped and dined ; the day following he rode to the archbishop of Dublin's, and there supped and lodged ; the next morning following he rode to the viscount of Baltinglass, and there did lie one night, and from thence returned back to this city ; all these days he tra- velled hastily, fed three times a day, with- out finding any fault, either through in- flammation of his body or alteration of taste ; but often he would complain of grief in his belly, and sometimes say, that he had never hearty grief of mind, but that a flux would accompany the same. After he returned from this journey he grew from day to day sicker and sicker, and having an Irish physician sent to him by the earl of Ormond, doctor Trevor, an Oxford man, and my physician, Mr. Chaloner, secretary of this state, and not unlearned in physic, and one that often, for good will, giveth counsel to his friends Sect. I. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. yi in cases of sickness, and one Mr. Knell, an honest preacher in this city, and a chaplain of his own, and a professor of physic, continually with him, they never ministered any thing to him against poison. The Irish physician affirmed be- fore good mtnesses that he was not poisoned ; what the others do say of that matter, by their own writings, which herewith I send you, you shall perceive. And drawing towards his end, being especially asked by the archbishop of Dublin whether he thought that he was poisoned or no, constantly affirmed that he thought he was not ; nor that he felt in himself any cause why he should con- jecture so to be : in his sickness his colour rather bettered than impaired ; no hair of his body shed, no nail altered, nor tooth loosed, nor any part of his skin blemished. And when he was opened it could not appear that any intrail within his body, at any time, had been infected with any poison. And yet I find a bruit there was that he was poisoned ; and that arose by some words spoken by himself, and yet not originally at the first conceived of himself, as it is thought by the wisest here, and those that were continually about him; but one that was very near him at that time, and whom he entirely trusted, seeing him in extreme pain with flux and gripings in his belly, by reason of the same, said to him, By the mass, my lord, you are poisoned ; whereupon the yeoman of his cellar was presently sent for to him, and mildly and lovingly he questioned with him, saying, that he sent not for him to burden him, but to excuse him. The fellow constantly an- swered, that if he had taken any hurt by his wine he was gviilty of it ; for, my lord (saith he), since you gave me warn- ing in England to be careful of your drink, you have drank none but it passed my hands. Then it was bruited, that the boiled water which he continually drank with his wine should be made of water wherein flax or hemp should be steeped, which the yeoman of his cellar flatly denied, affirming the water which he always boiled for him was perfect good. Then it was imputed to the sugar ; he answered, he could get no better at the steward's hands, and fair though it were not, yet wholesome enough, or else it had been likely that a great many should have had a shrewd turn ; for my house- hold and many more have occupied of the same almost these twelve months. The physicians were asked what they thought, that they spoke doubtfully, saying it might be that he was poisoned, alleging that this thing or that thing might poison him, since they never gave him medicine for it ; they constantly affirm that they never thought it but for argument's sake, and partly to please the earl. He had two gentlewomen that night at supper with him that the disease took him, and they coming after to visit him, and he hearing- that they were troubled with some looseness, said that he feared that they and he had tasted of one drug, and his page (who was gone with his body over before I returned). The women upon his words were afraid, but never sick, and are in as good a state of health as they were before they supped with him. Upon suspicion of his being poisoned, Mr. Knell (as it was told me) gave him sundry times of unicorn's horns, upon which sometimes he vomited, as at other times he did, when he took it not. Thus I have delivered unto you as much as I can learn of the sick- ness and death of this noble peer, whom I left when I left Dublin, in all appear- ance a lusty, strong, and pleasant man ; and before I returned his breath was out of his body, and his body out of this country, and undoubtedly his soul in heaven ; for in my life I never heard of a man to die in such perfectness ; he was sick twenty or twenty-one days, and most of those days tormented with pangs intolerable ; but in all that time, and all that torture, he was never heard speak an idle or angry word : after he yielded to die, he desired much to have his friends come to him, and to abide with him, which they did of sundry sorts, unto v/hom he shewed such arguments of hearty repentance of his life passed, so sound charity with all the world, such assurance to be partaker of the joys of heaven through the merits of Christ's passion, such a joyful desire, speedily to be dissolved, and to enjoy the same, which he would sometimes say. That it pleased the Almighty to reveal unto him that he should be partaker of (as was to the exceeding admiration of all that heard it). He had continually about him folks of sundry degrees, as men of the clergy, gentlemen, gentlewomen, citizens, and servants, unto all which 92 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL lie would use so g'odly exhortations and grave admonitions, and that so aptly for the persons he spake unto, as in all his life he never seemed to be half so wise, learned, nor eloquent, nor of so good memory as at his death. He forgot not to send weighty warnings to some of his absent friends by message. Oft-times, when grievous pangs had driven him out of slumbers, he would make such shew of comfort in spirit, and express it with such words, as many about him thought he saw and heard some heavenly voice and vision. Many times after bitter pangs he would with cheerful countenance cry. Courage ! courage ! I have fought a good fight, and thus ought every true soldier to do, that fighteth under the standard of his captain and patron Jesus Christ. About eleven of the clock before noon, on the 22d of September, with the name of Jesus issuing out of his mouth, he left to speak any more, and shortly after lifting up his hand to the name of Jesus, when he could not speak it himself; he ceased to move any more, but sweetly and mildly his ghost departed, by all Christians to be hoped into heavenly bliss. The Al- mighty grant that all professing Christ in their life, may at their death make such testimony of Christianity as this noble earl did. ilnd thus ending my tedious letter, with the doleful (and yet com- fortable) end of this noble man, I wish you from the bottom of my heart, good life and long ; and the joy of heaven at the end. From the castle of Dublin this 20th of October, 1576. Your assured loving friend. LETTER XIIL Sir Henry Sidney to the Lords of the Council. My very good lords. My humble duty remembered to your honourable lordships : after I was come liither to deal in causes of the north, I received letters sent unto me by an ex- press messenger from the archbishop of Dublin, to desire license of me to repair into England with some note and testi- mony from me, what I had found of him here. And albeit the motion seemed to me at the first to be very sudden ; yet considering the manner of his writing, and the conveying of his moaning, pro- ceeded from some deep conceit of a per- plexed mind and a sorrowful heart, for some matter that touched him near (as it seemed), I could not deny him so reason- able a request, but granted him leave to depart, with this testimony, that I have found him ready to come to me at all times, when I had occasion to use his assistance for her majesty's service, and very willing to set forward any thing that might either concern the public be- nefit or quiet of the country, or her ma- jesty's honour or profit ; besides, a man well given, and zealous in religion, dili- gent in preaching, and no niggard in hos- pitality, but a great reliever of his poor neighbours, and by his good behaviour and dealing gained both love and credit amongst those v/ith whom he hath been conversant ; and carried himself in that reputation in the world, as I have not known him at any time either detected or suspected of any notorious or public crime. And thus much I thought good to declare to your lordships of him, and that I have not had cause at any time to think otherwise of him, but as of a spund counsellor to the queen, and good mi- nister to this country and commonwealth. And even so, beseeching your lordships' favourable acceptation of him, and in his petitions (if he have any) to stand his good lords, I humbly take my leave. From the Newry, the 12th of February, 1576. Your good lordships' assured loving friend to command. LETTER XIV. Sir Henry Sidney to his son Robert Sidney, afterwards Earl of Leicester. Robin, Your several letters of the 17th of Sep- tember and 9th of November I have re- ceived ; but that sent by Carolus Clu- sius I have not yet heard of. Your let- ters are most heartily welcome to me ; but the universal testimony that is made of you, of the virtuous course you hold in this your juvenile age, and how much you profit in the same, and what excel- lent parts God hath already planted in you, doth so rejoice me, that the sight of no earthly thing is more, or can be more, to my comfort, than hearing in this sort from, and of you. Our Lord bless you, my sweet boy. Verge, perge, my Robin, in the filial fear of God, and Sect. I. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 93 in the meanest imag^mation of yourself, and to tile loving direction of your most loving- brother. I like very well of your being- at Prague, and of your intention to go to Vienna. 1 wish you should curiously look upon the fortification of that ; and considering the state of Christendom, I cannot teU how to design your travel into Italy. I would not have you to go specially, for that there is perpetual war between the pope and us. I think the princes and potentates of that region are confederated with him ; and for some other respects, I would not have you go thither. Yet from Spain we are as it were under an inhibition ; France in endless troubles ; the LoAv Country in irrecoverable misery. So 1 leave it to your brother and your- self, whether Vienna being seen, you will return into England , or spend the next summer in those parts ; which if you do, I think best (you being satisfied with Vienna) you see the principal cities of Moravia and Silesia, and so to Cracow ; and if you can have any commodity, to see the court of the king of that realm : and from thence through Saxony, to Hoist, and Pomerland, seeing the princes' courts by the way ; and then into Denmark and Sweden, and see those kings' courts. Acquaint you somewhat with the estate of the free States ; and so at Hamburgh to embark, and to winter with me. But what do I blunder at these things ? follow the direction of your most loving brother, who in loving you is comparable with me, or exceedeth me. Imitate his vir- tues, exercises, studies, and actions; he is a rare ornament of this age, the very formular that all well-disposed young gentlemen of our court do form also their manners and life by. In truth, I speak it without flattery of him, or of myself, he hath the most rare virtues that ever I found in any man. I saw him not these six months, little to my comfort. You may hear from him Avith more ease than from me. In your travels these docu- ments I will give you, not as mine but his practices. Seek the knowledge of the estate of every prince, court, and city, that you pass through. Address your- self to the company, to learn this of the elder sort, and yet neglect not the younger. By the one you shall gather learning, wisdom, and knowledge, by the other acquaintance, languages, and exer- cise. This he effectually observed with great gain of understanding. Once again I say imitate him. I hear you are fallen into concert and fellowship with sir Harry Nevell's son and heir, and one Mr. Savell. I hear of singular virtues of them both. I am glad of your familiarity with them. The 21st of this present I received your letter of the 12th of the same, and with it a letter from Mr. Languet, who seemeth as yet to mislike nothing in you ; for which I like you a great deal the better ; and I hope I shall hear further of your commendation from him, which will be to my comfort. I find by Harry White that all your money is gone, which with some wonder dis- pleaseth me ; and if you cannot frame your charges according to that propor- tion I have appointed you, I must and will send for you home. I have sent order to Mr. Languet for one hundred pounds for you, which is twenty pounds more than I promised you ; and this I look and order that it shall serve you till the last of March, 1580. Assure yourself I will not enlarge one groat, therefore look well to your charges. I hope by that time you shall receive this letter you will be at or near Stras- burgh, from which resolve not to depart till the middle of April come twelve- month ; nor then I will not that you do, unless you so apply your study, as by that time you do conceive feelingly rhetoric and logic, and have the tongues of Latin, French, and Dutch ; which I know you may have, if you will apply your will and wit to it. I am sure you cannot but find what lack in learning you have by your often departing from Oxford ; and the like, and greater loss shall you find, if you resolve not to remain continually for the time appointed in Strasburgh. Write to me monthly, and of your charges parti- cularly ; and either in Latin or French. I take in good part that you have kept promise with me ; and on my blessing I charge you to write truly to me from time to time, whether you keep it or no ; and if you break it in some dark manner, how. Pray daily ; speak nothing but truly. Do no dishonest thing for any respect. Love IMr. Languet with reverence, unto whom in most hearty manner commend me ; and to Doctor Lubetius, and Mr. Doctor Sturmius. Farewell. If you will follow my counsel you shall be my sweet 94 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL boy. From Baynard's Castle in Lon- don, this 25th of March, 1578. Your loving" father. LETTEU XV. S'zV Philip Sidney to his father Sir Henry Sidney. Right honourable my singular good lord and father, So strangely and diversely goes the course of the world by the interchang- ing humours of those that govern it, that though it be most noble to have always one mind and one constancy, yet can it not be always directed to one point : but must needs sometiiiies alter his course, according as the force of other changes drives it. As now in your lordship's case to whom of late I wrote, wishing your lordship to return as soon as con- veniently you might, encouraged there- unto by the assurance the best sort had given me, with what honourable consi- derations your return should befal, par- ticularly to your lot : it makes me change my style, and write to your lordship, that keeping still your mind in one state of virtuous quietness, you will yet frame your course according to them. And as they delay your honourable rewarding, so you by good means do delay your re- turn, till either that ensue, or fitter time be for this. Her majesty's letters prescribed you a certain day, I think ; the day was past before Pagnam came unto you, and en- joined to do some things, the doing whereof must necessarily require some longer time. Hereupon your lords?iip is to write back, not as though you de- sired to tarry, but only shewing that un- willingly you must employ some days thereabouts ; and if it please you to add, that the chancellor's presence shall be requisite ; for by him your lordship shall either have honourable revocation, or commandment of further stay at least till Michaelmas, which in itself shall be a fitter time ; considering that then your term comes fully out, so that then your enemies cannot glory it is their procuring. In the mean time, your friends may la- bour here to bring to a better pass such your reasonable and honourable desires, which time can better bring forth than speed. Among which friends, before God there is none proceeds either so thoroughly or so wisely as my lady my mother. For mine own part I have had only light from her. Now rests it in your lordship to weigh the particula- rities of your own estate, which no man can know so well as yourself; and ac- cordingly to resolve. For mine own par^; (of which mind your best friends are here) this is your best way. At least whatsoever you resolve, I beseech you with all speed I may understand, and that if it please you with your own hand ; for truly, sir, I must needs impute it to some great dishonesty of some about you, that there is little v/ritten from you, or to you, that is not perfectly known to your professed enemies. And thus much I am very willing they should know, that I do write it unto you : and in that quarter you may, as I think, look precisely to the saving of some of those overplussages, or at least not to go any further ; and then the more time passes, the better it will be blown over. Of my being sent to the queen, being armed with good accounts, and perfect reasons for them, &c. 25th April, 1578. LETTER XVL Sir Philip Sidney to Edward IVaterhoiise, Esq. Secretary of Ireland. My good Ned, Never since you went, that ever you wrote to me, and yet I have not failed to do some friendly offices for you here. How know I that ? say you. I cannot tell. But I know that no letters I have received from you. Thus doth unkind- ness make me fall to a point of kindness. Good Ned, either come or write. Let me either see thee, hear thee, or read thee. Your other friends that know more will write more fully. I, of myself, thus much. Always one, and in one case. Me solo exultans totus teres atque rotundus. Commend me to my lord president ; to the noble sir Nicholas, whom I bear spe- cial goodwill to ; to my cousin Harry Harrington, whom I long to see in health ; sir Nicholas Bagnol : Mr. Agarde's daughter ; my cousin Spikman for your sake ; and whosoever is mayor of Dublin for my sake. And even at his house when you think good. I bid you fare- well. From Court, this 28th April, 1578. Your very loving friend. Sect. I. M O D E RN, O F E A R L Y D AT E. 95 LETTER XVII. LETTER XIX. Sir Philip Sidnei/ to Edward Molineux, Esq, Secretary to his father as Lord Deputy. Mr. Molineux, Few words are Lest. My letters to my father have come to the eyes of some. Neither can I condemn any hut you for it. If it he so, you have played the very knave with me ; and so I wiU make you know if I have good proof of it. But that for so much as is past. For that is to come, I assure you before God, that if ever 1 know you do so much as read any letter I write to my father, without his commandment, or my consent, I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to it, for I speak it in earnest. In the mean time farewell. From Court, this last day of May, 1578. LETTER XVIII. Edward Molineux, Esq. to Philip Sidney, in answer to the ahovesaid letter. Sir, I HAVE received a letter from you, which, as it is the first, so the same is the sharpest that I ever, received from any : and therefore it amazeth me the more to receive such a one from you, since I have (the world can be judge) deserved better somewhere, howsoever it pleaseth you to condemn me now. But since it is (I protest to God) without cause, or yet just ground of suspicion you use me thus, I bear the injury more patiently for a time; and mine innocency, I hope, in the end shall try mine honesty ; and then I trust you will confess you have done me wi'ong. And since your plea- sure so is expressed, that I shall not henceforth read any of your letters ; al- though I must confess I have heretofore taken both great delight and profit in reading some of them : yet upon so hard a condition (as you seem to offer) I will not hereafter adventure so great a peril, but obey you herein. Howbeit, if it had pleased you, you might have commanded me in a far greater matter, with a far less penalty. From the Castle of Dublin, the 1st of July, 1578. Yours, Avhen it shall please you better to conceive of me, humbly to command. Sir Henry Sidney to his son Sir Philip Sidney. Philip, By the letters you sent me by Sackford, you have discovered unto me your inten- tion to go over into the Low Countries, to accompany duke Cassimier, who hath with so noble offers and by so honour- able means invited you : which disposi- tion of your virtuous mind, as I must needs much commend in you, so when I enter into the consideration of mine own estate, and call to mind what prac- tices, informations, and malicious accu- sations, are devised against me ; and what an assistance in the defence of those causes your presence would be unto me, reposing myself so much both upon your help and judgment, I strive betwixt ho- nour and necessity, what allowance I may best give of that motion for your going : howbeit, if you think not my matters of that weight and difficulty (as I hope they be not), but that they may be well enough by myself, without your assistance or any other, be brought to an honour- able end, I will not be against your deter- mination. Yet would wish you, before your departure, that you come to me to the water-side * about the latter end of this month, to take your leave of me, and so from thence to depart towards your intended journey. You must now bear with me, that I write not this unto you with mine own hand, which I would have done, if the indisposition of my body had not been such I could not. God prosper you in that you shall go about, and send you to win much credit and ho- nour. And I send you my daUy blessing. Your very loving father. The 1st of August, 1578. LETTER XX. Lady Mary Sidney to Edmund Moiineux, Esq. P^Iolineux, I THOUGHT good to put you in remem- brance to move my lord chamberlain, in my lord's name, to have some other room than my chamber, for my lord to have his resort unto, as he was wont to * His house was at Baynard's Castle, by the water-side near St. Paul's. ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL have; or else my lord will be greatly troubled when he shall have any matters of dispatch ; my lodging, you see, being very little, and myself continually sick, and not able to be much out of my bed. For the night time one roof, with God's grace, shall serve us ; for the day time the queen will look to have my chamber always in a readiness for her majesty's coming thither ; and though my lord himself can be no impediment thereto by his own presence, yet his lordship, trusting to no place else to be provided for him, will be, as I said before, troubled for want of a convenient place for the dispatch of such people as shall have occasion to come to him. Therefore I pray you, in my lord's own name, move my lord of Sussex for a room for that purpose, and I will have it hanged and lined for him with stuff from hens. I wish you not to be unmindful hereof : and so for this time I leave you to the Almighty. From Chiswick, this 11th of October 1578. Your very assured loving mistress and friend. LETTER XXI. Sir Henry Sidney to his son Robert Sidney, afterwards Earl of Leicester. Robin, I HEAR well of you, and the company you keep, which is of great comfort to me. To be of noble parentage usually raises an emulation to follow their great examples. There can be no greater love than of long time hath been, and yet is, between sir Harry Nevell and me ; and so will continue till our lives end. Love you thus we have done, and do. One thing I warn you of; arrogate no pre- cedency neither of your countrymen nor of strangers ; but take your place pro- miscuous, with others, according to your degree and birthright, with aliens. Fol- low your discreet and virtuous brother's rule, who with great discretion, to his great commendation, won love, and could variously ply ceremony with ceremony. I hear you have the Dutch tongue suffi- ciently, whereof I am glad. You may therefore save money and discharge your Dutchman ; and do it indeed, and send for Mr. White ; he is an honest young man, and is fairly honest, and good and sound to me and my friends. I send you now by Stephen 30/. which you call ar- rearages : term it as you will, it is all I owe you till Easter ; and 20/. of that, as Griffin Madox telleth me, is Harry White's. I will send you at or before Frankfort mart 60/., either to bring you home, or to find you abroad, as you and your brother shall agTee, for half a year ending at Michaelmas ; so Harry White neither hath nor shall have cause to think that I am offended with him ; for I can- not look for, nor almost wish to hear bet- ter of a man than I hear of him ; and how I intend to deal with him, you may see by the letter I send him. He shall have his 20/. yearly, and you your 100/., and so be as merry as you may. I thank you, my dear boy, for the martern skins you writ-e of. It is more than ever your elder brother sent me ; and I will thank you more if they come, for yet I hear not of them, nor ever saw Cassymyre's pic- ture. The messenger (of the picture I mean) played the knave with you and me ; and after that sort you may write to him : but if your tokens come I will send you such a suit of apparel as shall beseem your father's son to wear in any court in Germany. Commend me to the doctor Simeon's father. I love the boy well. I have no more ; but God bless you, my sweet child, in this world and for ever ; as I in this world find myself happy by my children. From Ludlow Castle, this 28th of October 1 578. Your very loving father. LETTER XXII. Thomas Lord Buckhurst, to Robert Dud- ley Earl of Leicester, on the death of Sir Philip Sidney. My very good lord, With great grief do I write these lines unto you, being thereby forced to renew to your remembrance the decease of that noble gentleman your nephew, by whose death not only your lordship, and all other his friends and kinsfolks, but even her majesty and the whole realm besides do suffer no small loss and detriment. Nevertheless, it may not bring the least comfort unto you, that as he hath both lived and died in fame of honour and re- putation to his name, in the worthy ser- vice of his prince and country, and with as great love in his life, and with as many tears for his death, as ever any had ; so Sect. I. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 97 hath lie also hy his good and godly end so greatly testified the assurance of God's infinite mercy towards him, as there is no doubt but that he now liveth with im- mortality, free from the cares and cala- mities of mortal misery ; and in j3lace thereof, remaineth filled with all hea- venly joys and felicities, such as cannot be expressed : so as I doubt not, but that your lordship in wisdom, after you have yielded some while to the imperfection of man's nature, will yet in time remember how happy in truth he is, and how mi- serable and blind we are, that lament his blessed change. Her majesty seemeth resolute to call liome your lordship, and intendeth presently to think of some fit personage that may take your place and charge. And in my opinion, her ma- jesty had never more cause to wish you here than now ; I pray God send it speedily. I shall not need to enlarge my letter with any other matters, for that this messenger, your lordship's Avholly devoted, can sufficiently inform you of all. And so wishing all comfort and contentation unto your lordship, I rest your lordship's wholly for ever, to use and command as your own. From the Court, this 3d of November, 1586. Your lordship's most assured to command. LETTER XXIII. Robert Earl of Leicester, to his daughter JJorothi/ Countess of Sunderland, on the death of the Jiarl her husband, ivho lost his life, valiantly fighting for King Charles the First, at the battle of Neiu-^ beny, 20th September, 1643. My dear Doll, I KNOW it is no purpose to advise you not to grieve ; that is not my intention ; for such a loss as yours cannot be re- ceived indifferently by a nature so ten- der and so sensible as yours ; but though your affection to him whom you loved so dearly, and your reason in valuing his merit (neither of which you could do too much), did expose you to the danger of that sorrow which now op- presseth you ; yet if you consult with that affection, and with that reason, I am persuaded that you will see cause to moderate that sorrow ; for your affection to that worthy person may tell you, that even to it you cannot justify yourself, if you lament his being raised to a de- gree of happiness, far beyond any that he did or could enjoy upon the earth ; such as depends upon no uncertainties, nor can suffer no diminution ; and wherein, though he knew your suffer- ings, he could not be grieved at your afflictions. And your reason will assure you, that beside the vanity of bemoan- ing that which hath no remedy, you of- fend him whom you loved, if you hurt that person whom he loved. Remember how apprehensive he was of your dan- gers, and how sorry for any thing that troubled you : imagine that he sees how you afflict and hurt yourself; you will then believe, that though he looks upon it without any perturbation, for that cannot be admitted, by that blessed condition wherein he is, yet he may cen- sure you, and think you forgetful of the friendship that was between you, if you pursue not his desires, in being care- ful of yourself, who was so dear unto him. But he sees you not ; he knows not what you do ; well,, what then ! Will you do any thing that would dis- please him if he knew it, because he is where he doth not know it? I am sure that was never in your thoughts ; for the rules of your actions were, and must be, virtue, and affection to your husband, not the consideration of his ig- norance or knowledge of what you do ; that is but an accident ; neither do I think that his presence was at any time more than a circumstance, not at all ne- cessary to your abstaining from those things which might displease him. Assure yourself, that all the sighs and tears that your heart and eyes can sacrifice unto your grief, are not such testimonies of your affection as the taking care of those whom he loved, that is, of your- self and of those pledges of your mutual friendship and affection which he hath left with you ; and which, though you would abandon yourself, may justly chal- lenge of you the performance of their father's trust, reposed in you, to be careful of them. For their sakes, there- fore, assuage your grief; they all have need of you, and one, es{)ecially, whose life, as yet, doth absolutely depend on yours. I know you lived happily, and so as nobody but yourself could mea- sure the contentment of it. I rejoiced H m ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book U at it, and did thank God for making me one of the means to procure it for you. That now is past, and I will not flatter you so much as to say, I think you can ever he so happy in this life again : but this comfort you owe me, that I may see you bear this change and your mis- fortunes patiently. I shall be more pleased with that than with the other, by as much as I esteem virtue and wis- dom in you more than any inconstant benefits that fortune could bestow upon you. It is likely that, as many others do, you will use examples to authorise the present passion which possesseth you ; and you may say, that our Sa- viour himself did weep for the death of one he loved ; that is true ; but we must not adventure too far after his example in that, no more than a child should run into a river, because he saw a man wade through ; for neither his sorrow, nor any other passion could make him sin ; but it is not so with us. He was pleased to take our infirmities, but he hath not imparted to us his power to limit or restrain them ; for if we let our passions loose they will grow headstrong, and deprive us of the pov/er which we must reserve to our- selves, that we may recover the govern- ment which our reason and our religion ought to have above them. I doubt not but your eyes are full of tears, and not the emptier for those they shed. God comfort you, and let us join in prayer to him, that he will be pleased to give his grace to you, to your mother, and to myself, that all of us may resign and submit ourselves en- tirely and cheerfully to his pleasure. So nothing shall be able to make us unhap- py in this life, nor to hinder us from being happy in that which is eternal. Which that you may enjoy at the end of your days, whose number I wish as great as of any mortal creature ; and that through them all you may find such comforts as are best and most necessary for you ; it is, and shall ever be, the constant prayer of your father that loves you dearly. Oxford, 10th October, 16^3. LETTER XXIV. Robert Earl of Leicester to the Queen, at Oxford, desiring to know why he was dismissed from the office of Lord Lieu- tenant of Ireland. Madam, Suffer yourself, I beseech you, to re- ceive from a person, happy heretofore in your majesty's good opinio:*, this humble petition : That whereas the king hath conferred a great honour upon me, which now he hath taken from me, after a long and expenceful attendance for my dispatch ; and after his majesty had di- vers times signified, not only to me, but to my lord Percy also, his intention to seed me into Ireland ; since which, I cannot imagine what I have done, to al- ter his majesty's just and gracious pur- pose towards me. And whereas it hath pleased the king to tell me lately that he had both ac- quainted your majesty at the first, Mdth his intention to give me that employ- ment, and since, that he would deprive me of it ; I humbly conceive it to be very likely, that the king hath also told your majesty the cause that moved him to it ; for I presume, that upon a servant of his and yours, recommended to his favour by your majesty, he ^vould not put such a disgrace without teUing your majesty the reason why he did it ; but, as I could never flatter myself with any con- ceit that I had deserved that honour, so I cannot accuse myself neither of having deserved to be dispossessed of it in a manner so extraordinary, and so unusual to the king, to punish without shewing the causes of his displeasure. In all humility, therefore, I beseech your majesty to let me know my faulty which I am confident I shall acknow- ledge, as soon as I may see it ; for though it be too late to offer such satis- faction as, being graciously accepted, might have prevented the misfortune which has fallen upon me ; yet I may present the testimonies of my sorrow for having given any just cause of offence to either of your majesties. I seek not to recover my office, ma- dam, but your good opinion ; or to obtain your pardon, if my fault be but of error ; and that I may either have the happi- ness to satisfy your majesties that I have Sect. I. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 99 not offended, and so justify my first in- nocence, or gain repentance, wliicli I may call a second innocence. I must confess, this is a g-reat importunity ; but, I presume, your majesty will forgive it, if you please to consider how much I am concerned in that which brings instant destruction to my fortune, present dis- honour to myself, and the same, for ever, to my poor family ; for I might have passed away unregarded and unremem- bered. But now, having been raised to an eminent place, and dispossessed of it otherwise than I think any of my prede- cessors in that place have been, the usual time being not expired, no offence ob- jected, nor any recompence assigned ; I shall be transmitted to the knowledge of following times with a mark of distrust, which I cannot but think an infamy, full of grief to myself, and of prejudice to my posterity. For these reasons, I humbly beseech your majesty to make my offence to ap- pear, that I may undeceive myself, and see that it was but a false integrity which I have boasted and presumed up- on, that others may knovf that which yet they can but suspect ; and that I may no longer shelter myself under the vain protection of a pretended affection to the king and your majesty's service, nor imder the ext:iise of ignorance or infirmity : but let me bear the whole burden of disloyalty and ingratitude, which admits no protection nor excuse. And I humbly promise your majesty, that if either of those crimes be proved against me, I never will be so impudent as to importune you for my pardon. But if I be no otherwise guilty than a misinformation, or misfortune, many times makes men in this world ; then I heg leave to think still, that I have been a faithful subject and servant to the king. And though I renounce all other worldly contentments, whilst the miseries of these times endure, wherein the king, your majesty, and the whole kingdom suffer so much that it would be a shame for any private man to be happy, and a sin to think himself so ; yet there is one happiness that I may jus- tify ; therefore I aspire unto it, and humbly desire it of your majesty, that you will be pleased to think of me as of your majesty's most faithful and most obedient creature. 9th December, 1643. LETTER XXV. Algernon Sidney to his father Robert Earl of Leicester, My Lord, The passage of letters from England hither is so uncertain, that I did not, until within these very few days, hear the sad news of my mother's death. I was then with the king of Sweden at Nyco- pin in Faister. This is the first oppor- tunity I have had, of sending to condole with your lordship, a loss that is so great to yourself and your family; of which my sense was not so much diminished in being prepared by her long, languishing, and certainly incurable sickness, as in- creased by the last words and actions of her life. I confess, persons in such tem- pers are most fit to die, but they are also most wanted here ; and we that for a while are left in the world are most apt, and perhaps with reason, to regret most the loss of those we most want. It may be, light and human passions are most suitably employed upon human and worldly things, wherein we have some sensible concernment ; thoughts, abso- lutely abstracted from ourselves, are more suitable unto that steadiness of mind that is much spoken of, little sought, and never found, than that which is seen amongst men. It were a small compli- ment for me to offer your lordship to leave the employment in which I am, if I may in any thing be able to ease your lordship's solitude. If I could propose that to myself, I would cheerfully leave a condition of much more pleasure and advantage than I can with reason hope for. LETTER XXVI. Dr. Sharp to the Duke of Buckingham ; with Queen Elizabeth's speech to her army at Tilbury Fort, I REMEMBER, in eighty-ciglit, waiting upon the earl of Leicester at Tilbury camp, and in eighty-nine going into Portugal with my noble master, the earl of Essex, I learned somewhat fit to be imparted to your grace. The queen, lying in the camp one night, guarded with her army, the old lord treasurer Burleigh capie thither, and delivered to the earl the examina- H % 100 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL tion of Don Pedro, who was taken and brought in by sir Francis Drake, which examination the earl of Leicester de- livered unto me to publish to the army in my next sermon. The sum of it was this : Don Pedro being asked, what was the intent of their coming, stoutly answered the lords, What, but to subdue your na- tion, and root it out? Good, said the lords ; and what meant you then to do with the Catholics. He answered. We meant to send them (good men) directly unto Heaven, as all you that are heretics to Hell. Yea, but said the lords, What meant you to do with your whips of cord and wire ? (whereof they had great store in their ships) What ? said he ; we meant to whip you heretics to death, that have assisted my master's rebels, and done such dishonours to our Catholic king and people. Yea, but what would you have done, said they, with their young children ? They, said he, which were above seven years old, should have gone the way their fathers went ; the rest should have lived, branded in the forehead with the letter L. for Lutheran, to perpetual bondage. This, I take God to witness, I re- ceived of those great lords upon exami- nation taken by the council, and by commandment delivered it to the army. The queen, the next morning, rode through all the squadrons of her army, as armed Pallas, attended by noble foot- men, Leicester, Essex, and Norris, then lord marshal, and divers other great lords, where she made an excellent oration to her army, which the next day after her departure I was commanded to redeliver to all the army together, to keep a pub- lic fast. Her words were these : — " My loving people, we have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety, to take heed how we com- mit ourself to armed multitudes for fear of treachery : but I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear ; I have always so behaved myself, that under God I have jilaced my chiefest strength and safeguard in the layal hearts and goodwill of my subjects. And there- fore I am come amongst you as you see at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved in the midst and licat of the battle to live or die amongst you all, to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my peo- ple, my honour, and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too ; and think foul scorn, that Parma, or Spain, or any prince in Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm ; to which, rather than any dishonour should grow by me, I myself will take up arms, I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already for your forwardness you have deserved rewards and crowns ; and we do assure you, in the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you. In the mean time, my lieu- tenant general shall be in my stead, than whom never prince commanded a more noble or worthy subject : not doubting but by your obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and your valour in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over those enemies of my God, of my kingdoms, and of my people." This I thought would delight your grace, and no man hath it but myself, and sucli as I have given it to ; and therefore I made bold to send it unto you, if you have it not already. LETTER XXVII. Lord Bacon to James I. It may please your most excellent majesty, I DO many times with gladness, and for a remedy of my other labours, revolve in my mind the great happiness which God (of his singular goodness) hath accumu- lated upon your majesty every way ; and how complete the same would be, if the state of your means were once rectified and well ordered ; your people military and obedient, fit for war, used to peace ; your church enlightened with good preachers, as an heaven with stars ; your judges learned, and learning from you ; just, and just by your example ; your nobility in a right distance between crown and people, no oppressors of the people, no overshadowers of the crown; your council full of tributes of care, faith, and freedom ; your gentlemen and justices of peace willing to apply Sect. 1. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 101 your royal mandates to the nature of their several counties, but ready to obey ; your servants in awe of your wisdom, in hope of your goodness ; the fields grow- ing every day, by the improvement and recovery of grounds, from the desert to the garden ; the city grown from wood to brick ; your sea-walls, or pomeriuju of your island surveyed, and in edifying ; your merchants embracing the wliole compass of the world, east, west, north, and south ; the times giving you peace, and yet offering you opportunities of action abroad ; and, lastly, your excellent royal issue entailing these blessings and favours of God to descend to all poste- rity. It resteth, therefore, that God having done so great things for your ma- jesty, and you for others, you would do so much for yourself as to go through (according to your good beginnings) with the rectifying and settling of your estate and means, which only is wanting. Hoc rebus defuit unum. I, therefore, whom only love and duty to your ma- jesty and your royal line hath made a financier, do intend to present unto your majesty a perfect book of your estate, like a perspective glass, to draw your estate near to your sight ; beseeching your majesty to conceive, that if I have not attained to that tliat 1 would do in this which Is not proper for me, nor in my element, I shall make your majesty amends in some other thing in which I am better bred. God ever preserve, &c. LETTER XXVIII. Sir Walter Raleigh to James I. It is one part of the office of a just and worthy prince to hear the complaints of his vassals, especially such as are in great misery. I know not, amongst many other presumptions gathered against me, how your majesty hath been persuaded that I was one of them who were greatly discontented, and therefore the more likely to prove disloyal. But the great God so relieve me in both worlds as I was the contrary ; and I took as great comfort to behold your ma- jesty, and always learned some good, and bettering my knowledge by hearing your majesty's discourse. I do most humbly beseech your sovereign majesty not to believe any of those in my particular, who, under pretence of offences to kings, do easily work their particular revenge. I trust no man, under the colour of making examples, should persuade your majesty to leave the word merciful out of your style ; for it will be no less profit to your majesty, and become your greatness, than the word invincible. It is true, that the laws of England are no less jealous of the kings than Csesar was of Pompey's wife ; for notwithstanding she was cleared for having company with Claudius, yet for being suspected he: condemned her. For myself, I protest before Almighty God, and I speak it to my master and sovereign, that I never invented treason against him ; and yet I know t shall fall in manibus eorum, a qui- bus non possum evadere, unless by your majesty's gracious compassion I be sus- tained. Our law therefore, most merci- ful prince, knowing her own cruelty, and knowing that she is wont to compound treason out of presumptions and circum- stances, doth give this charitable advice to the king her supreme, Non solum sa- piens esse sed et misericors, &c. Cmn tutius sit reddere rationetn misericordice quam judicii. I do, therefore, on the knees of my heart beseech your majesty, from your own sweet and comfortable disposition, to remember that I have served your majesty twenty years, for which your majesty hath yet given me no reward : and it is fitter I should be indebted unto my sovereign lord, than the king to his poor vassal. Save me therefore, most merciful prince, that I may owe your majesty my life itself, than which there cannot be a greater debt. Limit me at least, my sovereign lord, that I may pay it for your service when your majesty shall please. If the law destroy me, your majesty shall put me out of your power, and I shall have none to fear but the King of kings. LETTER XXIX. Sir Walter Raleigh to Sir Robert Car. Sir, After many losses and many years sor- rows, of both which I have cause to fear I was mistaken in their ends, it is come to my knowledge, that yourself (Avhom I know not but by an honourable favour) hath been persuaded to give me and mine my last fatal blow, by obtaining from his majesty the inheritance of my 102 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 11. cflildren and nephews, lost in law for want of a word. This done, there re- maineth nothing' with me but the name of life. His majesty, whom I never of- fended (for I hold it unnatural and un- manlike to hate goodness), staid me at the grave's brink ; not that I thought his majesty thought me worthy of many deaths, and to behold mine cast out of the world with myself, but as a king that knoweth the poor in truth, hath received a promise from God, that his throne shall be established. And for you, sir, seeing your fair day is but in the dawn, mine drawn to the setting ; your own virtues and the king's grace assuring you of many fortunes and much honour ; I beseech you begin not your first building upon the ruins of the innocent, and let not mine and their sor- rows attend your lii'st plantation. I have ever been bound to your nation, as well for many other graces, as for the true report of my trial to the king's majesty ; against whom had I been malignant, the hearing of my cause would not have changed enemies into friends, malice into compassion, and the minds of the greatest number then present into the commiseration of mine estate. It is not the nature of foul treason to beget such fair passions : neither could it agree with the duty and love of faithful subjects (especially of your nation) to bewail his overthrow that had conspired against their most natural and liberal lord. 1 there- fore trust that you will not be the first that shall kill us outright, cut down the tree with the fruit, and undergo the curse of them that enter the fields of the fa- therless ; which, if it please you to know the truth, is far less in value than in fame. But that so worthy a gentleman as yourself will rather bind us to you (being six gentlemen not base in birth and alliance which have interest therein) ; and myself, with my uttermost thankful- ness, will remain ready to obey your commandments. LETTER XXX. Sir Walter Raleigh to Prince. Henrj/, son of James I. May it please your highness. The following lines are addressed to your highness from a man who values his liberty, and a very small fortune in a remote part of this island, under the present constitution, above all the riches and honours that he could any where enjoy under any other establishment. You see, sir, the doctrines that are lately come into the world, and how far the phrase has obtained of calling your royal father, God's vicegerent ; which ill men have turned both to the dishonour of God, and the impeachment of his ma- jesty's goodness. They adjoin vicege- rency to the idea of being aU-powerful, and not to that of being all-good. His majesty's wisdom, it is to be hoped, will save him from the snare that may lie under gross adulations : but your youth, and the thirst of praise which I have observed in you, may possibly mislead you to hearken to these charmers, who would conduct your noble nature into tyranny. Be careful, O my prince ! Hear them not, fly from their deceits ; you are in the succession to a throne, from whence no evil can be imputed to you, but aU. good must be conveyed from you. Your father is called the vicegerent of Heaven ; while he is good, he is the vicegerent of Heaven. Shall man have authority from the fountain of good to do evil ? No, my prince 5 let mean and degenerate spirits, which want benevoleni^e, suppose your power impaired by a disability of doing injuries. If want of power to do ill be an incapacity in a prince, with reverence be it spoken, it is an incapacity he has in common with the Deity. Let me not doubt but all pleas, which do not carry in them the mutual happiness of prince and people, will appear as absurd to your great understanding, as disagreeable to your noble nature. Exert yourself, O gene- rous prince, against such sycophants, in the glorious cause of liberty ; and as- sume such an ambition worthy of you, ta secure your feUow-creatures from slavery ; from a condition as much below that of brutes, as to act without reason is less miserable than to act against it. Pre- serve to your future subjects the divine right of free agents ; and to your own royal house the divine right of being their benefactors. Believe me, my prince, there is no other right can flov/ from God. While your highness is foi*m- ing yourself for a throne, consider the laws as so many common-places in youi* study of the science of government ; when you mean nothing but justice they are an Sect. I. xMODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 103 ease and help to yoii. This way of tliinkiiig is ^Yllat gave men the giorioiis appellations of deliverers and fathers of their country ; this made the sight of them rouse their beholders into acclama- tions, and mankind incapable of bearing- their yery appearance, Tvithout applaud- ing it as a benefit. Consider the inex- pressible advantages which will ever at- tend yoiu- highness, while you make the power of rendering men happy the mea- sure of your actions ; while this is your impulse, how easily ^^iil that power be extended ! The glance of your eye v»'ill give gladness, and your very sentence have a force of beauty. "VVTiatever some men would insinuate, you have lost yoiu* subjects when you have lost their incli- nations. You are to preside over the minds, not the bodies of men ; the soul is the essence of the man, and you can- not have the true man against his incli- nations. Chuse therefore to be the king or the conqueror of your people ; it may be submission, but it cannot be obedience that is passive. I am, sir, your high- iiess's most faithful servant. London, Aug. 12, 1611. LETTER XXXT. Lord Bacon to James I. after his disgrace. To the King. It may please your most excellent Majesty, In the midst of my misery, vihicli is rather assuaged by remembrance than by hope, my chiefest Yvorldly comfort is to think, that since the time I had the first vote of the commons house of parlia- ment for commissioner of the union, until the time that I was, by this last par- liament, chosen by both houses for their messenger to your majesty in the petition of religion (which two were my first and last services), I was evermore so happy as to have my poor services graciously accepted by your majesty, and likcAvise not to have had any of them miscarry in my hands ; neither of which points i can any wise take to myself, but ascribe the former to your majesty's goodness, and the latter to youi' prudent directions, which I was ever carefid to have and keep. For, as I have often said to your majesty, I was towards you but as a bucket and cistern, to draw forth and conserve, whereas vourself was the foun- tain. Unt(r this comfort of nineteen years prosperity, there succeeded a com- fort even in my greatest adversity, some- what of the same natm-e, which is, that in those oifences wherewith I was charg- ed, there was not any one that had spe- cial relation to your majesty, or any your particular commandments. For as towards Almighty God there are offen- ces against the first and second table ;, and yet all against God ; so with the servants of kmgs, there are offences more imme- diate against the sovereign, although all offences against law are also against, the king. Unto Avhich comfort there is added this circumstance, that as my faults were not against your majesty, otherwise than as all faults are ; so my fall was not your majesty's act, otherwise than as ail acts of justice are yours. This I write not to insinuate with your majesty, but as a most humble appeal to your majesty's gracious remembrance, how honest and direct you have ever found me in your service, whereby I have an assured belief, that there is in your majesty's ovni princely thoughts a great deal of serenity and clearness to- wards me, your majesty's novr prostrate and cast down servant. Neither, my most gracious sovereign, do I, by this mention of my former ser- vices, lay claim to your princely graces and bounty, though the privilege of cala- mity doth bear that form of petition. I know well, had they been much more, they had been but my bounden duty; nay, I must also confess, that they were from time to time, far above my merit, over and super-rewarded by your ma- jesty's benefits, which you heaped upon me. Your majesty was and is that master to me, that raised and advanced me nine times, thrice in dignity, and six times in offices. The places were indeed the painfiiUest of all your services ; but then they had both honour and profits ; and the then profits might have main- tained my now honours, if I had been wise ; neither was your majesty's im- mediate liberality wanting towards me in some gifts, if I may hold them. All this I do most thankfully acknowledge, and do herewith conclude, that for any thing arising fi'om myself to move youi- eye of pity tOMards me, there is much more in my present misery than in my past services ; save that the same, your 104 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 11. majesty's goodness, that n^ay give relief to the one, may give vahie to the othei'. And, indeed, if it may please your majesty, this theme of my misery is so plentiful, as it need not be coupled with any thing* else. I ];iave been somebody by your majesty's sing-ular and unde- served favour, even the prime officer of your kingdom. Your majesty's arm hath often been laid over mine in coun- cil, when you presided at the table ; so near was I ! I have borne your majesty's imag-e in metal, much more in my heart. I was never, in nineteen years service, chidden by your majesty ; but contrari- wise, often overjoyed when your majesty would sometimes say, 1 was a good hus- band for you, though none for myself; sometimes, that I had a way to deal in business suavibus modis, which was the way which was most according to your own heart ; and other most gracious speeches, of affections and trust, which 1 feed on to this day. But why should I speak of these things, which are now vanished, but only the Letter to express my downfal ? For now it is thus with me : I am a year and a half '^' old in misery ; though I must ever acknowledge, not without some mixture of your majesty's grace and mercy. For I do not think it possi- ble that any one, v/hom you once loved, should be totally miserable. Mine own means, through my own improvidence, are poor and weak, little better than my father left me. The poor things that I have had from your majesty are either in question or at courtesy. My dignities remain marks of your past favour, but burdens of my present fortune. The poor remnants which 1 had of my for- mer fortunes in plate or jewels, I have spread upon poor men unto whom I owed, scarce leaving myself a convenient subsistence ; so as to conclude, I must pour out my misery before your majesty so far as to say. Si tu deserts, perhnus. But as I can offer to your majesty's compassion little arising from myself to move you, except it be my extreme misery, which 1 have truly opened : so looking up to your majesty's own self, 1 should think 1 committed Cain's fault, if I should despair. Your majesty is a king whose heart is as unscrutable for ••i"- Thcrcforn this was wrote near the middle of the vear 1()22. secret motions of goodness, as for depth of v/isdom. You are creator-like, fac- tive not destructive : you are the prince in whom hath ever been noted an aver- sion against any thing that favoured of an hard heart : as on the other side, your princely eye was wont to meet with any motion that was made on the re- lieving part. Therefore, as one tliat hath had the happiness to know your majesty near-hand, I have, most gra- cious sovereign, faith enough for a mira- cle, and much more for a grace, that your majesty will not suffer your poor creature to be utterly defaced, nor blot the name quite out of your book, upon M'liich your sacred hand hath been so oft for the giving him new ornaments and additions. Unto this degree of compassion, I hope God (of whose mercy towards me, both in my prosperity and adversity, 1 have had great testimonies and pledges, though mine own manifold and wretched unthankfulness might have averted them) will dispose your princely heart, al- ready prepared to all piety you shall do for mef. And as all commiserable per- sons (especially such as find their hearts void of all malice) are apt to think that all men pity them, so I assure myself that the lords of your council, who, out of their wisdom and nobleness, cannot but be sensible of human events, will in this way which I go for the relief of my estate, further and advance your ma- jesty's goodness towards me ; for there is, as I conceive, a kind of fraternity be- tween great men that are, and those that have been, being but the several tenses of one verb. Nay, 1 do farther presume, that both houses of parliament will love their justice the better, if it end not in my ruin : for I have been often told by many of my lords, as it were in the way of excusing the severity of the sentence, that they know they left me in good hands. And your majesty knoweth well I have been all my life long acceptable to those assemblies : not by flattery, but by moderation, and by honest express- ing of a desire to have all things go fairly and well. But if it may please your majesty (for saints 1 shall give them reverence, but no adoration •, my addrjj^s is to your f Vouchsafe to express towards me, Sect. I. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 105 majesty, the fountain of goodness) your majesty sliall, by the grace of God, not feel that in gift which I shall extremely feel in help ; for my desires are moderate, and my com'ses measured to a life or- derly and reserved, hoping still to do your majesty honour in my way ; only i most humbly beseech your majesty to give me leave to conclude with these words, which necessity speaketh : Help me, dear sovereign, lord and master, and pity so far, as that I, that have borne a bag, be not now in my age, forced in effect to bear a wallet ; nor that I, that desire to live to study, may not be driven to study to live. I most humbly crave pai'don of a long letter after a long si- lence. God of heaven ever bless, pre- serve, and prosper your majesty. Your majesty's poor ancient servant and beds- LETTER XXXII. Lord Baltimore to Lord Wentiuorth, af- terwards Earl of Strafford. My lord. Were not my occasions such as neces- sarily keep me here at this time, I would not send letters, but fly to you myself with all the speed I could, to express my own grief, and to take part of yours, which I know is exceedingly great, for the loss of so noble a lady, so virtuous and so loving a wife. There are few, perhaps?, can judge of it better than I, Avho have been a long time my- self a man of sorrows. But all things, my lord, in this world pass away statii- tiim est, wife, children, honour, wealth, friends, and what else is dear to flesh and blood ; they are but lent us till God please to call for them back again, that we may not esteem any thing our own, or set our hearts upon any thing but him alone, who only remains for ever. I beseech his almighty goodness to grant that your lordship may, for his sake, bear this great cross with meekness and patience, whose only son, our dear Lord and Saviour, bore a greater for you ; and to consider that these humiliations, though they be very bitter, yet are they sovereign medicines ministered unto us by our heavenly physician to cure the sicknesses of our souls, if the fault be not ours. Good my lord, bear with this ex- cess of zeal in a friend whose great af- fection to you transports him to dwell longer upon this melancholy theme than is needful to your lordship, whose own wisdom, assisted with God's grace, I hope, suggests unto you these and bet- ter resolutions than I can offer unto your remembrance. All 1 have to say more is but this, that I humbly and heartily pray for you to dispose of yourself and your affairs (the rites being done to the noble creature) as to be able to remove, as soon as conveniently you may, from those parts, where so many things re- present themselves unto you, as to make your wound bleed afresh ; and let us have you here, where the gracious Avel- come of your master, tlie conversation of your friends, andvariety of businesses, may divert your thoughts the sooner from sad objects ; the continuance whereof wiU but endanger your health, on which depends the welfare of your children, the comfort of your friends, and many other good things, for which 1 hope God will reserve you, to whose divine favour I humbly recommend you, and remain ever your lordship's most affectionate and faithful servant. From my lodging in Lincolns- Inn-Fields, Oct, 11, 1631. LETTER XXXIII. Lord IVentworth to Archbishop Laud. May it please your grace, I AM gotten hither to a poor house I have, having been this last week almost feasted to death at York. In truth, for any thing I can find, they were not ill pleased to see me. Sure I am, it much contented me to be amongst my old ac- quaintance, which I would not leave for any other affection I have, but to that which I both profess and owe to the i)er- son of his sacred majesty. Lord ! with \vhat quietness in myself could I live in comparison of that noise and labour I met with elsewhere ; and I protest put up more crowns in my purse at the year's end too. But we'll let that pass. For I am not like to enjoy that blessed condi- tion upon earth. And therefore my re- solution is set, to endure and struggle with it so long as this crazy body will bear it ; and finally drop into the silent gr.ave, M'here both all these (which I now could, as I think, innocentlv de- 106 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL light myself in) and myself are to be forgotten ; and fare them well. I per- suade myself exuio lepido I am able to lay them down very quietly, and yet leave behind me, as a truth not to be forgotten, a perfect and full remem- brance of my being your grace's most humbly to be commanded. Gawthorp, the 17th of Aug. 1636. LETTER XXXIV. Charles I. to Lord Weniivorth. Wentworth, Certainly I should be much to blame not to admit so good a servant as you are to speak with me, since I deny it to none that there is not a just exception against ; yet I must freely tell you, that the cause of this desire of yours, if it be known, will rather hearten than discourage your enemies ; for, if they can once find that you apprehend the dark setting of a storm, when I say No, they will make you leave to care for any thing in a short while but for your fears. And, believe it, the marks of my favours that stop mali- cious tongues are neither places nor titles, but the little welcome I give to accusers, and the willing ear I give to my servants ; this is, not to disparage those favours (for envy flies most at the fairest mark), but to shew their use ; to wit, not to quell envy, but to reward service ; it be- ing truly so, when the master without the servant's importunity does it ; other- wise men judge it more to proceed from the servant's wit, than the master's fa- vour. I will end with a rule, that may serve for a statesman, a courtier, or a lover : Never make a defence or apology before you be accused. And so I rest your assured friend. Lindhurst, 3d Sept. 1636. For my lord marshal, as you have armed me, so I warrant you. LETTER XXXV. Charles I. to the Earl of Strafford, Strafford, The misfortune that is fallen upon you by the strange mistaking and conjuncture of these times being such, that I must lay by the thought of employing* you hereafter in my affairs ; yet I cannot satisfy myself in honour or conscience, without assuring you (now in the midst of your troubles) that, upon the word of a king, you shall not suffer in life, 1 honour, or fortune. This is but justice, w and therefore a very mean reward from a master to so faithful and able a servant as you have shewed yourself to be ; yet ■ it is as much as I conceive the present ■ times will permit, though none shall hinder me from being your constant faithful friend. WliitehaU, April 23, 1641. LETTER XXXVl. Earl of Strafford to his Son. My dearest Will, These are the last lines that you are to receive from a father that tenderly loves you. I wish there were a greater leisure to impart my mind unto you ; but our merciful God will supply all things by his grace, and guide and protect you in all your ways : to whose infinite goodness I bequeath you ; and therefore be not discouraged, but serve him, and trust in him, and he will preserve and prosper you in aU things. Be sure you give all respect to my wife, that hath ever had a great love unto you, and therefore wiU be well be- coming you. Never be wanting in your love and care to your sisters, but let them ever be most dear unto you ; for this will give others cause to esteem and respect you for it, and is a duty that you owe them in the memory of your excellent mother and myself ; therefore your care and affection to them must be the very same that you are to have of yourself ; and the like regard must you have to your youngest sister ; for indeed you owe it to her also both for her father and mother's sake. Sweet Will, be careful to take the ad- vice of those friends which are by me de- sired to advise you for your education. Serve God diligently morning and even- ing, and recommend yourself unto him, and have him before your eyes in all your ways. With patience here the in- structions of those friends I leave with you, and diligently follow their counsel ; for, till you come by time to have ex- Sect. I. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 107 perience in the world, it mU. be far more safe to trust to their judgmeuts than your own. Lose not the time of yoiu* youth , but gather those seeds of virtue and know- ledge which may be of use to yourself, and comfort to your fi*iends, for the rest of your life. And that this may be the better effected, attend thereunto with pa- tience, and be sure to correct and refrain yourself from anger. Siiffer not sorrow to cast you down, but with cheerfulness and good courage go on the race you have to run in all sobriety and truth. Be sure with an hallowed care to have re- spect to all the commandments of God, and give not yourself to neglect them in the least things, lest by degrees you come to forget them in the greatest ; for the heart of a man is deceitful above all things. And in all your duties and de- votions towards God, rather perform them joyfully than pensively, for God loves a cheerful giver. For your reli- gion, let it be directed according to that which shall be taught by those wliich are in God's church, the proper teachers, therefore, rather than that you ever either fancy one to yourself, or be led by men that are singular in their own opinions, and delight to go ways of their own finding out ; for you will certainly find soberness and truth in the one, and much unsteadiness and vanity in the other. Tlie king, I trust, will deal graciously with you, restore you those honours and that fortune which a distempered time hath deprived you of, together with the life of your father : which I rather ad- vise might be by a new gift and creation from himself, than by any other means, to the end you may pay the thanks to him without having obligation to any other. Be sure you avoid as much as you can to inquire after those that have been sharp in their judgments towards me ; and I charge you never to suffer thought if he hath any grace, you have so well corrected him. So I rest yours to serve and reverence you. LETTER XXXIII. From the same to his honoured friend Sir S. C. Sir, Holborn, 17th March, 1639. I WAS upon point of going abroad to steal a solitary walk, when yours of the 12th current came to hand. Tlie high researches and choice abstracted notions Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 139 I found therein, seemed to heighten my spirits, and make my fancy litter for my intended retirement and meditation : add hereunto that the countenance of the weather invited me ; for it was a still evening, it was also a clear open sky, not a speck, or the least wrinkle appeared in the whole face of heaven, it was such a pure deep azure all the hemisphere over, that I wondered what was become of the three regions of the air with their meteors. So having got into a close held, I cast my face upward, and fell to consider wliat a rare prerogative the op- tic virtue of the eye hath, much more the intuitive virtue in the thought, that the one in a moment can reach heaven, and the other go beyond it ; therefore sure that philosopher was but a kind of frantic fool, that would have plucked out both his eyes, because they were a hin- drance to his speculations. Moreover, I began to contemplate, as I was in this posture, the vast magnitude of the uni- verse, and what proportion this poor globe of earth might bear with it ; for if those numberless bodies which stick in the vast roof of heaven, though they appear to us but as spangles, be some of them thousands of times bigger than the earth, take the sea with it to boot, for they both make but one sphere, surely the astro- nomers had reason to term this sphere an indivisible point, and a thing of no di- mension at all, being compared to the whole world. I fell then to think, that at the second general destruction, it is no more for God Almighty to fire this earth, than for us to blow up a small squib, or rather one small grain of gunpowder. As I Avas musing thus, I spied a swarm of gnats waving up and down the air about me, which I knew to be part of the uni- verse as well as I : and methought it was a strange opinion of our Aristotle to hold, that the least of those small insected ephe- merans should be more noble than the sun, because it had a sensitive soul in it. I fell to think that in the same proportion which those animalillios bore with me in point of bigness, the same I held with those glorious spirits which are near the throne of the Almighty. What then should we think of the magnitude of the Creator himself? Doubtless, it is beyond the reacb of any human imagination to conceive it : in my private devotions I presume to compare him to a great mountain of light, and my soul seems to discern some glorious form therein ; but suddenly as she would fix her eyes upon the object, her sight is presently dazzled and disgregated Avith the reful- gency and coruscations thereof. Walking a little further I spied a young boisterous bull breaking over hedge and ditch to a herd of kine in the next pas- ture ; which made me think, that if that fierce, strong animal, with others of that kind, knew their own strength, they would never suffer man to be their mas- ter. Then looking upon them quietly grazing up and down, I fell to consider that the flesh which is daily dished upon our tables is but concocted grass, which is recarnified in our stomachs, and transmuted to another flesh. I fell also to think what advantage those innocent animals had of man, who as soon as na- ture cast them into the world, find their meat dressed, the cloth laid, and the table covered ; they find their drink brewed, and the buttery open, their beds made, and their clothes ready; and though man hath the faculty of reason to make him a compensation for the want of those advantages, yet this reason brings with it a thosuand per- turbations of mind and perplexities of spirit, griping cares and anguishes of thought, which those harmless silly creatures were exempted fi-om. Going on I came to repose myself upon the trunk of a tree, and I fell to consider further what advantage that dull vege- table had of those feeding animals, as not to be so troublesome and beholden to nature, not to be subject to starving, to diseases, to the inclemency of the wea- ther, and to be far longer-lived. Then I spied a great stone, and sitting a while upon it, I feel to weigh in my thoughts that that stone was in a happier condition in some respects, than either of those sensitive creatures or vegetables I saw be- fore ; in regard that that stone, which propagates by assimilation, as the philo- sophers say, needed neither grass nor hay, or any aliment for restoration of nature, nor water to refresh its roots, or the heat of the sun to attract the moisture upwards, to increase the growth, as the other did. As I directed my pace liome- Avard, I spied a kite soaring high in the air, and gently gliding up and down the clear region so far above my head, that I fell to envy the bird extremely, and re- })ine at his happiness, that he should 140 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL have a privileg'e to make a nearer ap- proach to heaven than L Excuse me that I trouhle you thus with these rambling meditations, they are to correspond with you in some part for those accurate fancies of yours lately sent me. So I rest your entire and true servitor. no cause to brag of ; teroons : hate such bla- Odi illos ceu clausiru Erebi- I thought good to give you this little mot of advice, because the times are ticklish, of committing secrets to any, though not to your most affectionate friend to serve you. LETTER XXXV. FromJas. Howel, Esq. to Mr, R Howard. jprom the same to Sir K. D, at Rome. LETTER XXXIV. Sir, Fleet, 14th Feb. 164" There is a saying that carrieth with it a great deal of caution ; '* From him whom I trust God defend me ; for from him whom I trust not, I will defend myself." There be sundry sorts of trusts, but that of a secret is one of the greatest : I trusted T. P. with a weighty one, conjuring him that it should not take air and go abroad : which was not done according to the rules and religion of friendship, but it went out of him the very next day. Though the inconvenience may be mine, yet the reproach is his : nor would I exchange my damage for his disgrace. I would wish you take heed of him, for he is such as the comic poet speaks of, " Plenus rimarum/' "he is full of chinks, he can hold nothing:" you know a secret is too much for one, too little for three, and enough for two; but Tom must be none of those two, unless there were a trick to solder up his mouth: if he had com- mitted a secret to me, and enjoined me silence, and 1 had promised it, though I had been shut up in Perillus' brazen bull, I should not have bellowed it out. I find it now true, " That he who discovers his secrets to another, sells him his liberty, and becomes his slave:" well, I shall be warier here- after, and learn more wit. In the in- terim, the best satisfaction I can give myself is, to expunge him quite ex albo amicorum, to raze him out of the ca- talogue of my friends (though I can- not of my acquaintance), where your name is inserted in great golden cha- racters. I will endeavour to lose the memory of him, and that my thoughts may never run more upon the fashion of his face, which you know he hath Sir, Fleet, 3d March 1646. Though you know well that in the carriage and course of my rambling life, I had occasion to be, as the Dutch- man saith, a landloper, and to see much of the world abroad, yet methinks I have travelled more since I have been immured and martyred betwixt these walls than ever I did before ; for I have travelled the Isle of Man, I mean this little world, which I have carried about me and within me so many years : for as the wisest of pagan philosophers said that the greatest learning was the know- ledge of one's self, to be his own geome- trician ; if one do so, he need not gad abroad to see fashions, he shall find enough at home, he shall hourly meet with new fancies, new humours, new passions within doors. This travelling over of one's self is one of the paths that leads a man to pa- radise : it is true, that it is a dirty and dangerous one, for it is thick set with extravagant desires, irregular affections and concupiscences, which are but odd comrades, and oftentimes do lie in am- bush to cut our throats : there are also some melancholy companions in the way, which are our thoughts, but they turn many time to be good fellows, and the best company; which makes me, that among these disconsolate walls I am never less alone than when I am alone ; I am oft-times sole, but seldom solitary. Some there are, who are over-pestered with these companions, and have too much mind for their bodies ; but 1 am none of those. There have been (since you shook hands with England) many strange things happened here, which posterity must have a strong faith to believe ; but for my part I wonder not at any thing, I have Sect. ll. MODERN, OF EARi-Y DATE. 141 seen such monstrous things. You know there is nothing that can be casual; there is no success, good or had, but is contingent to man sometimes or other ; nor are there any contingencies, pre- sent or future, but they have their pa- rallels from time past : for the great wheel of fortune, upon whose rim (as the twelve signs upon the zodiac) all worldly chances are embossed, turns round perpetually ; and the spokes of that wheel, which point at all human actions, return exactly to the same place after such a time of revolution ; which makes me little marvel at any of the strange traverses of these distracted times, in regard there hath been the like, or such like formerly. If the Li- turgy is now suppressed, the Missal and the Roman Breviary was used so a hun- dred years since : if crosses, church win- dows, organs, and fonts, are now bat- tered down, I little wonder at it ; for chapels, monasteries, hermitaries, nun- neries, and other religious houses, were used so in the time of old King Henry : if bishops and deans are now in danger to be demolished, I little wonder at it, for abbots, priors, and the pope himself, had that fortune here an age since. That our king is reduced to this pass, I do not wonder much at it ; for the first time I travelled France, Lewis XIII. (afterwards a most triumphant king as ever that country had) in a dangerous civil war was brought to such straits ; for he was brought to dispense with part of his coronation oath, to remove from his court of justice, from the council table, from his very bedchamber, his greatest favourites : he was driven to be content to pay the expense of the war, to reward those that took arms against him, and publish a declaration, that the ground of their quarrel was good ; which was the same in effect with ours, viz, a discontinuance of the assembly of the three estates, and that Spanish counsels did predominate in France. You know better than I, that all events, gx)od or bad, come from the all- disposing high Deity of heaven : if goad, he produceth them ; if bad, he permits them. He is the pilot that sits at the stern, and steers the great vessel of the world; and we must not presume to direct him in his course, for he un- derstands the use of the compass better than we. He commands also the winds and the weather, and after a storm, he never fails to send us a calm, and to recompense ill times with better, if we can live to see them ; which I pray you may do, whatsoever becomes of your still more faithful humble ser- vitor. LETTER XXXVI. From the same to Mr. En. P. at Paris. Sir, Fleet, 20th Feb. \6-i6. Since we are both agreed to truck in- telligence, and that you are contented to barter French for English, I shall be careful to send you hence from time to time the currentest and most staple stuff I can find, with weight and good measure to boot. I know in that more subtle air of yours, tinsel sometimes passes for tissue, Venice beads for pearl, and demicastors for beavers : but I know you have so discerning a judgment that you will not suffer yourself to be so cheated ; they must rise betimes that can put tricks upon you, and make you take semblances for realities, probabili- ties for certainties, or spurious for true things. To hold this literal correspond- ence, I desire but the parings of your time, that you may have something to do when you have nothing else to do, while I make a business of it to be punctual in my answers to you. Let our letters be as echoes, let them bound back and make mutual repercussions ; I know you that breathe upon the conti- nent have clearer echoes there, witness that in the Thuilleries, especially that at Charenton bridge, which quavers, and renders the voice ten times when it is open weather, and it were a virtuous cu- riosity to try it. For news, the world is here turned up- side down, and it hath been long a-going so : you know a good while since we have had leather caps and beaver shoes ; but now the arms are come to be legs, for bishops' lawn sleeves are worn for boot- hose tops ; the waist is come to the knee, for the points that were used to be about the middle are now dangling there. Boots and shoes are so long snouted, that one can hardly kneel in God's house, where all genuflection and postures of devotion and decency are i42 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL quite out of use : the devil may walk freely up and down the streets of London now, for there is not a cross to fright him any where ; and it seems he was never so busy in any country upon earth, for there have been more witches arraigned and executed here lately, than ever were in this island since the creation. I have no more to communicate to you at this time, and this is too much unless it were better. God Almighty send us patience, you in your banishment, me in my captivity, and give us heaven for our last country, where desires turn to frui- tion, doubts to certitude, and dark thoughts to clear contemplations . Truly, my dear Don Antonio, as the times are, I take little contentment to live among the elements : and (were it my Maker's pleasure) I could willingly, had I quit scores with the world, make my last ac- count with nature, and return this small skinful of bones to my common mother. If I chance to do so before you, I love you so entirely well that my spirit shall visit you, to bring you some tidings from the other world ; and if you precede me, I shaU expect the like from you, which you may do without affrighting me, for I know your spirit will be a bonus genius. So desiring to know what is become of my manuscript, I kiss your hands, and rest most passionately your most faithful servitor. LETTER XXXVII. From James Howel, Esq. to Mr. William Blois. Fleet, 2()th March, 1647. My worthy esteemed nephew, I RECEIVED those rich nuptial favours you appointed me for bands and hats, which I wear with very much content- ment and respect, most heartily wishing that this late double condition may mul- tiply new blessings upon you, that it may usher in fair and golden days according to the colour and substance of your bridal ribband ; that those days may be per- fumed with delight and pleasure, as the rich scented gloves I wear for your sake. May such benedictions attend you both, as the epithalamiums of Stella in Statius, and Julia in Catullus, speak of. I hope also to be married shortly to a lady whom I have wooed above these five years, but I have found her coy and dainty hither- to ; yet I am now like to get her good- will in part, I mean the lady Liberty. When you see my N. Brownrigg, I pray tell him that I did not think Suffolk waters had such a Lethean quality in them, as to cause su.ch an amnestia in him of his friends here upon the Thames, among whom for reality and seriousness, I may match among the foremost ; but I impute it to some new task that his muse might haply impose upon him, which hath ingrossed all his speculations ; I pray present my cordial kind respects unto him. So praying that a thousand blessings may attend this confarreation, I rest, my dear nephew, yours most affectionately to love and serve you. LETTER XXXVIII. From the same to Henry Hopkins, Esq. Sir, Fleet, 1st January, 1646. To usher in again old Janus, I send you a parcel of Indian perfume which the Spaniards call the Holy Herb, in regard of the various virtues it hath, but we call it tobacco ; I will not say it grew under the king of Spain's window, but I am told it was gathered near his gold mines of Potosi (where they report that in some places there is more of that ore than earth), therefore it must needs be precious stuff : if moderately and season- ably taken (as I find you always do), it is good for many things ; it helps diges- tion taken awhile after meat, it makes one void rheum, break wind, and keeps the body open : a leaf or two being steeped over-night in a little white-wine is a vomit that never fails in its opera- tion : it is a good companion to one that converseth with dead men ; for if one hath been poring long upon a book, or is toiled with the pen, and stupified with study, it quickeneth him, and dispels those clouds that usually overset the brain. The smoke of it is one of the wholesomest scents that is, against all contagious airs, for it over-masters all other smells, as king James, they say, found true, when being once a-hunting, a shower of rain drove him into a pig- stye for shelter, where he caused a pipe- full to be taken on purpose : it cannot endure a spider, or a flea, with such-like Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 143 vermin, and if your hawk be troubled with any such, being blown into his feathers, it frees him. Now to descend from the substance of the smoke, to the "ashes, it is well known that the medicinal virtues thereof are very many ; but they are so common, that 1 will spare the in- serting- of them here : but if one would try a petty conclusion, how much smoke there is in a pound of tobacco, the ashes will tell him ; for let a pound be exactly weighed, and the ashes kept charily and weighed afterwards, what wants of a pound weight in the ashes cannot be de- nied to have been smoke, which evapo- rated into air. I have been told that sir Walter Raleigh won a wager of queen Elizabeth upon this nicety. The Spaniards and Irish take it most in powder or smutchin, and it mightily refreshes the brain, and I believe there is as much taken this way in Ireland, as there is in pipes in England ; one shall commonly see the serving-maid upon the washing-block, and the swain upon the plough-share, when they are tired with labour, take out their boxes of smutchin, and draw it into their nostrils Avith a quill, and it will beget new spirits in them with a fresh vigour to fall to their work again. In Barbary and other parts of Afric, it is wonderful what a small piU of tobacco will do ; for those who use to ride post through the sandy desarts, where they meet not with any thing that's potable or edible, sometimes three days together, they use to carry small balls or pills of tobacco, which being put under the tongue, it affords them a perpetual moisture, and takes off the edge of the appetite for some 4iays. If you desire to read with pleasure all the virtues of this modern herb, you must read Dr. Thorus's Psetologia, an accurate piece couched in a strenuous heroic verse, full of matter, and conti- nuing its strength from first to last; insomuch that for the bigness it may be compared to any piece of antiquity, and, in my opinion, is beyond Barpaxoy^uo- fj^oc^ioc, or TccKscoi^voy^a^lcc. So I conclude these rambling notions, presuming you will accept this small ar- gument of my great respect to you. If you want paper to light your pipe, this letter may serve the turn ; and if it be true, what the poets frequently sing, that ^flfectiou is fire, you shall need no other than the clear flames of the donor's love to make ignition, which is comprehend- ed in this distich : Ignis Amorisjit, Tobaccum accendere nostrum f Nulla petenda iibifax nisi dantis amor. So I wish you, as to myself, a most happy new year ; may the beginning be good, the middle better, and the end best of all. Your most faithful and truly affectionate servitor. LETTER XXXIX. From the same to Mr, T. Morgan. Sir, May 12. I RECEIVED two of yours upon Tuesday last, one to your brother, the other to me ; but the superscriptions were mis- taken, which makes me think on that famous civilian doctor Dale, who being- employed to Flanders by queen Eliza- beth, sent in a packet to the secretary of state two letters, one to the queen, the other to his wife ; but that which was meant for the queen was superscribed, " To his dear Wife ;" and that for his wife, " To her most excellent Majesty :" so that the queen having opened his let- ter, she found it beginning with sweet- heart, and afterwards with my dear, and dear love, with such expressions, ac- quainting her with the state of his body, and that he began to want money. You may easily guess what motions of mirth this mistake raised ; but the doctor by this oversight (or cunningness rather) got a supply of money. This perchance may be your policy, to endorse me your bro- ther, thereby to endear me the more to you : but you needed not to have done that, for the name/r2>?z£/ goes sometimes further than brother ; and there be more examples of friends that did sacrifice their lives one for another, than of brothers ; which the writer doth think he should do for you, if the case required. But since I am fallen upon Dr. Dale, who was a witty kind of droll, I will tell you in- stead of news (for there is little good stirring now) two other facetious tales of his ; and familiar tales may become familiar letters well enough. When queen Elizabeth did first propose to him that foreign employment to Flanders, 144 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book II. among other encouragements, she told him that he should have 20*. per diem for his expenses. " Then, madam," said he, "I will spend lOs. a-day." — *' What will you do with the odd shil- ling?" the queen replied. — " I will re- serve that for my Kate, and for Tom and Dick ; " meaning his wife and chil- dren. This induced the queen to en- large his allowance . But this that comes last is the best of all, and may he called the superlative of the three ; which was when at the overture of the treaty the other ambassadors came to propose in what language they should treat, the Spanish ambassador answered, that the French was the most proper, because his mistress entitled herself Queen of France ; " Nay then," said Dr. Dale, " let us treat in Hebrew, for your mas- ter calls himself King of Jerusalem." I performed the civilities you conjoin- ed me to your friends here, who return you the like centuplicated, and so doth your entire friend. LETTER XL. From James Jiowel, Esq. to the Right Honourable the Ladi/ E. D. April 8. Madam, There is a French saying, that courte- sies and favours are like flowers, which are sweet only while they are fresh, but afterwards they quickly fade and wither. I cannot deny but your favours to me might be compared to some kind of flowers (and they would make a thick posie), but they should be to the flower called life everlasting; or that pretty vermilion flower which grows at the foot of the mountain ^tna in Sicily, which never loses any thing of its first colour and scent. Those favours you did me thirty years ago, in the life-time of your incomparable brother Mr. R. Altham (who left us in the flower of his age), methinks are as fresh to me as if they were done yesterday. Nor were it any danger to compare courtesies done to me to other flowers, as I use them ; for I distil them in the limbec of my memory, and so turn them to essences. But, madam, I honour you not so much for favours, as for that precious brood of virtues, which shine in you with that brightness, but especially for those high motions whereby your soul soars up so often towards heaven ; insomuch, madam, that if it were safe to call any mortal a saint, you should have that title from me, and I would be one of your chiefest votaries J howsoever, I may with- out any superstition subscribe myself your truly devoted servant. LETTER XLL From the same to the Lord Marquis of Hartford, My Lord, I RECEIVED your lordship's of the 11th current, with the commands it carried, whereof 1 shall give an account in my next. Foreign parts aflFord not much matter of intelligence, it being now the dead of winter, and the season unfit for action. But we need not go abroad for news, there is store enough at home. We see daily mighty things, and they are marvellous in our eyes ; but the greatest marvel is, that nothing should now be marvelled at; for we are so habituated to wonders, that they are grown familiar unto us. Poor England may be said to be like a ship tossed up and down the surges of a turbulent sea, having lost her old pilot ; and God knows when she can get into safe harbour again : yet doubtless this tempest, according to the usual ope- rations of nature, and the succession of mundane effects by contrary agents, will turn at last into a calm, though many who are yet in their nonage may not live to see it. Your lordship knows that the >coVjU,of, this fair frame of the uni- verse, came out of a chaos, an indigest- ed lump ; and that this elementary world was made of millions of ingredients re- pugnant to themselves in nature ; and the whole is still preserved by the reluc- tancy and restless combatings of these principles. We see how the shipwright doth make use of knee-timber and other cross-grained pieces, as well as of straight and even, for framing a goodly vessel to ride on Neptune's back. The printer useth many contrary characters in his art to put forth a fair volume : as c? is a p reversed, and w is a w turned upward, with other differing letters, which yet concur all to the perfection of the whole work. There go many various and dis- sonant tones to make an harmonious Sect. II. MODERN, O F E A R L Y DATE. 145 concert. This put me in mind of an excellent passage which a noble specu- lative knight (sir P. Herbert) hath in his late Conceptions to his son ; how a holy anchorite being in a wilderness, among other contemplations he fell to admire the method of Providence ; how out of causes which seem bad to us he pro- duceth oftentimes good effects ; how he suffers virtuous, loyal, and religious men to be oppressed, and others to prosper. x\s he was transported with these ideas, a goodly young man appeared to him, and told him, " Father, I know your thoughts are distracted, and I am sent to quiet them ; therefore if you will ac- company me a few days, you shall re- turn very weU satisfied of those doubts that now encumber your mind." So going along with him, they were to pass over a deep river, whereon there was a narrow bridge : and meeting there with another passenger, the young man jos- tled him into the water, and so drowned him. The old anchorite being much as- tonished hereat, would have left him ; but his guide said, " Father, be not amazed, because I shall give you good reasons for what Ido, and you shall see stranger things than this before you and I part; but at last I shall settle your judgment, and put your mind in full repose." So going that night to lodge in an inn where there was a crew of banditti and debauched ruffians, the young man struck into their company, and rebelled with them tiU the morning, wliile the anchorite spent most of the night in numbering his beads : but as soon as they were departed thence, they met with some officers who went to ap- prehend that crew of banditti they had left behind them. The next day they came to a gentleman's house, which was a faL*" palace, where they received all the courteous hospitality which could be : but in the morning as they parted there was a child in a cradle, which was the only son of the gentleman; and the young man, spying his opportunity, strangled the child, and so got away. The third day they came to another inn, where the man of the house treated them with all the civility that could be, and gratis ; yet the young man embez- zled a silver goblet, and carried it away in his pocket ; which stiU increased the amazement of the anchorite. Tlie fourth day in the evening they came to lodge at another inn, where the host was very sullen and uncivil to them, exacting much more than the value of what they had spent ; yet at parting the young man bestowed upon him the silver goblet he had stolen from that host who had used them so kindly. The fifth day they made towards a great rich town ; but some miles before they came at it, they met with a merchant at the close of the day, who had a great charge of money about him ; and asking the next passage to the town, the young man put him in a clean contrary way. The anchorite and his guide being come to the town, at the gate they spied a devil, who lay as it were sentinel, but he was asleep : they found also both men and women at sun- dry kinds of sports, some dancing, others singing, with divers sorts of re veilings. They went afterwards to a convent of Capuchins, where about the gate they found legions of devils lying siege to that monastery ; yet they got in and lodged there that night. Being awaked the next morning, the young man came to that cell where the anchorite was lodged, and told him, " I know your heart is full of horror, and your head full of confusion, astonishments, and doubts, for what you have seen since the first time of our association. But know, I am an angel sent from heaven to rectify your judgment, as also to cor- rect a little your curiosity in the re- searches of the ways and acts of Provi- dence too far ; for though separately they seem strange to the shallow ap- prehension of man, yet conjunctly they all tend to produce good effects. " That man which I tumbled into the river was an act of Providence ; for he was going upon a most mischievous de- sign, that would have damnified not only his own soul, but destroyed the party against whom it was intended ; there- fore I prevented it. " The cause why I conversed all night with that crew of rogues was also an act of Providence ; for they intended to go a-robbing all that night ; but I kept them there purposely till the next morn- ing, that the hand of justice might seize upon them. " Touching the kind host from whom I took the silver goblet, and the clown- ish or knavish host to whom I gave it L 14« ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book II. let this demonstrate to you, that good men are liable to crosses and losses, whereof bad men oftentimes reap the benefit ; but it commonly produceth patience in the one, and pride in the other. " Concerning that noble gentleman, whose child I strangled after so cour- teous entertainment, know, that that alyo was an act of Providence ; for the gentleman was so indulgent and doting on that child, that it lessened his love to Heaven ; so I took away the cause. " Touching the merchant whom I misguided in his way, it was likewise an act of Providence ; for had he gone the direct way to this town, he had been robbed, and his throat cut ; therefore I preserved him by that deviation. *' Now, concerning this great luxu- rious city, whereas we spied but one devil who lay asleep without the gate, there being so many about this poor convent, you must consider, that Luci- fer being already assured of that riotous town by corrupting their manners every day more and more, he needs but one single sentinel to secure it ; but for this holy place of retirement, this monastery inhabited by so many devout souls, who spend their whole lives in acts of morti- fication, as exercises of piety and pe- nance, he hath brought so many legions to beleaguer them ; yet he can do no good upon them, for they bear up against him most undauntedly, maugre all his infernal power and stratagems." So the young man, or divine messenger, sud- denly disappeared and vanished, yet leav- ing his fellow-traveller in good hands. My lord, I crave your pardon for this extravagancy, and the tediousness there- of ; but I hope the sublimity of the mat- terwillmake some compensation, which, if I am not deceived, will well suit with your genius ; for I know your contem- plations to be as high as your condition, and as much above the vulgar. This figurative story shews that the ways of Providence are inscrutable, his intention and method of operation not conforma- ble oftentimes to human judgment, the plummet and line whereof is infinitely too short to fathom the depth of his de- signs ; therefore let us acquiesce in an humble admiration, and with this con- fidence, that all things co-operate to the best at last, as they relate to his glory, and the general good of his creatures, though sometimes they appear to us by uncouth circumstances and cross me- diums. So in a due distance and posture of humility I kiss your lordship's hand, as being, my most highly honoured lord, your thrice obedient and obliged ser- vitor. LETTER XLII. From James Howel, Esq. to J. Suit on, Esq. London, 5th January. Sir, Whereas you desire my opinion of the late History translated by Mr. Wad, of . the Civil Wars of Spain, in the begin- i ning of Charles the Emperor's reign, I ^ cannot choose but tell you, that it is a faithful and pure maiden story, never blown upon before in any language but in Spanish, therefore very worthy your perusal ; for among those various kind of studies that your contemplative soul delights in, I hold history to be the most fitting to your quality. Now, among those sundry advantages which accrue to a reader of history, one is, that no modern accident can seem strange to him, much less astonish him. He will leave off wondering at anything, in regard he may remember to have read of the same, or much like the same, that happened in former times : therefore he doth not stand staring like a child at every unusual spectacle, like that simple American, who, the first time he saw a Spaniard on horseback, thought the man and beast to be but one creature, and that the horse did chew the rings of his bit, and eat them. Now, indeed, not to be an historian, that is, not to know what foreign na- tions and our forefathers did, hoc est semper esse puer, as Cicero hath it, *' This is still to be a child " who gazeth at every thing : whence may be inferred, there is no knowledge that ripeneth the judg- ment, and puts one out of his nonage, sooner than history. If I had not formerly read the Barons' wars in England, I had more admired that of the JLeaguers in France. He who had read th« near-upon fourscore years' wars in Low Germany, I believe, never wondered at the late thirty years' wars in High Germany. I had wondered more that Richard of Bourdeaux was Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 147 knocked down with halberds, had I not read formerly that Edward of Carnar- von was made away by a hot iron thrust "lip his fundament. It was strange that Murat the great Ottoman emperor should be lately strangled in his own court at Constantinople ; yet, consider- ing that Osman the predecessor had been knocked down by one of these ordinary slaves not many years before, it was not strange at all. The blazing star in Vir- go thirty-four years since, did not seem strange to him who had read of that which appeared in Cassiopeia and other constellations some years before. Hence maybe inferred, that history is the great looking-glass through which we may be- hold with ancestral eyes, not only the various actions of ages past, and the odd accidents that attended time, but also discern the different humours of men, and feel the pulse of former times. This history will display the very in- trinsicals of the Castilian, who goes for the prime Spaniard ; and makes the opi- nion a paradox, which cries him up to be so constant to his principles, so loyal to his prince, and so conformable to go- vernment ; for it will discover as much levity and tumultuary passions in him as in otlier nations. Among divers other examples which could be produced out of this story, I will instance in one : When Juan de Pa- dillia, an infamous fellow, and of base extraction, was made general of the peo- ple, among others there was a priest, that being a great zealot for him, used to pray publicly in the church, " Let us pray for the whole Commonalty, and his majesty Don Juan de Padillia, and for the lady Donna Maria Pacheco his wife," &c. But a little after, some of Juan de PadiUia's soldiers having quartered in his house, and pitifully plundered him, the next Sunday the same priest said in the church, " Beloved Christians, you know how Juan de PadiUia passing this way, some of his brigade were billeted in my house : truly they have not left me one chicken ; they have drunk up a whole barrel of wine, devoured my bacon, and taken away my Catilina, my maid Kate : I charge you therefore pray no more for him." Divers such traverses as these may be read in that story ; which may be the reason why it was suppressed in Spain, that it should not cross the seas, or clamber over the Pyreneans to ac» quaint other nations with their foolery and baseness : yet Mr. Simon Digby, a gentleman of much worth, got a copy, which he brought over with him, out of which this translation is derived ; though I must tell you by the bye, that some passages were commanded to be omitted because they had too near an analogy with our times. So in a serious way of true friendship, I profess myself your most affectionate servitor. LETTER XLIII. From James Howel, Esq. to the Lord Marquis of Dorchester. Londoiij 15t!i August. My Lord, There is a sentence that carrieth a high sense with it, viz. Ingenia prin- cipumfata temporum, " The fancy of the prince is the fate of the times : " so in point of peace or war, oppression or jus- tice, virtue or vice, profaneness or devo- tion ; for regis ad exemplum. But there is another saying, which is as true, viz. Genius plebis est fatum principis, " The happiness of the prince depends upon the humour of the people." There can- not be a more pregnant example hereof, than in that successful and long-lived queen, queen Elizabeth, who having come, as it were, from the scaffold to the throne, enjoyed a wonderful calm (excepting some short gusts of insurrec- tion that happened in the beginning) for near upon forty-five years together. But this, my lord, may be imputed to the temper of the people, who had had a boisterous king not long before, with so many revolutions in religion, and a minor king afterward, which made them to be governed by their felloAv-subjects. And the fire and faggot being frequent among them in queen Mary's days, the humours of the common people were pretty well spent, and so were willing to conform to any government that might preserve them and their estates in quietness. Yet in the reign of that so popular and well-beloved queen there were many traverses, which trenched as much if not more upon the privileges of parliament, and the liberties of the peo- ple, than any that happened in the reign of the two last kings : vet it was not L 2 148 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book. II. their fate to be so popular. Touching the first, viz. parliament ; in one of hers, there was a motion made in the House of Commons, that there should be a lec- ture in the morning- some days of the week before they sat, whereunto the House was very inclinable : the queen hearing of it, sent them a message, that she much wondered at their rashness, that they should offer to introduce such an innovation. Another parliament would have pro- posed ways for the regulation of her court ; but she sent them another such message, that she wondered, that, being called by her thither to consult of public affairs, they should intermeddle with the government of her ordinary family, and to think her to be so ill an housewife as not to be able to look to her own house herself. In another parliament there was a motion made, that the queen should entail the succession of the crown, and declare her next heir ; but Wentworth, who proposed it, was committed to the Tower, where he breathed his last ; and Bromley, upon a less occasion, was clap- ped in the Fleet. Another time, the House petitioning that the Lords might join in private committees with the Commoners, she ut- terly rejected it. You know how Stubbs and Page had their hands cut off with a butcher's knife and a mallet, because they writ against the match with the duke of Anjou ; and Penry was hanged at Tyburn, though Alured, who writ a bitter invective against the late Spanish match, was but confined for a .short time ; how sir Jolm Heywood was shut up in the Tower, for an epistle dedica- tory to the earl of Essex, &c. Touching her favourites, what a mon- ster of a man was Leicester, who first brought the art of poisoning into Eng- land? Add hereunto, that privy-seals were common in her days, and pressing of men more frequent, especially for Ire- land, where they were sent in handfuls, rather to continue a war (by the cunning of the officers) than to conclude it. The three fleets she sent against the Spaniard did hardly make the benefit of the voy- ages to countervail the charge. How poorly did the English garrison quit Ha^ vre-de-grace ? and how were we bafiled for the arrears that were due to Eng- land (by article) for the forces sent into France? For buildings, with aU kind of braveries else that use to make a na- tion happy, as riches and commerce, in- ward and outward, it was not the twen- tieth part so much in the best of her days (as appears by the Custom-house books) as it was in the reign of her suc- cessors. Touching the religion of the court, she seldom came to sermon but in Lent- time, nor did there use to be any sermon upon Sundays, unless they were festivals ; whereas the succeeding kings had duly two every morning, one for the house- hold, the other for themselves, where they were always present, as also at pri- vate prayers in the closet : yet it was not their fortune to gain so much upon the affections of city or country. There- fore, my lord, the felicity of queen Eli- zabeth may be much imputed to the rare temper and moderation of men's minds in those days ; for the purse of the common people, and Londoners, did beat nothing so high as it did afterwards, when they grew pampered with so long peace and plenty. Add hereunto, that neither Hans, Jocky, or John Calvin, had taken such footing here as they did get afterwards, whose humour is to pry and peep with a kind of malice into the carriage of the court and mysteries of state, as also to malign nobility, with the wealth and solemnities of the church. My lord, it is far from my meaning hereby to let drop the least aspersion upon the tomb of that rare renowned queen ; but it is only to observe the differing temper both of time and peo- ple. The fame of some princes is like the rose, which, as we find by experi- ence, smells sweeter after it is plucked : the memory of others is like the tulip and poppy, which make a gay show, and fair flourish, while they stand upon the stalk, but being cut down they give an ill-favoured scent. It was the happi- ness of that great long-lived queen to cast a pleasing odour among her people, both while she stood, and after she was cut off by the common stroke of morta- lity ; and the older the world grows, the fresher her fame will be. Yet she is lit- tle beholden to any foreign writers, un- less it be the Hollanders ; and good rea- son they had to speak well of her, for she was the chiefest instrument, who, though with the expense of much Eng- Sect. 11. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 149 lish blood and bullion, raised them to a republic, by casting- tliat fatal bone for the Spaniard to gnaw upon, which shook his teeth so ill-favouredly for fourscore years together. Other writers speak bitterly of her for her carriage to her sister the queen of Scots ; for her ingra- titude to her brother Philip of Spain ; for giving advice, by her ambassador with the Great Turk, to expel the Je- suits, who had got a coUege in Peru : as also that her secretary Walsingham should project the poisoning of the wa- ters of Douay: and lastly, how she suf- fered the festival of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary in September to be turned to the celebration of her own birthday, &c. But these stains are cast upon her by her enemies ; and the aspersions of an enemy use to be like the dirt of oy- sters, which doth rather cleanse than contaminate. Thus, my lord, have I pointed at some remarks, to shew how various and discrepant the humours of a nation may be, and the genius of the times, from what it was ; which doubtless must pro- ceed from a high all-disposing power : a speculation that may become the greatest and knowingest spirits, among whom your lordship doth shine as a star of the first magnitude ; for your house may be called a true academy, and your head the capital of knowledge, or rather an exchequer, wherein there is a treasure enough to give pensions to all the wits of the time. With these thoughts I rest, my most highly honoured lord, your very obedient and ever obliged servant. LETTER XLIV. From James Howel, Esq. to Sir E. S. Londoii, 4th August. Sir, In the various courses of my wandering life, I have had occasion to spend some part of my time in literal correspond- ences with divers ; but I never remember that I pleased myself more in paying these civilities to any than to yourself ; for when I undertake this task, I find that my head, my hand, and my heart, go all so wiQing about it. The inven- tion of the one, the graphical office of the other, and the affections of the last, are so ready to obey me in performing the work ; work do I call it? It is rather a sport, my pen and paper are as a chess- board, or as your instruments of music are to you, when you would recreate your harmonious soul. Wlience this pro- ceeds I know not, unless it be from a charming kind of virtue that your letters carry with them to work upon my spi- rits, which are so full of facete and fa- miliar friendly strains, and so punctual in answering every part of mine, tli^t you may give the law of epistolizing to all mankind. Touching your poet laureat Skelton, I found him at last (as I told you before) skulking in Duck Lane, pitifully tattered and torn ; and, as these times are, I do not think it worth the labour and cost to put him in better clothes, for the genius of the age is quite another tiling : yet there be some lines of his, which I think wUl never be out of date for their quaint sense ; and with these I will close this letter, and salute you, as he did his friend, with these options : Salve plus decies quam sunt momenta diurna, 2uot species ge7ierum, quot res, quot nomina rerum, 2uot pratisjlores, qu&t sunt et in or he color es, 2uot pisces, quot aves, quot sunt et in eequore naves, Quot valuer umpenncE, quot sunt tormenta gekenncey Quot cceli stellce, quot sunt miracula Thomce ; Quot sunt virtutes, tanlas tibi mitto salutes. These were the wishes in time of yore of Jo. Skelton, but now they are of your, &c. LETTER XLV. Froju the scmie to R. Davies, Esq. Sir London, 5th July. Did your letters know how truly wel- come they are to me, they would make more haste, and not loiter so long in the way ; for I did not receive yours of the 2d of June till the 1st of July; which is time enough to have travelled not only a hundred English, but so many Helvetian miles, that are five times big- ger ; for in some places they contain forty furlongs, whereas ours have but eight, unless it be in Wales, where they are allowed better measure, or in the north parts, where there is a wee bit to every mile. But that yours should be a whole month in making scarce 100 Eng- lish miles (for the distance between us is no more) is strange to me, unless you purposely sent it by John Long, the car- rier. I know, being so near Lemstcr's 150 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL ore, that you dwell in a gentle soil, which is good for cheese as well as for cloth : therefore if you send me a good one, I shall return my cousin your wife some- thing from hence that may he equiva- lent : if you neglect me I shall think that Wales is relapsed into her first harha- risms ; for Strabo makes it one of his ar- guments to prove the Britons barbarous, because they had not the art of making cheese till the Romans came : but I be- lieve you will preserve them from this imputation again. 1 know you can want no good grass thereabouts, which, as they say here, grows so fast in some of your fields, that if one should put his horse there over night, he should not find him again the next morning. So with my very respectful commends to yourself, and to the partner of your couch and cares, I rest, my dear cousin, yours always to dispose of. LETTER XLVL From James Howel, Esq. to Mr. W. Price, at Oxon. London, 3d February. My precious nephew. There could hardly better news be brought to me, than to understand that you are so great a student, and that having passed through the briars of lo- gic, you fall so close to philosophy : yet I do not like your method in one thing, that you are so fond of new authors, and neglect the old, as I hear you do. It is the ungrateful genius of this age, that if any sciolist can find a hole in an old author's coat, he will endeavour to make it much more wide, thinking to make himself somebody thereby ; I am none of those ; but touching the ancients, I hold this to be a good moral rule, lau- dandum quod bene, ignoscendum quod ali' ier dixerunt: the older the author is, commonly the more solid he is, and the greater teller of truth. This makes me think on a Spanish captain, who being invited to a fish dinner, and coming late, he sat at the lower end of the ta- ble, where the small fish lay, the great ones being at the upper eiid ; thereupon he took one of the little fish, and held it to his ear ; his comrades asked him what he meant by that ; he answered in a sad tone, " Some thirty years since, my father, passing from Spain to Bar- bary, was cast away in a storm, and I am asking this little fish whether he could tell any tidings of his body ; he answers me, that he is too young to tell me any thing, but those old fish at your end of the table may say something to it :" so by that trick of drollery he got his share of them. The application is easy, therefore I advise you not to neglect old authors ; for though we be come as it were to the meridian of truth, yet there be many neoterical commen- tators and self-conceited writers, that eclipse her in many things, and go from obscurum to obscuris. Give me leave to tell you cousin, that your kindred and friends, with all the world besides, expect much from you in regard to the pregnancy of your spirit, and those advantages you have of others, being now at the source of all know- ledge. I waj told of a countryman, who coming to Oxford, and being at the town's end, stood listening to a flock of geese, and a few dogs that were hard by : being asked the reason, he answer- ed, " That he thought the geese about Oxford did gaggle Greek, and the dogs barked in Latin." If some in the world think so much of those irrational poor creatures, that take in University air, what will your friends in the country expect from you, who have the instru- ments of reason in such a perfection, and so well strung with a tenacious me- mory, a quick understanding, and rich invention ? all which I have discovered in you, and doubt not but you will em- ploy them to the comfort of your friends, your own credit, and the particular con- tentment of your truly affectionate uncle. LETTER XLVII. From the same to Mr. 11. Lee in Antwerp, London, 9th November. Sir, An acre of performance is worth the whole land of promise : besides, as the Italian hath it, " Deeds are men, and words women." You pleased to pro- mise me, when you shook hands with England, to barter letters with me ; but whereas I writ to you a good while since by Mr. Simons, I have not received a syllable from you ever since. The times here frown more and more upon the cavaliers, yet their minds are buoyed up still with strong hopes : some Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 151 of them being lately in company of such whom the times favour, and reporting- some comfortable news on the royalists' side, one of the other answered, " Thus you cavaliers still fool yourselves, and build always castles in the air :" there- upon a sudden reply was made, " Where will you have us to build them else, for you have taken all our lands from us ?" I know what you will say when you read this : *' A pox on those true jests." This tale puts me in mind of another : There was a gentleman lately, who was offered by the parliament a parcel of church or crown lands, equal to his ar- rears ; and asking counsel of a friend of his which he should take, answered, *' Crown lands by all means ; for if you take them you run a hazard only to be hanged ; but if you take church land you are sure to be damned." Where- upon the other made him a shrewd re- ply : " Sir, I will tell you a tale : There was an old usurer not far from London, who had trained up a dog of his to bring his meat after him in a hand-basket, so that in time the shag dog was so well bred, that his master used to send him by himself to Smithfield shambles with a basket in his mouth, and a note in the bottom thereof to his butcher, who ac- cordingly would put in what joint of meat he writ for, and the dog would carry it handsomely home. It happened one day, that as the dog was carrying a good shoulder of mutton home to his master, he was set upon by a company of other huge dogs, who snatched away the basket, and fell to the mutton : the other dog measuring his own single strength, and finding he was too weak to redeem his master's mutton, said within himself (as we read the like of Chrysippus's dog), ' Nay, since there is no remedy, you shall be hanged before you have all ; I will have also my share :' and so fell a-eating amongst them. I need not," said he, " make the applica- tion to you, it is too obvious ; therefore, 1 intend to have my share also of the church lands." In that large list of friends you have left behind you here, I am one who is very sensible that you have thus banish- ed yourself; it is the high will of Heaven that matters should be thus. Therefore, ^uod divinitus accidit huiniliter, quod ab hominihus viriliter fcrendum ; "We must manfully bear what comes from men, and humbly what comes from above." The Pagan philosopher tells us, sluod divinitus continSTLES. Book II. Bedford leans strongly to offer Mm to the king : it is from what you said to me has made him do so. Yet if you judge he should not now be the man, I am en- joined to obtain from you some charac- ter of one Mr. Freeman*, and Mr. Williams t : the last I have heard you speak well of, but I did not heed his just character. What you think fit to say to me shall not be imparted but in general terms, if you like that best ; though lord Bedford is as close as can be de- sired, and as well inclined as possible to do the best, and will have me say some- thing of these men before he fixes, which my lord Shrewsbury advises him to do quickly. More X he is averse to ; Horneck § the parish is also, as he is well informed, to a high degree. So Kidder, Williams, and Freeman are before him. I desire two or three lines upon this subject, by the first post if you please. Though my paper is full enough, espe- cially to a man that has no more spare time than you have, yet I must just touch upon some other parts of your let- ter, being they touch me most sensibly. I bless God that inclines the heart of our king to do well ; it looks as if God meant a full mercy to these long threat- ened kingdoms. I thank Mr. Dean very heartily for those thoughts that influence and heighten his charity to Mr. J — — n. I wiU not say that I do more, but you must needs know. Mr. Dean, now a few words to your own concern, that bears so heavy upon your mind, and I have done. I know not if I should use the phrase, " Integrity is my idol," but 1 am sure I admire and love it hugely wherever I meet it. I would never have a sincere passion crossed. I do pity you, Mr. Dean, and think you have a hard game upon your hands, which, if it should happen you cannot play off your own way, you can do "better than a man less mortified to the world could ; being if you serve the interest of religion and the king's, you are doing what you have dedicated yourself to, and therefore * Dr. Freeman died dean of Peterborough, 1707. f Williams, afterwards bishop of Chiches- ter, died 1709. X More died bishop of Ely, 1714. § Horneck died prebendary of Westnii aster, 1 696-7. can be more regardless of the ignorant or wicked censurer ; for, upon my word, I believe you will incur no other : your character is above it, if what you fear should come upon you. But as I con- ceive there are six months yet to delibe- rate upon this matter, you know the old saying, " Many things fall out between the cup and the lip : " and pray do not fill your head with the fears of a trouble, though never so great, that is at a dis- tance, and may never be ; for if you think too much on a matter you dread, it will certainly disturb your quiet, and that wiU infallibly your health, and you cannot but see, sir, that would be of a bad consequence. The king is willing to hear you. You know your own heart to do good, and you have lived some time, and have had experience. You say well that such an one is the best and worst friend. I think I should have had more tenderness to the will or temper of my friend : and for his justification, one may say, he |)refers good to many, be- fore gratifying one single person, and a public good ought to carry a man a great way. But I see your judgment (if your inclination does not bias too far) is hear- tily against him in this matter, that you think you cannot do so much good then as now. We must see if you can con- vince him thereof ; and when he is mas- ter of that notion, then let him labour to make your way out of those briars he has done his part to bring you into ; though something else would have done it without him, I believe, if I am not mistaken in this, no more than I am that this letter is much too long, from, &c. LETTER LVIII. Dean Tillotson to Lady Russel. Edmonton, Sept. 24, 1681>. Hon. madam, Just now I received your ladyship's let- ter. Since my last, and not before, I understand the great averseness of the parish from Dr. Horneck : so that if my lord of Bedford had liked him, I could not have thought it fit, knowing how ne- cessary it is to the good effect of a man's ministry, that he do not lie under any great prejudice with the people. The two, whom the bishop of Chichester hath named, are, I think, of the worthiest of the city ministers, since Mr. Kidder de- clines it, for the reason given by the bi- Sect. IL MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 161 shop, and, if he did not, could not have it ; not because of any inconsistency in the preferments, but because the king, having so many obligations yet to an- swer, cannot at the same time give two such preferments to one man. For the persons mentioned, if comparison must be made between two very good men, I will tell your ladyship my free thoughts of them. Mr. Williams is really one of the best men I know, and most unwearied in do- ing good, and his preaching very weighty and judicious. The other is a truly pious man, and of a winning conversa- tion. He preaches well, and hath much the more plausible delivery, and, I think, a stronger voice. Both of them (which I had almost forgot) have been steady in all changes of times. This is the plain truth ; and yet I must not conceal one particular and present advantage on Dr. Freeman's side. On Sunday night last the king asked me concerning a city mi- nister, whose name he had forgot ; but said, he had a very kind remembrance of him, having had much conversation with him, when his majesty was very young in Holland, and wondered he had never seen him since he came into Eng- land. I could not imagine who he should be, till his majesty told me he was the Eng- li^i ambassador's chaplain above twenty years ago ; meaning sir William Tem- ple's. Upon that I knew it was Dr. Freeman. The king said, that was his name, and desired me to find him out, and tell him that he had not forgot him, but remembered with pleasure the ac- quaintance he had with him many years ago ; and had charged me, when there was an opportunity, to put him in mind of him. This I thought both great goodness in the king, and modesty in Dr. Freeman* never to shew himself to the king all this while. By this your ladyship will judge who is like to be most acceptable to the king, whose sa- tisfaction, as well as service, I am obliged to regard, especially in the disposal of his own preferments, though Mr. Wil- liams be much more my friend. 1 mentioned Mr. Johnson again, but his majestj put on other discourse, and my lord privy seal told me yesterday morning, that the king thought it a little * Dr. Freeman was instituted to the rectory of Covtnt Garden; Dec. 28, 1689. hard to give pensions out of his purse, instead of church preferments ; and tells me Mr. Johnson is very sharp upon me. His lordship called it railing, but it shall not move me in the least. His lordship asked me, whether it would not be well to move the king to give him a good bishopric in Ireland, there being several void. I thought it very well, if it would be acceptable. His lordship said, that was all one ; the oifer would stop many mouths as well as his ; which, I think, was well considered. I will say no more of myself, but only thank your ladyship for your good ad- vice, which I have always a great dispo- tion to follow, and a great deal of rea- son, being assured it is sincere as well as wise. The king hath set upon me again, with greater earnestness of persuasion than is fit for one that may command. I begged as earnestly to be considered in this thing, and so we parted upon good terms. I hope something will happen to hinder it. I put it out of my mind as much as I can, and leave it to the good providence of God for the thing to find its own issue. To that I commend you and yours, and am, madam, yours, by all possible obligations. If Mr. Johnson refuse this offei*, and it should be my hard fortune not to be able to get out of this difficulty, which I will, if it be possible to do it without provocation, I know one that will do more for Mr. Johnson than was desired of the king, but still as from the king, for any thing that he shall know. But I hope some much better way will be found, and that there will be neither oc- casion nor opportunity for thisf. LETTER LIX. Lady Russel to hady Sunderland. I THINK I understand almost less than any body, yet I knew better things than to be weary of receiving what is so good as my lady Sunderland's letters ; or not to have a due regard of what is so valu- able as her esteem and kindness, with her promises to enjoy it my whole life. Truly, madam, I can find no fault but * The king granted Johnson 300^. a'yearfor his own and his son's life, with U)()0^. in iijoney, and a place of IdO/. a year for his son. "M 162 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL one, and that is constantly in all the fa- vours you direct to me, an unfortunate useless creature in the world, yet your ladyship owns me as one had been of some service to you. Alas ! I know I was not, but my intention was pure ; I pitied your sorrow, I was hearty in wish- ing- you ease, and if I had an occasion for it, I could be diligent, but no further ability ; and you are very good to re- ceive it kindly. But so unhappy a soli- citor as I was once for my poor self and family, my heart misgives me when I aim at any thing of that kind any more. Yet I hope I have at last learned to make the will of God, when declared, the rule of my content, and to thank him for all the hard things 1 suffer, as the best as- surances of a large share in that other blessed state ; and if what is dear to us is got thither before us, the sense what they enjoy, and we in a little while shall with them, ought to support us and our friends. LETTER LX. Lady Russel to Dr. Fitzwilliam. Woborne Abbey, 28th August, 1690. 1 ASSURE you, good doctor, I was very weU pleased this evening to receive ano- ther letter from you ; and much more than ordinary, because your last had some gentle hints in it, as if you thought 1 had taken some offence, though you kindly again said you could not, or would not, imagine it, not being con- scious of omission or commission, and in- deed you have good reason for saying so ; I will at any time justify you in it, and do more commend your belief, that I either had not your letters, or was not well, than I could your mistrust of me for what will never liappen. But an old dated paper has convinced you, and a newer had, if I had known where to have found you ; for in yours of the 5th of August you intimate that you meant (if it did not too much offend the eyes of a friend of mine that were weak) to make a stay at Windsor of ten days longer, and made no mention then whi- ther you went. Now truly I had that letter, when I was obliged to write much to such as would congratulate my being well again, some in kindness, and some in ceremony. But so it was, that when I went to write, I found I should not know where to send it, so I deferred it tiU I had learnt that. I sent to JNIrs. Smith, she could not tell ; I bid John send to Richard at Straton to know if you were at Chilton, for I know lady Gainsborough was not there then, but now you have informed me yourself. By report I fear poor lady Gainsbo- rough is in neAv trouble, for though she has all the help of religion to support her, yet that does not shut us out fiom all sorrow ; it does not direct us to insensi- bility, if we could command it, but to a quiet submission to The will of God, making his ours as much as we can : in- deed, doctor, you are extremely in the right to think that my life has been so embittered, it is now a very poor thing to me ; yet I find myself careful enough of it. I think I am useful to my chil- dren, and would endure hard things, to do for them till they can do for them- selves ; but, alas ! I am apt to conclude if I had not that, yet I should still find out some reason to be content to live, though I am weary of every thing, and of the folly, the vanity, the madness of man most of all. There is a shrinking from the separa- tion of the soul from the body, that is implanted in our natures, which enforces us to conserve life ; and it is a wise pro- vidence ; for who would else endure much evil, that is not taught the great advantages of patient suffering ? I am heartily sorry, good doctor, that you are not exempt, which I am sure you are not, when you cannot exercise your care as formerly among your flock at Coten- ham^'. But 1 will not enlarge on this matter, nor any other at this time. That I might be certain not to omit this re- spect to you, I have begun with it, and have many behind, to which 1 must hasten, but first desire you wiU present my most humble service to my lady ; I had done myself the honour to write to her, just as I believe she was wTiting to me, but 1 Mill thank her yet for that fa- vour ; either trouble, or the pleasure of her son's settlement, engrosses her, I apprehend, at this time, and business I know is an attendant of the last. I am, sir, your constant friend and servant. * Ejected as a nonjuror. Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 163 LETTER LXI. Dean Tillotson to Lady RusseL Edmonton, Oct. D, 1690. Hon. madam, Since I had the honour of your letter, I was tempted to have troubled you with one of mine upon the sad occasion of your late great loss of two so near re- lations, and so near together^. But I considered, why should I pretend to be able either to instruct or comfort my lady Russel, who hath borne things much more grievous with so exemplary a meek- ness and submission to the will of God, and knows, as well as I can tell her, that there is no remedy in these cases but pa- tience, nor any comfort but in the hopes of the happy meeting of our deceased friends in a better life, in which sorrow and tears shall have no more place to all eternity ! And BOW I crave leave to impart something of my own trouble to your ladyship. On Sunday last the king commanded me to wait upon him the next morning at Kensington. I did so, and met with what I feared. His ma- jesty renewed his former grasious oflTer, in so pressing a manner, and with so much kindness, that I hardly knew how to resist it. I made the best acknow- ledgments I could of his undeserved grace and favour to me, and begged of him to consider aU the consequences of this matter, being well assured, that all that storm which was raised in convoca- tion the last year by those who v»^ill be the Church of England was upon my ac- count, and that the bishop of L ■ was at the bottom of it, out of a jealousy that I might be a hindrance to him in at- taining what he desires, and what, I call God to witness, I would not have. And I told his majesty, that I was still afraid that his kindness to me would be greatly to his prejudice, especially if he carried it so far as he was then pleased to speak. For I plainly saw they could not bear it ; and that the effects of envy and ill-will towards me would terminate upon him. To which he replied, that if the thing were once done, and they saw no remedy, they would give over, and think of making the best of it ; and therefore he must de- * The death of her sister, the countess of Montague, and of her nephew, Wriothesley Baptist, earl of Gainsborough. sire me to think seriously of it ; with other expressions not fit for me to re- peat. To all which I answered, that in obedience to his majesty's commands I would consider of it again, though I was afraid I had already thought more of it than had done me good, and must break through one of the greatest reso- lutions of my life, and sacrifice at once all the ease and contentment of it ; which yet I would force myself to do, were I really convinced that I was in any measure capable of doing his majesty and the public that service which he was pleased to think I was. He smiled and said, " You talk of trouble ; I believe you will have much more ease in it than in the condition in which you now are." Thinking not fit to say more, I humbly took leave. And now, madam, what shall I do? My thoughts were never at such a plunge. I know not how to bring my mind to it ; and, on the other hand, though the com^ parison is very unequal, when I remem- ber how I saw the king affected in the case of my lord Shrewsbury f, I find myself in great strait, and would not for all the world give him the like trouble. I pray God to direct me to that which he sees and knows to be best, for I know not what to do. I hope I shall have your prayers, and would be glad of your ad vice, if the king would spare me so long. I pray God to preserve you and yours. I am, honoured madam, &c. LETTER LXII. Lady Russel to the Dean of St. PauVs. About the middle of October, 1690. Your letters will never trouble me, Mr. Dean ; on the contrary, they are comfortable refreshments to my, for the most part, orer-burdened mind, which, both by nature and by accident, is made so weak, that I cannot bear, with that constancy I should, the losses I have lately felt ; I can say. Friends and ac- quaintances thou hast hid out of my sight ; but I hope it shall not disturb my peace. These Avere young, and as they had begun their race of life after me, so I desired they might have ended it also. -f- When the earl resigned the post of secre- tary of state, about 1690; to divert him from which, dean Tillotson had been sent to his lordship bv the kins?^. M2 164 FLEGANT EPISTLES. Book II. But liPtppy are those whom God retires in his grace ; 1 trust these were so ; and then no age can be amiss ; to the young it is not too early, nor to the aged too late. Submission and prayer is all we know that we can do towards our own relief in our distress, or to disarm God's anger, either in our public and private concerns. The scene will soon alter to that peaceful and eternal home in pro- spect. But in this time of our pilgrimage, vicissitudes of all sorts is every one's lot. And this leads me to your case, sir. The time seems to be come that you must put anew in practice that submis- sion * you have so powerfully both tried yourself, and instructed others to. I see no place to escape at ; you must take up the cross and bear it : I faithfully be- lieve it has the figure of a very heavy one to you, though not from the cares of it ; since, if the king guesses right, you toil more now. But this work is of your own choosing, and the dignity of the other is v/hat you have bent your mind against, and the strong resolve of your life has been to avoid it. Had this even proceeded to a vow, it is, I think, like the virgins of old, to be dissolved by the father of your country. Again, though contemplation, and a few friends well chosen, would be your grateful choice, yet, if charity, obedience, and necessity, call you into the great world, and where enemies compass round about, must not you accept it? And each of these, in my mean apprehension, determines you to do it. In short, it will be a noble sacrifice you will make ; and I am con- fident you will find as a reward, kind and tender supports, if you do take the burthen upon you : there is, as it were, a commanding Providence in the man- ner of it. Perhaps I do as sincerely wish your thoughts at ease as any friend you have, but I think you may purchase that too dear ; and if you should come to think so too, they would then be as restless as before. Sir, I believe you would be as much a common good as you can : consider how few of ability and integrity this age pro- duces.^ Pray do not turn this matter too much in your head ; when one has once * Submission alludes to Tillotson's letter to lord Russel against resistance: — a shrewd hint of the dean's endeavours to persuade lord Kussel to snbnnit to the doctrine of passive obrdienre. turned it everyway, you know that more does but perplex, and one never sees the clearer for it. Be not stiff, if it be s4;in urged to you. Conform to the Divine Will, which has set it so strongly into the other's mind, and be content to endure ; it is God calls you to it. I believe it was wisely said, that when there is no re- medy they will give over, and make the best of it, and so I hope no ill will ter- minate on the king : and they will lay up their arrows, when they perceive they are shot in vain at him or you, up- on whom no reflection that I can think of can be made that is ingenious ; and what is pure malice you are above be- ing affected with. I wish, for many reasons, my prayers were more worthy ; but such as they are, I offer them witli a sincere zeal to the Throne of Grace for you, in this strait, that you may be led out of it, as shall best serve the great ends and designs of God's glory. LETTER LXIII. Ladi/ Russel to {supposed the Bishop of Snlishury). lOLh October, 1690, I HAVE, my lord, so upright an heart to my friends, that though your great weight of business had forced you to a silence of this kind, yet I should have had no doubt, but that one I so distin- guish in that little number God has left me, does join with me to lament my late losses : the one was a just, sincere man, and the only son of a sister and a friend I loved with too much passion ; the other my last sister, and I ever loved her tenderly. It pleases me to think that she deserves to be remembered by all those who knew her. But after above forty years ac- quaintance with so amiable a creature, one must needs, in reflecting, bring to remembrance so many engaging endear- ments as are yet at present imbittering and painful ; and indeed we may be sure, that when any thing below God is the object of our love, at one time or an- other it will be matter of our sorrow. But a little time will put me again into my settled state of mourning; for a mourner I must be all my days upon earth, and there is no need I should be other. My glass runs low. The world Sect. II, MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 165 does not v/aiit me, nor I want that : my business is at home, and within a narrow compass. I must not deny, as there was something so glorious in the object of my biggest sorrow, I believe that, in some measure, kept me from being then over- whelmed. So now it affords me, toge- ther with the remembrance how many easy years we lived together, thoughts that are joy enough for one who looks no higher than a quiet submission to her lot ; and such pleasures in educating my young- folks as surmount the cares that it ^vill afford. If I shall be spared the trial, where I have most thought of being pre- pared to bear the pain, I hope I shall be thankful, and I think I ask it faithfully, that it may be in mercy not in judgment. Let me rather be tortured here, than they or I be rejected in that other bless- ed peaceful home to all ages, to which my soul aspires. Tliere is something in the younger going before me, that I have observed all my life to give a sense I can- not describe ; it is harder to be borne than a bigger loss, where there has been spun out a longer thread of life. Yet I see no cause for it, for every day we see the young fall with the old : but methinks it is a violence upon nature. A troubled mind has a multitude of these thoughts. Yet I hope I master all murmurings : if I have had any, I am sorry, and will have no more, assisted by Ood's grace ; and rest satisfied, that whatever I think, I shall one day be en- tirely satisfied what God has done and shall do will be best, and justify both his justice and mercy. I meant this as a very short epistle : but you have been some years acquainted with my infirmi- ty, and have endured it, though you never had waste time, I believe, in your life ; and better times do not, I hope, make your patience less. However, it will become me to put an end to this, which I will do, signing myself cordially your, &c. LETTER LXIV. Lady Russel io Lord Cavendish. 29th October, 1690- Though I know my letters do lord Cavendish no service, yet, as a respect I love to pay him, and to thank him also for his last from Ivimbeck, I had not been so long silent, if the death of two persons both very near and dear to me had not made me so uncomfortable to myself, that I knew I was utterly unfit to converse where I would never be ill company. The separation of friends is grievous. My sister Montague was one I loved tenderly ; my lord Gainsborough was the only son of a sister I loved with too much passion : they both deserved to be remembered kindly by all that knew them. They both began their race long after me, and I hoped should have ended it so too ; but the great and wise Dis- poser of all things, and who knows where it is best to place his creatures, either in this or in the other world, has ordered it otherwise. The best improve- ment we can make in these cases, and you, my dear lord, rather than I, whose glass runs low, while you are young, and I hope have many happy years to come, is, I say, that we should all reflect there is no passing through this to a better world without some crosses, and the scene sometimes shifts so fast, our course of life may be ended before we think we have gone half way ; and that an happy eternity depends on our spending- well or ill that time allotted us here for probation. Live virtuously, my lord, and you cannot die too soon, nor live too long. I hope the last shall be your lot, with many blessings attending it. Your, &c. LETTER LXV. Archbishop Tihlotson to Lady Russel. June 23, 1691*. Honoured madam, I RECEIVED your ladyship's letter, to- gether with that to Mr. Fox, which I shall return to him on Wednesday morn- ing, when I have desired Mr. Kemp to send him to me. I entreat you to give my very humble service to my lord of Bedford, and to let his lordship know how far I have been concerned in this affair. I had notice first from Mr. Attorney-general and Mr. Solicitor, and then from my lord , that several persons, upon the account of publishing and dispersing several libels against me, were secured in order to pro- secution. Upon which I went to wait upon them severally, and earnestly de- * From his drausht in short-hand. 166 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 11. sired of them, that nobody mi^ht be punished upon my account : that this was not the first time I had experience of this kind of malice, which, how unpleasant soever to me, I thought it the wisest way to neglect, and the best to forgive it*. None of them said any thing to me of my lord Russel, nor did it ever come into my thought to hinder any prosecu' tion upon his account, whose reputation, I can truly say, is much dearer to me than mine own ; and I was much more troubled at the barbarous usage done to his memory, and especially since they have aggravated it by dispersing more copies ; and, as I find by the letter to Mr. Fox, are supported in their insolence by a strong combination, I cannot but think it very fit for my lord Bedford to bring them to condign punishment. Twice last week I had my pen in my hand to have provoked you to a letter ; and that I might once in my life have been beforehand with you in this way of kindness. I was both times hindered by the breaking in of company upon me. The errand of it would have been to have told you, that whether it be from stupidity, or from a present astonishment at the danger of my condition, or from some other cause, I find, that I bear the burden I dreaded so much a good deal better than I could have hoped. David's acknowledgment to God runs in my mind, " Who am I, O Lord God, or what is my house, that thou hast brought me hitherto ; and hast regarded me ac- cording to the estate of a man of high degree, O Lord Godf." I hope that the same providence of God which hath once overruled me in this thing will some way or other turn it to good. The queen's extraordinary favour to me, to a degree much beyond my expec- tation, is no small support to me ; and I flatter myself with hopes, that my friends will continue their kindness to me ; especially that the best friend 1 ever had will not be the less so to me now that I need friends most. I pray to God continually to preserve you and yours, and particularly at this time to give my lady Cavendish a happy * Upon a bundle of libels found among his papers after his death he put no other inscrip- tion than this; "These are libels; I pray God forgive the authors : I do." f 1 Chron. xvii. 16, 17. meeting vfith her lord, and to grant them both a long and happy life toge- ther. I am, madam, your most faithful and humble servant. LETTER LXVL Lat/y Russel to {supposed Arch- bishop Tdlotson). 24th July, ir)9l. In wants and distresses of all kinds, one naturally flies to a sure friend, if one is blessed with any such. This is the rea- son of the present address to you, which is burthened with this request, if you think it fit, to give the inclosed to the queen. My letter is a petition to her majesty, to bestow upon a gentleman a place, that is now fallen by the death of Mr. Herbert ; it is auditor of Wales, va- lue about 400/. a year. He is, if I do not extremely mistake, fit for it, and worthy of it ; he is knight of the shire for Carmarthenshire ; it would please me on several accounts, if I obtain it. Now every thing is so soon chopt upon and gone, that a slow way would defeat me, if nothing else does ; and that I fear from lord Devonshire if he was in town ; be- sides, I should not so distinctly know the queen's answer, and my success, as I shall I know do by your means, if you have no scruple to deliver my letter ; if you have, pray use me as I do you, and in the integrity of your heart tell me so. I could send it to lady Darby ; it is only the certainty of some answer makes me pitch as I do. Nay perhaps it were more proper to send it to the queen's secre- tary ; but I am not versed in the court ways, it is so lately since I have loved them. Therefore be free, and do as you think most fit. I intend not to detain you long ; but the many public and signal mercies we have of late received are so reviving, notwithstanding the black and dismal scenes which are constantly before me, and particularly on these sad months, I must feel the compassions of a wise and good God, to these late sinking nations, and to the Protestant interest all the world over, and all good people also. I raise my spirits all I can, and labour to rejoice in the prospect of more happy days, for the time to come, than some ages have been blessed with. The good- Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 167 ness of those instruments God has called forth to work this great work by, swells one's hopes. LETTER LXVII. From the same to hady Arlington*). {supposed lOth October, 1691. My dear sister, I have not yet had reso- lution to speak to you this way, nor know 1 now what to say. Your misfortune is too big- to hope that any thing I oifer can allay the present rage of your sor- row. I pray for you, and I pity you, which is all I can do : and that I do most feelingly, not knowing how soon your case may be mine : and I v.ant from you what I would most willingly furnish you with, some consolation and truce from your extreme lamentation. I hope that by this time your reason begins to get a power over your wasted spirits, and that you will let nature re- lieve herself. She will do it if you do not obstruct her. There is a time and period for all things here. Nature will first prevail ; but as soon as we can we must think what is our duty, and pursue it as well as we are able. I beseech God to teach you to submit to this unlooked for, and to appearance sadly severe provi- dence, and endue you with a quiet spirit, to wait for the day of consolation, when joy will be our portion to all eternity : in that day we shall meet again all our pious friends, aU that have died in their inno- cence, and with them live a life of inno- cence, and purity, and gladness for ever. Fit your thoughts with these undoubted truths, my dear sister, as much and as often as is possible. I know no other cure for such diseases ; nor shall we miss one, if we endeavour, with God's grace assisting, which he certainly gives to such as ask. God give you refreshments. I am your, &c. LETTER LXVIII. FroTfi the same to . 18th October, 1691. The misfortunes of such as one ex- tremely esteems grow our own ; so that if my constant sad heart were not so * On the death of one of her daughters. soon touched as it is with deplorable ac- cidents, I should yet feel a great deal of your just mourning ; if sharing a cala- mity coidd ease you, that burden would be little : for as depraved an age as we live in, there is such a force in virtue and goodness, that all the world laments mth you ; and yet sure, madam, when we part from what we love most that is excellent, it is our best support, that nature, who wall be heard first, does suffer reason to take place. What can relieve so much, as that our friend died after a well-spent life ? Some losses are so surprising and so gi-eat, one must not break in too soon, and therefore my sense of your calamit}^ con- fined me to only a solicitous inquiry; and I doubt it is still a mistaken respect to dwell long upon such a subject. I will do no more than sign this truth, that I am your, &c. LETTER LXIX. From the same to Dr. Fittwilliam. July 2 1st, 1692. I WILL but say very little for myself, why you are so long without hearing from me, yet I could say much to my justification, but am more willing to come to the more touching and serious part of your last letter : not but I should be very sorry indeed, if I suspected you had a thought I were unworthy towards you ; I dare say you raise none upon ap- pearances, and other reasons you shall never have. In short, my daughter Ca- vendish being ill, carried me twice a day to Arlington house, where I stayed till twelve and one o'clock at night, and much business, being near leaving Lon- don, and my eyes serving me no longer by candle-light, which, perhaps, was the biggest let of all, and hindered my doing what I desired and ought to do. But to come to the purpose of yours, which I received the 13tli of this lament- able month, the very day of that hard sentence pronounced against my dear friend and husband : it was the fast day, and so I had the opportunity of retiring without any taking notice of it, which pleases me best. W[\^t shall I say, doctor ? That I do live by your rules ? No : I should lie. I bless God it has long been my purpose, with some endea- 168 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 11, vour, through mercy to do it. I hope I may conclude I grieve without sinning ; yet I cannot attain to that love of God and submission to all his providences that I can rejoice in : however, I bless him for his infinite mercy, in a support that is not wrought from the world (though my heart is too much bound up in the blessings I have yet left) : and I hope chiefly he has enabled me to rejoice in him as my everlasting portion, and in the assured hope of good things in the other world. Good doctor, we are travelling the same way, and hope through mercy to meet at the same happy end of all our labours here, in an eternal rest ; and it is of great advantage to that attainment, communicating pious thoughts to each other : nothing on this side heaven goes so near it ; and being where God is, it is heaven. If he be in our hearts there will be peace and satisfaction, when one recollects the happiness of such a state (which, if my heart deceives me not, I hope is mine) ; and I will try to expe- rience more and more that blessed pro- mise, " Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you ease." This day, and this subject, induces me to be very long, and might to another be too tedious ; but 1 know it is not so to Dr. Fitzwilliam, who uses to feast in the house of mourning. However, my time to open my chamber door is near ; and I take some care not to affect in these re- tirements. In all circumstances I re- main, sir, your constantly obliged friend and servant. LETrER LXX. Lady Russel to Lady Russei. If ever I could retaliate with my sister Russel, it would be now, on the subject of death, when I have all this my saddest month been reflecting on what I saw and felt ; and yet what can I say more than to acquiesce with you, that it is a solemn thing to think of the consequences of death to believers and unbelievers ! That it is a contemplation ought to be of force to make us diligent for the approaching change, I must own ; yet I doubt it does so but on a few. That you are one of those happy ones I conclude, if I knew no more reason for it than the bare con- clusion of yours, that the bare meditation is sufficient to provoke to care : for when a heart is so well touched it will act : and who has perhaps by an absolute sur- render of herself so knit her soul to God, as will make her dear in his sight. We lie under innumerable obligations to be his entirely ; and nothing should be so attracting to us as his miraculous love in sending his Son ; but my still smart sorrow for earthly losses makes me know I loved iiiordinately, and my profit in the school of adversity has been small, or I should have long since turned my mourn- ing into rejoicing thankfulness, that I had such a friend to lose ; that I saw him I loved as my own soul take such a pro- spect of death as made him, when brought to it, walk through the dark and shaded valley (notwithstanding the natural aver- sion to separation) without fearing evil : for if we in our limited degrees of good- ness will not forsake those that depend on us, much less can God cast us from him when we seek to him in our cala- mity. And though he denied my greatest and repeated prayers, yet he has not de- nied me the support of his holy Spirit, in this my long day of calamity, but enabled me in some measure to rejoice in him as my portion for ever ; who has provided a remedy for all our griefs, by his sure promises of another life, where there is no death, nor any pain or trouble, but a fulness of joy in the presence of God, who made us and loves us for ever. LETTER LXXI. Archbishop Tillotson to Lady RusseL Lambeth House, August 2Gth, 1693. Madam, Though nobody rejoices more than my- self in the happiness of your ladyship and your children, yet in the hurry in which you must needs have been, I could Tiot think it fit for to give you the dis- turbance so much as of a letter, which otherwise had, both in friendship and good manners, been due upon this great occasion. But now that busy time is in a good measure over, I cannot forbear after so many as, I am sure, have been before me, to congratulate with your ladyship this happy match of your daughter; for so I heartily pray it may prove, and have great reason to believe it will, because I (!annot but look upon it as part of the Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 1611 comfort and reward of your patience and submission to the will of God, under that sorest and most heavy affliction that could have befallen you ; and when God sends and intends a blessing, it shall have no sorrow or evil with it. I entreat my lord Ross and his lady to accept of my humble service, and my hearty wishes of great and lasting hap- piness. My poor wife is at present very ill, which goes very near me : and having said this, I know we shall have your prayers. I entreat you to give my hum- ble service to my lord of Bedford, and my lord of Cavendish and his lady. I could upon several accounts be melan- choly, but I will not upon so joyful an occasion. I pray God to preserve and bless your ladyship, and all the good fa- mily at Woborne, and to make us all concerned to prepare ourselves with the greatest care for a better life. I am, with all true respect and esteem, madam, your ladyship's most faithful and most humble servant. LETTER LXXIL what to do when he is come. I was never so much at my wit's end concerning the public. God only can bring us out of the labyrinth we are in, and I trust he will. My wife gives her most humble service and thanks to you for your concernment for her, and does rejoice equally with ine for the good news of your recovery. Never since I knew the world had I so much reason to value my friends. In the condition I now am I can have no new ones, or, if I could, I can have no assur- ance that they are so. I could not at a distance believe that the upper end of the world was so hollow as I find it. I ex- cept a very few, of whom I can believe no ill till I plainly see it. I have ever earnestly coveted your letters ; but now I do as earnestly beg of you to spare them for my sake, as well as your own. With my very humble ser- vice to my good lord of Bedford, and to all yours, and my hearty prayers to God for you all, I remain, madam, your ladyship's most obliged and obedient servant *. LETTER LXXIII. Archbishop Tillotson to Lady Russel. The Bishop of Salisbury to Lady Russel. Lambeth-house, October 13th, 1G93. I HAVE forborne, madam, hitherto, even to acknowledge the receipt of your lady- ship's letter, and your kind concernment for mine and my wife's health, because I saw how unmerciful you were to your eyes in your last letter to me : so that I should certainly have repented the pro- vocation I gave you to it by mine, had not so great and good an occasion made it necessary. I had intended this morning to have sent Mr. Vernon to Woborne, to have inquired of your ladyship's health, hav- ing but newly heard, that since your re- turn from Belvoir, a dangerous fever had seized upon you. But yesterday morn- ing, at council, I happily met with Mr. Russel, who, to my great joy, told me that he hoped that danger was over ; for which I thank God with all my heart, because I did not know how fatal the event might be, after the care and hurry you had been in, and in &o sickly a season. The king's return is now only hin- dered by contrary winds. I pray God to scud him safe to ks, ami to direct him Salisbury, 31st October, 1(390. I DO heartily congratulate with your ladyship for this new blessing. God has now heard your prayers with relation to two of your children, which is a good earnest that he will hear them in due time with relation to the third. You begin to see your children's children, God grant you may likewise see peace upon Israel. And now that God hath so built up your house, I hope you will set * The archbishop's correspondence with lady Russel had been interrupted on her part for many months, by the disorder in her eyes in- creasing to such a degree, that she was obliged, on the 27th of June, 1694, to submit to the ope- ration of couching. Upon this occasion his grace drew up a prayer two days after, in which he touched upon the death of her husband, " whom the holy and righteous Providence,^ says he, " permitted [under a colour of law andjustice] to be [unjustly] cutofffrom the land of the living." But over the words betv/een the brackets, after the first writing, he drew a line, as intending to erase them, probably from a re- flection that the^' might be too strons-, or less suitable to a prayer. June '28th he wrote to the bishop of Salisbury, " I cannot forbear to tell you, that my lady Kusb^tl's eye was couched yesterday morning witli very good success ; <^.'od be praised for it." 170 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Boox IL yourself to build a house of prayer for the honour of his name. You have passed through very diflferent scenes of life. God has reserved the best to the last. 1 do make it a standing part of my poor prayers twice a day, that as now your family is the greatest in its three branches that has been in England in our age, so that it may in every one of these answer those blessings by an ex- emplary holiness, and that both you and they may be public blessings to the age and nation. I do not think of coming up yet this fortnight, if I am not called for*. I humbly thank your ladyship for giving me this early notice of so great a bless- ing to you. I hope it shall soon be com- pleted by my lady Ross's full recovery. Mrs. Burnet is very sensible of the ho- nour your ladyship does her in thinking of her, and does particularly rejoice in God's goodness to you. I am, with the highest sense of gratitude and respect possible, madam, your ladyship's most humble, most obedient, and most ob- liged servant. LETTER LXXIV. Lady Russel to King William, Sir, I RATHER choose to troublc your majesty with a letter, than be wanting in my duty, in the most submissive manner ima- ginable, to acknowledge the honour and favour I am told your majesty designs for lord Rutland and his family, in which I am so much interested. It is an act of great goodness, sir, in you ; and the generous manner you have * The marquis of Halifax said of bishop Bur- net, " He makes many enemies, by setting an ill natured example of living, which they are not inclined to follow. His indifference for pre- ferment, his contempt not only of splendour, but of all unnecessary plenty, his degrading himself into the lowest and most painful duties of his calling, are such uiiprelatical qualities, that let him be never soorthodox in other things, in these he must be a Dissenter. Virtues of such a stamp are so many heresies in the opinion of those divines who have softened the primitive injunctions, so as to make them suit betterwith the present frailty of mankind. No wonder then if they are angry, since it is in their own defence ; or that, from a principle of self-pre- servation, they should endeavour to suppress a man whose parts are a shame, and whose life is a scandal to them." Both he and Tillotson, as well as many other Christian bishops, were averse to pluralities and non-residence. been pleased to promise it in, makes the honour, if possible, greater. As you will lay an eternal obligation on that fa- mily, be pleased to allow me to answer for all those I am related to ; they will look on themselves equally honoured with lord Rutland, by your favour to his family, and I am sure will express their acknowledgments to your majesty in the most dutiful manner, to the best of their services; in which I earnestly desire my son Bedford may exceed, as he has been first and early honoured with the marks of your favour. And I hope I may live to see your majesty has bestowed one more upon him, who appears to me to have no other ambition, except what he prefers above all others, making him- self acceptable to your majesty, and living in your good opinion. I presume to say, 1 believe there is no fault in his intentions of duty towards your majesty, nor I trust ever will be : and that as his years increase, his per- formances will better declare the faith- fulness of his mind, which will hugely enlarge the comforts of your majesty's most humble, most dutiful, and most obedient servant, N.B. Lady RusseVs indorsement on the foregoing letter is in these words : To the King, 1701-2, about first of March, and found in his pocket when dead. LETTER LXXV. Lady Russel to (Rouvigny) Galxvayf. Earl of June, 1711. Alas ! my dear lord Galway, my thoughts are all yet disorder, confusion, and amazement ; and I think I am very in- capable of saying or doing what I should. I did not know the greatness of my f Lady Russel's only son Wriothesley, duke of Bedford, died of the small-pox in May, 1711, in the 3 1 St year of his age, upon which occasion this letter was written. To this affliction suc- ceeded, in November, 1711, the loss of her daughter the duchess of Rutland, who died in childbed. Lady Russel, after seeing her in the coffin, went to her other daughter, married to the duke of Devonshire, from whom it was ne- cessary to conceal her grief, she being at that time in childbed likewise; therefore she as- sumed a cheerful air, and with astonishing reso- lution, agreeable to truth, answered her anxious daughter's inquirieswith these words; "I have seen yonr sister out of bed to-day." Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 171 love to his person till I could see it no more. Wlien nature, who will he mis- tress, has in some measure with time re- lieved herself, then, and not till then, I trust the Goodness which hath no hounds, and whose power is irresistible, will assist me by his grace to rest con- tented with what his unerring provi- dence has appointed and permitted. And I sliaU feel ease in this contemplation, that there was nothing uncomfortable in his death, but the losing him. His God was, I verily believe, ever in his thoughts. Towards his last hours he called upon him, and complained he could not pray his prayers. To what I answered, he said, he wished for more time to make up his accounts with God. Then, with remembrance to his sisters, and telling me how good and kind his wife had been to him, and that he should have been glad to have expressed himself to her, said something to me and my double kindness to his wife, and so died away. There seemed no reluctancy to leave this world, patient and easy the whole time, and I believe knew his danger, but, loth to grieve those by him, delayed what he might have said. But why all this ? The decree is past. I do not ask your prayers, I know you offer them with sincerity to our Almighty God for your afflicted kinswoman. LETTER LXXVI. From Lord Shaftesbury'*' to Feb. 24th, 17G6-7, I ACCEPT kindly the offer of your cor- respondence, and chiefly as it comes from you with heartiness and (the best of cha- racters) simplicity. When this disposi- tion of heart attends our searches into learning and philosophy, we need not fear being " vainly puffed up," or falling into that false way of wisdom, which the Scripture calls " vain philosophy." When the improvement of our minds, and the advancement of our reason, is aU we aim at ; and this only to fit us for a per- fecter, more rational, and worthier ser- vice of God ; we can have no scruples whether or no the work be an acceptable one to him. But where neither our duty ♦ These letters were written before the Cha- racteristics, which were first published 1711. to mankind, nor obedience to our Crea- tor, is any way the end or object of our studies or exercises, be they ever so cu- rious or exquisite, they may be justly styled " vain ; " and often the vainer, for carrying with them the false show of ex- cellence and superiority. On this account, though there be no part of learning more advantageous even towards divinity than logics, metaphy- sics, and what we call university-learn- ing ; yet nothing proves more dangerous to young minds unforewarned, or, what is worse, prepossessed with the excel- lency of such learning : as if all wisdom lay in the solution of those riddles of the school-men, who in the last ages of the church, found out an excellent way to destroy religion by philosophy, and ren- der reason and philosophy ridiculous, under that garb they had put on it. If your circumstances or condition suffer you to enter into the world by a uni- versity, well is it for you that you have prevented such prepossession. However, I am not sorry that I lent you Mr. Locke's Essay of Human Un- derstanding, which may as well qualify for business and the world, as for the sciences and a university. No one has done more towards the recalling of phi- losophy from barbarity, into use and practice of the world, and into the com- pany of the better and politer sort ; who might well be ashamed of it in its other dress. No one has opened a better or clearer way to reasoning. And above all, I wonder to hear him censured so much by any Church-of-England men, for ad- vancing reason and bringing the use of it so much into religion ; when it is by this only that we fight against the enthu- siasts, and repel the great enemies of oui* church. It is by this weapon alone that we combat those visionaries, who in the last age broke in so foully upon us, and are now (pretendedly at least) esteemed so terrible and dangerous. But though I am one of those who, in these truly happy times, esteem our church as wholly out of danger: yet should we hearken to those men who dis- claim this use of reason in religion, we must lay ourselves open afresh to all fa- natics. For what else is fanaticism? Wliere does the stress of their cause lie ? Are not their unintelligible motions of the spirit ; their unexpressible pretend ed feelings, apprehensions j and lights m ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 1L within ; their inspirations in prophecy, extempore prayer, preaching, &c . ; are not these, I say, the foundations on which they build their cause ? Are not our cokl dead reasonings (as they call them) a re- proach and stumbling-block to them ? if you will believe their leaders, who are instantly cut off from all their pretences to gifts and spirits, and supernatural graces, if they are once brought to the test of cool reason and deliberate exa- mination. And can we thus give up our cause, by giving up reason ? Shall we give them up our Tillotsons, our Bar- rows, our Chillingworths, our Ham- monds? For what less is it to give up this way of reason so much decried by those condemners of Mr. Locke ? But such is the spirit of some men in contro- versial matters. A certain noted clergy- man of learning and ability, and great reputed zeal, a great enemy of Master Locke, has (I am lately told) turned rigid Calvinist, as to all the points of pre- destination, free-grace, &c.; and not only this clergyman, but several more in the university of that high party, who ran as high in opposition to Calvinism but one reign or two since. The reason of this is but too obvious. Our bishops and dig- nified churchmen (the most worthily and justly dignified of any in any age) are, as they ever were, inclinable to mode- ration in the high Calvinistic points. But they are also inclinable to mode- ration in other points. Hirtc nice lachrymce. They are for toleration, inviolable tole- ration (as our queen nobly and Chris- tianly said it, in her speech a year or two since) ; and this is itself intolerable with our high gentlemen, who despise the gentleness of their Lord and Master, and the sweet mild government of our queen, preferring rather that abominable blas- j)hemous representative of church power, attended with the worst of temporal go- vernments, as we see it in perfection of each kind in France. From this, and from its abettors of every kind, and in every way, I pray God deliver us, whilst we are daily thankful for what in his providence he has already done towards it, and to the happiness and glory of our excellent queen and country. So fare- well. 1 am your good friend to serve vou. LETTER LXXVII. From Lord Shafteshiiry to — May irtli, 1707. Since your disposition inclines you so strongly towards university-learning ; and your sound exercise of your reason, and the integrity of your heart, give good assurance against the narrow prin- ciples 'and contagious manner of those corrupted places, whence all noble and free principles ought rather to be propa- gated ; I shall not be wanting to you on my part, when 1 shall see the fruit of your studies, life, and conversation, answer- able to those good seeds of principles you seem to carry in you. I am glad to find your love of reason and free-thought. Your piety and vir- tue, I know, you wiU always keep ; espe- cially since your desires and natural in- clinations are towards so serious a sta- tion in life, which others undertake too slightly, and without examining their hearts. Pray God direct you, and confirm your good beginnings, and in the practice of virtue and religion ; assuring yourself that the highest principle, which is the love of God, is best attained, not by dark speculations and monkish philosophy, but by moral practice, and love of man- kind, and a study of their interests : the chief of which, and that which only raises them above the degree of brutes, is free- dom of reason in the learned world, and good government and liberty in the civil world. Tyranny in one is ever accom- panied, or soon followed, by tyranny in the other. And when slavery is brought upon a people, they are soon reduced to that base and brutal state, both in their understandings and morals. True zeal therefore for God or religion, must be supported by real love for man- kind : and love of mankind cannot con- sist but with a right knowledge of man's great interests, and of the only ways and means (that of liberty and freedom) which God and nature has made necessary and essential to his manly dignity and cha- racter. They therefore who betray these principles, and the rights of mankind, betray religion even so as to make it an instrument against itself. But I must have done, and am your good friend to serve you. Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 173 LETTER LXXVIII. From the same to the same. November 19th, 1707. Truly if your heart correspond en- tirely with your pen, and if you tho- roughly feel those good principles you have expressed, I cannot but have a great increase of kindness and esteem for you. Imagine not that I suspect you of so mean a thing as hypocrisy or aiFected virtue : I am fully satisfied you mean and intend what you write. But, alas ! the misfortune of youth, and not of youth merely, but of human nature, is such, that it is a thousand times easier to frame the highest ideas of virtue and goodness, than to practise the least part. And per- haps this is one of the chief reasons why virtue is so ill practised ; because the im- pressions, which seem so strong at first, are too far relied on. We are apt to think, that what appears so fair, and strikes us so forcibly, at the first view, will surely hold with us. We launch forth into speculation ; and after a time, when we look back and see how slowly practice comes up to it, we are the sooner led to despondency the higher we had carried our views before. Remember therefore to restrain your- self within due bounds ; and to adapt youi' contemplation to what you are ca- pable of practising. For there is a sort of spiritual ambition; and in reading those truly divine authors whom you have sometimes cited to me, I have ob- served many to have miscarried by too fervent and eager a pursuit of such per- fection. Glad I am, however, that you are not one of those dull souls that are incapable of any spiritual refinement. I rejoice to see you raise yourself above the rank of sordid and sensual spirits, who, though set apart and destined to spirituals, under- stand not that there is any thing prepa- ratory to it, beyond a little scholarship and knowledge of forms. I rejoice to see that you think of other preparations, and another discipline of the heart and mind, than what is thought of amongst that indolent and supine race of men. You are sensible, I perceive, that there is another sort of study, a profounder meditation, which becomes those wlio are to set an example to mankind, and fit themselves to expound and teach those short and summary precepts and divine laws, delivered to us in positive com- mands by our sacred Legislator. It is our business, and of all, as many as are raised in knowledge above the poor, illiterate, and laborious vulgar, to explain as far as possible the reasons of those laws ; their consent with the law of nature ; their suitableness to society, and to the peace, happiness, and enjoy- ment of ourselves. It is there alone that we have need of recourse to fire and brimstone, and what other punishments the Divine Goodness (for our good) has condescended to threaten us with, where the force of these arguments cannot prevail. Our business within ourselves is to set ourselves free according to that perfect law of liberty, which we are bid to look into. And I am delighted to read these words from you, viz. that we are made to contemplate and love God entirely, and with a free and voluntary love. But this you will see is a mystery too deep for those souls whom' you converse with, and see around you. They have scarce heard of what it is to combat with their appetites and senses. They think them- selves sufiiciently justified as men, and sufficiently qualified as holy men, and teachers of religion, if they can compass matters by help of circumstances and outward fortune, so as happily to re- strain these lusts and appetites of theirs within the bounds of ordinary hmnan laws. Hence those allurements of ex- ternal objects (as you well remark) they are so far from declining, that they rather raise and advance them by all possible means, without fear of adding fuel to their inflamed desires, in a heart which can never burn towards God till those other fires are extinct. God grant that since you know this better way, this chaste and holy disci- pline, you may 'still pursue it with that just and pious jealousy over your own heart, that neither your eyes, nor any of your senses, may be led away to serve themselves, or any thing but that Creator who made them for his service, and in whom alone is happiness and rest. I wisli you well, and shall be glad to hear still of you. 174 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL LETTER LXXIX. JProw Lord Shaftesbury to - April 2d, 170S. 1 HAVE received yours every week, and am highly satisfied with your thoughts ; not doubting but they are truly your own and natural, as well as your manner of expressing them ; for in this I would have you keep an entire freedom, and deliver your sentiments still nakedly, and without art or ornament. For it is the heart I look for : and though the orna- ments of style are what you are obliged to study and practise on other occasions, the less you regard them, and the greater simplicity you discover in writing pri- vately to myself, the greater my satisfac- tion is, and the more becoming the part you have to act. I was particularly pleased with your thoughts and reasonings on Christian li- berty, and the zeal you shew for that no- ble principle, by which we cease to be slaves and drudges in religion ; and by being reconciled to our duty, and to the excellence of those precepts and injunc- tions, which tend absolutely to our good and happiness in every respect, we be- come liberal servants and children of God. A mind thus released and set at li- berty, if it once sees its real good, will hardly be deprived of it, or disheartened in the pursuit, whatever discourage- ment surrounds it. It is the inward enemy alone can stop it. For when a mind, set free from voluntary error and self-darkening conceit, aspires to what is generous and deserving, nothing but what is vile and slavish from within can deaden it ; nothing but a base love of inward slavery, and an adherence to our vices and corruptions, is able to effect this. In some, who are horridly degenerate, this submission is wholly voluntary. Self- interest leads them, whether it be a pri- vate one of their own, or in society and confederacy with some faction or party, to the support of temporal ends. In this case it carries a specious shew of public good ; whether it be in church or state. And thus it is often the occasion of an open denial of reason, and of a bare- faced opposition to the glorious search of truth. In others, it is mere sloth and lazi- ness, or sordid appetite and lust, which, bringing them under the power of sin and ignorance, fits them for political servitude by moral prostitution. For when the tyranny of lust and passion can be indulgently permitted, and even esteemed a happiness, no wonder if li- berty of thought be in little esteem. Every thing civil or spiritual of this kind must needs be disregarded, or rather looked upon with jealousy and appre- hension. For one tyranny supports another : one slavery helps and ministers to ano- ther. Vice ministers to superstition ; and a gainful ministress she is : super- stition on the other hand returns the kindness, and will not be ungrateful. Superstition supports persecution, and persecution superstition. Vice and intemperance is but an in- ward persecution. It is here the vio- lence begins. Here the truth is first held in unrighteousness, and the yvos-cuv, " reason knowable, the intelligible, the divine part," is persecuted and impri- soned. Those who submit to this ty- ranny, in time not only come to it, but plead for it, and think the law of virtue tyrannical and against nature. So in the absolute governments of the world : nations, that submit to arbitrary rule, love even their form of government : if one may call that a form which is with- out any, and, like vice itself, knows neither law nor order. In this state the mind helps forward the ill work. For when reason, as an antagonist to vice, is become an inward enemy, and has once lost her interest with the soul by opposing every favourite pas- sion, she will then be soon expelled an- other province, and lie under suspicion for every attempt she makes upon the mind. She is presently miscalled and abused. She is thought notional in the understanding, whimsical in company, seditious in the state, heretical in the church. Even in philosophy, her own proper dominion, she is looked upon as none of the best of companions ; and here also authority is respected as the most convenient guide. This we find to be the temper of cer- tain places ; where wit and sense, how- ever, are not wanting, nor learning of a certain kind. So that what is at the bottom of all this is easily seen by those who see those places, and can but make Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 175 use of their eyes to observe manners and morals. It is pretty visible indeed that the ori- ginal of all is in those sordid vices of sloth, laziness, and intemperance. This makes way for ambition ; for how should these be so illustriously maintained and vindicated, v/ithout large temporal power, and the umbrage of authority ? Hence it is that those mother-vices are so in- dulgently treated in those places, and that temperance and virtue are looked upon with an evil eye, as fanatically in- clined. For who that is morally free, and has asserted his inward liberty, can see truth thus held, reason and ingenuity suppressed, without some secret abhor- rence and detestation ? But this you are happily apprized of ; nor can you miscarry or be turned aside by imposture, or assuming formality and pride of any kind. You know your li- berty : use it and be free. But use it as becomes you, with all due meekness and submission as to outward carriage. It is the inward man that is to be relieved and rescued from his chains. Others need not your admonition ; nor is this your duty, but far contrary. Preserve yourself from the contagion, and it is enough : a great task it is, and will ap- pear so to you, if you are hearty in it, and concerned for the thing itself, not the appearance. For the inclination to- wards rebuke and rectifying of others, which feels like zeal in us, is often the deceit of pride and self-conceit, which finds this way to screen itself and ma- nage undiscovered. Keep your virtue and honesty to yourself; for if it be truly such, it will be in no pain for being kept secret. And thus you may be safe, and in due time, perhaps, useful also to others. Learn to discourse and reason with yourself, or, as you honestly do, in let- ters to me. Trouble not others ; nor be provoked to shew your sentiments, and betray noble and generous truths to such as can neither bear them, nor those whom they suspect to be in possession of them. Mind that which is the chief of all, liberty ; and subdue early your own temper and appetites. It will then be time for higher speculations, when those wandering imaginations, vain conceits, and wanton thoughts of youth, are mortified and subdued. Religion then will have no enemy opposed to her ; and in spite of superstition^ and all spiritual tyrannies of the world, will soon be found a joyful task, the pleas ante st of all lives, quite other than is commonly re- presented. Look chiefly to this practice ; for this is always permitted you ; this you can be employed in every hour, even when books and privacy are denied you, and business and attendance required. The more you are a servant in this sense, the more you will partake of that chief li- berty which is learnt by obedience and submission. And thus even they who perhaps, by their haughtiness and harsh- ness, would render you a slave, and awe you into servile thoughts, will most of all contribute to your manumission ; if by their sad example they teach you (in meekness still and humility) to detest the more their narrow, persecuting, and bitter spirit, supported by their vices, and shew you evidently that great truth, that ' ' tyranny can never be exercised but by one who is already a slave." Be assured, therefore, that where the heart disdains this original corruption, the mind will be its friend : and by de- livering it from all spiritual bondage, will qualify it for a further progress, re- warding virtue by itself. For of virtue there can be no reward but of the same kind with itself; nothing can be super- added to it : and even heaven itself can be no other than the addition of grace to grace, virtue to virtue, and know- ledge to knowledge ; by which we may still more and more comprehend the chief virtue, and highest excellence, the Giver and Dispenser of all : to whom I commit you, and pray your studies may be eiFectual. So farewell. LETTER LXXX. Froiti the same to January 28th, 1708-0. I WAS that morning thinking with my- self what was become of you ; and al- most resolved to have you inquired of at your father's ; when I received your very surprising letter, which brought so good an account of yourself, and a proof how well you had spent your time, during this your long silence. It was providential, surely, that I 176 ELEGANT E P I S T L E Sv Book II. should happen once to speak to you of the Greek language, when you asked concerning the foundations of learning, and the source and fountain of those lights we have, whether in morality or divinity. It was not possible for me to answer you deceitfully or slightly. I could not but point out to you where the spring-head lay. But, as well as I can remember, I bad you not be discou- raged ; for by other channels, derived from those fountains, you would be suf- ficiently supplied with the knowledge necessary for the solemn character that lay before you. You hearkened to me, it seems, with great attention and belief, and did re- solve to take no middle way. But little could I have thought that you dared to have made your attempt on the other side, instead of drawing in your forces, and collecting your strength and the re- mainder of your precious time for what lay on this hither side. But since God would have it so, so be it : and I pray God prober you in your daring at- tempt, and bless you with true modesty and simplicity in all the other endea- vours and practices of your life, as you have had courage and mighty boldness in this one. And so indeed it may naturally hap- pen by the same good providence ; since at the instant that you began this enter- prise, you have fallen into such excel- lent reading. And if, as you shew by your letter, Simplicius's Comment be your delight, even that alone is a suffi- cient earnest of your soul's improve- ment as well as of your mind's, if such a distinction may well be made : for alas ! all that we call improvement of our minds in dry and empty speculation, all learning or whatever else, either in theo- logy or other science, which has not a direct tendency to render us honester, milder, juster, and better, is far from being justly so called. And even all that philosophy which is built on the comparison and compounding of ideas, complex, implex, reflex, and all that din and noise of metaphysics ; all that pre- tended study and science of nature called natural philosophy, Aristotelian, Cartesian, or v/hatever else it be; all those high contemplations of stars, and spheres, and planets ; and all the other inquisitive curious parts of learning, are so far from being necessary improve- ments of the mind, that without the utmost care they serve only to blow it up in conceit and folly, and render men more stiff in their ignorance and vices. And this brings into my thoughts a small piece of true learning, which I think is generally bound up with Sim- plicius and Epictetus : it is the Table (or Picture) of Cebes the Socratic, and elder disciple of Plato. This golden piece I would have you study, and have by heart; the Greek too being pure and excellent : and by this picture you will better understand my hint, and know the true learning from that which falsely passes under the name of wisdom and science. As for the divine Plato, I would not wish you, as yet, to go beyond a dia- logue or two ; and let those be the first and second Alcibiades : for now I will direct and assist you all 1 can, that you may gradually proceed, and not meet with stumbling-blocks in your way, or what instead of forwarding may retard you. Read these pieces again and again. Suspend for a while the reading of Epic- tetus, and read of Marcus Antoninus only what you perfectly understand. Look into no commentator ; though he has two very learned ones, Gataker and Casaubon : and by no means study or so much as think on any of the pas- sages that create any difficulty or hesi- tation : but, as I tell you, keep to the plain and easy passages, which you may mark or write out, and so use on occa- sion, as you walk or go about. For I reckon you are a good improver of your time, and that you manage every mo- ment to advantage ; else you could never have thus suddenly advanced so far as you have done. But, in this case, you must take care of your health, by moving and using ex- ercise, which makes me speak of walk- ing. For the mind must suffer, in some sense, when the body does. And stu- dents who are over-eager, and neglect this duty, hurt both their health and temper : the latter of which has a sad influence on their minds ; and makes them, like ill vessels, sour whatever is put into them, though of ever so good a land. For never do we more need a just cheerfulness, good humour, or ala- crity of mind, than when we are con- Sect. 11, MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 177 templating' God and virtue. So that it may be assigned as one cause of the au- sterity and harshness of some men's di- vinity, that in their habit of mind, and by that very morose and sour temper, which they contract with their hard stu- dies, they make the idea of God so much after the pattern of their own bitter spirit. But, as i was saying concerning your progress, it is better for you to read in a small compass what is good and excel- lent, and of easy conception (without stop or difficulty, as to the speculation), than to read much in many. And having thus confined you, as to three of your authors mentioned, and set your bounds ; 1 proceed to the fourth, which is Lucian ; with whom, for a very different reason, I would have you also read but here and there. For though he is one of the politest writers of the latter age ; he only has set him- self out like the jay in the fable, with the spoils of those excellent and divine w^orks by way of dialogue (which was the way that anciently all the philo- sophers wrote in) ; most of which works are now lost and perished : and I fear the true reason why Lucian was pre- served, instead of any of the other, was because of the envy of the Christian church, which soon began to be so cor- rupt; and finding this author to be so truly profane, and a scoffer of his own and all religions, they were contented to bear his immorality and dissolute style and manners, only for the satis- faction of seeing the heathen religion ridiculed by a heathen, and the good and pious writers (unjustly styled pro- fane) most monstrously abused by a wretch, who was truly the most profane and impious : and who, at the same time, even in the pieces that are left of him in the same book, treats both Moses and our Saviour, and the whole Chris- tian religion, as contemptibly as he does his own. Therefore, as his dialogues of his courtezans are horridly vicious and licentious, and against all good man- ners ; and as his dialogues of the gods are mere buffoonery, and liis abuse of Plato, Socrates, and the rest of those divine heathens, as unjust and wicked, as really they are mean and ridiculous, I would not by any means have you to learn Greek at such a cost. There are some dialogues bound up, which are not of Jjucian's : and these are the best. One concerning the cynics (whom he elsev/here so abuses) is of that number, as I take it : and some plea- sant treatises there are besides, all in pure Greek. But here is the great and essential matter, of the last consequence to our souls and minds, to keep them from the contagion of pleasure. And to shew you that 1 am not by this an imitator of the severe ascetic monastic race of divines, or an admirer of any thing that looks like restraint in knowledge, or learning, or speculation ; consider of this that I am going to say to you, and carry your reflection as far back as to that first little glimmering of ingenuity, which shewed itself in you in your childhood ; I mean the art of painting. Had you been to have made one of those artists of the no- bier kind, who paint history, and actions, and nature ; and had you been sent by me into Italy, or elsewhere, to learn the style and manner of the great mas- ters ; what advice, think you, should 1 have given you ? I say, what advice ? not as a Christian, or philosopher, or man of virtue ; but merely as a lover of the art : supposing I had ever been of a very vicious life ; and had had no other end in sending you abroad, than to h?„ve procured pictures, and have got you a masterly hand in that kind, and to have employed you afterwards for my own use, and for the ornament of my house : most certainly my advice must have been this (and thus any other master or pa- tron of common sense would have ac- costed you) : " You are now going to learn what is excellent and beautiful in the way of painting. You will go where there are many pictures of many different hands, and quite contrary in their manner and style. You wiU find many judges of different opinions ; and the worst mas- ters, the worst pieces, the worst styles and manners, will have their admirers. How is it you should form your relish ? By what means shall you come to have a right admiration yourself, and praise and imitate only what is truly exquisite and good in the kind? If you follow your sudden fancy and bent ; if you fix your eye on that ^^hich most strikes and pleases you at the first sight ; you will most certainly never come to have a good eve at all. You will be led aside, N 178 iSLEGANT EPISTLES. Book II. and have a florid, gay, foolish fancy ; and any lewd tawdry piece of dawhing will make a stronger impression on you, than the most majestic chaste piece of the soberest master ; and a Flemish or a French manner will more prevail with you than a true Italian. " How sliall we do then in this case ? — Why even thus : (for what way is there else?) make it a solemn iiile to yourself, to cheek your own eye and fancy, which naturally leads to gaiety, and turn it strongly on that which it cares not at first to dwell upon. Be sure that you pass by, on every occasion, whatever little idle piece of a negligent loose kind may be apt to detain your eye ; and fix yourself upon the nobler, more masterly, and studied pieces of such as were known virtuosos, and ad- mired by all such. If you find no grace or charm at the first looking, look on ; continue to observe all that you possibly can ; and when you have got one glimpse, improve it, copy it, cultivate the idea, and labour till you have worked yourself into a right taste, and formed a relish and understanding of what is truly beautiful in the kind." This is what an ordinary master or patron of common good sense would have said to you upon your enterprise on painting : and this is what I now say to you on your great enterprise on knowledge and learning. This is the reason I cry out to you against plea- sure ; to beware of those paths which lead to a wrong knowledge, a wrong judgment of what is supremely beautifid and good. Your endeavour and hope is to know God and goodness, in which alone there is true enjoyment and good. The way to this is not to put out your eyes, or hoodwink yourself, or lie in the dark, expecting to see visions. No, you need not apologize for yourself (as you do) for desiring to read Origen, the good Father, and best of aU those they call so. You shall not only, by my consent, read Origen, but even Celsus himself, who was a heathen and writ zealously against the Christians, whom Origen defends : so far am I from bidding you fly hereti- cal or heathen books, where good man- ners, honesty, and fair reason shew themselves. But where vice, ill man- ners, abusive wit, and buffoonery appear, the prejudice is just ; pronounce against such authors, fly them, and condemn them. Preserve yourself, and keep your eye and judgment clear. But if the eye be not open to all fair and handsome spec- tacles, how should you learn what is fair and handsome ? You would praise God : But how would you praise him? and for what? Know you, as yet, what true excellence is? The attributes, as you call them, which you have learnt in your catechism, or in the higher schools of the school-men and divines ; — the attri- butes, I say, of justice, goodness, wis- dom, and the like, are they really under- stood by you ? or do you talk of these by rote ? If so ; what is this but giving words to God, not praise, nor honour, nor glory? If the Apostle appeals to whatsoever is lovely, whatsoever is ho- nest (or comely), whatsoever is virtue, or praise-worthiness ; how shaU we understand his appeal till we have stu- died ? Or do we know these things from our cradles? For since we were men, we never vouchsafed to inquire ; but took for granted that we were knowing in the matter ; which yet, without philosophy, it is impossible we should be ; so that when, without philosophy, we make use of these high terms, and praise God in these philosophical characters, we may be very good and pious, and v/ell-mean- ing ; but indeed we are little better than parrots in devotion. To return therefore to the picture, and the advice I am to give you in your study of that great and masterly hand which has drawn all things, and exhibited this great master- piece of nature, this world or universe. The first thing is, that you prepare and clear your sight ; that your eye be simple, pure, uncorrupted, and ready and fit to receive that light which is to shine into it. This is done by vir- tue, meekness, modesty, sincerity. And way being thus made, your resolution standing towards truth, and you being conscious to yourself, that whilst you seek truth you cannot offend the God of truth ; be not afraid of viewing all and com- paring all. For without comparison of the false with the true, of the ugly with the beauteous, of the dark and obscure with the bright and shining, we can measure nothing, nor apprehend any thing that is excellent. We m.ay be as well pagan, heathen, Turk, or any thing else ; if being at Constantinople, Ispahan, Sect. II. MODERN, OF EARLY DATE. 179 or wherever the seat of any great em- pire is we refuse to look on Christian authors, or hear their sober apologists, as being contrary to the history imposed on us, with an utter destruction and can- celling of all other history or philosophy whatsoever. But this fear being set aside, which is so wholly unworthy of God, and so de- basing to his standard of reason which he has placed in us ; our next concern is, to look impartially into all authors, and upon all nations, and into all parts of learning and human life ; to seek and find out the true pidchrwn, the honestum, the yiOiKoY : by which standard and measure we may know God ; and know how to praise him, when we have learnt what is praiseworthy. Be this your search, and by these means, and by this way I have shewn you. Seek for the xaAov in every thing, beginning as low as the plants, the fields, or even the common arts of mankind, to see what is beauteous, and what contrary. Thus, and by the original fountains you are arrived to, you will, under Provi- dence, attain beauty and true wisdom for yourself, being true to virtue ; and so God prosper you. LETTER LXXXI. lation be not perfectly good and conform- able to this standard. For, if so, the very end of the Gospel proves its truth. And that which to the vulgar is only know- able by miracles, and teachable by posi- tive precepts and commands, to the wise and virtuous is demonstrable by the na- ture of the thing. So that how can we forbear to give our assent to those doc- trines, and that revelation, which is de- livered to us, and enforced by miracles and wonders ? But to us, the very test and proof of the divineness and truth of that revelation is from the excellence of the things revealed : otherwise the won- ders themselves would have little efi'ect or power ; nor could they be thoroughly depended on, were we even as near to them as those who lived more than a thousand years since, when they were freshly wrought, and strong in the me- mory of men. This is what alone can justify our easiness of faith ; and in this respect we can never be too resigned, too willing, or too complaisant. Meanwhile let your eye be simple, and turn it from the oMsov to the ^siov. View God in goodness, and in his works, which have that character. Dwell with honesty, and beauty, and order : study and love what is of this kind ; and in time you will know and love the Author. Farewell. Lord Shafteshwy to . Februar_v 8, 1 709. I COMMEND your honest liberty : and therefore in the use of it recommend to you the pursuit of the same thoughts, that you have so honestly and naturally grafted upon the stock afforded you : to which God grant a true life and in- crease. Time v/ill be, when your greatest dis- turbance will arise from that ancient dif- ficulty TToSev ro Tcaxov. But when you have well inured yourself to the precepts and speculation which give the view of its noble contrary (ro xaAov), you will rest satisfied. But be persuaded, in the mean time, that wisdom is more from the heart, than from the head. Feel goodness, and you will see all things fair and good. Let it be your chief endeavour to make acquaintance with what is good : that by seeing perfectly, by the help of reason, what good is, and what ill, you may prove whether that which is from reve- LETTER LXXXIL Frotn the same to the sajjie. May 5, 1709. I A3I mightily satisfied with your writing to me as you do : pray continue. I like your judgment and thoughts on the books you mention ; the bishop of Salisbury's Exposition of the Articles is, no doubt, highly worthy of your study. None can better explain tiie sense of the church, than one who is the greatest pil- lar of it since the first founders ; one who best explained and asserted the Reforma- tion itself, was chiefly instrumental in saving it from popery before and at the Revolution, and is now the truest ex- ample of laborious, primitive, pious, and learned episcopacy. Tlie antidote, indeed, recommended to you, was very absurd, as you remark yourself; and pray have little to do with controversy of any sort. N2 180 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IL Chilling'worth against Popery is suffi- ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book III. LETTER XXIV. Mr. Pope to H. Cromwell, Esq. May 10, 1710. I II Ai) not so long- Omitted to express my acknowledgments to you for so much good nature and friendship as you lately shewed me ; but that I am but just returned to my own hermitage, from Mr. C.'s, who has done me so many fa- vours, that I am almost inclined to think my friends infect one anothei-, and that your conyersation Avith him has made him as obliging to me as yourself. I can assure you he has a sincere respect for you ; and this, I believe, he has partly contracted from me, who am too fuU of you not to overflow upon those I converse with. But I must now be contented to converse only v/ith the dead of this world, that is to say, the dull and obscure, every way obscure, in their intellects as well as their persons : or else have recourse to the living dead, the old authors with whom you are so v/ell acquainted, even from Virgil down to Aulus Gellins, whom I do not think a critic by any means to be compared to Mr. Dennis ; and I must declare posi- tively to you, that I will persist in this opinion till you become a little more civil to Atticus. Who could have ima- gined that he, who had escaped all the misfortunes of his* time, unhurt even by the proscriptions of Antony and Augus- tus, should in these days find an enemy more severe and barbarous than those tyrants ? and that enemy the gentlest too, the best-natured of mortals, Mr. Cromwell, whom I must in this com- pare once more to Augustus ; v/ho seemed not more unlike himself, in the severity of one part of his life and the clemency of the other, than you. I leave you to reflect on this, and hope that time (which mollifies rocks, and of stiif things makes limber) will turn a resolute critic to a gentle reader ; and instead of this positive, tremendous new- fashioned Mr. Cromwell, restore unto us our old acquaintance, the soft, bene- ficent, and courteous Mr. Cromwell. I expect much, towards the civilising of you in your critical capacity, from the innocent air and tranquillity of our fo- rest, when you do me the favour to visit it. In the mean time, it would do well, by way of preparative, if you would duly and constantly every marn- ing read over a pastoral of Theocritus or Virgil ; and let the lady Isabella put your Macrobius and Aulus Gellius some- where out of your way, for a month or so. Who knows but travelling and long airing in an open field may contribute more successfully to the cooling a cri- tic's severity, than it did to the assuag- ing of Mr. Chee's anger of old ? In these fields you will be secure of finding no enemy, but the most faithful and aJBFectionate of your friends, &c. LETTER XXV. Fro7n the same to the same. May 17, 171 a After I had recovered from a danger- ous illness, which was first contracted in town about a fortnight after my coming hither, I troubled you with a letter, and paper inclosed*, which you had been so obliging as to desire a sight of when last I saw you ; promising me in return some translations of yours from Ovid. Since when, I have not had a syllable from your hands ; so that it is to be feared, that though I have escaped death, I have not oblivion. 1 should at least have expected you to have finished that elegy upon me, which you told me you were upon the point of beginning when I was sick in London : if you will do so much for me first, I will give you leave to forget me afterwards ; and for my own part will die at discretion, and at my leisure. But I fear I must be forced, like many learned authors, to write my own epitaph, if I would be remembered at all. Monsieur de la Fontaine's would fit me to a hair ; but it is a kind of sacrilege (do you think it is not ?) to steal epitaphs. In my pre- sent living, dead condition, nothing would be properer than " Oblitusque meorum, obliviscendus et illis," but that unluckily I cannot forget my friends, and the civilities I received from yourself and some others. They say indeed it is one quality of generous minds to forget the obligations they have conferred, and perhaps too it may be so to forget those on whom they conferred them ; then in- deed I must be forgotten to all intents * Versos on Silence, in imitation of the earl of Rochester's poem on Nothing, done at fourteen years old. ^ECT. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 217 nd purposes ; I am, it must be owned, dead in a natural capacity, according to Mr. Bickerstaff ; dead in a poetical ca- pacity, as a damned author ; and dead in a civil capacity, as a useless member of the commonwealth. But reflect, dear sir, what melancholy effects may ensue, if dead men are not civil to one another ! if he who has nothing to do himself, will not comfort and support another in his idleness ; if those, who are to die themselves, will not now and then pay the charity of visiting a tomb and a dead fi'iend, and strewing a few flowers over him. In the shades where I am, the in- habitants have a mutual compassion for each other; being all alike Inanes; we saunter to one another's habitation, and daily assist each other in doing nothing at all. This I mention for your edifica- tion and example, that, all alive as yon are, you may not sometimes disdain desipere in loco. Though you are no papist, and have not so much regard to the dead as to address yourself to them (which I plainly perceive by your silence) yet I hope you are not one of those he- terodox, who hold them to be totally in- sensible of the good offices and kind wishes of their living friends, and to be in a dull state of sleep, without one dream of those they left behind them. If you are, let this letter convince you to the contrary, which assures you I am still, though in a state of separation^ yours, &c. P. S. This letter of deaths puts me in mind of poor Mr. Betterton's ; over whom I would have this sentence of Tully for an epitaph, which will serve him as well in his moral, as his theatri- cal capacity : VilcE bene actee jucundhshna est recordatio. LETTER XXVI. From the same to the same, June 24, 1710. It is very natural for a young friend, and a young lover, to think the persons they love have nothing to do but to please them ; when perhaps they, for their parts, had twenty other engage- ments before. This was my case, when I wondered I did not hear from you ; but I no sooner received your short letter, but I forgot your long silence ; and so many fine things as you said of me could not but have wrought a cure on my own sickness, if it had not been of the nature of that which is deaf to the voice of the charmer. It was impossible you could have better timed your compliment on my philosophy ; it was certainly properest to commend me for it just when I most needed it, and when 1 could , least be proud of it ; that is, when I was in pain. It is not easy to express what an ex- altation it gave to my spirits, above all the cordials of my doctor ; and it is no compliment to tell you, that your com- pliments were sweeter than the sweetest of his juleps and syrups. But if you will not believe so much. Pour le mains, voire compliment M^a soulage dans ce moment; Et des qu'on me Pest venu /aire J'ai chasse man apoticaire, Et renvoye mon lavement. Nevertheless, I would not have you en- tirely lay aside the thoughts of my epi- taph, any more than I do those of the probability of my becoming (ere long) the subject of one ; for death has of late been very familiar with some of my size. I am told, my lord Lumley and Mr. Litton are gone before me ; and though I may now, without vanity, esteem my- self the least thing like a man in Eng- land, yet I cannot but be sorry, two he- roes of such a make should die inglorious in their beds ; when it had been a fate more worthy our size, had they met with theirs from an irruption of cranes, or other warlike animals, those ancient ene- mies to our pygmsean ancestors. You of a superior species little regard what be- fals us homunciones sesquipedales ; how- ever, you have no reason to be so uncon- cerned, since all physicians agree there is no greater sign of a plague among men than a mortality among frogs. This sort of writing, called a Rondeau, is what I never knew practised in our na- tion ; and, I verily believe, it was not in use with the Greeks or Romans, neither Macrobius nor Hyginus taking the least notice of it. It is to be observed, that the vulgar spelling and pronouncing it Round O, is a manifest corruption, and by no means to be allowed of by critics. Some may mistakenly imagine that it was a sort of rondeau which the Gallic soldiers sang in Cfesar's triumphs over Gaul — Galiias Ccesar subegit, &c. as it is recorded by Suetonius in Julio, and so 218 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL derive its original from the ancient Gauls to the modern French ; but this is er- roneous ; the words there not being ranged according to the laws of the ron- deau, as laid down by Clement Marot. If you will say, that the song of the sol- diers might be only the rude beginning of this kind of poem, and so consequently imperfect, neither H einsius nor I can be of that opinion ; and so I conclude, that we know nothing of the matter. But, sir, I ask your pardon for all this buffoonery, which I could not address to any one so well as to you, since I have found by experience, that you most ea- sily forgive my impertinencies. It is only to shew you that I am mindful of you at all times, that I write at all times ; and as nothing I can say can be worth your reading, so I may as well throw out what comes uppermost, as study to be dull. I am, &c. LETTER XXVII. Mr. Pope to H. Cromxvell Esq. Julj^ 20, 1710. I GIVE you thanks for the version you sent me of Ovid's Elegy. It is very much an image of that author's writing, who has an agreeableness that charms us without correctness ; like a mistress, whose faults we see, but love her with them all. You have very judiciously al- tered his method in some places ; and I can find nothing which I dare insist upon as an error ; what I have written in the margins being merely guesses at a little improvement, rather than criticisms. I assure you I do not expect you should subscribe to my private notions but when you shall judge them agreeable to reason and good sense. What I have done is not as a critic but as a friend ; I know two well how many qualities are requi- site to make the one, and that I want al- most all I can reckon up ; but I am sure I do not want inclination, nor, I hope, capacity to be the other. Nor shall I take it at all amiss that another dissents from my opinion ; it is no more than I have often done from my own ; and in- deed, the more a man advances in un- derstanding, he becomes the more every day a critic upon himself, and finds some- thing or other still to blame in his former notions and opinions. I could be glad to know if you have translated the lUh elegy of lib. ii. Ad amicam navigantem; the 8th of book iii. or the 11th of book iii. which are above all others my par- ticular favourites, especially the last of these. As to the passage of which you ask my opinion in the second ^Eneid, it is either so plain as to require no solution, or else (which is very probable) you see farther into it than I can. Priam would say that, " Achilles (whom surely you only feign to be your father, since your actions are so different from his) did not use me thus inhumanly. He blushed at his murder of Hector, when he saw my sorrows for him ; and restored his dead body to me to be buried." To this the answer of Pyrrhus seems to be agree- able enough, '* Go then to the shades, and tell Achilles how I degenerate from him ; " granting the truth of what Priam had said of the difference between them. Indeed Mr. Dryden's mentioning here what Virgil more judiciously passes in silence, the circumstance of Achilles's selling for money the body of Hector, seems not so proper ; it is in some mea- sure lessening the character of Achilles's generosity and piety, which is the very point of which Priam endeavours in this place to convince his son, and to re- proach him with the want of. But the truth of this circumstance is no way to be questioned, being expressly taken from Homer, who represents AchOles weeping for Priam, yet receiv- ing the gold (Iliad xxiv.) ; for when he gives the body, he uses these words : " O my friend Patroclus, forgive me that I quit the corpse of him who killed thee ! I have great gifts in ransom for it, which I will bestow upon thy funeral." I am, &c. LETTER XXVIII. FroJu the same to the same. August 21, 1710. Your letters are a perfect charity to a man in retirement, utterly forgotten of all his friends but you ; for since Mr. Wycherley left London, I have not heard a word from him ; though just before, and once since, I writ to him, and though I know myself guilty of no of- fence but of doing sincerely just what he bid me : " Hoc milii libertas, hoc pia lin- gua dedit ! " But the greatest injury he Sect. I MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 219 does me, is the keeping- me in ignorance of his welfare ; Avhich I am always very solicitous for, and very mieasy in the fear of any indisposition that may befal him. In what I sent you some time ago, you have not verse enough to be severe upon, in revenge for my last criticism : in one point I must persist, that is to say, my dislike of your Paradise, in which I take no pleasure : I know very well, that in Greek it is not only used by Xenophon, but is a common word for any garden ; but in English, it bears the sigTiilication and conveys the idea of Eden, wliicli alone is (I think) a reason against making Ovid use it ; who will be thought to talk too much like a Christian in your version at least, whatever it might have been in Latin or Greek. As for all the rest of my remarks, since you do not laugh at them as at this, I can be so civil as not to lay any stress upon them (as, I think, I told you before) ; and in particular in the point of trees en- joying, you have, I must own, fuUy sa- tisfied me that the expression is not only defensible, but beautiful. I shall be very glad to see your translation of the elegy. Ad amicam 7iavigan^ie?7i, as soon as you can ; for (without a compliment to you) every thing you write, either in verse or prose, is welcome to me ; and you may be confident (if my opinion can be of any sort of consequence in any thing) that I ^-ill never be uu sincere, though I may be often mistaken. To use sincerity with you, is but paying you in your own coin, from whom I have experienced so much of it ; and I need not tell you, how much I really esteem you, when I esteem nothing in the world so much as that quality. I know you sometimes say civil things to me in your epistolary style ; but those I am to make allowance for, as particularly when you talk of ad- mii'ing : it is a word you are so used to in conversation of ladies, that it will creep into your discourse, in spite of you, even to yoiu* friends : but as wo- men, when they think themselves secure of admiration, commit a thousand neg- ligences which shew them so much at disadvantage and off their guard, as to lose the little real love they had before : so when men imagine others entertain some esteem for their abilities, they often expose all their imperfections and foolish works to the disparagement of the little wit thev were thoudit masters of. I am going to exemplify this to you, in putting into your hands (being encouraged by so much indulgence) some verses of my youth, or rather childhood ; which (as I was a great ad- mirer of Waller) were intended in imita- tion of his manner ; and are, perhaps, such imitations as those you see in awk- ward country dames, of the fine and well-bred ladies of the court. If you will take them with you into Lincoln- shire, they may save you one hour from the conversation of the coimtry gentle- men and their tenants (who differ but in dress and name), which, if it be there as bad as here, is even worse than my poe- try. I hope your stay there will be no longer than (as Mr. Wycherley calls it) to rob the country, and run away to London with your money. In the mean time, I beg the favour of a line from you ; and am (as I will never cease to be) your, &c. LETTER XXIX. From the same to the same. October 12, 1710. I DEFERRED auswcring your last, upon the advice I received, that you were leaving the town for some time, and ex- pected yoiu- return with impatience, having then a design of seeing my friends there ; among the first of which I have reason to account yourself. But my almost continual illnesses prevent that, as well as most other satisfactions of my life. However, I may say one good thing of sickness, that it is the best cure in nature for ambition, and designs upon the world or fortune : it makes a man pretty indifferent for the future, provided he can but be easy, by intervals, for the present. He will be content to compound for his quiet only, and leave all the circumstantial part and pomp of life to those who have a health vigorous enough to enjoy all the mis- tresses of their desires. I thank God, there is nothing out of myself which I would be at the trouble of seeking, ex- cept a friend ; a happiness I once hoped to have possessed in Mr. Wycherley ; but, Quantum mutatus ab illo ! — I have for some years been employed much like cliildren that build houses with cards, endeavouring very busily and eagerly to raise a friendsliip, Miiich the first breath §20 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IlL of any ill-natured by-stander could puff away. — But I will trouble you no farther with writing, nor myself with thinking of this subject. I was mightily pleased to perceive, by your quotation from Voiture, that you had tracked me so far as France. You see it is with weak heads as with weak stomachs, they immediately throw out what they received last : and what they read, floats upon the surface of the mind, like oil upon water, without incorporat- ing. This, I think, however, cannot be said of the love-verses I last troubled you with, where all (I am afraid) is so puerile and so like the author, that no- body will suspect any thing to be bor- rowed. Yet you (as a friend, entertain- ing a better opinion of them), it seems, searched in Waller, but searched in vain. Your judgment of them is (I think) very right, — ^for it was my own opinion be- fore. If you think them not worth the trouble of correcting, pray tell me so freely, and it will save me a labour ; if you think the contrary, you would par- ticularly oblige me by your remarks on the several thoughts as they occur. I long to be nibbling at your verses ; and have not forgot who promised me Ovid's elegy. Ad amicam navigantem. Had Ovid been as long in composing it, as you in sending it, the lady might have sailed to Gades, and received it at her return. I have really a great itch of criticism upon me, but want matter here in the country ; which I desire you to furnish me with, as I do you in the town ; Sic servat studii fcedera quisque sui. I am obliged to Mr. Caryl (whom you tell me you met at Epsom) for telling you truth, as a man is in these days to any one that will tell truth to his advantage ; and I think none is more to mine than what he told you ; and I should be glad to tell all the world, that I have an extreme affection and esteem for you. Tecum etenim longos memini consuynere soles, Et tecum primus epulis decernere nodes ; Unum opus et requiem pariier disponimus arnbo, Atque verecunda laxamus seria mensa. By these epulm, as I take it, Persius meant the Portugal snuff and burnt claret, which he took with his master Comutus ; and the verecunda mensa was. without dispute, some coiFee-house table of the ancients. I wiU only ^ observe, that these four lines are as elegant and musical as any in Persius, not excepting those six or seven which Mr. Dryden quotes as the only such in all that au- thor. I could be heartily glad to repeat the satisfaction described in them, being truly your, &c. LETTER XXX. Mr. Pope to H. Cromwell, Esq. October 2Sth, 1710. I AM glad to find by your last letter, that you write to me with the freedom of a friend, setting down your thoughts as they occur, and dealing plainly with me in the matter of my own trifles, Avhich, I assure you, I never valued half so much as I do that sincerity in you which they were the occasion of discovering to me; and which, while I am happy in, I may be trusted with that dange- rous weapon. Poetry, since I shall do nothing with it, but after asking and following your advice. I value sincerity the more, as I find, by sad experience, the practice of it is more dangerous ; writers rarely pardoning the execution- ers of their verses, even though them- selves pronounce sentence upon them. — As to Mr. Phillips's Pastorals, I take the first to be infinitely the best, and the second the worst ; the third is, for the greatest part, a translation from Virgil's Daphnis. I wiU not forestal your judg- ment of the rest, only observe in that of the Nightingale these lines (speaking of the musician's playing on the harp) : Now lightlj- skimming o'er the strings they pass. Like winds that gently brush the plying grass. And melting airs arise at their command ; And now, laborious, with a weighty hand, He sinks into the cords with solemn pace. And gives the swelling tones a manly grace. To which nothing can be objected, but that they are too lofty for pastoral, es- pecially being put into the mouth of a shepherd, as they are here : in the poet's own person they had been (I believe) more proper. They are more after Virgil's manner than that of Theocritus, whom yet in the character of pastoral he rather seems to imitate. In the y>^hole, I agree with the Tatler, that we have no better Eclogues in our language. There is a small copy of the same au- Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 221 thor published in the Tatler, No. 12, on the Danish winter ; it is poetical painting-, and I recommend it to your perusal. Dr. Garth's poem I have not seen, but believe I shall be of that critic's opi- nion you mention at Will's, who swore it "was good : for, though I am very cautious of swearing- after critics, yet I think one may do it more safely when they com- mend, than when they blame. I agree with you in your censure of the use of the sea-terms in Mr. Dryden's A^irgil ; not only because Helenus was no great prophet in those matters, but be- cause no terms of art or cant words suit with the majesty and dignity of style, which epic poetry requires — " Cui mens divi- nior, atque os magnas onaturum." The tarpaulin phrase can please none but such *' qui aurem habent Batavam ;" they must not expect " auribus xltticis probari," I find by you. (I think I have brought in two phrases of Martial here very dex- terously.) Though you say you did not rightly take my meaning in the verse I quoted from Juvenal, yet I will not explain it, because, though it seems you are resolved to take me for a critic, I would by no means be thought a commentator. — And for another reason too, because 1 have quite forgot both the verse and the application. I hope it will be no offence to give my most hearty service to Mr. Wycherley, though I perceive by his last to me, I am not to trouble him with my letters, since he there told me he was going instantly out of town ; and till his return he was my servant, &c. I guess by yours he is yet with you, and beg you to do what you may with aU truth and honour ; that is, assure him I have ever borne aU the respect and kindness imaginable to him. I do not knoAv to this hour what it is that has estranged him from me ; but this I know, that he may for the future be more safely my friend, since no invitation of his shall ever more make me so free with him. I could not have thought any man so very cautious and suspicious, as not to credit his own experience of a friend. Indeed, to believe nobody, may be a maxim of safet)-^ ; but not so much of honesty. There is but one way I know of conver- sing safely with all men, thot is, not by concealing what we say or do, but by saying, or doing nothing that deserves to be concealed ; and I can trulv boast this comfort in my affairs with Mr. Wycherley . But I pardon his jealousy, which is become his nature, and shall never be his enemy whatsoever he says of me. Your, &c. LETTER XXXL From the same to the savie. Nov. 11, 1710. You mistake me very much in thinking the freedom you kindly used with my love-verses gave me the first opinion of your sincerity : I assure you it only did what every good-natured action of yours has done since, confirmed me more in that opinion. The fable of the Nightin- gale in Phillips's Pastorals, is taken from Famianus Strada's Latin poem on the same subject, in his Prolusiones Acade- mic ce ; only the tomb he erects at the end is added from Virgil's conclusion of the Culex. I cannot forbear giving you a passage out of the Latin poem I men- tion : by which you will find the English poet is indebted to it. Alternat mira arte fides : dum torquet acutas, Incitatque, graves opefoso verhere pulsat. Jamqne manu pcrfila volai ', simul hos, simul illos Explorat numeros, chordaque lahorat in omni — Mox silet. Ilia modis totidem respondet, et artem Arte refert. Nunc seu rudis, aid incerta canendi, Prcebet iter liquidum labenti e pectore voci, Nunc cffsini variat, modulisque canora minutis Deliberai vocem, tremuloque reciprocal ore. This poem was many years since imi- tated by Crashaw ; out of whose verses the following are very remarkable : From this to that, from that to this it flies. Feels music's pulse in all its arteries; Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads. His fingers struggle with the vocal threads. I have (as I think I formerly told you) a very good opinion of Mr. Rowe's sixth book of Lucan ; indeed he amplifies too much, as well as BrebcEuf, the fa- mous French imitator. If I remember right, he sometimes takes the whole comment into the text of the version, as particularly in lin. 808. "Utque solet pariter totis se effundere signis Corycii pressura croci." And in the place you quote, he makes of those two lines in the Latin, Vidit quanta sub node jaceret Nostra dies, risitque sui ludibria trunci. no less than eight in the English. What you observe, sure, cannot be an error-sphsericus, strictly speaking, ei- 222 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL ther according to the Ptolemaic, or our Copernican system ; Tycho Bralie him- self will be on the translator's side : for Mr. Rowe here says no more than that he looked down on the rays of the sun, which Pompey might do, even though the body of the sun were above him. You cannot but have remarked what a journey Lucan here makes Cato take for the sake of his fine descriptions. From Cyrene he travels by land, for no better reason than this ; Hcec eadem suadebat hiems, quce clauserut csquor. The winter's effects on the sea, it seems, were more to be dreaded than all the ser- pents, whirlwinds, sands, &c. by land ; which immediately after he paints out in his speech to the soldiers ; then he fetches a compass a vast way round about, to the Nassamones and Jupiter Ammon's temple, purely to ridicule the oracles ; and Labienus must pardon me, if I do not believe him when he says, " Sors obtulit, et fortuna viae" — either Labienus, or the map, is very much mis- taken here. Thence he returns back to the Syrtes (which he might have taken first in his way to Utica) ; and so to Leptis Minor, where our author leaves him : who seems to have made Cato speak his own mind, when he tells his army — '•' Ire sat est"— no matter whither. I am your, &c. LETTER XXXII. Mr. Pope to H. Cromwell, Esq. Nov. 24, 1710. To make use of that freedom and fa- miliarity of style which we have taken up in our correspondence, and which is more properly talking upon paper, than writing, — I will tell you, without any preface, that I never took Tycho Brahe for one of the ancients, or in the least an acquaintance of Lucan's ; nay, it is a mercy on this occasion that I do not give you an account of his life and con- versation ; as how he lived some years like an in chanted knight in a certain island, with a tale of a king of Denmark's mistress that shall be nameless. But I have compassion on you, and would not for the world you should stay any longer among the Genii and Semidei Manes, you know where; for if once you get so near the moon, Sappho will want your presence in the clouds and inferior regions ; not to mention the great loss Drury-lane will sustain when Mr. C is in the milky-way. These celestial thoughts put me in mind of the priests you mention, who are a sort of Sortilegi in one sense, because in their lottery there are more blanks than prizes ; the adventurers being at best in an uncertainty, whereas the setters up are sure of something. Priests in- deed in their character, as they represent God, are sacred ; and so are constables as they represent the king ; but you will own a great many of them are very odd fellows, and the devil of any likeness in them. Yet I can assure you, I honour the good as much as I detest the bad ; and I think that in condemning these we praise those. The translations from Ovid I have not so good an opinion of as you ; because I think they have little of the main characteristic of this author, a graceful easiness. For let the sense be ever so exactly rendered, unless an author looks like himself in his air, habit, and manner, it is a disguise, and not a translation. But as to the Psalm, I think David is much more beholden to the translator than Ovid ; and as he treated the Roman like a Jew, so he has made the Jew speak like a Roman. — Your, &c. LETTER XXXni. From the same to the same. Dec. 17, 1710. It seems that my late mention of Cra- shaw, and my quotation from him, has moved your curiosity. I therefore send you the whole author, who has held a place among my other books of this nature for some years ; in which time having read him twice or thrice, I find him one of those whose works may just deserve reading. I take this poet to have writ like a gentleman, that is, at leisure hours, and more to keep out of idleness than to establish a reputation : so that nothing regular or just can be expected from him. All that regards de- sign, form, fable (which is the soul of poetry) ; all that concerns exactness, or consent of parts (which is the body) will probably be wanting ; only pretty con- ceptions, fine metaphors, glittering ex- pressions, and something of a neat cast of Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 223 verse (which are properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry) may be found in these versus. This is indeed the case of most other poetical writers of miscellanies ; nor can it be well otherwise, since no man can be a true poet who writes for diversion only. These authors should be considered as versifiers and witty men, rather than as poets ; and under this head will only fall the thoughts, the expression, and the numbers. These are only the pleas- ing parts of poetry, wliich may be judged of at a view, and comprehended all at once. And (to express myself like a painter) their colouring entertains the sight ; but the lines and life of the picture are not to be inspected too nar- rowly. This author formed himself upon Pe- trarch, or rather upon jMarino. His thoughts one may observe, in the main, are pretty ; but oftentimes far fetched, and too often strained and stiffened to make them appear the greater. For men are never so apt to think a thing great, as when it is odd or wonderful ; and inconsiderate authors would rather be admired than understood. This am- bition of surprising a reader is the true natural cause of all fustian and bombast in poetry. To confirm what I have said, you need but look into his first poem of the Weeper, where the 2d, 4th, 6th, 14th, 21st stanzas are as sublimely dull as the 7th, 8th, 9th, 16th, 17th, 20th, and 23d stanzas of the same copy are soft and pleasing ; and if these last want any thing, it is an easier and more un- affected expression. The remaining thoughts in that poem might have been spared, being either but repetitions, or very trivial and mean. And by this example in the first, one may guess at all the rest ; to be like this, a mixture of tender, gentle thoughts, and suitable expressions, of forced and inextricable conceits, and of needless fiUers-up to the rest. From all which it is plain, this author writ fast, and set down what came uppermost. A reader may skim off the froth, and use the clear imder- neatli ; but if he goes too deep will meet vdth a mouthful of dregs ; either the top or bottom of him are good for little ; but what he did in his own natural, middle way is best. To speak of his numbers is a little difficult, tliev are so various and irregu- lar, and mostly Pindaric. It is evident his heroic verse (the best example of which is his Music's Duel), is carelessly made up ; but one may imagine from what it now is, that had he taken more care, it had been musical and pleasing enough ; not extremely majestic, but sweet ; and, the time considered of his writing, he was (even as uncorrect as he is), none of the worst versificators. I will just observe, that the best pieces of this author are a Paraphrase on Psal. xxiii, on Lessius, Epitaph on Mr. Ash- ton, Wishes to his supposed Mistress, and the Dies Ires. LETTER XXXiV. Fro7n the same to the same. Dec. 30, 1710. I RESUME my old liberty of throwing out myself upon paper to you, and making what thoughts float uppermost in my head the subject of a letter. They are at present upon laughter, "which (for aught I know) may be the cause you might sometimes think me too remiss a friend, when I was most entirely so ; for 1 am never so inclined to mirth as when I am most pleased and most easy, which is in the company of a friend like yourself. As the fooling and toying with a mis- tress is a proof of fondness, not disre- spect, so is raillery with a friend. I know there are prudes in friendship, who expect distance, awe, and adora- tion ; but I know you are not of them ; and I for my part am no idol-worship- per, though a papist. If I were to ad- dress Jupiter himself, in a heathen way, I fancy I should be apt to take hold of his knee in a familiar manner, if not of his beard, like Dionysius ; I was just going to say of his buttons ; but I think Jupiter wore none (however I wo'nt be positive to so nice a critic as you, but his robe might be subnected with a fibula). I know some philosophers de- fine laughter, a recommending our- selves to our own favour, by compari- son with the weakness of another : but I am sure I very rarely laugh with that view, nor do I believe children have any such considerations in their heads, when they express their pleasure this way. I laugh full as innocently as they, for the most part, and as sillily. There is a dif- 224 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL ference too betwixt laughing about a thing and laughing at a thing : one may find the inferior man (to make a kind of casuistical distinction) provoked to folly at the sight or observation of some circumstance of a thing, when the thing itself appears solemn and august to the superior man, that is, our judgment and reason. Let an ambassador speak the best sense in the world, and deport him- self in the most graceful manner before a prince ; yet if the tail of his shirt hap- pen (as I have known it happen to a very wise man) to hang out behind, more people will laugh at that than at- tend to the other : till they recoUect themselves, and then they wUl not have a jot the less respect for the minister. I must confess the iniquity of my coun- tenance before you ; several muscles of my face sometimes take an imperti- nent liberty with my judgment ; but then my judgment soon rises, and sets all right again about my mouth : and I find 1 value no man so much as him in whose sight I have been playing the fool. I cannot be sub persona before a man I love ; and not to laugh with honesty, when nature prompts or folly (which is more a second nature than any thing I know) , is but a knavish hy- pocritical way of making a mask of one's own face. To conclude : those that are my friends I laugh with, and those that are not I laugh at ; so am merry in company ; and if ever I am wise, it is all by myself. You take just another course, and to those that are not your friends are very civil ; and to those that are very endearing and complaisant : thus when you and I meet, there will be the rlsus et blanditice united together in conversation, as they commonly are in a verse. But without laughter on the one side, or compliment on the other, I assure you I am, with real esteem, your, &c. LETTER XXXV. Mr. Pope to H. Cromwell, Esq. Nov. 12, 1711. I RECEIVED the entertainment of your letter the day after I had sent you one of mine, and I am but this morning returned hither. The news you tell me of the many difficulties you found in your return from Bath, gives me such a kind of pleasure as we usually take in accompanying our friends in their mixed adventures ; for, methinks, I see you la- bouring through all your inconveniences of the rough roads, the hard saddle, the trotting horse, and what not ! What an agreeable surprise would it have been to me, to have met you by pure accident (which I was within an ace of doing), and to have carried you off triumphantly, set you on an easier pad, and relieved the wandering knight with a night's lodging and rural repast, at our castle in the forest ! But these are only the pleasing imaginations of a disappointed lover, who must suffer in a melancholy absence yet these two months. In the mean time, I take up with the Muses for want of your better company ; the Muses, " quae nobiscum pernoctant, pe- regrinantur, rusticantur." Those aerial ladies just discover enough to me of their beauties to urge my pursuit, and draw me into a wandering maze of thought, still in hopes (and only in hopes) of attaining those favours from them which they confer on their more happy admirers. We grasp some more beautiful idea in our own brain than our endeavours to express it can set to the view of others ; and still do but labour to fall short of our first imagi- nation. The gay colouring, which fan- cy gave at the first transient glance we had of it, goes off in the execution, like those various figures in the gild- ed clouds, which, while we gaze long upon, to separate the parts of each imaginary image, the whole faints before the eye, and decays into con- fusion. I am highly pleased with the know- ledge you give me of Mr. Wycherley's present temper, which seems so favour- able to me. I shall ever have such a fund of affection for him as to be agreeable to myself when I am so to him, and cannot but be gay when he is in good humour, as the surface of the earth (if you will pardon a poetical similitude) is clearer or gloomier, just as the sun is brighter or more overcast. — I should be glad to see the verses to Lintot which you men- tion ; for, methinks, something oddly agreeable may be produced from that subject. — For what remains, I am so well, that nothing but the assurance of you being so can make me better ; and if you would have me live with any sa- ECT. I, xMODERN, OF LATE DATE. 225 tisfaction these dark days in which I cannot see you, it must be your writing" sometimes to your, &c. LETTER XXXVL From the same to the same. Dec. 21, 1711. If I have not writ to you so soon as I ought, let my writing now atone for the delay, as it will infallibly do, when you know what a sacrifice I make you at this time, and that every moment my eyes are employed upon this paper, they are taken off fi-om two of the finest faces in the universe. But indeed it is some consolation to me to reflect, that while I but write this period I escape some hun- dred fatal darts from those unerring eyes, and about a thousand deaths or better. Now, you that delight in dying, would not once have dreamt of an absent friend in these circumstances 5 you that are so nice an admirer of beauty, or (as a cri- tic would say after Terence) so elegant a spectator of forms j you must have a sober dish of coffee, and a solitary can- dle at your side, to write an epistle lu- cubratory to your friend ; whereas I can do it as well with two pair of radiant lights, that outshine the golden god of day and silver goddess of night, and all the refulgent eyes of the firmament. You fancy now that Sappho's eyes are two of these my taperS ; but it is no such mat- ter ; these are eyes that have much more persuasion in one glance than all Sap- pho's oratory and gesture together, let her put her body into what moving pos- tures she pleases. Indeed, indeed, my friend, you never could have found So improper a time to tempt ine with in- terest or ambition ; let me but have the reputation of these in my keeping, and as for my own, let the devil, or let Den- nis, take it for ever. How gladly would I give all I am worth, that is to say, my Pastorals, for one of them, and my Essay for the other ! I would lay out all my poetry in love ; ati original for a lady, and a translation for a wait- ing-maid ! Alas ! what have I to do with Jane Gray, as long as miss Molly, miss Betty, or miss Patty, are in this world ? Shall I write of beauties mur- dered long ago, when there are those at this instant that murder me ? I will e'en compose my own tragedy, and the poet shall appear in his own person to move compassion : it will be far more effectual than Bays's entering Avith a rope about his neck ; and the world will own there never was a more miserable object brought upon the stage. Now you that are a critic, pray inform me in what manner I may connect the foregoing part of this letter with that which is to follow, according to the rules. I would willingly return Mr. Gay my thanks for the favour of his poem, and in particular for his kind mention of me ; I hoped, when I heard a new co- medy had met with success upon the stage, that it had been his, to which I really wish no less ; and (had it been any way in my power) should have been very glad to have contributed to its introduc- tion into the world. His verses to Lin- tot* have put a whim into my head, which you are like to be troubled with in the opposite page : take it as you find it, the production of half an hour the other morning. I design very soon to put a task of a more serious nature upon you, in reviewing a piece of mine that may better deserve criticism ; and by that time you have done with it, I hope to tell you in person with how much fidelity I am your, &c. LETTER XXXVII. Mr. Pope to Sir William Trumbull f. March 12, 1713. Though any thing you vsrite is sure to be a pleasure to me, yet I must own, your last letter made me uneasy : you really use a style of compliment, which I expect as little as I deserve it. I know it is a common opinion, that a young scribbler is as ill-pleased to hear truth as a young lady. From the mo- ment one sets up for an author, one must be treated as ceremoniously, that is, as unfaithfully, As a king's favourite, or as a king. This proceeding, joined to that natural vanity which first makes a man an au- thor, is certainly enough to render him a coxcomb for life. But I must grant it * These verses are printed in Dr. Swift's and Pope's Miscellanies. f Secretary of state to king William the Third, 226 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL is a just judgment upon poets, that they whose chief pretence is wit, should be treated as they themselves treat fools ; this is, be cajoled with praises. And I believe, poets are the only poor fel- lows in the world whom any body will flatter. I would not be thought to say this, as if the obliging letter yoti sent me de- served this imputation, only it put me in mind of it ; and I fancy one may ap- ply to one's friend what Caesar said of his wife : "It v/as not sufficient that he knew her to be chaste himself ; but she should not be so much as suspect- ed." As to the wonderful discoveries, and all the good news you are pleased to tell me of myself, 1 treat it, as you who are in the secret treat common news, as groundless reports of things at a dis- tance : which I, who look into the true springs of the affair, in my own breast, know to have no foundation at all ; for fame, though it be (as Milton finely calls it) the last infirmity of noble minds, is scarce so strong a temptation as to war- rant our loss of time here : it can never make us lie down contentedly on a death-bed (as some of the ancients are said to have done Vt^ith that thought). You, sir, have yourself taught me, that an easy situation at that hour can pro- ceed from no ambition less noble than that of an eternal felicity, which is unattainable by the strongest endeavours of the wit, but may be gained by the sincere intentions of the « heart only. As in the next world, so in this, the only solid blessings are owing to the goodness of the mmd, not the extent of the capacity : friendship here is an emanation from the same source as bea- titude there : the same benevolence and grateful disposition that qualifies us for the one, if extended farther, makes us partakers of the other. The utmost point of my desires, in my present state, terminates in the society and good will of worthy men, which I look upon as no ill earnest and foretaste of the so- ciety and alliance of happy souls here- after. The continuance of your favours to me is what not only makes me happy, but causes me to set some value upon myself as a part of your care. The in- stances I daily meet with of these agree- able awakenings of friendship are of too pleasing a nature not to be acknow- ledged whenever 1 think of you. I am your, 8cc. LETTER XXXVllL Mr. Pope to Sir William TrinnhulL April 30, 1713. I HAVE been almost every day employed in following your advice, and amusing' myself in painting ; in which I am most particularly obliged to Mr. Jervas, who gives me daily instructions and exam- ples. As to poetical affairs, I am con- tent at present to be a bare looker-on, and from a practitioner turn an ad- mirer ; which is (as the world goes) not very usual. Cato was not so much the wonder of Rome in his days, as he is of Britain in ours ; and though all the foolish industry possible has been used to make it thought a party play, yet what the author once said of another, may the most properly in the world be applied to him on this oc- Envy ilself is dumb, in wonder lost. And factions strive who shall applaud him most. The numerous and violent claps of the whig party on the one side of the theatre, were echoed back by the tories on the other ; while the author sweated behind the scenes with concern to find the applause proceeding more from the hand than the head. This was the case too of the prologue -writer"^", who was clapped into a staunch whig, at almost every two lines. I believe you have heard, that, after all the applauses of the opposite faction, my lord Bolirigbroke sent for Booth, who played Cato, into the box, between one of the acts, and presented him with fifty guineas ; in ac- knowledgment (as he expressed it) for defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator. The whigs are unwilPng to be distanced this way, and therefore design a present to the same Cato very speedily ; in the mean time they are getting ready as good a sentence as the former on their side : so betwixt them, it is probable that Cato (as Dr. Garth expressed it) may have something to live upon after he dies. I am your, &c. * Himself. Sect. I. V MODERN, OF LATfe DATE. 227 LETTER XXXIX. From the same to the same. Dec. 16, 1715. It was one of the enig'mas of Pytliago- ras, " When the winds rise, worship the echo." A modern writer explains this to signify, " When popular tumults hegin, retire to solitudes, or such places where echoes are commonly found, rocks, woods," &c. I am rather of opi- nion it should be interpreted, " When ru- mours increase, and when there is abun- dance of noise and clamour, believe the second report." This I think agrees more exactly with the echo, and is the more natural application of the symbol. However it be, either of these precepts is extremely proper to be followed at this season ; and I cannot but applaud your resolution of continuing in what you call your cave in the forest, this winter ; and preferring the noise of break- ing ice to that of breaking statesmen, the rage of storms to tliat of parties, the fury and ravage of floods and tem- pests, to the precipitancy of some and the ruin of others ; which, I fear, will be our daily prospects in London. 1 sincerely wish myself with you, to contemplate the wonders of God in the firmament, rather than the madness of man on the earth. But I never had so much cause as now to complain of my poetical star, that fixes me at this tu- multuous time to attend the jingling of rhymes and the measuring of syllables ; to be almost the only trifler in the na- tion ; and as ridiculous as the poet in Petronius, who, while all the rest in the ship were either labouring or praying for life, was scratching his head in a lit- tle room, to write a fine description of the tempest. You teU me, you like the sound of no arms but those of Achilles : for my part, I like them a^i little as any other arms. I listed myself in the battles of Homer, and I am no sooner in war, but, like most other folks, I v/ish myself out again. I heartily join with you in wishing quiet to our native country : quiet in the state, which, like charity in religion, is too much the perfection and happiness of either, to be broken or violated on any pretence or prospect whatsoever. Fire and sword, and fire and faggot, are equally my aversion. I can pray for op- posite parties, and for opposite religions, with great sincerity. I think, to be a lover of one's country is a glorious elo- gy, but I do not think it so great a one as to be a lover of mankind. I sometimes celebrate you under these denominations, and join your health with that of the v/hole world : a truly Catholic health, which far excels the poor narrow-spirited, ridiculous healths now in fashion, to this Church or that Church. Whatever our teachers may say, they must give us leave at least to wish generously. These, dear sir, are my general dispositions ; but whenever I pray or wish for particulars, you are one of the first in the thoughts or affec- tions of your, &c. LETTER XL. Mr. Pope to the Hon, J. C. Esq. June 15, 1711. I SEND you Dennis's remarks on the Essay '^^ which equally abound in just criticisms and fine railleries. The few observations in my hand in the margins, are what a morning's leisure permitted me to make purely for your perusal ; for 1 am of opinion that such a critic, as you will find him by the latter part of his book, is but one way to be properly answered, and that way I would not take after what he informs me in liis preface, that he is at this time persecuted by for- tune. This I knew not before ; if I had, his name had been spared in the Essay for that only reason. I cannot conceive what ground he has for so excessive a re- sentment, nor imagine how these three lines t can be called a reflection on his person, Avhich only describe him subject a little to anger on some occasions. I have heard of combatants so very fu- rious, as to fall down themselves with that very blow which they designed to lay heavy on their antagonists. But if Mr. Dennis's rage proceeds oidy from a zeal to discourage young and unexperi- enced writers from scribbling, he should frighten us with his verse, not prose ; for * On Criticism. f But Appius reddens at each word you speak, And stares tremendous with a threat'ningeye, Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. Q2 228 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book Ul. I have often known, that when all the precepts in the world would not reclaim a sinner, some very sad example has done the husiness. Yet, to give this man his due, he has objected to one or two lines with reason ; and I will alter them in case of another edition ; I will make my enemy do me a kindness where he meant an injury, and so serve instead of a friend. Wliat he observes at the bot- tom of page 20 of his reflections, was objected to by yourself, and had been mended but for the haste of tlie press : I confess it what the English call a bull in the expression, though the sense be manifest enough. Mr. Dennis's bulls are seldom in the expression ; they are generally in the sense. I shall certainly never make the least reply to him ; not only because you ad- vise me, but because I have ever been of opinion, that if a book cannot answer for itself to the public, it is to no sort of purpose for its author to do it. If 1 am wrong in any sentiment of that Essay, I protest sincerely, I do not desire all the world should be deceived (which would be of very ill consequence) , merely that I myself may be thought right (which is of little consequence) . I would be the first to recant, for the benefit of others, and the glory of myself; for (as I take it) when a man owns himself to have been in an error, he does but tell you in other words, that he is wiser than he was. But I have had an advantage by the publishing that book, which other- wise I should never have known : it has been the occasion of making me friends and open abettors of several gentlemen of known «ense and wit ; and of proving to me, what I have till now doubted, that my writings are taken some notice of by the world, or I should never be attacked thus in particular. I have read, that it was a custom among the Romans, while a general rode in triumph, to have the common soldiers in the streets that railed at him and reproached him ; to put him in mind, that though his services were in the main approved and reward- ed, yet he had faults enough to keep him humble. You wiU see by this, that whoever sets up for a wit in these days ought to have the constancy of a primitive Chris- tian, and be prepared to suffer martyr- dom in the cause of it. But sure this is the first time that a wit Avas attacked for his religion, as you will find I am most zealously in this treatise ; and you know, sir, what alarms I have had from the opposite side * on this account. Have I not reason to cry out with the poor fel- low in Virgil, Quid jam misero fnihi denique resiat! C'.ci neqve apud Danaos usgiiam locus, et super ipsi Dardanidce infensi pcenas cum sanguine poicunt ! It is however my happiness that you, sir, are impartial. Jove was alike to Latisn and to Phrygian j For you well know, that wit's of no religion. The manner in which Mr. D. takes to pieces several particular lines detach- ed from their natural places, may show how easy it is to a caviller to give a new sense, or a new nonsense, to any thing. And indeed his constructions are not more wrested from the genuine mean- ing, than theirs who objected to the heterodox parts, as they called them. Our friend the Abb^ is not of that sort ; who with the utmost candour and freedom has modestly told me what others thought, and shewn himself one (as he very well expresses it) rather of a number than a party. The only difi^er- ence between us, in relation to the monks, is, that he thinks most sorts of learning flourished among them ; and I am of opinion, that only some sort of learning was barely kept alive by them : he believes that in the most natural and obvious sense, that line (" A second de- luge learning over-run ") will be under- stood of learning in general : and I fancy it will be understood only (as it is meant) of polite learniiig, criticism, poetry, &c. which is the only learning con- cerned in the subject of the Essay. It is true, that the monks did preserve what learning there was, about Nicholas the Fifth's time ; but those who succeeded fell into the depth of barbarism, or at least stood at a stay while others arose from thence ; insomuch that even Eras- mus and Reuchlin could hardly laugh them out of it. I am highly obliged to the Abba's zeal in my commendation, and goodness in not concealing what he thinks my error : and his testifying some esteem for the book, just at a time when his brethren raised a clamour against it, is an instance of great generosity and * See the ensuing letter. Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 229 candour, which I shall ever acknowledge. Your, &c. LETTER XLL Mj\ Pope to the Hon. J. C, Esq. July, 18, 1711. In your last you informed me of the mistaken zeal of some people, who seem to make it no less their business to per- suade men they are erroneous, than doc- tors do that they are sick ; only that they may magnify their oa;\ti cure, and triumph over an imaginary distemper. The simile objected to in my Essay, (Thus wit, like faith, bj' each man is apply'd 'J'o one small sectj and all are damn'd beside) plainly concludes at this second line, where stands a full stop : and what fol- lows {Meanly they seek, ^'c.) speaks only of v/it (which is meant by that blessing, and that sun) ; for how can the sun of faith be said to sublime the southern wits, and to ripen the geniuses of north- ern climates ? I fear these gentlemen understand grammar as little as they do criticism : and, perhaps, out of good nature to the monks, are willing to take fi'om them the censure of ig-norance, and to have it to themselves. The word ^/^ey refers (as I am sure I meant, and as I thought every one must have known) to those critics there spoken of, who are partial to some particular set of writers, to the prejudice of all others. And the very simile itself, if twice read, may convince them that the censure here of damning, lies not on our church at all, unless tliey call our church one small sect : and the- cautious words {by each inan) manifestly shew it a general reflection on all such (whoever they are) who entertain those narrow and limited no- tions of the mercy of the Almighty; which the reformed ministers and Pres- byterians are as guilty of as any people living. Yet, after all, I promise you. sir, if the alteration of a word or two will gra- tify any man of sound faith, though weak understanding, I will (though it were from no other principle than that of common good nature) comply with it ; and if you please but to particularize the spot where their objection lies (for it is in a very narrow compass), that stum- bling block, though it be but a little pebble, shall be removed out of their way. If the heart of tliese good dis- putants (who, I am afraid, being bred up to wrangle in the schools, cannot get rid of the humour all their lives) should proceed so far as to personal reflections upon me, I assure you, notwithstanding, I will do or say nothing, however pro- voked (for some people can no more provoke than oblige), that is unbecom- ing the true character of a Catholic. I will set before me the example of that great man, and great saint, Erasmus ; who in the midst of calumny proceeded with all the calmness of innocence, and the unrevenging spirit of primitive Chris- tianity. However, I would advise them, to suffer the mention of him to pass un- regarded, lest I should be forced to do that for his reputation which I would never do for my own ; I mean, to vindi- cate so great a light of our church from the malice of past times, and the igno- rance of the present, in a language which may extend farther than that in which the trifle about criticism is written. I wish these gentlemen would be content- ed with finding fault with me only, who will submit to them, right or wrong, as far as I only am concerned ; I have a greater regard to the quiet of mankind than to disturb it for things of so little consequence as my credit and my sense. A little humility can do a poet no hurt, and a little charity can do a priest none : for, as St. Austin finely says, Ubichari- tas, ibi humilitas ; ubi hwnilitas, ibi pax. Your, &c. LETTER XLII. From the same to the sajue. July 19, 1711. The concern which you more than seem to be affected with for my reputation, by the several accounts you have so obligingly given of what reports and censures the holy Vandals have thought fit to pass upon me, makes me desirous of telling so good a friend my whole thoughts of this matter ; and of setting before you, in a clear light, the true state of it. I have ever believed the best piece of service one could do to our religion, was openly to express our detestation and scorn of all those mean artifices and pia 230 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book III, fraudes, which it stands so little in need of, and which have laid it under so great a scandal among its enemies. Nothing has been so much a scare- crow to them, as that too peremptory and uncharitable assertion of an utter impossibility of salvation to all but our- selves : invincible ignorance excepted, which indeed some people deiine under so great limitations, and with such ex- clusions, that it seems as if that word were rather invented as a salvo, or ex- pedient, not to be thought too bold with the thunderbolts of God (which are hurled about so freely on almost all mankind by the hands of ecclesiastics), than as a real exception to almost uni- versal damnation. For besides the small number of the truly faithful in our church, wo must again subdivide ; the Jansenist is damned by the Jesuit, the Jesuit by the Jansenist, the Scotist by the Thornist, and so forth. There may be errors, I grant ; but I cannot think them of such consequence as to destroy utterly the charity of man- kind, the very greatest bond in v/hich v/e are engaged by God to one another : therefore, I own to you, I was glad of any opportunity to express my dislike of so shocking a sentiment as those of the religion I profess are commonly charged with ; and I hope, a slight insinuation, introduced so easily by a casual similitude only, could never have given offence ; but, on the contrary, must needs have done good, in a nation and time, where- in we are the smaller party, and conse- quently most misrepresented, and most in need of vindication. For the same reason, I took occasion to mention the superstition of some ages after the subversion of the Roman em- pire, Avhich is too manifest a truth to be denied, and does in no sort reflect upon the present professors of our faith, who are free from it. Our silence in these points may, with some reason, make our adversaries think we aUow and persist in those bigotries ; which yet in reality all good and sensible men despise, though they are persuaded not to speak against them, I cannot tell why, since now it is no way the interest even of the worst of our priesthood (as it might have been then) to have them smothered in silence : for, as the opposite sects are now pre- vailing, it is too late to hinder our church from being slandered ; it is our business now to vindicate ourselves from being thought abettors of what they charge us with. This cannot so well be brought about with serious faces ; we must laugh with them at what deserves it, or be content to be laughed at, with such as deserve it. As to particiilars : you cannot but have observed, that at first the whole objection against the simile of wit and faith lay to the w^ord thej/ : when that was beyond contradiction removed (die very gram- mar serving to confute them), then the objection was against the simile itself; or if that simile will not be objected to (sense and common reason being indeed a little stubborn, and not apt to give way to every body), next the mention of su- perstition must become a crime ; as if religion and she were sisters, or that it were scandal upon the family of Christ to say a word against the devil's bastard. Afterwards, more mischief is discovered in a place that seemed innocent at first, the two lines about schismatics. An ordi- nary man would imagine the author plainly declared against those schis- matics, for quitting the true faith, out of a contempt of the understanding of some few of its believers : but these believers are called dull; and because I say that those schismatics think some believers dull, therefore these charitable inter- preters of my meaning will have it that I think all believers dull. I was lately telling Mr. * ^ these objections ; who as- sured me, I had said nothing which a Ca- tholic need to disov/n ; and I have cause to known that gentleman's fault (if he has any) is not want of zeal : he put a notion into my head, which, I confess, I cannot but acquiesce in : that when a set of people are piqued at any truth which they think to their own disadvan- tage, their method of revenge on the truth-speaker is to attack his reputation a bye-way, and not openly to object to the place they are really galled by : what these therefore (in his opinion) are in earnest angry at, is, that Erasmus, whom their tribe oppressed and persecuted, should be vindicated after an age of ob- loquy by one of their own people, willing to utter an honest tnitli in behalf of the dead, whom no man sure will flatter, and to whom few will do justice. Others, you know, were as angry that I mention- ed Mr. Walsh with honour : v.ho as he never refused to any one of merit; of any JSect; I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 231 party, the praise due to him, so honestly deserved it from all others, though of ever so different interests or sentiments. May 1 be ever guilty of this sort of li- berty, and latitude of principle ; which gives us the hardiness of speaking well of those whom envy oppresses even after death. As I would always speak well of my living friends when they are absent, nay, because they are absent, so would I much more of the dead, in that eternal absence : and the rather, because I ex- pect no thanks for it. Thus, sir, you see I do in my con- science persist in what I have written ; yet in my friendship I Avill recant and alter whatever you please, in case of a second edition (which I think the book will not so soon arrive at, for Ton son's printer told me he drew off a thousand copies in this first impression, and, ,1 fancy, a treatise of this nature, which not one gentleman iu threescore, even of a liberal education, can understand, can hardly exceed the vent of that num- ber). You shall find me a true Trojan in any faith and friendship ; in both which I will persevere to the end. Your, &c. LETTER XLIIL Mr. Pope to the Hon. J. C, Esq. Dec 5, 1712. You have at length complied with the request I have often made you, for you have shewn me, I must confess, several of my faults in the sight of those letters. L^pon a review of them, I find many things that would give me shame, if I were not more desirous to be thought honest than prudent ; so many things freely thrown out, such lengths of unre- served friendship, thoughts just v.-arm from the brain viithout any polishing or dress, the very dishabille of the under- standing. You have proved yourself more tender of another's embryos than the fondest mothers are of their own, for you have preserved every thing that I miscarried of. Since I know this, I siiail in one respect be more afraid of writing to you than ever, at this careless rate, because I see my evil works may again rise in judgment against me ; yet in another respect 1 shall be less afraid, since this has given me such a proof of the extreme indulgence you afford to my slightest thoughts. The revisal of these letters has been a kind of examination of conscience to me ; so fairly and faitli- fully have I set down in them from time to time the true and undisguised state of my mind. But 1 find that these, which were intended as sketches of my friend- ship, give as imperfect images of it as tlie little landscapes we commonly see in black and white do of a beautiful coun- try ; they can represent but a very small part of it, and that deprived of the life and lustre of nature. I perceive that the more I endeavoured to render mani- fest tiie real affection and value I ever had for you, I did but injure it by repre- senting less and less of it : as glasses which are designed to make an object very clear, generally contract it. Yet as when people have a full idea of a thing first upon their own knowledge, the least traces of it serve to refresh the remembrance, and are not displeasing on that score ; so I hope, the foreknoAv- ledge you had of my esteem for you, is the reason that you do not dislike my letters. They will not be of any great service (I find) in the design I mentioned to you : I believe I had better steal from a richer man, and plunder your letters (which I have kept as carefully as I would letters patents, since they entitle me to what I more value than titles of honour). You have some cause to apprehend this usage from me, if what some say be true, that I am a great borrower ; however, I have hitherto had the luck that none of my creditors have challenged me for it : and those who say it are such, whose writings no man ever borrowed fron^, so have the least reason to complain ; and whose works are granted on all hands to be but too much their own. Another has been pleased to declare, that my verses are corrected by other men : I verily be- lieve theirs were never corrected by any man : but indeed if mine have not, it was not my fault ; I have endeavoured my utmost that they should. But these things are only whispered, and I will not encroach upon Bays's province and pen ivJiispers; so hasten to conclude. Your, &c. 232 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book III LETTER XLIV. Mr. Pope to General Anthoni/ Hamilton'^ . [Upon his having translated into French verse the Essaij on Criticism.'} Oct. 10, 1713. If 1 could as well express, or (if you will allow me to say it) translate the senti- ments of my heart, as you have done those of my head in your excellent ver- sion of my Essay, — I should not only ap- pear the best writer in the world, but, what I much more desire to be thought, the most your servant of any man living. It is an advantage very rarely known, to receive at once a great honour and a great improvement. This, sir, you have afforded me, having at the same time made others take my sense, and taught me to understand my own ; if I may call that my own which is indeed more pro- perly yours. Your verses are no more a translation of mine, than Virgil's are of Homer's ; but are, like his, the justest imitation, and the noblest commentary. In putting me into a French dress, you have not only adorned my outside, but mended my shape ; and, if I am now a good figure, I must consider you have naturalized me into a country which is famous for making every man a fine gen- tleman. It is by your means that (con- trary to most young travellers) I am come back much better than I went out. I cannot but wish we had a bill of commerce for translation established the next parliament ; we could not fail of being gainers by that, nor of making ourselves amends for any thing v/e have lost by the A^ar. Nay, though we should insist upon the demolishing of Boileau's works, the French, as long as they have writers of your form, might have as good an equivalent. Upon the whole, I am really as proud as our ministers ought to be, of the terras I have gained from abroad ; and I design, like them, to publish speedily to the world the benefits accruing from them ; for I cannot resist the temptation of printing your admirable translation heref, to which if you will be so obliging to * Author of the Memoirs of ihe Count de Grammont, Contas, and other pieces of note in French. f This was never done; for the two printed French versions are neither of this hand. The give me leave to prefix your name, it will be the only addition you can make to the honour already done me. I am your, &c. LETTER XLV. Mr. Pope to Mr. Steele. June 18, 1712. You have obliged me with a very kind letter, by which I find you shift the scene of your life from the town to the country, and enjoy that mixed state which wise men both delight in, and are qualified for. Methinks the moralists and philosophers have generally run too much into extremes in commending en- tirely either solitude or public life. In the former, men for the most part grow useless by too much rest ; and in the lat- ter, are destroyed by too much precipita- tion ; as waters, lying still, putrify, and are good for nothing ; and running vio- lently on, do but the more mischief in their passage to others, and are swallowed up and lost the sooner themselves. Tliose indeed who can be useful to all states, should be like gentle streams, that not only glide through lonely valleys and forests, amidst the flocks and the shep- herds, but visit populous towns in their course, and are at once of ornament and service to them. But there are another sort of people who seem designed for solitude ; such, I mean, as have more to hide than to shew. As for my own part, I am one of tliose whom Seneca says, " Tam umbratiles sunt, ut putent in turbido esse, quicquid in luce est." Some men, like some pictures, are fitter for a corner than a full light ; and, I believe, such as have a natural bent to solitude (to carry on the former similitude) are like waters, wliicli may be forced into fountains, and exalted into a great height, may make a noble figure and a louder noise ; but after all, they would run more smoothly, quietly, and plenti- fully, in their own natural course upon the ground. The consideration of this would make me very v/ell contented with the possession only of that quiet v»'hich Cowley calls the Companion of one was done bj^ Monsieur Roboton, private secretary to king George the First, printed in quarto at Amsterdam, and at London i7l7. The other by the Abb6 Resnel, in octavo, with a large preface and notes, at Paris, 1730. Sect. L MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 233 Obscurity. But whoever has the Muses too for his companions, can never be idle enough to be uneasy. Thus, sir, you see, I would flatter myself into a good opinion of my own way of living. Plu- tarch just now told me, that it is in hu- man life as in a game at tables, where a man may wish for the highest cast ; but, if his chance be otherwise, he is even to play it as well as he can, and to make the best of it. 1 am your, &c. LETTER XLVL Fro7n the same to the same, July 15, 1712. You formerly observed to me, that no- thing made a more ridiculous figure in a man's life, than the disparity we often find in him sick and well : thus one of an unfortunate constitution is perpe- tually exhibiting a miserable example of the weakness of his mind, and of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent opportunties of late to consider myself in these diflferent views ; and, I hope, have received some advantage by it, if what Waller says be true, that The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made^ then surely sickness, contributing no less than old age to the shaking down this scaffolding of the body, may discover the inward structure more plainly. Sick- ness is a sort of early old age : it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state, and inspires us with the thoughts of a fu- ture, better than a thousand volumes of philosophers and divines. It gives so warning a concussion to those props of our vanity, our strength and youth, that we think of fortifying ourselves within, when there is so little depend- ence upon our outv/orks. Youth, at the very best, is but a betrayer of human life in a gentler and smoother manner than age ; it is like a stream that nou- rishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish and blossom to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at the root in secret. My youth has dealt more fairly and openly with me ; it has afforded several prospects of my danger, and given me an advantage not very common to young men, that the attractions of the world have not daz- zled me veryfmuch ; and I begin, where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambi- tion, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures. When a smart fit of sickness tells me this empty tenement of my body will fall in a little time, I am even as unconcerned as was that honest Hibernian, who being| in Jibed in the great storm some years ago, and told the house would tumble over his head, made answer, " What care I for the house ! I am only a lodger." I fancy it is the best time to die when one is in the best humour; and so excessively weak as I noAv am, I may say with conscience, that I am not at all uneasy at the thought, that many men, whom I never had any esteem for, are likely to enjoy this world after me. When I ;;^^ reflect what an in- considerable little atom every single man is, with respect to the whole creation, methinks it is a shame to be concerned at the removal of -such a trivial Janimal as I am. The morning after my exit, the sun will rise as bright as ever, the flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green, the world will proceed in its own course, people will laugh as heartily, and marry as fast, as they were used to do. The memory of man (as it is elegantly ex- pressed in the Bookjof Wisdom) passeth away as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but one day. There are reasons enough in the fourth chapter of the same book to make any young man contented with the prospect of death. " For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, or is mea- sured by number of years. But wisdom is the grey hair to men, and an un- spotted life is old age. He v/as taken away speedily, lest wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit be- guile his soul," &c. I am your, &c. LETTER XLVIL FrG7n the same to the same. Nov. 7, 1712. I WAS the other day in company with five or six men of some learning ; where, chancing to mention the famous verses which the emperor Adrian spoke on his death-bed, they were all agreed that it was a piece of gaiety unwortliy of that prince in those circumstances. I could not but differ from this ojiinion : me- 234 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL thinks it was by no means a gay, but a very serious soliloquy to his soul at the point of his departure ; in which sense I naturally took the verses at my first read- ing- them, when I was very young, and before I knew what interpretation the world generally put upon them. Animula vagula, hlandula, Hospes comesque, corporis^ 2u(E nunc ahibis in loca f Pallidula, regida, widula. Nee {ut soles) dubis joca ! " Alas, my soul ! thou pleasing compa- nion of this body, thou fleeting thing that art now deserting it ! whither art thou flying ? to what unknown scene ? all trembling, fearful, and pensive ! what now is become of thy former wit and humour ? thou shalt jest and be gay no more ! '' I confess I cannot apprehend where lies the trifling in all this ; it is the most natural and obvious reflection imagin- able to a dying man : and if we consider the emperor was a heathen, that doubt concerning the future state of his soul will seem so far from being the efi'ect of want of thought, that it was scarce rea- sonable he should think otherw ise ; not to mention that here is a plain confes- sion included of his belief in its immor- tality. The diminutive epithets of va- gula, blandula, and the rest, appear not to me as expressions of levity, but rather of endearment and concern ; such as we find in C'atullus, and the authors of Hendecasyllahi after him, where they are used to express the utmost love and tenderness for their mistresses. — If you think me right in my notion of the last words of Adrian, be pleased to insert it in the Spectatar ; if not, to suppress it. I am, &c. Adriani morientis ad Animam, Translated. Ah, fleeting spirit ! wand'ring; fire. That long hast warm'd my tender breast, Must thou no more this frame inspire ? No more a pleasing cheerful guest ? Whither, ah whither art thou flying ? To what dark, undiscover'd shore ? Thou seem'st all trembling, shiv'ring, dying, And wit arid humour are no more ! LETTER XLVIII. Mr. Steele to Mr. Pope. Nov. 12, 1712, 1 HAVE read over your Temple of Fame twice, and cannot find any thing amiss, of weight enough to call a fault ; but see in it a thousand thousand beauties. Mr. Addison shall see it to-morrow : after his perusal of it I will let you know his thoughts. I desire you would let me know whether you are at leisure or not ? I have a design which I shall open a month or two hence, with the assistance of the few like yourself. If your thoughts are unengaged, I shall explain myself further. I am your, &c. LETTER XLIX. Mr. Pope to Mr. Steele. Nov. 16, 1712. You oblige me by the indulgence you have shewn to the poem I sent you ; but will oblige me much more by the kind severity 1 hope from you. No errors are so trivial but they deserve to be mended. But since you say you see no- thing that may be called a fault, can you but think it so, that I have confined the attendance of the guardian spirits* to Heaven's favourites only ? I could point you to several ; but it is my business to be informed of those faults I do not know ; and as for those I do, not to talk of them, but to correct them. You speak of that poem in a style 1 neither merit nor expect ; but, I assure you, if you freely mark or dash out, I shall look upon your blots to be its greatest beau- ties; I mean, if Mr. Addison and your- self should like it in the whole ; other- wise the trouble of correction is what I would not take, for I really was so difl&- dent of it as to let it lie by me these tvvo years:}:, just as you now see it. I am afraid of nothing so much as to impose any thing on the world which is unwor- thy of its acceptance. A s to the last period of your letter, I shall be very ready and glad to contri- bute to any design that tends to the ad- vantage of mankind, which, I am sure, all yours do. I wish I had but as much * This is not now to be found in the Temple of Fame, which is the poem here spokeu of. f Hence it appears this poem was writ when the author was twenty-two years old. Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 235 capacity as leisure; fori am perfectly idle (a siffn I have not much capacity). If you will entertain the best opinion of me, he pleased to think me your friend. Assure Mr. Addison of my most faithful service : of every one's esteem he must be assured already. I am your, &c. LETTER L. From the sanic to the same. Nov. 29, 17 i 2. I AM sorry you published that notion about Adrian's verses as mine : had I imagined you would use my name, I should have expressed my sentiments with more modesty and diffidence. I only sent it to have your opinion, and not to publish my own, which I dis- trusted. But I think the supposition you draw from the notion of Adrian's beinff addicted to magic, is a little un- charitable (" that he might fear no sort of deity, good or bad"'), since in the third verse he plainly testifies his apprehension of a future state, by being- solicitous whither his soul was going-. As to what you mention of his using gay and ludi-. crous expressions, I have owned my opi- nion to be, that the expressions are not so, but that diminutives are as often, in the Latin tongue, used as marks of ten- derness and concern. Anima is no more than my soul, a^n- mula has the force of my dear soul. To say virso hella is not hah" so endearing as •cii'zuncula hellula ; and had Augustus only called Horace lepidum hoyjiinem, it had amounted to no more than that he thought him a pleasant fellow : it was the homuncioluni that expressed the love and tenderness that great emperor had for him. And perhaps I should myself be much better pleased, if I were told you called me youjr little friend, than if you complimented me with the title of a great genius, or an eminent hand, as Jacob does aE liis authors. I am vour, &ic. LETTER LI. Mr. Steele to Mr. Pope. Dec. 4, 1712. This is to desire of you that you would please to make an ode as of a cheerful dying spirit ; that is to say, the emperor Adrian's animula vagula put into two or three stanzas for music. If you comply with this, and send me word so, you Tvill very particularly oblige your, &c. LETTER LII. 3Ir. Pope to Mr. Steele. I DO not send you word I wiU do, but have already done the thing you desired of me. You have it (as Cowley calls it) just warm from the brain. It came to me the first moment I waked this morning ; yet, you will see, it was not so absolutely inspiration, but that I had in my head not only the verses of Adrian, but the fine fragment of Sap- pho, &c. The Dying Christian to his Soul. ODE. I. Vital spark of heavenly flame ! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying. Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. And let me languish into life. II. Hark ! they whisper : angels say. Sister Spirit, come away ! \^ hat is this absorbs me quite. Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 1 ell me, my Soul, can this be Death r III. The world recedes ;. it disappears ! Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring : J end, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! O Grave, where is thy victory ? O Death ! where is th}^ sting ? LETTER LIII. 3Ir. Pope to Mr. Addison. July 20, 1713. I AM more joyed at your return than I should be at that of the sun, so mucli as I wish for him this melancholy wet season : but it is his fate, too, like yours, to be displeasing to owls and obscene ani- mals, who cannot bear his lustre. \^liat put me in mind of these night-birds was John Dennis, whom, I think, you are best revenged upon, as the sun was in the fable, upon these bats and beastly birds above mentioned, only by shijiing on. I am so far from esteeming it any misfortune, that I congratulate you upon having your share in that, which all the 236 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL great men and all the good men that ever lived have had their part of — envy and calumny. To be uncensured and to be obscure is the same thing. You may conclude from what I here say, that it Vi^as never in my thoughts to have offered you my pen in any direct reply to such a critic, but only in some little raillery ; not in defence of you, but in contempt of him*. But indeed your opinion that it is entirely to be neglected, would have been my own, had it been my own case : but I felt more warmth here than I did when I first saw his book against myself (though indeed in two minutes it made me heartily merry). He has written against every thing the world has ap- proved these many years. I apprehend but one danger from Dennis's disliking our sense, that it may make us think so very well of it as to become proud and conceited upon his disapprobation. I must not here omit to do justice to Mr. Gay, whose zeal in your concern is worthy a friend and honourer of you. He writ to me in the most pressing terms about it, though with that just contempt of the critic that he deserves. I think, in these days one honest man is obliged to acquaint another who are his friends ; when so many mischievous insects are daily at work to make people of merit suspicious of each other ; , that they may have the satisfaction of seeing them looked upon no better than themselves. I am your, &c. LETTER LIV. Mr. Addison to Mr, Pope. Oct. 20, 1713. I WAS extremely glad to receive a letter from you, but more so upon reading the contents of it. The workf you men- tion will, I dare say, very sufficiently re- commend itself when your name ap- pears with the proposals : and if you think I can any way contribute to the forvv'arding of them, you cannot lay greater obligation upon me than by em- ploying me in such an office. As I have an ambition of having it known that * This relates to the paper occasioned by Dennis's Remarks upon Cato, called "Dr. Norris's Narrative of the Frenzy of John Dennis," f The translation of the Iliad. you are my friend, I shall be very proud of shewing it by this or any other in- stance. I question not but your trans- lation will enrich our tongue, and do honour to our country ; for I conclude of it already from these performances with which you have obliged the public. I would only have you consider how it may most turn to your advantage. Ex- cuse my impertinence in this particular, vv^hich proceeds from my zeal for your ease and happiness. The work would cost you a great deal of time, and un- less you undertake it, will, I am afraid, never be executed by any other ; at least I know none of this age that is equal to it beside yourself. I am at present wholly immersed in country business, and begin to take de- light in it. 1 wish 1 might hope to see you here some time ; and will not despair of it when you engage in a work that will require solitude and retirement. I am your, &c. LETTER LV. Mr. Pope to Mr. Addison. Oct. 10, 1714. I HAVE been acquainted by one of my friends, who omits no opportunities of gratifying me, that you have lately been pleased to speak of me in a manner which nothing but the real respect I have for you can deserve. May I hope that some late malevolencies have lost their effect ? Indeed it is neither for me nor my ene- mies, to pretend to tell you whether I am your friend or not ; but if you would judge by probabilities, I beg to know which of your poetical acquaintance has so little interest in pretending to be so ? Methinks no man should question the real friendship of one who desires no real service. I am only to get as much from the whigs as I got from the tories, that is to say, civility, being neither so proud as to be insensible of any good office, nor so humble as not to dare heartily to despise any man who does me an in- justice. I will not value myself upon having ever guarded all the degrees of respect for you ; for (to say the truth) all the world speaks well of you, and I should be under a necessity of doing the same, whether I cared for you or not. Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 237 As to what you have said of me, 1 shall never believe that the author of Cato can speak one thing- and think an- other. As a proof that I account you sincere, I beg a favour of you; it is, that you would look over the two first books of my translation of Homer, w^hich are in the hands of my lord Halifax. I am sensible how much the reputation of any poetical work will depend upon the cha- racter you give it: it is therefore some evidence of the trust I repose in your good-w^ill, when I give you this oppor- tunity of speaking ill of me with justice ; and yet expect you will tell me your truest thoughts, at the same time that you tell others your most favourable ones. 1 have a farther request, which I must press with earnestness. My bookseller is reprinting the Essay on Criticism, to which you have done too much honour in your Spectator of No. 253. The pe- riod in that paper, where you say, " I have admitted some strokes of ill-nature into that Essay," is the only one I could wish omitted of all you have written ; but I would not desire it should be so, unless I had the merit of removing your objection. I beg you but to point out those strokes to me, and you may be assured they shall be treated without mercy. Since we are upon proofs of sincerity (which I am pretty confident will turn to the advantage of us both in each other's opinion) give me leave to name another passage in the same Spectator, which I wish you would alter. It is where you mention an observation upon Homer's verses of Sisyphus's stone, as never hav- ing been made before by any of the cri- tics . I happened to find the same in Dio- nysius of Halicarnassus's treatise, Ilsfi o-vvSso'scuf ovoy.ocT'ajv, who treats very large- ly upon these verses. I know you will think fit to soften your expression when you see the passage, which you must needs have read, though it be since slipt out of your memory. I am, with the utmost esteem, your, &c. LETTER LVL Mr. Pope to the Honourable June 8, 1714. The question you ask in relation to Mr. Addison and Philips, I shall answer in a few words. Mr. Philips did express him- self with much indignation against me one evening at Burton's coffee-house (as I was told), saying, that I was entered into a cabal with dean Swift and others to write against the whig interest, and in particular to undermine his own repu- tation, and that of his friends Steele and Addison : but Mr. Philips never opened his lips to my face, on this or any like occasion, though I was almost every night in the same room with him, nor ever offered me any indecorum. Mr. Ad- dison came to me a night or two after Philips had talked in this idle manner, and assured me of his disbelief of what had been said, of the friendship we should always maintain, and desired I v/ould say nothing further of it. My lord Halifax did me the honour to stir in this matter, by speaking to several people to obviate a false aspersion, which might have done me no small prejudice with one party. However, Philips did all he could secretly to continue the re- port with the Hanover Club, and kept in his hands the subscriptions paid for me to him, as secretary to that club. The heads of it have since given him to understand that they take it ill ; but (upon the terms 1 ought to be with such a man) I could not ask him for this money, but commissioned one of the players, his equals, to receive it. This is the whole matter : but as to the se- cret grounds of this malignity, they will make a very pleasant history when we meet. Mr. Congreve and some others have been much diverted with it; and most of the gentlemen of the Hanover Club have made it the subject of their ridicule on their secretary. It is to the management of Philips, that the world owes Mr. Gay's Pastorals. The inge- nious author is extremely your servant, and would have complied with your kind invitation, but that he is just now ap- pointed secretary to my lord Clarendon, in his embassy to Hanover. I am sensible of the zeal and friend- ship with which, I am sure, you will al- ways defend your friend in his absence, from all those little tales and calumnies which a man of any genius or merit is born to. I shall never complain, while I am happy in such noble defenders and in such contemptible opponents. May their envy and ill-nature ever increase, to the glory and pleasure of those they 238 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL would injure ! May they represent me what they will as long as you think me, what I am, your, &c. LETTER LVIL Mr. Pope to Mr. Jervas. Aug. 16, 1714. I THANK you for your good offices, which -are numberless. Homer advances so fast, that he begins to look about for the ornaments he is to appear in, like a modish modem author ; Picture in the front. With bays and wicked rhyme upon't. I have the greatest proof in nature at present of the amusing power of poetry, for it takes me up so entirely, that I scarce see what passes under my nose, and hear nothing that is said about me. To follow poetry as one ought, one must forget fa- ther and mother, and cleave to it alone. My reverie has been so deep, that I have scarce had an interval to think my- self uneasy in the want of your company. I now and then just miss you as I step into bed ; this minute indeed I want ex- tremely to see you, the next I sliall dream of nothing but the taking of Troy, or the recovery of Briseis. I fancy no friendship is so likely to prove lasting as ours, because, I am pret- ty sure, there never was a friendship of so easy a nature. We neither of us de- mand any mighty things from each other ; what vanity we have, expects its gratifi- cation from other people. It is not I that am to tell you what an artist you are, nor is it you that are to tell me what a poet I am ; but it is from the world abroad we hope (piously hope) to hear these things. At home we follow our business, when we have any ; and think and talk most of each other when we have none. It is not unlike the happy friend- ship of a stayed man and his wife, who are seldom so fond as to hinder the busi- ness of the house from going on all day, or so indolent as not to find consolation in each other every evening. Thus, well- meaning couples hold in amity to the last, by not expecting too much from human nature; while romantic friend- ships, like violent loves, begin with dis- quiets, proceed to jealousies, and con- clude in animosities. I have lived to see the fierce advancement, the sudden turn, and the abrupt period of three or four of these enormous friendships, and am perfectly convinced of the truth of a maxim we once agreed in, that nothing hinders the constant agreement of peo- jile who live together, but merely va- nity ; a secret insisting upon what they think their dignity of merit, and an in- ward expectation of such an over-mea- sure of deference and regard, as answers to their own extravagant false scale ; and which nobody can pay, because none but themselves can tell exactly to what pitch it amounts. I am, &c. LETTER LVIII. Mr. Jervas to Mr. Pope. Aug. 20, 1714. I HAVE a particular to tell you at this time, which pleases me so much, that you must expect a more than ordinary alacrity in every turn. You know I could keep you in suspense for twenty lines, but I will tell you directly, that Mr. Addison and I have had a conversation, that it would have been worth your while to have been placed behind the wainscot or behind some half-length picture, to have heard. He assured me, that he would make use not only of his interest but of his art, to do you some service ; he did not mean his art of poetry, but his art at court ; and he is sensible that nothing can have a better air for himself than moving in your favour, especially since insinuations were spread, that he did not care you should prosper too much as a poet. He protests that it shall not be his fault, if there is not the best intelligence in the world, and the most hearty friendship, &c. He owns, he was afraid Dr. Swift might have carried you too far among the enemy during the heat of the animo- sity ; but now all is safe, and you are es- caped even in his opinion. I promised in your name, like a good godfather, not that you should renounce the devil and all his works, but that you would be delighted to find him your friend, merely for his own sake ; therefore prepare yourself for some civilities. I have done Homer's head, shadowed and heightened carefully ; and I enclose the outline of the same size, that you may determine whether you would have it so large, or reduced to make room for feuillage or laurel round the oval, or Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 239 about the square of the busto. Perhaps there is something more solemn in the image itself, if I can get it well per- formed. If I have been instrumental in bring- ing you and Mr. Addison together with all sincerity, I value myself upon it as an acceptable piece of service to such a one as I know you to be. Your, &c. LETTER LIX. Mr. Pope to 3Ir. Jervas. Aug. 27, 1714. 1 AM just arrived from Oxford, very well diverted and entertained there. Every one is much concerned for the queen's death. No panegyrics ready yet for the king. I admire your whig principles of re- sistance exceedingly, in the spirit of the Barcelonians : I join in your wish for them. Mr. Addison's verses on Liberty, in his letter from Italy, would be a good form of prayer in my opinion, O Libert i/ ! thou ifoddess heavenly bright, &c. What you mention of the friendly of- fice you endeavoured to do betwixt Mr. Addison and me, deserves acknowledg- ments on my part. You thoroughly know my regard to his character, and my propensity to testify it by all Vv'ays in my power. You as thoroughly know the scandalous meanness of that proceeding which was used by Philips, to make a man I so higlily value suspect my dispo- sition towards him. But as, after all, Mr. Addison must be the judge in what regards himself, and has seemed to be no very just one to me, so, I must own to you, I expect nothing but civility from him, how much soever I wish for his friendship. As for any offices of real kindness or service which it is in his power to do me, I should be ashamed to receive them from any man who had no better opinion of my morals than to think me a party -man ; nor of my tem- per, than to believe me capable of ma- ligning or envying another's reputation as a poet. So I leave it to time to con- vince him as to both ; to shew him the shallow depths of those half-witted crea- tures who misinformed him, and to prove that I am incapable of endeavouring to lessen a person whom I would be proud to imitate, and therefore ashamed to flat- ter. In a word, Mr. Addison is sure of my respect at all times, and of my real friendship whenever he shall think fit to know me for what I am. For all that passed betwixt Dr. Swift and me, you know the whole (without reserve) of our correspondence. The ^engagements I had to him were such as the actual services he had done me, in relation to the subscription for Homer, obliged me to. I must have leave to be grateful to him, and to any one who serves me, let him be ever so obnoxious to any party ; nor did the tory party ever put me to the hardship of asking this leave, which is the greatest obliga- tion I owe to it ; and I expect no greater from the whig party than the same li- berty. A curse on the word Party, which I have been forced to use so often in this period ! I v/ish the present reign may put an end to the distinction, that there may be no other for the future than that of honest and knave, fool and man of sense ; these two sorts must always be enemies : but for the rest, may all peo- ple do as you and I, believe what they please, and be friends. I am, &c. LETTER LX. Mr. Pope to the Earl of Halifax. Dec. 1, 1714. My lord, I AM obliged to you, both for the favours you have done me, and for those you intend me. I distrust neither your wiU nor your memory, when it is to do good ; and if ever I become troublesome or so- licitous, it must not be out of expecta- tion, but out of gratitude. Your lord- ship may either cause me to live agree- ably in the town, or contentedly in the country, which is really all the difference I set between an easy fortune and a small one. It is indeed a high strain of gene- rosity in you, to think of making* me easy all my life, only because I have been so happy as to divert you some few hours ; but if I may have leave to add, if it is because you think me no enemy to my native country, there will appear a better reason ; for I must of conse- quence be very much (as I sincerely am) yours, &c. uo ELlEGANT EPISTLES, Book III. - LETTER LXI*. Dr. Parndle to Mr. Pope. I AM writing you a long letter ; but all the tediousness I feel in it is, that it makes me during the time think more intently of my being far from you. I fancy if I were with you, I could remove some of the uneasiness which you may have felt from the opposition of the world, and which you should be ashamed to feel, since it is but the testimony which one part of it gives you that your merit is unquestionable. What would you have otherwise, from ignorance, envy, or those tempers which vie with you in your own way? I know this in man- kind, that when our ambition is unable to attain its end, it is not only wearied, but exasperated too, at the vanity of its labours : then we speak ill of hap- pier studies, and, sighing, condemn the excellence which we find above cur reach. My Zoilus t, which you used to write about, I finished last spring, and left in town. I waited till I came up to send it you ; but not arriving here before your book was out, imagined it a lost piece of labour. If you will still have it, you need only write me word. I have here seen the first book of Ho- mer J, which came out at a time when it could not but appear as a kind of setting up against you. My opinion is, that you may, if you please, give them thanks who writ it. Neither the numbers nor the spirit have an equal mastery with yours ; but what surprises me more is, that, a scholar being concerned, there should happen to be some mistakes in the author's sense ; such as putting the light of Pallas's eyes into the eyes of Achilles : making the taunt of Achilles to Agamemnon (that he should have spoils when Troy should be taken) to be a cool and serious proposal : the transla- ting what you call ablution by the word offals, and so leaving water out of the * This and the three extracts concerning the translation of the first Iliad, set on foot by Mr. Addison, Mr. Pope omitted in his first edition. f Printed for B. Lintot, 1715, 8vo, and after- wards added to the last edition of his Poems. X Written by Mr. Addison, and published in the name of Mr. Tickell. rite of lustration, &c. ; but you must have taken notice of all this before. I write not to inform you, but to shew I always have you at heart. I am, &c. Extract of a Letter of the Reverend Dr. Berkley, Dean of Londonderry. July 7, 1715. Some days ago, three or four gentlemen and myself, exerting that right which all readers pretend to over au- thors, sat in judgment upon the two new translations of the first Iliad. Without partiality to my countrymen, I assure you, they all gave the preference where it was due ; being unanimously of opi- nion, that yours was equally just to the sense with Mr. 's, and without com- parison more easy, more poetical, and more sublime. But I will say no more on such a threadbare subject as your late performance is at this time. 1 am, &c. Extract from a Letter of Mr. Gay to Mr. Pope. July 8, 1715. • — — I HAVE just set down sir Samuel Garth at the opera. He bid me tell you, that every body is pleased with your translation but a few at Button's ; and that sir Richard Steele told him, that Mr. Addison said the other translation was the best that ever was in any lan- guage*. He treated me with extreme civility ; and out of kindness gave me a squeeze by the fore-finger. I am in- formed, that at Button's your character is made very free with as to morals, &c., and Mr. Addison says that your transla- tion and TickelFs are both very well done; but that the latter has more of Homer. I am, &c. Extract from a Letter of Dr. Arhuthnot to Mr. Pope. July 9, 1715. 1 CONGRATULATE you upon Mr. T — 's first book. It does not indeed * Sir Richard Steele afterwards, in his pre- face to an edition of the Drummer, a comedy by Mr. Addison, shews it to be his opinion, that " Mr. Addison himself was the person who translated this book." Sect. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 241 M^ant'its merit ; but I was strangely dis- appointed in my expectation of a trans- lation nicely true to the original, where- as in those parts where the greatest ex- actness seems to be demanded, he has been the least careful ; I mean the his- tory of ancient ceremonies and rites, &c. in which you have with great judgment been exact. I am, &c. LETTER LXIL 3Ir. Pope to the Hon. James Craggs, Esq. July 15, 1715. I LAY hold of the opportunity given me l)y my lord duke of Shrewsbury, to assure you of the continuance of that esteem and affection I have long borne you, and the memory of so many agreeable conversa- tions as we have passed together. I wish it were a compliment to say, such con- versations are not to be found on this side of the water ; for the spirit of dissension is gone forth among us : nor is it a won- der that Button's is no longer Button's, when Old England is no longer Old England, that region of hospitality, so- ciety, and good-humour. Party affects us all, even the wits, though they gain as little by politics as they do by their wit. We talk much of fine sense, refined sense, and exalted sense ; but for use and hap- piness, give me a little common sense. I say this in regard to some gentlemen, professed wits of our acquaintance, who fancy they can make poetry of conse- quence at this time of day, in the midst of this raging fit of politics. For they tell me, the busy part of the nation are not more divided about wliigs and tories, than these idle fellows of the feather about Mr. T — 's and my translation. I (like the tories) have the town in gene- ral, that is, the mob, on my side ; but it is usual Avith the smaller party to make up in industry what they want in number, and that is the case with the little senate of Cato. However, if our principles be well considered, I must appear a brave whig, and Mr. T — a rank tory : I trans- lated Homer for the public in general ; he to gTatify the inordinate desires of one man only. We have, it seems, a great Tui'k in poetry, who can never bear a brother on the throne ; and has his mutes too, a set of nodders, winkers, and whisperers, whose business is to strangle all other offsprmgs of wit in their birth. The new translator of Homer is the humblest slave he has, that is to say, his first minister ; let him receive the ho- nours he gives me, but receive them with fear and trembling : let him be proud of the approbation of his absolute lord : I appeal to the people, as my rightful judges and masters ; and if they are not inclined to condemn me, 1 fear no ar- bitrary high-flying proceeding from the small court faction at Button's. But after all I have said of this great man there is no rupture between us. We are each of us so civil and obliging, that neither thinks he is obliged : and I, for my part, treat mth him, as we do with the grand monarch, who has too many great quali- ties not to be respected, though we know he watches any occasion to oppress us. ^VTien I talk of Homer, I must not forget the early present you made me of Monsieur de la Motte's book : and 1 can- not conclude this letter without telling you a melancholy piece of news, which affects our very entrails. L — is dead, and soupes are no more ! You see 1 write in the old familiar way. " This is not to the minister, but to the friend'"^." However, it is some mark of uncommon regard to the minister, that I steal an expression from a secretary of state. I am, &c. LETTER LXIII. M7\ Pope to Mr. Congreve. Jan lo, 1714-I5. Methinks when I write to you, I am making a confession ; I have got (I can- not tell how) such a custom of throwing myself out upon paper without reserve. You were not mistaken in what you judged of my temper of mind when I writ last. My faults will not be hid from you, and perhaps it is no dispraise to me that they will not : the cleanness and purity of one's mind is never better proved than in discovering its own faidt at first view : as when a stream shews the dirt at its bottom, it shews also the transparency of the water. My spleen was not occasioned, how- ever, by any thing an abusive angry cri- tic could write of me. I take very kind- ly your heroic manner of congratulation upon this scandal ; for I think nothing * AllmVmg- to St. John's letter to Prior, pub- Ijslied in the Report of the Secret Committee. R 542 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IH. more honourable, tlian to he involved in the same fate with all the great and the good that ever lived ; that is to be en- vied and censured by bad writers. You do more than answer my expec- tations of you in declaring how well you take my freedom, in sometimes neglect- ing, as I do, to reply to your letters so soon as I ought. Those who have a right taste of the substantial part of friendship, can wave the ceremonial : a friend is the only one that will bear the omission ; and one may find who is not so, by the very trial of it. As to any anxiety I have concerning the fate of my Homer, the care is over with me : the world must be the judge, and I shall be the first to consent to the justice of its judgment, whatever it be. I am not so arrant an author as even to desire, that if I am in the wrong, all mankind should be so. I am mightily pleased with a saying of Monsieur Tourreil : — " When a man writes, he ought to animate himself Avith the thoughts of pleasing all the world : but he is to renounce that desire or hope the very moment the book goes out of his hands." I write this from Binfield, whither I came yesterday, having passed a few days in my way with my lord Bolingbroke ; I go to London in three days' time, and will not fail to pay a visit to Mr. M , whom 1 saw not long since at my lord Halifax's. I hoped from thence he had some hopes of advantage from the pre- sent administration : for few people (I think) but I pay respects to great men without any prospects. 1 am in the fair- est way in the world of being not worth a groat, being born both a papist and a poet. This puts me in mind of re-ac- knowledging your continued endeavours to enrich me. But, I can tell you, it is to no purpose, for without the opes, jEquu77i mi animum ipse paraho. LETTER LXIV. Mr, Pope to Mr. Congreve. March 19, 1714-15. The farce of the What-d'ye-call it* has occasioned many different speculations in the town. Some looked upon it as a mere jest upon the tragic poets ; others * Written by Gay. as a satire upon the late war. Mr. Crom- well, hearing none of the words, and see- ing the action to be tragical, was much astonished to find the audience laugh ; and says the prince and princess must doubtless be under no less amazement on the same account. Several Templars, and others of the more vociferous kind of critics, went with a resolution to hiss, and confessed they were forced to laugh so much, that they forgot the design they came with. The court in general h.as, in a very particular manner, come into the jest, and the three first nights (notwith- standing two of them were court nights) were distinguished by very full audiences of the first quality. The common people of the pit and gallery received it at first with great gravity and sedateness, some few with tears ; but after the third day they also took the hint, and have ever since been very loud in their claps. — There are still some sober men, who cannot be of the general opinion ; but the laughers are so much the majority, tliat one or two critics seem determined to undeceive the town at their proper cost, by writing grave dissertations against it : to encourage them in which laudable design, it is resolved a preface should be prefixed to the farce, in vindi- cation of the nature and dignity of this new way of writing. Yesterday, Mr. Steele's affair was de- cided. I am sorry I can be of no other opinion than yours, as to his whole car- riage and writings of late. But certainly he has not only been punished by others, but suffered much even from his own party in the point of character, nor, I believe, received any amends in that of interest, as yet, whatever may be his prospects for the future. This gentleman, among a thousand others, is a great instance of the fate of all who are carried away by party spirit, of any side. I wish all violence may suc- ceed as ill : but am really amazed that so much of that sour and pernicious quality should be joined with so much natural good-humour as, I think, Mr. Steele is possessed of. I am, &c. LETTER LXV. Fro7n the same to the same. April 7, 1715. Mr. Pope is going to Mr. Jervas's, where Mr. Addison is sitting for his picture : Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 243 in the mean time, amidst clouds of to- bacco at a coflfee-house I write this let- ter. There is a grand revolution at Will's ; Morrice has quitted for a coflFee- house in the city, and Titcomb is re- stored, to the great joy of Cromwell, who was at a great loss for a person to con- verse with upon the fathers and church history : the knowledge I gain from him is entirely in painting and poetry ; and Mr. Pope owes all his skill in astronomy to him and Mr. Whiston, so celebrated of late for the discovery of the longitude in an extraordinary copy of verses *. Mr. Rowe's Jane Gray is to be played in Easter-Aveek, when Mrs. Oldfield is to personate a character directly opposite to female nature : for what woman ever despised sovereignty ? You know, Chau- cer has a tale where a knight saves his head by discovering it was the thing Avhich all women most coveted. Mr. Pope's Homer is retarded by the great rains that have fallen of late, which causes the sheets to be long a-drying : this gives Mr. Lintot great uneasiness, who is now endeavouring to corrupt the curate of his parish to pray for fair wea- ther, that his work may go on. There is a sixpenny criticism lately published upon the tragedy of What-d'ye-call-it, wherein he with much judgment and learning calls me a blockhead, and Mr. Pope a knave. His grand charge is against the Pilgrim's Progress being* read, which he says is directly levelled at Cato's reading Plato ; to back this censure, he goes on to tell you, that the Pilgrim's Progress being mentioned to be the eighth edition, makes the reflection evident, the tragedy of Cato having just eight times (as he quaintly expresses it) visited the press. He has also endeavoured to shew, that every particular passage of the play al- ludes to some fine parts of tragedy, which he says I have injudiciously and profanely abused f. Sir Samuel Garth's poem upon my lord Clare's house, I believe, will be published in the Easter week. Thus far Mr. Gay, who has in his let- ter forestalled all the subjects of diver- sion ; unless it should be one to you to say, that I sit up till two o'clock over * Called, An Ode on the Longitude: in Swift and Pope's Miscellanies. f This curious piece was entitled, A complete Key to the What-d'ye-call-it, written by one Griffin, a player, assisted by Lewis Theobald. burgundy and cliampaigne ; and am be- come so much a rake, that I shall be ashamed in a short time to be thought to do any sort of business. I fear 1 must get the gout by drinking, purely for a fashionable pretence to sit still long enough to translate four books of Homer. I hope youll by that time be up again, and I may succeed to the bed and couch of my predecessor : pray cause the stuff- ing to be repaired, and the crutches shortened for me. The calamity of your gout is what all your friends, that is to say, all that know you, must share in ; we desire you in your turn to condole with us, who are under a persecution, and much afflicted with a distemper v/hich proves mortal to many poets, — a criti- cism. We have indeed some relieving intervals of laughter, as you know there are in some diseases ; and it is the opinion of divers good guessers, that the last fit wiU not be more violent than advanta- geous ; for poets assailed by critics are like men bitten by tarantulas, they dance on so much the faster. Mr. Thomas Burnet hath played the precursor to the coming of Homer, in a treatise called Homerides. He has since risen very much in his criticisms, and, after assaulting Homer, made a daring attack upon the What-d'ye-call-it J. Yet there is not a proclamation issued for the burning of Homer and the Pope by the common hangman ; nor is the What-d'ye- call-it yet silenced by the lord chamber- lain. Your, &c. LETTER LXVI. Mr, Congreve to Mr. Pope, May 6. I HAVE the pleasure of your very kind letter. I have always been obliged to you for your friendship and concern for me, and am more aff'ected with it than I will take upon me to express in this let- ter. T do assure you there is no return wanting on my part, and am very sorry I had not the good luck to see the dean before I left the to^vn : it is a great plea- sure to me, and not a little vanity, to think that he misses me. As to my health, which you are so kind as to inquire after, it is not worse than in London : I am almost afraid yet to say that it is better, t In one of hi? papers called the Grumbler. R 2 244 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL for I cannot reasonably expect much ef- fect from these waters in so short a time ; but in the main they seem to agree with me. Here is not one creature that I know, which, next to the few I would choose, contributes very much to my sa- tisfaction. At the same time that 1 re- gret the want of your conversation, I please myself with thinking that you are where you first ought to be, and engaged where you cannot do too much. Pray give my humble service and best wishes to your good mother. I am sorry you do not tell me hoAV Mr. Gay does in his health ; I should have been glad to have heard he was better. My young amanu- ensis, as you call him, 1 am afraid, will prove but a wooden one ; and you know ex quavis ligno, &c. You will pardon Mrs. R— 's pedantry, and believe me to be your, &c. P. S. By the enclosed you will see I am like to be impressed, and enrolled in the list of Mr. Curll's authors ; but, I thank God, I shall have your company. I believe it high time you should think of administering another emetic. LETTER LXVIL The Rev. Dean Berkley to Mr. Pope. Leghorn, May, 1714. As I take ingratitude to be a greater crime than impertinence, I choose rather to run the risk of being thought guilty of the latter, than not to return you my thanks for a very agreeable en- tertainment you just now gave me. I have accidentally met with your Rape of the Lock here, having never seen it be- fore. Style, painting, judgment, spirit, I had already admired in other of your writings : but in this I am charmed with the magic of your invention, with all those images, allusions, and inexplicable beauties, which you raise so surprisingly, and at the same time so naturally, out of a trifle. And yet I cannot say that I was more pleased with the reading of it than I am with the pretext it gives me to re- new in your thoughts the remembrance of one who values no happiness beyond the friendship of men of wit, learning, and good-nature. I remember to have heard you men- tion some half-formed design of coming to Italy. What might we not expect from a muse that sings so well in the bleak climate of England, if she felt the; same warm sun and breathed the same air with Virgil and Horace ! There are here an incredible number of poets, that have aU the inclinatiouy but want the genius, or perhaps the art, of the ancients. Some among them, who understand English, begin to relish our authors ; and 1 am informed that at Flo- rence they have translated Milton into Italian verse. If one who knows so well how to write like the old Latin poets came among them, it would probably be a means to retrieve them from their cold, trivial conceits, to an imitation of their predecessors. As merchants, antiquaries, men of pleasure, &c. have all different views in travelling ; I know not whether it might not be worth a poet's while to travel, in order to store his mind with strong images of nature. Green fields and groves, flowery mea- dows, and purling streams, are nowhere in such perfection as in England ; but if you would know lightsome days, warm suns, and blue skies, you must come to Italy ; and to enable a man to describe rocks and precipices, it is absolutely ne- cessary that he pass the Alps. You will easily perceive that it is self- interest makes me so fond of giving ad- vice to one who has no need of it. If you came into these parts I should fly to see you. I am here (by the favour of my good friend the Dean of St. Patrick's) in quality of chaplain to the earl of Pe- terborough ; who about three months since left the greatest part of his family in this town. God knows how long we shall stay here. I am yours, &c. LETTER LXVIII. Mr. Pope to Mr. Jervas in Ireland. July 9, 1716. Though, as you rightly remark, I pay my tax but once in a half year, yet you shall see by this letter upon the neck of my last, that I pay a double tax, as we nonjurors ought to do. Your acquaint- ance on this side of the sea are under terrible apprehensions from your long stay in Ireland, that you may grow toa polite for them ; for we think (since the great success of such a play as the Non- juror) that politeness is gone over the water. But others are of opinion it has Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 245 been longer among you, and was intro- clnced much about the same time with frogs, and with equal success. Poor Poetry ! the little that is left of it here, longs to cross tlie sea, and leave Eusden in full and peaceable possession of the British laurel : and we begin to wish you had the singing of our poets, as well as the croaking of our frogs, to yourselyes, in scEcula scBculorwn. It would be well in exchange if Parnelle, and two or three more of your swans, would come hither ; especially that swan, who, like a true modern one, does not sing at all. Dr. Swift. I am (like the rest of the world) a suflferer by his idleness. Indeed I hate that any man should be idle, while I must translate and comment ; and I may the more sincerely wish for good poetry from others, because I am be- come a person out of the question ; for a translator is no more a poet than a tailor is a man. You are, doubtless, persuaded of the validity of that famous verse, 'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear. But why would you make your friends fonder of you than they are ? There is no manner of need of it. We begin to expect you no more than Antichrist ; a man that hath absented himself so long from his friends, ought to be put in the Gazette. Every body here has great need of you. Many faces have died for want of your pencil, and blooming ladies have wither- ed in expecting your return. Even Frank and Betty (that constant pair) cannot console themselves for your absence ; I fancy they will be forced to make their own picture in a pretty babe, before you come home : it will be a noble subject for a family piece. Come, then ; and having peopled Ireland with a world of beautiful shadows, come to us, and see with what eye (which, like the eye of the world, creates beauties by looking on them), see, I say, how England has al- tered the airs of all its heads in your ab- sence ; and with what sneaking city at- titudes our most celebrated personages appear in the mere mortal works of our painters. Mr. Fortescue is much yours ; Gay commemorates you ; and lastly (to climl? by just steps and degrees) my lord Bur- lington desires you may be put in mind of him. His gardens flourish, his struc- tures rise, his pictures arrive, and (what is far more valuable than all) his own good qualities daily extend themselves to all about him ; of whom I the meanest (next to some Italian fiddlers and English bricklayers) am a living j^instance. — Adieu. LETTER LXIX. From the same to the same. Nov. 1-i, 1716. If I had not done my^ utmost to lead my life so pleasantly as to forget all misfor- tunes, I should tell you I reckoned your absence no small one ; but I hope you have also had many good and pleasant reasons to forget your friends on this side of the world. If a wish could trans- port me to you and your present com- panions, I could do the same. Dr. Swift, I believe, is a very good landlord, and a cheerful host at his own table. I suppose he has perfectly learnt himself, what he has taught so many others, rupta nan in- sanire la(^ena, else he would not make a proper host for your humble servant, who (you know) though he drinks a glass as seldom as any man, contrives to break one as often. But it is a consolation to me that I can do this, and many other enormities, under my own roof. But that you and I are upon equal terms in all friendly laziness, and have taken an inviolable oath to each other, always to do what we will— I should re- proach you for so long a silence. The best amends you can make for saying nothing to me, is by saying all the good you can of me, which is, that I heartily love and esteem the Dean and Dr. Par- nelle. Gay is yours and theirs. His spirit is awakened very much in the cause of the Dean, which has broke forth in a cou- rageous couplet or two upon sir Richard Blackmore ; he has printed it with his name to it, and bravely assigns no other reason than that the said sir Richard has abused Dr. Swift. I have also suf- fered in the like cause, and shall suffer more : unless Parnelle sends me his ZoUus and Bookworm (which the bishop of Clogher, I liear, greatly extols) it will be shortly concurrere helium atque virum. I love you all, as much as I despise most wits in this dull country. Ireland has turned the tables upon England ; and if iOOK I have no poetical friend in my own na- tion, I will be as proud as Scipio, and say (since I am reduced to skin and bone) Ingrata patria, ne ossa quidem habeas. LETTER LXX. Mr. Pope to Mr. Jervas in Ireland. Nov. 29, 171G. That you have not heard from me of late, ascribe not to the usual laziness of your correspondent, but to a ramble to Oxford, Avhere your name is mentioned with honour, even in a land flowing with tories. I had the good fortune there to be often in the conversation of doctor Clarke : he entertained me with several drawings, and particidarly with the ori- ginal designs of Inigo Jones's White- hall. I there saw and reverenced some of your first pieces ; which future paint- ers are to look upon as we poets do on the Culex of Virgil and Batrachom of Homer. Having named this latter piece, give me leave to ask what is become of Dr. Parnelle and his frogs *.^ Ohliiusque meo- rum, ohliviscendus et iUis, might be Ho- race's wish, but will never be mine, while I have such meorums as Dr. Parnelle and Dr. Swift. I hope the spring will restore you to us, and with you all the beauties and colours of nature. Not but I con- gratulate you on the pleasure you must take in being admired hi your own coun- try, which so seldom happens to prophets and poets ; but in this you have the ad- vantage of poets ; you are master of an art that must prosper and grow rich as long as people love or are proud of them- selves, or their own persons. However, you have staid long enough, methinks, to have painted all the numberless his- tories of old Ogygia. If you have begun to be historical, 1 recommend to your hand the story which every pious Irish- man ought to begin with, that of St. Patrick, to the end you may be obliged (as Dr. P. was when he translated the Batrachomuomachia) to come into Eng- land, to copy the frogs and such other vermin, as were never seen in that land since the time of that confessor. I long to see you a history painter. You have already done enough for the private, do something for the public ; * He translated the Batrachom of Homer i which is printed among his poems. and be not confined, like the rest, to draw only such silly stories as our own faces tell of us. The ancients too ex- pect you should do them right ; those statues from which you learned your beautiful and noble ideas, demand it as a piece of gratitude from you, to make them truly knoAvn to all nations, in the account you intend to write of their characters. I hope you think more warmly than ever of that design. As to your inquiry about your house ; when I come within the walls, they put me in mind of those of Carthage, where your friend, like the wandering Trojan, Animum piclura puscit inani. For the spacious mansion, like a Turkish caravanserah, entertains the vagabonds with only bare lodging. I rule the fa- mily very ill, keep bad hours, and lend out your pictures about the town. See what it is to have a poet in your house ! Frank, indeed, does all he can in such a circumstance ; for, considering he has a wild beast in it, he constantly keeps the door chained: every time it is opened the links rattle, the rusty hinges roar. The house seems so sensible that you are its support, that it is ready to drop in your absence ; but I still trust myself under its roof, as depending that Provi- dence will preserve so many Raphaels, Titians, and Guidos, as are lodged in your cabinet. Surely the sins of one poet can hardly be so heavy as to bring an old house over the heads of so many painters. In a word, your house is falling ; but what of that? I am only a lodger f. LETTER LXXI. Mr. Pope to Mr. Fenton. Sir, May 5. I HAD not omitted answering yours of the 18tli of last month, but out of a de- sire to give you some certain and satis- factory 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 you in the manner he would receive a man de Belles Lettres, that is, in tranquillity and full leisure. I dare say your way of life (which, in my taste, will be the best in the world, and f Alluding to the storj' of the Irishman. Sect. 1. I^40DERN, OF LATE DATE. 247 with one of the best men in tke world) must prove highly to your contentment. And, I must add, it will be still the more a joy to me, as I sliall reap a particular 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, whi- ther he proposes to come in three weeks ; in tlie 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 enter into after. I de- sire to know by the first post how soon I may hope for you. I am a little scandalized at your com- plaint that your time lies heavy on your hands, Avhenthe 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 myself with necessary amuse- ments, 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 othef 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 find- ing no injuries from others hurt me, as long as I know myself. I will add the sincerity with which I act towards inge- nuous and undesigning men, and which makes me always (even by a natural bond) their friend ; therefore believe me very affectionately your, &c. LETTER LXXn. Rev. Dean Berkley "^ to Mr, Pope. Naples, Oct. 22, N. S. 1717. I HAVE long had it in my thoughts to trouble you with a letter, but was dis- couraged for want of something that I could think worth sending fifteen hun- dred miles. Italy is such an exhausted * Afterwards bishop of Cloyne in Ireland, author of the Dialogues of [lylas and Phili- nous, the Minute Philosopher. subject, that, I dare say, you would ea- sily forgive my saying nothing of it ; and the imagination of a poet is a thing so liicc and" delicate, that it is no easy mat- ter to find out images capable of giving pleasure to one of the few who (in any age) have coiiie up to that character. I am nevertheless lately returned from an island, where I p?,ssed three or^ four months ; which, were it set out in its true colours, might, methiiitv'S, amuse you agreeably enough for a minCJte or two. The island Inarime is an epitoiiie of the whole earth, containing within the compass of eighteen miles, a wonder- ful variety of hills, vales, ragged rocks, fruitful plains, and barren mountains, all thrown together in a most romantic confusion. The air is in the hottest sea- son constantly refreshed by cool breezes from the sea. The vales produce excel- lent wheat and Indian corn ; but are mostly covered with vineyards, inter- mixed with fruit trees. Besides the com- mon kinds, as cherries, apricots, peaches, &c. they produce oranges, limes, almonds, pomegranates, figs, water-melons, and many other fruits unknown to our cli- mates, which lie everywhere open to the passenger. The hills are the greater part covered to the top with vines, some with chesnut groves, and others with thickets of myrtle and lentiscus . The fields on the northern side are divided by hedge-rows of myrtle. Several fountains and rivu- lets add to the beauty of this landscape, which is likewise set off by the variety of some barren spots and naked rocks. But that which crowns the scene is a large mountain rising out of the middle of the island (once a terrible valcano, by the ancients called Mons Epomeus) ; its lower parts are adorned with vines and other fruits ; the middle affords pasture to flocks of goats and sheep, and the top is a sandy pointed rock, from which you have the finest prospect in the world, surveying at one view, besides several pleasant islands lying at your feet, a tract of Italy about three hundred miles in length, from the promontory of Antium to the cape of Palinurus ; the greater part of which hath been sung by Homer and Virgil, as making a considerable part of the travels and adventures of their two heroes. The islands Caprea, Prochyta, and Parthenope, together with Cajeta, Cumae, Monte Miseno, the habitations of Circe, the Syrens, and the Lscstrigo- us ELEGANT EPISTYLES. Book IIL nes, the bay of Naples, the promontory of Minerva, and the whole Campagna Felice, make but a part of this noble landscape ; which would demand a^ imagination as warm, and numbe*^ ^^ flowing, as your own to de^^^'^*^^ ^*- The inhabitants of this d-^cious isle, as they are without ric^^ and honours, so they are without- *^^^ vices and follies that attend the** ; and were they but as much strapgers to revenge as they are to avaricf* ^^ounds which he had with the lady dis- charged those dehts ; a jointure of four hundred a year made her a recompence ; and the nephew he left to comfort him- self as well as he could, with the miser- able remains of a mortgaged estate. I saw our friend twice after this was done, less peeyisb in his sickness than he used to be in his health ; neither much afraid of dying, nor (which in him had been more likely) much ashamed of marrying. Tlie evening before he expired, he called his young wife to the bedside, and ear- nestly entreated her not to deny him one request, the last he should make. Upon her assurances of consenting to it, he told her, " My dear, it is only this, that you will never marry an old man again." I cannot help remarking, that sickness, wliich often destroys both v>'it and wis- dom, yet seldom has power to remove that talent which we call humour. Mr. Wyeherley shewed this, even in this last compliment ; though I think his request a little hard ; for why should he bar her from doubling her jointure on the same easy terms ? So trivial as these circumstances are, I should not be displeased myself to know such trifles, when they concern or cha- racterize any eminent person. The wisest and wittiest of men are seldom wiser or wittier than others in these sober mo- ments ; at least, our friend ended much in the cliaracter he had lived in; and Horace's rule for a play may as well be applied to him as a playwright : Servef.iir ad imum, •^ualis ab incepto processerit, et sihi consiet. I am, &c. LETTER LXXXVII. From the sa?ne to the same. Feb. 10, 1715-16. I AM just returned from the country, whither Mr. Rowe accompanied me, and passed a week in the Forest. I need not tell you how much a man of his turn en- tertained me ; but I must acquaint you, there is a vivacity and gaiety of disposi- tion almost peculiar to him, which makes it impossible to part from him without that uneasiness which generally succeeds all our pleasures. I have been just tak- ing a solitary walk by moonshine, full of reflections on the transitory nature of all human delights ; and giving my thoughts a loose in the contemplation of those sa- tisfactions which probably we may here- after taste in the company of separate spirits, when we shall range the walks above, and perhaps gaze on this w^orld at as vast a distance as we now do on those worlds. The pleasures we are to enjoy in that conversation must undoubtedly be of a nobler kind, and (not unlikely) may proceed from the discoveries each shall communicate to another, of God and of Nature ; for the happiness of minds can surely be nothing but know- ledge. The highest gratification we receive here from company is mirth, which, at the best, is but a fluttering unquiet mo- tion, that beats about the breast for a few moments, and after, leaves it void and empty. Keeping good company, even the best, is but a less shameful art of losing time. What we here call Science and Study are little better : the greater number of arts to wliich we apply our- selves are mere groping in the dark ; and even the search of our most im- portant concerns in a future being is but a needless, anxious, and uncertain haste to be knowing, sooner than we can, what, without all this solicitude, we shall know a little later. We are but curious impertinents in the case of futurity. It is not our business to be guessing what the state of souls shall be, but to be doing what may make our own state happy : we cannot be knOT^dng, but we can be virtuous. If this be my notion of a great part of that high science, Divinity, you will be so civil as to imagine I lay no mighty stress upon the rest. Even of my dar- ling poetry I really make no other use, than horses of tlie bells that jingle about their ears (though now and then they toss their heads as if they v.'ere proud of them), only to jog on a little more mer- rily. Your observations en the narrow con- ceptions of mankind in the point of friendship, confirm me in what I Avas so fortunate as at my first knowledge of you to hope, and since so amply to expe- rience. Let me take so much decent pride and dignity upon me as to tell you, that but for opinions like these which I discovered in your mind, I had never made the trial I have done, which has 262 ELEGANT EPlSXi^ES. EooK II L succeeded so mueh to mine, and, I be- lieve, not less to your satisfaction ; for, if I know you right, your pleasure is greater in obliging me than I can feel on my part, till it falls in my power to oblige you. Your remark, that the variety of opi- nions in politics or religion, is often ra- ther a gratification than an objection, to people who have sense enough to con- sider the beautiful order of nature in her variations, makes me think you have not construed Joannes Secundus wrong, in the verse which precedes that which you quote : bene nota fides, as I take it, does no way signify the Roman Catholic reli- gion, though Secundus was of it. I think it was a generous thought, and one that flowed from an exalted mind, that it was not improbable but God might be delighted with the various methods of worshipping him, which divided the whole world. I am pretty sure you and I should no more make good inquisitors to the modern tyrants in faith, than we could have been qualified for lictors to Procrustes, when he converted refractory members with the rack. In a word, I can only repeat to you what, I think, I have formerly said — -that I as little fear God will damn a man who has charity, as I hope that any priest can save him without it. I am, &c. LETTER LXXXVIII. Mr. Pope to Edward Blount, Esq. March 20, 171 5-1 r. I FIND that a real concern is not only a hindrance to speaking, but to writing too : the more time v/e give ourselves to think over one's own or a friend's un- happiness, the more unable we grow to express the grief that proceeds from it. It is as natural to delay a letter at such a season as this, as to retard a melan- choly visit to a person one cannot re- lieve. One is ashamed in that circum- stance to pretend to entertain people with trifling, insignificant affectations of sorrow on the one hand, or unseasonable and forced gaieties on the other. It is a kind of profanation of things sacred to treat so solemn a matter as a generous voluntary suffering with compliments, or heroic gallantries. Such a mind as yours has no need of being spirited up into honour, or, like a weak woman, praised into an opinion of its ov.'n virtue. It is enough to do and suffer what we ought ; and men should know, that the noble power of suffering bravely is as far above that of enterprising- greatly, as an un- blemished conscience and inflexible re- solution are above an accidental flow of spirits, or a sudden tide of blood. If the whole religious business of mankind be included in resignation to our Maker and charity to our fellow creatures, there are now some people who give us as good an opportunity of practising the one, as themselves have given an in- stance of the violation of the other. Whoever is really brave, has always this comfort when he is oppressed, that he knows himself to be superior to those who injure him : for the greatest power on earth can no sooner do him that injury, but the brave man can make himself greater by forgiv- ing it. If it were generous to seek for alle- viating consolations in a calamity of so much glory, one might say that to be ruined thus in the gross with the whole people, is but like perishing in the gene- ral conflagration, where nothing we can value is left behind us. Methinks, the most heroic thing we are left capable of doing, is to endeavour to lighten each other's load, and (op- pressed as we are) to succour such as are yet more oppressed. If there are too many who cannot be assisted but by what we cannot give, our money, there are yet others who may be relieved by our counsel, by our countenance, and even by our cheerfulness. The misfortunes of private families, the misunderstandings of people whom distresses make suspi- cious, the coldness of relations whom change of religion may disunite, or the necessities of half-ruined estates render unkind to each other : these at least may be softened, in some degree, by a general well -managed humanity among our- selves — if all those who have your prin- ciples or belief, had also your sense and conduct. But indeed most of them have given lamentable jiroofs of the con- trary ; and it is to be apprehended that they who want sense are only religious through weakness, and good-natured through shame. These are narrow- minded creatures, that never deal in es- sentials, their faith never looks beyond ceremonials, nor their charity beyond Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. ^3 relations. As poor as I am, I would gladly relieve any distressed, conscien- tious French refugee at this instant. What must my concern then be, when I perceive so many anxieties now tearing those hearts which I have desired a place in, and clouds of melancholy rising on those faces which I have long looked upon with affection ! I begin already to feel both what some apprehend, and what others are yet too stupid to appre- hend. I grieve with the old, for so many additional inconveniences and chagrins, more than their small remain of life seem- ed destined to undergo ; and with the young, for so many of those gaieties and pleasures (the portion of youth) which they will by this means be deprived of. This brings into my mind one or other of those I love best, and among them the widow and fatherless, late of , As I am certain no people living had an ear- lier and truer sense of others' misfortunes, or a more generous resignation as to what might be their own, so I earnestly wish, that whatever part they must bear may be rendered as supportable to them as is in the power of any friend to make it. But I know you have prevented me in this thought, as you always will in any thing that is good or generous. I find by a letter of your lady's (which I have seen) that their ease and tranquillity is part of your care. I believe there is some fatality in it, that you should al- ways, from time to time, be doing those particular things that make me ena- moured of you. I write this from Windsor Forest, of which I am come to take my last look. We here bid our neighbours adieu, much as those who go to be hanged do their fellow-prisoners, who are condemned to follow them a few weeks after. I parted from honest Mr. D — with tenderness ; and from old sir William Trumbull, as from a venerable prophet, foretelling, with lifted hands, the miseries to come, from which he is just going to be re- moved himself. Perhaps, now I have learnt so far as Nos dulcia linquimis arva, my next lesson may be Nos patriam fagimus. Let that, and all else, be as Heaven pleases ! I have provided just enough to keep me a man of honour. 1 believe you and I shall never be ashamed of each other. I know I wish my country well ; and, if it undoes me, it shall not make me wish it otherwise. LETTER LXXXIX. Edward Blount, Esq. to Mr. Pope. March 24, 1715-10. Your letters give me a gleam of satis- faction, in the midst of a very dark and cloudy situation of thoughts, which, it would be more than human to be exempt from at this time, when our homes must either be left, or be made too nar- row for us to turn in. Poetically speak- ing, I should lament the loss Windsor Forest and you sustain of each other, but that, methinks, one cannot say you are parted, because you will live by and in one another, while verse is verse. This consideration hardens me in my opinion rather to congratulate you, since you have the pleasure of the prospect when- ever you take it from your shelf, and at the same time the solid cash you sold it for, of which Virgil, in his exile, knew nothing in those days, and which will make every place easy to you. I, for my part, am not so happy ; my parva rura are fastened to me, so that I can- not exchange them, as you have, for more portable means of subsistence ; and yet I hope to gather enough to make the patriam fugimus supportable to me ; it is what I am resolved on, with my penates. If therefore you ask me to whom you shall complain ? I will exhort you to leave laziness and the elms of St. James's Park, and choose to join the other two proposals in one, safety and friendship (the least of which is a good motive for most things, as the other is for almost every thing), and go with me where war will not reach us, nor paltry constables summon us to vestries. The future epistle you flatter me with will find me still here, and I think 1 may be here a month longer. Whenever I go from hence, one of the few reasons to make mc regret my home will be, that I shall not have the pleasure of saying to you, Hk tamen hanc mecum poteris reqiiiesccre noctem ; which would have rendered this place more agreeable than ever it else cotild be to me ; for I protet^t, it its with the ut- 264 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IlL most sincerity that I assure you 1 am entirely, dear sir, your, &c. LETTER XC. Mr. Pope to Edward Blount, Esq. Sept. 8, 1717. I THINK your leaving England was like a good man's leaving thev»^orld, with the blessed conscience of having acted well in it ; and I hope you have received your reward, in being happy where you are. I believe, in the religious country you inhabit, you will be better pleased to find I consider you in this light, than if I compared you to those Greeks and Romans, whose constancy in suffering pain, and whose resolution in pursuit of a generous end, you would rather imitate than boast of. But I had a melancholy hint the other day, as if you were yet a martyr to the fatigue your virtue made you undergo on this side the water. I beg, if your health be restored to you, not to deny me the joy of knowing it. Your endeavours of service and good advice to the poor pa- pists, put me in mind of Noah's preach- ing forty years to those folks that were to be drowned at last. At the worst, I heartily wish your ark may find an Ar- arat, and the wife and family (the hopes of the good patriarch) land safely after the deluge upon the shore of Totness. If I durst mix profane with sacred his- tory, I would cheer you with the old tale of Brutus, the wandering Trojan, who found on that very coast the happy end of his peregrinations and adventures. I have very lately read Jeffery of Mon- mouth (to whom your Cornwall is not a little beholden) in the translation of a clergyman in my neighbourhood. The poor man is highly concerned to vindi- cate Jeffery's veracity as an historian ; and told me, he was perfectly astonished we of the Roman communion could doubt of the legends of his giants, while we believe those of our saints. I am forced to make a fair composition with him ; and, by crediting some of the won- ders of Corinseus and Gogmagog, have brought him so far already, that he speaks respectfully of St. Christopher's carry- ing Christ, and the resuscitation of St. Nicholas Tolentine's chicken. Thus we proceed apace in converting each other from all manner of infidelity. Ajax and Hector are no more to be compared to Corinseus and Arthur, than the Guelphs and Ghibellines are to the Mohocks of ever dreadful memory. This amazing writer has made me lay aside Homer for a week, and, when I take him up again, I shall be very well pre- pared to translate, with belief and reve- rence, the speech of Achilles's horse. You will excuse all this trifling, or any thing else which prevents a sheet full of compliments; and believe there is nothing more true (even more true than any thing in Jeffery is false) than that I have a constant affection for you. P. S. I know you will take part in re- joicing for the victory of prince Eugene over the Turks, in the zeal you bear to the Christian interest, though your cousin of Oxford (with whom I dined yesterday) says, there is no other differ- ence in the Christians beating the Turks, or the Turks beating the Christians, than whether the emperor shall first de- clare war against Spain, or Spain declare it against the emperor. LETTER XCL From the same to the same. Nov. 17, 1717. The question you proposed to me is what at present I am the most unfit man in the world to answer, by my loss of one of the best of fathers. He had lived in such a course of tem- perance as was enough to make the long- est life agreeable to him, and in such a course of piety as sufl&ced to make the most sudden death so also. Sudden, in- deed, it was ; however, I heartily beg of God to give me such a one, provided I can lead such a life. I leave him to the mercy of God, and to the jjiety of a re- ligion that extends beyond the grave ; Si qua est ea cur a, &c. He has left me to the ticklish manage- ment of so narrow a fortune, that any one fklse step would be fatal. My mo- ther is in that dispirited state of resigna- tion, which is the effect of long life, and the loss of what is dear to us. We are really each of us in want of a friend, of such a humane turn as yourself, to make almost any thing desirable to us. I feel your absence more than ever, at the same time T can less express my re- Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 265 gards to you than ever ; and shall make this, which is the most sincere letter I ever writ to you, the shortest and faint- est, perhaps, of any you have received. It is enough if you reflect, that barely to remember any person when one's mind is taken up with a sensible sorrow, is a great degree of friendship. I can say no more, but that I love you, and all that are yours ; and that I wish it may be very long- before any of yours shall feel for you what I now feel for my father. Adieu. LETTER XCII. F7'07n the same to the sa?ne. Reiscomb in Gloucestershire, Oct. 3, 1721. Your kind letter has overtaken me here, tor I have been in and about this country ever since your departure. 1 am well pleased to date this from a place so well known to Mrs. Blount, where I write as if I were dictated to by her ancestors, whose faces are all upon me. I fear none so much as sir Christo- pher Guise, who, being- in his shirt, seems as ready to combat me as her own sir John was to demolish duke Lancas- ter. I dare say your lady wiQ recol- lect his figure. I looked upon the man- sion, walls, and terraces ; the plantations and slopes which nature has made to command a variety of valleys and rising woods, with a veneration mixed with a pleasure, that represented her to me in those puerile amusements, which en- gaged her so many years ago in this place. I fancied I saw her sober over a sampler, or gay over a jointed baby. I dare say she did one thing more, even in those early times ; — " remembered her Creator in the days of her youth." You describe so well your hermitical state of life, that none of the ancient an- chorites could go beyond you for a cave in a rock, with a fine spring, or any of the accommodations that befit a solitary. Only I do not remember to have read that any of those venerable and holy per- sonages took with them a lady, and be- gat sons and daughters. You must mo- destly be content to be accounted a pa- triarch. But were you a little younger, I should rather rank you with sir Amadis, and his fellows. If piety be so romantic, I shall turn hermit in good earnest ; for, I see, one may go so far as to be poetical, and hope to save one's soul at the same time. I really wish myself something more, — that is, a prophet ; for I wish I were, as Habakkuk, to be taken by the hair of his head, and visit Daniel in his den. You are very obliging in saying I have now a whole family upon my hands ; to whom to discharge the part of a friend, I assure you, I like them all so well, that I will never quit my here- ditary right to them ; you have made me yours, and, consequently, them mine. I still see them walking on my green at Tv/ickenham, and gratefully remem- ber, not only their green gowns, but the instructions they gave me how to slide down and trip up the steepest slopes of my mount. Pray think of me sometimes, as I shall often of you ; and know me for what I am, that is, your, &c. LETTER XCIII. From the same to the same. Oct. 21, 1721. Your very kind and obliging manner of inquiring after me, among the first con- cerns of life, at your resuscitation, should have been sooner answered and acknow- ledged. I sincerely rejoice at your re- covery from an illness which gave me less pain than it did you, only from my ignorance of it. I should have else been seriously and deeply afflicted in the thought of your danger by a fever. I think it a fine and a natural thought which I lately read in a letter of Mon- taigne's, published by P. Coste, giving an account of the last words of an in- timate friend of his : " Adieu, my friend ! the pain I feel will soon be over ; but I grieve for what you are to feel, which is to last you for life." I join with your family in giving God thanks for lending us a worthy man somewhat longer. The comforts you receive from their attendance put me in mind of what old Fletcher of Saltoune said one day to me : " Alas, I have no- thing to do but to die! — I am a poor individual ; no creature to wish or to fear for my life or death : it is the only reason I have to repent being a single man : now I grow old, I am like a tree without a prop, and without young trees to grow round me, for company and de- fence." 266 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IlL I hope the gout will soon go after the fever, and all evil things remove far from you. But pray tell me, when will you move towards us ? If you had an interval to get hither, I care not what fixes you afterwards, except the gout. Pray come, and never stir from us again. Do away your dirty acres ; cast them to dirty peo- ple, such as, in the Scripture-phrase, possess the land. Shake off your earth, like the nohle animal in Milton : — The tawny lion, pawing to get free His hinder parts, he springs as broke from bonds, And, rampant, shakes his brinded mane: the ounce. The libbard, and the tyger, as the mole Rising, the crumbled earth above them threw In hillocks ! But, I believe, Milton never thought these fine verses of his should be applied to a man selling a parcel of dirty acres ; though in the main, I think it may have some resemblance. For, God knows I this little space of ground nourishes, buries, and confines us, as that of Eden did those creatures, till we can shake it loose, at least in our affections and de- sires. Believe, dear sir, I truly love and va- lue you ; let Mrs. Blount know that she is in the list of my Memento, Dojuine, famulorum famularumque, &c. My poor mother is far from well, declining ; and I am watching over her as we watch an expiring taper, that even when it looks brightest, wastes fastest. I am (as you will see from the whole air of this letter) not in the gayest nor easiest humour, but always with sincerity your, 8cc. LETTER XCIV. Mr. Pope to E. Blount, Esq. June 27, I7:,'3. You may truly do me the justice to think no man is more your sincere well- wisher tlian myself, or more the sincere well-wisher of your whole family : with all which, I cannot deny but I have a mixture of envy to you all, for loving one another so well, and for enjoying the sweets of that life which can only be tasted by people of good- will. They from all shades the darkness can exclude, And from a desert banish solitude. Torbay is a paradise : and a storm is but an amusement to such people. If you drink tea upon a promontory that over- hangs the sea, it is preferable to an as- sembly ; and the Avhistling of the wind bet- ter music to contented and loving minds, than the opera to the spleenful, ambitious, diseased, distasted, and distracted souls which this world affords ; nay, this world affords no otlier. Happy they who are banished from us ! but happier they who can banish themselves, or, more properly, banish the world from them ! Alas ! I live at Twickenham ! I take that period to be very sublime, and to include more than a hundred sen- tences that might be writ to express dis- traction, hurry, multiplication of no- things, and all the fatiguing perpetual business of having no business to do. You'll wonder I reckon translating the Odyssey as nothing. But whenever I think seriously (and of late I have met with so many occasions of thinking seri- ously, that I begin never to think other- wise) I cannot but think these things very idle ; as idle as if a beast of burden should go on jingling his bells, without bearing any thing valuable about him, or ever serving his master. Life's vain amusements, amidst which we dwell; [hell! Not weigh'd, or understood, by the grim god of said a heathen poet ; as he is translated by a Christian bishop, who has, first by his exhortations, and since by his exam- ple, taught me to think as becomes a reasonable creature ; but he is gone ! I remember I promised to write to you, as soon as 1 should hear you were got home. You must look on this as the first day I have been myself, and pass over the mad interval unimputed to me. How punctual a correspondent I shall henceforward be able or not able to be, God knows : but he knows I shall ever be a pimctual and grateful friend, and all the good wishes of such an one will ever attend you. LETTER XCV. Ffom the same to the same. Twickenham, June '2, 1725. You shew yourself a just man and a friend in those guesses and suppositions you make at the possible reasons of my silence : cverv one of which is a true Sect. I, MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 267 one. As to forgetfulness of you, or yours, I assure you, tlie promiscuous conversations of the town serve only to put me in mind of better, and more quiet, to be had in a corner of the world (un- disturbed, innocent, serene, and sensible) with such as you. Let no access of any distrust make you think of me differently in a cloudy day from what you do in the most sunshiny weather. Let the young- ladies be assured I make nothing new in my gardens without wishing to see the print of their fairy steps in every part of them. I have put the last hand to my works of this kind in happily finishing the subterraneous way and grotto : I there found a spring of the clearest wa- ter, which falls in a perpetual rill, that echoes through the cavern day and night. From the river Thames, you see through my arch up a walk of the wilderness, to a kind of open temple, wholly composed of shells in the rustic manner ; and from that distance, under the temple you look down through a sloping arcade of trees, and see the sails on the river passing sud- denly and vanishing, as through a per- spective glass. Wlien you shut the doors of this grotto it becomes on the instant, from a luminous room, a camera obscura ; on the walls of which all the objects of the river, hills, woods, and boats, are forming a moving picture in their visible radiations : and when you have a mind to light it up, it affords you a very differ- ent scene ; it is finished with shells in- terspersed with pieces of looking-glass in angular forms ; and in the ceiling is a star of the same material, at which, when a lamp (of an orbicular figure of thin ala- baster) is hung in the middle, a thousand pointed rays glitter, and are reflected over the place. There are connected to this grotto, by a narrower passage, two porches ; one towards the river, of smooth stones full of light, and open ; the other toward the garden, shadowed with trees, rough with shells, flints, and iron ore. The bottom is paved with simple pebble, as is also the adjoining walk up the wil- derness to the temple, in the natural taste, agreeing not ill with the little dripping murmur, and the aquatic idea of the whole place. It wants nothing to complete it but a good statue with an in- scription, like that beautiful antique one which you know I am so fond of. Hiijus Nympha loci, sacri cuslodia funt'is ; Donnioj dam bkaida: scntio murmur nqucc. Parc(B meum, quisqiiis iangis cava marmora somnum Rumpere ; si bihas, sive lavere, lace. Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep. And to the murmur of these waters sleep ; Ah spare my slumbers, gently tread the cave .' And drink in silence, or in silence lave ! You will think 1 have been very poetical in this description ; but it is pretty near the truth. I wish you were here to bear testimony how little it owes to art, either the place itself, or the image I give of it, I am, &c. LETTER XCVL Fro?n the same to the same. Sept. 13, 1725. I SHOULD be ashamed to own the re- ceipt of a very kind letter from you, two whole months from the date of this, if I were not more ashamed to tell a lie, or to make an excuse, which is worse than a lie (for being built upon some probable circumstance, it makes use of a degree of truth to falsify with, and is a lie guarded). Your letter has been in my pocket in constant wearing, till that, and the pocket, and the suit, are worn out ; by which means I have read it forty times, and I find by so doing that I have not enough considered and re- flected upon many others you have obliged me with ; for true friendship, as they say of good writing, will bear reviewing a thousand times, and still discover new beauties. I have had a fever, a short one, but a violent : I am now well ; so it shall take up no more of this paper. I begin now to expect you in town to make the winter to come more tolerable to us both. The summer is a kind of heaven, when we wander in a paradisia- cal scene among groves and gardens ; but at this season, we are, like our poor first parents, turned out of that agreea- ble though solitary life, and forced to look about for more people to help to bear our labours, to get into warmer houses, and to live together in cities. I hope you are long since perfectly re- stored and risen from your gout, happy in the delights of a contented family, smiling at storms, laughing at great- ness, merry over a Christmas fire, and exercising all the functions of an old patriarcli in charity and hospitality. I will not tell Mrt^ 13— what I think t. It pleases me that you received my books at last ; but you have never once told me if you approve the whole, or dis- approve not of some parts of the Com- mentary, &c. It was my principal aim in the entire work to perpetuate the friendship between us, and to shew that the friends or the enemies of therone were the friends or enemies of the other. If in any particular any thing be stated or mentioned in a different manner from what you like, pray tell me freely, that Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 313 the new editions now coming out here may have it rectified. You will find the octavo rather more correct than the quarto, with some addition to the Notes and Epigrams cast in, which I wish had heen incrsased by your acquaintance in Ireland. I rejoice in hearing that Dra- per's Hill is to emulate Parnassus ; 1 fear the country about it is as much impove- rished. I truly share in all that troubles you, and wish you removed from a scene of distress, which I know works your compassionate temper too strongly ; but if we are not to see you here, I believe I shall once iii my life see you there. You think more for me, and about me, than any friend I have ; and you think better for me. Perhaps you vdll not be contented, though I am, that the addi- tional 100/. a year is only for my life. My mother is yet living, and I thank God for it ; she will never be trouble- some to me, if she be not so to herself; but a melancholy object it is, to observe the gradual decays both of body and mind, in a person to whom one is tied by the links of both. I cannot tell whether her death itself would be so af- flicting. You are too careful of my worldly af- fairs ; I am rich enough, and I can afford to give away 100/. a-year. Do not be angry : I will not live to be very old ; I have revelations to the contrary.* 1 would not crawl upon the earth without doing a little good when I have a mind to do it : I will enjoy the pleasure of what I give, by giving it alive, and seeing an- other enjoy it. ~\Vhen I die, I should be ashamed to leave enough to build me a monument, if there vv'ere a wanting friend above ground. Mr. Gay assures me his 3000/. is kept entire and sacred ; he seems to languish after a line from you, and complains tenderly. Lord Bolingbroke has told me ten times over he was going- to write to you. Has he, or not? The Doctor is unalterable, both in friendship and qua- drille ; his wife has been very near death last week : his two brothers buried their wives within these six weeks. Gay is sixty miles off, and has been so all this summer, with the duke and duchess of Queensbury. He is the same man : so is every one here that you know : man- kind is unamendable. Opthnus ille qui minimus urcretur. Poor ^Irs. is like the rest, she cries at tlie thorn in her foot, but will suffer nobody to puU it out. The court lady I have a good opinion of; yet I have treated her more negligently than you would do, because you like to see the inside of a court, which I do not. J have seen her but tvvice. You have a desperate hand at dashing out a charac- ter by great strokes, and at the same time a delicate one at fine touches. God forbid you should draw mine, if I were conscious of any guilt : but if I were con- scious only of folly, God send it ! for as nobody can detect a great fault so well as you, nobody would so well hide a small one : but after all, that lady means to do good, and does no harm ; which is a vast deal for a courtier. I can assure you that lord Peterborow always speaks kindly of you, and certainly has as great a mind to be your friend as any one. I must throw away my pen ; it cannot, it never will, tell you what I inwardly am to you. 2uod nequeo monstrare, et sentio tantum. LETTER CLXV. Dr. Sivift to Mr. Pope, Oct. 31, 1729. You were so careful of sending me the Dunciad, that 1 have received five of them, and have pleased four friends. I am one of every body who approve every part of it, text and comment : but am one abstracted from every body, in the happiness of being called your friend, while wit, and humour, and politeness, shall have any memorial among us. As for your octavo edition, we know no- thing of it ; for we have an octavo of our own, which has sold wonderfully, considering our poverty, and dulness the consequence of it. I writ this post to lord B., and tell him in my letter, that ^vith a great deal of loss for a frolic, I will fly as soon as build ; I have neither years, nor spirits, nor money, nor patience, for such amuse- ments. The frolic is gone off, and I am only 100/. the poorer ; but this king- dom is grown so excessively poor, that we wise men must think of nothing but getting a little ready money. Tt is thought there are | not two hundred thousand pounds in specie in the whole island ; for we return thrice as much to our absen- tees as we get by trade, and so are all inevitably undone ; which I have been 314 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL telling them m print these ten years, to as little purpose as if it came from the pulpit ; and this is enough for Irish po- litics, which I only mention, because it so nearly touches myself. 1 must repeat what, I believe, I have said before, that 1 pity you much more than Ptirs. Pope. Such a parent and friend, hourly declin- ing before your eyes, is an object very unfit for your health, and duty, and ten- der disposition ; and I pray God it may not affect you too much. I am as much satisfied that your additional 100/. ])er annum is for your life, as if it were for ever. You have enough to leave your friends : I would not have them glad to be rid of you ; and 1 shall take care that none but my enemies will be glad to get rid of me. You have embroiled me with lord B — , about the figure of living, and the pleasure of giving. 1 am under the necessity of some little paltry figure in the station I am ; but I make it as little as possible. As to the other part you are base, because I thought myself as great a giver as ever was of my ability ; and yet in proportion you exceed, and have kept it till now even a secret from me, when I wondered how you were able to live with your whole little revenue. Adieu. LETTER CLXVL Lord Bolinghroke to Dr. Swift. Nov. 19, 1729. I FIND that you have laid aside your project of building in Ireland, and that we shall see you in this island cum zep/ij/- ris et hirundine prima. I know not whe- ther the love of fame increases as we ad- vance in age ; sure I am that the force of friendship does. I loved you almost twenty years ago ; I thought of you as well as I do now ; better was beyond the power of conception ; or, to avoid an equivoque, beyond the extent of my ideas. Whether you are more obliged to me for loving you as well when 1 knew you less, or for loving you as v/ell after loving you so many years, I shall not determine. What I would say is this : whilst my mind grows daily more inde- })endent of the world, and feels less need of leaning on external objects, the ideas of friendship return oftener, they busy me, they warm me mor^ : is it that we grow more tender as the moment of our great separation approaches ? Or is it that they who are to live together in another state (for vera amicitia non nisi inter bo- nes) begin to feel more strongly that di- vine sympathy which is to be the great band of their future society ? There is no one thought that soothes my mind like this ; I encourage my imagination to pursue it, and am heartily alHicted when another faculty* of the intellect comes boisterously in, and wakes me from so pleasing a dream, if it be a dream. I will dwell no more on csconomics than I have done in my former letter. Thus much only I will say, that otiu?n cum dig- nitate is to be had with 500/. a-year. as well as with 5000/. ; the difference will be found in the value of the man, and not in that of the estate. I do assure you, that I have never quitted the design of collecting, revising, improving, and extending several materials which are still in my power ; and I hope that the time of setting myself about this last work of my life is not far off. Many pa- pers of much curiosity and importance are lost, and some of them in a manner which would surprise and anger you. However, I shall be able to convey se- veral great truths to posterity, so clearly, and so authentically, that the Burnets and the Oldmixons of another age may rail, but not be able to deceive. Adieu, my friend. I have taken up more of this paper than belongs to me, since Pope is to write to you ; no matter, for, upon recollection, the rules of porpor- tion are not broken ; he will say as much to you in one page as I have said in three. Bid him talk to you of the work he is about, I hope in good earnest ; it is a fine one, and will be, in his hands, an original t- His sole complaint is, that he finds it too easy in the execution. This flatters his laziness ; it flatters my judgment, who always thought that (universal as his talents are) this is emi- nently and peculiarly his, above all the writers I know living or dead : I do not except Horace. Adieu. * Viz. Reason. f Essay on Man. Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 315 LErrER CLXVII. From the same to the same. March '19. 1 HAVE delayed several posts answering' your letter of January last, in hopes of being able to speak to you about a pro- ject which concerns us both, but me the most, since the success of it Avould bring- us together. It has been a good while in my head, and at my heart ; if it can be set a-going, you shall hear more of it. I was ill in the beginning of winter for near a week, but in no danger either from the nature of my distemper, or from the iittendance of three physicians. Since that bilious intermitting fever, I have had, as I had before, better health than the regard I have paid to health de- serves. We are both in the decline of life, my dear dean, and have been some years going down the hill ; let us make the passage as smooth as we can. Let us fence against physical evil by care, and the use of those means which expe- rience must have pointed out to us : let us fence against moral evil by philoso- phy. I renounce the alternative you pro- pose. But we may, nay (if we will fol- low nature, and do not work up imagi- nation against her plainest dictates), we shall of course grow every year more in- different to life, and to the affairs and interests of a system out of which we are soon to go. This is much better than stupidity. The decay of passion strength- ens philosophy ; for passion may decay, and stupidity not succeed. Passions (says Pope, our divine, as you will see one time or other) are the gales of life : let us not complain that they do not blow a storm. What hurt does age do us, in subduing what we toil to subdue all our lives ? It is now six in the morning : I recall the time (and am glad it is over) when about this hour I used to be going to bed surfeited with pleasure, or jaded with business : my head often full of schemes, and my heart as often full of anxiety. Is it a misfortune, think you, that I rise at this hour, refreshed, serene, and calm ? that the past, and even the present affairs of life stand like objects at a distance from me, where I can keep off the disagreeable so as not to be strongly affected by them, and from whence I can draw the others nearer to me ? Pas- sions in their force >voiikl bring all these, nay, even future contingencies, about my ears at once, and reason would but ill defend me in the scuiiie. I leave Pope to speak for himself; but I must tell you how much my wife is obliged to you. She says, she would find strength enough to nurse you, if you were here, and yet, God knows, she is ex- tremely weak : the slow fever works un- der, and mines the constitution ; we keep it off sometimes, but still it returns, and makes new breaches before nature can repair the old ones. I am not ashamed to say to you, that 1 admire her more every hour of my life : Death is not to her the King of Terrors ; she beholds liim without the least. When she suffers much, slie wishes for him as a deliverer from pain ; when life is tolerable, she looks on him with dislike, because he is to separate her from those friends to whom she is more attached than to life itself. — You shall not stay for my next so long as you have for this letter ; and in everyone, Pope shall write something much better than the scraps of old phi- losophers, which were the presents {inu- nuscula) that stoical fop Seneca used to send in every epistle to his friend Luci- lius. P. S. My lord has spoken justly of his lady : why not I of my mother ? Yes- terday was her birthday, now entering on the ninety-first year of her age ; her memory much diminished, but her senses very little hurt, her sight and hearing good ; she sleeps not ill, eats moderately, drinks water, says her prayers : this is all she does. I have reason to thank God for her continuing so long a very good and tender parent, and for allow- ing me to exercise for some years those cares which are now as necessary to her as hers have been to me. An object of this sort daily before one's eyes very much softens the mind, but perhaps may hinder it from the willingness of contracting other ties of the like domes- tic nature, when one finds how painful it is even to enjoy the tender pleasures. I have formerly made some strong efforts to get and to deserve a friend : perhaps it were wiser never to attempt it, but live extempore, and look upon the world only as a place to pass through, just pay your hosts their due, disperse a little cha- rity, and hurry on. Yet I am just now writing (or rather planning) a book, to 316 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IlL make mankind look upon this life with comfort and pleasure, and put morality in good humour. — And just now, too, I am going- to see one I love very tenderly ; and to-morrow to entertain several civil people, whom if we call friends, it is by the courtesy of England. — Sic, sicjuvat ire sub umbras. While we do live, we must make the best of life. Cantantes iicct usque {minus via Ice.lei) camus, as the shepherd said in Virgil, when the road was long and heavy. I am yours. LETTER CLXVIIL Dr. Swift to Mr. Gay. Dublin, Nov. 19, 1730. I WRIT to you a long letter about a fortnight past, concluding you were in London, from whence I understood one of your former was dated : nor did I imagine you were gone back to Aims- bury so late in the year, at which season I take the country to be only a scene for those who have been ill-used by a court on account of their virtues ; which is a state of happiness the more valuable, because it is not accompanied by envy, although nothing deserves it more. I would gladly sell a dukedom to lose fa- vour in the manner their graces have done. I believe my lord Carteret, since he is no longer lieutenant, may not wish me ill ; and I have told him often that I only hated him as lieutenant : I con- fess he had a genteeler manner of bind- ing the chains of this kingdom than most of his predecessors ; and I confess, at the same time, that he had (six times) a regard to my recommendation, by preferring so many of my friends in the church ; the two last acts of his favour were to add to the dignities of Dr. De- lany and Mr. Stopford, the last of whom was by you and Mr. Pope put into Mr. Pulteney's hands. I told you in my last that a continuance of giddiness (though not in a violent degree) prevent- ed my thoughts of England at present. For in my case a domestic life is neces- sary, where I can with the centurion say to my servant. Go, and he goeth ; and Do this, and he doth it. I now hate ail people whom I cannot command ; and consequently a duchess is at this time the hatefullest lady in the world to mc, one only excepted, and I beg her grace's pardon for that exception ; for, in the way I mean, her grace is ten thousand times more hateful. I confess I begin to apprehend you will squander my money, because I hope you never less wanted it ; and, if you go on Avith suc- cess for two years longer, Uear I shall not have a farching of it left. The doc- tor hath ill-informed me, who says that Mr. Pope is at present the chief poetical favourite ; yet Mr. Pope himself talks like a philosopher, and one wholly retired. But the vogue of our few honest folks here is, that Duck is absolutely to suc- ceed Eusdeninthe laurel, the contention being between Concannen or Theobald, or some other hero of the Dunciad. 1 never charged you for not talking ; but the dubious state of your affairs in those days was too much the subject, and I wish the duchess had been the voucher of your amendment. Nothing so much contributed to my ease as the turn of affairs after the queen's death ; by which all my hopes being cut off, I could have no ambition left, unless 1 would have been a greater rascal than happened to suit with my temper. I, therefore, sat down quietly at my morsel, adding only thereto a principle of hatred to all suc- ceeding measures and ministers, by way of sauce to relish my meat : and I con- fess one point of conduct in my lady duchess's life hath added much poig- nancy to it. There is a good Irish prac- tical bull towards the end of your letter, where you spend a dozen lines in telling me you must leave off, that you may give my lady duchess room to write, and so you proceed to within two or three lines of the bottom ; though I would have re- mitted you my 200/. to have left place for as many more. To the Duc/tess. Madam, My beginning thus low is meant as a mark of respect, like receiving your grace at the bottom of the stairs. I am glad you know your duty ; for it hath been a known and established rule above twenty years in England, that the first advances hath been constantly made me by all ladies who aspired to my acquaint- ance ; and the greater their quality, the greater were their advances. Yet, I Sect. I, MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 317 know not by wlmt weakness, I have con- descended graciously to dispense with you upon this important article. Though Mr. Gay will tell you that a nameless per- son sent me eleven messages before I would yield to a visit : I mean a person to whom he is infinitely obliged for being the occasion of the happiness he now en- joys under the protection and favour of my lord duke and your grace. At the same time, I cannot forbear telling you, madam, that you are a little imperious in your manner of making your advances. You say, perhaps you shall not like me ; I affirm you are mistaken, which I can plainly demonstrate ; for I have certain intelligence that another person dislikes me of late, with whose likings yours have not for some time past gone together. However, if I shall once have the honour to attend your grace, I will, out of fear and prudence, appear as vain as I can, that I may not know your thoughts of me. This is your own direction, but it was needless : for Diogenes himself would be vain to have received the honour of being one moment of his life in the thoughts of your grace. LETTER CLXIX. From the sa?ne to the same. Dublin, April 13, HSO-l. Your situation is an odd one ; the du- chess is your treasurer ; and Mr. Pope tells me you are the duke's. And I had gone a good way in some verses on that occasion prescribing lessons to direct your conduct, in a negative way, not to do so and so, &c. like other treasurers ; how to deal with servants, tenants, or neighbouring 'squires, which I take to be courtiers, parliaments, and princes in alliance ; and so the parallel goes on, but grows too long to please me : I prove that poets are the fittest persons to be treasurers and managers to great per- sons, from their virtue and contempt of money, &c. — Pray, why did you not get a new heel to your shoe, unless you would make your court at St. James's by affect- ing to imitate the Prince of Liliiput ? — But the rest of your letter being wholly taken up in a very bad character of the duchess, I shall say no more to you, but apply myself to her'grace. Madam, since Mr. Gay affirms that you love to have your own way, and since I have the same perfection, I will settle that matter immediately, to pre- vent those ill consequences he appre- hends. Your grace shall have your own way in all places, except your own house and the domains about it. There, and there only, I expect to have mine ; so that you have all the world to reign in, bating only two or three hundred acres, and two or three houses in town and country. 1 will likewise, out of my special grace, certain knowledge, and mere motion, allow you to be in the right against all human kind, except my- self, and to be never in the wrong but whan you differ from me. You shall have a greater privilege, in the third article, of speaking your own mind ; which I shall graciously allow you^now and then to do even to myself, and only rebuke you when it does not please me. Madam, I am now got as far as your grace's letter, which having not read this fortnight (having been out of town, and not daring to trust myself with the carriage of it), the presumptuous mamier in which you begin had slipt out of my memory. But I forgive you to the seventeenth line, where you begin to banish me for ever, by demanding me to answer all the good character some par- tial friends have given me. Madam, 1 have lived sixteen years in Ireland, with only an intermission of two summers in England ; and consequently am fifty years older than I was at the queen's death, and fifty thousand times duller, and fifty millions times more peevish, per/arse, and morose ; so that, under these disadvantages, I can only pretend to excel all your other acquaintance about some twenty bars length. Pray, madam, have you a clear voice? and will you let me sit at your left hand, at least within three of you? for of two bad ears, my right is the best. My groom tells me that he likes your park ; but your house is too little. Can the parson of the parish play at backgammon and hold his tongue ? Is any one of your women a good nurse, if I should fancy myself sick for four-and-twenty hours ? How many days will you maintain me and my equipage ? When these pre- liminaries are settled, I must be very poor, very sick, or dead, or to the las degree unfortunate, if I do not attend you at Airasbury, For I protest that 318 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book Illi you are the first lady that ever I desired to see since the first of August 1714, and I have forgot the date when that desire grew strong upon me, but I know I v/as not then in England, else I would have gone on foot for that happiness as far as to your house in Scotland. But I can soon recollect the time, by asking some ladies here the month, the day, and the hour, when I began to endure their com- pany : which, however, I think, was a sign of my ill judgment, for I do not perceive they mend in any thing but en- vying or admiring your grace. 1 dislike nothing in your letter but an affected apology for bad writing, bad spelling, and a bad pen, which you pretend Mr. Gay found fault with ; wherein you af- front Mr. Gay, you affront me, and you affront yourself. False spelling is only excusable in a chambermaid ; for I would not pardon it in any of your waiting-wo- men. — Pray God preserve your grace and family, and give me leave to expect that you will be so just to remember me among those who have the greatest re- gard for virtue, goodness, prudence, courage, and generosity ; after which you must conchide that T am, with the great- est respect and gratitude, madam, your grace's most obedient and most humble servant, &c. To Mr. Gay. I have just got yours of February 24, with a postscript by Mr. Pope. I am in great concern for him ; I find Mr. Pope dictated to you the first part, and with great difficulty some days after added the rest. I see his Vi^eakness by his hand- writing. How much does his philosophy exceed mine ! I could not bear to see him : I will write to him soon. LETTER CLXX. * Mr. Pope to Mr. Swift. Dec. 5, 1732. It is not a time to complain that you have not answered my two letters (in the last of which I was impatient under some fears) : it is not now indeed a time to think of myself, when one of the * " On my dear friend Mr. Gaj^'s death ; Received December 15th, but not read till the 20tb, by an impulse, foreboding some misfor- tune." (This note is indorsed on the original letter in Dr. Swift's hand.) nearest and longest ties I have ever had, is broken all on a sudden, by the unex- pected death of poor Mr. Gay. An in- flammatory fever hurried him out of this life in three days. He died last night at nine o'clock, not deprived of his senses entirely at last, and possessing them per- fectly till within five hours. He asked of you a few hours before, when in acute torment by the inflammation in his bow- els and breast. His effects are in the duke of Queensbury's custody. His sis- ters, we suppose, will be his heirs, who are two widows ; as yet it is not known whether or no he left a will. — Good God ! how often are we to die before v.^e go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part. God keep those we have left ! few are worth praying for, and one's self the most of all. I shall never see you now, I believe ; one of your principal calls to England is at an end. Indeed he was the most amiable by far, his qualities were the gentlest ; but I love you as well and as firmly. Would to God the man we have lost had not been so amiable nor so good! but that's a wish for our own sakes, not for his. Sure, if innocence and integrity can deserve happiness, it must be his. Adieu. I can add nothing to what you will feel, and diminish no- thing from it. Yet write to me, and soon. Believe no man living loves you better, I believe no man ever did, than A. Pope. Dr. Arbuthnot, whose humanity you know, heartily commends himself to you. All possible diligence and affec- tion has been shewn, and continued at- tendance to this melancholy occasion. Once more adieu, and write to one who is truly disconsolate. Dear sir, I am sorry that the renewal of our cor- respondence should be upon such a me- lancholy occasion. Poor Mr. Gay died of an inflammation, and I believe, at last, a mortification of the bowels : it was the most precipitate case I ever knew, having cut him off in three days. He was at- tended by two physicians besides myself. I believed the distemper mortal from the beginning. — I have not had the pleasure of a line from you these two years : I wrote one about your health, to which I Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. SIQ had no answer. 1 wish you all health and happiness, being with great affection and respect, sir, your, &c. LETTER CLXXL Dr. Sivifi to Mr. Pope. Dublin, 1732-3. I RECEIVED yours with a few lines from the doctor, and the account of our losing- Mr. Gay ; upon which event I shall say nothing-. I am only concerned that long--living hath not hardened me ; for even in this king-dom, and in a few days past, two persons of great merit, whom I loved very well, have died in the prime of their years, hut a little above thirty. I would endeavour to comfort myself upon the loss of friends, as I do upon the loss of money ; by turning to my account- book, and seeing whether I have enough left for my support ; but in the former case I find I have not, any more than in the other ; and I know not any man who is in a greater likelihood than myself to die poor and friendless. You are a much greater loser than me by his death, as being a more intimate friend, and often his companion ; which latter I could never hope to be, except perhaps once more in my life for a piece of a summer. I hope he hath left you the care of any writings he may have left ; and I wish that, with those already extant, they could be all published in a fair edition under your inspection. Your poem on the Use of Riches hath been just printed here ; and we have no objection but the obscurity of several passages by our ignorance in facts and persons, which makes us lose abundance of the satire. Had the printer given me notice, I would have honestly printed the names at length, where I happened to know them ; and writ explanatory notes, which however would have been but few, for my long absence hath made me ignorant of what passes out of the scene v/here I am. I never had the least hint from you about this work, any more than of your former upon Taste. We are told here, that you are preparing other pieces of the same bulk to be inscribed to other friends ; one (for instance) to my lord Bolingbroke, another to lord Oxford, and^ so on. Doctor Delany presents you his most humble service : he behaves himself very commendably, converses only with his former friends, makes no parade, but entertains them constantly at an elegant plentiful table, walks the streets as usual by day-light, does many acts of charity and generosity, cultivates a country-house two miles distant, and is one of those very few v/ithin my knowledge, on whom a great access of fortune hath made no manner of change ; — and particularly he is often without money, as he was before. We have got my lord Orrery among us, being forced to continue here on the ill condition of his estate by the knavery of an agent ; he is a most worthy gentleman, whom, I hope, you will be acquainted with. I am very much obliged by your favour to Mr. P — , which, I desire, may continue no longer than he shall deserve by his modesty : a virtue I never knew him to want, but is hard for young men to keep without abundance of ballast. If you are acquainted with the duchess of Queensbury, I desire you will present her my most humble service ; I think she is a greater loser by the death of a friend than either of us. She seems a lady of excellent sense and spirit. I had often postscripts from her in our friend's letters to me, and her part was sometimes longer than his, and they made up great part of the little happiness I could have here. This was the more generous, because I never saw her since she was a girl of five years old ; nor did T envy poor Mr. Gay for any thing so much as being a domes- tic friend to such a lady. I desire you will never fail to send me a particular account of your health. I dare hardly inquire about Mrs. Pope, who, I am told, is but just among the living, and conse- quently a continual grief to you ; she is sensible of your tenderness, which robs her of the only happiness she is capable of enjoying. And yet I pity you more than her ; you cannot lengthen her days ; and I beg she may not shorten yours. LETTER CLXXn. Lndy B G to Dr. Swift. Feb. 23, 1730-1. Now were you in vast hopes you should hear no more from me, I being slow in my motions ; but do not flatter yourself ; you began the correspondence, set my pen a-going, and God knows when it will end ; for I had it by inheritance from my father, ever to please myself when I 320 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IH. could ; and though I do not just take the turn my mother did, of fasting and praying, yet to be sure that was her pleasure too, or else she would not have been so greedy of it. I do not care to deliver your message this great while to lieutenant Head, he having been dead these two years; — and though he had, as you say, a head, I loved him very well ; but, however, from my dame Wadgar's * first impression, I have ever had a natural antipathy to spirits. I have not acquaintance enough with Mr. Pope, which 1 am sorry for, and ex- pect you should come to England, in or- der to improve it. If it was the queen, and not the duke of Grafton, that picked out such a laureatf, she deserves his poetry in her praise. Your friend Mrs. Barber has been here. I find she has some request, but neither you nor she has yet let it out to me what it is ; for certainly you cannot mean that by subscribing to her book ; if so, I shall be mighty unhappy to have you call that a favour. For sureJy there is nothing so easy as what one can do one's self, nor any thing so heavy as what one must ask other people for ; though I do not mean by this that I shall ever be unwilling when you require it ; yet shall be much happier when it is in my own power to shew how sincerely I am my old friend's most faithful humble servant. Mrs. Floyd is much yours ; but dumber than ever, having a violent cold. LETTER CLXXin. Lady B G to Dr. Swift. Nov. 4, 17 >1. I BELIEVE in my conscience, that though you had answered mine before, the se- cond was never the less welcome. So much for your topscript, not postscript : and in very sincere earnest I heartily thank you for remembering me so often. Since I came out of the country, my riding days are over ; for I never was for your Hyde-park courses, although my courage serves me very well at a hand-gallop in the country for six or seven miles, with one horseman and a ragged lad, a labourer's boy, that is to be clothed when he can run fast enough to keep up with my horse, who has yet * The deaf housekeeper at lord Berkeley's. f Col ley Cibber. only proved his dexterity by escaping from school. But my courage fails me for riding in town, where I should have the happiness to meet with plenty of your very pretty fellows, that manage their own horses to shew their art : or that think a postillion's cap, with a white frock, the most becoming dress. These and their grooms I am most bitterly afraid of; because, you must know, if my complaisant friend, your Presbyterian housekeeper I, can remember anything like such days with me, that is a very good reason for me to remember that time is past ; and your toupees would re- joice to see a horse throw an ancient gentlewoman. I am sorry to hear you are no wiser in Ireland than we English ; for our birth- day was as fine as hands could make us ; but I question much whether we all paid ready money. I mightily approve of my duchess being dressed in your manufec- ture § ; if your ladies will follow her ex ample in all things, they cannot do amiss. And I dare say you will soon find, that the more you know of them both, the better you will like them ; or else Ireland has strangely depraved your taste ; and that my own vanity will not let me believe, since you still flatter me. Why do you tantalize me ? Let me see you in England again, if you dare ; and choose your residence, summer or winter, St. James's Square, or Drayton. I defy you in all shapes ; be it dean of St. Patrick governing England or Ire- land, or politician Drapier. But my choice should be the parson in lady Betty's chamber. Make haste, then, if you have a mind to oblige your ever sin- cere and hearty old friend. LETTER CLXXIV. Fro)7i the same to the same. Jan. II, 17.31-2. It is well for Mr. Pope your letter came as it did, or else I had called for my coach, and was going to make a thorough search at his house ; for that I was most positively assured that you were there in private, the duke of Dorset can tell you. § The duchess also appeared at the castle of Dublin, wholly clad in the manufactures of Ireland, on hismajesty'sbirth-day in 1753, when the duke was a second time lord-lieutenant. Sect. I MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 321 Non credo is all the Latin I know, and the most useful i>hrase on all occasions to me. However, like most other people, I can give it up for what I wish ; so for once I believed, or at least went half way in what I hoped was true, and then, for the only time, your letter was unwel- come. You tell me you have a request, which is purely personal to me : non credo for that ; for I am sure you would not be so disagreeable as not to have made it, when you know it is a pleasure and satisfaction to me to do any thing you desire ; by which you may find you are not sans consequence to me. I met with your friend Mr. Pope the other day. He complains of not being well ; and indeed looked ill. I fear that neither his wit nor sense do arm him enough against being hurt by malice ; and that he is too sensible of what fools say : the run is much against him on the duke of Chandois's * account ; but T be- lieve their rage is not kindness to the duke ; but they are glad to give it vent with some tolerable pretence. I wish your presence would have such a miracu- lous effect as your design on Mrs. Biddy'sf speech. You know, formerly her tongue was not apt to run much by inclination ; but now every winter is kept still per- force, for she constantly gets a violent €old, that lasts her all winter ; but as to that quarrelsome friend of the duke of Dorset, I will let her loose at you, and see which can get the better. Miss Kelly was a very pretty girl when she went from hence ; and the beaux shew their good taste by liking her. I hear her father is now kind to her ; but if she is not mightily altered, she would give up some of her airs and equipage to live in England Since you are so good as to inquire after my health, I ought to inform you I never was better in my life than this winter. I have escaped both headachs and gout; and that yours may not be endangered by reading such a long let- ter, I will add no more, but bid adieu to my dear dean. * It was said that Mr. Pope intended the character of Timon, in his epistles on the Use of Riches in Works of Taste, addressed to the earl of Burlington, for the duke of Chandois. f Mrs. Biddy Floyd. LETTER CLXXV. From the same to the saine. Feb, 23, 1731.'2. I LIKE to know my power (if it is so), that I can make you uneasy at my not writing : though I shall not often care to exert it, lest you should grow weary of me and my correspondence ; but the slowness of my answers does not come from the emptiness of my heart, but the emptiness of my head ; and that you know is nature's fault, not mine. I was not learned enough to know non credo has been so long in fashion ; but every day convinces me more of the necessity of it, not but that I often wish against myself; as per example, I would fain be- lieve you are coming to England, because most of your acquaintance tell me so ; and yet turn and wind, and sift your letters to find any thing like it being true ; but instead of that, there I find a law-suit, which is a worse tie by the leg than your lameness. And pray what is " this hui-t above my heel? " Have you had a fellow-feeling with my lord-lieu- tenant \ of the g'out, and call it a sprain as he does ? who has lain so long and often to disguise it, that I verily think he has not a new story left. Does he do the same in Ireland ? for there I hoped he would have given a better example. I find you are grown a horrid flatterer, or else you could never have thought of any thing so much to my taste as this piece of marble you speak of for my sis- ter Penelope §, which I desire may be at my expense. 1 cannot be exact, neither as to the time nor year ; but she died soon after we came there, and we did not stay quite two years, and were in England some months before king Wil- liam died. I wish I had my dame Wad- gar's, or Mr. Ferrers's memorandum head, that I might know Avhether it was at the time of gooseberries ||. ]: The duke of Dorset. § Lady Penelope Berkeley died in Dublin, whilst her father was in the government, and was interred in St. Andrew's church, under the altar. No monument was erected to her me- mory till about this time, when Dr. Swift caused a plate of black marble to be fixed in the wall over the altar-piece with this inscription: — " Underneath lieth the body of the Lady Pe- nelope Berkeley, daughter of the Right Honourable Charles earl of Berkeley. She died September the 3d, 1G99." 11 In the petition of Frances Harris to Ww 322 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book III. Surely your Irish air is very bad for darts ; if Mrs. Kelly's are blunted al- ready, make her cross father let her come over, and we will not use her so in England. If my duchess* sees company in a morning, you need not grumble at the hour ; it must be purely from great complaisance, for that never was her taste here, though she is as early a riser as the generality of ladies are ; and, I believe, there are not many dressing- rooms in London, but mine, where the early idle come. Adieu abruptly ; for I will have no more formal humble servants, with your whole name at the bottom, as if I was asking you your Catechism. LETTER CLXXVI. Lady B G to Dr. Swiff.- Drayton, July 19, 1732. I BELIEVE you will not wonder at my long silence, when I tell you that Mrs. Floyd t came ill here ; but that she kept pretty much to herself ; and ever since she has been here, till within these two or three days, I have had no hopes of her life. You may easily guess what I must have suffered for a so long-tried, pru- dent, useful, agreeable companion and friend : and God knows, she is now ex- cessively weak, and mends but slowly : however, I have now great hopes, and I am very good at believing what I hear- tily wish. As, I dare say, you will be concerned for her, you may want to know her illness ; but that is more than I can tell you. She has fancied herself in a consumption a great while ; but though she has had the most dreadful cough I ever heard in my life, all the doctors said, it was not that ; but none of them did say what it was. The doctor here, who is an extraordinary good one (butlives four- teen long miles off), has lately been left ten thousand pounds, and now hates his business ; he says, it is a sharp humour lords justices, losing her purse, here are these verses : — " Yes (says she), the steward I remember, when I was at my lady Shrewsbury's, Such a thing as this happened just about the time of gooseberries. This steward was Mr. Ferrers; and dame Wadgar was the old deaf housekeeper in lord Berkeley's family, when he was one of the lords justices of Ireland. * The duchess of Dorset. t Mrs. Biddy Floyd. that falls upon her nerves, sometimes on her stomach and bowels ; and indeed what he has given her, has, to appear- ance, had much better effect than the millions of things she has been forced to take. After this, you will not expect I should have followed your orders, and ride, for I have scarcely walked ; al- though I dare not be very much in her room, because she constrained herself to hide her illness from me. The duke and duchess of Dorset have not been here yet ; but I am in hopes they will soon. 1 do not know whether you remember Mrs. Crowther and Mrs. Acourt ; they and Mr. Parsode are my company : but as I love my house full, I expect more still. My lady - talks of making me a short visit. I have been so full of Mrs. Floyd, that I had like to have forgot to tell you, that I am such a dunderhead, that 1 really do not know what my sister Pen's age was ; but I think she could not be above twelve years old. She was the next to me ; but whether tvt^o or three years younger, I have forgot ; and, what is more ridiculous, I do not exactly know my own, for my mother and nurse used to differ upon that notable point ; and I am willing to be a young lady still, so will not allow myself to be more than forty -eight next birth-day; but if I make my letter any longer, perhaps you will wish I never had been born. So adieu, dear dean. LETTER CLXXVII. Froin the same to the same. London, Nov. 7, 1732. I SHOULD have answered yours sooner, but that I every day expect another from you, with your orders to speak to the duke ; which I should with great plea- sure have obeyed, as it was to serve a friend of yours. Mrs. Floyd is now, thank God, in as good health as I have seen her these many years, though she has still her winter cough hanging upon her ; but that, I fear, I must never expect she should be quite free from at this time of day. All my trouble with her now is, to make her drink wine enough, accord- ing to the doctor's order, which is not above three or four glasses, such as are commonly filled at sober houses ; and that she makes so great a rout with, so Sect. i. MODERN, OF LATE DATE 323 many faces, tliat there is nobody that did not know her perfectly well, but would extremely suspect she drinks drams in private. I am sorry to find our tastes so different in the stime person : and as every body has a natural partiality to their ovvn opi- nion, so it is surprising to me to find lady S dwindle in yours, who rises infinitely in mine the more and the longer I know her. But you say, you will say no more of courts for fear of growing angry ; and indeed I think you are so already, since you level all without knowing them, and seem to think tliat none who belong to a court can act right. I am sure this cannot be really and truly your sense, because it is unjust ; and if ifc is, I shall suspect there is something of youT old maxim in it (which I ever ad- mired and found true), that you must have offended them, because you do not forgive. I have been about a fortnight from Knowle*, and shall next Thursday go there again for about three weeks, where I shall be ready and v/illing to re- ceive your commands ; who am most faithfully and sincerely yours. LETTER CLXXVin. From the same to the same. Feb. 8, 1732-3. I RECEIVED yours of the 8th of Janu- ary but last week ; so find it has lain long on the road after the date. It was brought me whilst at dinner, that very lady sitting close to me, whom you seem to think such an absolute courtierf. She knew your hand, and inquired much after you, as she always does ; but I, find- ing her name frequently mentioned, not with that kindness I am sure she de- serves, put it into my pocket with silence and surprise. Indeed, were it in peo- ple's power that live in a court with the appearance of favour, to do all they de- sire for their friends, they might deserve their anger, and be blamed, when it does not happen right to their minds ; but that, I believe, never was the case of any one ; and in this particular of Mr. Gay, thus far I know, and so far I will answer for, that she was under very great concern that nothing better could be got * In Kent, the seat of the duke of Dorset. f The countess of S . for him ; the friendship upon all other occasions in her own power, that she shevv^ed him, did not look like a double dealer. As to that part concerning yourself and her, I suppose it is my want of com- prehension, that I cannot find out why she was to blame to give you advice when you asked it, that had all the ap- pearance of sincerity, good-nature, and right judgment. And if, after that, the court did not do what you wanted, and she both believed and wished they would, was it her fault? At least, I cannot find it out, that you have hitherto proved it upon her. And though you say, you lamented the hour you had seen her, yet I cannot tell how to suppose that your good sense and justice can impute any thing to her, because it did not fall out just ag she endeavoured and hoped it would. As to your creed in politics, I will heartily and sincerely subscribe to it — That I detest avarice in courts ; corrup- tion in ministers ; schisms in religion ; illiterate fawning betrayers of the church in mitres. But at the same time, I pro- digiously want an infallible judge, to de- termine when it is really so ; for as I have lived longer in the world, and seen many changes, I know those out of pow- er and place always see the faults of those in with dreadful large spectacles ; and, I dare say, you know maily instances of it in lord Oxford's time* But the strong-- est m my memory is, sir R W , being first pulled to pieces in the year 1720, because the South Sea did not rise high enough ; and since that, he has been to the full as well banged about, because it did rise too high. So experience has taught me how wrong, unjust, and sense- less party factions are ; therefore, I am determined never wholly to believe any side or party against the other ; and to shew that I will not, as my friends are in and out of all sides, so my house receives them all together ; and those people meet here, that have, and would fight in any other place. Those of them that have great and good qualities and virtues, I love and admire ; in which number is lady ; and I do like and love her, because I lielieve, and, as far as I am capable of judging, know her to be a wise, discreet, lionest, and sincere courtier, who will promise no farther than she can i)erform, and will always Y2 324 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book III perform what she does promise : so now you have my creed as to her. I thought I had told you in my last, at least 1 am sure I designed it, that I desire you would do just as you like ahout the monument ; and then it will be most undoubtedly approved by your most sincere and faithful servant. LETTER CLXXIX. The Duchess of to Dr. Swift. April 12, 1733. Dear sir, I RECEIVED yours of the 23d of March. Perpetual pains in my head have hin- dered me from writing till this moment ; so you see you are not the only person that way tormented. I dare believe there are as many bad heads in England as in Ireland; I am sure none worse than my own ; that I am made for pain and pain for me ; for of late we have been inseparable. It is a most dispirit- ing distemper, and brings on pain of mind; whether real or imaginary, it is all one. Whilst I had that very sincere good friend, I could sometimes lay open all my rambling thoughts, and he and I would often view and dissect them ; but now they come and go, and I seldom find out whether they be right or wrong, or if there be any thing in them. Poor man ! he was most truly every thing you could say of him. I have lost, in him, the usefuUest limb of my mind. This is an odd expression ; but I cannot explain my notion otherwise. 1 deny that I am touchy ; yet am go- ing to seem so again, by assuring you my letters are never false copies of my mind^ They are often, I believe, imper- fections of an imperfect mind ; which, however, to do it justice, often directs it better than I act. Though I will not take upon me to declare my way of thinking to be eternally the same ; yet whatever I write is at that instant true. I would rather tell a lie than write it down ; for words are wind ('tis said) ; but the making a memorandum of one's own false heart would stare one in the face immediately, and should put one out of countenance. Now, as a proof of my unsettled way of thinking, and of my sincerity, I shall tell you that 1 am not so much in the wrong as you observed I was in my last ; for my regard to you is lessened extremely, since I observe you are just like most other people, viz. dis- obliged at trifles, and obliged at no- things ; for what else are bare words ? Therefore pray never believe I wish to serve you till you have tried me ; till then protestations are bribes, by which 1 may only mean to gain the friendship of a valuable man, and therefore ought to be suspected. I seldom make any for that reason ; so that if I have the pecu- liar happiness to have any wise good peo- ple my flatterers, God knows how I came by it ; but sure nothing can equal such glory, except that of having the silly and bad people ray enemies. Here I think we agree. You declare that no such can depress your spirits ; and if our constitutions are alike, I will not only preach up good spirits, but prescribe the materials that have ever agreed with me. If any body has done me an injury, they have hurt themselves more than me. If they give me an ill name (unless they have my help) I shall not deserve it. If fools shun my com- pany, it is because I am not like them ; if people make me angry, they only raise my spirits ; and if they wish me ill, I will be well and handsome, wise and happy, and every thing, except a day younger than I am, and that's a fancy I never yet saw becoming to a man or woman, so it cannot excite envy. Here I have betrayed to you the devilishness of my temper; but I declare to you, nothing ever enlivened me half so much as unjust ill usage, either directed to my- self or my friends. The very reverse happens to me when 1 am too well spoken of ; for I am sorry to find I do not deserve it all. This humbleth me as much too much as the other exalts ; so I hope you will not be too civil, since I have declared the consequence. I am in great hopes you will make us a visit this summer ; for though I have a sensible satisfaction by conversing with you in this way, yet I love mightily to look in the person's face I am speaking to. By that, one soon learns to stop when it is wished, or to mend what is said amiss. Your stewards will take great care of your money ; but you must first direct us to your friend Mr. Lancelot, and order him to give up Mr. Gay's note, on his sister's paying the money to his grace. Sect. I. iMODERN, OF LATE DATE. 325 who will give him his note for the mo- ney, or send it to you, just as yon order. And as to what interest is due, I sup- pose you have kept some account. By this time you must be too much tired to bear reading- one word more ; therefore I will make no excuses. Pray employ me, for I want to be certain whether I know my own mind or not ; for something or other often tells me, that I should be very happy to be of any use to you. T^liether it be true or false, neither you nor I can he positive, till an opportunity sheAvs : but I do really think that I am, dear sir, most sincerely yours, &c. Lady B- LETTER CLXXX. G- ~~ to Dr Swift. Knowle, July 9, 1733. Now, says parson Swift*, " What the devil makes this woman Avi'ite to me with this filthy white ink ? I cannot read a word of it, without more trouble ti)an her silly scribble is worth." Why, say 1 again, Ay, it is the women are always accused of having- bad writing imple- ments ; but to my comfort be it spoke, this is his grace my lord lieutenant's f ink. My bureau at London is so well furnished, that his gTace and his secre- tary make so much use of it, that they are often obliged to give me half a crown, that I may not run out my estate in paper. It is very happy when a go-be- tween pleases both sides, and I am very well pleased with my oflBce ; for his grace is delighted that it was in his power to oblige you. So treve de compliment. Since I have declared my passion against a bishop and a parson, it is but fair I should tell you the story, whether you care to hear it or not ; but if you do not, I give you leave not to mind it, for, now it is over, I am calm again. As to the :|: bishop, I know neither his principles nor his parts, but his diocese is Peterborough, and having a small park in Northamptonshire, which 1 had a mind to increase by a small addition, to make my house stand in the middle of it. Three shillings and sixpence worth of land, at the largest computation, be- * The name she called the dean by, in the stanza which she inserted in his ballad on The Game of Traffic. t Duke of Dorset. % Dr. Robert Claverjug longs to the church ; for wliich my old parson (who flatters me black and blue, when he comes from a Sunday dinner, and says he loves me better than any body in the world) has made me give him up in lieu of that land, a house and ground that lets for 40s. a year, and is hardly content with that, but reckons it a vast favour. And the bishop has put me to ten times more charge than it is worth, by sending commissioners to view it, and making me give petitions, and dancing me through his court ; besides a great dinner to his nasty people. Now, am I not in the right to be angry ? But perhaps you will say, if I will have my fancies, I must pay for them; so I will say no more about it. I hear poor Mrs. Kelly is not near so well as she says ; and a gentleman that came from Bristol, says she looks dreadfully, and fears it is almost over with her, and that no mortal could know her : so ends youth and beauty ! That is such a moral reflection, that, lest it should make you melancholy, 1 will tell you something to please you. Your old friend Mrs. Floyd is perfectly recovered. I think I have not seen her so well this great while ; but winter is always her bane, so I shall live in dread of that. In your next I desire to know what 1 am in your debt for my sister's monu- ment. Adieu, my dear, good, old be- loved friend. LETTER CLXXXI. From the same to the saine. London, July 12, 1733. I HAVE not answered yours of the 15th of June so soon as I should ; but the duke of Dorset had answered all yours ere your letter came to my hands. So I hope all causes of complaint are at an end, and that he has shewed himself, as he is, much your friend and humble ser- vant, though he wears a garter, and had his original from Normandy, if herfilds do not lie, or his grnnums did not play false ; and whilst ho is lord-lieutenant (which I heartily wish may not be much longer) I dare say he will be very glad of any opportunity to do Avhat you re- commend to him. Thus far will I an- swer for his grace, though he is now in the country, and cannot subscribe to it himself. 326 ELEGANT E P J S T L E S. Book HI. Now to quite another affair. The countess of Suffolk (whom you know I have long had a great esteem and value for) has been so good and gracious as to take my brother George Berkeley for better for worse, though 1 hope in God the last will not happen, because I think he is an honest good-natured man. The town is surprised ; and the town talks, as the town loves to do, upon these ordi- nary extraordinary occasions. She is indeed four or five years older than he, and no more ; but for all that, he hath appeared to all the world, as well as me, to have long had (that is, ever since she hath been a widow, so pray do not mis- take me) a most violent i>assion for her^ as well as esteem and value for her num- berless good qualities. These things well considered, I do not think they have above ten to one against their be- ing very happy ; and if they should not be so, I shall heartily wish him hanged, because I am sure it will be wholly his fault. As to her fortune, though she has been twenty years a court favourite, yet I doubt she has been too disinterested to enlarge it, as others would have done : and sir Robert •*, her greatest enemy, does not tax her with getting quite forty thousand pounds. I wish, but fear it is not near that sum, but what she has she never told me, nor have I ever asked ; but whatever it is, they must live accordingly ; and he had of his own wherewithal to live by himself easily and genteelly. In this hurry of matrimony, I had like to forget to answer that part of your let- ter where you say you never heard of our being in print together. I believe it was about twenty years ago Mr. Curll set forth Letters, amorous, satirical, and gallant, betiveen Dr. Swift, lady Mary Chambre, lady Betty Germain, and Mrs. Anne Long, and several other persons. I am afraid some of my people used them according to their deserts ; for they have not appeared above-ground this great while : and now to the addition of writing the brave large hand you make me do for you, 1 have bruised my fingers prodigiounly ; and can say no more but Adieu. * Walpolc, afterwards lord Orford. LETTER CLXXXIL Dr. Swift to the Duke of Dorset, Dtc 30, 1735. My lord. Your grace fairly owes me one hundred and ten pounds a year in the churchy v/hich I thus prove : I desired yovi would bestow a preferment of one hun- dred and fifty pounds a year to a certain clergyman. Your answer was, that I asked modestly : that you would not pro- mise, but you Avould grant my request. However, for want of good intelligence in being (after a cant word used here) an expert king-fisher, that clergyman took up with forty pounds a year ; and I shall never trouble your grace any more in his behalf. Now, by plain arithmetic it follows, that one hundred and ten pounds remain j and this arrear I have assigned to Mr. John Jackson, who is vicar of Santry, and hath a small estate, with two sons, and as many daugh- ters, all grown up. He hath lain some years as a weight upon me, which I voluntarily took up, on account of his virtue, piety, and good sense, and mo- desty almost to a fault. Your grace is nov.' disposing of the debris f of two bi- shoprics ; among which is the deanery of Ferns, worth between eighty and one hundred pounds a year, which will make this gentleman easier ; who, besides his other good qualities, is as loyal as you could wish. I cannot but think that your grace, to whom God hath given every amiable quality, is bound, when you have satis- fied all the expectations of those who have power in your club;}:, to do some- thing at the request of others, who love you on your own account, without ex- pecting any thing for themselves. 1 have ventured once or twice to drop hints in favour of some very deserving gentlemen, who I was assured had been recom- mended to you by persons of weight; but I easily found by your general an- swers, that although 1 have been an old courtier, you knew how to silence me, by diverting the discourse, which made me refiect that courtiers resemble game- sters, the latter finding new arts unknown to the older : and one of them assured f The shattered rcmains. X The parliament of Ireland. Sect. I. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 327 me, that he has lost fourteen thousand pounds since he left off play, merely by dabbling! with those who had contrived new refinements. My lord, I will, as a divine, quote Scripture : — Although the children's meat should not be given to dogs, yet the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the children's table. This is the second request I have ever made your grace directly. Mr. Jack- son is condemned to live on his own small estate, part whereof is in his parish, about four miles from hence, where he hath built a family-house, more expensive than he intended, He is a clergyman of long standing, and of a most unblemished character ; but the misfortune is, he hath not one enemy, to whom I might appeal for the truth of what I say. Pray, my lord, be not alarmed at the word deanery, nor imagine it a dignity like those we have in England ; for ex- cept three or four, the rest have little power, rather none as a dean and chap- ter, and seldom any land at all. It is usually a living consisting of one or more parishes, some very poor, and others better endowed ; but all in tythes. Mr. Jackson cannot leave his present situation ; and only desires some very moderate addition. My lord, I do not deceive your grace, when I say, you will oblige great numbers, even of those who are most at your devotion, by conferring this favour, or any other that Avill an- swerthe same end. Multa — veiiiet inanus auxilio qucB — Sit mihi (nam multo plures sumus) ac veluti te — Judcei cogemus in hanc concedere turham. I would have waited on your grace, and taken the privilege of my usual thirteen minutes, if I had not been pre- vented by my old disorder in my head ; for which I have been forced to confine myself to the precepts of my physicians. BOOK THE THIRD. LETTERS OF THE LAST CENTURY, AND OF LATE DATE. SECTION II. MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS. LETTER I. Dr. Swift to Miss Jane IVaryng*. Dublin, May 4, 1700. Madam, I AM extremely concerned at the ac- count you give of your health ; for my uncle told me he found you in appear- ance better than you had been in some years ; and I was in hopes you had still continued so. God forbid I should ever be the occasion of creating more troubles to you, as you seem to intimate ! The letter you desired me to answer, 1 have frequently read, and thought I had re- plied to every part of it that required : however, since you are pleased to repeat those particulars wherein you desire sa- tisfaction, 1 shall endeavour to give it you as Avell as I am able. You would know what gave my temper that sudden turn, as to alter the style of my letters since I last came over. If there has been that alteration you observe, I have told you the cause abundance of times. I had used a thousand endeavours and ar- guments to get you from the company and place you are in ; both on the account of your health and humour, which I thought were like to suffer very much in *This letter, Mr. Faulkner says, was written " to a lady of family in the north of Ireland ;" and he adds, that it was " supposed to be pre- vious to Dr. Swift's acquaintance with Stella," It was written not long before the time of Stel- la's fixing her residence in Ireland. such an air, and before such examples. All I had in answer from you was no- thing but a great deal of arguing, and sometimes in a style so very imperious as I thought might have been spared, when I reflected how much you had been in the wrong. The other thing you would know is, whether this change of style be owing to the thoughts of a new mistress. I declare, upon the word of a Christian and a gentleman, it is not; neither had I ever thoughts of being married to any other person but yourself . I had ever an opinion that you had a great sweetness of nature and humour ; and whatever appeared to the contrary, I looked upon it only as a thing put on as necessary before a lover : but I have since observed in abundance of your let- ters such marks of a severe indifference, that I began to think it was hardly pos- sible for one of my few good qualities to please you. I never knew any so hard to be worked upon, even in matters where the interest and concern are entirely your own : all which, I say, passed easily while we w^ere in the state of formalities and ceremony ; but since that, there is no other way of accounting for this un- tractable behaviour in you, but by im- puting it to a want of common esteem and friendship for me. When I desired an account of your fortune, I had no such design as you pretend to imagine. I have told you many a time, that in England it was in the power of any young fellow of com- Sect. II. MODERN, OF LATE DATE, 329 mon sense to get a larger fortune than ever you pretended to. I asked, in order to consider whether it were sufficient, with the help of my poor income, to make one of your humour easy in a married state. I think it comes to almost a hundred pounds a year ; and I think at the same time, that no young woman in the world of the same income would dwindle away her health and life in such a sink, and among such family conver- sation : neither have all your letters been once able to persuade that you have the least value for me, because you so little regarded what I so often said upon that matter. The dismal account you say I have given you of my livings*, I can assure you to be a true one ; and, since it is a dismal one even in your own opi- nion, you can best draw consequences from it. The place where Dr. Bolton f lived is upon a living which he keeps with the deanery ; but the place of resi- dence for that they have given me, is within a mile of a town called Trim, twenty miles from hence ; and there is no other way, but to hire a house at Trim, or build one on the spot : the first is hardly to be done, and the other I am too poor to perform at present. For coming down to Belfast, it is what I cannot yet think of, my attendance is so close, and so much required of me ; but our government sits very loose, and I be- lieve will change in a few months ; whe- ther our part X will partake in the change, I know not, though I am very apt to believe it ; and then I shall be at leisure for a short journey. But I hope your other friends, more powerful than I, will before that time persuade you from the * Those of Laracor and Rathbeggin. f This gentleman, as well ais Dr. Swift, was chaplain to lord Berkeley when one of the lords justices in Ireland j and was promoted to the deanery of Derry, which had been previously promised to Dr. Swift : but Mr. Bush, the prin- cipal secretary, for weighty reasons best known to himself, laid Dr. Swift aside, unless he would pay him a large sum; which the Doctor refused with the utmost contempt and scorn. Dr. Bol- ton, who was also minister of St. Werberg's, Dublin, was advanced to the bishopric of Clon- fert, Sept. 12, 17^22 : translated to Elphin, April 1 6, 1 724 ; to Cashel, Jan. 6, 1 729 ; and died in 1744. He was one of the most eloquent speak- ers of bis time, and was particularly skilled in ecclesiastical history. X Meaning lord Berkeley, who was then one of the three lords justices. — The earl of Ro- chester was appointed lord-lieutenant in Sep- tember followinar. place where you are. I desire my ser- vice to your mother, in return for her remembrance : but for any other deal- ings that way, I entreat your pardon : and I think I have more cause to resent your desires of me in that cause, than you have to be angry with my refusals. If you like such company and conduct, much good do you with them ! my edu- cation has been otherwise. My uncle Adam § asked me one day in private, as by direction, what my designs were in relation to you, because it might be a hindrance to you if 1 did not proceed. The answer I gave him (which I suppose he has sent you) was to this effect : — " That I hoped I was no hindrance to you ; because the reason you urged against an union with me was drawn from your indisposition, which still con- tinued ; That you also thought my for- tune not sufficient, which is neither at present in a condition to offer you r That, if your health and my fortune were as they ought, I would prefer you above all your sex ; but that, in the present condition of both, I thought it was against your opinion, and would cer- tainly make you unhappy : That had you any other offers, which your friends or yourselfthoug'htmore to your advantage, I should think I were very unjust to be an obstacle in your way." Now for what concerns my fortune, you have answered it. I desire, therefore, you will let me know if yonr health be otherwise than it was when you told me the doctors ad- vised you against marriage, as what would certainly hazard your life. Are they or you grown of another opinion in this particular? Are you in a condition to manage domestic affairs, with an in- come of less (perhaps) than three hun- dred pounds a year ? Have you such an inclination to my person and humour, as to comply with my desires and way of living, and endeavour to make us both as happy as you can ? Will you be ready to engage in those methods I shall direct for the improvement of your mind, so as to make us entertaining company for each other, without being miserable when we are neither visiting nor visited ? Can you bend your love, esteem, and in- difference to others the same way as I do mine ? Shall I have so much power in § Whose daughter, Anne, married a clergy- man of the name of Perry. 330 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IlL your heart, or you so much government of your passions, as to grow in good hu- mour upon my approach, though pro- voked by a — ? Have you so much good nature as to endeavour by soft words to smooth any rugged humour occasioned by the cross accidents of life ? Shall the place wherever your husband is thrown be more welcome than courts and cities without him ? In short, these are some of the necessary methods to please men who, like me, are deep read in the world ; and to a person thus made, I shall be proud in giving all due returns toward^ making her happy. These are the ques- tions I have always resolved to propose to her with whom I meant to pass my life ; and whenever you can heartily an- swer them in the affirmative, I shall be blessed to have you in my arms, without regarding whether your person be beau- tiful, or your fortune large. Cleanli- ness in the first, and competency in the other, is all I look for. I desire indeed a plentiful revenue, but would rather it should be of my own; though I should bear from a wife to be reproached for the greatest. I have said all I can possibly say in answer to any part of your letter, and in telling you my clear opinion as to mat- ters between us. I singled you out at first from the rest of women ; and I ex- pect not to be used like a common lover. When you think fit to send me an an- swer to this without — , I shall then ap- prove myself, by all means you shall command, madam, your most faithful humble servant. LETTEU II. Dr. Tillotson to the Earl of Mulgrave. Oct. 23, 1G79. My lord, It was a great satisfaction to me to be anywise instrumental in the gaining of your lordship to our religion, which I am most firmly persuaded to be the truth ; but yet I am, and always was, more concerned that your lordship should continue a virtuous and good man, than become a protestant ; being assured that the ignorance and errors of men's under- standings will find a much easier for- giveness with God than the faults of their wills. I remember your lordship once told me, you would endeavour to justify the sincerity of your change, by a conscientious regard to all other parts and actions of your life ; I am sure you cannot more effectually condemn your own act, than by being a worse man, after your profession to have embraced a better religion. I will certainly be one of the last to believe any thing of your lordship that is not good ; but I always feared I should be among the first that should hear of it. Before the time I last waited on your lordship, I had heard some- thing which afilicted me very sensibly ; but I hoped it was not true, and was therefore loth then to trouble your lord- ship about it ; but having heard the same since from those whom I believe to bear no ill-will to your lordship, I now think it my duty to acquaint you with it. To speak plainly, I have been told that your lordship is of late fallen into a conversa- tion dangerous both to your reputation and virtue, two of the tenderest and dearest things in the world. I believe your lordship to have great command and conduct of yourself, but am very sensible of human frailty, and of the dan- gerous temptations to which youth is ex- posed in this dissolute age ; and there- fore I earnestly beseech your lordship to consider, besides the high provocation of Almighty God, and the hazard of your soul whenever you engage in a bad course, what a blemish you will bring upon a fair and unspotted reputation, what uneasiness and trouble you will create to yourself from the severe reflec- tions of a guilty conscience, and how great a violence you will offer to the good principles of your nature and edu- cation, and to a mind the best made for virtuous and worthy things. And do not imagine you can stop when you please ; experience shews us the con- trary, and that nothing is more vain than for men to think to set bounds to them- selves in any thing that is bad : 1 hope in God that no temptation hath yet pre- vailed upon your lordship so far as to be guilty of any lewd act : if it have, as you love your soul, let it not proceed to a habit. The retreat is yet easy and open, but will every day become more difficult and obstructed ; God is so mer- ciful, that upon our repentance and re- solution of amendment, he is not only ready to forgive what is ^past, but to as- sist us by his grace to do better for the Sect. 11. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 331 future ; but I need not enforce these considerations upon a mind so capable and easy to receive good counsel ; I shall only desire your lordship to think again and again how great a point of wisdom it is in all our actions to consult the peace of our own minds, and to have no quarrel with the constant and insepa- rable companion of our lives. If others displease us, we may quit their company : but he that is displeased at himself is unavoidably unhappy, because he hath no way to get rid of himself. My lord, for God's sake, and your own, think of being happy, and resolve by all means to save yourself from tliis untoward generation ; and determine rather upon a speedy change of your condition than to gratify the inclinations of youth in any way but what is lawful and honourable ; and let me have the contentment to be assured from your lordship, either that there hath been no ground for this report, or that there shall be none for the future, which will be the welcomest news to me in the world. I have now only to beg of your lordship to believe, that I have not done this to satisfy the formality of my pro- fession ; but that it proceeds from the truest affection and good-will that one man can possibly bear to another. T pray God every day for your lord- ship, with the same constancy and fer- vour of devotion as for myself ; and do now more earnestly beg of him, that this counsel may be acceptable and effectual. I am, &c. LETTER 111. Earl of Mulgrave to Dr. Tillotson. Sir, Whitehall, March 27, 1689. Nothing in this world is, nor ought to be, so dear to any man as his reputa- tion ; and consequently the defence of it is the greatest obligation that one man can lay on another : there are also some circumstances, that render this ob- ligation yet more acceptable and valu- able ; as when it is conferred generously, without any self-interest, or the least desire of invitation from the person so defended. All this happens to be my case at this time ; and therefore I hope you will not be surprised to find I am not the most un«:rateful and insensible man living ; which certainly 1 should be, if I did not acknowledge all your in- dustrious concern for me about the business of the ecclesiastical commission, which now makes so much noise in the world. You have, as I am told, so cor- dially pleaded my cause, that it is almost become your own ; and therefore, as un- willing as I am to speak of myself, es- pecially in a business which I cannot wholly excuse, yet 1 think myself now a little obliged to shew my part in this matter, though imprudent enough, yet is not altogether unworthy of so just and so considerable an advocate. The less a man says of himself, the better ; and it is so well known already how I was kept out of all secret coun- cils, that I need not justify myself, nor trouble you as to those matters : only I appeal to the unquestionable testimony of the Spanish ambassador, if 1 did not zealously and constantly take all occa- sions to oppose the French interest ; be- cause I knew it directly opposite both to the king and kingdom's good, which are indeed things inseparable, and ought to be so accounted, a§ a fundamental maxim in all councils of princes. This, I hope, will prepare the way a little for what I have to say concerning my being one of the ecclesiastical com- missioners ; of which error I am now as sensible as I was at first ignorant, being so unhappily conversant in the midst of a perpetual court flattery, as never to have heard the least word of any ille- gality in that commission before 1 was unfortunately engaged in it. For though my lord of Canterbury had very prudently refused to be of it, yet it was talked at court, it proceeded only from hia unwillingness to act at that time, and liot from any illegality he suspected in the commission ; hav- ing excused himself from it the most respectful way, by the infirmities he lay under. Being thus ignorant of the laws, and in such a station at court, 1 need not desire a man of your judg- ment and candour to consider the hard- ness of my case, when 1 was commanded to serve in a commission with a lord chancellor, a lord chief justice, and two bishops, who had all of them already acted some time there, without shewing the least diftidence of their power, or any hesitation in the execu- tion of it ; and perhaps a man of more 332 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book III, discretion than I can pretend to, might have been easily persuaded to act in such a conjunction, and to think he might do it safely, both in law and conscience ; but I need not say much to shew my de- sire to have avoided, if possible, a trou- blesome employment, that had not the least temptation of honour or profit to recommend it ; and which therefore I continued in upon no account in the world but to serve both king and clergy with the little ability I had, in mode- rating those councils, which I thought might grow higher if I left my place to be filled by any of those who waited for it greedily, in order to their ill de- signs. And I may expect the more credit in this, when it is considered that the two important affairs which passed in that ecclesiastical court, being the bishop of London's suspension, and the incapaci- tating the members of Magdalen col- lege : the first was done some months before I was a commissioner ; and I op- posed the last, both in voting and speak- ing, and with all the interest I was able to make use of, which indeed was but little after that opposition ; in which, being outvoted, I seldom came, and never acted in that court after, except to restore the bishop of London, though sent for continually, by reason of my lodging so near it. And since I have been forced to men- tion my good-will at least, if not my ser- vice, to such learned men of the clergy, who I thought deserved it, it may be al- lowed me to give this one instance more of it ; that although in preferring men to all other places of the household, I ever used to ask permission first, and accordingly was often refused, for the sake of Roman Catholics and others, who were recommended by persons more in favour than myself; yet I was so careful of keeping that considerable part of the family unmixed with mean or unworthy chaplains, whom others, I feared, would have imposed on his majesty, that I con- stantly filled up those vacancies without giving him the least notice or trouble about it, and supplied them with the ablest approved divines I could possibly find, most commonly recommended to me by the bishops who were not of the court : which I conceived the most pro- per course, in a matter concerning cler- gymen, with a king of a different per- suasion from their*, and intended for his real service, believing it had been better for him, as well as the kingdom, if the greater ecclesiastical dignities ha($ been disposed of by others with as much caution. And thus, sir, I have endeavoured to confirm you in your favourable opinion of me, which must be acknowleged by every body an approbation of such weight, that as 1 hope it may be an example of authority to many, so it is sufficient of itself to balance the censoriousness of others. I am, &c. LETTER IV. Dr. Lewis /itterbury* to Bishop Atterhwy. April ..., 1720. Dear brother. It is reported that the archdeacon [of Rochester] is dead ; and I have sent my servant to inform me, whether it is so or not. I have since considered all that you said to me yesterday ; and both from rea- son and matter of fact, still am of opi- nion, that there can be no just matter of exception taken. I shall only lay down two or three instances which lie uppermost in my thoughts. Your lordship very well knows, that Lanfranc, archbishop of Canterbury t, had a brother for his arch- deacon ; and that sir Thomas More's fa- ther was a puisne judge when he was lord chancellor % : and thus, in the sa- cred history, did God himself appoint, that the safety and advancement of the patriarchs should be procured by their younger brother ; and that they, with their father, should live under the pro- tection and government of Joseph. I instance in those obvious examples, only * Dr. Lewis Atterbury, elder brother of the bishop, was born at Caldecot, in the parish of Newport Pagnel, in Buckinghamsliire, the se- cond of Ma J', 165o. He was educated at West- minster school, under the celebrated Dr. Busby, between whom and our divine's father. Dr. Lewis Atterbury, there was a friendship and intimacy. f From 1070 till 1093. Anschibillus was made archdeacon in 1075. X On the disgrace of Wolsey, in 1530, the great seal was entrusted to sir Thomas More, who was the first layman that enjoyed that ho- nour, which he resigned in 1533, and was exe- cuted in 1535. His father, sir John, outlived him thirty-five years. Sect. U. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. S33 to let your lordship see that I have can- vassed these matters in my own thoughts ; and I see no reason but to depend on your kind intentions, intimated in your former letter, to your most affectionate brother, &c. LE^rTER V. Bishop Atterhury to his brother. Broinlej', Weilnesday, April ... 1720. Dear brother, Your letter directed to Westminster found me here tliis morning-. I hope to be at Westminster to-morrow. In the mean time you may assure yourself of any thing that is in my disposal. At present the gentleman* you mention is well, and likely to continue so. His distemper is the same as mine, though he has it in a worse degree. However, he is sixteen or seventeen years younger than I am, and may probably therefore outlive me. When he was in danger of late, the first person T thought of was you. But there are objections against that, in point of decency, which, I own, stick with me ; and which, after I have laid them before you, you shall allow, or over-rule, as you think fit. It had been a much properer post for my nephew t, if God had pleased to spare his life. You need not mention any thing of" this kind to me ; for you may depend upon it, you are never out of the thoughts of your ever affectionate brother. LETTER VI. From the same to the same. most unseemly indecent thing in the world ; and I am very sure the gene- rality of those, whose opinions I regard, will be of that opinion. I was so far from apprehending that such a station, under me, would be in the least wel- come to you, that I discoursed of it, and proposed it to another person:}: some time ago, and am entered very far into engagements on that head ; and had you not written to me, I do frankly own, tliat I should never have spoken a word to you about it. Believe me, when I tell you that this is a plain state of the fact ; and should you at last come to be of my opinion, I dare say you will not, at long run, think yourself mis- taken. I am sure I shall not be at ease till you are in some good dignity in the church ; such as you, and I, and all the world, shall agree, is every way proper for you. I am, &c. LETTER VII. From the same to the same May 20, H'JO. Dear brother. The person, to whom I told you I had gone very far towards engaging myself for the archdeaconry, was Dr. Brydges §, the duke of Chandois's brother ; and him I am this day going to collate to it. I hope you are convinced by what I have said and written, that nothing could have been more improper than the placing you in that post, immediately under my- self. Could I have been easy under that thought, you may be sure, no man living should have had the preference to you. I am, &c- Deanery? Tuesday ni^ht. Dear brother, I HOPE you have considered the matter of the archdeaconry, and do at last see it in the same light that I do. I pro- test to you, I cannot help thinking it the * Thomas Sprat, M. A. (son to the famous bishop of that name). He was archdeacon of Rochester; and a prebendary of West- minster, Winchester, and Rochester. He died May 10, 1720. f Dr. Lewis Atterbury had three sons ; of whom the first and second died in their infancy. The third, named Bedingfield Atterbury, was born Jan. 8, 1693, and died of the small-pox, Dec. 27, 1718. LETTER VIII. bishop Atterbury to his Son at Oxford. [Of uncertain date.] Dear Obby, I THANK you for your letter, because there are manifest signs in it of your endeavouring to excel yourself, and by consequence to please me. You have succeeded in both respects, and will al- X Dr. Brydges. See the next letter. § Dr. Brydges was an old and intimate ac- quaintance of the bishop. He died May 9, 1728. 334 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL ways succeed, if you think it worth your while to consider what you write, and to whom ; and let nothing, though of a tri- fling nature, pass through your pen negli- gently : get but the way of writing cor- rectly and justly, time and use will teach you to write readily afterwards ; not but that too much care may give a stiffness to your style, which ought, in letters, by all means to be avoided. The turn of them should be always natural and easy, for they are an image of private and fa- miliar conversation. I mention this with respect to the four or five first lines of yours, which have an air of poetry, and do naturally resolve themselves in blank verse. I send you the letter again, that you yourself may now make the same observation ; but you took the hint of the thought from a poem ; and it is no wonder therefore if you have height- ened your phrase a little when you were expressing it. The rest is as it should be ; and particularly there is an air of duty and sincerity in it, that, if it comes from the heart, is the most acceptable present you can make me : with these good qualities an incorrect letter would please me ; and without them, the finest thoughts and lang-^uage would make no lasting impression upon me. The Great Being says (you know), '' My son, give me thy heart" — implying, that without it all other gifts signify nothing : let me conjure you, therefore, never to say any thing, either in a lettef or common con- versation, that you do not think ; but always let your mind and your words go together, even on the most slight and trivial occasions. Shelter not the least degree of insincerity under the notion of a compliment, which (as far as it de- serves to be practised by a man of pro- bity) is only the most civil and obliging way of saying what you really mean ; and whoever employs it otherwise throws away truth for good-breeding; I need not tell you how little his character gets by such an exchange. I say not this as if 1 suspected that in any part of your letter you intended only to write what was proper, without any regard to what was true ; for I am resolved to believe that you were in good earnest from the beginning to the end of it, as much even as 1 am when I tell you that I am your loving father. LETTER IX. Bishop Atttrhury to Lord Toivnsend. The Tower, April 10, 1723. My lord, I AM thankful for the favour of seeing my daughter any way ; but was in hopes the restraint of an officer's presence in respect of her might have been judged needless, at a time when her husband is allowed to be as often and as long with me as he pleases without witness, espe- cially since we liave been parted now for near eight months*, and must sopn, if the bill takes placet, he parted for ever. My lord, I have many things to say to her, in relation to herself, her brother, and my little family affairs, which can- not with ease, to her or me, be said in presence of others ; and I dare say your lordship does not apprehend that the subject of our conversation will be of such a nature as to deserve to be in any degree watched or restrained. She has been the comfort of my life ; and I shall leave her with more regret than 1 leave my preferments (though when I am stripped of them I shall have nothing to support me). Nor is there scarce any loss, besides that of my country, which will touch me so nearly. Your lordship, who is known to be a tender father ;}:, will feel what I say ; and consider how far it is fit to indulge me in so innocent a request. It is a little thing I ask ; but nothing is little that can give any relief to a man in my sad circumstances, which deserve your lord- ship's compassion, and I hope will ob- tain it. I am, with all respect, your lord- ship's most humble and most obedient servant. LETTER X. The Bishop of Rochester to Mrs. Morice, Montpelier, Sept. 3, 1729. My dear heart, I HAVE so much to say to you, that I can hardly say any thing to you till I see you. My heart is full ; but it is in *Thebishop was apprehended Aug. 24,1722. -f- It passed the house of commons on the 9th of April, and received the royal assent May 27. X This nobleman retired from public busi- ness in 1730, and died June, 1738. Sect. II. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 335 vain to begin upon paper what I can never end. I have a thousand desires to see you, which are checked by a thousand fears, lest any ill accident should happen to you in the journey. God preserve you in every step of it, and send you safe hither ! And I will endeavour, by his blessing- and assistance, to send you well back again, and to accompany you in the journey, as far as the law of England will suffer me. 1 stay here only to re- ceive and take care of you (for no other view should have hindered my coming into the north of France this autumn) ; and I live only to help towards length- ening your life, and rendering it, if I can, more agreeable to you : for I see not of what use I am, or can be, in other respects. I shall be impatient t'll I hear you are safely landed, and as im- patient after that till you are safely ar- rived in your winter quarters. God, I hope, will favour you with good weather, and all manner of good accidents on the way ; and I will take care, my dear love, to make you as easy and happy as I can at the end of your journey. I have written to Mr. Morice about every thing I can think of relating to your accommodation on the road, and shall not therefore repeat any part of it in this letter, which is intended only to acknowledge a mistake under which I find myself. I thought I loved you be- fore as much as I could possibly ; but I feel such new degrees of tenderness arising in me upon this terrible long journey, as I was never before acquaint- ed with. God will reward you, I hope, for your piety to me, which had, I doubt not, its share in producing this resolu- tion, and will, in rewarding you, reward me also ;: that being the chief thing I have to beg of Him. Adieu, my dear heart, till I see you ! and till then satisfy yourself, that, what- ever uneasiness your journey may give you, my expectation of you, and concern for you, will give me more. I am got to another page, and must do violence to myself to stop here — but I will — and abruptly bid you, my dear heart, adieu, till I bid you welcome to Mont- pelier. A line, under your own hand, pray, by the post that first sets out after you land at Bourdeaux. LETTER XI. Mr. J. Evans to his Brother in London. Toulouse, Nov. 9, 1729. Dear brother. After a very tedious and fatiguing journey, Mr. Morice and his lady arrived here on Monday morning, the 7th, about seven o'clock, when she met her father : the only thing, I believe, she had to de- sire of God in this world. She went to bed, and never slept till she slept her last ; and well may it be called so ; for never was death received in so composed a manner, as I shall distinctly relate to you from Montpelier. She received the sacrament (upon her earnestly desiring to have it if possible) about an hour and a half before she expired. That remain- ing time she employed in directing what she would have done in the most mate- rial things that relate to family affairs, and that in a very moving manner ; and one of the last was to call her husband to her; when she said; " Dear Mr. Morice, take care of the children— I know you will : remember me to the duchess of Buckingham !" This fa- tal stroke being given on the way to her intended port, must, you will think, put us into uncommon disorder. Mr. Mo- rice goes for England as soon as in a condition to do it. Pray give my family an account of this ; and I shall, from Montpelier, do the same at large, as well as to yourself. Adieu ! Yours most affectionately. LETTER XII. The Bishop of Rochester to Mr. Pope. 1 VENTURE to thank you for your kind and friendly letter, because I think my- self very sure of a safe conveyance ; and I am uneasy till I have told you what impressions it made upon me. I will do it with the same simplicity and truth with which I wrote to you from Mont- pelier upon a very melancholy occasion ; the memory of which would have been in the most touching manner awakened by what you writ, had it been entirely laid asleep, as it never will or can be. Time, and a succession of other objects, added to reason and religion (for even these great principles, that should com- mand our nature, want now and then 336 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book III. some assistances from it) may divert the attention of my mind from what it loves too much to tliink of, though it finds no Sleasure in such thoughts ; they may eaden the quick sense of grief, and pre- vent the frequent returns of it ; but where it is well fixed, they cannot ex- tinguish it. LETTER XIII. The Bishop of Rochester fo * * * "*^. [Undated.] Dear sir. Your endeavours that I may forget my misfortune are truly noble. It would be to deserve them to fly from resolu- tion. They shall not depress me ; but I must help to bear what you tell me lies so heavy upon my friends. I pre- serve a mean ; which is the excellence, justice, and fitness of all things in the moral system : Virtue's a mean, and vice is an excess, In doing more than's fit, or doing less. To poetise, my friend, is no mark of a depressed fancy or excessive sorrow ; but a sort of comical way of treating things serious, not after the subtle fashions of those you speak of, that would magnify Nature by depressing the Deity ; who, setting forth their necessary agreement, make unnecessary strife. With reverence do I mention these things, and know How the great love of nature fills thy mind, And universal kindness to thy kind. I am, while thus juvenile, an advocate for, and not a railer against, extremes. Those symptoms strongly bode a second youth, that vapours with a feeble and defective flame ! It is the enervated arm of Priam impotently raised against the thundering rage of youthful Pyrrhus. However, this epistle, my dear friend, shall not become more tawdry by its not being of a piece ; for I will conclude with answering your last serious question with another scrap of poetry : Whate'er the soul of nature has designed, And wrought on matter, is th' effect of mind; The form of substance is the former's art, Hence beauty and design that strikethe heart; There's nought in simple matter to delight, *Tis the fair workmanship that takes the sight. The beautiful effect of mind alone Is comely, and in all things comely shown. Where mind is not, there horror needs must be, For matter formless is deformity. LETTER XIV. Dr. King to Bishop Atterhury. Give me leave, sir, to tell you a secret — that I have spent a whole day upon Dr. Bentley's late volume of scandal and criticism* ; for every one may not judge it for his credit to be so employed. He thinks meanly, I find, of my reading ; as meanly as I think of his sense, his modesty, or his manners ; and yet, for all that, I dare say I have read more than any man in England besides him and me ; for I have read his book all over. If you have looked into it, sir, you have found, that a person, under the pretence of criticism, may take what freedom he pleases with the reputation and credit of any gentleman; and that he need not have any regard to another man's character, who has once resolved to expose his own. It was my misfortune once in my life to be in the same place with Dr. Bentley, and a witness to a great deal of his rude and scurrilous language ; which he was so liberal of, as to throw it out at random in a public shop ; and is so silly now as to call it eaves- dropping in me, because he was so noisy, and I was so near, that I could not help hearing it. You desired me, at some years distance, to recollect what passed at that meeting, and I obeyed your commands. Shall I reckon it an advantage, that Dr. Bentley, who disputes the other testimonies, falls in entirely with mine ? I would, if I were not apprehensive that on that very account it might be one step farther from being credited. However, such is his spite to me, that he confirms the truth of all I told you. For the only particular I could call to mind he grants, with some slight dif- ference in the expression. And as to the general account I gave of his rude- ness and insolence, he denies it indeed ; but in so rude and insolent a manner, that there is no occasion for me to jus- tify myself on that head. I had declared, it seems, that he said, " the MS. of Phalaris would be worth nothing if it were collated." He sets me right ; and avers, the expression was, " That, after the various lections were ^ The Dissertation on Phalaris. Sect. II. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 337 once taken, and printed, the MS. would be like a squeezed orange, and little worth for the future." The similitude of " a squeezed orange," is indeed a con- siderable circumstance, which I had for- gotten ; as I doubtless did several others ; but, for all that, I remember the general drift and manner of his discourse, as well as if all the particular expressions were present to me. Just as I know his last book to be a disingenuous, vain, con- fused, unmannerly performance ; though, to my happiness, hardly any of his awk- ward jests or impertinent quotations stick by me. I had owned it to be my opinion, " that a MS. was worth nothing unless it were collated." The doctor cun- ningly distinguishes upon me ; and says, " It is worth nothing indeed to the rest of the world ; but it is better for the owner, if a price were to be set upon it." I beg his pardon for my mistake. I thought we were talking of books in the way of scholars : whereas he answers me like a bookseller, and as if he dealt in MSS. instead of reading them. For my part, I measure the value of these kind of things from the advantage the public may receive from them, and not from the profit they are likely to bring in to a private owner ; and therefore 1 have the same opinion of the Alexan- drian MS.* (which, he says, "he keeps in his lodgings") now, as I should have had before the editors of the English Polyglott published the collation of it ; though it may not perhaps bear up to the same price in St. Paul's Churchyard, or at an auction ; but I hope, if it be safely kept, it need never come to the experiment. As to the particular reflections he has cast on me, it is no more than I ex- pected. I could neither hope nor wish for better treatment from one that had used you so ill. It is reputable both to men and books to be ill spoken of by him ; and a favourable presumption on their side, that there is something in both which may chance to recommend them to the rest of the world. It is in the power of every little creature to throw dirty language : but a man must have some credit himself in the world, before things he says can lessen the re- putation of another ; and if Dr. Bentley * Of the Old Testament. must be thus qualified to mischief me, I am safe from all the harm that his malice can do me. I am, sir, your obliged humble servant. LETTER XV. Duchess of Somerset to Ladi/ Luxborough. Piercy Lodge, Feb. 25, 1754. Dear madam. Pray never think excuse can be neces- sary to me about exactness in answering my letters ; I am always glad to hear from you when it is agreeable to you to write, but am not one of those over- kind friends who are for ever out of humour with those whom they rather enthrall than oblige, by giving them that name. As a proof I never wish to act so by my friends, or am afraid of be- ing treated so by them, I will own to you, I am not quite sure I should have answered your last letter so soon, were it not that I am under serious concern to find how awkwardly I must have ex- pressed myself to Mr. Shenstone, if I gave him room to believe I harboured a secret wish to have so fine a poem as his Ode suppressed. On the contrary, I should think myself guilty of a very great crime and injustice to the public, if I were to be the means of depriving them of so charming and rational an entertainment. I gave him the true reasons in my letter, for desiring that my own name, nor that of my hum- ble yet peaceful dwelling, might be inserted. You know I always envied the lot of " /a violet te, qui se cache sous Vherber It is true, my dear lady Luxborough, times are changed with us, since no walk was long enough, or exercise painful enough, to hurt us, as we childishly ima- gined : yet after a ball or masquerade, have we not come home very well con- tented to pull off our ornaments and fine clothes, in order to go to rest ? Such me- thinks is the reception we naturally give to the warnings of our bodily decays ; they seem to undress us by degrees, to prepare us for a rest that will refresh us far more powerfully than any night's sleep could do. We shall then find no weariness from the fatigues Avhich either our bodies or our minds have undergone ; but all tears shall be wiped from our eyes, Z 338 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IIL and sorrow, and crying-, and pains, shall be no more ; we shall then without wea- riness move in our new vehicles, trans- port ourselves from any part of the skies to another, with much more ease and velocity than we could have done in the prime of our strength, upon the fleetest horses, the distance of a mile. This cheerful prospect enables us to see our strength fail, and await the tokens of our approaching disso- lution with a kind of awful pleasure. I will ingenuously own to you, dear ma- dam, that I experience more true hap- piness in the retired manner of life that I have embraced, than I ever knew from all the splendour or flatteries of the world. There was always a void ; they could not satisfy a rational mind ; and at the most heedless time of my youth, I well remember, that I always looked forward with a kind of joy, to a decent retreat, when the evening of life should make it practicable. Boadicea I have read ; there is an in- teresting scene or two in it ; but there is something wanting in the management of the drama to keep up the spirits of the audience. Philoclea I have not seen, lior have heard such a character of it as to raise my curiosity. If you have not read Deformity, an Essay, by Mr. Hay, nor his Religio Philosophi (I do not know how that last word should end), I believe they will entertain you very well in their different ways. The Ad- venturer will soon be published in vo- lumes, and will be very well worth buying. I doubt I must agree with Mr. Shenstone, that the style of Sir Charles Grandison is too prolix ; and yet I do not know any of it I should be willing to part with, except Harriet Byron's conversation with the Oxonian, in the first volume, and the preparations and entertainments at sir Charles's wed- ding in the fifth. When 1 came home from taking the air on Friday, 1 was very agreeably surprised to find lady Northumberland ready to receive me, as I had no notion of her coming. She had been alarmed with a false report, that I had not been so v/ell for some days as she left me. I took the opportunity of shewing her your letter, and she desired me to make her compliments to your ladyship, and tell you, she keeps no servant about lady Elizabeth, while she is at school. and at her return will think it necessary to have a person of a middle age about her. Such a one she now has about her little boy; a pretty sort of woman, who speaks French and English equally well, is grave and properly behaved, and, I believe, hopes for lady Eliza- beth's place, when her little angel of a master goes into the hands of the men. His mamma took him away with her on Saturday, after lending him to me for a month (though she is excessively fond of him), because she sees he is the joy of my life. He has some faint resem- blance (thought not a good one) of his poor uncle ; but his openness and mild- ness of temper are the very same. Her eldest boy too is a very sensible and good one. He and lady Greville dine with me from Eton every Sunday ; they are here at present for two or three days, on account of there being holi- days. I have hardly left myself room to make Mr. Cowslad's compliments, and subscribe myself, dear madam, your, &c. LETTER XVL Countess of Hertford to Dr. Burnet, oc- casioned hy some Meditations the Doc- tor sent her, upon the Death of her Son, Lord Beauchanqy. Sir, I AM very sensibly obliged by the kind compassion you express for me, under my heavy affliction. The meditations you have furnished me with, afford the strongest motives for consolation that can be offered to a person under my unhappy circumstances. The dear lamented son I have lost was the pride and joy of my heart; but I hope I may be the more easily excused for having looked on him in this light, since he was not so from the outward advantages he pos- sessed, but from the virtues and recti- tude of his mind. The prospects which flattered me, in regard to him, were not drawn from his distinguished rank, or from the beauty of his person ; but from the hopes that his example would have been serviceable to the cause of virtue, and would have shewn the younger part of the world, that it was possible to be cheerful without being foolish or vicious, and to be religious without severity or melancholy. His Sect. II. MODERN, OF LATE DATE. 339 whole life was one iminterrupted course of duty and affection to his parents ; and when he found the hand of death upon him, his only regret was to think on the agonies which must rend their hearts ; for he was perfectly content to leave the world, as his conscience did not reproach him with any presump- tuous sins, and he hoped his errors would be forgiven. Tlius he resigned his innocent soul into the hands of his merciful Creator, on the evening of his birth-day, which completed him nineteen. You will not be surprised, sir, that the death of such a son should occa- sion the deepest sorrow ; yet, at the same time, it leaves us the most comfortable assurance, that he is happier than our fondest wishes and care could have made him, which must enable us to support the remainder of years, which it shall please God to allot for us here, without miu-muring or discontent, and quicken our endeavours to prepare ourselves to follow to that happy place, where our dear valuable child is gone before us. I beg the continuance of your prayers, and am, sir, your, &c. Z2 BOOK THE FOURTH. RECENT LETTERS, SECTION I. ^^ROM THE LETTERS OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. AND MR. GRAY, TO AND FROM THEIR FRIENDS. LETTER I. BIi\ Shenstone to a Friend. From Mr. Wintle's, Perfumer, near Temple Bar, &c. f)th Feb. 1740, Dear sir, I AM now, with regard to the town, pretty much in the same state in which I expect to be always with regard to the world ; sometimes exclaiming and rail- ing against it ; sometimes giving it a good word, and even admiring it. A siinshiny-day, a tavern-supper after a play well acted, and now and then an invigorating breath of air in the Mall, never fail of producing a cheerful effect. I do not know whether I gave you any account of Quin's acting Falstaff in my former letter ; I really imagined that I saw you tittering on one side me, shak- ing your sides, and sometimes scarce containing yourself. You will pardon the attitude in which I placed you, since it was what seemed natural at that circum- stance of time. Comus I have once been at, for the sake of the songs, though I detest it in any light ; but as a dramatic piece, the taking of it seems a prodigy ; yet indeed such a one, as was pretty tolerably accounted for by a gentleman who sat by me in the boxes. This learned sage, being asked how he liked the play, made answer, " He could not tell — pretty well, he thought — or indeed as well as any other play — he always took it, that people only came there to see and be seen — for as for what was said, he owned, he never understood any thing of the matter." I told him, I thought a great many of its admirers were in this case, if they wx)uld but own it. On the other hand, it is amazing to consider to what an universality of learning people make pretensions here. There is not a drawer, a chair or hack- ney coach man, but is politician, poet, and judge of polite literature. Chim- ney sweepers damn the convention, and black shoe boys cry up the genius of Shakespeare. " The Danger of writing Verse" is a very good thing; if you have not read it, I would recommend it to you as poetical. But now I talk of learning, I must not omit an interview which I accidentally had the other night in company with lord D and one Mr. C . We were taken to sup at a private house, where I found a person whom I had never seen before. The man behaved exceeding modestly and well ; till, growing a little merry over a bottle (and being a little countenanced by the subject we were upon), he pulls out of his pocket about half a dozen ballads, and distributes them amongst the company. I (not finding at first they were of his own composition) read one over, and, finding it a duU piece of stuff, contented myself with observing that it was exceedingly well printed. But to see the man's face on this occasion would make you pity the circumstance of an author as long as you live. His jollity ceased (as a flame would do, should you pour water upon it) ; and, I believe, for about five minutes, he spoke not a syllable. At length recovering himself, he began to talk about his country seat, about Houghton Hall, and soon after desired a health, imagining (as I found afterwards) that lord D — would have given sir Robert's. But he Sect« I. RECENT. 341 did not, naming sir T — L — . Mine, which followed, was that of Mr. L — . Now, who do you think this should be, but honest Ralph Freeman (at least the writer of the paper so subscribed), your father's old friend and intimate, sir Ro- bert's right hand, a person that lives elegantly, drive six of the best horses in the town, and plays on St. John's organ (you know Mr. L — is not only sir Ro- bert's greatest enemy, but the Gazet- teer's proper antagonist). We were in- vited to see him very civilly ; and indeed the man behaved with the utmost good- humour, without arrogance, or any at- tempts at wit, which probably would not have been very successful. — Ask your father what he would say to me, if I should join in the cause with his old friend, and take a good annuity under sir Robert, which, I believe, I might have ; and little encouragement, God knows, have I met with on the other side of the question. I say, I believe I might have, because I know a certain person gives pensions of three pounds a- week to porters and the most illiterate stupid fellows you can imagine, to talk in his behalf at ale-houses ; where they sit so long a time, and are as regularly relieved as one sentry relieves another. — At least tell him that I expect in his an- swer to my letter (which I shall not allow him to assign to you) he write something to confirm me in my in- tegrity, and to make me prefer him, and you, and honesty, to lace, brocade, and the smiles of the ladies. Et Veneris et cunis, et plumis Sardanapali. But I hope to keep my Hercules in view, whether in print or manuscript ; and though I am as fond of pleasure as most people, yet I shall observe the rule, Positam sic iangere noli. I desire I may hear from you next post : I have a line or two, which I intend for the sons of utter darkness (as you call them) next magazine : I would send them to you, for your advice, but cannot readily find them. I like every thing in Mr. Somervile's but the running of the last line. I think to insert them. Should be glad to have a line or two of yours, that one may make a bold attack. I look on it as fun, without the least emotion, I assure you. I am, dear sir, your, &c. LETTER II. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Jago, on the Death of his Father. Leasowes, Aug. '2S, 1740. Dear Mr. Jago, I FIND some difficulty in writing to you on this melancholy occasion. No one can be more unfit to attempt to lessen your grief than myself, because no one has a deeper sense of the cause of your affliction. Though I would by no means be numbered by you amongst the com- mon herd of your acquaintance that tell you they are sorry, yet it were imperti- nent in me to mention a mere friend's concern to a person interested by so many more tender regards. Besides, I should be glad to alleviate your sorrow, and such sort of condolence tends but little to promote that end. I do not choose to flatter you : neither could I, more especially at this time ; but though I could perhaps find enough to say to persons of less sense than you, I know of nothing but what your own reason must have suggested. Concern indeed may have suspended the power of that facul- ty ; and upon that pretence, I have a few things that I would suggest to you. After all, it is time alone that can and will cure all afflictions, and such as are the consequence of vice ; and yours, I am sure, proceeds from a contrary prin- ciple. I heard accidentally of this sorrowful event, and accompanied you to London with the utmost concern. I wished it was in my power to mitigate your griefs by sharing them, as I have often found it in yours to augment my pleasure by so doing. All that I can recommend to you is, not to confine your eye to any single event in life, but to take in your Avhole circumstances before you repine. When you reflect that you have lost one of the best of men in a father, you ought to comfort yourself that you had such a father; to whom I cannot for- bear applying these lines from Milton : — " Since to part ! Go, heav'nly guest, ethereal messenger ! Sent by whose sovereign goodness we adore ! Gentle to me and affable has been Thy condescension, and shall be honour'd ever With grateful'st memory " End of Book viii, Par. Lost. 1 would have you by all means come 342 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. over hither as soon as you can. I will endeavour to render the time you spend here as satisfactory as it is in my power ; and I hope you will ever look upon me as your hearty friend, through all the vi- cissitudes of life. Pray give my humble service to Mrs. Jago and your brother. I am, &c. LETTER III. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Reynolds. Leasowes, Aug. 1740. Dear sir, Wonderful were the dangers and dif- ficulties through which I went, the night I left you at Barrels ; which I looked upon as ordained by fate for the temporal punishment of obstinacy. It was very kind, and in character, for you to endeavour to deter me from the ways of darkness ; but having a sort of pen- chant for needless difficulties, I have an undoubted right to indulge myself in them so long as I do not insist upon any one's pity. It is true, these ought not to exceed a certain degree ; they should be lenia tormenta; and I must own the labour I underwent that night did not come within the bounds which my ima- gination had prescribed. I cannot for- bear mentioning one imminent danger. I rode along a considerable piece of wa- ter, covered so close with trees, that it was as probable I might have pursued the channel, which was dangerous, as my way out of it. Or, to put my case in a more poetical light, having by night intruded upon an amour betwixt a Wood-nymph and a River-god, I owed my escape to Fortune, who conveyed me from the vengeance which they might have taken. I put up finally at a little alehouse about ten o'clock, and lay all night awake, counting the cords which supported me, which 1 could more safely swear to than to either bed or blanket. For farther particulars, see my epistle to the Pastor Fido of Lap worth. Mr. Graves says, he should be glad to shew you any civilities in his power, upon his own acquaintance ; and will serve you as far as his vote goes, upon my recom- mendation ; but is afraid, without the concurrence of some more considerable friends, your chance will be but small this year, &c. If the former part of this news gives you any pleasure, I assure you it gives me no less to communicate it ; and this pleasure proceeds from a princi- ple, which would induce me to serve you myself if it should ever be in my power. I saw Mr. Lyttleton last week ; he is a candidate for the county of Worcester, together with Lord Deerhurst ; 1 hope Mr. Somervile will do him the honour to appear as his friend, which he must at least think second to that of succeed- ing. I hear you are commenced chaplain since I saw you. I wish you joy of it. The chaplain's title is infinitely more agreeable than his office ; and I hope the scarf, which is expressive of it, will be no diminutive thing, no four-penny- half-penny piece of ribboning ; but that it will " High o'er the neck its rustling folds display, 1 Disdain all usual bounds, extend its sway, > Usurp the head, and push the wig away." 3 I hope it will prove ominous, that my first letter is a congratulatory one ; and if I were to have opportunities of send- ing all such, it would entirely quadrate with the sincere wishes of your, &c. I beg my compliments to Mr. Somer- vile, Mrs. Knight, and your family. LETTER IV. Mr. Shenstone to Mr on his taking Orders in the Church. Leasowes, June 8, 1741. Dear sir, I WRITE to you out of the abundant in- clination I have to hear from you ; ima- gining that, as you gave me a direction, you might possibly expect to receive a previous letter from me. I want to be * informed of the impressions you receive from your new circumstances. The chief aversion which some people have to orders is, what I fancy you will re- move in such as you converse with. I take it to be owing partly to dress, and partly to the avowed profession of reli- gion. A young clergyman, that has dis- tinguished his genius by a composition or two of a polite nature, and is capable of dressing himself and his religion in a diflFerent manner from the generality of his profession, that is, without formality, is certainly a genteel character. I speak Sect. I. RECENT. 343 this not Avith any sly design to advise, but to intimate that 1 think you very ca- pable of shining in a dark-coloured coat. You must consider me yet as a man of the world, and endeavouring to elicit that pleasure from gaiety which my rea- son tells me T shall never find. It is im- possible to express how stupid I have been ever since 1 came home, insomuch that I cannot write a common letter without six repetitions. This is the third time I have begun yours, and you see what stuff it is made up of. I must e'en hasten to matter of fact, which is the comfortable resource of dull people, though, even as to that, I have nothing to communicate. But I would be glad to know, whether you are under a ne- cessity of residing on week days ; and^ if not, why I may not expect you a day or two at the Leasowes very soon. Did you make any inquiry concerning the num- ber of my poems sold at Oxford ? Or did you hear any thing concerning it that concerns me to hear? — Will. S — (for that is his true name) is the excess of simplicity and good nature. He seems to have all the industry imaginable to divert and amuse people, without any ambitious end to serve, or almost any concern whether he has so much as a laugh allowed to his stories, any farther than as a laugh is an indication that people are delighted. This, joined with his turn of thought, renders him quite agreeable. I wish it were in my power to conciliate acquaintance with half his ease. Pray do not delay writing to me. Adieu. LETTER V. Mr. Shenstone to a Friend, expressing his Dissatisfaction at the Manner of Life in which he is engaged, 1741. Dear sir, I WONDER I have not heard from you lately — of you indeed I have, from Mr. W — . If you could come over, proba- bly I might go back with you for a day or two ; for my horse, I think, gets ra- ther better, and may, with indulgence, perform such a journey. I want to ad- vise with you about several matters ; — to have your opinion about a building that I have built, and about a journey which I design to Bath ; and about numberless things, which, as they are numberless, cannot be comprehended in this paper. I am your, &c. Now I am come home from a visit — every little uneasiness is sufficient to in- troduce my whole train of melancholy considerations, and to make me utterly dissatisfied with the life I now lead, and the life which I foresee I shall lead. I am angry, and envious, and dejected, and frantic, and disregard all present things, just as becomes a madman to do. I am infinitely pleased (though it is a gloomy joy) with the application of Dr. Swift's complaint, '^ that he is forced to die in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a hole." My soul is no more suited to the figure I make, than a cable rope to a cambric needle : — I cannot bear to see the advantages alienated, v/hich I thine I could deserve and relish so much mork than those that have them. Nothing can give me patience but the soothing sympathy of a friend, and that will only turn my rage into simple melancholy. — I believe soon I shall bear to see nobody. I do hate all hereabouts already, except one or two. I Avill have my dinner brought upon my table in my absence, and the plates fetched away in my ab- sence ; and nobody shall see me ; for I can never bear to appear in the same stupid mediocrity for years together, and gain no ground. As Mr. G complained to me (and, I think, you too, both unjustly), "I am no character." — I have in my temper some rakishness, but it is checked by want of spirits ; some solidity, but it is softened by va- nity ; some esteem of learning, but it is broke in upon by laziness, imagination, and want of memory, &c. — I could reckon up twenty things throughout my whole circumstances wherein I am thus tantalized. Your fancy will present them. — Not that all I say here will sig- nify to you : I am only mider a fit of dissatisfaction, and to grumble does me good — only excuse me, that I cure my- self at your expense. Adieu ! 344 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER VL M)\ Shenstone to Mr. with an In- vitation to accompany him to Town. The Leasowes, Nov. 25, 1741. Dear sir, The reason why 1 write to you so sud- denly is, that I have a proposal to make to you. If you could contrive to he in London for about a month from the end of December, I imagine you would spend it agreeably enough along with me, Mr. Outing, and Mr. Whistler. According to my calculations, Ave should be a very happy party at a play, coffee- house, or tavern. Do not let your su- percilious friends come in upon you with their prudential maxims. Consi- der you are now of the proper age for pleasure, and have not above four or five whimsical years left. You have not struck one bold stroke yet, that I know of. Saddle your mule, and let us be jogging to the great city. I will be an- swerable for amusement. — Let me have the pleasure of seeing you in the pit, in a laughter as cordial and singular as your friendship. Come — let us go forth into the Opera-house ; let us hear how the eunuch-folk sing. Turn your eye upon the lilies and roses, diamonds and rubies ; the Belindas and the Sylvias of gay life ! Think upon Mrs. Clive's inexpressible comicalness ; not to men- tion Hippesley's joke-abounding physi- ognomy ! Think, I say, now; for the time cometh when you shall say, " I have no pleasure in them." I am conscious of much merit in bringing ^bout the interview betwixt Mr. L and Mr. S ; but merit, as Sir John Falstaff says, is not regarded in these coster-monger days. Pray now do not write me word that your business will not allow you ten mi- nutes in a fortnight to write to me ; an excuse fit for none but a cobbler, who has ten children dependent upon a waxen thread. Adieu. LETTER VIL From the same to the same. 1741. My good friend. Our old friend Somervile is dead ! I did not imagine I could have been so sorry as 1 find myself on this occasion — *' Sublatum qvcerimus!' I can now ex- cuse all his foibles ; impute them to age and to distress of circumstances ; the last of these considerations wrings my very soul to think on. For a man of high spirit, conscious of having (at least in one production) generally pleased the world, to be plagued and threatened by wretches that are low in every sense ; to be forced to drink himself into pains of the body, in order to get rid of the pains of the mind ; is a misery which I can well conceive, because I may, with- out vanity, esteem myself his equal in point of oeconomy, and consequently ought to have an eye on his misfortunes (as you kindly hinted to me about twelve o'clock at the Feathers) : I should re- trench ; — I will ; but you shall not see me : — I will not let you know that I took your hint in good part. I will do it at solitary times, as I may ; and yet there will be some difficulty in it ; for whatever the world might esteem in poor Somervile, I really find, upon cri- tical inquiry, that I loved him for no- thing so much as his flocci-nauci-nihili- pili-fication of money. Mr. A was honourably acquitted : lord A , who was present, and be- haved very insolently they say, was hissed out of court. They proved his application to the carpenter's son, to get him to swear against Mr. A , though the boy was proved to have said in several companies (before he had been kept at lord A 's house) that he was sure the thing was accidental. Fi- nally, it is believed he will recover the title of A — ea. The apprehension of the whores, and the suffocation of four in the round-house by the stupidity of the keeper, engrosses the talk of the town. The said house is rebuilding every day (for the mob on Sunday night demolished it), and re- demolished it every night. The duke of M — gh, J S his brother, lord C — r G — , were taken into the round- house, and confined from eleven at night till* eleven next day : I am not positive of the duke of M — gh ; the others are certain ; and that a large number of people of the first fashion went from the round-house to De Veil's, to give in informations of their usage. Sect, I. RECENT 345 The justice himself seems greatly scared ; the prosecution will be carried on with violence, so as probably to hang the keeper, and there is an end. Lord Bath's coachman got drunk and tumbled from his box, and he was forced to borrow lord Orford's. Wits say, that it was but gratitude for my lord Orford's coachman to drive my lord Bath, as my lord Bath himself had driven my lord Orford. Thus they. I have ten million things to tell you ; though they all amount to no more than that I wish to please you, and that I am your sincere friend and humble servant. I am pleased that I can say 1 knew Mr. Somervile, which I am to thank you for. LETTER VIIL Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Graves » on Bene- volence and Friendship. The Leasowes, Jan. 19, 1741-2. Dear Mr. Graves, I CANNOT forbear immediately writing to you : the pleasure your last letter gave me, put it out of my power to re- strain the overflowings of my benevo- lence. I can easily conceive, that, upon some extraordinary instances of friend- ship, my heart might be si fort attendri that I could not bear any restraint upon my ability to shew my gratitude. It is an observation I made upon reading to- day's paper, which contains an account of C. KhevenhuUer's success in favour of the queen of Hungary. To think what sublime affection must influence that poor unfortunate queen, should a faith- ful and zealous general revenge her upon her enemies, and restore her ruined af- fairs ! Had a person shewn an esteem and af- fection for me, joined with any elegance or without any elegance in the expression of it, T should have been in acute pain till I had given some sign of my will- ingness to serve him. From all this, I conclude that I have more humanity than some others. Probably enough I shall never meet with a larger share of happiness than I feel at present. If not, I am thoroughly convinced, my pain is greatly superior to my pleasure. That pleasure is not ab- solutely dependent on the mind, I know from this, that I have enjoyed happier scenes in the company of some friends than 1 can possibly at present; — but, alas ! all the time you and I shall enjoy together, abstracted from the rest of our lives, and lumped, will not perhaps amount to a solid year and a half. How small a proportion ! People will say to one that talks thus, *' Would you die?" To set the case upon a right footing, they must take away the hopes of greater happiness in this life, the fears of greater misery hereafter, together with the bodily pain of dying, and address me in a disposition betwixt mirth and melancholy ; and I could easily resolve them. 1 do not know how I am launched out so far into this complaint : it is, perhaps, a strain of constitutional whin- ing ; the effect of the wind — did it come from the winds ? to the winds will I deliver it : Tradam protervis m mare Crelicuniy Poriare ventis — I will be as happy as my fortune will permit, and make others so ; Pone me pigris iibi nulla campis Arbor (Estiva reaeatur aura I will be so. The joke is, that the description which you gave of that coun- try was, that you had few trees about you ; so that I shall trick fortune if she should grant my petition implicitly. But, in earnest, I intend to come and stay a day or two with you next sum- mer. Mr. Whistler is at Mr. Gosling's, bookseller, at the Mitre and Crown, in Fleet Street, and inquired much after you in his last letter to me. He writes to me ; but 1 believe his affection for one weighs less with him while the town is in the other scale ; though he is very obliging. I do not know whether I do right, when I say I believe we three, that is, in solitary circumstances, have an equal idea of, and affection for, each other. I say, supposing each to be alone, or in the country, which is nearly the same ; for scenes alter minds as much as the air influences bodies. For in- stance, v/hen Mr. Whistler is in town, I suppose we love him better than he does us ; and when we are in town, I suppose tlie same may be said in regard to him. 346 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. The true burlesque of Spenser, whose characteristic is simplicity, seems to consist in a simple representation of such things as one laughs to see or to observe one's self, rather than in any monstrous contrast betwixt the thoughts and words. I cannot help thinking, that my added stanzas have more of his manner than what you saw before, which you are not a judge of till you have read him. LETTER IX. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Graves. 1743. Dear sir, I LONG heartily to talk over affairs. with you iete-d-tete ; but am an utter enemy to the fatigue of transcribing what might pass well enough in conversation. I shall say nothing more concerning my de- parture from L — , than that it was ne- cessary, and therefore excusable. I have been since with a gentleman upon the borders of Wales, Bishop's Castle, from whence I made a digression one day be- yond Offa's Dyke ; saw mountains which converted all that I had seen into mole- hills ; and houses, which changed the Leasowes into Hampton Court : where they talk of a glazed window as a piece of magnificence ; and w^here their highest idea of his majesty is, that he can ride in such a coach as 'squire Jones or 'squire Pryce's. The woman of the inn, at one place, said, " Glass (in windows) was very genteel, that it was ; but she could not afford such finery." You agree with the rest of the married world in a propensity to make proselytes. This inclination in some people gives one a kind of dread of the matter. They are ill-natured, and can only wish one in their own state because they are unhap- py ; like persons that have the plague, who, they say, are ever desirous to pro- pagate the infection. I make a con- trary conclusion when you commend marriage, as you seem to do, when you wish miss may reconcile me to more than the name of wife. I know not what you have heard of my amour ; pro- bably more than I can thoroughly con- firm to you. And what if I should say to you, that marriage was not once the subject of our conversation ? Nee conjug'ts unquam Prcelcndi (ecdas, aul hccc in fcedera vcni. Do not you think every thing in na-^ ture strangely improved since you were married, from the tea table to the warming pan ? I want to see Mrs. Jago's hand-writ- ing, that I may judge of her temper ; but she must write something in my praise. Pray see you to it, in your next letter. I could parodize my lord Carteret's letter from Dettingen, if I had it by me. " Mrs. Arnold (thanks be praised ! ) has this day gained a very considerable victory. The scold lasted two hours. Mrs. S e was posted in the hall, and Mrs. Arnold upon the staircase ; which superiority of ground was of no small service to her in the engagement. The fire lasted the whole space, without in- termission ; at the close of which the enemy was routed, and Mrs. Arnold kept the field." Did you hear the song to the tune of "The Cuckow.^" "The Baron stood behind a tree, In woful plight, for nought hearti he IJut cannon, cannon, &o. O word of fear ! Unpleasing to a German ear." The notes that fall upon the word "can- non" express the sound with its echo admirably. I send you my pastoral elegy (or bal- lad, if you think that name more proper), on condition that you return it Avith am- ple remarks in your next letter : I say " return it," because I have no other copy, and am too indolent to take one. Adieu. LETTER X. F7^07H the same to the same; written in Haj/ Harvest. July 3, 3743. Dear Mr. Graves, I DID not part from you without a great deal of melancholy. To think of the short duration of those interviews which are the objects of one's continual wishes, has been a reflection that has plagued me of old. I am sure I returned home with it then, more aggravated, as I fore- saw myself returning to the same series of melancholy hours from which you had a while relieved me, and which I had particularly suffered under all this last spring. I wish to God you might hap- Sect. I. R E C E N T. 347 pen to be settled not far from me : a day's journey distance, however; I mean an easy one. But the odds are infinitely against me. I must only rely for my happiness on the hopes of a never-ceas- ing correspondence ! Soon after you were gone I received my packet. The History of Worcester- shire is mere stuff. T — I am so fond of, that 1 believe I shall have his part of the collection bound over again, neatly and separately. But sure Hammond has no right to the least inventive merit, as the preface writer would insinuate. I do not think there is a single thought, of any epainence, that is not literally trans- lated. I am astonished he could content himself with being so little an original. Mr. Lyttelton and his lady are at Hagley. A malignant caterpillar has demolished the beauty of all her large oaks. Mine are secured by their little- ness. But I guess the park suffers ; a large wood near me being a mere win- ter-piece for nakedness. At present I give myself up to riding and thoughtlessness ; being resolved to make trial of their efficacy towards a to- lerable degree of health and spirits. I wish I had you for my director. I should proceed with great confidence of suc- cess ; though I am brought very low by two or three fits of a fever since I saw you. Had I written to you in the midst of my dispirited condition, as I was going, you would have had a more ten- der and unaffected letter than I can write at another time ; what I think, perhaps, at all times ; but what sickness can alone elicit from a temper fearful of whining. Surely the *' nunc forinosissimus an- nus" is to be limited to hay harvest. I could give my reasons : but you will ima- gine them to be, the activity of country people in a pleasing employment; the full verdure of the summer ; the prime of pinks, woodbines, jasmines. Sec. I am old, very old ; for few things give me so much mechanical pleasure as lolling on a bank in the very heat of the sun, " When the old come forth to play- On a sunshine holiday." And yet itpsjas much'as I can do to keep Mrs. Arnold from going to neighbouring- houses in her smock, in despite of de- cency'and my^known disapprobation. 1 find myself more of a patriot than I ever thought I was. Upon reading the account of the battle I found a very sen- sible pleasure, or, as the Methodists term it, " perceived my heart enlarged," &c. The map you sent me is a pretty kind of toy, but does not enoiigh particularize the scenes of the war, &c., which was the end I had in view when I sent for it. ' ' dura messorum ilia ! " About half the appetite, digestion, strength, spirits, &c. of a mower, would make me the happiest of mortals ! I would be under- stood literally and precisely. Adieu. LETTER XI. Mr. Shensione to Mr. Graves; after the Disappointment of a Visit. The Leasowes, Nov. 9, 1743. Dear sir, I AM tempted to begin my letter as Memmius does his harangue, " Multa me dehortantur a vohis, ni studium vir- tutis vestrce omnia exsuperet.''^ You con- trive interviews of about a minute's du ration ; and you make appointments in order to disappoint one ; and yet, at the same time that your proceedings are thus vexatious, force one to bear testi- mony to the inestimable value of your friendship ! I do insist upon it, that you ought to compound for the disappoint- ment you have caused me, by a little let- ter every post you stay in town. I shall now scarce see you till next summer, or spring at soonest ; and then I may pro- bably take occasion to visit you, under pretence of seeing Derbyshire. Truth is, your prints have given me some cu- riosity to see the original places. I am grateful for your intentions with regard to giving me part of them, and imperti- nent in desiring you to convey them to me as soon as you can well spare them. Let me know if they are sold separately at the print shops. I think to recom- mend them to my new acquaintance, Mr. Lyttelton Brown. I like the hu- mour of the ballad you mention, but am more obliged for your partial opinion of me. The notes that fall upon the word " cannon, cannon," are admirably ex- pressive of the sound, I dare say : I mean jointly with its echo : and so, I suppose, you will think, if you ever attended to the Tower guns. I find I cannot afford to go to Bath ])reviously to my London journey ; though I look upon it as a pro- 346 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, per metliod to make my residence in town more agreeable. I shall probably be there about the first of December ; or before, if I can accelerate my friend Whistler's journey. The pen 1 write with is the most disagreeable of pens ! But 1 have little else to say ; only this — that our good friend Jack Dolman is dead at Aldridge, his father's benefice. I beg, if you have leisure, you would inclose me in a frank the following songs, with the notes: "Stella and Flavia," «* Gentle Jessy," ** Sylvia, wilt thou waste thy prime?" and any other that is new. I should be glad of that num- ber of the British Orpheus which has my song in it, if it does not cost above sixpence. Make my compliments to your brother and sister; and believe me, in the common forms, but in no common degree, dear Mr. Graves's most aflFectionate friend and servant. Do write out the whole ballad of ** The Baron stood behind a Tree." LETTER Xn. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Graves^ with Thoughts on Advice. The Leasowes, Sept. 21, 1747. Dear Mr. Graves, I A3I under some apprehension that you dread the sight of a letter from me, as it seems to lay claim to the compliment of an answer. I will therefore write you one that shall wave its privilege, at least till such time as your leisure encourages, or your present dissipation does not for- bid you to send one. I dare now no longer expatiate upon the affair you have in hand ; it is enough for me if you will excuse the freedom I have taken. I have often known delay produce good effects in some cases, which even sagacity itself could not surmount ; and, if I thought I did not go too far, would pre- sume to recommend it now. You know I have very little of the temper of an alderman. I almost hate the idea of wealthiness as much as the word. It seems to me to carry a notion of fulness, stagnation, and insignificancy. It is this disposition of mine that can alone give any weight to the advice I send you, as it proves me not to give it through any partiality to fortune. As to what remains, you are, I hope, assured of the value I must ever have for you in any circumstances, and the regard I shall always shew for any that belongs to you. I cannot like you less or more^ I now drop into other matters. Bergen, I see, is taken at last ; pray what are the sentiments of your political companions ? I dined some time ago with Mr. Lyttel- ton and Mr. Pitt, who both agreed it was worth twenty thousand men to the French ; wliich is a light in which I never used to consider it. Any little intimation that you please to confer upon me, enables me to seem wise in this country for a month ; particularly if I take care to adjust my face accordingly. As I was returning last Sunday from church, whom should I meet in my way, but that sweet-souled bard Mr. James Thomson, in a chaise drawn by two horses lengthways? I welcomed him into the country, and asked him to ac- company Mr. Lyttelton to the Leasowes (who had offered me a visit) , which he promised to do. So I am in daily ex- pectations of them and all the world this week. I fancy they will lavish all their praises upon nature, reserving none for poor art and me. But if I ever live, and am able to perfect my schemes, I shall not despair of pleasing the few I first began with, the few friends pre- judiced in my favour ; and then Fico por los malign atores. Censures will not affect me ; for I am armed so strong in vanity, that they will pass by me as the idle wind which I regard not, I think it pretty near equal, in a country place, whether you gain the small number of tasters, or the large crowd of the vul- gar. The latter are more frequently met with, and gape, stupent, and stare much more. But one would choose to please a few friends of taste before mob or gentry, the great vulgar or the small; because therein one gratifies both one's social passions and one's pride, that is, one's self-love. Above all things, I would wish to please you ; and if I have a wish that projects or is prominent be- yond the rest, it is to see you placed to your satisfaction near me ; but Fortune must vary from her usual treatment be- fore she favours me so far. And yet there was a time, when one might pro- bably have prevailed on her. I knew not what to do. The affair was so in- tricately circumstanced — your surpris- ^ECT. I. RECENT. 349 ing silence after the hint I gave. Mr. D — offering to serve any friend of mine ; nay, pressing me to use the opportunity. His other relations, his guardians, teas- ing him with sure symptoms of a rup- ture in case of a refusal on their side. Mr. P — soliciting me if the place were sold, which it could not legally he. Friendship, propriety, impartiality, self- interest (which I little regarded), endea- vouring to distract me ; I think I never spent so disagreeable an half-year since I was born. To close the whole, I could not foresee the event, which is almost foretold in your last letter, and I knew I could not serve you ; but I must render it a necessary one. In short, when I can tell you the whole affair at leisure, you will own it to be of such a nature, that I must be ever in suspense concerning my behaviour, and of course shall never re- flect on it with pleasure. Believe me, with the truest affection, yours. LETTER XIII. From the same to the same. It is somewhere about the 2()th of Sept. 1747; and I write from The Leasowes. Dear sir, I THINK I have lived to out-correspond almost all my correspondents ; whether you are the last that is to be subdued, I will not say ; the rest are so fatigued, that they are not able to achieve a line. Apprised of this, and being by nature disposed to have mercy on the van- quished (parcere subjectis), I seldom write a syllable more than is requisite to fur- ther some scheme, or ascertain some in- terview, the latter of these being the purpose of this mine epistle. I am in great hopes I shall be at liberty to see you ere many weeks be past ; and would beg of you, in the mean time, to inform me, by a letter, when I am likely, or when very unlikely, to meet with you at home. I am detained, just at present, by continual expectations of the Hagley family. As I was returning from church on Sunday last, whom should I meet, in a chaise with two horses lengthways, but that right friendly bard Mr. Thomson ? I complimented him upon his arrival in this country, and asked him to accom- pany Mr. Lyttelton to the Leasowes, which he said he would with abundance of pleasure : and so we parted. You will observe, that the more stress I lay upon this visit, and the more I discover to you, the more substantial is my apology for deferring mine into Warwicksliire. I own, I am pleased with the prospect of shewing them something at the Leasowes beyond what they expect. I have begun my terrace on the high hill I shewed you, made some considerable improvements in Virgil's Grove, and finished a walk from it to the house, after a manner which you will approve. They are going to build a castle in the park round the lodge, which, if well executed, must have a good effect ; and they are going like- wise to build a rotund to terminate the vista. The fault is, that they anticipate every thing which I propose to do when I become rich; but as that is never likely to be, perhaps it is not of any im- portance ; but what I term rich, implies no great deal ; I believe you are a wit- ness to the moderation of my desires ; and I flatter myself that you will believe your friend in that respect something above the vulgar : Crede non ilium tibi de scelesta Plebe dilectum, neque sic Jidelem, Sic lucro aversum, potuisse nasci Paire pudenda. If I come to your house, positively I will not go to see Mr. M . He has been twice as near me as the Grange, with C — L — , and never deemed my place worth seeing. I doubt, you are a little too modest in praising it wherever you go. Why do not you applaud it with both hands, utroque pollice? *' Parcen- tes ego dexterus odi, sparge rosas." I am so very partial to my native place, that it seems a miracle to me that it is not more famous. But I complain un- justly of you; for, as you have always contributed to my happiness, you have taken every opportunity to contribute to my figure. I wish I could say the same of some who have it more in their power. I have yet about a thousand things to say to you, not now, though ; lady L— h's visit I reserve till I see you. A coach with a coronet is a pretty kind of phoenomenon at my door, few prettier, except the face of such a friend as you ; for 1 do not want the grace to prefer a generous and spirited friendship to all the gewgaws that ambition can contrive. I have M rote out my Elegies, and heartily 350 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. wish you had them to look over before I come. — I know not how to send them. — I shall bring and leave some poetry with you. — *' Thus et odores .'*' or rather a proper covering- for '* Thus et odores, et piper, et quicquid chartis amicitur in- eptis.** Adieu ! dear sir, believe me ever yours. LETTER XIV. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Graves. 1747. Dear sir, Being just returned from a small excur- sion, it was with the utmost pleasure that I read over your letter ; and, though it abounds both in wit and waggery, I sit down incontinently to answer it with none. The agreeableness of your letters is now heightened by the surprise they give me. I must own, I have thought you in a manner lost to the amusements in which you once delighted, correspon- dences, works of taste and fancy, &c. If you think the opinion worth removing, you need only favour me with such a letter now and then, and I will place you (in my imagination) where you shall see all the favourites of fortune cringing at your feet. I think I could add about half a dozen hints to your observations on electricity, which might at least disguise the facts : and then why will you not put it into some newspaper, or monthly pamphlet ? You might discover yourself to whom you have a mind. It would give more than ordinary pleasure at this time. — Some other will take the hint. — Pity your piece should not have the advantage of novelty as well as of wit ! I dined and stayed a night with Dr. E — : he was extremely obliging, and I am glad of such a friend to visit at B — . He asked much after you. — He shewed me his Ovid — I advised him to finish some one epistle highly, that he might shew it. — The whole Avill not take, though it goes against me to tell him so. I should be glad he could succeed at B — ; and could I serve him, it would be with a safe conscience, for I take him to excel the rest of B — 's physicians far in point of speculation and diligence, &c. I send you the song you asked for, and request of you to v>'v\te me out your new edition of the Election Verses ; and, at your leisure, a copy of the poem which we altered. THE LARK. Go, tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies. To Daphne's window speed thy way. And there on quiv'ring pinions rise, And there thy vocal art display. And if she deign thy notes to hear, And if she praise thy matin song; Tell her, the sounds that sooth her ear. To simple British birds belong. Tell her in livelier plumes array'd. The bird from Indian groves may shine: But ask the lovely, partial maid. What are his notes compar'd to thine ? Then bid her treat that witless beau And all his motley race with scorn ; And heal deserving Damon's woe. Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn. I am, sir, your most faithful friend and servant. Have you read Watson, Martyn, and Freke, on electricity ? I accidentally met with the two former, by which my head is rendered almost giddy — Electrics, non- electrics, electrics per se, and bodies that are only conductors of electricity, have a plaguy bad effect on so vortical a brain as mine. I will infallibly spend a week with you, perhaps about February, if it suits you : though I think too it must be later. I have been painting in water-colours, during a visit I made, flowers. I would recommend the amusement to you, if you can allow it the time that is ex- pedient. I trust you will give me one entire^ week in the spring, when my late altera- tions may exhibit themselves to ad- vantage. LETTER XV. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Jago. The Leasowes, March 23, 1747-8. Dear sir, I HAVE sent Tom over for the papers which I left under your inspection ; hav- ing nothing to add upon this head, but that the more freely and particularly you give me your opinion, the greater will be the obligation which I shall have to* acknowledge, - Sect. 1. RECENT. 351 I shall be very glad if 1 happen to re- ceive a good large bundle of your own compositions ; in regard to which, I will observe any commands which you shall please to lay upon me. I am favoured with a certain corre- spondence, by way of letter, which I told you I should be glad to cultivate ; and I find it very entertaining. Pray did you receive my answer to your last letter, sent by way of London ? I should be extremely sorry to be de- barred the pleasure of writing to you by the post, as often as T feel a violent pro- pensity to describe the notable incidents of my life ; which amount to about as much as the tinsel of your little boy's hobby-horric. I am on the point of purchasing a couple of busts for the niches of my hall ; and believe me, my good friend, I never proceed one step in ornamenting my lit- tle farm, but I enjoy the hopes of ren- dering it more agreeable to you, and the small circle of acquaintance which some- times favour me with their company. I shall be extremely glad to see you and Mr. Fancourt when the trees are green ; that is, in May ; but I would not have you content yourself with a single visit this summer. If Mr. Hardy (to whom you will make my compliments) inclines to favour me so far, you must calculate so as to wait on him whenever he finds it convenient ; though I have better hopes of making his reception here agreeable to him when my lord Dudley comes down. I wonder how he would like the scheme 1 am upon, of exchanging a large tankard for a silver standi sh. I have had a couple of paintings given me since you were here. One of them is a Madonna, valued, as it is said, at ten guineas in Italy, but which you would hardly purchase at the price of five shil- lings. However, I am endeavouring to make it out to be one of Carlo Maratt's, who was a first hand, and famous for Madonnas ; even so as to be nick -named Cartuccio delle Madonne, by Salvator Rosa. Two letters of the cypher (CM) agree ; what shall I do with regard to the third ? It is a small piece, and sadly black- •ened. It is about the size (though iiot •quite the shape) of the Bacchus over the parlour door, and has much such a frame. A person may amuse himself almost as cheaply as he pleases. 1 find no small delight in rearing all sorts of poultry ; geese, turkeys, pullets, ducks, &c. I am also somewhat smitten with a black- bird which I have purchased : a very fine one ; brother by father, but not by mo- ther, to the unfortunate bird you so beautifully describe, a copy of which de- scription you must not fail to send me ; — but as I said before, one may easily ha- bituate one's self to cheap amusements ; that is, rural ones (for all town amuse- ments are horridly expensive) ; — I would have you cultivate your garden ; plant flowers ; have a bird or two in the hall (they will at least amuse your children) ; write now and then a song; buy now and then a book ; write now and then a letter to your most sincere friend, and affectionate servant. P. S. I hope you have exhausted all your spirit of criticism upon my verses, that you may have none left to cavil at this letter ; for I am ashamed to think, that you, in particular, should receive the dullest I ever wrote in my life. Make my compliments to Mrs. Jago. — She can go a little abroad, you say. — ^Tell her, I should be proud to shew her the Lea- se wes. Adieu! LETTER XVI. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. — , on his Marriage. This was written August 21, 1748; but not sent till the 28th. Dear sir. How little soever I am inclined to write at this time, I cannot bear that you should censure me of unkindness in seeming to overlook the late change in your situa- tion. It will, I hope, be esteemed super- fluous in me to send you my most cor- dial wishes that you may be happy ; but it will, perhaps, be something more sig- nificant to say, that I believe you will : building my opinion on the knowledge I have long had of your own temper, and the account you give me of the person whom you have made choice of, to whom I desire you to pay my sincere and most affectionate compliments. I shall always be glad to find you jor«- sentibus cequum, though I should always be pleased when I saw you tentantem major (I. I think you should neglect no opportuhity at this time of life to push 352 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV- your fortune so far as an elegant compe- tency, that you be not embarrassed with those kind of solicitudes towards the evening of your day : Ne te semper inops agitet vexetgue cupula, Ne pavor, et rerum mediocriter utili/m spes ! I would have you acquire, if possible, what the world calls, with some pro- priety, an easy fortune ; and what I inter- pret, such a fortune as allows of some inaccuracy and inattention, that one may not be continually in suspense about the laying out a shilling. This kind of ad- vice may seem extremely dogmatical in me ; but, if it carries any haughty air, I will obviate it by owning that 1 never acted as I say. I have lost my road to hajipiness, I confess ; and instead of pur- suing the way to the fine lawns and rene- rable oaks which distinguish the region of it, 1 am got into the pitiful parterre- garden of amusement, and view the no- bler scenes at a distance. I think I can see the road too that leads the better way, and can shew it others ; but I have many miles to measure back before I can get into it myself, and no kind of reso- lution to take a single step. My chief amusements at present are the same they have long been, and lie scattered about my farm. The French have Avhat they call a parque ornee ; I suppose, approach- ing about as near to a garden as the park at Hagley. I give my place the title of Viferme ornee; though, if I had money, I should hardly confine myself to such de- corations as that name requires. I have made great improvements ; and the con- sequence is, that I long to have you see them. I have not heard whether Miss — 's match proceeded. — I suppose your ob- jections were grounded on the person's age and temper ; and that they had the less weight, as they supposed you acted indiscreetly yourself: I can say but little on the occasion. You know better than I do. Only this I must add, that I have so great an esteem for your sister, that it will be necessary to my ease, that whoever marries her she should be happy. I have little hopes that I shall now see you often in this country ; though it would be you, in all probability, as soon as any, that would take a journey of fifty miles, " To see the poorest of the sons of men." the truth is, my affairs are miserably embroiled, by my own negligence, and the non-payment of tenants. I believe I shall be forced to seize on one next week for three years and a half s rent, due last Lady-day ; an affair to which 1 am greatly averse, both through indolence and compassion. I hope, however, I shall be always able (as I am sure I shall be desirous) to entertain a friend of a phi- losophical regimen, such as you and Mr. Whistler; and that will be all I can do. Hagley park is considerably improved since you were here, and they have built a castle by way of ruin on the highest part of it, which is just seen from my wood ; but by the removal of a tree or two (growing in a wood that joins to the park, and which, fortunately enough, be- longs to Mr. Dolman and me) I believe it may be rendered a considerable object here. I purpose to write to Mr. Whistler either this post or the next. The fears you seemed in upon my account are very kind, but have no grounds. I am, dear Mr. — , habitually and sincerely your, &c. My humble service to your neighbours. — Smith (whom you knew at Derby) will publisli a print of my grove in a small collection. LETTER XVII. Mr. Shenstqne to Mr. Jago, with an In- vitation to the Leasowes. Sept. 3, Saturday niyht, 1748. Dear Mr. Jago, I HARDLY know whcthcr it will be pru- dent in me to own, that I wrote you a long letter upon the receipt of your last, which I have now upon my table. I condemn this habit in myself entirely, and should, I am sure, be very unhappy, if my friends, by my example, should be induced to contract the same. The truth is, I had not expressed myself in it to my mind, and it was full of blots, and blun- ders, and interlinings ; yet, such as it was, it had wearied my attention, and given me disinclination to begin it afresh. I am now impatient to remove any scru- ple you may have concerning my grate- ful sense of all your favours, and the invariable continuance of my affection and esteem. — I find by your last oblig- ing letter, that my machinations and de- vices are not-entirelyprivate. — You knew Sect. I. R E C E N T 353 of my draught of Hagley castle about the bigness of a barley-corn ; you knew of our intended visit to lady Luxborough's ; and I must add, Mr. Thomas Hall knew of my contrivance for the embellishment of Mr. Hardy's house. Nothing is there hid that shall not be revealed. Our visit to Barrels is now over and past. Lady Luxborough has seen Hagley castle in the original : and as to my desire that my draught might be shewn to no Chris- tian soul, you surely did but ill comply with it, when you shewed that drawing to a clergyman. However, you may have acted up to my real meaning, if you have taken care not to shew it to any connois- seur. I meant chiefly to guard against any one that knows the rules ; in whose eyes, I am sure, it could not turn to my credit. Pray how do you like the fes- toons dangling over the oval windows ? It is the chief a,dvantage in repairing an old house, that one may deviate from the rules without any extraordinary censure. I will not trouble you now with many particulars. The intent of Tom's coming is, to desire your company and ^Irs. Jago's this week. I should be extremely glad if your convenience would allow you to come on Monday or Tuesday ; but if it is entirely impracticable, I would beseech you not to put off the visit longer than the Monday following, for the leaves of my groves begin to fall a great pace. I beg once more, you would let no small incon- venience prevent your being here on Mon- day. As to my visit to Icheneton, you may depend upon it soon after ; and I hope you will not stand upon punctilio, when I mention my inclination that you may all take a walk through my coppices before their beauty is much impaired. Were I in a sprightly vein, I would aim at saying something genteel by way of answer to Mrs. Jago's compliment. As it is, I can only thank her for the sub- stance, and applaud the politeness of it. 1 postpone all other matters till I see you. I am, habitually and sincerely, your, &c. I beg my compliments to Mr. Hardy. P. S. 1 am not accustomed, my dear friend, to send you a blank page ; nor can I be content to do so now. I thank you very sensibly for the verses with which you honour me. I think them good lines, and so do others that have seen them ; but you will give me leave, Avhen I see you, to propose some little altera- tion. As to an epistle, it would be exe- cuted with difficulty, and I Avould have it turn to your credit as well as mj own. But you have certainly of late acquired an ease in writing ; and I am tempted to think, that what you write hencefortli will be universally good. Persons that have seen youf* Elegies like ' ' The Black- birds" best, as it is most assuredly the most correct ; but I, who pretend to great penetration, can foresee that "The Lin- nets" will be made to excel. More of this when I see you. Poor Miss G — , J — R— says, is married ; and poor Mr. Thomson, Mr. Pitt tells me, is dead. He was to have been at Hagley this week, and then I should probably have seen him here. As it is, I wdll erect an urn in Vir- gil's Grove to his memory. I was really as much shocked to hear of his death, as if I had known and loved him for a num- ber of years : God knows, I lean on a very few friends : and if they drop rae, I become a wretched misanthrope. LETTER XVIIL 3Jt\ Skensione to a Friend, disappoint hig him of a Visit. Fie on Mr. N — ! he has disappointed me of the most seasonable visit that heart could wish or desire. My flow^ers in blos- som, my walks newly cleaned, my neigh- bours invited, and I languishing for lack of your company ! Mean time you are going to dance attendance on a courder. — Would to God he may disappoint you I according to the usual practice of those gentlemen ; I mean, by giving you a far better living than you ever expected. I have no sooner made than I am ready to recall that wish, in order to substitute another in its place ; which is, that you may rather squat yourself down upon a fat goose living in ^Warwickshire, or one in Staffordshire, or perhaps Worcester- shire, of the same denomination. I do not mention Shropshire, because I think I am more remote from the main body of that county than I am from either of the others. But, nevertheless, by all means wait on Mr. N — ; shew him all respect, yet so as not to lay out any of the pro- fits of your contingent living in a black velvet Avaistcoat and breeches to appear before him. True merit needeth nought of 2 A 3.^4 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. this. BesideSj'peradventure, you may not receive the first quarter's income of it this half year. He will prohably do something f©r you one time or other ; but you shall never go into Ireland, that is certain, for le»s than a deanery ; not for less than the deanery of St. Patrick's, if you take my advice. Lower your hopes only to advance your surprise, '^^ grata .superve- nient qv(B non spejYibimus." Come to me as you may. A week is elapsed since you began to be detained ; you may surely come over in a fortnight now at farthest : I will be at home. However, write directly ; you know our letters are long upon their journey. 1 expected you the beginning of every week, till I received your last letter, impatiently. For my part, I begin to wean myself from all hopes and expectations whatever. I feed my wild-ducks, and I water my carnations ; happy enough, if I could ex- tinguish my ambition quite, or indulge (what I hope I feel in an equal degree) the desire of being something more bene- ficial in my sphere. Perhaps some few other circumstances would want also to be adjusted. I have just read lord Bolingbroke's three Letters, which I like as much as most pieces of politics I ever read. I admire, especially, the spirit of the style. 1 as much admire the editor's unpo- pular preface. I know the family hi- therto seemed to make it a point to con- ceal Pope's affair ; and now, the editor, imder lord B.'s inspection, not only re- lates, but invites people to think the worst of it. What collateral reasons my lord may have for thinking ill of Mr. Pope, I cannot say ; but surely it is not political to lessen a person's character that had done one so much honour. I am, dear sir, your, &c. I have this moment received a long letter from lady Luxborough ; and you are to look on all I said concerning both lord Bolingbroke's affair and her resent- ment as premature. My lady's daughter and son-in-law visit her next week. LETTER XIX. Mr, Shenstone to Mr, Jago. From the Leasowes, as it appears on a rainy evening, June 1749. Dear sir. It would probably be so long before you can receive this letter by the post, that I cannot think of subjecting my thanks for your last, or my hopes of seeing you soon , to such an uncertainty. I shall now have it in my power to meet you at Mr. Wren's immediately, so would lose no time in re- questing your company here next week, if you please. I hope Mrs. Jago also will accompany you, and that you will set out the first day of the week, even Mon- day ; that you may not leave me in less than six days' time, under a pretence of necessity. As to the verses you were so kind to convey, I will take occasion, when you come, — " To find out, like a friend, Something to blame, and mickle to commend." So I say no more at present on that head. I love to read verses, but I write none. *' Peti, nihil me sicut antejuvat scribere !*' I will not say none ; for I wrote the following at breakfast yesterday, and they are all I have wrote since I saw you. They are now in one of the root-houses of Vir- gil's Grove, for the admonition of my good friends the vulgar ; of whom I have multitudes every Sunday evening, and who very fortunately believe in fairies, and are no judges of poetry. *' Herein cool grot, and mossy cell. We tripping fauns and fairies dwell : Though rarely seen by mortal eye, Oft as the moon, ascended high, Darts through yon limes her qixiv'ring beam. We frisk it near this crystal stream. *'Theu fear to spoil these sacred bow'rs; Nor wound the shrubs, nor crop the flow'rs : So may your path with sweets abound, So may your couch with rest be crown'd ! But ill betide or nymph or swain, Who dares these hallow'd haunts profane." Oberon. I suppose the rotund at Hagley is com- pleted ; but I have not seen it hitherto ; neither do I often journey or visit any where, except when a shrub or flower is upon the point of blossoming near my walks. I forget one visit I lately made in the neighbourhood, to a young cler- gyman of taste and ingenuity. His name is Pixell ; he plays finely upon the violin, and very well upon the harpsichord ; has set many things to music, some in the soft way, with which I was much de- lighted. He is young, and has time to improve himself. He gave me an oppor- tunity of being acquainted with him by frequently visiting, and introducing com- Sect. I. R E C E N T. 355 pany to my walks. I met him one morn- ing with an Italian in my grove, and our acquaintance has been growing- ever since. He has a share in an estate that is near mc, and lives there at present ; but I doubt will not do so long; when you come, I will send for him. Have you read my lord Bolingbroke's Essays on Patriotism, &c. ? and have you read Merope ? and do you take in the Magazin des Londres? and pray how does your garden flourish ? I warrant you do not yet know tlie differ- ence betwixt a ranunculus and an ane- mone — God help ye ! Come to me, and be informed of the nature of all plants, '* from the cedar on Mount Lebanon to the hyssop that springeth out of the wall." Pray do not fail to decorate your new garden, whence you may transplant all kinds of flowers into your verses. If by chance you make a visit at I fifty years hence, from some distant part of England, shall you forget this little angle where you used to muse and sing ? *' JLn unquam, Sfc. Post aliquot, tua regna videns nu'rabere, aristas.'' I expect by the return of Tom to re- ceive a trifle that will amuse you. It is a small gold seal of Vida's head, given by Vertue to a relation of mine, who published Vida, and introduced Vertue into business. Perhaps you remember Mr. Tristram of Hampton, and the day we spent there from school ; it was his. I am, very cordially, yours. LETTER XX. Mr. Shenstonc to C- W- -, Esq. TheLeasowes, Nov. 2, 1753. Dear sir, It never can be that I owe you for three letters : as to two, I will agree with you ; one that I received together with my books, and the other soon after ; but that I am indebted for more than these — Credut JudcEus Apella, Non ego. Even that same Judceus Apella who af- fords me this very opportunity of send- ing my compliments to you and Mrs. W — , and of assuring you that if I had not purposed to have seen you, I had wrote to you long ago. Master Harris talks very respectfully of your garden ; and we have no dispute, save only in one point — he says, that you labour very hard in your vocation : whereas I am not willing to allow that all the work you ever did, or Avill do in it, is worth a single bunch of radishes., However, I dare not contradict him too much, because he waits for my letter. How happy are you that can hold up your spade, and cry, " Avaunt, Satan !" when a toyman offers you his deceitful vanities ! Do not you rejoice inwardly, and pride yourself greatly in your own philosophy ? " Twas thus — The wise Athenian cross'd a glitt'ring fair: Unmov'd by tongues and sights he walk'd the place, Through tape, tags, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and lace; Then bends from Mars's Hill his awful eyes, And, 'What a world I never want!' he cries." Parnei.t. Meantime do not despise others that can find any needful amusement in what, I think, Bunyan very aptly calls Vanity Fair ; I have been at it many times this season, and have bought many kinds of merchandise there. It is a part of phi- losophy, to adapt one's passions to one's way of life ; and the solitary unsocial sphere in which I move makes me think it happy that I can retain a relish for such trifles as I can drav/ into it. Meantime, I dare not reason too much upon this head. Reason, like the famous concave mirror at Paris, would in two minutes vitrify all the Jew's Pack : I mean, that it would immediately destroy all the form, colour, and beauty, of every thing that is not merely useful. But I ramble too far, and you do not want such specula- tions. My intent, when I sat down, was to tell you that I shall probably see yon very soon, and certainly remain in the meantime, and at all times, sir, your, &c. LETTER XXI. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Graves, on the Death of Mr, Shenstone^s Brother. The Leasowes', Feb. 14, 175?. Dear Mr. Graves, You will be amazed at my long silence ; and it might reasonably excite somer dis- gust, if my days had passed of late in the manner they used to do : but I am not the man I was ; perhaps I never shall be. Alas ! my dearest friend ! I have lost my only brother ! and, since the fatal close of November, I have had neither peace nor respite from agonizing thoughts ! You, I think, have seen my brother; 2 A 2 356 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book iV- but perhaps had no opportunity of dis- tinguishing him from the g'roup of others whom we called good-natured men. This part of his character was so visible in his countenance, that he was gene- rally beloved at sight : I, who must be allowed to know him, do assure you, that his understanding was no way inferior to his benevolence. He had not only a sound judgment, but a lively wit and genuine humour. As these were many times eclipsed by his native bashfulness, so his benevolence only suffered by being shewn to an excess. I here mean his giving too indiscrimi- nately into those jovial meetings of company, where the warmth of a social temper is discovered with least reserve ; but the virtues of his head and heart would soon have shone without alloy. The foibles of his youth were wearing off ; and his affection for me and regard to my advice, with his own good sense, would soon have rendered him all that I could have wished in a successor. I never in my life knew a person more sincere in the expression of his love or dislike. But it was the former that suited the propensity of his heart ; the latter was as transient as the starts of pas- sion that occasioned it. In short, with much true genius and real fortitude, he was, according to the English acceptation, ' ' a truly honest man ; " and I think I may also add, a truly English character ; but *' Habeo, dixi? immo hahui fratrem ei amicu7n, Chreme /" All this have I lost in him. He is now in regard to this world no more than a mere idea ; and this idea, therefore, though deeply tinged with me- lancholy, I must, and surely ought to, cherish and preserve. I believe I wrote you some account of his illness last spring ; from which to all appearance he was tolerably well reco- vered. He took the air, and visited about with me, during the warmer months of summer ; but my pleasure was of short duration. *' Hasit lateri lethalis arundo /" Tlie peripneumony under which he la- boured in the spring had terminated in an adhesion of the lungs to the pleura, so that he could never lie but upon his right side ; and this, as the weather grew colder, occasioned an obstruction that could never be surmounted. Though my reason forewarned me of the event, I was not the more pi epared for it. Let me not dwell upon it It is altogether insupportable in every re- spect, and my imagination seems more assiduous in educing pain from this occasion, than I ever yet found it in administering to my pleasure. This hurts me to no purpose — I know it ; and yet, when I have avocated my thoughts, and fixed them for a while upon common amusements, I suffer the same sort of consciousness as if 1 were guilty of a crime. Believe me, this has been the most sensible affliction I ever felt in my life ; and you, who know my anxiety when I had far less reason to complain, will more easily conceive it now, than I am able to describe it. I cannot pretend to fill up my paper with my usual subjects. I should thank you for your remarks upon my poetry ; but I despise poetry : and I might tell you of all my little rural improvements ; but I hate them. What can I now ex- pect from my solitary rambles through them, but a series of melancholy reflec- tions and irksome anticipations ? JEven the pleasure I should take in showing them to you, the greatest they can afford me, must be now greatly inferior to what it might formerly have been. How have I prostituted my sorrow on occasions that little concerned me ! I am ashamed to think of that idle " Elegy upon Autumn," when I have so much more important cause to hate and to con- demn it now : but the glare and gaiety of the spring is what I principally dread ; when I shall find all things restored but my poor brother, and something like those lines of Milton will run for ever in my thoughts : " Thus, with the year, Seasons return ; but not to me returns A brother's cordial smile, at eve or morn." I shall then seem to wake from amuse- ments, company, every sort of inebria- tion with which I have been endeavour- ing to lull my grief asleep, as from a dream ; and I shall feel as if I were, that instant, despoiled of all I have chiefly va- lued for thirty years together ; of all my present happiness, and all my future pros- pects. The melody of birds, which he no more must hear ; the cheerful beams of the sun, of which he no more must par- take ; every wonted pleasure will produce that sort of pain to which my temper is most obnoxious. Do not consider this as poetry. Poetry on such occasions is no Sect. I, R E C E N T. ;io7 more than literal truth. In the present case it is less ; for half the tenderness I feel is altogether shapeless and inex- pressible. After all, the wisdom of the world may perhaps esteem me a gainer. Ill do they judge of this event, who think that any shadow of amends can be made for the deatli of a brother, and the disappoint- ment of all my schemes, by the acces- sion of some fortune, which I never can enjoy! This is a mournful narrative : I will not, therefore, enlarge it. Amongst all changes and chances, I often think of you ; and pray there may be no suspi- cion or jealousy betwixt us during the rest of our lives. I am, dear sir, yours, &c. LETTER XXII. Mr. Shenstone to C — IV — , Esq. July 22, 1732. Dear Mr. W~ , I DO not know why I made you a pro- mise of a pretty long letter. Wliat I now write will be but a moderate one, both in regard to length and style ; yet write I must, par maniere d' acquit, and you have brought fourpence expense upon yourself for a parcel of nonsense, and to no manner of purpose. This is not tau- tology, you must observe ; for nonsense sometimes answers very considerable purposes. In love, it is eloquence itself. In friendship, therefore, by all the rules of sound logic, you must allow it to be something ; what, I cannot say, " nequeo monstrare, et sentio tantum.'^ The prin- cipal part of a correspondendence betwixt two idle men consists in two important inquiries — what we do, and how we do : but as all persons ought to give satisfac- tion before they expect to receive it, I am to tell you in the first place, that my own health is tolerably good, or rather what I must call good, being, I think, much better than it has been this last half year. Then as touching my occu- pation, alas! "Othello's occupation's gone." I neither read nor write aught besides a fev/ letters ; and I give myself up entirely to scenes of dissipation ; lounge at my lord Dudley's for near a week together ; make dinners ; accept of invitations ; sit up till three o'clock in the morning with young sprightly married women, over wliite port and vin de paysans ; ramble over my fields ; issue out orders to my hay-makers ; foretell rain and fair weather ; enjoy the fra- grance of hay, the cocks, and the wind- rows ; admire that universal lawn which is produced by the scythe ; sometimes in - spect and draw mouldings for my car- penters ; sometimes paper my walls, and at other times my ceilings ; do every so- cial office that falls in my way, but never seek out for any. " Sed vos quid tandem ? qucB circupivo- litas agilis thyma ? non tu corpus eras sine pectore. Non tibi parvum ingenium, non incultum est .'^^ In short, what do you ? and how do you do ? — that is all. Tell my young pupil, your son, he must by all manner of means send me a Latin letter : and if he have any billet in French for Miss Lea at The Grange, or even in Hebrew, Coptic, or Syriac, I will engage it shall be received very gra- ciously. Thither am I going to dinner this day, and there " implebor veteris Bacchi, pinguisque feriiia All this looks like extreme jollity ; but is this the true state of the case, or may I not more properly apply the " Spent vullu simulat, premit atrum corde de- lorem ? " Accept this scrawl in place of a letter, and believe me yours, &c. LETTER XXIII . Mr. Shenstone to Mr. G — . on the Re- ceipt of his Picture. The Leasowes, Oct. 3, 1752. Dear Mr. G— , I AM very unfeignedly ashamed to reflect how long it is since I received your pre- sent, and how much longer it is since I received your letter. I have been resolv- ing to write to you almost daily ever since you left me ; yet have foolishly enough permitted avocations (of infi- nitely less importance than your corre- spondence) to interfere with my gratitude, my interest, and my inclination. What apology I have to make, though no way adequate to my negligence, is in short as follows. After the receipt of your letter, I deferred writing till I could speak of the arrival of your picture. This did not happen till about a month or five weeks agO, when I was embar- 358 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV rassedwith masons, carvers, carpenters, and company, all at a time. And though it were idle enough to say, that I could not find one vacant hour for my purpose, yet in truth my head was so contused by these multifarious distractions, that 1 could have written nothing satisfactory either to myself or you ; nothing worth a single penny, supposing the postage Avere to cost you no more. The work- men had not finished my rooms a minute, when lady Luxborough, Mrs. Davies, and Mr. Outing arrived, with five ser- vants and a set of horses, to stay with me for some time. After a nine days' visit, I returned with them to Barrels, where I continued for a week ; and whither (by the way) T go again with lord Dudley in about a fortnight's time. Other com- pany filled up the interstices of my sum- mer ; and I hope my dear friend will ac- cept of this apology for so long a chasm of silence, during which I have been uni- formly at his service, and true to that inviolable friendship I shall ever bear him. I proceed now to thank you for the distinction you shew me, in sending me your picture : I do it very sincerely. It is assuredly a strong likeness, as my lady Luxborough v/ith all her servants, that have seen you, pronounce, as well as I ; consequently more valuable to a friend than a face he does not know, though it were one of Raphael's. The smile about the mouth is bad ; as it agrees but ill with the gravity of the eyes, and as a smile ever so little outre has a bad effect in a picture where it is constant, though it may be ever so graceful in a person where it is transitory. However, this may be altered, when I can meet with a good painter. I have no other objection, but to the prominence of the belly. The hair, I think, is good; and the coat and band no way exceptionable. 1 have given it all the advantage I can : it has a good light, and makes part of an ele- gant chimney-piece in a genteel, though little breakfast room, at the end of my house. Mr. Wliistler and I are now upon terms, and two or three friendly letters have been interchanged betwixt us. He press- es me to come to Whitchurch, and I him to come over to the Leasowes ; but the winter cometh, when no man can visit. The dispute is adjusted by time, whilst we arc arguing it by exi)Ostulation — no uncommon event in most sublunary projects ! Ijady Luxborough said very extraordi- nary things in praise of Mrs. G — , after you left us at Barrels : yet I sincerely be- lieve no more than she deserves. I took the liberty of shewing her your letter here, as it included a compliment to her which I thought particularly genteel — She will always consider you as a person of genius, and her friend. During most of this summer (wherein I have seen much company either here or at lord Dudley's), I have been almost constantly engaged in one continued scene of jollity . I endeavoured to find re- lief from such sort df dissipation ; and, when I had once given in to it, I was obliged to proceed ; as, they say, is the case when persons disguise their faces with paint. Mine was a sort of painting applied to my temper — " Spem vultu si- midare, premere atrum corde doloremJ'^ And the moment I left it off, my soul appeared again aU haggard and forlorn. My company has now deserted me ; the spleen-fogs begin to rise ; and the terri- ble incidents of last winter revive apace in my memory. This is my state of mind, Avhile I write you these few lines ; yet, 1 thank God, my health is not much amiss. I did not forget my promise of a box, &c. to Mrs. G — . I had a dozen sent me, one or two of which I could have liked, had they been better finished. They were of good oval, white enamel, with flowers, &c. ; but horridly gilt, and not accurately painted. I beg my best service to her, and will make a fresh essay. My dearest friend, accept this awkward let- ter for the present. In a few posts I will write again. Believe me yours from the bottom of my soul. I will send you a label for made wine, after my own plan. It is enamel, with grapes, shepherd's pipe, &c. The motto *' Vin de PaisanJ' LETTER XXIV. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Jago. The Leasowes, Nov. 15, 1752. Dear Mr. Jago, Could I with convenience mount my horse, and ride to Harbury this instant. Sect. I. RECENT. 359 I should much more willingly do so than begin this letter. Such terrible events have happened to us, since we saw each other last, that, however irksome it may be to dwell upon them, it is in the same degree unnatural to substitute any sub- ject in their place. I do sincerely forgive your long silence, my good friend, indeed I do ; though it gave me uneasiness. I hope you do the same by mine. I own, I could not readily account for the former period of yours, any otherwise than by supposing that I had said or done something in the levity of my heart, which had given you dis- gust ; but being conscious to myself of the most sincere regard for you, and be- lieving it could never be discredited for any trivial inadvertencies, I remember, I continued still in expectation of a letter, and did not dream of writing till such time as I had received one. I trusted you would write at last ; and that by all my past endeavours to demonstrate my friendship, you would believe the tree was rooted in my heart, whatever ir- regularity you might observe in the branches. This was my situation before that dreadful sera which gave me such a shock as to banish my best friends for a time out of my memory. And when they re- curred, as they did the first of any thing, I was made acquainted with that deplo- rable misfortune of yours. Believe me, I sympathized in your affliction, notwith- standing my own ; but alas ! what com- fort could I administer, who had need of every possible assistance to support myself? I wrote indeed a few lettors with difficulty ; amongst the rest, one to my friend Graves ; but it was to vent my complaint. I will send you the letter, if you please, as it is by far my least pain- ful method of conveying you some ac- count of my situation. Let it convince you, that I could have written nothing at that time, which could have been of any service to you : let it afford you at least a faint sketch of my dearest bro- ther's character ; but let it not appear an ostentatious display of sorrow, of which I am by no means guilty. I know but too well that I discovered upon the oc- casion, what some would call an un- manly tenderness ; but I know also, that sorrow upon such subjects as these is very consistent with virtue, and with the most absolute resignation to the just decrees of Providence — " Hominis est eniin afficl dolore, sentire; resistere tamen et solatia admiitere, non solatiis non egere'" (Pliny). I drank, purchased amusements, never suffered myself to be a minute without company, no matter what, so it was con- tinual, xit length, by an attention to such conversation and such amusements as I could at other times despise, I for- got so far as to be cheerful. And after this, the summer, through an ahuost constant succession of lively and agree- able visitants, proved even a scene of jol- lity. It was inebriation all, though of a mingled nature ; yet has it maintained a sort of truce with grief, till time can assist me more effectually by throwing back the event to a distance. Now, in- deed, that my company has all for- saken me, and I am delivered up to win- ter, silence, and reflection, the incidents of the last year revive apace in my me- mory ; and I am even astonished to think of the gaiety of my summer. The fatal anniversary, the " dies quern semper acer^ hum^'' &c. is beginning to approach, and every face of the sky suggests the ideas of last winter. Yet I find myself cheer- ful in company ; nor would I recommend it to you to be much alone. You would lay the highest obligation upon me by coming over at this time. I pressed your brother, whom I saw at Birming- ham, to use his influence with you ; but if you can by no means undertake the journey, I will take my speediest oppor- tunity of seeing you at Harbury. Mr. Miller invited me strenuously to meet Dr. Lyttelton at his house ; but I believe my most convenient season will be, when my lord Dudley goes to Barrels ; for I can but iU bear the pensiveness of a long and lonely expedition. After all, if you could come hither first, it would afford me the most entire satisfaction. I have been making alterations in my house that would amuse you ; and have many matters to discourse with you, which would be endless to mention upon paper. Adieu ! my dear friend ! May your merit be known to some one who has greater power to serve you than myself ; but be assured, at the same time, that no one loves you better, or esteems you more. 360 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER XXV. Mr. Shenstone to Mr. Jago. The Leasowes, Feb. 27. 1753. Dear Mr. Jago, I WROTE you some account of myself, and inclosed some trivial criticisms, in a letter 1 sent you about a fortnight ago, which I hope you have received. — Tom comes now to inquire after your health, and to bring back my " Ode to Colonel Lyttleton ;" in regard to which, I desire that you will not be sparing of your ani- madversions. I whispered my difficul- ties to Mr. Miller at Hagley, how delicate I found the subject, and how hard it was to satisfy either myself or others ; in all which points he agreed with me. Ne- vertheless, having twice broken my pro- mise of sending a corrected copy to sir George, I was obliged to make my peace by a fresh one, which, I suppose, I must of necessity perform. — Give me your whole sentiments hereupon, I beseech you : in particular and in general, as a critic and as a friend. — The bad state of spirits which I complained of in my last, for a long time together made me utterly irresolute : every thing occasioned me suspense ; and I did nothing with appe- tite. — This was owing in a great measure to a slow nervous fever, as I have since discovered by many concurrent symp- toms. It is now, I think, wearing off by degrees. I seem to anticipate a little of that " vernal delight" which Milton mentions, and thinks " able to chase All sadness, but despair.'* At least, I began to resume my silly clue of hopes and expectations : which I know, however, will not guide me to any thing more satisfactory than before. I have read scarce any new books this season. Voltaire's new tragedy was sent me from London ; but vdiat has given me the most amusement has been the " Let Ires de Madatne de Maintenon.^* You have probably read them already in English, and then I need not recommend thera. The ' ' T^ife of Lord Bolingbroke " is entirely his public life, and the book three parts filled with political remarks. As to writing, I have not attempted it this year and more ; nor do I know when I shall again. Hov/ever, I would be glad to correct that " Ode to the Duchess of Somerset," when once I can find in whose hands it is deposited. I was shewn a very elegant letter of hers, the other day ; wherein she asks for it with great politeness ; and as it includes nothing but a love of rural life, and such sort of amusements as she herself ap- proves, I shall stand a good chance of having it received with partiality. She lives the life of a ,religieuse. She has written my lady Lnxborough a very se- rious letter of condolence upon the mis- fortune in her family ; and need enough has lady Luxborough of so unchangeable a friend ; for sure nothing could have happened to a person in her situation more specifically unfortunate. Mr. Rey- nolds has been at Barrels, I hear, and has brought her a machine that goes into a coat-pocket, yet answers the end of " a jack for boots, a reading-desk, a crib- bage-board, a pair of snuffers, a ruler, an eighteen-incli rule, three pair of nut- cracks, a lemon-squeezer, two candle- sticks, a picquet-board, and the lord knows what beside." Can you form an idea of it ? If you can, do you not think it must give me pain to reflect, that I myself am useful for no sort of purpose^ when a paltry bit of wood can answer so many ? But, indeed, whilst it pretends to these exploits, it performs nothing well ; and therein I agree with it. So true it is, with regard to me, what I told you long ago, Multa el prcEclara rainantem Vivere nee recte, nee siaviler ! We have a turnpike-bill upon the point of being brought into the House of Com- mons ; it will convey you about half the way betwixt Birmingham and Hales, and from thence to Hagley ; but, I trust, there will be a left-hand attraction, which will always make you deviate from the straight line. I should be ashamed to reflect how much I have dwelt upon myself in this letter, but that I seriously approve of egotism in letters ; and were I not to do so, I should not have any other subject. I have not a single neighbour, that is ei- ther fraught with politeness, literature, or intelligence ; much less have I a tide of spirits to set my invention afloat : but the less I am able to amuse you, the more desirous am I of your letters ; v/hich afford me the truest entertainment, even when my spirits are ever so much de- pressed. Sect. I. RECENT. 361 That universal cheerfulness, which is the lot of some people, persons that you and I may envy at the same time that we de- spise, is worth all that either fortune or nature can bestow. I am, Avith entire affection, yours. LETTER XXVI. 3Ii\ Shenstoiie to Mr. Graves, on the Death of Mr. Whistler. The Leasowes, June 7, 1754. Dear Mr. Graves, The melancholy account of our dear friend Wliistler's death was conveyed to me, at the same instant, by yours and by his brother's letter. I have written to his brother this post ; though I am very ill able to write upon the subject, and would willingly have waved it longer, but for decency. The triumvirate, which was the greatest happiness and the great- est pride of my life, is broken ! The fa- bric of an ingenuous and disinterested friendship has lost a noble column ! yet it may, and will, 1 trust, endure till one of us be laid as low. In truth, one can so little satisfy one's self with what we say upon such sad occasions, that I made three or four essays before I could en- dure what I had written to his brother. Be so good as excuse me to him as well as you can, and establish me in the good opinion of him and Mr. Walker. Poor Mr. Whistler ! how do all our little strifes and bickerments appear to us at this time ! Yet we may with comfort reflect, that they were not of a sort that touched the vitals of our friendship ; and I may say, that we fondly loved and es- teemed each other, of necessity — " Tales animus oportuit esse Concordes." Poor Mr. Whistler ! not a single acquaintance have I made, not a single picture or cu- riosity have 1 purchased, not a single em- bellishment have I given to my place, since he was last here, but I have had his approbation and his amusement in my eye. I will assuredly inscribe my larger urn to his memory ; nor shall I pass it without a pleasing melancholy during the remainder of my days. We have each of us received a pleasure from his con- versation, which no other conversation can afford us at our present time of life. Adieu ! my dear friend ! may our re- membrance of the person we have lost be the strong and everlasting cement of our affection ! Assure Mr. John Whistler of the regard I have for him, upon his own account, as well as his brother's. Write to me ; directly if you have opportunity. Whether you have or no, believe me to be ever most affectionately yours. I beg my compliments to Mrs. Graves. LETTER XXVII. From the same to the same, on hearing that his Letters to Mr. Whistler were destroyed. The Leasowes, Oct. 23, 1754. Dear Mr. Graves, It is certainly some argument of a pe- culiarity in the esteem I bear you, that I feel a readiness to acquaint you with more of my foibles than I care to trust with any other person. I believe nothing shews us more plainly either the different degrees or kinds of regard that we enter- tain for our several friends (I may also add the difference of their characters), than the ordinary style and tenor of the letters we address to them. I confess to you, that I am consider- ably mortified by Mr. John W 's con- duct in regard to my letters to his bro- ther ; and, rather than they should have been so unnecessarily destroyed, would have giren more money than it is allow- able for me to mention with decency. I look upon my letters as some of my chef- d'osuvres; and, could I be supposed to have the least pretensions to propriety of style or sentiment, I should imagine it must appear principally in my letters to his brother, and one or two more friends. I considered them as the records of a friendship that will be always dear to me, and as the history of my mind for these twenty years last past. The amusement I should have found in the perusal of them would have been altogether inno- cent ; and I would gladly have preserved them, if it were only to explain those which I shall preserve of his brother's. Why he should allow either me or them so very little weight as not to consult me with regard to them, I can by no means conceive. I suppose it is not un- customary to return them to the surviv- ing friend. I had no answer to the let- ter which I wrote Mr. J. W- I ceived a ring from him ; but as I thought it an inadequate memorial of the friend- ship which his brother had for me, I gave 362 ELEGANT EPISTLES. iioOK IV. it to my servant the moment I received it ; at the same time I have a neat standish, on which I caused the lines Mr. W left with it to be inscribed, and which appears to be a much more agreeable re- membrancer. I have read your new production with pleasure ; and as this letter begins with a confession of foibles, I will own, that through mere laziness 1 have sent you back your copy in which I have made some erasements, instead of giving you my reasons on which those erasements were founded. Truth is, it seems to me to want mighty few variations from what is now the present text ; and that, upon one more perusal, you will be able to give it as much perfection as you mean it to have. And yet, did I suppose you would insert it in Dodsley's Collection, as I see no reason you have to the con- trary, I would take any pains about it that you would desire me. I must beg another copy, at your leisure. I should like the inscription you men- tion upon a real stone urn, which you purchase very reasonable at Bath : but you must not risque it upon the vase you mention, on any account whatever. Now I mention Bath, I must acquaint you, that I have received intelligence from the younger Dodsley, that his bro- ther is now there, and that none of the papers I sent him are yet sent to press ; that he expects his brother home about the fourth or fifth of November, when he proceeds with his publication. Pos- sibly you may go to Bath whilst he is there, and, if so, may choose to have an interview. I shall send two or three little pieces of my own, in hopes that you will adjust the reading, and return them as soon as you conveniently can. All I can send to-night is this " Ode to Memory." I shall in the last place desire your opinion as to the manner of placing what is sent. The first pages of his Miscellany must be already fixed. I think to propose ours for the last ; but as to the order, it will depend entirely upon you. Adieu ! in other words, God bless you. 1 have company at the table all the time I am writing. Your ever most aflfectionate, &c. LETTER XXVIIL Mr. West to Mr. Gray. Christ Church, Nov. 14, 1735. You use me very cruelly : you have sent me but one letter since 1 have been at Oxford, and that too agreeable not to make me sensible how great my loss is in not having more. Next to seeing you is the pleasure of seeing your hand- writing : next to hearing you is the plea- sure of hearing from you. Really and sincerely I wonder at you, that you thought it not worth while to answer my last letter. I hope this will have better success in behalf of your quondam school-fellow ; in behalf of one who has walked hand in hand with you, like the two children in the wood, Thro' many a flowery path and shelly grot, Where learning lull'd us in her private maze. The very thought, you see, tips my pen with poetry, and brings Eton to my view. Consider me very seriously here in a strange country, inhabited by things that call themselves Doctors and Masters of Arts ; a country flowing with syllogisms and ale, where Horace and Virgil are equally unknown ; consider me, 1 say, in this melancholy light, and then think if something be not due to yours, &c. P. S. I desire you will send me soon, and truly and positively, *a history of your own time. LETTER XXIX. Mr. Gray to Mr. West. Cambridge, May 8, 1736. Permit me again to write to you, though I have so long neglected my duty ; and forgive my brevity, when I tell you it is occasioned wholly by the hurry I am in to get to a place where I expect to meet with no other pleasure than the sight of you ; for I am preparing for London in a few days at furthest. I do not wonder in the least at your frequent blaming my indolence, it ought rather to be called in- gratitude, and I am obliged to your good- ness for softening so harsh an appellation. When we meet, it will, however, be my greatest of pleasures to know what you do,^|Avhat you read, and|how you spend your time, &c. &c., and to tell you what I do not read, and how I do not, &e. ; for * Alluding to his grandfather's history. Sect. I. RECENT. 363 almost all the employment of my hours may be best explained by negatives ; take my word and experience upon it, doing nothing is a most amusing business ; and yet neither something nor nothing gives me any pleasure. Wlien you have seen one of my days, you have seen a whole year of my life ; they go round and round like the blind horse in the mill ; only he has the satisfaction of fancying he makes a progress, and gets some ground ; my eyes are open enough to see the same dull prospect, and to know that having made four-aud-twenty steps more, I shall be just where I was ; I may, better than most people, say my life is but a span, were I not afraid lest you should not be- lieve that a person so short-lived could write even so long a letter as this ; in short, I believe I must not send you the history of my own time, till I can send you that also of the Reformation*. How- ever, as the most undeserving people in the world must sure have the vanity to wish somebody had a regard for them, so I need not wonder at my own, in be- ing pleased that you care about me. You need not doubt, therefore, of having a first row in the front box of my little heart, and I believe you are not in dan- ger of being crowded there : it is asking you to an old play, indeed ; but you will be candid enough to excuse the whole piece for the sake of a few tolerable lines. For this little while past I have been playing with Statins : we yesterday had a game of quoits together ; you will easily forgive me for having broke his head, as you have a little pique to him. I send you my translation f, which I did not engage in because I liked that part of the poem, nor do 1 now send it to you because I think it deserves it, but merely to shew you how 1 mispend my days. Third in the labours of the Disc came on, With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon ; Artful and strong he pois'd the well-known weight, By Phlegyas warn'd, and fir'd by Mnestheus* fate. That to avoid, and this to emulate. His vigorous arm he try'd before he flung, Brac'd all his nerves, and every sinew strung; Then with a tempest's whirl and wary eye, Pursu'd his cast, and hurl'd the orb on high j * Carrying on the allusion to the other His- tory, written by Mr. West's grandfather. f This consisted of about 1 10 lines, which were sent separately ; and as it was Mr. Gray's first attempt in English verse, it is a curiosity not to be entirely withheld from the reader. The orb on high tenacious of its course. True to the mighty arm that gave it force. Far overleaps all bound, and joys to see Its ancient lord secure of victory. The theatre's green height and woody wall Tremble ere it precipitates its fall ; The pond'rous mass sinks in the cleaving ground. While vales, and woods, and echoing hills re- bound. As when from ^Etna's smoking, summit broke. The eyeless Cyclops heav'd the craggy rock ; Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar. And parting surges round the vessel roar ; 'Twas there he aim'd the meditated harm. And scarce Ulysses scap'd his giant arm. A tiger's pride the victor bore away. With native spots and artful labour gay j A shining border round the margin roll d. And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold, &c. LETTER XXX. Mr. West to Mr. Gray. Christ Church, May 24, 1736. I AGREE with you that you have broke Statius's head, but it is in like manner as Apollo broke Hyacinth's, you have foiled him infinitely at his own weapon : I must insist on seeing the rest of your translation, and then I will examine it entire, and compare it with the Latin, and be very wise and severe, and put on an inflexible face, such as becomes the character of a true son of Aristarchus, of hypercritical memory. In the mean while, And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold is exactly Statins — Summos auro mansue- verat ungues. I never knew before that the golden fangs on hammer-cloths were so old a fashion. Your " Hymeneal "J I was told was the best in the Cambridge Collection before I saw it, and indeed it is no great compliment to tell you I thought so when I had seen it, but sin- cerely it pleased me best. Methinks the college bards have run into a strange taste on this occasion. Such soft un- meaning stuff about Venus and Cupid, and Peleus and Thetis, and Zephyrs and Dryads, was never read. As for my poor little Eclogue, it has been condemned and beheaded by our Westminster judges ; an exordium of about sixteen lines abso- lutely cut off, and its other limbs quar- tered in a most barbarous manner. I will send it you in my next as my true and lawful heir, in exclusion of the pretender, X Published in the Cambridge Collection of Verses on the Prince of Wales's Marriage. 364 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. who has the impudence to appear under my name. As yet I have not looked into Sir Isaac. Public disputations I hate ; mathematics I reverence ; history, morality, and na- tural philosophy, have the greatest charms in my eye ; but who can forget poetry ? They call it idleness, but it is surely the most enchanting thing in the world, " ac dulce otium el pcene omni nsgotio pul- chrius.'' 1 am, dear sir, yours, &c. LETTER, XXXI. Mr. Gratj to Mr. West. Peterhouse, Dec. 1736. You must know that I do not take de- grees, and after this term, shall have nothing more of college impertinencies to undergo, which I trust will be some pleasure to you, as it is a great one to me. I have endured lectures daily and hourly since I came last, supported by the hopes of being shortly at full liberty to give myself up to my friends and classical companions, who, poor souls ! though I see them fallen into great con- tempt with most people here, yet I can- not help sticking to them, and out of a spirit of obstinacy (I think) love them the better for it ; and indeed, what can I do else ? Must I plunge into metaphy- sics ? Alas ! I cannot see in the dark ; nature has not furnished me with the optics of a cat. Must I pore upon ma- thematics ? Alas ! I cannot see in too much light ; I am no eagle. It is very possible that two and two make four, but I would not give four farthings to demonstrate this ever so clearly ; and if these be the profits of life, give me the amusements of it. The people I behold all around me, it seems, know all this and more, and yet 1 do not know one of them who inspires me with any ambi- tion of being like him. Surely it was of this place (now Cambridge, but formerly known by the name of Babylon), that the Prophet spoke when he said, " the wild beasts of the desert shall dwell there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall build there, and satyrs shall dance there ; their forts and towers shall be a den for ever, a joy of wild asses ; there shall the great owl make her nest, and lay and hatch and gather under her shadow ; it shall be a court of dragons ; the screech-owl also shall rest there, and find for herself a place of rest." You see here is a pretty collection of desolate animals, which is verified in this town to a tittle ; and per- haps it may also allude to your habita- tion, for you know all types may be taken by abundance of handles : how- ever, I defy your owls to match mine. If the default of your spirits and nerves be nothing but the effect of the hyp, I have no more to say. We all must submit to that wayward queen ; I too in no small degree own her sway : I feel her influence while I speak her power. But if it be a real distemper, pray take more care of your health, if not for your own, at least for our sakes, and do not be so soon weary of this little world : I do not know what refined friendships you may have contracted in the other, but pray do not be in a hurry to see your acquaintance above; among your terres- trial familiars, however, though I say it that should not say it, there positively is not one that has a greater esteem for you than yours most sincerely, &c. LETTER XXXII. Mr. West to Mr. Gray. Christ Church, Dec. 22, 173d. I CONGRATULATE you ou your being about to leave college, and rejoice much you carry no degrees with you. For I would not have you dignified, and I not, for the world ; you would have insulted me so. My eyes, such as they are, like yourSj are neither metaphysical nor ma- thematical ; I have, nevertheless, a great respect for your connoisseurs that way, but am always contented to be their humble admirer. Your collection of de- solate animals pleased me much ; but Oxford, I can assure you, has her owls that match yours, and the prophecy has certainly a squint that way. Well, you are leaving this dismal land of bondage ; and which way are you turning your face ? Your friends, indeed, may be happy in you ; but what will you do with your classic companions ? An inn of court is as horrid a place as a college, and a moot case is as dear to gentle dulness as a syl- logism. But wherever you go, let me beg you not to throw poetry " like a nauseousweed away:" cherish its sweets in your bosom, they will serve you now and then to correct the disgusting sober Sect. I. RECENT. 365 follies of the common law : misce stultiti- am consiliis hrevem ; didce est desipere in loco ; so said Horace to Virgil, those two sons of Anac in poetry, and so say I to you, in this degenerate land of pigmies, Mix with your grave designs a little pleasure, Each day of business has its hour of lelsuie. In one of these hours, I hope, dear sir, you will sometimes think of me, write to me, and know me yours, that is, write freely to me and openly, as 1 do to you ; and to give you a proof of it 1 have sent yovi an elegy of Tibulius translated. TihuUus, you must know, is my favourite elegiac poet ; for his lan- guage is more elegant and his thoughts more natural than Ovid's. Ovid excels him only in wit, of which no poet had more in my opinion. Tlie reason 1 choose so melancholy a kind of poesie, is be- cause my low spirits and constant ill health (things in me not imaginary, as you surmise, but too real, alas ! and I fear, constitutional) " have tun'd my heart to elegies of woe ; " and this like- wise is the reason why I am the mofet irregular thing alive at college, for you may depend upon it I value my health above what they call discipline. As for this poor unlicked thing of an elegy, pray criticise it unmercifully, for I send it with that intent. Indeed your late trans- lation of Statins might have deterred me ; but I know you are not more able to ex- cel others, than your are apt to forgive the want of excellence, especially when it is found in the productions of your most sincere friend. LETTER XXXIII. Mr. Gray to Mr. Walpole, Peterhouse, Dec. 23, 173G. You can never weary me with the repe- tition of any thing that makes me sen- sible of your kindness ; since that has been the only idea of any social happi- ness that I have almost ever received, and which (begging your pardon for thinking so differently from you in such cases) I would by no means have parted with for an exemption from all the un- easinesses mixed with it : but it would be unjust to imagine my taste was any rule for yours ; for which reason my letters are shorter and less frequent than they would be, had I any materials but myself to entertain you with. Love and brown sugar must be a poor regale for one of yourgow^ : and, alas ! you know I am by trade a grocer*. Scandal (if I had any) is a merchandise you do not profess dealing in ; now and then, indeed, and to oblige a friend, you may perhaps slip a little out of your pocket, as a de- cayed gentlewoman would a piece of right Mecklin, or a little quantity of run tea, but this only now and then, not to make a practice of it. Monsters ap- pertaining to this climate you have seen already, both wet and dry. So you per- ceive within how narrow bounds my pen is circumscribed, and the whole contents of my share in our correspondence may be reduced under the two heads of, 1st, You ; 2dly, I : the first is, indeed, a sub- ject to expatiate upon, but you might laugh at me for talking about what I do not understand ; the second is so tiny, so tiresome, that you shall hear no more of it than that it is ever yours. LETTER XXXIV. Mr. West to Mr. Gray. C;hrist Church, July 4, 1737. I HAVE been very ill, and am still hard- ly recovered. Do you remember Elegy 5th, Book 3d, of Tibulius, " Fo.s tenet:' 8cc. ; and do you remember a letter of Mr. Pope's, in sickness, to Mr. Steele? This melancholy elegy and this melan- choly letter I turned into a more melan- choly epistle of my own, during my sickness, in the way of imitation ; and this I send to you and my friends at Cambridge, not to divert them, for it cannot, but merely to shew them how sincere I was when sick : I hope my sending it to them now may convince them I am no less sincere, though per- haps more simple, when wellf. LETTER XXXV. Mr. Gray to Mr. We,^t. London, Aug. 22, 1737. After a month's expectation of you, and a fortnight's despair, at Cambridge, I am come to town, and to better hopes * i. e. A man who deals only in coarse and ordinary wares. f See the poem [Ad Amicos] in Elegant Extracts in Verse. 366 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. of seeing you. If what you sent me last be the product of your melancholy, what may 1 not expect from your more cheerful hours ? For by this time the ill health that you complain of is (I hope) quite departed ; though, if I were self- interested, I ought to wish for the con- tinuance of any thing that could be the occasion of so much pleasure to me. Low spirits are my true and faithful com- panions ; they get up with me, go to bed with me, make journeys and returns as I do ; nay, and pay visits, and will even affect to be jocose, and force a feeble laugh with me ; but most commonly we sit alone together, and are the prettiest insipid company in the world. However, when you come, I believe they must un- dergo the fate of all humble companions, and be discarded. Would I could turn them to the same use that you have done, and make an Apollo of them ! If they could write such verses with me, not hartshorn, nor spirit of amber, nor all that furnishes the closet of an apothe- cary's widow, should persuade me to part with them : but, while I write to you, I hear the bad news of lady Walpole's death on Saturday night last. Forgive me if the thought of what my poor Ho- race must feel on that account obliges me to have done, in reminding you that I am yours, &c. LETTER XXXVI. Mr. Gray to Mr. Walpole. September, 1737. I WAS hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the trouble I would have done. The description of a road, which your coach-wheels have so often honoured, it would be needless to give you ; suffice it that I arrived safe * at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagi- nation ; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this present writing; and though the gout forbids him galloping after them in the field, yet he continues still to regale his ears and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, that I have at the distance of half a mile, * At Burnham in Buckinghamshire. through a green lane, a forest (the vul- gar call it a common) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices ; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover cliflF; but just such hills as people, who love their necks as well as 1 do, may venture to climb, and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as if they were more dangerous : both vale and hill are covered with most ve- nerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like most other ancient people, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds, And as they bow their hoary tops relate. In murmuring sounds, the dark decrees of fate; While visions, as poetic eyes avow. Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough. At the foot of one of these squats me {il penseroso), and there I grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timorous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around me like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve ; but I think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there. In this situation I often converse with my Ho- race, aloud too, that is, talk to you ; but I do not remember that 1 ever heard you answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to myself, but it is en- tirely your own fault. We have old Mr. Southern at a gentleman's house a little way off, who often comes to see us ; he is now seventy-seven years oldf, and has almost wholly lost his memory ; but is as agreeable as an old man can be, at least I persuade myself so when I look at him, and think of Isabella and Oroo- noko. I shall be in town in about three weeks. Adieu. LETTER XXXVII. From the same to the same^' Burnham, Sept. 17.'i7. I SYMPATHIZE with you in the suffer- ings which you foresee are coming upon f He lived nine years longer, and died at the great age of eighty-six. Mr. Gray always thought highly of his pathetic powers, at the same time that he blamed his ill-taste for mix- ing them so injudiciously with farce, in order to produce that monstrous species of compo- sition called Tragi-comedy. X Mr. Walpole was at this time with his father at Houghton. Mr. Gray writes from his uncle's house in Buckinghamshire. Sect. I. RECENT. 367 you. We are both at present, I ima- gine, in no very agreeable situation ; for my part I am under the misfortune of having nothing to do ; but it is a misfor- tune which, thank my stars, I can pretty well bear. You are in a confusion of wine, and roaring, and hunting, and to- bacco, and. Heaven be praised, you too can pretty well bear it ; while our evils are no more, I believe we shall not much repine. I imagine, however, you will rather choose to converse with the living dead, that adorn the walls of your apart- ments, than with the dead living that deck the middles of them ; and prefer a picture of still life to the realities of a noisy one ; and, as I guess, will imitate what you prefer, and for an hour or two at noon wiU stick yourself up as formal as if you had been fixed in your frame for these hundred years, with a pink or rose in one hand, and a great seal ring on the other. Your name, I assure you, has been propagated in these countries by a convert of yours, one ; he has brought over his whole family to you ; they were before pretty good Whigs, but now they are absolute Walpolians. We have hardly any body in the parish but knows exactly the dimensions of the hall and saloon at Houghton, and begin to believe that the lanthorn * is not so great a consumer of the fat of the land as dis- affected persons have said ; for your reputation, we keep to ourselves your not hunting nor drinking hogan, either of which here would be sufficient to lay your honour in the dust. To-morrow se'nnight I hope to be in town, and not long after at Cambridge. I am, &c. LETTER XXXVIII. Mr. West to Mr. Gray. Christ Church, Dec. 2, 1738. Receiving no answer to my last letter, which I writ above a month ago, I must own I am a little uneasy. The slight shadow of you which I had in town, has only served to endear you to me the more. The moments 1 past with you made a strong impression upon me. I singled you out for a friend ; and I would have you know me to be yours, if you deem me worthy. Alas ! Gray, you cannot imagine how miserably my time passes * A favourite object of Tory satire at the time. away. My health and nerves and spirits are, thank my stars, the very worst, I think, in Oxford. Four-and-twenty hours of pure unalloyed health together are as unknown to me as the four hun- dred thousand characters in the Chinese vocabulary. One of my complaints has of late been so overcivil as to visit me regularly once a month, jam certus con' viva. This is a painful nervous head- ach, which perhaps you have sometimes heard me speak of before. Give me leave to say, I find no physic comparable to your letters. If, as it is said in Eccle- siasticus, " Friendship be the physic of the mind," prescribe to me, dear Gray, as often and as much as you think proper, I shall be a most obedient patient. Non ego Fidis irascar medicis, offendar amicis. I venture here to write you down a Greek epigram f, which I lately turned into Latin, and hope you will excuse it. Perspicui puerum ludentem in margine rivi, Immersit vitrecE limpidus error aguce: At gelido ut mater moribundum e jlumine traxit Credula, et amplexu funus inane foret ; Parxlatim puer in dileclo pectore, somno Languidus, ecternum lumina composuit. Adieu ! I am going to my tutor's lec- tures on one Puffendorff, a very juris- prudent author as you shall read on a summer's day. Believe me yours, &c. LETTER XXXIX. Fro77i the same to the same, Dartmouth-street, Feb. 21, 1737-8. I OUGHT to answer you in Latin, but I feel I dare not enter the lists with you, cupidum, pater optime, vires dejiciunt. Seriously, you write in that language with a grace and an Augustan urbanity that amazes me : your Greek too is per- fect in its kind. And here let me won- der that a man, longe Grcccorum doctis- simus, should be at a loss for the verse and chapter whence my epigram is taken. I am sorry I have not my Aldus with me, that I might satisfy your curiosity ; but he with all my other literary folks are left at Oxford, and therefore you must still rest in suspense. I thank you again and again for your medical prescription. I know very well that those ** nsus, fes- f Of Posidippus. Vide Anthologia, H. Ste- phan. p. 220. 368 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. tivitates et facetm'" would contribute greatly to my cure ; but then you must be my apothecary as well as physician, and make up the dose as well as direct it ; send me, therefore, an electuary of these drugs, made up secundmn artem, *' et eris rnihi magnus Apollo,'' in both his capacities, as a god of poets and god of physicians. Wish me joy of leaving my college, and leave yours as fast as you can. I shall be settled at the Tem- ple very soon. LETTER XL. Mr, Gray to Mr. Walpole. August, 1738 My dear sir, I should say Mr. Inspector General of the exports and imports * ; but that appellation would make but an odd figure in conjunction with the three familiar monosyllables above written, for Non bene convcniunt, nee in una sede morantitr Majestas et amor. Which is, being interpreted, Love does not live at the Custom-house. How- ever, by what style, title, or denomina- tion soever you choose to be dignified or distinguished hereafter, these three words will stick by you like a bur, and you can no more get quit of these and your Christian name than St. Anthony could of his pig. My motions at present (which you are pleased to ask after) are much like those of a pendulum, or (Dr. Longicallyt speaking) oscillatory. I swing from chapel or hall home, and from home to chapel or hall. All the strange incidents that happen in my journeys and returns I shall be sure to acquaint you with ; the most wonderful is, that it now rains exceedingly; this has refreshed the prospect, as the way for the most part lies between green fields on either hand, terminated with build- ings at some distance, castles, I presume, and of great antiquity. The roads are very good, being, as I suspect, the works of Julius Csesar's army, for they still preserve, in many places, the appearance of a pavement in pretty good repair, and, * Mr. Walpole was just named to that post, which he exchanged soon after for that of usher of the exchequer. f Dr. Long, the master of Pembroke hall, at this time read lectures in experimental philosophy. if they were not so near home, might perhaps be as much admired as the Via Appia ; there are at present several rivu- lets to be crossed, and which serve to enlighten the view all around. The country is exceedingly fruitful in ravens and such black cattle ; but not to tire you with my travels, I abruptly conclude yours, &c. LETTER XLl. Mr. Gray to Mr. West. ^ept. 1733. 1 AM coming away all so fast, and leav- ing behind me, without the least re- morse, all the beauties of Sturbridge fair. Its white bears may roar, its apes may wring their hands, and crocodiles cry their eyes out, all is one for that ; I shall not once visit them, nor so much as take my leave. The university lias pub- lished a severe edict against schismatical congregations, and created half a dozen new little proctorlings to see its order executed, being under mighty apprehen- sions lest Henleyl and his gilt tub should come to the fair and seduce their young ones : but their pains are to small pur- pose, for lo, after all, he is not coming. I am at this instant in the very agonies of leaving college, and would not wish the worst of my enemies a worse situa- tion. If you knew the dust, the old boxes, the bedsteads, and tutors that are about my ears, you would look upon this letter as a great effort of my resolution and unconcernedness in the midst of evils. I fill up my paper with a loose sort of version of that scene in Pastor Fido that begins, " Care selve beati.'* LETTER XLII. Mr. West to Mr. Gray. Sept. 17, 173S. I THANK you again and again for your two last most agreeable letters. . They could not have come more a-propos ; I was without any books to divert me, and they supplied the want of every thing : 1 made them my Classics in the country ; they were my Horace and Ti- bullus : Non ita loquor assentandi causa, ut probe nostl si me noris; verum quia sic mea est sententia. I am but just come to X Orator Henley. Sect. I. [i E C E N T. 369 town ; and, to shew you my esteem of your favours, I venture to send you by the penny post, to your fathers, what you will find on the next page ; I hope it will reach you soon after your arrival, your boxes out of the waggon, yourself out of the coach, and tutors out of your memory. Adieu ; we shall see one another, I hope, to-morrow. LETTER XLin. Mr. West to Mr. Gray. Temple, Sept. 28, 1739. If wishes could turn to realities, I would fling down ray law books, and sup with you to-night. But, alas ! here am I doomed to fix, while you are fluttering from city to city, and enjoying all the pleasures which a gay climate can afford. It is out of the poAver of my heart to envy your good fortune, yet I cannot help indulging a few natural desires ; as for example, to take a walk with you on the banks of the Rhone, and to be climbing up Mount Fourviere ; Jam mens preplrepiclans (rcet vaguri : Jam lc itccpepyov : not to mention Petrarch, who, by the way, is sometimes very tender and natural. I must needs tell you three lines in Ana- creon, where the expression seems to nie inimitable. He is describing hair as he would have it painted : Guess, too, where this is about a dimple : Sigilla in mento bnpressa Amoris dighulo Vestiglo demonstrant 'inoUiiudinem. LETTER LL Mr. West to Mr. Gray. Pope's, May 11, 1742. Your fragment is in Aulus Gellius ; and both it and your Greek delicious. But why are you thus melancholy ? I am so sorry for it, that you see I cannot for- bear writing again the very first oppor- tunity ; though I have little to say, ex- cept to expostulate with you about it. I find you converse mucli with the dead, and I do not blame - ou for that ; I con- verse with them too, though not indeed with the Greek. But I must condemn you for your longing to be with them. \Yhat, are there no joys among the living ? I could almost cry out with Ca- tullus, " Alphene immemor, atque una- nimis false sodalihus!'' But to turn an accusation thus upon another is ungene- rous ; so 1 will take my leave of you for the present with a " Vale, et vive paulis- per cum vivis." LETTER LIL Mr. Gray to Mr. West. London, May 27, 1742. Mine, you are to know, is a white me- lancholy, or rather leucocholy for the most part •,^ which, though it seldom laughs or dances, nor ever amounts to what one calls joy or pleasure, yet is a good easy sort of a state, and ca ne lause que de s'amuser. The only fault of it is insipidity, which is apt now and then to give c sort of ennui, which makes one form certain little wishes that signify no- thing. But there is another sort, black indeed, which I have now and then felt, that has somewhat in it like Tertullian's rule of faith, Credo, quia impossibile est; for it believes, nay, is sure of every thing 374 ELEGANT K P i S T L E S. Book IV. that is unlikely, so it be but frightful ; and, on the other hand, excludes and shuts its eyes to the most possible hopes, and every thing- that is pleasurable ; from this the Lord deliver us ! for none but he and sunshiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoying- this kind of weather, I am going into the country for a few weeks, but shall be never the nearer any society : so, if you have any charity, you will continue to write. My life is like Harry the Fourth's supper of hens: " Poulets a la broche, poulets en ragout, poulets en hdchis, poulets en fricasees.'* Reading here, reading there ; nothing but books with different sauces. Do not let me lose my dessert then ; for though that be reading too, yet it has a very dif- ferent flavour. The May seems to be come since your invitation ; and I pro- pose to bask in her beams and dress me in her roses. El cap ;t in verna semper habere rosa. I shall see Mr. and his wife, nay, and his child too, for he lias got a boy. Is it not odd to consider one's contempo- raries in the grave light of husband and father ? There are my lords and , they are statesmen ; do not you remember them dirty boy 9 playing^ at cricket? As for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor the wiser than I was then ; no, not for having been be- yond sea. Pray how are you ? LETTER LIIL Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton"^. Cambridge, Dec. 27, 1742, I OUGHT to have returned you my thanks a long time ago, for the pleasure, I should say prodigy, of your letter ; for such a thing has not happened above twice within this last age to mortal man, and no one here can conceive what it may portend. You have heard, I sup- pose, how I have been employed a part of the time ; how, by my own indefati- gable application for these ten years past, * Of Old Park, near Durham. With this gentleman I\]r. Gray contracted an acquaint- ance very early ; and though they were not educated together at Eton, yet afterwards at Cambridge, when the doctor was fellow of Pembroke Hall, they became intimate friends, and continued so to the time of Mr. Gray's death. and by the care and vigilance of that worthy magistrate the man in bluei" (who, I assure you, has not spared his- labour, nor could have done more for hm own son), I am got half way to the top of jurisprudence J, and bid as fair as an- other body to open a case of impotency with all decency and circumspection. You see my ambition. I do not doubt but some thirty years hence I shall con- vince the world and you that I am a very pretty young fellow ; and may come to shine in a profession, perhaps the noblest of all except man-midwifery. As for you, if your distemper and you can but agree about going to London, I may reason- ably expect in a much shorter time to see you in your three-cornered villa, doing the honours of a well-furnished table with as much dignity, as rich a mien, and as capacious a belly, as Dr. Mead. Methinks I see Dr. — , at the lower end of it, lost in admiration of your goodly persou and parts, cramming down his envy (for it will rise) with the wing of a pheasant, and drowning it in neat Bur- gundy. But not to tempt your asthma too much with such a prospect, I should think you might be almost as happy and as great as this even in the country. But you know best, and I ebould be sorry tO say any thing that might stop you in the career of glory ; far be it from me to hamper the wheels of your gilded cha- riot. Go on, sir Thomas ; and when you die (for even physicians must die), may the faculty in Warwick Lane erect your statue in the very niche of sir John Cutler's. 1 was going to tell you how sorry I am for your illness, but I hope it is too late now : I can only say that I really was. very sorry. May you live a hundred Christmasses, and eat as many collars of brawn stuck with rosemary. Adieu, &c. LETTER LIV. From the same to the same. Peterhouse, April 2C, 1744. You write so feelingly to Mr. Brown, and represent your abandoned condition in terms so touching, that what gra- f A servant of the vice-chancellor's for the time being, usually known by the name of Blue Coat, whose business it is to attend acts for de- grees, &c. t i. c. Bachelor of civil law. Sect. I. R E C E N T. 375 titiide could not effect in several months, compassion lias brought about in a few days ; and broke that strong" attachment, or rather allegiance, which I and all here owe to our sovereign lady and mistress, the president of presidents and head of heads (if I may be permitted to pro- nounce her name, that ineffable Octo- grammaton), the power of Laziness. You must knovr she had been pleased to appoint me (in preference to so many old servants of hers, who had spent their whole lives in qualifying themselves for the office) grand picker of straws and push-pin player to her Supinity (for that is her title). The first is much in the nature of the lord president of the coun- cil ; and the other like the groom-porter, only without the profit ; but as they are both things of very great honour in this country, I considered with myself the load of envy attending such great charges ; and besides (between you and me), I found myself unable to support the fatigue of keeping up the appearance that persons of such dignity must do ; so I thought proper to decline it, and ex- cused myself as well as J could. How- ever, as you see such an affair must take up a good deal of time, and it has always been the policy of this court to proceed slowly, like the Imperial and that of Spain, in the dispatch of business, you will on this account the easier forgive me, if I have not answered your letter before. You desire to know, it seems, what character the poem of your young friend bears here-, i wonder that you ask the opinion of a nation, where those, who pretend to judge, do not judge at all ; and the rest (the wiser part) wait to catch the judgment of the world immediately above them ; that is, Dick's and the Rainbow coffee-houses^ Your readier way would be to ask the ladies that keep the bars in these two theatres of criti- cism. However, to shew you that I am a judge, as well as my countrymen, I will tell you, though I have rather turned it over than read it (but no mat- * " Pleasures of the Imagination." From the posthumous publication of Dr. Akenside's Poems, it should seem that the author had very much the same opinion afterwards of his own work, which Mr. Gray here expresses ; since he undertook a reform of it, which musthave given him, had he concluded it, as much trouble as if he had written it entirely new. ter; no more have they), that it seems to me above the middling; and now and then, for a little while, rises even to the best, particularly in description. It is often obscure, and even unintelligible; and too much infected with the Hutch- inson jargon. In short, its great fault is, that it Avas published at least nine years too early. And so methinks in a few words (a la mode du Temple) I have very pertly dispatched what perhaps may for several years have employed a very ingenious man worth fifty of myself. You are much in the right to have a taste for Socrates ; he was a divine man. I must tell you, by way of news of the place, that the other day a certain new professor made an apology for him an hour long in the schools ; and all the world brought in Socrates guilty, except the people of his own college. The Muse is gone, and left me in far worse company ; if she returns, you will hear of her. i\.s to her child t (since you are as good as to inquire after it), it is but a puling- chit yet, not a bit grown to speak of; I believe, poor thing, it has got the worms, that will carry it oft* at last. Mr. Trollope and I are in a course of tar-water ; he for his present, and I for my future distempers. If you think it will kill me, send away a man and horse directly ; for I drink like a fish. Yours, &c. LETTER LV. From the same to the same. Cambridge, Dec. 11, 1746. I WOULD make you an excuse (as indeed I ought) if they were a sort of thing I ever gave any credit to myself in these cases ; but I know they are never true. Nothing so silly as indolence when it hopes to disguise itself : every one knows it by its saunter, as they do his majesty (God bless him !) at a masquerade, by the firmness of his tread and the elevation of his chin. However, somewhat I had to say that has a little shadow of reason in it. I have been in town (I sunpose you know) flaunting about at all kind of public places with two friends lately returned from abroad. The world itself has some attractions in it to a solitary of six years standing ; and agreeable well-meaning f He lifcre mcaiic? hiit puem Dc Pnncipiis Cngitandi. 370 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. people of sense (thank Heaven there are so few of them) are my peculiar magnet. It is no Avonder then if 1 felt some re- luctance at parting with them so soon ; or if my spirits, when I returned back to my cell, should sink for a time, not in- deed to storm and tempest, but a good deal below changeable. Besides Seneca says (and my pitch of philosophy does not pretend to be much above Seneca) ** Nun- quam rnoresy quos exiuli, refero. Aliquid ex eo quod composui, turbatur: aliquid ex Ids qucefugavi, redit." And it will hap- pen to such as ns, mere imps of science. Well it may, when Wisdom herself is forced often In sweet retired solitude To plume her feathers, and let grow her wings, Tliat in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. It is a foolish thing that without mo- ney one cannot either live as one pleases, or where and with whom one pleases. Swift somewhere says, that money is li- berty ; and I fear money is friendship too and society, and almost every exter- nal blessing. It is a great, though an ill-natured, comfort, to see most of those who have it in plenty, without pleasure, without liberty, and without friends. I am not altogether of your opinion as to your historical consolation in time of trouble : a cajm melancholy it may pro- duce, a stiller sort of despair (and that only in some circumstances, and on some constitutions) ; but I doubt no real com- fort or content can ever arise in the hu- man mind, but from hope. I take it very ill you should have been in the twentieth year of the war*, and yet say nothing of the retreat before Sy- racuse : is it, or is it not, the finest thing you ever read in your life ? And how does Xenophon or Plutarch agree with you ? For my part, I read Aristotle, his poetics, politics, and morals; though I do not well know which is which. In the first ])lace, he is the hardest author by far I ever meddled with. Then he has a dry conciseness, that makes one imagine one is perusing a table of contents rather than a book : it tastes for all the world like chopped hay, or rather like chopped logic ; for he has a violent affection to that art, being in some sort his own in- vention ; so that he often loses himself ■■''■ 'llmcydides, lib. vii. in little trifling distinctions and verbal niceties ; and, what is worse, leaves you to extricate him as well as you can. Thirdly, he has suffered vastly from the transcribblers, as all authors of great bre- vity necessarily must. Fourthly and lastly, he has abundance of fine uncom- mon things, wliich make him well worth the pains he gives one. You see what you are to expect from him. LETTER LVI. Mr. Grot; to Mr. Wulpole. Cambridge, 1747^ I HAD been absent from this place a few days, and at my return found Cibber's bookf upon my table. I return you my thanks for it, and have already run over a consideable part ; for who could resist Mrs. Letitia Pilkington's recommenda- tion ? (By the way, is there any such gen- tlewoman;}: ? or has somebody put on the style of a scribbling woman's panegyric to deceive and laugh at Colley?) He seems to me full as pert and as dull as usual. There are whole pages of com- mon-place stuff, that for stupidity might have been wrote by Dr. Waterland, or any other g-rave divine, did not the flirting saucy phrase give them at a distance an air of youth and gaiety ; it is very true, he is often in the right with reg'ard to Tully's weaknesses ; but was there any one that did not see them ? Those, I ima- gine, that would find a man after God's own heart, are no more likely to trust the Doctor's recommendation than the Player's ; and as to reason and truth, would they know their own faces, do you think, if they looked in the glass, and saw themselves so bedizened in tattered fringe and tarnished lace, in French jewels and dirty furbelows, the frippery of a stroller's wardrobe ? Literature, to take it in its most com- prehensive sense, and include everything that requires invention or judgment, or barely application and industry, seems in- deed drawing apace to its dissolution, and remarkably since the beginning of the war. I remember to have read Mr. Spence's pretty book ; though (as he then had not been at Rome for the last f Entitled " Observations on Cicero's Cha- racter." X This lady made herself more know i> some time after the dat«of' this letter. Sect. I, RECENT. 377 time) it must have Increased greatly since that in bulk. If you ask me what I read, 1 protest I do not recollect one syllable ; but only in general, that they were the best-bred sort of men in the world, just the kind oi frinds one would wish to meet in a fine summers evening, if one wished to meet any at all. The heads and tails of the dialogues, published se- parate in 16mo, would make the sweets est reading in vatiur for young gentle- men of family and fortune, that are learn- ing to dance. I rejoice to hear there is such a crowd of dramatical perform- ances coming upon the stage. Agrip- pina can stay very well, she thanks you, and be damned at leisure : 1 hope in God you have not mentioned, or shewed to any body, that scene (for trusting in its badness, I forgot to caution you concen>- ing it) ; but I heard the other day, that I was writing a play, and was told the name of it, which nobody here could know, I am sure. The employment you propose to me much better suits my incli- nation ; but 1 much fear our joint-stock would hardly compose a small volume ; Avhat I have is less considerable than you would imagine, and of that little we should not be willing to publish all. ***t This is all I can anywhere find. You, I imagine, may have a good deal more. I should not care how unwise the ordi- nary run of readers might think my af- fection for him, provided those few, that ever loved any body, or judged of any thing rightly, might, from such little re- mains, be moved to consider what he would have been ; and to wish that Hea- ven had granted him a longer life and a mind more at ease. 1 send you a few lines, though Latin, which you do not like, for the sake of the subject^ ; it makes part of a large de- sign, and is the beginning of the fourth book, which was intended to treat of the passions. Excuse the three first verses ; you know vanity, with the Romans, is a poetical licence. f What is here omitted was a short catalogue of Mr. West's Poetry, then in Mr. Gray's hands. X The admirable apostrophe to Mr, West. LETTER LVn. From the same to the same, Cambridge, March 1, 1747. As one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a compliment of condolence, it would be a sensible satis- faction to me (before I testify my sor- row, and the sincere part I take in your misfortune) to know for certain, who it \¥, I lament. I knew Zara and Selima (Selima, was it ? or Fatima?), or rather I knew them both together ; for I can- not justly say which was which. Then as to your handsome cat, the name you distinguish her by, I am no less at a loss, as well knowing one's handsome cat is always the cat one likes best ; or, if one te alire and the other dead, it is usually the latter that is the handsomest. Be- tides, if the point were never so clear, I l^ope f ou do not think me so ill-bred or so imprudent as to forfeit all my interest in the survivor : Oh no ! I would rather ie«m to mistake, and imagine to be sure it must be the tabby one that had met with this sad accident. Till this affair is a little better determined, you will ex- cuse me if I do not begin to cry ; " Tempus inane peto, requiem, spaiiumque rfo- loris.'^ Which interval is the more convenient, as it gives time to rejoice \vitli you on font new honours§. This is only a be- ginning; I reckon next week we shall heaf you afe a free-mason, or gormogon at least. Heigh ho ! I feel (as you to be Sure have done long since) that I have ▼ery little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be the better for it ; I do not mean you, but your cat, feue Made* moiselle Selime, whom I am about to immortalize for one week or fortnight, as follows ***** II . There's a poem for you, it is rather too long for an epi- taph. LETTER LVIIL Mr. Grai/ to Dr. Wharton, Stoke, June 5, 1748. Your friendship has interested itself in my affairs so naturally, that I cannot § Mr. Wa'pole was about this time elected a Fellow of the Royal Society. Ij The Reader need haidly be told, that the 4th Ode in the collection of his Poems was in- serted III the place of these asterisks. 378 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. help troubling you a little with a de- tail of them f. ***-H-**-x- And now, my dear Wharton, why must I tell you a thing- so contrary to my own wishes and yours ? I believe it is impossible for me to see you in the North, or to enjoy any of those agreeable hours I had flattered myself with. This business will oblige me to be in town several times during the summer, particularly in August, when half the money is to paid ; be- sides, the good people here would think me the most careless and ruinous of mortals, if I should take such a journey at this time. The only satisfaction I can pretend to, is that of hearing from you, and particularly at the time when I was bid to expect the good news of an in- crease df your family. Your opinion of JJiodorus is doubtless right ; but there are things in him very curious, got out of better authorities now lost. Do you remember the Egyptian history, and particularly the account of the gold mines? My own readings have been cruelly interrupted : what I have been highly pleased with, is the new comedy from Paris by Gresset, called le Mechant : if you have it not, buy his works all to- gether in two little volumes ; they are collected by the Dutch booksellers, and consequently contain some trash? and then there are the Ververt, the Epistle to P. Bougeant, the Chartreuse, that to his Sister, an Ode on his Country, and another on Mediocrity, and the Sidnei, another comedy, all which have great beauties. There is also a poem lately published by Thomson, called The Castle of Indolence, with some good stanzas in it. Mr. Mason is my acquaintance ; I liked that Ode X much, but have found no one else that did. He has much fancy, little judgment, and a good deal of modesty ; I take him for a good and well-meaning creature ; but then he is really in simplicity a child, and loves every body he meets with : he reads little or nothing ; writes abundance, and that with a design to make his for- tune by it. My best compliments to Mrs. Wharton and your family : does that name f The paragraph here omitted contained an account of Mr. Gfray's loss of a house by fire in Cornhill, and the expense he should be at in rebuilding: it. Though it was insured, he could at this time ill bear to lay out the addi- tional sum necessary for the purpose. J Ode to a Water-Nymph, published about this time in Dodsley's Miscellany. include any body I am not yet acquainted with ? LETTER LIX. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. Stoke, August 19, 1748. I AM glad you have had any pleasure in Gresset ; he seems to me a truly elegant and charming writer ; The Mechant is the best comedy I ever read ; his Edward I could scarce get through ; it is puerile ; though there are good lines, such as this, for example : " Le jour dhin nouveau regne est le jour ties in- grats." But good lines will make any thing rather than a good play : however, you are to consider this a collection made up by the Dutch booksellers ; many things unfinish- ed, or written in his youth, or designed not for the world, but to make his friends laugh, as the Lutrin vivant, he. There are two noble lines, which, as they are in the middle of an Ode to the King, may perhaps have escaped you : " I.e cri d'lin peuple heureux est lu seule eloquence. Qui s^ait parler des Rois : " which is very true, and should have been a hint to himself not to write Odes to the King at all. As I have nothing more to say at pre- sent, I fill my paper with the beginning of an Essay ; what name to give it I know not ; but the subject is the Alliance of Education and Government : I mean to shew that they must both concur to produce great and useful men. I desire your judgment upon it before I proceed any further. LETTER LX. From the same to the same. Cambridge, March 9, 1748. You ask for some account of books. The principal I can tell you of is a work of the president Montesquieu, the labour of twenty years ; it is called U Esprit des Loix, 2 vols. 4to. printed at Geneva. He lays down the principles on which are founded the three sorts of government, despotism, the limited monarchy, and the republican ; and shews how from these are reduced the laws and customs by which they are guided and maintained ; the edu- cation proper to each form ; the influence of climate, situation, religion^^ §cc. on the Sect. I. RECENT. 379 minds of particular nations, and on their policy. The subject, you see, is as ex- tensive as mankind ; the thoughts per- fectly new, generally admirable as they are just, sometimes a little too refined. In short, there are faults, but such as an ordinary man could never have commit- ted. The style very lively and concise (consequently sometimes obscure) ; it is the gravity of Tacitus, whom he admires, tempered with the gaiety and lire of a Frenchman. The time of night will not suffer me to go on ; but I will write again in a week. LETTER LXL From the same to the same, Cambridge, April 25, 1749. I PERCEIVE that second parts are as hard to write as they can be to read ; for this, which you ought to have had a week after the first, has been a full month in coming- forth. The spirit of laziness (the spirit of the place) begins to possess even me, who have so long- declaimed against it ; yet has it not so prevailed, but that I feel that discontent with myself, that ennui, that ever accompanies it in its begin- nings. Time will settle my conscience ; time will reconcile me to this languid companion : we shall smoke, we shall tipple, we shall doze together : we shall have our little jokes like other people, and our old stories : brandy will finish what port began ; and a month after the time you will see in some corner of a London Evening-Post, " Yesterday died the reverend Mr. John Gray, Senior Fellow of Clare Hall, a facetious compa- nion, and well respected by all that knew him. His death is supposed to have been occasioned by a fit of an apoplexy, being- found fallen out of bed with his head in the chamber pot." In the mean while, to go on with my account of new books. Montesquieu's work, which I mentioned before, is now published anew in 2 vols. 8vo. Have you seen old Crebillon's Catalina, a tragedy, which has had a prodigious run at Paris ? Historical truth is too much perverted in it, which is ridiculous in a story so generally known ; but if you can get over this, the sentiments and versification are fine, and most of the characters (parti- cularly the principal one) painted with great spirit. Mr. Birch, the indefatigable, has just put out a thick octavo of original papers of queen Elizabeth's time : there are many curious things in it, particularly letters from sir Robert Cecil (Salisbury) about his negotiations v»^ith Henry IV* of France, the earl of Monmouth's odd account of queen Elizabeth's death, se- veral peculirtrities of James I. and prince Henry, &c. and above all, an excellent account of the state of France, with cha- racters of the king, his court, and mi- nistry, by sir George Carew, ambassador there. This, I think, is all new worth mentioning, that I have seen or heard of ; except A Natural History of Peru, in Spanish, printed at London, by Don something, a man of learning, sent thither by that court on purpose. You ask after my Chronology. It was begun, as I told you, almost two years ago, when I was in the midst of Diogenes Laertius and his philosophers, as a prooe- mium to their works. My intention in forming this table was not so much for public events, though these too have a column assigned them, but rather in a literary way to compare the time of all great men, their writings and their trans- actions. I have brought it from the 30th Olympiad, where it begins, to the 1 1 3th ; that is, 332 years ^. My only modern assistants were Marsham, Dodwell, and Bentley. I have since that read Pausanias and Athenseus all through, and ^Eschylus again. I am now in Pindar and Lysias ; for I take verse and prose together, like bread and cheese. LETTER LXII. Mr. Gray to Dr. Warburton. Cambridge, Aug, 8, 1749. I PROMISED Dr. Keene long since to give you an account of our magnificence heref; but the newspapers, and he himself in person, have got the start of my indolence, so that by this time you are well acquainted with all the events =^ This laborious work was formed much in the manner of the president Renault's i7i^/ot>e de France Every paa:e consisted of nine co- lumns; one of the Olympiad, the next for the Archons, the third for the public affairs of Greece, the three next for the philosophers, and the three last for poets, historians, and orators. f The duke of Newcastle's installation as chancellor of the University. 380 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. that adorn that week of wonders. Thus much I may venture to tell you, because it is probable nobody else has done it, that our friend 's zeal and eloquence surpassed all power of description. Ve- suvio in an eruption was not more vio- lent than his utterance, nor (since I am at my mountains) Pelion, with all its pine-trees in a storm of wind, more im- petuous than his action ; and yet the Se- nate house still stands, and (I thank God) we are all safe and well at your service. I was ready to sink for him, and scarce dared to look about me, when I was sure it was all over ; but soon found I might have spared my confusion ; all people joined to applaud him. Every thing was quite right, and I dare swear not three people here but think him a model of oratory ; for all the duke's little court came with a resolution to be pleased ; and when the tone was once giren, the University, who ever wait for the judg- ment of their betters, struck into it with an admirable harmony : for the rest of the performances, they were just what they usually are. Every one, while it lasted, was very gay and very busy in the morning, and very owlish and very tipsy at night ; I make no exceptions from the Chancellor to Blue coat. Mason's Ode was the only entertainment that had any tolerable elegance ; and, for my own part, I think it (with some little abatements) uncommonly well on such an occasion. Pray let me know your sentiments ; for doubtless you have seen it. The author of it grows apace into my good graces, as I know him more ; he is very ingeni- ous, with great good-nature and simpli- city ; a little vain, but in so harmless and so comical a way, that it does not offend one at all ; a little ambitious, but withal so ignorant in the world and its ways, that this does not hurt him in one's opi- nion ; so sincere and so undisguised, that no mind, with a spark of generosity, would ever think of hurting him, he lies so open to injury ; but so indolent, that if he cannot overcome this habit, all his good qualities will signify nothing at all. After all, I like him so well, I could wish you knew him. LETTER LXin. Mr. Gray to his Mother. Cambridge, Nov, 7,1749. The unhappy news I have just received from you equally surprises and afflicts me*. 1 have lost a person I loved very much, and have been used to from my infancy ; but am much more concerned for your loss, the circumstances of which I forbear to dwell upon, as you must be too sensible of them yourself; and will, I fear, more and more need a consolation that no one can give, except He who has preserved her to you so many years, and at last, when it was his pleasure, has taken her from us to himself: and perhaps, if we reflect upon what she felt in this life, we may look upon this as an instance of his goodness both to her and to those that loved her. She might have lan- guished many years before our eyes in a continual increase of pain, and totally helpless ; she might have long wis*hed to end her misery without being able to at- tain it ; or perhaps even lost all sense, and yet continued to breathe ; a sad spectacle to such as must have felt more for her than she could have done for herself. However you may deplore your own loss, yet think that she is at last easy and happy ; and has now more oc- casion to pity us than we her. I hope, and beg, you will support yourself with that resignation we owe to Him who gave us our being for our good, and who deprives us of it for the same reason. I would have come to you directly, but you do not say whether you desire I should or not ; if you do, I beg I may know it, for there is nothing to hinder me, and I am in very good health. LETTER LXIV. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. Stoke, August 9, 1750. Aristotle says (one may write Greek to you without scandal) that 01 roitoi ou SiOcXvova-i triv (piXiav dirXcvs, dWa rr^v iyspysiOLV id Ss ^pcviog tj ditova-ioc ysvYjToci * The death of his aunt, Mrs. Mary Antro- bus, who died the 5th of November, and was buried in a vault in Stoke Churchyard near the chancel door, in which also his mother and himself (according to the direction in his will) were afterwards buried. Sect. I. RECENT. 381 SlSAVCBrjl. ]3ut Aristotle may say whatever he pleases, I do not find myself at all the worse for it. I could indeed wish to re- fresh my 'Evspysicc a little at Durham by the sight of you ; but when is there a probability of my being so happy? It concerned me greatly when I heard the other day that your asthma continued at times to afflict you, and that you were often obliged to go into the coun- try to breathe ; you cannot oblige me more than by giving me an account both of the state of your body and mind : 1 hope the latter is able to keep you cheer- ful and easy, in spite of the frailties of its companion. As to my own, it can nei- ther do one ncr the other ; and I have the mortification to find my spiritual part the most infirm thing about me. You have doubtless heard of the loss I have had in Dr. Middleton, whose house was the only easy place one could find to converse in at Cambridge : for my part, I find a friend so uncommon a thing, that I cannot help regretting even an old acquaintance, which is an indifferent likeness of it ; and though I do not ap- prove the spirit of his books, methinks it is pity the world should lose so rare a thing as a good writer. . My studies cannot furnish a recom- mendation of many new books to you. There is a defence de I' Esprit des Loix, by Montesquieu himself; it has some lively things in it, but is very short, and his adversary appears to be so mean a bigot that he deserved no answer. There are 3 vols, in 4to. of Histoire du Cabinet du Roy, by Messrs. Buffon and d'Aubenton ; the first is a man of cha- racter, but I am told has hurt it by this work. It is all a sort of introduction to natural history : the weak part of it is a love of system which runs through it ; the most contrary thing in the world to a science entirely grounded upon ex- periments, and which has nothing to do with vivacity of imagination. However, I cannot help commending the general view which he gives of the face of the earth, followed by a particular one of all the known nations, their peculiar figure and manners, which is the best epitome of geography I ever met Avith, and written with sense and elegance : in short, these books are well worth turniriir over. The Memoirs of the Abb6 de Mongon, in 5 vols, are highly commended, but I have not seen them. He was engaged in several embassies to Germany, England, Sec during the course of the late war. The president Henault's Abrege Chronologique de I' His- toire de France, I believe I have be- fore mentioned to you as a very good book of its kind. LETTER LXV. Mr. Gray to Mr. JValpole. Cambridge, Feb. 11, 1751. As you have brought me into a little sort of distress, you must assist me, I believe, to get out of it as well as I can. Yesterday I had the misfortune of re- ceiving a letter from certain gentlemen (as their bookseller expresses it), who have taken the Mazazine of Magazines into their hand : they tell me that an ingenious poem, called Reflections in a Country Churchyard, has been commu- nicated to them, which they are print- ing forthwith ; that they are informed that the excellent author of it is I by name, and that they beg not only his in- dulgence, but the honour of his cor- respondence, &c. As I am not at all disposed to be either so indulgent, or so correspondent, as they desire, I have but one bad way left to escape the honour they would inflict upon me ; and there- fore am obliged to desire you would make Dodsley print it immediately (which may be done in less than a week's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form is most convenient for him, but on his best paper and cha- racter ; he must correct the press him- self, and print it without any interval between the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued beyond them ; and the title must be. Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard. If he would add a line or two to say it came into his hands by accident, I should like it better. If you behold the Mazagine of Magazines in the light that I do, you will not re- fuse to give yourself this trouble on my account, which you have taken of your own accord before now. If Dodsley do not do this immediately, he may as well let it alone. 382 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER LXVI. LETTER LXVII. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. Dec. 19, 1732. Have you read Madame de Maintenon's Letters ? They are undoubtedly g-enuine ; they beg"m very early in her life, before she married Scarron, and continue after the king's death to within a little while of her own ; they bear all the marks of a noble spirit (in her adversity par- ticularly), of virtue, and unaffected de- votion ; insomuch, that I am almost per- suaded she was actually married to Lewis the XlVth, and never his mistress ; and this not out of any policy or ambition, but conscience ; for she was what we should call a bigot, yet with great good sense : in short, she was too good for a court. Misfortunes in the beginning of her life had formed her mind (naturally lively and impatient) to reflection and a habit of piety. She was always miser- able while she had the care of Madame de Montespan's children ; timid and very cautious of making use of that unlimited power she rose to afterwards, for fear of trespassing on the king's friendship for her ; and after his death not at all afraid of meeting her own. I do not know what to say to you with regard to Racine ; it sounds to me as if any body should fall upon Shakspeare, who indeed lies infinitely more open to criticism of all kinds ; but I should not care to be the person that undertook it. If you do not like Athaliah or Britanni- cus, there is no more to be said. I have done. Bishop's Hall's satires, called Virgide- mise, are lately republished. They are full of spirit and poetry ; as much of the first as Dr. Donne, and far more of the latter : they were written at the univer- sity when he was about twenty-three years old, and in queen Elizabeth's time. You do not say whether you have read the Crito*. I only recommend the dra- matic part of the Phsedo to you, not the argumentative. The subject of the Eras- tse is good ; it treats of that peculiar character and turn of mind which belongs to a true philosopher, but it is shorter than one would wish. The Euthyphro I would not read at all. * Of Plato. Mr. Gray to Mr. Walpole. Stoke, Jan. 1752. I AM at present at Stoke, to which place I came at half an hour's warning upon the news I received of my mother's ill- ness, and did not expect to have found her alive ; but when I arrived she was much better, and continues so. I shall therefore be very glad to make you a visit at Strawberry-Hill, whenever you give me notice of a convenient time. I am surprised at the print, which far sur- passes my idea of London graving : the drawing itself was so finished, that I suppose it did not require all the art I had imagined to copy it tolerably. My aunts seeing me open your letter, took it to be a burying ticket, and asked whe- ther any body had left me a ring ; and so they still conceive it to be, even with all their spectacles on. Heaven forbid they should suspect it to belong to any verses of mine, they would burn me for a poet. On my own part I am satisfied, if this design of yours succeed so well as you intend it ; and yet I know it will be accompanied with something not at all agreeable to me. While I write this, I receive your second letter. Sure, you are not out of your wits I This I know, if you suffer my head to be printed, you will infallibly put me out of mine. I conjure you immediately to put a stop to any such design. Who is at the ex- pense of engraving it I know not ; but if it be Dodsley, 1 will make up the loss to him. The thing, as it was, I know, will make me ridiculous enough ; but to appear in proper person, at the head of my works, consisting of half a dozen ballads in thirty pages, would be worse than the pillory. I do assure you, if I had received such a book, with such a frontispiece, without any warning, I be- lieve it would have given me a palsy ; therefore I rejoice to have received this notice, and shall not be easy till you tell me all thoughts of it are laid aside. I am extremely in earnest, and cannot bear even the idea. I had written to Dodsley, if I had not received yours, to tell him how little I liked the title which he meant to prefix ; but your letter has put all that out of my head. If you think it necessary to print these explanations for the use ojf Sect. I. R E C E N T. 383 people that have no eyes, I should be glad they were a little altered. 1 am, to my shame, in your debt for a long letter ; but 1 cannot think of any thing else till you have set me at ease on this matter. LETEER LXVIII. Mr. Gray to Mr. Mason. Durham, Dec. 26, 1753. A LITTLE while before I received your melancholy letter, 1 had been informed by Mr. Charles Avison of one of the sad events you mention*. I know what it is to lose persons that one's eyes and heart have long been used to ; and I never desire to part with the remem- brance of that loss, nor would wish you should. It is something that you had a little time to acquaint yourself with the idea beforehand ; and that your father suffered but little pain, the only thing that makes death terrible. After I have said this, I cannot help expressing my surprise at the disposition he has made of his affairs. I must (if you will suffer me to say so) call it great weak- ness ; and yet perhaps your affliction for him is heightened by that very weak- ness ; for I know it is impossible to feel an additional sorrow for the faults of those we have loved, even where that fault has been greatly injurious to our- selves. Let me desire you not to ex- pose yourself to any further danger in the midst of that scene of sickness and death ; but withdraw as soon as possible to some place at a little distance in the country ; for I do not, in the least, like the situation you are in. I do not at- tempt to console you on the situation your fortune is left in ; if it were far worse, the good opinion I have of you tells me, you will never the sooner do any thing mean or unworthy of your- seK; and consequently I cannot pity you on this account ; but I sincerely do on the new loss you have had of a good and friendly man, whose memory I ho- nour. I have seen the scene you de- scribe, and know how dreadful it is : I know too I am the better for it. We are all idle and thoughtless things, and * The death of Mr. Mason's father, and of Dr. Martnaduke Pricket, a young physician of his own age, with whom he was brought up from infancy, who died of the same infectious fever. have no sense, no use in the world any longer than that sad impression lasts : the deeper it is engraved the better. LETTER LXIX. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. Stoke, Sept. 18, 1754. I A3I glad you enter into the spirit of Strawberry Castle ; it has a purity and propriety of Gothicism in it (with very few exceptions) that I have not seen else- where. My lord Radnor's vagaries I see did not keep you from doing justice to his situation, which far surpasses every thing near it ; and I do not know a more laughing scene than that about Twickenham and Richmond. Dr. Aken- side, I perceive, is no conjuror in archi- tecture ; especially when he talks of the ruins of Persepolis, which are no more Gothic than they are Chinese. The Egyptian style (see Dr. Pocock, not his discourses, but his prints) was apparently^ the mother of the Greek ; and there is such a similitude between the Egyptian and those Persian ruins, as gave Dio- dorus room to affirm, that the old build -^ ings of Persia were certainly performed by Egyptian artists. As to the other part of your friend's opinion, that the Gothic manner is the Saracen or Moor- ish, he has a great authority to support him, that of sir Christopher Wren ; and yet I cannot help thinking it undoubt- edly wrong. The palaces in Spain I never saw but in description, which gives us little or no idea of things ; but the Doge's palace at Venice I have seen, which is in the Arabesque manner : and the houses of Barbary you may see in Dr. Shaw's book, not to mention abun- dance of other Eastern buildings in Turkey, Persia, &c. that we have views of ; and they seem plainly to be corrup- tions of the Greek architecture, broke into little parts indeed, and covered with little ornaments, but in a taste very dis- tinguishable from that which we call Gothic. There is one thing that runs through the Moorish buildings, that an imitator would certainly have been first struck with, and would have tried to copy ; and that is the cupolas which cover every thing, baths, apartments, and even kitchens ; yet who ever saw a Go- thic cupola ? It is a thing plainly of Greek original. I do not see any thing but the 384 ELEGANT E P J S T L E S. Book IV. slender spires that serve for steeples, which may perhaps be borrowed from the Saracen minarets on their mosques. I take it ill you should say any things against the Mole ; it is a relSiection I see cast at the Thames. Do you think that rivers, which have lived in London and its neighbourhood all their days, will run roaring and tumbling about like your tramontane torrents in the North? No, they only glide and whisper. LETTER LXX. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. Cambridge, March 9, 1755. I DO not pretend to humble any one's pride ; I love my own too well to at- tempt it. As to mortifying their vanity, it is too easy and too mean a task for me to delight in. You are very good in shewing so much sensibility on my ac- count ; but be assured my taste for praise is not like that of children for fruit ; if there were nothing but medlars and blackberries in the world, I would be very well content to go without any at all. I dare say that Mason, though some years younger than I, was as little elevated with the approbation of lord and lord , as I am mortified by their silence. With regard to publishing, I am not so much against the thing itself, as of publishing this Ode alone*. 1 have two or three ideas more in my head. What is to come of them ? Must they come too out in the shape of little sixpenny flams, dropping one after another till Mr. Dods- ley thinks fit to collect them with Mr. This's song, and Mr. T'other's epigram, into a pretty volume ? 1 am sure Mason must be sensible of this, and therefore cannot mean what he says. Neither am I quite of your opinion with regard to strophe and antistrophe : setting aside the difficulty of execution, methinks it has little or no effect on the ear, which scarce perceives the regular return of metres at so great a distance from one another : to make it succeed, 1 am per- suaded the stanzas must not consist of above nine lines each at the most. Pin- dar has several such odes. * His Ode on the Progress of Poetry. LETTER LXXL From the same to the sa^ie. Pembroke Hall, March 25, 1756. Though I had no reasonable excuse for myself before I received your last letter, yet since that time I have had a pretty good one, having been taken up in quar- relling with Peter-house t, and in re- moving myself from thence to Pembroke. This may be looked upon as a sort of aera in a life so barren of events as mine ; yet I shall treat it in Voltaire's manner, and only tell you that T left my lodgings because the rooms were noisy, and the people of the house uncivil. This is all I would choose to have said about it ; but if you in private should be curious enough to enter into a particular detail of facts and minute circumstances, the bearer, who was witness to them, will probably satisfy you. All I shall say more is, that I am for the present extremely well lodged here, and as quiet as in the Grand Chartreuse ; and that every body (even Dr. Long himself) are as civil as they could be to Mary of Valens I in person. With regard to any advice I can give you about your being physician to the Hospital, I frankly own it ought to give way to a much better judge, especially so disinterested a one as Dr. Heberden. I love refusals no more than you do. But as to your fears of effluvia, I maintain that one sick rich patient has more of pestilence and putrefaction about him than a whole ward of sick poor. The similitude between the Italian re- publics and those of ancient Greece has often struck me, as it does you. I do not wonder that Sully's Memoirs have highly entertained you ; but cannot f The reason of Mr, Gray's changing his college, which is here only glanced at, was in few words this: Two or three young men of fortune, who lived in the same staircase, had for some time intentionally disturbed him with their riots, and carried their ill behaviour so far as frequently to awaken him at midnight. After having borne with their insults longer -than might reasonably have been exfjected even from a man of less warmth of temper, Mr. Gray complained to the governing part of the Society, and not thinking that his remon- strance was sufficiently attended to, quitted the college. The slight manner in which he mentions this affair, when writing to one of his most intimate friends, certainly does honour to the placability of his disposition. X Foundress of the college. Sect. I, R E C E N T. 385 agree Avitli you in thinking him or his master two of the best men in the world. The king was indeed one of the best-na- tured men that ever lived; but it is owing only to chance that his intended marriage with madame d'Estrees, or with the marquise de Verneuil, did not in- volve him and the kingdom in the most inextricable confusion ; and his design upon the princess of Cond6 (in his old age) was worse still. As to the minister, his base application to Concini, after the murder of Henry, has quite ruined him in my esteem, and destroyed all the merit of that honest, surly pride for which I honoured him before ; yet I own that, as kings and ministers go, they were both extraordinary men. Pray look at the end of Birch's State Papers of sir J. Edmonds, for the character of the French court at that time ; it is written by sir George Carew. You should have received Mason's pre- sent* last Saturday. I desire you to tell me your critical opinion of the new Odes, and also whether you have found out two lines which he has inserted in his third to a friend, which are superlativef. We do not expect the world, which is just going to be invaded, will bestow much attention to them ; if you hear any thing, you will tell us. truth, and contains some very few extra- ordinary facts relating to Anne of Aus- tria and cardinal Mazarine. The other is in two small volumes, Memoires de Madcune StaaL The facts are no great matter, but the manner and vivacity make them interesting. She was a sort of confidante to the late duchess of Maine, and imprisoned a long time on her ac- count during the regency. I ought before now to have thanked you for your kind offer, which I mean soon to accept, for a reason which, to be sure, can be none to you and Mrs. Whar- ton ; and therefore I tiiink it my duty to give you notice of it. I have told you already of my mental ailments ; and it is a very possible thing also that I may be bodijy ill again in town, which I would not choose to be in a dirty in- convenient lodging, where, perhaps, my nurse might stifle me with a pillow ; and therefore it is no wonder if I prefer your house : but I tell you of this in time, that if either of you are frightened at the thoughts of a sick body, you may make a handsome excuse and save your- selves this trouble. You are not, how- ever, to imagine my illness is in esse; no, it is only in posse ; otherwise I should be scrupulous of bringing it home to you. I think I shall be with you 114 about a fortnight. LETTER LXXII. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. June 14, 1156. Though I allow abundance for your kindness and partiality to me, I am yet much pleased with the good opinion you seem to have of The Bard ; I have not, however, done a word more than the little you have seen, having been in a very listless, unpleasant, and inutile state of mind for this long time, for which I shall beg you to prescribe me somewhat strengthening and aggluti- nant, lest it turn to a confirmed pthisis. 1 recommend two little French booHs to you, one called Memoires de M. de la Porte ; it has all the air of simplicity and * The four Odes which Mr. Mason had just published separately. f While through the west, where sinks the crimson day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray. . LETTER LXXin. Mr. Gray to Mr. Mason. Stoke, July '15, 1156, I FEEL a contrition for my long silence ; and yet perhaps it is the last thing you trouble your head about. Nevertheless, I will be as sorry as if you took it ill. [ am sorry too to see you so punctilious as to stand upon answers, and never to come near me till I have regularly left my name at your door, like a mercer's wife that imitates people who go a- visit- ing. I would forgive you tiiis, if you could possibly suspect I were doing any thing that I liked better ; for then your for- mality might look like being piqued at my negligence, which has somewhat in it like kindness : but you know 1 am at Stoke, hearing, seeing, doing absolutely nothing. Not such a notliing as you do at Tunbridge, chequered and diversified with a succession of fleeting colours ; 386 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV but heavy, lifeless, without form and void ; sometimes almost as black as the moral of Voltaire's Lisbon *, which angers you so. I have had no more muscular inflations, and am only troubled with this depression of mind. You will not ex- pect, thm*efore, I should give you any account of my Verve, which is at best (you know) of so delicate a constitution, and has such weak nerves as not to stir -^ut of its chamber above three days in a year. But I shall inquire after yours, and why it is off again ? It has certainly worse nerves than mine, if your Re- viewers have frighted it. Sure I (not to mention a score of your other critics) am something a better judge than all the men-midwives and presbyterian par- sons t that ever were born. Pray give me leave to ask you, do you find yourself tickled with the commendations of such people ? (for you have your share of these too :) I dare say not ; your vanity has certainly a better taste. And can then the censure of such critics move you ? I own it is an impertinence in these gentry to talk of one at all, either in good or in bad; but this we must all swallow : I mean not only we that write, but all the tve*s that ever did any thing to be talked of. While I am writing I receive yours, and rejoice to find that the genial influ- ences of this fine season, which produce nothing in me, have hatched high and unimaginable fantasies in you|. I see, methinks, as I sit on Snowdon, some glimpse of Mona and her haunted shades, and hope we shall be very good neigh- bours. Any Druidical anecdotes that I can meet with, I will be sure to send you when I return to Cambridge ; but I can- npt pretend to be learned without books, or to know the Druids from modern bishops at this distance. I can only tell you not to go and take Mona for the Isle of Man : it is Anglesey, a tract of plain country, very fertile, but picturesque only from the view it has of Caernar- vonshire, from which it is separated by the Menai, a narrow arm of the sea. Forgive me for supposing in you such a want of erudition. * His poem Sur la Destruction de Lisbon, published about that time. f The reviewers, at the time, were supposed to be of t4iese professions. X Mr. Mason had sent him his first idea of Caractacus, drawn out in a short argument. I congratulate you on our glorious successes in the Mediterranean. Shall we go in time, and hire a house together in Switzerland ? It is a fine poetical country to look at, and nobody there will understand a word we say or write. LETTER LXXIV. Mr. Gray to Mr. Mason, Cambridge, May, 1757. You are so forgetful of me that I should not forgive it, but that I suppose Ca- ractacus may be the better for it. Yet I hear nothing from him neither, in spite of his promises : there is no faith in man, no not in a Welchman ; and yet Mr. Parry § has been here, and scratched out such ravishing blind harmony, such tunes of a thousand years old, with names enough to choak you, as have set all this learned body a-dancing, and inspired them with due reverence for my old Bard his countryman, whenever he shall appear. Mr. Parry, you must know, has put my Ode in motion again, and has brought it at last to a conclusion. It is to him, therefore, that you owe the treat which I send you inclosed ; namely, the breast and merry-thought, and rump too of the chicken which I have been chewing so long, that I would give the world for neck -beef or cow-heel. You will observe, in the beginning of this thing, some alteration of a few words, partly for improvement, and partly to avoid repetitions of like words and rhymes ; yet I have not got rid of them all ; the six last lines of the fifth stanza are new ; tell me whether they will do. I am well aware of many weakly things towards the conclusion, but I hope the end itself will do ; give me your full and true opinion, and that not upon delibera- tion, but forthwith. Mr. Hurd himself allows that lion port is not too bold for queen Elizabeth. I have got the old Scotch ballad on which Douglas was founded ; it is di- vine, and as long as from hence to Aston. Have you never seen it? Aristotle's best rules are observed in it, in a manner that shews the author had never read Aristotle. It begins in the fifth act of the play : you § A capital performer on the Welch harp, and who was either born blind, or had been so from his infancy. Sect. I. R E C E N T. 387 may read it two-thirds through without guessing what it is about : and yet, when you come to the end, it is impossible not to understand the whole story. I send you the two first stanzas, •jt -x- * * LETTER LXXV. Mr. Grai/ to Mr. Hurd*. Stoke, Aug. 25, 17o7. I DO not know why you should thank me for what you had a right and title to f ; but attribute it to the excess of your po- liteness : and the more so, because almost no one else has made me the same com- pliment. As your acquaintance in the University (you say) do me the honour to admire, it would be ungenerous in me not to give them notice, that they are doing a very unfashionable thing ; for all people of condition are agreed not to ad- mire, nor even to understand. One very great man, writing to an acquaintance of his and mine, says that he had read them seven or eight times ; and that now, when he next sees him, he shall not have above thirti/ questions to ask. Another (a peer) believes that the last stanza of the second Ode relates to king Charles the First and Oliver Cromwell. Even my friends tell me they do not succeed, and write me moving topics of consola- tion on that head. In short, I have heard of nobody but an actor and a doctor of divinity that profess their esteem for them. Oh yes, a lady of quality (a friend of Mason's), who is a great reader. She knew there was a compliment to Dry den, bat never suspected there was any thing said about Shakspeare or Milton, till it was explained to her ; and wishes that there had been titles prefixed to tell what they were about. From this mention of Mason's name you may think, perhaps, we are great correspondents. No such thing ; I have not heard from him these two months. I will be sure to scold in my own name, as well as in yours. I rejoice to hear you are so ripe for the press, and so volumi- nous ; not for my own sake only, whom you flatter with the hopes of seeing your labours both public and private, but for yours too ; for to be employed is to be * Aftevwards bishop of Worcester. f A present of his two Pindaric Odes, just then published. happy. This principle of mine (and I am convinced of its truth) has, as usual, no influence on my practice. I am alone, and ennuye to the last degree, yet do no- thing : indeed I have one excuse ; my health (which you have so kindly in- quired after) is not extraordinary, ever since I came hither. It is no great ma- lady, but several little ones, that seem brewing no good to me. It will be a particular pleasure to me to hear whe- ther Content dwells in Leicestershire, and how she entertains herself there. Only do not be too happy, nor forget en- tirely the quiet ugliness of Cambridge. LETTER LXXVI. Mr. Gray to Mr, Mason, Cambridge, Dec. 12, 17.57. A LIFE spent out of the world has its hours of despondence, its inconveniences, its sufferings, as numerous and as real, though not quite of the same sort, as a life spent in the midst of it. The power we have, when we will exert it over our own minds, joined to a little strength and consolation, nay, a little pride we catch from those that seem to love us, is our only support in either of these con- ditions. I am sensible I cannot return you more of this assistance than I have received from you ; and can only tell you, that one, who has far more reason than you, I hope, ever will have to look on life with something worse than indif- ference, is yet no enemy to it ; but can look backward on many bitter moments, partly with satisfaction, and partly with patience ; and forward too on a scene not very promising, with some hope, and some expectations of a better day. The cause, however, which occasioned your reflection (though I can judge but very imperfectly of it), does not seem, at pre- sent, to be weighty enough to make you take any such resolution as you meditate. Use it in its season, as a relief from what is tiresome to you, but not as if it was in consequence of any thing you take ill ; on the contrary, if such a thing had hap- pened at the time of your transmigra- tion, I would defer it merely to avoid that appearance. As to myself, I cannot boast, at pre- sent, either of my spirits, my situation, my employments, or fertility. The days and the nights pass, and I am never the 2 C 2 ^88 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. nearer to any thing, but that one to which we are all tending ; yet I love people that leave some traces of their journey behind them, and have strength enough to ad- vise you to do so while you can. I ex- pect to see Caractacus completed, and therefore I send you the books you wanted. I do not know whether they will furnish you with any new matter ; but they are well enough written, and easily read. I told you beforcj that (in a time of dearth) I would borrow from the Edda, without entering too minutely on particulars ; but if I did so, I would make each image so clear, that it might be fully understood by itself ; for in this obscure mythology we must not hint at things, as we do with the Greek fables, that every body is supposed to know at school. However, on second thoughts, I think it would be still better to graft any wild picturesque fable, absolutely of one's own invention, on the Druid stock ; I mean on those half dozen of old fancies that are known to be a part of their sys- tem. This will give you more freedom and latitude, and will leave no hold for the critics to fasten on. I send you back the elegy*, as you de- sired me to do. My advices are always at your service to take or to refuse, there- fore you should not call them severe. You know I do not love, much less pique myself on criticism ; and think even a bad verse as good a thing or better than the best observation that ever was made upon it. I like greatly the spirit and sentiment of it (much of which you per- haps owe to your present train of think- ing) : the disposition of the whole too is natural and elegiac ; as to the expression, I would venture to say (did not you for- bid me) that it is sometimes too easy. The last line I protest against (this, you will say, is worse than blotting out rhymes) ; the descriptive part is ex- cellent. Pray, when did I pretend to finish, or even insert passages into other people's works, as if it were equally easy to pick holes and to mend them ? All I can say is, that your elegy must not end with the worst line in it. It is flat ; it is prose ; whereas that, above all, ought to sparkle, or at least to shine. If the sen- timent must stand, twirl it into an apo- phthegm ; stick a flower in it ; gild it f Elegy in the Garden of a Friend. with a costly expression ; let it strike the fancy, the ear, or the heart, and I am satisfied. The other particular expressions which I object to, I mark on the manuscript. Now, I desire you would neither think me severe, nor at all regard what I say further than as it coincides with your own judgment : for the child deserves your partiality ; it is a healthy well-made boy, with an ingenuous countenance, and pro- mises to live long. I would only wash its face, dress it a little, make it walk upright and strong, and keep it from learning paiv words. I hope you couched my refusal f to lord John Cavendish in as respectful terms as possible, and with all due ac- knowledgments to the duke. If you hear who it is to be given to, pray let me know ; for I interest myself a little in the history of it, and rather wish some- body may accept it that will retrieve the credit of the thing, if it be retrievable, or ever had any credit. Rowe was, I think, the last man of character that had it ; Eusden was a person of great hopes in his youth, though at last he turned out a drunken parson ; Dryden was as disgraceful to the office, from his character, as the poorest scribbler could have been from his verses. LETTER LXXVII. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. February 21, 1758. Would you know what I am doing ? I doubt you have been told already, and hold my employments cheap enough ; but every one must judge of his own capabi- lity, and cut his amusements according to his disposition. The drift of my pre- sent studies is to know, wherever I am, what lies within reach that may be worth seeing, whether it be building, ruin, park, garden, prospect, picture, or monument; to whom it doth or has belonged, and what has been the characteristic and taste of different ages. You will say this is the f Of being poet-laureat on the death of Cibber, which place the late duke of Devon- shire (then lord chamberlain) desired his bro- ther to offer to Mr. Gray ; and his lordship had commissioned Mr. Mason (then in town) to write to him concerning it. Sect. 1. RECENT. 389 object of all antiquaries ; but pray what antiquary ever saw these objects in the same light, or desired to know them for a like reason ? In short, say what you please, I am persuaded whenever my list is finished you will approve it, and think it of no small use. My spirits are very near the freezing point ; and for some hours of the day this exercise, by its warmth and gentle motion, serves to raise them a few degrees higher. I hope the misfortune that has befallen Mrs. Gibber's canary bird will not be the ruin of Agis : it is probable you will have curiosity enough to see it, as it is by the author of Douglas. LETTER LXXVIII. From the same to the same. Cambridge, March 8, 1758. It is indeed for want of spirits, as you suspect, that my studies lie among the cathedrals, and the tombs, and the ruins. To think, though to little purpose, has been the chief amusement of my days ; and when I would not, or cannot think, I dream. At present I feel myself able to write a catalogue, or to read the Peer- age book, or Miller's Gardening Dic- tionary, and am thankful that there are such employments and such authors in the world. Some people, who hold me cheap for this, are doing perhaps what is not half so well worth while. As to pos- terity, I may ask (with somebody whom I have forgot), what has it ever done to oblige me ? To make a transition from myself to as poor a subject, the tragedy of Agis : I cry to think that it should be by the author of Douglas : why, it is all modern Greek ; the story is an antique statue painted white and red, frizzed, and dressed in a negligee made by a Yorkshire man- tua-maker. Then here is the Miscellany (Mr. Dodsley has sent me the whole set gilt and lettered ; I thank him). Why, the two last volumes are worse than the four first ; particularly Dr. Akenside is in a deplorable way. What signifies learning and the ancients (Mason will say triumphantly) ; why should people read Greek to lose their imagination, their ear, and their mother tongue ? But then there is Mr. Shenstone, who trusts to nature and simple sentiment, why does he do no better? He goes hopping along his own gravel walks, and never deviates from the beaten paths for fear of being lost. I have read Dr. Swift, and am disap- pointed*. There is nothing of the ne- gotiations that I have not seen better in M . de Torcy before. The manner is care- less, and has little to distinguish it from common writers. I meet with nothing to please me but the spiteful characters of the opposite party and its leaders. I expected much more secret history. LETTER LXXIX. Mr. Gray to Mr. Stonehewer. Cambridge, August 13, 1758. I AM as sorry as you seem to be, that our acquaintance harped so much on the subject of materialism, when I saw him with you in town, because it was plain to which side of the long-debated question he inclined. That we are indeed me- chanical and dependent beings, I need no other proof than my own feelings ; and from the same feelings I learn, with equal conviction, that we are not merely such ; that there is a power within that struggles against the force and bias of that mechanism, commands its motion, and, by frequent practice, reduces it to that ready obedience which we call habit ; and all this in conformity to a precon- ceived opinion (no matter whether right or wrong), to that least material of all agents, a thought. I have known many in his case, who, while they thought they were conquering an old prejudice, did not perceive they were under the influ- ence of one far more dangerous ; one that furnishes us with a ready apology for all our worst actions, and opens to us a full license for doing whatever we please ; and yet these very people were not at all the more indulgent to other men (as they naturally should have been) : their indignation to such as offended them, their desire of revenge on any body that hurt them, was nothing miti- gated : in short, the truth is, they wished to be persuaded of that opinion for the sake of its convenience, but were not so in their heart ; and thev would have been * His History of the four last years of Queen Anne. 390 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV glad (as they ought in common pru- dence), that nohody else should think the same, for fear of the mischief that might ensue to themselves. His French author I never saw, but have read fifty in the same strain, and shall read no more. I can be wretched enough without them. They put me in mind of the Greek sophist, that got immortal honour by discoursing so feelingly on the miseries of our con- dition, that fifty of his audience went home and hanged themselves ; yet he lived himself (I suppose) many years after in very good plight. You say you cannot conceive how lord Shaftesbury came to be a philoso- pher in vogue ; I will teU you : 1st, he was a lord ; 2dly, he was as vain as any of his readers ; 3dly, men are very prone to believe what they do not understand ; 4thly, they will believe any thing at all, provided they are under no obligation to believe it ; 5thly, they love to take a new road, even when that road leads no- where ; 6thly, he was reckoned a fine writer, and seemed always to mean more than he said. Would you have anymore reasons ? An interval of above forty years has pretty well destroyed the charm. A dead lord ranks but with commoners : vanity is no longer interested in the mat- ter, for the new road is become an old one. The mode of free-thinking is like that of ruffs and farthingales, and has given place to the mode of not thinking at all ; once it was reckoned graceful, half to discover and half conceal the mind, but now we have been long accustomed to see it quite naked : primness and af- fectation of style, like the good-breeding of queen Anne's court, has turned to hoydening and rude familiarity. LETTER LXXX. Mr. Gray to Mr. Wharton. Sunday, April 9, 1758. I AM equally sensible of your affliction*, and of your kindness, that made you think of me at such a moment : would to God I could lessen the one, or requite the other with that consolation which I have often received from you when I most wanted it ! but your grief is too just, and * Occasioned by the death of his eldest (and at that time his only) son. the cause of it too fresh to admit of any such endeavour : what, indeed, is all hu- man consolation ? Can it efface every little amiable word or action of an object we loved, from our memory? Can it convince us, that all the hopes we had entertained, the plans of future satisfac- tion we had formed, were ill-grounded and vain, only because we have lost them ? The only comfort (I am afraid) that belongs to our condition, is to re- flect (when time has given us leisure for reflection) that others have suffered worse ; or that we ourselves might have sufi^ered the same misfortune at times and in circumstances that would proba- bly have aggravated our sorrow. You might have seen this poor child arrived at an age to fulfil all your hopes, to at- tach you more strongly to him by long habit, by esteem, as well as natural af- fection, and that towards the decline of your life, when we most stand in need of support, and when he might chance to have been your only support ; and then by some unforeseen and deplorable ac- cident, or some painful lingering dis- temper, you might have lost him. Such has been the fate of many an unhappy father. I know there is a sort of tender- ness which infancy and innocence alone produce ; but I think you must own the other to be a stronger and a more over- whelming sorrow. Let me then beseech you to try, by every method of avocation and amusement, Avhether you cannot, by degrees, get the better of that dejection of spirits, which inclines you to see every thing in the worst light possible, and throws a sort of a voluntary gloom, not only over your present, but future days ; as if even your situation now were not preferable to that of thousands round you ; and as if your prospect hereafter might not open as much of happiness to you as to any person you know : the con- dition of our life perpetually instructs us to be rather slow to hope, as well as to despair; and (I know you will forgive me, if I tell you) you are often a little too hasty in both, perhaps from constitution. It is sure we have great power over our own minds, when we choose to exert it ; and though it be difficult to resist the mechanic impulse and bias of our own temper, it is yet possible, and still more so, to delay those resolutions it inclines us to take, which we almost always have cause to repent. ECT. I, RECENT. 391 You tell me nothing of Mrs. Whar- ton's or your own state of health : I will not talk to you more upon this subject till I hear you are both well ; for that is the grand point, and without it we may as well not think at all. You flatter me in thinking that any thing I can do * could at all alleviate the just concern your loss has given you ; but I cannot flatter my- self so far, and know how little qualified I am at present to give any satisfaction to myself on this head, and in this way, much less to you. 1 by no means pre- tend to inspiration; but yet I affirm, that the faculty in question is by no means voluntary ; it is the result (I sup- pose) of a certain disposition of mind, which does not depend on one's self, and which I have not felt this long time. You, that are a witness how seldom this spirit has moved me in my life, may easily give credit to what I say. LETTER LXXXI. Mr. Gray to Mr. Palgrave f. Stoke, Sept. 6, 1 758. I DO not know how to make you amends, having neither rock, ruin, nor precipice, near me to send you ; they do not grow in the south ; but only say the word, if you would have a compact neat box of red brick with sash windows, or a grotto made of flints and shell work, or a wal- nut tree with three mole hills under it, stuck with honeysuckles round a bason of gold fishes, and you shall be satisfied ; they shall come by the Edinburgh coach. In the mean time I congratulate you on your new acquaintance with the sa- vage, the rude, and the tremendous. Pray tell me, is it any thing like what you had read in your book, or seen in two shilling prints ? Do not you think a man may be the wiser (I had almost said the better) for going a hundred or two of miles ; and that the mind has more room in it than most people seem to think, if you will but furnish the apartments? I almost envy your last month, being in a very insipid situation myself : and desire you would not fail to send me some furniture for my Gothic * His friend had requested him to write an epitaph on the child. f Rector of Palgrave and Thrandeston in Suffolk. He was making a tour in Scotland when this letter was written to him. apartment, which is very cold at present. It will be the easier task, as you have nothing to do but transcribe your little red books, if they are not rubbed out ; for I conclude you have not trusted every thing to memory, which is ten times worse than a lead pencil : half a word fixed upon or near a spot, is worth a cart load of recollection. When we trust to the picture that objects draw of them- selves on our minds, we deceive ourselves 5 without accurate and particular observa- tion, it is but ill-drawn at first, the out- lines are soon blurred, the colours every day grow fainter ; and at last, when we would produce it to any body, we are forced to supply its defects with a few^ strokes of our own imagination. God forgive me, I suppose I have done so myself before now, and misled many a good body that put their trust in me. Pray, tell me (but with permission, and without any breach of hospitality), is it so much warmer on the other side of the Swale (as some people of honour say) than it is here ? Has the singing of birds, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of herds, deafened you at Rainton ? Did the vast old oaks and thick groves in Nor- thumberland keep off the sun too much from you ? I am too civil to extend my inquiries beyond Berwick. Every thing, doubtless, must improve upon you as you advance northward. You must tell me, though, about Melross, Rosslin Chapel, and Arbroath. In short, jour portfeuille must be so full, that I only desire a loose chapter or two, and will wait for the rest till it comes out. LETTER LXXXII. From the same to the same, London, July 24, 1739. I AM now settled in my new territories, commanding Bedford gardens, and all the fields as far as Highgate and Hamp- stead, with such a concourse of moving pictures as would astonish you ; so rus-in- urbe-ish, that I believe I shall stay here, except little excursions and vagaries, for a year to come. What though I am se- parated from the fashionable world by Broad St. Giles's, and many a dirty court and alley, yet here is air, and sunshine, and quiet, however, to comfort you : I shall confess that I am basking with heat all the summer, and I suppose shall be 392 ELEGANT EPISTLES, Book IV. blown down all the winter, besides being robbed every night; I trust, however, that the Musseum, with all its manu- scripts and rarities by the cart-load, will make ample amends for all the aforesaid inconveniencies. I this day passed through the jaws of a great leviathan into the den of Dr. Templeman, superintendant of the read- ing-room, who congratulated himself on the sight of so much good company. We were, 1st, a man that writes for lord Royston; 2dly, a man that writes for Dr. Burton, of York ; 3dly, a man that writes for the emperor of Germany, or Dr. Pocock, for he speaks the worst English I ever heard ; 4thly, Dr. Stukely , who writes for himself, the very worst person he could write for; and lastly, I, wko only read to know if there be any thing worth writing, and that not with- out some difficulty. I find that they printed 1000 copies of the Harleian Ca- talogue, and have sold only fourscore ; that they have 900/. a-year income, and spend 1 300/. and are building apartments for the under-keepers ; so I expect in vidnter to see the collection advertised and set to auction. Have you read lord Clarendon's Con- tinuation of his History ? Do you remem- ber Mr. * ^ 's account of it before it came out? How well he recollected all the faults, and how utterly he forgot all the beauties : surely the grossest taste is bet- ter than such a sort of delicacy. LETTER LXXXIIL Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. London, June 22, 1760. 1 AM not sorry to hear you are exceed- ing busy, except as it has deprived me of the pleasure I should have of hearing often from you ; and as it has been oc- casioned by a little vexation and disap- pointment. To find one's self business, I am persuaded, is the great art of life ; I am never so angry as when I hear my acquaintance wishing they had been bred to some poking profession, or employed in some office of drudgery, as if it were pleasanter to be at the command of other people than at one's own ; and as if they could not go unless they were wound up : yet I know and feel what they mean by this complaint ; it proves that some spi- rit, something of genius (more than common) is required to teach a man how to employ himself : I say a man ; for wo- men, commonly speaking, never feel this distemper, they have always something to do ; time hangs not on their hands (unless they be fine ladies) ; a variety of small inventions and occupations fill up the void, and their eyes are never open in vain. As to myself, 1 have again found rest for the sole of my gouty foot in your old dining-room*, and hope that you will find at least an equal satisfaction at Old Park ; if your bog prove as comfortable ag my oven, I shall see no occasion to pity you, and only wish you may brew no worse than I bake. You totally mistake my talents, when you impute to me any magical skill in. planting roses : I know I am no conju- rer in these things ; when they are done 1 can find fault, and that is all. Now this is the very reverse of genius, and I feel my own littleness. Reasonable peo- ple know themselves better than is com- monly imagined ; and therefore (though I never saw any instance of it) I believe Mason when he tells me that he under- stands these things. The prophetic eye of taste (as Mr. Pitt called it) sees all the beauties that a place is susceptible of, long before they are born ; and when it plants a seedling, already sits under the shadow of it, and enjoys the effect it will have from every point of view that lies in prospect. You must therefore in- voke Caractacus, and he will send his spirits from the top of Snowdon to Cross- fall or Warden-lav/. I am much obliged to you for your an- tique news. Froissard is a favourite book of mine (though I have not attentively read him, but only dipped here and there) ; and it is strange to me that peo- ple, who would give thousands for a dozen portraits (originals of that time) to furnish a gallery, should never cast an eye on so many moving pictures of the life, actions, manners, and thoughts of their ancestors, done on the spot, and in strong, though simple colours. In the succeeding century Froissard, 1 find, was read with great satisfaction by every body that could read ; and on the same * The house in Southampton Row, where Mr. Gray lodged, had been tenanted by Dr. Whar- ton j who, on account of his ill health, left Lon- don the year before, and was removed to his paternal estate at Old Park, near Durham. Sect. I. RECENT. 393 footing with kitig Arthur, sir Tristram, and archbishop Turpin ; not because they thought him a fabulous writer, but because they took them all for true and authentic historians ; to so little purpose was it in that age for a man to be at the pains of writing truth. Pray, are you come to the four Irish kings, that went to school to king Richard the Second's master of the ceremonies, and the man who informed Froissard of all he had seen in St. Patrick's purgatory ? The town are reading the king of Prussia's poetry (La Fhilosophe sans Souci), and I have done like the town; they do not seem so sick of it as I am ; it is all the scum of Voltaire and lord Bolingbroke, the crambe-recocta of our worst freethinkers, tossed up in German- French rhyme. Tristram Shandy is still a greater object of admiration, the man as well as the book : one is invited to dinner, where he dined a fortnight be- fore. As to the volumes yet published, there is much good fun in them, and humour sometimes hit and sometimes missed. Have you read his Sermons, with his own comic figure, from a paint- ing by Reynolds, at the head of them? They are in the style I think most proper for the pulpit, and shew a strong imagi- nation and a sensible heart ; but you see him often tottering on the verge of laughter, and ready to throw his peri- wig in the face of the audience. LETTER LXXXIV. Mr. Gray to Mr. Stnnehewer. London, June 29, 1760 Though you have had but a melancholy employment, it is worthy of envy, and (I hope) *will have all the success it de- serves*. It was the best and most na- tural method of cure, and such as could not have been administered by any but your gentle hand. 1 thank you for com- municating to me what must give you so much satisfaction. 1 too was reading M. D'Alembert, and (like you) am totally disappointed in his Elements. I could only taste a little of the first course : it was dry as a stick, hard as a stone, and cold as a cucumber. * Mr. Stonehewer was now at HoughtOn-le- Spring, in the bishoprick of Durham, attending «n his sick father, rector of that parish. But then the letter to Rousseau is like himself: and the discourses on elocution, and on the liberty of music, are divine. He has added to his translations from Tacitus ; and (what is remarkable) though that author's manner more nearly re- sembles the best French writers of the present age, than any thing, he totally fails in the attempt. Is it his fault, or that of the language ? I have received another Scotch packet with a third specimen, inferior in kind (because it is merely description), but yet full of nature and noble wild imagina- tion. Five bards pass the night at the castle of a chief (himself a principal bard) ; each goes in his turn to observe the face of things, and returns with an extempore picture of the changes he has seen (it is an October night, the harvest month of the Highlands). This is the whole plan ; yet there is a contrivance, and a preparation of ideas, that you would not expect. The oddest thing is, that every one of them sees ghosts (more or less). The idea that struck and sur- prised me most, is the following. One of them, (describing a storm of wind and rain) says Ghosts ride on the tempest to-night! Sweet is their voice between the gusts of windj Their songs are of other worlds! Did you never observe (while rocking winds are piping loud) that pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in a shrill and plaintive note, like the swell of an ^olian harp ? I do assure you there is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit. Thomson had an ear sometimes : he was not deaf to this ; and has described it gloriously, but given it another different turn, and of more horror. I cannot repeat the lines : it is in his Winter. There is another very fine picture in one of them. It describes the breaking of the clouds after the storm, before it is settled into a calm, and when the moon is seen by short intervals. The waves are tumbling on the lake, And lash the rocky sides: The boat is brimful in the cove. The oars on the rocking tide. Sad sits a maid beneath a cliff. And eyes the rolling stream: Her lover promised to come : She saw his boat (when it was evening) on the lake; Are these his groans in the gale? Is this his broken boat on the shore? 394 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER LXXXV. Mr. Gray to Dr. Clarke*. Pembroke Hall, Aug. 12, 1760. Not knowing whether you are yet re- turned from your sea water, I write at random to you. For me, I am come to my resting place, and find it very neces- sary, after living for a month in a house with three women that laughed from morning to night, and would allow no- thing to the sulkiness of my disposition. Company and cards at home, parties hy land and water abroad, and (what they call) doing something, that is, racket- ing about from morning to night, are occupations, I find, that wear out my spirits, especially in a situation where one might sit still, and be alone with pleasure ; for the place was a hillf like Clifden, opening to a very extensive and diversified landscape, with the Thames, which is navigable, running at its foot. I would wish to continue here (in a very different scene, it must be confessed) till Michaelmas ; but I fear I must come to town much sooner. Cambridge is a delight of a place, now there is nobody in it. I do believe you would like it, if you knew what it was without inha- bitants. It is they, I assure you, that get it an ill name and spoil all. Our friend Dr. — (one of its nuisances) is not ex- pected here again in a hurry. He is gone to his grave with five fine mackarel (large and full of roe) in his belly. He ate them all at one dinner : but his fare was a turbot on Trinity Sunday, of which he left little for the company besides bones. He had not been hearty all the week ! but after this sixth fish he never held up his head more, and a violent looseness carried him off. They say he made a very good end. Have you seen the Erse fragments since they were printed ? I am more puzzled than ever about their antiquity, though I still incline (against every body's opi- nion) to believe them old. Those you have already seen are the best ; though there are some others that are excellent too. * Physician at Epsom. With this gentle- man Mr. Gray commenced an early acquaint- ance at College. f Near Henley. LETTER LXXXVI. Mr. Gray to Mr. Mason. Cambridge, Aug. 20, 17G0. I HAVE sent Musseus back as you desired me, scratched here and there ; and with it also a bloody satire, written against no less persons than you and I by name. I concluded at first it was Mr. * *, be- cause he is your friend and my humble servant ; but then I thought he knew the world too well to call us the favourite minions of taste and fashion, especially as to odes. For to them his ridicule is confined; so it is not he, but Mr. Col- man, nephew to lady Bath, author of the Connoisseur, a member of one of the inns of court, and a particular acquaint- ance of Mr. Garrick. What have you done to him ? for I never heard his name before ;'he makes very tolerable fun with me where I understand him (which is not everywhere) ; but seems more angry with you. Lest people should not under- stand the humour of the thing (which in- deed to do they must have our lyricisms at their finger-ends), letters come out in Lloyd's Evening Post to tell them who and what it was that he meant, and says it is like to produce a great combustion in the literary world. So if you have any mind to comhustle about it, well and good ; for me, I am neither so literary nor so combustible. The Monthly Re- view, I see, just now has much stuff about us on this occasion. It says one of us at least has always borne his faculties meekly. I leave you to guess which of us that is ; I think 1 know. You simple- ton you ! you must be meek, must you ? and see what you get by it. LETTER LXXXVII. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. London, 17()1. I REJOICE to find that you not only grow reconciled to your northern scene, but discover beauties round you that once were deformities : I am persuaded the whole matter is to have always some- thing going forward. Happy they that can create a rose tree, or erect a honey- suckle ; that can watch the brood of a hen, or see a fleet of their own ducklings launch into the water : it is with a sen- timent of envy I speak it, who never shall Sect. I, RECENT. 395 have even a thatched roof of my own, nor gather a strawberry but in Covent- Garden. I will not, however, believe in the vocality of Old-Park till next sum- mer, when perhaps I may trust to my own ears. The Nouvelle Heloise cruelly disap- pointed me ; but it has its partisans, amongst which are Mason and Mr. Hurd : for me, I admire nothing but Fingal (I conclude you have seen it, if not Stonehewer can lend it you) ; yet I remain still in doubt about the authen- ticity of these poems, though inclining rather to believe them genuine in spite of the world ; whether they are the in- ventions of antiquity, or of a modern Scotchman, either case is to me alike unaccountable ; je m*y perd. I send you a Swedish and English ca- lendar ; the first column is by Berger, a disciple of Linnaeus ; the second by Mr. Stillingfleet ; the third (very imperfect indeed) by me. You are to observe, as you tend your plantations and take your walks, how the spring advances in the north, and whether Old Park most re- sembles Upsal or Stratton. The latter has on one side a barren black heath, on the other a light sandy loam ; all the country about is a dead flat : you see it is necessary you should know the situa- tion (I do not mean any reflection upon any body's place) ; and this is the de- scription Mr. Stillingfleet gives of his friend Mr. Marsham's seat, to which he retires in the summer, and botanizes. I have lately made an acquaintance with this philosopher, who lives in a garret here in the winter, that he may support some near relations who depend upon him ; he is always employed, conse- quently (according to my old maxim) al- ways happy, always cheerful, and Seems to me a very worthy honest man : his present scheme is to send some persons properly qualified to reside a year or two in Attica, to make themselves acquainted with the climate, productions, and na- tural history of the country, that we may understand Aristotle, Theophrastus, &c. who have been Heathen Greek to us for so many ages ; and this he has got pro- posed to lord Bute, no unlikely person to put it into execution, as he is himself a botanist. LETTER LXXXVIIL Mr. Gray to Mr. Mason. August, 1761. Be assured your York canon never will die ; so the better the thing is in value, the worse for you*. The true way to immortality is to get you nominated one's successor : age and diseases vanish at your name ; fevers turn to radical heat, and fistulas to issues : it is a judg- ment that waits on your insatiable ava- rice. You could not let the poor old man die at his ease, when he was about it ; and all his family (I suppose) are cursing you for it. I wrote to lord on his recovery ; and he answers me very cheerfully, as if his illness had been but slight, and the pleurisy were no more than a hole in one's stocking. He got it (he says) not by scampering, racketing, and riding post, as I had supposed ; but by going with ladies to Vauxhall. He is the pic- ture (and pray so tell him, if you see him) of an old alderman that I knew, who, after living forty years on the fat of the land (not milk and honey, but arrack, punch, and venison), and losing his great toe with a mortification, said to the last, that he owed it to two grapes, which he ate one day after din- ner. He felt them lie cold at his sto- mach, the minute they were down. Mr. Montagu (a9 I guess, at your in- stigation) has earnestly desired me to write some lines to be put on a monu- ment, which he means to erect at Bell- isle. It is a task I do not love, knowing sir William Williams so slightly as I did : but he is so friendly a person, and his affliction seemed to me so real, that I could not refuse him. I have sent him the following verses, which I neither like myself, nor will he, I doubt ; however, I have shewed him that I wished to oblige him. Tell me your real opinion. LETTER LXXXIX. Mr, Gray to Dr. Wharton, Cambridge, Dec. 4, 1762. I FEEL very ungrateful every day that I continue silent ; and yet now that I take * This was written at a time, when, by the favour of Dr. Fountayne, dean of York, Mr. Mason expected to be made a residentiary in his cathedral. 396 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. my pen in hand, I have only time to tell you, that of all the places which I saw in my return from you, Hardwicke pleased me the most*. One would think that Mary Queen of Scots was but just walked down into the park with her guard for half an hour : her gallery, her room of audience, her ante-cham- ber, with the very canopies, chair of state, foot-stool, lit de repos, oratory, carpets, and hangings, just as she left them ; a little tattered indeed, but the more venerable ; and all preserved with religious care, and papered up in win- ter. When I arrived in London, I found professor Turner f had been dead above a fortnight; and being cockered and spirited up by some friends (though it was rather the latest) 1 got my name suggested to lord Bute. You may ea- sily imagine who undertook it, and in- deed he did it with zeal J. I received my answer very soon, which was what you may easily imagine, but joined with great professions of his desire to serve me on future occasions, and many more fine words that I pass over, not out of modesty, but for another reason : so you see I have made my fortune like sir Francis Wronghead. This nothing is a profound secret, and no one here suspects it even now. To-day I hear Mr. E. Delaval§ has got it, but we are not yet certain ; next to myself I wished for him. You see we have made a peace. I shall be silent about it, because if I say any thing anti-ministerial, you will tell me you know the reason ; and if I ap- prove it, you will think I have my ex- pectations still. All I know is, that the duke of Newcastle and lord Hardwicke both say it is an excellent peace, and only Mr. Pitt calls it inglorious and insidious. * A seat of the duke of Devonshire, in Der- byshire. f Professor of modern languages in the uni- versity of Cambridge. X This person was the late sir Henry Ers- kine. The place in question was given to the tutor of sir James Lowther. § Fellow of Pembroke-Hall, and of the Royal Society. LETTER XC. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. Pembroke-Hall, Aug 26, 1766. Whatever my pen may do, I am sure my thoughts expatiate nowhere oftener, or with more pleasure, than to Old- Park. I hope you have made my peace with the angry little lady. It is certain, whether her name were in my letter or not, she was as present to my memory as the rest of the whole family ; and I desire you would present her with two kisses in my name, and one apiece to all the others ; for I shall take the liberty to kiss them all (great and small), as you are to be my proxy. In spite of the rain, which I think continued, with very short intervals, till the beginning of this month, and quite effaced the summer from the year, I made a shift to pass May and June not disagreeably in Kent. I was surprised at the beauty of the road to Canterbury, which (I know not why) had not struck me before. The whole country is a rich and well-cultivated garden ; orchards, cherry grounds, hop gardens, intermixed with corn and frequent villages ; gentle risings covered vrith wood, and every- where the Thames and Medway breaking in upon the landscape with all their navi- gation. It was indeed owing to the bad weather that the whole scene was dressed in that tender emerald green, which one usually sees only for a fortnight in the opening of the spring ; and this continued till I left the country. My residence was eight miles east of Canterbury, in a little quiet valley on the skirts of Barham Down II . In these parts the whole soil is chalk ; and whenever it holds up, in half an hour it is dry enough to walk out. I took the opportunity of three or four days fine weather to go into the Isle of Thanet; saw Margate (which is Bar- tholomew-fair by the sea-side). Rams- gate, and other places there ; and so came by Sandwich, Deal, Dover, Folkstone, and Hithe, back again. The coast is not like Hartlepool ; there are no rocks, but only chalky cliffs of no great height till you come to Dover ; there indeed they are noble and picturesque, and the oppo- site coasts of France begin to bound your view, which was left before to range II At Denton, where his friend the rev. Wil- liam Robinson, brother to Matthew Robinson, «sq-. late member for Canterbury, then resided. Sect. i. RECENT. m unlimited by any thing but the horizon ; yet it is by no means a shipless sea, but everywhere peopled with white sails, and vessels of all sizes in motion : and take notice (except in the Isle, which is all corn-fields, and has very little inclosure) there are in all places hedge-rows, and tall trees even within a few yards of the beach. Particularly, Hithe stands on an eminence covered with wood. I sliall confess we had fires at night (ay and at day too) several times in June ; but do not go and take advantage in the north at this, for it was the most untoward year that ever I remember. My compliments to Mrs. ^Vharton and all your family : I will not name them, lest I should afi'ront any body. LETTER XCI. Mr, Gray to Mr. Mason. March 28, 17G7. I BREAK in upon you at a moment, when we least of all are permitted to disturb our fi-iends, only to say, that you are daily and hourly present to my thoughts. If the worst be not yet past, you will neglect and pardon me : but if the last struggle be over ; if the poor object of your long anxieties be no longer sensible to your kindness, or to her own sufferings, allow me (at least in idea, for what could I do, were I present, more than this ?) to sit by you in silence, and pity from my heart not her, who is at rest, but you, who lose her. May He, who made us, the Master of our pleasures and of our pains, preserve and support you ! Adieu. I have long understood how little you had to hope. LETTER XCIL Mr. Gray to Mr. Beattie. Old Park, near Darlington, Durham, August 12, 1767. I RECEIVED from Mr. Williamson that very obliging mark you were pleased to give me of your remembrance : had I not entertained some slight hopes of re- visiting Scotland this summer, and con- sequently of seeing you at Aberdeen, I had sooner acknowledged, by letter, the favour you have done me. Those hopes are now at an end : but I do not there* fore despair of seeing again a country that has given me so much pleasure ; nor of telling you, in person, how much I esteem you and (as you choose to call them) your amusements : the specimen of them, which you were so good as to send me, I think excellent ; the senti- ments are such as a melancholy imagina- tion naturally suggests in solitude and silence, and that (though light and busi- ness may suspend or banish them at times) return with but so much the greater force upon a feeling heart ; the diction is elegant and unconstrained : not loaded with epithets and figures, nor flag- ging into prose : tlie versification is easy and harmonions. My only objection is You see, sir, I take the liberty youin^ dulged me in, when I first saw you ; and therefore I make no excuses for it, but desire you would take your revenge on me in kind. I have read over (but too hastily) Mr. Ferguson's book. There are uncommon strains of eloquence in it ; and I was sur- prised to find not one single idiom of his country (1 think) in the whole work. He has not the fault you mention : his application to the heart is frequent, and often successful. His love of Montesquieu and Tacitus has led him into a manner of writing too short-winded and senten- tious ; which those great men, had they lived in better times, and under a better government, would have avoided. I know no pretence that I have to the honour lord Gray is pleased to do me* : but if his lordship chooses to own me, it certainly is not my business to deny it. I say not this merely on account of his quality, but because he is a very worthy and accomplished person. I am truly sorry for the great loss he has had since I left Scotland. If you should chance to see him , I will beg you to present my respect- ful humble service to his lordship. I gave Mr. Williamson all the infor- mation I was able in the short time he staid with me. He seemed to answer well the character you gave me of him : but what I chiefly envied in him, was his ability of walking all the way from Aberdeen to Cambridge, and back again ; which if I possessed, you would soon see youi' obliged, &c. * Lord Gray had said that Mr., Gray was re- lated to his family. 398 ELEGANT LETTER XCIIL Mr, Grai/ to the Duke of Grafton. Cambridge, July, 1768. My lord, Your grace has dealt nobly with me ; and the same delicacy of mind that in- duced you to confer this favour on me, unsolicited and unexpected, may perhaps make you averse to receive my sincerest thanks and grateful acknowledgments. Yet your grace must excuse me, they will have their way : they are indeed but words ; yet I know and feel they come from my heart, and therefore are not wholly unworthy of your grace's accept- ance. I even flatter myself (such is my pride) that you have some little satisfac- tion in your own work. If I did not de- ceive myself in this, it would complete the happiness of, my lord, your grace's most obliged and devoted servant. LETTER XCIV. Mr, Gray to Mr. Nicholls*. Jermj'ii-street, Aug. 3, 1768. That Mr. Brockett has broken his neck, by a fall from his horse, you will have seen in the newspapers ; and also, that I, your humble servant, have kissed the king's hand for his succession : they are both true, but the manner how you know not ; only I can assure you that I had no hand at all in his fall, and almost as lit- tle in the second event. He died on the Sunday ; on Wednesday following, his grace the duke of Grafton wrote me a very polite letter to say, that his majesty had commanded him to oflFer me the va- cant professorship, not only as a reward of, &c. but as a credit to, &c. with much more, too high for me to transcribe : so on Thursday the king signed the war- rant, and next day, at his levee, I kissed his hand ; he made me several gracious speeches, which I shall not repeat, be- cause every body that goes to court, does so ; besides, the day was so hot, and the ceremony so embarrassing to me, that I hardly knew what he said. Adieu ! I am to perish here with heat this fortnight yet, and then to Cambridge ; • Rectorof Loundc and Bradwell, in Suffolk. His acquaintance with Mr. Gray commenced a few years before the date of this, when he was a student of Trinity-Hall, Cambridge. EPISTLES. Book IV. to be sure my dignity is a little the worse for wear, but mended and washed, it will do for me. LETTER XCV. Mr. Gray to Mr. Beattie. Pembroke-Hall, Oct. 31, 1768. It is some time since I received^from Mr. Foulis two copies of my poems,'? one by the hands of Mr. T. Pitt, the other by Mr. Merrill, a bookseller of this town ; it is indeed a most beautiful edition, '[and must certainly do credit both to him and to me : but I fear it will be of no other advantage to him, as Dodsley has con- trived to glut the town already with two editions beforehand, one of fifteen thou- sand, and the other seven hundred and fifty, both indeed far inferior to that of Glasgow, but sold at half the price. I must repeat my thanks, sir, for the trou- ble you have been pleased to give your- self on my account; and through you I must desire leave to convey my ac- knowledgments to Mr. Foulis, for the pains and expense he has been at in this publication. We live at so great a distance, that, perhaps, you may not yet have learned, what, I flatter myself, you will not be displeased to hear: the middle of last summer his majesty was pleased to ap- point me regius professor of modern history in this university : it is the best thing the crown has to bestow (on a lay- man) here ; the salary is 400/. per ann. ; but what enhances the value of it to me is, that it was bestowed without being asked. The person who held it before me, died on the Sunday ; and on Wed- nesday following the duke of Grafton wrote me a letter to say, that the king oflFered me this ofiice, with many addi tional expressions of kindness on his grace's part, to whom I am but little known, and whom I have not seen either before or since he did me this favour. Instances of'a benefit so nobly conferred, I believe, are rare ; and therefore I tell you of it as a thing that does honour, not only to me, but to the minister. As I lived here before from choice, I shall now continue to do so from obliga- tion : if business or curiosity should call you southwards, you will find few friends that will see you with more cordial satis-* faction than, dear sir, &c. Sect. I. RECENT. 399 LETTER XCVI. Mr, Gray to Mr. Nicholls. I WAS absent from College, and did not receive your melancholy letter till my return hither yesterday ; so you must not attribute this delay tome, but to accident : to sympathize with you in such a loss* is an easy task for me, but to comfort you not so easy : can I wish to see you unaf- fected with the sad scene now before your eyes, or with the loss of a person that, through a great part of your life, has proved himself so kind a friend to you ? He who best knows our nature (for he made us what we are), by such afflictions recalls us from our wandering thoughts and idle merriment ; from the insolence of youth and prosperity, to serious reflec- tion, to our duty, and to himself; nor need we hasten to get rid of these im- pressions ; time (by appointment of the same Power) will cure the smart, and in some hearts soon blot out all the traces of sorrow : but such as preserve them longest (for it is partly left in our own power) do perhaps best acquiesce in the will of the chastiser. For the consequences of this sudden loss, I see them well, and I think, in a like situation, could fortify my mind, so as to support them with cheerfulness and good hopes, though not naturally inclined to see things in their best aspect. When you have time to turn yourself round, you must think seriously of your profes- sion ; you know I would have wished to see you wear the livery of it long ago : but I will not dwell on this subject at present. To be obliged to those we love and esteem is a pleasure ; but to serve and oblige them is still greater ; and this, with independence (no vulgar bless- ing), are what a profession at your age may reasonably promise : without it they are hardly attainable. Remember I speak from experience. In the mean time, while your present situation lasts, which I hope will not be long, continue your kindness and confi- dence in me, by trusting me with the whole of it ; and surely you hazard no- thing by so doing : that situation does not appear so new to me as it does to you. You well know the tenor of my conversation (urged at times perhai)s a * The death of his uncle, jjoveruor Floyer. little farther than you liked) has been intended to prepare you for this event, and to familiarise your mind with this spectre, which you call by its worse name : but remember that " Honesta res est lata paupertas." I see it with respect, and so will every one, whose poverty is not seated in their mind. There is but one real evil in it (take my word, who know it well), and that is, that you have less the power of assisting others, who have not the same resources to support them. You have youth : you have many kind, well-intentioned people belonging to you ; many acquaintances of your own, or families that will wish to serve you. Consider how many have had the same, or greater cause for dejection, with none of these resources before their eyes. Adieu ! I sincerely wish your happiness. P. S. I have just heard that a friend of mine is struck with a paralytic dis- order, in which state it is likely he may live incapable of assisting himself, in the hands of servants or relations that only gape after his spoils, perhaps for years to come : think how many things may befal a man far worse than poverty or death. LETTER XCVn. Fi'Oiu the same to the same. Pembroke-College, June 24, 1769. And so you have a garden of your own, and you plant and transplant, and are dirty and amused ? Are you not ashamed of yourself? Why, I have no such thing, you monster, nor ever shall be either dirty or amused as long as 1 live. My gardens are in the windows, like those of a lodger up three pair of stairs in Petticoat-lane, or Camomile-street, and they go to bed regularly under the same roof that I do. Dear, how charming it must be to walk out in one's owngarding, and sit on a bench in the open air, with a fountain and leaden statue, and a roll- ing-stone, and an arbour : have a care of sore throats though, and the ogoe. However, be it known to you, though I have no garden, I have sold my estate*, and got a thousand guineas, and four- * Consisting of houses on the west side of Hand-Alley, London. Mrs. OlliflFe was the aunt here mentioned, who had a share in this estate, and for whom he procured this annuity. She died in 17T1, a few months before her nephew. 400 fi LEG ANT EPISTLES. Book IV. score pounds a year for my old aunt, and a twenty pound prize in the lottery, and Lord knows what arrears in the Trea- sury, and am a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns, and every thing handsome about him, and in a few days shall have new window-curtains : are you advised of that ? Ay, and a new mattrass to lie upon. My Ode has been rehearsed again and again*, and the scholars have got scraps by heart : I expect to see it torn piece- meal in the North-Briton before it is born. If you will come you shall see it, and sing in it amidst a chorus from Sa- lisbury and Gloucester music-meeting, great names there, and all well versed in Judas Maccabseus. I wish it were once over ; for then I immediately go for a few days to London, and so with Mr. Brown to Aston, though I fear it will rain the whole summer, and Skiddaw will be in- visible and inaccessible to mortals. I have got De la Lande's Voyage through Italy, in eight volumes ; he is a member of the Academy of Sciences, and pretty good to read. I have read too an octavo volume of Shenstone's Letters . Poor man ! he was always wishing for money, for fame, and other distinctions ; and his whole philosophy consisted in liv- ing against his will in retirement, and in a place which his taste had adorned ; but which he only enjoyed when people of note came to see and commend it ; his correspondence is about nothing else but this place and his own writings, with two or three neighbouring clergymen who wrote verses too. I have just found the beginning of a letter, which somebody had dropped,: I should rather call it first thoughts for the beginning of a letter ; for there are many scratches and corrections. As I cannot use it myself (having got a be- ginning already of my own), I send it for your use on some great occasion. " Dear sir, *' After so long silence, the hopes of pardon, and prospect of forgiveness, might seem entirely extinct, or at least very remote, was I not truly sensible of your goodness and candour, which is the only asylum that my negligence can fly f Ode for Music on the Duke of Grafton's Installation. to, since every apology would prove in- sufficient to counterbalance it, or alle- viate my fault : how then shall my de- ficiency presume to make so bold an at- tempt, or be able to suffer the hardships of so rough a campaign?" &c. &c. &c. LETTER XCVIII. Mr. Gray to Mr. NichoUs. Nov. 19, ]7f>9. I RECEIVED your letter at Southampton ; and as I would wish to treat every body according to their own rule and measure of good-breeding, have, against my in- clination, waited till now before I an- swered it, purely out of fear and respect, and an ingenuous diffidence of my own abilities. If you will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well-turned period, which is always my principal concern. So I proceed to tell you that my health is much improved by the sea ; not that I drank it or bathed in it, as the common people do : no ! I only walked by it, and looked upon it. The climate is remark- ably mild, even in October and Novem- ber ; no snow has been seen to lie there for these thirty years past ; the myrtles grow in the ground against the houses, and Guernsey-lilies bloom in every win- dow ; the town, clean and well-built, surrounded by its old stone walls with their towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula, and opens full south to an arm of the sea, which, having formed two beautifiil bays on each hand of it, stretches away in direct view till it joins the British Channel ; it is skirted on either side with gently-rising grounds, clothed with thick wood, and directly cross its mouth rise the high lands of the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen. In the bosom of the woods (con- cealed from profane eyes) lie hid the ruins of Nettley abbey ; there may be richer and greater houses of religion, but the abbot is content with his situation. See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade of those old trees that bend into a half circle about it, he is walking slowly (good man !) and bidding his beads for the souls of his benefactors, interred in that venera- ble pile that lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadow still descending) nods a Sect. I. RECENT. 401 thicket of oaks tliat mask the building', and have excluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye : only on either hand tliey leave an opening to the blue glittering sea. Did you not observe how, as that white sail shot by and was lost, he turned and crossed himself, to drive the tempter from him that had throv\^l that distraction in his way ? I should tell you, that the ferry- man who rowed me, a lusty young fel- low, told me that he would not for all the world pass a night at the abbey (there were such things seen near it), though there was a power of money hid there. From thence 1 went to Salis- bury, Wilton, and Stoneheuge : but of these things I say no more, they v/ill be published at the University press. P. S. 1 must not close my letter with- out giving you one principal event of my history ; which was, that (in the course of my late tour) I set out one morning before five o'clock, the moon shining through a dark and misty autumnal air, and got to the sea-coast time enough to be at the sun's levee. I saw the clouds and dark vapours open gradually to right and left, rolling over one another in great smoky wreathes, and the tide (as it flowed gently in upon the sands) first whitenmg, then slightly tinged with gold and blue ; and all at once a little line of insufferable brightness that (before I can write these five words) was grown to half an orb, and now to a whole one, too glorious to be distinctly seen. It is very odd it makes no figure on paper ; yet 1 shall remember it as long as the sun, or at least as long as I endure. 1 wonder whether any body ever saw it before. I hardly believe it. LETTER XCIX. Mr. Gray to Mr. Beattie. Pembroke Hall, July 2, 1770. I REJOICE to hear that you are restored to better state of health, to your books, and to your Muse once again. That forced dissipation and exercise we are obliged to fly to as a remedy, when this frail machine goes Vvrong, is often almost as bad as the distemper we would cure ; yet I too have been constrained of late to pursue a like regimen, on account of cer- tain pains ill the head (a sensation im- known to me before) and of great dejec- tion of spirits. This, sir, is the only ex- cuse 1 have to make you for my long si- lence, and not (as perhaps you may have figured to yourself) any secret reluctance 1 had to tell you my mind concerning the specimen you so kindly sent me of your new poem'^ : on the contrary, if I had seen any thing of importance to disap- prove, 1 should have hastened to inform you, and never doubted of being for- given. The truth is, I greatly like all I have seen, and w^ish to see more. The design is simple, and pregnant with po- etical ideas of various kinds, yet seems somehow imperfect at the end. Why may not young Edwin, when necessity has driven him to take up the harp and assume the profession of a minstrel, do some great and singular service to his country ? (what service I must leave to your invention) such as no general, no statesman, no moralist, could do without the aid of music, inspiration, and poetry. This will not appear an improbability in those early times, and in a character then held sacred, and respected by all nations : besides, it will be a full an- swer to all the hermit has said, when he dissuaded him from cultivating these pleasing arts ; it will shew their use, and make the best panegyric of our fa- vourite and celestial science. And lastly (what weighs most with me), it will throw more of action, pathos, and in- terest, into your design, which already abounds in reflection and sentiment. As to description, I have always thought that it made the most graceful ornament of poetry, but never ought to make the subject. Your ideas are new, and bor- rowed from a mountainous country, the only one that can furnish truly pictu- resque scenery. Some trifles in the lan- guage or versification you will permit me to remark. * * * I will not enter at present into the merits of your E^say on Truth, because I have not yet given it all the attention it deserves, though I have read it through with pleasure; besides, 1 am partial; for I have always thought David Hume a pernicious writer, and believe he has done as much mischief here as he has in his own country. A turbid and shallow stream often appears to our apprehen- * The Minstrel. 2 D 402 ELEGANT EPISTLES. B( IV. sions very deep. A professed sceptic can be guided by nothing but his present passions (if he has any) and interests ; and to be masters of his philosophy we need not his books or advice ; for every child is capable of the same thing, with- out any study at all. Is not that naivete, and good humour, which his admirers celebrate in him, owing to this, that he has continued all his days an infant, but one that unhappily has been taught to read and write? That childish nation, the French, have given him vogue and fashion, and we, as usual, have learned from them to admire him at second hand. LETTER C. Mr. Gray to Mr. Nicholh. It is long since that I heard you were gone in haste into Yorkshire on account of your mother's illness ; and the same letter informed me that she was reco- vered, otherwise I had then wrote to you only to beg you would take care of her, and to inform you that I had discovered a thing very little known, which is, that in one's whole life one can never have any more than a single mother. You may think this is obvious, and (what you call) a trite observation. You are a green gosling ! I was at the same age (very near) as wise as you, and yet I never discovered this (with full evidence and conviction I mean) till it was too late. It is thirteen years ago, and seems but as yesterday, and every day I live it sinks deeper into my heart*. Many a co- rollary could I draw from this axiom for your use (not for my own), but I will leave you the merit of doing it for your- self. Pray tell me how your health is : I conclude it perfect, as I hear you offered yourself as a guide to Mr. Palgrave into the Sierra Mqrena of Yorkshire. For me, I passed the end of May and all June in Kent, not disagreeably. In the west part of it, from every eminence the eye catches some long reach of the Thames and Medway, with all their shipping : in * He seldom mentioned his mother without a sigh. yVfter his death her gowns and wear- ing apparel were found in a trunk in his apart- ments just as she had left them : it seemed as if he could never take the resolution to open it, in order to distribute them to his female relations, to whom, by his will, he bequeathed them. the east the sea breaks in upon you, and mixes its white transient sails and glit- tering blue expanse with the deeper and brighter greens of the woods and corn. This sentence is so fine, I am quite ashamed ; but no matter ; you must translate it into prose. Palgrave, if he heard it, would cover his face with his pudden sleeve. I do not tell you of the great and small beasts, and creeping things innumerable, that I met with, because you do not suspect that this world is inhabited by any thing but men, and women, and clergy, and such two- legged cattle. Now I am here again very disconsolate, and all alone, for Mr. Brown is gone, and the cares of this world are coming thick upon me : you, I hope, are better off, riding and walking in the woods of Studley, 8cc. &c. I must not wish for you here ; besides I am go- ing to town at Michaelmas, by no means for amusement. LETTER CI. Mr. Gray to Dr. Wharton. May 24, 1771. My last summer's tour was through Worcestershire, Gloucestershire, Mon- mouthshire, Herefordshire, and Shrop- shire, five of the most beautiful counties in the kingdom. The very principal light and capital feature of my journey was the river Wye, which I descended in a boat for near forty miles from Ross to Chep- stow. Its l3anks are a succession of nameless beauties ; one out of many you may see not ill described by Mr. Whately, in his Observations on Gardening, under the name of the New- Weir : he has also touched upon two others, Tinterne Ab- bey and Persfield, both of them famous scenes, and both on the Wye. Mon- mouth, a town I never heard mentioned, lies on the same river, in a vale that is the delight of my eyes, and the very seat of pleasure. The vale of Abergavenny,. Ragland and Chepstow castles ; Ludlow, Malyern-Hills, Hampton- Court, near Lemster ; the Leasowes, Hagley, the three cities and their cathedrals ; and lastly Oxford (where I passed two days on my return with great satisfaction), were the rest of my acquisitions ; and no bad harvest in my opinion : but I made no journal myself, else you should have Sect. I. RECENT. 403 had it : I have indeed a short one written tinent ; but I have now dropped that in- by the companion of my travels'*, that tention, and believe my expeditions will serves to recal and fix the fleeting images terminate in Old Park ; but I make no of these things. promise, and can answer for nothing ; I have had a cough upon me these my own employment so sticks in my three months, which is incurable. The stomach, and troubles my conscience ; approaching summer I have sometimes and yet travel I must, or cease to exist, had thoughts of spending on the con- Till this year I hardly knew what (me- chanical) low spirits were, but now I * Mr. Nieholls^ even tremble at an east wind. 2 D 2 BOOK THE FOURTH. RECENT LETTERS. SECTION H. FROM THE LETTERS OF LAURENCE STERNE, AND OTHERS. LETTER L Mr, Sterne to Miss L . I HAVE offended her whom I so tenderly love ! — what could tempt me to it ! but, if a beggar was to knock at thy gate, wouldst thou not open the door, and be melted with compassion ? 1 know thou wouldst, for Pity has erected a tem- ple in thy bosom. — Sweetest, and best of all human passions ! let thy web of tenderness cover the pensive form of Af- fliction, and soften the darkest shades of Misery ! I have re-considered this apo- logy, and, alas ! what will it accomplish ? Arguments, however finely spun, can never change the nature of things — very true — so a truce with them. I have lost a very valuable friend by a sad accident ; and what is worse, he has left a widow and five young children to lament this sudden stroke. — If real use- fulness and integrity of heart could have secured him from this, his friends would not now be mourning his untimely fate. — These dark and seemingly cruel dis- pensations of Providence often make the best of human hearts complain. — Who can paint the distress of an affectionate mother, made a widow in a moment, weeping in bitterness over a numerous, helpless, and fatherless offspring ! God ! these are thy chastisements, and re- quire (hard task !) a pious acquiescence. Forgive me this digression, and allow me to droj) a tear over a departed friend ; and, what is more excellent, an honest man. Mv L. ! titou wilt feel all that kindness can inspire in the death of . The event was sudden, and thy gentle spirit would be more alarmed on that ac- count. — But, my L., thou hast less to lament, as old age was creeping on, and her period of doing good, and being use- ful, was nearly over. — ^At sixty years of age the tenement gets fast out of repair, and the lodger with anxiety thinks of a discharge, — In such a situation the poet might well saj , " The soul uneasy," &c. My L. talks of leaving the country — may a kind angel guide thy steps hither ! — Solitude at length grows tiresome. — Thou sayest thou wilt quit the place with regret — I think so too. — Does not some- thing uneasy mingle with the very reflec- tion of leaving it ? It is like parting with an old friend, whose temper and company one has long been acquainted with — I think I see you looking twenty times a day at the house — almost counting every brick and pane of glass, and telling them at the same time with a sigh, you are go- ing to leave them. — Oh happy modifica- tion of matter ! they will remain insen- sible of thy loss. — But how wilt thou be able to part with thy garden ? — The re- collection of so many pleasing walks must have endeared it to you. The trees, the shrubs, the flowers, v/hich thou hast reared with thy own hands — will they not droop and fade away sooner upon thy departure ? — Who will be the successor to nurse them in thy absence ? — Thou wilt leave thy name upon the myrtle-tree. — If trees, and shrubs, and flowers, could compose an elegy, I Sect. II. RECENT. 405 should expect a very plaintive one upon this subject. Adieu, adieu ! Believe me ever, ever thine. LETTER II. Mr. Sterne to Mrs. F . York, Tuosdaj^ Nov. 19, 1759. Dear madam, YcuR kind inquiries after my health de- serve my best thanks. — -What can give one more pleasure than the good wishes of those we value ? — I am sorry you give so bad an account of your own health, but hope you will find benefit from tar- water — it has been of infinite service to me. — I suppose my good lady, by v/hat you say in your letter, " that I am busy writing an extraordinary book," that your intelligence comes from York — the fountain-head of all chit-chat news — and — no matter. — Now for your desire of knowing the reason of my turning au- thor ? why truly I am tired of employing my brains for other people's advantage. — 'Tis a foolish sacrifice I have made for some years to an ungrateful person. — t depend much upon the candour of the public, but I shall not pick out a jury to try the m^erit of my book amongst , and — till you read my Tristram, do not, like some people, condemn it. — Laugh I am sure you will at some passages. — I have hired a small house in the Minster Yard for my wife and daughter — the lat- ter is to begin dancing, &c. : if I cannot leave her a fortune, I will at least give her an education. — As I shall publish my works very soon, I shall be in town by IMarch, and shall have the pleasure of meeting with you. — All your friends are well, and ever hold you in the same es- timation that your sincere friend does. Adieu, dear lady ; believe me, with every wish for your happiness, your most faithful, &c. LETTER III. Mr, Sterne to J— H~ S—, Esq. Coxwould, July 28, 1761. Dear H , I SYMPATHIZED for, or with you, on the detail you gave me of your late agitations — and would willingly have taken my horse, and trotted to the oracle to have inquired into the etymology of all your sufferings, had I not been assured that all that evacuation of bilious matter, with all that abdominal motion attend- ing it (both which are equal to a month's purgation and exercise), v/iil have left you better than it found you. — Need one go to D — , to be told that all kind of mild (mark, I am going to talk more foolishly than your apothecary), opening, saponaceous, dirty-shirt, sud-washing liquors are proper for you, and conse- quently all styptical potations death and destruction? — if you had not shut up your gall-ducts by these, the glauber salts could not have hurt — as it was, 'twas like a match to the gimpowder, by raising a fresh combustion, as all physic does at first, so that you have been let off — nitre, brimstone, and charcoal (which is blackness itself), all at one blast-^'twas well the piece did not burst, for I think it underwent great violence ; and, as it is proof, will, I hope, do much service in this militating world. — Panty"^ is mis- taken, I quarrel with no one. — There was the coxcomb of in the house, v/lio lost temper with me for no reason upon earth but that I could not fall down and worship a brazen image of learning and eloquence, Avhich he set up, to the persecution of all true believers — I sat down upon his altar, and whistled in the time of his divine service — and broke down his carved work, and kicked his in- cense-pot to the d ; so he retreated, sed non sine felle in corde suo. — I have wrote a clerum, whether I shall take my doctor's degrees or no — I am much in doubt, but I trow not. — I go on with Tristram — I have bought seven hundred books at a purchase dog-cheap — and many good— and I have been a week get- ting them set up in my best room here — why do not you transport yours to town ? but I talk like a fool. — This will just catch you at your spaw — I wish you iii- columem apud Londinutn — do you go there for good and all — or ill? — I am, dear cousin, yours affectionately. LETTER IV. From the same to the same. Coxwould [about August], 1761. Dear H , I REJOICE you are in London — rest you there in peace ; here 'tis the devil. — You was a good prophet. — I wish myself back * The reverend Mr. K- 466 ELEGANT EPISTLES. iioOK IV. again, as you told me I should — but not because a thin, death-doing, pestiferous, north-east wind blows in a line directly from Crazy-castle turret full upon me in this cuckoldy retreat (for I value the north-east wind and all its powers not a straw), — but the transition from rapid motion to absolute rest was too violent. — I should have walked about the streets of York ten days, as a proper medium to have passed through, before I entered upon my rest. — I staid but a moment, and I have been here but a few, to sa- tisfy me I have not managed my miseries like a wise man — and if God, for my consolation under them, had not poured forth the spirit of Shandeism into me, which will not suffer me to think two moments upon any grave subject, I would else just now lie down and die — die — and yet, in half an hour's time, I'll lay a guinea 1 shall be as merry as a monkey — and as mischievous too, and forget it all — so that this is but a copy of the present train running' across my brain. — And so you think this cursed stupid — but that, my dear H. depends much upon the qaotd hord of your shabby clock, if the pointer of it is in any quar- ter between ten in the morning or four in the afternoon — I give it up — or if the day is obscured by dark engendering clouds of either wet or dry weather, I am still lost — but who knows but it may be five — and the, day as fine a day as ever shone upon the earth since the de- struction of Sodom — and peradventure your honour may have got a good hearty dinner to-day, and eat and drank your intellectuals into a placidulish and a blan- dulish amalgama — to bear nonsense. — So much for that. "Tis as cold and churlish just now, as (if God had not pleased it to be so) it ought to have been in bleak December, and therefore I am glad you are where you are, and where (I repeat it again) I wish I was also.— Curse of poverty, and absence from those we love ! — they are two great evils, which embitter all things — and yet with the first I am not haunted much. — As to matrimony, I should be a beast to rail at it, for my wife is easy — but the world is not — and had I staid from her a second longer it would have been a burning shame — else she declares herself happier without me — but not in anger is this declaration made — but in pure sober good sense, built on sound experience — she hopes you will be able to strike a bargain for me before this time twelvemonth, to lead a bear round Europe : and from this hope from you, I verily believe it is, that you are so high in her favour at present — she swears you are a fellow of wit, though humorous ; a funny, jolly soul, though somewhat splenetic ; and (bating the love of women) as honest as gold — how do you like the simile? — Oh, Lord \ now you are going to Ranelagh to-night, and I am sitting, sorrowful as the pro- phet was when the voice cried out to him and said, " What dost thou here, Elijah?" — "Tis well the spirit does not make the same at Coxwould — for un- less for the few sheep left me to take care of, in this wilderness, I might as well, nay better, be at Mecca.— When we find we can, by a shifting of places, run away from ourselves, what think you of a jaunt there, before we finally pay a visit to the vale of Jthoshaphat? — As ill a fame as we have I trust I shall one day or other see you face to face — so tell the two colonels, if they love good company, to live righteously and soberly as you do, and then they will have no doubts or dan- gers within or without them — Present my best and warmest wishes to them, and advise the eldest to prop up his spirits, and get a rich dowager before the conclusion of the peace — Why will not the advice suit both, par nobile fra- trum ? To-morrow morning (if Heaven per mit) I begin the fifth volume of Shandy — I care not a curse for the critics — I'll load my vehicle with what goods he sends me, and they may take 'em off my hands, or let them alone — I am very valorous — and 'tis in proportion as we retire from the world, and see it in its true dimen- sions, that we despise it — no bad rant ! — God above bless you ! You know I am your affectionate cousin. What few remain of the Demoniacs, greet and write me a letter, if you are able, as foolish as this. LETTER V. Mr. Sterne to Lady D . Coxwuuld, Sept. 21, 1761. I RETURN to my new habitation, fully determined to write as hard as can be, and thank you most cordially, my dear Sect. II. RECENT. 407 lady, for your letter of congratulation upon my lord Fauconberg's having pre- sented me with the curacy of this place — though your congratulation comes somewhat of the latest, as I have been possessed of it some time. — I hope I have been of some service to his lord- ship, and he has sufficiently requited me. 'Tis seventy guineas a year in my pocket, though worth a hundred — but it obliges me to have a curate to of- ficiate at Sutton and Stillington. — 'Tis within a mile of his lordship's seat and park. 'Tis a very agreeable ride out in the chaise I purchased for my wife. — Lyd"^ has a poney which she delights in. Whilst they take these diversions, I am scribbling away at my Tristram. — These two volumes are, I think, the best — -I shall write as long as I live ; 'tis in fact my hobby-horse : and so much am I de- lighted with my uncle Toby's imaginary character, that I am become an enthu- siast. — My Lydia helps to copy for me — and my wife knits, and listens as I read her chapters. — The coronation of his majesty (whom God preserve !) has cost me the value of an ox, which is to be roasted whole in the middle of the town, and my parishioners will, I sup- pose, be very merry upon the occasion. — You will then be in town — and feast your eyes with a sight, which 'tis to be hoped will not be in either of our powers to see again for in point of age we have about twenty years the start of his majesty. — And how, my dear friend, I must finish this — and with every wish for your happiness, conclude myself your most sincere well-wisher and friend. LETTER VI. Mr. Sterne to David Garrick, Esq. Paris, Jan. 31, 1762. My dear friend, Think not, because I have been a fort- night in this metropolis without writing to you, that therefore I have not had you and Mrs. Garrick a hundred times in my head and heart — heart ! yes, yes, say you — but I must not waste paper in badinage this post, whatever I do the next. Well ! here I am, my friend, as much improved in my health, for the time, as ever your friendship could wish, * His daushter. or at least your faith give credit to — by the bye I am somewhat worse in my in- tellectuals, for my head is turned round with what I see, and the unexpected ho- nours I have met with here. Tristram was almost as much known here as in London, at least among your men of con- dition and learning, and has got me in- troduced into so many circles ('tis covime a Londres). I have just now a fortnight's dinners and suppers upon my hands. — My application to the count de Choiseul goes on swimmingly, for not only Mr. Pelletiere (who, by the bye, sends ten thousand civilities to you and Mrs. Gar- rick) has undertaken my affair, but the count de Limbourgh — the baron d'Hol- bach has offered any security for the in- offensiveness of my behaviour in France — 'tis more, you rogue, than you will do. — This baron is one of the most learned noblemen here, the great protector of wits, and the Scavans who are no wits — keeps open house three days a week — his house is now, as yours was to me, my own — he lives at great expense. — 'Twas an odd incident when I was in- troduced to the count de Bissie, which I was at his desire — I found him reading" Tristram. This grandee does me great honours, and gives me leave to go a pri- vate way through his apartments into the Palais Royal, to view the duke of Or- leans' collections, every day I have time. I have been at the doctors of Sorbonne — I hope in a fortnight to break through, or rather from, the delights of this place, which, in the sgavoir-vivre, exceed all the places, I believe, in this section of the globe I am going, when this letter is wrote, with Mr. Fox and Mr. Maccartney to Versailles — the next morning I wait upon Mons. Titon, in company with Mr. Maccartney, who is known to him, to deliver your commands. I have bought you the pamphlet, upon theatri-. cal, or rather tragical declamation. I have bought another in verse, .worth reading, and you will receive them, with what I can pick up this week, by a ser- vant of Mr. Hodges, whom he is send- ing back to England. I was last night with Mr. Fox to see Mademoiselle Claron, in Iphigene — she is extremely great — would to God you had one or two like her — what a luxury, to see you with one of such powers in the same interesting scene —but 'tis too much 408 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. —All ! Preville ! thou art Mercury him- self. — By virtue of taking- a couple of hoxes, we have bespoke this week Tlie Frenchman in London, in which Preville is to send us home to supper all happy — I mean about fifteen or sixteen English of distinction, who are now here, and live well with each other. I am under great obligations to Mr. Pitt, who has behaved in every respect to me like a man of good-breeding and good-nature — iti a post or two, I will write again — Foley is an honest soul — I could write stx volumes of what has passed comically in this great scene, since these last fourteen days — but more of this hereafter. ^^ — -We are all going into mourning ; nor you, nor Mrs. Garrick, would know me, if you met me in my remise — bless you both ! Service to Mrs. Denis. Adieu, adieu ! LETTER VIL Mr. Sterne to Lady D . London*, Feb. 1, 1762. Your ladyship's kind inquiries after my health are indeed kind and of a piece with the rest of your character. Indeed I am very ill, having broke a vessel in my lungs - hard writing in the summer, together with preaching, which I have not strength for, is ever fatal to me — but I cannot avoid the latter yet, and the former is too pleasurable to be given up — I believe I shall try if the south of France will not be of service to me — his G. of Y. has most humanely given me the permission for a year or two — I shall set off with great hopes of its efficacy, and shall write to my v/ife and daughter to come and join me at Paris, else my stay could not be so long. — " Le Fevre's story has beguiled your ladyship of your tears," and the thought of the accusing spirit flying up to heaven's chancery with the oath you are kind enough to say is sublime — my friend Mr. Garrick thinks so too, and I am most vain of his appro- bation — your ladyship's opinion adds not a little to my vanity. I wish I had time to take a little ex- cursion to Bath, were it only to thank you for all the obliging things you say in your letter — but 'tis impossible —accept at least my warmest thanks — If I could * This letter, though dated from London, was evid(3ntly written at Paris. tempt my friend Mr. H. to come to France, I should be truly happy — If I can be of any service to you at Paris, command him who is, and ever will be, your ladyship's faithful, &c. LETTER VIII. Mr. Sterne to Mrs. Sterne, York. Paris, May 17, 1762. My dear, It is a thousand to one that this reaches you before you have set out — 'however, I take the chance — you will receive one wrote last night, the moment you get to Mr. E. and to wish you joy of your ar- rival in town — to that letter, which you will find in town, I have nothing to add that I can think on — for I have almost drain'd my brains dry upon the subject. — For God's sake rise early and gallop away in the cool— and always see that you have not forgot your baggage in changing post chaises. — You will find good tea upon the road from York to Dover — only bring a little to carry you from Ca- lais to Paris — give the Custom-house officers what I told you — at Calais give more, if you have much Scotch snuff — but as tobacco is good here, you had be&t bring a Scotch mill and make it yourself, that is, order your valet to manufacture it — 'twill keep him out of mischief. — I would advise you to take three days in coming up, for fear of heating your- selves — See that they do not give you a bad vehicle, when a better is in the yard : but you will look sharp — drink small Rhenish to keep you cool (that is if you like it.) Live well, and deny yourselves nothing your hearts wish. So God in heaven prosper and go along with you — kiss my Lydia, and believe me both af- fectionately yours. LETTER IX. From the same to the sa?ne. Paris, May 31, 1762. My dear, There have no mails arrived here till this morning, for three posts ; so I ex- pected with great impatience a letter from you and Lydia— and lo ! it is ar- rived. You are as busy as Throp's wife, and by the time you receive this, you will be busier still. I have exhausted all my ideas about your journey — and what Sect. II. ^R E C E N T. 409 is needful for you to do before and during it — so I write only to tell you I am well — Mr. Colebrooks, tlie minister of Swisserland's secretary, I got this morn- ing to write a letter for you to tlie go- vernor of the Custom-house office at Calais — it shall be sent you next post. You must be cautious about Scotch snuff — take half a pound in your pocket, and make Lyd do the same. 'Tis well I bought you a chaise — there is no get- ting one in Paris now, but at an enor- mous price — for they are all sent to the army, and such a one as yours we have not been able to match for forty guineas, for a friend of mine who is going from hence to Italy — the weather was never known to set in so hot, as it has done the latter end of this month, so he and his party are to get into his chaises by four in the morning, and travel till nine — and not stir out again till six ; — but I hope this severe heat will abate by the time you come here — however, I beg of you once more to take special care of heating your blood in travelling, and come tout doucement, v/hen you find the heat too much — I shall look impatiently for intelligence from you, and hope to hear all goes well ; that you conquer all difficulties, that you have received your passport, my picture, &c. Write and tell me something of every thing*. I long to see you both, you may be as- sured, my dear wife and child, after so long a separation and write me a line directly, that I may have all the no- tice you can give me, that I may have apartments ready and fit for you when you arrive. — For my own part I shall continue writing to you a fortnight longer — present my respects to all friends — you have bid Mr. C. get my visitations at P. done for me. Sec. &c. If any offers are made about the inclosure at Rascal, they must be inclosed to me — nothing that is fairly proposed shall stand still on my score. Do all for the best, as He who guides all things will I hope do for us — so Heaven preserve you both — believe me your affectionate, &c. Love to my Lydia — I have bought her a gold watch to present to her when she comes. LETTER X. Mr. Sterne to Lady D . Paris, July 9, 1762. I v/iLL not send your ladyship the trifles you bid me purchase v/ithout a line. I am very v/ell pleased with Paris — indeed I meet with so many civilities amongst the people here, that I must sing their praises— the French have a great deal of urbanity in their composition, and to stay a little time amongst them will be agree- able. — I splutter French so as to be un- derstood — but I have had a droll adven- ture here, in which my Latin was of some service to me — I had hired a chaise and a horse to go about seven miles into the country, but, Shandean like, did not take notice that the horse was almost dead when I took him. — Before I got half-way, the poor animal dropped down dead — so I was forced to appear before the police, and began to tell my story in French, which was, that the poor beast had to do with a worse beast than him- self, namely, his master, who had driven him all the day before (Jehu like), and that it had neither had corn, nor hay, therefore I was not to pay for the horse — but I might as well have whistled as have spoke French, and I believe my Latin was equal to my uncle Toby's Lilabulero — being not understood because of its pu- rity ; but by dint of words I forced my judge to do me justice — no common thing, by the way, in France. — My wife and daughter are arrived — ^the latter does nothing but look out of the window, and complain of the torment of being friz- zled. — I wish she may ever remain a child of nature — I hate children of art. I hope this will find your ladyship well — and that you will be kind enough to direct to me at Toulouse, which place I shall set out for very soon. I am, with truth and sincerity, your ladyship's most faithful, &c. LETTER XI. Mr. Sterne to Mr. E. Paris, July V2, 176?. Dear sir, My wife and daughter arrived here safe and sound on Thursday, and are in high raptures with the speed and ])leasant- nesa of their journey, and particularly of all they see and meet with here. 410 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. But in their journey from York to Paris nothing- has given them a more sensible and lasting pleasure than the marks of kindness they received from you and Mrs. E. The friendship, good-will, and politeness of my two friends I never doubted to me, or mine, and I return you both ail a grateful man is capable of, which is merely my thanks. I have taken, however, the liberty of sending an Indian taffety, which Mrs. E. must do me the honour to wear for my wife's sake, who would have got it made up, but that Mr. Stanhope, the consul of Algiers, who sets off to-morrow morn- ing for London, has been so kind (1 mean his lady) as to take charge of it ; and we had but just time to procure it ; and had we missed that opportunity, as we should have been obliged to have left it behind us at Paris, we knew not when or how to get it to our friend — I wish it had been better worth a paragraph. If there is any thing we can buy or procure for you here (intelligence included), you have a right to command me — for I am yours, with my wife and girl's kind love to you and Mrs. E. LETTER XII. Mr. Sterne to Mr. Foley, at Paris. Toulouse, August 14, 1762. My dear Foley, After many turnings (alias digres- sions), to say nothing" of downright overthrows, stops, and delays, we have arrived in three weeks at Toulouse, and are now settled in our houses with ser- vants, &c. about us, and look as com- posed as if we had been here seven years. In our journey we suffered so much from the heats, it gives me pain to remember it. I never saw a cloud from Paris to Nismes, half as broad as a twenty-four sols piece. Good God ! we were toasted, roasted, grill'd, stew'd, and carbonaded on one side or other all the way — and being all done enough (assez cutis) in the day, we were eat up at night by bugs, and other unswept-out vermin, the legal inhabitants (if length of possession gives right) of every inn we lay at — Can you conceive a worse ac- cident than that in such a journey, in the hottest day and hour of it, four miles from either tree or shrub, which could cast a shade of the size of one of Eve's fig-leaves — that we should break a hind wheel in ten thousand pieces, and be obliged in consequence to sit five hours on a gravelly road, without one drop of water, or possibility of getting any? — To mend the matter, my two postillions were two dough -hearted fools, and fell a crying — Nothing was to be done ! By Heaven, quoth 1, pulling off my coat and waistcoat, something shall be done, for I'll thrash you both within an inch of your lives — and then make you take each of you a horse, and ride like two devils to the next post, for a cart to carry my baggage, and a wheel to carry our- selves — Our luggage weighed ten quin- tals — 'twas the fair of Baucaire — all the world was going or returning — we were asked by every soul who passed by us, if we were going to the fair of Baucaire — No wonder, quoth I, we have goods enough ! Vous avez raison, mes ajnis. Well ! here we are after all, my dear friend — and most deliciously placed at the extremity of the town, in an excel- lent house well furnished, and elegant beyond any thing I looked for — 'tis built in the form of a hotel, with a pretty court towards the town— and behind, the best garden in Toulouse, laid out in ser- pentine walks, and so large that the com- pany in our quarter usually come to walk there in the evenings, for which they have my consent — " the more the mer- rier." — The house consists of a good salle a manger above-stairs, joining to the very great salle a compagnie as large as the baron d'Holbach's ; three handsome bed- chambers with dressing-rooms to them — below-stairs two very good rooms for my- self, one to study in, the other to see company. — I have moreover cellars round the court, and all other offices — Of the same landlord I have bargained to have the use of a country-house which he has two miles out of town ; so that myself and all my family have nothing more to do than to take our hats and re- move from the one to the other. — My landlord is moreover to keep the gardens in order — and what do you think I am to pay for all this ? neither more nor less than thirty pounds a year — all things are cheap in proportion — so we shall live for very very little. — I dined yesterday with Mr. H ; he is m.ost pleasantly si- tuated, and they all are well. — As for the books you have received for D- , the Sect. II, RECENT. 411 bookseller was a fool not to send the bill along with them. I will write to him about it.— I wish you was with me for two months ; it would cure you of all evils ghostly and bodily — but this, like many other Avishes both for you and my- self, must have its completion elsewhere — Adieu, my kind friend, and believe that I love you as much from inclination as reason, for I am most truly yours. My wife and girl join in compliments to you — My best respects to my v/orthy baron d'HoIbach and all that society — remember me to my friend Mr. Pan- chaud. LETTER XIII. Mr. Sterne to J— H— S~, Esq, Toulouse, Oct. 19, 1762. My dear H. I RECEIVED your letter yesterday — so it has been travelling from Crazy Castle to Toulouse full eighteen days — If 1 had nothing to stop me, I would engage to set out this morning, and knock at Crazy- Castle gates in three days less time—by which time I should find you and the colonel, Panty, &c. all alone — the sea- son I most like and wish to be with you — I rejoice from my heart, down to my reins, that you have snatched so many happy and sunshiny days out of the hands of the blue devils — If we live to meet and join our forces as heretofore, we will give these gentry a drubbing — and turn them for ever out of their usurped citadel — some legions of them have been put to flight already by your operations this last campaign — and I hope to have a hand in dispersing the remainder the first time my dear cousin sets up his banners again under the square tower But what art thou meditating with axes and ham- mers ? — "I know the pride and the naughtiness of thy heart," and thou lovest the sweet visions of architraves, friezes, and pediments with their tym- panums, and thou hast found out a pre- tence, a raison de cinq cent livres sterling to be laid out in four years, &c. &c. (so as not to be felt, which is always added by the d 1 as a bait) to justify thy- self unto thyself — It may be very wise to do this — but it is wiser to keep one's money in one's pocket, whilst there are wars without and rumours of wars with- in. St. — advises his disciples to sell both coat and waistcoat — and go rather without shirt or sword, than leave no money in their scrip to go to Jerusalem with — Now those qiiatre cms consecutifs, my dear Anthony, are the most precious morsels of thy life to come (in this world), and thou wilt do well to enjoy that morsel without cares, calculations, and curses, and damns, and debts — for as sure as stone is stone, and mortar is mortar, &c. it will be one of the many works of thy repentance — But after aU, if the fates have decreed it, as you and I have some time supposed it on account of your generosity, " that you are never to be a monied man," the decree will be fulfilled, whether you adorn your castle and line it with cedar, and paint it within side and without side with, ver- milion, or not — et cela etant (having a bottle of Frontiniac and glass at my right hand) I drink, dear Anthony, to thy health and happiness, and to the final accomplishments of all thy lunary and sub-lunary projects. — For six weeks to- gether, after I wrote ray last letter to you, my projects were many stories higher, for I was all that time, as I thought, journeying on to the other world — I fell ill of an epidemic vile fever which killed hundreds about me — The physicians here are the arrantest charla- tans in Europe, or the most ignorant of all pretending fools — I withdrew what was left of me out of their hands, and recommended my affairs entirely to Dame Nature — She (dear goddess) has saved me in fifty different pinching bouts, and I begin to have a kind of enthusiasm now in her favour, and in my own, that one or two more escapes will make me be- lieve I shall leave you all at last by trans- lation, and not by fair death. I am now as stout and foolish again as a happy man can wish to be — and am busy playing the fool with my uncle Toby, whom I have got soused over head and ears in love. — I have many hints and projects for other works ; all will go on I trust as I wisli in this matter. — Wlien I have reaped the benefit of this winter at Tou- louse — I cannot see I have any thing more to do with it; therefore, after hav- ing gone with my wife and girl to Bag- nieres, I shall return from whence I came Now my wife wants to stay another year to save money ; and this opposition of wishes, though it will not be as sour 412 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. as lemon, yet it will not be as sweet as sugarcandy. — I wish T — : would lead sir Charles to Toulouse ; 'tis as gfood as any town in the south of France — for my own part, 'tis not to my taste— but I believe the ground-work of my ennui is more to the eternal platitude of the French cha- racter—little variety, no originality in it at all — tha.n to any other cause— for they are very civil — but civility itself, in that uniform, wearies and bodders one to death — If I do not mind, I shall grow most stupid and sententious — Miss Shandy is hard at it with music, dancing, and French-speaking, in the last of which she does a merveille, and speaks it with an excellent accent, considering she prac- tises within sight of the Pyrenean moun- tains. — If the snows will suffer me, I propose to spend two or three months at Barege, or Bagnieres, but my dear wife is against all schemes of additional ex- penses—which wicked propensity (though not of despotic power) yet I cannot suf- fer — though by the bye laudable enough — But she may talk — I will do my own way, and she will acquiesce without a word of debate on the subject. — Who can say so much in praise of his wife ? Few I trow. — M is out of town vintaging — so write to me. Monsieur Sterne, gentil- liomme Anglois — it will find me — We are as much out of the road of all intelli- gence here as at the Cape of Good Hope — so write a long nonsensical letter like this, now and then, to me — in which say nothing but what may be shewn (though I love every paragraph and spirited stroke of your pen, others might not), for you must know, a lettei* no sooner arrives from England, but Curiosity is upon her knees to know the contents. — Adieu, dear H. believe me your affectionate, &c. We have had bitter cold weather here these fourteen days— which has obliged us to sit with whole pagells of wood lighted up to our noses — it is a dear ar- ticle—but every thing else being ex- tremely cheap, Madame keeps an excel- lent good house, with soupe, bouilli, roti — &c. &c. for two hundred and fifty pounds a year. LETTER XIV. Mr> Sterne to Mr. Foley, at Paris. Toulouse, Nov. 9, 1762. My dear Foley, I HAVE had this week your letter on my table, and hope you will forgive my not answering it sooner — and even to-day I can but write you ten lines, being en- gaged at Mrs. M — 's. I would not omit one post more acknowledging the favour — In a few posts I will write you a long one gratis, that is for love — Thank you for having done what I desired you — and for the future direct to me under cover at Monsieur Brousse's — I receive all letters through him, more punctual and sooner than when left at the post- house. H 's family greet you with mine — we are much together, and never for- get you — forget me not to the baron — and all the circle — nor to your domestic circle. I am got pretty well, and sport much with my uncle Toby in the volume I am now fabricating for the laughing part of the world — for the melancholy part of it, I have nothing but my prayers— so God help them. — 1 shall hear from you in a post or two at least after you receive this — in the mean time, dear Foley, adieu, and believe no man wishes or esteems you more than your, &c. LETTER XV. From the same to the same. Toulouse, Wednesday, Dec. 3, 17G2. Dear Foley, I HAVE for the last fortnight every post- day gone to Messrs. B and sons, in expectation of the pleasure of a letter from you with the remittance I desired you to send me here. — When a man has no more than half a dozen guineas in his pocket —and a thousand miles from home — and in a country where he can as soon raise the d — 1 as a six-livre piece to go to market with, in case he has changed his last guinea — you will not envy my situation — God bless you — remit me the balance due upon the receipt of this. — We are all at H — 's, practising a play we arc to act here this Christmas Holidays S&cT. IL RECENT. 413 — all the Dramcais Persons are of the English, of which we have a happy so- ciety living together like brothers and sisters — Your hanker here has just sent me word the tea Mr. H. wrote for is to be delivered into my hands — 'tis all one into whose hands the treasure falls — we shall pay Brousse for it the day we get it — we join in our most friendly re- spects, and believe me, dear Foley, truly yours. LETTER XVI. From the same to the same. Toulouse, Dec. 17, 1762. My dear Foley, The post after I wrote last, I received yours with the inclosed draught upon the receiver, for which I return you all thanks— I have received this day likewise the box and tea all safe and sound — so we shall all of us be in our cups this Christ- mas, and drink without fear or stint. — We begin to live extremely happy, and are all together every night — fiddling, laughing, and singing, and cracking jokes. You will scarce believe the news I tell you — there are a company of Eng- lish strollers arrived here, who are to act comedies all the Christmas, and are now busy in making dresses and preparing some of our best comedies — Your wonder will cease, when I inform you these strollers are your friends, with the rest of our society, to whom I proposed this scheme soulagement — and I assure you we do well. — The next week, with a grand orchestra, we play the Busy Body — and The Journey to London the week after ; but I have some thoughts of adapting it to your situation — and making it The Journey to Toulouse, which with the change of half a dozen scenes, may be easily done. — Thus, my dear F. for want of something better we have recourse to ourselves, and strike out the best amuse- ments we can from such materials. — My kind love and friendship to all my true friends — My service to the rest. H — 's family have just left me, having been this last week with us — they will be with me all the holidays. In summer we shall visit them, and so balance hospitalities. Adieu, yours most truly. LETTER XVII. Fro?}i the same to the same. Toulouse, March 29, 1763. Dear Foley, — Though that's a mistake I I mean the date of the place, for I write at Mr. H — 's in the country, and have been there with my people all the week — " How does Tristram do?" you say in yours to him — 'Faith, but so so — the worst of human maladies is poverty — though that is a second lie — for poverty of spirit is worse than poverty of purse by ten thousand per cent, — I inclose you a remedy for the one, a draught of a hun- dred-and-thirty pounds, for which I in- sist upon a rescription by the very return — or I will send you and all your com- missaries to the d 1. — I do not heai* they have tasted of one fleshy banquet all this Lent — you will make an excellent grille. P — they can make nothing of him, but bouillon — I mean my other two friends no ill — so shall send them a reprieve, as they acted out of necessity — not choice. — My kind respects to baron d'Holbach, and all his household — say all that is kind for me to my other friends — you know how much, dear Foley, I am yours. I have not five louis to vapour with in this land of coxcombs - My wife's com- pliments. LETTER XVIII. Froin the same to the same. Toulouse, April 18, 1763. Dear Foley, I THANK you for your punctuality in sending me the rescription, and for your box by the courier, which came safe by last post. — I was not surprised much with your account of lord * * * * x- being obliged to give way — and for the rest, all follows in course. — I suppose you will endeavour to fish and catch something for yourself in these troubled waters — at least I wish you all a reasonable man can wish for himself — which is wishing enough for you — all the rest is in the brain —Mr. Woodhouse (whom you know) is also here — he is a most amiable wor- thy man, and I have the pleasure of hav- ing him much with me~in a short time he proceeds to Italy.— The first week in 414 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. June, I decamp like a patriarch with my whole household, to pitch our tents for three months at the foot of the Pyrenean hills at Bagnieres, where I expect much health and much amusement from the concourse of adventurers from all corners of the earth. — Mrs. M sets out, at the same time, for another part of the Pyrenean hills, at Courtray — fromwhence to Italy — this is the general plan of ope- ration here — except that I have some thoughts of spending the winter at Flo- rence, and crossing over with my family to Leghorn by water — and in April of returning by way of Paris home — but this is a sketch only, for in all things I am governed by circumstances — so that what is fit to be done on Monday, may be very unwise on Saturday— On all days of the week believe me yours, with unfeign- ed truth. P. S. All compliments to my Parisian friends. LETTER XIX. Mr. Sterne to Mr. Foley ^ at Paris. Toulouse, May 21, 1763. I TOOK the liberty, three weeks ago, to desire you would be so kind as to send me fourscore pounds, having received a letter the same post from my agent, that he would order the money to be paid to your correspondent in London in a fort- night. — It is some disappointment to me that you have taken no notice of my let- ter, especially as I told you we waited for the money before we set out for Bag- nieres — and so little distrust had I that such a civility would be refused me, that we have actually had all our things packed up these eight days, in hourly ex- pectation of receiving a letter. — Perhaps my good friend has waited till he heard the money was paid in London. — But you might have trusted to my honour— that all the cash in your iron box (and all the bankers in Europe put together) could not have tempted me to say the thing that is not. — I hope before this you will have received an account of the money being paid in London. — But it would have been taken kindly, if you had wrote me word you would transmit me the money when you had received it, but no sooner; for Mr. R— of Montpelier, though I know him not, yet knows enough of me to have given me credit for a fortnight for ten times the sum. I am, dear F — , your friend and hearty well-wisher. I saw the family of the H yes- terday, and asked them if you was in the land of the living. They said Yea— for they had just received a letter from you. — After all, I heartily forgive you — for you have done me a signal service in mortifying me, and it is this, I am de- termined to grow rich upon it. Adieu, and God send you wealth and happiness — All compliments to . Before April next 1 am obliged to re- visit your metropolis in my way to Eng- land. LETTER XX. From the same to the same. Toulouse, June 9, 1763. My dear Foley, I THIS moment received yours— conse- quently the moment I got it I sat down to answer it — So much for a logical in- ference. Now believe me I had never wrote you so testy a letter, had I not both loved and esteemed you — and it was merely in vindication of the rights of friendship that I wrote in a way as if I was hurt — for neglect me in your heart, I knew you could not, without cause ; which my heart told me I never had— or will ever give you : — I was the best friends with you that ever I was in my life before my letter had got a league, and pleaded the true excuse for my friend, " That he was oppressed with a multitude of busi- ness." Go on, my dear F., and have but that excuse (so much do 1 regard your interest), that I would be content to suffer a real evil without future mur- muring — but in truth, my disappoint- ment was partly chimerical at the bot- tom, having a letter of credit for two hundred pounds from a person I never saw, by me — but which, out of nicety of temper, I would not make any use of — I set out in two days for Bagnieres, but direct to me to Brousse, who will forward all my letters. — Dear F — , aidieu. — Be- lieve me yours affectionately. Sect. II. RECENT. 415 LETTER XXI. Front the saine to the same. Montpellier, Jan. 5, 1764. My dear friend, You see I cannot pass over the fifth of the month without thinking of you and writing to you — The last is a periodical hahit — The first is from my heart, and I do it oftener than I remember — how- ever, from both motives together I main- tain I have a right to the pleasure of a single line — be it only to tell me how your watch goes — You know how much happier it would make me to know that all things belonging to you went on well. — You are going to have them all to yourself (1 hear), and that Mr. S is true to his first intention of leaving busi- ness — I hope this will enable you to ac- complish yours in a shorter time, that you may get to your long-wished-for retreat of tranquillity and silence — When you have got to your fire- side, and into your arm-chair (and, by the bye, have another to spare for a friend), and are so much a sovereign as to sit in your furred cap, if you like it, though I should not (for a man's ideas are at least the cleaner for being dressed decently), why then it will be a miracle if I do not glide in like a ghost upon you — and in a very unghost- like fashion help you off with a bottle of your best wine. Jan. 15. — It does not happen every day that a letter, begnin in the most per- fect health, should be concluded in the greatest weakness — I wish the vulgar high and low do not say it was a judg- ment upon me, for taking all this liberty with ghosts — Be it as it may — I took a ride, when the first part of this was wrote, towards Perenas — and returned home in a shivering fit, though I ought to have been in a fever, for I had tired my beast ; and he was as unmoveable as Don Quixote's wooden horse, and my arm was half dislocated in whipping him — This, quoth I, is inhuman —No, says a peasant on foot behind me, I'll drive him home — so he laid on his posteriors, but 'twas needless — as his face was turned towards Montpelier, he began to trot. — But to retiR-n : this fever has confined me ten days in my bed — I have suffered in this scufile with death terribly — but un- less the spirit of prophecy deceive me — I shall not die but live— in the mean time, dear F. let us live as merrily, but as innocently as we can — It has ever been as good, if not better, than a bishopric to me — and I desire no other — Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me yours. Please to give the inclosed to Mr. T — , and tell him I thank him cordially from my heart for his great good-will. LETTER XXII. Mr. Sterne to Mrs. F. Montpellier, Feb. 1, 1764. I AM preparing, my dear Mrs. F., to leave France, for I am heartily tired of it— That insipidity there is in French cha- racters has disgusted your friend Yorick. — I have been dangerously ill, and can- not think that the sharp air of Mont- pellier has been of service to me — and so my physicians told me when they had me under their hands for above a month — If you stay any longer here, sir, it will be fatal to you — And why, good people, were you not kind enough to tell me this sooner? — After having discharged them, I told Mrs. Sterne that I should set out for England very soon ; but as she chooses to remain in France for two or three years, I have no objection, ex- cept that I wish my girl in England. — The states of Languedoc are met — 'tis a fine raree show, with the usual accom- paniments of fiddles, bears, and puppet- shows. — I believe I shall step into my post-chaise with more alacrity to fly from these sights, than a Frenchman would fly to them — and except a tear at parting with my little slut, I shall be in high spirits ; and every step I take that brings me nearer England, will, I think, help to set this poor frame to rights. Now pray write to me, directed to Mr. F. at Paris, and tell me what I am to bring you over — How do I long to greet all my friends ! few do I value more than yourself. — My wife chooses to go to Montauban, rather than stay here, in which I am truly passive — If this should not find you at Bath, I hope it will be forwarded to you, as I wish to fulfil your commissions — and so adieu — Accept every warm wish for your health, and be- lieve me ever yours. P. S. My physicians have almost poi- soned me with Avhat they call bouillons ra- 416 E L E G A N T E P I S T L E S. Book IV. fraichissants — 'tis a cock liaycd alive and boiled with poppy seeds, tlien pounded in a mortar, afterwards passed through a sieve — There is to be one crawfish in it, and I was gravely told it must be a male one — a female would do me more hurt than good. LETTER XXIII. Mr. Sterne to Miss Sterne. Paris, May 15, 1764. My dear Lydia, ' By this time I suppose your mother and self are fixed at Montauban, and I there- fore direct to your banker, to be deliver- ed to you — I acquiesced in your staying in France — likewise it was your mother's wish — but I must tell you both (that unless your health had not been a plea made use of) I should have wished you both to return with me. — 1 have sent you the Spectators, and other books, particularly Metastasio ; but I beg my girl to read the former, and only make the latter her amusement. — I hope you have not forgot my last request, to make no friendships with the French women — not that I think ill of them all, but some- times women of the best principles are the most insinuating — nay I am so jealous of you, that I should be miserable were I to see you had the least grain of coquetry in your composition. — You have enough to do — for I have also sent you a guitar — and as you have no genius for drawing (though you never could be made to be- lieve it), pray waste not your time about it — Remember to write to me as to a friend — in short, whatever- comes into your little head, and then It will be natu- ral. — If your mothers rhuematism con- tinues, and she chooses to go to Bagnieres —tell her not to be stopped for want of money, for my purse shall be as open as my heart. I have preached at the Am- bassador's chapel — Hezekiah — (an odd subject your mother will say). There was a concourse of all nations, and reli- gions too. — I shall leave Paris in a few days. — I am lodged in the same hotel with Mr. T ; — they are good and ge- nerous souls — tell your mother that I hope she will write to me, and that when she does so, I may also receive a letter from my Lydia. Kiss your motlier from me, and believe me your affectionate, &c. LETTER XXIV. Mr. Sterne to J~ H~ S- ■> Esq. September 4, 1764. Now, my dear dear Anthony — I do not think a week or ten days playing the good-fellow (at this very time) at Scar- borough so abominable a thing — but if a man could get there cleverly, and every soul in the house in the mind to try what could be done in furtherance there- of, I have no one to consult in this affair — therefore, as a man may do worse things, the English of all which is this, that I am going to leave a few poor sheep here in the wilderness for fourteen days — and from pride and naughtiness of heart to see what is doing at Scarbo- rough — steadfastly meaning afterwards to lead a new life, and strengthen my faith. — Now some folk say there is much company there — and some say not — and I believe there is neither the one nor the other — but will be both, if the world will have but a month's patience or so. — No, my dear H , I did not delay sending your letter directly to the post^ — As there are critical times, or rather turns and revolutions in * * * humours, 1 knew not what the delay of an hour might hazard — I will answer for him, he has seventy times seven forgiven you — and as often v/ished you at the d — ^1. — After many oscillations the pendulum. will rest firm as ever. I send all kind compliments to sir C. D and G s. I love them from my soul. — If G 1 is with you, him also. — I go on, not rapidly, but well enough, with my uncle Toby's amours — There is no sitting, and cudgelling one's brains whilst the sun shines bright — 'twill be all over in six or seven weeks, and there are dismal months enow after to endure suffocation by a brimstone fire-side. — If you can get to Scarborough, do. — A man who m.akes six tons of alum a week, may do any thing — Lord Granby is to be there what a temptation ! Yours affectionately. Sec. Sect. II. R E C E N r. 41 » LETTER XXV. Mr. Sterne to Mr. Folei/, at Paris. York, Sept. 29, 1754. My dear friend, I HAVING just had the honour of a let- ter from Miss Tuting, full of the ac- knowledgments of your attention and kind services to her ; I will not believe these arose from the D. of A '5 letters nor mine. Surely she needed no recommendation the truest and most honest compliment I can pay you, is to say they came from your own good heart, only you was introduced to the object — for the rest followed in course — However, let me cast in my mite of thanks to the treasury whic-h belongs to good natured actions. I have been with lord G y these three weeks at Scai-borougli— tlie pleasures of which I found somewhat more exalted than those of Bagnieres last year. — I am now returned to my phi- losophical hut to finish Tristram, which I calculate will be ready for the vv^orld about Christmas, at v/hichtime I decamp from hence, and fix my head-quarters at London for the winter — unless my cough pushes me forwards to your metropolis — or that I can persuade some gvos my lord to take a trip to you— I'll try if I can make him relish the joys of the Tuilleries, Opera Cojiiique, &c. I had this week a letter from Mrs, Sterne from Montauban, in which she tells me she has occasion for fifty pounds immediately — v,^ll you send an order to your correspondent at Montauban to pay her so much cash ? — and I will in three weeks send as much to Becket — But as her purse is low, for God's sake write directly. — Now you must do something equally essential — to rectify a mistake in the mind of your correspondent there, who it seems gave her a hint not long ago, '' that she was separated from me for life." — Now as this is not true m the first place, and may give a disadvan- tageous impression of her to those she lives amongst— 'twould be unmerciful to let her, or my daughter, suffer by it ; so do be so good as to undeceive him — for in a year or two she proposes (and in- deed I expect it with impatience from her) to rejoin me — and tell them I have all the confidence in the world she will not spend more than I can afford, and I only mentioned two hyndrecj guineas a year— l)ecause 'twas right to name some certain sum, for which I begged you to give her credit. — I write to you all of my most intimate concerns, as to a brother; so excuse me, dear Foley. God bless you. — Believe me., yours affectionately. Compliments to M. Panchaud, d'Hol- bach, &e. LETTER XXVL Mr. Sterne to David Garrick, Esq. 1 SCALP you I dear friend !- hurts a hair o Avas I of that r65. my Bath, April 6, V — my dear Garrick ! -foul befal the man who your head ! — and so full very sentiment, that my letter had not been put into the post-of- fice ten minutes, before my heart smote me ; and I sent to recall it — but failed — You are sadly to blame, Slmndy ! for this, quoth I, leaning with my head on my hand, as I recriminated upon my false delicacy in the affair — Garrick's nerves (if he has any left) are as fine and delicately spun as thy own — his sen- timents as honest and friendly — thou knowest, Shandy, that he loves thee — why wilt thou hazard him a moment's pain? Puppy, fool, coxcomb, jackass, &c. &c.^ — and so I balanced the account to your favour, before I received it drawn up in yourw;ay — I say your way — for it is not stated so much to your ho- nour and credit, as I had passed the ac- count before — for it was a most lamented truth, that I never received one of the letters your friendship meant me, except whilst in Paris. — O ! how I congratulate you for the anxiety the world has, and continues to be under, for your return. — Return, return to the few who love you, and the thousands who admire you. — The moment you set your foot upon your stage— mark ! I tell it you — by some ma- gic, irresisted power, every fibre about your heart will vibrate afresh, and as strong and feelingly as ever. — Nature, with glory at her back, will light up the torch within you — and there is enough of it left, to heat and enlighten the world these many, many, many years. Heaven be praised ! (I utter it from my soul) that your lady, and my Miner- va, is in a condition to walk to Windsor -^fuU rapturously will I lead the graceful 9 E 418 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Hook IV. pilgrim to the temple, where I will sacri- fice with the purest incense to her — but you may worship with me, or not — 'twill make no difference either in the truth or warmth of my devotion— still (after all I have seen) I still maintain her peerless. Powel ! good Heaven ! — give me some one with less smoke and more fire— There are, who, like the Pharisees, still think they shall be heard for much speaking — Come — come away, my dear Garrick, and teach us another lesson. Adieu ! — I love you dearly — and your lady better — not hobbihorsically — but most sentimentally and aifectionately — for I am yours (that is, if you never say another word about ) with all the sentiments of love and friendship you fleserve from me. LETTER XXVIL Mr. Sterne to Mr. W. Coxwould, May 23, 17G5. At this moment I am sitting in my summer-house with my head and heart full, not of my uncle Toby's amours with the widow Wadman, bat my ser- mons — and your letter has drawn me out of a pensive mood — the spirit of it pleaseth me — but in this solitude, what can I tell or write to you but about my- self? — 1 am glad that you are in love — 'twill cure you at least of the spleen, which has a bad effect on both man and woman — I myself must ever have some Dulcinea in my head — it harmonizes the soul — and in those cases I first endeavour to make the lady believe so, or rather I begin first to make myself believe that I am in love — ^but I carry on my affairs quite in the French way, sentimental- ly — " Vamour (say they) nest rien sans sentiment." Now, notwithstanding they make such a pother about the word, they have no precise idea annexed to it — And so much for the same subject called love. — I must tell you how I have just treated a French gentleman of fortune in France, who took a liking to my daughter — without any ceremony (having got my direction from my wife's banker) he wrote me word that he was in love with my daughter, and desired to know what fortune I would give her at present, and how much at my death — by the bye, I think there was very little sentiment on his side — My answer was, " Sir, I shall give her ten thousand pounds the day of mar- riage — my calculation is as follows — she is not eighteen, you are sixty -two — — there goes five thousand pounds — then, sir, you at least think her not ugly — she has many accomplishments, speaks Italian, French, plays upon the guitar, and as I fear you play upon no instru- ment whatever, I think you will be happy to take her at my terms, for here finishes the account of the ten thousand pounds." — I do not suppose but he will take this as I mean — that is, a flat refu- sal — I have had a parsonage-house burnt down by the carelessness of my curate's wife — as soon as I can 1 must rebuild it, I trow — but I lack the means at present — yet I am never happier than when I have not a shilling in my pocket — for when I have, I can never call it my own. Adieu, my dear friend — may you enjoy better health than me, though not better spirits, for that is impossible. Yours sincerely. My compliments to the Col. LETTER XXVIII. Mr. Sterne to 31iss Sterne. Naples, Feb, 3, 1760. My dear girl. Your letter, my Lydia, has made me both laugh and cry. — Sorry am I that you are both so afflicted with the ague, and by all means I wish you both to fly from Tours, because I remember it is situated between two rivers, la Loire and le Cher — which must occasion fogs, and damp unwholesome weather — there- fore for the same reason go not to Bourges en Bresse — 'tis as vile a place for agues. — I find myself infinitely better than I was — and hope to have added at least ten years to my life by this journey to Italy — the climate is heavenly, and I find new principles of health in me, which I have been long a stranger to — — but trust me, my Lydia, I will find you out, wherever you are, in May. There- fore I beg you to direct to me at Belloni's at Rome, that I may have some idea where you will be then. — The account you give me of Mrs. C is truly ami- able, I shall ever honour her — Mr. C. is a diverting companion — what he said of your little French admirer was truly droll Sect. II. R E C E N T. 419 - — the marquis de is an impostor, and not worthy of your acquaintance — he only pretended to know me, to get in- troduced to your mother — I desire you will get your mother to write to Mr. C. that 1 may discharge every debt, and then, my Lydia, if I live, the produce of my pen shall be yours — If fate reserves me not tliat — the humane and good, part for thy father's sake, part for thy own, will never abandon thee ! — If your mo- ther's health will permit her to return with me to England, your summers I will render as agreeable as I can at Cox would — your winters at York — you know my publications call me to London. If Mr. and Mrs. C — are still at Tours, thank them from me for their cordiality to my wife and daughter. I have purchased you some little trifles, Avhich I shall give you when we meet, as proofs of affection from your fond father. LETTER XXIX. David Hume, Esq. to Edinburgh, Au'^. 16, 1760. Sir, I AM not surprised to find by your letter, that Mr. Gray shovild have entertained suspicions with regard to the authenticity of these fragments of our Highland poe- try. The first time I was shewn the copies of some of them in manuscript, by our friend John Home, I was inclined to be a little incredulous on that head ; but Mr. Home removed my scruples, by in- forming me of the manner in which he procured them from Mr. Macpherson, the translator. These two gentlemen were drinking the waters together at Moffat last autumn ; when their conver- sation fell upon Highland poetry, which Mr. Macpberson extolled very highly. Our friend, who knew him to be a good scholar and a man of taste, found his curiosity excited ; and asked whether he had ever translated any of them ? Mr. Macpherson replied, that he never had attempted any such thing ; and doubted whether it was possible to transfuse such beauties into our language ; but for Mr. Homme's satisfaction, and in order to give him a general notion of the strain of that wild poetry, he would endeavour to turn one of them into English. He accord- ingly brought him one next day ; which our friend was so mucli pleased with, that he never ceased soliciting Mr. Macpher- son till he insensibly produced that small volume which has been published. After this volume was in every body's hands, and universally admired, we heard every day new reasons, which put the au- thenticity, not the great antiquity, which the translator ascribes to them, beyond all question : for their antiquity is a point which must be ascertained by reasoning ; though the arguments he employs seem very probable and convincing. But cer- tain it is, that these poems are in every body's mouth in the Highlands, have been handed down from father to son, and are of an age beyond all memory and tradition. In the family of every Highland chief- tain there was anciently retained a bard, whose office was the same with that of the Greek rhapsodists ; and the general subject of the poems, which they recited, was the wars of Fingal ; an epoch no less celebrated among them, than the wars of Troy among the Greek poets. This custom is not even yet altogether abo- lished ; the bard and piper are esteemed the most honourable offices in a chief- tain's family, and these two characters are frequently united in the same person. Adam Smith, the celebrated professor in Glasgow, told me, that the piper of the Argyleshire militia repeated to him all those poems which Mr. Macpherson has translated, and many more of equal beauty. Major Mackay, lord Rae's bro- ther, also told me, that he remembers them perfectly ; as likewise did the laird of Macfarlane, the greatest antiquarian whom we have in this country, and who insists so strongly on the historical truth, as well as on the poetical beauty of these productions. I could add the laird and lady Macleod to these authorities, with many more, if these were not sufficient ; as they live in different parts of the High- lands, very remote from each other, and they could only be acquainted with poems that had become in a manner national works, and had gradually spread them- selves into every mouth, and imprinted on every memory. Every body in Edinburgh is so con- vinced of this truth, that we have endea- voured to put Mr. Macpherson on a way of procuring us more of these wild flowers. He is a modest sensible young man, not settled in any living, but emploved as a 2 E 2 420 E L E G A N 1^ E P 1 S 1 L E S. Book IV. private tutor in Mr. Graham of Balgo- wan's family, a way of life which he is not fond of. We have therefore set about a subscription, of a guinea or two guineas a-piece, in order to enable him to quit that family, and undertake a mission into the Highlands, where he hopes to recover more of these Fragments. There is, in particular, a country surgeon somewhere in Lochaber, who, he says, can recite a great number of them, but never com- mitted them to writing : as indeed the orthography of the Highland language is not fixed, and the natives have always employed more the sword than the pen. This surgeon has by heart the epic poem mentioned by Mr. Macpherson in his preface ; and as he is somewhat old, and is the only person living that has it entire, we are in the more haste to recover a mo- nument, which will certainly be regarded as a curiosity in the republic of letters. I own, that my first and chief objec- tion to the authenticity of these Frag- ments, was not on account of the noble and even tender strokes which they con- tain ; for these are the offspring of Ge- nius and Passion in all countries ; I was only surprised at the regular plan which appears in some of these pieces, and which seems to be the work of a more cultivated age. None of the specimens of barbarous poetry known to us, the He- brew, Arabian, or any other, contained this species of beauty : and if a regular epic poem, or even any thing of that kind, nearly regular, should also come from that rough climate, or uncivilised people, it would appear to me a phseno- menon altogether unaccountable. I remember, Mr. Macpherson told me, that the heroes of this Highland epic were not only, like Homer's heroes, their own butchers, bakers, and cooks, but al- so their own shoemakers, carpenters, and smiths. He mentioned an incident, which put this matter in a remarkable light. A warrior has the head of his spear struck off in battle ; upon which he immediately retires behind the army, where a forge was erected ; makes a new one ; hurries back to the action ; pierces his enemy, while the iron, which was yet red hot, hisses in the wound. This imagery you will allow to be singular, and so well imagined, that it would have been adopted by Homer, had the man- ners of the Greeks allowed him to have employed it. I forgot to mention, as another proof of the authenticity of these poems, and even of the reality of the adventures con- tained in them, that the names of the heroes, Fingal, Oscur, Osur, Oscan, Dermid, are still given in the Highlands to large mastiffs, in the same manner as we afiix to them the names of Csesar, Pompey, Hector ; or the French that of Marlborough. It gives me pleasure to find, that a person of so fine a taste as Mr. Gray ap- proves of these Fragments, as it may convince us, that our fondness of them is not altogether founded on national pre- possessions, which, however, you know to be a little strong. The translation is elegant ; but I made an objection to the author, which I wish you would commu- nicate to Mr. Gray, that we may judge of the justness of it. There appeared to me many verses in his prose, and all of them in the same measure with Mr. Shenstone's famous ballad, "Ye shepherds, so careless and free, Whose flocks never carelessly roam," &c. Pray ask Mr. Gray whether he made the same remark, and whether he thinks it a blemish ? Yours most sincerely. LETTER XXX. David Hume, Esq. to Dr. Campbell. Edinburgh, Jan, 7, 1762, Dear sir. It has so seldom happened that contro- versies in philosophy, much more in theology, have been carried on without producing a personal quarrel between the parties, that I must regard my pre- sent situation as somewhat extraordi- nary, who have reason to give you thanks, for the civil and obliging manner in which you have conducted the dispute against me, on so interesting a subject as that of miracles. Any little symp- toms of vehemence, of which I formerly used the freedom to complain, when you favoured me with a sight of the manu- script, are either removed or explained away, or atoned for by civilities which are far beyond what I have any title to pretend to. It will be natural for you to imagine, that I will fall upon some shift to evade the force of your argu- ments, and to retain my former opinion in the point controverted between us ; but it is impossible for m'e not to see the Sect. II. R E C E N T 4^1 ingenuity to your performance, and the great learning which you have displayed against me. I consider myself as very much ho- noured in being thought worthy of an answer by a person of so much merit ; and as I find that the public does you justice with regard to the ingenuity and good composition of your piece, I hope you will have no reason to repent engag- ing with an antagonist, whom perhaps in strictness you might have ventured to neglect. I own to you that I never felt so violent an inclination to defend my- self as at present, when I am thus fairly challenged by you, and I think I could find something specious at least to urge in my defence ; but as I had fixed a re- solution, in the beginning of my life, always to leave the public to judge be- tween my adversaries and me, without making any reply, I must adhere invio- lably to this resohition, otherways my silence on any future occasion would be construed an inability to answer, and would be matter of triumph against me. It may perhaps amuse you to learn the first hint which suggested to me that ar- gument which you have so strenuously attacked. I was walking in the cloy- sters of the Jesuits College of La Fleche, a town in which I passed two years of my youth, and engaged in a conversation with a Jesuit of some parts and learning, who was relating to me, and urging some nonsensical miracle performed in their convent, when I was tempted to dispute against him ; and as my head was full of the topics of my Treatise of Human Nature, which I was at this time composing, this argument immediately occurred to me, and I thought it very much gravelled my companion ; but at last he observed to me, that it was im- possible for that argument to have any solidity, because it operated equally against the Gospel as the Catholic mira- cles ; which observation I thought pro- per to admit as a sufficient answer. I believe you will allow, that the freedom at least of this reasoning makes it some- what extraordinary to have been the produce of a convent of Jesuits, though perhaps you may think the sophistry of it savours plainly of the place of its birth. LETTER XXXI. Dr. Smollett to Daniel Mackercher *, Eaq. Chelsea, Feb. 23, 175.'5. Dear sir, I SHALL take it as a particular favour, if you will peruse the inclosed rough draught of a letter, which I intend to send to Mr. Hume Campbell, provided you think it contains nothing actionable. I hope you will excuse this trouble, and believe me to be with equal sincerity and attachment, dear sir, your very humble servant. Sir, I HAVE waited several days in hope of receiving from you an acknowledgment touching those harsh, unjustifiable (and let me add), unmannerly expressions which you annexed to my name, in the Court of King's Bench, when you open- ed the cause depending between me and Peter Gordon ; and as I do not find that you have discovered the least inclination to retract what you said to my preju- dice, I have taken this method to refresh your memory, and to demand such satis- faction as a gentleman injured as 1 am has a right to claim. The business of a counsellor is, I ap- prehend, to investigate the truth in be- half of his client ; but surely he has na privilege to blacken and asperse the cha- racter of the other party, without any re- gard to veracity or decorum. That you assumed this unwarrantable privilege in commenting upon your brief, I believe you will not pretend to deny, when I re- mind you of those peculiar flowers of elocution which you poured forth on that notable occasion. First of all, in order to inspire the court with horror and con- tempt for the defendant, you gave the jury to understand that you did not know this Dr. SmoUet ; and, indeed, his cha- racter appeared in such a light from the facts contained in your brief, that you never should desire to know him. I should be glad to learn of what conse- quence it could be to the cause, whetlier you did or did not know the defendant, or whether you had or had not an incli- * This gentleman's name is familiar to the public, as well from the account of his life in- serted in The Adventures of J'eregrine Pickle, as from the part he took in the celebrated i\ns:Iesea cauise. 422 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. nation to be acquainted with him ? Sir, this was a pitiful personality, calculated to depreciate the character of a gentle- man to whom you were a stranger, merely to gratify the rancour and malice of an abandoned fellow who had fee'd you to speak in his cause. Did I ever seek your acquaintance, or court your protection? I had been informed, indeed, that you were a lawyer of some reputation, and, when the suit commenced, Avould have retained you for that reason, had not I been anticipated by the plaintiff; but, far from coveting your acquaintance, 1 never dreamed of exchanging a word with you on that or any other subject : you might therefore have spared your invidious declaration, until I had put it in your power to mortify me with a re- pulse, which, upon my honour, would never have been the case, were you a much greater man than you really are. Yet this was not the only expedient you used to prepossess the jury against me. You were hardy enough to represent me as a person devoid of all humanity and remorse ; as a barbarous ruffian, who in a cowardly manner had, with two asso- ciates as barbarous as myself, called a peaceable gentleman out of his lodgings, and assaulted him in the dark, Avith in- tent to murder. Such an horrid impu- tation, publicly fixed upon a person whose innocence you could hardly miss to knov/, is an outrage, for which, I be- lieve, I might find reparation from the law itself, notwithstanding your artful manner of qualifying the expression, by saying, provided the facts can be proved. This low subterfuge may, for aught I know, screen you from a prosecution at law, but can never acquit you in that court which every man of honour holds in his own breast. I say, you must have known my innocence from the weakness of the evidence which you produced, and with which you either were or ought to have been previously acquainted ; as well as from my general character and that of my antagonist, v/hich it was your duty to have learned. I will venture to say, you did know my character, and in your heart believed me incapable of such bru- tality as you laid to my charge. Surely, I do not over-rate my own importance in affirming, that I am not so obscure in life as to have escaped the notice of Mr. Hume Campbell ; and i will be bold enough to challenge him and the whole v/orld to prove one instance in which my integrity was called, or at least left, in question. Have not I therefore reason to suppose that, in spite of your own internal conviction, you undertook the cause of a wretch, whose ingratitude, villany, and rancour, are, I firmly be- lieve, without example in this kingdom ; that you magnified a slight correction bestowed by his benefactor, in conse- quence of the most insolent provocation, into a deliberate and malicious scheme of assassination ; and endeavoured, with all the virulence of defamation, to destroy the character, and even the life, of an injured person, who, as well as yourself, is a gentleman by birth, education, and profession ? In favour of whom, and in consequence of what, was all this zeal manifested, all this slander exhausted, and all this scurrility discharged ? Your client, whom you dignified with the title of Esquire, and endeavoured to raise to the same footing with me in point of station and character, you knew to be an abject miscreant, whom my compassion and humanity had lifted from the most deplorable scenes of distress ; whom I had saved from imprisonment and ruin ; whom I had clothed and fed for a series of years ; whom I had occasionally assist- ed with my purse, credit, and influence. You knew, or ought to have known, that, after having received a thousand marks of my benevolence, and prevailed upon me to indorse notes for the support of his credit, he withdrew himself into the verge of the court, and took up his ha- bitation in a paltry alehouse, where he not only set me and the rest of his cre- ditors at defiance, but provoked me, by scurrilous and insolent letters and mes- sages, to chastise him in such a manner as gave him an handle for this prosecu- tion, in which you signalized yourself as his champion, for a very honourable con- sideration. There is something so pal- pably ungrateful, perfidious,*' and indeed diabolical, in the conduct of the prose- cutor, that, even in these degenerate days, I wonder how he could find an attorney to appear in his behalf. te?npora ! O mores! — After having thus sounded the trumpet of obloquy in your preamble, and tortured every circumstance of the plaintiff's evidence to my detriment and dishonour, you attempted to subject me to the ridicule of the court, by asking a «|uestion of my first witness, which had Sect. II RECENT. 423 you had desired to know the name of his grandmother. What title had you to ask of a tradesman, if he knew me to he an author ? What affinity had this ques- tion with the circumstances of the as- sault ? Was not this foreign to the pur- pose ? Was it not impertinent, and pro- posed with a view to put me out of coun- tenance, and to raise the laugh of the spectators at my expense? There, indeed, you v/ere disappointed, as you frequently are, in those little digressive efforts by which you make yourself remarkable. Though 1 do not pretend to possess that superlative degree of effrontery by which some people make a figure at the bar, I have assurance enough to stand the men- tion of my Works without blushing, es- pecially when I despise the taste, and scorn the principles, of him who would turn them to my disgrace. You succeed- ed, however, in one particular ; I mean, in raising the indignation of my witness ; of which you took all imaginable advan- tage, puzzling, perplexing, and brow- beating him with such artifice, eager- ness, and insult, as overwhelmed him with confusion, and had well nigh de- prived me of the benefit of his evidence. Luckily for me, the next gentleman who was called confirmed what the other had swore, and proved to the satisfaction of the judge and jury, and even to your own con^Action, that this terrible deli- berate assassination was no more than a simple blow given to a rascal after re- peated provocation, and that of the most flagrant kind ; that no advantage was taken in point of weapons ; and that two drabs, whom they had picked up for the purpose, had affirmed upon oath a down- right falsehood, with a view to blast my reputation. You yourself was so con- scious of this palpable detection, that you endeavoured to excuse them by a forced explanation, which, you may de- pend upon it, shall not screen them from a prosecution for perjury. I will not say, that this was like patronizing a couple of gypsies who had forsworn themselves, consequently forfeited all title to the countenance, or indeed for- bearance, of the court ; but this I will say, that your tenderness for them was of a piece with your whole behaviour to me, which I think was equally insolent and unjust : for, granting that you had really supposed me guilty of in intended assassination, before the trial began ; you saw me in the course.of evidence acquit- ted of that suspicion, and heard the judge insist upon my innocence in his charge to the jury, who brought in their verdict accordingly. Then, sir, you ought, in common justice, to have owned yourself mistaken, or to have taken some other opportunity of expressing your concern for what you had said to my disadvan- tage ; though even such an acknowledg- ment would not have been a sufficient reparation ; because, before my witnesses were called, many persons left the court with impressions to my prejudice, con- ceived from the calumnies which they heard you espouse and encourage. On the whole, you opened the trial with such hyperbolical impetuosity, and con- ducted it with such particular bitterness and rancour, that every body perceived you were more than ordinarily interested ; and I could not divine the mysterious bond of union that attached you to Peter Gordon, esq. until you furnished me with a key to the whole secret, by that strong emphasis with which you pronounced the words Ferdinand Count Fathom. Then I discovered the source of your good-will towards me, which is no other than the history of a law suit inserted in that performance, where the author takes occasion to observe, that the counsel be- haved like men., of consummate abilities in their profession ; exerting themselves with equal industry, eloquence, and eru- dition, in their endeavours to perplex the truth, brow-beat the evidences puz- zle the judge, and mislead the jury. Did any part of this character come home to your own conscience ? or did you resent it as a sarcasm levelled at the whole bench without distinction? I take it for granted, this must have been the origin of your enmity to me ; because I' can re- collect no other circumstance in my con- duct, by which I could incur the displea- sure of a man whom I scarce knew by sight, and with whom I never had the least dispute, or indeed concern. If this was the case, you pay a very scurvy com- pliment to your own integrity, by father- ing a character which is not applicable to any honest man, and give the world a handle to believe, that our courts of jus- tice stand greatly in need of reforma- tion. Indeed, tlie petulance, license, and buffonery of some lawyers in the exer- cise of their function, is a reproach upon 424 ELEGAI^T EPISTLES. KofoK IV^ decency and a scandal to the nation ; and it is surprising that the judge, who re- presents his majesty's person , should suf- fer such insults upon the dignity of the place. But, whatever liberties of this kind are granted to the counsel, no sort of freedom, it seems, must be allowed to the evidence, who, by the bye, are of much more consequence to the cause. You will take upon you to divert the au- dience at the expense of a witness, by impertinent allusions to some parts of his private character and affairs ; but if he pretends to retort the joke, you in- sult, abuse, and bellow against him as a,n impudent fellow who fails in his re- spect to the court. It was in this man- ner you behaved to my first witness, whom you first provoked into a passion by injurious insinuations ; then you took an advantage of the confusion which you had entailed upon him ; and, lastly, you insulted him as a person who had shuf- fled in his evidence. This might have been an irreparable injui-y to the cha- racter of a tradesman, had he not been luckily known to the whole jury, and many other persons in court, as a man of unquestionable probity and credit. Sir, a witness has as good a title as you have to the protection of the court ; and ought to have more, because evidence is absolutely necessary for the investigation of truth ; whereas the aim of a lav/yer is often to involve it in doubt and obscu- rity. Is it for this purpose you so fre- quently deviate from the point, and en- deavour to raise the mirth of the audience with flat jokes and insipid similes } or, have you really so miserably mistaken your own talents, as to set up for the character of a man of humour ? For my own part, were I disposed to be merry, I should never desire a more pregnant subject of ridicule than your own ap- pearance and behaviour ; but, as I am at present in a very serious mood, I shall content myself with demanding adequate reparation for the injurious treatment I have received at your hands ; otherwise I will in four days put this letter in the press, and you shall hear in another man- ner — not from a ruflSian and an assassin — but from an injured gentleman, who is not ashamed of subscribing himself. Monday rnorninj. Dear sir, 1 AM much mortified that my rascally situation will not at present permit me to send more than the trifle enclosed, as nothing could give me more pleasure than an opportunity of shewing with how much friendship and esteem, I am;, dear sir, most faithfully, &c. LETTER XXXII. Dr. Isaac Schomherg to a Lady, on the Method of reading for Female Im- provef?ient. Madam, Conformable to your desire, and my promise, I present you with a few thoughts on the method of reading ; v/hich you would have had sooner, only that you gave me leave to set them down at my leisure hours. I have complied with your request in both these particu- lars ; so that you see, madam, how abso- lute your commands are over me. If my remarks should answer your expectations, and the purpose for which they were in- tended ; if they should in the least con- duce to the spending your time in a more profitable and agreeable manner than most of your sex generally do, it will give me a pleasure equal at least to that you will receive. It were to be wished, that the female part of the human creation, on whom Nature has poured out so many charms with so lavish a hand, would pay some regard to the cultivating their mind& and improving their understanding. It is easily accomplished. Would they bestow a fourth jjart of the time they throw away on the trifles and gewgaws of dress, in reading proper books, it would per- fectly answer their purpose. Not that I am against the ladies adorning their per- • sons ; let them be set off with all the ornaments that art and nature can con- spire to produce for their embellishment, but let it be with reason and good sense, not caprice and humour ; for there is good sense in dress, as in all things else. Strange doctrine to some ! but i am sure, madam, you know there is — You practise it. The first rule to be laid down to any one, who reads to improve, is never to read but with attention. As the abstruse parts of learning are not necessary to the accomplishment of one of your sex, a small degree of it will suffice. I would throw the subjects of which the ladies Sect. 1L RECENT 425 ought not to be wholly ignorant, under the following heads : History, Morality, Poetry. The first employs the memory, the second the judgment, and the third the imagination. Whenever you undertake to read His- tory, make a small abstract of the me- morable events, and set down in what year they happened. If you entertain yourself with the life of a famous per- son, do the same by his most remarkable actions, with the addition of the year and the place he was born at and died. You will find these great helps to your memory, as they will lead you to re- member what you do not write down, by a sort of chain that links the whole history together. Books on Morality deserve an exact reading. There are none in our lan- guage more useful and entertaining than the Spectators, Tatlers, and Guardians. They are the standards of the English tongue, and as such should be read over and over again ; for as we imperceptibly slide into the manners and habits of those persons with whom we most frequently converse, so reading being, as it were, a silent conversation, we insensibly write and talk in the style of the authors we have the most often read, and who have left the deepest impressions on our mind. Now, in order to retain what you read on the various subjects that fall under the head of Morality, I would advise you to mark with a pencil whatever you find worth remembering. If a passage should strike you, mark it down in the margin ; if an expression, draw a line under it ; if a whole paper in the fore-mentioned books, or any others which are written in the same loose and unconnected man- ner, make an asterisk over the first line. By these means you will select the most valuable, and they will sink deeper in your memory than the rest, on repeated reading, by being distinguished from them. The last article is Poetry. The way of distinguishing good poetry from bad, is to turn it out of verse into prose, and see whether the thought is natural, and the words adapted to it ; or whether they are not too big and sounding, or too low and mean for the sense they would con- vey. This rule will prevent you from being imposed on by bombast and fustian, which, with many passes for sublime ; for smooth verses, which run off the ear with an easy cadence and harmonious turn, very often impose nonsense on the world, and are like your fine dressed beaux, who pass for fine gentlemen. Divest both from their outward ornaments, and peo- ple are surprised they could have been so easily deluded. I have now, madam, given a few rules, and those such only as are really necessary. I could have added more ; but these will be sufficient to enable you to read without burdening your memory, and yet with another view besides that of barely killing time, as too many are ac- customed to do. The task you have imposed on me is a strong proof of your knowing the true value of time, and always having im- proved it to the best advantage, were there no other ; and that there are other proofs, those who have the pleasure of being acquainted with you can tell. As for my part, madam, you have done me too much honour, by singling me out from all your acquaintance on this occasion, to say any thing that would not look like flattery ; you yourself would think it so, were I to do you the common justice all your friends allow you ; I must therefore be silent on this head, and only say, that I should think my- self well rewarded in return, if you will believe me to be, with the utmost since- rity, as I really am, madam, your faith ful humble servant. LETTER XXXIII. To Colonel R s, in Spain. Before this can reach the best of hus- bands and the fondest lover, those ten- der names will be no more of concern to me. The indisposition in which you, to obey the dictates of your honour and duty, left me, has increased upon me ; and I am acquainted, by my physicians, I cannot live a week longer. At this time my spirits fail me ; and it is the ar- dent love I have for you that carries me beyond my strength, and enables me to tell you, the most painful thing in the prospect of death is, that I must part with you ; but let it be a comfort to you that I have no guilt hangs upon me, no un- repented folly that retards me ; but I 426 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. pass away my last hours in reflection upon the happiness we have lived in to- gether, and in sorrow that it is soon to have an end. This is a frailty which I hope is so far from being criminal, that methinks there is a kind of piety in be- ing so unwilling to be separated from a state which is the institution of Heaven, and in which we have lived according to its laws. As we know no more of the next life, but that it will be a happy one to the good, and miserable to the wicked, why may we not please ourselves at least, to alleviate the difficulty of resigning this being, in imagining that we shall have a sense of what passes below, and may possibly be employed in guiding the steps of those with whom we walked with innocence when mortal? Why may I not hope to go on in my usual work,, and, though unknown to you, be assistant in all the conflicts of your mind ? Give me leave to say to you, O best of men ! that I cannot figure to myself a greater happiness than in such an employment ; to be present at all the adventures to which human life is exposed ; to admi- nister slumber to thy eye-lids in the agonies of a fever ; to cover thy beloved face in the day of battle ; to go with thee a guardian angel, incapable of wound or pain : where I have longed to attend thee, when a weak, a fearful wo- man. These, my dear, are the thoughts with which I warm my poor languid heart ; but indeed I am not capable, un- der my present weakness, of bearing the strong agonies of mind I fall into, when I form to myself the grief you must be in upon your first hearing of my depar- ture. I will not dwell upon this, because your kind and generous heart will be but the more afflicted, the more the per- son, for whom you lament, ofi'ers you consolation. My last breath v/ill, if I am myself, expire in a prayer for you. I shall never see thy face again. Fare- well for ever. LETTER XXXIV. John Garden to Archbishop Seckeri Brechin, April 24, 1767. My lord archbishop. May it please your grace, I AM a layman, content with the fruit of my labour, and have nothing to ask for myself. I am a Scots Whig and a Pres- byterian ; not quite so rigid, indeed, but I could conform to the Church of Eng- land, were it by law established : but I shall never wdsli to see it so here : our country is too barren and poor ; and from the experience I have had of the clergy here, 1 shall never wish to see them possessed of power, the constant concomitant of great riches ; so apt they are to domineer, or to side with those who are disposed to do so, when they can see their own interest in it. This I am sensible is no very plausible introduc- tion in addressing one of your station ; but plain truth tells best, and is always more prevalent than fiction. I have lately read a book, published this year at Edinburgh, titled. Principles Political and Religious, by Mr. Norman Sievwright, minister of the authorised Episcopal congregation here, to be sold at A. Donaldson's shop, London. I am pleased with the performance ; the more so, as an essay of its nature, from one of his profession in this country, would have been looked upon as quite exotic some years ago. The design is certainly lau- dable, to open the eyes of, and introduce loyalty among, a blind, deluded, and dis- affected people : a design wherein the in- terest and happiness of Great Britain is not a little concerned, and of conse- quence worthy of your grace's attention, whom kind Providence has placed at the head of the Church of England. I am absolutely unconnected with the author, either by blood or alliance, but I know him to be a good man and a loyal subject : and that the character I give will be confirmed by every honest man that knows him ; and though altogether unknown to your grace, and even void of the improper and presumptuous am- bition of being so, I have, without Mr. Sievwright's knowledge or participation, from the mere motive of public spirit, ventured to address you in this way, and under your correction to suggest, that the countenance your grace may be pleased to shew him, and your approba- tion of his design, will be a spur on him, and others, to exert themselves strenu- ously in the same way, and cannot miss to have a tendency to make us in this country more unanimous if not in reli- gious, at least in political matters ; which would be no small point gained : two rebellions in my time demonstrate the Sect. II. RECENT. 427 truth of this. Thoiigli my acquaintance and Mr. Sievwright s is of pretty long standing, sixteen years or thereby, I was yesterday in his house for the first time ; I saw his wife, a grave genteel woman big Avitli child, and six young children, all clean and decently dressed, and every thing orderly. Mr. Sievwright was not at home. He has only forty pounds an- nually to support all this. Great must he the economy, considering the enor- mous price to which every thing has risen ; for cold, I know, is the charity of the place. I never heard Mr. Sievwright complain ; and I believe no man else ever did. I own I was moved at the de- cent solemnity which I observed ; and, upon consideration, nothing could have hindered me from giving that relief which a good God and generous nature prompted, but want of ability. To whom shall I pour forth the emotions of my soul so properly on this affecting sub- ject as to Mm, who, next to our amiable king, is God's vicegerent for good in the island of Britain? The humanity, generosity, and godlike disposition of soul, for which you are famed even in this remote corner, leaves no room to doubt, that you will unexpectedly send Mr. Sievwriglit that relief, which, upon due consideration, you shall find his merit deserving of, either by calling him to some small benefice in England, or otherways, as to your great wisdom shall seem most meet. These prudential and charitable suggestions are submitted to you with all humility. Begging pardon for this great and uncommon piece of presumption, I have, with the most pro- found regard, the honour to be, my lord, your grace's most obedient and most humble servant. LET^rER XXXV. Archbishop Seeker to John Garden, in ansiver to the above. Sir, Lambeth, May 25, 1767. I BEG your pardon that I have suffered your letter, in this busy time, to lie so long unanswered. And I hope the plain speaking of an English Episcopal Whig will be as acceptable to you, as that of a Scotch Presbyterian is to me. Your established Church hath as much power, I believe, as ours hath, or more, though less wealth. And its wealth, perhaps, is not so much less as you may imagine, allowing for the different prices of things ; only with you the shares are nearly alike. I wish the incomes of your ministers were somewhat greater, and those of ours somewhat more equally divided. I wish too that all your Episcopal clergy were friends to the government; and that all the Presbyterians were as candid as you towards such of them as are. But however vain it may be to form wishes about others, each person may endeavour to act rightly himself. My business is not to abuse either my power, by lording it over God's heritage, or my wealth to the purposes of luxury or covetousness, but to do as much good as I can with both. One part of it I am sure you have done, by recommending Mr. Sievwright to me. I have heard of a performance of his relative to the Hebrew language, for which I am inquirmg. I have got his Principles Religious and Political ; a work that shews much good sense and reading, and hath given me much in- formation concerning the state of episco- pacy in Scotland. I should be glad to see him rewarded in proportion to his merit ; but one half of the preferments in my gift are no better, all things con- sidered, than what he hath already ; and there are, amongst the English clergy, thrice as many claimants on good grounds, for the other half, as I shall live to gra- tify. Besides, I should do Scotland an injury by taking such a man out of it. I must therefore content myself with de- siring you to put the inclosed little note into his hands, and to tell him, that if I live another year, and do not forget (which last I hope you will prevent), notice shall be taken of him again, by your friend and servant. LETTER XXXVI. John Garden to Archbishop Seeker, in re- turn to the above. June 5, 1767, May it please your grace, I AM instantly favoured with yours of tlie 25th ult. and have communicated the same to Mr. Sievwright. The ho- nour you have conferred on me by your speedy and effectual reply, though far beyond Avhat I could have hoped for, is at present swallowed up in the more sub- Am ELfiGAMT EPISTLES. Book IV. stantial joy which I feel in living in those days when one is found at the head of the Church of England, who knows so well to make a proper use of that power and those riches, which Almighty Good- ness, out of mercy to mankind, has been graciously pleased to bestow upon so much merit. Methinks at present I feel and fully understand what St. Paul meant, when he said, *' that for a good man one would even dare to die." What Mr. Sievwright's feelings are, your grace will best understand from himself, for he also is to write you. Sure I am I surprised him. From the experience I have of him, I have reason to think, that the more your grace knows of him, the better you will be pleased with him, and the less you'll think your favours misapplied. He is a man of learning, and one whose walk and conversation seem worthy of his calling. He has now got the seventh child, and the wife is presently on the straw, so that the ten- pound note came seasonably. May those sensations that a good man feels upon doing a generous action be your grace's constant attendant : in one word, may God bless you and preserve you long to bless others ! With the greatest regard and affection, I am your grace's, &c. LETTER XXXVn. Archbishop Seeker to a Clergyman ijoho applied to him for Advice on his Son's becomins; a Calvinist. I AM very sorry that your son hath given you cause of uneasiness. But as a zeal of God, though in part not according to knowledge, influences him, his present state is far better than that of a profane or vicious person ; and there is ground to hope, that through the divine blessing on your mild instructions and affection- ate expostulations, he may be gradually brought into a temper every way Chris- tian. Perhaps you and he differ, even now, less than you imagine : for I have observed, that the Methodists and their opposers are apt to think too ill of each other's notions. Our clergy have dwelt too much upon mere morality, and too little on the peculiar doctrines of the Gospel : and hence they have been charged with being more deficient in this last respect than they are ; and even with disbelieving, or, however, slighting, the principal points of Revelation. They in their turns have reproached their ac- cusers with enthusiastic imaginations, irrational tenets, and disregard to the common social duties, of which many of thena perhaps are little if at all guilty. Who the author of the Address to the Clergy*, &c. is, I am totally ignorant: he seems a pious and well-meaning man, but grievously uncharitable in relation to the clergy, without perceiving it, and a little tinctured with antinomianism — I hope without being hurt by it him- self. God grant that nothing which he hath written may hurt others ! As Mr. P mentions Mr. B 1 to your son, I send you some letters relative to him, which will shew you more fully my way of thinking about Methodists, and persons considered as a-kin to them ? you will be pleased to return them. For the same purpose I add a copy of an un- published, though printed, charge, which you may keep as a present from your loving brother, &c. Since Mr. B ^t left my dioeese, I have never heard of him till now. * This was a pamphlet entitled, '* Au Ad- dress to the Clergy, concerning their Depar- ture from the Doctrines of the Reformation," dedicated to his grace the archbishop of Can- terbury. By a member of the established Church, 8vo,. 1767. BOOK THE FOURTH. RECENT, NARRATIVE, & MISCELLANEOUS. SECTION HI. FROM THE LETTERS OF THE LATE EARL OF CHATHAM, MRS. ELIZA- BETH MONTAGU, LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE, LORD CHES- TERFIELD, DOCTOR JOHNSON, AND OTHERS. LETTER I. From the Earl of Chatham to his Nephew Thomas Pitt, Esq. [afterwards Lord Camelford). My dear child, I A3I extremely pleased with your trans- lation now it is writ over fair. It is very close to the sense of the original, and done, in many places, with much spirit, as well as the numbers not lame, or rough. However, an attention to Mr. Pope's numbers will make you avoid some ill sound and hobbling of the verse, by only transposing a word or two, in many instances. I have, upon reading the eclogue over again, altered the third, fourth, and fifth lines, in or- der to bring them nearer to the Latin, as well as to render some beauty which is contained in the repetition of words in tender passages ; for example, Nos patrice fines, et dulcia linquimus arva ; Nos patriam fugimus : tu, Titi/re,lentus in umhrd Formosam resonare doces Amari/l- lida sylvas. *' We leave our native land, these fields so sweet ; Our country leave : at ease, in cool retreat, You, Thyrsis, bid the woods fair Daphne's name repeat." I will desire you to write over another copy Avith this alteration, and also to write smoaks in the plural number, in the last line but one. You give me great pleasure, my dear child, in the progress you have made. I will recommend to Mr. Leech to carry you quite through Virgil's iEneid from beginning to end- ing. Pray shew him this letter, with my service to him, and thanks for his care of you. For English poetry, I re- commend Pope's translation of Homer, and Dryden's Fables in particular. I am not sure if they are not called Tales, in- stead of Fables. Your cousin, whom I am sure you can overtake if you will, has read Virgil's iEneid quite through, and much of Horace's Epistles. Terence's Plays I would also desire Mr. Leech to make you perfect master of. Your cou- sin has read them all. Go on, my dear, and you will at least equal him. You are so good, that I have nothing to wish, but that you may be directed to proper books ; and I trust to your spirit, and desire to be praised for things that de- serve praise, for the figure you will here- after make. God bless you, my dear child. Your most affectionate uncle. LETTER II. From the safne to the same. Rath, Oct. 12, 1751. My dear nephew. As I have been moving about from place to place, your letter reached me here, at Bath, but very lately, after making a considerable circuit to find me. I should have otherwise, my dear child, returned you thanks for the very great pleasure you have given me, long before now. The very good account you give me of your studies, and that delivered in very good Latin, for your time, has filled me with the highest expectation of your fu- 430 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. ture improvements : I see the founda- tions so well laid, that I do not make the least doubt but you will become a perfect good scholar ; and have the pleasure and applause that will attend the several ad- vantages hereafter, in the future course of your life, that you can only acquire MOW by your emulation and noble labours in the pursuit of learning, and of every acquirement that is to make you supe- rior to other gentlemen. I rejoice to hear that you have begun Homer's Iliad ; and have made so great a progress in Virgil. I hope you taste and love those authors particularly. You cannot read them too much ; they are not only the two greatest poets, but they contain the finest lessons for your age to imbibe : lessons of honour, courage, disinterested- ness, love of truth, command of temper, gentleness of behaviour, humanity, and, in one word, virtue in its true signifi- cation. Go on, my dear nephew, and drink as deep as you can of these divine springs : the pleasure of the draught is equal at least to the prodigious advan- tages of it to the heart and morals. I hope you will drink them as somebody does in Virgil, of another sort of cup : Ille impiger hausit spumantem pateram. I shall be highly pleased to hear from you, and to know what authors give you most pleasure. I desire my service to Mr. Leech : pray tell him I will write to him soon about your studies. I am, with the greatest affection, my dear child, your loving uncle. LETTER in. From the Earl of Chatham to his Nephew Thomas Pitt, Esq. Bath, Jan. 12, 1754. My dear nephew, Your letter from Cambridge affords me many very sensible pleasures : first, that you are at last in a proper place for study and improvement, instead of losing any more of that most precious thing, time, in London. In the next place, that you seem pleased with the particular society you are placed in, and with the gentle- man to whose care and instructions you are committed : and, above all, I applaud the sound, right sense, and love of vir- tue, which appears tlirough your whole letter. You are already possessed of the true clue to guide you through this dan- gerous and perplexing part of your life's journey, the years of education ; and upon which, the complexion of all the rest of your days will infallibly depend ; I say you have the true clue to guide you, in the maxim you lay down in your letter to me ; namely, that the use of learning is, to render a man more wise and vir- tuous ; not merely to make him more learned. Made tud virtute : Go on, my dear boy, by this golden rule, and you cannot fail to become every thing your generous heart prompts you to wish to be, and that mine most affectionately wishes for you. There is but one danger in your way ; and that is, perhaps, natu- ral enough to your age, the love of plea- sure, or the fear of close application and laborious diligence. With the last there is nothing you may not conquer : and the first is sure to conquer and inslave whoever does not strenuously resist the first allurements of it, lest by small in- dulgencies he fall under the yoke of ir- resistible habit. Vitanda est improha Si- ren, Desidia, I desire may be affixt to the curtains of your bed, and to the walls of your chambers. If you do not rise early, you never can make any progress worth talking of : and another rule is, If you do not set apart your hours of reading, and never suffer yourself or any one else to break in upon them, your days will slip through your hands, unprofitably and frivolously ; unpraised by all you wish to please, and really unenjoy able to your- self. Be assured, whatever you take from pleasure, amusements, or indolence, for these first few years of your life, will re- pay you a hundred-fold, in the pleasures, honours, and advantages of all the re- mainder of your days. My heart is so full of the most earnest desire that you should do well, that I find my letter has run into some length, which you will, I know, be so good to excuse. There remains now nothing to trouble you with, but a little plan for the beginning of your studies, which I desire, in a particular manner, may be exactly followed in every tittle. You are to qualify yourself for the part in society to which your birth and estate call you. You are to be a gentleman of such learning and qualifications as may distinguish you in the service of your country hereafter ; not a pedant, who reads only to be called learned, instead of considering learning as an instru- ment only for action. Give me leave Sect. III. RECENT. 431 therefore, my dear nephew, who have scone hefore you, to point out to you the dangers in your road ; to guard you against such things as I experience my own defects to arise from ; and at the same time, if I have had any little suc- cesses in the world, to guide you to what 1 have drawn many helps from. I have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman who is your tutor, but I dare say he is every way equal to such a charge, which I think no small one. You will communicate this letter to him, and I hope he will be so good to concur with me, as to the course of study I de- sire you may begin with ; and that such books, and such only, as 1 have pointed out, may be read. They are as follow : Euclid ; a Course of Logic ; a Course of Experimental Philosophy ; Locke's Con- duct of the L^nderstanding ; his Treatise also on the Understanding ; his Trea- tise on Government, and Letters on To- leration. I desire, for the present, no books of poetry, but Horace and Virgil : of Horace the Odes, hut, above all, the Epistles and Ars Poetica. These parts, Nocturnd versate manu, versate diurnd. Tully de Officiis, de Amicitia, de Senec- tute. His Catilinarian Orations and Philippics. Sallust. At leisure hours, an abridgment of the History of Eng- land to be run through, in order to settle in the mind a general chronolo- gical order and series of principal events, and succession of kings : proper books of English history, on the true princi- ples of our happy constitution, shall be pointed out afterwards. Burnet's His- tory of the Reformation, abridged by himself, to be read with great care. Fa- ther Paul on Beneficiary Matters in Eng- lish. A French master, and only Mo- liere's Plays to be read with him, or by yourself, till you have gone through them all. Spectators, especially Mr. Addison's papers, to be read very frequently at broken times in your room. I make it my request, that you will forbear draw- ing, totally, while you are at Cambridge ; and not meddle with Greek, otherwise than to know a little the etymology of words in Latin, or English, or French; nor to meddle with Italian. I hope this little course will soon be run tlirough : I intend it as a general foundation for many things of infinite utility, to come as soon as this is finished. Believe me, with the truest affection ^ my dear nephew, ever yours. Keep this letter and read it again. LETTER IV. From the same to the same, Bath, Jan. 14, 1754. My dear nephew, You will hardly have read over one very long letter from me before you are trou- bled with a second. I intended to have writ soon, but I do it the sooner on ac- count of your letter to your aunt, which she transmitted to me here. If any thing, my dear boy, could have happened to raise you higher in my esteem, and to endear you more to me, it is the amiable abhorrence you feel for the scene of vice and folly (and of real misery and perdi- tion, under the false notion of pleasure and spirit), which has opened to you at your college, and at the same time the manly, brave, generous, and wise reso- lution and true spirit, with which you resisted and repulsed the first attempts upon a mind and heart, I thank God, in- finitely too firm and noble, as well as too elegant and enlightened, to be in any danger of yielding to such contemptible and wretched corruptions. You charm me with the description of Mr. Wheler* ; and while you say you could adore him, I could adore you for the natural, ge- nuine love of virtue, which speaks in all you feel, say, or do. As to your com- panions, let this be your rule. Cultivate the acquaintance with Mr. Wheler which you have so fortunately begun : and in general, be sure to associate with men much older than yourself: scholars when- ever you can ; but always with men of decent and honourable lives. As their age and learning, superior both to your own, must necessarily, in good sense, and in the view of acquiring knowledge from them, entitle them to all deference, and submission of your own lights to theirs, you will particularly practise that first and greatest rule for pleasing in conversation, as well as for drawing in- struction and improvement from the * The rev, John Wheler, prebendary of Westminster. The friendship forreied between this gentleman and lord Camelford at so early a period of their lives was founded in mutual esteem, and continued uninterrupted till lord Camelford's death. 432 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. company of one's superiors in age and knowledge ; namely, to be a patient, at- tentive, and well-bred bearer, and to answer with modesty ; to deliver yonr own opinions sparingly, and with proper diffidence -, and if you are forced to de- sire further information or explanation upon a point, to do it with proper apo- logies for the trouble you give : or if obliged to differ, to do it with all possi- ble candour, and an unprejudiced desire to find and ascertain truth, with an en- tire indifference to the side on which that truth is to be found. There is likewise a particular attention required to contra- dict with good manners ; such as, " beg- ging pardon," " begging leave to doubt," and such like phrases. Pythagoras en- joined his scholars an absolute silence for a long noviciate. I am far from ap- proving such a taciturnity : but I highly recommend the end and intent of Pytha- goras's injunction ; which is, to dedicate the first parts of life more to hear and learn, in order to collect materials, out of which to form opinions founded on proper lights, and well-examined sound principles, than to be presuming, prompt, and flippant in hazarding one's own slight crude notions of things ; and thereby ex- posing the nakedness and emptiness of the mind, like a house opened to com- pany before it is fitted either with neces- saries, or any ornaments for their recep- tion and entertainment. And not only will this disgrace follow from such te- merity and presumption, but a more serious danger is sure to ensue, that is, the embracing errors for truths, preju- dices for principles ; and when that is once done (no matter how vainly and weakly), the adhering perhaps to false and dangerous notions, only because one has declared for them, and submitting, for life, the understanding and consci- ence to a yoke of base and servile preju- dices, vainly taken up and obstinately retained. This will never be your dan- ger ; but I thought it not amiss to offer these reflections to your thoughts. As to your manner of behaving towards these unhappy young gentlemen you de- scribe, let it be manly and easy ; decline their parties with civility ; retort their raillery with raillery, always tempered with good-breeding ; if they banter your regularity, order, decency, and love of study, banter in return their neglect of them ; and venture to own frankly, that you came to Cambridge to learn what you can, not to follow what they are pleased to call pleasure. In short, let your external behaviour to them be as full of politeness and ease as your inward estimation of them is full of pity, mixed with contempt. I come now to the part of the advice have to offer to you, which most nearly concerns your wel- fare, and upon which every good and honourable purpose of your life will as- suredly turn ; I mean the keeping up in your heart the true sentiments of reli- gion. If you are not right towards God, you can never be so towards man ; the noblest sentiment of the human breast is here brought to the test. Is gratitude in the number of a man's virtues ? If it be, the highest Benefactor demands the warmest returns of gratitude, love, and praise : Ingratum qui dixerit, omnia dixit. If a man wants this virtue, where there are infinite obligations to excite and quicken it, he will be likely to want all others towards his fellow-creatures, whose utmost gifts are poor compared to those he daily receives at the hands of his never-failing Almighty Friend. " Re- member thy Creator in the days of thy youth," is big with the deepest wisdom : *' The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; and an upright heart, that is understanding." This is eternally true, whether the wits and rakes of Cambridge allow it or not : nay, I must add of this religious wisdom, " Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace," whatever your young gentlemen of pleasure think of a whore and a bot- tle, a tainted health and battered con- stitution. Hold fast therefore by this sheet-anchor of happiness. Religion; you will often want it in the times of most danger, the storms and tempests of life. Cherish true religion as preciously as you will fly with abhorrence and con- tempt superstition and enthusiasm. The first is the perfection and glory of the human nature ; the two last, the depri- vation and disgrace of it. Remember the essence of religion is, a heart void of offence towards God and man ; not subtle speculative opinions, but an active vital principle of faith. The words of a heathen were so fine that I must give them to you : Compositum jus, fasque animi, sanctosque reccssus Sect. III. RECENT. 433 meritis, €l incoctum generoso pectus ho- 7iesto. Go on, my dear child , in the admira- ble dispositions you have tOAvards all that is right and good, and make yourself the iove and admiration of the world ! I have neither paper nor words to tell you how tenderly I am yours. LETTER V. From the Earl of Chatham to his Nephew Thomas Pin, Eaq. Bath, Jan. 24, 1754. I WILL not los« a moment before I re- turn my most tender and warm thanks to the most amiable, valuable, and noble- minded of youths, for the infinite plea- sure his letter gives me. My dear ne- phew, what a beautiful thing is genuine goodness, and how lovely does the hu- man mind appear in its native purity, (in a nature as happy as yours), before the taints of a corrupted world have touched it ! To guard you from the fatal effects of all the dangers th-at surround and beset youth (and many they are, nam varice iltudunt pestes), I thank God, i« become my pleasing and very import- ant charge ; your own choice, and our nearness in blood, and still more a dearer and nearer relation of hearts, which I feel between us, all concur to make it so. 1 shall seek then every occasion, my dear young friend, of being useful to you, by offering you those lights, which one must have lived some years in the world to see the full force and extent of, and which the best mind and clearest understand- ing will suggest imperfectly, in any case, and in the most difficult, delicate, and essential points perhaps not ut all, till experience, that dear-bought instructor, comes to our assistance. What I shall therefore make my task (a happy de- lightful task, if I prove a safeguard to so much opening virtue), i« to be for some years, what you cannot be to yourself, your experience ; experience anticipated, and ready digested for your use. Thus we will endeavour, my dear child, to join the two best seasons of life, to establish your virtue and your happiness upon solid foundations : miseens autumni et veris honores. So much in general. I will now, my dear nephew, say a few things to you upon a matter where you have surprisingly little to learn, consi- dering you have seen nothing but Bo- connock ; I mean, behaviour. Behaviour is of infinite advantage or prejudice to a man, as he happens to have formed it to a graceful, noble, engaging, and proper manner, or to a vulgar, coarse, ill-bred, or awkward and ungenteel one. Beha- viour, though an external thing, which seems rather to belong to the body than to the mind, is certainly founded in con- siderable virtues ; though I have known instances of good men, with something very revolting and offensive in their man- ner of behaviour, especially Avhen they have the misfortune to be naturally very awkward and ungenteel ; and which their mistaken friends have helped to confirm them in, by telling them, they were above such trifles as being genteel, dancing, fencing, riding, and doing all manly ex- ercises with grace and vigour. As if the body, because inferior, were not a part of the composition of man ; and the proper, easy, ready, and graceful use of himself, both in mind and limb, did not go to make up the character of an ac- complished man. You are in no danger of falling into this preposterous error : and I had a great pleasure in finding you, when I first saw you in London, so well disposed by nature, and so properly attentive to make yourself genteel in person, and well-bred in behaviour. I am very glad you have taken a fencing- master : that exercise will give you some manly, firm, and graceful attitudes ; open your chest, place your head upright, and plant you well upon your legs. As to the use of the sword, it is well to know it ; but remember, my dearest nephew, it is a science of defence : and that a sword can never be employed by the hand of a man of virtue, in any other cause. As to the carriage of your per- son, be particularly careful, as you are tall and thin, not to get a habit of stoop- ing ; nothing has so poor a look : above all things avoid contracting any peculiar gesticulations of the body, or movements of the muscles of the face. It is rare to see in any one a graceful laughter ; it is generally better to smile than laugh out, especially to contract a habit of laugh- ing at small or no jokes. Sometimes it would be affectation, or worse, mere mo- roseuess, not to laugh heartily, when the 2 F 434 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. truly ridiculous circumstances of an in- cident, or the true pleasantry and wit of a thing, call for and justify it ; but the trick of laughing frivolously is by all means to be avoided : Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est. Now as to politeness ; many have attempted definitions of it ; I believe it is best to be known by de- scription ; definition not being able to comprise it. I would however venture to call it benevolence in trifles, or the preference of others to ourselves in little daily, hourly, occurrences in the com- merce of life. A better place, a more commodious seat, priority in being help- ed at table, &c., what is it, but sacrificing ourselves in such trifles to the conve- nience and pleasure of others ? And this constitutes true politeness. It is a per- petual attention (by habit it grows easy and natural to us) to the little wants of those we are with, by which we either prevent or remove them. Bowing, ce- remonious, formal compliments, stiff ci- vilities, will never be politeness : that must be easy, natural, unstudied, manly, noble. And what will give this, but a mind benevolent, and perpetually atten- tive to exert that amiable disposition in trifles tov/ards all you converse and live with ? Benevolence in greater matters takes a higher name, and is the queen of virtues. Nothing is so incompatible with politeness as any trick of absence of mind. I would trouble you with a word or two more upon some branches of be- haviour, which have a more serious mo- ral obligation in them than those of mere politeness ; which are equally im- portant in the eye of the world. I mean a proper behaviour, adapted to the respec- tive relations we stand in, towards the dif- ferent ranks of superiors, equals, and in- feriors. Let your behaviour towards su- periors in dignity, age, learning, or any distinguished excellence, be full of re- spect, deference, and modesty. To- wards equals > nothing becomes a man so well as well-bred ease, polite free- dom, generous frankness, manly spirit, always tempered with gentleness and sweetness of manner, noble sincerity, candour, and openness of heart, qua- lified and restrained within the bounds of discretion and prudence, and ever limited by a sacred regard to secrecy in all things intrusted to it, and an in- violable attachment to your word. To inferiors, gentleness, condescension, and aflFability, is the only dignity. Towards servants, never accustom yourself to rough and passionate language. When they are good, we should consider them as hwniles amici, as fellow Christians, ut conservi; and when they are bad, pity, admonish, and part with them if incor- rigible. On all occasions beware, my dear child, of Anger, that daemon, that destroyer of our peace. Ira furor brevis est : animum rege : qui, nisiparet, imperat: huncfrcenis, hunc tu compesce catena. Write soon, and tell me of your stu- dies. Your ever affectionate. LETTER VL From the Earl of Chatham to his Nephew Thomas Pitt, Esq. Bath, Feb. 3, 1754. Nothing can, or ought to give me a higher satisfaction, than the obliging manner in which my dear nephew re- ceives my most sincere and affectionate endeavours to be of use to him. You much overrate the obligation, whatever it be, which youth has to those who have trod the paths of the world before them, for their friendly advice how to avoid the inconveniences, dangers, and evils, which they themselves may have run upon for want of such timely warnings, and to seize, cultivate, and carry forward to- wards perfection those advantages, graces, virtues, and felicities, which they may have totally missed, or stopped short in the generous pursuit. To lend this helping hand to those, who are be- ginning to tread the slippery way, seems, at best, but an office of common hu- manity to all ; but to withhold it from one we truly love, and whose heart and mind bear every genuine mark of the very soil proper for all the amiable, manly, and generous virtues to take root, and bear their heavenly fruit ; inward, conscious peace, fame amongst men, public love, temporal and eternal hap- piness ; — to withhold it, I say, in such an instance, would deserve the worst of names. I am greatly pleased, my dear young friend, that you do me the justice to believe I do not mean to impose any yoke of authority upon your understand- ing and conviction. I wish to warn, ad- monish, instruct, enlighten, and con- Sect. III. RECENT. 435 vince your reason ; and so determine yOiir judgment to right things, when you shall be made to see that they are right ; not to overbear, and impel you to adopt any thing before you perceive it to be right or wrong, by the force of authority. 1 hear with great pleasure, that Locke lay before you, when you writ last to me ; and I like the obser- vation that you make from him, that we must use our own reason, not that of another, if we would deal fairly by ourselves, and hope to enjoy a peaceful and contented conscience. This precept is truly worthy of the dignity of rational natures. But here, my dear child, let me oflFer one distinction to you, and it is of much moment : it is this : Mr. Locke's precept is applicable only to such opi- nions as regard moral or religious obli- gations, and which as such our own con- sciences alone can judge and determine for ourselves : matters of mere expe- diency, that affect neither honour, mo- rality, or religion, were not in that great and wise man's view ; such are the usages, forms, manners, modes, proprieties, de- corum, and all those numberless orna- mental little acquirements, and genteel well-bred attentions, which constitute a proper, graceful, amiable, and noble be- haviour. In matters of this kind, I am sure your own reason, to which I shall always refer you, will at once tell you, that you must, at first, make use of the experience of others ; in effect, see with their eyes, or not be able to see at all ; for the ways of the worlds as to its usages and exterior manners, as well as to all things of expediency and prudential con- siderations, a moment's reflection will convince a mind as right as yours, must necessarily be to inexperienced youth, with ever so fine natural parts, a terra incognita. As you would not therefore attempt to form notions of China or Per- sia, but from those who have travelled those countries, and the fidelity and sa- gacity of whose relations you can trust ; so will you, as little, I trust, prema- turely form notions of your own, con- cerning that usage of the world (as it is called) into which you have not yet tra- velled, and which must be long studied and practised, before it can be tolerably weU known. I can repeat nothing to you of so infinite consequence to your future welfare, as to conjure you not to be hasty in taking up notions and opi- nions : guard your honest and ingenuous mind against this main danger of youth : with regard to all things, that appear not to your reason, after due examina- tion, evident duties of honour, morality, or religion (and in aU such as do, let your conscience and reason determine your notions and conduct), in all other matters, I say^, be slow to form opinions, keep your mind in a candid state of sus- pense, and open to full conviction when you shall procure it ; using in the mean time the experience of a friend you can trust, the sincerity of whose advice you will try and prove by your own expe- rience hereafter, when more years shall have given it to you. I have been longer upon this head than, I hope, there was any occasion for ; but the great import- ance of the matter, and my warm wishes for your welfare, figure, and happiness, have drawn it from me. I wish to know if you have a good French master : I must recommend the study of the French lan- guage, to speak and write it correctly, as to grammar and orthography, as a matter of the utmost and indispensable use to you, if you would make any figure in the great world. I need say no more to enforce this recommendation : when I get to London, I will send you the best French dictionary. Have you been taught geography and the use of the globes by Mr. Leech ? If not, pray take a geography master and learn the use of the globes : it is soon known. I recom- mend to you to acquire a clear and tho- rough notion of what is called the solar system ; together with the doctrine of comets. I wanted as much, or more, to hear of your private reading at home, as of public lectures, which I hope, how- ever, you will frequent for example's sake. Pardon this long letter, and keep it by you if you do not hate it. Believe me, my dear nephew, ever affectionately, Yours. LETTER VII. From the same to the same. Batli. March 30, 1754. My dear nephew, I A3I much obliged to you for your kind remembrance and wishes for my health. It is much recovered by the regular fit of gout, of which I am still lame in both feet, and I may hope for better health 2F2 436 ELEGANT EPISTLE S. Book IV. Hereafter in consequence. I have thought it long since we conversed : I waited to be able to give you a better account of my health, and in part, to leave you time to make advances in your plan of study, of which I am very desirous to hear an account. I desire you will be so good to let me know particularly, if you have gone through the Abridgment of Bur- net's History of the Reformation, and the Treatise of Father Paul on Bene- fices ; also how much of Locke you have read. I beg of you not to mix any other English reading with what I re- commend to you. I propose to save you much time and trouble, by pointing out to you such books, in succession, as will carry you the shortest way to the things you must know to fit yourself for the business of the world, and give you the clearer knowledge of them, by keep- ing them unmixed with superfluous, vain, empty trash. Let me hear, my dear child, of your French also ; as well as of those studies which are more properly univer- sity studies. 1 cannot tell you better how truly and tenderly I love you, than . by telling you I am most solicitously bent on your doing evei'y thing that is right, and laying the foundations of your fu- ture happiness and figure in the world, in such a course of improvement, as will not fail to make you a better man, while it makes you a more knowing one. Do you rise early ? I hope you have already made to yourself the habit of doing it ; if not, let me conjure you to acquire it. Remember your friend Horace ; Et ni Post'es ante diem lihrum cum lumine, si non Intendes animum studiis et rebus ho- nestis, Invidid vel amore miser torquebere. Adieu. Your ever affectionate uncle. LETTER Vin. From the Earl of Chatham to his Nephew Thomas Pitt, Esq. Bath, May 4, 1734. My dear nephew, 1 USE a pen with some difficulty, being still lame in my hand with the gout : I cannot, however, d,elay writing this line to you on the course of English history I propose for you. If you have finished the Abridgment of English History, and of Burnet's History of the Reformation, I recommend to you next (before any other reading of history) Oldcastle's Re- marks on the History of England, by lord Bolingbroke. Let me apprise you of one thing before you read them ; and that is, that the author has bent some passages to make them invidious parallels to the times he wrote in ; therefore be aware of that, and depend^ in general, on finding the truest constitutional doctrines : and that the facts of history (though warped) are nowhere falsified. I also recommend Nathaniel Bacon's Historical and Politi- cal Observations * ; it is, without excep- tion, the best and most instructive book we have on matters of that kind. They are both to be read Avith much attention, and twice over ; Oldcastle's Remarks to be studied and almost got by heart, for the inimitable beauty of the style, as well as the matter. Bacon for the mat- ter chiefly ; the style being uncouth, but the expression forcible and striking. I can write no more, and you will hardly read what is writ. Adieu, my dear child. Your ever af- fectionate uncle. LETTER IX. From the same to the same, Astjop AV'ells, Sept. 5, 17i4. My dear nephew, I HAVE been a long time without con- versing with you, and thanking you for the pleasure of your last letter. You * This book, though at present little known, formerly enjoyed a very high reputation. It is written with a very evident bias to the princi- ples of the parliamentary party to which Bacon adhered; but contains a great deal of very useful and valuable matter. It was published in two parts, the 1st in 1647, the 2nd in 1651, and was secretly reprinted in 1672, and again in 1682; for which edition the publisher was indicted and outlawed. After the Revolution, a fourth edition was printed, with an advertise- ment, asserting, on the authority of lord chief justice Vaughan, one of Selden's executors, that the groundwork of this book was laid by that great and learned man. And it is proba- bly on the ground of this assertion, that in the folio edition of Bacon's book, printed in 1739, it is sa+d in the titlepage to have been *' collected from some manuscript notes of John Selden, esq." But it does not appear that this notion rests on any sufficient evi- dence. It is, however, manifest from some ex- pressions in the very unjust and disparaging account given of this work in Nicholson's His- torical Library (part i, p. 150), that Nathaniel Bacon was generally considered as an imitator and follower of Selden. Sect. III. RECENT may possibly be about to return to the seat of learning- on the banks of the Cam ; but I will not defer discoursing to you on literary matters, till you leave Cornwall, not doubting but you are mindful of the Muses amidst the very savage rocks and moors, and yet more savage natives, of the ancient and re- spectable dutchy. First, with regard to the opinion you desire concerning a common-place book ; in general 1 much disapprove the use of it : it is chiefly in- tended for persons who mean to be au- thors, and tends to impair the memory, and to deprive you of a ready, extem- pore use of your reading, by accustom- ing the mind to discharge itself of its reading on paper, instead of relying on its natural power of retention, aided and fortified by frequent revisions of its ideas and materials. Some things must be common-placed in order to be of any use ; dates, chronological order, and the like ; for instance, Nathaniel Bacon ought to be extracted in the best method you can : but in general my advice to you is, not to common-place upon paper, but, as an equivalent to it, to endeavour to range and methodize in your head what you read, and by so doing fre- quently and habitually to fix matter in the memory. I desired you some time since to read lord Clarendon's History of the civil wars. I have lately read a much honester and more instructive book, of the same period of history ; it is the History of the Parliament, by Thomas May*, esq., &c. I will send it to you as soon as you return to Cambridge. If you have not read Burnet's History of his own Times, I beg you will. I hope your father is well. My love to the girls. Your ever affectionate. • May, the translator of Lucan, had been rauch countenanced by Charles the First, but quitted the court on some personal disgust, and afterwards became secretary to the par- liament. His Hrstory was published in 1647 under their authority and license, and cannot by any means be considered as an impartial work. It is, however, well worthy of being at- tentively read; and the contemptuous cha- racter given of it by Clarendon (Life, vol. i, p. 35.) is as much below its real merit as Cla- rendon's own History is superior to it. LETTER X. From the same to the sanie^ Pay Office, April 9, 1755. My dear nephew, I REJOICE extremely to hear that your father and the girls are not unenter- tained in their travels : in the mean time your travels through the paths of literature, arts, and sciences (a road, sometimes set with flowers, and some- times difl&cult, laborious, and arduous), are not only infinitely more profitable in future, but at present, upon the whole, infinitely more delightful. My own tra- vels at present are none of the plea- santest : I am going through a fit of the gout ; with much proper pain, and what proper patience I may. Avis au lecteur, my sweet boy : " Remember thy Crea- tor in the days of thy youth." Let no excesses lay the foundations of gout and the rest of Pandora's box ; nor any im- moralities or vicious courses sow the seeds of a too late and painful repent- ance. Here ends my sermon, which, I trust, you are not fine gentleman enough, or, in plain English, silly fellow enough, to laugh at. Lady Hester is much yours. Let me hear some ac- count of your intercourse with the Muses ; and believe me ever, your truly most affectionate. LETTER XI. From the same to the same. Pay Office, April 15, 1755. A THOUSAND thanks to my dear boy for a very pretty letter. I like extremely the account you give of your literary life ; the reflections you make upon some West Saxon actors in the times you are reading are natural, manly, and sen- sible, and flow from a heart that will make you far superior to any of them. I am content you should be interrupted (provided the interruption be not long) in the course of your reading, by de- claiming in defence of the thesis you have so A\isely chosen to maintain. It is true indeed that the affirmative maxim, Omve solujiifortipatria est, has supported some great and good men imder the perse- cutions of faction and party injustice, and taught them to prefer an hospitable 438 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. retreat in a foreign land, to an unnatu- ral mother-country. Some few such may he found in ancient times: in our own country also some ; such was Algernon Sidney, Ludlow, and others. But how dangerous is it to trust frail, corrupt man, with such an aphorism ! What fa- tal casuistry is it big with ! How many a villain might, and has, masked himself in the sayings of ancient illustrious ex- iles, while he was, in fact, dissolving all the nearest and dearest ties that hold so- cieties together, and spurning at all laws divine and human ! How easy the trans- ition from this political to some impious ecclesiastical aphorisms ! If all soils are alike to the brave and virtuous, so may all churches and modes of worship ; that is, all will be equally neglected and vio- lated. Instead of every soil being his country, he will have no one for his country ; he will be the forlorn outcast of mankind. Such was the late Boling- broke of impious memory. Let me know when your declamation is over. Pardon an observation on style: " I received yours" is vulgar and mercantile ; " Your letter" is the way of writhig. Inclose your letters in a cover ; it is more polite. LETTER XII. Fro?n (he Earl of Chathatn to his Nepheiv Thomas Pitt, Esq. Pay Office, May 20, 1755. My dear nephew, 1 Aj>i extremely concerned to hear that you have been ill, especially as your ac- count of an illness you speak of as past, implies such remains of disorder as I beg you will give all proper attention to. By the medicine your physician has ordered, I conceive he considers your casein some degree nervous. If that be so, advise with him whether a little change of air and of the scene, together with some weeks course of steel waters, might not be highly proper for you. I am to go the day after to-morrow to Sunning HiU, in Windsor Forest, where I propose to drink those waters for about a month. Lady Hester and I shall be happy in your com- pany, if your doctor shall be of opinion that such waters may be of service to you ; which, I hope, will be his opinion. Besides health recovered, the Muses shall not be quite forgot: we will ride, read, walk, and philosophize, extremely at our ease ; and you may return to Cam- bridge with new ardour, or at least with strength repaired, when we leave Sun- ning Hill. If you come, the sooner the better, on all accounts. We propose to go into Buckinghamshire in about a month. 1 rejoice that your declamation is over, and that you have begun, my dearest nephew, to open your mouth in public, ingenti patricB perculsus atnore, I wish I had heard you perform : the only way I ever shall hear your praises from your own mouth. My gout pre- vented my so -much-intended and wished- for journey to Cambridge : and now my plan of drinking waters renders it im- possible. Come, then, my dear boy, to us ; and so Mahomet and the mountain meet, no matter which moves to the other. Adieu. Your ever affectionate. LETTER XIII. Fro?n the same to the same, July 13, 1755. My dear nephew, I HAVE delayed writing to you in expec- tation of hearing farther from you upon the subject of your stay at college. No news is the best news ; and I will hope now that all your difficulties upon that head are at an end. I represent you to myself deep in study, and drinking large draughts of intellectual nectar ; a very delicious state to a mind happy enough, and elevated enough, to thirst after knowledge and true honest fame, even as the hart panteth after the water- brooks. When I name knowledge, I ever intend learning as the weapon and instrument only of manly, honourable, and virtuous action, ui)on the stage of the world, both in private and public life ; as a gentleman, and as a member of the commonwealth, who is to answer for all he does to the laws of his coun- try, to his own breast and conscience, and at the tribunal of honour and good fame. You, my dear boy, will not only be acquitted, but applauded and dignified at all these respectable and awful bars. So Made fud virtute ! Go on and prosper in your glorious and happy career ; not forgetting to walk an hour briskly every morning and evening, to fortify the nerves. I wish to hear, in some little time, of the progress you shall have Sect. III. RECENT. 439 made in the course of reading chalked out. Adieu. Your ever affectionate uncle. Lady Hester desires her best compli- ments to you. LETTER XIV. From the same to the sa?ne. Stowe, July 24, ] 735. My dear nephew, I AM just leaving this place to go to Wotton ; but I will not lose the post, tliough I have time but for one line. I am extremely happy that you can stay at your college, and pursue the pru- dent and glorious resolution of em- ploying your present moments with a view to the future. May your noble and generous love of virtue pay you with the sweet rewards of a self-approving heart and an applauding country ! and may I enjoy the true satisfaction of seeing your fame and happiness, and of thinking that I may have been fortunate enough to have contributed, in any small degree, to do common justice to kind Nature by a suitable education ! I am no very good judge of the question concerning the books ; I believe they are your own in the same sense that your wearing ap- parel is. I would retain them, and leave the candid and equitable Mr. * * * to plan, with the honest Mr. * * *, schemes of perpetual vexation. As to the per- sons just mentioned, 1 trust that you bear about you a mind and heart much superior to such malice ; and that you are as little capable of resenting it, with any sensations but those of cool decent contempt, as you are of fearing the con- sequences of such low efforts. As to the caution money, I think you have done well. The case of the chambers, I con- ceive, you likewise apprehend rightly. Let me know in your next what these two articles require you to pay down, and how far your present cash is ex- hausted, and I will direct Mr. Campbell to give you credit accordingly. Believe me, my dear nephew, truly happy to be of use to you. Your ever affectionate. LEFfER XV. From the same to the same. Wotton, Aug. 7, 1755. My dear nephew, I HAVE only time at present to let you know I am setting ovit for London ; when I return to Sunning Hill, which I pro- pose to do in a few days, I shall have considered the question about a letter to * * * *j and will send you my thoughts upon it. As to literature, I know you are not idle, under so many and so strong motives to animate you to the ardent pursuit of improvement. For English history, read the revolutions of York and Lancaster in Pere d'Orleans, and no more of the father ; the Life of Edward the Fourth, and so downwards all the life- writers of our kings, except such as you have already read. For Queen Anne's reign, the continuator of Rapin. Farewell, my dearest nephew, for to- day. Your most affectionate uncle. LETTER XVI. From the same to the same. Bath, Sept. 25, 1755. I HAVE not conversed with my dear ne- phew a long time : I have been much in a post-chaise, living a wandering Scy- thian life, and he has been more use- fully employed than in reading or writing letters ; travelling through the various, instructing, and entertaining- road of history. I have a particular pleasure in hearing now and then a word from you in your journey, just while you are changing horses, if I may so call it, and getting from one author to another. I suppose you going through the biogra- phers, from Edward the Fourth down- wards, not intending to stop till you reach to the continuator of honest Ra- pin. There is a little book I never men- tioned, Welwood's Memoirs ; I recom- mend it. Davis's Ireland must not on any account be omitted : it is a great performance, a masterly work, and con- tains much depth and extensive know- ledge in state matters, and settling of countries, in a very short compass. I have met with a scheme of chronology by Blair, shewing all contemporary his- torical characters through all ages : it is of great use to consult frequently, in 440 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. order to fix periods, and throw collateral light upon any particular branch you are reading. Let me know, when I haye the pleasure of a letter from you, how far you are advanced in English history. You may probably not have heard authentically of governor Lyttel- ton's captivity and release. He is safe and well in England, after being taken and detained in France some days. Sir Richard and he met, unexpectedly enough, at Brussels, and came together to England. I propose returning to London in about a week, where I hope to find lady Hester as well as I left her. We are both much indebted for your kind and affectionate wishes. In jmblica co»i- vioda peccem, si lojigo sermone mover one bent on so honourable and virtuous a journey as you are. LETTER XVn. From the Earl of Chatham to his Nephew Thomas Pitt, Esq. Pay Office, Dec. 6, 1755. Of all the various satisfactions of mind 1 have felt upon some late events, none has affected me with more sensibility and delight than the reading my dear ne- phew's letter. The matter of it is wor- thy of a better age than that we live in ; worthy of your own noble, untainted mind ; and the manner and expression of it is such as I trust will one day make you a powerful instrument to- wards mending the present degeneracy. Examples are unnecessary to happy na- tures ; and it is well for your future glory and happiness that this is the case ; for to copy any now existing, might cramp genius, and check the native spirit of the piece, rather than contribute to the perfection of it. I learn from sir Richard Lyttelton that we may have the pleasure of meeting soon, as he has al- ready, or intends to offer you a bed at his house. It is on this, as on all occa- sions, little necessary to preach pru- dence, or to intimate a wish that your studies at Cambridge might not be broken by a long interruption of them. I know the rightness of your own mind, and leave you to all the generous and animating motives you find there, for pursuing improvements in literature and useful knowledge, as much better coun- sellors than Your ever most affectionate uncle. Lady Hester desires her best compli- ments. The little cousin is well, LETTER XVIII. From the same to the same. Horse Guards, Jan. 13, I75<7. My dear nephew, Let me thank you a thousand times for your remembering me, and giving me the pleasure of hearing that you was well, and had laid by the ideas of London and its dissipations, to re&ume the sober train of thoughts that gowns, square caps, qua- drangles, and matin bells, naturally draw after them. I hope the air of Cambridge has brought no disorder upon you, and that you will compound with the Muses so as to dedicate some hours, not less than two, of the day to exercise. The earlier you rise, the better your nerves will bear study. When you next do me the plea- sure to write to me, I beg a copy of your Elegy on your Mother's Picture j it is such admirable poetry, that I beg you to plunge deep into prose and severer stu- dies, and not indulge your genius with verse, for the present. Finitimus ora- tori poeta. Substitute Tully and Demos- thenes in the place of Homer and Vir- gil ; and arm yourself with all the va- riety of manner, copiousness, and beauty of diction, nobleness and magnificence of ideas of the Roman consul ; and ren- der the powers of eloquence complete by the irresistible torrent of vehement argumentation, the close and forcible reasoning, and the depth and fortitude of mind of the Grecian statesman. This I mean at leisure intervals, and to relieve the course of those studies which you intend to make your principal object. The book relating to the empire of Ger- many, which I could not recollect, is; Vitriarius's Jus Publicum,, an admirable book in its kind, and esteemed of the best authority in matters much contro- verted. We are all well : sir Richard is upon his legs and abroad again. Your ever affectionate uncle LETTER XIX. From the same to the same, Haj'^es, near Bromley, May 11, I75'i. My dear nephew's obliging letter was every way most pleasing ; as I had more than begun to think it long since I had the satisfaction of hearing he was well. I Sect. III. RECENT. 44i As the season of humidity and relaxation is now almost over, 1 trust that the Muses are in no danger of nervous com- plaints, and that whatever pains they have to tell are out of the reach of Es- culapius, and not dangerous, though epidemical to youth at this soft month, ** When lavish nature in her best attire Clothes tlie gay spring, the season of desire." To he serious, I hope my dearest ne- phew is perfectly free from all returns of his former complaint, and enabled by an unailing body, and an ardent elevated mind, to follow, quo te coelestis sapien- tia duceret. My holidays are now ap- proaching, and I long to hear something of your labours, which, I doubt not, will prove in their consequences more profit- able to your country a few years hence than your uncle's. Be so good to let me know what progress you have made in our historical and constitutional jour- ney, that I may suggest to you some far- ther reading. Lady Hester is well, and desires her best compliments to you. I am well, but threatened with gout in my feet from a parliamentary debauch, till six in the morning, on the militia. Poor sir Richard is laid up with the gout. Yours most affectionately. LETTER XX. From the same to the scnne. Hayes, Oct. 7, 175'"). I THINK it very long since I heard any thing of my dear nephew's health and learned occupations at the mother of arts and sciences. Pray give me the pleasure of a letter soon, and be so good to let me know Avhat progress is made in our plan of reading. 1 am now to make a request to you in behalf of a young gen- tleman coming to Cambridge, Mr. ***'s son. The father desires much that you and his son may make an acquaintance : as what father would not? Mr. *** is one of the best friends I have in the world ; and nothing can oblige me more than that you would do all in your power to be of assistance and advantage to the young man. He has good parts, good nature, and amiable qualities. He is young, and consequently much depends on the first habits he forms, whether of application or dissipation. You see, my dear nephew, what it is already to have made yourself princeps juventutis. It has its glories and its cares. You are invested with a kind of public charge, and the eyes of the world are upon you, not only for your own acquittal, but for the example and pattern to the British youth. Lady Hester is still about, but in daily expectation of the good minute. She desires her compliments to you. My sister is gone to Howberry. Believe me ever, my dear nephew. Most affectionately yours. LETTER XXL From the same to the same. Hayes, Oct. 10, 1736- My dear nephew, I HAVE the pleasure to acquaint you with the glad tidings of Hayes. Lady Hester was safely delivered this morning of a son. She and the child are as well as possible, and the father in the joy of his heart. It is no small addition to my happiness to know you will kindly share it with me. A father must form wishes for his child as soon as it comes into the world, and 1 will make mine. That he may live to make as good use of life as one that shall be nameless is now doing at Cambridge. 2uid voveat dulci matri- cula jnajus aLumno ? Your ever affectionate. LETTER XXII. From the same to the same. St, James's Square, Aug. 28, 17.57. My dear nephew. Nothing can give me greater pleasure than the approaching conclusion of a happy reconciliation in the family. Your letter to *** is the properest that can be imagined, and, I doubt not, will make the deepest impression on his heart. I have been in much pain for you during all this unseasonable weather, and am still apprehensive, till I have the satis- faction of hearing from you, that your course of sea bathing has been inter- rupted by such gusts of wind as must have rendered the sea too rough an ele- ment for a convalescent to disport in. I trust, my dearest nephew, that open- ing scenes of domestic comfort and fa- mily affection will confirm and augment every hour the benefits you are receiving at Brighthelmston, from external and internal medical assistances. Lady Hes-. 442 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. ter and aunt Mary join with me in all good wishes for your health and hap- piness. The duplicate, *** mentions having addressed to me, has never come to hand. I am, with truest affection, my dearest nephew, ever yours. LETTER XXIII. From the Earl of Chatham to his Nephew Thomas Pitt, Esq. St. James's Square, Oct. 27, 1757. My dear nephew. Inclosed is a letter from * * * *, which came in one to me. I heartily wish the contents may be agreeable to you. I am far from being satisfied, my dearest nephew, with the account your last letter to my sister gives of your health. I had formed the hope of your ceasing to be an invalid before this time ; but since you must submit to be one for this winter, I am comforted to find your strength is not impaired, as it used to be, by the returns of illness you some- times feel ; and I trust the good govern- ment you are under, and the fortitude and manly resignation you are possessed of, will carry you well through this trial of a young man's patience, and bring you out in spring, like gold, the better for the proof. I rejoice to hear you have a friend of great merit to be with you. My warmest wishes for your health and happiness never fail to follow you. Lady Hester desires her best compli- ments. Believe me, with the truest af- fection, ever yours. LETTER XXIV. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Du- chess of Portland. Mount Morris, Sept. 4, 1736. Madam, I HAVE been racking my brains for an excuse for my negligence in not answer- ing your grace's agreeable letter ; but I find my oflFence so much beyond the power of apology, that 1 want no less than your own good-humour to excuse it ; and I think I cannot give a greater proof of my opinion of it, than by rely- ing wholy upon it for my pardon. And now I will suppose your grace gives me a smile ; and upon that I will proceed with my letter, as supposing myself ex- cused and forgiven. I shall give you the best account I can of the time I have spent since I wrote last to you. I was near five weeks at Tunbridge, and re- turned just time enough for the races at Canterbury. But in the order of things, I should first speak of Tunbridge ; and I will mention the part of the company I imagine best known to your grace, viz. the duchesses of Norfolk and Richmond, lord and lady Litchfield, lord and lady Tylney and their family, lord and lady Augustus Fitzroy, and lord Stanhope and Lady Lucy, and lord and lady Peter- borough, and lord Paisley, and lady Dil- lon, and Mr. and Mrs. Southwell; lord V came a little before 1 left the Wells. What a ridiculous thing it was to swear the peace against that animal ! How timorous must her ladyship be, if he could put her in fear of her life ! He danced at the ball, but with a gravity of countenance, and solemnity of gait, that shewed the dance was only in his toes, and never reached his heart. Had she prudence and good nature, though his understanding might not make them happy, they might at least be easy. Not to be miserable is all some people are capable of. There want not only vir- tues, but a thousand little accomplish- ments to make married people entirely happy. I know why they are very often not happy, but your grace knows why they are, by experience ; and that is the sure way of judging. I think if there were no better representatives of the married state than the thin melancholy countenance of lord V , the words *' for better for worse," which have but a bad sound, would soon be out of use. I don't know whether it proceeds from the dulness of the weather, or the sub- ject, but I am almost asleep, so I must change my conversation from matrimony to a ball. You know some of our Grub Street wits compared marriage to a coun- try dance, which scheme I extremely ap- proved ; but when I read it, I thought it should have been set to the tune of " Love for ever ; " but they say it never did go to that tune, nor ever would. I danced twice a week all the while I was at Tunbridge ; and once extraordinary, for lord Euston came down to see lord Augustus Fitzroy, and made a ball. Lord Euston danced with the duchess of Nor- folk ; but her grace went home early ; Sect. HI. RECENT. 443 and then lord Eustoii danced Avith lady Delves. We all left off about one o'clock. The day after I left the Wells I went to the races, which began on Monday, and ended on Thursday, and I came home yesterday. On Monday there was an as- sembly again, and on Thursday another play ; and as soon as that was over, a pri- vate ball, where we had ten couple. Lord Crawfurd and lord Rothes were at the races. The person most noticed for sin- gularity at Tunbridge was lord : he is always making mathematical scratches in his pocket-book, so that one half of the people took him for a conjuror. He is much admired and commended by his acquaintance, which are few in number. I think he had three at the Wells, and I believe he did not allow them above a sentence apiece in a whole day ; the rest he left lady L to say, who, I believe, does not acquit herself ill of the office of spokeswoman. She seems to be very goodnatured, sensible, and of a more communicative temper than his lord- ship. I am, madam, your grace's, &c. E. Robinson. LETTER XXV. From the same to the same. Hatch, 11, 1738. Madam, Your grace's very entertaining letter was sent to me at sir Wyndham Knatch- bull's, where I have been about three weeks, and propose returning to Mount Morris in a few days. I am as angry as I dare be with your grace, that you did not send any account of those charming fire works, which I fancy were the pret- tiest things imaginable. I very much approve your love of variety in trifles, and constancy in things of greater mo- ment. I think you have great reason to call exchange robbery, though the common saying is to the contrary. For my part, who never saw one man that I loved, I scarce imagine I could be fond of a dozen, and come to that unreason- ableness so ridiculously set forth in Hip- polyto in the Tempest ; at present I sel- dom like above six or eight at a time. I fancy in matrimony one finds variety in one, in the charming vicissitudes of "Sometimes my pi ague, sometimes my darling; Kissing to Hay, to-morrow snarling." Then the surprising and sudden trans- formation of the obsequious and obedient lover, to the graceful haughtiness and imperiousness of the commanding hus- band, must be so agreeable a metamor- phosis as is not to be equalled in all Ovid's collection, where I do not remem- ber a lamb's being transformed into a bear. Your grace is much to be pitied, who has never known the varieties I mention, but has found all the sincerity of friendship, and complacency of a lo- ver, in the same person ; and I am sure my lord duke is a most miserable man^ who has found one person who has taken away that passion for change, which is the boast and happiness of so many peo- ple. Pray tell my lord Dupplin that I never heard of a viscount that was a pro- phet in my life. I assure you I am not going to tie the fast knot you mention : whenever I have any thoughts of it I shall acquaint your grace with it, and send you a description of the gentleman with his good qualities and faults in full length. At present I will tell you what sort of a man I desire, which is above ten times as good as I deserve ; for gra- titude is a great virtue, and I would have cause to be thankful. He should have a great deal of sense and prudence to di- rect and instruct me, much wit to divert me, beauty to please me, good humour to indulge me in the right, and reprove me gently when I am in the wrong ; money enough to afford me more than I can want, and as much as I can wish ; and constancy to like me as long as other people do, that is, till my face is wrinkled by age, or scarred by the small pox ; and after that I shall expect only civility in the room of love, for as Mrs. Clive sings, " All I hope of mortal man, Is to love me whilst he can." When I can meet all these things in a man above the trivial consideration of money, you may expect to hear I am go- ing to change the easy tranquillity of mind I enjoy at present, for a prospect of happiness ; for I am like Pygmalion, in love with a picture of my own draw- ing, but I never saw an original like it in my life ; 1 hope when I do, I shall, as some poet says, find the statue warm. I am, madam, your most obedient humble servant, Eliz. Robinson. 444 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER XXVL From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Du- chess of Port /and. 1-738. Madam, As your grace tenders my peace of mind, you will be glad to hear I am not so an- gry as I was. I own I was much moved in spirit at hearing you neglected your health ; but since you have had advice, there is one safe step taken. As forme, I have swallowed the weight of an apo- thecary in medicine ; and what I am the better, except more patient and less cre- dulous, I know not. I have learnt to bear my infirmities, and not to trust to the skill of physicians for curing them. I endeavour to drink deep of philosophy, and to be wise when I cannot be merry, easy when I cannot be glad, content with what cannot be mended, and patient where there is no redress. The mighty can do no more, and the wise seldom do as much. You see I am in the main content with myself, though many would quarrel with such an insignificant, idle, inconsistent person ; but I am resolved to make the best of all circumstances around me, that this short life may not be half lost in pains, " well remember- ing and applying, the necessity of dying." Between the periods of birth and burial, I would fain insert a little happiness, a little pleasure, a little peace : to-day is ours, yesterday is past, and to-morrow may never come. I wonder people can so much forget death, when all we see before us is but succession ; minute suc- ceeds to minute, season to season, sum- mer dies as winter comes. The dial marks the change of hour, every night brings death -like sleep, and morning seems a resurrection ; yet, while all changes and decays, we expect no alte- ration, unapt to live, unready to die, we lose the present and seek the future, ask much for what we have not, thank Pro- vidence but little for what we have ; our youth has no joy, our middle age no quiet, our old age no ease, no in- dulgence ; ceremony is the tyrant of this day, fashion of the other, business of the next. Little is allowed to free- dom, happiness, and contemplation, the adoration of our Creator, the admiration of his works, and the inspection of our- selves. But why should I trouble your grace with these reflections. What my little knowledge can suggest, you must know better : what my short experience has shewn, you must have better observ- ed. I am sure any thing is more ac- ceptable to you than news and compli- ments, so I always give your grace the present thoughts of my heart. I beg my compliments to lady Oxford, who I hope is better. I am, madam, your grace's most obe- dient servant, E. Robinson. LETTER XXVIL From the same to the sa?ne. Canterbury, Aug. 15, Vt39'. Madam, I HOPE the writing faculty will be re- stored again to your grace in a few days, for 1 never stood more in need of such a consolation. I am at present banished from home by the small pox. On Satur- day a woman and three children, who live in a farm house at our gate, fell ill of it, which so much frightened my very good and tender mamma, that my papa sent my sister and myself directly to Can- terbury, where we shall stay a week with Mrs. Scott, and then go to Mrs. T , the wife of a prebend of this church. I do not much like a country town ; there is little company except deans, prebends, and minor canons. We have met with a great deal of civility, and have nothing but messages and visits from prebends, deacons, and the rest of the church mi- litant here on earth. In short, the whole town takes to me so much, that I am sure they would choose me a member of parliament, if 1 would offer myself as a candidate. I think I shall be tired of the study of divines, before our pestilen- tial neighbours are well again. To my unspeakable grief, my brother Robinson will not be persuaded to avoid the dan- ger. 1 heard lately that Mr. Dashwood was dead at Rome. I hope it was not miss Dash wood's brother ; for an addition of fortune, which comes by the loss of a friend, is always far from welcome. I have seven brothers, and would not part with one for a kingdom ; and if I had but one, I should be distracted about him ; but, thanks to fortune, I am plen- tifully provided with them ; surely no one has so many or so good brothers. Three of them intend seeing me to-mor- row, and will stay here two or three days. Sect. 111. RECENT. 445 I have written a line to the duke ; I hope the feminine hand will not hurt liis re- putation. I never wrote before a letter to a gentleman which was not read with spectacles ; but it will be necessary for me to bespeak some younger correspon- dent, for fear of losing* my old ones the first hard winter. I think there are some of them that could not bear a long- frost. If I did not always write ill, I should make some excuse for this letter ; my pen has been an ancient inhabitant of the standish ; it has defaced much white paper, and been long the engine of industry and the secretary of diligence. It has given flight to as much foolish- ness, as when it was in the wing of a goose ; but it sings its last so melodiously, one would imagine it was taken from a swan : it shall, however, ere I consign it to ignoble rest, sign myself Your grace's very humble servant, E. Robinson. LETTER XXVIII. From the same to the same. Mount Morris, Oct. 10, 1739. Madam, It is extremely good of your grace to continue to make me happy at a time when I can neither see you nor hear from you. I should have written upon my leaving lady KnatchbuU's, but the country and the head-ach are certainly the worst correspondents, as well as the dullest companions, in the world. I have promised continually to trouble you no more, having exhausted aU my epistolary matter ; but I cannot help expressing my gratitude to my lord duke, who is cer- tainly a person of indefatigable good nature. I hope soon to have the plea- sure of seeing you in my way to Bath, and beg you will give orders to your porter to admit me : for if not, as I am grown thin since my indisposition, he will think it is my ghost and shut the door ; and if you should afterwards read in your visiting book, Miss Robinson from the shades below, you will guess the meaning of it ; but remember 1 am not going to be dipt in Lethe, but the Bath water. I shall stay but a few days in town, and then shall proceed with my father and mother to the waters of life and recovery. My papa's chimney- corner hyp will never venture to attack him in a public place ; it is the sweet companion of solitude, and the offspring of meditation ; the disease of an idle ima- gination, not the child of hurry and di- version. I am afraid that, with the gaieties of the place, and the spirits the waters give, 1 shall be perfect sal volatile, and open my mouth and evaporate. I wish you and his grace much comfort, and lady Bell much joy upon the occa- sion of her marriage. I imagine she only waits for the writings. Ijawyers, who live by delay, do not consider it is often the death of love. They would rather break an impatient lover's heart, than make a flaw in the writings. Then they think of the jointure, and separa- tion of the turtles, who think they can never part from, or survive each other ; at last they are convinced they loved, but the lawyer reasoned. Your grace, by experience, knows what makes matri- mony happy ; from observation I can tell what makes it miserable. But I can define matrimonial happiness only like wit, by negatives : 'tis not kissing, that's too sweet ; 'tis not scolding, that's too sour ; 'tis not raillery, that's too bitter ; nor the continual shuttlecock of reply, for that's too tart. In short, I hardly know how to season it to my taste ; but I would neither have it tart, nor mawk- ishly sweet. I should not like to live upon metheglin or verjuice ; and then, for that agreeable variety of " sometimes my plague, sometimes my darling," it would be worse than any thing ; for re- collection would never sufl^er one either entirely to love them when good, or hate them when bad. I believe your grace will easily suppose I am not a little pleased at escaping the stupidity of a winter in the country. I have heard people speak with comfort of being as merry as a cricket, but for my part I do not find the joy of being cohabitant of the fire side with them, i am in very good spirits here-, and should be so were 1 in a desert ; I borrow from the future the happiness I expect; and from the past, by recollection, bring it back to the present. I can sit and live over those hours I passed so pleasantly with you when I was in town, and in hope enjoy those 1 may have the pleasure of passing with you again. I was a month at Hatch, where the good humour of the 446 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. family makes every thing" agreeable ; we had great variety in the house : children ill cradles, and old women in elbow chairs. I think the family may be look- ed upon like the three tenses, the pre- sent, past, and future. I am very glad to hear the marquis and the little ladie«; are well ; I beg my compliments to his grace. The hour for ghosts to rest is come, so I must vanish ; I shall appear again in a white sheet of paper ere long ; but what can I write from a place where I know nothing but that I am, your grace's humble servant, E. Robinson. LETTER XXIX. From Mrs. EUzaheth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland. 1739. Madam, As I always acquaint your grace with my motions from place to place, I think it incumbent upon me to let you know 1 died last Thursday ; having that day expected to hear of a certain duchess, and being disappointed, I fell into a vexation, and from thence into a cha- grin, and from that into a melancholy, with a complicated et cetera, and so ex- pired, and have since crossed the Styx, though Charon was loth to receive me into the boat. Pluto inquired into the cause of my arrival ; and upon telling him it, he said, that lady had sent many lovers there by her cruelty, but I was the first friend who was despatched by her neglect. I thought it proper to ac- quaint you with my misfortune, and therefore called for the pen and ink Mrs. Rowe had used to write her Letters from the Dead to the Living, and consulted with the melancholy lovers you had sent there before me, what I should say to you. One was for beginning, Obdurate fair ; one for addressing you in metre ; another in metaphor ; but I found these lovers so sublime a set of ghosts, that their advice was of no service to me, so I applied to the other inhabitants of Erebus. I went to Ixion for counsel ; but his head was so giddy with turning, he could not give m.e a steady opinion ; Sisyphus was so much out of breath with walking up hill he could not make me an answer. Tantalus was so dry he could not speak to be understood ; and Prometheus had such a gnawing at his stomach he could not attend to what I said. Presently after I met Eurydice, who asked me if I could sing a tune, for Pluto had a very good ear, and I might release her for ever, for though " Fate had fast bound her, With Styx nine tinies round her, Yet singing a tune was victorious." I told her I had no voice, but that there was one lady Wallingford in the other world, who could sing and play like her own Orpheus, but that I hoped she would not come thither a great while. The Fatal Sisters said they had much fine thread to spin for her yet, and so madam Eurydice must wait with patience. Charon says the packet-boat is ready, and ghosts will not wait, so I must take my leave of you to my great grief; for, as Bays in the Rehearsal says, ghosts are not obliged to speak sense, I could have added a great deal more. Pluto gives his service, and Proserpine is your humble servant. We live here very elegantly ; we dine upon essence, like the duke of Newcastle ; we eat and drink the soul and spirit of every thing ; we are all thin and well-shaped, but what most surprised me was to see sir Robert Austin*, who arrived here when I did, a perfect shadow ; indeed I was not so much amazed that he had gone the way of all flesh, as to meet him in the state of all spirit. At first 1 took him for sir ■, his cousin; but upon hearing him say how many ton he was shrunk in circumference, I easily found him out. 1 shall wait patiently till our packet wafts me a letter from your grace : being now divested of pas- sion, I can, as a ghost, stay a post or two under your neglect, though flesh and blood could not bear it. All that remains of me is your faithful shade, E. Robinson. P. S. Pray lay up my letter where it cannot hear the cock crow, or it will vanish, having died a maid. There are a great many apes who were beaux in your world, and I have a promise of three more who made a fine figure at the last birth- day, but cannot outlive the winter. Written from Pluto's palace by dark- ness visible. * A very fat man. Sect. III. RECENT. 447 LETTER XXX. From the same to the Siwie. Bath, Jan. 7, 1740. Madam, The pleasure your grace's letter gave me, convinced me that happiness can reach one at Bath, though I think it is not an inhabitant of the place. I pity your confinement with the reverend as- sembly you mentioned. It is very un- reasonable of people to expect one should be at home, because one is in the house. Of all privileges, that of invisibility is the most valuable. Lord was wheeled into the rooms on Thursday night, where he saluted me with much snuff and civi- lity, in consequence of which I sneezed and courtesied abundantly. As a farther demonstration of his loving kindness, he made me play at commerce with him. You may easily guess at the charms of a place where the height of my happiness is a pair royal at commerce, and a peer of threescore. Last night I took the more youthful diversion of dancing ; our beaux here may make a rent in a wo- man's fan, but they will never make a hole in her heart ; for my part, lord N. Somerset has made me a convert from toupets and pumps to tie wigs and a gouty shoe. Ever since my lord duke reprimanded me for too tender a regard for lord Crauford's nimble legs, I have resolved to prefer the merit of the head to the agility of the heels ; and I have made so great a progress in my resolu- tion as to like the good sense which limps, better than the lively folly which dances. But to my misfortune he likes the queen of spades so much more than me, that he never looks off his cards, though were I queen of diamonds, he would stand a fair chance for me. I hope the Bath waters are as good for the gout in the heart as the gout in the sto- mach, or I shall be the worse for the journey. Lord Ailesford, lady Ann Shirley, lady S. Paulet, &c. 8cc. are here ; miss Greville, miss Berkely, and lady Hereford. Mr. Mansell came last night to the ball. We have the most diverting set of dancers, especially among the men ; some hop and some halt in a very agree- able variety. The dowager duchess of Norfolk bathes ; and being very tall, had nearly drowned a few women in the Cross Bath, for she ordered it to be filled till it reached her chin, and so all those who were below her stature, as well as her rank, were forced to come out or drown ; and finding it, according to the proverb, in vain to strive against the stream, they left the bath rather than swallow so large a draught of wa- ter. I am sorry for the cruel separation of your grace and Miss Dashwood; I believe no one parts with their friends with greater reluctance than you do ; and how they part with you I have a melancholy remembrance. I am of your opinion, that one may easily guess at the depth of an understanding whose shal- lows are never covered by silence. It is now pretty late, and I will end my scan- dalous chronicle of Bath. I beg my best compliments to my lord duke and to lady Wallingford. I am, &c. E. Robinson. LETTER XXXI. From the same to the same. Bath, Jan. 30, 1740. Madam, It is said. Expectation enhances the value of a pleasure. I think your letters want nothing to add to the satisfaction they give, and I would not have your grace take the method of delay to give a zest to your favours : however, your letter did give me the greatest pleasure ; I must have been sunk in insensibility if it had not made me happy. 1 have long been convinced it was in your power to give me happiness, and I shall begin to think health too, for I have been much better ever since I received it. I hope the duke is entirely well of his new dis- order ; I am sure his grace will never have it much, for it is a distemper al- ways accompanied by peevishness ; and as he has not the smallest grain of that in his composition, he can never have a constitution troubled with the gout. What will this world come to now duch- esses drink gin and frequent fairs ! I am afraid your gentlemen did not pledge you, or they might have resisted the frost and fatigue by the strength of that comfortable liquor. I want much to know whether your grace got a ride in the flying coach, which is part of the di- version of a fair. I am much obliged to you for wishing me of the party ; I should 448 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. have liked it extremely. Wlien you go again, pray bew^are of a thaw, lest you should meet with your final dissolution. Lady Berkshire, Mrs. Greville, and her daughter, called upon me yesterday. Every body takes pity on me now I am confined so much. I am much obliged to your grace for forming schemes for me. If any castles come to my share, they must be airy ones, for I have no materials to build them on terra fir ma. I am not a good chimerical architect : and besides, I would rather dwell this summer in a small room in a certain no- bble mansion near Gerrard's Cross, than in the most spacious building I could have. I shall not be troublesome to you in town ; for our stay here will be so long, that our family will hardly go down till the end of May. I have many things to say which can be conveyed to your know- ledge by no way but through your ear. The time will come that we shall meet at Philippi. Time, though swift, seems slow while its progress is towards our wishes : if I was at the old gentleman's elbow I should shake his hour-glass to hasten the arrival of April. While I am impatient to see you, I cannot help won- dering dean Swift should think it an unreasonable thing for lovers to desire the gods to annihilate both space and time to make two lovers happy. For my part, I have wished, in the more rea- sonable passion of friendship, the loss of three months, and at least as many coun- ties, that we might be together. If love, like faith, could remove mountains, you would see me with you by to-morrow morning ; except the humourous lieute- nant, no one was ever so much in love with one of their own sex, as I am with your grace. If I should ever be half as much enamoured of one of the other, what will become of me in this world, " Where sighs and tears are bought and sold, And love is made bnt to be told ?'* While Hymen holds by Mammon's char- ter, my affections would assuredly be slighted, having nothing but myself in the scale, and some few vanities that make me light. What is a woman with- out gold or fee-simple ? A toy while she is young, and a trifle when she is old. Jewels of the first water are good for nothing till they are set : but as for us, who are no brilliants, we are nobody's money till we have a foil, and are en- compassed with the precious metal. As for the intrinsic value of a woman, few know it, and nobody cares. liord Fop- pington appraised all the female virtues, and bought them in under a 1000/. sterling ; and the whole sex have agreed no one better understood the value of womankind. I admire the heroic ex- ploits of the beaux at the playhouse ; but could these Narcissus's break the looking-glass and destroy the images of themselves ! Beating the actors off the stage exceeded the valorous enterprise of Don Quixotte when he demolished the puppets. I hear one of the gentle- men (fortune de la guerre) was caught in a trap, and descended, ghost-like, un- der the stage : I fancy he called out. Fight, fight ! with as much solemnity as Hamlet's ghost cries. Swear ! I think this practical wit is a little dangerous. I hope a law will be made, that no man shall be witty upon another until he fetches blood, or unfurnishes or fires a house, for the jest's sake; for really it becomes necessary to restrain the active genius of our youths ; and especially it shall be ordered, that no j)erson be witty if they cannot pay damages, and that unlawful jests, &c. &c. be forborne. — With compliments to my lord duke I take my leave. I am, madam, your grace's, &c. E. Robinson. LETTER XXXII. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu, to Miss S. Robinson. Whitehall, 1740. My dear sister, I HAD your kind and affectionate letter ; and I can assure you I have had no plea- sure equal to what it gave me since we parted. I believe we should be too much grieved at the swift passing of hours, if we did not look upon the near stages of time as the road to some happiness. How should we regret every span of life that did not seem to stretch towards the attainment of some desire ; as, in a story that delights, we hasten eagerly to the circumstances, without considering that the tale is the nearer told ; and very brief is that of life ; yet not to be re- peated because that it is good, or that it is short, or that it is pleasant. May your little story be filled with every Sect. IIT, RECENT. 44§ particular joy, eyery inst?-nce of happi- ness, every gift of good fortune ; and let it be the chief circumstance of mine that I gTiered or rejoiced, and loved, and lived, and died as you did. We had company at dinner on Monday, and in the afternoon I went to lord Oxford's ball at ]Mary-le-bone. It was very agree- able ; I will give you the list of company as they danced. — The duchess and lord Foley, the duke and ]Mrs. Pendarvis*, Lord Dupplin and Dashf, lord Oeorge and Fidget ^, lord Howard and miss Caesar, Mr. Granville and miss Tatton, Mr. Hay and another miss Csesar. The }>artners were chosen by their fans, but with a little supercherie in the case. I helieve one of our dancers failed, so our worthy cousin, sir T , was invited and came ; but when h€ had drawn miss 's fan. he would not dance with her; but Mr. Hay, who, as the more canonical diversion, had chosen cards, danced with the poor forsaken lady. The knight bore the roast T\ith great forti- tude, and, to make amends, promises his neglected fair a ball at his house. It did not end till two in the morning. The earl and countess beliaved very gracious- ly : my lord desired his compliments to my father. Pray give him my duty, and tell him I propose doing myself the ho- nour of writing to him very soon. I sat for my picture this morning to Zinck ; I believe it will be like. I am in x^nne Boleyn's dress. I had tlie pleasure of hearing to-day that our dear Robert had succeeded in obtaining a ship. I am sorry he will ^o out with the first fleet, for your sake and mine, two respects very dear to me. I tremble too, for fear he should have any engagement with the Spaniards. Mrs. Dewes desires to recommend hei^self to you, being of the party of loving sisters. I hope the ill news of Vernon is not true. My duty to my mamma. My dearest sister, 1 am yours most affectionately, E. Robinson. * The widow of Alex. Pendarvis, esq. of Roscrow, in Cornwall, afterwards married to Dr. Delany, the friend of Swift. See her letters in Swift's Correspondence. t Miss Catherine Dashwood^ the Delia of Hammond th.e poet. X Herself, LErrER XXXIII. From the same to the same. Whitehall, . My dear sister. You will think me the most idly busy of any person in the world ; I have got a little interval between vanity and cere- mony to write to you, but must soon leave you, to dress and visit, the grand occupations of a woman's life. I was at Mrs. 's ; we were both so courteous, complaisant, and something so like lov- ing, it would have surprised you. What farces, what puppet-shows do we act ! Some little machine behind the scene moves us, and makes the same puppet act Scrub, or strut Alexander the Great. Madam, contrary to her usual manner, acted the part of the obliging ; I, as much against my former sentiments, personated the obliged. Alas ! I fear the first mover in the one case was not generosity, nor in the other gratitude. She went over head and ears in pro?- mises, and I went as deep in thanks. The evening was concluded, and the farce ended, with a scene more sincere and affectionate between Morris, Robert, and myself. I have taken leave of Ro- bert ; alas ! what a painful word is fare- well ! Lord Dunsinane came from Cam- bridge this morning : he says my bro- ther Matt is better in health than he has been a great while. I am reading docr tor Swift's and Mr. Pope's letters; I like them much, and find great marks of friendship, goodness, and affection, between these people, whom the world think too wise to be honest, and too witty to be affectionate. But vice is the child of folly rather than of wisdom ; and for insensibility of heart, like that of the head, it belongeth unto fools. Lord Bolingbroke's letters shine much in the collection. We are reading Dr. Middleton's nev>^ edition of his Letter from Rome, with the additions; but have not yet reached the postscript to Warburton. The answer to the Roman Catholic is full, and I doubt not but the Protestant Divine wiU be as happily si- lenced. Truth wUl maintain its gTOund against all opposition. The dedication to Dr. G — is modest enough ; the doctor commends his hospitality and table, but does not tell us his friend was careful not to over-eat himself, which is 2 G 450 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. an omission. I am, my dear sister, most affectionately yours, E. Robinson. LETTER XXXIV. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to Miss S. Robinson. Whitehall, Dear sister, I propose to entertain you with some poetry, therefore you will excuse a lack of prose for this post. I am pretty well in health, but at this present instant not in high spirits ; a key below imper- tinence and talkativeness. However the Muses, fair ladies, and Mr. Lyttleton, a fine gentleman, will entertain you more agreeably. The verses were written at lord Westmoreland's : I think they are pretty. Either I am very partial to the writer, or Mr. Lyttleton has something of an elegance in all his compositions, let the subject be ever so trifling. I be- lieve what he says in praise of solitude and the country is to please Apollo, who, of all employments, preferred that of a shepherd. To Juno he puts up petitions of more pride and ambition ; and from Minerva he has not unsuccessfully asked wisdom and the arts of policy. Happy is the genius that can drink inspiration at every stream, and gather similes with every nosegay ! Does the world want odd people, or do we want strange cousins, that the St — nes must increase and multiply? No folly ever becomes extinct, fools do so esta- blish posterity. Mr. S has a living of 100/. a year, with a prospect of better preferment. He was a great rake, but having been japanned and married, his character is new varnished. I do not comprehend what my cousin means by their little desires ; if she had said their little stomachs, it had been some help to their oeconomy. But when people have not sufficient for the necessaries of life, what avails it that they can do without its pomps and superfluities ? Mr. B came up in the park to me to-day, and asked me if I would give A leave to beg my pardon, for that he had ordered him to do it. I desired he would tell him that he was as safe in my contempt as h.e could be in my forgiveness, and that J had rather not be troubled with him. I thought the valorous captain would put him upon his penitentials ; and if A n's sword was no sharper than his satire, and his courage no greater than his wit, the challenge would not be dangerous. But he is well aware of " the perils that environ The man that nieddh^s with cold iron." I really think this fright will give him such a terror of steel, that he will hardly endure the blade of a knife this twelve- month. I hope in his repentance he will m not turn his hand to commendation ; for ■ though I am not vexed at the spattering of his abuse, I could never endure the daub of his panegyric. The duchess has presented me with a very fine lace head and ruffles. My duty to papa and mamma. In great haste yours, E. R. LETTER XXXV. Frojn the same to the Rev. W. Freind*^ Sir, I HAD the pleasure of your letter on Sa- turday, at my return from Ranelagh Gardens ; I was glad to see the evening of a day spent in diversion improve into friendship. The various pleasures the ge- neral world can give us are nothing in comparison of the collected comforts of friendship. The first play round the head, but come not to the heart ; the last are intensely felt : however, both these kinds of pleasures are necessary to our satisfaction. If we would be more merry than wise, we may be imprudent ; but to increase the critical knowledge, that increases sorrow, is not the desire or boast, but the misfortune and complaint, of the truly wise. It is really a misfor- tune to be above the bagatelle ; a scorn of trifles may make us despise grey heads, mitred heads, nay, perhaps, crowned heads ; it may teach us to take a little man from his great estate, a lord-mayor from his great coach, a judge out of his long wig, a chief-justice from his chair ; it may even penetrate a crowd of cour- * Afterwards dean of Canterbury, son of Dr. Robert Freind, head master of Westminster school, and nephew of Dr. John Freind, M. D. who was committed to the Tower on account of Atterbury's conspiracy. He married miss Grace Robinson, sister of sir Thomas Robinson, and of the primate of Ireland. Sect. III. RECENT. 451 tiers, till we reach the very heart of the prime mhiister. It is best to admire and not to understand the world. Like a riddle, by its mystery rather than by its meaning', it affords a great deal of amuse- ment till understood, and then but a very poor and scanty satisfaction. To the farmer every ear of wheat is bread ; the thrasher, by dint of labour, finds out it is half chaff; the miller, a man of still nicer inquiry, discovers that not a quar- ter of it will bear the sifting ; the baker knows it is liable to a thousand acci- dents, before it can be made into bread. Thus it is in the great harvest of life ; reckon that lofty stem on which great- ness grows, and all that envelope it, as a part of the golden grain, and it makes a good figure ; and thus sees the common eye. The nicer inquirer discerns how much of the fair appearance wants in- trinsic value, and that when it is sifted there remains but little of real worth, and even that little is with difficulty moulded to good use. Do not let you and I encourage this sharpness of sight ; let the vision come to us through the grossest medium, and every little object borrow bulk and colour : let all be mag- nified, multiplied, varied, and beautified by opinion, and the mistaken eye of pre- judice : thus will the world appear a gay scene ; as indulgent spectators we will call every trick a scheme, and every little wish ambition. I am mortified at your not coming to town ; I hoped I should have seen you and Mrs. Freind this spring, but as that cannot be, let me hear often from you. I long to hear my little cou- sin is well. The dean of Exeter is no more, he died yesterday. Mr. Hay told me, upon hearing me say I should write to you to-day, that he would have me tell you, from him, that Mr. Hume is to be prebend of Westminster ; Dr. Holmes to be dean of Exeter, in the room of Dr. Clark ; the speaker's chaplain is made prebend of Windsor in the room of Dr. Lewis : it is said Dr. Hutton or Dr. Wil- les is to have Westminster, whoever is made bishop. Mr. Hay says, if you would know any thing more he will write to you; he seems to have a great regard for you. I hear it vfould be much easier for you to get something new than any thing which your father has had, as it is a precedent that may open a door to so- licitations from persons who have not the reason to exjiect that consideration which your good, and your father's great and excellent character require : consi- der this, and don't be slack ! I know you do not think half enough of your interest. The bell rings, else I could be so impertinent as to advise. Forgive the zeal of a sincere^ friend and well- wisher. E. Robinson. My kindest thoughts attend on my LETTER XXXVI. From the same to the Duchess of Portland. Hayton, May 5, . Madam, In this wicked world your grace will see honest sincerity go generally worse drest than flattery. In the true affection of my heart, I am going to write a long letter upon paper ungilded and unadorn- ed ; but truth, as your friend, may visit you in a dishabille ; and by the length of my paper, and its homeliness, I compli- ment you with the opinion of your hav- ing two rare virtues, patience and humi- lity, to endure and accept such an epistle. I had the pleasure of my lord duke's let- ter yesterday ; all the contents were agreeable, and especially your commands to write, though 1 am not just in the si- tuation one would wish a correspondent. I wish you could see the furniture of my desk, which is all eaten by the worms. My pen has served the good old man for his accounts these forty years ; I can hardly make it write any thing but 17/1- primis, item, ditto; if 1 would thank your grace for the many obligations I have received, it is ready to write a re- ceipt in full ; or would I express that you have my entire affection and esteem, it is going to write, for value received ; and when I would enumerate your fa- vours, it is in haste to run to the sum total. I believe since the pen was dipped in ink it never made a compliment, or was employed to express one generous sentiment of friendship. It has been worn out in the service of gain ; to note pounds, shillings, and pence, with the balance on the side of profit, has been its business. I hear the burlesque of sweet Pamela and her dear master is very droll ; if it has ridiculed them as well as it has Dr. Muldleton and his hero, ! fancy it must be diverting ; but high things are better burlesqued than low ; the dedica- 2G2 452 E L E G A N T E P 1 S T L E 8. Book IV. tion was really admirable, and I fancy must mortify both the author and the patron. Indeed I believe my friend was the first man that ever complimented a gentleman upon not cramming till he was sick, and not lying in bed longer than he could sleep ; but flattery must be at the dinner and the levee of the great. I wish lord H y may not get the cholic with his vegetable diet ; as it turns to vanity and wind, he will be too much puffed up with it. 1 cannot ima- gine, after this, how the doctor can ever dedicate a book to the duke of Newcas- tle, unless he says, as Pope does, that by various methods they aim at praise, and that " Lucullus, when frtigalit^v' could charrn, Had roasted turnips in the Sahine farm " I believe many great men have been ce- lebrated for their banquets, but my lord H has the honour of being the first who ever recommended himself to an au- thor by his fasting. I had the pleasure yesterday of a long letter from my sister : her eyes are perfectly well, but she has not made any use of them but in writ- ing to' me ; and, 1 must tell you, her care made her steep her letter in vine- gar, for fear it should prove as fatal as Pandora's present. The caution diverted me extremely, for I thought the letter seemed as if it had been sent for a broken forehead. My mamma made me the first visit last Wednesday. If the wea- ther was more mild I might soon hope to meet my sister, but it confines her at home. I had the satisfaction of hearing from my brother Robinson, last post, that he finds great benefit by the Bath waters ; but while I was rejoicing at this good news, he informed me Mrs. Freind had just lost her little daughter by an unhappy accident. I know hers and Mr. Freind's tenderness to be such, that they will be extremely grieved at it, and the aggravation of its not being in the common order of nature will add much to the aflliction. If your grace continues to exhort me to v/rite, you must not be surprised if I entertain you with the conversation of the place I am in ; you may expect a very good receipt to make cheese and syllabub, or, for your more elegant entertainment, a treatise upon the education of turkeys. I would catch you some butterflies, but I have not seen any pretty ones. I have order- ed people upon all our coasts to seek for shells, but have not yet got any pretty ones : if Neptune knev/ your grace wanted some, he would send his maids of honour, the Nereides, to look for them , and Proteus would take the shape of a shell in hopes of having a place in your grotto ; I intend to tell the inhabitants of the deep whom they are for, and they will all assist me ; even the Leviathan will not be worse than the judge ; if he eats the fish, he will give us the shell. 1 am sorry Mrs. Pendarvis has left you for the summer ; Dash too talks of depart- ing ; when they are gone London will lose much of its charms for you, and the country is not yet delightful ; even this sweet month, the fairest of the year, does not disclose its beauties. Pray make my compliments to my lord duke, and give a thousand kisses to the dear little ones, and assure them I should be glad to de- liver them myself. I hope Mrs. Pendar- vis had a long letter from me the begin- X ning of this week. Farewell, my dear ■ lady duchess ; farewell is the hardest word in our language, and to you I ge- gerally speak it the last of a thousand. I am, dear madam, your most obliged servant, E. Robinson. LETTER XXXVIL From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu tot/ie Du- ■jJiess of Portland. Mav 7. Madam. I HAD begun a letter to your grace last post, but was interrupted by company ; then did I regret having left the humble and quiet habitation to which the idle and the noisy did not resort ; and where 1 had leisure to permit me to do what i did like, and no ceremonious duty to oblige me to do that I did not ; for what a mortification to leave writing to you to entertain — whom? Why, an honest boisterous sea captain, his formal wife, most wondrous civil daughter, and a very coxcombical son ; the good captain is so honest and so fierce, a bad con- science and a cool courage cannot abide him ; he thinks he lias a good title to reprove any man that is not as honest, and to beat any man that is not as valiant as himself ; he hates every vice of nature $ECT. HI. R E C E N T. 453 but wrath, and every corruption of the times but tyranny ; a patriot in his public character, but an absolute and angry monarch in his family j he thinks every man a fool in politics who is not angry, and a knave if he is not perverse : in- deed, the captain is v/ell in his element, and may appear gentle compared to the waves and wind, but on the happy quiet shore he seems a perfect whirlwind ; he is much fitter to hold converse with the hoarse Boreas in his wintry cavern, than to join in the whispers of Zephyrus in Flora's honeymoon of May. I was afraid, as he walked in the garden, that he would fright away the larks and nightingales ; and expected to see a flight of sea-gulls hovering about him : the amphibious pewet found him too much a water animal for his acquaintance, and fled with ter- ror. I was angry to find he was envious of admiral Vernon ; but considering his appetite to danger and thirst of glory, I endeavoured to excuse something of the fault : it is fine when danger becomes sport, and hardships voluptuousness. All this is brought about by the magic sound of fame. Dr. Young will tell us the same principle puts the feather in the hat of the beau, which erects the high plume in the helmet of the hero ; but if so, how gentle is the enchantment of the pretty man of praise, compared to the high madness of the bold hero of renown ! Very safely trips the red-heeled shoe, but most perilous is the tread of ho- nour's boot ! But a-j:ropO:, how do our scarlet beaux like this scheme of go- ing abroad? Do the pretty creatures, who mind no other thing but the ladies and the king, like to leave the drawhig- room and ridotto for camps and trenches ? Should the chance of war bring a slo- venly corpse betwixt the wind and their nobility, can they abide it? — Dare they behold friends dead, and enemies living? I think they will die of a panic, and save their enemies' powder. Well, they are proper gentlemen, heaven defend the nunneries ! as for the garrisons, they will be safe enough. The father con- fessors will have more consciences to quiet, than the surgeons will have wounds to dress ; I v/ould venture a wager Flan- ders increases in the christenings more than in the burials of the week. 1 am your grace's faithful and very affec- tionate E, Robinson. LETTER XXXVIII. From the same to the same. May 13, . Madam, I CANNOT express the pleasure your grace's letter gave me, after not having heard from you five weeks, nor indeed of you for the last fortnight. How can you say it is not in your power to make a return for my letters ! mine can only afford you a little amusement, yours, my dear lady duchess, give me real happi- ness. 1 hope you did not receive any harm from writing ; if your constitution is as naturally disposed as your mind to make a friend happy, I am sure you did not. My sister is just gone from me ; our first meeting under the same roof was this morning ; you will imagine we lengthened our happiness as long as the day ; this evening she retired a little the sooner, to give me time to write to your grace. I have not yet been at Mount Morris ; though I believe the infection maybe over, I am not willing to venture myself for the sake of the house, while the inhabitants of it can come to me here with much more ease to themselves, and better security to me. My habitation indeed is humble, but it has the best blessings of humility, peace and content. I think I never spent a happier day than this, though fortune gave no pageantry to the joy. Indeed we wanted none of that pomp that people make use of to signify happiness, but were glad to enjoy it free and alone. We talked of your grace ; I won't tell you what we said, for then you would say I was partial, and my friend complaisant ; however, my happiest hours are rendered more joyful by the remembrance of you, and my most melancholy less dismal. I can ne- ver want inclination to write to you, but that I may not want materials I cannot answer : first, you must know those who are impertinent in London are down- right dull in the country ; here is neither vice nor novelty ; and consider, if news and scandal are out of the question, what a drawback it is upon conversation ? If I could sit, and rightly spell, of every herb that sips the dew, &c., I might indeed be a very good correspondent : but being neither merry nor wise, what can you make of me ? Should I tell you of an in- trigue between the Moon and Endvmion^ _j^t^?iis*a?ffiv. >^'*^>^^ 454 ELEGANT EPISTLES. I3ooK IV. Aurora and Cephalus, or the people of our sky, you would not thank me for my news ; but except the plants of the earth, and the stars of heaven, what do I see here? My eyes, you know, are not fit for either minute speculations or distant prospects : however, I will own I am an admirer of a Narcissus, and now and then ogle the man in the moon through a glass. The first is as sweet as any beau, the second as changeable as any lover ; but I know Pen, who despises all beaux and lovers, will afford a regard to these ; therefore I imagine them worth my ac- quaintance. How impertinent is this in- terruption ! Must I leave your grace for such a trivial consideration as my sup- per ? They have sent me some chicken, but, alas ! can one eat one's acquaintance ! these inofTensive companions of my re- tirement, can I devour them ! How often have I lately admired the provident care and the maternal affection of a hen, and shall I eat her hopeful son or fair daugh- ter ! Sure I should then be an unworthy member of the chicken society. I find myself reduced to a vegetable diet, not as a Pythagorean, for fear of removing the soul of a friend, but to avoid destroy- ing the body of an acquaintance. There is not a sheep, a calf, a lamb, a goose, a hen, or a turkey in the neighbourhood, with which I am not intimately ac- quainted. When I shall leave my ark I don't know ; would my dove bring me an olive branch, in promise of peace, I would soon do it ; but I am in less haste, because here I have as much of my sis- ter's compatiy, or more, than I can quietly enjoy there ; and a certain per- son seems I can never describe how, nor tell why, but they look a little awful, and pish ! and phoo ! with a dig- nity age will never give me ; really it is droll, and some things I have seen lately would furnish out scenes for a play ; to me indeed it would be neither comedy nor tragedy ; I can neither laugh at what I don't like, nor cry for what I don't deserve. I am very cautious as to my conversation, for I never pretend to think, or to know, or to hear, or to see. I am a sceptic, and doubt of all things ; and as a mediator between my opinion and all positive affirmation, make use of an — It seems to me, and r— Perhaps, and — It may he; and then I can tack about to the right point of the compass at a short warning. The other day. seeing Dr. Middleton's book upon the table, they discoursed the whole matter over, and set things in so new a light, that I was extremely entertained for two hours, though I had full exercise in following with my assent all that was advanced ; we condemned Cicero for folly, Cato for cowardice, Brutus for sub- jection, Cassius for gaiety ; and then we talked it all back again, and left them the very men we found them ; for you must know there are persons, who, if no one will contradict them, will contra- dict themselves rather than not debate. I am very glad to hear those I value so much as Pen, Dash, and Don, love me ; but I approve their prudence in not telling me so too often, for I am by na- ture prone to vanity. Indeed, as to Dash, I have been the aggressor, and I have not a good title to complain of Mrs. Pendarvis ; but as to Mrs. Donnellan, she has not wrote to me this age ; I hope they are all well, and desire my compli- ments, or, in a style which better suits the simplicity and sincerity of my man- ners, my love. I need not say I am al- ways glad, and I dare not say desirous, to hear from you : let me never inter- rupt your pleasure, nor hurt your health ; but when you have a moment in which it will be agreeable to you to write, re- member, my dear lady duchess, that you can bestow it on one whom it will make happy ; indeed there are many who may assert that claim, but no one is with more gratitude, esteem, affection, and constancy, yours, &c. &c. . E. R. LETTER XXXIX. 'Prom Mrs. 'Elizabeth Montagu to the Du- chess of Portland. May 30, . Madam, I BELIEVE the admiral's letter did not make his wife happier than it did me, as it came to me accompanied with one from your grace. Indeed my regard for him is much increased by this letter. Before I honoured him as great, but now I love him as good ; and I must tell you, that after all his account of his brave exploits, I was much pleased with his friendly compliment to honest Will Fisher. I was charmed too Avith his af- fectionate expression of love to his chil- Sect. III. RECENT. 455 dren. The noise of war, and the trum- pet of fame, is apt to render a man deaf to the voice of nature while he is in the pursuit of glory ; but I cannot imagine that a brave man, who is least checked by the timorous counsel of self-love, should not be of all others most open to the love of his family and friends. Your grace will think perhaps, that, like Des- demona, I shall be won by some story, passing strange, of hair breadth 'scapes in the imminent and deadly breach ; but really I am sensible I should make a weak rib for a hero ; and, considering that while his heart throbbed with cou- rage mine might pant with fear, I shall not aspire to a man who has more courage than suffices to head the militia and trained bands, whenever it may be necessary for his country that they should march from St. Paul's to Westminster. May he seek peace and ensue it at home and abroad. Let Minerva teach him all her peaceful arts, and Apollo instruct liim in any soft accomplishments ; but may the fell Bellona, and fierce Mars, never breathe the spirit of war into him ! In the realm of fame I could not reign his consort, but must be left his melan- choly relict. My love being become, like the nymph Echo, nothing but voice, much he would be praised, but first he must be buried ; nor will an envious world utter their commendations, till the ear that merited them is deaf. Then those praises he could not hear for his reward, I should hear to my regret. I remember a story of a disconsolate wi- dow, whose rank did not set her above truth, following her husband's corpse with many lamentations, but the most bitter was. Oh ! where shall such an- other be gotten ! — Now this irreparable circumstance makes me tremble for Mrs. Vernon, for there is none such, no not one, should the admiral be slain. Now for the beaux, the same tailor makes an- other as good at a reasonable rate, and without loss of time ; he makes a buck- ram man as fast as Falstaif ; it is but change of raiment, when the coat is the merit of the man ; nor does one expect the beau, who is but a suit of satin, to last like the hero, who is a coat of mail. I am very glad of what your grace tells me of the lawsuit. I hope Mr. Harley has got his book again. I am very sorry for the duchess of Leeds' misfortune; if a fright would have made her mis- carry, I don't know but her grace might have suffered by the capers of a certain miss Hoyden of our acquaintance. As for my eyes, which you obligingly in- quire after, I cannot say, in the common phrase, that they are at your service, for really they are not under my command ; I foUow your grace's advice, I do not work at all, and I read by my sister's eyes. 1 thought I had told you a fort- night ago (but I see by the direction of your letter I have not), that I had left Mr. Smith's, and was come to a room my mamma had furnished for me, in a farm at the bottom of our gates, where she could more conveniently visit me than at a greater distance ; and she thought I should grow less afraid of the house, by being near it. I was glad to come here, for I knew I should have every thing I wanted from Mount Mor- ris, and I had a room for a maid, and all was neat and clean, and I could be as much alone as I pleased ; and to tell you the truth, I believe that circum- stance has helped to make my eyes bad, for before 1 had seen my sister I was alone all the evenings, and I used to read more than was prudent ; now I do nothing at all, and take great care of myself, I should grieve to be forced to see with other people's eyes, but that I reflect it is what the first man in every kingdom does : and what the powerful choose, the weak may well submit to. I have dined at Mount Morris these two days, but they will not let me go up stairs yet ; this affords me the comfort of seeing other people are more fearful for me than I am for myself, though I acquit myself of the duty of caution most rigidly. I believe your grace never saw so humble a dwelling as mine ; it is high enough for Content, which is of middling stature, but high Ambition would break its head in the entrance. If I was poetically inclined I should write a pastoral, but the Muses do not haunt these shades ; the poet's laurel and the lover's willow grow not in our groves ; honest oak for timber, and un- derwood for firing, with conveniences for life, are produced, but no ornaments for story. I would describe my habita- tion if I had time, but it is late, and my eyes insist upon punctuality. I am greatly diverted with your account of the ancient coquette and antiquated fop Could not she find out in sixty years u^ ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book iVr what David wisely said in his haste? May we all better improve our leisure. Oh, should I at the fatal hour, when all hloom hut that of my topknot has left me, endeavour to charm, pray, my dear lady duchess, give me a hint, that there is an innocent period in which a woman is not young or old enough to bewitch ; those remonstrances wisdom and you will preach like ; but I see the cherry- coloured tabby and love hood are by the Destinies laid up in the India cabinet for me. I am very glad the duke is better in health, and beg your grace would tell him so. I am Mr. Achard's very hum- ble servant : how humble and hov*^ civil does the apprehension of age make one ! All this is jest. 1 am resolved to remain always Avhat I am in the unalterable particular of being your grace's faithful, grateful, and affectionate Fidget. My best wishes attend the dear, dear little ones : you say the marquis is naughty to mortify me ; if he was always in the same humour, one should think he had no fancy ; allow some whims for his age and sex. It is very good in your grace and lady Andover to think of me. LETTER XL. Uizaheth Monta^ chess of Portland. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Du- Mount Morris, June 25, 1741. Madam, I HOPE 1 shall now be able to write to your grace with more ease than 1 have done lately : the last time I wrote to you I was ill, and my eyes were very painful ; but now 1 am happy in the recovery of my eyes, and have no pain or uneasiness but in my heart, which aches for my dearest friend. It owes you so many days of joy and satisfaction, it cannot repine at paying you those sympathizing hours of anguish, which any misfortune that touches you can require. It will be great joy to me to hear you keep your health, a,nd in some degree recover your tran- quillity of mind ; indeed the best senti- ments of nature require you should grieve ; but, at the same time, all pre- cedents and examples of fortune demand that you should again be comforted. The law of nature is indispensable, the commands of necessity unavoidable. A comparison is the measure by which we judge. Look on the misfortunes of others : the present public calamity will afford many examples of unhappiness. How many mothers have here lo&t the only support of their age, and comforts of their life ; and by the very messenger whom they hoped to have heard their sons were honoured and advanced by victory and triumph, they learned they were conquered and murthered, a sacri- fice to their country ! — even thinks their defith a fault ; and censure speaks so loudly of the action, the gentle voice of pity does not plead for them ; this is in- deed a death of horrors, when the aid of reflection, the comfort and assistance of friends, and the interposition of repent- ance and prayers is far off ; when reli- gion and hope do not encourage, but terror and dismay are on every side, with haste and confusion, sad convoy to eter- nity ! Is there (for, my dear duchess, you know the tenderest affections of the nearest relation) so sad a case as that of a parent that loses the promise of many years, the flattering hope of a life of care — their only child? Think, too, how many wives this fatal expedition may have robbed of the happiness and the very support of their beings ; having now lost their maintenance and friend together, they are left with their chil- dren to all the temptations of want and mean insinuations of poverty. If they can withstand these, how many enemies have they still left to cope with ! The outrages of the powerful, the insolence of the rich, scorn of the proud, and ma- lice of the uncharitable, all beating against the broken spirit of the unfortu- nate. Many unhappy sisters must now be deprived of the friend and guardian of their youth, orphans and unfriended before, with only this relation to sup- port them in a world dangerous and malicious to youth ; here they were pro- mised the sincerest friendship under the tenderest name, and perhaps hopeful and ambitious for this their dearest ob- ject, have persuaded their brother to this life of hazard, and are now left for ever to repent that which they can never re- dress. How hard is it to avoid misfor- tunes for those to whom idleness is im- proper ! Where does ambition, or indeed reasonable industry, call, that consci- Sect. 111. HECENt. 457 eiice, honour, or safety, is not some- times hazarded ? This world has much of grief ; through life we feel it, and in death we give it, to those whom to de- fend from it we would have lived or died as best were for their interest. But let us, as far as we can, shorten our sor- row and lengthen our joys ; it is our duty to do so ; our journey is but short, it is well to be guided in it by patience and accompanied by hope, and it will seem easier ; long it can't appear : ' ' We are such stuff as dreams are made of ; our little life is bounded by a sleep." I must bid your grace adieu much sooner than I would choose, but lord Rockingham is just arrived, and dinner will be upon table in a moment. If I can keep my eyes in a seeing condition, you shall hear from me constantly. Lady Oxford, I hope, is not entirely cast down. I am, dear madam, your grace's most obe- dient, most obliged, faithful, and affec- tionate servant, E. Rosinson. LETTER XLL From the same to the same. July 3, 1741. Madam, Forty lines could not contain the thanks due for the four I received from your grace : I am much obliged to you for not delaying a moment to make me happy by your good news '^' ; 1 wish you all joy upon it, and to the most noble and excellent duke also : I was in fine spirits all the rest of the day, and my pace and motion was so quick, that had 1 been in any room with china or brit- tle ware, I might have proved very de- trimental to it ; but as it was, I did only some slight damage to my wearing ap- parel : for jumping into my brother's study to give him part of my joy, I rent my garment in such a manner, that if I had not carried a joyful countenance, he would have imagined I had done it upon ill news, according to the old custom ; indeed, I made a fine confusion in his room ; Seneca, Socrates, and Plato, were never in their lives so discomposed with joy ; but all degrees of learning, from the mighty folio to the little pocket vo- * The success of the duke in his important lawsuit. lume, were put into disorder ; the light pamphlets fluttered about, and in short it was long ere peace and silence re- gained their power in this their empire of wisdom. It is not usual to have such sudden occasions of joy in the country : if we are a little brisker than what is called very dull, it is sufficient ; mirth here is reckoned madness, gaiety is idle- ness, and wit a crying sin. The parson preaches to its annoy, and much in its: contempt ; the justice magisterially con- demns it, the young squire (like a true Briton) hates it as foreign ; but indif- ference is so easy, and dulness so safe^ every one recommends the method ; they lend their precept and example too to help it forward ; who hates the dull, or who envies them? who can or who would disturb them ? but for the witty, they carry such a dangerous spleen they are not to be suffered in a civil society. Among many reasons for being stupid it may be urged, it is being like other peo- ple, and living like one's neighbours, and indeed without it, it may be difficult to love some neighbours as oneself : now seeing the necessity of being dull, you won't, I hope, take it amiss that you find me so, but consider I am involved in mists from the sea, and that the tem- perament of the air and the manners of the place contribute to my heaviness. It provokes me to hear people that live in a fog talk of the smoke of London, and that they cannot breathe there : a pro- per reason for them to stay aw^ay, who were made for nothing but to breathe. But people in town have other signs of life. But to the good folks that talk in that manner, nothing is an obstruction of life but an asthma ! Oh, may their lungs never be troubled with a phthi- sic, since they think wheezing the only misfortune ! Poor Alma with them re- sides in a pair of bellows, and has no- thing to do but to puff. We have a gen- tleman in our neighbourhood, who, not content with his own natural dulness (though, without partiality, no man has more), has purchased ten thousand vo- lumes at two-pence a volume. Now ex- cept the deep-learned and right reverend Dr. , I do not believe any one ever grew learned from such a study of their fathers ; yet I cannot but imagine my neighbour bought this collection for the instruction of his sons ; for not being young, he ran never hope to read half 458 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV these books, and they are not sumptu- ous enough in their appearance to give any suspicion of vanity in him : but see the perverse turn of human things ! as the bishop abovementioned did from the bottom of the mince-pie collect books, 1 fear these young men will from their books make a mince-pie. It is a great mortification to me that I do not visit this family, for they are certainly the most extraordinary personages in the county ; the father was , till this parlia- ment, a senator, a man of few words, but less meaning, when in the House, on common occasions very prating and im- pertinent ; yet he has sold his voice, empty as it is, at such low gains as he could get. His wife, an awkward wo- man, he has always kept in the country to nurse seven or eight daughters, after his own manner, and the success has answered the design ; he has taught them that all finery lies in a pair of red- heeled shoes ; and as for diversion (or as I suppose they call it, fun), there is nothing like blindman's buff. Thus dressed, and thus accomplished, he brought them to our races, and carried them to the ball, where, poor girls, they expected to be pure merry, and to play at puss in the corner, and hunt the whistle ; but seeing there was nothing but footing, which they had never been suffered to do in their shoes, and right hand and left, which their father thought too much for women to know, they fell asleep, as they had often been used to do, without their supper. The sons, for fear they should die, are not to be taught how to live ; they are kept at home, be- cause one boy of theirs died at school : see the advantage we have in living so far from the great city ! You have no such good folks in Buckinghamshire : there your grace saw a fine importation of S 's ; they had not one article of behaviour so untaught as to appear na- tural ; these have not one manner that seems acquired by art : the two families would make a fine contrast ; pray do but figure the mademoiselles Catherinas ad- vancing in state to meet these jumping Joans ; to be sure, seeing madame cour- tesy so low, they would think she meant to play at leap-frog, and would jump over her head before she got to the ex- tremest sink of her courtesy. But you will say, what are these people to you ? because you keep the very medium of politeness, must you be troubled Avith those that are in the bad extremes of behaviour ! Why, really I believe you can have no notion of such awkward- ness as this, who have only kept the best company. 1 must tell you, madam, you can know but a little of the world by keeping company with such people as Pen and Dash ; they are quite in a different style from the rest of the world ; indeed, when your humility stoops to one Fidget, you may know what is meant by the word awkwardness ; but if she has the honour of living with you, she will be very apt to alter ; for I think she is of a nature flexible to example : and if she does but imitate, in any degree, as she admires, she will endeavour to ap- pear, what it is her ambition to be thought, entirely yours, Eliz. Robinson. P. S. I beg your grace to present my compliments to my lord duke, and Mr. Achard, and some kisses to the little angels. LETTER XLIL From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Rev, Mr. and Mrs. Freind. Bullstrode, Tuesday 24th, 1741. Two so united in my thoughts shall not be separated in my words ; so, my good cousins, accept my salutations from the country. I took leave of our smoky metropolis on Monday morning, and changed the scene for one better suited to the season. The agreeable freedom I live in, and the rural beauties of the place, would persuade me I was in the plains of Arcadia; but the magnificence of the building, under whose gilded roofs I dwell, have a pomp far beyond pastoral. In one thing I fall short of Chloe and Phillis, I have no Pastor fido, no languishing Corydon to sigh with the zephyrs, and complain to the murmur- ing brooks ; but those things are unne- cessary to a heart taken up, and suffi- ciently softened by friendship. Here I know Mrs. Freind and you shake your heads, and think a little bergerie a pro- per amusement for the country ; but, in my opinion, friendship is preferable to love. The presence of a friend is de- lightful, their absence supportable ; de- licacy without jealousy, and tenderness Sect. Ill, RECENT. 459 without weakness, transports without madness, and pleasure without satiety. No fear that caprice should destroy what reason established ; but even time, which perfects friendship, destroys love. I may now say this to you, who, from constant lovers, are become faithful friends. I congratulate your change ; to have passed from hope to security, and from admira- tion to esteem. If you knew the charm- ing friend I am with, you would not wonder at my encomiums upon friend- ship, which she makes one taste in its greatest perfection. I have greater pleasure in walking in these fine gar- dens because they are hers ; and indeed the place is very delightful. I am sorry to think I have lost so much sunshine in town. Society and coal fires are very proper for frost ; but solitude and green trees for summer. Then the care selvc heate come in season, and Philomel sings sweeter than Farinelli. The beasts of the field, and the birds of the air, are better company than the beau monde ; and a butterfly and a magpye, in my opinion, are at all times better company than a fop or a coxcomb. It is the ne- cessity of the one to be gaudy, and of the other to chatter; but where folly and foppery are by choice, my contempt must attend the absurdity. I like an owl, very often, better than an alder- man ; a spaniel better than a courtier ; and a hound is more sagacious than a fox-hunter ; for a fox-hunter is only the follower of another creature's instinct, and is but a second instrument in the important affair of killing a fox. I could say a great deal more of them, if supper was not ready ; so leaving you to balance their merits, and determine their sagacity, I must take my leave, only desiring my compliments to Mrs. Freind and the Doctor ; if, at his years and wisdom, things so trifling as wo- men and compliments can take any place in his remembrance. Pray let me hear from the writing half very soon ; the husband is always allowed to be the head, and I think in your family he is the hand too. A letter directed to Bull- strode, by Gerrard's bag, will find and rejoice your most faithful friend and af- fectionate cousin, Eliz. Robinson^'. * This letter properly belongs to a former year, and to some previous visit to Bullstrode; but having no other date than Tuesday, 2-Uh, LETTER XLIII. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to Miss S. Robinson. Bullstrode. My dear sister, I WAS ashamed, sorry, disappointed, and a hundred other things, that the re- miss and lazy deserve to be, that I could not write to you last post. My inclina- tion to write to you is well known ; so that I need not assure you the omission was not by choice. The truth was, my eyes not being well, I was reduced to have a blister on my back. Well may it bend to such a weight of calamity ! The punishments of sinful mortals generally fall on the rear. The ill-bred man is kicked, the pilfering soldier, the trans- gressing nymph, the idle vagabond, all receive lashes on the back. We are now a small family in comparison of our usual number. The duke, Mrs. Pendarvis, lord George, and Mr. Green, are all gone to town, the gentlemen for the birth-day, and do not return till Sun- day. We are now quite a little party, but as cheerful as if we had a whole world to laugh with. Indeed we have it to laugh at, which is a safer amuse- ment. Your description of the ball and supper is excellent. It was all a la daube. I am glad you went away before the Scene of the shambles was opened. To be sure, our friend thought he was mak- ing a carrion entertainment for my lord Thanet's hounds. Thomas Diafoirus, who asked his mistress to see a dissec- tion, did not ofl'er a more absurd enter- tainment than this feast of mangled limbs. The duchess of Kent and Dr. Young, have long left us. You would like Dr. Young ; he has nothing of the gall of satire in his conversation, but many pretty thoughts, and a particular regard for women when they are good. I have laid aside the Arcadia till Mrs. Pendarvis comes, who is fond of it, and the duchess and I have agreed that she shall read it to us. I have been quite tired of the hero ever since I caught him napping. I believe I mentioned the famous mask of Alfred to you in my last ; it is now published. In the first scene I stumbled into a gulphy pool, the year cannot be ascertained. The date 1741, is added to recal to the reader the pro- gress of the series. 460 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, and a trembling quagmire ; it is a sub- lime piece of nonsense, with very few good things in it. 1 have not read it all, but I have made no impatient in- quiries after it. 1 think tlie plot seems not unlike Gustavus Vasa, a hero in distress, whose je ne sgai quoi heroical fashion, in taking a walk, or sitting down on a bank, betray an air of ma- jesty, that you know may be a compli- ment to our countrymen, to shew how sagacious they are ; or that, like lions, they can smell the blood royal ; but no instinct of that sort, except sir John Fal- staflPs, has ever pleasefl me. When I am pretty well, I go into a tub of cold water. My dreams are not like those of the Persian monarch in the Spectator, or I would send you them. By a violent hurry in my head I find I am not in my element, but ever desire to resemble lord G , who complains of being a goose out of water. I am, my dear sister, yours most af- fectionately, E. Robinson, LETTER XLIV. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to Mr.^, Donnellaii. Bullstrode, Jan 1, 1742. Dear Mrs. Donnellan, Though there is no day of the year in which one does not wish all happi- ness to one's friends, this is the day in which the heart goes forth in particular vows and wishes foi* the welfare of those it loves. It is the birth of a new year, whose entrance we would salute, and hope auspicious : nor is this particular mark of time of little use ; it teaches us to number our days, which a wise man thought an incitement to the well spend- ing them ; and indeed, did we consider how much the pleasure and profit of our lives depends upon an oeconomy of our time, we should not waste it, as v/e do, in idle repentance or reflection on the past, or i vain unuseful regard for the future. In our youth we defer being prudent till we are old, and look forv/ard to a pro- mise of wisdom as the portion of latter years : when v/e are old we seek not to improve, and scarce employ ourselves ; looking backward to our youth, as to the day of our diligence, and take a pride in laziness, saying we rest as after the accomplishment of our undertak- ings ; but we ought to ask for our daily merit as for our daily bread. The mind no more than the body can be sustained by the food taken yesterday, or promised for to-morrow. Every day ought to be considered as a period apart : some vir- tue should be exercised, some knowledge improved, and the value of happiness well understood ; some pleasure compre- hended in it ; some duty to ourselves or others must be infringed, if any of these things are neglected. Many look upon the present day as only the day before to-morrow, and wear it out with a weary impatience of its length. I pity these people, who are ever in pursuit, but never in possession ; and I think their happi- ness must arrive as we date our promises to children, when two to-morrows come together. We are taught that there is a prudence in neglecting the present time for the future, when, alas ! our fate de- ceives us, and we labour for others ; for, as says our poet, " H(; ihat to future times extends his cares. Deals in other tiien's affairs." We ought so to enjoy the present as not to hurt the future. 1 would wish myself as little anxious as possible about the future, for the event of things generally mocks our foresight, and eludes our care, and shows us that vain is the labour of anxiety. The man was laughed at as a blunderer, who said in a public business, " V/e do much for posterity, I would fain see them do something for us." I have no notion of doing every thing for the future, while it does nothing for us. Shall I give fate to-day without knowing whether it will pay me with to-morrow ? The adventurers for hope are bankrupts of content : may the sun every day this year, when it rises, find you well with yourself, and at its setting leave you happy with your friends. Let it be rather the felicity of ease and pleasure than the extasy of mirth and joy ! May your mind repose in virtue and truth, and never in indolence or negligence ! That you al- ready know much, is the best incite- ment to know more ; if you study trifles, you neglect two of the best things in tlie world, knowledge and your ov/n under- standing. I wish v/e were as much afraid of unbending the mind as we are of re- laxing our nerves ; 1 should as soon be afraid of stretching a glove till it was too strait, as of making tlie understandingr Sect. III. R E C E N T. 461 and capacity narrow by extendrng' it to things of a large comprehension ; yet this is a common notion. I beg* of 3^011 to reserve Monday morning for me, and I will spend it all with you. On Tuesday I set out for ]?iIount Morris, and on Sun- day night Pen desires you to be at her house. I hope to return to yoii in the beginning of March, for between two and three months ; I wish we may con- trive to be much together then, and will do my part towards it ; I am the easier in this parting, as the meeting again is so near at hand. Our happy society is just breaking up, but I will think of it with gratitude, and not witli regret, and thank Fate for the joyful hours she lent me, without blaming her for putting a stop to them. Hers is the distaff that spins the golden thread as well as the scissars that cut it. This year does not promise me such pleasure as the last has afforded me here, but the fairest gifts of fate come often unexpected. I hope this year will be happy to me, the last was much encumbered with fears and anxiety, and I had not much health in it, yet I was concerned at taking leave of it yesterday ; I had not for it the tender- ness one feels for a friend, or the grati- tude one has to a benefactor ; but I was reconciled to it as to an old acquaintance : it had not enriched nor (I fear) improved me ; but it suffered me, and admitted my friends : I am sorry too when 1 am made to compute that I am tending to- wards a season of less gaiety, for there are few things worth being serious about. Follies, that are our diversion when we are young, are apt to be our trouble w^hen we grow more prudent ; a fool too, which now we laugh at, w^e shall then detest ; and those vices we meet abroad, that now in a pride of virtue we despise, we shall from observation of their ill effects sadly fear and hate ; our disposition Avill be changed from seeing to feeling vice and folly, from being spectators we shall become sufferers. You ask me how the desire of talking is to be cured ? I don't know the recipe, and you don't want it. The duchess thanks you for your letter, and Y>ill an- swer it by word of mouth. I am sorry you have been low spirited, but I can never like you the less for it. Mutual friendships are built on mutual wants ; were you perfectly happy, you would not want me : but there is no being but the One perfect who is alone and without companion and equal. Imperfection wants and seeks assistance. 1 am, dear madam, &c. Eliz. Robinson. LETTER XLV. Fro])> Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to Miss S. Robinson. Biillstrodc, 1741-2. My dear sister. This day did not begin with the auspi- cious appearance of a letter from you. I am glad it is not the first day of the year, for I might have been superstitious upon it. I wish it may be our lot to find in the next year what we wanted in the last. But, alas ! time steals the most precious pleasures from us ; our life i& like a road, where every shovv' that has. passed leaves but a track, that makes re- membrance and reflection rugged. Where gay pleasures have swiftly passed, un- sightly marks remain, and observation is much longer displeased than ever it was delighted. I am loth to part with an old year as with an old acquaintance ; not that I have to it the gratitude one feels to a benefactor, or the affection one bears to a friend. I have one particular obligation to this year, as it has insured you from the danger of the small-pox, w^hich, with a violent hand, takes at once what time steals more gently. This year, too, has allowed us many happy months together ; 1 hope the rest will do the same, else they will come un- welcome, and depart unregTCtted. I pity miss Anstey for the loss of her agreeable cousin and incomparable lover. For my part, I would rather have a merry sinner for a lover than so serious a saint. I wish he had left her a good legacy. I must tell you the duchess drinks your health in particular every other day : lady Oxford dmes with her one dayy and I the other. You will be acquainted with her grace next win- ter, and Mrs. Pendarvis, and the rest of her friends, whose company you will like very well. Mrs. Dounellan tells me she has a closet in Mr. Perceval's new house, which is to hold none but friends, and friends' friends. I fancy you will not dislike the society. Adieu, my dearest sister ; if I could dream of you it would 462 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. induce me to keep my bed for a week together, so I think it is better that I do not. I am, &c. &c. E. Robinson. P. S. This day se'niiight I shall be with you, and the good family at Hor- ton, telling a winter's tale by the fire- side. Oh ! that we were all to meet there that once graced that fire-side, even the goodly nine, thanking my fa- ther and mother for all the life they im- parted to us, and have since supported ! I hope the flock is safe, and our meet- ing reserved for some of the golden days of fate. I wish you all a happy new year, that shall bring you much plea- sure, and leave no repentance behind. May it increase your knowledge, with- out giving ye sighs of experience ! LETTER XLVI. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland. Mount Morris, Jan. 15, 1741-2. Madam, In your reasons for writing to me there was both judgment and mercy. For all the good things you do, no heart does better thank you than mine ; and, let me tell your grace, there is nothing belongs to me so good as my heart. As for be- ing the guest of my head, and the chief image of my fancy, 'tis true you are so, but the place and the company there are unworthy of you ; enthroned in my brain sits many a prejudice triumphant, much space entirely void, a desolate waste : some corners stuffed with lumber, and littered with unsorted matter ; things by haste misshapen, by idle memory de- formed, by ignorance darkened, or by error and folly strangely disguised ; rea- son deposed by will, judgment manacled in the bonds of prejudice, reflection bu- sied about trifles, fancy running wild, observation looking through false co- lours, and confounding and mistaking objects, discretion sitting idle, because reason's comparative rule and balance are taken from her, and whim is doing all the business, while chance is sending her on a fool's errand. But my heart, I can boast, is fitter for your reception ; it is filled with fair affections, love and gratitude wait on you, esteem holds you fast, regard will never part with you, tenderness watches you, fidelity, and every honest power, is ready to serve you, the passions are all under the gen- tle sway of friendship. Many guests my heart has not admitted, such as arc there do it honour, and a long and inti- mate acquaintance has preceded their admittance ; they were invited in by its best virtues, they passed through the examination of severity, nay even an- swered some questions of suspicion that inquired of their constancy, and since- rity, but now they are delivered over to the keeping of constant faith and love ; for doubt never visits the friend entered, but only examines such as would come in, lest the way should be too common. There are many ways into my heart, and but one out, which is to be forced but by outrageous injury, or breach of trust reposed. I am obliged to your grace for your wishes of fair weather ; sunshine gilds every object, but, alas ! January is but cloudy weather. How few seasons boast many days of calm ! April, which is the blooming youth of the year, is as famous for hasty showers as for gentle sunshine ; May, June, and July, have too much heat and violence ; the au- tumn withers the summer's gaiety ; and in the winter the hopeful blossoms of spring and fair fruits of summer are decayed, and storms and clouds arise ; nature is out of humour at her loss, be- wails her youth and strength worn out, and fairest seasons past : thus is it, too, with us. In our youth gentle expecta- tion, and kind hope, like soft zephyrs, fan our minds, but fear often waters our tender wishes with sad tears ; in the ma- turer seasons of life passions grow strong and violent, though more constant ; in the decline appears melancholy decay ; softness and strength gone ofl^, while dismal age brings despair of amend- ment, and makes the pleasure of youth and profit of the riper age forgotten ; unpleasant, unprofitable, uncomforta- ble, dark and dreary in itself, an enemy to every thing in nature, churlish and unkind, it casts no benevolent beams, but blows rude and biting blasts. Happy and worthy are those few, whose youth is not impetuous nor their age sullen ; they indeed should be esteemed, and their hap- py influence courted. I am glad to see lord George's frank upon the letter, a person must have a good deal of power to make any thing pass but by the road Skct. III. RECENT* 403 of g-aiu in our world ; I am much obliged to his lordship for exhorting your grace to write to me, and desire my thanks on that head, with congratulations on his new dignity ; may he grow in grace and wig daily, and an honourable and reve- rend cravat shall not be wanting. I have been very well since I came here, my face has acquired no new faults ; it has seen too many days to expect to be mended by them, and were beauty im- mortal, frail vanity would not be so ; and the first, without the latter, would not delight. I am glad, however, my face has not swelled with the frost ; for I am so uneasy under objects of terror, that I would by no means be frightful, out of compassion to my friends : my counte- nance has never wounded any man, and Heaven forbid it should make a lady miscarry ! My sister and I are going out for air and exercise ; how poor mortals labour to be healthy and happy ! but health and happiness are fugitive things. I shall send my brother word he may have the books when Mr. Carter's exe- cutors want them. Poor Morris is in deep affliction, and indeed his friend de- served his utmost concern : he was with him in his last agonies ; a grief his ten- der nature could hardly support. I be- lieve though Mr. Carter was not of a gay disposition he was happy. If sense and virtue could make a person happy, he was so ; and if it cannot, what is this world ? Virtue is all that is within our power, other circumstances of felicity are given alike to all ; sure, therefore, equitable Heaven knows that virtue alone outweighs them all : *' If there's a power above us, as that there is All nature cries aloud, he must delight in goodness, And that which he delights in must be happy." My brother is very unfortunate to have the first year of his life thus darkened by misfortune ; he has health and a cheerful nature to carry him through, but my heart bleeds for him. I am pro- voked and grieved in spirit, to hear some people wonder at his taking the trouble to go up to town to take care of a per- son who was not related to him, and they express great surprise at his being afliicted : I assure you it is the senti- ment of the great city of Canterbury, though many there would have gone twice as far to have saved a vole at qua- drille. My brother Robinson was in town but a few hours, and meeting with the ill news of a friend's death, and finding his brother in affliction, I ima- gine he was scarce able to wait upon your grace, nor do I suppose he had any dress unpacked that was proper to make his appearance in at Whitehall. I am glad you go into public places so as to keep yourself diverted : dissipation is the best thing for the health and spirits ; and 1 am at present too ready to judge this world does not deserve our collected thoughts ; there is so much misery and disappointment, it is not well to reflect and examine too deeply. The scenes of the world are gay, and the show delights our imagination, but the drama will hardly bear the criticisms of reason; fools and knaves are the principal actors, and many a villainous plot and sad catastrophe one beholds upon the stage of life ; it is best to look on with an equal mind : " Hurt, can we lausch ; and honest, need we cry ?" It is wisest to neglect all follies, and for- give all vices but our own. I hear Dr. Clarke is going to be made a bishop, and I hope the news is true, for, with reve- rence be it spoken, I am of opinion even the venerable bench wants a supply of charity and wit, and in both he abounds ; may his spirit animate the clay (and dough) of some of his mitred brethren, with whose mitres are entwined the nodding poppy rather than the laurels that adorn the learned head. I have wrote your grace an unreasonably long letter, but I cannot release you till I have desired my compliments to my lord duke and Mr. Achard ; a thousand kisses to the little angels ; twenty of which are to the marquis's chin, and twenty more to the silver curls in lady Margaret's neck. To Mrs. Donnellan, Mrs. Pen- darvis. Dash, and Mrs. Dewes, my kind remembrance ; to all that remember me my friendly recollection ; to such as for- get me my hearty forgiveness and entire oblivion ; so being in affection with my friends, and charity with my ene- mies, and easy indifference about the bulk of the world, I will look after my future provision. I am now going to read Dr. Gastrel's book. If Mrs. Pen does not send me the World she pro- mised me, I will Aveep in the style of 464 ELEGANT EPISTLES, Book IV. Alexander the Great, not indeed as that madman did, for a world to quarrel with, but for one to agree with. 1 want the kingdom of the just, such a long and pacific reign would suit me mightily, but this rapid world I like not much. Tinie, and the wheel of fortune, run too fast for my speed ; but in a thousand years I should have leisure for every thing. My brother Tom is reading to me, my sister is pulling me by the sleeve, all are fa- vouring my meditations. I like your account of lord S ; your grace has :as complaisant a way of calling a person :dull as ever I knew ; I dare say his lord- ship did not stare at you. All your obliged humble servants here beg their compliments, my sister in particular. I am, madam, your grace's most obedient, anost obliged, and ever grateful, E. Robinson. P. S. Thef direction Mrs. Pendarvis is to have for the book is. To be left for me at Mrs. Pembroke's, grocer, without St. George's gate, Canterbury. I have been blooded according to Dr. Mead's order ; I am sure he takes me for a ter- magant, and is desirous of bringing my spirit under ; but great souls are invinci- Me, and you see by my affections and aversions he has not reduced me to apa- fcliy ; if he should, he would be a loser by it, for I have him in high regard and esteem. LETTER XLVIL From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Rev. Dr. Shaw, F. R. S., 6fc. 8fc.-^ Rev. sir. You will perhaps think me rather too liasty in my congratulations if I wish you joy of being going to be married, whereas it is generally usual to stay till people really are so before we offer to make our compliments. But joy is a very transi- tory thing ; therefore I am willing to seize on the first occasion ; and as I ima- gine you are glad you are going to be married, I wish you joy of that gladness ; for whether you will be glad after you are married is more than mortal wight can determine ; and having prepared my- self to rejoice with you, I should be loth * This anonymous letter was written by miss Robinson, and sent to Dr. Shaw, the traveller, at the instigation, and for the amusement, of the duchess of Portland ^nd her society., to defer writing till, perliaps, you were become sorrowful ; I must therefore in prudence prevent your espousals. 1 would not have you imagine I shall treat matri- mony in a ludicrous manner ; it is impos- sible for a man, who, alas ! has had two wives, to look upon it as a jest, or think it a light thing ; indeed it has several advantages over a single life. You, that have made many voyages, know that a tempest is better than a dead calm ; and matrimony teaches many excellent les- sons, particularly patience and submis- sion, and brings with it all the advan- tages of reproof, and the great profit of remonstrances. These indeed are only temporal benefits ; but besides, any wife will save you from purgatory, and a dili- gent one will secure heaven to you. If you would atone for your sins, and do a work meet for repentance, marry. Some people wonder how Cupid has been able to wound a person of your prowess ; you, who wept not with the crocodile, listened not to the Sirens, stared the basilisk in the face, whistled to the rat- tlesnake, went to the masquerade with Proteus, danced the hays with Scylla and Charybdis, taught the dog of the Nile to fetch and carry, walked cheek-by-jowl with a lion, made an intimacy with a ti- ger, wrestled with a bear, and, in short, have lived like an owl in the desert, or a pelican in the wilderness ; after defying monsters so furious and fell, that you should be overcome by an arrow out of a little urchin's quiver, is amazing ! Have you not beheld the mummies of the beauteous Cleopatra, and of the fair consorts of the Ptolemies, vrithout one amorous sigh ! And now to fall a victim to a mere modern human widow is most unworthy of you ! What qualities has a v/oman, that you have not vanquished ! Her tears are not more apt to betray than those of the crocodile, she is hardly as deceitful as the Siren, less deadly, I believe, than the basilisk or rattlesnake, scarce as changeable as Proteus, nor more dangerous than Scylla and Cha- rybdis, as docile and faithful as the dog of the Nile, sociable as the lion, and mild, sure, as the tiger ! As her quali- ties are not more deadly than those of the animals you have despised, what is it that has conquered you ? Can it be her beauty ? Is she as handsome as the empress of the woods ? as well accom- modated as the many-chambered sailor? S«CT. ili, ■RECENT 465 or as skilful as the nautilus ? You will find many a creature by eartJi, air, and water, that is more beautiful than a woman ; but indeed she is composed of all elements, and "Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin. And great's thy danger, Thomas Bruin." But you will tell me she has all the beau- ties in nature united in her person ; as ivory in her forehead, diamonds in her eyes, &c. "But Where's the sense, direct or moral, That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral ? " if she is a dowdy, what can you do with her ? If she is a beauty, what will she do for you? A man of your profession might know the lilies of the field toil not, nei- ther do they spin ; if she is rich she won't buy you, if she is poor 1 don't see why she should borrow joii. But, I fear, I am advising in vain, while your heart, like a fritter, is frying in fat in Cupid's flames. How frail and weak is flesh ! else, sure, so much might have kept in one little heart ; had Cupid struck the lean, or the melancholy, I had not lamented ; but true Jack Fal- staff, kind Jack Falstaff, merry Jack Falstaff, fai Jack Falstaff, beware the foul fiend, they call it Marriage, beware on't ! As what I have advanced on the subject of matrimony is absolutely un- answerable, I need not tell you where to diract a letter for me, nor will I, in my pride, declare who I am that give you this excellent counsel ; but, that you may not despair of knowing where to address your thanks for such an ex- traordinary favour, I will promise>, that before you find a courtier without de- ceit, a patriot without spleen, a lawyer without quibble, a philosopher without pride, a wit without vanity, a fool with- out presumption, or any man without conceit, you shall find the true name of your well-wisher and faithful counsellor. LETTER XLVIII. From Mrs. 'Elizabeth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland. Mount Morris, Jan. 31. Madam, Your grace will scarce believe mo if 1 tell you I have not yet had time to write a long letter. Not time ! says my lady duchess, then she has no other material, I am sure. You will want to know how I can have employed that superfluity of time which lies upon my hands ; I have done with it as the rich do with their abundance ; I have wasted it, lavished it on trifles ; and now that I would pur- chase some real happiness with it, it is spent and consumed. Your grace knows I am often prodigal of time, and so it has been with me to-day; for the sun has set upon my idleness, and I have many letters to write ; some of them about business, in which I must be con- cise and explicit ; things 1 cannot bring about without vast labour of brain. I can spin a tliread so long it seems nei- ther to have end nor beginning, which serves to give my gentle correspondents an idea of eternity ; but though such things are very acceptable to people of much leisure and speculation, a man of business would hardly be content with what had neither meaning nor end, the purport and the conclusion being chiefly regarded by the vulgar. You say no- thing of lady Andover ; but whether that implies that she is or is not in town, I don't know, for absent or present your grace thinks of her very much. Why do you tell me you cannot make a return for my letters ? You v/rong my heart if you do not believe every line you write makes me happier than my best deserts can merit. 1 think the days I hear from you take a happy date from the very hour the letter comes. Those things that before were objects of indifference, by the pleasant disposition of my mind become agreeable. 1 am ashamed that I uttered some complaints of your si- lence ; but think, when we are touched in the tenderest part, how sorely we complain ! I am so unreasonable, that I expect your love, your remembrance, your thoughts. Love is very covetous, and I fear I am of a selfish temper, for of the aft'ection of my friends I am very tenacious ; if I am not so of other things it is indifference, and not generosity, that I do not see happiness in them, ra- ther than that I slight them from philo- sophy. The sea of politics runs high ; first-rates, frigates, barges, oars, and scullers, all running Avith the stream. We have had ail the various reports of rumour conveyed to us by Fame's light horse 3 the post ; and i find hopes and 2 H 466 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book W, fears fly about extremely. May chastise- ment mend those that are chastised, and power enlarg"e the hearts of such as are advanced ! so shall I say Amen to all the will of Fortune ; but if she fills her house with spirits more unclean than the for- mer, I value the topmost niche in her wheel less than the lowest spoke in a wheelbarrow. I am glad things go on so quietly ; I have but just courage enough to serve me in time of peace ; and for riots, seditions, wars, and ru- mours of wars, they sore affright me. I think one man has acted a wise part, but who acts wisely is not therefore wise, says Mr. Pope, in general, and it may be perhaps wondrously applicable to this particular case. However, if this head wants wisdom, it has that ornament which many prefer to it, even that which ambition and pride will stoop to, justice bend to, wisdom submit to, and religion worship with an idola- trous adoration ; it is a circle that be- witches the mind of man ; yet the wisest preacher, some thousand years ago, said, a wise child whose head was bound by a homely biggin was better ; but the preachers of now-a-days say otherwise. I am glad sir Robert gets oflp safe ; foe to his pride, but friend to his distress, I wish he may neither do nor suffer harm. Mr. Pelham's ad- vancement, I believe, is as happy for the public as for himself. There are many honourable men named of all sides to be put in ; I do not hear that many are ready to go out. As for the two your grace mentioned, if a purification be intended, I fear it will be necessary they should be done away. I hear Mr. Pulteney will not take a place, which is a noble piece of integrity ; but I hope he will not be inflexible, for power is well lodged in those hands that take it as a sceptre of mercy rather than as a rod of rule ; and if a person does not value places, they are the fitter to be trusted with them, since they will not then hold them on bad terms. I ima- gine the study of physiognomy must be very entertaining at present. One might see hope sitting in a dimple, fear skulking in a frown, haughtiness sitting on the triumphal arch of an eyebrow, and shame lurking under the eyelids ; then in wise bye-standers we might see conjecture drawing the eyebrows toge- ther, or amazement lifting them up. A man in place bringing his flexible coun- tenance to the taste of the present times, smiling about the mouth as if he was pleased with the change, but wearing a little gloom on the forehead, that be- trays his fear of losing by it. Men, that never were of any consequence, v/rapping themselves up in the mystery of politics, and seeming significant ; as if, when times alter, they had a right to expect to be Avise. Then the vacant smiling countenances of those civil peo- ple, that would intimate they would do any thing for any body. The asses, that, in lions' skins, have brayed for their party, throwing off their fierce- ness, and appearing in their proper shape of patient folly, that will carry a heavy burden through dirty roads. Then the state swallows, that have ever lived in the sunshine of favour, withdrawing from the declining season of power. Then the thermometers, weathercocks, and dials of the state, will scarce know what to say, how to turn, or which way to point. They, who have changed their coat with every blast, what must they do till they know which v/ay the wind blows ? Unhappy ignorance, that knows not if preferment comes from the east, or from the west, or yet from the south ! Then what will those noble patriots do, whose honesty consists in being always angry, now they know not whom to be angry v/ith ? These occur- rences give one too great an insight into mankind, for one receives bad im- pressions of them by seeing them in these hurries ; while, for haste, they leave the cloak of hypocrisy behind, and shew the patched, stained, and motley habit of their minds. There is a danger in seeing others are wicked ; it seems to dissolve the covenant of faith, and slackens good-will. But when we ob- serve how little peace attends even the success of wickedness, that power can- not purchase friends, nor pomp acquire esteem, nor greatness procure honour, but that the end is contempt Avhere the means are base, it must sure abate the appetite to ill. Power and pomp are of no use but to make servants and ad- mirers ; and could reason but persuade people, that if ill acquired they gain false friends and real enemies, feigned flattery and concealed contempt, not more gazers than censurers, not more noise tlian ill fame, few v/ould endea- Sect. III. RECENT. 467 vour to obtain a painful and hateful pre- eminence. But flattery, " parent of wicked, bane of honest deeds," repre- sents to the great, that every servile cring'e is zealous adoration, and every self-interested follower a sincere friend. What a deal of pains do some people take to make knaves envy, and fools admire, thoiig-h they would be ashamed to own they valued the opinions of such people. Strange that the proudest should court the opinions of the most contemptible ! I am sure your grace thinks I am not capable of envy, or you would not have made me liable to the sin, by saying you had so much company that I covet, and that they had your company, which most of all things I covet. I would fain have been any one of you to have been happy with the rest. We are quite alone here : I am not sorry for it, for I do not like, as some good folks do, every crea- ture that walks on two legs, with a face to look up to heaven or doAvn on the earth, and yet understands neither ; an animal that has missed of instinct, and not lit upon reason ; one that thinks by prejudice, speaks by rote, and lives by custom ; that dares do no good without an example, but dares do evil by prece- dent, whose conversation is composed of more remnants than a tailor's waist- coat, who snips off every man's superflu- ous observations to the patching of one sentence ; an inconsistency of thought that makes monstrous opinions, and an absurdity of memory that has laid up every fool's proverb as an infallible max- im ; one that thinks every thing wise his grandfather did, and every thing foolish that his juniors do ; who will not learn, and cannot teach; who, if he does wrong or right, acts from some prejudice he got when he was a boy ; so one can neither blame, nor praise, nor love, nor hate, nor laugh, nor cry for him, or any thing he does. I had rather have the dead palsy than such a com- panion. Any impertinent lively crea- ture is better than these gentry. I am sleepy with thinking of them : the hor- rid family of the Gorgons would be as welcome to me. I shall be very glad to hear the duke and lady Fanny are well. Adieu, my dear lady duchess ; believe, that as long as 1 exist, I ever shall be with the tenderest, sincerest, most grate- ful, and constant affection, yours, E. R. LETTER XLIX. Fjom Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Du- chess of Portland. Allerthorpe, Oct. 2, 1742. My most dear friend. Love is the fulfilling of the law ; your grace orders me to write to you a sheet of quarto paper brimful; behold, my in- clination, exceeding your command, has chosen a folio. Most glad I am to lengthen out the time I may thus em- ploy. How few conversations are there wherein the head or the heart are in- terested ! If the country would afford a few reasonable companions, or burthen us with none that are not so, it would really make life a different thing ; but for me, who have not any sociable in- stinct, to lead me to creatures merely human, and, I think, scarce rational, it is really not a place of uninterrupted fe- licity. I do hourly thank my stars I am not married to a country squire, or a beau ; for in the country all ray pleasure is in my own fire-side, and that only when it is not littered with queer crea- tures. One must receive visits and re- turn them, such is the civil law of the nations ; and if you are not more happy in it in Nottinghamshire than I am in Yorkshire, I pity you most feelingly. In London, if one meets with impertinence and offence, one seeks entertainment and pleasure only ; but here one commits wilful murder on the hours, and with premeditated malice to oneself becomes felo de se for whole days. For an ante- diluvian a dining visit was proportioned to the time he had to throw away, but for the juniors of Methusalem to be tlius prodigal of life is the way to be soon bankrupt of leisure and happiness. Could you but see all the good folks that visit my poor tabernacle ; O, your grace would pity and admire ! You make com- plaints of a want of conversation ; to your sighs I reply in murmurs. When may I hope for our meeting in London ? Till you come, kings' palaces and high places appear desolate. The parliament, I hear, will meet on the i5th of Novem- ber, but you did not use to come up till January — a barbarous and heathenish custom ; though when I was passing time in the delights of BuUstrode I was of another opinion. O BuUstrode, Bull- strode ! when I forget thee, may my 2 H 2 46^; E L E G A N T E P 1 S T ]. E S. Book IV. head and hand forget their cunning* ! A small loss perhaps you will think for the most unpolitic head and the most un- skilful hand in the world ; but their lit- tle savoir /aire is necessary. I hope to see BuUstrode again before my eyes grow dim with age, and, what is more pre- sumptuous, to see the honour and orna- ments of BuUstrode at Sandleford. Mr. William Robinson is just come, I must go down to him. I am returned again to my dear lady duchess ; I stole from the company be- low stairs, after they had drunk tea, and have again for the thousandth time read over your delightful letter ; you have brought wit out of and : verily I had not known the trees by the fruit ; but you can work wonders when you please. They are indeed half as witty as sir John Falstaff ; that is, they are the cause of wit in other people. Your account of them is extremely en- tertaining ; but I forgot that you never could write tolerably, but were always a mighty dull correspondent : you have told me so a thousand times, and it is a strange thing I never could remember it. I should be glad to have a party of horse to guard your letters, but for mine I am assured they will go very safely by the bye-post ; if I revoke I will pay two tricks, as they do at cards. I am sorry my first letter was not so formidably formal* as it should have been ; but, to say the truth, I thought if it was too much upon the serious it would be sus- pected of being wrote for the occasion. As for what I said of Don, if likes her, v.e are of the same opinion, if not we shall not be rivals. I said, in my last letter, that I should not write to you till I had finished my peregrinations, and intimated that I should forbear troubling you with a letter till I could send your grace a map of Yorkshire : you may sup- pose that was sai^ on purpose to prevent any inquiries after my letters, for as to my travels, the Serjeant's circuit round the fire would be a tour as well worthy of memory. Pray whan shall you visit the noble family at Brodsworth ? I v/ish 1 was in their neighbourhood ; i fancy it is a paradisaical family, and hav- ing the honour to be in some degree of favour with your grace, I should * The duchess was miwilling to show the whole of their intimate correspondence to lady Oxford. hope ta be admitted to their acquaint- ance. I honour their manner of life, and affection for each other ; to main- tain continual cheerfulness, without the gay pleasures of our great city, is great praise. Oh that you were to go, with only the duke, to Brodsworth, and that Doncaster were v/ithin a day's journey from hence ! I have love for your com- pany that would, if not remove moun- tains, pass them. We might meet at Doncaster, if it were not for that odious impediment of almost all human desires, impossibility. I should be much diverted to hear that Desdemona was enamoured by these stories " passing strange ;" the hero being a fair man into the bargain, and having, in all "hair-breadth 'scapes," received not one scar, it is not impos- sible but something " wondrous pitiful" may be awakened in her tender heart. I return a thousand thanks for your long letter ; I rejoice that the duke and the little angels are well. 1 am, madam, your grace's ever grate- ful, affectionate, faithful, humble ser- vant, E. Montagu. LETTER L. Fro7H 3Irs. Elizabeth JMontagu to the Duchess of Portland. Nov. 5. Madam, My heart and hand are too much yours to permit me to employ another's to dic- tate, or write to your grace, when I am able to do it. i had your letter, for which I am obliged to you : I feel all the sensibility of friendship when I re- flect you are unhappy. I hope my lord duke will have no more of the complaint in his stomach. Lady Oxford really knows her remedy, and I hope you will j)revail upon her ladyship to go to Bath. I had not any letter from Dr. Sandys, but you know he has always a very te- dious labour when he goes of a letter. I wish he was well delivered of this, for I am impatient to know my doom ; whe- ther I am to sit here, like Patience on a monument, or may be allowed, in my quondam character of a Fidget, to bustle into the bustling world. My appetite for the country is satisfied, and 1 should like to see London fine town again ; and I shall be a poor wife (pity, but for the verse, it were maiden) forsaken, 8Ecr. HI- RE C E N T. 469 " Yet must bear a contented mind. But when leave of me he has taken, I can't have another as kind." The last line sets forth the melancholy ch'cumstance. As for smgle ladies, the loss of a lover is nothing ; for, as Milia- maiit says, one makes as many as one pleases, and keeps them as long- as one pleases ; but it is worth while to take care of a good hushand, for they are reckoned rarities. I am pretty well at present, but I don't much like this sort of constitution. 1 believe Sandys would not tell his wife a secret for fear she should go abroad to tell it ; and, you know, he loves she should sit. like sober puss in the comer, to ofPend all those who would annoy the cheese, or other good tilings in his cupb(tard ; for, I guess, it is from some principle of oeco- nomy that he keeps her at home. I am, madam, your grace'^s faithful, humble servant, E. M. LETTER LI. From the scaue to the same. AUei-thorpe, Nov, \^, 1742. Madam, What prophets are my fears ! they whis- pered to me your grace was not well, and I find their suggestions were true. Hard state of things, that one may believe one's fears, but cannot rely upon one's hopes ! I imagined concern would have an ill effect on your constitution ; I know you have many pledges in the hands of fate, and I feared for you, and every thing that was near and dear to you. I am sensible your regard and tenderness for lady Oxford will make you suffer ex- tremely when you see her ill ; she has therefore a double portion of my good wishes, on her own and your grace's ac- count. When sensibility of heart and head makes you feel all the outrages that fortune and folly offer, why do you not envy the thoughtless giggle and unmean- ing smile? " In Folly's cup still laughs the bubble Joy." Wisdom's cup is often dashed with sorrow, but the nepenthe of stupidity is the only medicine of life ; fools neither are troubled with fear nor doubt. What did the wisdom of the wisest man teach him ? Verily, that all was vanity and vexation of spirit ! A painful lesson fools will never learn, for they are of all vanities most vain. And there is not so sweet a companion as that same vanity ; when we go into the world it leads us by the hand ; if we re- tire from it, it follows us ; it meets us at court, and finds us in the country ; commends the hero that gains the world, and the philosopher that forsakes it ; praises the luxury of the prodigal, and the prudence of the penurious ; feasts with the voluptuous, fasts with the ab- stemious, sits on the pen of the author, and visits the paper of the critic ; reads dedications, and writes them ; makes court to superiors, receives homage of inferiors ; in short, it is useful, it is agreeable, and the very thing needful to happiness : had Solomon felt some in- ward vanity, sweet sounds had been ever in his ears without the voices of men- singers, or women-singers ; he had not then said of laughter, what is it ? and of mirth, what doeth it ? Vanity, and a good set of teeth, would have taught bim the ends and purposes of laughing, that fame may be acquired by it, where, like the proposal for the grinning wager, ' The fiightfullest Is the winner." grinner Did not we think lady C would get nothing by that broad grin but the tooth- ache ? But vanity, profitable vanity, was her better counsellor ; and as she always imagined the heart of a lover was caught between her teeth, I cannot say his delay is an argument of her charms, or his gal- lantry, but she has him secure by an old proverb, that what is bred in the bone will never out of the flesh, and no doubt but this love was bred in the bone, even in the jaw-bone. No wonder if tame, weak man, is subdued by that weapon with which Sampson killed the mighty lion. Mr. Montagu got well to London on Monday night. I am glad your face- tious senator is gone to parliament, where alibis conversation will be yea, yea, and nay, nay ; and even of that cometli evil sometimes. Time will not allow me to lengthen this epistle with any thing. more than my sister's compliments to your grace. I am, madam, yours, &c. E. M. 470 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER LIL From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland. Nov. 28, 1742. Madam, I AM very sorry I have not received all the letters your grace has been so good as to write to me ; Fate received them into her left hand, and I am deprived of them. I am glad to hear yonr spirits are better ; may circling Joys dance round your fire-side, " With Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding hoth his sides !" for life is too short to allow for melan- choly fears and intruding cares, which are apt to fill up the youthful time, when we are fittest for happiness. Age will bring its solemn train of woe ; let us therefore admit all Youth's gay company, smiling Joy, cheerful Mirth, and happy Hope ; life's early Hours come dancing along with their fair partner Pleasure ; but in the evening of our day they tread a heavy measure, dragging after them weak Infirmity and sad Regret, " Expense, and after- thought, and idle care, And doubts of motley hue, and dark despair." 1 grieve whenever I think your mind is pained ; all infirmities and diseases of the body are nothing compared to anguish of heart. 1 am now in the highest content ; my little brothers are to go to Westmin- ster as soon as the holidays are over, and what adds still to my pleasure in this is, that Jacky's going is owing to Mr. Mon- tagu's intercession for him with my fa- ther, who did not design his going to Westminster till next year : our young- est, I believe, is to go out with our new captain. 1 w^ould give a great deal for a tete-d-tete with your grace, mais helas ! ma pauvre tete nest j:as une tete ailee. It would have been a strange and unna- tural thing that Dr. Sandy's letter should have miscarried ; my faith has swallowed his advice, and my throat his pills ; so I have endured the country, and taken his physic, very unpalatable things both. I am pretty well, but I do not like to sit, like puss in the corner, all the winter, to watch what may prove a mouse, though I am no mountain. 1 am rejoiced lady Kinnoul, and the young ladies, are with you. I cannot boast of the numbers that adorn our fire -side ; my sister and I Jire the principal figures ! besides, there is a round table, a square skreen, some books, and a work-basket, with a smelling bot- tle when morality grows musty, or a maxim smells too strong, as sometimes they will in ancient books. I had a let- ter to-day from Mr. Montagu, in which he flatters me Avith the hopes of seeing him at Christmas. I hear your grace's porter says you will not leave Welbeck these two months, and Elias is no lying man. I know, full well, however he may deny you by parcels, he will not thus in the gross : so, I imagine, you will not be in London this age, which makes me more contented with being in the coun- try. My lady Croakledom is croaking on the banks of Styx, where, with Cerberus°s barking mouths, and Tisiphone's belk chevelure she will make most pleasant melody ; with such a noise in his ears how glad would Pluto be if Orpheus would give him a tune once more ! Lady Limerick, imagining I came to town wdth Mr. Montagu, sent an excuse, that being ill, she had not been able to make me a visit. I guess it would raise great speculations why I was not come up, and had you been within question-shot, the good countess had popped off a volley upon you, 1 make no doubt. I hear lord Cobham and lord Gower are going to resign ; and, I hope, with less regret than I resign my pen ; but the letters are sent for. Time is a monarch that commands, as many sovereigns do, to the vexation and detriment of their sub- jects ; therefore, to show my loyalty to King Time, I must obey his minister, the hour, that commands my letter hence. My sister desires her compliments. I am, my dear lady duchess, your most grateful and affectionate, E. Montagu. LETTER Lin. Fro77i the- same to the same. Dec. 8, 1743. Madam, I MAY now wish your grace joy of my lord duke's recovery, which indeed has been happy to the greatest degree after so bad an accident. You have put me into a suflScient fright about Mrs. De- lany* ; by what you say, I suspect, I di- * Mrs. Pendarvis married Dr. Delanj-, the friend of Swift, 9th of June, 1743. Sect. III. RECENT. 471 rected my letter to Mrs. Pendarvis. I think myself the more capable of it, be- cause at Allerthorpe, when I wrote to acquaint my mother I could not take a journey to town because I was breeding, I signed myself Robinson, though really, while I wore that name, I do not re- member I was ever in the like condition. I cannot tell what to say to Mrs. Delany about this mistake. I am sure I ap- proved the match, and consented with my whole heart ; but for this slip of the pen I cannot account ; perhaps it might happen from the fright I was in for the duke ; I am sure Mr. Drummond could not be in a greater fright when he saw all the Hanoverians in a panic. I want to know whether the secretary confessed his sins in his fear ; for if a fright can make a minister forget his hypocrisy, well may it make me forget a, name. I hope you found lady Oxford well at Salt Hill. I sigh, whenever I pass by Slough, to think of the days I have seen. I find the power of BuUstrode mighty still, and ever grieve to think I pass by it without calling. I hear her grace of Kent did me the honour to ask a great many civil questions after me of Mrs. Meadows. I design to go to visit the old dragon as soon as I come to town. I am afraid Mr. Montagu's continuing' to vote against the ministry will hurt my complexion as bad as another lying-in. 1 have been petrifying my brains over a most solid and ponderous performance of a woman in this neighbourhood. Having always a love to see Phoebus in petticoats, I borrowed a book, written by an ancient gentlewoman skilled in Latin, dipt in Greek, and absorbed in Hebrew, besides a modern gift of tongues. By this learn- ed person's instruction was Dr. Pocock (her son) skilled in antique lore, while other people are learning to spell mono- syllables. But Hebrew being the mo- ther tongue, you know, it is no wonder he learnt it. His gingerbread was mark- ed with Greek characters, and his bread and butter, instead of glass windows, was printed with Arabic. He had a mummy for his jointed baby, and a little pyramid for his play-house. His copy- book was filled with hieroglyphics ; and nothing modern and vulgar could be em- ployed in the education of this learned woman's son. Mrs. Pocock lives in a village very near us, but has not visited here, so I have not had an opportunity to observe her conversation ; but really I believe she is a good woman, though but an indifferent author. She amuses herself in the country so as to be cheer- ful and sociable at threescore ; is always employed either in reading, working, or walking ; and I do not hear that she is pedantic. What use she makes of her Hebrew, I cannot tell ; but it is a strange piece, not of female, but of male curio- sity, to learn it. I am told she always carries a Greek or Hebrew bible to church. I desire your grace to make ten thou- sand apologies for me to Mrs. Delany, if it is really true that 1 would have robbed her of a good name ; but I hope you only said this to put me in terrors. I desire my best compliments to her and Dr. Delany, to whom I wish very well, though I have offered the shadow of a great injury in seeming to deprive them of each other. I send my friendly love to dear Donnellan, my sincere good wishes to my lord duke for recovering his mischief, and to the little ones that they keep free from all harm. I con- gratulate Mr. Achard upon the duke's recovery, and to Mr. Drummond I wish a perseverance in mirth, wit, and good humour. 1 am ever your grace's most devoted E. M. LETTER LIV. From Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu to Mrs. Donnellan. York, August, 1744. I Ani now writing to you from the very place from whence I began my journey of life. You will think that I may feel some uneasiness on the reflection of re- turning to this place, after so many years wandering through the world, with so little improvement and addition of me- rit, which is all that time leaves behind it. Too true it is that reflection has given some pain, and cost me a sigh or two ; but it is some comfort that my blank page has not been blotted Tvith the stains of vice ; if any good deeds shall ever be written there, they will be legible, and suffer no various interpre- tations even from critics. Twenty- two years and ten months ago I was just the age my son is now : as his way through life will lie through the high roads of ambition and pleasure, he will hardly 472- ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. pass so unspotted, but, I hope, a better- informed, traveller than I have done through my little private path. His account will consist of many articles, pray God the balance may be right ! I would have him think joy is for the pure of heart, and not giddily sacriiice the smallest part of integrity in hope of making large amends by deeds of esti- mation. Eut thus it is always with his sex, and a man thinks it is no more ne- cessary to be as innocent as a woman, than to be as fair. Poor little man, may Heaven protect him ! I wish he may be of as contented a spirit at the same age as his mother ; and that his cheerfulness too may arise, not from love of himself, but from the possession of good and amiable friends. I would, to this pur- pose, wish him as many brothers, but I have some private objections arising from self-love against that wish, so I will leave that to his merit and discern- ment, which to me has arisen from acci- dent. I ought to have epistolized you before I came so near the end of my journey, but we filled up our time with seeing all the places that lay within our route ; the first was Oxford, which you know so well I shall say nothing about it, nor would the Muses permit my grey goose quill to describe their sacred haunt. From thence we went to Stowe, of which so much has been said and written. I shall only tell you how I was affected by the gardens, of which probably nei- ther verse nor prose writer would ever inform you. It is indeed a princely garden, more like, I believe, to that where the sapient king held dalliance with his fair ^Egyptian spouse, than to Paradise, its beauties are the effects of expense and taste ; the objects you see are various, yet the result is not variety. Lord Cobham has done by liis garden as kings do by their subjects, made differ- ence by title and artificial addition, where nature made none ; yet altogether it is a pleasing scene, where a philosophic mind would enjoy full happiness, the disap- pointed ambitious some consolation. The buildings are many of them censured by connoisseurs as bad ; however, their in- tention and use is good ; they are, for the most part, dedicated to the memory of the wise, the good, and great ; so they raise in the ambitious a noble emulation, in the humble a virtuous veneration ; kinds of homage that mend the heart that pays them. From Stowe we went t^ my brother Montagu's in Leicester- shire, where we passed a week very agreeably. The next place Ave saw was T ; the house is large, but the com- pany it has of late received makes one see it Vvdth prejudice ; the luxury of a hog- stye must be disgustful ; indeed I was glad to get out of the house, every crea- ture in it, and every thing one saw was displeasing; as to the park, it wants na- ture's cheerful livery, the sprightly green ; the famous cascade did not please me, who have seen some made by the boun- teous hand of Nature, to which man's magnificence is poor and chetive. From hence we came to York, where we have just been viewing the cathedral ; of all the gothic buildings I ever saw, the most noble, taken together, or considered in parts. Gothic architecture, like gothic government, seems to make strength and pov/er of resistance its chief pride ; this noble cathedral looks as if it might defy the consuming power of all-devouring- Time. We are to visit the fine assem- bly room before we leave York, which, I hear, is built in the manner of an JEgyi^- tian hall, or banquetting-room. Dr. Shaw would tell us in what place Cleo- patra would have chosen to sit. I must put an end to my letter, which has been something in the style of the raree-show- man, " you shall see what you shall see." I am, dear madam, your most sincere and faithful humble servant, E. MoNTAfiU. LETTER LV. Lady M. W. Montague io the Countess of—. Rotterdam, A\\g. 3, O. S. 1716. 1 FLATTER uiysclf (dear sister) that I shall give you some pleasure in letting^ you know that I have safely passed the sea, though we had the ill fortune of a storm. We were persuaded by the cap- tain of the yacht to set out in a calm, and he pretended there was nothing so easy as to tide it over ; but, after two days slowly moving, the wind blew so hard, that none of the sailors could keep their feet, and we were all Sunday night tossed very handsomely. I never saw a man more frighted than the captain. For my part, I have been so lucky nei- Sect. III. RECENT. 473 ther to suffer from fear nor sea-sickness ; though, I confess, I was so impatient to see myself once more upon dry land, that I would not stay till the yacht could get to Rotterdam, but went in the long-boat to Helvoetsluys, where we had voitures to carry us to the Briel. I was charmed with the neatness of that little town ; but my arrival at Rotter- dam presented me a new scene cf plea- sure. All the streets are paved with broad stones, and before many of the meanest artificer's doors are placed seats of various coloiu-ed marbles, so neatly kept, that, I'll assure you, I walked al- most all over the town yesterday, bicos:- nito^ in my slippers, without receiving one spot of dirt ; and you may see the Dutch maids washing the pave- ment of the street, with more applica- tion than ours do our bed-chambers. The to\^Ta seems so full of people, with such busy faces all in motion, that I can hardly fancy it is not some celebrated fair ; but 1 see it is every day the same. It is certain no town can be more ad- vantageously situated for commerce. Here are seven large canals, on which the merchant-ships come up to the very doors of their houses. The shops and warehouses are of a surprising neatness and magnificence, filled v/ith an incredi- ble quantity of fine merchandize, and so much cheaper than what we see in England, that I have much ado to per- suade myself that I am still so near it. Here is neither dirt nor beggary to be seen. One is not shocked with those loathsome cripples, so common in Lon- don, nor teazed with the importunity of idle fellows and wenches, that choose to be nasty and lazy. The common ser- vants and little shop-v/omen here are more nicely clean than most of our la- dies, and the great variety of neat dresses (every v/oman dressing her head after her own fashion) is an additional pleasure in seeing the town. You see, hitherto, I make no complaints, dear sis- ter, and if I continue to like travelling as well as I do at present, I shall not re- pent my project. It will go a great way in making me satisfied with it, if it af- fords me an opportunity of entertaining you. But it is not from Holland that you must expect a disinterested offer. I can write enough in the style of Rotter- dam, to teU you plainly, in one word, that I expect returns of all the London news. You see I liave already learnt to make a good bargain, and that it is not for nothing I will so much as tell you I am your affectionate sister. LETTER LVL Ladij M. W. Montague to Mrs. S . Hague, Aug. 5, O S. 1716. I 3IAKE haste to tell you, dear madam, that after all the dreadful fatigues you threatened me with, I am hitherto very well pleased with my journey. We take care to make such short stages every day, that I rather fancy myself upon parties of pleasure than upon the road, and sure nothing can be more agreeable than tra- velling in Holland. The whole country appears a large garden ; the roads 'are well paved, shaded on each side with rows of trees, and bordered mtli large canals, full of boats passing and repass- ing. Every twenty paces gives you the prospect of some villa, and every four hours that of a large town, so sur- prisingly neat, I am sure you would be charmed with them. The place I am now at is certainly one of the finest vil- lages in the world. Here are several squares finely built, and (what I think a particular beauty) the whole set with thick large trees. The Voor-hout is, at the same time, the Hyde Park and Mall of the people of quality ; for they take the air in it both on foot and in coaches*. There are shops for wafers, cool liquors, &c. 1 have been to see several of the most celebrated gardens, but I will not tease you with their descriptions. I dare swear you think my letter already long enough. But 1 must not conclude with- out begging your pardon, for not obey- ing your commands, in sending the lace you ordered me. Upon my word, I can yet find none, that is not dearer than you may buy it in London. If you want any India goods, here are great variety of penny^vorths, and I shall follow your orders with great pleasure and exact- ness, being, dear madam, &c. &c. LETTER LVII. Laf/y M. W. Montague to Mrs. S, C. Kimegiien, Aag. 13, O. S 1716. I AM extremely sorry, my dear S., that your fears of disobliging your relations, and their fears for your health and safe- ty, have jiindered me from enjoying the 474 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. happiness of your company, and you the pleasure of a diverting^ journey. I re- ceive some degree of mortification from every agreeable novelty, or pleasing pro- spect, by the reflection of your having so unluckily missed the delight which I know it would have given you. If you were with me in this town, you would be ready to expect to receive visits from your Nottingham friends. No two places were ever more resembling ; one has but to give the Maese the name of the Trent, and there is no distinguishing the pro- spect. The houses, like those of Not- tingham, are built one above another, and are intermixed, in the same manner, with trees and gardens. The tower, they call Julius Caesar's, has the same situation with Nottingham Gristle ; and I cannot help fancying I see from it the Trent field, Adboulton, places so well known to us. It is true, the fortifica- tions make a considerable diflference. All the learned in the art of war bestow great commendations on them ; for my part, that know nothing of the matter, I shall content myself with telling you, it is a very pretty walk on the ramparts, on which there is a tower, very deserved- ly called the Belvidere, where people go to drink coffee, tea, &c. and enjoy one of the finest prospects in the world. The public walks have no great beauty, but the thick shade of the trees, which is solemnly delightful. But I must not forget to take notice of the bridge, Avhich appeared very surprising to me. It is large enough to hold hundreds of men, with horses and carriages. They give the va- lue of an English two pence to get upon it, and then away they go, bridge and all, to the other side of the river, with so slow a motion, one is hardly sensible of any at all. I was yesterday at the French church, and stared very much at their manner of service. The parson clapped on a broad-brimmed hat, in the first place, which gave him entirely the air of, what d'y^ call him, in Bartholo- mew fair, which he kept up by extraor- dinary antic gestures, and preaching much such stuff as t'other talked to the puppets. However, the congregation seemed to receive it with great devotion ; and I was informed, by somi! of his flock, that he is a person of particular fame amongst them. I believe by this time you are as much tired with my account of him, as I was with his sermon ; but I am sure your brother will excuse a di- gression in favour of the church of Eng- land. You know, spealcing disrespect- fully of the Calvinists, is the same thing as speaking honourably of the church. Adieu, my dear S., always remember me, and be assured I can never forget you^ &c. &c. LETTER LVIII. LadyM. IV. 3Iontague to the Lady . Cologne, Aug. 16, O. S. 171G. If my lady could have any notion of the fatigues that I have suf- fered these two last days, I am sure she would own it a great proof of regard that T now sit down to write to her. We hired horses from Nimeguen hither,, not having the conveniency of the posty and found but very indifferent accom- modations at Reinberg, our first stage ; but it was nothing to what I suffered yesterday. We were in hopes to reach Cologne ; our horses tired at Stamel, three hours from it, where I was forced to pass the night in my clothes, in a room not at all better than a hovel ; for though I have my bed with me, I had no mind to undress where the wind came from a thousand places. We left this wretched lodging at day break, and about six, this morning, came safe here, where I got immediately into bed. I slept so well for three hours, that I found myself perfectly recovered, and have had spirits enough to go and see all that is curious in the town ; that is to sp^y, the churches, for here is nothing else worth seeing. This is a very large town, but the most part of it is old built. The Jesuit's church, which is the neatest, was shewed me, in a very complaisant man- ner, by a handsome young Jesuit ; who, not knowing who I was, took a liberty in his compliments and railleries, which very much diverted me, having never before seen any thing of that nature. I could not enough admire the magnifi- cence of the altars, the rich images of the saints (all massy silver), and the enchasures of the relics, though I could not help murmuring, in my heart, at the profusion of pearls, diamonds, and rubies, bestowed on the adornment of rotten teeth and dirty rags. I own that I had wickedness enough to covet St. Ursula's pearl necklace ; though perhaps Sect. III. RECENT 475 this was no wickedness at all, an image not being certainly one's neighbour ; but I went yet farther, and wished the wench herself converted into dressing plate. I should also gladly see converted into silver, a great St. Christopher, which I imagine would look very well in a cis- tern. These were my pious reflections ; though I was very well satisfied to see, piled up to the honour of our nation, the skulls of the Eleven Thousand Vir- gins. I have seen some hundreds of re- lics here of no less consequence ; but I will not imitate the common style of tra- vellers so far as to give you a list of them, being persuaded that you have no manner of curiosity for the titles given to jaw bones and bits of wormeaten wood. Adieu, I am just going to sup- per, where I shall drink your health in an admirable sort of Lorrain wine, which I am sure is the same you call Burgundy in London, &c. &c. LETTER LIX. Lady M. W. Montague to the Countess ofB . Nuremburg, Aug. 22, O. S. 1716, After five days travelling post, I could not sit down to write on any other oc- casion than to tell my dear lady, that I have not forgot her obliging command of sending her some account of my tra- vels. I have already passed a large part of Germany ; I have seen all that is re- markable in Cologne, Frankfort, Wurts- burg, and this place. It is impossible not to observe the difference between the free towns, and those under the govern- ment of absolute princes, as all the little sovereigns of Germany are. In the first there appears an air of commerce and plenty. The streets are well built, and full of people neatly and plainly dressed. The shops are loaded with merchandise, and the commonalty are clean and cheer- ful. In the other, you see a sort of shabby finery, a number of dirty people of qua- lity tawdered out ; narrow nasty streets out of repair, wretchedly thin of inha- bitants, and above half of the common sort asking alms. I cannot help fancy- ing one, under the figure of a clean Dutch citizen's wife, and the other like a poor town lady of pleasure, painted, ^nd ribboned out in her head dress, with tarnished silver-laced shoes, a ragged under petticoat, a miserable mixture of vice and poverty. They have sumptuary laws in this town, which distinguish their rank by their dress, prevent the excess which ruins so many other cities, and has a more agreeable effect to the eye of a stranger than our fashions. I need not be ashamed to own, that I wish these laws were in force in other parts of the world. When one considers impartially the merit of a rich suit of clothes in most places, the respect and the smiles cf favour it procures, not to speak of the envy and the sighs it occa- sions (which is very often the principal charm to the wearer), one is forced to confess, that there is need of an uncom- mon understanding to resist the temp- tation of pleasing friends and mortifying rivals ; and that it is natural to young people to fall into a folly, which betrays them to that want of money, which is the source of a thousand basenesses. What numbers of men have begun the world with generous inclinations, that have after v/ards been the instruments of bringing misery on a whole people, being led by a vain expense into debts that they could clear no other way but by the forfeit of their honour, and which they never could have contracted, if the respect the multitude pays to habits, was fixed by law, only to a particular colour or cut of plain cloth. These reflections draw after them others that are too me- lancholy. I will make haste to put them out of your head by the farce of relics, with which I have been entertained in all Romish churches. The Lutherans are not quite free from these follies. I have seen here, in the principal church, a large piece of the cross set in jewels, and the point of the spear, which, tl^iey toldme, very gravely, was the same that pierced the side of our Saviour. But I was particularly diverted in a little Roman Catholic church which is permitted here, where the professors of that religion are not very rich, and consequently cannot adorn their images in so rich a manner as their neighbours. For, not to be quite destitute of all finery, they have dressed up an image of our Saviour over the altar, in a fair full- bottomed wig, very well powdered. I imagine I see your ladyship stare at this article, of which you very much doubt the veracity ; but, upon my word, I have. 470 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. not yet made use of the privilege of a traveller, and my whole account is v^^rit- ten with the same plain sincerity of heart, with which 1 assure you that I am, dear madam, your, &c. Sec. LETTER LX. Ladi^ M, IV. .Montague to Mrs. P . iJatisbon, Aug. 30, O. S. 1718. I HAD the pleasure of receiving yours but the day before I left London. I give you a thousand thanks for your good wishes, and have such an opinion of their efficacy, that I am persuaded 1 owe, in part, to them the good luck of having proceeded so far on my long journey without any ill accident. For I do not reckon it any to have been stop- ped a few days in this town by a cold, since it has not only given me an oppor- tunity of seeing all that is curious in it, but of making some acquaintance with the ladies, who have all been to see me with great civility, particularly madarae , the wife of our king's envoy from Hanover. She has carried me to all the assemblies ; and I have been mag- nificently entertained at her house, which is one of the finest here. You know that all the nobility of this place are envoys from different states. Here are a great number of them ; and they might pass their time agreeably enough, if they were less delicate on the point of ceremony. But instead of joining in the design of making the town as pleasant to one another as they can, and improving their little societies, they amuse them- selves no other way than with perpetual quarrels, which they take care to eter- nise, by leaving them to their succes- sors ; and an envoy to Ratisbon receives, regularly, half a dozen quarrels, among the perquisites of his employment. You may be sure the ladies are not wanting, on their side, in cherishing and improv- ing these important piques, which divide the town almost into as many parties as there are families. They choose rather to suffer the mortification of sitting al- most alone on their assembly nights, than to recede one jot from their pretensions. I have not been here above a week, and yet I have heard from almost every one of them, the whole history of their wrongs, and dreadful complaints of the injustice of their neighbours, in hopes to draw me to their party. But I think it very prudent to remain neuter, though if 1 was to stay amongst them, there would be no possibility of continuing so, their quarrels running so high, that they will not be civil to those that visit their adversaries. The foundation of these everlasting disputes turns entirely upon rank, place, and the title of Excellency, which they all pretend to, and, what is very hard, will give it to nobody. For my part, I could not forbear advertising them (for the public good) to give the title of Excellency to every body, which would include the receiving it from every body ; but the very mention of such a dishonourable peace was received with as much indignation as Mrs. Blackaire did the motion of a reference. And, in- deed, I began to think myself ill natured, to offer to take from them, in a town where there are so few diversions, so en- tertaining an amusement. I. know that my peaceable disposition already gives me a very ill figure, and that it is pub- licly whispered as a piece of impertinent pride in me, that I have hitherto been saucily civil to every body, as if I thought nobody good enough to quarrel with. I should be obliged to change my behaviour, if I did not intend to pursue my journey in a fev/ days. I have been to see the churches here, and had the permission of touching the relics, which was never suf- fered in places where I was not known. I had by this privilege, the opportunity of making an observation which I doubt not might have been made in all the other churches, that the emeralds and rubies which they shew round their relics and images are most of them false ; though they tell you that many of the crosses and madonnas, set round with these stones, have been the gifts of em- perors and other great princes. I do not doubt indeed but they were at first jewels of value ; but the good fathers have found it convenient to apply them to other uses, and the people are just as well satisfied with bits of glass amongst these relics. They shewed me a prodi- gious claw set in gold, which they called the claw of a griffin, and I could not for- bear asking the reverend priest that shewed it, whether the griffin was a saint? The question almost put him be- side his gravity ; but he answered, they only kept it as a curiosity. ! was very Sect. Ill R E C E N T. 47? much scandalized at a larg-e silver image of tlie Trinity, where the Father is re- presented under the figure of a decrepit old man, with a beard down to his knees, and triple crown on his head, holding in his arms the Son, fixed on the cross, and the Holy Ghost, in the shape of a dove, hovering over him. Madame is come this minute to call me to tlie as- sembly, and forces me to tell you very abruptly, that I am ever your, &c. &c. LETTER LXI, From the sa7ne to the Countess of ■ Vienna, Sept. 8, O. S. 1716. I am now, my dear sister, safely arrived at Vienna, and, I thank God, have not at all suffered in my health, nor (what is dearer to me) in that of my child, by all our fatigues. We travelled by water from Ratisbon, a journey perfectly agree- able, down the Danube, in one of those little vessels, that they, very properly, call wooden houses, having in them all the conveniences of a palace, stoves in the chambers, kitchens, &c. They are rowed by twelve men each, and move with such an incredible swiftness, that in the same day you have the pleasure of a vast variety of prospects, and within the space of a few hours you have the pleasure of seeing a populous city, adorned with magnificent palaces, and the most romantic solitudes, which appear distant from the commerce of mankind, the banks of the Danube being charmingly diversified with woods, rocks, mountains covered with vines, fields of corn, large cities, and ruins of ancient castles. I saw the great towns ofPassau and Lintz, famous for the retreat of the imperial court, when Vienna was besieged. This town, which has the honour of being the emperor's residence, did not at all an- swer my expectation, nor ideas of it, being much less than I expected to find it ; the streets are very close, and so nar- row, one cannot observe the fine fronts of the palaces, though many of them very well deserve observation, being truly magnificent. They are all built of fine white stone, and are excessive high. For as the town is too little for the number of the people that desire to live in it, the builders seem to have projected to repair that misfortune, by clapping one town on the top of another, most of the houses being of five, and some of them of six stories. You may easily imagine that, the streets being so narrow, the rooms are extremely dark, and, what is an in- conveniency much more intolerable in m.j opinion, there is no house has so few as five or six families in it. The apart- ments of the greatest ladies, and even of the ministers of state, are divided but by a partition from tliat of a tailor or shoemaker ; and I know nobody tha,t has above two floors in any house, one for their own use, and one higher for their servants. Those that have houses of their own, let out the rest of them to whoever will take them ; and thus the great stairs (which are all of stone) are as common and as dirty as the street. It is true, when you have once travelled through them, nothing can be more surprisingly magnificent than the apart- ments. They are commonly a suite of eight or ten large rooms, all inlaid, the doors and windows richly carved and gilt, and the furniture sucli as is seldom seen in the palaces of sovereign princes in other countries. Their apartments are adorned with hangings of the finest tapestry of Brussels, prodigious large looking glasses in silver frames, fine japan tables, beds, chairs, canopies and window curtains of the richest Genoa damask or velvet, al- most covered with gold lace or embroi- dery. All this is made gay by pictures and vast jars of japan china, and large lustres of rock crystal. I have already had the honour of being invited to din- ner by several of the first people of qua- lity, and I must do them the justice to say, the good taste and magnificence of their tables very well answer to that of their furniture. I have been more than once entertained with fifty dishes of meat, all served in silver, and well dress- ed ; the dessert proportionable, served in the finest china. But the variety and richness of their wines is what appears the most surprising. The constant way is to lay a list of their names upon the plates of the guests along Avith the nap- kins, and I have counted several times, to the number of eighteen different sorts, all exquisite in their kinds. I was yes- terday at count Schoonbourn, the vice- chancellor's garden, where I was invited to dinner. I must own, I never saw a place so perfectly delightful as the Faux- 47S ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV bourg of Vienna. It is very larg-e, and almost wholly composed of delicious pa- laces. If the emperor found it proper to permit the gates of the town to be laid open, that the Fauxbourgs might be joined to it, he would have one of the largest and best-built cities in Europe. Count Schoonbourn's villa is one of the most magnificent ; the furniture all rich brocades, so well fancied and fitted up, nothing can look more gay and splendid ; not to speak of a gallery, full of rarities of coral, mother-of-pearl, and throughout the whole house a profusion of gilding, carving, fine paintings, the most beau- tiful porcelain, statues of alabaster and ivory, and vast orange and lemon-trees in gilt pots. The dinner was perfectly fine and well ordered, and made still more agreeable by the good-humour of the count. I have not yet been at court, being forced to stay for my gown, with- out which there is no waiting on the empress ; though I am not without great impatience to see a beauty that has been the admiration of so many different na- tions. When I have had the honour, I will not fail to let you know my real thoughts, always taking a particular t pleasure in communicating them to my dear sister. LETTER LXII. Ladi^ M. W. Montague to Mr. P- Vienna, Sept. 14, O. S. Perhaps you will laugh at me, for thanking you very gravely for all the obliging concern you express for me. It is certain that I may, if I please, take the fine things you say to me for wit and raillery ,|and, it may be, it would be tak- ing them right. But I never, in my life, was half so well disposed to take you in earnest as I am at present, and that distance which makes the continua- tion of your friendship improbable, has very much increased my faith in it. I find that I have (as well as the rest of my sex), whatever face I set on it, a strong disposition to believe in miracles. Do not fancy, however, that I am in- fected by the air of these popish coun- tries ; I have, indeed, so far wandered from the discipline of the church of England, as to have been last Sunday at the opera, which was performed in the garden of the Favorita, and I was so much pleased with it, I have not repented my seeing it. Nothing of that kind ever was more magnificent ; and I can easily believe, what I am told, that the decora- tions and habits cost the emperor thirty thousand pounds sterling. The stage was built over a very large canal, and at the beginning of the second act, divided into two parts, discovering the water, on whicti there immediately came, from dif- ferent parts, two fleets of little gilded vessels, that gave the representation of a naval fight. It is not easy to imagine the beauty of this scene, which I took particular notice of. But all the rest were perfectly fine in their kind. The story of the opera is the enchantment of Alcina, which gives opportunities for great variety of machines and changes of the scenes, which are performed with a surprising swiftness. The theatre is so large that it is hard to carry the eye to the end of it, and the habits in the ut- most magnificence, to the number of one hundred and eight. No house can hold such large decorations ; but the ladies all sitting in the open air, exposes them to great inconveniences ; for there is but one canopy for the imperial family ; and the first night it was represented, a shower of rain happening, the opera was broke off, and the company crowded away in such confusion, that I was almost squeezed to death. But if their operas are thus delightful, their come- dies are, in as high a degree, ridiculous. They have but one play-house, where I had the curiosity to go to a German comedy, and was very glad it happened to be the story of Amphitryon. As that subject has been already handled by a Latin, French, and English poet, 1 was curious to see what an Austrian author would make of it. I understand enough of that language to comprehend the greatest part of it, and besides I took with me a lady that had the goodness to explain to me every word. The way is to take a box, which holds four, for yourself and company. The fixed price is a gold ducat. I thought the house very low and dark ; but I confess the comedy admirably recompensed that de- fect. I never laughed so much in my life. It began with Jupiter's falling in love out of a peep-hole in the clouds, and ended with the birth of Hercules. But Avhat was most pleasant was, the Sect. III. RECENT. 479 use Jupiter made of his metamorphosis ; for you no sooner saw him under the figure of Amphitryon;, but instead of flying" to Alcmena, with the raptures Mr. Dryden puts into his mouth, he sends for Amphitryon's tailor, and cheats him of a laced coat, and his banker of a bag of money, a Jew of a diamond ring, and bespeaks a great supper in his name ; and the greatest part of the co- medy turns upon poor Amphitryon's being tormented by these people for their debts. Mercury uses Sosia in the same manner. But I could not easily pardon the liberty the poet has taken of larding his play Avith, not only indecent expressions, but such gross words as I do not think our mob would suffer from a mountebank. Besides, the two Sosias very fairly let down their breeches in the direct view of the boxes, which were full of people of the first rank, that seemed very well pleased with their entertain- ment, and assured me this was a cele- brated piece. I shall conclude my letter with this remarkable relation, very well worthy the serious consideration of Mr. Collier. I will not trouble you with farewell compliments, which I think ge- nerally as impertinent as curtsies at leav- ing a room when the visit has been too long already. LETTER LXIIl. From the same to the Countess of Vienna, Sept. 14, O. S. Though I have so lately troubled you, my dear sister, with a long letter, yet I will keep my promise in giving you an account of my first going to court. In order to that ceremony, I was squeezed up in a gown, and adorned with a gorget, and the other implements thereunto be- longing, a dress very inconvenient, but which certainly shews the neck and shape to great advantage. I cannot forbear giving you some description of the fashions here, which are more mon- strous and contrary to all common sense and reason than it is possible for you to imagine. They build certain fabrics of gauze on their heads, about a yard high, consisting of three or four stories forti- fied with numberless yards of heavy ribbon. The foundation of this structure is a thing they call a hourle, which is exactly of the same shape and kind, but about four times as big as those rolls our prudent milk-maids make use of to fix their pails upon. This machine they cover with their own hair, which they mix with a great deal of false, it being a particular beauty to have their heads too large to go into a moderate tub. Their hair is prodigiously powder- ed to conceal the mixture, and set out with three or four rows of bodkins (wonderfully large, that stick out two or three inches from their hair) made of diamonds, pearls, red, green, and yellow stones ; that it certainly requires as much art and experience to carry the load up- right, as to dance upon May-day with the garland. Their whalebone petticoats outdo ours by several yards circum- ference, and cover some acres of ground. You may easily suppose how this extra- ordinary dress sets off and improves the natural ugliness, with which God Al- mighty has been pleased to endow them, generally speaking. Even the lovely empress herself is obliged to comply, in some degree, with these absurd fashions, which they would not quit for all the world. I had a private audience (ac- cording to ceremony) of half an hour, and then all the other ladies were per- mitted to come and make their court. I was perfectly charmed with the em- press ; I cannot however tell you that her features are regular ; her eyes are not large, but have a lively look full of sweetness ; her complexion the finest I ever sav/ ; her nose and forehead well made, but her mouth has ten thousand charms, that touch the soul. When she smiles, it is Avith a beauty and sweetness that forces adoration. She has a vast quantity of fine fair hair ; but then her person ! — one must speak of it poeti- cally to do it rigid justice ; all that the poets have said of the mien of Juno, the air of Venus, come not up to the truth. The Graces move with her ; the famous statue of Medici s was not formed Avith more delicate proportions : nothing can be added to the beauty of her neck and hands. Till I saw them, I did not be- lieve there were any in nature so per- fect, and I Avas almost sorry that my rank here did not permit me to kiss them ; but they are kissed suflficiently, for every body that Avaits on her pays that homage at their entrance, and when they take leave. When tjie ladies AA^ere 4g0 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. come, she sat down to quinze. I could not play at a game 1 had never seen be- fore ; and she ordered me a seat at her right hand, and had the goodness to talk to me very much, vvitli that grace so natural to her. 1 expected every mo- ment when the men were to come in to pay their court ; but this drawing-room is very different from that of England ; no man enters it but the grand master, who comes in to advertise the empress of the approach of the emperor. His imperial majesty did me the honour of speaking to me in a very obliging mxanner, but he never speaks to any of the other ladies, and the whole passes with a gravity and air of ceremony that has something very formal in it. The em- press Amelia, dowager of the late em- peror Joseph, came this evening to wait on the reigning empress, followed by the two archduchesses her daughters, who are very agreeable young princesses. Their imperial majesties rose and went to meet her at the door of the room, after which she was seated in an armed chair next the empress, and in the same manner at supper, and there the men had the permission of paying their court. The archduchesses sat on chairs with backs without arms. The table was entirely served, and all the dishes set on, by the empress's maids of honour, which are twelve young ladies of the first quality. They have no salary but their chamber at court, where they live in a sort of confinement, not being suffered to go to the assemblies or public places in town, except in compli- ment to the wedding of a sister-maid, whom the empress alM^ays presents with her picture set in diamonds. The three first of them are called Ladies of the Key, and wear gold keys by their sides; but what I find most pleasant is the custom, which obliges them as long as they live, after they have left the em- jjress's service, to make her some present every year on the day of her feast. Her majesty is served by no married women but the gr ancle maitresse, who is gene- rally a widow of the first quality, always very old, and is at the same time groom of the stole and mother of the maids. The dressers are not at all in the figure they pretend to in England, being looked upon no otherwise than as downright chambermaids. I had an audience next day of the empress mother, a princess of great virtue and goodness, but who piques herself too much on a violent de- votion. She is perpetually performing extraordinary acts of penance, v/ithout having ever done any thing to deserve them. She has the same number of maids of honour, whom she suffers to go in colours ; but she herself never quits her mourning ; and sure nothing can be more dismal than the mourning here, even for a brother. There is not the least bit of linen to be seen ; all black crape instead of it. The neck, ears, and side of the face are covered with a plaited piece of the same stuff, and the face, that peeps out in the midst of it, looks as if it were pilloried. The widows wear, over and above, a crape forehead cloth, and in this solemn weed go to all the public places of di- version without scruple. The next day I was to wait on the empress Amelia, who is now at her palace of retirement, half a mile from the town. I had there the pleasure of seeing a diversion wholly new to me, but w^hich is the common amusement of this court. The empress herself was seated on a little throne at the end of the fine alley in her garden, and on each side of her were ranged two parties of her ladies of quality, headed by two young arch-duchesses, all dressed in their hair, full of jewels, with fine light guns in their hands, and at proper distances were placed three oval pictures, which were the marks to be shot at. The first was that of a Cupid, filling a bumper of Burgundy, and the motto, " 'Tis easy to be valiant here." The second a Fortune holding a garland in her hand, the motto, "For her whom Fortune favours." The third was a sword with a laurel wreath on the point, the motto, " Here is no shame to the vanquished." Near the empress was a gilded trophy wreathed with flowers, and made of little crooks, on which were hung rich Turkish handkerchiefs, tippets, ribbons, laces, &c. for the small prizes. The empress gave the first with her own hand, which was a fine ruby ring set round with diamonds in a gold snuff-box. There was for the second, a little Cupid set with brilliants, and besides these a set of fine china for the tea-table, en- chased in gold, japan trunks, fans, and many gallantries of the same nature. All the men of quality at Vienna were spectators ; but the ladies only had per^ Sect. Hi RECENT. 481 mission to shoot, and the archduchess Amelia carried off the first prize. I was very well pleased with having seen this entertainment, and do not know but it might make as good a figure as the prize- shooting in the ^neid, if I could write as well as Virgil. This is the favourite pleasure of the emperor, and there is rarely a week without some feast of this kind, which makes the young ladies skilful enough to defend a fort. They laughed very much to see me afraid to handle a gun. My dear sister, you will easily pardon an abrupt con- clusion. I believe by this time you are ready to think I shall never conclude at matter, but it is a considerable comfort to me to know there is upon earth such a paradise for old women ; and I am content to be insignificant at present, in the design of returning when I am fit to appear no where else. I cannot help lamenting on this occasion the pitiful case of too many English ladies, long since retired to prudery and ratifia, whom if their stars had luckily conducted hither, would still shine in the first rank of beauties. LETTER LXV. Frojti the same to Mrs J * * *. LETTER LXIV. Ladi/ M. W. Montague to the Lady R—. Vienna, Sept. 20, 1716, O. S. I AM extremely rejoiced, but not at all surprised, at the long, delightful letter you have had the goodness to send me. I know that you can think of an absent friend even in the midst of a court, and you love to oblige, where you can have no view of a return ; and I expect from you that you should love me, and think of me, when you do not see me. I have compassion for the mortifications, that you tell me befel our little old friend ; and 1 pity her much more, since I know that they are only owing to the bar- barous customs of our country. Upon my word, if she were here, she would have no other fault but that of being- something too young for the fashion, and she has nothing to do but to transplant herself hither about seven years hence, to be again a young and blooming beauty. I can assure you that wrinkles, or a small stoop in the shoulders, nay even grey hairs, are no objection to the making new conquests. I know you Cannot ea- sily figure to yourself a young fellow of five-and-twenty ogling my lady S-ff — k with passion, or pressing to hand the countess of O d from an opera. But such are the sights I see every day, and I do not perceive any body surprised at them but myself. A woman till five- and-thirty is only looked upon as a raw girl, and can possibly make no noise in the world till about forty. I do not know what your ladyship may think of this Vienna, Sept. 2(5, O. S. 1716 I WAS never more agreeably surprised than by your obliging letter. It is a peculiar mark of my esteem, that I tell you so ; and I can assure you, that if I loved you one grain less than I do, I should be very sorry to see it so divert- ing as it is. The mortal aversion I have to writing makes me tremble at the thoughts of a new correspondent ; and I believe I disobliged no less than a dozen of my London acquaintance by refusing to hear from them, though I did verily think they intended to send me very entertaining letters. But I had rathet lose the pleasure of reading several witty things, than be forced to write many stupid ones. Yet, in spite of these con- siderations, I am charmed with the proof Oi your friendship, and beg a con- tinuation of the same goodness, though I fear the dulness of this will make you immediately repent of it. It is not from Austria that one can write with vivacity, and I am already infected with the phlegm of the country. Even their amours and their quarrels are carried on with a surprising temper, and they are never lively but upon points of ceremo- ny. There, I own, they shew all their passions ; and it is not long since two coaches meeting in a narrow street at night, the ladies in them not being able to adjust the ceremonial of which should go back, sat there with equal gallantry till two in the morning, and were botli so fully determined to die upon the spot rather than yield, in a point of that importance, that the street Avould never have been cleared till their deaths, if the emperor had not sent his guards to part 21 482 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. them ; and even then they refused to stir, till the expedient could he found out, of taking them hoth out in chairs, exactly in the same moment. After the ladies were agreed, it was with some difficulty that the pas was decided between the two coachmen, no less tenacious of their rank than the ladies. This passion is so omnipotent in the hreasts of the women, that even their husbands never die, but they are ready to break their hearts, be- cause that fatal hour puts an end to their rank, no widows having any place at Vienna. The men are not much less touched with this point of honour ; and they do not only scorn to marry, but even to make love to any woman of a family not as illustrious as their own, and the pedigree is much more con- sidered by them, than either the com- plexion or features of their mistresses. Happy are the shes that can number amongst their ancestors counts of the empire ; they have neither occasion for beauty, money, nor good conduct to get them husbands. It is true, as to money, it is seldom any advantage to the man they marry ; the laws of Austria confine the woman's portion to two thousand florins (about two hundred pounds En- glish), and whatever they have beside, remains in their own possession and dis- posal. Thus here are many ladies much richer than their husbands, who are however obliged to allow them pin-money agreeable to their quality ; and I attri- bute to this considerable branch of pre- rogative the liberty that they take upon other occasions. I am sure you, that know my laziness and extreme indiffer- ence on this subject, will pity me, entangled amongst all these ceremonies, which are a wonderful burthen to me, though I am the envy of the whole town, having by their own customs the pas before them all. They, indeed, so re- venge upon the poor envoys this great respect shewn to ambassadors, that (with all my indifference) I should he very uneasy to suffer it. Upon days of cere- mony they have no entrance at court, and on other days must content them- selves with walking after every soul, and being the very last taken notice of. But I must write a volume to let you know all the ceremonies, and I have al- ready said too much on so dull a subject, which however employs the whole care of the people here. I need not, after this, tell you how agi*eeably time slides away with me ; you know as well as I do the taste of yours, &c. &c. LETTER LXVI. Lady M. W. Montague to the Lady X — . Vienna, Oct. 1, O. S. 1716. You desire me, madam, to send you some account of the customs here, and at the same time a description of Vienna. 1 am always willing to obey your com- mands ; but you must, upon this occa- sion, take the will for the deed. If I should undertake to tell you all the par- ticulars in which the manners here differ from ours, I must write a whole quire of the dullest stuff that ever was read, or printed without being read. Their dress agrees with the French or English in no one article, but wearing petticoats. They have many fashions peculiar to themselves ; they think it indecent for a widow ever to wear green or rose-colour, but all the other gayest colours at her own discretion. The assemblies here are the only regular diversion, the operas being always at court, and commonly on some particular occasion. Madam Ra- butin has the assembly constantly every night at her house ; and the other ladies, whenever they have a mind to display the magnificence of their apartments, or oblige a friend by complimenting them on the day of their saint, they declare, that on such a day the assembly shall be at their house in honour of the feast of the count or countess — such-a-one. These days are called days of gala, and all the friends or relations of the lady, whose saint it is, are obliged to appear in their best clothes and all their jewels. The mistress of the house takes no par- ticular notice of any body, nor returns any body's visit ; and, Avhoever pleases, may go, without the formality of being presented. The company are entertained with ice in several forms, winter and summer ; afterwards they divide into se- veral parties of ombre, piquet, or conver- sation, all games of hazard being forbid. I saw the other day the gala for count Altheim, thr eniperor's favourite, and never in my life Baw so many fine clothes ill-fancied. They embroider the richest gold stuffs ; and provided they can make their clothes expensive enough, that is Sect. III. a E C E N T 483 all the taste they shew in them. On other days the general dress is a scarf, and what you please under it. But now I am speaking of Vienna, I am sure you should expect I should say something of the convents : they are of all sorts and sizes ; but I am best pleased with that of St. Lawrence, where the ease and neatness they seem to live with appear to me much more edifying than those stricter orders, where perpetual penance and nastinesses must breed dis- content and wretchedness. The nuBS are all of quality. I think there are to the number of fifty. They have each of them a little cell, perfectly clean, the walls of which are covered with pictures, more or less fine-, according to their quality. A long white stone gallery runs by all of them, furnished with the pic- tures of exemplary sisters ; the chapel is extremely neat and richly adorned. But I could not forbear laughing at their shewing me a wooden head of our Saviour, which they assured me spoke, during the siege of Vienna ; and, as a proof of it, bid me remark his mouth, which had been open ever since. No- thing can be more becoming than the dress of these nuns. It is a white robe, the sleeves of which are turned up with fine white calico, and their head-dress the same, excepting a small veil of black crape that falls behind. They have a lower sort of serving nuns, that wait on them as their chamber-maids. They receive all visits of women, and play at ombre in their ch timbers , with permis- sion of their abbess, which is very easy to be obtained. I never saw an old woman so good-natured ; she is near fourscore, and yet shews very little sign of decay, being still lively and cheerful. She caressed me as if I had been her daughter, giving me some pretty things of her ovv^n work, and sweetmeats in abundance. The grate is not one of the most rigid ; it is not very hard to put a head through ; and I do not doubt but a man, a little more slender than ordinary, might squeeze in his whole person. The young count of Salamis came to the grate, while I was there, and the abbess gave him her hand to kiss. But I was surprised to find here the only beautiful young woman I have seen at Vienna, and not only beautiful, but genteel, wit- ty, and agreeable, of a great family, and who had been the admiration of the town. I could not forbear shewing my surprise at seeing a nun like her. She made me a thousand obliging compli- ments, and desired me to come often. " It will be an infinite pleasure to me (said she, sighing) ; but I avoid, with the greatest care, seeing any of my former acquaintance, and whenever they come to our convent, I lock myself in ray cell." I observed tears come into her eyes, which touched me extremely, and I began to talk to her in that strain of tender pity she inspired me with ; but she would not own to me that she is not perfectly happy. I have since endea- voured to learn the real cause of her re- tirement, without being able to get any other account, but that every body was surprised at it, and nobody guessed the reason. I have been several times to see her ; but it gives me too much melan- choly to see so agreeable a young crea- ture buried alive. I am not surprised that nuns have so often inspired violent passions ; the pity one natiu-ally feels for them, when they seem worthy of another destiny, making an easy way for yet more tender sentiments. I never in my life had so little charity for the Ro- man Catholic religion as since I see the misery it occasions ; so many poor un- happy women !- and then the gross su- perstition of the common people, who are, some or other of them, day and night offering bits of candle to the wooden figures, that are set up almost in every street. The processions I see very often are a pageantry, as offensive and appa- rently contradictory to common sense as the pagods of China. God knows whether it be the womanly spirit of contradiction that works in me, but there never, before, was such zeal against popery in the heart of, dear madam, &c. &c. LETTER LXVII. From the same to Mr. . Vienna, Oct. 16, O. S. 1716. I DESERVE not all the reproaches you make me. If I have been some time without answering your letter, it is not that I do not know how many thanks are due to you for it, or that I am stupid enough to prefer any amusements to the pleasure of hearing from you ; but after the professions of esteem you have so 2 i 2 484 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book iV, obligingly made me, I cannot help delay- ing, as long as I can, shewing you that you are mistaken. If you are sincere, when you say you expect to be extremely entertained by my letters, I ought to be mortified at the disappointment that I am sure you will receive when you hear from me ; though I have done my best endeavours to find out something worth writing to you. 1 have seen every thing that was to be seen, with a very diligent curiosity. Here are some fine villas, particularly the late prhice of Lichten- stein's ; but the statues are all modern, and the pictures not of the first hands. It is true, the emperor has some of great value. I was yesterday to see the reposi- toryj which they call his Treasure, where they seem to have been more diligent in amassing a great quantity of things, than in the choice of them. I spent above five hours there, and yet there were very few things that stopped me long to consider them. But the number is pro- digious, being a very long gallery filled on both sides, and five large rooms. There is a vast quantity of paintings, amongst which are many fine minia- tures ; but the most valuable pictures are a few of Corregio, those of Titian being at the Favorita. The cabinet of jewels did not appear to me so rich as I expected to see it. They shewed me there a cup, about the size of a tea-dish, of one entire emerald, which they had so particular a respect for, that only the emperor has the liberty of touching it. There is a large cabinet full of curiosities of clock-work, only one of which I thought worth observ- ing, that was a craw-fish, with all the motions so natural that it was hard to distinguish it from the life. The next cabinet was a large collection of agates, some of them extremely beau- tiful and of uncommon size, and several vases of lapis lazuli. I was surprised to see the cabinet of medals so poorly fur- nished ; 1 did not remark one of any va- lue, and they are kept in a most ridi- culous disorder. As to the antiques, very fev/ of them deserve that name. Upon my saying they were modern, I could not forbear laughing at the answer of the profound antiquary that shewed them, that they were ancient enough, for to his knowledge they had been there these forty years ; but the next cabinet diverted me yet better, being nothing else but a parcel of wax babies, and toys in ivory, very well worthy to be presented children of five years old. Two of the rooms were wholly filled with these trifles of all kinds, set in jewels, amongst which I was desired to observe a crucifix, that they assured me had spoke very wisely to the emperor Leopold. I will not trouble you with a catalogue of the rest of the lumber, but I must not forget to mention a small piece of loadstone, that held up an anchor of steel too heavy for me to lift. This is what I thought most curious in the whole treasure. There are some few heads of ancient statues; but several of them are defaced by modern additions. I foresee that you will be very little satis- fied with this letter ; and I dare hardly ask you to be good-natured enough to charge the dulness of it on the barren- ness of the subject, and to overlook the stupidity of your, &c. &c. LETTER LXVIII. Lady M. W. Montague to the Countess of . Prague, Nov. 17, O. S. 1716. 1 HOPE my dear sister wants no new proof of my sincere affection for her ; but I am sure if you do, I could not give you a stronger than writing at this time, after three days, or, more pro- perly speaking, three nights and days, hard post-travelling. — Tlie kingdom of Bohemia is the most desert of any I have seen in Germany. The villages are so poor, and the post-houses so miserable, that clean straw and fair water are blessings not always to be met with, and better accommodation not to be hoped for. Though I carried my own bed with me, I could not sometimes find a place to set it up in ; and I ra- ther chose to travel all night, as cold as it is, wrapped up in my furs, than go into the common stoves, which are filled with a mixture of all sorts of ill scents. This town was once the royal seat of the Bohemian king, and is still the ca- pital of the kingdom.. There are yet some remains of its former splendour, being one of the largest towns in Ger- many, but, for the most part, old built and thinly inhabited, which makes the hbuses very cheap. Those people of 1 Sect. HI. RECENT. 485 quality, who cannot easily bear the ex- pense of Vienna, choose to reside here, where they have assemblies, music, and all other diversions (those of a court ex- cepted), at very moderate rates, all things here being in great abundance, especially the best wild-fowl I ever tasted. I have already been visited by some of the most considerable ladies, whose relations I know at Vienna. They are dressed after the fashions' there, after the manner that the people at Exeter imitate those of London : that is, their imitation is more excessive than the original. It is not easy to describe wiiat extraordinary figures they make. The person is so much lost between head-dress and pet- ticoat, that they have as much occasion to write upon their backs, " This is a woman," for the information of travel- lers, as ever sign-post painter had to write, " This is a bear." I will not forget to write to you again from Dres- den and Leipzig, being much more so- licitous to content your curiosity, than to indulge my own repose. I am, &c. LETTER LXIX. Fro?h the same to the same. Leipzig, Nov. '21, O. S. 1716, I BELIEVE, dear sister, you will easily forgive my not writing to you from Dresden, as I promised, when I tell you, that I never went out of my chaise from Prague to this place. You may imagine how heartily I was tired vith twcr/ty- four hours post-travelling, without sleep or refreshment (for I can never sleep in a coach, however fatigued). We passed by moonshine the frigiitful precipices that divide Bohemia from Saxony, at the bottom of v.hich runs the river Elbe ; but I cannot say that I had reason to fear drowning in it, being perfectly con- vinced, that in case of a tumble, it was utterly impossible to come alive to the bottom. In many places the road is so narrow, that I could not discern an inch of space between the wheels and the precipice. Yet I was so good a wife not to wake Mr. W y, who was fast asleep by my side, to make him share in my fears, since the danger was un- avoidable, till I perceived, bythebriglit light of the moon, our ])ostillions nod- ding on horseback, while the horses were on the full gallop. Then indeed I thought it very convenient to call out to desire them to look where they were going. My calling waked Mr. W y, and he was much more surprised than myself at the situation we were in, and assured me, that he passed the Alps five times in different places, without ever having gone a road so dangerous. I have been told since, that it is common to find the bodies of travellers in the Elbe ; but, thank God, that was not our destiny, and v/e came safe to Dresden, so much tired with fear and fatigue, it was not possible for me to compose my- self to write. After passing these dread- ful rocks, Dresden appeared to me a wonderfully agreeable situation, in a fine large plain on the banks of the Elbe. I was very glad to stay there a day to rest myself. The town is the neatest I have seen in Germany ; most of the houses are new built; the elector's palace is very handsome, and his repository full of curiosities of different kinds, with a col- lection of medals very much esteemed. Sir , our king's envoy, came to see me here, and madam de L- whom I knew in London, when her hus- band was minister to the king of Poland there. She offered me all things in her power to entertain me, and brought some ladies with her, whom she pre- sented to me. The Saxon ladies resem- ble the Austrian no more than the Chi- nese do those of London ; they are very genteelly dressed after the English and French modes, and have, generally, pret- ty faces, but they are the most deter- mined minaudieres in the whole world ; they would think it a mortal sin against good-breeding, if they either spoke or moved in a natural manner. They all affect a little soft lisp, and a pretty pitty- pat step ; which female frailties ought, however, to be forgiven them, in favour of their civility and good-nature to strangers, which I have a great deal of reason to praise. The countess of Cozelle is kept pri- soner in a melancholy castle, some leagues from hence ; and I cannot forbear telling you what I have heard of her, because it seems to me very extraordinary, though I foresee I shall swell my letter to the size of a packet. — She was mistress to the king of Poland (elector of Saxony), with so absolute a dominion over him, that never any lady liad so niiuh power 486 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV in that court. They tell a pleasant story of his majesty's first declaration of love, which he made in a visit to her, bringing in one hand a bag of a hundred thousand crowns, and in the other a horse-shoe, which he snapped asunder before her face, leaving her to draw the consequences of such remarkable proofs of strength and liberality. I know not which charm- ed her most, but she consented to leave her husband, and to give herself up to him entirely, being divorced publicly in such a manner as by their laws permits either party to marry again, God knows whether it was at this time, or in some other fond fit, but it is certain the king had the weakness to make her a formal contract of marriage; which, though it could signify nothing during the life of the queen, pleased her so well, that she could not be contented without telling it to all the people she saw, and giving herself the airs of a queen. Men endure every thing while they are in love ; but when the excess of passion was cooled by long possession, his majesty began to reflect on the ill consequences of leaving such a paper in her hands, and desired to have it restored him. But she rather chose to endure all the most violent ef- fects of his anger than give it up ; and though she is one of the richest and most avaricious ladies of her country, she has refused the offer of the continuation of a large pension, and the security of a vast sum of money she has amassed, and has at last provoked the king to confine her person to a castle, where she endures all the terrors of a strait imprisonment, and remains still inflexible either to threats or promises. Her violent pas- sions have brought her indeed into fits ; which it is supposed will soon put an end to her life. I cannot forbear having some compassion for a woman that suf- fers for a point of honour, however mis- taken, especially in a country where points of honour are not over scrupu- lously observed among ladies. I could have wished Mr. W y's business had permitted him a longer stay at Dresden. Perhaps I am partial to a town where they profess the Protestant religion, but every thing seemed to me with quite another way of politeness than I have found in other places. Leipsic, where I am at jirescnt, is a town very consider- able for its trade, and I take this oppor- tunity of buying pages' liveries, gold stufi's for myself, &c. ; all things of that kind being at least double the price at Vienna, partly because of the excessive customs, and partly through want of genius and industry in the people, who make no one sort of thing there, so that the ladies are obliged to send even for their shoes out of Saxony. The fair here is one of the most considerable in Germany, and the resort of all the peo- ple of quality, as well as of the mer- chants. This is also a fortified town; but I avoid ever mentioning fortifica- tions, being sensible that I know not how to speak of them. I am the more easy under my ignorance, when I reflect that I am sure you will willingly forgive the omission ; for if I made you the most exact description of all the ravelins and bastions I see in my travels, I dare swear you will ask me what is a ravelin ? and what is a bastion? Adieu, my dear sister. LETTEFv LXX. Ladi/ M, W. Montague to the Countess of . Brunswick, Nov. 23, O. S. 1716. I AM just come to Brunswick, a very old town, but which has the advantage of being the capital of the duke of Wolfen- buttie's dominions, a family (not to speak of its ancient honours) illustrious, by hav- ing its younger branch on the throne of England, and having given two em- presses to Germany. I have not forgot to drink your health here in mum, which I think very well deserves its reputation of being the best in the world. This letter is the third I have writ to you during my journey ; and I declare to you, that if you do not send me immediately a full and true account of all the changes and chances amongst our Lon- don acquaintance, I will not write you any description of Hanover (where I hope to be to-night), though I know you have more curiosity to hear of that place than any other, LETTER LXXL From the same to the Countess of B. Hanover, Nov. 25, O. S. 1716. I RECEIVED your ladyship's letter but the day before I left Vienna, though, Sect. III. RECENT. 487 by the date, I ought to have had it much sooner ; but nothing was ever worse re- gulated than tlie post in most parts of Germany. I can assure you, the packet at Prague was behind my chaise, and in that manner conveyed to Dresden, so that the secrets of half the country were at my mercy, if I had had any curiosity for them. I would not longer delay my thanks for yours, though the number of my acquaintances here, and my duty of attending at court, leave me hardly any time to dispose of. 1 am extremely pleased that I can tell you, without flat- tery or partiality, that our young prince has all the accomplishments that it is possible to have at his age, with an air of sprightliness and understanding', and something so very engaging and easy in his behaviour, that he needs not the ad- vantage of his rank to appear charming. I had the honour of a long conversation with him last night, before the king came in. His governor retired on pur- pose (as he told me afterwards) that I might make some judgment of his ge- nius, by hearing him speak without con- straint ; and I was surprised at the quick- ness and politeness that appeared in every thing he said, joined to a person per- fectly agreeable, and the fine fair hair of the princess. This town is neither large nor hand- some : but the palace is capable of hold- ing a much greater court than that of St. James's. The king has had the good- ness to appoint vis a lodging in one part of it, without which we should have been very ill accommodated ; for the vast num- ber of English crowds the town so much, it is very good luck to get one sorry room in a miserable tavern. I dined to-day with the Portuguese ambassador, who thinks himself very happy to have two wretched parlours in an inn. I have now made the tour of Germany, and cannot help observing a considerable difference be- tween travelling here and in England. One sees none of those fine seats of no- blemen, so common among us, nor any thing like a country-gentleman's house, though they have many situations per- fectly fine. But the whole people are divided into absolute sovereignties, where all the riches and magnificence are at court, or into communities of merchants, such as Nuremberg and Frankfort, where they live always in town for the con- venience of trade. The king's company of French comedians play here every night. They are very well dressed, and some of them not ill actors. His majesty dines and sups constantly in public. The court is very numerous, and his affability and goodness make it one of the most agreeable places in the world. Dear madam, your L. &c. &c. LETTER LXXII. Ladi/ M. W. Montague to the Ladj/ R- Hanover, Oct. 1, O.S. 1716. I AM very glad, my dear lady R , that you have been so well pleased, as you tell me, at the report of my return- ing to England ; though, like other plea- sures, I can assure you it has no real foundation. I hope you know me enough to take my word against any report con- cerning me. It is true, as to distance of place, I am much nearer to London than I was some weeks ago ; but as to the thoughts of a return, I never was farther off in my life. I own, I could with great joy indulge the pleasing hopes of seeing you and the very few others that share my esteem ; but while Mr. W is determined to proceed in his design, I am determined to follow him. I am running on upon my own aifairs, that is to say, I am going to write very duUy, as most people do when they write of themselves. I will make haste to change the disagreeable subject, by telling you, that I am now got into the region of beauty. All the women have, literally, rosy cheeks, snowy foreheads and bosoms, jet eyebrows, and scarlet lips, to which they generally add coal-black hair. Those perfections never leave them till the hour of their deaths, and have a very fine ef-» feet by candle-light ; but I could wish they were handsome with a little more variety. They resemble one another as much as Mrs. Salmon's court of Great Britain, and are in as much danger of melting away, by too near approaching the fire, which they, for that reason, carefully avoid, though it is now such excessive cold weather, that I believe they suffer extremely by that piece of self- denial. The snow is already very deep, and the people begin to slide about in their traineaus. This is a favourite di- version all over Germany. They are little machines fixed upon a sledge, that 48S ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. hold a lady and a gentleman, and are drawn by one horse. The gentleman has the honour of driving, and they move with a prodigious swiftness. The lady, the horse, and the traineau, are all as fine as they can be made ; and when there are many of them together, it is a very agree- able show. At Vienna, where all pieces of magnificence are carried to excess, there are sometimes machines of this kind, that cost five or six hundred pounds English. The duke of Wolfenbuttle is now at this court : you know he is nearly related to our king, and uncle to the reigning empress, who is, I believe, the most beautiful princess upon earth. She is now with child, which is all the con- solation of the imperial court for the loss of the archduke. I took my leave of her the day before I left Vienna, and she began to speak to me with so much grief and tenderness of the death of that young prince, I had much ado to withhold my tears. You know that I am not at all partial to people for their titles ; but I own that I love that charming princess (if I may use so familiar an expre&sion) ; and if 1 had not, 1 should have been very much moved at the tragical end of an only son, born after being so long de- sired, and at length killed by want of good management, weaning him in the beginning of the winter. Adieu, dear ladyR , continue to write tome, and believe none of your goodness is lost upon your, &c. LETTER LXXIIL Ladi/ M. IV. Montague to the Countess of . Blanckfnburgh, Oct. 17, O. S. 1716. I RECEIVED yours, dear sister, the very day 1 left Hanover. You may easily imagine I was then in too great a hurry to answer it ; but you see I take the first opportunity of doing myself that plea- sure. I came here the *15th, very late at night, after a terrible journey, in the worst roads and weather that ever poor traveller suffered . I have taken this little fatigue, merely to oblige the reigning empress, and carry a message from her imperialmajesty tothe duchess of Blanck- enburg, her mother, who is a princess of great address and good-breeding, and i|nay be still called a fine woman. It was i?o late wlien I came to this town, I did not think it proper to dijfturb the duke and duchess with the ncAvs of my arrival ; so I took up my quarters in a miserable inn •, but as soon as I had sent my com- pliments to their highnesses, they im- mediately sent me their own coach and six horses, which had however enough to do to draw us up the very high hill on which the castle is situated. The duchess^ is extremely obliging to me, and this little court is not without its diversions. The duke taillys at basset every nighty and the duchess tells me, she is so well pleased with my company, that it makes her play less than &he used to do. I should find it very difficult to steal time to write, if she was not now at church, where I cannot wait on her, not under- standing the language enough to pay my devotions in it. You will not forgive me, if I do not say something of Han- over : I cannot tell you that the town is either large or magnificent. The opera house, which was built by the late elec- tor, is much finer than that of Vienna. I was very sorry that the ill weather did not permit me to see Hernhausen in all its beauty ; but, in spite of the snow, I thought the gardens very fine. I was particularly surprised at the vast number of orange trees, much larger than any I have ever seen in England, though this climate is certainly colder. But I had more reason to wonder, that night, at the king's table, to see a present from a gentleman of this country, of two large baskets full of ripe oranges and lemons of diflFerent sorts, many of which were quite new to me ; and what I thought worth all the rest, two ripe ananasses, which, to my taste, are a fruit perfectly delicious. You know they are naturally the growth of Brazil, and I could not imagine how they came here but by en- chantment. Upon inquiry, I learnt that they have brought their stoves to such perfection, they lengthen their summer as long as they please, giving to every plant the degree of heat it would receive from the sun in its native soil. The ef- fect is very near the same ; I am sur- prised we do not practise, in England, so useful an invention. This reflection leads me to consider our obstinacy in shaking with cold, five months in* the year, rather than make use of stoves, which are certainly one of the greatest conveniences of life. Besides, they are so far from spoiling the form of a room, Sect. 111. R E C E N T. that they add very much to the magni- ficence of it, when they are painted and gilt, as they are at Vienna, or at Dres- den, where they are often in the shapes of China jars, statues, or fine cabinets, so naturally represented, that they are not to be distinguished. If ever I re- turn, in defiance to the fashion, you shall certainly see one in the chamber of, dear sister, your, &c. I will write often, since you desire it ; but I must beg you to be a little more particular in yours ; you fancy me at forty miles distance, and forget, that, after so long an absence, I cannot un- derstand hints. LETTER LXXIV. Lady M. W. Montague to the Lady . Vienna, Jan. 1, O. S. 1717. I HAVE just received here, at Vienna, your ladyship's compliments on my re- turn to England, sent me from Hanover. You see, madam, all things that are as- serted with confidence are not abso- lutely true ; and that you have no sort of reason to complain of me for making my designed return a mystery to you, when you say all the world are informed of it. You may tell all the world in my name, that they are never so well in- formed of my affairs as I am myself, that I am very positive I am at this time at Vienna, where the carnival is begun, and all sorts of diversions are carried to the greatest height, except that of masquing, which is never permitted during a war with the Turks. The balls are in public places, where the men pay a gold ducat at entrance, but the ladies nothing. I am told that these houses get sometimes a thousand ducats in a night. I'hey are very magnificently furnished, and the music good, if they had not that de- testable custom of mixing hunting-horns with it, that almost deafen the company. But that noise is so agreeable here, they never make a concert without them. The ball always concludes with English country-dances, to the number of thirty or forty couple, and so ill danced, that there is very little pleasure in them. Tliey know but half a dozen, and they have danced them over and over these fifty years. I would fain have taught them some new ones, but I found it would be some months' labour to make them comprehend them. Last night there was an Italian comedy acted at court. The scenes were pretty, but the comedy itself such intolerable low farce, without either wit or humour, that I was surprised how all the court could sit there attentively for four hours to- gether. No women are suffered to act on the stage, and the men dressed like them were such awkward figures, they very much added to the ridicule of the spectacle. What completed the diver- sion was the excessive cold, which was so great I thought I shouM have died there. It is now the very extremity of the winter here ; the Danube is entirely frozen, and the weather not to be sup- ported without stoves and furs ; but, hov/ever, the air so clear, almost every body is well, and colds not half so com- mon as in England. I am persuaded there cannot be a purer air, nor more wholesome, than that of Vienna. The plenty and excellence of all sorts of pro- visions are greater here than in any place I ever was before, and it is not very expensive to keep a splendid table. It is really a pleasure to pass through the markets, and see the abundance of what we should think rarities, of fowls and venison, that are daily brought in from Hungary and Bohemia. They want nothing but shell -fish, and are so fond of oysters, that they have them sent from Venice, and eat them very gree- dily, stink or not stink. Thus I obey your commands, madam, in giving you an account of Vienna, though I know you will not be satisfied with it. You chide me for my laziness in not telling you a thousand agreeable and surprising things, that you say you are sure I have seen and heard. L^pon my word, ma- dam, it is my regard to truth, and not laziness, that I do not entertain you with as many prodigies as other travellers use to divert their readers with. I might easily pick up wonders in every town I pass through, or tell you a long series of popish miracles ; but I cannot fancy that there is any thing new in letting you know, that priests will lie, and the mob believe, all the world over. Tlien as for news, that you are so inquisitive about, how can it be entertaining to you (that do not know the people), that the prince of has forsaken the countess of ? or that the princess such-a-one lias an intrigue with count such-a-one ? Would you have me write 490 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. novels like the countess of D' ? and is it not better to tell you a plain truth, that I am, &c. LETTER LXXV. Ladi/ M. W. Montague to Mr. Pope. Vienna, Jan. 16, O. S. ]717. I HAVE not time to answer your letter, being in all the hurry of preparing for my journey; but I think I ought to bid adieu to my friends with the same so- lemnity as if I was going to mount a breach, at least, if I am to believe the information of the people here, who de- nounce all sorts of terrors to me ; and, indeed, the weather is at present such, as very few ever set out in. I am threatened, at the same time, with being frozen to death, buried in the snow, and taken by the Tartars, who ravage that part of Hungary I am to pass. It is true, we shall have a considerable e5co?^^e, so that possibly 1 may be diverted with a new scene, by finding myself in the midst of a battle. How my adventures will conclude, I leave entirely to Provi- dence ; if comically, you shall hear of them. Pray be so good as to tell Mr. I have received his letter. Make him my adieus ; if I live, I will answer it. The same compliment to my lady R . LETTER LXXVI. Lord Chesterfield to Dr. R. Chenevix, Lord Bishop of Waterford. London, Dec, 16, 1760. My dear lord, I MAKE no excuses for the irregularity of my correspondence, or the unfre- quency of my letters ; for my declining mind keeps pace with my decaying body, and I can no more scribere digna legi (write things worthy to be read), than I CMxfacere digna scribi (do things worthy to be written). My health is always bad, though sometimes better, and some- times worse, but never good. My deaf- ness increases, and consequently deprives me of the comforts of society, which other people have in their illnesses ; in short, this last stage of my life is a very tedious one, and the roads very bad ; the end of it cannot be very far oflF, and I cannot be sorry for it. I wait for it, im- ploring the mercy of my Creator, and deprecating his justice. The best of us must trust to the former, and dread the latter. I am, &c. LETTER LXXVII. From the same to the same. Blackheath, Sept. 12, 1761. My dear lord, I DO not know whether I shall give you a reason which you will reckon a good one ; but I will honestly give you the true one, for my writing so seldom. It is one of the effects, and not the least dis- agreeable one, of my disorder, to make one indolent, and unwilling to undertake even what one has a mind to do. I have often set down in the intention of writ- ing to you, when the apparatus of a ta- ble, pen, ink, and paper, has discouraged me, and made me procrastinate, aud say, like Festus, " At a convenient time will I speak to thee." Those who have not experienced this indolence and languor, I know have no conception of them ; and therefore, many people say that I am extremely well, because I can walk and speak, without knowing how much it costs me to do either. This was the case of the bishop of Ossory, who report- ed only from my outside, which is not much altered. I cannot say, however, that I am positively ill ; but I can posi- tively say, that I am always unwell. In short, I am in my health, what many, reckoned in the main good sort of peo- ple, are in their morals ; they commit no flagrant crimes, but their conscience secretly reproaches them with the non- observance or the violation of many lesser duties. White is recovered from his acute illness, and is now only infirm and crazy, and will be so as long as he lives. I believe we shall start fair. The bishop of Ossory told me one thing, that I heard with great pleasure ; which was, that your son did extremely well at the university, and answered, not only your hopes, but your wishes; I sincerely congratulate you upon it. The town of London and the city of Westminster are gone quite mad with the wedding and the approaching coro- nation. People think nor talk of no- Sect. III. RECENT. 491 thing else. For my part, I have not seen our new queen yet ; and as for the coro- nation, 1 am not alive enough to march, nor dead enough to walk at it. You can bear now and then a quibble, I hope ; but I am, without the least equivoque, my dear lord, your most faithful friend, and humble servant. P. S. Your lord lieutenant will be with you immediately after the corona- tion. He has heard of combinations, confederations, and all sorts of ations, to handcuff and fetter him ; but he seems not in the least apprehensive of them. LETTER LXXVIII. Fro?n the same to the same. Blackheath, Oct. 1, 1761. My dear lord, 'I HAVE been a long time in your debt, but I hope that my age and infirmities give me some privileges to compensate a little for the loss of youth and health. I am past the age at which a Roman sol- dier was rude donatus, which some have translated, given to he rude. I adopt that version. Since your friendship for me makes you solicitous to have accounts of my health, I will tell you that I am nei- ther better nor worse than when you heard from me last. I am never free from physical ills of one kind or another, but use and patience make them sup- portable ; and I own this obligation to them, that they have cured me of worse ills than themselves. I mean moral ills ; for they have given me leisure to exa- mine and reflection to subdue, ail my passions. I think only of doing my duty to my Creator, and to my fellow-created beings, and 07nnis in hoc sum (this is my only object). Are you a grandfather in embryo yet ? That ought by this time to be manifest. When you shall be really so, may your grandchildren give you as much satis- faction as your own children have done ! Good night, my dear lord; I am most affectionately yours. LETTER LXXIX. From the same to the same. London, Dec. 10, 1771. My dear lord, I AM sure you will believe me when I tell you that 1 am sincerely sorry for your loss, which I received the account of yesterday, and upon which I shall make you none of the trite compliments of condolence. Your grief is just ; but your religion, of which I am sure you have enough (with the addition of some phi- losophy), will make you keep it within due bounds, and leave the rest to time and avocations. When your son was with me here, just before he embarked for France, I plainly saw that his con- sumption was too far gone to leave the least hopes of a cure ; and, if he had dragged on this wretched life some few years longer, that life could have been but trouble and sorrow to you both. This consideration alone should mitigate your grief, and the care of your grand- son will be a proper avocation from it. Adieu, my dear lord. May this stroke of adversity be the last you may ever expe- rience from the hand of Providence ! Yours most affectionately and sin- cerely, &c. LETTER LXXX. Dr. Swift to the Earl of Chesterfield, November 10, 1730. My lord, I WAS positively advised by a friend, whose opinion has much weight with me, and who has a great veneration for your lordship, to venture a letter of soli- citation : and it is the first request of this kind that I ever made since the public changes, in times, persons, mea- sures, and opinions, drove me into dis- tance and obscurity. There is an honest man, whose name is Launcelot ; he has been long a servant to my lord Sussex : he married a relation of mine, a widow, with a tolerable jointure ; which depending upon a lease which the duke of Grafton suffered to expire about three years ago, sunk half her little fortune. Mr. Launcelot had many promises from the duke of Dorset, while liis grace held that office which is 402 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, HOW' in your lordship ; but they all failed, after the usual fate that the bulk of court- suitors must expect. I am very sensible that I have no manner of claim to the least favour from your lordship, whom I have hardly the honour to be known to, although you were always pleased to treat me with much humanity, and with more distinc- tion than I could pretend to deserve. I am likewise conscious of that demerit which I have largely shared with all those who concerned themselves in a court and ministry, whose maxims and proceedings have been ever since so much exploded. But your lordship will grant me leave to say, that, in those times, when any persons of the ejected party came to court, and were of tole- rable consequence, they never failed to succeed in any reasonable request they made for a friend. And, when I some- times added my poor solicitations, I used to quote the then ministers a passage in the Gospel, the poor (meaning their own dependants) you have alwa;t/s with you, &c. This is the strongest argument I have, to entreat your lordship's favour for Mr. Launcelot, who is a perfect honest man, and as loyal as you could wish. His wife, my near relation, has been my favourite from her youth, and as de- serving as it is possible for one of her level. It is understood, that some lit- tle employments about the court may be often in your lordship's disposal ; and that my lord Sussex will give Mr. Launcelot the character he deserves ; and then let my petition be (to speak in my own trade) a drop in the bucket. Remember, my lord, that although this letter be long, yet what particularly concerns my request is but of a few lines. I shall not congratulate with your lordship upon any of your present great employments, or upon the greatest that can possibly be given to you ; because you are one of those very few, who do more honour to a court than you can possibly receive from it, which I take to be a greater compliment to a court than it is to your lordship. I am, my lord, &c. LETTER LXXXL the Earl of Chesterfield to Dr. Swift, Hague, Dec. 15, N. S, 1730. Sir, You need not have made any excuse to me for your solicitation : on Ithe con- trary, I am proud of being the first per- son to whom you have thought it worth the while to apply since those changes, which, you say, drove you into distance and obscurity. I very well know the person you recommend to me, having lodged at his house a whole summer at Richmond. I have always heard a very good character of him, which alone would incline me to serve him ; but your re- commendation, I can assure you, will make me impatient to do it. However, that he may not again meet with the common fate of court suitors, nor I lie under the imputation of making court promises, I will exactly explain to you ' how far it is likely I may be able to serve him. When first I had this office, I took the resolution of turning out nobody; so that I shall only have the disposal of those places that the death of the pre- sent possessors will procure me. Some old servants, that have served me long and faithfully, have obtained the pro- mises of the first four or five vacancies ; and the early solicitations of some of my particular friends have tied me down for about as many more. But after having satisfied these engagements, I do assure you Mr. Launcelot shall be my first care. I confess his prospect is more remote than 1 could have wished it ; but, as it is so remote, he will not have the unea- siness of a disappointment, if he gets nothing ; and if he gets something, Ave shall both be pleased. As for his political principles, I am in no manner of pain about them. Were he a Tory, I would venture to serve /him, in the just expectation, that, should I ever be charged with having preferred a Tory, the person who was the author of my crime would likewise be the au- thor of my vindication. I am, with real esteem, sir, your most obedient humble servant. Sect. III. RECENT. 4m LETTER LXXXII. Dean Swift to the Earl of Cliesterfield. January lo, 1750-1. My lord, I RETURN your lordship my most hum- ble thanks for the honour and favour of your letter, and desire your justice to believe, that, in writing to you a second time, I have no design of giving you a second trouble. My only end at present is to beg your pardon for a fault of ig- norance. I ought to have remembered, that the arts of courts are like those of play ; where, if the most expert be ab- sent a few months, the whole system is so changed, that he hath no more skill than a new beginner. Yet I cannot but wish, that your lordship had pleased to forgive one, who has been an utter stranger to public life above sixteen years. Bussy Rabutin himself, the politest per- son of his age, when he was recalled to court after a long banishment, appeared ridiculous there : and what could I ex- pect from my antiquated manner of ad- dressing your lordship in the prime of your life, in the height of fortune, fa- vour, and merit ; so distinguished by your active spirit, and greatness of your genius ? I do here repeat to your lord- ship, that I lay the fault of my miscon- duct entirely on a friend whom I ex- ceedingly love and esteem, whom I dare not name, and who is as bad a courtier by nature as I am grown by want of practice. God forbid that your lordship should continue in an employment, how- ever great and honourable, where you only can be an ornament to the court so long, until you have an opportunity to provide offices for a dozen low people, like the poor man whom I took the li- berty to mention ! And God forbid, that, in one particular branch of the king's family, there should ever be such a mor- tality as to take away a dozen of meaner servants in less than a dozen years ! Give me leave, in further excuse of my weakness, to confess, that, besides some hints from my friends, your lordship is in great measure to blame, for your oblig- ing manner of treating me in every place where I had the honour to see you ; which I acknowledge to have been a dis- tinction that I had not the least pre- tence to, and consequently as little to ground upon it the request of a favour. x\s I am an utter stranger to the pre- sent forms of the world, I have imagined more than once, that your lordship's pro(;eeding with me may be a refinement introduced by yourself ; and that as, iu my time, the most solemn and frequent promises of great men usually failed, against all probable appearances, so that single slight one of your lordship may, by your generous nature, early succeed against all visible impossibilities. I am, &c. LETTER LXXXIIL Lord Chesterfield to Sir Thomas Robin- son, Bart. Elackheath, Oct. 13, 175^ Sir, What can a hermit send you from hence, in return for your entertaining letter, but his thanks ? I see nobody here by choice, and I hear nobody by neces- sity. As for the contemplations of a deaf, solitary, sick man, I am sure they can- not be entertaining to a man in health and spirits, as I hope you are. Since I saw you I have not had one hour's health : the returns of my vertigoes, and subse- quent weaknesses and languors, grow both stronger and more frequent ; and, in short, I exist to no one good purpose of life ; and therefore do not care how soon so useless and tiresome an exist- ence ceases entirely. This wretched si- tuation makes me read with the utmost coolness and indifference the accounts in the newspapers, for they are my only informers now you are gone, of the wars abroad, and changes at home. I wish well to my species in general, and to my country in particular ; and therefore la- ment the havoc that is already made, and likely to be made of the former, and the inevitable ruin which I see ap- proaching by great strides to the lat- ter : but, I confess, those sensations are not so quick in me now as formerly ; long illness blunts them, as well as others ; and perhaps too, self-love being- no w out of the case, I do not feel so sen- sibly for others as I should do if that were more concerned. This I know is wrong, but 1 fear it is nature. Since you are your own steward, do not cheat yourself, for I have known many a man lose more by being his own 494 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. steward than he would have heen robbed of by any other ; tenants are always too hard for landlords, especially such land- lords as think they understand those matters and do not, which, with submis- sion, may possibly be your case. I go next week to the Bath, by orders of the skilful, which I obey, because all places are alike to me ; otherwise, I ex- pect no advantage from it. But in all places I shall be most faithfully yours. LETTER LXXXIV. Lord Chesterfield to Dr. Cheyne of Bath. London, April 20, 1742. Dear doctor. Your inquiries and advice concerning my health are very pleasing marks of your remembrance and friendship ; which I assure you I value as I ought. It is very true, I have during these last three months, had frequent returns of my gid- dinesses, languors, and other nervous symptoms, for which I have taken vo- mits ; the first did me good, the others rather disagreed with me. It is the same with my diet ; sometimes the lowest agrees, at other times disagrees with me. In short, after all the attention and ob- servation I am capable of, I can hardly say what does me good, and what not. My constitution conforms itself so much to the fashion of the times, that it changes almost daily its friends for its enemies, and its enemies for its friends. Your alkalised mercury ' and your Bur- gundy have proved its two most constant friends. I take them both now, and v/ith more advantage than any other medicine. I propose going to Spa as soon as the season will permit, having really re- ceived great benefit by those waters last year, and I find my shattered tenement admits of but half repairs, and requires them annually. The corpus sanum^ which you wish me, will never be my lot ; but the mens sana I hope will be continued to me, and then I shall better bear the infirmities of the body. Hitherto, far from impairing my reason, they have only made me more reasonable, by subduing the tumultuous and troublesome passions. I enjoy my friends and my books as much as ever, and I seek for no other enjoyments ; so that I am become a perfect philosopher ; but whether malgrc moi or no, I y/Hl not take upon me to determine, not being sure that we do not owe more of our merit to accidents than our pride and self-love are willing to ascribe to them. I read with greafc pleasure your book, which your bookseller sent me according to your directions. The physical part is extremely good, and the metaphysical part may be so too, for what I know ; and I believe it is ; for, as I look upon all metaphysics to be guess-work of ima- gination, I know no imagination likelier to hit upon the right than yours ; and I will take your guess against any other metaphysician's whatsoever. That part, which is founded upon knowledge and experience, I look upon as a work of public utility ; and for which, the pre- sent age and their posterity may be obliged to you, if they will be pleased to follow it. LETTER LXXXV. John Dunning, Esq. to a Gentleman of the Inner Temple; containing Direc- tions to the Student. Lincoln's Inn, March 3, 1779. Dear sir. The habits of intercourse in which I have lived with your family, joined to the regard which I entertain for your- self, make me solicitous, in compliance with your request, to give you some hints concerning the study of the law. Our profession is generally ridiculed as being dry and uninteresting ; but a mind anxious for the discovery of truth and information will be amply gratified for the toil, in investigating the origin and progress of a jurisprudence, which has the good of the people for its basis, and the accumulated wisdom and experience of ages for its improvement. Nor is the study itself so intricate as has been imagined ; more especially since the la- bours of some modern writers have given it a more regular and scientific form. Without industry, however, it is impos- sible to arrive at any eminence in prac- tice ; and the man who shall be bold enough to attempt excellence by abilities alone, will soon find himself foiled by many who have inferior understandings, but better attainments. On the other hand, the most painful plodder can never an'ive at celebrity by mere reading ; a Sect. III. RECENT. 495 man calculated for success must add to native genius an instinctive faculty in the discovery and retention of that know- ledge only, which can be at once useful and productive. I imagine that a considerable degree of learning is absolutely necessary. The elder authors frequently wrote in Latin, and the foreign jurists continue the practice to this day. Besides this, clas- sical attainments contribute much to the refinement of the understanding, and embellishment of the style. The utility of grammar, rhetoric, and logic, are known and felt by every one. Geometry will afford the most apposite examples of close and pointed reasoning ; and geo- graphy is so very necessary in common life, that there is less credit in knowing, than dishonour in being unacquainted with it. But it is history, and more par- ticularly that of his own country, which will occupy the attention, and attract the regard of the great lawyer, A mi- nute knowledge of the political revolu- tions and judicial decisions of our pre- decessors, whether in the more ancient or modern seras of our government, is equally useful and interesting. This will include a narrative of all the material alterations in the common law, and the reasons ; and I would always recommend a diligent attendance on the courts of justice ; as by that means the practice of them (a circumstance of great mo- ment) will be easily and naturally ac- quired. Besides this, a much stronger impression will be made on the mind by the statement of the case, and the pleadings of the counsel, than from a cold uninteresting detail of it in a re- port. But, above all, a trial at bar, or a special argument, should never be neg- lected. As it is usual on these oc- casions to take notes, a knowledge of short -hand will give such facility to your labours, as to enable you to follow the most rapid speaker with certainty and precision. Common-place books are con- venient and useful ; and as they are ge- nerally lettered, a reference may be had to them in a moment. It is usual to acquire some insight into real business, under an eminent special pleader, pre- vious to actual practice at the bar ; this idea I beg leave strongly to second, and indeed I have known but a. few great men who have not possessed this advan- tage. I here subjoin a list of books ne- cessary for your perusal and instruction, to which I have added some remarks ; and wishing that you may add to a suc- cessful practice, that integrity which can alone make you worthy of it, I remain, &c. &c. Read Hume's History of England, particularly observing the rise, progress, and declension of the feudal system. Minutely attend to the Saxon govern- ment that preceded it, and dwell on the reigns of Edward I , Henry VI , Henry VI I , Henry VIII, James I, Charles I, Charles II, and James II. Blackstone. On the second reading turn to the references. Mr. Justice Wright's learned Treatise on Tenures. Coke Littleton, especially every word of Fee-simple, Fee-tail, and Tenant in tail. Coke's Institutes ; more particularly the 1st and Ild ; and Serjeant Hawkins's Compendium. Coke's Reports — Plowden's Commen- tary — Bacon's Abridgement ; and First Principles of Equity — Pigott on Fines — Jleports of Croke, Burrow, Raymond, Saunders, Strange, and Peere Williams — Paley's Maxims — Lord Bacon's Ele- ments of the Common Law. LETTER LXXXVI. - Dr. Johnson to Mr, Elphinsion^. Sept. 23, 1750. Dear sir. You have, as I find, by every kind of evidence, lost an excellent mother, and I hope you will not think me incapable of partaking of your grief. I have a mother now eighty-two years of age, whom therefore 1 must soon lose, unless it please God that she rather should mourn for me. I read the letters in which you relate your mother's death to Mr. Strahan ; and think I do myself ho- nour when I tell you that I read them with tears ; but tears are neither to me nor to you of any farther use, when once the tribute of nature has been paid. The business of life summons us away from useless grief, and calls us to the exercise of those virtues of which we are lament- * Translator of Martial, Bossuet, &c. and for- merly master of an academy at Keasington. 4^ ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. ing our deprivation. The greatest be- nefit, which one friend can confer upon another, is to guard, and incite, and ele- vate his virtues. This your mother will still perform, if you diligently preserve the memory of her life, and of her death : a life, so far as I can learn, useful, wise, and innocent ; and a death resigned, peaceful, and holy. I cannot forbear to mention, that neither reason nor revela- . tion denies you to hope that you may increase her happiness by obeying her precepts : and that she may, in her pre- sent state, look with pleasure upon every act of virtue to which her instructions or example have contributed. ^VTiether this be more than a pleasing dream, or a just opinion of separate spirits, is indeed of no great importance to us, when we consider ourselves as acting under the eye of God ; yet surely there is some- thing pleasing in the belief, that our separation from those whom we love is merely corporeal ; and it may be a great incitement to virtuous friendship, if it can be made probable, that union, which has received the divine approbation, shall continue to eternity. There is one expedient, by which you may, in some degree, continue her pre- sence. If you write down minutely what you remember of her from your earliest years, you will read it vidth great plea- sure, and receive from it many hints of soothing recollection, when time shall remove her yet farther from you, and your grief shall be matured to venera- tion. To this, however painful for the present, I cannot but advise you, as to a source of comfort and satisfaction in the time to come : for all comfort and all satisfaction is sincerely wished you by, dear sir, your, &c. LETTER LXXXVII. D?'. Johnson to Mr. Elphinston. Dear sir, I CANNOT but confess the failure of my correspondence ; but hope the same re- gard, which you express for me on every other occasion, will incline you to for- give me. I am often, very often ill : and when I am well, am obliged to work ; but, indeed, have never m.uch used my- self to punctuality. You are, however, not to make such kind of inferences, when I forbear to reply to your kind- ness^, for be assured, I never receive a letter from you without great pleasure, and a very warm sense of your generosity and friendship, which I heartily blame myself for not cultivating with more care. In this, as in many other cases, I go wrong in opposition to conviction ; for I think scarce any temporal good equally to be desired with the regard and familiarity of worthy men, and hope we shall be some time nearer to each other, and have a more ready way of pouring out our hearts. I am glad that you still find encou- ragement to persevere in your publica- tion*, and shall beg the favour of six more volumes to add to my former six, when you can with any convenience send them me. Please to present a set in my name to Mr. Ruddimanf, of whom 1 hear that his learning i& not his highest excellence. I have transcribed the mottos, and returned them, I hope not too late, of which I think many very happily per- formed. Mr. Cave has put the last in the Magazine J, in which I think he did well. I beg of you to write soon, and to write often, and to write long letters ; which I hope in time to repay you, but you must be a patient creditor. I have, however, this of gratitude, that I think of you with regard, when I do not per- haps give the proofs which I ought of piety. Sir, your most obliged and most humble servant, &c. LETTER LXXXVIII. From the same to the Rev. Dr, Taylor. March 18, 1752. Dear sir, Let me have your company and your instruction. Do not live away from me ; my distress is great. Pray desire Mrs. Taylor to inform me what mourning I should buy for my mo- ther and miss Porter, and bring a note in writing with you. Remember me in your prayers ; for vain is the help of man. I am, dear sir, 6cc. * This was of the Rambler, at Edinburgh, to which Mr. Elphinstou translated the mottos. f A very learned writer, author of several historical and philological works. He died January 1757. + See Gent. Mag. Oct. 1752. Sect. III. RECENT. 497 LETTER LXXXIX. Dr. Johnson to Miss Boothbj/. January 1, 1755. Dearest madam, Though I am afraid your illness leaves you little leisure for the reception of airy civilities, yet 1 cannot forbear to pay you my congratulations on the new year; and to declare my wishes, that your years to come may be many and happy. In this wish, indeed, I include myself, who have none but you on whom my heart reposes : yet surely I wish your good, even though your situation were such as should permit you to communicate no gratifications to, dearest, dearest madam, yours, &c, LETTER XC. From the same to the same. Jan. 3, 1755. Dearest madam. Nobody but you can recompense me for the distress which I suffered on Mon- day night. Having engaged Dr. Law- rence to let me know, at whatever hour, the state in which he left you, I con- cluded, when he staid so long, that he staid to see my dearest expire. I was composing myself as I could to hear what yet I hoped not to hear, when his ser- vant brought me word that you were better. Do you continue to grow bet- ter ? Let my dear little Miss inform me on a card. I would not have you write, lest it should hurt you, and consequently hurt likewise, dearest madam, your, &c. LETTER XCI. Dr. Johnson to the Right Honourable the Earl of Chesterfield. February, 1755. My lord, I HAVE been lately informed, by the pro- prietor of the World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your lord- ship. To be so distinguished, is an ho- nour which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. When, upon some slight encourage- ment, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address; and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself le vainqueur du vain" queur de la terre; — that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending ; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could ; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. Seven years, my lord, have now past, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, with- out one act of assistance *, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it f ; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself. Having carried on my work thus far Avith so little obligation to any favourer * The following note is subjoined by Mr. Langton. — Dr. Johnson, when he gave me this copy of his letter, desired that I would annex to it his information to me, that whereas it is said in the letter that * no assistance has been re- ceived,' be did once receive from lord Chester- field the sum of ten pounds; but as that was so inconsiderable a sum, he thought the men- tion of it could not properly find place in a letter of the kind that this was. f In this passage Dr. Johnson evidently al- ludes to the loss of his wife. 2K 498 ELEGANT EPISTLES. SOOK IV. of learning, 1 shall not be disappointed tlioug-h I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have been long v^^akened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation, my lord, your lord- ship's most humble, most obedient ser- vant. LETTER XCII. Dr Johnson to Miss *-x-x-^**, July 19, 1755. Madam, I KNOW not how liberally your gene- rosity would reward those who should do you any service, when you can so kindly acknowledge a favour which I intended only to myself. That accident- ally hearing that you were in town, I made haste to enjoy an interval of plea- sure, which I found would be short, was the natural consequence of that self-love which is always busy in quest of happi- ness ; of that happiness which we often miss when we think it near, and some- times find when we imagine it lost. When I had missed you, I went away disappointed ; and did not know that my vexation would be so amply repaid by so kind a letter. A letter indeed can but imperfectly supply the place of its writer, at least of such a writer as you ; and a letter which makes me still more desire your.presence, is but a weak consolation under the necessity of living longer with- out you : with this however I must be for a time content, as much content at least as discontent will suffer me ; for Mr. Barestti being a single being in this part of the world, and entirely clear from all engagem-cnts, takes the advantage of his independence, and will come before me ; for which if I could blame him, I should punish him ; but my own heart tells me that he only does to me, what, if I could, I should do to him. I hope Mrs. , when she came to her favourite place, found her house dry, and her woods growing, and the breeze whistling, and the birds singing, and her own heart dancing. And for you, ma- dam, whose heart cannot yet dance to such music, 1 know riot what to hope ; indeed I could hope every thing that would please you, except that perhaps the absence of higher pleasures is neces- sary to keep some little place vacant in your remembrance for, madam, your, &c. LETTER XCIIL Dr. Johnson to Miss Boothhi/. Dec. 30, 1755. Dear madam. It is again midnight, and I am again alone. With what meditation shall I amuse this waste hour of darkness and vacuity? If I turn my thoughts upon myself, what do I perceive but a poor helpless being, reduced by a blast of wind to weakness and misery ? How my present distemper was brought upon me I can give no account, but impute it to some sudden succession of cold to heat ; such as in the common road of life can- not be avoided, and against which no precaution can be taken. Of the fallaciousness of hope, and the uncertainty of schemes, every day gives some new proof ; but it is seldom heed- ed, till something rather felt than seen awakens attention. This illness, in which I have suffered something and feared much more, has depressed my confidence and elation ; and made me consider all that I have promised myself, as less cer- tain to be attained or enjoyed. I have endeavoured to form resolutions of a better life ; but I form them weakly, under the consciousness of an external motive. Not that 1 conceive a time of sickness a time improper for recollection and good purposes, which I believe dis- eases and calamities often sent to pro- duce, but because no man can know how little his performance will answer to his promises ; and designs are nothing in human eyes till they are realized by exe- cution. Continue, my dearest, your prayers for me, that no good resolution may be vain. You think, I believe, better of me than I deserve. I hope to be in time what I wish to be ; and what I have hitherto satisfied myself too readily with only wishing. Your billet brought me what I much wished to have, a proof that I am still remembered by you at the hour in which I most desire it. ' The doctor is anxious about you. He thinks you too negligent of yourself ; if you will promise to be cautious, I will exchange promises, as we have already Sect. III. RECENT. 499 exchanged injunctions. However, do not write to^ me more than you can ea- sily bear ; do not interrupt your ease to write at all. Mr. Fitzherbert sent to-day to offer me some wine ; the people about me say I ought to accept it ; 1 shall therefore be obliged to him if he will send me a bottle. There has gone about a report that I died to-day, which I mention, lest you should hear it and be alarmed. You see that I think my death may alarm you ; which for me is to think very highly of earthly friendship. I believe it arose from the death of one of my neighbours. You know Des Cartes's argument. " I think, therefore I am." It is as good a consequence, '* I write, therefore I am alive." I might give another, " I am alive, therefore I love miss Boothby ;'* but that 1 hope our friendship may be of far longer duration than life. I am, dearest madam, with sincere affection, your, &c. LETTER XCIV. From the same to the same. Dec. 30. My sweet angel, I HAVE read your book, I am afraid you will think without any great improve- ment ; whether you can read my notes I know not. You ought not to be of- fended : I am, perhaps, as sincere as the writer. In aU things that terminate here I shall be much guided by your influence, and I should take or leave by your direc- tion ; but I cannot receive my religion from any human hand. I desire, how- ever, to be instructed, and am far from thinking myself perfect. 1 beg you to return the book when you have looked into it. I should not have written what is in the margin, had I not had it from you, or had I not in- tended to shew it you. It affords me anew conviction, that in these books there is little new except new forms of expression ; which may be sometimes taken, even by the writer, for ncAv doctrines. I sincerely hope that God, whom you so much desire to serve aright, will bless you, and restore you to health, if he sees it best. Surely no human understanding can pray for any thing temporal, otherwise than condi- tionally. Dear angel, do not forget me. My heart is full of tenderness. It has pleased God to permit me to be much better ; which I believe will please you. Give me leave, who have thought much on medicine, to propose to you an easy, and I think a very probable reme- dy for indigestion and lubricity of the bowels. Dr. Lawrence has told me your case. Take an ounce of dried orange- peel, finely powdered, divide it into scru- ples, and take one scruple at a time in any manner ; the best way is perhaps to drink it in a glass of hot red-port, or to eat it first, and drink the wine after it. If you mix cinnamon or nutmeg with the powder, it were not worse ; but it will be more bulky, and so more troublesome. This is a medicine not disgusting, not costly, easily tried, and, if not found useful, easily left off. I would not have you offer it to the doctor as mine. Physicians do not love intruders : yet do not take it without his leave. But do not be easily put off, for it is, in my opinion, very likely to help you, and not likely to do you harm ; do not take too much in haste ; a scruple once in three hours, or about five scru- ples a-day, will be sufiicient to begin, or less if you find any aversion. I think using sugar with it might be bad ; if sy- rup, use old syrup of quinces : but even that I do not like. I should think better of conserve of sloes. Has the doctor mentioned the bark ? in powder you could hardly take it ; perhaps you might take the infusion. Do not think me troublesome. I am full of care. I love you and honour you ; and am very unwilling to lose you. A Dieuje vous recommende. I am, madam, your, &c. My compliments to my dear Miss. LETTER XCV. Dr. Johnson to Joseph Baretti, at Milan. London, June 10, 17(51. You reproach me very often with parsi- mony of writing ; but you may discover by the extent of my paper, that I design to recompense rarity by length. A short letter to a distant friend is, in my opinion, an insult like that of a slight bow or cursory salutation, a proof of unwilling- ness to do much, even where there is a 2 K2 500 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. necessity of doing something. Yet it must be remembered, that he who con- tinues the same course of life in the same place wil have little to tell. One week and one year are very like another. The silent changes made by time are not al- ways perceived ; and if they are not per- ceived, cannot be recounted. I have risen and lain down, talked and mused, while you have roved over a considerable part of Europe ; yet I have not envied my Baretti any of his pleasures, though perhaps I have envied others his com- pany ; and I am glad to have other na- tions made acquainted with the charac- ter of the English, by a traveller who has so nicely inspected our manners, and so successfully studied our litera- ture. 1 received your kind letter from Falmouth, in which you gave me notice of your departure for Lisbon ; and an- other from Lisbon, in which you told me that you were to leave Portugal in a few days. To either of these, how could any answer be returned ? I have had a third from Turin, complaining that I have not answered the former. Your English style still continues in its purity and vigour. With vigour your genius will supply it; but its purity must be continued by close attention. To use two languages familiarly, and without contaminating one by the other, is very difficult ; and to use more than two, is hardly to be hoped. The praises which some have received for their multipli- city of languages, may be sufficient to excite industry, but can hardly generate confidence. I know not whether I can heartily re- joice at the kind reception which you have found, or at the popularity to which you are exalted. I am willing that your me- rit should be distinguished ; but cannot wish that your affections may be gained. I would have you happy wherever you are : yet 1 would have you wish to return to England. If ever you visit us again, you will find the kindness of your friends undiminished. To tell you how many inquiries are made after you, would be tedious, or, if not tedious, would be vain ; because you may be told in a very few words, that all who knew you, wish you well ; and all that you embraced at your departure, will caress you at your return ; therefore do not let Italian academicians nor Italian ladies drive us from your thoughts. You may find among us what you wiU leave behind, soft smiles and easy sonnets. Yet I shall not wonder if all our invitations should be rejected ; for there is a pleasure in being considerable at home, which is not easDy resisted. * By conducting Mr. Southwell to Ve- nice, you fulfilled, I know, the original contract : yet I would wish you not wholly to loose him from your notice, but to recommend him to such acquaint- ance as may best secure him from suffer- ing by his own follies, and to take such general care both of his safety and his interest as may come within your power. His relations will thank you for any such gratuitous attention : at least, they will not blame you for any evil that may happen, whether they thank you or not for any good. You know that we have a new king and a new parliament. Of the new par- liament Fitzherbert is a member. We were so weary of our old king, that we are much pleased with his successor : of whom we are so much inclined to hope great things, that most of us begin al- ready to believe them. The young man is hitherto blameless ; but it would be unreasonable to expect much from the immaturity of juvenile years, and the ignorance of princely education. He has been long in the hands of the Scots, and has already favoured them more than the English will contentedly endure. But perhaps he scarcely knows whom he has distinguished, or whom he has dis- gusted. The artists have instituted a yearly exhibition of pictures and statues, in imitation, as I am told, of foreign Aca- demies. This year was the second exhi- bition. They please themselves much with the multitude of spectators, and imagine that the English school will rise in reputation. Reynolds is without a rival, and continues to add thousands to thousands, which he deserves, among other excellencies, by retaining his kind- ness for Baretti. This exhibition has filled the heads of the artists and lovers of art. Surely life, if it be not long, is tedious, since we are forced to call in the assistance of so many trifles to rid us of our time, of that time which never can return. I know my Baretti will not be satisfied with a letter in which I give him no ac- count of myself; yet what account shall Sect. III. RECENT. 501 I give of him ? I have not, since the day of our separation, suffered or done any thing considerable. The only change in my way of life is, that I have fre- quented the theati-e more than in former seasons. But I have gone tliither only to escape from myself. We have had many new farces, and the comedy called The Jealous Wife, wliich, though not "vvritten with much genius, was yet so well adapted to the stage, and so well exhibited by the actors, that it was crowded for near twenty nights. I am digressing from myself to the play- house ; but a barren plan must be filled with episodes. Of myself I have no- thing to say, but that I have hitherto lived without the concurrence of my own judgment ; yet I continue to flatter myself, that, when you return, you will find me mended. I do not wonder that, where the monastic life is permitted, every order finds votaries, and every monastery inhabitants. Men will sub- mit to any rule, by which they may be exempted from the tyranny of caprice and of chance. They are glad to sup- ply, by external authority, their own want of constancy and resolution, and court the government of others, when long experience has convinced them of their own inability to govern themselves. If I were to visit Italy, my curiosity would be more attracted by convents than by palaces ; though I am afraid that I should find expectation in both places equally disappointed, and life in both places supported with impatience, and quitted with reluctance. That it must be so soon quitted, is a powerful remedy against impatience ; but what shall free us from reluctance? Those who have endeavoured to teach us to die well, have taught few to die wil- lingly ; yet I cannot but hope that a good life might end at last in a contented death. You see to what a train of thou2:ht I am drawn by the mention of myself. Let me now turn my attention upon you. I hope you take care to keep an exact jour- nal, and to register all occurrences and observations; for your friends here ex- pect such a book of travels as has not been often seen. You have given us good specimens in your letters from Lisbon. I wish you had staid longer in Spain, for no country is less known to the rest of Europe ; but the quickness of your discernment must make amends for the celerity of your motions. He that knows which way to direct Ms view, sees much in a little time. Write to me very often, and I will not neglect to write to you ; and I may per- haps in time get something to write ; at least, you will know by my letters, what- ever else they may have or want, that I continue to be your most affectionate friend. LETTER XCVI. Dr. Johnson to Joseph Baretti, Sir, London, July 20, 17G'2. However justly you may accuse me for want of punctuality in correspondence, I am not so far lost in negligence as to omit the opportunity of writing to you, which Mr. Beauclerk's passage through Milan affords me. I suppose you received the Idlers, and I intend that you shall soon receive Shakspeare, that you may explain his works to the ladies of Italy, and tell them the story of the editor, among the other strange narratives with which your long residence in his unknown region has supplied you. As you have now been long away, I suppose your curiosity may pant for some news of your old friends. Miss Williams and I live much as we did. Miss Cotte- rel still continues to cling to Mrs. Porter, and Charlotte is now big of the fourth child. Mr. Reynolds gets six thousand a year. Levet is lately married, not with- out much suspicion that he has been wretchedly cheated in his match. Mr. Chambers is gone this day, for the first time, the ciicuit with the judges. Mr. Richardson is dead of an apoplexy, and his second daughter has married a mer- chant. My vanity, or my kindness, makes me flatter myself, that you would rather hear of me than of those whom I have mentioned ; but of myself I have very little which I care to tell. Last winter I went down to my native town, where I found the streets much narrower and shorter than I thought I had left them, inhabited by a new race of people, to whom I was very little known. My play-fellows were grown old, and forced me to suspect, that I was no longer young. 502 E L E G A N T E P J S T L E S. Book IV. My only remaining friend has changed his principles, and has become the tool of the predominant faction. My daugh- ter-in-law, from whom I expected most, and whom I met with sincere benevo- lence, has lost the beauty and gaiety of youth, without having gained much of the wisdom of age. 1 wandered about for five days, and took the first convenient opportunity of returning to a place, where, if there is not much happiness, there is at least such a diversity of good and evil, that slight vexations do not fix u])on the heart. I think, in a few weeks, to try another excursion : though to what end ? Let me know, my Baretti, what has been the re- sult of your return to your own country ; whether time has made any alteration for the better ; and whether, when the first raptures of salutation were over, you did not find your thoughts confessed their disappointment. Moral sentences appear ostentatious and tumid, when they have no greater occasions than the journey of a wit to his own town : yet such pleasures and such pains make up the general mass of life : and as nothing is little to him that feels it with great sensibility, a mind able to see common incidents in their real state, is disposed by very common incidents to very serious contemplations. Let us trust that a time will come, when the present moment shall be no longer irksome ; when we shall not borrow all our happiness from hope, which at last is to end in disappointment. I beg that you will shew Mr. Beau- clerk all the civilities that you have in your power ; for he has always been kind to me. I have lately seen Mr. Straicto, pro- fessor of Padua, who has told me of your quarrel with an abbot of the Celestine Order ; but had not the particulars very ready in his memory. When you write to Mr. Marsili, let him know that I re- member him with kindness. May you, my Baretti, be very happy at Milan, or some other place nearer to, sir, your most aflTectionate humble ser- vant, &c. LETTER XCVH. Dr. Johnson to Joseph Baretti. Dec. 21, 1762r, Sir, You are not to suppose, with all your conviction of my idleness, that I have passed all this time without writing tO' my Baretti. I gave a letter to Mr. Beau- clerk, who, in my opinion, and in hi& own, was hastening to Naples for the re- covery of his health ; but he has stoppecS at Paris, and I know not when he will proceed. Langton is with him. I will not trouble you with specula- tions about peace and war. The good of ill success of battles and embassies ex- tends itself to a very small part of do- mestic life ; we all have good and evil, which we feel more sensibly than our petty part of public miscarriage or pros- perity. I am sorry for your disappoint- , ment, with which you seem more touched than 1 should expect a man of your re- solution and experience to have been, did I not know that general truths are seldom applied to particular occasions ; and that the fallacy of our self-love ex- tends itself as wide as our interest or af- fections. Every man believes that mis- tresses are unfaithftd, and patrons capri- cious ; but he excepts his own mistress and his own patron. We have all learn- ed that greatness is negligent and con- temptuous, and that in courts, life is often languished away in ungratified ex- pectation ; but he that approaches great- ness, or glitters in a court, imagines that destiny has at last exempted him from the common lot. Do not let such evils overwhelm you as thousands have suffered and thou- sands have surmounted; but turn your thoughts with vigour to some other plan of life ; and keep always in your mind, that, with due submission to Providence, a man of genius has been seldom ruined but by himself. Your patron's weakness, or insensibility will finally do you little hurt, if he is not assisted by your own passions. Of your love I know not the propriety, nor can estimate the power ; but in love, as in every other passion of which hope is the essence, we ought al- ways to remember the uncertainty of events. There is indeed nothing that so much seduces reason from her vigilance, as the thought of i)asfeing life with an Sect. III. RECENT. 503 amiable woman ; and if all would happen that a lover fancies, I know not what other terrestrial happiness would de- serve pursuit. But love and marriage are different states. Those who are to suffer the evils together, and to suffer often for the sake of one another, soon lose that tenderness of look and that be- nevolence of mind which arose from the participation of unmingled pleasure and successive amusement. A woman we are sure will not be always fair ; we are not sure she will always be virtuous ; and man cannot retain through life that respect and assiduity by which he pleases for a day or for a month. I do not however pretend to have discovered that life has any thing more to be desired than a prudent and virtuous marriage ; therefore know not what counsel to give you. If you can quit your imagination of love and greatness, and leave your hopes of preferment and bridal raptures to try once more the fortune of literature and industry, the way through France is now open. We flatter ourselves that we shall cultivate with great diligence the arts of peace ; and every man will be welcome among us who can teach us any thing we do not know. For your part, you will find all your own friends willing to receive you. Reynolds still continues to increase in reputation and in riches. Miss Williams, who very much loves you, goes on in the old way. Miss Cotterel is still with Mrs. Porter. Miss Charlotte is married to Dean Lewis, and has three children. Mr. Levet has married a street walker. But the gazette of my narration must now ar- rive to tell you, that Bathurst went phy- sician to the army, and died at the Ha- vannah. I know not whether I have not sent you word that Huggins and Richardson are both dead. When we see our ene- mies and friends gliding away before us, let us not forget that we are subject to the general law of mortality, and shall soon be where our doom will be fixed for ever. I pray God to bless you, and am, sir, your most affectionate humble ser- vant, &c. Write soon. LETTER XCVIIl. Mrs. Thrak to Mr, -, on his marriage. My dear sir, I RECEIVED the news of your marriage with infinite delight, and hope that the sincerity with which I wish your happi- ness may excuse the liberty 1 take in giving you a few rules whereby more certainly to obtain it. I see you smile at my wrong-headed kindness, and, reflect- ing on the charms of your bride, cry out in a rapture, that you are happy enough without my rules. I know you are ; but after one of the forty years, which 1 hope you will pass pleasingly together, are over, this letter may come in turn, and rules for felicity may not be found unne- cessary, however some of them may ap- pear impracticable. Could that kind of love be kept alive through the married state, which makes the charm of a single one, the sovereign good would no longer be sought for ; in the union of two faithful lovers it would be found : but reason shows us that this is impossible, and experience informs us that it never was so ; we must preserve it as long, and supply it as happily, as we can. WTien your present violence of passion subsides, however, and a more cool and tranquil affection takes its place, be not hasty to censure yourself as indifferent, or to lament yourself as unhappy ; you have lost that only which it was impos- sible to retain, and it were graceless amid the pleasures of a prosperous summer to regret the blossoms of a transient spring. Neither unwarily condemn your bride's insipidity, till you have recollected that no object, however sublime, no sounds, however charming, can continue to transport us with delight when they no longer strike us with novelty. The skill to renovate the powers of pleasing is said indeed to be possessed by some women in an eminent degree, but the artifices of maturity are seldom seen to adorn the innocence of youth ; you have made your choice, and ought to ap- prove it. Satiety follows quick upon the heels of possession ; and to be happy, we must al- ways have something in view. The per- son of your lady is already all your ovnn, and will not grow more pleasing in your eyes I doubt, though the rest of your sex 504 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. will think her handsomer for these dozen years. Turn, therefore, all your atten- tion to her mind, which will daily grow brighter by polishing. Study some easy science together, and acquire a similarity of tastes while you enjoy a community of pleasures. You will, by this means, have many images in common, and be freed from the necessity of separating to find amusement : nothing is so dangerous to wedded love as the possibility of either beingjhappy out of the company of the other ; endeavour therefore to cement the present intimacy on every side ; let your wife never be kept ignorant of your income, your expenses, your friendships, or aversions ; let her know your very faults, but make them amiable by your virtues ; consider all concealment as a breach of fidelity ; let her never have any thing to find out in your character ; and remember, that from the moment one of the partners turns spy upon the other, they have commenced a state of hosti- lity. Seek not for happiness in singularity ; and dread a refinement of wisdom as a deviation into folly. Listen not to those sages, who advise you always to scorn the counsel of a woman, and if you comply with her requests pronounce you to be wife-ridden. Think not any privation, except of positive evil, an excellence ; and do not congratulate yourself that your wife is not a learned lady, that she never touches a card, or is wholly ignorant how to make a pudding. Cards, cook- ery, and learning, are all good in their places, and may all be used with advan- tage. With regard to expense, I can only observe, that the money laid out in the purchase of distinction is seldom or ever profitably employed. We live in an age when splendid furniture and glittering equipage are grown too common to catch the notice of the meanest spectator ; and , for the greater ones, they only regard our wasteful folly with silent contempt, or open indignation. This may perhaps be a displeasing reflection, but the following consideration ought to make amends. The age we live in, pays, I think, pecu- liar attention to the higher distinctions of wit, knowledge, and virtue, to which we may more safely, more cheaply, and more honourably, aspire. The giddy flirt of quality frets at the respect she sees paid to lady Edgecumbe ; and the gay dunce sits pining for a partner, while Jones the Orientalist leads «p the ball. I said that the person of your lady would not grow more pleasing to you, but pray let her never suspect that it grows less so : that a woman will pardon an affront to her understanding much sooner than one to her person, is well known ; nor will any of us contradict the assertion. All our attainments, all our arts, are employed to gain and keep the heart of man ; and what mortification can exceed the disappointment, if the end be not obtained ! There is no reproof, how- ever pointed, no punishment, however severe, that a woman of spirit will not prefer to neglect ; and if she can endure it without complaint, it only proves that she means to make herself amends by the attention of others for the slights of her husband. For this, and for every reason, it behoves a married man not to let his politeness fail, though his ardour may abate ; but to retain, at least, that general civility towards his own lady which he is so willing to pay to every other, and not show a wife of eighteen or twenty years old, that every man in company can treat her with more complaisance than he who so often vowed to her eternal fondness. It is not my opinion that a young woman should be indulged in every wild wish of her gay heart or giddy head, but contradiction may be softened by domes- tic kindness, and quiet pleasures substi- tuted in the place of noisy ones. Public amusements are not indeed so expensive as is sometimes imagined, but they tend to alienate the minds of married people from each other. A well-chosen society of friends and acquaintance, more emi- nent for virtue and good sense than for gaiety and splendour, where the conver- sation of the day may afford comment for the evening, seems the most rational plea- sure this great town can afford ; and to this a game at cards now and then gives an additional relish. That your own superiority should al- ways be seen, but never felt, seems an excellent general rule. A wife should outshine her husband in nothing, not even in her dress. If she happens to have a taste for the trifling distinctions that finery can confer, suffer her not for a moment to fancy, when she appears in public, that sir Edward or the Colonel are Sect. III. RECENT. 505 finer gentlemen than her husband. The bane of married happiness among the city men in general has been, that find- ing themselves unfit for polite life they transferred their vanity to their ladies, dressed them up gaily, and sent them out a gallanting, while the good man was to regale with port wine or rum punch, perhaps among mean companions, after the counting house was shut ; this prac- tice produced the ridicule thrown on them in all our comedies and novels since commerce began to prosper. But now that I am so near the subject, a word or two on jealousy may not be amiss ; for though not a failing of the present age's growth, yet the seeds of it are too cer- tainly sown in every warm bosom for us to neglect it as a fault of no consequence. If you are ever tempted to be jealous, watch your wife narrowly, but never tease her : tell her your jealousy, but conceal your suspicion ; let her, in short, be satisfied that it is only your odd tem- per, and even troublesome attachment, that makes you follow her ; but let her not dream that you ever doubted serious- ly of her virtue, even for a moment. If she is disposed towards jealousy of you, let me beseech you to be always explicit with her, and never mysterious : be above delighting in her pain, of all things, — nor do your business, nor pay your visits, with an air of concealment, when all you are doing might as well be proclaim- ed perhaps in the parish vestry. But I will hope better than this of your tender- ness and of your virtue, and will release you from a lecture you have so very little need of, unless your extreme youth and my uncommon regard will excuse it. And now, farewell; make my kindest compliments to your wife, and be happy in proportion as happiness is wished you by, dear sir, &c. LETTER XCIX. Dr. Johnson d Mr. Mr. Bosivell, a la Cour de VEmpereur, Utrecht. London, Dec. 8, 1763. Dear sir. You are not to think yourself forgotten, or criminally neglected, that you have had yet no letter from me. I love to see my friends, to hear from them, to talk to them, and to talk of them : but it is not without a considerable effort of resolution that I prevail upon myself to write. I would not, however, gratify my own indolence by the omission of any important duty, or any office of real kindness. To tell you that I am or am not well, that 1 have or have not been in the country, that 1 drank your health in the room in which we sat last together, and that your acquaintance continue to speak of you with their former kindness, topics with which those letters are commonly filled which are written only for the sake of writing, I seldom shall think worth communicating ; but if I can have it in my power to calm any harassing disquiet, to excite any virtuous desire, to rectify any important opinion, or fortify any generous resolution, you need not doubt but I shall at least wish to prefer the pleasure of gratifying a friend much less esteemed than yourself, before the gloomy calm of idle vacancy. Whether I shall easily arrive at an exact punctuality of correspondence, I cannot tell. I shall, at present, expect that you will receive this in return for two which I have had from you. The first, indeed, gave me an account so hopeless of the state of your mind, that it hardly admitted or deserved an answer ; by the second I was much better pleased ; and the pleasure will still be increased by such a narrative of the progress of your studies, as may evince the continuance of an equal and rational application of your mind to some useful inquiry. You wUl, perhaps, wish to ask, what study I would recommend. I shall not speak of theology, because it ought not to be considered as a question whether you shall endeavour to know the will of God. I shall, therefore, consider only such studies as we are at liberty to pursue or to neglect ; and of these 1 know not how you will make a better choice, than by studying the civil law, as your father advises, and the ancient languages, as you had determined for yourself : at least resolve, while you remain in any settled residence, to spend a certain number of hours every day amongst your books. The dissipation of thought, of which you complam, is nothing more than the vacillation of a mind suspended between different motives, and changing its direc- tion as any motive gains or loses strength. 506 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. If you can but kindle in your mind any strong desire, if you can but keep pre- dominant any wisli for some particular excellence or attainment, the gusts of imagination will break away, without any effect upon your conduct, and commonly without any traces left upon the me- mory. There lurks, perhaps, in every human heart a desire of distinction, which in- clines every man first to hope, and then to believe, that nature has given him something peculiar to himself. This vanity makes one mind nurse aversions, and another actuate desires, till they rise by art much above their original state of power ; and as affection in time im- proves to habit, they at last tyrannize over him who at first encouraged them only for show. Every desire is a viper in the bosom, who, while he was chill, was harmless ; but when warmth gave him strength, exerted it in poison. You know a gentleman, who, when first he set his foot in the gay world, as he pre- pared himself to whirl in the vortex of pleasure, imagined a total indifference and universal negligence to be the most agreeable concomitants of youth, and the strongest indication of an airy temper and a quick apprehension. Vacant to every object, and sensible of every im- pulse, he thought that all appearance of diligence would deduct something from the reputation of genius ; and hoped that he should appear to attain, amidst all the ease of carelessness, and the tumult of diversion, that knowledge and those ac- complishments which mortals of the com- mon fabric obtain only by mute abstrac- tion and solitary drudgery. He tried this scheme of life awhile, was made weary of it by his sense and his virtue ; he then wished to return to his studies ; and finding long habits of idleness and plea- sure harder to be cured than he expected, still willing to retain his claim to some extraordinary prerogatives, resolved the common consequences of irregularity into an unalterable decree of destiny, and concluded that nature had originally formed him incapable of rational employ- ment. Let all such fancies, illusive and de- structive, be banished henceforward from your thoughts for ever. Resolve, and keep your resolution ; choose, and pursue your choice. If you spend this day in study, you will find yourself still more able to study to-morrow ; not that you are to expect that you shall at once ob- tain a complete victory. Depravity is not very easily overcome. Resolution will sometimes relax, and diligence will sometimes be interrupted ; but let no accidental surprise or deviation, whether short or long, dispose you to despon- dency. Consider these failings as inci- dent to all mankind. Begin again where you left off, and endeavour to avoid the seducements that prevailed over you before. This, my dear Boswell, is advice which, perhaps, has been often given you, and given you without effect. But this ad- vice, if you will not take from others, you must take from your own reflections, if you purpose to do the duties of the station to which the bounty of Provi- dence has caUed you. Let me have a long letter from you as soon as you can. I hope you continue your journal, and enrich it with many observations upon the country in which you reside. It will be a favour if you can get me any books in the Frisick lan- guage, and can inquire how the poor are maintained in the Seven ProA^nces. I am, dear sir, your most affectionate servant. LETTER C. Dr. Johnson to James Boswell, Esq. [Net dated, but written about the 15th of March.] Dear sir, I AM ashamed to think that since I re- ceived your letter I have passed so many days without answering it. I think there is no great diflSculty in resolving your doubts. The reasons for which you are inclined to visit London, are, I think, not of sufficient strength to answer the objections. That you should delight to come once a year to the foun- tain of intelligence and pleasure is very natural ; but both information and plea- sure must be regulated by propriety. Pleasure, which cannot be obtained but by unreasonable or unsuitable expense, must always end in pain : and pleasure, which must be enjoyed at the expense of another's pain, can never be such as a worthy mind can fully delight in. Sect. III. RECENT. 507 What improvement you might gain by coming to London, you may easily supply or easily compensate, by enjoin- ing yourself some particular study at home, or opening some new avenue to information. Edinburgh is not yet ex- hausted ; and I am sure you will find no pleasure here, which can deserve either that you should anticipate any part of your future fortune, or that you should condemn yourself and your lady to penurious frugality for the rest of the year. I need not tell you what regard you owe to Mrs. Boswell's entreaties ; or how much you ought to study the happi- ness of her, who studies yours with so much diligence, and of whose kindness you enjoy such good effects. Life can- not subsist in society but by reciprocal concessions. She permitted you to ram- ble last year ; you must permit her now to keep you at home. Your last reason is so serious, that I am unwilling to oppose it. Yet you must remember, that your image of worshipping once a year in a certain place, in imitation of the Jews, is but a comparison, and si7nile non est idem; if the annual resort to Jerusalem was a duty to the Jews, it was a duty because it was commanded ; and you have no such command, therefore no such duty. It may be dangerous to receive too rea- dily, and indulge too fondly, opinions from which perhaps no pious mind is wholly disengaged, of local sanctity and local devotion. You know what strange effects they have produced over a great part of the Christian world. I am now writing, and you, when you read this, are reading, under the eye of Omnipre- sence. To what degree fancy is to be ad- mitted into religious offices, it would require much deliberation to determine. I am far from intending totally to ex- clude it. Fancy is a faculty bestowed by our Creator ; and it is reasonable, that all his gifts should be used to his glory, that all our faculties should co- operate in his worship ; but they are to co-operate according to the will of him that gave them, according to the order which his wisdom has esta- blished. As ceremonies prudential or convenient are less obligatory than po- sitive ordinances, as bodily worship is only the token to others or ourselves of mental adoration, so Fancy is al- ways to act in subordination to Rea- son. We may take Fancy for a com- panion, but must follow Reason as our guide. We may allow Fancy to suggest certain ideas in certain places, but Reason must always be heard, when she tells us, that those ideas and those places have no natural or ne- cessary relation. When we enter a church, we habitually recall to mind the duty of adoration, but we must not omit adoration for want of a temple ; because we know, and ought to re- member, that the Universal Lord is everywhere present ; and that, there- fore, to come to lona, or to Jerusalem, though it may be useful, cannot be ne- cessary. Thus I have answered your letter, and have not answered it negligently. I love you too well to be careless when you are serious. I think I shall be very diligent next week about our travels, which I have too long neglected. I am, dear sir, your most, &c. Compliments to madam and miss. LETTER CI. Dr. Johnson to Mr. James Macpherson. Mr. James Macpherson, I RECEIVED your fooUsh and impudent letter. Any violence offered me I shall do my best to repel ; and what I cannot do for myself, the law shall do for me. I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian. What would you have me retract ? I thought your book an imposture ; I think it an imposture still. For this opinion 1 have given my reason to the public, which I here dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your abilities, since your Homer, are not so formidable ; and what I hear of your morals inclines me to pay regard not to what you shall say, but to what you shall prove. You may print this if you will. 508 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER Cn. Dr. Johnson to Mrs. Boswell. July 22, 1777. Madam, Though I am well enough pleased with the taste of sweetmeats, very little of the pleasure which I received at the arrival of your jar of marmalade arose from eating it. I received it as a token of friendship, as a proof of reconciliation, things much sweeter than sweetmeats, and upon this consideration I return you, dear madam, my sincerest thanks. By having your kindness I think I have a double security for the continuance of Mr. Boswell's, which it is not to be ex- pected that any man can long keep, when the influence of a lady so highly and so justly valued operates against him. Mr. Boswell will tell you, that I was always faithful to your interest, and always en- deavoured to exalt you in his estima- tion. You must now do the same for me. We must all help one another ; and you must now consider me as, dear madam, your most obliged and most humble servant. LETTER Cin. Dr. Johnson to Mr. Elphinston. Sir, July 27, 1773. Having myself suffered what you are now sufi'ering, I well know the weight of your distress, how much need you have of comfort, and how little comfort can be given, A loss, such as yours, lace- rates the mind, and breaks the whole system of purposes and hopes. It leaves a dismal vacuity in life, which affords nothing on which the affections can fix, or to which endeavour may be directed. All this 1 have known ; and it is now, in the vicissitude of things, your turn to know it. But in the condition of mortal beings, one must lose another. What would be the wretchedness of life, if there was not something always in view, some Being immutable and unfailing, to whose mercy man may have recourse ! Tov itpujrov xivsvta, ayiiyrj'T'ov. Here we must rest. The greatest Being is the most benevolent. We must not grieve for the dead as men without hope, because we know they are in his hands. We have, indeed, not leisure to grieve long, because we are hastening to follow them. Your race and mine have been interrupted by many obstacles, but we must humbly hope for an happy end. I am, sir, vour most humble servant. LETTER CIV. Dr. Johnson to Bolt Court, Aug. 30, 178(L Dear sir, Not many days ago Dr. L. showed me a letter, in which you make kind men- tion of me : I hope, therefore, you will not be displeased that I endeavour to preserve your good-will by some obser- vations, which your letter suggested to me. You are afraid of falling into some improprieties in the daily service, by reading to an audience that requires no exactness. Your fear, I hope, secures you from danger. They, who contract absurd habits, are such as have no fear. It is impossible to do the same thing very often without some peculiarity of manner ; but that manner may be good or bad, and a little care will at least pre- serve it from being bad ; to make it very good, there must, I think, be something of natural or casual felicity, which can- not be taught. Your present method of making your sermons seems very judicious. Few fre- quent preachers can be supposed to have sermons more their own than yours will be. Take care to register some- where or other the authors from whom your several discourses are borrowed ; and do not imagine tha.t you shall al- ways remember even what perhaps you now think it impossible to forget. My advice however is, that you at- tempt from time to time an original sermon, and in the labour of composition do not burden your mind with too much at once ; do not exact from yourself at one effort of excogitation propriety of thought and elegance of expression. Invent first, and then embellish. The production of something, where nothing was before, is an act of greater energy than the expansion or decoration of the thing produced. Set down diligently your thoughts as they rise in the first Sect. III. RECENT. 509 words that occur, and when you have matter you will easily give it form ; nor perhaps will this method be always ne- cessary, for by habit your thoughts and diction will flow togetbsr. The composition of sermons is not very diflicult ; the divisions not only help the memory of the hearer, but di- rect the judgment of the writer ; they supply sources of invention, and keep every part to its proper place. What I like least in your letter is your account of the manners of the parish ; from which I gather that it has been long neglected by the parson. The dean of Carlisle*, who was then a little rector in Northamptonshire, told me that it might be discerned whether or no there was a clergyman resident in a parish, by the civil or savage manners of the people. Such a congregation as yours stand in much need of reforma- tion ; and 1 would not have you think it impossible to reform them. A very savage parish was civilized by a decayed gentlewoman, who came among them to teach a petty school. My learned friend, Dr. Wheeler, of Oxford, when he was a young man, had the care of a neighbouring parish for fifteen pounds a year, which he was never paid ; but he counted it a convenience that it com- pelled him to make a sermon weekly. One woman he could not bring to the communion ; and when he reproved or exhorted her, she only answered that she was no scholar. He was advised to set some good woman or man of the parish, a little wiser than herself, to talk to her in language level to her mind. Such honest, I may call them holy artifices, must be practised by every clergyman, for all means must be tried by which souls may be saved. Talk to your peo- ple, however, as much as you can, and you will find that the more frequently you converse with them upon religious subjects, the more willingly they will attend, and the more submissively they will learn. A clergyman's diligence al- ways makes him venerable. 1 think I have now only to say, that in the mo- mentous work that you have under- taken I pray God to bless you. I am, sir, your most humble servant, * Now bishop of Dromore. LETTER CV. Dr. Johnson to Mrs. Thrale, on the Death of Mr. Thrale. London, April 5, 1781. Dearest madam. Of your injunctions, to pray for you and write to you, I hope to leave neither un- observed ; and I hope to find you will- ing in a short time to alleviate your trouble by some other exercise of the mind. I am not without my part of the calamity. No death since that of my wife has ever oppressed me like this. But let us remember, that we are in the hands of him, who knows when to give and when to take away ; who will look upon us with mercy through all our variations of existence, and who invites us to call on him in the day of trouble. Call upon him in this great revolution of life, and call with confidence. You will then find comfort for the past, and support for the future. He that has given you happiness in mar- riage, to a degree of which, without per- sonal knowledge, I should have thought the description fabulous, can give you another mode of happiness as a mother ; and, at last, the happiness of losing all temporal cares in the thoughts of an eternity in heaven. I do not exhort yoii to reason your- self into tranquillity. We must first pray, and then labour ; first implore the blessing of God, and then use those means which he puts into our hands. Cultivat- ed ground has few weeds ; a mind occu- pied by lawful business has little room for useless regret. We read the will to-day ; but I will not fill my first letter with any other account than that, with all my zeal for your advantage, I am satisfied ; and that the other executors, more used to con- sider property than I, commended it for wisdom and equity. Yet why should I not tell you, that you have five hundred pounds for your immediate expenses, and two thousand pounds a year, with both the houses and all the goods ? Let us pray for one another, that the time, whether long or short, that shall yet be granted us, may be well spent ; and that when this life, which at the longest is very short, shall come to an end, a better may begin, which shall never end. I am, dearest madam, vour, &c. 510 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER CVI. Dr. Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. London, April 9, 1781. Dearest madam, That you are gradually recovering your tranquillity is the effect to be humbly expected from trust in God. Do not represent life as darker than it is. Your loss has been very great, but you retain more than almost any other can hope to possess. You are high in the opinion of mankind ; you have children from whom much pleasure may be expected; and that you will find many friends you have no reason to doubt. Of my friendship, be it worth more or less, I hope you think yourself certain, w'thout much art or care. It will not be easy for me to repay the benefits that I have receiv- ed ; but I hope to be always ready at your call. Our sorrow has diflferent ef- fects ; you are withdrawn into solitude, and I am driven into company. I am afraid of thinking what 1 have lost. I never had such a friend before. Let me have your prayers and those of my dear Queeney. The prudence and resolution of your design to return so soon to your business and your duty, deserves great praise ; I shall communicate it on Wednesday to the other executors. Be pleased to let me know whether you would have me come to Streatham to receive you, or stay here till the next day. I am, &c. LETTER CVII. Dr. Johnson to Mr. Hector in Birming- ham. [Without a date, but supposed to be about this time.] Dear sir. That you and dear Mrs. Careless should have care or curiosity about my health, gives me that pleasure which every man feels from finding himself not forgotten. In age we feel again that love of our native place and our early friends, which, in the bustle or amusements of middle life, were overborne and suspended. You and I should now naturally cling to one another : we have outlived most of those who could pretend to rival us in each other's kindness. In our walk through life we have dropped our com- panions, and are now to pick up such as chance may offer us, or to travel on alone. You, indeed, have a sister, with whom you can divide the day : 1 have no natural friend left ; but Providence has been pleased to preserve me from neglect ; I have not wanted such allevia- tions of life as friendship could supply. My health has been, from my twentieth year, such as has seldom afforded me a single day of ease ; but it is at least not worse ; and I sometimes make myself believe that it is better. My disorders are, however, still sufficiently oppres- sive. I think of seeing Staffordshire again this autumn, and intend to find my way through Birmingham, where 1 hope to see you and dear Mrs. Careless well. I am, sir, your affectionate friend. LETTER CVIII. Dr, Johnson to James Boswell, Esq, London, March 28, 1782. Dear sir. The pleasure which we used to receive from each other on Good-Friday and Easter-day, we must this year be con- tent to miss. Let us, however, pray for each other, and hope to see one another yet from time to time with mutual de- light. My disorder has been a cold, which impeded the organs of respira- tion, and kept me many weeks in a state of great uneasiness, but by repeated phlebotomy is now relieved ; and, next to the recovery of Mrs. Boswell, I flatter myself that you will rejoice at mine. What we shall do in the summer it is yet too early to consider. You want to know what you shall do now ; 1 do not think this time of bustle and confusion likely to produce any advantage to you. Every man has those to reward and gratify who have contributed to his ad- vancement. To come hither with such expectations at the expense of borrowed money, which, I find, you know not where to borrow, can hardly be consi- dered as prudent. I am sorry to find, what your solicitation seems to imply, that you have already gone the whole length of your credit. This is to set the quiet of your whole life at hazard. If you anticipate your inheritance, you can at Sect. Ill, RECENT. 511 last inherit nothing-; all that you re- ceive must pay for the past. You must get a place, or pine in penury, with the empty name of a great estate. Poverty, my dear friend, is so great an evil, and pregnant with so much temptation, and so much misery, that I cannot but earnestly enjoin you to avoid it. Live on what you have, live if you can on less ; do not borrow either for vanity or pleasure : the vanity will end in shame, and the pleasure in regret ; stay there- fore at home till you have saved money for your journey hither. * The Beauties of Johnson' are said to have got money to the collector ; if the * Deformities' have the same success, I shall be still a more extensive bene- factor. Make my compliments to Mrs. Bos- well, who is, I hope, reconciled to me ; and to the young people, whom I never have offended. You never told me the success of your plea against the solicitors. I am, dear sir, your most affectionate, &c. LETTER CIX. From the same to the same. London, Sept. 7, 17S'2. Dear sir, I HAVE struggled through this year with so much infirmity of body, and such strong impressions of fragility of life, that death, wherever it appears, fills me with melancholy ; and I cannot hear without emotion of the removal of any one, whom I have known, into another state. Your father's death had every circum- stance that could enable you to bear it ; it was at a mature age, and it was ex- pected ; and as his general life had been pious, his thoughts had doubtless for many years past been turned upon eter- nity. That you did not find him sen- sible must doubtless grieve you ; his dis- position towards you was undoubtedly that of a kind, though not of a fond fa- ther. Kindness, at least actual, is in our power, but fondness is not ; and if by negligence or imprudence you had extinguished his fondness, he could not at will rekindle it. Nothing then re- mained between you but mutual forgive- ness of each other's faults, and mutual desire of each other's happiness. I shall long to know his final disposi- tion of his fortune. You, dear sir, have now a new station, and have therefore new cares, and new- employments. Life, as Cowley seems to say, ought to resemble a well-ordered poem ; of which one rule generally re- ceived is, that the exordium should be simple, and should promise little. Begin your new course of life with the least show, and the least expense possible ; you may at pleasure increase both, but you cannot easily diminish them. Do not think your estate your own, while any man can call upon you for money which you cannot pay : therefore, be- gin with timorous parsimony. Let it be your first care not to be in any man's debt. When the thoughts are extended to a future state, the present life seems hardly worthy of all those principles of conduct, and maxims of prudence, which one ge- neration of men has transmitted to an- other ; but upon a closer view, when it is perceived how much evil is produced, and how much good is impeded by em- barrassment and distress, and how little room the expedients of poverty leave for the exercise of virtue ; its sorrows ma- nifest that the boundless importance of the next life enforces some attention to the interests of this. Be kind to the old servants, and se- cure the kindness of the agents and fac- tors ; do not disgust them by asperity, or unwelcome gaiety, or apparent sus- picion. From them you must learn the real state of your affairs, the characters of your tenants, and the value of your lands. Make my compliments to Mrs. Bos- well ; I think her expectation from air and exercise are the best that she can form. I hope she will live long and happily. I forgot whether I told you that Rasay has been here ; we dined cheerfully to- gether. I entertained lately a young gentleman from Coriatachat. I received your letters only this morn- ing. I am, dear sir, yours, &c. 512 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER ex. Dr. Johnson to James Bosivell, Esq. London, Dec. 7, 1782. Dear sir, Having passed almost this whole year » in a succession of disorders, I went in October to Brighthelmston, whither I came in a state of so much weakness, that I rested four times in walking be- tween the inn and the lodging. By phy- sic and abstinence I grew better, and am now reasonably easy, though at a great distance from health. 1 am afraid, however, that health begins, after seventy, and often long before, to have a mean- ing different from that which it had at thirty. But it is culpable to murmur at the established order of the creation, as it is vain to oppose it. He that lives must grow old ; and he that would rather grow old than die, has God to thank for the infirmities of old age. At your long silence I am rather angry. You do not, since now you are the head of your house, think it worth your while to try whether you or your friend can live longer without writing, nor suspect, after so many years of friend- ship, that when I do not write to you 1 forget you ? Put all such useless jealou- sies out of your head, and disdain to re- gulate your own practice by the practice of another, or by any other principle than the desire of doing right. Your oeconomy, I suppose, begins now to be settled : your expenses are adjusted to your revenue, and all your people in their proper places. Resolve not to be poor : whatever you have, spend less. Poverty is a great enemy to human hap- piness, it certainly destroys liberty, and it makes some virtues impracticable, and others extremely difl&cult. Let me know the history of your life since your accession to your estate. How many houses, how many cows, how much land in your own hand, and what bargains you make with your te- nants. * * * -X- ^ -x- Of my ' Lives of the Poets,' they have printed a new edition in octavo, I hear, of three thousand. Did I give a set to lord Hailes ? If 1 did not, 1 will do it out of these. What did you make of all your copy ? Mrs. Thrale and the three misses are now, for the winter, in Argyll-street. Sir Joshua Reynolds has been out of or- der, but is well again ; and I am, dear sir, your affectionate, humble servant. LETTER CXI. Dr. Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. Bolt Court, Fleet Street, June 19, 1783. Dearest madam, I AM sitting down in no cheerful soli- tude to write a narrative, which would once have affected you with tenderness and sorrow, but which you will perhaps pass over now with the careless glance of frigid indifference. For this diminu- tion of regard, however, 1 know not whether I ought to blame you, who may have reasons which I cannot know ; and I do not blame myself, who have for a great part of human life done you what good I could, and have never done you evil. I had been disordered in the usual way, and had been relieved by the usual methods, by opium and cathartics, but had rather lessened my dose of opium. On Monday the 1 6th I sat for my pic- ture, and walked a considerable way with little inconvenience. In the after- noon and evening I felt myself light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed, ajpid in a short time waked and sat up, as has been long my custom, when I felt a confusion and in- distinctness in my head, which lasted I suppose about half a minute ; I was alarmed, and prayed God, that however he might afflict my body, he would spare my understanding. This prayer, that I might try the integrity of my faculties, I made in Latin verse. The lines were not very good, but I knew them not to be very good ; I made them easily, and concluded myself to be unimpaired in my faculties. Soon after I percei^ved that I had Suf- fered a paralytic stroke, and that my speech was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection in this dreadful state, that I wondered at Say own apathy, and considered that per- haps death itself when it should come would excite less horror than seems now to attend it. ■ ^ECT. Ill R E C E N T. 513 111 order to rouse the vocal organs I took two drams. Wine has heen cele- brated for the production of eloquence. I put myself into riolent motion, and I think repeated it ; but all was vain. I then went to bed, and, strange as it may seem, I think, slept. When I saw light, it was time to contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, he left me my hand ; I enjoyed a mercy Avhich was not granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me as I am writing, and rejoices that I have what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to my servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend why he should read what I put into his hands. I then wrote a card to Mr. Allen, that I might have a discreet friend at hand to act as occasion should require. In penning his note I had some difficulty ; my hand, I knew not how nor why, made wrong letters. I then wrote to Dr. Taylor to come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden, and I sent to Dr. Brock- lesby, who is my neighbour. My phy- sicians are very friendly, and very disin- terested, and give me great hopes, but you may imagine my situation. I have so far recovered my vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's Prayer with no very imperfect articulation. My memory, i hope, yet remains as it was ; but such an attack produces solicitude for the safety of every faculty. How this will be received by you I know not. I hope you Aviil sympathise with me ; but perhaps My mistress, gracious, mild, and good, Cries, Is he dumb ? 'Tis time he shou'd. But can this be possible ? I hope it cannot, i hope that what, when I could i>peak, I spoke of you, and to you, will be in a sober and serious hour remem- bered by you ; and surely it cannot be remembered but with some degree of kindness. I have loved you with vir- tuous affection ; I have honoured you with sincere esteem. Let not all our endearments be forgotten, but let me have, in this great distress, your pity and your .prayers. You see I yet turn to you with my complaints, as a settled and unalienable friend ; do not, do not drive me from you, for I have not deserved either neglect or^hatred. To the girls, who do not write often, for Susy has written only once, and miss Thrale owes me a letter, I earnestly re- commend, as their guardian and friend, that they remember their Creator in the days of their youth. I suppose you may wish to know how my disease is treated by the physicians. They put a blister upon my back, and two from my ear to my throat, one on a side. The blister on the back has done little, and those on the throat have not risen. I bullied and bounced (it sticks to our last sand), and compelled the apo- thecary to make his salve according to the Edinburgh Dispensatory, that it might adhere better. I have two on now of my own prescription. They like- wise give me salt of hartshorn, which I take with no great confidence, but am satisfied that what can be done is done for me. God! give me comfort and confi- dence in Thee : forgive my sins ; and, if it be thy good pleasure, relieve my dis- eases, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen. 1 am almost ashamed of this querulous letter ; but now it is written, let it go. I am, &c. LETTER CXIi. Fi^07n the same to the scifne. London, July 3, 17S3. Dear madam, Dr. Brocklesey yesterday dismissed the cantharides, and I can nov*^ find a soft place upon my pillow. Last night v/as cool, and I rested well, and this morning I have been a friend at a poe- tical difficulty. Here is now a glimpse of day-light again ; but how near is the. evening ? None can tell, and I v.ill not prognosticate : we all know that from none of us it can be far distant ; may none of us know this in vain ! I went, as I took care to boast, on Tuesday to the club, and hear that I was thought to have performed as well as usual. I dined on fish, with the Aving of a small Turkey chick, and left roast beef, goose, and venison pye untouched. I live much on peas, and never had them so good, for so long a time, in any year that 1 can remember. When do you go to Weymouth ? and Avhy do you go ? Only I suppose to a new place, and the reason is sufficient 2 L 514 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book iV. those who have no reason to withhold them. . * * * knows well enough how to live on four hundred a year, but where is he to have it? Had * * ^ any thing of his own unsettled ? I am glad that Mrs. Seward talks of me, and loves me, and have in this stiil scene of life great comfort in reflecting, that I have given very few reason to hate me ; I hope scarcely any man has known me closely but for his benefit, or cursorily but to his innocent entertainment. Tell me, you that know me best, whether this be true, that according to your an- swer I may continue my practice, or try to mend it. Along with your kind letter yesterday came one likewise very kind from the Astons at Lichfield ; but I do not know whether, as the summer is so far advanc- ed, I shall travel so far, though I am not without hopes that frequent change of air may fortify me against the winter, which has been, in modern phrase, of late years very inimical to, madam, your, &c. LETTER CXIII. Dr. Johnson to Miss Susannah Thrale. Dearest miss Susy, When you favoured me with your letter, you seemed to be in want of materials to till it, having met with no great ad- ventures, either of peril or delight, nor done nor suffered any thing out of the comm,on course of life. When you have lived longer, and con- sidered more, you will find the common course of life very fertile of observation and reflection. Upon the common course of life must our thoughts and our con- versation be generally employed. Our ge- neral course of life must denominate us wise or foolish ; happy or miserable : if it is well regulated, we pass on prosper- ously and smoothly ; as it is neglected, we live in embarrassment, perplexity, and uneasiness. Your time, my love, passes, I sup- pose, in devotion, reading, work, and company. Of your devotions, in which I earnestly advise you to be very punctual, you may not perhaps think it proper to give me an account ; and of work, unless I understood it better, it will be of no great use to say much ; but books and company will always supply you with ma- terials for your letters to me, as 1 shall always be pleased to know what you are reading, and with what you are pleased ; and shall take great delight in knowing what impression nev/ modes or new cha- racters make upon you, wid to observe with vdiat attention you dlstinguisli the tempers, dispositions, and abilities of your companions. A letter may be alv/ays made out of the books of the morning or talk of the evening ; and any letters from you, my dearest, will be welcome to your, &c. LETTER CXIV. Dr. Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. London, Aug. 20, 1783. Madam, This has been a day of great emotion ; the office of the Communion of the Sick has been performed in poor Mrs. Wil- liams's chamber. She was too weak to rise from her bed, and is therefore to be supposed unlikely to live much longer. She has, I hope, little violent pain, but is wearing out by torpid in appetence and wearisome decay : but all the powers of her mind are in their full vigour; and, when she has spirits enough for conver- sation, she possesses all the intellectual excellence that she ever had. Surely this is an instance of mercy much to be desired by a parting soul. At home I see almost all my compa- nions dead or dying. At Oxford I have just left ¥/lieeler, the man with whom I most delighted to converse. The sense of my own diseases, and the sight of the v/orld sinking round me, oppress me per- haps too much. I hope that all these ad- monitions v/ill not be in vain, and that I shall learn to die as dear Williams is dy- ing, who was very cheerful before and after this awful solemnity, and seems to resign herself witli calmness and hope „ upon Eternal Mercy. 1 I read your last kind letter with great delight; but when I came to love and honour, what sprung in my mind ? — How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not. I sat to Mrs. Reynolds yesterday for my picture, perhaps the tenth time, and I sat near three hours with the patience of mortal born to bear ; at last she declared Sect. III. RECENT. it quite finished, and seems to think it fine. I told her it was Johnson's grimly Ghost. It is to be engraved, and I think in glided, &c. will be a good inscription. I am, madam, your, &c. LETTER CXV. From the same to the same. London, Sept. 22, 1783. Dear madam, Happy are you that have ease and leisure to want intelligence of air-balloons. Their existence is, I believe, indubita- ble ; but I know not that they can pos- sibly be of any use. The construction is this : — The chymical philosophers have discovered a body (which I have forgot- ten, but will inquire) which, dissolved by an acid, emits a vapour lighter than the atmospherical air. This vapour is caught, among other means, by tying a bladder, compressed upon the bottle in which the dissolution is performed ; the vapour rising swells the bladder, and fills it. The bladder is then tied and removed, and another applied, till as much of this light air is collected as is wanted. Then a large spherical case is made, and very large it must be, of the lightest matter that can be found, secured by some me- thod, like that of oiling silk, against all passage of air. Into this are emptied all the bladders of light air, and if there is light air enough it mounts into the clouds; upon the same principle as abot- tle, filled with water, will sink in water, but a bottle filled with ether would float. It rises till it comes to air of equal tenuity with its own, if wind or Avater does not spoil it on the way. Such, madam, is an air-balloon. Meteors have been this autumn very often seen, but I have never been in their way. Poor Williams has, I hope, seen the end of her afilictions. She acted with pru- dence, and she bore with fortitude. She has left me. " Thou thy weary task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages." Had she had good humour and prompt elocution, her universal curiosity and comprehensive knowledge would have made her the delight of all that knew her. She left her little to your charity-school. The complaint about which you in- quire is a sarcocele ; I thought it a hy- drocele, and heeded it but little. Punc- ture has detected the mistake : it can be safely suffered no longer. Upon inspec- tion, three days ago, it was determined extrema ventura. If excision should be delayed, there is danger of a gangrene. You would not have me, for fear of pain, perish in putrefaction. I shall, I hope, with trust in Eternal Mercy, lay hold of the possibility of life which yet remains. My health is not bad ; the gout is now trying at my feet. My appetite and di- gestion are good, and my sleep better than formerly : I am not dejected, and I am not feeble. There is, however, dan- ger enough in such operations at seven- ty-four. Let me have your prayers and those of the young" dear people. I am, dear ma- dam, your, &c. Write soon and often. LETTER CXVL From die same to the same. London, Nov. 13, 1783. Dear madam. Since you have written to me with the attention and tenderness of ancient time, your letters give me a great part of the pleasure which a life of solitude admits. You will never bestow any share of your good-will on one who deserves better. Those that have loved longest love best. A sudden blaze of kindness may by a single blast of coldness be extin- guished ; but that fondness which length of time has connected with many circum- stances and occasions, though it may for a while be suppressed by disgust or re- sentment, with or without a cause, is hourly revived by accidental recollection. To those that have lived long together, every thing heard and every thing seen recals some pleasure communicated, or some benefit conferred, some petty quar- rel, or some slight endearment. Esteem of great powers, or amiable qualities newly discovered, may embroider a day or a week, but a friendship of twenty years is interwoven with the texture of life. A friend may be often found and lost, but an old friend never can be found, and Nature has provided that he cannot easily be lost. 2L2 516 ELEGANT E P i 8 T L E S. Book IV. I have not forgotten the Davenants, though they seem to have forg-otten me. I hegan very early to tell them what they have commonly found to be true. I am sorry to hear of their buildmg. I have always warned those whom 1 loved against that mode of ostentatious waste. You seem to mention lord Kilmurry as a stranger. We were at his house in Cheshire ; and he one day dined with sir Lynch. What he tells of the epigram is not true, but perhaps he does not know it to be false. Do not you remember how he rejoiced in having no park? he could not disoblige his neighbours by sending them no venison. The frequency of death, to those who look upon it in the leisure of Arcadia, is very dreadful. We all know what it should teach us ; let us all be diligent to learn. Lucy Porter has lost her brother. But whom I have lost — let me not now remember. Let not your loss be added to the mournful catalogue. Write soon again to, madam, your, &c. LETTER CXVIL Dr, Johnson to Mrs. Chapone. Nov. 28, 1783. Madam, By sending the tragedy to me a second time* I think that a very honourable distinction has been she\sai me ; and I did not delay the perusal, of which I am now to tell the effect. The construction of the play is not completely regular ; the stage is too of- ten vacant, and the scenes are not suffi- ciently connected. This, hovrever, would be caUed, by Dryden, only a mechanical defect ; which takes away little from the power of the poem, and which is seen rather than felt. A rigid examiner of the diction might, perhaps, wish some words changed, and some lines more vigorously terminated. But from such petty imperfections what writer was ever free ? The general form and force of the dia- logue is of more importance. It seems to want that quickness of reciprocation which characterizes the English drama, and is not always sufficiently fervid or animated. * Dr. Johnson, having been very ill when the tragedy was first sent to him, had declined the consideration of it. Of the sentiments, I remember not one that 1 wished omitted. In the imagery I cannot forbear to distinguish the comparison of joy succeeding grief, to light rushing on the eye accustomed to darkness. It seems to have all that can be desired to make it please. It is new, just, and delightful f. With the characters, either as con- ceived or preserved, I have no fault to find ; but was much inclined to congra- tulate a writer, who, in defiance of pre- judice and fashion, made the archbishop a good man, and scorned all thoughtless applause, which a vicious churchman would have brought him. The catastrophe is affecting. The fa- ther and daughter both culpable, both wretched, and both penitent, divide be- tween them our pity and our sorrow. Thus, madam, I have performed what I did not willingly undertake, and could not decently refuse. The noble writer will be pleased to remember, that sincere criticism ought to raise no resentment, because judgm^ent is not under the con- trol of will ; but involuntary criticism, as it has still less of choice, ought to be more remote from possibility of offence. I am, &c. LETTER CXVIIl. Dr. Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. London, Dec. 27, 1733. Dear madam. The wearisome solitude of the long evenings did indeed suggest to me the convenience of a club in my neighbour- hood, but I have been hindered from at- tending it by want of breath. If I can complete the scheme, you shall have the names and the regulations. The time of the year, for I hope the fault is rather in the weather than in me, has been very hard upon me. The mus- cles of my breast are much convulsed. Dr. Heberden recommends opiates, of which I have such horror, that 1 do not f " I could have borne my woes ; that stranger Joy Wounds while it smiles : —The long imprison'd wretch, Emerging from the night of his damp cell. Shrinks from the sun's bright beams ; and that which flings Gladness o'er all, to him is agony." m Sect. III. R E C E N T. 517 think of them but iji extremes. I was, however, driven to them last night for refuge, and, having taken the usual quan- tity, durst not go to bed, for fear of that uneasiness to which a supine posture ex- poses me, but rested all night in a chair with much relief, and have been to-day more Ttarm, active, and cheerful. You have more than once wondered at my complaint of solitude, when you hear that I am crowded with visits. Inopeni me copia fecit. Visitors are no proper companions in the chamber of sickness. They come vvhen I could sleep or read, they stay till I am weary, they force me to attend when my mind calls for relax- ation, and to speak when my powers will hardly actuate my tongue. The amuse- ments and consolations of languor and depression are conferred by familiar and domestic companions, which can be vi- sited or called at will, and can occasion- ally be quitted or dismissed, who do not obstruct accommodation by ceremony, or destroy indolence by awakening effort. Such society I had with Levet and Williams ; such I had where — I am never likely to have it more. 1 wish, dear lady, to you and my dear girls many a cheerful and pious Christ- mas. I am, your, &c. LETTER CXIX. Fro7n the same to the same. London, Jan. 12, 1784. Dear madam. If, as you observe, my former letter was written with trepidation, there is little reason, except the habit of enduring, why this should shew more steadiness. I am confined to the house ; 1 do not know that any thing grows better ; my physi- cians direct me to combat the hard wea- ther with opium ; I cannot well support its turbulence, and yet cannot forbear it, for its immediate effect is ease ; having kept me waking all the night, it forces sleep upon me in the day, and recom- jienses a night of tediousness with a day of uselessness. My legs and my thighs grow very tumid : in the mean time my appetite is good, and if my physicians do not flatter me death is rushing upon me. But this is the hand of God. The first talk of the sick is commonly of themselves ; but if they talk of nothing else, they cannot complain if they are soon left without an audience. You observe, madam, that the balloon engages all mankind, and it is indeed a wonderful and unexpected addition to human knowledge ; but we have a daring projector, who, disdaining the help of fumes and vapours, is making better than Dsedalean wings, with which he will master the balloon and its companions as an eagle masters a goose. It is very seriously true, that a subscription of eight hundred pounds has been raised for the wire and workmanship of iron wings ; one pair of which, and I think a tail, are now shewn in the Hay-market, and they are making another pair at Birmingham. The whole is said to v/eigh tvvo hundred pounds — no specious preparation for fly- ing ; but there are tliose v^^ho expect to see him in the sky. When I can leave the house I v/ill tell you more. I had the same old friends to dine with me on Wednesday, and may say, that since I lost sight of you I have had one pleasant day. I am, madam, your, &c. Pray send me a direction to sir Musgrave in Ireland. -LETTER CXX. From the same to the same. London, Jan. 21, 1784. Dear madam. Dr. Heberden this day favoured me with a visit ; and after hearing what I had to tell him of miseries and pains, and comparing my present with my past state, declared me vv^ell. That his opi- nion is erroneous, I know with too much certainty ; and yet was glad to hear it, as it sets extremities at a greater distance : he, who is by his physician thought well, is at least not thought in immediate dan- ger. They, therefore, whose attention to me makes them talk of my health, will, I hope, soon not drop, but lose their subject. But, alas ! I had no sleep last night, and sit now panting over my pa- per. Dahit Deus his quoque finem. I have really hope from spring; and am ready, like Almanzor, to hid the sun fly swiftly, and leave weeks and months be- hind him. The sun has looked for six thousand years upon the world to little purpose, if he does not know that a sick man is almost as impatient as a lover. 518 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, Mr.Cator g-ives such an account of miss Cecy, as you and all of us must delight to hear. Cator has a rough, manly, in- dependent understanding, and does not spoil it by complaisance ; he never speaks merely to please, and seldom is mistaken in things which he has any right to know. I think well of her for pleasing him, and of him for being pleased: and, at the close, am delighted to find him delighted with her excellence. Let your children, dear madam, be his care, and your plea- sure : close your thoughts upon them ; and, when sadfancies are excluded, health and peace will return together. I am, dear madam, your old friend. LETTER CXXL D7\ Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. London, Feb. 9, 1784. Dear madam. The remission of the cold did not con- tinue long enough to afford me much relief. You are, as I perceive, afraid of the opium ; I had the same terror, and admitted its assistance only under the pressure of insupportable distress, as of an auxiliary too powerful and too dan- gerous. But in this pinching season I cannot live without it ; and the quan- tity v/hich I take is less than it once was. My physicians flatter me, that the sea- son is a great part of my disease; and that when y/arm weather restores perspi- ration, this watery disease will evaporate. 1 am at least willing to flatter myself. I have been forced to sit up many nights by an obstinate sleeplessness,which makes the time in bed intolerably tedious, and which continues my drowsiness the following day. Besides, I can sometimes sleep erect, when I cannot close my eyes in a recumbent posture. I have just be- spoke a flannel dress, which I can easily slip off and on, as I go into bed, or get out of it. Thus pass my days and nights in morbid wakefulness, in unseasonable sleepiness, in gloomy solitude, with un- welcome visitors, or ungrateful exclu- sions, in variety of wretchedness. But I snatch every lucid interval, and animate myself with such amusements as the time offers. One thing, which I have just heard, you will think to surpass expectation. The chaplain of the factory at Peters- burg relates, that the Rambler is now, by the command of the empress, trans- lating into Russian ; and has promised, when it is printed, to send me a copy. Grant, O Lord, that all, who shall read my pages, may become more obe- dient to thy laws ; and when the wretch- ed writer shall appear before thee, extend thy mercy to him, for the sake of Jesus Christ. Amen. I am, madam, your, &c. LETTER CXXII. Dr. Johnson to the Rev. Dr. Taylor, Ashbourne, Derbyshire. London, Easter-Monday, April 12, 17&4. Dear sir. What can be the reason that I hear nothing from you ? I hope nothing dis- ables you from writing. What I have seen, and what I have felt, gives me rea- son to fear every thing. Do not omit giving me the comfort of knowing, that after all my losses I have got a friend left. I want every comfort. My life is very solitary and very cheerless. Though it has pleased God wonderfully to deliver me from the dropsy, I am yet very weak, and have not passed the door since the 13th of December. I hope for some help from warm weather, which will surely come in time. I could not have the consent of the physicians to go to church yesterday ; I therefore received the Holy Sacrament at home, in the room where I communicated with dear Mrs. Williams, a little before - her death. O, my friend, the approach 1 of death is very dreadful. I am afraid to ■ think on that which I know I cannot avoid. It is vain to look round and round for that help which cannot be had. Yet, we hope and hope, and fancy that he who has lived to-day may live to- morrov/. But let us learn to derive our hope only from God. In the mean time, let us be kind to one another. I have no friend now liv- ing, but you and Mr. Hector, that was the friend of my youth. Do not neglect, dear sir, yours affectionately, &c. Sect. 111. RECENT. 519 LETTER CXXIII. Dr. Johnson to Lord Chancellor Thurloiu. Sept. l7Sk My lord, After a long and not inattentive obser- vation of mankind, the generosity of your lordship's offer raises in me not less vronder than gratitude. Bounty so libe- rally bestOY^ed I should gladly receive if my condition made it necessary ; for to such a mind who would not be proud to own his obligations ? But it has pleased God to restore me to so great a measure of health, that if I should now appropri- ate so much of a fortune destined to do good, I couM not escape from myself the charge of ad^^ancing a falsa claim. IViy journey to the continent, though I once thought it necessary, was never much encouraged by my physicians, and I vv^as very desirous that your lordship should be told of it by sir Joshua Reynolds as an event very uncertain ; for if I grew much better I should not be willing, if much worse, not able to migrate. Your lordship was first solicited with- out my knowledge ; but when I was told that you vrere pleased to honour me with your patronage, I did not expect to hear of a refusal ; yet as I have had no long time to brood hope, and have not rioted in imaginary opulence, this cold recep- tion has been scarce a disappointment ; and from your lordship's kindness I have received a benefit which only men like you are able to bestow. I shall now live mihi carior^ with a higher opinion of my own merit. I am, my lord, your lord- ship's most obliged, most grateful, and most humble servant. LETTER CXXIV, to the Rev. Dr. Home, Bliss President of Magdalen College, Oxford. Nov. 6. My dear sir, With a heart almost broken with grief, I am going, I fear, to trouble you by pouring it forth. I have lost my , my best friend, and every thing that was * The writer of this letter was an elegant and accomplished young lady of the first dis- tinction in Ireland, who had not completed her 17th year at the time of her father's death. most valuable to me in the world ! Per- haps, ere this, the melancholy tidings have reached your ear. On Saturday morning last, the — of , he yielded his soul into the hands of his Maker. O, sir ! paint to your imagination the woe and distraction that entered this house in the moment of his dissolution ! Had you heard the piercing cries that were uttered ! But what do I say? God forbid that your tender, your m.ost affectionate heart should have been a vv'itness of the scene ! I was hardly able to bear the thoughts of surviving him ; but, thank God, I am in some degree composed. I most earnestly repent of my sin, in forgetting for a moment that from His hand I re- ceived good, and why not evil when he thought fit ? Pray, sir, pardon the liberty I have taken in writing to you ; but allow me to apologize in some measure, by telling you, that the day before my dearest grew ill, he desired me to write. As you may remember, he owed you a letter. " Perhaps," said he, smiling, '^ it may please the dear ." You will, no doubt, Avonder what could take him off so suddenly. It was a dis- order on the brain ; not water, but some- thing occasioned by a fullness in the head. He died on the sixth day after he was seized. The day he was first affected he came down to breakfast ; but alas ! he had totally lost his senses. Think what I must have felt ! The physicians all agreed, and all thought till the very last, that his bodily ailments were not fatal, but that his understanding was gone for ever. Was it not a blessing then that God did not ordain him to outlive him- self ! I have been since thinking, that I was permitted to see him in that most melancholy state to fiU my heart with this subject of thankfulness. And let me cast my thoughts on that most amazing and blessed change he has undergone ; from a world of pains and vexations, at best, to join that blessed spirit, my dearest , and make one of that angelic choir that cease not day and night to sing their hallelujahs. How this idea transports me from the world ! God grant it may influence my life; that, when I come to die, it may be the death of the righteous, which is only to be at- tained by living their life ! Will you be so kind as to present my most affectionate respects to and 520 E L E G A N T E P 1 S T L £ S. Book IV. your ? You will break these most dismal tidings to them ; I am sure they will sympathize in my affliction. Perhaps, were I critically to trace the source of my troubling you with this let- ter, self might be found to be the cause. I flatter myself that you v/ill favour me with a line to the afflicted. What con- solation must flow from your pen ! And suffer me to assure you, that, next to tliat dear parent who is laid in the dust, 1 have reverenced, loved, and honoured you. If you can pardon me for thus troubling you, and should wish to hear now and then how the mourners at go on, how happy would it make me to letyouknow! but this rests in your own power. I fear you will repent of your former condescension towards me, since this is the effect of it. My poor is most deeply afflicted ; my happiness must 7ioiv rest upon his good conduct, and I think he will not disappoint me : thus, as one prop is withdrawn, the heart of man fondly clings to another. Mrs. is getting much better. Ever since we came home this year we have been in daily expectation of her de- cease. Good God ! what an amazement it is to her to find herself alive, surviving lier ! She bears it like a Chris- tian ; says, she need not take her leave, so soon to follow. Farewell, most honoured sir. Believe me to remain your most dutiful, most afflicted servant. LETTER CXXV. Dr. Home, Dean ofCanterhmy *, to Miss , in ansiver to the above. Canterbury, Nov. 11. My dear madam. Little did I think a letter from would afflict my soul, but yours i-eceived this morning has indeed done it. Seeing your hand, and a black seal, my mind foreboded what had happened : 1 made an attempt to read it to my wife and daughters, but — it would not do — 1 got no further than the first sentence, burst into a flood of tears, and was obliged to retreat into the solitude of my study, un- fit for any thing, but to think on what had happened ; then to fall upon my * His lordship was at the time dean of Can- terbury. knees, and pray, that God would ever- more pour down his choicest blessings on the children of my departed friend, and as their *' father and their mother had forsaken them," that He would " take them up," and support them in time and eternity. Even so ! Amen. You ask coKQfort of me, but your truly excellent letter has suggested comfort to me, from all the proper topics ; and 1 can only reflect it back to you again. All things considered, the circumstance which first marked the disorder may be termed a gracious dispensation. It at once rendered the event, one may say, desirable ^yv\iiQh otherwise carried so much terror and sorrow in the face of it. No- thing else in the world could so soon and so efl'ectually have blunted the edge of the approaching calamity, and reconciled to it minds full of the tenderest love and affection. To complete the consolation that only remained, which we all know to be the fact, Mr. stood always so prepared, so firm in his faith, so con- stant in his Christian practice of every duty, that he could not be taken by sur- prise, or off his guard : the stroke must be to himself a blessing, whenever^ or however, it came. His death was his birth day ; and, like the primitive Chris-^ tians, we should keep it as such, as a day of joy and triumph. Bury his body, but embalm his example, and let it diffuse his fragrance among you from genera- tion to generation. Call him blessed, and endeavour to be like him ; like him in piety, in charity, in friendship, in courteousness, in temper, in conduct, in word, and in deed. His virtues compose a little volume, which your brother should carry in his bosom ; and he will need na other, if that be well studied, to make him the gentleman and the Christian. You, my dear madam, will, I am sure, go on with diligence to finish the fair transcript you have begun, that the world around you may see, and admire. Do not apologize for writing ; but let me hear what you do, and what plan of life your brother thinks of pursuing. With kindest compliments from the sym- pathizing folks here, believe me, ever, my dear madam, your faithful friend and servant. Sect. ilL R E C E N T. 5n LETTER CXXVI. Lord Li/ttJeton to Sir Thomas Lyttkton, at Hagley. London, Feb. 4, 1728. Dear sir, I AM mighty glad you have made choice of so agreeable a place as Lorrain to send me to. I shall be impatient to hear that you have got a servant for me, that my stay here may be the shorter : in the mean while, you may be sure, I shall not neglect to make the best use of my time. I am proud that the D approves my verses ; for her judgment does great honour to those that please her. The subject is Blenheim castle ; 1 would have sent you a copy of them, but have not yet had time to transcribe them ; you shall, therefore, receive them inclosed in my next letter. The news you tell me of does not a little please me ; whatever does him honour in your opinion is of advantage to me, as it will render the friendship that is between us more agreeable to you ; for my satisfaction in his acquaintance has been always checked, by observing you had not that esteem for him as I could wish you might have for all my friends : but 1 hope he will deserve it better every day, and confirm himself in my good opinion by gaining yours. T am glad that you are pleased with my Persian Letters, and criticism upon Voltaire ; but, with submission to your judgment, 1 do not see how what I have said of Milton can destroy all poetical license. That term indeed has been so much abused, and the liberty it allows has been pleaded in defence of such ex- travagant fictions, that one would almost wish there were no such words. But yet this is no reason why good authors may not raise and animate their works with flights and sallies of imagination, provid- ed they are cautious of restraining them within the bounds of justness and proprie- ty ; for nothing can license a poet to of- fend against Truth and Reason, which are as much the rules of the sublime as less exalted poetry. We meet with a thousand instances of the true nobleness of thought in Milton, where the liberty you contend for is made use of, and yet nature very strictly observed. It would be endless to point out the beauties of this kind in the Paradise Lost, Avhere the boldness of his genius appears without shocking us^with the least impropriety : we are surprised, we are warmed, we are transported ; but we are not hurried out of our senses, or forced to believe impossibilities. The sixth book is, I fear, in many places, an exception to this rule ; the poetlca lieentia is stretched too far, and the just is sacrificed to the ivondcrful ; (you will pardon me, if I talk too much in the language of the schools.) To set this point in a clearer light, let us compare the fiction in los Lusiados, of the giant that appears to the Portuguese, and the battle of the ang'els in Milton. The storms, the thunders, and the lightnings, that hang about him, are proper and natural to that mountain he represents ; we are pleased with seeing him thus armed, because there is nothing in the description tliat is not founded upon truth : but how do swords, and coats of mail, and cannons j agree with angels ? Such a fiction can never be beautiful, because it wants pro- bability to support it. We can easily imagine the Cape, extending its narrow arms over the sea, and guarding it from invaders ; the tempests, that mariners al- v/ays meet with upon that coast, render such a supposition very just : but with what grounds of reason can we suppose, that the angels, to defend the throne of God, threw mountains upon the heads of the rebel army ? " Non tali auxilio, nee defensoribus istis, Numen eget.'' The liberty in one fable is restrained to nature and good sense ; in the other, it is wild and unbounded, so as frequently to lose sight of both. — Pardon the free- dom I have taken, to contradict your opinion and defend my own ; for I shall be very ready to give it up to you, if after this you continue to think me in the wrong. It is prudent to argue with those who have such regard to our judg- ment as to correct it. You ended a letter of good news very ill, in telling me that you had got the head-ach ; I can have but very little pleasure in any thing, though it be ever so agreeable, when I know that you are ill. I am, dear sir, your dutiful son, &c. 522 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER CXXVn. Lord Lyttltton to Sir Thomas Lytlleton. Luneviile, Juiy 8, 1728. Dear sir, I HEARTILY congratulate you upon my sisters marriage, and wish you may dis- pose of all your children as much to your satisfaction and their own. Would to God Mr. P — had a fortune equal to his brother's, that he might make a pre- sent of it to my pretty little M — ! but unhappily they have neither of them any portion but an uncommon share of merit, which the world will not think them much the richer for. i condole with poor Mrs. upon the abrupt departure of her intended husband ; to be sure, she takes it much to heart ; for the loss of an only lover, when a lady is past three-and-twenty, is as afflicting as the loss of an only child after fiity-iive. You tell me my mother desires a par- ticular journal of my travels, and the remarks I have made upon them, after the manner of the sage Mr. Bromley. Alas ! I am utterly unfit for so great a work ; my genius is light and super- ficial, and lets slip a thousand observa- tions which would make a figure in his book. It requires much industry and application, as well as a prodigious me- mory, to know how many houses there are in Paris ; how many vestments in a procession ; how many saints in the Romish Calendar, and hov/ many mira- cles to each saint ; and yet to such a pitch of exactness the curious travellers must arrive, who would imiitate Mr. Bromley. Not to mention the pains he must be at in examining all the tombs in a great church, and faithfully tran- scribing the inscriptions, though they had no better author than the sexton or curate of the parish. For my part, I was so shamefully negligent as not to set down how many crosses are in the road from Calais to Luneviile ; nay, I did not so much as take an inventory of the relics in the churches I went to see. You may judge by this what a poor ac- count I shall give you of my travels, and how ill the money is bestowed that you spent upon them. But, however, if my dear mother insists upon it, I shall have so much complaisance for the curiosity natural to her sex, as to write her a particular of what rarities I have seen ; but of all ordinary spectacles, such as miracles, raree-shov»^s, and the like, I beg her permission to be silent. I am, dear sir, your dutiful son, &c. LETTER CXXVIII. From ihc same to the same. Luneviile, Jul)' 2J. Dear sir, 1 THANK you for so kindly forgiving the piece of negligence I acquainted you of in my last. Young fellows are often gnilty of voluntary forgetfulness in those aifairs ; but, I assure you, mine was quite accidental. Mr. J) tells you true, that 1 am weary of losing money at cards ; but it is no less cer- tain, that without them I shall soon be weary of Lorrain. The spirit of qua- drille has possessed the land from morn- ing till midnight ; there is nothing else in every house in town. This court is fond of strangers, but with a proviso that strangers love qua- drille. Would you win the hearts of the maids of honour, you must lose your mo- ney at quadrille ; v/ould you be thought a well-bred man, you must play genteelly at quadrille ; would you get a reputation of good sense, shew judgment at qua- drille : however, in summer, one may contrive to pass a day without quadrille ; because there are agreeable promenades, and little parties out of doors ; but in the winter you are reduced to play at it, or sleep like a fly till the return of spring. Indeed in the morning the duke hunts ; but my malicious stars have so contrived it, that I am no more a sportsman than a gamester. There are no men of learn- ing in the v/hole country ; on the con- trary, it is a character they despise. A man of quality caught me the other day reading a Latin author ; and asked me with an air of contempt, whether I w^as designed for the church. All this would be tolerable, if I was not doomed to con- verse with a set of English, who are still more ignorant than the French ; and from whom, with my utmost endeavours, I cannot be absent six hours in the day. Lord is the only one among them who has common sense ; and he is so scandalously debauched in his principles as well as practice, that his conversation is equally shocking to my morals and my reason. ! Sect. III. RECENT. 523 My only improvement here is in the company of the duke and prince Craon, and in the exercise of the academy : T have heen absent from the last near three weeks, by reason of a sprain I got in the sinews of my leg", which is not yet quite recovered. My duty to my dear mo- ther ; I hope you and she continue well. I am, sir, your dutiful son. LETTER CXXTX. Fro7n the same to the sajiie. Luneville, August 18. Dear sir, I WROTH to you last post, and have since received yours of the 20th. Your complaints pierce my heart. Alas! sir, what pain must it give me to think that my improvement put you to any degree of inconvenience? And perhaps, after all, I may return, and not answer your expectations. This thought gives me so much uneasiness, that I am ready to wish you would recal me, and save the charge of travelling: but, no ; the world would judge perversely, and blame you for it ; I must go on, and you must sup- port me like your son. I have observed, with extreme afflic- tion, how much your temper is altered of late, and your cheerfulness of mind impaired. My heart has ached within me, when I have seen you giving your- self up to a melancholy diffidence, which makes you fear the worst in every thing, and seldom indulge those pleasing hopes which support and nourish us. O my dear sir, how happy shall I be, if I am able to restore you to your former gaiety ! People, that knew you some years ago, say that you was the most cheerful man alive. How much beyond the possession of any mistress will be the pleasure I shall experience, if by marrying well, I can make you such once more ! This is my wish, my ambi- tion, the prayer I make to Heaven as often as I think on my future life. But, alas ! I hope for it in vain, if you suf- fer your cares and inquietudes to de- stroy your health : what will avail my good intentions, if they are frustrated by your death ? You will leave this world without ever knowing whether the pro- mises of your son were the language of a grateful heart, or the lying protesta- tions of a hypocrite ; God in Heaven for- bid it should be so ! May he preserve your health, and prolong your days, to receive a thousand proofs of the lasting love and duty of the most obliged of children ! We are all bound to you, sir, and will, I trust, repay it in love and honour of you. Let this support and comfort you, that you are the father of ten children, among whom there seems to be but one soul of love and obedience to you. This is a solid, real good, which you will feel and enjoy, vviien other plea- sures have lost their taste : your heart will be warmed by it in old age, and you will find yourself richer in these trea- sures than in the possession of all you have spent upon us. I talk, sir, from the fulness of my heart ; and it is not the style of a dissembler. Do not, my dear sir, suffer melancholy to gain too far upon you : think less of those cir- cumstances which disquiet you, and re- joice in the many others which ought to gladden you : consider the reputa- tion you have acquired, the glorious re- putation of integrity, so uncommon in this age I Imagine that your posterity will look upon it as the noblest for- tune you can leave them, and that your children's children will be incited to vir- tue by your example. 1 do not know, sir, whether you feel this ; I am sure I do, and glory in it. Are you not happy in my dear mother? Was ever wife so virtuous, so dutiful, so fond? There is no satisfaction beyond this, and I know you have a perfect sense of it. All these advantages, well weighed, will make your misfortunes light; and, I hope, the pleasure arising from them will dispel that cloud which hangs upon you, and sinks your spirits. I am, dear sir, your dutiful son. LETTER CXXX. Fro??i the same to the same. Soissons, Nov. 20. Dear sir, This is one of the agreeablest towns in France. The people are infinitely obliging to strangers. We are of all their parties, and perpetually share with them in their pleasures. I have learnt more French since I came here, than I should liave picked up in a twelvemonth 524 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. at Lorrain. The desire of a further pro- gress and improvement in that tongue has led me into some thoughts relating to the continuation of my travels, which I beg leave to lay before you. If you send me to Italy next spring, as you once designed to do, one great in- convenience will arise, viz. that, before I am perfect in speaking French, I must apply myself to Italian, from which it may probably come to pass, that I shall not know much of either. I should, therefore, think it more for my advan- tage to make the tour of France before I set out for Italy, than after I come back. There is another reason, which at least will weigh with my dear mother ; that is, that, after the month of May, when the violent heats begin, Rome (where it will be necessary to settle first, upon account of the purity of the lan- guage, which is spoke corruptly in other places) is so unwliolesome as to en- danger the life of any foreigner unac- customed to that air ; and therefore most travellers go thither about Sep- tember, and leave it towards April. I fancy these two objections to the fore- going scheme will incline you rather to give into mine, which is as follows : Sup- pose 1 stay here till after February ; I may in March, April, May, and June see Orleans, Lyons, and Bourdeaux ; and pass July, August, and September, in the southern provinces. The air of those countries is so pure, that the greatest heats do nobody any harm. From Pro- vence to Genoa is the shortest road I can take for Italy, and so through- Tuscany to Rome, where I shall arrive about De- cember, having seen what is curious in my way. I may pass two months at Rome, and go from thence to Naples, the most de- lightful part of Italy, and the finest air ; allowing me three months in that coun- try, I may take a little voyage to Mes- sina, and from thence to Malta, which lays just by. From Naples I may travel along the coasts of the Adriatic Sea, by Ancona and Loretta, to Venice ; where, if I stay but to the end of July, I shall have August, September, and October, to see Padua, Verona, Milan, and the other parts of Italy that lie N. W. of the Venetian Gulf. In the winter I may settle at Sienna, where there is a good academy, and where they are not trou- bled with any English. From thence I may go to Turin, if you please, and stay there till April. After which, to avoid returning through Provence a se- cond time, I may go by Lauzanne and Berne to Franche Compte, and so by Dijon to Paris. When 1 am there, it will be wholly in your breast how long you would have me stay abroad, and whether I should come home the shortest way, or have the pleasure of seeing Hol- land. This, sir, is the plan that I offer to you ; which, I hope, you will ap- prove of in the main, and agree to for mc. I do not pretend to have laid it so exact as never to depart from it ; but I am persuaded that, generally speaking, I shall find it agreeable and commo- dious. I have not brought Lorrain into it, because it lies quite out of the way, and because (to say the truth) I am unwilling to go thither. I know, my dear sir, i should acquaint you with my reasons for the dislike I have ex- pressed against that place. This is not so easy an eclair cissement as you may think it. Our notions of places and of persons depend upon a combination of circumstances, many of which are in themselves minute, but have weight from their assemblage with the rest. Our minds are like our bodies : they owe their pain or pleasure to the good or ill assortment of a thousand causes, each of which is a trifle by itself. How small and imperceptible are the quali- ties in the air, or soil, or climate, where we live ; and yet how sensible are the impressions they make upon us, and the delights or uneasiness they create ! So it is with our minds, from the little accidents that concur to soothe or to disorder them. But in both, the im- pressions are more strong, as the frames which they act upon are more delicate and refined. I must therefore impute many of my complaints to the natural delicacy of my temper ; and, I flatter myself, you will not think that reason the worst I could have given you. . But there are others, more gross and evi- dent, v/hich I have already in part in- formed you of, and which 1 shall here set forth more at large. It is natural for us to hate the school in which we take the first lessons of any art. The reason is, that the awk- wardness we have shewn in such be- ginnings lessens us in the eyes of people Sect. III. RECENT. 525 there, and tlie disadvantageous preju- dice it has given of us is never quite to be got over. Luneville was my school of breeding, and I was there more unavoidably sub- ject to quelques heUes d'ecoiier, as the politesse practised in that place is fuller of ceremony than elsev/here, and has a good deal peculiar to itself. The memory of these mistakes, though lost perhaps in others, hangs upon my mind when I am there, and depresses my spirits to such a degree, that I am not like myself. One is never agreeable in company where one fears too much to be disapproved ; and the very notion of being ill received has as bad an effect upon our gaiety as the thing itself. This is the first and strongest reason why I despair of being happy in Lorrain. I have already complained of the foppish ignorance and contempt for all I have been taught to value, that is so fashion- able there. You have heard me describe the greater part of the English I knew there, in colours that ought to make you fear the infection of such company for your son. But, supposing no danger in this brutal, unimproving society, it is no little grievance ; for to what barbarous insults does it expose our morals and understanding! A fool, with a majo- rity on his side, is the greatest tyrant in the world. Do not imagine, dear sir, that I am setting up for a reformer of mankind, because I express some im- patience at the folly and immorality of my acquaintance. I am far from ex- pecting they should all be wits, much less philosophers. My own weaknesses are too well knoAvn to me, not to pre- judice me in favour of other people's when they go but to a certain point. There are extravagances that have al- ways an excuse, sometimes a grace at- tending them. Youth is agreeable in its sallies, and would lose its beauty if it looked too grave ; but a reasonable head and an honest heart are never to be dispensed with. Not that I am so severe upon Luneville and my English friends, as to pretend there are not men of merit and good sense among them. There are some undoubtedly ; but all I know are uneasy at finding themselves in such ill company. I shall trouble you no farther upon this head. If you «nter into my way of thinking,, what I have said will be enough : if you do not, all I can say will have no effect. I should not have engaged in this long detail, but that I love to open my heart to you, and make you the confident of all my thoughts. Till I have the honour and happiness of conversing with you in a nearer manner, indulge me, dear sir, in this distant way of conveying my notions to you, and let me talk to you as I would to my dearest friend, without awe, correctness, or reserve. Though I have taken up so much of your time before, I cannot help giving myself the pleasure of acquainting you of the extraordinary civilities 1 receive from Mr. Poyntz. He has in a man- ner taken me into his family. I have the honour of his conversation at all hours, and he delights to turn it to my improvement. He was so good as to desire me to ask your leave to pass the winter with him, and to encourage me to do it, promised me that I should not be without my share of public business. The first packet that comes from Foun- tainbleau I expect to be employed ; which is no small pleasure to me, and will, I hope, be of service. Do not you think, sir, it would be proper for you to write to Mr. Poyntz, to thank him for the honours he has done me ; and to desire him to excuse it, if his civilities make me troublesome to him longer than you designed? You know so well how to do those things, that I am persuaded it v/ould have a good effect. The only news J have to tell you, is a secret intelligence from Vienna, that count Zinzerdorff is going out of favour; this is of consequence to the negocia- tions, but you must not mention it : while I am not trusted with affairs you shall know all 1 hear ; but afterwards nil jiatri quidem. I was saying to Mr. Poyntz, that Ripperda was undoubtedly very happy to come out of prison into the land of liberty; he replied, that, whatever the duke might think, he was in danger of going to prison again. This was said some time ago, and things may have altered since. I remain, dear sir, your dutiful son, &c. 526 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER CXXXL LETTER CXXXn. Lord Littleton to Sir Thomas Littleton. S. Poi/iitz, Esq. to Sir Thomas Littleton. Talis, Jan. 22, 1729. Dear sir, I HAVE SO much to thank you for, that 1 have not words to do it ; so kind a compliance with all my wishes surpasses my acknowledgment. Your two letters to Mr. Poyntz had their effect, and were answered with a profusion of civilities, and marks of friendship and esteem ; but the enclosed will instruct you better in the obligations I have to you and him. How happy I am in your per- mission to quit Lorrain, you may judge by my letter on that head. I think you have mistaken my sense in some argu- ments made use of there ; but it is need- less to set you right. Your kindness and indulgence to my desires is an argu- ment more persuasive than all the rest, and in which only I confide. I have lately, sir, spent more than I could wish, and the necessity of doing it gives me no small uneasiness ; but it is an undoubted fact, that without shew abroad there is no improvement. You yourself confess it, when you say, the French are only fond of strangers who have money to pay them for their com- pliments. You express a great uneasi- ness, for fear I should grow fond of games of chance. I have sometimes risqued a little at them, but without any passion or delight. Gaming is too unreasonable and dishonest for a gen- tleman, who has either sense or honour, to addict himself to it ; but, to set you quite easy in that point, I give you my word and honour, and desire no par- don if I recede from it, that I never will addict myself to this destructive passion, which is such a whirlpool, that it ab- sorbs all others. It is true I have been a sufferer at quadrille, and must ever suffer on : for point de societe sans cela; c'est un article preliminaire a tout C07n- merce avcc le beau monde. I may ven- ture to assure you, that ail thoughts of peace are not laid aside, as you appre- hend. I remain, dear sir, your dutiful son, &c. Paris, Jan. 29, 1729. Sir, I HAVE received your two kind letters, in which you are pleased very much to overvalue the small civilities it has lain in my power to show Mr. Lyttleton. I have more reason to thank you, sir, for giving me so convincing a mark of your regard, as to interrupt the course of his travels on my account, which will lay me under a double obligation to do all I can towards making his stay agree- able and useful to him ; though I shall still remain the greater gainer by the pleasure of his company, which no ser- vices of mine can sufficiently requite. ^ He is now in the same house with me, and by that means more constantly under my eye than even at Soissons : but I should be very unjust to him, if I left you under the imagination, that his inclinations stand in the least need of any such ungenerous restraint. Depend upon it, sir, from the observation of one who would abhor to deceive a father in so tender a point, that he retains the same virtuous and studious dispositions, which nature and your care planted in him, only strengthened and improved by age and experience ; so that, I dare promise you, the bad examples of Paris, or any other place, will never have any other effect upon him, but to confirm him in the right choice he has made. Under these happy circumstances, he can have little occasion for any other advice, but that of sustaining the cha- racter he has so early got, and of sup- porting the hopes he has raised. I wish it were in my power to do him any part of the service you suppose me capable of. I shall not be wanting to employ him, as occasion offers ; and to assist him with my advice where it may be necessary, though your cares (which he ever mentions with the greatest grati- tude) have made this task very easy. He cannot fail of making you and himself happy, and of being a great ornament to our country, if, with that refined taste and delicacy of genius, he can but recal his mind, at a proper age, from the plea- sures of learning, and gay scenes of ima- gination, to the dull road and fatigue of business. This I have sometimies taken Sect. lil. RECENT. 527 tlie liberty to hint to liim, though his own good judgment made it very unne- cessary. Though I have only the happiness of knowing you, sir, by your reputation, and by this common object of our friend- ship and affections, your son ; I heg you would be persuaded that I am, with the most particular respect, sir, your most humble and obedient servant, &c. and v/ere the principal cause of the de- lays and difficulties that retard the public peace. The vigorous resolutions of both houses, to support his m?^!esty in his councils, vail, no doubt, undeceive them, and contribute very much to bring affairs to that decision we desire. Adieu, my dear sir ; and believe me to be your du- LETTER CXXXIII. Loi^d Lyitleton to Sir Thomas Lyttkton. Paris, Feb. 17. Dear sir, I MADE your compliments to Mr. Poyntz as handsomely as I could, and read him that part of your letter, wiiere you leave it to his determination how long I shall stay with him, provided it be no ways inconvenient. He assured me, with the same obliging air of sincerity and good- ness as you are charmed with in his let- ter, that it was not in the least so ; and that my company again at Soissons would be the greatest relief and pleasure to him ; with many other kind expressions, which you would be glad to hear, but which I cannot repeat. I have a thousand thanks to pay you, sir, for so kindly preventing my desires, \ and continuing me in the possession of a happiness, which I was afraid was almost at an end. The time I spend with Mr. Poyntz is certainly the most agreeable, as well as the most im- proving, part of my life. He is a se- cond father to me, and it is in his so- ciety that I am least sensible of the want of yours. , I find you are uneasy at the situation the king's speech has left us in ; but de- pend upon it, notwithstanding the little triumph that the enemies of the govern- ment may shew upon the present seeming uncertainty of affairs, they will be con- cluded to their confusion, and to the honour of the councils they oppose. The greatest mischief that has been done us, and which perhaps you are not sensible of, was full of false and malicious insi- nuations, which, being translated and shewn to foreign ministers, unacquaint- ed with the lenity of our constitution and the liberty of scandal it allows, made them think that the nation would dis- avow the measures taken by the court. LETTER CXXXJV. From the same to the same, Paris, March 11. Dear sir, The affair of the Gosport man-of-war has raised a most extravagant spirit of resentment in the French. They talk of nothing less than hanging their own officer, and seem to expect that ours should come off as ill. I have talked to his excellency about it : he says he has had no account of it from England ; but desires me to tell you, that he is in hopes the French officer has made a false rcr port ; and that, if nothing very extraor- dinary has been done, as the case must have happened frequently, he should think it very proper, that as many pre- cedents as can be found should be col- lected and sent him over. He appre- hends, as much as you, a popular decla- mation from the Craftsman on this un- lucky subject. The embarkation you speak of is uncertain (as far as I can know from him), and intended only to reinforce our garrisons. Perhaps there may be more in it, which he does not think fit to trust me with, though I hardly imagine so ; because I have such marks of his confidence as con- vince me he does not doubt of my dis- cretion. Love to my brother ; I dare say he will be a gainer in the end by this Avarm action, though it happened to be ill-timed. I am glad the young fellow has so much of the martial spirit in him. What you tell me of amazes me. I shall obey your advice, in being cautious how I think any man my friend too soon ; since he, whose af- fection I was so sure of, has so injurious- ly convinced me of my mistake. I con- fess, I thought malice or ill-nature as great strangers to him as to poor ; but wdiat are the judgments of young 528 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. men? Indeed, my dear sir, we are very silly fellows. I cannot help transcribing a few lines of my sister's letter of the 10th, to shew you that your goodness to your children meets at least with a grateful return : — "We should pass our time but ill, if the good-humour of my mother did not make us all cheerful, and make amends for the loss of those diversions, which London would afford us. The oftener I converse with her, the more I love her • and every one of her actions shews me a virtue 1 wish to imitate. This you must be sensible pf as well as I : but there is such a pleasure in praising those we love, that I must dwell a little upon the subject, which, I dare say, will be as grateful to you as it is to me. How happy are we v/itli such parents ! When I see my father almost spent with the cares of his family ; my dear mother confined here, for the good of her chil- dren ; I am overpowered with gratitude and love ! May you and they continue well ! and I want. nothing else to com- plete my happiness." This, sir, is a faithful extract, and speaks the language of all our hearts. Adieu, dear sir. I remain your dutiful son, &c. LETTER CXXXV. Lord Lyttleton to Sir Thomas Lytlleton. Haute Fontaine, near Soissons, May 27. Dear sir, I HAVE letters from my lord and his governor, in which they both express the highest sense of the friend- ship you have shewn them, and acknow- ledge the advantages they ov/e to it ; my lord, particularly, is charmed with the good-natured service you did his re- lation, and speaks of it as the greatest obligation. My friend Ascough too boasts of your protection, and professes that veneration for your character, that it makes me proud of being your son. It is now my duty to return you thanks for all these favours bestowed on others, and meant to me ; and I do it with all the pleasure of a grateful mind, which finds itself honoured in the obligation. I believe, there is no young man alive, who has more happiness to boast of than myself; being blessed with a sound constitution, affectionate friends, and an easy fortune ; but of all my advan- tages, there is none of which I have so deep a sense as the trust and amiable harmony between the best of fathers and myself. This is so much the dearer to me, as indeed it is the source of all the rest ; and as it is not to be lost by misfortune, but dependent upon my own behaviour, and annexed to virtue, honour, and reputa- tion, I am persuaded, that no weak- nesses or failings, which do not injure them, will occasion the withdrawing it from me ; and therefore I consider it as secure, because I have used my mind to look upon dishonesty and shame as strangers it can never be acquainted with : such an opinion is not vanity, but it is setting those two things at a necessary distance from us ; for it is certain, that the allov/ing a possibility of our acting wickedly, or meanly, is really making the first step towards it. I have received many civilities from Mr. Stanhope, who is here with Mr. Poyntz. Mr. Walpole has invited me to Com- peigne, where I am going for two or three days. Affairs are nov/ almost at a crisis, and there is great reason to ex- pect they v/ill take a happy turn. Mr. Walpole has a surprising influence over the cardinal ; so that whether peace or war ensue, we may depend upon our ally. In truth, it is the interest of the French court to be faithful to their en- gagements, though it may not entirely be the nation's. Emulation of trade might incline the people to wish the bond that ties them to us were broke ; but the mercantile interest has at no time been much considered by this court. If you reflect upon the apprehensions of the government from the side of Spain, and their very reasonable jealousy of the emperor, you will not wonder at their managing the friendship, and ad- hering to the alliance of Great Britain. The supposition, that present advantage is the basis and end of state engage- ments, and that they are only to be measured by that rule, is the foundation of all our suspicions against the firm- ness of our French ally. But the maxim is not just. Much is given to future hopes ; much obtained by future fears ; and security is, upon many occnsions, sought preferably to gain. I remain, dear sir, your dutiful son, &c. Sect. III. RECENT. 52^ LETTER CXXXVI. From the same to tJie same. Paris, Sept. 8. Dear sir, Sunday, by four o'clock, we had the good news of a dauphin, and since that time I have thought myself in Bedlam. The natural gaiety of the nation is so improved on this occasion, that they are all stark mad with joy, and do nothing but dance and sing about the streets by hundreds and by thousands. The ex- pressions of their joy are admirable : one fellow gives notice to the public, that he designs to draw teeth for a week toge- ther upon the Pont Neuf, gratis. The king is as proud of what he has done, as if he had gained a kingdom ; and tells every body that he sees, qu'il sgaura hien faire des fils tant quit voudra. We are to have a fine fire-work to-morrow, his majesty being to sup in town. The duke of Orleans was sincerely, and without any affectation, transported at the birth of the dauphin. The succession was a burthen too heavy for his indolence to support, and he piously sings hallelujah for his happy delivery from it. The good old cardinal cried for joy. It is very late, and I have not slept these three nights for the squibs and crackers, and other noises that the peo- ple make in the streets, so must beg leave to conclude, with assuring that I am, dear sir, your affectionate and duti- ful son. of my dear friend, Mr. Poyntz, of whose favours to me I have so deep a sense, that I cannot too often express my ac- knowledgments. The time I have en- joyed his company has been spent so happily, and so much to my honour and advantage, that I do not know how to reconcile my thoughts to a period of it. It is not so much the liveliness of his wit, and uncommon strength of his judgment, that charm me in his conver- sation, as those great and noble senti- ments, which would have been admired by ancient Rome, and have done honour to the most virtuous ages. He is going to his country-seat ; where I hope the air, and a little repose from the fatigue of business, will en- tirely restore his health. I shall ob- serve your caution against grapes, new wine, and pretty women, though they are all very tempting, but dangerous things . I have time for no more now, but to assure you of my duty and affection. I have written to my lord Cobham upon my going to Italy. His excellency thanks you for your letter, and will write to you as soon as he gets to Haute Fon- taine. I have the pleasure of being able to assure you, that the final project of a treaty sent to Spain is entirely satisfac- tory and honourable, and that it con- tains a fuU redress and reparation for all abuses, grievances, and wrongs. I am, dear sir, with due respect, your most dutiful son. LETTER CXXXVIII. LETTER CXXXVI I. Fro?Ji the same to the same Paris, Oct. 6. Dear sir, I HAVE the greatest- thanks to return you for the many proofs of confidence and affection you gave me in your last, and shall labour to deserve that good" ness, which is so kind and complaisant to my desires. I shaU, in obedience to your orders, set out for Italy to-mor- row, where I hope to make such im- provements as wiU answer the expense of the journey ; but, whatever advantage or pleasure I may propose, I cannot, without a sensible affliction, takejeave S. Poj/ntz, Esq. to Sir Tho?nas Lyttleton. Sir, Haute Fontaine, Oct, 18. Mr. Lyttleton will have acquainted you with my removing to this place, the day before he left Paris, for the benefit of the air, and exercise of the country, which has almost restored me to health. The first use I make of it, sir, is to re- turn you my sincere thanks, for making me so long happy In his good company ; which I may with great truth say, has contributed more than any thing else to make the tediousnessof this splendid ba-i nishment supportable to me, and to sof- ten the impressions which the many per- verse turns of the negociations must 2M 530 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. have made upon my mind. I wish it had been in my power to make equal returns : his good-nature disposes him to over-value them, such as they were ; but I can only hope that our future acquaintance may afford me an oppor- tunity of discharging some part of the debt. His behaviour has continued the same as I described it last winter ; and I am morally sure will never alter, in any country, or any part of life, for the worse. His health is liable to frequent interruptions, though not dangerous ones, nor of any long continuance. They seem to proceed chiefly from an ill digestion, which, I believe, may sometimes be occasioned by the vivacity of his imagination's pursuing some agreeable thought too intensely, and diverting the spirits from their proper function, even at meals ; for we have often been obliged at that time to recal him from reveries, that made him almost absent to his company, though without the least tincture of melancholy. I mention this last circumstance as a peculiar felicity of his temper; melan- choly and spleen being the rock on which minds of so delicate a texture as his are most in danger of splitting. I have seen two or three instances of it myself in young gentlemen of the greatest hopes ; and the epistles written by Languett, to sir Philip Sidney, upon ah acquaintance, contracted, like ours, abroad, bring his particular case to my mind. No young gentleman ever promised more ; but, returning to England, con- scious of his own worth, and full of more refined notions of honour, virtue, and friendship, than were to be met with in courts and parliaments, and in that mixed herd of men with whom business must be transacted, he conceived a total disgust for the world ; and, retiring into the country, sat down with patience to consume the vigour of his imagination and youth in writing a trifling romance. I can, with pleasure, assure you, that I see no symptom of this kind in Mr. Lyttleton ; his mind is ever cheerful and active, and full of such a benevo- lence towards his friends and relations in England, as well as such zeal for the honour and interests of his country, as, I verily believe, will never let him sink down into indolence and inaction. How- ever, this sickness of the mind, and an ill state of bodily health, which naturally influence and promote one the other, are the two points most necessary to guard against, in a nature the most exempt from faults I ever met with. 1 ought to ask pardon for indulging this liberty, if 1 were not writing to the best of fathers ; though this very cir- cumstance makes all my care super- fluous. But the friendship your son has expressed for me ever since his being here, and more particularly in my late illness, and at parting, is too strong upon my mind, to suffer me to suppress any hint that may be of the most distant use to him, or may convince you of the sincerity of that respect with which I am, sir, your most humble and obedient servant. LETTER CXXXIX. Lord Littleton to Sir Thomas Lyttleton. Jan. 17, 1747. Dear sir. It is a most sensible and painful addi- tion to my concern and affliction for my dear wife, to hear of your being so bad with the stone ; and, loaded as my heart is with my other grief, I cannot help writing this, to tell you how much I feel for you, and how ardently I pray to God to relieve you. Last night all my thoughts were em- ployed on you ; for, when I went to bed, my poor Lucy was so much better, that we thought her in a fair way of re- covery ; but my uneasiness for you kept me awake great part of the night, and, in the morning, I found she had been much worse again, so that our alarm was as great as ever : she has since mended again, and is now pretty near as you heard last post ; only that such frequent relapses give one more cause to fear, that the good symptoms, which sometimes appear, will not be lasting. On the other hand, by her struggling so long, and her pulse recovering itself so well as it does, after such violent flurries and such great sinkings, one would hope that nature is strong in her, and will be able at last to conquer her illness. Sir Edward Hulse seems now inclined to trust to that, and to trouble her with I Sect. III. RECENT. 531 no more physic; upon which condition alone she has been persuaded to take any food to-day. Upon the whole, her case is full of uncertainty, and the doc- tors can pronounce notfcing positirely about her ; but they rather think it will be an affair of time. For my own health, it is yet tolerably good, though my heart has gone through as severe a trial as it can well sustain ; more indeed than I thought it could have borne : and you may depend upon it, dear sir, that I will make use of all the supports that religion or reason can give me, to save me from sinking under it. I know the part you take in my life and health ; and I know it my duty to try not to add to your other pains that of my loss, which thought has as great an effect upon me as any thing can ; and I believe God Almighty sup- ports me above my own strength, for the sake of my friends who are concerned for me, and in return for the resignation Avith which I endeavour to submit to his will. If it please him, in his infinite mercy, to restore my dear wife to me, I shall most thankfully acknowledge his goodness ; if not, I shall most humbly endure his chastisement, which 1 have too much deserved. These are the sentiments with which my mind is replete ; but, as it is still a most bitter cup, how my body will bear it, if it must not pass from me, it is im- possible for me to foretel ; but I hope the best. I once more pray God to re- lieve you from that dreadful distemper with which you are afflicted. Gilbert West would be happy in the reputation his book has gained him, if my poor Lucy was not so ill. However, his mind leans always to hope ; which is an. advantage both to him and me, as it makes him a better comforter. To be sure we ought not yet to despair ; but there is much to fear, and a most melancholy interval to be supported, before any certainty comes — God send it may come well at last ! I am, dear sir, your most afflicted, but most affec- tionate son. LErrER CXL. The late Bishop Home to a young Clergy' man. Dear , I AM much pleased to hear you have been for some time stationary at Oxford ; a place where a man may best prepare himself to go forth as a burning and shi- ning light into a world where charity is waxed cold, and where truth is well-nigh obscured. Whenever it pleases God to appoint you to the government of a pa- rish, you will find work enough to employ you ; and therefore, before that time comes, you should be careful to provide yourself with all necessary knowledge, lest, by-and-by, when you should be building, you should have your materials to look for, and bring together ; besides, that the habit of studying and thinking, if it be not got in the first part of life, rarely comes afterwards. A man is mi- serably drawn into the eddy of worldly dissipation, and knows not how to get out of it again, till, in the end, for want of spiritual exercises, the faculties of the soul are benumbed, and he sinks into in- dolence, till the night cometh, lohen no man can work. Happy, therefore, is the man, who betimes acquires a relish for holy solitude, and accustoms himself to bear the yoke of Christ's discipline in his youth ; who can sit alone, and keep si- lence, and seek wisdom diligently where she may be found, in the Scriptures of faith, and in the writings of the saints. From these flowers of Paradise he ex- tracts the honey of knowledge and di- vine love, and therewith fills every cell of his understanding and affections. The winter of affliction, disease, and old age, will not surprise such an one in an un- prepared state. He ivill not be con- founded in the perilous time ; and in the days of dearth he will have enough to strengthen, comfort, and support him and his brethren. Precious beyond ru- bies are the hours of youth and health ! LetKone of them pass unprofitably away ; for surely they make to themselves wings, and are as a bird cutting swiftly the air, and the trace of her can no more be found. If well spent, they fly to heaven with news that rejoice angels, and meet us again as witnesses for us at the tri- bunal of our Lord. When the graces of time run into the glories of eternity, how 2M2 532 ELEGANT E P I S T I. E S. Book IV, trifling will the labour then seem that has procured us (through grace) everlasting rest, for which the apostles toiled night and day, and the martyrs loved not their lives unto death ! These, my dear , are my senti- ments ; would to God my practice were more conformable to them than it is, that I might he less unworthy to advise and exhort others ! but I trust the per- suasion I haye of the truth of what is said above (which every day's experience more and more confirms) will influence my conduct in this particular^ and make me more watchful in time to come. In the mean season, I cannot forbear press- ing the same upon you, as 1 should do with my dying breath ; since, upon the due proportioning and employing our time, all our progress in grace and know- ledge depends. If there be any thing with regard to the choice or matter of your studies, in which I can assist you, let me know, as you can have no doubt of my being, in all things, most afl^ectionately yours. FROM THE LETTRES OF WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. a single man) but few better. 1 am not quite alone, having brought a servant with me from St. Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidelity and afi'ection for his master. And whereas the Turkish Spy says, he kept no servant because he would not have an enemy in his house, I hired mine because I would have a friend. Men do not usually bestow these enco- miums on their lackeys, nor do they usually deserve them ; but I have had experience of mine, both in sickness and in health, and never saw his fellow. The river Ouse (I forget how they spell it) is the most agreeable circumstance in this part of the world ; at this town it is I believe as wide as the Thames at Wind- sor ; nor does the silver Thames better deserve that epithet, nor has it more flowers upon its banks, these being at- tributes, which, in strict truth, belong to neither. Fluellen would say, they are as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is salmon in both. It is a noble stream to bathe in, and I shall make that use of it three times a week, having in- troduced myself to it for the first time this morning. I beg you will remember me to all my friends, which is a task will cost you no great pains to execute — particularly re- member me to those of your own house, and believe me your very afl'ectionate. LETTER CXLI. To Joseph Hill, Esq. Huntingdon, June 24, 1765. Dear Joe, The only recompence I can make you for your khid attention to my affairs, during my illness, is to tell you, that by the mercy of God I am restored to per- fect health, both of mind and body. This, I believe, will give you pleasure, and I would gladly do any thing from which you could receive it. I left St. Alban's on the seventeeflth, and arrived that day at Cambridge, spent some time there with my brother, and came hither on the twenty-second. I have a lodging that puts me continually in mind of our summer excursions ; we liave had many worse, and except the size of it (which however is sufficient for LETl^ER CXLII. To Lady Hesketh. July 12, 1765. My dear cousin. You are very good to me, and if you will only continue to write at such intervals as you find convenient, 1 shall receive all that pleasure, which I pro- posed to myself from our correspondence. I desire no more than that you would never drop me for any length of time to- gether, for I shall then think you only write because something happened to put you in mind of me, or for some other reason equally mortifying. I am not however so unreasonable as to expect you should perform this act of friendship so frequently as myself ; for you live in a world swarming with engagements, and my hours are almost all my own. You must every day be employed in doing Sect. III. RECENT. 533 what is expected from you by a thousand others, and I have nothing to do but what is most agreeable to myself. Our^mentioning Newton's Treatise on the Prophecies, brings to my mind an anecdote of Dr. Young, who you know died lately at Welwyn. Dr. Cotton, who was intimate with hini, paid him a visit about a fortnight before he was seized with his last illness. The old man was then in perfect health ; the antiquity of his person, the gravity of his utterance, and the earnestness with which he dis- coursed about religion, gave him, in the Doctor's eye, the appearance of a pro- phet. They had been delivering their sentiments upon this book of Newton, when Young closed the conference thus : — " My friend, there are two considera- tions upon which my faith in Christ is built as upon a rock : the fall of man, the redemption of man, and the resur- rection of man, the three cardinal arti- cles of our religion, are sucli as human ingenuity could never have invented, therefore they must be divine. The other argument is this — If the prophecies have been fulfilled (of which there is abun- dant demonstration), the Scripture must be the word of God ; and if the Scrip- ture is the word of God, Christianity must be true." This treatise on the Prophecies serves a double purpose : it not only proves the. truth of religion, in a manner that never has been, nor ever can be controverted ; but it proves likewise, that the Roman Catholic is the apostate and anti-chris- tian church, so frequently foi'etold both in the Old and New Testaments. Indeed so fatally connected is the refutation of Popery with the truth of Christianity, when the latter is evinced by the com- pletion of the prophecies, that in pro- portion as light is thrown upon the one, the deformities and errors of the other are more plainly exhibited. But I leave you to the book itself : there are parts of it which may possibly aflford you less entertainment than the rest, because you have never been a school-boy ; but in the main it is so interesting, and you are so fond of that which is so, that I am sure you win like it. My dear cousin, — how happy am I in having a friend, to whom I can open my heart upon these subjects ! I have many intimates in the world, and have had manv more than I shall have hereafter, to whom a long letter, upon these most important articles, would appear tiresome at least, if not impertinent. But I am not afraid of meeting with that reception from you, who have never yet made it your interest, that there should be no truth in the word of God. May this everlasting truth be your comfort while you live, and attend you with peace and joy in your last moments !"; I love you too well not to make this a part of my prayers ; and when I remember my friends on these occasions, there is no likelihood that you can be forgotten. Yours, ever. P. S. — Cambridge. — I add this post- script at my brother's rooms. He de- sires to be affectionately remembered to you, and if you are in town about a fortnight hence, when he proposes to be there himself, will take a breakfast with you; LETTER CXLIil. To the same. Sept. 4, 1765. Though I have some very agreeable acquaintance at Huntingdon, my dear cousin, none are so agreeable as the ar- rival of your letters. I thank you for that which I have just received from Drox- ford, and particularly for that part of it, where you give me an unlimited liberty upon the subject I have already so often written upon. Whatever interests us deeply, as naturally flows into the pen as it does from the lips, when every re- straint is taken away, and we meet with a friend indulgent enough to attend to us. How many, in all that variety of characters with whom I am acquainted, could I find, after the strictest search, to whom I could write as I do to you ? I hope the number will increase ; I am sure it cannot easily be diminished. Poor —-- ! I have heard the whole of his history, and can only lament, what I am sure I can make no apology for. Two of my friends have been cut off during my illness, in the midst of such a life as it is frightful to reflect upon ; and here am I, in better health and spirits than I can almost remember to have enjoyed before, after having spent months in the apprehension of in- stant death. How mvsterious are the 534 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. ways of Providence ! Why did I receive grace and mercy ? Why was I preserved, afflicted for my good, received, as I trust, into favour, and blessed with the great- est happiness I can ever l^now or hope for in this life, v/hile these were over- taken by the great arrest, unawakened, unrepenting, and every way unprepared for it ? His infinite wisdom, to v»^hose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve these questions, and none beside him. If a free-thinker, as many a man mis- cals himself, could be brought to give a serious answer to them, he would cer- tainly say " Without doubt, sir, you was in great danger, you had a narrow escape, a most fortunate one indeed." How excessively foolish, as well as shock- ing ! As if life depended upon luck ; and all that we are or can be, all that we have or hope for, could possibly be refer- red to accident. Yet to this freedom of thought it is owing, that he, who, as our Saviour tells us, is thoroughly apprised of the death of the meanest of his crea- tures, is supposed to leave those, whom he has made in his own image, to the mercy of chance : and to this therefore it is likev/ise ov/ing, that the correction which our heavenly Father bestows upon us, that we may be fitted to receive his blessing, is so often disappointed of its benevolent intention, and that men de- spise the chastening of the Almighty. Fevers and all diseases are accidents ; and long life, recovery at least from sickness, is the gift of the physician ! No man can be a greater friend to the use of means upon these occasions than myself, for it were presumption and enthusiasm to neglect them. God has endued them with salutary properties, on purpose that we might avail ourselves of them, other- wise that part of his creation were in vain. But to impute our recovery to the medicine, and to carry our views no further, is to rob God of his honour, and is saying in effect, that he has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of his own reach. He that thinks thus, may as well fall upon his knees at once, and return thanks to the medicine that cured him ; for it was certainly more immediately instru- mental in his recovery, than either the apothecary or the doctor. My dear cou- sin, — a firm persuasion of the superinten- dence of Providence, over all our con- cerns, is absolutely necessary to our hap- piness. Without it, we cannot be said to believe in the Scripture, or practise any thing like resignation to his will. If I am convinced that no affliction can befal me without the permission of God, I am convinced likewise, that he sees, and knows, that I am afflicted : believ- ing this, I must in the same degree be- lieve, that if I pray to him for deliver- ance, he hears me ; I must needs know, likewise, with equal assurance, that if he hears, he will also deliver me, if that will upon the whole be most conducive to my happiness ; and if he does not deliver me, I may be well assured that he has none but the most benevolent intention in de- clining it. He made us, not because we could add to his happiness, which was always perfect, but that we might be happy ourselves ; and will he not in all his dispensations towards us, even in the minutest, consult that end for which he made us ? To suppose the contrary, is (which we are not always aware of) affronting every one of his attributes ; and at the same time the certain conse- quence of disbelieving his care for us is, that we renounce utterly our dependence upon him. In this view it will appear plainly, that the line of duty is not stretched too tight, when we are told, that we ought to accept every thing at his hand as a blessing, and to be thank- ful even while we smart under the rod of iron with which he sometimes rules us. Without this persuasion, every blessing, however we may think ourselves happy in it, loses its greatest recommendation, and every affliction is intolerable. Death itself must be welcome to him who has this faith ; and he, who has it not, jnust aim at it, if he is not a madman. You cannot think how glad I am to hear you are going to commence lady and mistress of Freemantle*. I know it well, and could go to it from Southampton blind- fold. You are kind to invite me to it, and I shall be so kind to myself as to accept the invitation ; though I should not, for a slight consideration, be pre- vailed upon to quit my beloved retire- ment at Huntingdon. Yours ever. * Freemantle, a villa near Southampton. 1 Sect. III. RECENT. 535 LETIER CXLIV. 7b Lady Hesketh. Huntingdon, Sept. 14, 1765. My dear cousin, The longer 1 live here, the better I like the place, and the people who belong to it. I am upon very good terms with no less than five families, besides two or three odd scrambling fellows like myself. The last acquaintance I made here is with the race of the Unwins, consisting of father and mother, son and daughter, the most comfortable, social folks you ever knew. The son is about twenty- one years of age, one of the most un- reserved and amiable young men I ever conversed with. He is not yet arrived at that time of life, when suspicion re- commends itself to us in the form of wisdom, and sets every thing, but our own dear selves, at an immeasurable dis- tance from our esteem and confidence. Consequently he is kno^n almost as soon as seen ; and having nothing in his heart that makes it necessary for him to keep it barred and bolted, opens it to the pe- rusal even of a stranger. The father is a clergyman, and the son is designed for orders. The design however is quite his own, proceeding merely from his being, and having always been, sincere in his belief and love of the Gospel. Another acquaintance I have lately made, is with a Mr. Nicholson, a North-country di- vine j very poor, but very good, and very happy. He reads prayers here twice a-day, all the year round, and travels on foot to serve two churches every Sunday through the year, his journey out and home again being sixteen miles. I sup- ped with him last night. He gave me bread and cheese, and a black jug of ale of his own brewing, and doubtless brewed by his own hands. Another of my ac- quaintance is Mr. , a thin, tall, old man, and as good as he is thin. He drinks nothing but water, and eats no flesh, partly (I believe) from a religious scruple (for he is very religious), and partly in the spirit of a valetudinarian. He is to be met with every morning of his life, at about six o'clock, at a foun- tain of very fine water, about a mile from the town, which is reckoned extremely like the Bristol spring. Being both early risers, and the only early walkers in the place, we soon became acquainted. His great piety can be equalled by nothing, but his great regularity ; for he is the most perfect time-piece in the world. I have received a visit likewise from Mr. . He is very much a gentleman, well-read, and sensible. I am persuaded, in short, that if I had had the choice of all England where to fix my abode, I could not have chosen better for myself, and most likely I should not have chosen so well. You say, you hope it is not necessary for salvation to undergo the same afflic- tions that I have undergone. No ! my dear cousin, God deals with his children as a merciful father ; Jie does not, as he himself tells us, afflict w^illingly the sons of men. Doubtless there are many who, having been placed, by his good provi- dence, out of the reach of any great evil, and the influence of bad example, have, from their very infancy, been partakera of the grace of his holy Spirit, in such a manner as never to have allowed them- selves in any grievous offence against him. May you love him more and more, day by day ; as every day, while you think upon him, you will find him more worthy of your love : and may you be finally ac- cepted by him fo^* his sake, whose inter- cession for all his faithful servants cannot but prevail ! Yours ever. LETTER CXLV. To the same. Huntingdon, Oct. 10, 1765. My dear cousin, I SHOULD grumble at your long silence, if I did not know, that one may love one's friends very well, though one is not always in a humour to write to them. Besides, I have the satisfaction of being perfectly sure, that you have at least twenty times recollected the debt you owe me, and as often resolved to pay it: and perhaps, while you remain indebted to me, you think of me twice as often as you would do if the account was clear. These are the reflections with which I comfort myseK under the affliction of not hearing from you : my temper does not incline me to jealousy, and if it did, I should set all right by having recourse to what I have already received from you. I thank God for your friendship, and for every friend I have : for all the pleas- 536 E L E G A N T EPISTLES. Book IV^ ing- circumstances here, for my health of body, and perfect serenity of mind. To recollect the past, and compare it with the present, is all I have need of to fill me with gratitude ; and to be grate- ful is to be happy. Not that I think myself sufficiently thankfiil, or that I ever shall be so in this life. The warm- est heart perhaps only feels by fits, and is often as insensible as the coldest. This at least is frequently the case with mine, and oftener than it should be. But the mercy that can forgive iniquity, will never be severe to mark our frailties. To that mercy, my dear cousin, I com- mend you, with earnest wishes for your welfare, and remain your ever affec- tionate. LETTER CXLVL To Majo7' Cotvper. Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. My dear major, I HAVE neither lost the use of my fin- gers nor my memory, though my un- accountable silence might incline you to suspect that I had lost both. The his- tory of those things which have, from time to time, prevented my scribbling, would not only be insipid, but extremely voluminous, for which reasons they will not make their appearance at present, nor probably at any time hereafter. If my neglecting to write to you were a proof that I had never thought of you, and that had been really the case, five shillings a piece would have been much too little to give for the sight of such a monster ! but I am no such monster, nor do I perceive in myself the least tendency to such a transformation. You may re- collect that I had but very uncomfortable expectations of the accommodations I should meet with at Huntingdon. How much better is it to take our lot, where it shall please Providence to cast it, with- out anxiety ! Had I chosen for myself, it is impossible I could have fixed upon a place so agreeable to me in all respects. I so much dreaded the thought of having a new acquaintance to make, with no other recommendation than that of be- ing a perfect stranger, that I heartily wished no creature here might take the least notice of me. Instead of which, in about two months after my arrival, I be- came known to all the visitable people here, and do verily think it the most agreeable neighbourhood I ever saw. Here are three families who have re- ceived me with the utmost civility, and two in particular have treated me with as much cordiality as if their pedigree and mine had grown upon the same sheep-skin. Besides these, there are three or four single men, who suit my tem- per to a hair. The town is one of the neatest in England ; the country is fine for several miles about it, and the roads, which are all turnpike, and strike out four or five different ways, are perfectly good all the year round. I mention this latter circumstance chiefly because my distance from Cambridge has made a horseman of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. My brother and I meet every v/eek,byan alternate reciprocation of intercourse, as Sam Johnson would express it ; sometimes I get a lift in a neighbour's chaise, but generally ride. As to my own personal condition, I am much happier than the day is long, and sun- shine and candle-light alike see me perfectly contented. I get books in abundance, as much company as I choose, a deal of co?)iforiable leisure, and enjoy better health, I think, than for many years past. What is there wanting to make me happy ? Nothing, if I can but be as thankful as I ought : and I trust that He, who has bestowed so many blessings upon me, will give me grati- tude to crown them all. I beg you will give my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to everybody at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is with you, as I suspect by a passage in lady Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to her very affec- tionately. And believe me, my dear friend, ever yours. LETTER CXLVII. To Mrs. Cowper. My dear cousin, I HAVE not been behind-hand in i^e- proaching myself with neglect, but de- sire to take shame to myself for my un- profitableness in this, as well as in all other respects. I take the next immedi- ate opportunity however of thanking you for yours, and of assuring you, that in- stead of being surpriseji at your silence. Segt. III. RECENT. 537 I rather wonder that you, or any of my friends, have any room left for so care- less and negligent a correspondent in your memories. I am obliged to you for the intelligence you send me of my kindred, and rejoice to hear of their wel- fare. He, who settles the bounds of our habitations, has at length cast our lot at a great distance from each other ; but I do not therefore forget their former kindness to me, or cease to be interested in their well-being. You live in the cen- tre of a world I know you do not delight in. Happy are you, my dear friend, in being able to discern the insufficiency of all it can afford, to fill and satisfy the desires of an immortal soul. That God, who created us for the enjoyment of him- self, has determined in mercy that it shall fail us here, in order that the blessed result of all our inquiries after happiness in the creature, may be a warm pursuit, and a close attachment to our true in- terests, in fellowship and communion with Him, through the name and media- tion of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness and grace, that I have any reason to hope I am a partaker with you in the desire after better things than are to be found in a world polluted with sin, and therefore devoted to destruction. May He enable us both to consider our present life in its only true light, as an opportunity put into our hands to glorify him amongst men, by a conduct suited to his word and will. I am miserably defective in this holy and blessed art ; but I hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful infirmities, a sincere desire to live just so long as I may be enabled, in some poor measure, to answer the end of my existence in this respect, and then to obey the summons, and attend him in a world, where they, who are his servants here, shall pay him an unsinful obedience for ever. Your dear mother is too good to me, and puts a more charitable con- struction upon my silence than the fact will warrant. I am not better employed than I should be in corresponding with her. I have that within, which hinders me wretchedly, in every thing that I ought to do, but is prone to trifle, and let time and every good thing run to waste. I hope however to write to her soon. My love and best wishes attend Mr. Cowper, and all that inquire after me. May God be with you, to bless you, and do you good, by all his dispensations ! Don't forget me when you are speaking to our best friend before his mercy-seat. Yours ever. N. B. I am not married. LETTER CXLVIII. To the same. Oliiey, Aug-. 31, 1769. My dear cousin, A LETTER from your brother Frederic brought me yesterday the most afflict- ing intelligence that has reached me these many years . I pray to God to com- fort you, and to enable you to sustain this heavy stroke, with that resignation to his will which none but Himself can give, and which he gives to none but his own children. How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear friend, beyond the common lot of the greater part of man- kind ; that you know what it is to draw near to God in prayer, and are acquaint- ed with a throne of grace ! You have resources in the infinite love of a dear Redeemer, which are withheld from mil- lions : and the promises of God, which are Yea and Amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer all your necessities, and to sweeten the bitterest cup which your heavenly Father will ever put into your hand. May He now give you liberty to drink at these wells of salvation, till you are filled with consolation and peace, in the midst of trouble. He has said. When thou passest through the fire, I will be with thee ; and when through the floods, they shall not overflow thee. You have need of such a word as this, and he knows your need of it, and the time of necessity is the time, when he will be sure to ap- pear in behalf of those who trust in him. I bear you and yours upon my heart before him, night and day ; for I never expect to hear of distress, which shall call upon me with a louder voice to pray for the sufferer. I know the Lord hears me for myself, vile and sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that he will hear me for you also. He is the friend of the widow, and the father of the fa- therless, even God in his holy habitation ; in all our afflictions he is afflicted, and chastens us in mercy. Surely he will sanctify this dispensation to you, do you 538 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. great and everlasting good by it, make the world appear like dust and vanity in your sight, as it truly is; and open to your vievi^ the glories of a better country, where there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor pain ; but God shall wipe away all tears from your eyes for ever. Oh that comfortable word! " I have chosen thee in the furnaces of af- fliction ; " so that our very sorrows are evidences of our calling, and he chastens us because we are his children. My dear cousin, — I commit you to the word of his grace, and to the comforts of his holy Spirit. Your life is needful for your family ; may God, in mercy to them, prolong it ; and may he preserve you from the dangerous effects which a stroke like this might have upon a frame so tender as yours. I grieve with you, I pray for you : could I do more, I would ; but God must comfort you. Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus. LETTER CXLIX. To the Rev. William Unwin, Sept. 21, 1779. A MI CO mio, be pleased to buy me a glazier's diamond pencil. I have glazed the two frames designed to receive my pine-plants. But I cannot mend the kitchen windows, till by the help of that implement I can reduce the glass to its proper dimensions . If I were a plumber, I should be a complete glazier ; and pos- sibly the happy time may come, when I shall be seen trudging away to the neigh- bouring towns with a shelf of glass hang- ing at my back. If government should impose another tax upon that commo- dity, I hardly know a business in which a gentleman might more successfully employ himself. A Chinese, of ten times my fortune, would avail himself of such an opportunity without scruple ; and why should not I, who want money as muth as any mandarin in China ! Rousseau would have been charmed to have seen me so occupied, and would have exclaimed, with rapture, " that he had found the Emilius, who (he sup- posed) had subsisted only in his own idea." I would recommend it to you to follow my example. You will pre- sently qualify yourself for the task ; and may not only amuse yourself at home, but may even exercise your skill in mending the church windows ; which, a& it would save money to the parish, would conduce, together with your other minis- terial accomplishments, to make you ex- tremely popular in the place. I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When I first enter the garden in the morning, I find them perched upon the wall, waiting for their breakfast, for I feed them always upon the gravel walk. If your wish should be accomplished, and you should find yourself furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall undoubt- edly find you amongst them ; only be so good, if that should be the case, to announce yourself by some means or other, for I imagine your crop will re- quire something better than tares to fill it. Your mother and I, last week, made a trip in a post-chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about four miles off. He understood that I did not much affect strange faces, and sent over his servant on purpose to inform me, that he was going into Leicestershire, and that, if 1 chose to see the gardens, I might gratify myself, without danger of seeing the pro- prietor. I accepted the invitation, and was delighted with all I found there. The situation is happy, the gardens ele- gantly disposed, the hot-house in the most flourishing state, and the orange- trees the most captivating creatures of the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, had need have the talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do the whole scene justice. Our love attends you all. Yours. LETTER CL. To the same. Oct. 31, 1779. My dear friend, I WROTE my last letter merely to in- form you, that I had nothing to say, in answer to which you have said nothing. I admire the propriety of your conduct, though I am a loser by it. I will en- deavour to say something now, and shall hope for something in return. I have been well entertained with John- son's biography, for which I thank you : Sect. III. RECENT. 539 with one exception, and that a swinging one, 1 think he has acquitted himself Avith his usual good sense and sufl&ciency. His treatment of Milton is unmerciful to the last degree. He has belaboured that great poet's character with the most industrious cruelty. As a man, he has hardly left him the shadow of one good quality. Churlishness in his private life , and a rancorous hatred of every thing royal in his public, are the two colours with which he has smeared all the can- vass. If he Imd any virtues, they are not to be found in the Doctor's picture of him : and it is well for Milton, that some sourness in his temper is the only vice with which his memory has been charged ; it is evident enough, that if his biographer could have discovered more, he would not have spared him. As a poet, he has treated him with severity enough, and has plucked one or two of the most beautiful feathers out of his muse's wing, and trampled them under his great foot. He has passed sentence of condemna- tion upon Lycidas, and has taken occa- sion, from that chai-ming poem, to ex- pose to ridicule (what is indeed ridicu- lous enough) the childish prattlement of pastoral compositions, as if Lycidas was the prototype and pattern of them all. The liveliness of the description, the sweetness of the numbers, the classical spirit of antiquity, that prevails in it, go for nothing. I am convinced, by the way, that he has no ear for poetical num- bers, or that it was stopped, by prejudice, against the harmony of Milton's. Was there ever any thing so delightful as the music of the Paradise Lost ? It is like that of a fine organ ; has the fullest and the deepest tones of majesty, with all the softness and elegance of the Dorian flute. Variety without end, and never equalled, unless perhaps by Virgil. Yet the Doc- tor has little, or nothing, to say upon this copious theme : but talks something about the unfitness of the English lan- guage for blank verse, and how apt it is, in the mouth of some readers, to dege- nerate into declamation. I could talk a good while longer, but I have no room ; our love attends you. Yours affectionately. LETTER CLI. To the same. Dec. 2, 1779. My dear friend, how quick is the suc- cession of human events! The cares ■ of to-day are seldom the cares of to- morrow ; and when we lie down at night, we may safely say, to most of our trou- bles — " Ye have done your worst, and we shall meet no more." This observation was suggested to me by reading your last letter, which, though I have written since I received it, I have never answered. Wlien that epistle pass- ed under your pen, you were miserable about your tithes, and your imagination was hung round with pictures, that ter- rified you to such a degree, as made even the receipt of money burthensome. But it is all over now. You sent away your farmers in good-humour (for you can make people merry whenever you please), and now you have nothing to do, but to chink your purse, and laugh at what is past. Your delicacy makes you groan under that which other men never feel, or feel but lightly. A fly, that settles upon the tip of the nose, is troublesome ; and this is a comparison adequate to the most that mankind in general are sensible of, upon such tiny occasions. But the flies that pester you, always get between your eye-lids, where the annoyance is almost insupportable. I would follow your advice, and en- deavour to furnish lord North with a scheme of supplies for the ensuing year, if the difficulty I find in answering the call of my own emergencies did not make me despair of satisfying those of the nation. I can say but this : If I had ten acres of land in the world, whereas I have not one, and in those ten acres should discover a gold-mine, richer than all Mexico and Peru, when I had reserved a few ounces for my own annual supply, I would willingly give the rest to govern- ment. My ambition would be more gratified by annihilating the national in- cumbrances, than by going daily down to the bottom of a mine, to wallow in my own emolument. This is patriotisiB — you will allow ; but, alas, this virtue is for the most part in the hands of those who can do no good with it ! He that has but a single handful of it, catches so greedily at the first opportunity of grow- 540 ELEGANT EPISTLES, Book fV. ing' rich, that his patriotism drops to the ^ound, and he grasps the gold instead of it. He that never meets with such an opportunity, holds it fast in his clenched fists, and says — " Oh, how much good I would do, if I could ! " Your mother says — " Pray send my dear love." There is hardly room to add mine, but you will suppose it. Yours. LETTER CLII. To the Rev. John Neii'ton. May 3, 17S0. Dear sir, You indulge in such a variety of sub- jects, and allow me such a latitude of excursion in this scribbling employ- ment, that I have no excuse for silence. I am much obliged to you for swallow- ing such boluses as I send you, for the sake of my gilding, and verily believe, I am the only man alive from whom they would be welcome to a palate like yours. I wish I could make them more splendid than they are, more alluring to the eye, at least, if not more pleasing to the taste ; but my leaf-gold is tarnished, and has received such a tinge from the vapours that are ever brooding over my mind, that I think it no small proof of your partiality to me, that you will read my letters. I am not fond of long-winded metaphors ; I have always observed, that they halt at the latter end of their pro- gress, and so does mine. 1 deal much in ink indeed, but not such ink as is em- ployed by poets, and writers of essays. Mine is a harmless fluid, and guilty of no deceptions, but such as may prevail, without the least injury to the person imposed on. I draw mountains, valleys, woods, and streams, and ducks, and dab- chicks. I admire them myself, and Mrs. Unwin admires them ; and her praise, and my praise, put together, are fame enough for me. Oh! I could spend whole days, and moon-light nights, in feeding upon a lovely prospect : My eyes drink the rivers as they flow. If every human lacing upon earth could think for one quarter of an hour, as I have done for many years, there might, perhaps, be many miserable men among them, but not an unawakened one would be found, from the Arctic to the Antarctic circle. At present, the difference be- tween them and me is greatly to their advantage. I delight in baubles, and know them to be so ; for rested in, and viewed without a reference to their Author, what is the earth, what are the planets, what is the sun itself, but a bauble ? Better for a man never to have seen them, or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what he beholds, than not to be able to say, " The maker of all these wonders is my friend ! " Their eyes have never been opened, to see that they are trifles ; mine have been, and will be till they are closed for ever. They think a fine estate, a large conservatory, a hot-house, rich as a West-Indian garden, things of con- sequence ; visit them with pleasure, and muse upon them with ten times more. I am pleased with a frame of four lights, doubtful whether the few pines it con- tains will ever be worth a farthing ; amuse myself with a green-house which lord Bute's gardener could take upon his back, and walk away with ; and when I have paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, and given it air, I say to my- self — ' ' This is not mine ; 'tis a play- thing lent me for the present; I must leave it soon." LETTER CLIII. To the Rev. William Unwin. May 8, 1780. My dear friend. My scribbling humour has of late been entirely absorbed in the passion for land- scape drawing. It is a most amusing art, and, like every other art, requires much practice and attention. Nil sine magno Vila labore dedit mortalibus. Excellence is providentially placed be- yond the reach of indolence, that success may be the reward of industry, and that idleness may be punished with obscurity and disgrace. So long as I am pleased with an employment, I am capable of unwearied application, because my feel- ings are all of the intense kind : 1 never received a little pleasure from any thing in my life ; if I am delighted, it is in the extreme. The unhappy consequence of this temperature is, that my attach- Sect. Ill, RECENT. 541 ment to any situation seldom outlives the novelt}^ of it. That nerve of my ima- gination, that feels the touch of any par- ticular amusement, twangs under the energy of the pressure with so much ve- hemence, that it soon becomes sensible of weariness and fatigue. Hence I draw an unfavourable prognostic, and expect that 1 shall shortly be constrained to look out for something else. Tlien perhaps I may string the harp again, and be able to comply with your demand. Now for the visit you propose to pay us, and propose not to pay us : the hope of which plays upon your paper, like a jack-o -lantern upon the ceiling. This is no mean simile, for Virgil (you re- member) uses it. 'Tis here, 'tis there, it vanishes, it returns, it dazzles you, a cloud interposes, and it is gone. How- ever just the comparison, I hope you will contrive to spoil it, and that your final determination will be to come. As to the masons you expect, bring them with you — bring brick, bring mortar, bring every thing, that would oppose itself to your journey — all shall be welcome. I have a green-house that is too small, come and enlarge it ; build me a pinery ; repair the garden wall, that has great need of your assistance ; do any thing, you cannot do too much. So far from thinking you and your train trouble- -some, we s?iall rejoice to see you, upon these, or upon any other terms you can propose. But, to be serious, you will do weU to consider, that a long summer is before you, that the party will not have such another opportunity to meet this great while ; that you may finish your masonry long enough before mnter, though you should not begin this month ; but that you cannot always find your brother and sister Powley at Olney. These, and some other considerations, such as the desire we have to see you, and the pleasure we expect from seeing you altogether, may, and, I think, ought to overcome your scruples. From a general recollection of Lord Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, I thought, (and, I remember, I told you so,) that there was a striking resemblance between that period, and the present. But I am now reading, and have read, three volumes of Hume's History, one of which is engrossed entirely by that sub- ject. There, I see reason to alter my opinion, and the seeming resemblance has disappeared, upon a more particular information. Charles succeeded to a long train of arbitrary princes, whose subjects had tamely acquiesced in the despotism of their masters, till their pri- vileges were aU forgot. He did but tread in their steps, and exemplify the princi- ples in which he had been brought up, when he oppressed his people. But just at that time, unhappily for the monarch, the subject began to see, and to see that he had a right to property and freedom. This marks a sufficient difference between the disputes of that day and the present. But there was another main cause of that rebellion, which, at this time, does not operate at all. The king was de- voted to the hierarchy ; his subjects were puritans, and would not bear it. Every circumstance of ecclesiastical order and discipline was an abomination to them, and, in his esteem, an indispensible duty ; and, though at last he was obliged to give up many things, he would not abolish episcopacy ; and, till that were done, his concessions could have no conciliating effect. These two concurring causes were indeed sufficient to set three king- doms in a flame. But they subsist not now, nor any other, I hope, notwith- standing the bustle made by the patriots, equal to the production of such terrible events. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLIV. To Mrs. Cowper. May 10, 1780. My dear cousin, I DO not write to comfort you : thaCt office is not likely to be well performed by one w ho has no comfort for himself ; nor to comply with an impertinent ceremony, which in general might well be spared upon such occasions : but because I would not seem indifferent to the concerns of those J have so much reason to esteem and love. If I did not sorrow for your brother's death, I should expect that nobody would for mine ; when I knew him, he was much beloved, and, I doubt not, continued to be so. To live and die together is the lot of a few happy families, who hardly know what a separation means, and one se- pulclare serves them all ; but the ashes of our kindred are dispersed indep^^. 542 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. Wliether the American g-ulph has swal- lowed up any other of my relations, 1 know not ; it has made many mourners. Believe me, my dear cousin, though after a long silence, which perhaps no- thing less than the present concern could have prevailed with me to interrupt, as much as ever, your affectionate kins- man. LETTER CLV. To the Rev. William Unxpin. July 27, 1780. My dear friend, As two men sit silent, after having exhausted all their topics of conver- sation ; one says, "It is very fine wea- ther ;" and the other says, " Yes ;" one hlows his nose, and the other ruhs his eye-brows (by the way, this is very much in Homer's manner) ; such seems to be the case between you and me. After a silence of some days, I wrote you a long something, that (I sup- pose) was nothing to the purpose, be- cause it has not afforded you materials for an answer. Nevertheless, as it of- ten happens in the case above stated, one of the distressed parties, being deeply sensible of the awkwardness of a dumb duet, breaks silence again, and resolves to speak, though he has nothing to say ; so it fares with me. I am with you again in the form of an epistle, though, consi- dering my present emptiness, I have rea- son to fear that your only joy upon the occasion will be, that it is conveyed to yon in a frank. When I began, 1 expected no inter- ruption. But if I had expected inter- ruptions without end, I should have been less disappointed. First came the bar- ber ; who, after having embellished the outside of my head, has left the inside just as unfurnished as he found it. Then came Olney bridge, not into the house, but into the conversation. The cause relating to it was tried on Tuesday at Buckingham. The judge directed the jury to find a verdict favourable to Ol- ney. The jury consisted of one knave, and eleven fools. The last mentioned followed the afore mentioned, as sheep follow a bell-wether, and decided in di- rect opposition to the said judge. Then a flaw was discovered in the indictment. The indictment was quashed, and an order made for a new trial. The new trial will be in the King's Bench, where said knave and said fools will have nothing to do with it. So the men of Olney fling up their caps, and assure themselves of a complete victory. A victory will save me and your mother many shillings, perhaps some pounds, which, except that it has afforded me a subject to write upon, was the only reason why I said so much about it. I know you take an interest in all that concerns us, and will consequently rejoice with us, in the pro- spect of an event in which we are con- cerned so nearly. Your's affectionately. LETTER CLVI. To the same. Aug. 6, 1780. My dear friend. You like to hear from me. This is a very good reason why I should write ; but I have nothing to say. This seems equally a good reason why I should not ; yet if you had alighted from your horse at our door this morning, and at this present writing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had found occasion to say to me ; " Mr. Cowper, you have not spoke since I came in, have you resolved never to speak again ? " It would be but a poor reply, if, in answer to the summons, I shoidd plead inability as my best and only excuse. And this, by the way, suggests to me a seasonable piece of instruction, and reminds me of what I am very apt to forget, when I have any epistolary business in hand ; that a letter may be written upon any thing or nothing, just as that any thing or nothing happens to occur. A man that has a journey before him twenty miles in length, which he is to perform on foot, will not hesitate, and doubt, whether he shall set out or not, because he does not readily conceive how he shall ever reach the end of it ; for he knows, that by the simple operation of moving one foot forward first, and then the other, he shall be sure to accomplish it. So it is in the present case, and so it is in every similar case. A letter is writ- ten as a conversation is maintained, or a journey performed, not by preconcert- ed or premeditated means, a new con- Sect. III. RECENT. 543 trivance, or an invention never heard of before ; but merely by maintaining a pro- gress, and resolving, as a postillion does, having once set out, never to stop, till we reach the appointed end. If a man may talk without thinking, why may he not write upon the same terms ? A grave gentleman of the last century, a tie- wig, square-toe, Steinkirk figure, would say ; " My good sir, a man has no right to do either." But it is to be hoped, that the present century has nothing to do with the mouldy opinions of the last ; and so good Sir Launcelot, or Sir Paul, or whatever be your name, step into your picture-frame again, and look as if you thought for another century, and leave us moderns in the mean time to think when we can, and to write whether we can or not, else we might as well be dead as you are. When we look back upon our fore- fathers, we seem to look back upon the people of another nation, almost upon creatures of another species. Their vast rambling mansions, spacious halls, and painted casements, the gothic porch, smothered with honeysuckles, their little gardens, and high walls, their box-edg- ings, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, are become so entirely unfashionable now, that we can hardly believe it pos- sible, that a people, who resembled us so little in their taste, should resemble us in any thing else. But in every thing else, I suppose, they were our counter- parts exactly ; and time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk stockings, has left human nature just where it found it. The inside of the man at least has undergone no change. His passions, appetites, and aims, are just what they ever were. They wear perhaps a handsomer disguise than they did in days of yore ; for philosophy and literature will have their effect upon the exterior ; but, in every other respect, a modern is only an ancient in a different dress. Yours. LETTER CLVII. To Mrs. Cowper. Aug. 31,1780. My dear cousin, I AM obliged to you for your long letter, which did not seem so, and for your short one, which was more than I had any reason to expect. Short as it was, it conveyed to me two interesting articles of intelligence ; an account of your re- covering from a fever, and of lady Cow- per's death. The latter was, I suppose, to be expected ; for by what remem- brance I have of her ladyship, who was never much acquainted with her, she had reached those years, that are always found upon the borders of another world. As for you, your time of life is compara- tively of a youthful date. You may think of death as much as you please (you cannot think of it too much), but I hope you will live to thin!-; of it many years. It costs me not much difficulty to sup- pose, that my friends, who were already grown old'when I saw them last, are old still ; but it costs me a good deal some- times to think of those, who were at that time young, as being older than they were. Not having been an eye-witness of the change that time has made in them, and my former idea of them not being corrected by observation, it re- mains the same ; my memory presents me with this image unimpaired, and, while it retains the resemblance of what they were, forgets that, by this time, the picture may have lost much of its like- ness, through the alteration that suc- ceeding years have made in the original. I know not what impressions Time may have made upon your person, for while his claws (as our grannams called them) strike deep furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath them with much tender- ness, as if fearful of doing injury, to others. But though an enemy to the person, he is a friend to the mind, and you have found him so. Though, even in this respect, his treatment of us de- pends upon what he meets with at our hands ; if we use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend indeed ; but otherwise the worst of enemies, who takes from us daily something that we valued, and gives us nothing better in its stead. It is well with them who, like you, can stand a tip-toe on the moun- tain-top of human life, look down with pleasure upon the valley they have pass- ed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into eter- nity. Yet a little while, and your hope will be accomplished. When you can favour me with a little 544 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV account of your own family, without in- convenience, I shall be glad to receive it ; for though separated from my kin- dred by little more than half a century of miles, I know as little of their con- cerns as if oceans and continents were interposed between us. Yours, my dear cousin. LETTER CLVin. To the Rev. William Unwin, Set t. '3, nSO. My dear friend, I AM glad you are so provident, and that while you are young you have furnished yourself with the means of comfort in old age. Your crutch and your pipe may be of use to you (and may they be so), should your years be extended to an antediluvian date ; and for your perfect accommodation, you seem to want nothing but a clerk called Snuffle, and a sexton of the name of Skeleton, to make your ministerial equip- age complete. 1 think I have read as much of the first volume of the Biographia as I shall ever read. I find it very amusing ; more so perhaps than it would have been had they sifted their characters with more exactness, and admitted none but those who had in some way or other entitled themselves to immortality, by deserving well of the public. Such a compilation would perhaps have been more judicious, though I confess it would have afforded less variety. The priests and monks of earlier, and the doctors of later days, who have signalized themselves by no- thing but a controversial pamphlet, long since thrown by, and never to be perused again, might have been forgotten, with- out injury, or loss to the national cha- racter for learning or genius. This ob- servation suggested to me the following lines, which may serve to illustrate my meaning, and at the same time to give my criticism a sprightlier air. Oh fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot; In vain, recorded in historic page, They court the notice of a future age ; Those twinkliag, tiny, lustres of the land, Drop one by one, from Fame's neglecting hand j Lethean gulfs receive them as they fall, And dark oblivion soon absorb^ therei all. So when a child (as playful childrei/ use) Has burnt to cinder a stale last year's news, The flame extinct, he views the roving fire, There goes my lady, and there goes the 'squire. There goes the parson — Oh illustrious spark ! And there— scarce less illustrious— goes the clerk. Virgil admits none but worthies into the Elysian fields ; I cannot recollect the lines in which he describes then all, but these in particular I well remember t Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo. Inventus out qui vitam excoluere per artes. A chaste and scrupulous conduct, like his, would well become the waiter of national biography. But enough of this. Our respects attend Miss Shuttle- worth, with many thanks for her intend- ed present. Some purses derive all their value from their contents, but these will have an intrinsic value of their own ; and though mine should be often empty, which is not an improbable supposition, I shall still esteem it highly on its own account. If you could meet with a second-hand Virgil, ditto Homer, both Iliad and Odyssey, together with a Clavis, for I have no Lexicon, and all tolerably cheap, I shall be obliged to you if you will make the purchase. Yours. LETTER CLIX. To the same. Sept. 7, 1780. My dear friend, As many gentlemen as there are in the world, who have children, and heads capable of reflecting upon the important subject of their education, so many opi- nions there are about it ; and many of them just and sensible, though almost all differing from each other. With respect to the education of boys, I think they are generally made to draw in Latin and Greek trammels too soon. It is pleasing, no doubt, to a parent, to see his child already in some sort a proficient in those languages, at an age when most others are entirely ignorant of them ; but hence it often happens, that a boy, who could construe a fable of ^sop at six or seven years of age, having exhausted his little stock of attention and diligence, in mak- ing that notable acquisition, grows weary of his task, conceives a dislike for study, and perhaps makes but a very indifferent Sect. lil. RECENT. 545 progress afterwards. The mind and body have, in this respect, a striking resem- blance of each other. In childhood they are both nimble, but not strong ; they can skip and frisk about with wonderful agility, but hard labour spoils them both. In maturer years they become less active, but more vigorous, more capable of a lixt application, and can make themselves sport with that, which a little earlier would have aflfected them with intole- rable fatigue. I should recommend it to you, therefore (but after all you must judge for yourself), to allot the two next years of little John's scholarship to writ- ing and arithmetic, together with which, for variety's sake, and because it is ca- pable of being formed into an amuse- ment, I would mingle geography, a sci- ence (which, if not attended to betimes, is seldom made an object of much conside- ration) essentially necessary to the ac- complishment of a gentleman ; yet, as I know (by sad experience), imperfectly, if at all, inculcated in the schools. Lord Spencer's son, when he was four years of age, knew the situation of every king- dom, country, city, river, and remark- able mountain in the world. For this attainment, which I suppose his father had never made, he was indebted to a plaything; liaving been accustomed to amuse himself with those maps, which are cut into several compartments, so as to be thrown into a heap of confusion, that they maybe put together again with an exact coincidence of all their angles and bearings, so as to form a perfect whole. If he begins Latin and Greek at eight, or even at nine years of age, it is surely soon enough. Seven years, the usual al- lowance for these acquisitions, are more than sufficient for the purpose, especially with his readiness in learning ; for you would hardly \vish to have him qualified for the university before fifteen, a period, in my mind, much too early for it, and when he could hardly be trusted there without the utmost danger to his morals. Upon the whole, you will perceive, that, in my judgment, the difficulty, as well as the wisdom, consists more in bridling in and keeping back a boy of his parts, than in pushing him forward. If, there- fore, at the end of the two next years, instead of putting a grammar into his hand, you should allow him to amuse himself with some agreeable writers upon the subject of natural philosophy for another year, I think it would answer well. There is a book called Cosmothe- oria Puerilis, there are Durham's Physico and Astro-theology, together with se- veral others in the same manner, very intelligible even to a child, and full of useful instruction. LETTER CLX. To Joseph Hill, Esq. Feb. 15, 1781. My dear friend, I AM glad you were pleased with my re- port of so extraordinary a case. If the thought of versifying the decisions of our courts of justice had struck me while I had the honour to attend them, it would perhaps have been no difficult matter to have compiled a volume of such amusing and interesting precedents ; v/hich, if they wanted the eloquence of the Greek or Roman oratory, would have amply compensated that deficiency by the har- mony of rhyme and metre. Your account of my uncle and your mother gave me great pleasure. I have long been afraid to inquire after some, in whose welfare I always feel myself inte- rested, lest the question should produce a painful answer. Longevity is the lot of so few, and is so seldom rendered com- fortable by the associations of good health and good spirits, that I could not very reasonably suppose, either your relations or mine so happy in those respects, as it seems they are. May they continue to enjoy those blessings so long as the date of life shall last ! I do not think that in these coster-monger days, as I have a no- tion Falstaff calls them, an antediluvian age is at all a desirable thing ; but to live comfortably, while we do live, is a great matter, and comprehends in it every thing that can be wished for on this side the curtain that hangs between time and eternity. Farewell, my better friend than any I have to boast of either among the Lords, or gentlemen of the House of Commons. 2N 546 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER CLXL To the Rev, William Urnvin, June 24, 1781. My dear friend, The letter you withheld so long, lest it should give me pain, gave me pleasure. Horace says, The poets are a waspish race ; and from my own experience of the temper of two or three, with whom I was formerly connected, I can readily subscribe to the character he gives them. But, for my own part, I have never yet felt that excessive irritability , which some writers discover, when a friend, in the words of Pope, ** Just hints a fault, or hesitates dislike." Least of all I would give way to such an unseasonable ebullition, merely because a civil question is proposed to me, with such gentleness, and by a man whose concern for my credit and character I verily believe to be sincere. 1 reply therefore, not peevishly, but with a sense of the kindness of your intentions, that I hope you may make yourself very easy on a subject that I can perceive has oc- casioned you some solicitude. When I wrote the poem called Truth, it was in- dispensably necessary that 1 should set forth that doctrine which I know to be true, and that I should pass what I un- derstood to be a just censure upon opi- nions and persuasions, that differ from, or stand in direct opposition to it ; be- cause, though some errors may be inno- cent, and even religious errors are not always pernicious, yet, in a case where the faith and hope of a Christian are con- cerned, they must necessarily be de- structive ; and because, neglecting this, I should have betrayed this subject ; either suppressing what, in my judgment, is of the last importance, or giving counte- nance, by a timid silence, to the very evils it was my design to combat. That you may understand me better, I will subjoin, that I wrote that poem on purpose to inculcate the eleemosynary character of the Gospel, as a dispensa- tion of mercy, in the most absolute sense of the word, to the exclusion of all claims of merit on the part of the receiver ; consequently to set the brand of invali- dity upon the plea of works, and to dis- cover, upon scriptural ground, the ab- surdity of that notion, which includes a solecism in the very terms of it, that man, by repentance and good works, may deserve the mercy of his Maker. I call it a solecism, because mercy de- served ceases to be mercy, and must take the name of justice. This is the opinion, which I said in my last the world would not acquiesce in ; but, except this, I do not recollect that I have introduced a syllable into any of my pieces that they can possibly object to ; and even this I have endeavoured to deliver from doctri- nal dryness, by as many pretty things, in the way of trinket and plaything, as I could muster upon the subject. So that, if I have rubbed their gums, 1 have taken care to do it with a coral, and even that coral embellished by the ribbon to which it is tied, and recommended by the tin- kling of all the bells I could contrive to annex to it. You need not trouble yourself to call on Johnson ; being perfectly acquainted with the progress of the business, I am able to satisfy your curiosity myself. The post before the last, I returned to him the second sheet of Table-Talk, which he had sent me for correction, and which stands foremost in the volume. The delay has enabled me to add a piece of considerable length ; which, but for the delay, would not have made its ap- pearance upon this occasion : it answers to the name of Hope. I remember a line in the Odyssey, which , literally translated, imports, that there is nothing in the world more impudent than the belly. But had Homer met with an instance of modesty like yours, he would either have suppressed that observation, or at least have qualified it with an ex- ception. I hope that, for the future, Mrs. Unwin will never suffer you to go to London without putting some vic- tuals in your pocket ; for what a strange article would it make in a newspaper, that a tall, well-dressed gentleman, by his appearance a clergyman, and with a purse of gold in his pocket, was found starved to death in the street. How would it puzzle conjecture to account for such a phaenomenon ! Some would suppose that you had been kidnapt, like Betty Canning, of hungry memory : others would say, The gentleman was a Methodist, and had practised a rigorous self-denial, which had unhappily proved too hard for his constitution : but I will venture to say, that nobody would di- Sect. HI. RECENT. 547 vine the real cause, or suspect for a mo- ment, that your modesty had occasioned the tragedy in question. By the way, is it not possible, that the spareness and slenderness of your person may be owing to the same cause ? for surely it is rea- sonable to suspect, that the bashfulness, which could prevail against you, on so trying an occasion, may be equally pre- valent on others. I remember having been told by Colman, that when he once dined with Garrick, he repeatedly pressed him to eat more of a certain dish that he was known to be particularly fond of ; Colman as often refused, and at last de- clared he could not ; " But could not you," says Garrick, " if you was in a dark closet by yourself?" The same question might perhaps be put to you, with as much or more propriety ; and therefore I recommend it to you, either to furnish yourself with a little more as- surance, or always to eat in the dark. We sympathize with Mrs. Unwin, and, if it will be any comfort to her to know it, can assure her, that a lady in our neighbourhood is always, on such occa- sions, the most miserable of all things, and yet escapes with great facility, through all the dangers of her state. Yours, ut seinper. LETTER CLXII. To the same. Oct. 6, 1781. My dear friend. What a world are you daily conversant with, which I have not seen these twenty years, and shall never see again ! The arts of dissipation (I suppose) are no- where practised with more refinement or success, than at the place of your present residence. By your account of it, it seems to be just what it was when I visited it, — a scene of idleness and luxury, music, dancing, cards, walking, riding, bathing, eating, drinking, coffee, tea, scandal, dressing, yawning, sleep- ing ; the rooms perhaps more mag- nificent, because the proprietors are grown richer, but the manners and oc- cupations of the company just the same. Though my life has long been like that of a recluse, I have not the temper of one, nor am I in the least an enemy to cheerfulness and good humour; but I cannot envy you your situation : I even feel myself constrained to prefer the si- lence of this nook, and the snug fire-side in our own diminutive parlour, to all the splendour and gaiety of Brighton. You ask me how I feel on the occasion of my approaching publication ? Per- fectly at my ease. If I had not been pretty well assured before-hand, that my tranquillity would be but little endanger- ed by such a measure, I would never have engaged in it ; for I cannot bear disturb- ance. I have had in view two principal objects ; first, to amuse myself; and se- condly, to compass that point in such a manner, that others might possibly be the better for my amusement. If I have succeeded, it will give me pleasure ; but if I have failed, I shall not be mortified to the degree that might perhaps be ex- pected. I remember an old adage (though not where it is to be found), " bene vixit, qui bene latuit ;" and if 1 had recollect- ed it at the right time, it should have been the motto to my book. By the way, it will make an excellent one for Retirement, if you can but tell me whom to quote for it. The critics cannot de- prive me of the pleasure 1 have in re- flecting, that so far as my leisure has been employed in writing for the public, it has been conscientiously employed, and with a view to their advantage. There is nothing agreeable, to be sure, in being chronicled for a dunce ; but, I believe, there lives not a man upon earth who would be less affected by it than myself. With all this indift'erence to fame, which you know me too well to suppose me capable of affecting, I have taken the utmost pains to deserve it. This may appear a mystery, or a paradox in prac- tice ; but it is true. I considered that the taste of the day is refined, and deli- cate to excess ; and that to disgust that delicacy of taste, by a slovenly inatten- tion to it, would be to forfeit, at once, all hope of being useful ; and for this reason, though I have written more verse this last year than perhaps any man in England, I have finished, and polished, and touched and retouched, with the ut- most care. If, after all, I should be con- verted into waste paper, it may be my misfortune, but it shall not be my fault. I shall bear it with the most perfect serenity. I do not mean to give a copy : he is a good-natured little man, and 2 N2 548 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. crows exactly like a cock ; but knows no more of verse, than the cock he imi- tates. Whoever supposes that lady Austen's fortune is precarious is mistaken. I can assure you, upon the ground of the most circumstantial and authentic informa- tion, that it is both genteel and perfectly safe. Yours. LETTER CLXIIL To the Rev. WiUiain Unwin. - Nov. 2(3, 1781. My dear friend, I WROTE to you by the last post, sup- posing you at Stock ; but, lest that letter should not follow you to Laytonston, and you should suspect me of unrea- sonable delay ; and lest the frank you have sent me should degenerate into w^aste paper, and perish upon my hands, I write again. The former letter, how- ever, containing all my present stock of intelligence, it is more than possible that this may prove a blank, or but little worthy your acceptance. You will do me the justice to suppose, that if I could be very entertaining, I would be so ; be- cause, by giving me credit for such a willingness to please, you only allow me a share of that imiversal vanity which inclines every man, upon all occasions, to exhibit himself to the best advantage. To say the truth, however, when I write, as I do to you, not about business, nor on any subject that approaches to that description, 1 mean much less ray cor- respondent's amusement, which my mo- desty will not always permit me to hope for, than my own. There is a pleasure annexed to the communication of one's ideas, whether by word of mouth, or by letter, which nothing earthly can supply the place of ; and it is the delight we find in this mutual intercourse, that not only proves us to be creatures intended for social life, but more than any thing else, perhaps, fits us for it. I have no pa- tience with philosophers ; they, one and all, suppose (at least 1 understand it to be a prevailing opinion among them) that man's weakness, his necessities, his inability to stand alone, have furnished the prevailing motive, under the influence of which he renounced at first a life of solitude, and became a gregai'ious crea- ture. It seems to me more reasonable, as well as more honourable to my species, to suppose, that generosity of soul, and a brotherly attachment to our own kind, drew us, as it were, to one common cen- tre ; taught us to build cities, and inhabit them, and welcome every stranger that would cast in his lot amongst us, that we might enjoy fellowship with each other, and the luxury of reciprocal endear- ments, without which a paradise could afford no comfort. There are, indeed, all sorts of characters in the world ; there are some whose understandings are so sluggish, and whose hearts are such mere clods, that they live in society without either contributing to the sweets of it, or having any relish for them. A man of this stamp passes by our window con- tinually. I never sav/ him conversing with a neighbour but once in my life, though I have known him by sight these twelve years. He is of a very sturdy make, and has a round belly, extremely protuberant ; which he evidently consi- ders as his best friend, because it is his only companion, and it is the labour of his life to fill it. I can easily conceive, that it is merely the love of good eating and drinking, and now and then the want of a new pair of shoes, that attaches this man so much to the neighbourhood of his fellow-mortals ; for suppose these exigencies, and others of a like kind, to subsist no longer, and what is there that could give society the preference in his esteem ? He might strut about with his two thumbs upon his hips in the wilder- ness, he could hardly be more silent than he is at Olney ; and for any advantage or comfort of friendship, or brotherly affection, he could not be more destitute of such blessings there than in his pre- sent situation. But other men have something more than guts to satisfy ; there are the yearnings of the heart, which, let philosophers say w^hat they will, are more importunate than all the necessities of the body, thatwiil not suffer a creature, worthy to be called human, to be content with an insulated life, or to look for his friends among the beasts of the forest. Yourself for instance ! It is not because there are no tailors, or pastry-cooks, to be found upon Salisbury plain, that you do not choose it for your abode, but because you are a philanthro- pist ; because you are susceptible of so- cial impressions, and have a pleasure in Sect. Ill, R E C E N T. 549^ doing a kindness when you can. Now, upon the word of a poor creature, I have said all that 1 have said, without the least intention to say one w^ord of it when I began. But thus it is with mj thoughts — when you ?hake a crab-tree, the fruit falls ; good for nothing indeed when you have got it, but still the best that is to be expected from a crab-tree. You are welcome to them, such as they are; and if you approve my sentiments, tell the philosophers of the day, that 1 have out-shot them all, and have disco- vered the true origin of society, when 1 least looked for it. LETTER CLXIV. To the same, March 7, 1762. My dear friend, We have great pleasure in the contem- plation of your Northern journey, as it promises us a sight of you and yours by the way, and are only sorry miss Shut- tle worth cannot be of the party. A line to ascertain the hour when we may ex- pect you, by the next preceding post, will be welcome. It is not much for my advantage, that the printer delays so long to gratify your expectation. It is a state of mind that is apt to tire and disconcert us ; and there are but few pleasures that make us amends for the pain of repeated dis- appointment. I take it for granted you have not received the volume, not hav- ing received it myself, nor indeed heard from Johnson, since he fixed tlie first of the month for its publication. What a medley are our public prints : half the page filled with the ruin of the country, and the other half filled with the vices and pleasures of it — here is an island taken, and there a new comedy — here an empire lost, and there an Italian opera, or a lord's rout on a Sunday. " May it please your lordship ! I am an Englishman, and must stand or fall with the nation. Religion, its true pal- ladium, has been stolen away ; and it is crumbling into dust. Sin ruins us, the sins of the great especially ; and of their sins, especially the violation of the Sab- bath, because it is naturally productive of all the rest. If you wish well to our arms, and would be glad U* ^ee the kingdom emerging from her ruins, pay more respect to an ordinance that de- serves the deepest ! I do not say, pardon this short remonstrance! — The concern I feel for my country, and the interest I have in its prosperity, gave me a right to make it. I am, &c." Thus one might write to his lordship, and (I suppose) might be as profitably employed in whistling the tune of an old ballad. I have no copy of the Preface, nor do I know at present how Johnson and Mr. Newton have settled it. In the matter of it there was nothing offen- sively peculiar ; but it was thought too pious. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLXV. To the same. Am 1781. My dear friend, We rejoice with you sincerely in the birth of another son, arid in the prospect you have of Mrs. Un win's recovery ; may your three children, and the next three, w-hen they shall make their ap- pearance, prove so many blessings to their parents, and make you wish that you had twice the number. But what made you expect daily, that you should hear from me ? Letter for letter is the law of all correspondence whatsoever ; and because I wrote last, I have indulged myself for some time in expectation of a sheet from you : not that 1 govern myself entirely by the punctilio of reci- procation ; but having been pretty much occupied of late, I was not sorry to find myself at liberty to exercise my discre- tion, and furnished with a good excuse, if I chose to be silent. I expected, as you remember, to have been published last spring, and was dis- appointed. The delay has afforded me an opportunity to increase the quantity of my publication by about a third ; and if my Muse has not forsaken me, which I rather suspect to be the case, may pos- sibly yet add to it. I have a subject in hand which promises me a great abun- dance of poetical matter, but which, for want of a something I am not able to describe, I cannot at present proceed witli. The name of it is Retirement, 550 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book 1V\ and my purpose to recommend the pro- per improvement of it ; to set forth the requisites for that end, and to enlarge upon the happiness of that state of life, when managed as it ought to be. In the course of my journey through this ample theme, I should wish to touch upon the characters, the deficiencies, and the mis- takes of thousands, who enter on a scene of retirement, unqualified for it in every respect, and with such designs as have no tendency to promote either their own happiness, or that of others. But, as I have told you before, there are times when I am no more a poet than I am a mathematician ; and when such a time occurs, I always think it better to give up the point, than to labour it in vain. I shall yet again be obliged to trouble you for franks. The addition of three thousand lines, or near that number, having occasioned a demand which 1 did not always foresee ; but your obliging friend, and your obliging self, having allowed me the liberty of application, I make it without apology. The solitude, or rather the duality, of our condition at Olney, seems drawing to a conclusion. You have not forgot, perhaps, that the building we inhabit consists of two mansions. And because you have only seen the inside of that part of it, which is in our occupation, I therefore inform you, that the other end of it is by far the most superb, as well as the most commodious. Lady Austen has seen it, has set her heart upon it, is going to fit it up and furnish it ; and if she can get rid of the remaining two years of the lease of her London house, will probably enter upon it in a twelvemonth. You will be pleased with this intelligence, because I have already told you, that she is a woman perfectly well-bred, sensible, and in every respect agreeable ; and, above all, because she loves your mother dearly. It has, in my eyes (and I doubt not it will have the same in yours), strong marks of provi- dential interposition. A female friend, and one who bids fair to prove herself worthy of the appellation, comes recom- mended by a variety of considerations, to such a place as Olney. Since Mr. New- ton went, and till this lady came, there was not in the kingdom a retirement more absolutely such than ours. We did not v/ant company ; but when it cam.e, we found it agreeable. A {)ersoK that has seen much of the world, and understands it well, has high spirits, a lively fancy, and great readiness of con- versation, introduces a sprightliness into such a scene as this, which, if it was peaceful before, is not the worse for being a little enlivened. In case of ill- ness too, to which all are liable, it was rather a gloomy prospect, if we allowed ourselves to advert to it, that there wa» hardly a woman in the place from whom it would have been reasonable to have expected either comfort or assistance. The present curate's wife is a valuable person, but has a family of her own, and, though a neighbour, is not a very near one. But if this plan is effected, we shall be in a manner one family, and 1 suppose never pass a day without some intercourses with each other. Your mother sends her warm affec- tions, and welcomes into the world the new-l)orn William. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLXVL To the Rev. William Unwin. Feb. 9, 1782, My dear friend, I THANK you for Mr. Lowth's verses ; they are so good, that had I been pre- sent when he spoke them, I should have trembled for the boy, lest the man should disappoint the hopes such early genius had given birth to. It is not common to see so lively a fancy so cor- rectly managed, and so free from irre- gular exuberance ; at so unexperienced an age, fruitful, yet not wanton, and gay without being tawdry. When school- boys write verse, if they have any fire at all, it generally spends itself in flashes and transient sparks, which may indeed suggest an expectation of something better hereafter, but deserve not to be much commended for any real merit of their own. Their wit is generally forced and false, and their sublimity, if they affect any, bombast. I remember well when it was thus with me, and when a turgid, noisy, unmeaning speech in a tragedy, which I should now laugh at, afforded me raptures, and filled me with wonder. It is not, in general, till read- ing and observation have settled the taste, that we can give the prize to the Sect. Hi. RECENT. 551 best writing, in preference to the worst. Much less are we able to execute what is g-ood ourselves. But Lowth seems to have stepped into excellence at once, and to have gained by intuition what we little folks are happy if we can learn at last, after much labour of our own, and instruction of others. The compli- ments he pays to the memory of king Charles, he would probably now retract, though he be a bishop, and his majesty's zeal for episcopacy was one of the causes of his ruin. An age or two must pass before some characters can be properly understood. The spirit of party em- ploys itself in veiling their faults, and ascribing to them virtues which they never possessed. See Charles's face, drawn by Clarendon, and it is a hand- some portrait. See it more justly ex- hibited by Mrs. Macauley, and it is de- formed to a degree that shocks us. Every feature expresses. cunning, employing it- self in the maintaining of tyranny ; and dissimulation, pretending itself an advo- cate for truth. My letters have already apprised you, of that close and intimate connexion that took place between the lady you visited in Queen Anne's Street and us. Nothing could be more promising, though sudden in the commencement. She treated us with as much unreservedness of communication, as if we had been born in the same house, and educated together. At her departure, she herself proposed a correspondence ; and because writing does not agree with your mo- ther, proposed a correspondence with me. By her own desire, I wrote to her under the assumed relation of a brother, and she to me as my sister. I thank you for the search you have made after my intended motto, but I no longer need it. Our love is always with yourself and family. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLXVIL To the same. March 18, 1782. My dear friend, Nothing has given me so much plea- sure, since the publication of my vo- lume, as your favourable opinion of it. It may possibly meet with acceptance from hundreds, whose commendation would afford me no other satisfaction, than what I should find in the hope that it might do them good. I have some neighbours in this place, who say they like it — doubtless I would rather they should, than that they should not — but I know thera to be persons of no more taste in poetry, than skill in the mathe- matics ; their applause, therefore, is a sound that has no music in it for me. But my vanity was not so entirely qui- escent when I read your friendly account of the manner it had affected you It was tickled and pleased ; and told me in a pretty loud whisper, that others per- haps, of whose taste and judgment 1 had a high opinion, would approve it too. As a giver of good counsel, I wish to please all ; as an author, I am perfectly indifferent to the judgment of all, except the few who are indeed judicious. The circumstance, however, in your letter which pleased me most, was, that you wrote in high spirits, and though you said much, suppressed more, lest you should hurt my delicacy — my delicacy is obliged to you — but you observe it is not so squeamish, but that after it has feasted upon praise expressed, it can find a comfortable dessert in the contem- plation of praise implied. I now feel as if I should be glad to begin another vo- lume ; but from the will to the power is a step too wide for me to take at pre- sent ; and the season of the year brings with it so many avocations in the gar- den, where I am my own/ac totum, that I have little or no leisure for the quill. I should do myself much wrong, were I to omit mentioning the great compla- cency with which I read your narrative of Mrs. Unwin's smiles and tears : per- sons of much sensibility are always per- sons of taste ; and a taste for poetry de- pends indeed upon that very article more than upon any other. If she had Aris- totle by heart, I should not esteem her judgment so highly, were she defective in point of feeling, as I do, and must esteem it, knowing her to have such feelings as Aristotle could not communi- cate, and as half the readers in the world are destitute of. This it is that makes me set so high a price upon your mother's opinion. She is a critic by nature, and not by rule, and has a perception of what is good or bad in composition, that I never knew deceive her; insomuch, that 552 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, when two sorts of expression have plead- ed equally for the precedence, in my own esteem, and I have referred, as in such cases I always did, the decision of the point to her, 1 never knew her at a loss for a just one. Whether I shall receive any answer from his chancellorship, or not, is at present in amhiguo, and will probably continue in the same state of ambiguity much longer. He is so busy a man, and at this time, if the papers may be credit- ed, so particularly busy, that I am forced to mortify myself with the thought, that both my book and my letter may be thrown into a corner, as too insignificant for a statesman's notice, and never found till his executor finds them. This affair, however, is neither at my libitum nor his. I have sent him the truth. He, that put it into the heart of a certain Eastern monarch, to amuse himself one sleepless night with listening to the re- cords of his kingdom, is able to give birth to such another occasion, and in- spire his lordship with a curiosity to know, what he has received from a friend he once loved and valued. If an answer comes, however, you shall not long be a stranger to the contents of it. I have read your letter to their wor- ships, and much approve of it. May it have the desired effect it ought ! If not, still you have acted a humane and be- coming part ; and the poor aching toes and fingers of the prisoners will not ap- pear in judgment against you. I have made a slight alteration in the last sen- tence, which perhaps you. will not dis- approve. Yours ever. encourage you to proceed, your breath will never fail in such a cause ; and thus encouraged, I myself perhaps may pro- ceed also ; and when the versifying fit returns, produce another volume. Alas ! we shall never receive such commenda- tions from him on the woolsack, as your good friend has lavished upon us. Whence I learn, that however important I may be in my own eyes, I am very insignifi- cant in his. To make me amends, how- ever, for this mortification, Mr. Newton tells me, that my book is likely to run, spread, and prosper ; that the grave can- not help smiling, and the gay are struck with the truth of it : and that it is likely to find its way into his majesty's hands, being put into a proper course for that purpose. Now if the king should fall in love with my Muse, and with you for her sake, such an event would make us ample amends for the chancellor's in- difference, and you might be the first di- vine that ever reached a mitre, from the shoulders of a poet. But (I believe) we must be content, I with my gains, if I gain any thing, and you with the plea- sure of knowing that I am a gainer. We laughed heartily at your answer to little John's question ; and yet 1 think you might have given him a direct an- swer — " There are various sorts of cleverness, my dear ; I do not know that mine lies in the poetical way, but I can do ten times more towards the entertain- ment of company, in the way of conver- sation, than our friend at Olney. He can rhyme, and I can rattle. If he had my talent, or I had his, we should be too charming, and the world would almost adore us." Yours. LETTER CLXVIII. To the Rev. William Unwin. April 1, 1782. My dear friend, I COULD not have found a better trum- peter. Your zeal to serve the interest of my volume, together with your ex- tensive acquaintance, qualify you per- fectly for that most useful office. Me- thinks I see you with the long tube at your mouth, proclaiming to your nume- rous connexions my poetical merits, and at proper intervals levelling it at Olney, and pouring into my ear the welcome sound of their approbation. I need not LETTER CLXIX, To the same. June 12, 17S2. My dear friend. Every extraordinary occurrence in our lives affords us an opportunity to learn, if we will, something more of our own hearts and tempers than we were be- fore aware of. It is easy to promise our- selves before-hand, that our conduct shall be wise, or moderate, or resolute, on any given occasion. But when that occasion occurs, we do not always find it easy to make good the promise : such a differ- Sect. IIL RECENT. 553 ence there is between theory and prac- tice. Perhaps this is no new remark ; but it is not a whit the worse for being old, if it be true. Before 1 had published, I said to my- self — You and I, Mr. Cowper, will not concern ourselves much about what the critics may say of our book. But hav- ing once sent my wits for a venture, I soon became anxious about the issue, and found that I could not be satisfied with a warm place in my own good graces, unless my friends were pleased with me as much as I pleased myself. Meeting with their approbation, I began to feel the workings of ambition. It is well J said I, that my friends are pleased, but friends are sometimes partial ; and mine, 1 have reason to think, are not altogether free from bias. Methinks 1 should like to hear a stranger or two speak well of me. I was presently gra- tified by the approbation of the London Magazine, and the Gentleman's, particu- larly by that of the former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Franklin. By the way, magazines are publications we have but little respect for, till we ourselves are chronicled in them ; and then they as- sume an importance in our esteem, which before we could not allow them. But the Monthly Review, the most formid- able of all my judges, is still behind. What will that critical Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering genius shall appear before him ? Still he keeps me in hot water, and I must wait another month for his award. Alas ! when I wish for a favourable sentence from that quarter (to confess a weakness, that I should not confess to all), I feel myself not a little influenced by a tender regard to my reputation here, even among my neighbours at Olney. Here are watch- makers, who themselves are wits, and who, at present, perhaps, think me one. Here is a carpenter, and a baker; and, not to mention others, here is your idol, Mr. , whose smile is fame. All these read the Monthly Review, and all these will set me down for a dunce, if those terrible critics should shew them the example. But oh ! wherever else I am accounted dull, dear Mr. Griffith, let me pass for a genius at Olney. We are sorry for little William's ill- ness. It is however the privilege of in- fancy, to recover, almost immediately, what it has lost by sickness. We are sorry, too, for Mr. 's dangerous condition ; but he that is well prepared for the great journey, cannot enter on it too soon for himself, though his friends will weep at his departure. Yours. LETTER CLXX. To the same. July IG, 1782. My dear friend. Though some people pretend to be clever in the way of prophetical forecast, and to have a peculiar talent of sagacity, by which they can divine the meaning of a providential dispensation, while its consequences are yet in embryo — I do not. There is at this time to be found, I suppose, in the Cabinet, and in both Houses, a greater assemblage of able men, both as speakers and counsellors, than ever were contemporary in the same land. A man, not accustomed to trace the workings of Providence as recorded in Scripture, and that has given no at- tention to this particular subject, while employed in the study of profane history, would assert boldly, that it is a token for good, that much may be expected from them, and that the country, though heavily afflicted, is not yet to be de- spaired of, distinguished as she is by so many characters of the highest class. Thus he would say ; and I do not deny, that the event might justify his skill in prognostics. God works by means ; and in a case of great national perplexity and distress, wisdom and political ability seem to be the only natural means of deliver- ance. But a mind more religiously in- clined, and perhaps a little tinctured with melancholy, might, with equal probabi- lity of success, hazard a conjecture di- rectly opposite. Alas ! what is the wis- dom of man, especially when he trusts in it as the only God of his confidence ? — ^^Yhen I consider the general con- tempt that is poured upon all things sacred, the profusion, the dissipation, the knavish cunning of some, the ra- pacity of others, and the impenitence of all, I am rather inclined to fear, that God, who honours himself by bringing human glory to shame, and by disap- pointing the expectations Jof those whose trust is in creatures, has signa- lized the present day as a day of much human sufficiency and strength, has 554 E L E G A N r EPISTLE S. Book IV. brought together from all quarters of the land the most illustrious men to be found in it, only that he may prove the vanity of idols ; and that v/hen a great empire is falling, and he has pronounced a sentence of ruin against it, the inhabi- tants, be they weak or strong, wise or foolish, must fall with it. 1 am rather confirmed in this persuasion by observ- ing, that these luminaries of the state had no sooner fixed themselves in the political heaven, than the fall of the brightest of them shook all the rest. The arch of their power was no sooner struck, than the key-stone slipt out of its place ; those that were closest in con- nexion with it followed, and the whole building, new as it is, seems to be already a ruin. If a man should hold this lan- guage, who could convict him of absur- dity ? The marquis of Rockingham is minister ; all the world rejoices, anti- cipating success in war, and a glorious peace. The marquis of Rockingham is dead ; all the world is afflicted, and re- lapses into its former despondence. What does this prove, but that the mar- quis was their Almighty, and that now he is gone, they know no other? But let us wait a little, they will find an- other. Perhaps the duke of Portland, or perhaps the unpopular , whom they noAv represent as a devil, may ob- tain that honour. Thus God is forgot ; and when he is, his judgments are gene- rally his remembrancers. Hov/ shall I comfort you upon the subject of your present distress ? Pardon me that I find myself obliged to smile at it ; because who but yourself would be distressed upon such an occasion ? You have behaved politely and like 'a gentle- man, you have hospitably offered your house to a stranger, who could not, in your neighbourhood at least, have been comfortably accommodated any where else. He, by neither refusing nor accept- ing an offer that did him too much ho- nour, has disgraced himself, but not yon. I think for the future you must be more cautious of laying yourself open to a stranger, and never again expose your- self to incivilities from an archdeacon you are not acquainted with. Though 1 did not mention it, I felt with you what you suffered by the loss of Miss ; 1 was only silent because I could minister no consolation to you on such a subject, but what 1 knew your mind to be already stored with. Indeed the application of comfort in such cases, is a nice business, and perhaps when best managed, might as well be let alone. I remember reading, many years ago, a long treatise on the subject of consola- tion, written in French, the author's name I forgot^ but I wrote these words in the margin : — Special consolation ! at least for a Frenchman, who is a creature the most easily comforted of any in the world ! Vie are as happy in lady Austen, and she in us, as ever ; having a lively imagi- nation, and being passionately desirous of consolidating all into one family (for she has taken her leave of London), she has just sprung a project which serves, at least, to amuse us, and to make us laugh ; it is to hire Mr. Small's house, on the top of Clifton hill, which is large, commodious, and handsome, will hold us conveniently, and any friends who may occasionally favour us with a visit ; the house is furnished, but if it can be hired without the furniture, will let for a trifle ; your sentiments if you please upon this demarche ! I send you my last frank ; our best love attends you individually, and alto- gether. I give you joy of a happy change in the season, and myself also. I have filled four sides in less time than two would have cost me a week ago ; such is the effect of sunshine upon such a butterfly as I am. Yours. LETTER CLXXI. To the Rev. William Uuivin. Aug. 3, 1782. My dear friend, Entertaimng some hope, that Mr. Newton's next letter would furnish me with the means of satisfying your en- quiry on the subject of Dr. Johnson's opinion, I have till now delayed my an- swer to your last ; but the information is not yet come, Mr. Newton having in- termitted a week more than usual, since his last writing. When I receive it, fa- vourable or not, it shall be communi- cated to you ; but I am not over san- guine in my expectations from that quar- ter. Very learned and very critical heads are hard to please. He may per- haps treat me with lenity for the sake of the subject and design ; but the compo- Sect. HI. 11 E C E N T. boif sition, I think, will hardly escape his censure. But though all doctors may not be of the same mind, there is one doctor at least, whom I have lately dis- covered, my professed admirer. He too, like Johnson, was with difficulty persuad- ed to read, having- an aversion to all poe- try, except the Nig-ht Thoughts, which on a certain occasion, when being con- fined on board a ship he had no other employment, he got by heart. He was however prevailed upon, and read me several times over ; so that if my volume had sailed with him, instead of doctor Young's, I perhaps might have occupied that shelf in his memory, which he then allotted to the doctor. It is a sort of paradox, but it is true : We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure, than when we seem to be most in danger. Both sides of this apparent contradiction were lately veri- fied in my experience. — Passing from the green-house to the barn, I saw three kit- tens (for we have so many in our retinue) looking with fixt attention on something which lay on the threshold of a door nailed up. I took but little notice of them at first, but a loud hiss engaged me to attend more closely, when, behold — a viper ! the largest that I remember to have seen, rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and ejaculating the afore- said hiss at the nose of a kitten, almost in contact with his lips. I ran into the hall for a hoe with a long handle, with which I intended to assail him, and, re- turning in a few seconds, missed him ; he was gone, and I feared had escaped me. Still, however, the kitten sat watch- ing immoveably on the same spot. I concluded, therefore, that sliding between the door and the threshold, he had found his way out of the garden into the yard. — I went round immediately, and there found him in close conversation with the old cat, whose curiosity being excited by so novel an appearance, inclined her to pat his head repeatedly with her fore- foot, Avith her claws, however, sheathed, and not in anger, but in the way of phi- losophic inquiry and examination. To prevent her falling a victim to so laud- able an exercise of her talents, I inter- posed in a moment with the hoe, and performed upon him an act of decapita- tion, which, though not immediately mortal, proved so in the end. Had he slid into the passages, where it is dark, or had he, when in the yard, met with no interruption from the cat, and se- creted himself in any of the out-houses ; it is hardly possible but that some of the family must have been bitten ; he might have been trodden upon without being perceived, and have slipped away before the sufferer could have distinguished what foe had wounded him. Three years ago we discovered one in the same place, which the barber slew with a trowel. Our proposed removal to Mr. Small's, was, as you may suppose, a jest, or ra- ther a joco-serious matter. We never looked upon it as entirely feasible ; yet we saw in it something so like prac- ticability, that we did not esteem it al- together unworthy of our attention. It was one of those projects which people of lively imaginations play with, and ad- mire for a few days, and then break in pieces. J^ady Austen returned on Thurs- day from London, where she spent the last fortnight, and whither she was called by an unexpected opportunity to dispose of the remainder of her lease. She has therefore no longer any connexion with the great city, and no house but at 01- ney. Her abode is to be at the vicarage, where she has hired as much room as she wants, which she will embellish with her own furniture, and which she will occupy as soon as the minister's wife has pro- duced another child, which is expected to make its entry in October. Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of Newport, a learned, ingenious, good- natured, pious friend of ours, who some- times visits us, and whom we visited last week, has put into my hands three vo- lumes of French poetry, composed by madame Guion — a quietist, say you, and a fanatic, 1 will have nothing to do with her. — 'Tis very well, you are welcome to have nothing to do with her ; but in the mean time her verse is the only French verse I ever read that I found agreeable ; there is a neatness in it equal to that which we applaud, with so much reason, in the compositions of Prior. I have translated several of them, and shall pro- ceed in my translations, till I have filled a Lilliputian paper-book I happen to have by me, which, when filled, I shall present to Mr. Bull. He is her passionate ad- mirer ; rode twenty miles to see her pic- ture in the house of a stranger, which 556 ELEGANT EPISTLE S. Book IV. stranger politely insisted on his accept- ance of it, and it now hangs over his chimney. It is a striking portrait, too characteristic not to be a strong resem- blance ; and were it encompassed with a glory, instead of being dressed in a nun's hood, might pass for the face of an angel. Yours. LETTER CLXXIL To the Rev. William Unwin. Nov. 18, 1782. My dear William, On the part of the poor, and on our part, be pleased to make acknowledg- ments, such as the occasion calls for, to our beneficial friend Mr. . I call •him ours, because having experienced his kindness to myself in a former in- stance, and in the present his disinterest- ed readiness to succour the distressed, my ambition will be satisfied with nothing less. He may depend upon the strictest secrecy ; no creature shall hear him men- tioned, either now or hereafter, as the person from whom we have received this bounty. But when I speak of him, or hear him spoken of by others, which sometimes happens, I shall not forget what is due to so rare a character. I wish, and your mother wishes it too, that he could sometimes take us in his way to ; he will find us happy to receive a person, whom we must needs account it an honour to know. We shall exer- cise our best discretion in the disposal of the money ; but in this town, where the Gospel has been preached so many years, where the people have been favoured so long with laborious and conscientious ministers, it is not an easy thing to find those who make no profession of religion at all, and are yet proper objects of cha- rity. The profane are so profane, so drunken, dissolute, and, in every respect, worthless, that to make them partakers of his bounty, would be to abuse it. — We promise, however, that none shall touch it but such as are miserably poor, yet at the same time industrious and ho- nest, two characters frequently united here, where the most watchful and un- remitting labour will hardly procure them bread. We make none but the cheapest laces, and the price of them is fallen almost to nothing. Thanks are due to yourself likewise, and are hereby accordingly rendered, for waving your claim in behalf of your own parishioners. You are always with them, and they are always, at least some of them, the better for your residence among them. Olney is a populous place, inhabited chiefly by the half-starved and the ragged of the earth ; and it is not possible for our small party, and small ability, to extend their operations so far as to be much felt among such numbers. Accept, therefore, your share of their gratitude, and be convinced, that when they pray for a blessing upon those who relieved their wants, He that answers that prayer, and when he answers it, will remember his servant at Stock. I little thought when I was writing the history of John Gilpin, that he would appear in print. I intended to laugh, and to make two or three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the world laugh, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we have. Well — they do not always laugh so innocently, and at so small an expense — for in a world like this, abounding with subjects for satire, and with satirical wits to mark them, a laugh that hurts nobody, has at least the grace of novelty to recommend it. Swift's darling motto w^as, Vive la bagatelle — a good wish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater part of whose wisdom, whencesoever it came, most certainly came not from above. La bagatelle has no enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend, nor so able a one, as it had in him. If 1 trifle, and merely trifle, it is because I am reduced to it by necessity — a melancholy that no- thing else so effectually disperses, engages me sometimes in the arduous task of be- ing merry by force. And, strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote, have been written in the saddest mood, and, but for that saddest mood, perhaps had never been written at all. I hear, from Mrs. Newton, that some great persons have spoken with great ap- probation of a certain book. Who they are, and what they have said, T am to be told in a future letter. The Monthly Reviewers, in the mean time, have satis- fied me Avell enough. Yours, my dear William. Sect. III. RECENT. 557 LETTER CLXXIII. To the Rev. John New ton. April 5, 1783. My dear friend, When one has a letter to write, there is nothing" more useful than to make a he- ginning-. In the first place, because un- less it be begun, there is no good reason to hope it will ever be ended; and, se- condly, because the beginning is half the business, it being much more diffi- cult to put the pen in motion at first, than to continue the progress of it, when once moved. Mrs. C 's illness, likely to prove mortal, and seizing her at such a time, has excited much compassion in my breast, and in Mrs. Unwin's, both for her and her daughter. To have parted with a child she loves so much, intending soon to follow her ; to find herself arrested before she could set out, and at so great a distance from her most valued rela- tions, her daughter's life, too, threatened by a disorder not often curable ; are cir- cumstances truly affecting. She has in- deed much natural fortitude, and, to make her condition still more tolerable, a good Christian hope for her support. But so it is, that the distresses of those, who least need our pity, excite it most ; the amiableness of the character engages our sympathy, and we mourn for persons for whom perhaps we might more rea- sonably rejoice. There is still, however, a possibility that she may recover ; an event we jnust wish for, though for her to depart would be far better. Thus we would always withhold from the skies those who alone can reach them, at least till we are ready to bear them company. Present our love, if you please, to miss C . I saw, in the Gentleman's Magazine for last month, an account of a physician who has discovered a new method of treating consumptive cases, which has succeeded wonderfully in the trial. He finds the seat of the distemper in the stomach, and cures it principally by emetics. The old method of encount- ering the disorder has proved so unequal to the task, that I should be much in- clined to any new practice that comes well recommended. He is spoken of as a sensible and judicious man, but his name I have forgot. Our love to all under your roof, and in particular to miss Catlett, if she is with you. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLXXIV. To the Rev. IVilliajn Univiti. June 8, 1783. My dear William, Our severest winter, commonly called the spring, is now over, and I find my- self seated in my favourite recess, the green-house. In such a situation, so silent, so shady, where no human foot is heard, and where only my myrtles pre- sume to peep in at the window, you may suppose 1 have no interruption to com- plain of, and that my thoughts are per- fectly at my command. But the beauties of the spot are themselves an interrup- tion, my attention being called upon by those very myrtles, by a double row of grass pinks, just beginning to blossom, and by a bed of beans already in bloom ; and you are to consider it, if you please, as no small proof of my regard, that though you have so many powerf id rivals, I disengage myself from them all, and devote this hour entirely to you. You are not acquainted with the rev. Mr. Bull, of Newport ; perhaps it is as well for you that you are not. You would regret still more than you do, that there are so many miles interposed be- tween us. He spends part of the day with us to-morrow. A dissenter, but a liberal one ; a man of letters and of ge- nius ; master of a fine imagination, or rather not master of it; an imagination, which, when he finds himself in the com- pany he loves and can confide in, runs away with him into such fields of specu- lation, as amuse and enliven every other imagination that has the happiness to be of the party : at other times he has a tender and delicate sort of melancholy in his disposition, not less agreeable in its way. No men are better qualified for companions, in such aworldas this, than men of such a temperament. Every scene of life has two sides, a dark and a bright one ; and the mind, that has an equal mixture of melancholy and viva- city, is best of all qualified for the con- templation of either. He can be lively without levity, and pensive without de- jection. Such a man is Mr. Bull. But 558 ELEGANT EPISTLES. iJoOK IV. — he smokes tobacco — nothing is per- fect — Nihil est ah omni Parte beatum. On the other side I send you a some- thing, a song, if you please, composed last Thursday — the incident happened the day before *. Yours. LETTER CLXXV. To the Rev. John Newton, July 27, 1783. My dear friend, You cannot have more pleasure in re- ceiving a letter from me, than I should find in writing it, were it not almost impossible in such a place to find a subject. I live in a world abounding with in- cidents, upon which many grave, and perhaps some profitable observations might be made : but those incidents never reaching my unfortunate ears, both the entertaining narrative, and the reflection it might suggest, are to me annihilated and lost. I look back to the past week, and say. What did it produce? I ask the same question of the week pre- ceding, and duly receive the same an- swer from both — Nothing! — A situation like this, in which I am as unknown to the world as I am ignorant of all that passes in it, in which I have nothing to do but to think, would exactly suit me, were my subjects of meditation as agree- able as my leisure is uninterrupted. My passion for retirement is not at all abated, after so many years spent in the most sequestered state, but rather increased : a circumstance I should esteem wonder- ful, to a degree not to be accounted for, considering the condition of my mind ; did T not know that we think as we are made to think, and of course approve and prefer, as Providence, who appoints the bounds of our habitation, chooses for us. Thus I am both free and a prisoner at the same time. The world is before me ; I am not shut up in the Bastile : there are no moats about my castle, no locks upon my gates, of which I have not the key — but an invisible, uncontrol- lable agency, a local attachment, an in- * Here followed his sons; of the Kose. clination more forcible than I ever felt even to the place of my birth, serves me for prison walls, and for bounds which I cannot pass. In former years I have known sorrow, and before I had ever tasted of spiritual trouble. The eflFect was an abhorrence of the scene in which I had suffered so much, and a weariness of those objects which I had so long looked at with an eye of despondency and dejection. But it is otherwise with me nov/. The same cause subsisting, and in a much more powerful degree, fails to produce its natural effect. The very stones in the garden walls are my inti- mate acquaintance. I should miss almost the minutest object, and be disagreeably affected by its removal ; and am per- suaded, that, were it possible I could leave this incommodious nook for a twelve- month, I should return to it again with rapture, and be transported with the sight of objects, which, to all the world beside, would be at least indifferent ; some of them perhaps, such as the ragged thatch, and the tottering walls of the neighbouring cottages, disgusting. But so it is ; and it is so, hecause here is to be my abode, and because such is the ap- pointment of Him that placed me in it. Iste terrarum nihi prceler omnes Angulus ridet. It is the place of all the world I love the most ; not for any happiness it affords me, but because here I can be miserable with most convenience to myself, and with the least disturbance to others. You wonder, and (I dare say) un- feignedly, because you do not think your- self entitled to such praise, that I prefer your style, as an historian, to that of the two most renowned writers of history the present day has seen. That you may not suspect me of having said more than my real opinion will warrant, I will tell you why. In your style I see no affec- tation. In every line of theirs I see no- thing else. They disgust me always, Robertson with his pomp and his strut, and Gibbon with his finical and French manners. You are as correct as they. You express yourself with as much pre- cision. Your words are ranged with as much propriety : but you do not set your periods to a tune. They discover a per- petual desire to exhibit themselves to advantage, whereas your subject en- grosses you. . They sing, and you say ; Sect. III. RECENT. 559 which, as history is a thing- to be said, and not sung, is, in my judgment, very much to your advantage. A writer that despises their tricli;Sj and is yet neither inelegant nor inharmonious, proves himself, by that single circum- stance, a man of superior judgment and ability to them both. You have my reasons. I honour a manly character, in which good sense, and a desire of doing good, are the predominant features — but affectation is an emetic. LETTER CLXXVI. To the Rev. William Unwin. Aug. 4, 1783. My dear William, I feel myself sensi- bly obligied by the interest you take in the success of my productions. Your feelings upon the subject are such as I should have myself, had I an opportunity of calling Johnson aside to make the in- quiry you propose. But I am pretty well prepared for the w orst ; and so long as I have the opinion of a few capable judges in my favour, and am thereby convinced that 1 have neither disgraced myself nor my subject, shall not feel my- self disposed to any extreme anxiety about the sale. To aim, with success, at the spiritual good of mankind, and to become popular by writing on scriptural subjects, were an unreasonable ambition, even for a poet to entertain, in days like these. Verse may have many charms, but has none powerful enough to con- quer the aversion of a dissipated ag'e to such instruction. Ask tlie question therefore boldly, and be not mortified, even though he should shake his head, and drop his chin ; for it is no more than we have reason to expect. We will lay the fault upon the vice of the times, and we will acquit the poet. I am giad you were pleased with my Latin ode, and indeed with my English dirge, as much as I was myself. The tune laid me under a disadvantage, oblig- ing me to write in Alexandrines ; which, I suppose, would suit no ear but a French one ; neither did I intend any thing more than that the subject, and the Avords, should be sufficiently accommodated to the music. The ballad is a species of poetry, I believe, peculiar to this coun- try, equally adapted to the drollest and the most tragical subjects. Simplicity and ease are its proper characteristics. Our forefathers excelled in it ; but we moderns have lost the art. It it observ- ed, that vv^e have few good English odes. But to make amends, we have many ex- cellent ballads, not inferior perhaps in true poetical merit to some of the very best odes that the Greek or Latin lan- guages have to boast of. It is a sort of composition I was ever fond of; and if graver matters had not called me an- other way, should have addicted myself to it more than to any other. I inherit a taste for it from my father, who suc- ceeded well in it himself, and who lived at a time when the best pieces in that way were produced. What can be pret- tier than Gay's ballad, or rather Swift's, ArbiUhnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What do you call it — *' 'Twas when the seas were roaring." 1 have been well informed, that they all contributed, and that the most celebrated association of clever fellows this country ever saw, did not think it beneath them to unite their strength and abilities in the composition of a song. The success however answered their wishes. The ballads that Bourne has translated, beautiful in themselves, are still more beautiful in his version of them, infinitely surpassing, in my judg- ment, all that Ovid or Tibullus have left behind them. They are quite as elegant, and far more touching and pathetic, than the tenderest strokes of either. So much for ballads, and ballad wri- ters. — " A worthy subject," you will say, " for a man, whose head might be filled with better things ; — and it is filled with better things ; but to so ill a purpose, that I thrust into it ail mannner of topics, that may prove more amusing ; as for instance, I have two goldfinches, which in the summer occupy the green house. A few days since, being employed in cleaning out their cages, I placed that which I had in hand upon the table, while the other hung against the wall : the windows and the doors stood wide open. I went to fill the fountain at the pump, and, on my return, was not a little surprised to find a goldfinch sitting on the top of the cage I had been cleaning, and singing to, and kissing the goldfinch within. I approached him ; and he discovered no fear ; still nearer, and he discovered none. 1 advanced my hand towards him, and he took no notice of it. 560 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. I seized him, and supposed I had caught a new bird ; but casting my eye upon the other cage, perceived my mistake. Its inhabitant, during my absence, had con- trived to find an opening, where the wire had been a little bent, and made no other use of the escape it had afforded him, than to salute his friend, and to converse with him more intimately than he had done before. I returned him to his pro- per mansion, but in vain. In less than a minute, he had thrust his little person through the aperture again, and again perched upon his neighbour's cage, kiss- ing as at the first, and singing, as if transported with the fortunate adventure. I could not but respect such friendship, as, for the sake of its gratification, had twice declined an opportunity to be free ; and, consenting to their union, resolved, that for the future one cage should hold them both. I am glad of such incidents. For, at a pinch, and when I need enter- tainment, the versification of them serves to divert me. I transcribe for you a piece of madam Ouion; not as the best, but as being shorter than many, and as good as most of them. Yours ever. LETTER CLXXVII. To the Rev. WiUiam Unwin. Sept. 29, 1783. My dear William, We are sorry that you and your house- hold partake so largely of the ill effects of this unhealthy season. You are happy however in having hitherto escaped the epidemic fever,' which has prevailed much in this part of the kingdom, and carried many off. Your mother and I are well. After more than a fortnight's indisposition, which slight appellation is quite adequate to the description of all I suffered, I am at length restored by a grain or two of emetic tartar. It is a tax I generally pay in autumn. By this time, I hope, a purer ether than we have seen for months, and these brighter suns than the summer had to boast, have cheered your spirits, and made your ex- istence more comfortable. We are ra- tional : but we are animal too, and therefore subject to the influences of the weather. The cattle in the fields show evident symptoms of lassitude and dis- gust in an unpleasant season ; and we, their lords and masters, are constrained to sympathize with them : the only dif- ference between us is, that they know not the cause of their dejection, and we do ; but, for our humiliation, are equally at a loss to cure it. Upon this account I have sometimes wished myself a philoso- pher. How happy, in comparison with myself, does the sagacious investigator of nature seem, whose fancy is ever em- ployed in the invention of hypotheses^ and his reason in the support of them ! While he is accounting for the origin of the winds, he has no leisure to at- tend to their influence upon himself; and, while he considers what the sun is made of, forgets that he has not shone for a month. One project indeed supplants another. The vortices of Descartes gave way to the gravitation of Newton, and this again is threatened by the electrical fluid of a modern. One generation blows bubbles, and the next breaks them. But in the mean time your philosopher is a happy man. He escapes a thousand in- quietudes, to which the indolent are sub- ject ; and finds his occupation, whether it be the pursuit of a butterfly or a de- monstration, the wholesomest exercise in the world. As he proceeds, he applauds himself. His discoveries, though event- ually perhaps they prove but dreams, are to him realities. The world gaze at him, as he does at new phsenomena in the heavens, and perhaps understand him as little. But this does not prevent their praises, nor at all disturb him in the en- joyment of that self-complacence, to which his imaginary success entitles him. He wears his honours while he lives ; and, if another strips them off when he has been dead a century, it is no great matter ; he can then make shift without them. I have said a great deal upon this sub- ject, and know not what it all amounts to. I did not intend a syllable of it when I began. But, currente calamo, I stum- bled upon it. My end is to amuse my- self and you. The former of these two points is secured. I shall be happy if I do not miss the latter. By the way, what is your opinion of these air-balloons ? I am quite charmed with the discovery. Is it not possible (do you suppose) to convey such a quantity of inflammable air into the stomach and abdomen, that the philo- Sect. III. RECENT. 561 sopher, no longfer gravitating to a centre, shall ascend by his own comparative le- vity, and never stop till he has reached the medium exactly in equilihrio with himself? May he not, by the help of a pasteboard rudder, attached to his poste- riors, steer himself in that purer element with ease, and again, by a slow and gra- dual discharge of his aerial contents, re- cover his former tendency to the earth, and descend without the smallest danger or inconvenience.^ These things are worth inquiry, and (I dare say) they will be inquired after as they deserve. The pennce non homini datce, are likely to be less regretted than they were ; and per- haps a flight of academicians, and a covey of fine ladies, may be no uncommon spectacle in the next generation. A let- ter, which appeared in the public prints last week, convinces me that the learned are not without hopes of some such im- provement upon this discovery. The au- thor is a sensible and ingenious man ; and, under a reasonable apprehension, that the ignorant may feel themselves inclined to laugh, upon a siibject that afi^ects himself with the utmost serious- ness, with much good manners and ma- nagement, bespeaks their patience, sug- gesting many good consequences, that may result from a^course of experiments upon this machine ; and, amongst others, that it may be of use in ascertaining the shape of continents and islands, and the face of wide-extended and far-distant countries ; an end not to be hoped for, unless by these means of extraordinary elevation the human prospect may be immensely enlarged, and the philosopher, exalted to the skies, attain a view of the whole hemisphere at once. But whether he is to ascend by the mere inflation of his person, as hinted above, or whether in a sort of band -box, supported upon balloons, is not yet, apparent, nor (I sup- pose) even in his own idea perfectly de- cided. Yours, my dear WiUiam. LETTER CLXXVIII. To the Rev. John New ton. Oct. 6, 1783. My dear friend. It is indeed a melancholy consideration, that the Gospel, whose direct tendency is to promote the happiness of mankind, in the present as well as in the life to come, and which so effectually answers the design of its Author, whenever it is well understood and sincerely believed, should, through the ignorance, the bigo- try, the superstition of its professors, and the ambition of popes, and princes, the tools of popes, have produced, inci- dentally, so much mischief ; only furnish- ing the world with a plausible excuse to worry each other, while they sanctified the worst cause with the specious pre- text of zeal for the furtherance of the best. Angels descend from heaven to pub- lish peace between man and his Maker — the Prince of Peace himself comes to confirm and establish it ; and war, hatred, and desolation, are the consequence. Thousands quarrel about the interpre- tation of a book, which none of them understand. He that is slain, dies firmly persuaded, that the crown of martyrdom expects him ; and he that slew him, is equally convinced that he has done God service. In reality, they are both mis- taken, and equally unentitled to the ho- nour they arrogate to themselves. If a multitude of blind men should set out for a certain city, and dispute about the right road, till a battle ensued between them, the probable effect would be, that none of them would ever reach it ; and such a fray, preposterous and shocking in the extreme, would exhibit a picture in some degree resembling the original of which we have been speaking. Arid why is not the world thus occupied at present? even because they have exchanged a zeal, that was no better than madness, for an indifference equally pitiable and absurd. The holy sepulchre has lost its importance in the eyes of nations called Christian, not because the light of true wisdom has delivered them from a superstitious at- tachment to the spot, but because he that was buried in it is no longer regarded by them as the Saviour of the world. The exercise of reason, enlightened by phi- losophy, has cured them indeed of the misery of an abused understanding ; but together with the delusion they have lost the substance, and, for the sake of the lies that were grafted upon it, have quarrelled with the truth itself. Here, then, we see the ne plus ultra of human wisdom, at least in affairs of religion. It enlightens the mind vrith respect to non-essentials, but, with respect to that in which the essence of Christianity consists, leaves 20 562 ELEGANT EPISTLE S. Book iV. it perfectly in the dark. It can discover many errors, that in different ages have disgraced the faith ; but it is only to make way for the admission of one more fatal than them all, which represents that faith itself as a delusion. Why those evils have been permitted, shall be known hereafter. One thing in the mean time is certain ; that the folly and frenzy of the professed disciples of the Gospel, have been more dangerous to its in- terests, than all the avowed hostilities of its adversaries ; and perhaps for this cause these mischiefs might be suffered to prevail for a season, that its divine original and nature might be the more illustrated, when it shouM appear that it was able to stand its ground for ages, against that most formidable of all at- tacks, the indiscretion of its friends. The outrages, that have followed this per- version of the truth, have proved indeed a stumbling block to individuals ; the wise of this world, with all their wis- dom, have not been able to distinguish between the blessing and abuse of it. Voltaire was offended, and Gibbon has turned his back ; but the flock of Christ is still nourished, and still increases, notwithstanding the unbelief of a philo- sopher is able to convert bread into a stone, and a fish into a serpent. I am much obliged to you for the voy- ages which I received, and began to read last night. My imagination is so capti- vated upon these occasions, that I seem to partake with the navigators in all the dangers they encountered. I lose my anchor : my main-sail is rent into shreds ; I kill a shark, and by signs converse with a Patagonian ; and all this without moving from the iire-side. The princi- pal fruits of these circuits, that have been made around the globe, seem likely to be the amusement of those that staid at home. Discoveries have been made, but such discoveries as will hardly satisfy the expense of such undertakings. We brought away an Indian, and, having de- bauched him, we sent him home again to communicate the infection to his country — fine sport, to be sure, but such as will not defray the cost. Nations that live upon bread-fruit, and have no mines to make them worthy of our acquaint- ance, will be but little visited for the future. So much the better for them ; their poverty is indeed their mercy. Yours, my d^ar friend. LETTER CLXXIX. To the Rev. William XJnivin. Nov. 10, 1783. My dear William, I HAvs lost, and wasted, almost all my writing time, in making an alteration in the verses I either inclose, or subjoin, for I know not which will be the case at present. If prose comes readily, I shall transcribe them on another sheet, other- wise on this. You will understand, be- fore you have read many of them, that they are not for the press. I lay you under no other injunctions. TJie unkind behaviour of our acquaintance, though it is possible that, in some instances, it may not much affect our ha])piness, nor engage many of our thoughts, will some- times obtrude itself upon us with a de- gree of importunity not easily resisted ; and then, perhaps, though almost insen- sible of it before, we feel more than the occasion v/ill justify. In such a moment it was, that I conceived this poem, and gave loose to a degree of resentment, which perhaps I ought not to have in- dulged, but which in a cooler hour I cannot altogether condemn. My former intimacy with the two characters was such, that I could not but feel myself provoked by the neglect with which they both treated me on a late occasion. So much by way of preface. You ought not to have supposed, that if you had visited us last summer, the pleasure of the interview would have been all your own. By such an imagina- tion you wrong both yourself and us. Do you suppose we do not love you? You cannot suspect your mother of cold- ness ; and as to me, assure yourself I have no friend in the world with whom I com- municate without the least reserve, your- self excepted. Take heart then ; and when you find a favourable opportunity to come, assure yourself of such a wel- come from us both, as you have a right to look for. But I have observed in your two last letters, somewhat of a dejection and melancholy, that I am afraid you do not sufficiently strive against. I sus- pect you of being too sedentary. " You cannot walk." Why you cannot is best known to yourself. I am sure your legs are long enough, and your person does not overload them. But I beseech you ride, and ride often. I think I have heard Sect. ill. R E C E N T. 563 you say you cannot even do that with- out an object. Is not health an object? Is not a new prospect, which in most countries is gained at ths end of every mile, an object. Assure yourself, that easy chairs are no friends to cheerful- ness, and that a long winter, spent by the fire-side, is a prelude to an unhealthy spring. Every thing I see in the fields, is to me an object ; and I can look at the same rivulet, or at a handsome tree, every day of my life, with new pleasure. This indeed is partly the effect of a natural taste for rural beauty, and partly the effect of habit, for I never, in all my life, have let slip the opportunity of breathing fresh air, and conversing with nature, when I could fairly catch it. I earnestly recommend a cultivation of the same taste to you, suspecting that you have neglected it, and suffer for doing so. LETTER CLXXX. To the same. Nov. 24, 1783. My dear friend. An evening unexpectedly retired, and which your mother and I spend without company (an occurrence far from fre- quent), affords me a favourable opportu- nity to write by to-morrow's post, which else I could not have found. You are very good to consider my literary neces- sities with so much attention, and I feel proportionably grateful. Blair's Lec- tures (though I suppose they must make a part of my private studies, not being ad captum faeminaruni) will be perfectly welcome. You say you felt my verses. I assure you that in this you followed my example, for I felt them first. A man's lordship is nothing to me, any farther than in connexion with qualities that entitle him to my respect. If he thinks himself privileged by it to treat me with neglect, I am his humble servant, and shall never be at a loss to render him an equivalent. I will not, however, belie my knowledge of mankind so much, as to seem surprised at a treatment which I had abundant reason to expect. To these men, with whom I was once inti- mate, and for many years, I am no longer necessary, no longer convenient, or in any respect an object. They think of me as of the man in the moon ; and whether I have a lantern, or a dog and faggot, or whether I have neither of those desirable accommodations, is to them a matter of perfect indifference : upon that pohit we are agreed ; our in- difference is mutual ; and were I to pub- lish again, which is not possible, I should give them a proof of it. L'Estrange's Josephus has lately fur- nished us with evening lectures. But the historian is so tediously circumstan- tial, and the translator so insupportably coarse and vulgar, that we are all three weary of him. How would Tacitus have shone upon such a subject, great master as he was of the art of description ; concise without obscurity, and affecting without being poetical. But so it was ordered, and for wise reasons no doubt, that the greatest calamities any people ever suffered, and an accomplishment of one of the most signal prophecies in the Scripture, should be recorded by one of the worst writers. The man was a tem- porizer too, and courted the favour of his Roman masters, at the expense of his own creed ; or else an infidel, and abso- lutely disbelieved it. You will think me very difficult to please : I quarrel with Josephus for the want of elegance, and with some of our modern historians for having too much. With him, for run- ning right forward like a gazette, with- out stopping to make a single observa- tion by the way ; and with them for pre- tending to delineate characters that ex- isted two thousand years ago, and to discover the motives by which they were influenced, with the same precision as if they had been their contemporaries. — Simplicity is become a very rare quality in a writer. In the decline of great king- doms, and where refinement in all the arts is carried to an excess, i suppose it is always rare. The later Roman writers are remarkable for false ornament ; they were yet no doubt admired by the readers of their own day ; and with respect to authors of the present ?era, the most po- pular among them appear to me equally censurable on the same account. Swift and Addison were simple. Your mother wants room for a post- script, so my lecture must conclude ab- ruptly. Yours. 202 564 LEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER CLXXXL To the Rev. William Umvin. My dear friend, It is hard upon us striplings, who have uncles still living- (N. B. I myself have an uncle still alive), that those venerahle gentlemen should stand in our way, even when the ladies are in question ; that I, for instance, should find in one page of your letter, a hope that Miss Shuttle- worth would be of your party, and be told in your next, that she is engaged to your uncle. Well, we may perhaps never be uncles ; but we may reasonably hope that the time is coming, when others, as young as we are now, shall envy, us the privileges of old age, and see us en- gross that share in the attention of the -ladies, to which their youth must aspire in vain. Make ^ur compliments, if you please, to your sister Eliza, and tell her that we are both mortified at having missed the pleasure of seeing her. "Balloons are so much the mode, that even in this country we have attempted a balloon. You may possibly remember that, at a place called Weston, a little more than a mile from Olney, there lives s, family whose name is Throckmorton. The present possessor is a young man, whom I remember a boy. He has a wife, who is young, genteel, and handsome. Tliey are Papists, but much more amia- ble than many Protestants. We never had any intercourse with the family, though ever since we lived here we have enjoyed the range of their pleasure- grounds, having been favoured with a key, which admits us into all. Wlien this man succeeded to the estate, on the death of his elder brother, and came to settle at Weston, I sent him a compli- mentary card, requesting the continu- ance of that privilege, having till then enjoyed it by favour of his mother, who on that occasion went to finish her days at Bath. You may conclude that he granted it, and for about two years no- thing more passed between us. A fort- night ago, I received an invitation in the civilest terms, in which he told me, that the next day he should attempt to fill a balloon, and, if it would be any pleasure to me to be present, should be happy to see me. Your mother and I went. The whole country were there, but the bal- loon could not be filled. The endeavour was, I believe, very philosophically made ; but such a process depends for its success upon such niceties as make it very pre- carious. Our reception was however flattering to a great degree ; insomuch that more notice seemed to be taken of us, than we could possibly have expect- ed, indeed rather more than any of his other guests. They even seemed anxious to recommend themselves to our regards. We drank chocolate, and were asked to dine, but were engaged. A day or two afterwards, Mrs. Unwin and I walked that way, and were overtaken in a shower. I found a tree, that I thought would shelter us both, a large elm, in a grove that fronts the mansion. Mrs. T. ob- served us, and running towards us in the rain, insisted on our walking in. He was gone out. We sat chatting with her till the weather cleared up, and then at her instance took a walk with her in the garden. The garden is almost their only walk, and is certainly the only retreat in which they are not liable to interruption. She offered us a key of it, in a manner that made it impossible not to accept it, and said she would send us one. A few days afterwards, in the cool of the evening, we walked that way again ; we saw them going toward the house, and exchanged bows and curtsies at a distance, but did not join them. In a few minutes, when we had passed the house, and had almost reached the gate that opens out of the park into the ad- joining field, I heard the iron gate be- longing to the court-yard ring, and saw Mr. T. advancing hastily toward us : we made equal haste to meet him ; he pre- sented to us the key, which I told liim I esteemed a singular favour ; and after a few such speeches as are made on such occasions, we parted. This happened about a week ago. I concluded nothing less than that all this civility and atten- tion was designed on their part as a pre- lude to a nearer acquaintance ; but here at present the matter rests. I should like exceedingly to be on an easy footing there, to give a morning call now and then, and to receive one, but nothing more. For though he is one of the most agreeable men I ever saw, I could not wish to visit him in any other way ; neither our house, furniture, servants, or income, being such as qualify us to make entertainments ; neither would I on any account be introduced to the Sect. Ill, R E C E N T. i$5 neighbouring gentry. Mr. T. is alto- gether a man of fashion, and respectable on every account. I have told you a long story. Fare- well. We number the days as they pass, and are glad that we shall see you and your sister soon. Yours, &c. LETTER CLXXXII. To the same. Jan. 3, 1784. My dear William, Your silence began to be distressing to both your mother and me ; and had I not received a letter from you last night, I should have written by this post to inquire after your health. How can it be, that you, who are not stationary like me, but often change your situation, and mix with a variety of company, should suppose me furnished with such abun- dant materials, and yourself destitute. I assure you faithfully, that I do not find the soil of Oiney prolific in the growth of such articles as make letter-writing a desirable employment. No place con- tributes less to the catalogue of inci- dents, or is more scantily supplied with anecdotes worth notice. We have One parson, one poet, one belmau, one crier, ^nd the poor poet is our only 'squire. Guess then if I have not more reason to expect two letters from you, than you one from me. The principal occurrence, and that which affects me most at pre- sent, came to pass this moment. The stair-foot door, being swelled by the thaw, would do any thing better than it would open. An attempt to force it upon that office has been attended with such a hor- rible dissolution of its parts, tliat we were immediately obliged to introduce a chi- rurgeon, commonly called a carpenter, whose applications we have some hope will cure it of a lock'd jaw, and heal its immerous fractures. His medicines are powerful chalybeates, and a certain glu- tinous salve, which he tells me is made of the tails and ears of animals. The consequences, however, are rather un- favourable to my present employment, which does not well brook noise, bustle, and interruption. This being the case, I shall not, per- haps, be either so perspicuous or so dif- fuse on the subject of which you desire my sentiments, as I should be ; but I will do my best. Know then, that I have learnt long since, of Abbe Raynal, to hate all monopolies, as injurious, howso- ever managed, to the interests of com- merce at large ; consequently the charter in question would not, at any rate, be a favourite of mine. This, however, is of itself, I confess, no sufficient reason to justify the resumption of it. But such reasons I think are not wanting. A grant of that kind, it is well known, is always forfeited by the non-performance of the conditions. And why not equally forfeited if those conditions are exceeded ; if the design of it be perverted, and its operation extended to objects which Avere never in the contemplation of the donor ? This appears to me to be no misrepresentation of their case, whose charter is supposed to be in danger. It constitutes them a trading company, and gives them an exclusive right to traffic in the East Indies. But it does no more. It invests them with no sovereignty ; it does not convey to them the royal pre- rogative of making war and peace, which the king cannot alienate, if he would. But this prerogative they have exercised ; and, forgetting the terms of their insti- tution, have possessed themselves of an immense territory, which they have ruled with a rod of iron, to which it is impos- sible they should even have a right, un- less such a one as it is a disgrace to plead — the right of conquest. The po- tentates of this country they dash in pieces like a potter's vessel, as often as they please, making the happiness of thirty millions of mankind a consider- ation subordinate to that of their own emolument, oppressing them as often as it may serve a lucrative purpose, and in no instance, that I have ever heard, consulting their interest or advantage. That government, therefore, is bound to interfere, and to un-king these ty- rants, is to me self-evident. And if, having subjugated so much of this mi- serable world, it is therefore necessary that we must keep possession of it, it appears to me a duty so binding on the legislature to resume it from the hands of those usurpers, that I should think a curse, and a bitter one, must follow the neglect of it. But <;uppose this were 566 ELEGx^NT EPISTLES. Book IV. done, can they be legally deprived of their charter? In truth I think so. If the abuse and perversion of a charter can amount to a defeasance of it, never were they so grossly palpable as in this in- stance ; never was charter so justly for- feited. Neither am I at all afraid that such a measure should be drawn into a precedent ; unless it could be alleged, as a sufficient reason for not having a rogue, .that perhaps magistracy might grow wanton in the exercise of such a power, and now and then hang up an honest man for its amusement. When the governors of the Bank shall have de- served the same severity, I hope they will meet with it. In the mean time I do not think them a whit more in jeopardy because a corporation of plunderers have been brought to justice. We are well, and love you all. I never wrote in such a hurry, nor in such a dis- turbance. Pardon the effects, and be- lieve me yours affectionately. LETTER CLXXXIII. To the Rev. William Umoin. Jan. 8, 1784, My dear William, When I first resolved to write an an- swer to your last this evening, I had no thought of any thing more sublime than prose. But, before I began, it occurred to me, that perhaps you would not be displeased with an attempt to give a poetical translation of the lines you sent me. They are so beautiful, that I felt the temptation irresistible. At least, as the French say, it was plus forte que viol ; and I accordingly complied. By this means 1 have lost an hour ; and whether I shall be able to fill my sheet before supper, is as yet doubtful. But I v/ill do my best. For your remarks, I think them per- fectly just. You have no reason to dis- trust your taste, or to submit the trial of it to me. You understand the use and the force of language as well as any man. You have quick feeling, and you are fond of poetry. How is it possible then that you should not be a jud<>-e of it ? I ven- ture to hazard only one alteration, v/hich, as it appears to me, would amount to a little improvement The seventh and eighth lines, I think, I should like better thus — Aspirante levi zephyro et redeunte serena Anni tempeiic fcecundo e cespite siirgunt. My reason is, that the word cum is re- peated too soon. At least my ear does not like it ; and when it can be done with- out injury to the sense, there seems to me to be an elegance in diversifying the ex- pression as much as possible upon simi- lar occasions. It discovers a command of phrase, and gives a more masterly air to the piece. If extincta stood uncon- nected with telis, I should prefer your word micant, to the Doctor's vigent. But the latter seems to stand more in direct opposition to that sort of extinction, which is effected by a shaft or arrow. In the day-time the stars may be said to die, and in the night to recover their strength. Perhaps the Doctor had in his eye that noble line of Gray's — *' Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war! " But it is a beautiful composition. It is tender, touching, and elegant. It is not easy to do it justice in English. Many thanks for the books, [which, being most admirably packed, came safe. They will furnish us with many a winter evening's amusement. We are glad that you intend to be the carrier back. We rejoice too that your cousin has remembered you in her will. The money she left to those who attended her hearse would have been better bestowed upon you ; and by this time perhaps she thinks so. Alas ! what an enquiry does that thought suggest, and how impossible to make it to any purpose ! What 'are the employments of the departed spirit ? and where does it subsist ? Has it any cogni- zance of earthly things ? Is it transported to an immeasurable distance ; or is it still, though imperceptible to us, con- versant with the same scene, and inter- ested in v/hat passes here ! How little we know of a state to which we are all destined ; and how does the obscurity, that hangs over that undiscovered coun- try^ increase the anxiety we sometimes feel as we are journeying towards it! It is sufficient, however, for such as you, and a few more of my acquaintance, to know, that in your separate state you will be happy. Provision is made for your reception ; and you will have no Sect. Ill, R E C E N T. 567 cause to regret aught that you have left behmd. I have written to Mr. — . My let- ter went this morning. How I love and honour that man ! For many reasons 1 dare not tell him how much. But I hate the frigidity of the style in Avhich I am forced to address him. That line of Horace — " Dii tibi divitias dederunt artemque fruendi'''' — was never so applicable to the poet's friend as to Mr. . My bosom burns to immortalize him. But prudence says, " Forbear! " and, though a poet, I pay respect to her injunctions. 1 sincerely give you joy of the good you have unconsciously done, by your example and conversation. That you seem to yourself not to deserve the ac- knowledgment your friend makes of it, is a proof that you do. Grace is blind to its own beauty ; whereas such virtues, as men may reach without it, are re- markable self-admirers. May you make such impressions upon many of your order ! I know none that need them more. You do not want my praises of your conduct towards Mr. . It is vrell for him, however, and still better for yourself, that you are capable of such a part. It was said of some good man (my memory does not serve me with his name), " Do him an ill-turn, and you make him your friend for ever." But it is Christianity only that forms such friends. I wish his father may be duly affected by this instance and proof of your superiority to those ideas of you, which he has so un- reasonably harboured. He is not in my favour now, nor will he upon any other terms. 1 laughed at the comments you make on your own feelings, when the subject of them was a newspaper eulogium. But it was a laugh of pleasure and appro- bation : such indeed is the heart, and so is it made up. There are few that can do good, and keep their own secret ; none, perhaps, without a struggle. Yourself, and your friend , are no very com- mon instances of the fortitude that is necessary in such a conflict. In former days I have felt my heart beat, and every vein throb upon such an occasion. To publish my own deed was wrong. I knew it to be so. But to conceal it seemed like a voluntary injury to myself. Sometimes 1 could and sometimes I could not succeed. My occasions for such conflicts, indeed, were not very numerous. Yours. LETTER CLXXXIV. To the Rev. John Newton. Feb. 10, 1784. My dear friend, The morning is my writing time, and in the riiorning I have no spirits. So much the worse for my correspondents. Sleep, that refreshes my body, seems to cripple me in every other respect. As the evening approaches, I grow more alert ; and, when I am retiring to bed, am more fit for mental occupation than at any other time. So it fares with us, whom they call nervous. By a strange inversion of the animal economy, we are ready to sleep when we have most need to be awake, and go to bed just when we might sit up to some purpose. Tlie watch is irregularly wound up ; it goes in the night, when it is not wanted, and in the day stands still. In many respects we have the advantage of our forefathers the Ficts. We sleep in a whole skin, and are not obliged to submit to the painful operation of punctuating ourselves from head to foot, in order that we may be decently dressed and fit to appear abroad. But, on the other hand, we have reason enough to envy them their tone of nerves, and that flow of spirits, which effectually secured them from all uncomfortable impressions of a gloomy atmosphere, and from every shade of melancholy from every other cause. They understood, I suppose, the use of vulnerary herbs, hav- ing frequent occasion for some skill in surgery ; but physicians, I presume, they had none, having no need of any. Is it possible, that a creature like myself can be descended from such progenitors, in whom there appears not a single trace of family resemblance ? What an alteration have a few ages made ! They, without clothing, would defy the severest season ; and I, with all the accommodations that art has since invented, am hardly secure even in the mildest. If the wind blows upon me when my pores are open, I catch cold. A cough is the consequence. I suppose, if such a disorder could have seized a Pict, his friends wo\dd hav^ 568 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. concluded that a bone had stuck in his throat, and that he was in some danger of choking. They would, perhaps, have addressed themselves to the cure of his cough by thrusting their fingers into his gullet, which would only have exaspe- rated the case. But they would never have thought of administering laudanum, my only remedy. For this difference, however, that has obtained between me and my ancestors, I am indebted to the luxurious practices and enfeebling self- indulgence of a long line of grandsires, who, from generation to generation, have been employed in deteriorating the breed ; till at last the collected effects of all their follies have centred in my puny self : a man, indeed, but not in the image of those that went before me : a man who sigh and groan, who wear out life in de- jection and oppression of spirits, and who never think of the aborigines of the country to which I belong, without wish- ing that I had been born among them. The evil is without a remedy, unless the ages that are passed could be recalled, my whole pedigree be permitted to live again, and, being properly admonished to beware of enervating sloth and refine- ment, would preserve their hardiness of nature unimpaired, and transmit the de- sirabfe quality to their posterity. I once saw Adam in a dream. We sometimes say of a picture, that we doubt not its likeness to the original, though we never saw him ; a judgment we have some rea- son to form, when the face is strongly charactered, and the features full of ex- pression. So 1 think of my visionary Adam, and for a similar reason. His figure was awkward, indeed, in the ex- treme. It was evident, that he had never been taught by a Frenchman to hold his bead erect, or to turn out his toes ; to dispose gracefully of his arms, or to sim- per without a meaning. But if Mr. Ba- con was called upon to produce a statue of Hercules, he need not Avish for a juster pattern. He stood like a rock ; the size of his limbs, the prominence of his mus- cles, and the height of his stature, all conspired to bespeak him a creature, whose strength had suffered no diminu- tion, and who, being the first of his race, did;; not come into the world under a necessity of sustaining a load of infirmi- ties, derived to him from the intem- perance of others. He was as much stouter than a Pict, as I suppose a Pict to have been than I. Upon my hypothesis, therefore, there has been a gradual de- clension, in point of bodily vigour, from Adam down to me ; at least if my dream were a just representation of that gen- tleman, and deserve the credit I cannot help giving it, such must have been the case. Yours, my dear friend.- LETTER CLXXXV. To the Rev. John Nexvton. Olney, iMarch 11, 17S4. I RETURN you many thanks for your Apology, which I have read with great pleasure. You know of old that your style always pleases me ; and having, in a former letter, given you the reasons for which I like it, I spare you now the pain of a repetition. The spirit, too, in which you write, pleases me as much. But I perceive that, in some cases, it is possi- ble to be severe, and, at the same time, perfectly good-tempered ; in all cases, I suppose, where we suffer by an injurious and unreasonable attack, and can justify our conduct by a plain and simple nar- rative. On such occasions, truth itself seems a satire, because by implication, at least, it convicts our adversaries of the want of charity and candour. For this reason, perhaps, you will find, that you have made many angry, though you are not so ; and it is possible, they may be the more angry upon that very ac- count. To assert, and to prove, that an enlightened minister of the Gospel may, w^ithout any violation of his conscience, and even upon the ground of prudence and propriety, continue in the Establish- ment ; and to do this with the most ab- solute composure, must be very provoking to the dignity of some dissenting doctors ; and, to nettle them still the more, you in a manner impose upon them the necessity of being silent, by declaring, that you will be so yourself. Upon the whole, however, I have no doubt that your Apo- logy will do good. If it should irritate some, who have more zeal than know- ledge, and more of bigotry than of either, it may serve to enlarge the views of others, and to convince them that there may be grace, truth, and eflficacy, in the ministry of a church, of Vvhich they are not members. I wish it success, and all that attention to which, both from the Sect. III. RECENT. 569 nature of the subject and the manner in which you have treated it, it is so well entitled. The patronag^e of the East Indies will be a dangerous weapon, in whatever hands. I have no prospect of a deliver- ance for this country, but the same that I have of a possibility that we may one day be disencumbered of our ruinous possessions in the East. Our g-ood neighbours, who have so successfully knocked away our Western crutch from under us, seem to design us the same favour on the opposite side, in which case we shall be poor, but I think we shall stand a better chance to be free ; and I had rather drink water-gruel for breakfast, and be no man's slave, than wear a chain, and drink tea as usual. I have just room to add, that we love you as usual, and are your affectionate William and Mary. pious and tender melancholy, which, to me, at least, is extremely agreeable. This property of it, which depends, per- haps, altogether upon the arrangement of his words, and the modulation of his sen- tences, it would be very difficult to pre- serve in a translation. I do not know that our language is capable of being so managed, and rather suspect that it is not, and that it is peculiar to the French, because it is not unfrequent among their writers, and I never saw anything simi- lar to it in our own. My evenings are devoted to books. I read aloud for the entertainment of the party, thus making amends, by a vocifer- ation of two hours, for my silence nt other times. We are in good health, and waiting as patiently as we can for the end of this second winter. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLXXXVI. To the same. March 19, 1784. My dear friend, I WISH it were in my power to give you any account of the marquis Caraccioli. Some years since 1 saw a short history of him in the Review, of which I re- collect no particulars, except that he was (and, for aught I know, may be still) an officer in the Prussian service. I have two volumes of his works lent me by lady Austen. One* is upon the sub- ject of self-acquaintance, and the other treats of the art of conversing with the same gentleman. Had I pursued my purpose of translating him, my design was to have furnished myself, if possible, with some authentic account of him, which I suppose may be procured at any bookseller's who deals in foreign publications. But, for the reasons given in my last, I have laid aside the design. There is something in his style that touches me exceedingly, and which I do not know how to describe. I should call it pathetic, if it were occasional only, and never occurred but when his subject happened to be particularly affecting. But it is universal ; he has not a sentence that is not marked with it. Perhaps, therefore, I may describe it better by say- ing, that his whole work has an air of LETTER CLXXXVII. To the Rev. William Umvin. April 5, 178 k My dear William, I THANKED you, in my last, for Johnson, I now thank you, with more emphasis, for Beattie, the most agreeable and ami- able writer I ever met with : the only author I have seen, whose critical and philosophical researches are diversified and embellished by a poetical imagina- tion, that makes even the driest subject, and the leanest, a feast for an epicure in books. He is so much at his ease too, that his own character appears in every page ; and, which is very rare, we see not only the writer, but the man ; and that man so gentle, so well tempered, so happy in his religion, and so humane in his philosophy, that it is necessary to love him if one has any sense of what is lovely. If you have not his poem called the Minstrel, and cannot borrow it, I must beg you to buy it for me ; for though I cannot afford to deal largely in so ex- pensive a commodity as books, I must afford to purchase at least the poetical works of Beattie. I have read six of Blair's Lectures*, — and what do I say of Blair? That he is a sensible man, mas- ter of his subject, and, excepting here and there a Scotticism, a good writer, so far at least as perspicuity of expression and method contribute to make one. 570 E L E G A N T E P 1 8 T L E S. Book IV. But oh the sterility of that man's fancy ! if indeed he has any such faculty belonging- to him. Perhaps philosophers, or men designed for such, are sometimes born without one ; or perhaps it withers for want of exercise. However that may be, doctor Blair has such a brain as Shakspeare somewhere describes — '' dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage." 1 take it for granted, that these good men are philosophically correct (for they are both agreed upon the subject) in their account of the origin of language ; and if the Scripture had left us in the dark upon that article, I should very readily adopt their hypothesis, for want of better information. I should suppose, for instance, that man made his first ef- fort in speech in the way of an inter- jection, and that ah, or oh, being uttered with wonderful gesticulation and variety of attitude, must have left his powers of expression quite exhausted ; that in a course of time he would invent many names for many things, but first for the objects of his daily wants. An apple would consequently be called an apple, and perhaps not many years would elapse before the appellation would receive the sanction of general use. In this case, and upon this supposition, seeing one in the hand of another man, he would ex- claim with a most moving pathos, " Oh apple !^' — ^Well and good — oh apple ! is a very affecting speech, but in the mean time it profits him nothing. The man that holds it, eats it, and he goes away with Oh apple ! in his mouth, and with nothing better. Reflecting on his dis- appointment, and that perhaps it arose from his not being more explicit, he con- trives a term to denote his idea of trans- fer or gratuitous communication, and the next occasion that offers, of a similar kind, performs his part accordingly. His speech now stands thus, " Oh give ap- ple." The apple-holder perceives him- self called upon to part with his fruit, and, having satisfied his own hunger, is perhaps not unwilling to do so. But unfortunately there is still room for a mistake ; and a third person being pre- sent, he gives the apple to him. Again disappointed, and again perceiving that his language has not all the precision that is requisite, the orator retires to his study ; and there, after much deep thinking, conceives that the insertion of a pronoun, whose office shall be to sig- nify, that he not only wants the apple to be given, but given to himself, will remedy all defects : he uses it the next opportunity, and succeeds to a v»^onder, obtains the apple, and, by his success, such credit to his invention, that pro- nouns continue to be in great repute ever after. Now as my two syllable-mongers, Beattie and Biair, both agree that lan- guage was originally inspired, and that the great variety of languages we find upon earth at present took its rise from the confusion of tongues at Babel, I am not perfectly convinced that there is any just occasion to invent this very ingeni- ous solution of a difficulty, which Scrip- ture has solved already. My opinion however is, if I may presume to have an opinion of my own so different from theirs, who are so much wiser than my- self, that if man had been his own teacher, and had acquired his words and his phrases only as necessity or convenience had prompted, his progress must have been considerably slower than it was, and in Homer's days the production of such a poem as the Iliad impossible. On the contrary, I doubt not Adam, on the very day of his creation, was able to express himself in terms both forcible and elegant, and that he was at no loss for sublime diction and logical combi- nation, when he wanted to praise his Maker. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLXXXVm. To the Rev. William JJnwin. April 25, 1784. My dear William, I WISH I had both burning words and bright thoughts. But I have at present neither. My head is not itself. Hav- ing had an unpleasant night, and a melancholy day, and having already written a long letter, I do not find my- self, in point of spirits, at all qualified either to burn or shine. The post sets out early on Tuesday. The morning is the only time of exercise with me. In order, therefore, to keep it open for that purpose, and to comply with your desire of an immediate answer, I give you as much as I can spare of the present evening. Sect. III. RECENT. 571 Since I dispatched my last, Blair lias crept a little farther into rriy favour. As his subjects improve, he improves with them ; but upon the whole I account him a dry writer, useful no doubt as an instructor, but as little entertaining as, with so much knowledge, it is possible to be. His language is (except Swift's) the least figurative I remember to have seen, and the few figures found in it are not always happily employed. I take him to be a critic very little animated by what he reads, who rather reasons about the beauties of an author than really tastes them, and who finds that a passage is praise-worthy, not because it charms him, but because it is accommodated to the laws of criticism, in that case made and provided. I have a little complied with your desire of marginal annotations, and should have dealt in them more largely, had I read the books to myself; but, being reader to the ladies, 1 have not always time to settle my own opinion of a doubtful expression, mvich less to sug- gest an emendation. I have not censured a particular observation in the book, though, when I met with it, it displeased me. 1 this moment recollect it, and may as well therefore note it here. He is commending, and deservedly, that most noble description of a thunder storm in the first Georgic, which ends with Ingeminant aiistri et densissimvs imber. Being in haste, I do not refer to the vo- lume for his very words, but my memory will serve me with the matter. When poets describe, he says, they should al- ways select such circumstances of the subject as are least obvious, and there- fore most striking. He therefore ad- mires the effects of the thunderbolt splitting mountains, and filling a nation with astonishment ; but quarrels with the closing member of the period, as containing particulars of a storm not worthy of Virgil's notice, because ob- vious to the notice of all. But here I differ from him ; not being able to con- ceive that wind and rain can be improper in the description of a tempest, or how wind and rain could possibly be more poetically described. Virgil is indeed remarkable for finishing his periods well, and never comes to a stop but with the most consummate dignity of numbers and expression ; and in the instance in question, I think, his skill in this re- spect is remarkably displayed. The line is perfectly majestic in its march. As to the wind, it is such only as the word ingemmant could describe ; and the words densissimiis imber giye one an idea of a shower indeed, but of such a shower as is not very common, and such a one as only Virgil could have done justice to by a single epithet. Far therefore from agreeing with the Doctor in his stricture, I do not think the .^neid contains a nobler line, or a description more mag- nificently finished. We are glad that Dr. C has sin* gled you out upon this occasion. Your performance we doubt not will justify his choice : fear not — you have a heart that can feel upon charitable occasions, and therefore will not fail you upon this. The burning words will come fast enough when the sensibility is such as yours. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CLXXXIX. From the same to the same. May 8, 1784. My dear friend. You do well to make your letters merry ones, though not very merry yourself, and that both for my sake and your own ; for your own sake, because it sometimes happens, that J by assuming an air of cheerfulness, we become cheerful in reality ; and for mine, because I have always more need of a laugh than a cry ; being somewhat disposed to melancholy by natural temperament as well as by other causes. It was long since, and even in the in- fancy of John Gilpin, recommended to me by a lady now at Bristol, to write a sequel. But having always observed, that authors, elated with the success of a first part, have fallen below themselves when they have attempted a second, I had more prudence than to take her counsel. I want you to read the history of that hero, published by Bladon, and to tell me what it is made of. But buy it not. For, puffed as it iy in the papers, it can be but a bookseller's job, and must be dear at the price of two shillings. In the last packet but one that I received from John- son, he asked me if I had any improve- ments of John Gilpin in hand, or if I designed any ; for that to print only the 572 ELEGANT K P 1 S T L E S. Book IV. original again, would be to publish what has been hackneyed in every magazine, in every newspaper, and in every street. 1 answered, that the copy which 1 sent him contained two or three small variations from the first, except which I had none to propose ; and if he thought him now too trite to make a part of my volume, I should willingly acquiesce in his judg- ment. I take it for granted, therefore, that he will not bring up -the rear of my poems according to my first intention, and shall not be sorry for the omission. It may spring from a principle of pride ; but spring from what it may, I feel, and have long felt, a disinclination to a pub- lic avowal that he is mine ; and since he became so popular, I have felt it more than ever ; not that I should have express- ed a scruple, if Johnson had not. But a fear has suggested itself to me, that I might expose myself to a charge of va- nity by admitting him into my book, and that some people would impute it to me as a crime. Consider what the world is made of, and you will not find my suspi- cions chimerical. Add to this, that when, on correcting the latter part of the fifth book of the Task, I came to consider the solemnity and sacred nature of the sub- jects there handled, it seemed to me an incongruity at the least, not to call it by a harsher name, to follow up such pre- mises with such a conclusion. I am well content therefore with having laughed and made others laugh, and will build my hopes of success, as a poet, upon more important matter. In our printing business we now jog on merrily enough. The coming week will, I hppe, bring me to an end of the Task, and the next fortnight to an end of the whole. I am glad to have Paley on my side in the affair of education. He is certainly on all subjects a sensible man, and on such, a wise one. But I am mistaken if Tirocinium do not make some of my friends angry, and procure me enemies not a few. There is a sting in verse, that prose neither has nor can have ; and 1 do not know that schools in the gross, and especially public schools, have ever been so pointedly condemned before. But they are become a nui- sance, a pest, an abomination ; and it is fit that the eyes and noses of man- kind should, if possible, be opened to perceive it. This is indeed an author's letter ; but it is an author's letter to his friend. If you will be the friend of an author, you must expect such letters. Come July, and come yourself, with as many of your exterior selves as can possibly come with you ! Yours, my dear William, affecti- onately, and with your mothers re- membrances. Adieu. LETTER CXC. To the Rev. John Neivton. July 5, 1784. My dear friend, A DEARTH of materials, a conscious- ness that my subjects are, for the most part, and must be uninteresting and un- important ; but, above all, a poverty of animal spirits, that makes writing much a great fatigue to me, have occasioned my choice of smaller paper. Acquiesce in the justness of these reasons for the present ; and if ever the times should mend with me, I sincerely promise to amend with them. Homer says on a certain occasion, that Jupiter, when he was wanted at home, was gone to partake of an entertainment provided for him by the ^Ethiopians. If by Jupiter we understand the weather, or the season, as the ancients frequently did, we may say, that our English Jupi- ter has been absent on account of some such invitation : during the whole month of June he left us to experience almost the rigours of winter. This fine day, however, affords us some hope that the feast is ended, and that we shall enjoy his company without the interference of his Ethiopian friends again. Is it possible, that the wise men of an- tiquity could entertain a real reverence for the fabulous rubbish which they dig- nified with the name of religion ? We, who have been favoured from our infancy with so clear a light, are perhaps hardly competent to decide the question, and may strive in vain to imagine the absur- dities, that even a good understanding may receive as truths, when totally un- aided by revelation. It seems, however, that men, whose conceptions upon other subjects were often sublime, whose rea- soning powers were undoubtedly equal to our own, and whose management in matters of jurisprudence, that required Sect. Ill RECENT. 573 a very industrious examination of evi- dence, was as acute and subtle as that of a modern attorney general, could not be the dupes of such imposture, as a child among- us would detect and laugh at. J u- venal, I remember, introduces one of his satires with an observation, that there were some in his day who had the hardi- ness tojaugh at the stories of Tartarus and Styx and Charon, and of the frogs that croak upon the banks of Lethe, giv- ing his reader, at the same time, cause to suspect, that he was himself one of that profane number. Horace, on the other hand, declares in sober sadness, that he would not for all the world get into a boat with a man who had divulged the Eleusinian mysteries. Yet we know, that those mysteries, whatever they might be, were altogether as unworthy to be esteemed divine, as the mythology of the vulgar. How then must we deter- mine ? If Horace were a good and or- thodox heathen, how came Juvenal to be such an ungracious libertine in prin- ciple, as to ridicule the doctrines which the other held as sacred ? Their oppor- tunites of information and their mental advantages were equal. I feel myself rather inclined to believe, that Juvenal's avowed infidelity was sincere, and that Horace was no better than a canting hypocritical professor. You must grant me a dispensation for saying any thing, whether it be sense or nonsense, upon the subject of politics. It is truly a matter in which I am so little interested, that were it not that it sometimes serves me for a theme, when I can find no other, I should never men- tion it. I would forfeit a large sum, if af- ter advertising a month in the Gazette, the minister of the day, whoever he may be, could discover a man that cares about him, or his measures, so little as I do. When I say that 1 would forfeit a large sum, I mean to have it understood, that I would forfeit such a sum if I had it. If Mr. Pitt be indeed a virtuous man, as such I respect him. But at the best, I fear that he will have to say at last with Hector, Si Pergama dextra Defendi possent, efidm hoc defensa fuissent. Be he what he may, I do not like his taxes. At least I am much disposed to quarrel with some of them. The addi- tional duty upon candles, by which the poor will be much affected, hurts me most. He says, indeed, that they will but little feel it, because even now they can hardly afford the use of them. He had certainly put no compassion into his budget, when he produced from it this tax, and such an argument to support it. Justly translated, it seems to amount to this — " Make the necessaries of life too expensive for the poor to reach them, and you will save their money. If they buy but few candles, they will pay but little tax; and if they buy none, the tax, as to them, wiU be annihilated." True. But, in the mean time, they will break their shins against their furniture, if they have any, and will be but little the richer, when the hours, in which they might work, if they could see, shall be deducted. I have bought a great dictionary, and want nothing but Latin authors, to fur- nish me with the use of it. Had I pur- chased them first, I had begun at the right end. But I could not afford it. I beseech you admire my prudence. Vivite, valetCf et memeniote nostrum. Yours affectionately. LETTER CXCI. From the same to the same. July 28, 1784. My dear friend, I MAY perhaps be short, but am not willing that you should go to Lyming- ton without first having had a line from me. I know that place well, having spent six weeks there, above twenty years ago. The town is neat, and the country de- lightful. You walk well, and wiU con- sequently find a part of the coast, called Hall Cliff, within the reach of your ten toes. It was a favourite walk of mine ; to the best of my remembrance, about three miles distant from Lymington. There you may stand upon the beach, and contemplate the Needle-rock. At least you might have done so twenty years ago. But since that time, I think, it is fallen from its base, and is droAvned, and is no longer a visible object of contem- plation. I wish you may pass your time there happily, as in all probability you will ; perhaps usefully too to others, un- doubtedly so to yourself. 574 E L E G A N T E P 1 S T L E S. Book IV. The manner in which you have been previously made acquainted with Mr. Gilpin, gives a providential air to your journey, and aiFords reason to hope, that you may be charged with a message to him. I admire him as a biographer. But as Mrs. Unwin and I were talking of him last night, we could not but won- der, that a man should see so much ex- cellence in the lives, and so much glory and beauty in the death of the martyrs whom he has recorded, and at the same time disapprove the principles that pro- duced the very conduct he admired. It seems however a step towards the truth to applaud the fruits of it ; and one can- not help thinking, that one step more would put him in possession of the truth itself. By your means may he be enabled to take it ! We are obliged to you for the prefe- rence you would have given to Olney, had not Providence determined your course another way. But as when we saw you last summer, you gave us no reason to expect you this, we are the less disappointed. At your age and mine, biennial visits have such a gap between them, that we cannot promise ourselves upon those terms very numerous future interviews. But, whether ours are to be many or few, you will always be wel- come to me, for the sake of the com- fortable days that are past. In my pre- sent state of mind, my friendship for you indeed is as warm as ever. But I feel myself very indifferently qualified to be your companion. Other days than these inglorious and unprofitable ones, are promised me *, and when I see them I shall rejoice. I saw the advertisement of your ad- versary's book. He is happy at least in this, that, whether he have brains or none, he strikes without the danger of being stricken again. He could not wish to engage in a controversy upon easier terms. The other, whose publi- cation is postponed till Christmas, is resolved, I suppose, to do something. But do what he will, he cannot prove that you have not been aspersed, or that you have not refuted the charge ; which, unless he can do, I think he will do little to the purpose. Mrs. Unwin thinks of you, and al- ways with a grateful recollection of yours and Mrs. Newton's kindness. She has had a nervous fever lately : but I hope she is better. The weather for- bids walking, a prohibition hurtful to us both. We heartily wish you a good journey, and are affectionately yours. LETTER CXCII. To the Rev. William Unwin. Aug. 14, 1784. My dear friend, I GIVE you joy of a journey performed without trouble or danger. You have travelled five hundred miles without having encountered either. Some neigh- bours of ours, about a fortnight since, made an excursion only to a neighbour- ing village, and brought home with them fractured sculls and broken limbs, and one of them is dead. For my own part, I seem pretty much exempted from the dangers of the road. Thanks to that tender interest and concern, which the legislature takes in my security ! Hav- ing no doubt their fears lest so precious a life should determine too soon, and by some untimely stroke of misadventure, they have made wheels and horses so ex- pensive, that I am not likely to owe my death to either. Your mother and I continue to visit Weston daily, and find in those agree- able bowers such am^usement, as leaves us but little room to regret that we can go no farther. Having touched that theme, I cannot abstain from the plea- sure of telling you, that our neighbours in that place, being about to leave it for some time, and meeting us there but a few evenings before their departure, en- treated us, during their absence, to con- sider the garden, and all its contents, as onr own, and to gather whatever we liked, without the least scruple. We accordingly picked strawberries as often as we went, and brought home as many bundles of honeysuckles as served to perfume our dwelling till they returned. Once more, by the aid of lord Dart- mouth, I find myself a voyager in the Pacific Ocean. In our last night's lec- ture we made our acquaintance with the island of Hapaee, where we had never been before. The French and Italians, it seems, have but little cause to plume Sect. III. RECENT. 575 themselves on accoiuit of tlieir achieve- ments in the dancing way ; and we may hereafter, without much repining at it, acknowledge their superiority in that art. They are equalled, perhaps ex- celled, by savages. How wonderful, that without any intercourse with a politer world, and having made no proficiency in any other accomplishment, they should in this, however, have made themselves such adepts, that for regularity and grace of motion they might even be our masters ! How wonderful too, that with a tub, and a stick, they should be able to produce such harmony, as persons ac- customed to the sweetest music, cannot but hear with pleasure ! Is it not very difficult to account for the striking dif- ference of character that obtains among the inhabitants of these islands ? Many of them are near neighbours to each other ; their opportunities of improve- ment much the same ; yet some of them are in a degree polite ; discover symp- toms of taste, and have a sense of ele- gance ; while others are as rude as we naturally expect to find a people, who have never had any communication with the northern hemisphere. These volumes furnish much matter of philosophical speculation, and often entertain me, even while I am not employed in reading them. I am sorry you have not been able to ascertain the doubtful intelligence 1 have received on the subject of cork skirts and bosoms. I am now every day occu- pied in giving all the grace I can to my new production, and in transcribing it ; I shall soon arrive at the passage that censures that folly, which I shall be loth to expunge, but which I must not spare, unless the criminals can be convicted. The world, however, is not so unproduc- tive of subjects of censure, but that it may probably supply me with some other that may serve as well. If you know any body that is writing, or intends to write, an epic poem on the new regulation of franks, you may give him my compliments, and these two lines for a beginning — Heu quot amatores nunc lorquet epistola rura ! Vectigal certum, perituraque gratia Fuanki ! Yours faithfully. LETTER CXCIII. To the Rev. John Newton. Aug. 16, 1784. My dear friend. Had you not expressed a desire to hear from me before you take leave of Ly- mington, I certainly should not have answered you so soon. Knov/ing the place, and the amusements it affords, I should have had more modesty than to suppose myself capable of adding any, thing to your present entertainments worthy to rank with them. I am not, however, totally destitute of such plea- sures as an inland country may pretend to. If my windows do not command a view of the ocean, at least they look out upon a profusion of mignonette ; which, if it be not so grand an object, is, however, quite as fragrant : and if I have not an hermit in a grotto, I have nevertheless myself in a greenhouse, a less venerable iigure perhaps, but not at all less ani- mated than he : nor are we in this nook altogether unfurnished with such means of philosophical experiment and specu- lation, as at present the world rings with. On Thursday morning last, we sent up a balloon from Emberton meadow. Thrice it rose, and as oft descended ; and in the evening it performed another flight at Newport, where it went up, and came down no more. Like the arrow discharged at the pigeon in the Trojan games, it kindled in the air, and was consumed in a moment. I have not heard what interpretation the soothsayers have given to the omen, but shall won- der a little if the Newton shepherd prog- nosticate any thing less from it than the most bloody war that was ever waged in Europe. I am reading Cook's last voyage, and am much pleased and amused with it. It seems, that in some of the Friendly Isles they excel so much in dancing, and perform that operation with such exqui- site delicacy and grace, that they are not surpassed even upon our European stages. Oh I that Vestris had been in the ship, that he might have seen him- self outdone by a savage. The paper indeed tells us, that the queen of France has clapped this king of capers up in prison, for declining to dance before her, on a pretence of sickness, when in fact he was in perfect health. If this be true, 576 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. perhaps he may by this time be prepared to second such a wish as mine, and to think, that the durance he suffers would be well exchanged for a dance at Anna- mooka. I should, however, as little have expected to hear, that these islanders had such consummate skill in an art that requires so much taste in the conduct of the person, as that they were good ma- thematicians and astronomers. Defec- tive, as they are, in every branch of knowledge, and in every other species of refinement, it seems wonderful that they should arrive at such perfection in the dance, which some of our English gentlemen, with all the assistance of French instruction, find it impossible to learn. We must conclude, therefore, that particular nations have a genius for particular feats, and that our neighbours in Franch, and our friends in the South Sea, haveminds very nearly akin, though they inhabit countries so very remote from each other. Mrs. Unwin remembers to have been in company with Mr. Gilpin at her bro- ther's. She thought him very sensible and polite, and consequently very agree- able. We are truly glad that Mrs. Newton and yourself are so well, and that there is reason to hope that Eliza is better. You will learn from this letter that we are so ; and that, for my own part, I am not quite so low in spirits as at some times. Learn too, what you knew be- fore, that we love you all, and that 1 am your affectionate friend. LETTER CXCIV. To the Rev. John Newton. Sept. 18, 1784. My dear friend. Following your good example, I lay before me a sheet of my largest paper. It was this moment fair and unblemished, but I have begun to blot it, and having begun, am not likely to cease till I have spoiled it. I have sent you many a sheet that, in my judgment of it, has been very unworthy of your acceptance ; but my conscience was in some measure satisfied by reflecting, that if it were good for nothing, at the same tiiAe it cost you nothing, except the trouble of reading it. But the case is altered now. You must pay a solid price for frothy matter ; and though I do not absolutely pick your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, as the saying is, are never the wiser. My green house is never so pleasant as when Ave are just upon the point of being turned out of it. The gentleness of the autumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter season, make it a much more agreeable retreat than we ever find it in the summer ; when the winds be- ing generally brisk, we cannofc cool it by admitting a sufficient quantity of air, without being, at the same time, incom- moded by it. But now I sit with all the windows and the door wide open, and am regaled with the scent of every flower, in a garden as full of flowers as I have known how to make it. We keep no bees ; but if I lived in a hive, 1 should hardly hear more of their music. All the bees in the neighbourhood resort to a bed of mignonette opposite to the win- dow, and pay me for the honey they get out of it by a hum, which, though rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear as the whistling of my linnets. All the sounds that Nature utters are delightful, at least in this country. I should not perhaps find the roaring of lions in Africa, or of bears in Russia, very pleasing ; but I know no beast in England whose voice I do not account musical, save and ex- cept always the braying of an ass. The notes of all our birds and fowls please me, without one exception. I should not indeed think of keeping a goose in a cage, that I might hang him up in the parlour for the sake of his melody ; but a goose upon a common, or in a farm yard, is no bad performer r and as to in- sects, if the black beetle, and beetles in- deed of all hues, will keep out of my way, I have no obje^ction to any of the rest ; on the contrary, in whatever key they sing, from the gnat's fine treble, to the bass of the humble bee, I admire them all. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a very observable instance of providen- tial kindness to man, that such an exact accord has been contrived between his ear, and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited. All the world is sensi- ble of the uncomfortable effect that cer- tain sounds have upon the nerves, and consequently upon the spirits. And if a sinful world had been filled with such Sect. III. RECENT. 577 as would have curdled the blood, and have made the sense of hearing a perpe- tual inconvenience, 1 do not know that we should have had a right to complain. But now the fields, the woods, the g-ar- dens, have each their concert ; and the ear of man is for ever regaled, by crea- tures who seem only to please them- selves. Even the ears that are deaf to the Gospel are continually entertained, though without knowing it, by sounds for which they are solely indebted to its Author. There is somewhere in infi- nite space a world that does not roll within the precincts of mercy : and as it is reasonable, and even scriptural, to suppose that there is music in heaven, in those dismal regions perhaps the re- verse of it is found ; tones so dismal, as to make woe itself more insupportable, and to acuminate even despair. But my paper admonishes me in good time to draw the reins, and to check the de- scent of my fancy into deeps, with which she is but too familiar. Our best love attends you both, with yours. LETTER CXCV. To the Rev. William Unwin. Oct. 2, 1784. My dear William, A POET can but ill spare time for prose. The truth is, I am in haste to finish my transcript, that you may receive it time enough to give it a leisurely reading be- fore you go to town ; which, whether I shall be able to accomplish, is at present uncertain. I have the whole punc^ation to settle, which in blank verse is/of the last importance, and of a species peculiar to that composition : for I know.no use of points, unless to direct the voice ; the management of which, in the^' reading of blank verse, being more difficult than in the reading of any other poetry, re- quires perpetual hints and notices, to regulate the inflections, cadences, and pauses. This, however, is an a,fl"air that, in spite of grammarians, must be left pretty much ad libitum scriptoris. For I suppose every author points acicotding to his own reading. If I ean .^ead the parcel to the waggon by oiifti o'clock next Wednesday, you will liaVe it on Saturday the ninth. But tins is more than I expect. Perhaps I shall not be able to dispatch it till the eleventh, in which case it will not reach you till the thirteenth. I the rather think that the latter of these two periods will ob- tain, because, besides the punctuation, I have the argument of each book to transcribe. Add to this, that in writing for the printer, I am forced to write my best, which makes slow work. The motto of the whole is — Fit surculus arbor. If you can put the author's name under it, do so — if not, it must go without one, for I know not to whom to ascribe it. It was a motto taken by a certain prince of Orange, in the year 1733 ; but not to a poem of his own writing, nor indeed to any poem at all, but, as I think, to a medal. Mr. is a Cornish member ; but for what place in Cornwall I know not. All I know of him is, that I saw him once clap his two hands upon a rail, meaning to leap over it. But he did not think the attempt a safe one, and therefore took them off again. He was in company with Mr. Throckmorton. With that gentlem.an we drank choco- late, since I wrote last. The occasion of our visit was, as usual, a balloon. Your mother invited her, and 1 him, and they premised to return the visit, but have not yet performed. Tout le monde se trouvoit Id, as you may suppose; among the rest, Mrs. W . She was driven to the door by her son, a boy of seventeen, in a phaeton, drawn by four horses from Lilliput. This is an ambiguous expres- sion ; and, should what I write now be legible a thousand years hence, might puzzle commentators. Be it known there- fore, to the Alduses and the Stevenses of ages yet to come, that I do not mean to affirm, that Mrs. W herself came from Lilliput that morning, or indeed that she ever was there, but merely to describe the horses, as being so diminu- tive, that they might be, with propriety, said to be Lilliputian. The privilege of franking having been so cropped, I know not in what manner I and my bookseller are to settle the con- veyance of proof sheets hither and back again. They must travel, I imagine, by coach, a large quantity of them at a time ; for, like other authors, I find my- self under a poetical necessity of being frugal. We love you all, jointly and sepa- rately, as usual. 2 P 578 E L E G A N T E P I S T L E S. Book IV. LETTER CXCVI. To the Rev. John Newton. Oct 9, 1784. My dear friend, The pains you have taken to disengage our correspondence from the expense with which it was threatened, convincing me that my letters, trivial as they are, are yet acceptable to you, encourage me to observe my usual punctuality. You complain of unconnected thoughts. I believe there is not a head in the world but might utter the same complaint ; and that all would do so, were they all as attentive to their own vagaries, and as honest, as yours. The description of your meditations at least suits mine ; perhaps I can go a step beyond you upon the same ground, and assert with the strictest truth, that I not only do not think with connection, but that I frequently do not think at all. 1 am much mistaken if I do not often catch myself napping in this way ; for when I ask myself what was the last idea (as the ushers at Westminster ask an idle boy, what was the last word), I am not able to answer ; but, like the boy in question, am obliged to stare, and say nothing. This may be a very unphilosophical account of myself, and may clash very much with the general opinion of the learned, that the soul, being an active principle, and her acti- vity consisting in thought, she must consequently always think. But pardon me. Messieurs les philosophes, there are moments when, if I think at all, I am utterly unconscious of doing so ; and the thought and the consciousness of it seem to me at least, who am no philo- sopher, to be inseparable from each other. Perhaps, however, we may both be right ; and if you will grant me that I do not always think, I will in return concede to you the activity you contend for, and will qualify the diflFerence be- tween us by supposing, that though the soul be in herself an active prin- ciple, the influence of her present union, with a principle that is not such, makes her often dormant, suspends her operations, and affects her with a sort of deliquium, in which she suffers a temporary loss of all her functions. I have related to you my experience truly, and without disguise ; you must, therefore, either admit my assertion, that the soul does not necessarily always act, or deny that mine is an human soul: a negative, that I am sure you will not easily prove. So much for a dispute, which I little thought of being engaged in to-day. Last night I had a letter from lord Dartmouth. It was to apprise me of the safe arrival of Cook's last voyage, which he was so kind as to lend me in St. James's Square. The reading of those volumes afforded me much amuse- ment, and I hope some instruction. No observation, however, forced itself upon me with more violence than one that I could not help making on the death of captain Cook. God is a jea- lous God ; and at O why bee the poor man was content to be worshipped. From that moment, the remarkable interposition of Providence in his favour was converted into an opposition, that thwarted all his purposes. He left the scene of his deification, but was driven back to it by a most violent storm, in which he suffered more than in any that had preceded it. When he de- parted, he left his worshippers still in- fatuated with an idea of his godship, consequently well disposed to serve him. At his return, he found them sullen, distrustful, and mysterious. A trifling theft was committed, which, by a blunder of his own in pursuing the thief after the property had been restored, was magnified to an affair of the last import- ance. One of their favourite chiefs was killed too by a blunder. Nothing, in short, but blunder and mistake attended him, till he fell breathless into the water, and then all was smooth again. The world indeed will not take notice, or see, that the dispensation bore evident marks of Divine displeasure ; but a mind, I think, in any degree spiritual, cannot overlook them. We know from truth itself, that the death of Herod was for a similar offence. But Herod was in no sense a believer in God, nor had enjoyed half the opportunities with which our poor countryman had been favoured. It may be urged, perhaps, that he was in jest, that he meant nothing but his own amusement and that of his companions. I doubt it. He knows little of the heart, who does not know, that, even In a sen- sible man, it is flattered by every species of exaltation. But be it so, that he was Sect. IIL RECENT. 579 in sport — it was not humane, to say no worse of it, to sport with the ignorance of his friends, to mock their simplicity, to humour and acquiesce in their blind credulity. Besides, though a stock or stone may he worshipped blameless, a baptized man may not. He knows what he does, and, by sufifering- such honours to be paid him, incurs the guilt of sa- crilege. We are glad that you are so happy in your church, in your society, and in all your connections. I have not left myself room to say any thing of the love we feel for you. Yours, my dear friend. LETTER CXCVII. To Joseph Hillf Esq. November, 1784. My dear friend, To condole with you on the death of a mother, aged eighty-seven, would be absurd — rather, therefore, as is reason- able, I congratulate you on the almost singular felicity of having enjoyed the company of so amiable and so near a re- lation so long. Your lot and mine,' in this respect, have been very different, as in- deed in almost every other. Your mo- ther lived to see you rise, at least to see you comfortably established in the world. Mine dying, when I was six years' old, did not live to see me sink in it. You may remember with pleasure while you live, a blessing vouchsafed to you so long; and I, while I live, must regret a comfort of which I was deprived so early. I can truly say, that not a week passes (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day), in which I do not think of her. Such was the impression her tenderness made upon me, though the opportunity she had for shewing it was so short. But the ways of God are equal — and when I reflect on the pangs she would have suffered had she been a witness of all mine, I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn, that she was hidden in the grave so soon. We have, as you say, lost a lively and sensible neighbour in lady Austen ; but we have been long accustomed to a state of retirement, within one degree of soli- tude ; and, being naturally lovers of still life, can relapse into our former duality, without being unhappy at the change. To me, indeed, a third is not necessary, while I can have the companion I have had these twenty years. I am gone to the press again ; a vo- lume of mine will greet your hands some time either in the course of the winter, or early in the spring. You will find it, perhaps, on the whole, more entertaining than the former, as it treats a greater variety of subjects, and those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. It will consist of a poem in six books, called the Task. To which will be added another, which 1 finished yesterday, called, I be- lieve, Tirocinium, on the subject of edu- cation. You perceive that I have taken your advice, and given the pen no rest. LETTER CXCVin. To the Rev. William Univin. March 20, 1785. My dear William, I THANK you for your letter. It made me laugh ; and there are not many things capable of being contained within the dimensions of a letter, for which I see cause to be more thankful. I was pleased, too, to see my opinion of his lordship's nonchalance, upon a subject that you had so much at heart, completely verified. I do not know that the eye of a noble- man was ever dissected. I cannot help supposing, however, that, were that or- gan, as it exists in the head of such a per- sonage, to be accurately examined, it would be found to differ materially in its construction from the eye of a com- moner ; so very different is the view that men in an elevated, and in an humble station, have of the same object. Wliat appears great, sublime, beautiful, and im- portant to you and to me^ when submit- ted to my lord, or his grace, and sub- mitted, too, with the utmost humility, is either too minute to be visible at all, or, if seen, seems trivial, and of no account. My supposition, therefore, seems not al- together chimerical. In two months I have corrected proof sheets to the amount of ninety-three pages, and no more. In other words, I have received three packets. Nothing is quick enough for impatience ; and I suppose that the impatience of an author has the quickest of all possible move- 2P2 580 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. merits. It appears to me, however, that at this rate we shall not publish till next autumn. Should you happen therefore to pass Johnson's door, pop in your head as you go, and just insinuate to him, that, were his remittances rather more frequent, that frequency would he no in- convenience to me. I much expected one this evening, a fortnight having now elapsed since the arrival of the last. But none came, and I felt myself a little mortified. I took up the newspaper, however, and read it. There 1 found, that the Emperor and the Dutch are, after all their negotiations, going to war. Such reflections as these struck me. A great part of Europe is going to be in- volved in the greatest of all calamities — troops are in motion — artillery is drawn together — cabinets are busied in contriv- ing schemes of blood and devastation — thousands will perish, who are incapable of understanding the dispute ; and thou- sands, who, whatever the event may be, are little more interested in it than my- self, will suffer unspeakable hardships in the course of the quarrel. Well, Mr. Poet, and how then? You have composed certain verses, which you are desirous to see in print ; and because the impression seems to be delayed, you are displeased, not to say dispirited. Be ashamed of yourself ! You live in a world in which your feelings may find worthier subjects. Be concerned for the havoc of nations, and mourn over your retarded volume when you find a dearth of more import- ant tragedies ! You postpone certain topics of con- ference to our next meeting. When shall it take place ? I do not wish for you just now, because the garden is a wilderness, and so is aU the country around us. In May we shall have 'spa- ragus, and weather in which we may stroll to Weston ; at least we may hope for it ; therefore come in May : you wiU find us happy to receive you, and as much of your fair household as you can bring with you. We are very sorry for your uncle's in- disposition. The approach of summer seems however to be in his favour, that season being of all remedies for the rheu- matism, I believe, the most effectual. I thank you for your intelligence con- cerning the celebrity of John Gilpin. You may be sure that it was agreeable — but your own feelings on occasion of that article, pleased me most of all. Well, my friend, be comforted. You had not an opportunity of saying publicly, " I know the author." But the author himself will say as much for you soon, and perhaps will feel in doing so a gra- tification equal to your own. In the affair of face-painting, I am precisely of your opinion. Adieu. LETTER CXCIX. To the Rev. William Univin. Apiii 30, 1785. My dear friend, I RETURN you thanks for a letter so warm with the intelligence of the cele- brity of John Gilpin. I little thought, when I mounted him upon my Pegasus, that he would become so famous. I have learned also, from Mr. Newton, that he is equally renowned in Scotland, and that a lady there had undertaken to write a second part, on the subject of Mrs. Gilpin's return to London ; but not succeeding in it as she wished, she dropped it. He tells me likewise, that the head master of St. Paul's school (who he is I know not) has conceived, in con- sequence of the entertainment that John has afforded him, a vehement desire to write to me. Let us hope he will alter his mind ; for should we even exchange civilities on the occasion. Tirocinium will spoil all. The great estimation, how- ever, in which this knight of the stone bottles is held, may turn out a circum- stance propitious to the volume of which his history will make a part. Those events, that prove the prelude to our greatest success, are. often apparently trivial in themselves, and such as seemed to promise nothing. The disappoint- ment that Horace mentions is reversed — we design a mug, and it proves a hogshead. It is a little hard, that I alone should be unfurnished with a print- ed copy of this facetious story. When you visit London next, you must buy the most elegant impression of it, and bring it with you. I thank you also for writing to Johnson. I likewise wrote to him myself. Your letter and mine together have operated to admiration. There needs nothing more, but that the effect be lasting, and the whole will soon be Sect. III. RECENT. 58 f printed. We now draw towards the middle of the fifth book of the Task. The man Johnson is like unto some vi- cious horses that I have known : they would not budg-e till they were spurred, and, when they were spurred, they would kick ; so did he. His temper was somewhat disconcerted ; but his pace was quickened, and I was contented. 1 was very much pleased with the fol- lowing sentence in Mr. Newton's last — " I am perfectly satisfied with the pro- priety of your proceeding', as to the pub- lication." — Now,therefore, we are friends again. Now he once more inquires after the work, which, till he had disburthen- ed himself of this acknowledgment, neither he nor I, in any of our letters to each other, ever mentioned. Some side- wind has wafted to him a report of those reasons by which I justified my conduct. I never made a secret of them. Both your mother and I have studiously depo- sited them with those who we thought were most likely to transmit them to him. They wanted only a hearing, which once obtained, their solidity and cogency were such, that they were sure to prevail. You mention . I formerly knew the man you mention, but his elder bro- ther much better. We were school-fel- lows, and he was one of a club of seven Westminster men, to which I belonged, who dined together every Thursday. Should it please God to give me ability to perform the poet's part to some pur- pose, many whom I once called friends, but who have since treated me with a most magnificent indiflFerence, will be ready to take me by the hand again ; and some, whom I never held in that estima- tion, will, like — (who was but a boy when I left London), boast of a con- nection with me which they never had. Had I the virtues, and graces, and ac- complishments of St. Paul himself, I might have them at Olney, and nobody would care a button about me, yourself and one or two more excepted. Fame begets favour ; and one talent, if it be rubbed a little bright by use and prac- tice, will procure a man more friends than a thousand virtues. Dr. Johnson (I believe), in the life of one of our poets, says, that he retired from the world flat- tering himself that he should be regret- ted. But the world never missed him. I think his observation upon it is, that the vacancy, made by the retreat of any individual, is soon filled up ; that a man may always be obscure, if he chooses to be so ; and that he, who neglects the world, will be by the world neglected. Your mother and I walked yesterday in the wilderness. As we entered the gate, a glimpse of something white, con- tained in a little hole in the gate-post, caught my eye. I looked again, and discovered a bird's nest, with two tiny eggs in it. By and by they will be fledged, and tailed, and get wing-fea- thers, and fly. My case is somewhat similar to that of the parent bird. My nest is in a little nook. Here I brood, and hatch, and in due time my progeny takes v/ing and whistles. ' We wait for the time of your coming with pleasant expectations. Yours truly. LETTER CC. To Joseph Hill, Esq, June 25, 1785. My dear friend, I WRITE in a nook, that I call my boudoir. It is a summer-house, not much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door of which opens into the garden, that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honey- suckles ; and the window into my neigh- bour's orchard. It formerly served an apothecary, now dead, as a smoking- room ; and under my feet is a trap-door, which once covered a hole in the ground, where he kept his bottles. At present, however, it is dedicated to sublimer uses. Having lined it with garden mats, and furnished it with a table and two chairs, here 1 write all that I write in summer- time, whether to my friends or to the public. It is secure from all noise, and a refuge from all intrusion ; for intruders sometimes trouble me in the winter even- ings at Olney. But (thanks to my bou- doir!) I can now hide myself from them. A poet's retreat is sacred. They acknow- ledge the truth of that proposition, and never presume to violate it. The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you, that I have ordered my volume to your door. My bookseller is the most dilatory of all his fraternity, or you would have received it long since. It is more than a month since I returned him the last proof, and consequently since the printing was finished. 1 sent him the 582 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. manuscript at the begiimin^ of last No- vember, that he might publish while the town was full ; and he will hit the exact moment when it is entirely empty. Pa- tience (you will perceive) is in no situa- tion exempted from the severest trials ; a remark that may serve to comfort you under the numberless trials of your own. LETTER CCL To the Rev. William Unxvin. Aug. 27, 1785. My dear friend, I WAS low in spirits yesterday, when your parcel came and raised them. Every proof of attention and regard to a man who lives in a vinegar bottle, is welcome from his friends on the outside of it — ac- cordingly your books were welcome (you must not forget by the way, that I want the original, of v/hich you have sent me the translation only), and the ruffles from miss Shuttleworth most welcome. I am covetous, if ever man was, of living in the remembrance of absentees whom I highly value and esteem, and consequent- ly felt myself much gratified by her very obliging present. 1 have had more com- fort^ far more comfort, in the connec- tions that I have formed within the last twenty years, than in the more numerous ones that I had befere. Memorandum — The latter are almost all Unwins or Unwinisms. You are entitled to my thanks also for the facetious engravings of John Gilpin. A serious poem is like a swan, it flies heavily, and never far ; but a jest has the wings of a swallow, that never tire, and that carry it into every nook and corner, I am perfectly a stranger, how- ever, to the reception that my volume meets with; and (I believe) in respect to my nonchalance upon that subject, if au- thors would but copy so fair an example, am a most exemplary character. I must tell you nevertheless, that although the laurels that 1 gain at Olney will never minister much to my pride, I have ac- quired some. The rev. Mr. S is my admirer, and thinks my second volume superior to my first. It ought to be so. If we do not improve by practice, then nothing can mend us ; and a man has no more cause to be mortified at being told that he has excelled himself, than the elephant had, whose praise it was, that he was the greatest elephant in the world, himself excepted. If it be fair to judge of a book by an extract, I do not wonder that you were so little edified by John- son's Journal. It is even more ridiculous than was poor 's of flatulent memory. The portion of it given to us in this day's paper contains not one sentiment worth one farthing, except the last, in which he resolves to bind himself with no more unbidden obligations Poor man ! one would think, that to pray for his dead wife, and to pinch himself with church- fasts, had been almost the whole of his religion. I am sorry, that he, who was so manly an advocate for the cause of virtue in all other places, was so childish- ly employed, and so superstitiously too, in his closet. Had he studied his Bible more (to which, by his own confession, he was in great part a stranger), he had known better what use to make of his retired hours, and had trifled less. His lucubrations of this sort have rather the appearance of religious dotage, than of any vigorous exertions towards God. It will be well if the publication prove not hurtful in its effects, by exposing the best cause, already too much despised, to ridicule still more profane. On the other side of the same paper I find a long string of aphorisms, and maxims, and rules for the conduct of life, which, though they appear not with his name, are so much in his manner, with the above-mentioned, that I suspect them for his. I have not read them all, but several of them I read that were trivial enough : for the sake of one, however, I forgive him the rest — he advises never to banish hope entirely, because it is the cordial of life, although it be the greatest flatterer in the world. Such a measure of hope as may not endanger my peace by a disappointment, I would wish to cherish upon every subject in which I am interested. But there lies the difficulty. A cure however, and the only one, for all the irregularities of hope and fear, is found in submission to the will of God, Happy they that have it ! This last sentence puts me in mind of your reference to Blair in a former letter, whom you there permitted to be your arbiter to adjust the respective claims of who or that. I do not rashly differ from so great a grammarian, nor Sect. III. RECENT. 583 do at any rate differ from him altogether — upon solemn occasions. God who lieareth prayer, is right. Hector ivho slew Patroclus, is right. And the man that dresses me erery day, is in my mind right also ; — because the contrary would give an air of stiffness and pedantry to an expression that, in respect of the matter of it, cannot be too negligently made up. Adieu, my dear William! 1 have scribbled with all my might, which, breakfast-time excepted, has been my employment ever since 1 rose, and it is now past one. Yours. LETTER ecu. To Lady Hesketh. Oct. 12, 1785. My dear cousin, It is no new thing vath. you to give pleasure. But I will venture to say, that you do not often give more than you gave me this morning. ^Tien I came down to breakfast, and found upon the table a letter franked by my uncle, and when opening that frank I found that it contained a letter from you, I said within myself — " This is just as it should be. We are all grovm young again, and the days, that I thought I should see no more, are actually returned." You per- ceive, therefore, that you judged well when you conjectured, that a line from you would not he disagreeahle to me. It could not be otherwise than as in fact it proved, a most agreeahle surprise ; for I can truly hoast of an affection for you, that neither years nor interrupted inter- course have at all abated. I need only recollect how much 1 valued you once, and with how much cause, immediately to feel a revival of the same value ; if that can be said to revive, which at the most has only been dormant for want of employment. But I slander it when 1 say that it has slept. A thousand times have I recollected a thousand scenes, in which our two selves have formed the whole of the drama, with the greatest pleasure ; at times, too, when I had no reason to suppose that I should ever hear from you again. I have laughed with you at the Arabian Nights Enter- tainment, which afforded us, as you well know, a fund of merriment that deserves never to be forgot. I have walked with you to Netley Abbey, and have scram- bled with you over hedges in every di- rection, and many other feats we have performed together, upon the field of my remembrance, and all within these few years. Should I say within these twelve months, I should not transgress the truth. The hours that I have spent with you were among the pleasantest of my former days, and are therefore chronicled in my mind, so deeply as to fear no erasure. Neither do I forget my poor friend, sif Thomas. 1 should remember him indeed, at any rate, on account of his personal kindness to myself ; but the last testi- mony that he gave of his regard for you, endears him to me still more. With his uncommon understanding (for with many peculiarities he had more sense than any of his acquaintance) and with his gene- rous sensibilities, it was hardly possible that he should not distinguish you as he has done. As it was the last, so it was the best proof, that he could give, of a judgment that never deceived him, when he would allow himself leisure to con- sult it. You say that you have often heard of me : — that puzzles me. I cannot imagine from what quarter ; but it is no matter. I must tell you, however, my cousin, that your information has been a little defective. That I am happy in my si- tuation, is true ; I live, and have lived these twenty years, with Mrs. Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, during the far greater part of that time, it is (under Providence) o^ing, that I live at all. But I do not account myself happy in having been for thirteen of those years in a state of mind, that has made all that care and attention necessary ; an attention and a care that have injured her health, and which, had she not been uncommonly supported, must have brought her to the grave. But I will pass to another subject : it woidd be cruel to particularize only to give pain ; neither would I by any means give a sable hue to the first letter of a corres- pondence so unexpectedly renewed. I am delighted with what you tell me of my uncle's good health. To enjoy any measure of cheerfulness at so late a day, is much. But to have that late day enlivened with the vivacity of youth, is much more, and, in these postdiluvian times, a rarity indeed. Happy, for the 5m ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. most part, are parents who have daugh- ters. Daughters are not apt to outlive their natural affections, which a son has generally survived, even before his boyish years are expired. I rejoice particularly in my uncle's felicity, who has three fe- male descendants from his little person, who leave him nothing to wish for upon that head. My dear cousin, dejection of spirits, which (I suppose) may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employ- ment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. Manual oc- cupations do not engage the mind suffi- ciently ; as 1 know by experience, having tried many. But composition, especially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I write, therefore, generally three hours in a morning, and in an evening I transcribe. I read also, but less than I write ; for I must have bodily exercise, and therefore never pass a day without it. You ask me where I have been this summer. I answer, at Olney. Should you ask me where I spent the last seven- teen summers, I should still answer, at Olney. Ay, and the winters also, I have seldom left it ; and, except when I at- tended my brother in his last illness, never, I believe, a fortnight together. Adieu, my beloved cousin. I shall not always be thus nimble in reply, but shall always have great pleasure in answering you when I can. Yours, my dear friend and cousin. LETTER CCin. To Ladj/ Hesketh. My dearest cousin, I AIM glad that I always loved you as I did. It releases me from any occa- sion to suspect that my present affection for you is indebted for its existence to any selfish considerations. No. I am sure I love you disinterestedly, and for your own sake ; because I never thought of you with any other sensations than those of the truest affection, even while I was under the persuasion that I should never hear from you again. But with my present feelings, superadded to those that I always had for you, I find it no easy matter to do justice to my sensa- tions. I perceive myself in a state of mind similar to that of the traveller de- scribed in Pope's Messiah, who, as he passes through a sandy desert, starts at the sudden and unexpected sound of a waterfall. You have plashed me in a si- tuation new to me, and in which I feet myself somewhat puzzled how to behave. At the same time I would not grieve you, by putting a check upon your bounty. I would be as careful not to abuse it, as if I were a miser, and the question not about your money, but my own. Although I do not suspect that a se- cret to you, my cousin, is any burthen ; yet, havhig maturely considered that point since I wrote my last, I feel my- self altogether disposed to release you from the injunction, to that effect, under which I laid you. I have now made such a progress in my translation, that I need iieitber fear that I shall stop short of the end, nor that any other rider of Ptgasus should overtake me. There- fore, if at any time it should fall fairly in your way, or you should feel yourself invited to say I am so occupied, you have my poetship's free permission. Dr. Johnson read and recommended my first volume. LETTER CCIV. To the sa??ie. Jan. 10, 1786. It gave me great pleasure that you found my friend Unwin, what I was sure you would find him, a most agree- able man. I did not usher him in with the marrow-bones and cleavers of high- sounding panegyric ; both because I was certain that whatsoever merit he had, your discernment would mark it ; and because it is possible to do a man mate- rial injury, by making his praise his har- binger. It is easy to raise expectation to such a pitch, that the reality, be it ever so excellent, must necessarily fall below it. I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , of whom I have the first informa- tion from yourself, both for his friendly disposition towards me, and for the man- ner in which he marks the defects in my volume. An author must be tender in- deed to wince on being touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he says, and as you and my uncle say ; you caimot be all Sect. IIL RECENT. 585 mistaken, neither is it at all probable that any of you should be so. I take it for granted, therefore, that there are in- equalities in the composition ; and I do assure you, my dear, most faithfully, that if it should reach a second edition, I will spare no pains to improve it. It may serve me for an agreeable amuse- ment, perhaps, when Homer shall be gone, and done with. The first edition of poems has generally been susceptible of improvement. Pope, I believe, never published one in his life that did not un- dergo variations, and his longest pieces many. I will only observe, that in- equalities there must be always, and in every work of length. There are level parts of every subject, parts which we cannot with propriety attempt to elevate. They are by nature humble, and can only be made to assume an awkward and uncouth appearance by being mounted. But again I take it for granted, that this remark does not apply to the matter of your objection. You were sufficiently aware of it before, and have no need that I should suggest it as an apology, could it have served that office, but would have made it for me yourself. In trufch, my dear, had you known in what anguish of mind I wTote the whole of that poem, and under what perpetual interruption, from a cause that has since been re- moved, so that sometimes I had not an opportunity of writing more than three lines at a sitting ; you would long since have wondered, as much as I do myself, that it turned out any thing better than Grub Street. My cousin, give yourself no trouble to find out any of the magi to scrutinize my Homer. I can do without them ; and if I were not conscious that I have no need of their help, I would be the first to call for it. Assure yourself that I intend to be careful to the utmost line of all possible caution, both with respect to language and versification. I will not send a verse to the press that sliall not have undergone the strictest examina- tion. A subscription is surely on every ac- count the most eligible mode of publi- cation. \Flien I shall have emptied the purses of my friends, and of their friends, into my own, I am still free to levy con- tributions upon the world at large, and I shall then have a fund to defray the expenses of a new edition. I have or- dered Johnson to print the proposals immediately, and hope that^ they will kiss your hands before the week is ex- pired. I have had the kindest letter from" Jo- sephus that I ever had. He mentioned my purpose to one of the masters of Eton, who replied, that " such a work is much wanted." AflFectionately yours. LETTER CCV. To the sa?ne. Olney, Jan. 31, 1786. It is very pleasant, my dearest cousin, to receive a present so delicately con- veyed as that which I received so lately from Anonymous ; but it is also very painful to have nobody to thank for it. I find myself therefore driven by stress of necessity to the following resolutions, viz. that I will constitute you my thanks- receiver general, for whatsoever gift I shall receive hereafter, as well as for those that I have already received from a nameless benefactor. I therefore thank you, my cousin, for a most elegant pre- sent, including the most elegant compli- ment that ever poet was honoured with ; for a snuff-box of tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on the lid of it, glazed with chrystal, having the figures of three hares in the fore-ground, and inscribed above with these words. The peasant's nest ; and below with these. Tiny, Puss, and Bess. For all and every of these I thank you, and also for standing proxy on this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank you, that so soon after I had sent you the first letter of Anonymous, I re- ceived another in the same hand. There ! Now I am a little easier. I have almost conceived a design to send up half a dozen stout country fel- lows, to tie by the leg to their respective bed-posts the company that so abridges your opportunity of writing to me. Your letters are the joy of my heart ; and I cannot endure to be robbed, by I know not whom, of half my treasure. But there is no comfort without a drawback ; and therefore it is, that I, who have un- known friends, have unknown enemies also. Ever since I wrote last, I find my- self in better health, and my nocturnal spasms and fever considerably abated. I intend to write to Dr. Kerr on Thurs- 586 ELEGANT EPISTLES. SOOK IV. day, that I may gratify him with an account of my amendment : for to him I know that it will he a gratifica- tion. Were he not a physician, I should regret that he lives so distant, for he is a most agreeable man ; hut being what he is, it would be impossible to have his company, even if he were a neighbour, unless in time of sickness ; at which time, whatever charms he might have himself, my own must necessarily lose much of their effect on him. When I write to you, my dear, what I have already related to the General, I am always fearful lest I should tell you that for news with which you are well acquainted. For once, however, I will venture — On Wednesday last, I received from Johnson the MS copy of a speci- men that I had sent to the General, and, inclosed in the same cover, notes upon it by an unknown critic. Johnson, in a short letter, recommended him to me as a man of unquestionable learning and ability. On perusal and consideration of his remarks, I found him such ; and having nothing so much at heart as to give all possible security to yourself and the General that my work shall not come forth unfinished, I answered Johnson that I would gladly submit my MS to his friend. He is, in truth, a very clever fellow, perfectly a stranger to me, and one who, I promise you, will not spare for severity of animadversion where he shall find occasion. It is impossible for you, my dearest cousin, to express a wish that I do not equally feel a wish to gra- tify. You are desirous that Maty should see a book of my Homer ; and for that reason, if Maty will see a book of it, he shall be welcome, although time is likely to be precious, and consequently any de- lay, that is not absolutely necessary, as much as possible to be avoided. I am now revising the Iliad. It is a business that will cost me four months, perhaps five ; for I compare the very words as 1 go, and if much alteration should occur, must transcribe the whole. The first hook I have almost transcribed already. To these five months, Johnson says that nine more must be added for printing ; and upon my own experience I will ven- ture to assure you, that the tardiness of printers will make those nine months twelve. There is danger, therefore, that my subscribers may think that I make them wait too long, and that they who know me not may suspect a bubble. How glad shall I be to read it over in an evening, book by book, as fast as I settle the copy, to you and to Mrs. Unwin ! She has been my touchstone always ; and without reference to her taste and judg- ment, I have printed nothing. With one of you at each elbow, I should think my- self the happiest of all poets. The General and I, having broken the ice, are upon the most comfortable terms of correspondence. He writes very af- fectionately to me, and I say every thing to him that comes uppermost. I could not write frequently to any crea- ture living upon any other terms than those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, which make him less active than he was. I am sorry to hear that he has any such. Alas ! alas ! he was young when I saw him, only twenty years ago. I have the most affectionate letter imaginable from Colman, who writes ta me like a brother. The chancellor is yet dumb. May God have you in his keeping, my beloved cousin ! Farewell. LETTER CCVI. To Lady Hesketh. Olney, Feb. 9, 178G. My dearest cousin, I HAVE been impatient to tell you, that I am impatient to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feel- ings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the last post, but have been so com- pletely occupied by this tormenting spe- cimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a letter on Monday, that would distress and alarm him ; I sent him another yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologised very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures ; and his friend has promised to confine himself, in fu- ture, to a comparison of me with the original, so that (I doubt not) we shall jog on merrily together. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that your kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both. I shall see you again. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will shew you my Sect. III. RECENT. 587 prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse, and its banks — every tiling that I have described. I anticipate the plea- sure of those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk not of an inn ! Mention it not for your life ! We hare never had so many visitors but we could easily accommodate them all, though we have received Un- win, and his wife, and his sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I wiU not let you come till the end of May, or beg-inning of June ; because before that time my green -house will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. When the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor with mats ; and there you shall sit with a bed of migno- nette at your side, and a hedge of honey- suckles, roses, and jasmine ; and 1 will make you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention, the country will not be in complete beauty. And I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is the box in which have been lodged ail my hares, and in which lodges Puss at present. But he, poor fellow, is worn out \Yith age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand stands a cupboard, the work of the same author ; it was once a dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table, which I also made. But a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became pa- ralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament, ; and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the far- ther end of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour, into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Unwin, un- less we should meet her before, and where we shall be as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the Swan at Newport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney. My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have ask- ed him, whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be any thing better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content with it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too. Adieu ! my dearest, dearest cousin. LETTER CCVII. To the same. Olney, Feb. 11, 1786. My dearest cousin, It must be (I suppose) a fortnight or thereabouts since I wrote last, I feel myself so alert and so ready to write again. Be that as it may, here I come. We talk of nobody but you. What we will do with you when we get you, where you shall walk, where you shall sleep — in short, every thing that bears the re- motest relation to your well-being at Olney, occupies all our talking time> which is all that I do not spend at Troy. I have every reason for writing to you as often as I can ; but I have a particular reason for doing it now. I want to tell you, that by the diligence on Wednesday next I mean to send you a quire of my Homer for Maty's perusal. It will con- tain the first book, and as much of the second as brings us to the catalogue of the ships, and is every morsel of the re- vised copy that I have transcribed. My dearest cousin, read it yourself, let the General read it, do what you please with it, so that it reach Johnson in due time. But let Maty be the only critic that has any thing to do with it. The vexation, the perplexity, that attends a multiplicity of criticisms by various hands, many of which are sure to be futile, many of them ill-founded, and some of them con- tradictory to others, is inconceivable, except by the author whose ill-fated work happens to be the subject of them. This also appears to me self-evident, that if a work have past under the review of one man of taste and learning, and have had the good fortune to please him, his approbation gives security for that of all others qualified like himself. I speak thus, my dear, after having just escaped from such a storm of trouble, occasioned by endless remarks, hints, suggestions, and objections, as drove me almost to despair, and to the very verge of a reso- lution to drop my undertaking for ever. With infinite difficulty I at last sifted the 588 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, chaff from the wheat, availed myself of what appeared to me to be just, and re- jected the rest, but not till the labour and anxiety had nearly undone all that Kerr had been doing- for me. My beloved cousin, trust me for it, as you safely may, that temper, vanity, and self-importance had nothing- to do in all this distress that I suffered. It was merely the effect of an alarm that I could not help taking, when I compared the great trouble I had with a few lines only, thus handled, with that which I foresaw such handling of the whole must necessarily give me. I felt beforehand that my constitution would not bear it. I shall send up this second specimen in a box that I have had made on purpose ; and when Maty has done with the copy, and you have done with it yourself, then you must return it in said box to my translatorship. Though Johnson's friend has teased me sadly, I verily believe that I shall have no more such cause to complain of him. We now understand one another ; and I firm- ly believe, that I might have gone the world through before J had found his $;qual in an accurate and familiar ac- quaintance with the original. A letter to Mr. Urban in the last Gen- tleman's Magazine, of which Fs book is the subject, pleases me more than any thing I have seen in the way of eulogium yet. I have no guess of the author. I do not wish to remind the Chancel- lor of his promise. Ask you why, my cousin ? Because I suppose it would be impossible. He has no doubt forgotten it entirely, and would be obliged to take my word for the truth of it, which I could not bear. We drank tea together with Mrs. C e and her sister, in King Street, Bloomsbury, and there was the promise made. I said, " Thurlow, I am nobody, and shall be always no- body, and you will be chancellor. You shall provide for me when you are.' He smiled, and replied, *' I surely will." "These ladies," said I, " are witnesses." He still smiled, and said, " Let them be so, for I will certainly do it." But, alas ! twenty-four years have passed since the day of the date thereof; and to mention it now would be to upbraid him with inattention to his plighted troth. Neither do I suppose that he could easily serve such a creature as I am, if he would. Adieu, whom I love entirely. LETTER CCVIIL To hady Hesketh. Olney, Feb. 19, 1786. My dearest cousin, Since so it must be, so it shall be. If you will not sleep under the roof of a friend, may you never sleep under the roof of an enemy ! An enemy however you will not presently find. Mrs. Unwin bids me mention her affectionately, and tell you, that she willingly gives up a part, for the sake of the rest ; willingly, at least, as far as Avillingly may consist with some reluctance : I feel my reluc- tance too. Our design was, that you should have slept in the room that serves me for a study ; and its having been occupied by you would have been an additional recommendation of it to me. But all reluctances are superseded by the thought of seeing you ; and be- cause we have nothing so much at heart as the wish to see you happy and com- fortable, we are desirous therefore to accommodate you to your own mind, and not to ours. Mrs. Unwin has al- ready secured for you an apartment, or rather two, just such as we could wish. The house in which you will find them is within thirty yards of our own, and opposite to it. The whole affair is thus commodiously adjusted ; and now I have nothing to do but to wish for June ; and June, my cousin, was never so wished for since June was made. I shall have a thousand things to hear, and a thou- sand to say ; and they will all rush into my mind together, till it will be so crowded with things impatient to be said, that for some time 1 shall say no- thing. But no matter — sooner or later they will all come out ; and since we shall have you the longer for not having- you under our own roof (a circumstance that, more than any thing, reconciles us to that measure), they will stand the better chance. After so long a separa- tion, a separation that of late seemed likely to last for life, we shall meet each other as alive from the dead ; and for my own part, I can truly say, that I have not a friend in the other world, whose resurrection would give me greater pleasure. I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased you with what you have seen of my Homer. I wish that all English Sect. Ill RECENT. 589 readers had your unsophisticated, or ra- ther unadulterated, taste, and could relish simplicity like you. But I am well aware, that in this respect I am under a disadvantage ; and that many, especially many ladies, missing many turns and prettinesses of expression that they have admired in Pope, will account my trans- lation in those particulars defective. But I comfort myself with the thought, that in reality it is no defect ; on the con- trary, that the want of all such embel- lishments, as do not belong to the origi- nal, will be one of its principal merits with persons indeed capable of relishing Homer. He is the best poet that ever lived, for many reasons ; but for none more than for that majestic plainness that distinguishes him from all others. As an accomplished person moves gracefully without thinking of it, in like manner the dignity of Homer seems to cost him no labour. It was natural to him to say great things, and to say them well; and little ornaments were beneath his notice. If Maty, my dearest cousin, should re- turn to you my copy with any such stric- tures as may make it necessary for me to see it again before it goes to Johnson, in that case you shall send it to me, otherwise to Johnson immediately ; for he writes me word, he wishes his friend to go to work upon it as soon as possible. Wlien you come, my dear, we will hang all these critics together. For they have worried me without remorse or con- science. At least one of them has. I had actually murdered more than a few of the best lines in the specimen, in com- pliance with his requisitions, but plucked up my courage at last, and in the very last opportunity that I had, recovered them to life again by restoring the origi- nal reading. At the same time I readily confess, that the specimen is the better for all this discipline its author has un- dergone ; but then it has been more in- debted for its improvement to that pointed accuracy of examination to which I was myself excited, than to any proposed amendments from Mr. Critic ; for as sure as you are my cousin, whom I long to see at Olney, so surely would he have done me irreparable mischief, if I would have given him leave. My friend Bagot writes to me in a most friendly strain, and calls loudly up- on me for original poetry. When I shall have done with Homer, probably he will not call in vain. Having found the prime feather of a swan on the banks of the smug and silver Trent, he keeps it for me. Adieu, dear cousin. I am sorry that the General has such indifferent health. He must not die. I can by no means spare a person so kind to me. LETTER CCIX. To the Rev. Walter Bagot. Olnes^, Feb. 27, 1786. Alas ! alas ! my dear, dear friend, may God himself comfort you! I will not be so absurd as to attempt it. By the close of your letter, it should seem, that in this hour of great trial he withholds not his consolations from you. I know by experience, that they are neither few nor small : and though I feel for you as I never felt for man before, yet do I sincerely rejoice in this, that where- as there is but one true Comforter in the universe, under afflictions such as yours, you both know him and know where to seek him. I thought you a man the most happily mated that I had ever seen, and had great pleasure in your felicity. Pardon me, if now I feel a wish, that, short as my acquaintance with her was, I had never seen her. I should have mourned with you, but not as I do now. Mrs. Unwin sympathizes with you also most sincerely ; and yoa neither are nor will be soon forgotten in such prayers as we can make at Olney. I will not detain you longer now, my poor afflicted friend, than to commit you to the tender mercy of God, and to bid you a sorrowful adieu ! Adieu ! ever yours. LETTER CCX. To hady Hesketh. Oiney, April 17, 1786. My dearest cousin. If you will not quote Solomon, my dearest cousin, I will. He says, and as beautifully as truly — " Hope deferred maketh the heart sick ; but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life !" I feel how much reason he had on his side when he made this observation, and am myself sick of your fortnight's delay. •H- ■=<• -x- -x- * -■* -x- -?t S90 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. The vicarage was built by lord Dart- mouth, and was not finished till some time after we arrived at Olney, conse- quently it is new. It is a smart stone building, well sashed, by much too good for the living, but just what I would wish for you. It has, as you justly con- cluded from my premises, a garden, but rather calculated for use than orna- ment. It is square, and well walled, but has neither arbour, nor alcove, nor other shade, except the shadow of the liouse. But we have two gardens, which are yours. Between your mansion and ours is interposed nothing but an or- wchard, into which a door opening out of «ur garden, affords us the easiest com- munication imaginable, will save the round about by the town, and make both houses one. Your chamber win- dows look over the river, and over the meadows, to a village called Emberton, and command the whole length of a long bridge, described by a certain poet, together with a view of the road at a distance. Should you wish for books at Olney, you must bring them with you, or you will wish in vain ; for I have none but the works of a certain poet, Cowper, of whom perhaps you have heard ; and they are as yet but two volumes. They may multiply hereafter, but at present they are no more. You are the first person for whom I have heard Mrs. Unwin express such feelings as she does for you. She is not profuse in professions, nor forward to enter into treaties of friendship with new faces ; but when her friendship is once engaged, it may be confided in, even unto death. She loves you alrea- dy ; and how much more will she love you, before this time twelve-month ! I have indeed endeavoured to describe you to her ; but perfectly as I have you by heart, I am sensible that my picture cannot do you justice. I never saw one that did. Be you what you may, you are much beloved, and will be so at Ol- ney ; and Mrs. U. expects you with the pleasure that one feels at the return of a long absent dear relation ; that is to say, with a pleasure such as mine. She sends you her warmest affections. On Friday I received a letter from dear Anonymous, apprising me of a par- cel that the coach would bring me on Saturday. Who is there in the world that has, or thinks he has, reason to love me to the degree that he does ? But it is no matter. He chooses to be unknown ; and his choice is, and ever shall be, so sa- cred to me, that if his name lay on the table before me reversed, I would not turn the paper about that 1 might read it. Much as it would gratify me to thank him, I would turn my eyes away from the forbidden discovery. I long to assure him that those same eyes, concerning which he expresses such kind apprehen- sions lest they should suffer by this labo- rious undertaking, are as well as I could expect them to be if I were never to touch either book or pen. Subject to weakness, and occasional slight inflam- mations, it is probable that they will always be ; but I cannot remember the time when they enjoyed any thing so like an exemption from those infirmities as at present. One would almost sup- pose, that reading Homer were the best ophthalmic in the world. I should be happy to remove his solicitude on the subject ; but it is a pleasure that he will not let me enjoy. Well then, I will be content without it ; and so content, that though I believe you, my dear, to be in full possession of all this mystery, you shall never know me, while you live, either directly, or by hints of any sort, attempt to extort or to steal the secret from you. 1 should think myself as justly punishable as the Bethshemites for looking into the ark, which they were not allowed to touch. I have not sent for Kerr, for Kerr can do nothing but send me to Bath, and to Bath I cannot go for a thousand reasons. The summer will set me up again ; I grow fat every day, and shall be as big as Gog or Magog, or both put together, before you come. . I did actually live three years with Mr. Chapman, a solicitor ; that is to say, I slept three years in his house : but I lived ; that is to say, I spent my days, in Southampton-Row, as you very well re- member. There was I, and the future lord chancellor, constantly employed from morning to night in giggling and making giggle, instead of studying the law. Oh fie, cousin! how could you do so ? I am pleased with lord Thurlow's inquiries about me. If he takes it into that inimitable head of his, he may make a man of me yet. I could love him hear- tily, if he would deserve it at my hands : that I did so once is certain. The du- Sect. III. RECENT. 591 chess of ! Who in the world set her a-going ? But if all the duchesses in the world were spinning like so many whir- ligigs, for my benefit, I would not stop them. It is a noble thing to be a poet, it makes all the world so lively, I might have preached more sermons than even Tillotson did, and better, and the world would have been still fast asleep ; but a volume of verse is a fiddle, that puts the universe in motion. Yours, my dear friend and cousin. LETTER CCXL To Lady Hesketh. Olney, April 24, 1786. Your letters are so much my comfort, that I often tremble, lest by any acci- dent I should be disappointed ; and the more because you have been, more than once, so engaged in company on the writing day, that I have had a narrow escape. Let me give you a piece of good counsel, my cousin : Follow my laudable example — write when you can ; take Time's forelock in one hand and a pen in the other, and so make sure of your opportunity. It is well for me that you write faster than any body, and more in an hour than other people in two, else I know not what would be- come of me. WlienI read your letters, I hear you talk ; and I love talking letters dearly, especially from you. Well ! the middle of June will not be always a thou- sand years off ; and when it comes I shall hear you, and see you too, and shall not care a farthing then if you do not touch a pen in a month. By the way, you must either send me or bring me some more paper; for before the moon shall have performed a few more revolutions, I shall not have a scrap left ; and tedious revolutions they are just now, that is certain. I give you leave to be as peremptory as you please, especially at a distance ; but when you say that you are a Cowper (and the better it is for the Cowpers that such you are, and I give them joy of you, with all my heart), you must not forget, that 1 boast myself a Cowper too, and have my humours, and fancies, and purposes, and determinations, as well as others of my name, and hold them as fast as they can. You indeed tell me how often I shall see you when you come. A pretty story truly. I am an he Cowper, my dear, and claim the pri- vileges that belong to my noble sex. — But these matters shall be settled, as my cousin Agamemnon used to say, at a more convenient time. I shall rejoice to see the letter you promise me ; for though I met with a morsel of praise last week, I do not know that the week current is likely to produce me any ; and having lately been pretty much pampered with that diet, I expect to find myself rather hungry by the time when your next letter shall ar- rive. It will therefore be very oppor- tune. The morsel, above alluded to, came from — whom do^ you think ? From , but she desires that her author- ship may be a secret. And in my an- swer I promised not to divulge it, ex- cept to you. It is a pretty copy of verses, neatly written, and well turned ; and when you come you shall see them. I intend to keep all pretty things to myself till then, that they may serve me as a bait to lure you hither more effec- tually. The last letter that I had from , I received so many years since, that it seems as if it had reached me a good while before I was born. I was grieved at the heart that the General could not come, and that ill- ness was in part the cause that hindered him. I have sent him, by his express desire, a new edition of the first book, and half the second. He would not suffer me to send it to you, my dear, lest you should post it away to Maty at once. He did not give that reason, but being shrewd I found it. The grass begins to grow, and the leaves to bud, and every thing is prepar- ing to be beautiful against you come. Adieu ! You inquire of our walks, I perceive, as well as our rides. They are beauti- ful. You inquire also concerning a cel- lar. You have two cellars. Oh ! what years have passed since we took the same walks, and drank out of the same bottle ! But a few more weeks, and then ! 592 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER CCXIL To Lady Hesketh. Olney, May 15, 1786. My dearest cousin, From this very morning I begin to date the last month of our long separation, and confidently and most comfortably hope, that before the 15th of June shall present itself, we shall have seen each other. Is it not so ? And will it not be one of the most etraordinary eeras of my ex- traordinary life ? A year ago we neither corresponded, nor expected to meet in this world. But this world is a scene of marvellous events, many of them more marvellous than fiction itself would dare to hazard; and (blessed be God !) they are not all of the distressing kind. Now and then, in the course of an existence, whose hue is for the most part sable, a day turns up that makes amends for many sighs and many subjects of com- plaint. Such a day shall I account the day of your arrival at Olney. Wherefore is it (canst thou tell me ?) that, together with all those delightful sensations to which the sight of a long absent dear friend gives birth, there is a mixture of something painful, flutter- ings, and tumults, and I know not what accompaniments of our pleasure, that are, in fact, perfectly foreign from the occasion ? Such I feel, when I think of our meeting, and such, 1 suppose, feel you ; and the nearer the crisis ap- proaches, the more I am sensible of them. I know, beforehand, that they will increase with every turn of the wheels that shall convey me to New- port, when I shall set out to meet you ; and that when we actually meet, the plea- sure, and this unaccountable pain toge- ther, will be as much as I shall be able to support. I am utterly at a loss for the cause ; and can only resolve it into that appointment, by which it has been fore-ordained that all human delights shall be qualified and mingled with their contraries. For there is nothing formi- dable in you. To me, at least, there is nothing such ; no, not even in your me- naces, unless when you threaten me to write no more. Nay, I verily believe, did I not know you to be what you are, and had less affection for you than I have, I should have fewer of these emotions, of which T would have none, if 1 could help it. But a fig for them all ! Let us resolve to combat with, and to conquer them. They are dreams. They are illusions of the judgment. Some enemy, that hates the happiness of human kind, and is ever industrious to dash it, works them in us ; and their being so perfectly unreasonable as they are, is a proof of it. Nothing, that is such, can be the work of a good agent. This I know too, by experience, that, like all other illusions, they exist only by force of imagination, are indebted for their prevalence to the absence of their object, and, in a few moments after its appearance cease. So, then, this is a set- tled point, and the case stands thus ; You will tremble as you draw near to New- port, and so shall I. But we will both recollect, that there is no reason why we should ; and this recollection will, at least, have some little effect in our favour. We will likewise both take the comfort of what we know to be true, that the> tumult will soon cease, and the pleasure long survive the pain, even as long, I trust, as we ourselves shall survive it. What you say of Maty gives me all the consolation that you intended. We both think it highly probable that you suggest the true cause of his displeasure, when you suppose him mortified at not having had a part of the translation laid before him, ere the specimen was pub- lished. The General was very much hurt, and calls his censures harsh and unrea- sonable. He likewise sent me a conso- latory letter on the occasion, in which he took the kindest pains to heal the wound that (he supposed) I might have suffer- ed. I am not naturally insensible ; and the sensibilities that I had by nature have been wonderfully enhanced by a long series of shocks, given to a frame of nerves that was never very athletic. I feel accordingly, whether painful or pleasant, in the extreme ; am easily ele- vated, and easily cast down. The frown of a critic freezes my poetical powers, and discourages me to a degree that makes me ashamed of my own weakness. Yet I presently recover my confidence again. The half of what you so kindly say in your last, would at any time re- store my spirits ; and, being said by you, is infallible. I am not ashamed to con- fess, that, having commenced an author, I am most abundantly desirous to suc- ceed as such. I have (vjliat perhaps you Sect. IIL RECENT. 593 little suspect yiie of) in 7ny nature an infi- nite share of ambition. But with it I have at the same time, as you well know, an equal share of diffidence. To this combination of opposite qualities it has been owing, that, till lately, I stole through life without undertaking any thing, yet always wishing to distinguish myself. At last I ventured — ventured too in the only path, that, at so late a period, was yet open to me ; and am de- termined, if God have not determined otherwise, to work my way, through the obscurity that has been so long my por- tion, into notice. Every thing, therefore, that seems to threaten this my favourite purpose with disappointment, affects me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious minds are in the same predicament. He, who seeks distinction, must be sensible of disapprobation, exactly in the same proportion as he desires applause. And now, my precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to you in this particular, with- out a speck of dissimulation. Some peo- ple, and good people too, would blame me. But you will not ; and they (I think) would blame without just cause. We certainly do not honour God when we bury, or when we neglect to improve, as far as we may, whatever talent he may have bestowed on us, whether it be little or much. In natural things, as well as in spiritual, it is a never-failing truth, that to him, who hath (that is, to him who occupies what he hath diligently, and so as to increase it), more shall be given. Set me down, therefore, my dear, for an industrious rhymer, so long as I shall have the ability. For in this only way is it possible for me, so far as I can see, either to honour God or to serve man, or even to serve myself. I rejoice to hear that Mr. Throckmor- ton wishes to be on a more intimate foot- ing. I am shy, and suspect that he is not very much otherwise ; and the conse- quence has been, that we have mutually wished an acquaintance without being- able to accomplish it. Blessings on you for the hint that you dropped on the subject of the house at Weston ! For the burthen of my song is, " Since we have met once again, let us never be separated, as we have been, more." LETTER CCXIII. To the same. Olney, May 25, ]78rr. I HAVE at length, my cousin, found my way into my summer abode. I believe that I described it to you some time since, and will therefore now leave it unde- scribed. I will only say, that I am writ- ing in a band-box, situated, at least in my account, delightfully, because it has a window in one side, that opens into that orchard through which, as I am sitting here, I shall see you often pass, and which therefore I already prefer to all the or- chards in the world. You do well to pre- pare me for all possible delays, because in this life all sorts of disappointments are possible ; and I shall do well, if any such delay of your journey should hap- pen, to practise that lesson of patience, which you inculcate. But it is a lesson, which, even with you for my teacher, I shall be slow to learn. Being sure, however, that you will not procrastinate without cause, I will make myself as easy as I can about it, and hope the best. To convince you how much I am under dis- cipline and good advice, I will lay aside a favourite measure, influenced in doing so by nothing but the good sense of your contrary opinion. I had set my heart on meeting you at Newport. In my haste to see you once again, I was willing to overlook many awkwardnesses I could not but foresee would attend it. I put them aside so long as I only foresaw them myself ; but since I find that you foresee them too, I can no longer deal so slightly with them. It is therefore determined, that we meet at Olney. Much 1 shall feel, but I will not die if I can help it ; and I beg that you will take all possible care to outlive it likewise ; for I know what it is to be balked in the moment of acquisition, and should be loth to know it again. Last Monday in the evening we walk- ed to Weston, according to our usual custom. It happened, owing to a mis- take of time, that we set out half an hour sooner than usual. This mistake we dis- covered while we were in the wilderness. So, finding that we had time before us, as they say, Mrs. Unwin proposed, that we should go into the village, and take a view of the house that 1 had just men- tioned to vou. We did so, and found it 2Q 594 ELEGANT EPISTLES. BoaK IV. such a one as in most respects would suit you well. But Moses Brown, our vicar, who, as I told you, is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound to die for that reason. He said himself, when he was here last summer, that he should live ten years long-er, and for aught that appears so he may. In which case, for the sake of its near neighbourhood to us, the vicarage has charms for me that no other place can rival. But this, and a thousand things more, shall be talked over when you come. We have been industriously cultivating our acquaintance with our Weston neigh- bours since I wrote last, and they on their part have been equally diligent in the same cause. I have a notion, that we shall all suit well. I see much in them both that I admire. You know perhaps that they are Catholics. It is a delightful bundle of praise, my cousin, that you have sent me. All jas- mine and lavender. Whoever the lady is, she has evidently an admirable pen, and a cultivated mind. If a person reads, it is no matter in what language ; and if the mind be informed, it is no matter whether that mind belongs to a man or a woman. The taste and the judgment will receive the benefit alike in both. Long before the Task was published, I made an experiment one day, being in a frolicksome mood, upon my friend. We were walking in the garden, and con- versing on a subject similar to these lines — The few, that pray at all, pray oft amiss; And seeking grace t' improve the present good. Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 1 repeated them, and said to him with an air of nonchalance^ " Do you recollect those lines? I have seen them some- where : where are they ?" He put on a considering face, and after some deliber- ation replied, " Oh, I will tell you where they must be — in the Night Thoughts." I was glad my trial turned out so well, and did not undeceive him. I mention this occurrence only in confirmation of the letter-writer's opinion ; but at the same time I do assure you, on the faith of an honest man, that I never in my life designed an imitation of Young, or of any other writer ; for mimicry is my ab- horrence, at least in poetry. Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that both for your sake, since you make a point of it, and for my own, I will be as philosophically careful as possible, that these fine nerves of mine shall not be beyond measure agitated when you arrive. In truth, there is much greater probability that they will be benefited, and greatly too. Joy of heart, from whatever occasion it may arise, is the best of all nervous medicines ; and I should not wonder if such a turn given to my spirits should have even a lasting effect, of the most advantageous kind, upon them. You must not imagine nei- ther, that I am on the whole in any great degree subject to nervous affections ; oc- casionally I am, and have been these many years, much liable to dejection. But at intervals, and sometimes for an interval of weeks, no creature would sus- pect it. For I have not that which com- monly is a symptom of such a case be- longing to me : I mean, extraordinary elevation in the absence of Mr. Blue- devil. When I am in the best health, my tide of animal sprightliness flows with great equality ; so that I am never, at any time, exalted in proportion as I am sometimes depressed. My depression has a cause ; and if that cause were to cease, I should be as cheerful thence- forth, and perhaps for ever, as any man need be. But, as I have often said, Mrs. Unwin shall be my expositor. Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant that our friendship, which while we could see each other never suffered a moment's interruption, and which so long a separation has not in the least abated, may glow in us to our last hour, and be renewed in a better world, there to be perpetuated for ever ! For you must know, that I should not love you half so well, if I did not believe you would be my friend to eternity. There is not room enough for friendship to un- fold itself in full bloom, in such a nook of life as this. Therefore I am, and must, and will be, yours for ever. LETTER CCXIV. To Lady Hesketh. Olney, May 29, 1786. Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose letters, among all that I receive, have this property peculiarly their own, that I expect them v/itiiout trembling, and ne- Sect. III. RECENT. 195 ver find any thing in tliem tliat does not give me pleasure ! for which, there- fore, 1 would take nothing in exchange that the world could give me, save and except that for which I must exchange them soon (and happy shall I be to do so), your own company. That, indeed, is delayed a little too long ; to my im- patience, at least, it seems so, who find the spring, backward as it is, too for- ward, because many of its beauties will have faded before you will have an op- portunity to see them. We took our customary walk yesterday in the wilder- ness at Weston, and saw, with regret, the laburnums, syringas, and guelder- roses, some of them blown, and others just upon the point of blowing, and could not help observing — All these will be gone before lady Hesketh comes. Still, however, there will be roses, and jasmine, and honeysuckle, and shady walks, and cool alcoves, and you will partake them with us. But I want you to have a share of every thing that is delightful here, and cannot bear that the advance of the season should steal away a single pleasure before you can come to enjoy it. Every day I think of you, and almost all day long ; I will venture to say, that even you were never so expected in your life. I called last week at the Quaker's to see the furniture of your bed, the fame of which had reached me. It is, I assure you, superb ; of printed cotton, and the subject classical. Every morn- ing you will open your eyes on Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring his father to grant him the conduct of his chariot for a day. May your sleep be as sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and your nights, at least, will be well provided for. I shall send up the sixth and seventh books of the Iliad shortly,"; and shall ad- dress them to you. You will forward them to the General. I long to shew you my workshop, and to see you sitting on the opposite side of my table. We shall be as close packed as two wax figures in an old-fashioned picture frame. I am writing in it now. It is the place in which I fabricate all my verse in summer time. I rose an hour sooner than usual this morning, that I might finish my sheet before breakfast, for I must write this day to the General. The grass under my windows is all bespangled with dew-drops, and the birds are singing in the apple trees among the blossoms. Never poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke his Muse. I have made your heart ache too often, my poor dear cousin, with talking about my fits of dejection. Something has happened that has led me to the subject, or I would have mentioned them more sparingly. Do not suppose, or suspect, that I treat you with reserve ; there is nothing, in which I am concerned, that you shall not be made acquainted with. But the tale is too long for a letter. I will only add, for your present satisfaction, that the cause is not ex- terior, that it is not within the reach of human aid, and that yet I have a hope myself, and Mrs. Unwin a strong per- suasion, of its removal. I am indeed even now, and have been for a consider- able time, sensible of a change for the better, and expect, with good reason, a comfortable lift from you. Guess then, my beloved cousin, with what wishes I look forward to the time of your arrival, from whose coming I promise myself not only pleasure, but peace of mind, at least an additional share of it. At pre- sent it is an uncertain and transient guest with me ; but the joy with which I shall see and converse with you at Olney, may, perhaps, make it an abiding LETTER, CCXV. To the Rev. William Univin. My dear William, How apt we are to deceive ourselves where self is in question ! You say I am in your debt, and I accounted you in mine : a mistake to which you must at- tribute my arrears, if indeed I owe you any ; for I am not backward to write where the uppermost thought is wel- come. I am obliged to you for all the books you have occasionally furnished me with : I did not indeed read many of Johnson's Classics : those of established reputation are so fresh in my memory, though many years have intervened since I made them my companions, that it was like reading what I read yesterday over again ; and as to the minor Classics, I did not 2Q 2 596 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. think them worth reading at all. I tasted most of them, and did not like them. It is a great thing to be indeed a poet, and does hot happen to more than one man in a century. Churchill, the great Churchill, deserved the name of poet. I have read him twice, and some of his pieces three times over ; and the last time with more pleasure than the first. The pitiful scribbler of his life seems to have undertaken that task, for which he was entirely unqualified, merely because it aJ0Forded him an opportunity to traduce him. He has inserted in it but one anecdote of consequence, for which he refers you to a novel, and in- troduces the story with doubts about the truth of it. But his barrenness as a biographer I could forgive, if the sim- pleton had not thought himself a judge of his writings, and under the erroneous influence of that thought, informs his reader that "Gotham," " Independence," and " The Times," were catchpennies. Gotham, unless I am a greater blockhead than he, which I am far from believing, is a noble and beautiful poem, and a poem with which I make no doubt the author took as much pains as with any he ever wrote. Making allowance (and Dryden perhaps, in his " Absalom and Achito- phel," stands in need of the same indul- gence) for an unwarrantable use of Scripture, it appears to me to be a mas- / terly performance. Independence is a most animated piece, full of strength and spirit, and marked with that bold masculine character, which I think is the great peculiarity of this writer. And The Times (except that the subject is disgusting to the last degree) stands equally high in my opinion. He is in- deed a careless writer for the most part ; but where shall we find, in any of those authors, who finish their works with the exactness of a Flemish pencil, those bold and daring strokes of fancy, those num- bers so hazardously ventured upon and so happily finished, the matter so com- pressed and yet so clear, and the co- louring so sparingly laid on and yet with such a beautiful effect ! In short, it is not his least praise, that he is never guilty of those faults as a writer, which he lays to the charge of others : a proof that he did not judge by a borrowed standard, or from rules laid down by critics, but that he was qualified to do it by his own native powers, and his great superiority of genius. For he that wrote so much, and so fast, would, through inadvertence and hurry, una- voidably have departed from rules, which he might have found in books ; but his own truly poetical talent was a guide which could not suffer him to err. A race-horse is graceful in his swiftest pace, and never makes an awkward mo- tion, though he is pushed to his utmost speed. A cart-horse might perhaps be taught to play tricks in the riding-school, and might prance and curvet like his betters ; but at some unlucky time would be sure to betray the baseness of his ori- ginal. It is an affair of very little con- sequence perhaps to the well-being of mankind, but I cannot help regretting that he died so soon. Those words of Virgil, upon the immature death of Mar- cellus, might serve for his epitaph : — Ostendent terris hnnc tantum fata, neqne ultra Esse sinent . Yours. LETTER CCXVI. To the Rev. William Unwin, My dear friend, I FIND the Register in all respects an entertaining medley ; but especially in this, that it has brought to my view some long-forgotten pieces of my own production. I mean, by the way, two or three. Those I have marked with my own initials ; and you may be sure I found them peculiarly agreeable, as they had not only the grace of being mine, but that of novelty likewise to recom- mend them. It is at least twenty years since I saw them. You, I think, was never a dabbler in rhyme. I have been one ever since I was fourteen years of age, when I began with translating an elegy of Tibullus. I have no more right to the name of a poet, than a maker of mouse-traps has to that of an engineer ; but my little exploits in this way have at times amused me so much, that I have often wished myself a good one. Such a talent in verse as mine is, like a child's rattle, very entertaining to the trifler that uses it, and very disagree- able to all beside. But it has served to rid me of some melancholy moments, Sect. III. RECENT. 597 for I only take it up as a gentleman per- former does his fiddle. I have this pe- culiarity belonging to me as a rhymist, that though I am charmed to a great degree with my own work while it is on the anvil, I can seldom bear to look at it when it is once finished. The more I contemplate it, the more it loses its value, till I am at last disgusted with it. 1 then throw it by, take it up again perhaps ten years after, and am as much delighted with it as at the first. Few people have the art of being agreeable when they talk of themselves ; if you are not weary, therefore, you pay me a high compliment. I dare say miss S — — was much di- verted with the conjecture of her friends. The true key to the pleasure she found at Olney was plain enough to be seen ; but they chose to overlook it. She brought with her a disposition to be pleased ; which whoever doec is sure to find a visit agreeable, because they make it so. Yours. LETTER tiCXVIl. To Lady Hesketh. Weston Lodge, Nov. 26, 1786. It is my birthday, my beloved cousin, and I determine to employ a part of it, that it may not be destitute of festivity, in writing to you. The dark, thick fog, that has obscured it, would have been a burthen to me at Olney ; but here 1 have hardly attended to it. The neatness and snugness of our abode com- pensates all the dreariness of the sea- son ; and whether the ways are wet or dry, our house at least is always warm and commodious. Oh for you, my cousin, to partake these comforts with us ! I will not begin already to tease you upon that subject ; but Mrs. Unwin remembers to have heard from your own lips, that you hate London in the spring. Perhaps, therefore, by that time you may be glad to escape from a scene, which will be every day growing more disagreeable, that you may enjoy the comforts of the Lodge. You well know that the best house has a desolate appearance unfurnished. This house accordingly, since it has been occupied by us and our meuhles, is as much su- perior to what it was when you saw it, as yoti can imagine. The parlour is even elegant. When I say that the par- lour is elegant, I do not mean to insinu- ate that the study is not so. It is neat, warm, and silent ; and a much better study than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an incomparable translation of Homer. I think every day of those lines of Milton, and congratulate myself on having obtained, before I am quite superannuated, what he seems not to have hoped for sooner : — "And may at length my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage!" . For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a much better thing ; and you must al- ways understand, my dear, that when poets talk of cottages, hermitages, and such -like things, they mean a house v/ith six sashes in front, two comforta- ble parlours, a smart staircase, and three bed-chambers of convenient di- mensions : in short, exactly such a house as this. The Throckmortons continue the most obliging neighbours in the world. One morning last week, they both went with me to the cliffs — a scene, my dear, in which you would delight beyond mea- sure, but which you cannot visit except in the spring or autumn. The heat of summer, and clinging dirt of winter, would destroy you. What is called the cliff is no cliff J nor at all like ono, but a beautiful terrace, sloping gently down to the Ouse, and from the brow of which, though not lofty, you have a view of such a valley as makes that which you see from the hills near Olney, and which I have had the honour to celebrate, an affair of no consideration. Wintry as the weather is, do not sus- pect that it confines me. I ramble daily, and every day change my ramble. Wherever I go, I find short grass under my feet ; and when I have travelled per- haps five miles, come home with shores not at all too dirty for a drawing-room. I was pacing yesterday under the elms that surround the field in which stands the great alcove, when lifting my eyes I saw two black genteel figures bolt through a hedge into the path where I was walking. You guess already who they were, and that they could be no- body but our neighbours. They had seen me from a hill at a distance, and had traversed a great turnip field to get 598 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. at me. You see, therefore, my dear, that I am in some request: — alas! in too much request with some people. The verses of Cadwallader have found me at last. I am charmed with your account of our little cousin'^" at Kensington. If the world does not spoil him hereafter, he will be a valuable man. Good night, and may God bless thee ! LETTER CCXVIII. To Lady Hesketh. The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1786. I SENT you, my dear, a melancholy letter, and I do not know that I shall now send you one very unlike it. Not that any thing occurs in consequence of our late loss more afflictive than was to be expected ; but the mind does not perfectly recover its tone after a shock like that which has been felt so lately. This I observe, that though my expe- rience has long since taught me, that this world is a world of shadows, and that it is the more prudent, as v/ell as the more Christian course, to possess the comforts that we find in it, as if we possessed them not; it is no easy matter to reduce this doctrine into practice. We forget, that that God who gave them may, v.hen he pleases, take them away ; and that perhaps it may please him to take them at a time when we least ex- pect, or are least disposed to part from them. Thus it has happened in the present case. There never Avas a mo- ment in Unwin's life when there seemed to be more urgent want of him than the moment in which he died. He had at- tained to an age Avhen, if they are at any time useful, men become more use- ful to their families, their friends, and the world. His parish began to feel and to be sensible of the advantages of his ministry. The clergy around him were many of them awed by his exam- ple. His children were thriving under his own tuition and management ; and his eldest boy is likely to feel his loss severely, being by his years in some respect qualified to understand the va- . lue of such a parent ; by his literary proficiency too clever for a schoolboy, * Lord Cowper. and too young at the same time for the university. The removal of a man in the prime of life, of such a character and with such connections, seems to make a void in society that can never be filled. God seemed to have made him just what he was, that he might be a blessing to others, and when the in- fluence of his character and abilities be- gan to be felt, removed him. These are mysteries, my dear, that w^e cannot contemplate without astonishment, but which will nevertheless be explained hereafter, and must in the mean time be revered in silence. It is v/ell for his mother that she has spent her life in the practice of an habitual acquiescence in the dispensations of Providence ; else I know that this stroke would have been heavier, after all that she has suffered upon another account, than she could have borne. She derives, as she well may, great consolation from the thought that he lived the life, and died the death, of a Christian. The consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathematical conclusion, that therefore he is happy. So farewell, my friend Unwin ! the first man for whom I con- ceived a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, and for whom I can- not but still continue to feel a friend- ship, though I shall see thee with these eyes no more ! LETTER CCXIX. To Samuel Rose, Esq. Weston, Oct. 19, 1787. Dear sir, A SUMMONS from Johnson, which I re- ceived yesterday, calls my attention once more to the business of translation. Be- fore I begin I am willing to catch though but a short opportunity to acknowledge your last favour. The necessity of ap- plying myself with all diligence to a long work, that has been but too long inter- rupted, will make my opportunities of writing rare in future. Air and exercise are necessary to aU men, but particularly so to the man, whose mind labours ; and to him, who has been all his life accustomed to much of both, they are necessary in the ex- treme. My time, since we parted, has been devoted entirelv to the recovery Sect. III. RECENT. 599 of health and strength for this service, and I am willing to hope with good effect. Ten months have passed since I discontinued by poetical efforts ; 1 do not expect to find the same readiness as before, till exercise of the neglected faculty, such as it is, shall have restored it to me. You find yourself, I hope, by this time as comfortably situated in your new abode, as in a new abode one can be. I enter perfectly into all your feelings on occasion of the change. A sensible mind cannot do violence even to a local attachment without much pain. When my father died I was young, too young to have reflected much. He was rector of Berkhamstead, and there I was born. It had never occurred to me that a parson has no fee-simple in the house and glebe he occupies. There was nei- ther tree, nor gate, nor stile, in all that country, to which I did not feel a rela- tion ; and the house itself I preferred to a palace. I was sent for from London to attend him in his last illness, and he died just before I arrived. Then, and not till then, I felt for the first time that I and my native place were disunited for ever. I sighed a long adieu to fields and woods, from which I once thought I should never be parted ; and was at no time so sensible of their beauties as just when I left them all behind me, to return no more. LETTER CCXX. age ; but time, I suppose, that spoils every thing, -will make her also a cat. You will see her, 1 hope, before that melancholy period shall arrive ; for no wisdom that she may gain by experience and reflection hereafter will compensate the loss of her present hilarity. She is dressed in a tortoise-shell suit, and I know that you will delight in her. Mrs. Throckmorton carries us to- morrow in her chaise to Chicheley. The event however must be supposed to de- pend on elements, at least on the state of the atmosphere, which is turbulent beyond measure. Yesterday it thun- dered, last night it lightened, and at three this morning I saw the sky as red as a city in flames could have made it. I have a leech in a bottle that foretels all these prodigies and convulsions of nature. No, not, as you will naturally conjecture, by articulate utterance of oracular notices, but by a variety of ges- ticulations, which here I have not room to give an account of. Sufl&ce it to say, that no change of weather surprises him ; and that, in point of the earliest and most accurate intelligence, he is worth all the barometers in the world. None of them all indeed can make the least pretence to foretel thunder — a spe- cies of capacity of which he has given the most unequivocal evidence. I gave but sixpence for him, which is a groat more than the market price ; though he is in fact, or rather would be, if leeches were not found in every ditch, an inva- luable acquisition. To Lady Hesketh. The Lodge, Nov. 10, 1737. The parliament, my dearest cousin, prorogued continually, is a meteor danc- ing before my eyes, promising me my wish only to disappoint me ; and none but the king and his ministers can tell when you and I shall come together. I hope however that the period, though so often postponed, is not far distant ; and that once more I shall behold you, and experience your power to make winter gay and sprightly. I have a kitten, the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin. Her gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible if they could. In point of size she is likely to be a kitten always, being extremely small of her LETTER CCXXI. To the sarne. The Lodge, Nov. 27, 1787. It is the part of wisdom, my dearest cousin, to sit down contented under the demands of necessity, because they are such. I am sensible that you cannot, in my uncle's present infirm state, and of which it is not possible to expect any considerable amendment, indulge either us, or yourself, with a journey to Wes- ton. Yourself, I say, both because I know it will give you pleasure to see Causidice mi* once more, especially in * The appellation which Sir Thomas Hesketh used to give him in jest when he was of the Temple. 600 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. the comfortable abode where you have placed him ; and because, after so long an imprisonment in London, you, who love the country, and have a taste for it, would of course be glad to return to it. For my own part, to me it is ever new ; and though I have now been an inhabi- tant of this village a twelvemonth, and have during the half of that time been at liberty to expatiate and to make dis- coveries, I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks, which you would ne- ver be satisfied with enjoying — some of them are unapproachable by you either on foot or in your carriage. Had you twenty toes (whereas I suppose you have but ten) you could not reach them ; and coach-wheels have never been seen there since the flood. Before it indeed (as Burnet says that the earth was then perfectly free from all inequalities in its surface), they might have been seen there every day. We have other walks both upon hill tops, and in valleys beneath, some of which by the help of your car- riage, and many of them without its help, would be always at your com- mand. On Monday morning last, Sam brought me word that there was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with me. I ordered him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made its appearance, and, being desired to sit, spoke as follows : " Sir, I am clerk of the parish of All- Saints in Northampton ; brother of Mr. C. the upholsterer. It is customary for the person in my office to annex to a bill of mortality, which he publishes at Christmas, a copy of verses. You will do me a great favour, sir, if you would furnish me with one." To this I re- plied, " Mr. C, you have several men of genius in your town, why have you not applied to some of them ? There is a namesake of yours in particular, C , the statuary, who, every body knows, is a first-rate maker of verses. He surely is the man of all the world for your pur- pose." — " Alas ! sir, I have heretofore borrowed help from him, but he is a gentleman of so much reading, that the people of our town cannot understand him." I confess to you, my dear, I felt all the force of the compliment implied in this speech, and was almost ready to answer. Perhaps, my good friend, they may find me unintelligible too for the game reason. But on asking him whe- ther he had walked over to Weston on purpose to implore the assistance of my Muse, and on his replying in the afiir- mative, I felt my mortified vanity a little consoled, and pitying the poor man's distress, which appeared to be considera- ble, promised to supply him. The wag- gon has accordingly gone this day to Northampton loaded in part with my effusions in the mortuary style. A fig for poets who write epitaphs upon indi- viduals. I have written one, that serves two hundred persons. A few days since 1 received a second very obliging letter from Mr. M . He tells me that his own papers, which are by far, he is sorry to say, the most numerous, are marked V. I. Z. Accord- ingly, my dear, I am happy to find that I am engaged in a correspondence with Mr. Viz, a gentleman for whom I have always entertained the profOundest vene- ration. But the serious fact is, that the papers distinguished by those signa- tures have ever pleased me most, and struck me as the work of a sensible man, who knows the world well, and has more of Addison's delicate humour than any body. A poor man begged food at the hall lately. The cook gave him some vermi- celli soup. He ladled it about some time with the spoon, and then returned it to her, saying, " I am a poor man, it is true, and I am very hungry, but yet I cannot eat broth with maggots in it." Once more, my dear, a thousand thanks for your box full of good things, useful things, and beautiful things. Yours ever. LETTER CCXXII. To Lady Hesketh. The Lodge, Jan. 19, 1788. When I have prose enough to fill my paper, which is always the case when I write to you, I cannot find in my heart to give a third part of it to verse . Yet this I must do, or I must make my packets more costly than worshipful, by doubling the postage upon you, which 1 should hold to be unreasonable. See then the true reason why I did not send you that same scribblement till you desired it. The thought which naturally presents itself to me on all such occasions is this Sect. III. RECENT. 601 —Is not your cousin coming? Wliy are you impatient? Will it not be time enough to shew her your fine things when she arrives ? Fine things indeed I have few. He who has Homer to transcribe may well be contented to do little else. As when an ass, being harnessed with ropes to a sand-cart, drags with hanging ears his heavy burthen, neither filling the long echoing streets with his harmonious bray, nor throwing up his heels behind, frolicsome and airy, as asses less enga- ged are wont to do ; so I, satisfied to find myself indispensably obliged to render into the best possible English metre eight and forty Greek books, of which the two finest poems in the world con- sist, account it quite sufficient if I may at last achieve that labour, and seldom allow myself those pretty little vagaries in which 1 should otherwise delight, and of which, if I should live long enough, I intend hereafter to enjoy my fill. This is the reason, my dear cousin, if I may be permitted to call you so in the same breath with which I have ut- tered this truly heroic comparison ; this is the reason why I produce at present but few occasional poems ; and the pre- ceding reason is that, which may account satisfactorily enough for my withhold- ing the very few that I do produce. A thought sometimes strikes me before I rise ; if it runs readily into verse, and I can finish it before breakfast, it is well ; otherwise it dies, and is forgotten ; for all the subsequent hours are devoted to Homer. The day before yesterday, I saw for the first time Buubury's new print. The Propagation of a Lie. Mr. Throckmor- ton sent it for the amusement of our party. Bunbury sells humour by the yard, and is I suppose the first vender of it who ever did so. He cannot there- fore be said to have humour without measure (pardon a pun, my dear, from a man who has not made one before these forty years), though he may cer- tainly be said to be immeasurably droll. The original thought is good, and the exemplification of it in those very ex- pressive figures, admirable. A poem on the same subject, displaying all that is displayed in those attitudes, and in those features (for faces they can hardly be called), M'ould be most excellent. The aflinity of the two arts, viz. verse and painting, has been often observed ; pos- sibly the happiest illustration of it would be found, if some poet would ally himself to some draftsman, as Bun- bury, and undertake to write every thing he should draw. Then let a musician be admitted of the party. He should compose the said poem, adapting notes to it exactly accommodated to the theme ; so should the sister arts be proved to be indeed s'sters, and the world die of laughing. LETTER CCXXIII. To the same. The Lodge, Feb. 1, 1788. Pardon me, my dearest cousin, the mournful ditty that I sent you last. There are times when I see every thing through a medium that distresses me to an insupportable degree ; and that letter was written in one of them. A fog that had for three days obliterated all the beauties of Weston, and a north- east wind, might possibly contribute not a little to the melancholy that indited it. But my mind is now easy ; your letter has made it so, and 1 feel myself as blithe as a bird in comparison. I love you, my cousin, and cannot suspect, either with or without cause, the least evil in which you may be concerned, without being greatly troubled ! Oh Trouble ! the portion of all mortals — but mine in particular — ;WOuld I had never known thee^ or Could bid thee farewell for ever ; for I meet thee at every turn : my pillows are stuffed with thee, my very roses smell of thee ; and even my cousin, who would cure me of all trouble if she could, is sometimes innocently the cause of trouble to me. I now see the unreasonableness of my late trouble ; and would, if I could trust myself so far, promise never again to trouble either myself or you in the same manner, unless warranted by some more substantial ground of apprehension. What I said concerning Homer, my dear, was spoken, or rather written, merely under the influence of a certain jocularity that I felt at that moment. I am in reality so far from thinking my- self an ass, and my translation a sand- 602 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. cart, that I rather seem, in my own ac- count of the matter, one of those flam- ing" steeds harnessed to the chariot of Apollo, of which we read in the works of the ancients. I have lately, I know not how, acquired a certain superiority to myself in this business ; and in this last revisal have elevated the expression to a degree far surpassing its former boast. A few evenings since I had an opportunity to try how far 1 might ven- ture to expect such success of my la- bours as can alone repay them, by read- ing the first book of my Iliad to a friend of ours. He dined with you once at Olney. His name is Greatheed, a man of letters and of taste. He dined with us, and the evening proving dark and dirty, we persuaded him to take a bed. I entertained him as I tell you. He heard me with great attention, and with evident symptoms of the highest satis- faction, which, v/hen I had finished the exhibition, he put out of all doubt by expressions which I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. Unwin, while I was in another room, that he had never en- tered into the spirit of Homer before, nor had any thing like a due conception of his manner. This I have said, know- ing that it will please you, and will now say no more. Adieu ! my dear ; will you never speak of coming to Weston more ? BOOK THE FOURTH. RECENT LETTERS, SECTION IV. FROxM THE LETTERS OF DR. BEATTIE, SIR WM. JONES, AND OTHERS. LETTER I. Dr. Beattie to Robert Arhathnot, Esq. Aberdeen, 12th December, 1763. Since you left us, I have been reading Tasso's " Jerusalem," in tlie translation lately published by Hoole. I was not a little anxious to peruse a poem which is so famous over all Europe, and has so often been mentioned as a rival to the " Hiad," '' .Eneid," and " Paradise Lost." It is certainly a noble work ; and though it seems to me to be inferior to the three poems just mentioned, yet I cannot help thinking it in the rank next to these. As for the other modern attempts at the " Epopee," the " Hen- riade" of Voltaire, the " Epigoniad" of Wilkie, the " Leonidas" of Glover, not to mention the " Arthur" of Blackmore, they are not to be compared with it. Tasso possesses an exuberant and sub- lime imagination ; though in exuberance it seems, in my opinion, inferior to our Spenser, and in sublimity inferior to Milton. Were I to compare Milton's genius with Tasso's, I would say, that the sublime of the latter is flashy and fluctuating, while that of the former diffuses an uniform, steady, and vigor- ous blaze : Milton is more majestic, Tasso more dazzling. Dryden, it seems, was of opinion, that the " Jerusalem Delivered " was the only poem of modern times that deserved the name of epic ; but it is certain that criticism was not this writer's talent; and I think it is evident, from some passagesof his works, that he either did not, or would not. understand the " Paradise Lost." Tasso borrows his plot and principal charac- ters from Homer, but his manner re- sembles Virgil's. He is certainly much obliged to Virgil, and scruples not to imitate, nor to translate him on many occasions. In the pathetic, he is far in- ferior both to Homer, to Virgil, and to Milton. His characters, though differ- ent, are not always distinct, and want thosemasterly and distinguishing strokes, which the genius of Homer and Shak- speare, and of them only, knows how to delineate. Tasso excels in describing pleasurable scenes, and seems peculiarly fond of such as have a reference to the passion of love. Yet, in characterizing this passion, he is far inferior, not only to Milton, but also to Virgil, whose fourth book he has been at great pains to imitate. The translation is smooth and flowing ; but in dignity, and variety of numbers, is often defective, and often labours under a feebleness and prolixity of phrase, evidently proceeding either from want of skill, or from want of lei- sure in the versifier. LETTER II. Dr. Beattie to Sir William Forbes, Aberdeen, 3()th January, 1766. Your zeal in promoting my interest de- mands my warmest acknowledgments ; yet, for want of adequate expressions, I scarce know in what manner to pay them. I must therefore leave you to guess at my gratitude, by the emotions 604 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. which would arise in your own heart, on receiving a very im})ortant favour from a person of whom you had merited nothing, and to whom you could make no just return. I suppose you have seen my letter to Dr. Blacklock. I hope, in due time, to be acquainted with your sentiments con- cerning it. I know not whether I have gained my point or not ; but in compos- ing that letter I was more studious of simplicity of diction than in any other of my pieces. I am not, indeed, in this respect, so very scrupulous as some cri- tics of these times. I see no harm in using an expressive epithet, when, with- out the use of such an epithet, one can- not do justice to his idea* Even a com- pounded epithet, provided it be suitable to the genius of our language, and au- thenticated by some good writer, may often, in my opinion, produce a good eflfect. My notion of simplicity discards every thing from style which is affected, superfluous, indefinite, or obscure ; but admits every grace, which, without en- cumbering a sentiment, does really em- bellish and enforce it. I am no friend to those prettinesses of modern style, which one may call the pompous ear- rings and flounces of the Muses, which, with some writers, are so highly in vogue at present : they may, by their glare and fluttering, take off the eye from im- perfections ; but I am convinced they disguise and disfigure the charms of ge- nuine beauty. I have of late been much engaged in metaphysics ; at least I have been la- bouring with all my might to overturn that visionary science. I am a member of a club in this town, who style them- selves the Philosophical Society. We have meetings every fortnight, and de- liver discourses in our turn. I hope you will not think the worse of this society when I tell you, that to it the world is indebted for "A comparative View of the Faculties of Man," and an " Enquiry into Human Nature, on the Principles of Common Sense." Criticism is the field in which I have hitherto (chiefly at least) chosen to expatiate ; but an accidental question lately furnished me with a hint, which I made the subject of a two hours' discourse at our last meeting. I have for some time wished for an opportunity of publishing some- thing relating to the business of my own profession, and I think I have now found an opportunity : for the doctrine of my last discourse seems to be of importance, and I have already finished two-thirds of my plan. My doctrine is this : that as we know nothing of the eternal rela- tions of things, that to us is and must be truth, which we feel that we must be- lieve ; and that to us is falsehood, which we feel that we must disbelieve. I have shewn, that all genuine reasoning does ultimately terminate in certain princi- ples, which it is impossible to disbelieve, and as impossible to prove : that there- fore the ultimate standard of truth to us is common sense, or that instinctive conviction into which all true reasoning does resolve itself; that therefore what contradicts common sense is in itself absurd, however subtle the arguments which support it ; for such is the ambi- guity and insufficiency of language, that it is easy to argue on either side of any question, with acuteness sufficient to con- found one who is not expert in the art of reasoning. My principles, in the main, are not essentially different from Dr. Reid's ; but they seem to offer a more compendious method of destroying scepticism. I intend to shew (and have already in part shewn) that all sophis- tical reasoning is marked with certain characters which distinguish it from true investigation : and thus I flatter myself I shall be able to discover a method of detecting sophistry, even when one is not able to give a logical confutation of its arguments. I intend further to in- quire into the nature of that modifica- tion of intellect which qualifies a man for being a sceptic ; and I think I am able to prove, that it is not genius, but the want of it. However, it will be summer before I can finish my project. I own it is not without indignation, that I see sceptics and their writings (which are the bane, not only of science, but also of virtue) so much in vogue in the present age. LETTER III. Dr. Beattie to Sir William Forbes. Aberdeen, 18th September, 1766. You flatter me very agreeably, by wish- ing me to engage in a translation of Tasso's " Jerusalem." If I had all Sect. IV. RECENT. 605 the other accomplishments necessary to fit me for such an undertaking (which is by no means the case), I have not as yet acquired a sufficient knowledge of the Italian language, although I understand it tolerably well. My proficiency would have been much more considerable, if my health had allowed me to study ; but I have been obliged to estrange my- self from books for some months past. I intend to persist in my resolution of ac- quiring that language, for t am wonder- fully delighted with the Italian poetry. It does not seem to abound much in those strokes of fancy that raise admira- tion and astonishment, in which I think the English very much superior ; but it possesses all the milder graces in an emi- nent degree ; in simplicity, harmony, delicacy, and tenderness, it is altoge- ther without a rival. I cannot well ac- count for that neglect of the Italian lite- rature, which, for about a century past, has been fashionable among us. I be- lieve Mr. Addison may have been in- strumental in introducing, or at least in vindicating it ; though I am inclined to think, that he took upon trust, from Boileau, that censure which he past up- on the Italian poets, and which has been current among the critics ever since the days of the " Spectator." A good translation of Tasso would be a very valuable accession to English li- terature ; but it would be a most difficult undertaking, on account of the genius of our language, which, though in the highest degree copious, expressive, and sonorous, is not to be compared with the Italian in delicacy, sweetness, and simplicity of composition ; and these are qualities so characteristical of Tasso, that a translator would do the highest injustice to his author, who should fail in transfusing them into his version. Besides, a work of such a nature must not only be laborious but expensive ; so that a prudent person would not choose to engage in it without some hope, not only of being indemnified, but even rewarded ; and such a hope it would be madness in me to entertain. Yet, to shew that I am not averse from the w«?rk (for, luckily for poor bards, poetry is sometimes its own reward, and is at any time amply rewarded when it gratifies the desire of a friend), I design, as soon as I have leisure, and sufficient skill in the language, to try my hand at a short specimen. In the mean time, I flatter myself you will not think the worse of me for not making a thousand protesta- tions of my insufficiency, and as many acknowledgments of my gratitude for the honour you do me in supposing me capable of such a work. The truth is, I have so much to say on this subject, that if I were only to begin, 1 should never have done. Your friendship and your good opinion, which I shall ever account it my honour to cultivate, I do indeed value more than I can express. Your neglect of the modern philoso- phical sceptics, who have too much en- gaged the attention of these times, does equal honour to your understanding and to your heart. To suppose that every thing may be made matter of dispute, is an exceeding false principle, subver- sive of all true science, and prejudicial to the happiness of mankind. To con- fute, without convincing, is a common case, and indeed a very easy matter ; in all conviction (at least in all moral and religious conviction), the heart is engaged as well as the understanding; and the understanding may be satisfied, or at least confounded, with a doctrine, from which the heart recoils with the strongest aversion. This is not the lan- guage of a logician ; but this, I hope, is the language of an honest man, who considers all science as frivolous, which does not make men wiser and better ; and to puzzle with words, without pro- ducing conviction (which is all that our metaphysical sceptics have been able to do), can never promote either the wis- dom or the virtue of mankind. It is strange that men should so often forget that " Happiness is our being's end and aim." Happiness is desirable for its own sake ; truth is desirable only as a means of producing happiness ; for who would not prefer an agreeable delusion to a melancholy truth ? What, then, is the use of that philosophy, which aims to inculcate truth at the expense of hap- piness, by introducing doubt and disbe- lief, in the place of confidence and hope ? Surely the promoters of all such philo- sophy are either the enemies of man- kind or the dupes of their own most egregious folly. I mean not to make any concessions in favour of metaphysi- cal truth ; genuine truth and genuine happiness were never inconsistent : but metaphysical truth (such as we find 606 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, in our sceptical systems) is not genuine, for it is perpetually changing ; and no wonder, since it depends not on the common sense of mankind (which is al- ways the same), but varies according as the talents and inclinations of different authors are different. The doctrines of metaphysical scepticism are either true or false : if false, we have little to do with them ; if true, they prove the fal- lacy of the human faculties, and there- fore prove too much ; for it follows, as an undeniable consequence, that all hu- man doctrines whatsoever (themselves not excepted) are fallacious, and con- sequently pernicious, insignificant, and LETTER IV. Dr. Beattie to Dr. Blacklock. Aberdeen, 22d September, 1766. I AM not a little flattered by your friendly and spirited vindication of the poem on Bufo. Among the invidious and malicious, I have got a few enemies on account of that performance ; among the candid and generous, not one. This, joined to the approbation of my own conscience, is entirely sufl&cient to make me easy on that head. 1 have not yet heard whether my little work has been approved or condemned in Eng- land. I have not even heard whether it has been published or not. However, the days of romantic hope are now hap- pily over with me, as well as the desire of public applause ; a desire of which I never had any title to expect the gratifi- cation ; and which, though I had been able to gratify it, would not have con- tributed a single mite to my happiness. Yet I am thankful to Providence for having endued me with an inclination to poetry ; for, though I have never been supremely blest in my own Muse, I have certainly been gratified, in the most exquisite degree, by the productions of others. Those pieces of mine, from which I have received the highest entertainment, are such as are altogether improper for publication, being written in a sort of burlesque humour, for the amusement of some particular friend, or for some se- lect company : of these I have a pretty large collection; and thou^^h I should be ashamed to be publicly known as the author of many of them, I cannot help entertaining a certain ])artiality towards them ; arising, perhaps, from this cir- cumstance in their favour, that the plea- sure they have yielded me has been al- together sincere, unmixed with that cha- grin which never fails to attend an un- fortunate publication. Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclina- tion, and be either droll or pathetic, de- scriptive or sentimental, tender or sati- rical, as the humour strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, the manner which I have adopted, admits equally of all these kinds of composition. J have written one hundred and fifty lines, and am surprised to find Xhe. structure of that complicated stanza so little troublesome. I was always fond of it ; for 1 think it the most harmonious that ever was contrived. It admits of more variety of pauses than either the couplet or the alternate rhyme ; and it concludes with a pomp and ma- jesty of sound, which, to my ear, is wonderfully delightful. It seems also very well adapted to the genius of our language, which, from its irregularity of inflexion, and number of monosyllables, abounds in diversified terminations, and consequently renders our poetry sus- ceptible of an endless variety of legitimate rhymes. But I am so far from intend- ing this performance for the press, that I am morally certain it never will be finished. I shall add a stanza now and then, when I am at leisure, and when I have no humour for any other amuse- ment : but I am resolved to write no more poetry with a view to publication, till 1 see some dawnings of a poetical taste among the generality of readers, of which, however, there is not at present any thing like an appearance. My employment, and indeed my in- clination, leads me rather to prose com- position ; and in this way I have much to do. The doctrines commonly com- prehended under the name of moral phi- losophy are at present over-run with metaphysics, a luxuriant and tenacious weed, which seldom fails to choke and extirpate the wholesome plants, which it was perhaps intended to support and shelter. To this literary weed I have an insuperable aversion, which becomes stronger and stronger, in proportion as! Sect. IV. RECENT* 607 grow more and more acquainted with its nature, and qualities, and fruits. It is very agreeable to the paradoxical and licentious spirit of the age: but I am thoroughly convinced that it is fatal to true science, an enemy to the fine arts, destructive of genuine sentiment, and prejudicial to the virtue and happiness of mankind . LETTER V. Dr. Beattie to the Hon. Charles Boyd. Aberdeen, 16th November, 1766. Of all the chagrins with which my pre- sent infirm state of health is attended, none afflicts me more than my inability to perform the duties of friendship. The offer which you were generously pleased to make me of your corre- spondence, flatters me extremely ; but alas ! I have not as yet been able to avail myself of it. While the good weather continued, I strolled about the country, and made many strenuous at- tempts to run away from this odious gid- diness ; but the more I struggled, the more closely it seemed to stick by me. About a fortnight ago the hurry of my winter business began ; and at the same time my malady recurred with more violence than ever, rendering me at once incapable of reading, writing, and think- ing. Luckily I am now a little better, so as to be able to read a page, and write a sentence or two without stop- ping; which, I assure you, is a very great matter. My hopes and my spirits begin to revive once more. 1 flatter myself 1 shall soon get rid of this in- firmity ; nay, that I shall ere long be in the way of becoming a great man. For have I not head-achs, like Pope? ver- tigo, like Swift? grey hairs, like Ho- mer? Do I not wear large shoes (for fear of corns), like Virgil? and some- times complain of sore eyes (though not of lippitude), like Horace ? Am I not at this present writing invested with a gar- ment not less ragged than that of So- crates ? Like Joseph, the patriarch, I am a mighty dreamer of dreams ; like Nimrod, the hunter, I am an eminent builder of castles (in the air). I pro- crastinate, like Julius Csesar ; and very lately, in imitation of Don Quixote, I rode a horse, lean, old, and lazy, like Rosinante. Sometimes, like Cicero, I write bad verses ; and sometimes bad prose, like Virgil. This last instance I have on the authority of Seneca. I am of small stature, like Alexander the Great ; I am somewhat inclinable to fatness, like Dr. xirbuthnot and Aristo- tle ; and I drink brandy and water, like Mr. Boyd. I might compare myself, in relation to many other infirmities, to many other great men ; but if Fortune is not influenced in my favour by the par- ticulars already enumerated, I shall de- spair of ever recommending myself to her good graces. I once had some thought of soliciting her patronage on the score of my resembling great men in their good qualities ; but I had so little to say on that subject, that I could not for my life furnish matter for one well- rounded period : and you know a short ill-turned speech is very improper to be used in an address to a female deity. Do not you think there is a sort of antipathy between philosophical and po- etical genius ? I question whether any one person was ever eminent for both. Lucretius lays aside the poet when he assumes the philosopher, and the philo- sopher when he assumes the poet : in the one character he is truly excellent, in the other he is absolutely nonsensical. Hobbes was a tolerable metaphysician, but his poetry is the worst that ever was. Pope's " Essay on Man" is the finest philosophical poem in the world ; but it seems to me to do more honour to the imagination than to the understanding of its author : I mean its sentiments are noble and affecting, its images and allu- sions apposite, beautiful, and new ; its wit transcendently excellent : but the scientific part of it is very exceptionable. Whatever Pope borrows from Leibnitz, like most other metaphysical theories, is frivolous and unsatisfying : what Pope gives us of his own, is energetic, irre- sistible, and divine. The incompati- bility of philosophical and poetical ge- nius is, I think, no unaccountable thing. Poetry exhibits the general qualities of a species ; philosophy the particular quali- ties of individuals. This forms its con- clusions from a painful and minute exa- mination of single instances : that decides instantaneously, either from its own in- stinctive sagacity, or from a singular and unaccountable penetration, which at one glance sees all the instances which 608 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. the philosopher must leisurely and pro- gressively scrutinize, one by one. This persuades you gradually, and by detail ; the other overpowers you in an instant by a single eflfort. Observe the effect of argumentation in poetry ; we have too many instances of it in Milton: it trans- forms the noblest thoughts into drawling inferences, and the most beautiful lan- guage into prose : it checks the tide of passion, by giving the mind a different employment in the comparison of ideas. A little philosophical acquaintance Avith the most beautiful parts of nature, both in the material and immaterial system, is of use to a poet, and gives grace and solidity to poetry; as may be seen in the " Georgics," the " Seasons," and the " Pleasures of Imagination :" but this acquaintance, if it is any thing more than superficial, will do a poet rather harm than good ; and will give his mind that turn for minute observation which enfeebles the fancy by restraining it, and counteracts the native energy of judg- ment, by rendering it fearful and sus- picious. LETTER VI. Dr. Beattie to Sir William Forbes. Aberdeen, 17th January, 1768. I HAVE been intending, for these several weeks, to write to you, though it were only to assure you of the continuance of my esteem and attachment. This place, you know, furnishes little amusement, either political or literary ; and at this season it is rather more barren than usual. I have, for a time, laid aside my fa- vourite studies, that I might have leisure to prosecute a philosophical inquiry, less amusing indeed than poetry and criti- cism, but not less important. The ex- traordinary success of the sceptical phi- losophy has long filled me with regret. I wish I could undeceive mankind in re- gard to this matter : perhaps this wish is vain ; but it can do no harm to make the trial. The point I am now labouring to prove, is the universality and immu- tability of moral sentiment, a point which has been brought into dispute, both by the friends and by the enemies of virtue. In an age less licentious in its principles, it would not, perhaps, be necessary to insist much on this point. At present it is very necessary. Philo- sophers have ascribed all religion to hu- man policy. Nobody knows how soon they may ascribe all morality to the same origin ; and then the foundations of human society, as well as of human happiness, will be effectually undermin- ed. To accomplish this end, Hobbes, Hume, Mandeville, and even Locke, have laboured ; and I am sorry to say, from ray knowledge of mankind, that their labour has not been altogether in vain. Not that the works of these phi- losophers are generally read, or even understood by the few who read them. It is not the mode, now-a-days, for a man to think for himself; but they greedily adopt the conclusions, without any concern about the arguments or principles whence they proceed; and they justify their own credulity by ge- neral declamations upon the transcend- ant merit of their favourite authors, and the universal deference that is paid to their genius and learning. If I can prove those authors guilty of gross mis- representations of matters of fact, un- acquainted with the human heart, ig- norant even of their own principles, the dupes of verbal ambiguities, and the vo- taries of frivolous though dangerous philosophy, I shall do some little service to the cause of truth ; and all this I will undertake to prove, in many instances of high importance. You have, no doubt, seen Dr. Black- lock's new book*. I was very much surprised to see my name prefixed to the dedication, as he never had given me the least intimation of such a design. His friendship does me great honour. I should be sorry, if, in this instance, it has got the better of his prudence ; and I have some reason to fear, that my name will be no recommendation to the work, at least in this place, where, how- ever, the book is very well spoken of, by some who have read it. I should like to know how it takes at Edinburgh. LETTER VII. Fro7n the same to the same. Aberdeen, 4th May, 1770. Nothing, I think, is stirring in the literary world. All ranks are run mad * " Paraclesis, or Consolations." Sect. IV. RECENT. 609 witli politics; and I know not whether there was any period at which it was more unseasonable to publish new books. I do not mean, that the nation has no need of instruction; I mean only, that it has neither leisure nor inclination to listen to any. I am a very great admirer of Arm- strong's poem on " Health ;" and there- fore, as soon as I heard that the same author had puhlished two volumes of *' Miscellanies," 1 sent a commission for them with great expectations : but I am miserably disappointed. I know not what is the matter with Armstrong ; but he seems to have conceived a rooted aversion at the whole human race, ex- cept a few friends, who, it seems, are dead. He sets the public opinion at de- fiance ; a piece of boldness which neither Virgil nor Horace were ever so shame- less as to acknowledge. It is very true, that living authors are often hardly dealt with by their contemporaries ; witness Milton, Collins the poet, and many others : but I believe it is equally true, that no good piece was ever published, which did not, sooner or later, obtain the public approbation. How is it possible it should be otherwise ? People read for amusement. If a book be capable of yielding amusement, it will naturally be read ; for no man is an enemy to what gives him pleasure. Some books, in- deed, being calculated for the intellects of a few, can please only a few ; yet if they produce this effect, they answer all the end the authors intended ; and if those few be men of any note, which is generally the case, the herd of mankind will very willingly fall in with their judg- ment, and consent to admire what they do not understand. I question whether there are now in Europe two thousand, or even one thousand persons, who un- derstand a word of Newton's " Princi- pia ;" yet there are in Europe many mil- lions who extol Newton as a very great philosopher. Those are but a small number who have any sense of the beau- ties of Milton ; yet every body admires Milton, because it is the fashion. Of all the English poets of this age, Mr. Gray is most admired, and, I think, with justice ; yet there are, compara- tively speaking, but a few Avho know any thing of his, but his " Church-yard Ele- gy," which is by no means the best of his works. I do not think that Dr. Armstrong has any cause to complain of the public : his " Art of Health" is not indeed a popular poem, but it is very much liked, and has often been pruited. It will make him known and esteemed by posterity ; and 1 presume he will be the more esteemed, if all his other works perish with him. In his " Sketches," indeed, are many sensible, and some striking remarks ; but they breathe such a rancorous and contemptuous spirit, and abound so much in odious vulgar- isms and colloquial execrations, that in reading we are as often disgusted as pleased. I know not what to say of his " Universal Almanack :" it seems to me an attempt at humour ; but such hu- mour is either too high or too lov/ for my comprehension. The plan of his tragedy, called the " Forced Marriage," is both obscure and improbable ; yet there are good strokes in it, particularly in the last scene. As I know your taste and talents in painting, I cannot help communicating to you an observation, which I lately had occasion, not to make, for I had made it before, but to see illustrated in a very striking manner. I Vvas readings the Abbe du Bos' " Reflections on Poetry and Painting." In his 13th sec- tion of the first volume, he gives some very ingenious remarks on two of Ra^ phael's cartoons. Speaking of " Christ's Charge to Peter," he says of one of the iigures in the group of apostles, '^ Pres de lui est place un autre Apotre eiaba- rasse de sa contenance : on le discerne pour 6tre d'un temperament melancho- iique a la mfdgreur de son visage livide, a sa barbe noire et plate, a 1 habitude de son corps, enfin a tons les traits que les naturalistes ontassignes a ce temper- ament. 11 se courbe ; et les yeux fixe- ment attaches sur J. C. il est devore dune jalousie morne pour une choix dont il ne se plaindra point, mais dont il con- servera long tems un vif ressentiment ; enfin on reconnoit la Judas aussi dis- tinctenient qu' a le voir pendu aufiguier, une bourse renversee au col. Je n' ai point pr6te d'esprit a Raphael," &c. You see the ingenious Abbe is very po- sitive ; and yet you will immediately re- collect, that the charge of " Feed my sheep," to which this cartoon refers, was given to Peter after the resurrection, and when, consequently, Judas could not be present (John xxi. 16). If it be 2R ^10 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. said, that this charg-e refers to the keys, which Peter carries in his hosom; a charge given long" before ; I answer, first, that the sheep in the back-ground is a presumption of the contrary ; and secondly, that the wounds in the feet and hands of Jesus, and the number of apostles present, which is only eleven, are a certain proof, that the fact to which this cartoon relates happened after the resurrection. The Abba's mistake is of little moment in itself; but it serves to illustrate this observation, that the expression of painting is at the best very indefinite, and generally leaves scope to the ingenious critic de preter d esprit to the painter. LETTER VIII. Dr. Beattie to Dr. Blacklock. Aberdeen, 27th May, 1770. I CANNOT express how much I think myself indebted to your friendship, in entering so warmly into all my concerns, and in making out so readily, and at such length, the two critical articles. The shortest one was sent back, in course of post, to Mr. Kincaid*, from whom you would learn the reasons that induced me to make some alterations in the analysis you had there made of my book. The other paper I return in this packet. I have made a remark or two at the end, but no alterations. Indeed, how could I ? you understand my philo- sophy as perfectly as I do ; you express it much better, and you embellish it with a great many of your own sentiments, which, though new to me, are exceed- ingly apposite to my subject, and set some parts of it in a fairer light than I have been able to do in my book. I need not tell you how happy I am in the thought, that this work of mine has your approbation ; for I know you too well to impute to mere civility the many handsome things you have said in praise of it. I know you approve it, because I know you incapable to say one thing and think another ; and I do assure you, I would not forego your approbation to avoid the censure of fifty Mr. Humes. What do I say ? Mr. Hume's censure I am so far from being ashamed of, that I * The publishor. think it does me honour. It is, next to his conversion (which I have no reason to look for), the most desirable thing I have to expect from that quarter. I have heard, from very good authority, that he speaks of me and my book with very great bitterness (1 own, I thought he would rather have affected to treat both with contempt) ; and that he says I have not used him like a gentleman. He is quite right to set the matter upon that footing. It is an odious charge ; it is an objection easily remembered, and, for that reason, will be often re- peated by his admirers ; and it has this farther advantage, that being (in the present case) perfectly unintelligible, it cannot possibly be answered. The truth is, I, as a rational, moral, and immortal being, and something of a philosopher, treated him as a rational, moral, and immortal being, a sceptic, and an athe- istical writer. My design was, not to make a book full of fashionable phrases and polite expressions, but to undeceive the public in regard to the merits of the sceptical philosophy, and the pretensions of its abettors. To say that I ought not to have done this \nth plainness and spirit, is to say, in other words, that I ought either to have held my peace, or to have been a knave. In this case, I might, perhaps, have treated Mr. Hume as a gentleman ; but I should not have treated society, and my own conscience, as became a man and a Christian. I have all along foreseen, and still foresee, that I shall have many reproaches, and cavils, and sneers, to encounter on this occa- sion ; but I am prepared to meet them. I am not ashamed of my cause ; and, if I may believe those whose good opinion I value as one of the chief blessings of life, I need not be ashamed of my work. You are certainly right in your conjec- ture, that it will not have a quick sale. Notwithstanding all my endeavours to render it perspicuous and entertaining, it is still necessary for the person who reads it to think a little; a task to which every reader will not submit. My sub- ject too is unpopular, and my principles such as a man of the world would blush to acknowledge. Hovi^ then can my book be popular ? If it refund the ex- pense of its publication, it will do as much as any person, who knows the present state of the literary world, can reasonably expect from it. Sect. IV. RECENT. 611 LE^ITER IX. Dr. Beattie to Mrs. IngUs. Aberdeen, 24th Dscember, 1770. While I lived in your neighbourhood, I often wished for an opportunity of giv- ing- you my opinion on a subject, in which I know you are very ,deeply in- terested ; but one incident or other al- ways put it out of my power. That sub- ject is the education of your son, whom, if I mistake not, it is now high time to send to some public place of education. I have thought much on this subject ; I have weighed every argument that I could think of, on either side of the question. Much, you know, has been written upon it, and very plausible ar- guments have been offered, both for and against a public education. I set not much value upon these ; speculating men are continually disputing, and the world is seldom the wiser. I have some little experience in this way ; I have no hypothesis to mislead me ; and the opi- nion or prejudice, which I first formed upon the subject, was directly contrary to that, M^iich experience has now taught me to entertain. Could mankind lead their lives in that solitude, which is so favourable to many of our most virtuous affections, I should be clearly on the side of a private edu- cation. But most of us, when we go out into the world, find difficulties in our way, which good principles and in- nocence alone will not qualify us to en- counter ; we must have some address and knowledge of the world different from what is to be learnt in books, or we shall soon be puzzled, disheartened, or disgusted. The foundation of this knowledge is laid in the intercourse of school-boys, or at least of young men of the same age. When a boy is always under the direction of a parent or tutor, he acquires such a habit of looking up to them for advice, that he never learns to think or act for himself ; his memory is exercised, indeed, in retaining their ad- vice, but his invention is suffered to lan- guish, till at last it becomes totally in- active. He knows, perhaps, a great deal of history or science ; but he kiiows not how to conduct himself on those ever- changing emergencies, which are too minute and too numerous to be com- prehended in any system of advice. He is astonished at the most common ap- pearances, and discouraged with the most trifling (because unexpected) obstacles ; and he is often at his wit's end, where a boy of much less knowledge, but more experience, would instantly devise a thousand expedients. Conscious of his own superiority in some things, he won- ders to find himself so much inferior in others ; his vanity meets with continual rubs and disappointments, and disap- pointed vanity is very apt to degenerate into sullenness and pride ; he despises, or affects to despise, his fellows, because, though superior in address, they are in- ferior in knowledge ; and they, in their turn, despise that knowledge, which cannot teach the owner how to behave on the most common occasions. Thus he keeps at a distance from his equals, and they at a distance from him ; and mutual contempt is the natural conse- quence. Another inconvenience, attending pri- vate education, is the suppressing of the principle of emulation, without which it rarely happens that a boy prosecutes his studies with alacrity or success. I have heard private tutors complain, that they were obliged to have recourse to flattery or bribery to engage the attention of their pupil : and 1 need not observe, how improper it is to set the example of such practices before children. True emulation, especially in youag and in- genuous minds, is a noble principle ; I have known the happiest effects pro- duced by it : I never knew it to be pro- ductive of any vice. In all public schools it is, or ought to be, carefully cherish- ed. Where it is wanting, in vain shall we preach up to children the dignity and utility of knowledge : the true ap- petite for knowledge is wanting ; and when that is the case, whatever is crammed into the memory will rather surfeit and enfeeble, than improve the understanding. I do not mention the pleasure which young people take in the company of one another, and what a pity it is to deprive them of it. I need not remark, that friendships of the ut- most stability and importance have often been founded on school-acquaintance; nor need I put you in mind, of what vast consequence to health are the exer- cises and amusements which boys con- trive for themselves. I shall only ob- serve further, that, when boys pursue 2R 2 612 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. their studies at home, they are apt to contract either a habit of idleness, or too close an attachment to reading ; the former breeds innumerable diseases, both in the body and soul : the latter, by filling young and tender minds with more knowledge tlian they can either retain or arrange properly, is apt to make them superficial and inattentive ; or, what is worse, to strain, ahd conse- quently impair, the faculties, by over- stretching them. I have known several instances of both. The human mind is miore improved by thoroughly under- standing one science, one part of a sci- ence, or even one subject, than by a superficial knowledge of twenty sciences and a hundred different subjects ; and I would rather wish my son to be tho- roughly master of " Euclid's Elements," than to have the whole of " Chambers's Dictionary " by heart. The great inconvenience of public education arises from its being danger- ous to morals. And indeed every con- dition and period of human life is liable to temptation. Nor will I deny, that our innocence, during the first part of life, is much more secure at home, than any where else ; yet even at home, when we reach a certain age, it is not perfect- ly secure. Let young men be kept at the greatest distance from bad company, it will not be easy to keep them from bad books, to which, in these days, all persons may have easy access at all times. Let us, however, suppose the best ; that both bad books and bad com- pany keep away, and that the young man never leaves his parents' or tutor's side, till his mind be well furnished with good principles, and himself arrived at the age of reilection and caution : yet temptations must come at last ; and when they come, will they have the less strength, because they are new, unex- pected, and surprising? 1 fear not. The more the young man is surprised, the more apt will he be to lose his pre- sence of mind, and consequently the less capable of self-government. Besides, if his passions are strong, he will be dis- posed to form comparisons between his past state of restraint, and his present of liberty, very much to the disadvantage of the former. His new associates will laugh at him for his reserve and precise- ness ; and his unacquaintance with their mannei's, and with the world, ns it will render him the more obnoxious to their ridicule, will also disqualify him the more, both for supporting it with dignity, and also for defending himself against it. Suppose him to be shocked with vice at its first appearance, and often to call to mind the good precepts he re- ceived in his early days ; yet when he sees others daily adventuring upon it without any apparent inconvenience ; when he sees them more gay (to ap- pearance), and better received among all their acquaintance than he is ; and when he finds himself hooted at, and in a manner avoided and despised, on ac- count of his singularity ; it is a wonder, indeed, if he persist in his first resolu- tions, and do not now at last begin to think, that though his former teachers were well-meaning people, they were by no means qualified to prescribe rules for his conduct. " The world," he will say, *' is changed since their time (and you will not easily persuade young people that it changes for the worse) ; we must comply with the fashion, and live like other folks, otherwise we must give up all hopes of making a figure in it." And when he has got thus far, and be- gins to despise the opinions of his in- structors, and to be dissatisfied with their conduct in regard to him, I need not add, that the worst consequences may not unreasonably be apprehended. A young man, kept by himself at home, is never well known, even by his parents ; because he is never placed in those cir- cumstances, which alone areable effec- tually to rouse and interest his passions, and consequently to make his character appear. His parents, therefore, or tu- tors, never know his weak side, nor what particular advices or cautions he stands most in need of; whereas, if he had at- tended a public school, and mingled in the amusements and pursuits of his equals, his virtues and his vices would have been disclosing themselves every day ; and his teachers would have known what particular precepts and examples it was most expedient to inculcate upon him. Compare those who have had a public education with those who have been educated at home ; and it will not be found, in fact, that the latter are, either in virtue or in talents, superior to the former. I speak, madam, from ob- servation of fact, as well as from attend- ing to the nature of the thing. Sect. IV. RECENT. 613 LETTER X. Dr. Beattie to the Right Hon. the Doivager Lady Forbes*. Aberdeen, 1-ith October, 1772. I WISH the merit of the " Minstrel" were such as would justify all the kind things you have said of it. That it has merit, every hody would think me a hy- pocrite if I were to deny : I am willing to believe that it has even consider- able merit; and I acknowledge, with much gratitude, that it has obtained from the public a reception far more favourable than I expected. There are in it many passages, no doubt, ^vhich I admire more than others do ; and, per- haps, there are some passages which others are more struck with than I am. In all poetry, this, I believe, is the case, more or less ; but it is much more the case in poems of a sentimental cast, such as the '* Minstrel" is, than in those of the narrative species. In epic and dra- matic poesy there is a standard acknow- ledged, by which we may estimate the merit of the piece ; whether the narra- tive be probable, and the characters well drawn and well preserved ; w^hether all the events be conducive to the catas- trophe ; whether the action is unfolded in such a way as to command perpetual attention, and undiminished curiosity — these are points of which, in reading an epic poem, or tragedy, every reader possessed of good sense, or tolerable knowledge of the art, may hold himself to be a competent judge. Common life, and the general tenor of human affairs, is the standard to which these points may be referred, and according to which they may be estimated. But of senti- mental poetry (if I may use the expres- sion), there is no external standard. By it the heart of the reader must be touched at once, or it cannot be touched at all. Here the knowledge of critical rules, and a general acquaintance of hu- man affairs, will not form a true critic ; sensibility, and a lively imagination, are the qualities which alone constitute a true taste for sentimental poetry. Again, your ladyship must have observed, that some sentiments are common to all men ; others peculiar to persons of a certain character. Of the former sort are those * Mrs. Dorothea Dale, widow of the right hon. William Lord Forbes. which Gray has so elegantly expressed in his '• Church -yard Elegy," a poem* which is universally understood and ad- mired, not only for its poetical beauties, but also, and perhaps chiefly, for its ex- pressing sentiments in which every man thinks himself interested, and which, at certain times, are familiar to all men. Now the sentiments expressed in the " Minstrel," being not common to all men, but peculiar to persons of a certain cast, cannot possibly be interesting, be- cause the generality of readers will not understand nor feel them so thoroughly as to think them natural. That a boy should take pleasure in darkness or a storm, in the noise of thunder, or the glare of lightning ; should be more gra- tified with listening to music at a dis- tance, than with mixing in the merri- ment occasioned by it ; should like better to see every bird and beast happy and free, than to exert his ingenuity in de- stroying or ensnaring them — these, and such like sentiments, which, 1 think, would be natural to persons of a certain cast, will, 1 know, be condemned as un- natural by others, who have never felt them in themselves, nor observed them in the generality of mankind. Of all this I was sufficiently aware before I published the-" Minstrel," and, there- fore, never expected that it would be a popular poem. Perhaps, too, the struc- ture of the verse (which, though agree- able to som.e, is not to all), and the scarcity of incidents, may contribute to make it less relished than it would have been, if the plan had been different in these particulars. From the questions your ladyship is pleased to propose, in the conclusion of your letter, as well as from some things I have had the honour to hear you ad- vance in conversation, I find you are willing to suppose, that, in Edwin, I have given only a picture of myself, as I was in my younger days. I confess the supposition is not groundless. I have made him take pleasure in the scenes in which 1 took pleasure, and en- tertain sentiments similar to those of which, even in my early youth, I had repeated experience. The scenery of a mountainous country, the ocean, the sky, thoughtfulness and retirement, and sometimes melancholy objects and ideas, had charms in my eyes, even when I was a schoolboy ; and at a time when I was 614 ELEGANT EPISTLES. SOOK IV. so far from being able to express, that I did not understand, my own feelings, or perceive the tendency of such pursuits and amusements ; and as to poetry and music, before I was ten years old I could play a little on the violin, and was as much master of Homer and Vir- gil, as Pope's and Dryden's translations could make me. But I am ashamed to write so much on a subject so trifling as myself and my own works. Believe me, madam, nothing but your lady- ship's commands could have induced me to do it. LETTER XI. Dr. Beattie to Sir William Forbes. Abevde«^n, 13th February, 1773. I AM deeply sensible of your goodness, in communicating to me, in so tender and soothing a manner, the news of a misfortune, which is indeed one of the severest I have ever felt. For these two months past my spirits have been unu- sually depressed, so that I am but ill prepared for so terrible a stroke. Of the loss which society and which his fa- mily have received ; of the incomparable loss which I sustain, by the death of this excellent person, 1 can say nothing; my heart is too full, and 1 have not yet re- covered myself so far as to think or speak coherently, on this or any other subject. You justly observe, that his friends may derive no small consolation from the circumstance of his death having been without pain *, and from the well- grounded hope we may entertain, of his having made a happy change. But I find I cannot proceed : I thought I should have been able to give you some of my thoughts on this occasion ; but the subject overpowers me. Write to mt; as soon, and as fully as you can, of tlie situation of his family, and whatever you may think I would wish to know. I shall endeavour to follow your kind advice, and to reconcile myself to this great affliction as much as I am able. My reason, I trust, is fully reconciled : I am thoroughly convinced that every dispensation of Providence is wise and * Dr. Gregory was found dead in bed, pro- bably from an attack of the gout, to which he was subject. '' good ; and that, by making a proper im- provement of the evils of this life, we may convert them all into blessings. It becomes us, therefore, to adore the Su- preme Benefactor, when he takes away, as well as when he gives ; for He is wise and beneficent in both. LETTER XII. Dr. Beattie to Mrs. Montagu. Aberdeen, 3d May, 1773. I HAVE just now finished the business of a melancholy winter. When I wrote to you last, which was in January, my health and spirits were in a very low state. In this condition, the unexpect- ed death of the best of men, and of friends, came upon me with a weight, which at any time I should have thought almost insupportable, but whicb, at that time, was afflicting to a degree which human abilities alone could never have endured. But Providence, ever beneficent and gracious, has supported me under this heavy dispensation ; and I hope I shall in time be enabled to re- view it, even v/ith that cheerful submis- sion which becomes a Christian, and which none but a Christian can enter- tain. 1 have a thousand things to say on this most affecting subject ; but for your sake, madam, and for my own, I shall not, at present, enter upon them. Nobody can be more sensible than you are, of the irreparable loss which, not only his own family and friends, but which society in general sustains by the loss of this excellent person : and I need not tell you, for of this too I know you are sensible, that of all his friends (his own family excepted), none has so much cause of sorrow, on this occasion, as I, I should never have done, if I were to enter into the particulars of his kindness to me. For these many years past, I have had the happiness to be of his inti- mate acquaintance. He took part in all my concerns ; and as I concealed no- thing from him, he knew my heart and my character as well as I myself did ; only the partiality of his friendship made him think more favourably of me than I deserved. In all my diiSculties, I ap- plied to him for advice a\id comfort, both which he had the art of communi- cating in such a way as never failed to Sest. IV. RECENT. 615 compose and strengthen my mind. His zeal in promoting my interest and re- putation is very generally known. In a word (for I must endeavour to quit a subject, which will long be oppressive to my heart), my inward quiet, and ex- ternal prosperity, were objects of his particular and unwearied care ; and he never missed any opportunity of pro- moting both, to the utmost of his power. I wrote to his son soon after the fatal event ; and have had the com- fort to hear from several hands, that he, and his sisters, and the whole family, behave with a propriety that charms every body. In continuing his father's lectures he acquits himself to universal satisfaction. LETTER XIII. From the same to the same. Aberdeen, 15th October, 1773. I PURPOSELY delayed for a few days to answer your letter, that I might be at leisure to think seriously before I should venture to give my opinion, in regard to the important matter, about which you did me the honour to contult me. A religious education is indeed the great- est of all earthly blessings to a young man ; especially in these days, when one is in such danger of receiving im- pressions of a contrary tendency. I hope, and earnestly wish, that this, and every other blessing, may be the lot of your nephew, who seems to be accom- plished and promising far beyond his years. I must confess, I am strongly prepos- sessed in favour of that mode of edu- cation that takes place in the English universities. I am well aware at the same time, that in those seminaries, there are, to some young men, many more temptations to idleness and dissi- pation, than in our colleges in Scotland; but there are also, if I mistake not, better opportunities of study to a studi- ous young man, and the advantages of a more respectable and more polite society, to such as are discreet and sober. The most valuable parts of human literature, I mean the Greek and Latin classics, are not so completely taught in Scotland as in England ; and I fear it is no advan- tage, I have sometimes known it a mis- fortune, to those young men of distinc- tion that come to study with us, that they find too easy and too favourable an admittance to balls, assemblies, and other diversions of a like kind, where the fashion not only permits, but re- quires, that a particular attention be paid to the younger part of the female world. A youth of fortune, with the English language, and English address, soon becomes an object of consideration to a raw girl ; and equally so, perhaps, though not altogether on the same ac- count, to her parents. Our long vaca- tions, too, in the colleges in Scotl^id, though a convenience to the native stu- dent (who commonly spends those in- tervals at home with his parents), are often dangerous to the students fron^ England ; who being then set free from the restraints of academical discipline, and at a distance from their parents or guardians, are too apt to forget, that it was for the purpose of study, not of amusement, they were sent into this country. All, or most of these inconveniencies, may be avoided at an English university, provided a youth have a discreet tutor, and be himself of a sober and studious disposition. There, classical erudition receives all the attentions and honours it can claim ; and there the French philo- sophy, of course, is seldom held in very high estimation; there, at present, a regard to religion is fashionable ; there, the recluseness of a college-life, the wholesome severities of academical dis- cipline, the authority of the university, and several other circumstances I could mention, prove very powerful restraints to such of the youth as have any sense of true honour, or any regard to their real interest. We, in Scotland, boast of our profes- sors, that they give reg'ular lectures in all the sciences, which the students are obliged to attend ; a part of literary ceconomy which is but little attended to in the universities of England. But I will venture to affirm, from experience, that if a professor does no more than deliver a set of lectures, his young- audience will be little the wiser tor having attended him. The most pro- fitable part of my time is that which I employ in examinations, or in Socratical dialogue with my pupils, or in com- 616 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, inenting upon ancient authors, all which may be done by a tutor in a pri- vate apartment, as well as by a pro- fessor in a public school. Lectures indeed I do, and must give ; in order to add solemnity to the truths I would inculcate ; and partly, too, in compli- ance with the fashion, and for the sake of my own character (for this, though not the most difficult part of our business, is that which shows the speaker to most advantage) ; but I have always found the other methods, particularly the Socratic form of dialogue, much more effectual in fixing the attention, and improving the faculties of the stu- dent. I will not, madam, detain you longer with this comparison : it is my duty to give you my real sentiments, and you will be able to gather them from these imperfect hints. If it is determined that your nephew shall be sent to an univer- sity in Scotland, he may, I believe, have as good a chance for improvement; at Edinburgh or Glasgow, as at any other : if the law is to form any part of his stu- dies, he ought, by all means, to go to one or other of these places ; as we have no law professors in any other part of this kingdom, except one in King's col- lege, Aberdeen, whose office has been a sinecure for several generations. Whe- ther he should make choice of Edin- biirgii or of Glasgow, I am at a loss to say : I was formerly well enough ac- quainted with the professors of both those societies, but, tempora mutantur. Dr. Reid is a very learned, ingenious, and worthy man ; so is Dr. Blair : they are both clergymen ; so thatj 1 am con- fident, your nephew might lodge safely and profitably with either. Whether they would choose to accept of the office of tutor to any young gentleman, they themselves only can determine ; some professors would decline it, on account of the labor] 01! sn ess of their office ; it is partly on this account, but chiefly on account of my health, that I have been obliged to decline every offer of this sort. LETTER XIV. Dr. Beattie to Mrs. Montagu. Aberdeen, 3d May, 1774, I AM greatly obliged and honoured by what the hierarchy have done, and are doing for me. Of Dr. Law's attack I shall take no further notice. I received a letter, two days ago, from Dr. Hurd*. It is a very kind letter, and much in praise of the '* Min- strel." Lord Chesterfield's Letters, he says, are well calculated for the purpose of teaching " manners without morals " to our young people of quality. This opinion I had indeed begun to forra con- cerning them, from some short extracts in the newspapers. In one of these ex- tracts I was greatly surprised to see such a pompous encomium on Boling- broke's Patriot King; which has always appeared to me a mere vox et praterea nihil. Plato was one of the first who introduced the fashion of giving us fine words instead of good sense ; in this, as in his other faults, he has been success- fully imitated by Shaftesbury ; but I , know not whether he, or any other au- J thor, has ever put together so many "' words, with so little meaning, as Boling- broke, in his papers on patriotism. Lord Monboddo's second volume has been published some time. It is, I think, much better than the first, and contains much learning, and not a little ingenuity : but can never be very inte- resting, except to those who aim at a grammatical and critical knowledge of the Greek tongue. Lord Kaimes's " Sketches" I have seen. They are not much different from what I ex- pected. A man who reads thirty years, with a view to collect facts in support of tvv^o or three whimsical theories, may, no doubt, collect a great number of facts, and make a very large book. The world will wonder when they hear of a modern philosopher, who seriously denies the existence of such a principle as universal benevolence; — a point of which no good man can entertain a doubt for a single moment. I am sorry for poor Goldsmith. There were some things in his temper which I did not like ; but I liked many things in his genius : and I was sorry to find, last * Afterwards lord bishop of Worcester. Sect. IV. REGENT «17 summer, that he looked upon me as a person who seemed to stand between him and his interest. However, when next we meet, all this will be forgotten ; and the jealousy of authors, which Dr. Gregory used to say was next in ran- cour to that of physicians, will be no more. I am glad that you are pleased with the additional stanzas of the second canto of the " Minstrel;" but I fear you are too indulgent. How it will be relished by the public, 1 cannot even guess. 1 know all its faults : but I can- not remedy them, for they are faults in the first concoction; they result from the imperfection of the plan. I am much obliged to you, madam, for advis- ing that two copies should be presented to their majesties ; which, Dilly writes me word, has been done by my good friend Dr. Majendie. This honour I meant to have solicited when the second edition came out, which will be soon. My reason for this delay was, that the fiirst edition having been put to the press, and some sheets of it printed off before I knew, I had it not in my power to order any copies on fine paper. But it is bet- ter as it is : the paper of the copy I have is not at all amiss. My " Essay on Laughter" advances but slowly. I have all my materials at hand ; but my health obliges me to la- bour very moderately in reducing them into order. I am very unwilling to re- linquish the hope of receiving from you, madam, some assistance in completing my volume. I beg you will think of it. Perhaps you may find more leisure when you come into the north. Mr. Mason has never answered the letter I wrote to him, concerning the subscription. 1 guessed from the tenor of his letters, that he is (as you say) out of humour with the Avorld. Mr. Dilly writes me word, that he says he is tempted to throw his Life of Mi\ Gray (which is now finished, or nearly so) into the fire, so much is he dissatisfied with the late decision on literary pro- perty. By the way, I heartily wish the legislature may, by a new law, set this matter on a proper footing. Lite- rature must suffer, if this decision re- mains unobviated. LETTER XV. The Rev. Dr. Porteus to Dr. Beattie. Hunton, near Maidstone, Kent, July 24, 1774. I am desired, by one of the episcopal bench*, whose name I am not yet at liberty to mention, to ask you, whether you have any objections to taking orders in the Church of England. If you have not, there is a living now vacant in his gift, worth near five hundred pounds a- year, which will be at your service. Be pleased to send me your answer t» this, as soon as possible, and direct it to me at Peterborough, in Northampton- shire, where I shall probably be, before your letter can reach me. 1 feel myself happy in being the instrument of com- municating to you so honourable and advantageous a proof of that esteem, which your literary labours have secured to you amongst all ranks of people. LETTER XVI. Dr. Beattie to the Rev. Dr. Porteus. Peterhead, Aug. 4, 1774. I HAVE made many efforts to express, in something like adequate language, my grateful sense of the honour done me by the right reverend prelate, who makes the offer conveyed to me in your most friendly letter of the 24th July. But every new effort serves only to convince me, 'more and more, how unequal I am to the task. When 1 consider the extraordinary reception which my weak endeavours in the cause of truth have met with, and compare the greatness of my success with the insignificance of my merit ; what reasons have I not to be thankful and humble ! to be ashamed that I have done so little public service, and to re- gret that so little is in viy power ! to rouse every power of my nature to pur- poses of benevolent tendency, in order to justify, by my intentions at least, the unexampled generosity of my benefac- tors ! My religious opinions would, no doubt, if I were to declare them, sufficiently account for, and vindicate, my becoming a member of the Church of England : and I flatter myself, that my studies, * Dr. Thouias, bishop ofVVinchestcr. 618 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. way of life, and habits of thinking, have always been such as would not disqua- lify me for an ecclesiastical profession. If I were to become a clergyman, the Church of England would certainly be my choice ; as I think, that, in regard to church government, and church ser- vice, it has many great and peculiar ad- vantages. And 1 am' so far from having any natural disinclination to holy or- ders, that I have several times, at differ- ent periods of my life, been disposed to enter into them, and have directed my studies accordingly. Various accidents, however, prevented me ; some of them pretty remarkable, and such as I think I might, without presumption, ascribe to a particular interposition of Provi- dence. The offer, now made me, is great and generous beyond all expectation. I am well aware of all the advantages and ho- Bours that would attend my accepting, and yet I find myself obliged, in con- science, to decline it ; as I lately did another of the same kind (though not so considerable) that was made me, on the part of another English gentleman. The reasons which did then, and do now, de- termine me, I beg leave, sir, briefly to lay before you. I wrote the " Essay on Truth," with the certain prospect of raising many enemies, with very faint hopes of at- tracting the public attention, and with- out any views of advancing my for- tune. I published it, however, because I thought it might probably do a little good, by bringing to nought, or at least lessening the reputation of, that wretch- ed system of sceptical philosophy, which had made a most alarming progress, and done incredible mischief to this coun- try. My enemies have been at great pains to represent my views, in that publication, as very different: and that my principal or only motive was to make a book, and, if possible, to raise myself higher in the world. So that, if I were now to accept preferment in the church, I should be apprehensive that I might strengthen the hands of the gain- say er, and give the world some ground to believe, that my love of truth was not quite so ardent, or so pure, as I had pre- tended. Besides, might it not have the ap- pearance of levity and insincerity, and, by some, be construed into a want of principle, if I were at these years (for I am now thirty-eight) to make such an important change in my way of life, and to quit, with no other apparent mo- tive than that of bettering my circum- stances, that church of which 1 have hitherto been a member? If my book has any tendency to do good, as I flatter myself it has, I would not, for the wealth of the Indies, do any thing to counteract that tendency ; and I am afraid, that tendency might in some measure be counteracted (at least in this country), if I were to give the adversary the least ground to charge me with inconsistency. It is true, that the force of my reasonings cannot be really affected by my character ; truth is truth, whoever be the speaker : but even truth itself becomes less respecta- ble, when spoken, or supposed to be spoken, by insincere lips. It has also been hinted to me, by several persons of very sound judgment, that what I have written, or may here- after write, in favour of religion, has a chance of being more attended to, if I continue a layman, than if I were to be- come a clergyman. Nor am I with- out apprehensions (though some of my friends think them ill-founded), that, from entering so late in life, and from so remote a province, into the Church of England, some degree of ungracefulness, particularly in pronunciation, might ad- here to my performances in public, suf- ficient to render them less pleasing, and consequently less useful. Most of these reasons were repeatedly urged upon me, during my stay in Eng- land, last summer ; and I freely own, that, the more I consider them, the more weight they seem to have. And from the peculiar manner in which the king has been graciously pleased to distin- guish me, and from other circumstances, I have some ground to presume, that it is his majesty's pleasure that I should continue where I am, and employ my leisure hours in prosecuting the studies I have begun. This I can find time to do more effectually in Scotland than in England, and in Aberdeen than in Edin- burgh ; which, by the bye, was one of my chief reasons for declining the Edin- burgh professorship. The business of my professorship here is indeed toilsome ; but I have, by fourteen years' practice, made myself so much master of it, that Sect. IV. RECENT. 61^ it now requires little mental labour ; and our long- summer vacation, of seven months, leaves me at my own disposal, for the greatest and best part of the year : a situation favourable to literary projects, and now become necessary to my health. Soon after my return home, in au- tumn last, I had occasion to write to the archbishop of York on this subject. I specified my reasons for giving up all thoughts of church preferment ; and his grace was pleased to approve of them % nay, he condescended so far as to say, they did me honour. I told hi& grace,, moreover, that 1 had already given a great deal of trouble to ray noble and generous patrons in England, and could not think of being any longer a burden to them, now that his majesty had so graciously and so generously made for me a provision equal to my wishes, and such as puts it in my power to obtain^ in Scotland; every convenience of life to which I have any title, or any inclination to aspire. I must, therefore, make it my request to you, that you would present my hum- ble respects, and most thankful acknow- ledgments, to the eminent person at whose desire you wrote your last letter (whose name I hope you will not be un- der the necessity of concealing from me), and assure him, that, though I have taken the liberty to decline his generous offer, I shall, to the last hour of my life, preserve a most grateful remembrance of the honour he has condescended to confer upon me ; and, to prove myself not altogether unwortliy of his good- ness, shall employ that health and leisure which Providence may hereafter afford me, in opposing infidelity, heresy, and error, and in promoting sound litera- ture, and Christian truth, to the utmost of my power. LETTER XVII. Dr. Beattie to the Rev. Dr. Porteus. Aberdeen, March 4, 1775. I HAVE just finished a hasty perusal of Dr. Johnson's " Journey." It contains many things worthy of the author, and is, on the whole, very entertaining. His account of the Isles, is, I dare say, very just; I never was there, and there- fore can say nothing of them, from my own knowledge. His accounts of so7ne facts, relating to other parts of Scot- land, are not unexceptionable. Either he must have been misinformed, or he must have misunderstood his informer, in regard to several of his remarks on the improvement of the country. I am surprised at one of his mistakes, which leads him once or twice into perplexity, and false conjecture : he seems not to have known, that, in the common lan- guage of Scotland, Irish and Earse are both used to denote the speech of the Scots Highlanders ; and are as much synonymous (at least in many parts of the kingdom) as Scotch and Scottish. Irish is generally thought the genteeler appel- lation, and Earse the vulgar and collo- quial. His remarks on the trees of Scot- land must greatly surprise a native. In some of our provinces, trees cannot be reared by any method of cultivation we have yet discovered ; in some, where trees flourish extremely well, they are not much cultivated, because they are not necessary : but in others, we have store of wood, and forests of great ex- tent, and of great antiquity. I am sorry to see in Johnson some asperities, that seem to be the effect of national preju- dice. If he thinks himself thoroughly acquainted with the character of the Scots as a nation, he is greatly mistaken. The Scots have virtues, and the Scots have faults, of which he seems to have had no particular information. 1 am one of those, who wish to see the English spirit and English manners prevail over the whole island ; for I think the Eng- lish have a generosity and openness of nature, which many of us want. But we are not all, without exception, a na- tion of cheats and liars, as Johnson seems willing to believe, and to repre- sent us. Of the better sort of our peo- ple, the character is just the reverse. I admire Johnson's genius ; I esteem him for his virtues ; I shall ever cherish a grateful remembrance of the civilities I have received from him : I have often, in this country, exerted myself in defence both of his character and writings : but there are in this book several things which I cannot defend. His unbelief in regard to Ossian I am not surprised at; but I wonder greatly at his credulity in regard to the second sight. I caimot iraa^'ine on what {irounds he could say. 620 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. that, in the universities of Scotland, every master of arts may he a doctor when he pleases. I never heard of such a thing, and I have been connected Avith our uni- versities ever since I was a boy. Our method of giving doctor's degrees I do not approve of; but we proceed on a principle quite different from what Dr. Johnson mentions. LETTER XVIIL Mrs. Montagu to Dr. Beattie. Tunbridgc Wells, Sept. 3, 1773. It was not without trembling and hor- ror 1 read the account of your overturn, and the dangerous circumstances with which it was attended. The traveller who is obliged to traverse a pathless wilderness, or in a frail boat to cross the angry ocean, devoutly prays to the Omnipotent to assist and preserve him ; the occasion awakens his fears, and ani- mates his devotion : but it is only from experience and reflection we are taught to consider every day, which passes in safety and closes in peace, as a mercy. If I had known, when you had set out from Denton, how near to a precipice you would have been thrown, I should more earnestly have prayed for your pre- servation through the journey : but the incident at once makes me sensible, that our safety depends not on the road, but the hand that upholds and guides us. I left Denton the first day of August. On the second, by noon, 1 reached the episcopal palace of our friend, the arch- bishop of York'^, at Bishop's Thorpe. I had before visited him at his family seat at Brodsworth. The man, who has a character of his own, is little changed by varying his situation : I can only say, that at his family seat I found him the most of a prelate of any gentleman, and, at his palace, the most of a gentleman I had ever seen. Native dignity is the best ground work of assumed and spe- cial dignity. We talked a great deal of you ; the subject was copious and plea- sant. We considered you, as a poet, with admiration ; as a philosopher, with respect ; as a Christian, with veneration ; and as a friend, with affection. His grace's health is not quite what we could * Hon. ]:)r. Hay Drumniond, at that tir^e archbishop of York. wish. I could indulge myself in no longer than one day's delay at Bishop's Thorpe. I then made the best of my way to London, and, after a very short stay there, came to Tunbridge. I have the happiness of having Mrs. Carter in my house, and Mrs. Vesey is not at a quarter of a mile's distance : thus, though 1 live secluded from the general world, I have the society of those I love best. I propose to stay here about three weeks, then I return to London, to prepare for my expedition to the south of France. I have written to a gentleman at Montau- ban to endeavour to get for me a large house in any part of that town. I am as- sured that the climate of Montauban is very delightful ; the air is dry, but not piercing, as at Montpelier. There is but little society ; but there are some provin- cial noblesse, amongst whom I hope to find some who are more in the ton of Louis XIV's court, than 1 should at Versailles. It is long before the polish- ed manners of a court arrive at the dis- tant regions of a great country ; but when there, they acquire a permanent establishment. At Paris, the minister, or the favourite of the day, is taken for the model, and there is a perpetual change of manners. I think with some pleasures of escaping the gloom of our winter and the bustle of London, and passing my time in the blessings of cheer- ful tranquillity and soft sunshine : at the same time, there is something pain- ful in removing so far from one's dearest friends. I wish much to see the verses on the pretty incident of the dove's alighting on Shakspeare's statue. Of whatever nature and disposition the animal had been, he might have been presented as a symbol of Shakspeare. The gravity and deep thought of the bird of wisdom ; the sublime flight of the eagle to the starry regions and the throne of Jove ; the pensive song of the nightingale, when she shuns the noise of folly, and soothes the midnight visionary ; the pert jack- daw, that faithfully repeats the chit- chat of the market or the shop ; the sky lark, that, soaring, seems to sing to the denizens of the air, and set her mu- sic to the tone of beings of another re- gion — would all assort with the genius of universal Shakspeare. Sect. lY. REGENT. 621 LETTER XIX. Dr. Seattle to Mrs. Montagu. Aberdeen, September \1, 1175. Your reflections on the little disas- ter, with which our journey conclud- ed, exactly coincide with mine. I agree with Hawkesworth, that the peril and the deliverance are equally provi- dential ; and I wonder he did not see, that both the one and the other may be productive of the very best efl'ects. These little accidents and trials are necessary to put us in mind of that superintend- ing- goodness, to which we are indebted for every breath we draw, and of which, in the hour of tranquillity, many of us are too apt to be forgetful. But you, madam, forget nothing which a Chris- tian ought to remember ; and therefore I hope and pray that Providence may defend you from every alarm. By the way, there are several things, besides that preface to which I just now referred, ill the writings of Hawkesworth, that shew an unaccountable perplexity of mind in regard to some of the princi- ples of natural religion. I observed, in his conversation, that he took a pleasure in ruminating upon riddles, and puz- zling questions and calculations ; and he seems to have carried something of the same temper into his moral and theo- logical researches. His " Almoran and Hamet" is a strange confused narrative, and leaves upon the mind of the reader some disagreeable impressions in regard to the ways of providence ; and from the theory of pity, which he has given us somewhere in the '* Adventurer," one would suspect that he was no enemy to the philosophy of Hobbes. However, I am disposed to impute all this rather to a vague way of thinking, than to any perversity of heart or understanding. Only I wish, that in his last work he had been more ambitious to tell the plain truth, than to deliver to the world a wonderful story. I confess, that from the first I was inclined to consider his vile portrait of the manners of Otaheite as in part fictitious ; and I am now as- sured, upon the very best authority, that Dr. Solander disavows some of those narrations, or at least declares them to be grossly misrepresented. There is, in almost all the late books of travels I have ^een, a disposition on the part of the author to recommend licentious theories. I would not object to the truth of any fact, that is warranted by the tes- timony of competent witnesses. But how few of our travellers are competent judges of the facts they relate ! How few of them know any thing accurately of the language of those nations, whose laws, religion, and moral sentiments, they pretend to describe ! And how few of them are free from that inordinate love of the marvellous, which stimulates equally the vanity of the writer, and the curiosity of the reader ! Suppose a Ja- panese crew to arrive in England, take in wood and water, exchange a few commodities ; and, after a stay of three months, to set sail for their own coun- try, and there set forth a his^tory of the English government, religion, and man- ners : it is, I think, highly probable, that, for one truth, they would deliver a score of falsehoods. But Europeans, it will be said, have more sagacity, and know more of mankind. Be it so : but this advantage is not without inconve- niences, sufficient perhaps to counter- balance it. When a European arrives in any remote part of the globe, the na- tives, if they know any thing of his coun- try, will be apt to form no favourable opinion of his intentions, with regard to their liberties ; if they know nothing of him, they will yet keep aloof, on ac- count of his strange language, com- plexion, and accoutrements. In either case he has little chance of understand- ing their laws, manners, and principles of action, except by a long residence in the country, which would not suit the views of one traveller in five thousand. He therefore picks up a few strange plants and animals, which he may do with little trouble or danger ; and, at his return to Europe, is welcomed by the literati, as a philosophic traveller of most accurate observation, and unques- tionable veracity. He describes, per- haps, with tolerable exactness, the soils, plants, and other irrational curiosities of the new country, which procures credit to what he has to say of the people ; though his accuracy in describing the material phrenomena is no proof of his capacity to explain the moral. One can easily dig to the root of a plant, but it is not so easy to penetrate the motive of an action : and till the motive of an action be known, we are no competent judges m2 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. of its morality ; and in many cases the motive of an action is not to be known witho\it a most intimate knowledge of the language and manners of the agent. Our traveller then delivers a few facts of the moral kind, which perhaps he does not understand, and from them draws some inferences suitable to the taste of the times, or to a favourite hypothesis. He tells us of a. Californian, who sold his bed in a morning, and came wdth tears in his eyes to beg it back at night ; whence he very wisely infers, that the poor Californians are hardly one degree above the brutes in understanding, for that they have neither foresight nor me- mory sufficient to direct their conduct on the most common occasions of life. In a word, they are quite a different species of animal from the European 5 and it is a gross mistake to think, that all mankind are descended from the same first parents. But one needs not go so far as to California, in quest of men who sacrifice a future good to a present gratification. In the metropolis of Great Britain one may meet with many re- puted Christians, who would act the same part, for the pleasure of carousing half a day in a gin-shop. Again, to il- lustrate the same important truth, that man is a beast, or very little better, we are told of another nation, on the banks of the Orellana, so wonderfully stupid, that they cannot reckon beyond the number three, but point to the hair of their head whenever they would sig- nify a greater number ; as if four, and four thousand, were to them equally in- conceivable. But, whence it comes to pass, that these people are capable of speech, or of reckoning at all, even so far as to three, is a difficulty of which our historian attempts not the solution. But, till he shall solve it, I must beg leave to tell him, that the one half of his tale contradicts the other, as effectually as if he had told us of a people, who were so weak as to be incapable of bodi- ly exertion, and yet that he had seen one of them lift a stone of a hundred weight. — 1 beg your pardon, madam, for running into this subject. The truth is, I was lately thinking to write upon it ; but I shall not have leisure these many months. Take no farther concern about your dwarf. The person, whom you honour with your noHce, I shall always think it my duty to care for, I have let it be known in the town what you have done for him ; which 1 hope will be a spur to the generosity of others. He has paid me but one visit as yet. His wants are few ; and he seems to be modest as well as magnanimous. Both virtues cer- tainly entitle him to consideration. I have not yet seen the verses on Shakespeare and the dove. One thing I am certain of, which is, that they will contain nothing so much to the purpose, or so elegant, as what you have said on the occasion in prose. You justly re- mark, that any bird of character, from the eagle to the sky-lark, from the owl to the mock-bird, might symbolize with one or other of the attributes of that universal genius. But, do not you think that his dove-like qualities are among those on which he now reflects with pe- culiar complacency? And I think it could be shewn, from many things in his writings, that he resembled the dove as much as the eagle. There are no Surly fellows among his favourite cha- racters : and he seems to excel himself in the delineation of a good-natured one. Witness his Brutus, who is indeed fi- nished con (unore ; and who, in gentle- ness of nature, exceeds even the Brutus of the good-natured Plutarch, as this last exceeded, by many degrees (if we are to believe some creditable historians), the true original Brutus, who fell at Philippi. There are besides, in the writ- ings of Shakespeare, innumerable pas- sages, that bespeak a mind peculiarly at- tentive to the rights of humanity and to the feelings of animal nature. Lear, when his distress is at the highest, sym- pathises with those, who, amidst the pinchings of want and nakedness, are exposed to the tempestuous elements. I need not put you in mind of the poor sequestered stag in "As you like it;" nor need I say more on a subject with which you are much better acquainted than I am. LETTER XX. Dr. Beattie to the Honourable Mr. Baron Gordon. Aberdeen, Gth February, 1776. I HAVE been very much employed in pre- paring some little things of mine for Sect. IV. RECENT. 623 the press ; otherwise I should sooner have acknowledged the favour of your most obliging letter. The last time I read Virgil, I took it into my head, that the tenth and ele- venth books of the ^neid were not so highly finished as the rest. Every body knows that the last six books are less perfect than the first six ; and I fancied that some of the last six came nearer to perfection than others. I cannot now recollect my reasons for this conceit ; but I propose to read the ^neid again, as soon as I have got rid of this publica- tion ; and I hope I shall then be in a condition to give something of a reason- able answer to any question you may do me the honour to propose in regard to that matter. I do not mean that the tenth or ele- venth books are at all imperfect ; I only mean, that they fall short of Virgilian perfection. And many passages there are in both, which Virgil himself could not, in my opinion, have made better. Such are the story of Mezentius and Lausus, in the end of the tenth book ; and that passage in the eleventh, where old Evander meets the dead body of his son. Mezentius is a character of Vir- gil's own contrivance, and it is extremely well drawn : an old tyrant, hated by his people on account of his impiety and cruelty, yet graced with one ami- able virtue, which is sometimes found in very rugged minds, a tender affection for a most deserving son. Filial affection is one of those virtues which Virgil dwells upon with peculiar pleasure ; he never omits any opportunity of bringing it in, and he always paints it in the most lovely colours. JEneas, Ascanius, Euryalus, Lausus, are all eminent for this virtue ; and Turnus, when he asks his life, asks it only for the sake of his poor old father. Let a young man read the iEneid with taste and attention, and then be an undutiful child if he can. I think there is nothing very distinguishing in Camilla. Perhaps it is not easy to imagine more than one form of that character. The adventures of her early youth are, how- ever, highly interesting and wildly ro- mantic. The circumstance of her being, when an infant, thrown across a river, tied to a javelin, is so very singular, that I should suppose Virgil had found it in some history ; and, if I mistake not, Plutarch has told such a story of king Pyrrhus. The battle of the horse, in the end of the eleventh book, is well con- ducted, considering that Virgil was there left to his shifts, and had not Homer to assist him. The speeches of Drances and Turnus are highly animated ; and no- thing could be better contrived to raise our idea of ^Eneas than the answer which Diomede gives to the ambassadors from the Italian army. I ought to ask pardon for troubling you with these superficial remarks. But a desire to approve myself wortliy of be- ing honoured with your commands, has led me into a subject for which I am not at present prepared. When I have the pleasure to pay my respects to you at Cluny, which I hope will be early in the summer, 1 shall be glad to talk over these matters, and to correct my opi- nions by yours. LETTER XXI. Dr. Beattic to the Duchess of Gordon, Aberdeen, 10th January, 1779, Major Mercer made me very happy with the news he brought from Gordon castle, particularly when he assured me that your grace was in perfect health. He told me too, that your solitude was at an end for some time ; which, I con- fess, I was not sorry to hear. Seasons of recollection may be useful ; but when one begins to find pleasure in sighing over Young's " Night Thoughts" in a corner, it is time to shut the book, and return to the company. I grant, that, while the mind is in a certain state, those gloomy ideas give exquisite delight ; but their effect resembles that of intoxication upon the body ; they may produce a temporary fit of feverish exultation, but qualms, and weakened nerves, and de- pression of spirits, are the consequence. I have great respect for Dr. Young, both as a man and as a poet ; I used to de- vour his " Night Thoughts" with a sa- tisfaction not unlike that, which, in my younger years, I have found in walking alone in a churchyard, or in a wild mountain, by the light of the moon, at midnight. Such things may help to soften a rugged mind ; and I believe I might have been the better for them. But your grace's heart is already " too feel- ingly alive to each fine impulse ;" and, ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. therefore, to you I would recommend gay thoughts, cheerful hooks, and sprightly company: I might have said company without any limitation, for wherever you are the company must be sprightly. Excuse this obtrusion of ad- vice. We are all physicians who have arrived at forty ; and as T have been studying the anatomy of the human mind these fifteen years and upwards, I think I ought to be something of a soul- doctor by this time. When I first read Young, my heart was broken to think of the poor man's afflic- tions. Afterwards, I took it in my head, that where there was so much lamenta- tion there could not be excessive suffer- ing ; and I could not help applying to him sometimes those lines of a song, " Believe me, the shepherd but feigns He's wretched, to shew he has wit." On talking with some of Dr. Young's particular friends in England, I have since found that my conjecture was right ; for that while he was composing the " Night Thoughts" he was really as cheerful as any other man. I well know the effect of what your grace expresses so properly, of a cold yes returned to a warm sentiment. One meets with it often in company ; and, in most companies, with nothing else. And yet it is perhaps no great loss, upon the whole, that one's enthusiasm does not always meet with an adequate return. A disappointment of this sort, now and then, may have upon the mind an efifect something like that of the cold bath upon the body ; it gives a temporary shock, but is followed by a very delightful glow as soon as one gets into a society of the right temperature. They resemble too in another respect. A cool companion may be disagreeable at first, but in a little time he becomes less so ; and at our first plunge we are impatient to get out of the bath, but if we stay in it a minute or two, we lose the sense of its extreme coldness. Would not your grace think, from what I am saying, or rather preaching, that I was the most social man upon earth ? And yet I am become al- most an hermit : I have not made four visits these four months. Not that I am running away, or have any design to run away, from the world. It is, I rather think, the world that is running away No character was ever more fully or more concisely drawn than that of ma- jor Mercer by your grace. I was cer- tain you would like him the more, the longer you knew him. With more learn- ing than any other man of my acquaint- ance, he has all the playfulness of a schoolboy ; and unites the wit and the wisdom of Montesquieu, with the sensi- bility of Rousseau, and the generosity of Tom Jones. Your grace has likewise a very just idea of Mrs. Mercer. She is most amiable, and well accomplished ; and in goodness and generosity of na- ture is not inferior even to the major himself. I met her the other day, and was happy to find her in better health than I think she has been for some years. This will be most welcome news to the major. Pray, does your grace think that he blames me for not writing to him this great while ? The true reason is, that I have not had this great while any news to send him, but what 1 knew would give him pain ; and therefore I thought it better not to write, especially as we have been in daily expectation of seeing him here these several weeks. Will your grace take the trouble to tell him this ? There is no man to whom I have been so much obliged ; and, with one or two exceptions, there is no m.an or woman whom I love so well. LETTER XXIL Dr. Beattie to the Duchess of Gordon. Aberdeen, 5th July, 1779. I NOW sit down to make good the threatening denounced in the conclusion of a letter which I had the honour to write to your grace about ten days ago. The request I am going to make 1 shovild preface with many apologies, if I did not know, that the personage to whom I ad- dress myself is too well acquainted with all the good emotions of the human heart to blame the warmth of a schoolboy at- tachment, and too generous to think the worse of me for wishing to assist an unfortunate friend. Three weeks ago, as 1 was scribbling in my garret, a man entered, whom at first I did not know ; but, on his desir- ing me to look him in the face, I soon recollected an old friend, whom I had not seen and scarcely heard of thees Sect. IV^. R E C E N T. 625 twenty years. He and I lodged in the same house when we attended the school of Laurencekirk, in the year IJ^J. I was then about ten years old, and he about fifteen. As he took a great liking to me, he had many opportunities of obliging me ; having much more know- ledge of the world, as well as more bo- dily strength, than I. He was, besides, an ingenious mechanic, and made forme many little things : and it must not be forgotten, that he first put a violin in my hands, and gave me the only lessons in music I ever received. Four years after this period I went to college, and he en- gaged in farming. But our acquaint- ance was renewed about five years after, when I remember he made me the con- fidant of a passion he had for the greatest beauty in that part of the country, whom he soon after married. I was very glad to see my old friend so unexpectedly ; and we talked over many old stories, which, though interest- ing to us, would have given little plea- sure to any body else. But my satisfac- tion was soon changed to regret, when, upon inquiring into the particulars of his fortune during these twenty years, I found he had been very unsuccessful. His farming projects had miscarried ; and happening to give some offence to a young woman, who was called the house- keeper of a gentleman on whom he de- pended, she swore she would be revenged, to his ruin ; and was as good as her word. He satisfied his creditors by giv- ing them all his substance ; and, retiring to a small house in Jolmshaven *, made a shift to support his family by working as a joiner ; a trade which, when a boy, he had picked up for his amusement. But a consumptive complaint overtook him ; and, though he got the better of it, he has never since been able to do any thing that requires labour, and can now only make fiddles, and some such little matters, for which there is no great de- mand in the place where he lives. He told me he had come to Aberdeen on purpose to put me in mind of our old acquaintance, and see whether I could do any thing for him. I asked, in what respect he wished me to sei-ve him. He would do any thing, he said, for his fa- mily that was not dishonourable : and, on pressing him a little further, I found * A small fishing town in the county of Kin- cardine. that the height of his ambition was to be a tide-waiter, a land-waiter, or an offi- cer of excise. I told him, it was par- ticularly unlucky that I had not the least influence, or even acquaintance, with any one commissioner, either of the ex- cise or customs : but, as I did not care to discourage him, I promised to think of his case, and to do what I could. I have since seen a clergyman, who knows my friend very well, and describes his con- dition as still more forlorn than he had represented it. It is in behalf of this poor man, that I now venture to implore your grace's ad- vice and assistance. I am well aware, that though his case is very interesting to me, there is nothing extraordinary in it, and that your grace must often be solicited for others in like circumstances. It is, therefore, with the utmost reluct- ance that I have taken this liberty. If your grace thinks that an application from me to Mr. Baron Gordon might be sufficient to procure one of the offices in question for my friend, I would not wish you to have any trouble ; but if my ap- plication were enforced by yours, it would have a better chance to succeed. This, however, I do not request, if it is not so easy to your grace as to be almost a matter of indifference. By the first convenient opportunity I hope to send your grace a sort of cu- riosity — four elegant Pastorals, by a Quaker ; not one of our Quakers of Scotland, but a true English Quaker, who says thee and thou, and comes into a room, and sits down in company, with- out taking off his hat. For all this, he is a very worthy man, an elegant scho- lar, a cheerful companion, and a par- ticular friend of mine. His name is John Scott, of Amwell, near Ware, Hert- fordshire, where he lives in an elegant retirement (for his fortune is very good) ; and has dug in a chalk-hill, near his house, one of the most curious grottos I have ever seen. As it is only twenty miles from London, I would recommend it to your grace, when you are there, as worth going to visit. Your grace will be pleased with his Pastorals, not only on account of their morality and sweet versification, but also for their images and descriptions, which are a very exact picture of the groves, Avoods, waters, and windmills, of that part of England where he resides. 2S ELEGANT E F I 8 T I. E S. Book IV, LETTER XXIIl. Dr. Beattie to the Duchess of Gordon. Whitehall, 16th May, 1781. I HAVE seen most of the fashionable curiosities ; hut will not trouble your grace with any particular account of them. The exhibition of pictures at the Royal Academy is the best of the kind I have seen. The best pieces, in my opi- nion, are, Thais (with a torch in her hand) ; the Death of Dido ; and a Boy supposed to be listening to a wonderful story ; these three by sir Joshua Rey- nolds : a Shepherd Boy, by Gainsbo- rough ; some landscapes, by Barrett. Christ healing the Sick, by West, is a prodigious great work, and has in it great variety of expression ; but there is a glare and a hardness in the colouring, which makes it look more like a picture than like nature. Gainsborough's pic- ture of the King is the strongest likeness I have ever seen ; his Queen too is very well : but he has not given them atti- tudes becoming their rank ; the King has his hat in his hand, and the Queen looks as if she were going to curtsey in the beginning of a minuet. Others may think differently ; I give my own opi- nion. There is nothing at either playhouse that is in the least captivating ; nor, I think, one player, Mrs. Abingdon ex- cepted, whom one would wish to see a second time. I was shocked at Leoni, in " Had I a heart for falsehood," &c. A man singing with a woman's voice sounds as unnatural to me as a woman singing with a man's. Either may do in a private company, where it is enough if people are diverted ; but on a stage, where nature ought to be imitated, both are, in my opinion, intolerable. Johnson's new " Lives "are published. He is, as your grace heard he would be, very severe on my poor friend Gray. His life of Pope is excellent ; and in all his lives there is merit, as they contain a great variety of sound criticism and pleas- ing information. He has not done jus- tice to lord Lyttelton. He has found means to pay me a very great compli- ment, for which I am much obliged to him, in speaking of Mr. Gray's journey into Scotland in 1765. Copley's picture of Lord Chatham's Death is an exhibition of itself. It is a vast collection of portraits, some of them very like ; but, excepting three or four of the personages present, few t)f this vast assembly seem to be much affected with the great event; which divests the picture of its unity, and will in the next age make it cease to be in- teresting. LETTER XXIV. Dr. Beattie to Sir William Forbes. Hunton, near Maidstone, Kent, 14th July, 1784. I AM now, my dear sir, arrived at a place where external nature wears a face of the most profound tranquillity ; and sit down to thank you for your two last letters, which came to hand the day before 1 left the town. It is so far for- tunate, that Mrs. B.'s removal to Mus- selburgh was attended with so little in- convenience. My confidence in your friendship and goodness entirely satisfies me that you will soon put matters on a right footing. I lament, indeed, that your attention to me and mine should give you so much trouble ; but the con- sciousness of doing good to the unfor- tunate and forlorn will in part reward you ; and no mind ever possessed that consciousness in a more exquisite de- gree than yours has reason to do. The hot weather made London so dis- agreeable, that I was obliged to leave it before I had seen all my friends : I must make a longer stay when I return thi- ther. I wish I had time and capacity to give you a description of this parsonage. It is delightfully situated about half way down a hill fronting the south, about a mile from Coxheath. My windows com- mand a prospect extending southward about twelve miles, and from east to west not less, I suppose, than forty. In this whole space I do not see a single speck of ground that is not in the highest de- gree cultivated ; for Coxheath is not in sight. The lawns in the neighbourhood, the hop-grounds, the rich verdure of the trees, and their endless variety, form a scenery so picturesque and so luxuriant, that it is not easy to fancy any thing finer. Add to this the cottages, churches, and villages, rising here and there among the trees, and scattered over the whole country ; clumps of oaks, and other Sect. IV. ii K C E N T. 627 lofty trees, disposed in ten thousand dif- ferent forms, and some of them visible in the horizon at the distance of more than ten miles ; and you will have some idea of the beauty of Hunton. The only thing wanting is the murmur of running water ; but we have some ponds and clear pools that glitter through the trees, and have a very pleasing effect. WitJi abun- dance of shade, we have no damp nor fenny ground : and though the country looks at a distance like one continued grove, the trees do not press upon us : indeed 1 do not at present see one that I could wish removed. There is no road within sight, the hedges that overhang the highways being very high ; so that we see neither travellers nor carriages, and indeed hardly any thing in motion ; which conveys such an idea of peace and quiet, as I think I never was conscious of before, and forms a most striking con- trast with the endless noise and restless multitudes of Piccadilly. But what pleases me most at Hunton is not now in view; for my friend, the bishop of Chester, is gone out a-riding. You are no stranger to the character of this amiable man. Mrs. Porteus is not less amiable. Their house is the mansion of peace, piety, and cheerfulness. The bishop has improved his parsonage and the grounds about it as much as they can be improved, and made it one of the pleasantest spots in England. The whole is bounded by a winding gravel walk, about half a mile in circumference. Close by lives a most agreeable lady, with whom we all breakfasted to-day. She is the widow of sir Roger Twisden, and, though not more than five-and- twenty, lives in this elegant retirement, and employs herself chiefly in the edu- cation of her daughter, a fine child of four years of age, who is mistress of her catechism, and reads wonderfully well. I expect soon to see our friend Mr. Lang- ton, as the bishop proposes to send him an invitation, Rochester being only ten miles off. Tunbridge Wells is fifteen miles the other way. PROM THE LETTKIIS OF SIR. WILLIAM JONFS. LETTER XXV. Mr, Jones (at the Age of Fourteen^ to his Sister. Dear sister, When I received your letter I was very concerned to hear the death of your friend Mr. Reynolds, which I consider as a piece of affliction common to us both. For although my knowledge of his name or character is of no long date, and though I never had any per- sonal acquaintance with him, yet (as you observe) we ought to regret the loss of every honourable man ; and if I had the pleasure of your conversation I would certainly give you any consolatory ad- vice that lay in my power, and make it my business to convince you what a real share I take in your chagrin. And yet, to reason philosophically, I cannot help thinking any grief upon a person's death very superfluous, and inconsistent with sense ; for what is the cause of our sor- row ? Is it because we hate the person deceased ? that were to imply strange contradiction, to express our joy by the common signs of sorrow. If, on the other hand, we grieve for one w^ho was dear to us, I should reply that we should, on the contrary, rejoice at his having left a state so perilous and uncertain as life is. The common strain is, " "Tis pity so virtuous a man should die :^' — but I assert the contrary ; and when I hecir the death of a person of merit, I cannot help reflecting, how happy he must be, who now takes the reward of his excellencies without the possibility of falling away from them, and losing the virtue which he professed ; on whose cha- racter death has fixed a kind of seal, and placed him out of the reach of vice and infamy ; for death only closes a man's reputation, and determines it as either good or bad. On the contrary, in life nothing is certain ; Avhilst any one is liable to alteration, we may possiltly be forced to retract our esteem for him, and some time or other he may appear to us as under a different light than Avhat he does at present ; for the life of no man can be pronounced either happy or miserable, virtuous or abandoned, be- 2S2 628 ELEGANT EPISTLE S. Book IV. fore the conclusion of it. It was upon this reflection that Solon, being asked by Crcesus, a monarch of immense riches, Who was the happiest man ? answered, After your death I shall be able to de- termine. Besides, though a man should ])ursiie a constant and determinate course of virtue, though he were to keep a re- gular symmetry and uniformity in his actions, and preserve the beauty of his reputation to the last, yet (while he lives) his very virtue may incur some evil imputation, and provoke a thousand murmurs of detraction ; for, believe me, ray dear sister, there is no instance of any virtue, or social excellence, which has not excited the envy of innumerable assailants, whose acrimony is raised barely by seeing others pleased, and by hearing commendation which another enjoys. It is not easy in this life for any man to escape censure; and infamy re- quires very little labour to assist its cir- culation. But there is a kind of sanc- tion in the characters of the dead, which gives due force and reward to their me- rits, and defends them from the sugges- tions of calumny. But to return to the point : What reason is there to disturb yourself on this melancholy occasion ? do but reflect that thousands die every moment of time ; that even while we speak, some unhappy wretch or other is either pining with hunger or pinched with poverty, sometimes giving up his life to the point of the sword, torn with convulsive agonies, and undergoing many miseries which it were superfluous to mention. We should therefore com- pare our afflictions with those who are more miserable, and not with those who are more happy. I am ashamed to add more, lest I should seem to mistrust your prudence ; but next week, when I un- derstand youi" mind is more composed, I shall write you word how all things go here. I designed to write you this letter in French, but I thought I could ex- press my thoughts with more energy in my own language. I come now, after a long interval, to mention some more private circum- stances. Pray give my duty to my mamma, and thank her for my shirts. They fit, in my opinion, very well, though Biddy says they are too little in the arms. You may expect a letter from me every day in the week till I come home; for Mrs. Biscoe has desired it, and has given me some franks. When you see her, you may tell her that her little boy sends his duty to her, and Mr. Biscoe his love to his sister, and desires to be remembered to miss Cleeve : he also sends his compliments to my mam- ma and you. Upon my word, I never thought our bleak air would have so good an efi^ect upon him. His com- plexion is now ruddy, which before was sallow and pale, and he is indeed much grown : but I now speak of trifles, I mean in comparison of his learning ; and indeed he takes that with wonderful acuteness ; besides, his excessive high spirits increase mine, and give me com- fort, since, after Parnell's departure, he is almost the only company 1 keep. As for news, the only article 1 know is, that Mrs. Par is dead and buried. Mr. and Mrs. Sumner are well : the latter thanks you for bringing the letter from your old acquaintance, and the former has inade me an elegant present. I am now very much taken up with study ; am to speak Antony's speech in Shak- speare's Julius Cresar (which play I will read to you when I come to town), and am this week to make a declama- tion. I add no more than the sin- cere well wishes of your faithful friend, &c. LETTER XXVI. Mr. Jones to hady Spencer, September 7, 1769. The necessary trouble of correcting t?ie first printed sheets of my history, pre- vented me to-day from paying a proper respect to the memory of Shakspeare, by attending his jubilee. But I was re- solved to do all the honour in my power to as great a poet, and set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to visit a place where Milton spent some part of his life, and where, in all proba- bility, he composed several of his earliest productions. It is a small village situ- ated on a pleasant hill, about three miles from Oxford, and called Forest Hill, be- cause it formerly lay contiguous to a forest, which has since been cut down. The poet chose this place of retirement after his first marriage, and he describes the beauties of his retreat in that fine passage of his L'Allegro — Sect. IV. RECENT. 629 Sometiaie walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. While the ploughman, near at hand. Whistles o'er the furrow'd land. And the milkmaid singeth blithe. And the mower whets his scythej And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale. Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures: Russet lawns, and fallows grey. Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains, on whose barren breast The lab'ring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees, Bosom'd high in tufted trees. ****** Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, &e. It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of the day, to hear all the rural sounds and see all the ohjects men- tioned in this description ; but, by a pleasing concurrence of circumstances, we were saluted, on our approach to the village, with the music of the mower and his scythe ; we saw the ploughman intent upon his labour, and the milkmaid re- turning from her country employment. As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, gave us the highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot whence Milton undoubtedly took most of his images ; it is on the top of the hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect on all sides ; the distant mountains, that seemed to support the clouds, the villages and tur- rets, partly shaded with trees of the finest verdure, and partly raised above the groves that surrounded them, the dark plains and meadows of a greyish colour, where the sheep were feeding at large ; in short, the view of the streams and rivers convinced us that there was not a single useless or idle word in the above- mentioned description, but that it was a most exact and lively representation of nature. Thus Avill this fine passage, which has always been admired for its elegance, receive an additional beauty from its exactness. After we had walk- ed, with a kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we returned to the village. The poet's house was close to the church ; the greatest part of it has been pulled down, and what remains belongs to an adjacent farm. I am informed, that several papers in Milton's own hand were found by the gentleman who was last in possession of the estate. The tradition of his having lived there is cur- rent among the villagers : one of them shewed us a ruinous wall, that made part of his chamber ; and I was much pleased with another, who had forgotten the name of Milton, but recollected him by the title of The Poet. It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village are famous for nightin- gales, which are so elegantly described in the Penseroso. Most of the cottage windows are overgrown with sweet- briars, vines, and honeysuckles ; and that Milton's habitation had the same rustic ornament wc may conclude from his description of the lark bidding- him good-morrow. Thro' the sweet-briar, or the vine. Or the twisted eglantine; for it is evident that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by the eglantine, though that word is commonly used for the sweet-briar, which he could not mention twice in the same couplet. If I ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford in the summer, I shall be in- clined to hire and repair this venerable mansion, and to make a festival for a circle of friends, in honour of Milton, the most perfect scholar, as well as the sublimest poet, that our country ever produced. Such an honour will be less splendid, but more sincere and respect- ful, than all the pomp and ceremony on the banks of the Avon, I have, &c. LETTER XXVII. Mr. Jones to N. B. Halhed. Nice, March 1, 1770. I RECEIVED your short letter with great pleasure, as it convinced me that you were not insensible of my esteem for you, and such as resemble you. I wrote immediately to my friends, as you de- sired, most earnestly requesting them to promote your views, as if my own in- terest were concerned ; if they accede to my wishes in this respect they will oblige me and themselves too ; for doubtless I shall be ready to make them every return that I can. I think, however, that I shall 630 E i. !• G A N T E F I S T L K S. Book IV, have it in ray power to serve yon more effectually after my return to England; and I beg- you to ])elieve, that no incli- nation or efforts on my part shall ever be wanting to promote your wishes. My health is good ; but I long for those enjoyments of which I know not well how to bear the privation. When I first arrived here I was delighted witli a va- riety of objects, rarely, if ever, seen in my own country, — olives, raptles, vine- yards, pomegranates, palms, aromatic plants, and a surprising variety of the sweetest flowers, blooming in the midst of winter. But the attraction of novelty has ceased ; I am nov/ satiated, and be- gin to feel somewhat of disgust. The windows of our inn are scarcely thirty paces from the sea, and, as Ovid beauti- fully says — Tired, on the iniifo;-m expanse I i^aze. I have, therefore, no other resource than, with Cicero, to count the waves ; or, with Archimedes and Archytas, to measure the sands. 1 cannot describe to you how weary I am of this place, nor my anxiety to be again at Oxford, where I might jest with you, or philosophize with Poore. If it be not inconvenient, I wish you vrould write to me often, for I long to know how you and our friends are : but write if you please in Latin, and with gaiety, for it grieves me to ob- serve the uneasiness under which you ap- pear to labour. Let me ever retain a place in your affection, as you do in mine ; continue to cultivate polite lite- rature ; woo the muses ; reverence phi- losophy ; and give your days and nights to composition, with a due regard, how- ever, to the preservation of your health. LETTER XXVIIL Air. Jones to Ladj/ Spencer. Nice, April 14, HTU. It is with great pleasure that I acquaint your ladyship, that Mrs. Poyntz, lady Harriet, and her brother, are perfectly well ; Mrs. Poyntz goes this morning to Villa Franca; I am to be her knight, and am just equipped to mount my Ro- sinant^ : mademoiselle Annette is to go upon lady Mary Somerset's ass ; so we shall make a formidable procession. It is a delightful morning, and I hope Mrs. Poyntz will be pleased with her jaunt. We have had very bad weather, violent rains, and storms of thunder in the night, a close sultry heat all day, and a very sharp cold every evening; but the spring seems now to be pretty- well settled, and I fancy we shall have a continually clear sky, and a mild air, as long as we stay. We all promise our- selves great pleasure in our journey homewards ; and we have great reason to believe it will be enchantingly pleasant. I have every day more and more reason to be pleased with the unfolding of my pupil's disposition ; your ladyship will perhaps think these to be words of course, and what you might naturally expect from any other person in my situation ; but, believe me, I say them upon no other motive than their truth ; for if it were my nature to speak to any one what 1 do not think, 1 should at least speak truly to your ladyship, of whom I am, witli the greatest truth, &e. LETTER XXIX. From the same to the same- Paris, June 4, 1770. Your ladyship will be surprised at re- ceiving such a parcel of papers from me ; but 1 am willing to make amends for not writing all last month. The truth is, I had nothing particular to say at that time ; but on my arrival at Paris I found a letter from my friend Reviczki, with a very spirited ode composed by him upon the marriage of the archduchess. I dare say lord Spencer will like it, and I therefore take the liberty to inclose it for him. I have marked in this manner two or three passages that are faulty ; and I have put this sign <^ to one stanza that I do not quite understand. I have also sent with it the Baron's letter to me, which will serve as a comment upon many parts of the ode. You will have heard of the shocking accidents that hap- pened here the night of the fireworks. Above one hundred and thirty people were killed ; and several people of fa- shion were crushed to death in their carriages. We had the good fortnne ta arrive here two days after this dreadful catastrophe : which perhaps has saved some of us, if not from real danger, at least from the apprehension of it. We Sect. IV. REC ENT. 631 shall not be sorry to see Eng-land ag-ain, and hope to have that pleasure very soon. Soon after my return, I think of going to Oxford for a short time : but if lord Al- thorpe goes back to school this summer, as I sincerely hope he will, I shall not go to college till August ; for I am con- vinced that a public school has already been, and will continue to be, of the highest advantage to him in every re- spect. While Mrs. Poyntz staid at Lyons, I made an excursion to Geneva, in hopes of seeing Voltaire, but was disappointed. I sent him a note with a few verses, im- plying- that the muse of tragedy had left her ancient seat in Greece and Italy, and had fixed her abode on the borders of a lake, &c. He returned this an- swer : " The worst of French poets and philosophers is almost dying ; age and sickness have brought him to his last day ; he can converse with nobody, and entreats Mr. Jones to excuse and pity him. He presents him with his humble respects." But he was not so ill as he imagined ; for he had been walking- in his court, and went into his house, just as I came to it. The servants shewed me somebody at a window, who they said was he ; but I had scarce a glimpse of bim. 1 am inclined to think that Vol- taire begins to be rather serious, when he finds himself upon the brink of eter- nity ; and that he refuses to see com- pany, because he cannot display his for- mer wit and sprightliness. 1 find my book * is published ; I am not at all so- licitous about its success ; as I did not choose the subject myself, I am not an- swerable for the wild extravagance of the style, nor for the faults of the original ; but if your ladyship takes the trouble to read the dissertation at the end, you may perhaps find some new and pleasing images. The work has one advantage, it is certainly authentic. Lady Georgi- ana is so good as to inquire how Soliman goes on ; pray tell her he is in great aflBiiction, as he begins to suspect the innocence of Mustafa, who is just slain. To be serious ; my tragedy is just finish- ed, and I hope to shew it to your lady- ship in a short time. I am, &c. * Translation of the Life of Nadir Shah. LETTER XXX. Mr. Jone.54 E L E G A N r EPISTLE S. Book JV. of slighting them for the excellencies they gave not to themselves ? Can you, who read Ariosto, help thinking that you see, on such an idea as this will raise, a lady possessed of the shield of Ruggiero, uncovering it, hy surprise, and darting radiant glory in the face of her husband ; the caitiff, as in one of the cuts of Harrington's translation, sprawling, dazzled, at her feet ? You honour me with the noble title of a vindicator of your sex ; but let me desire you to whisper in the ears of the ladies you mention — "Who, my dears, shall vindicate the honour of a sex, the most excellent of which desert themselves?" — Don't mind their blush- ing looks at one another by turns : — whisper over again the question, till they are determined to amend ; or — what or ? — be sent to the Isle of Wight. No severe punishment, neither, I hope ! — the complicated fault considered. Mrs. Berthon and family, I have the pleasure of telling you, are safe in their persons. Mr. Millar has a letter from Mr. W. — I have not seen it. That gen- tleman was almost miraculously saved. Terribly extensive, indeed, has been this earthquake ! God Almighty preserve us from the effects of these terraqueous convulsions. Were we to persuade our- selves that they are sent as judgments, what have not we of this kingdom to fear ? Your poor frantic girl, perhaps, thought she was avoiding the evil to come, and which she had prophesied would come when she sought her death in the water. There have been unhappy people, more in their senses than she seems to have been, who have thrown themselves into the arms of death, for fear of dying. This girl must have been earthquake mad, as well as otherwise delirious. Don't you think so? My wife, my girls, desire their parti- cular respects to you, and join with me in wishing the begun year may be the happiest you have ever known. In the enviable frame of mind you are in, it must be so. God bless you ! adieu ! and adieu, my dear miss Collier ! LETTER LXV. Miss Collier to Mr. Richardson, Feb. 11, 1756. I AM much of your opinion, dear sir, as to the dishonesty of those girls who studiously conceal, in many inexplicable plaits (as you say) the glorious talents bestowed on them. I wish they had cou- rage to assert themselves before marriage, and ustun the caitiffs vile, in order to get rid of them; for I think, should they fall prostrate and sprawling before the dazzling shield of the lady, it would be a properer and more becoming posture for a lover than a husband ; besides, it would be highly dishonest in such surpassing geniuses to marry men of inferior under- standings in another light than that of deceiving ; for ought not the power and government to rest with those who have the superiority of judgment and wisdom ? And who would be so base and wanting^ to her own worth, as voluntarily to enter into a state of submission and acqui- escence to the will of a person less qua- lified to govern than herself — when this would be to enter into a state of the vilest servitude, and the only one truly so called : as the divine Milton describes it, where he says, " It is notservitude to serve whom G'od ordains. Or Nature ; God and Nature bid the same ^ When he who rules is worthiest, and excels Them whom he governs. This is servitude. To serve the unwise, or him who hath rebell'd Against his worthier." You say (and truly) that there are little-minded creatures who would be afraid of such talents in their respective wives as would outshine themselves. — And again, ask if such girls would be afraid that such men should slight them ? Why no, surely. — But O I Mr. Rich- ardson (with a deep sigh I say it) that I never had heard men of real good sense, great parts, and many fine qualities lower themselves down to these little-minded creatures, in inveighing with warmth against an uncommon share of under- standing in a wife ; and shewing but toa plainly in their practice, when they come to marry, that they are as much afraid of a rivalship of understanding in their wives as those men you mention. — In- deed, indeed sir, I have heard and seen this in men of unquestionable good sense ! — Where, then, shall we find husbands foi; Sect. iV. 11 E C E N T. m5 our dear uncommon geniuses of girls ? — Are not tliey under a kind of necessity (if tliey ever intend to marry) to con- tinue their napkins in plaits before mar- riage, nor ever daretounfokl them, even after marriage, to the generality of men, except they could meet with a noble- minded Sir Charles Grandison, or such as have grace enough to endeavour to tread in his steps. I have a mixture of joy and tender concern in the account you give me of my friends at Lisbon, and from what I have heard from others. They are safe in their persons, it seems ; but poor Mr. St — bs and family have lost every shil- ling they had in the world, it's said. Dear ! what a trying circumstance is this to people in great affluence, as they were. I pray God support and comfort them under this heavy affliction : they are worthy good people, and 1 hope they will find friends to assist them. My good old folks — you can't think how I love them ! — the more, I believe, because they hearken with such atten- tion and admiration to Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison, which latter I have now begun to them. They believe both Clarissa and Sir Charles to be real sto- ries, and no work of imagination ; and I don't care to undeceive them. The good man is more than threescore, he be- lieves ; but quite alive, and has none of the infirmities of age. She has one of the most agreeable and placid counte- nances I ever saw. They love each other, and the husband rejoices in the balance of sense being of her side, which it is, in some degree ; and glories in her being able to read and write, which he can scarcely do. I can't quit my old folks without expressing my happiness in them, and gratitude to all my kind friends, who put it in my power, by the help my little pittance is to them, to afford them more of the necessaries and comforts of life than they enjoyed be- fore I came. In short, my good Gaffer and his wife, I believe, are just such good old folks as Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, in Pamela. Compliments to dear Mrs. Richard- son ; and believe me to be, dear sir, your, &c. LETTER LXVL Mr. Richardson to Miss Higltmorc. Tunbridge Wells, Aug-. 2, 1748. What say you to m.e here, miss High- more ? — " Sure, if you go to Tun- bridge (says a lady you dearly love, but not better than every one who has the pleasure of knowing her, loves), you will not value travelling a few miles in order to visit us." Tunbridge Wells are about thirty-eight miles distant from London i Hatch (I have inquired) is about forty : and no extraordinary roads. I, a bad traveller, cannot sit a horse — come hither to drink the waters for health sake — can ill spare the time — propose but three weeks — have been here one, last Friday — this Jtiy situation. The geniuses of Hatch, how different theirs ! Nothing to do but study their diversion and amusement. Tunbridge, in high season, a place devoted to amuse- ment. — Time entirely at command, though not hanging heavy ; impossible indeed it should. — Vehicles, whether four-wheeled or four-legged, at will ; riding, a choice. — And the worthy Dr. Knatchbuil here. What says my fair correspondent ? — What her worthy and kind friends to this ? Do come and see how your other old lover spins away, hunting after new faces, at fifty-seven. You will see him in his kingdom ; and he will read to you anew performance, calculated, indeed, for the perts of the place; " A Dialogue be- tween a Father and a Daughter," very sprightly ; a little sprinkling of some- thing better in it, but very sparingly sprinkled ; as if the author were afraid that his mind should be thought as an- tique as his body. — Calculated to recon- cile fatherly authority with filial obedi- ence (so he says) : — But, I think, to level the former, and throw down dis- tinction. He read it to the speaker, who thought it better managed than he expected : but referred him to me upon it ; for I was present, and objected to it. I have, ac- cording to my usual prolixity, given him half a sheet upon half a page. He wants me to go on with my remarks — has al- tered two or three passages ; but I think not for the better : it is a task, therefore, that I decline. For I am told I should not scribble — have alargecorrespondence 636 ELEGANT E F 1 S T L E S. Book IV. ypon my hands. Business, besides, very ill sparing me ; and post and coach em- ployed to carry up my directions, and in receiving accounts of management ; with about one half of which, only, I can be pleased. Lord, Lord ! miss Highmore ! What figures do Mr. Nash and Mr. Gibber make, hunting after new beauties, and with faces of high importance traversing the walks ! God bless you, come and see them ! — And if you do, I will shew you a still more grotesque figure than either : A sly sinner, creeping along the very edges of the walks, getting behind benches ; one hand in his bosom, the other held up to his chin, as if to keep it in its place: afraid of being seen, as a thief of detection. The people of fashion, if he happen to cross a walk (which he always does with precipita- tion), unsmiling their faces, as if they thought him in their way; and he, as sensible of so being, stealing in and out of the booksellers shop, is if he had one of their glass-cases under his coat. Come and see this odd figure ! You never will see him, unless I shew him to you: and who knows when an opportunity for that may happen again at Tunbridge ? And here have I turned over. — But how ready are you to catch at a pretence for making your letter short, when you say, that you are afraid that 1 should de- sign mine for an example in that respect ! But how little reason have you to call mine short, when I write more (in quan- tity) in one line, than you do in three % and more in half a page than you do in four whole ones. What, though my length is my dispraise, I cannot help it : I have no patent for brevity : nor is it every one who, like miss Highmore, can write a great deal in a little compass. Who can paint the dew-dropt meadows, every spire of grass glittering like dia- monds of the first water — the obscuring clouds — the sunny glories of the great luminary — the shady lanes, perfumed and enamelled with honeysuckles — the fragrant fields of new cut hay — the light lasses, and nimble lads, resting on their rakes and forks, lost in wonder and re- verence, when they behold the horse- folks, as you humbly phrase it ! Who can anticipate the yellow harvest, the busy hinds, and the reward of industry ! —Who can figure out, in still superior lights, the beauties of contemplation which she enjoys in her Clarissa-closet (as she is pleased to call it), with pen, pencil, and books ! — The agreeable con- versation, at other times, of her enliven- ing friends ; and the charms of dear va- riety, that soul of female pleasure : and fifty and fifty other no less delightful subjects ; and bring them all into the compass of a letter of fifty or sixty short lines ! — This is given to miss Highmore to do ; but not to me. Dr. KnatchbuU desires his aflFectionate compliments to all at Hatch. He gives me his countenance in wishing to see you all here. My respectful ones to sir Wyndham and Mrs. KnatchbuU, Mr. Gibber's duty attends you. And I am, my dear miss Highmore, your, &c. P. S. You might have gone on with your subject of happiness ; for who is it that tastes it, knows it, and deserves it, if miss Highmore does not ? LETTER LXVn. Mr. Richardson to Miss Highmore. London, Julj' 15, 1753. My dear miss Highmore was very good to write so soon after her arrival at Weston House : and had I not been obliged to pass two days at Enfield, which set me behind-hand with all my business, she should have had her kind expectations answered before the last week had elapsed. But why filled my amiable girl the first side of her sheet with so melancholy an account of her depression of spirits, on leaving a father, so well beloved by every body, to go to a delightful spot, and to a lady of whom she is so fond, and who was always so fond of her? " I hope the vain girl (say you) has not represented herself of too much con- sequence." You have not, my dear. Do we not all know that you are of the ut- most to that indulgent parent ; and of very high to all who have the pleasure of your acquaintance ? But looks it not as if one of the frankest-hearted girls in Britain took a little hardly some of my past truly paternal freedoms, when she adds — " If she has, I am sure Mr. Rich- ardson will cure her of that mistake." Well, but my dear Highmore, this shall not hinder me from telling you of your Sect. IV R E C E N T, 657 faults, if any appear to me ; and 1 hope you will deal as freely with me ; — I have multitudes — I wish I were but half as good as I think you. Your papa writes so well, and is so fond of writing- to his beloved daughter, that I wiU leave it to hira to tell you how happy he thinks himself in knowing you to be so ; and that you are right in sup- posing, " that his benevolent heart ex- pands with delight at the account he receives of your health and felicity." When, therefore, you can turn the bright side of things outward, as you do, your mental jEsculapius (as you do a certain man the honour to call him) tells you, that you have prudence and reflection enough to be your own physician ; and, that had not your spirits been weakened by indisposition, and a train of disagree- able perplexities, that have affected one of the evenest tempers in woman, you would not have had reason to paint your sensibilities in such dark colours, oi^ your leaving, for such agreeable friends, even a father, whose paternal goodness you have from infancy so largely expe- rienced. How sweetly, as you describe, do you pass your time ! I rejoice, with all my heart, in Mrs. God — U's happiness. One of the greatest pleasures that a bene- ficent mind can know, is to have it in her power to lay an obligation on a worthy, on a grateful, mind. "A strong taste for literature ; a mind well stocked and improved by the pro- ductions of authors, ancient and mo- dern ; an amiable disposition ; good sense." Where could your fair friend have made a better choice ? Where else so good a one, in such an age as this, of foplings and petit maitres ? I wonder not that such a young gentleman " be- haves so properly (as you say) to his lady ; and that your esteem for him rises every day, more and more, as you are a witness of that his proper and affectionate behaviour to her." I had both reverence and love for her excellent mother ; methinks I could wish her to be permitted to look down from her heaven, to see how happy that beloved daughter is, for whose happiness she was so anx- ious. God continue it to them both — and them to each other, as an example of that conjugal piety, which is so very rare in the present age, among people of condition ! " What a strange character does that of Cicero always appear to you." It is a strange one ; yet he was a glorious crea- ture. Great geniuses, we are told, have not small faults. You have made such proper observations on this great man's failings, that it is needless to add to them. And charmingly do you say, " that the truly noble and exemplary character is that, which is uniformly good, great, and Avise, in every trial." What a wretched creature is the man of title you mention ! But I have not so much pity for the lady as you have. She knew whom she married, and, I doubt not, proposed to herself at first counterbalances which would content her ; and this is evident to me, by the way in which she lives. Wh^t signifies to her the low company " he keeps," so as he confines himself " to an obscure corner of his own magnificent house with them ;" and leaves her (in the cha- racter of '* an amiable woman," and, in every one's eye, the more amiable for her misfortunes) " to receive in the rest, and nobler parts of the house, the visits of every creditable family around her ?" — so long as she finds herself " honoured and beloved by her visitors ; and has the credit, as well as the power, of having ornamented the noble house she reigns in, with absolute sovereignty, according to her own directions ?" — so long as she has " an equipage and retinue of her own, every prospect art or nature can afford to please surrounding her stately habitation?" With all these advantages, and such a lord, ask you, can she be tolerably happy? Yes, madam, exqui- sitely so, as a managing woman, and as one who knew (as I hinted) beforehand the wretched creature she chose to marry And, indeed, you answer your own ques- tion : — "She appears so," say yow " (well she may !) ; and having been long accustomed to the present method (an enviable one it may be called ! for must not the man be a loathsome creature ?) may really be (the deuce is in her if she be not !) as tranquil and cheerful as her easy and polite deportment seems to denote." This advantage she moreover reaps from the low and servile company lie keeps, that through them she can ma- nage her lord as she pleases ; since they and he are hers in absolute propertv. Come, come, madam, let us shew our 2 U 658 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. pity in the right place. The tranquil lady deserves it not — she is a managing woman, as I said : all women love power ; she has it in its perfection. She has, perhaps, shewn it, eccentrically, in more instances than one ; and every body knows, that lady O- can be lord as well as lady O , whenever she pleases — and fit she should, when the poor creature, her lord, so behaves as to be the jest as well as companion of his own menials. Next Thursday my good-naturedly perverse wife thinks of going to North End ! ! ! O, miss Highmore ! women ought to be controlled, if they are like my wife — in pity to themselves they ought. For, when left to their own will, how do they choose ! how are they puzzled ! Mrs. G has done me favour in her remembrance of me. My best respects attend her, and, if acceptable, hers. I am involved in sentiraentizing : — very hard, among so many charming girls, that I could not get myself excused from this task. No helps from any of you. Go, naughty, idle chits — to pretend to approve what I am about, as if it would be promotive of the public good ; and yet, when I hoped a finger from every one of you, to find no aid — not so much as extracts from a work ready written to your hands ! yet call me papa, boast of filial regards, and so forth : yet, do- tard as I am, I cannot forbear priding myself in my girls — and on every occa- sion styling myself, as now to you, your, &c. LETTER LXVin. Mr. Richardson to Miss Highmore. London, Jan. 31, 1751. I AM, when I recollect some of the free things I have formerly written to my dear miss Highmore, extremely angry with myself. I believe I loved to blame rather than commend, some years ago. Fie upon me, for my ill-nature, if so— and vainly too — setting up for a Mentor, when I was but a Momus. But do I grow better-natured, and see clearer, as I grow older? I congratulate myself upon that, if I do. \^Tiat admirable ob- servations you make on the consequence it is of for young persons to be thrown early into good and improving company ! I had a good mind to transcribe every word you wrote on this subject, and to beg of you to let it pass for my own. What a poor creature was I at your age ! And you were always so good — were you not? But, though I love you for your cha- rity, when you infer from premises very laudable, that we should make great al- lowances in errors, not grossly immoral, for those who have not had the benefit of being accustomed in their youth to good and improving company, I cannot allow of the abatement you mention to be made, of the merit of those who have had better opportunities, and improved by them. I will not, my dear miss High- more, allow of your level; in order to bring down to a state of nature, those who owe their merit to actions that are the consequences of habitual virtue. Let us judge of merit and demerit as they appear to us, from whatever source they spring ; and not, my dear child, think it assurance to condemn the contemptible. We shall then encourage merit (too apt to be despised by such, in order to bring it down to their own level), and, through shame, have a chance to amend the faulty, and make them strive to be mea- sured by the standard of the others. It is not to be imagined what it is in the power of women to do in this particu- lar : especially of those who are amiable in person, and have a reputation for good sense. Often have I seen a cox- comb, who set out with all the confi- dence of a laughing Sir Hargrave, shrink into himself, merely at the reproving eye, and restrained smile, of a young lady of judgment ; and particularly, if she has had the address to turn round on the spot, and distinguish, by her smiling familiarity, another man in company with whom she had reason to be better pleased. No vain woman can be more fond of admiration, than men of this cast : let them be conscious of a judiciously given disappointment, and no men are such nothings. The sensible woman, who laughs with the creature she should laugh at, debases herself; puts herself on a level with him. But this is the judgment, to avoid superciliousness, and being really prudish (no matter for the aspersion) in the correction she looks ; for a look will give it. I am speakinjf of S BCT. I¥. RECENT. 659 a sensible woman, you know I — such wo- men, scores of which, I was going to say, i have the happiness to know. " The admonitions of parents can ne- ver have the effect on young minds, that the examples of persons near their own age will produce ; and reasons why it must be so are obvious aud natural enough." Never, miss H ! where the parents are companionable to their children ; and can allow for the foibles of youth — such as yours, suppose ! Where the children are reasonable, and have no points in view, which they are ashamed to own ! — What ! never, miss H- ? And are there no such cases ? Cannot there be such open-hearted, frank girls as Harriet, where there is a Mrs. Harley or Mrs. Selby ?— Unhappy that there are not more such indulgent parents, and such undisguisedly-minded children ! How obvious, soever, the rea- son for what you say is, there cannot be a more dangerous doctrine propagated among young people, than that which springs from an allowance of this nature. And I have, therefore, taken notice in print, that youngpeople, in certain cases, should never be determined by the advice of young people ; and the less by that of those who are in the same circumstances with themselves. It is not, I have said, what you would do, Polly, Sukey, &c. were you in my case ; but what ought to be done. I know that your observation is rather owing to facts than justice. But we will not, if you please, too readily give up justice to facts, lest we should make custom a law ; where it would be of general use to applaud the exception, and to endeavour to weaken the force of the faulty rule. Give me leave to say, that I intended more by setting in stronglights the frank- ness of Harriet's character, in one of the most delicate circumstances of female life, than what, at first sight, may be thought of, on a cursory reading. What do you think I have had the confidence to answer to the pressing instances of two persons, for whom I have great honour, that I would begin a new piece ? — that I would think of doing so, when I had rea- son to believe, that the many delicate situations that this last piece, as well as Clarissa, abounded with, were generally understood and attended to! What a deuce ! must a man be always writing ? Fie upon me, for taking the first sheet of paper that came to hand : I am come to the end of it already ; and how much unsaid! — I have no room to add more, than that I am vour, &c. LETTER LXIX. Frotn the same to the same. London, Sept. 19, 1757. I WRITE, my dear miss Highmore, in gratitude, in fear, in love, in hope, in pain. In gratitude — for your favour to me of Sept. 6th, and to thank good Mrs. God — 11, through your hands, for her kind remembrance of me. In fear — of hurting your good papa, who grudges me the favour of so kindly- long a letter from you (the thanks I got for communicating it to him), by doing offence to your eyes : — but a little bit of jealousy in his fear, for all that, lest any should, by accident, receive from you a letter one line longer than any one of those you wrote to himself. What will he do, if you should take heart at last< and marry, aud your husband be some- times distant from you ! In love — because I cannot help it, if I would ; and take delight in the account you give of that health, and serenity of mind, which 1 pray may ever attend you. In pain — because I cannot pour out my heart as glibly as usual, or rather as formerly to my beloved friends, when I paid my duty to them on paper, by rea- son of paralytic and failing fingers, when that heart is as sincerely theirs as ever. In hope — (I had like to have forgot that, having so little left for myself) that you and all you love, if that be possible, continue always as happy, with some ne- cessary variations, however, to keep the pool of life from stagnating, as you de- scribe yourself to be at the penning of the letter before me. Hush ! hush ! hush ! dear Mr. High- more ! No such thing, as the above par- ticularization, being an infallible sign of a long answer. I will be brief in the rest, for your sake ; and also for my own ; though once I loved to prattle to this dear girl. I am delighted with your account of your studies, your pursuits, your diver- sions, and with those of the more atliletic of your own sex with you, mentioned by you with so much advantage to them all. 2U-2 660 E L E G A N ']' E P I S 1 L E S. Hook IV^ " Your well-furnislied library," amuse- ment equally entertaining- and instruc- tive ! " Henry and Francis ;" of all books of the kind? — That it has been read by Mrs. is recommendation with numbers ! Mrs. Montague, lady Brad- shaigh, miss Highmore. Well, I'll take it up again, and try to like it better than I did, when T dipped into it last. No one has a higher opinion of these names, and of Mrs. D 's judgment, than J. " My opinion of Mr. Gray's Odes?" You know I admire the author. I have heard that you and Mr. G have both studied them together, and have found out all their beauties. I have no doubt but they are numberless — but indeed have not had head clear enough to read them more than once, as yet. But from you I expect the result of Mr. G 's studies and discoveries on the subject, as also your marginal notes ; which will not, I hope, be too severe, &c. — Why that caution to me, my miss Highmore ? I am glad I did not say all I said to lady B about Henry and Francis. " And then comes the kindly felicitat- ing subject ;" to which I directed Patty to answer. — She did, 1 hope. And there, Mr. Highmore, is an end, I hope, of your tender solicitude for the eyes of our dear girl, on my account, for the present ! Excuse bad writing, interlining, &c. — " Was J it not always bad?" Yes; but never so bad as now. Repeated respects to Mrs. God— 11. I am, &c. LETTER LXX. Ladi/ Echlin to Mr. Richardson. Sept. 27, 1754. I THANK you, dear sir, for your tender concern, good wishes, and hearty prayer for my worthy friend, Mr. Tickell. I have the satisfaction to assure you, his late disorder has not so greatly impaired his strength, nor sunk his spirits to that miserably low state, which his over- anxious mother's fear made her appre- hend. God be praised, she is comforted, by a hopeful appearance of her beloved son's perfect recovery. He is pretty well in health, at present, thank God. I protest I am at a loss how to answer some parts of your last obliging favour. Give me leave to say, you have more! good nature, humility, and patience, than any other man upon earth, or you certainly are the greatest hypocrite under the sun. If I could suspect Mr. Richard- son's veracity, I should look upon your submission to my inferior judgment as a polite piece of complaisance. I begin to fear you think me too peremptory, and self-sufficient; if so, you resolve, perhaps, to acquiesce, rather than con- tend, with a positive woman. You are extremely indulgent, and I ought ta thank you for every favourable allow- ance you aiford me, who have not any of that delightful, spirited wit, and charming vein of humour, which plead excuse for not quite right things in lady B . Mrs. Belfour has given you a right no- tion of this mad-cap, and I could tales unfold ; but — I never could manage her ; nor will I have any more boxing bouts with madam . If our favourite charming Harriet cannot make this sprightly lady blush a little, at her un- reasonable aversion ; or, at least, silence her exclamation against old maids, I pronounce her incurable. The worthy maiden you mention is an honourable woman. I really believe 1 was fond of this good-natured aunt Ca- therine before I could speak. Lady B is as well acquainted with her real worth ; but I will not tell all I know^ because you are sufficiently informed al- ready. I most sincerely love this un- governable lady B ; we always were aflFectionate sisters, although her over- hasty disposition did not altogether please my graver turn. She has been blest with constant good health, and, thank God, she still enjoys that great blessing. I ever was, and am, less happy in this respect ; and yet this lady B , with her high health, and a continual flow of fine spirits, never was active in using necessary exercise : that neglect is at- tended with a consequence which gives me concern ; because it renders her in- capable of using that exercise which I think needful for preserving health. I cannot help pitying a human creature, loaded with fat ; it ever was my endea- vour to guard against that heavy con- dition ; and I am very thankful, that I can reap benefit and pleasure from my nimble feet, and a trotting horse. After much ado about nothing, let me Sect. IV. R E C E N T. 661 assure you, sir, I have more than the shadow of an inclination to oblige you. I willingly comply with your request. Pray, dear sir, call not the fragment, you desire to peruse, the amended History of Clarissa. I have only attempted to alter particular parts abruptly. It is, in short, a medley. I told you 1 had weakly en- deavoured to imitate. No matter what I intended by some foolish things, thrown amongst the heap — if you can read it, you shall. After scribbling this long epistle, I have not fully, I think, answered your last letter. Here is enough, however, to try your patience ; allow me, at pre- sent, to subscribe myself, your obliged, &c. LETTER LXXI. Mr. Ridiardson to Lady Echlin. October 10, 1754. Alj.ow me to congratulate your lady- ship on Mr. Tickell's amendment, and the prospect of his perfect recovery. I join with you, madam, to bless God for 'it. Lady Bradshaigh acquaints me, that she, as well as your ladyship, meets with persons who quarrel with Sir Charles Orandison. They are welcome. A good character is a gauntlet thrown out. As some apprehend it reflects upon them- selves, they perhaps think they have a right to be affronted. The character of a mere mortal cannot, ought not, to be quite perfect. It is sufficient, if its errors be not premeditated, wilful, and unre- pented of; and I shall rejoice if there be numbers of those who find fault with the more perfect characters in the piece because of their errors, and who would be themselves above being guilty of the like in the same situation. Many things are thrown out in the several characters, on purpose to provoke friendly debate ; and perhaps as trials of the reader's judgment, manners, taste, and capacity. £ have often sat by in company, and been silently pleased with the opportunity given me, by different arguers, of looking into the hearts of some of them, through windows, that at other times have been close shut up. This is an advantage that will always be given by familiar writing, and by characters drawn from common life. A living author, who suc- ceeds tolerably, will have more enemies than a dead one. A time will come, and perhaps it is not far off, when the writer of certain moral pieces will meet with better quarter from his very censurers. His obscurity — a man in business pre- tending to draw characters for warning to one set of people ; for instruction to another : Presumptuous ! — But enough of this subject. I ought to be, and am abundantly satisfied with the kind recep- tion given to what I have obtruded upon the world in a new light, and in the approbation of many truly pious and good. Your ladyship is at a loss, you say, to answer some parts of my last letter. You are pleased to magnify my patience and humility: For what? — For having a great opinion of your judgment, and for inviting your correction. " Either (you say) 1 have more good-nature than any man on earth, or am certainly tbe greatest hypocrite under the sun." From the knowledge I hope I have of my own heart, with that whole heart I disclaim hypocrisy, the lowest of all vices, ingratitude excepted. Faith- ful are the wounds of a friend; and can it require any great degree of patience to hear characters blamed that were not intended to be perfect? What battles have your beloved sister and I fought ? She has reason to blame me for my rusticity, rather than for my yielding. Your ladyship " could tales unfold." I hope lady B will not be quiet, that you may be provoked to unfold them. I am particularly glad that your ladyship has not the dislike to a certain class of females, whom that lady is so fond of satirizing. O ! how I have used her on this occasion ! She can hardly forbear : but just touches them now, and away. I think I have made her half afraid. But this miss Do — Let us join forces, ma- dam, against this miss Do. There is not a better lady on earth than your sister, when miss Do is out of the way. Strange ! that so excellent a lady as lady B (your ladyship's sister) should be so misled by such a flirt as miss Do. — Yet, not so very strange neither : for I know not how it is, but I myself, though I could sometimes beat miss Do, see something to be pleased with in that lively girl. Favour me, dear madam, with the 662 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. history of this young lady, and her airs, that I may either like her more or less. I am sure she must have some g-ood qua- lities, or she could never have had such an interest in the heart of a sister of lady Echlin. O that I could have the honour to see you two dear sisters under my happy roof I Lady B— gives me hope, that she will be in London this winter. Then would your ladyship and I, if there were occasion, join ; hut there would be no occasion. She would be all goodness. Miss Do would not be with her. She never once, in the visits she honoured me with, when last in tov/n, brought that girl with her. She only is her compa- nion in her closet or dressing-room ; and now and then writes a paragraph for her there. And my lady is, in her absence, 80 mild, so meek ! Bless us, madam, you cannot think how mild ! how meek ! And I am so awkward, for not seeing any thing reprovable in her, yet remem- bering many flightinesses in her writing, that I know not how to behave myself to her. A thousand thanks to your ladyship for your kind compliance with my re- quest to be entrusted with your papers on the History of Clarissa. When ? By what way will they come? I was in hopes, that the permission and notice of the transmission would have been given in the same letter. They shall be very safe when they arrive, and attend your ladyship's commands in the return. I have written to Mr. Skelton. Let me entreat your acceptance of his Dis- courses from me. Your ladyship would greatly oblige me if you could inform me of any thing I or mine could do here to give you pleasure. I am, &c. LETTER LXXn. Lady Echlin to Mr, Richardson. July 31, 1757. Dear sir, I KNOW you are inclined to judge fa- vourably ,^ and naturally disposed to pity the afflicted : I therefore doubt not your making a reasonable allowance, nor your having tender compassion for me, when I assure you my long silence hath been occasioned by a woeful misfortune, which sorely afflicts my heart. I cannot describe what my anxious mind suffered between slender hope and tormenting fear before a melancholy event made me a sorrowful widow. Indeed, sir, I have lost a tender husband ; a very worthy, valuable man. No wonder I am bit- terly afflicted for such a lamentable loss : but I endeavour to moderate my grief by considering it is my duty to submit patiently to the will of God. Al- mighty wisdom, seeing what was best, and good for us, has punished me de- servedly ; and under this trial let me be thankful, that I have not the least doubt of my dear husband being happily re- leased from a miserable state of healths A blessed change it was for him, who' endured a long and painful illness with exemplary patience and resignation ; contented to live or die, as it pleased God Almighty. No mortal ever quitted this life with more apparent tranquillity. The last sad scene, so distressing to me, was not unhappy to him I am sure ; and that is my consolation. Excuse me, dear sir, troubling you with my groans. I shall add a few lines more concerning my present condition ; for I cannot help tell- ing you, my dear departed friend hath testified his respect and dependence on a faithful wife, by appointing me sole exe- cutrix ; and 1 am also guardian to his- only nephew, who inherits bis good uncle's estate and title. I am as anxious for this young man's welfare as if he were my own child r and his uncle and I have been parents to him from the hour he was born. This boy's father died se- veral months before the child came into the world ; and his mournful mother, overwhelmed with grief, expired imme- diately after the birth of her son. An infant, thus deprived of both father and mother, is a most pitiable case : but he has not been an unhappy orphan ; and I heartily wish my great loss may not prove a greater misfortune to him. At his early time of life, in such circum- stances, and in such a libertine age, a boy under seventeen is in a dangerous^ situation. God give him grace to make a right use of an uncommon good un- derstanding. He is a fine hopeful youth at present; has had a private education, not to his disadvantage in any respect ; and I hope to see him a sober and serious student at Oxford, please God we live. Some people would be apt to j^hink me impertinent, and perhaps would say. Sect. IV. RECENT. What is all this to me ? — but Mr. Rich- ardson, I know, is not such a man. I have seen Mr. Sheridan here lately ; he appeared to be in pretty good spirits ; but I think he cannot be tolerably happy, unless he quits the slavish management, which does not better either his health or fortune. The little wonder was quite a new scene to him ; he admires the ro- mantic situation greatly : but, alas ! it does not afford me pleasure as usual ; Villarusa is not what it was : all appears dull and gloomy in ray tearful eye, though I do labour to recover my spirits. I shall rejoice to hear you enjoy such a state of health as is sincerely wished and prayed for by, dear sir, your, &c. LETTER LXXIII. Mr. Richardson to Lady Echlin. August 12, 1757. Most heartily do I condole with your ladyship on your very great loss ; and should have presumed to do it before, had I not been myself so ill in the nervous way, that for some time I was unable to write ; and had I not at other times considered, that any thing I could offer by way of consolation for so heavy a deprivation, to so good a Christian and so pious a heart, would be needless ; and that time, the pacifier of every woe, could only, by God's grace, alleviate yours. Nor did I doubt, that your good sister, and your favoured bishop, would be ready to pour the balm of Christian comfort into the wounds of your mind. I congratulate you, madam, on the resignation and pious departure of the gentleman you so tenderly loved. What pleasure must this give, on reflection, to such a mind as yours ! How much ought this reflection to alleviate the pangs that will accompany it on the loss you have so recently sustained ! Your Villarusa will be again your Vil- larusa to you ; but time must have first mellowed your aflOiiction. A journey to England will perhaps be of use to you : to Oxford, so much in the way of your new duty ; to Lancashire, receiving from, and giving comfort to, beloved relations there ; to London, perhaps in company of those dear relations, and to a beloved daughter and her young family, and other friends. [May I have the honour to be one in the list?] Then, after all these duties paid, and inclinations gra- tified, will your Villarusa appear to you with new charms ; nor will a tender sigh and silent tear to the memory of the dear departed, in that little wonder, diminish, but rather exalt, the joys of your medi- tation. God Almighty sanctify to your lady- ship your present affliction, is a prayer put up by all mine, as well as by, ma- dam, your, &c. LETTER LXXIV. Lady Echlin to Mr. Richardson. Rook Hermitage, Nov. 10, 1757. Dear sir, Accept my grateful thanks for your last obliging favour. " Time," as you ob- serve, ' ' is the pacifier of every woe," with God's assistance ; and time may mellow my affliction. But very sure I am, deep wounding grief is incurable on this side the grave. " Villarusa will again be Villarusa to me," you say. No, sir, that is impossible ! This house, these admired improvements, this coun- try, never more can be agreeable to me. If God Almighty permits me to see my native country, it is probable I shall not return again to Ireland. And yet I am so attached to my hermitage I feel un- willing to quit that bewitching little cell. When my sorrowful days came, the little wonder was, and is, a won- derful recreation to me ; and thankful I am, that this innocent retired amuse- ment serves to unbend my mind. I wish Mr. Richardson could see me in that romantic situation, seated on the mid- rock, the briny flood flowing within a few yards of my feet. Don't be alarmed, good sir, you may venture to sit by me ; it is not Shakspeare's dangerous mid-rock. I am glad you call my freedom kind ; but cannot allow that it is in the least condescending to acquaint Mr. Richard- son with my affairs ; nor should he, who so justly merits esteem, doubt his " be- ing one" in the short " list" of my most valuable friends ; one on whom I could rely, and repose a fearless con- fidence. Although we are not personally acquainted, surely there is friendship 654 K L E G A N T E P 1 S T 1. E S. Book IV subsisting hatween us ; and if I do ever reacli Old England, I trust ray honoured friend " may live to see the day." I hope my young* man will not dis- appoint my expectation of his settling at the university ; but 1 dare not be oversure of any thing in this uncertain world. I must tell you, sir, our good bishop gives me hopes of seeing him in Great Britain ; and I hope you may see that agreeable day. This excellent prelate has been particularly kind to his unseen admirer, under affliction ; not been sparing " to pour the balm of Christian comfort : " nothing is wanting but a wished-for visit from Patmos. But why should I expect such a compliment? His lordship, in every letter to me, mentions Mr. Richardson with great regard. I told him you had been so much indisposed in the nervous way, that for some time you were not able to write. He answered, *' Not able to write ! alas ! that great ge- nius ! then I must not trouble the good man with a temptation to write to me." J beg my respects to Mrs. Richardson and to your daughters, with grateful thanks to you and them for that kind concern and pious remembrance, which will always be duly acknowledged by, dear sir, your. Sec. LETTER LXXV. Mr. Richardson to Lady Ethlin. Dec. 3, Vtbn. You charm me, madam, with your de- scription of your rock hermitage. Wliat a sweet retirement must it be, 5^s you have improved it ! *' The little won- der (you tell me) in your more thought- ful hours was, and still is, a wonderful recreation to you ; and that you are thankful (I am sure you are for every relief) that this innocent, retired amuse- ment serves to unbend your mind." And does your ladyship wish, that I *' could see you in that romantic situa- tion, seated on the mid-rock, the briny flood flowing within a few yards of your feet? ' Don't be alarmed, sir (add you most condescendingly), you may venture to sit by me — it is not Shakspeare's dangerous mid-rock.' " What would 1 give for a sketch of this sweet hermitage J and of the wonders round it, and in prospect from it? With what delight should 1 place it near the picture of the house at Haigh, which I was allowed upon my own terms (as this must be) to take a copy of ; your be- loved sister's and sir Roger's figures in it, meditating the beauties of the situation ! May I not hope, dear madam, to be so indulged ? is there not in your know- ledge some young artist, that on my ac- count could be so employed ? Let me have in constant view the sweet, the " bewitching little cell, which so attaches to it the heart of good lady Echlin, which she feels so unwilling to quit; which is, in her deeper meditation, a wonderful recreation to her, and serves to unbend her mind, and in which she condescends to wish I could see her." Your ladyship bids me hope for the pleasure of seeing you in England. I should have the more joy on such a wished-for occasion, as I think the change of scene must be of consolation and di- version to you ; and as you must ^ve and receive so much delight to and from such near and dear relations as you have here ; and the rather as you are of opi- nion that Villarusa, consolatory as it is at times to you, can never be all that it once was to you. If the land and sea views I am a pe- titioner for, with your sweet hermitage, cannot be conveniently granted, a sketch in Indian ink, or black lead, on vellum, would delight me, hanging before me in view of your dear sister's and sir Roger's Haigh. Still, my dear lady, either way, on my own terms. God bless your young gentleman, your ward I May he answer all your pious eares and wishes. Your, &c. LETTER LXXVL Lady Bradshaigh to Mr, Richardson, Dear sir, You ask, " How can I find time for so much reading," &c.? Those who are not obliged to attend to any particular business, have nothing to do but to look for time, and they are sure to find it. But there are those, who sit with their eyes shut, and let it pass unob- served through wilfulness or negli- gence. No wonder such do not find time. Sect. IV. RECENT. 665 you — you — you worse than ill-na- tured ! How could you rip up the old story of traversing the Park ! How could you delight to tear the tender skin off an old wound that never will he quite healed ! I was hurt more than you could he. My pain was in the mind, yours only hodily. Did not you forgive me ? However (behold the wax I am made of!) the latter end of this paragraph melts and disarms my intended anger : for the present only ; for I shall find far- ther matter for quarrel, I foresee. The first time my friend saw your picture he asked, " Wliat honest face have you got there?" And, without staying for an answer, " Do you know, I durst trust that man with my life, without farther knowledge of him." I answered, " I do know you might do so with safety ; and I put you down for a judge of physiognomy." As I sit at my writing-desk, I cannot look up without viewing your picture ; and I had some hopes the looking upon it, as I writ, might a little have restrain- ed, or at least kept me within bounds. I have tried the experiment, when I have been upon the edge of a ranting humour, and heard myself whisper, '•What! with that smiling face?" — and found I was encouraged rather than restrained ; so gave you a familiar nod, and ranted on, as I do now, without fear or wit. 1 only meant to joke a little upon Dr. Young, not to be severe. If it has that appearance, pray let him not have it ; for he might think me very imperti- nent. He pretends to be serious upon this. Dec. 27* — I have, since I wrote to you last, stumbled into Dr. Middleton on the Miraculous Powers; and, in truth, I do not like him. Perhaps I do not understand him. But to me he appears a caviller at immaterial points. And I doubt he may do more harm by the con- troversy he has occasioned, than he can do good by endeavouring to prove many pretended miracles to be either fabulous or the effects of priestcraft. But, seri- ously, I must own he has lessened these ancients greatly in my opinion ; for, what can be said in favour of their countenancing so many impositions as it plainly appears they did ? It is but making a poor compliment to Christian- ity to say it wanted such gross abuses to strengthen and propagate it. And though, to the rational and well-judging, it shines the clearer for having strug- gled through and shaken off these clogs of absurdities ; yet its appearing in its native excellence is not owing to those, through whose hands it was transmitted to us. You see, sir, I write upon every sub- ject to you, without considering whether proper or not : but I know, if I am wrong, you will inform me. Dec. 28. — I should be greatly delight- ed to see the correspondence between you and the young lady you mention. Some time or other I hope to be favoured with it. I own I do not approve of great learn- ing in women. I believe it rarely turns out to their advantage. No farther would I have them to advance than to what would enable them to write and converse with ease and propriety, and make themselves useful in every stage of life. I hate to hear Latin out of a wo- man's mouth. There is something in it, to me, masculine. I could fancy such an one weary of the petticoat, and talk- ing over a bottle. You say, " the men are hastening apace into dictionary learning." The less occasion still for the ladies to proceed in theirs. I should be ashamed of having more learning than my husband. And could we, do you think, help shewing a little con- tempt, finding ourselves superior in what the husband ought to excel in? Very few women have strength of brain equal to such a trial ; and as few men would forego their lordly prerogative, and submit to a woman of better under- standing, either natural or acquired. A very uncomfortable life do I see between an ignorant husband and a learned wife. Not that I would have it thought un- necessary for a woman to read, to spell, or speak English ; which has been pretty much the case, hitherto. I often won- der we can converse at all ; much more, that we can write to be understood. Thanks to nature for what we have ! We have, there, an advantage over your sex. You are in the right to keep us in ignorance. You dare not let us try what we could do. In that you shew your judgment, which I acknowledge to be much stronger than ours, by na- ture ; and that is all you have to boast of, and a little courage, which is oftpner 666 ELEGANT E P 1 S T L E S. Book IV. shewn upon a principle of false honour, than from an innate true bravery. My employments and amusements at this time of the year are so much the same round, though not disagreeable to me, that they are scarce worth commit- ting to paper, except as you desire it. I rise about seven, sometimes sooner ; af- ter my private duties I read or vi^rite till nine, then breakfast ; work, and con- verse with my company till about twelve ; then, if the weather permit, walk a mile in the garden ; dress, and read till din- ner ; after which, sit and chat till four : from that to the hour of tea-drinking, each day, variety of employments. You know what the men say enters with the tea-table ; though I will venture to de- clare, if mine is not an exception, it is as near one as you can imagine. Here books take place, which I often read to the company ; and sometimes we all have our particular studies (sir Roger always has his), which we seldom forsake till the bell warns to supper ; af- ter which we have always something to do. We eat fruit, crack nuts, perhaps jokes ; now and then music takes place. This is our regular scheme, though it is often broken into, with company and variety of incidents, some pleasing, some otherwise ; domestic affairs, too, call for a share of one's time. I know not what the fine ladies mean, when they com- plain of having too much time ; for, I thank God, Barnaby Bright is not too long for me. How should I be despised in the parish of St. James's, if they were to know that, at this time, I glory in the hum- ble title of a cow-doctor ! But no matter; if I can do good, I can bear their contempt, and return it to them with interest. 1 am afraid, sir, I have given you too much trouble about the poor Magdalen. She is only qualified to wait upon an unmarried lady, or one who has a house- keeper, for she understands nothing of house-keeping ; but, where needle-work, dressing, and getting up fine linen, are required, I believe she would give satis- faction. I wish to Heaven, with you, sir, that you could, as 1 do, make time, or that I could give you some of mine. I want only power to send you a present which I would allow you to call bountiful. It should be another box — a contrast to Pandora's. Time, health, and happi- ness, should it contain, and these only as leaders to a greater treasure : for, in the bottom, you should find a plain though distant prospect of eternal bliss. But, though I am poor in power, ac- cept it in sincerest wishes from, good Mr. Richardson, your, &c. LETTER LXXVn. Mr. Richardson to Lady Bradshaigh. Dear madam. You do not approve of great learning in women. Learning in women may be either rightly or wrongly placed, ac- cording to the uses made of it by them. And if the sex is to be brought up with a view to make the individuals of it in- ferior in knowledge to the husbands they may happen to have, not knowing who those husbands are, or what, or whether sensible or foolish, learned or illiterate, it would be best to keep them from writing and reading, and even from the knowledge of the common idioms of speech. Would it not be very pretty for parents on both sides to make it the first subject of their inquiries, whether the girl, as a recommendation, were a greater fool, or more ignorant, than the young fellow ; and if not, that they should reject her, for the booby's sake? — and would not your objection stand as strongly against a preference in mother-wit in the girl as against what is called learning ; since linguists (I will not call all linguists learned men) do very seldom make the figure in conversation that even girls, from sixteen to twenty, make. If a woman has genius, let it take its course, as well as in men ; provided she neglect not any thing that is more pe- culiarly her province. If she has good sense, she will not make the man she chooses, who wants her knowledge, un- easy, nor despise him for that want. Her good sense will teach her what is her duty ; nor will she want reminding of the tenor of her marriage vow to him. If she has not, she will find a thousand ways to plague him, though she knew not one word beyond her mother-tongue, nor how to write, read, or speak pro- perly in that. The English, madam, and particularly what we call the plain English, is a very copious and a very ex- pressive language. Sect. IV'. RECENT. 667 But, dear madam, does what you say in the first part of the paragraph under my eye, limiting the genius of women, quite cohere with the advantages which, in the last part, you tell me they have over us? — " Men do well," you say, " to keep women in ignorance :" but this is not generally intended to be the case, 1 believe. Girls, I think you for- merly said, were compounded of brittle materials. They are not, they cannot be trusted to be sent abroad to semi- naries of learning, as men are. It is necessary that they should be brought up to a knowledge of the domestic du- ties. A young man's learning-time is from ten to twenty-five, more or less. At fifteen or sixteen, a girl starts into woman ; and then she throws her pur- veying eyes about her : and what is the learning she is desirous to obtain ? — Dear lady, discourage not the sweet souls from acquiring any learning that may keep them employed, and out of mischief, and that may divert them from attending to the whisperings within them, and to the flatteries without them, till they have taken in a due quantity of ballast, that may hinder them, all their sails unfurled and stream- ers flying, from being overset at their first entrance upon the voyage of life. 1 am charmed with your ladyship's obliging account of your daily employ- ments and amusements. Now do I know at what different parts of the day to obtrude myself. I was not very well this morning. My people neglect- ed me. I was at Haigh in half a se- cond, and did myself the honour of breakfasting there. But became the more miserable for it ; for O how I missed you, on my re-transportation! — yet I the sooner recovered myself when I looked up to you and to your dear sir Roger, in the picture. — Yet the pierc- ing cold, and the surrounding snow, and my hovered-over fireside, remind- ed me, that the piece before me was but a picture. In summer, if it please God to spare me till then, it will be more than a picture. I will then throw my- self into your morning walks ; and sometimes perhaps you shall find me perched upon one of your pieces of ruins, symbolically to make the ruin still more complete. In hopes of which, I am, &c. LETTER LXXVIII. From the same to the same. But what a sad thing, say you, my dear lady, that these sober men will not put on the appearance of rakes !— Silly crea- tures ! when they know what would do I — Can't they learn to curse and swear in jest? and be good, and true, and faithful, just when a lady wants them to be good, and true, and faithful! — But you would be content, if the good men would dress, only dress like rakes — But hold ! On looking back to your ladyship's letter, I find the words dress and address : " The good man need only to assume the dress and address of the rake, and you will wager ten to four that he will be preferred to him," Will you be pleased, madam, to give me par- ticulars of the taking dress of a rake ? Will you be pleased to d^cribe the ad- dress with which the ladies in general shall be taken ! — The rake is, must be, generally, in dress a coxcomb ; in ad- dress, a man of great assurance : think- ing highly of himself, meanly of the sex ; he must be past blushing, and laugh at those who are not. He must flatter, lie, laugh, sing, caper, be a monkey, and not a man. And can a good man put on these appearances? We have heard that the devil has trans- formed himself into an angel of light, to bring about his purposes ; but never that an angel of light borrowed a coat and waistcoat of the devil, for any pur- pose whatever. And must the good man thus debase himself, to stand well with the fair sex ? " To reform Lovelace for Clarissa's sake !" — Excellent ladies ! — Unbound- ed charity ! — Dear souls ! How I love your six forgiving charmers ! — But th«y acknowledge this, I hope, only among themselves ! — If there are any Lovelaces of their acquaintance, I hope they give not to them such an indirect invitation to do their worst, in order to give them- selves an opportunity to exercise one of the brightest graces of a Christian. Well, but for fear I should be called scurrilous again, let me see how your ladyship explains yourself. — " A man may deserve the name of a rake, with- out being quite an abandoned prqflu gate ; as a man may sometimes drink a LITTLE TOO MUCH without being a sot." 668 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. And were I to attempt to draw a good man, are these, madam, the out- lines of his character? Must he be a moderate rake ? — Must he qualify him- self for the ladies' favour by taking any liberties that are criminal ? Only taking care that he stop at a few; " that he be not QUITE an abandoned profligate; that though he may now and then drink a little too much, yet that he stop short of the sot !" — O my dear lady Bradshaigh— and am 1 scurrilous for saying, that there is no such thing, at least that it is very difficult, so to draw a good man, that he may be thought agreeable to the ladies in gene- ral? Did I ever tell you, madam, of the contention I had with Mr. Cibber, about the character of a good man, which he undertook to draw, and to whom, at setting out, he gave a mistress, in order to shew the virtue of his hero in parting with her, when he had fixed upon a par- ticular lady, to whom he made honour- able addresses ? A male-virgin, said he — ha, ha, ha, hah I when I made my objections to the mistress, and she was another man's wife too, but ill used by her husband ; and he laughed me quite out of countenance ! — And it was but yesterday, in company, some of which he never was in before, that he was distinguishing upon a moderate rake (though not one word has he seen or heard of your ladyship's letter or no- tion), by urging, that men might be cri- minal without being censurable ! — a doctrine that he had no doubt about, and to which he declared that none but divines and prudes would refuse to sub- scribe to ! — Bless me, thought 1 ! — and is this knowing the world? — What an amiable man was Mr. B , in Pamela, in this light ! But I have this comfort, upon the whole, that I find the good man's cha- racter is not impracticable ; and I think Mr. Cibber, if I can have weight with him, shall undertake the arduous task. He is as gay and as lively at seventy- nine as he was at twenty-nine ; and he is a sober man, who has seen a great deal, and always dressed well, and was noted for his address, and for his suc- cess too, on two hundred and fifty oc- casions, — a little too many, I doubt, for a moderate rake : but then his long life must be considered. 1 wish we could fix upon the number of times a man might be allowed to be overcome with wine, without being thought a sot. Once a week ? Once a fortnight ? Once a month ? How shall we put it ? Youth will have its follies. Why— but I will not ask the question I was going to ask, lest I should provoke your ladyship be- yond your strength. Dear, dear madam, let me beg of you to make your own virtuous sentiments and behaviour in life, which render you equally beloved and revered by all who have the honour to know you, the stand- ard of virtue for all your sex. When you extend your charity too far, and al- low for what is, rather than insist upan what should be, in cases of duty and of delicacy, my love for the sex makes me apply to your ladyship's words — " you provoke me beyond my strength." Just this moment came in my wife. — (Thursday morning, eleven.) — *' O, Betsy," said I, " begone! Ask me not what I am writing ; I have been cutting your dear lady all to pieces." — " Dear good lady !" said she, " never will I forgive you, then." Then looking at you over the chimney, with an eye of love, and my eye following hers, *' You can be but in jest," said she ! " Pray make my best compliments to her lady- ship, and to her sir Roger." With which I conclude, &c. LETTER LXXIX. Mr. Richardson to Lady Bradshaigh. North-End, Dec. 26,1751. Ever obliging lady Bradshaigh ! And was it, could it be, five weeks, almost six, before I paid my duty to my dearest correspondent ? — How proud do you make me by your reproaches ! You tell me you are angry with me ! the first time I have been able to make you so. — Yet, sweet bee of Hybla! how you sting, when you tell me, that you sup- pose I would make no excuses for my long silence, because I would not allow of white fibs in myself! — O, my lady ! how could you, and in the same sen- tence in which you were gracious ? — but how can I cry out, though hurt, when I revolve the friendly, the conde- scending, the indulgent motive ? You have seen in the papers, I sup- nr ^ ■j?±^r Sect. IV. RECENT. mo pose, that our friend is married ; may he be happy ! most cordially I wish for it : not only because he is our friend, but because he is our fellow creature. *' Much depends upon the lady; and Common sense will not be sufficient to make him so. — She must have sense enough to make him see, that she thinks him her superior in sense," as you once told me. Proud mortal ! and vain ; — And cannot he be content with the greater pride, as a man of sense would think it, to call a richer jewel than he had before, his, while he is all his own ! — But, such is the nature of women, if she be not a vixen indeed, that if the man sets out right with her ; if he lets her early know that he is her lord, and that she is but his vassal ; and that he has a stronger sense of his pre- rogative than of her merit and beauty ; she will succumb : and, after a few struggles, a few tears, will make him a more humble, a more passive wife, for his insolent bravery, and high opinion of himself. I am sorry to say it ; but 1 have too often observed, that fear, as well as love, is necessary on the lady's part, to make wedlock happy ; and it will generally do it, if the man sets out with asserting his power and her depen- dence. And now will your ladyship rise upon me ! I expect it. And yet you have yourself allowed the case to be thus, with regard to this husband and his wife. The struggle would be only at first : and if a man would be obstinate, a wo- man would be convinced, or seem to be so, and very possibly think the man more a man for his tyranny, and value herself when he condescended to praise or smile upon her. I have as good a wife as man need to wish for. I believe your ladyship thinks so. — Yet — shall I say, O madam! wo- men love not King Logs ! —The dear creature, without intending contradic- tion, is a mistress of it. She is so good as to think me, among men, a tolerably sensible one ; but that is only in gene- ral ; for if we come to particulars, she will always put me right, by the supe- riority of her own understanding. But I am even with her very often. And how, do you ask, madam? why, by giv- ing up my will to hers ; and then the honest soul is puzzled what (in a doubt- fttl 7 solved to come oflF, and could easily con- vince yourself. It is no command, say you. But, madam, it is almost as bad for your argument, for it is a supposed unquestionable duty : yet I plead not for fear. My maxim is love, all love ; and yet, when a T\'oman is used to it, she ex- pects it, and so considers it not either as a rarity or an obligation. The man is a quiet, good-natured creature, and loves his peace, and so is loving for his own sake. Strange humility that, which will make a woman think that she can repay the obligation by her acceptance of it ! One thing, however, madam, let me tell you, that, in ail our arguments of this nature, I will not allow you to look at home, and determine by your- self. You can know nothing of the world, nor of the argument, if you form your conclusions upon the conduct of a single pair. And when I have mentioned my wife ^nd her myself, it is not that I would re- flect upon her, as either designing to be contradictory, or as being unusually so. No, madam, she falls into it naturally, a« I may say, and as if she could not help it. And as her myself always prefaces his requests as if he would take her com- pliances as favours, he often finds it is but asking for a denial ; and why ? Be- cause she would demonstrate that she has as great an aversion to the word fear as the best of her sex ; and hesitates not to oppose, as an argument of her fortitude and independence of will. But what will you, who are so vehement against the word and thing fear, say, if I should assert, that there cannot be love without fear? You say, you could fear a parent, yet honour and love that pa- rent : I would rather, methinks, be the father than the husband of the woman, who could not fear me with the same sort of fear, that she could shew to a fond and indulgent parent. And there, to return your ladyship's words, is a bone for you to pick ! I do not perfectly understand you, madam, in the following sentence ; "• We may be fond of power ; and it is often our own fault that we have not enougli of it. A woman that can seem to despise it, may have it to satiety. And what does this argue ? You perverse souls, what does it argue ?" Again, your ladyship is a little unin- telligible : — " If faults we have (as if you made a question of it, madam I), we have them from you. — And this puts me in mind of our original : the rib, the rib." I thought it was Eve that gave the man the apple. I have not my Bible at hand : but I think I remember some such words as these of an apostle : " Adam was not deceived ; but the wo- man, being deceived, was in the trans- gression."-^" You have more to bear from us," you say, " than we have from you." — To this I wrote largely in my last. You have not, madam, a blundering brain : and I hope I have not thrown dirt in my correspondent's face. Your ladyship dares me to stop in my new work ! You give me leave to stop. Your challenge, perhaps, comes in a cri- tical time ; for I am at a part, that it is four chances to one I shall not be able to get over. You cannot imagine how many difficult situations I have involved myself in. Entanglement, and extrica- tion, and re-entanglement, liave suc- ceeded each other, as the day the night ; and now the few friends, who have seen what I have written, doubt not but I am stuck fast. And, indeed, I think so myself. I have read through lord Orrery's His- tory of Swift. I greatly like it. I had the pleasure of telling my lord himself so, in Mr. Millar's shop, and of thank- ing him for the pleasure he had given me. He returned the compliment, in relation to Clarissa ; and, having heard of my new design, was inquisitive about it. Though my lord is really in his per- son and behaviour, as well as in his wri- tings, an amiable man, I join v/itli your ladyship most cordially in all you say of the author, of the dean, and of the dean's savage behaviour to his unhappy wife, and Vanessa ; as it is of a piece with all those of his writings, in which he endea- vours to debase the human and to raise above it the brutal nature. I cannot think so hardly as some do of lord Or- rery's observation ; that the fearful de- privation, which reduced him to a state beneath that of the merest animal, seem- ed to be a punishment that had terrible justice in it. Why will you so ungratefully depre- ciate a pen and a judgment, that every one, to whom I have read detached parts of your favours to me, admires? Take care, madam, how you make light of ta- 2X 674 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, lents, of whicli while you think meanly, you are not likely to be duly thankful for. Your judgment of the works you have remarked upon are, by all who have heard me read them, thought admirable ; and shew a heart, as well as a head, for which you cannot be too grateful. I have not been able to read any more than the first volume of Amelia. Poor Fielding ! I could not help telling his sister, that I was equally surprised at and concerned for his continued lowness. Had your brother, said I, been born in a stable, or been a runner at a spunging- house, we should have thought him a genius, and wished he had had the ad- vantage of a liberal education, and of being admitted into good company ; but it is beyond my conception, that a man of family, and who had some learning, and who really is a writer, should descend so excessively low in all his pieces. Who can care for any of his people ? A person of honour asked me the other day, what he could mean by saying, in his Covent Garden Journal, that he had followed Homer and Virgil in his Amelia. I an- swered, that he was justified in saying so, because he must mean Cotton's Vir- gil Travestied ; where the women are drabs, and the men scoundrels. Yours, &c. LETTER LXXXIL Mr. Richardson to Lady Bradshaigh. April 22, 1752. A SENTIMENT, my dear and good lady Bradshaigh, may not be absolutely un- exceptionable, and yet be very happily expressed. My meaning and my words agreed, when I wrote, that you very happily expressed yourself on the subject of love and fear, as applicable to a parent and a husband. But you are at a loss how to make me understand you as to the two sorts of fear which you want to distinguish, the one to a parent, the other to a husband. Awe, the word awe, is happily thought of by your ladyship. " Are we not bred up with awe to a parent ? (you ask.) Certainly (say you) ; and it is often cre- ated by our being sensible we are liable to be corrected." So, madam, a wife (and who is perfect? who wants not some correction ?) having no apprehen- sion of being corrected, of being chidden, therefore, cannot fear her husband, as when a child she could a parent ! You have most charmingly strengthened my argument : I thank you, madam. Did I not say, that a mixture of fear with the love was necessary to make an obliging wife ? And do you not hint, that if the wife had the same motive for it as the child had, fear of rebuke, of chastisement, of correction (by which 1 mean not stripes, you may be sure —indulgent parents maintain not their authority by stripes), the husband might be entitled to the same kind of awe that the parent was ; and it would be no discredit to the grown-up woman, the wife, to be as much afraid of offending a kind, a good husband, as, when a child, she was of offending a kind, an indulgent parent ? I was not wrong, therefore, I think, when I asked your ladyship why fear should mingle with your love of an indulgent parent (for that was the parent I meant, and not the severe one), and produce hatred to a husband? You will answer me as above. Your ladyship knows your answer. The wife has no apprehension of being corrected ; if chidden, she can chide again. Nor, as your ladyship seems to have proved, was I much out of the way when I observed, from what your ladyship said of the temper of your then lately-married friend, though I said it with indignation against such tyrant husbands, that such would be much more likely to be observed, than the kind, good-natured man, who made it his study to oblige his wife. Upon the whole, if your ladyship will give me leave, I will assert, that there hardly can be love without fear — fear of offending. And I repeat, " that I would rather be the father than the husband of the wo- man who could not fear me with the same sort of fear, that she could shew to a fond and indulgent parent. Why, madam, I can, on the same motives, fear my wife ; but I am not sure, good crea- ture, good wife, as she really is, that I have shewn my prudence in letting her see my fear. But you say that the woman is under no obligation to her husband for his love, provided she loves. With all my heart, madam ? I will not make distinctions ; I will not say that there is a merit in the man's love to a single object, on a suppo- isition that the law of nature discourages Lr Sect. IV. RECENT. 67r, not polygamy, and that the law of God nowhere in his word condemns it. No, I will not ; because the law of his country ought to determine him. Why, why would your ladyship throw out bones for so spiteful, so vengeful, a man to pick ? But may I not ask, that, if the man who loves, loves for his own sake, whether the woman who loves, loves not also the man chiefly for hers ? Yes, says your ladyship, methinks : and so the obliga- tion is equal ; so be it. Want of perspicuity is not by any means the fault of your ladyship's writ- ing : yet I really did not take your meaning in the passage relating to the power that women might have if they sought it. I meant not in that place to provoke you, dearly as I sometimes love to try to make you angry with me, which yet 1 never could do, though I have very, very often, deserved your anger. Thus you explain yourself : *' You said, we were dear lovers of power. I did not deny it ; and I thought it our own fault that we had not enough of it." And have not you;.' sex here in England enough of it? That fault is letting you see we are fond of it. Bless me, madam, should we not feel it, if we did not see it ? " For which reason, such is your pride, you will not allow us any, if you can help it," adds your ladyship. If we can help it ! that is power with a vengeance which a wife exerts, and a husband cannot help himself. " Again unintelligible (says your lady- ship : Fie upon you!). lYhy v/e have faults : I made no question of it. How should we be faultless, considering our original ? Was not woman made of man ? From whence, then, our faults ?" But, madam, be so good as to consider, that man, at the time woman was formed out of his rib, was in a state of innocence. He had not fallen. The devil had need of a helper : he soon found one in Eve. But, if I may be forgiven for a kind of pun, you seem to think, madam, that the faults of men lie in the flesh , the faults of women are deeper — they lie in the bone. I believe you have hit upon it. I love to provoke you, it is true ; but I also love to agree with your ladyship, in material articles. The difference between us, in this point, is, that I confirm by experience what you advance only from conjecture ; for, unless you look out of yourself, how should you know that wo- men's faults lie so deep that they must be unformed, and new made up again, to amend them ? The fault of the great author, whose letters to his friend you have been read- ing, is, thatTuUy is wholly concerned for the fame of Cicero ; and that for fame and for self-exaltation's sake. In some of his orations, what is called his vehe- mence (but really is too often insult and ill-manners) so transports him, that a modern pleader, and yet these are often intolerably abusive, Avould not be heard, if he were to take the like free- doms. This difference, however, ought to be mentioned, to the honour of the ancient ; he generally, I believe, being governed by the justice of his cause. The moderns too seldom regard that at all ; and care for nothing but their fees. But, after all, Cicero's constitutional faults seem to be vanity and cowardice. Great geniuses seldom have 5??<«// faults. You have seen, I presume. Dr. Middle- ton's Life of Cicero. It is a fine piec ; but the doctor, I humbly think, has played the panegyrist, in some places in it, rather than the historian. The pre- sent laureat's performance on the same subject, of which Dr. Middleton's is the foundation, is a spirited and pretty piece. He makes his observations on the cha- racter of Cicero, not by controverting any point with the doctor ; but, taking for granted, as if he had no other lights, ever thing that the doctor advances in his favour. You greatly oblige me, madam, when- evev you give me your observations upon what you read. Cicero was a prodigy. His works, his genius, will be admired to the end of time. But he was the greatest, the grossest lover, courier of adulation, and one of the greatest das- tards, that ever lived. Yet, in the for- mer quality, he only spoke out what many others mean. He was fond of glory ; he could not but be conscious ol his very great talents. I have often quarrels, arising in my mind, against the affectation of some ingenious moderns, who are always seeking to disclaim me- rits, which, were they in earnest, their modesty would not permit them to pub- lish to the world as they do in the trea- tises which they give the public. There may be a manly sensibility, surely, ex- pressed, which yet may shew, that though the author of a work, or the performer 2X2 07(> E L EGA NT E P 1 S T L E S. Book IV of a good action, is tolerably skilled in liis subject, or can take delight in his beneficence ; yet that he is not proud of understanding or doing what he ought to understand or do, if he pretends to write or to act. 1 am not a little em- barrassed in my new piece (so I was in my two former) with the affectation that custom almost compels one to be guilty of: — to make my characters disclaim the merits of the good they do, or the knowledge they pretend to ; and to be afraid of reporting the praises due, and given to them by others, who are bene- fited either by the act or the example, although the praises given are as much to the honour of the giver's sensibility, as of the receiver's. Doss any body be- lieve these disclaimers ? Does not every body think them affected, and often pha- risaical? and even their pretences to modesty, are what Lovelace calls, traps Imd for praise ! Yet custom exacts them ; and who is great enough to be above custom ? I think I would wish that my good man, and even my good girl, should be thought to be above regarding this custom. To receive praise with a grace, is a grace. But it must be so re- ceived, as that it should not be thought to puff up or exalt the person in his own opinion. The person praised must shew, that he is sensible he has done no m.ore than his duty ; that he gave not himself either his talents, or his ability to do good ; and should be the more humble, the more thankful for those talents, and for that ability. Arrogance, self- conceit, must be banished his heart. Even Lovelace can say, " If I have any thing valuable as to intellectuals, those are not my own ; and to be proud of what a man is answerable for the abuse of, and has no merit in the right use of, is to strut, like the jay, in a borrowed plumage." I really think my lord Orrery, in his Life of Swift, has intended to be lauda- bly impartial. I have no notion of that friendship, which makes a man think him- self obliged to gloss over the faults of a man, whom he wishes not to have great ones. It is not a strong proof of the sacred authority of the Scriptures, that the histories of David, Solomon, and its other heroes, are handed down to us with their mixture of vices and virtues ? Lord Orrery says very high and very great things of Swift. The bad ones we knew, in part, before. Had he attempt- ed to whiten them over, would it not have weakened the credibility of what he says in his favour ? I am told, that my lord is mistaken in some of his facts ; for instance, in that wherein he asserts, that Swift's learning was a late acquire- ment. I am very well warranted by the son of an eminent divine, a prelate, who was for three years what is called hi& chum, in the following account of that fact: — Dr. Swift made as great a progress in his learning, at the University of Dublin, in his youth, as any of his co- temporaries ; but was so very ill-natured and troublesome, that he was made Terrce Filius (sir Roger will explain what 'that means, if your ladyship is unac- quainted with the University term), on purpose to have a pretence to expel him. He raked up all the scandal against the heads of that University that a severe in- quirer, and a still severer temper, could get together into his harangue. He was expelled in consequence of his abuse, and, having his decessit, afterwards got admitted, at Oxford^ to his degrees. I caimot find that my lord was very intimate v/ith him. As from a man of quality, and the son of a nobleman who had been obnoxious to ministers, no doubt but the dean might countenance those professions of friendship, which the young lord might be forward to make to a man, who was looked upon as the ge- nius of Ireland, and the fashion. But he could be only acquainted with him in the decline of the dean's genius. My lord, I think, has partly drawn censure upon himself, by a little piece of affectation. My friends will, he says, by way of preface to some of the things that the friends of Swift think the severest. I was a little disgusted, as I read it, at these ill-placed assumptions of friendship in words. I thought these affectations be- low lord Orrery, as it seemed, by them, as if he was proud of being thought of as a friend, by the man, who, whatever his head was, had not, I am afraid, near so good a heart as his own. Mr. Temple, nephew to sir William Temple, and brother to lord Palmerston, who lately died at Bath, declared, to a friend of mine, that sir William hired Swift, at his first entrance into the world, to read to him, and sometimes to be his amanuensis, at the rate of 20/. a year and his board, which was then high pre- !Sect. IV. RECENT. r>77 ferment to him ; but that sir William never favoured him with his conversa- tion, because of his ill qualities, nor al- lowed him to sit down at table with him. Swift, your ladyship v/ill easily see by his writing's, had bitterness, satire, mo- roseness, that must make him insuffer- able, both to equals and inferiors, and unsafe for his superiors to countenance. Sir William Temple was a wise and dis- cerning man. He could easily see through a young fellow taken into a low office, and inclined to forget him- self. Probably, too, the dean Vv^as al- ways unpolite, and never could be a man of breeding. Sir William Temple was one of the politest men of his time. Whoever the lady be, who is so severe upon lord Orrery, I cannot but think that she is too severe. The story of Swift's marriage, and behaviour to a worthy, very worthy wife, I have been told long before lord Orrery's history of him came out. It was not, as the angry lady charges, a chimaera, but a certain truth. And this I was informed of by a lady of goodness, and no enemy but to what v/as bad in Swift. Surely this lady, who calls my lord to account for his unchristian -like usage of a dead friend, should have shewn a little more of the Christian in her invectives. Near twenty years ago, I heard from a gentleman, now living, with whom Vanessa lived, or lodged, in England, an account of the dean's behaviour to the unhappy woman, much less to his reputation than the ac- count my lord gives of that affair. Ac- cording to this gentleman's account, she was not the creature that she became when she was in Ireland, whither she followed him, and, in hopes to make herself an interest with his vanity, threw herself into glare and expense ; and, at last, by disappointment, into a habit of drinking, till grief and the effects of that vice destroyed her. You may gather from that really pretty piece of his, Ca- denus and Vanessa, how much he flatter- ed her, and that he took great pains to gloss over that affair. I remember once to have seen a little collection of letters and poetical scraps of Swift's, which pass- ed between him and Mrs. Van Homrigh, this same Vanessa, which the bookseller then told me were sent him to be pub- lished, from the originals, by this lady, in resentment of his perfidy. I have not had an opportunity to know what the two doctors you mention say of lord Orrery's Life of Swift. Adieu, dear madam, yours, See. LETTER LXXXIII. Mr. Richardson to Lady Bradshaigh. June 24, 175'?. Your ladyship is sure that you love, and as sure that you do not fear. Bless me, madam, did I not except, from my gene- ral observation, a certain baronet and his lady ? " A thoughtless irresolute child;" as if thoughtlessness and irresolution were not to be found in persons grown up ! The wife you describe, the good, the tender wife, who will never designedly offend a good, a tender husband, is not the wife I, any more than your ladyship, thought of: the generality of the sex I had in my view. And yet I think the fear I meant very compatible with the character of a good, a tender wife ; nay, she hardly can be either good or tender without it. " Want correction equally, or in com- parison with a child." That, madam, was not what I supposed, though I have known humoured wives more perverse than babies. Nor meant I that stripes should be thought of: and yet in a cause that I once heard argued in the house of lords, between sir Cleeve Moore and his lady, v/ho, in resentment of his cruelty, had run away from him, and whom he had forced back, with farther instances of cruelty, I heard a very edifying debate : a cause which was managed by the pre- sent lord chancellor, then attorney-ge- neral, against the late lord chancellor Talbot, then solicitor-general, in which the former declaimed very powerfully against sir Cleeve for his ill usage of his wife. The latter, allowing part of the charge, justified sir Cleeve by the law of England, which allov/s a man to give his wife moderate correction. The house was crowded with ladies, who, some of them, shrugged their shoulders, as if they felt t\\e, correction ; and all of them, who could look from behind their fans, leered consciously, I thought, at one another. A pretty doctrine ! thought I. Take it among you, ladies ; and make your best courtesies when you come liome to your emjjerors. m ELEGANT E P I S T [. E S. Book IV. Well, but your ladyship turns me over to St. John, who, in his first epistle says : " There i« no fear in love ; but perfect love casteth out fear, because fear hath torment : He that feareth, is not made perfect in love." Charming- ! And hov/ your ladyshjtp exults upon this ! " What will you say to this, I wonder?' Why, madam, in the first place, I say, that this love and this fear, as you will see in the context, are not meant to be the love or fear of an earthly creature, a husband, or tliat of a wife— but of God. But when another apostle comes, from the same Divine Spirit, to speak of the duty of wives to husbands, he delivers himself witli the authority of a precept : — " Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands ; that if any obey not the word, they may also, without the word, be won by the conversation of the wives ; while they behold your conversation coupled with fear." This, madam, is directly to wives, and (^if hus- bands. What now will your ladyship say to these thing's? But 1 am meek ; I exult not ; no broad smile do I put on : no triumph ! A meek and quiet spirit is enjoined as the principal ornament of a wife ; " for, after this manner (says the apostle), in the old time, the holy women also, who trusted in God, adorned themselves, be- ing in subjection to their own husbands, even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord ; whose daughters ye are, as long as you do well, and are not afraid with any amazement." There, madam, is the fear, that a w^ife should mingle with her love, described. It should be a sweet, familiar fear, looking up to him for encouragement and reward, from his smiles ; and not such a one as should awe, confound, or amaze her. ^o much for this subject of love and fear. *' No, isir (says your ladyship), never, never, will I allow, that a woman is un- der obligations to her husband, for re- turning her love ; no, not for his entire love !' — 1 cannot help it, madam: you see what a state of vassalage both the Scripture and the law of the land sup- pose a wife to be in ; and what stately creatures men are ! But you know that 1 enforce not this vassalage, this stateli- ness. This argument was introduced with my declared indignation against the tyranny of a husband, who, of your own knowledge of his temper, you sup- posed would be a tyrant, and expect his sweetly pretty wife to be will-less. A sad thing, whatever it was of old time (in Sarah's days), when the wives were thought of little account, and the old patriarclis lorded it over half a score good, meek, obedient creatures, to de- prive a woman, in these days, of her will I Whence I had the boldness to advance, that it was, however, very likely, that the man would have the more obliging wife for it ; and I thought your ladyship, by giving the instance, of the same opinion. Said you not, " that humility only could make her happy ?" Polygamy is a doctrine that I am very far from countenancing ; but yet, in an argumentative way, I do say, that the law of nature, and the first command (increase and multiply), more than allow of it ; and the law of Gocl nowhere for- bids it. Throughout the Old Testament, we find it constantly practised. Enough, however, of this subject ; though a great deal more might be said ; more than I wish there could; as I think highly of the laws and customs of my country. Have you, madam, who are an admirer of Mil- ton, read his Treatise on Divorces? You reject his authority. As a poet, do if you please : poets are allowed to be li- centious. But reason ought to weigh, whether from man or woman. Do you not think so, madam? Bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh — Why, truly, so women are — But, as the best things, corrupted, became the worst, your ladyship would have a diffi- culty, if put to it, to prove, that the off- spring cannot be worse, when bad, than the parent. I have overcome, it is true, some diffi- culties in ray new work ; but what shall I do, they multiply upon me ! Adieu, for the present. LETTER LXXXIV. Lad^ Bradshaigh to Mr. Richardson. July 23, 1735. You are so kind, and so pressing, to give yourself trouble on our account, that 1 know not what to say to you. Sir Roger cries. That your being a man of business, and diligent in that business, is a reason Avhv we should not add to that 8ect. IV. RECENT. 670 weight you already bear. I answer, Consider his words, and consider his sin- cerity. Aye, but then consider what he will endure to serve liis friends. Well, and is not that the business of his life, preferably to all others ? Very true. And if I know him at all, the pleasure he takes in that servitude will greatly overbalance the trouble ; so let us only think of giv- ing him a pleasure, and let that solve to ourselves, like all selfish people, what perhaps would more than appear as really giving trouble to a disinterested stander- by. — And so, sir, you are adopted our friendly, loving, trusty banker. I have a notion that you are acquainted with honest people of every profession ; therefore you must not be surprised if I apply to you upon all occasions. And this puts me hi mind of Mr. C , who, honest and humane as he is, may, never- theless, be the better for your acquaint- ance. You once told me he maintained a very odd argument ; and I am inform- ed, his principles are so in the religious sense : — but if he is not one of the ob- stinate, and will hear reason, his corre- spondence with you may open his eyes, and cause a new light to shine before them. Bless me, sir, how you scold ! I have a great mind not to bear it. I desired you would not be very angry ; and I thought you would not, when I told you the true reason of my reserve. My letter, like some former ones, was left at Parson's- Green, where you answered it, or you would have been more gentle in your condemnation. Pray look it over, be- fore you write again, and tell me if I did not say that " Miss Talbot seems very agreeable, and deserving, and, I dare say, is as good as you and all her friends think her; and, that her looks answered her character, is too well known to need farther explanation." This you call cool praise. I do not think it so, from a stranger ; for, you know, I cannot com- mence acquaintance all at once. You prepared miss Talbot to expect that shyness, that unconquerable shyness, which appears so much to my disad- vantage in a first visit. But you also prepared her — Ah, sir, no rising in the second visit ! However, I thank you, since I must have appeared worse, had she not been prepared, and which I am sensible of, by her expressions in my favour, of which I am vain. The diffidence she found out, pleases me ; and I hope that will be an excuse for all my disagreeable and ill-timed reserves. Thus far I am v/illing to take blame to myself. The married lady ought to have made more advances. But the married lady, upon some occasions, is an arrant sheep's-face. I can only promise to behave better for the future, and shall very much wish fov an opportunity to make myself more de- serving the good opinion of miss Talbot, who, I do assure you, stands high in mine. I have but lately finished Leland's ex- cellent work, and your kind present. I greatly admire the plain, easy style in which he writes. His cool, mild, and impartial arguments, tome, at least, who was prepared to receive them favourably, seem strong and satisfactory : and my lord of Bolingbroke, with all his vast capacity, but vaster assurance, he often makes appear even an idiot ; and that without any glare of wit or brow-beating language, like his lordship's, but only by explaining and undressing his ornament- ed, ill-designed doctrine. I had, last post, a letter from my dear sister , with three enclosed from lady S g to her ; in whose praises, perhaps, she might think me too cool : indeed, I said but iittie in the compli- menting strain. She seems bent upon making me love her ; and, if she is sin- cere in her professions of friendship, I do love her for that. But, from my own Icnowledge of her, from one hour's know- ledge, what judgment could I form ? Perhaps, if any, it might be to the disadvantage of the lady, and very un- justly ; first appearances are often false. I have a reason, however, for hoping so, which may make me appear cool, when I am only cautious. This is not a far- ther excuse for my behaviour to the lady before-mentioned, towards whom my heart is strongly bent, and whose cha- racter, had I never seen her, would have demanded my love and esteem. I am sure she is deserving ; I hope the other is so too. Sir Roger and I are quite alone, and the weather so extremely bad that I have not had an opportunity of even walking in the garden these three weeks, which make this place not quite so pleasant as usual. But here I am happy, neverthe- less ; am pretty well in health, though cannot say it is quite established : but I C80 E L E G A N T E P I S T L E S. IJOOK W, liave 110 ^reat cause for complamt, God be praised. I want nothing but a few of my particular friends ; in the first rank of whom stands a family at Par- son's Green, whose company would add greatly to the satisfaction of their obliged, &c. FROM THE LETFERS Of EDWARD GIBBON, ESQ. LETTER LXXXV. Mi\ Gibbon to his Father, 1760. Dear sir. An address in writing, from a person who has the pleasure of being with you every day, may appear singular. How- ever, I have preferred this method, as upon paper I can speak v/ithout a blush, and be heard without interruption. If my letter displeases you, impute it, dear sir, only to yourself. You have treated me, not like a son, but like a friend. Can you be surprised that I should com- municate to a friend all my thoughts, and all my desires ? Unless the friend approve them, let the father never know them ; or, at least, let him know, at the same time, that, however reasonable, however eligible, my scheme may appear to me, I would rather forget it for ever, than cause him the slightest uneasiness. When I first returned to England, at- tentive to my future interest, you were so good as to give me hopes of a seat in parliament. This seat, it was sup- posed, would be an expense of fifteen hundred pounds. This design flattered my vanity, as it might enable me to shine in so august an assembly. It flat- tered a nobler passion ; I promised my- self that, by the means of this seat, i might be one day the instrument of some good to my country. But 1 soon perceived how little a mere virtuous hi- clination, unassisted by talents, could contribute towards that great end ; and a very short examination discovered to me, that those talents had not fallen to my lot. Do not, dear sir, impute this de- claration to a false modesty, the meanest species of pride. Whatever else 1 may be ignorant of, I think I kno?v myselfy and shall always endeavour to mention my good qualities without vanity, and my defects without repugnance. I shall say nothing of the most intimate acquaint- ance with his country and language, so absolutely necessary to every senator. Since they may be acquired, to allege my deficiency in them, would seem only the plea of laziness. But I shall say with great truth, that I never possessed that gift of speech, the first requisite of an orator, which use and labour may improve, but which nature alone can bestow. That my temper, quiet, retired, somewhat reserved, could neither ac- quire popularity, bear up against oppo-^ sition, nor mix with ease in the crowds of public life. That even my genius (if you will allow me any) is better quali- fied for the deliberate compositions of the closet, than for the extemporary dis- courses of the parliament. An unexpect- ed objection would disconcert me ; and as- I am incapable of explaining to others, what I do not thoroughly understand myself, I should be meditating while I ought to be answering. I even want ne- cessary prejudices of party and of na- tion. In popular assemblies, it is oken necessary to inspire them ; and never orator inspired well a passion, which he did not feel himself. Suppose me even mistaken in my own character ; to set out with the repugnance such an opinion must produce, offers but an indifferent prospect. But I hear you say, it is not necessary that every man should enter into parliament with such exalted hopes. It is to acquire a title the most glorious of any in a free country, and to employ the weight and consideration it gives in the service of one's friends. Such motives, though not glorious, yet are not disho- nourable ; and if we had a borough in our command, if you could bring me in without any great expense, or if our for- tune enabled us to despise that expense, then, indeed, 1 should think them of the greatest strength. But with our private fortune, is it worth while to purchase, at so high a rate, a title, honourable in it- self, but which I must share with every fellow that can lay out fifteen hundred pounds ? Besides, dear sir, a merchan- dise is of little value to the owner when he is resolved not to sell it. I should affront your penetration, did I not suppose you now sec the drift of Sect. IV. RECENT. b'81 this letter. It is to appropriate, to an- other use, the sum with which you des- tined to bring me into parliament ; to employ it, not in making me great, but in rendering me happy. I have often heard you say yourself, that the allow- ance you had been so indulgent as to grant me, though very liberal in regard to your estate, was yet but small, when compared with the almost necessary ex- travagances of the age. I have, indeed, found it so, notwithstanding a good deal of ceconomy, and an exemption from many of the common expenses of youth. This, dear sir, would be away of supply- ing these deficiencies, without any addi- tional expense to you. — But I forbear. — If you think my proposals reasonable, you want no entreaties to engage you to comply with them ; if otherwise, all will be without effect. All that I am afraid of, dear sir, is, that I should seem not so much asking a favour, as this really is, as exacting a debt. After all I can say, you will still remain the best judge of my good, and your own circumstances. Perhaps, like most landed gentlemen, an addition to my annuity would suit you better, than a sum of money given at once ; perhaps the sum itself may be too considerable. Whatever you shall think proper to be- stow upon me, or in whatever manner, will be received with equal gratitude. I intended to stop here ; but, as I ab- hor the least appearance of art, I think it will be better to lay open my whole scheme at once. The unhappy war, which now desolates Europe, will oblige me to defer seeing France till a peace. But that reason can have no influence upon Italy, a country which every scho- lar must long to see: should you grant my request, and not disapprove of my manner of employing your bounty, I would leave England this autumn, and pass the winter at J^ausanne, withM. de Voltaire and my old friends. The ar- mies no longer obstruct my passage, and it must be indififerent to you whether I am at Lausanne or at London during the winter, since I shall not be at Beriton. In the spring I would cross the Alps, and, after some stay in Italy, as the war must then be terminated, return home through France, to live happily with your and my dear mother. 1 am now two-and-twenty ; a tour must take up a considerable time ; and though I believe you have no thoughts of settling |me soon (and I am sure I have not), yet so many things may intervene, that the man, who does not travel early, runs a great risk of not travelling at all. But this part of my scheme, as well as the whole, I submit entirely to you. Permit me, dear sir, to add, that I do not know whether the complete com- pliance with my wishes could increase my love and gratitude ; but that I ans very sure no refusal could diminish those sentiments with which 1 shall al- ways remain, dear sir, your, &c. LETTER LXXXVI. Ediuard Gibbon, Esq. to J. Holroyd, Esq. Beriton, April 29, 1767. Dear Holroyd, I HAPPENED to-night to stumble upoo a very odd piece of intelligence in the St. James's Chronicle ; it related to the marriage of a certain Monsieur Olroy, formerly captain of hussars. I do not know how it came into my head that this captain of hussars was not unknown to me, and that he might possibly be an acquaintance of yours. If 1 am not mistaken in my conjecture, pray give my compliments to him, and tell him from me, that I am at least as well pleased that he is married as if I were so myself. Assure him, however, that though as a philosopher I may prefer celibacy, yet, as a politician, I think it highly proper that the species should be propagated by the usual method ; assure him even that I am convinced, that if celibacy is exposed to fewer miseries, marriage can alone promise real happi- ness, since domestic enjoyments are the source of every other good. May such happiness, which is bestowed on few, be given to him ; the transient blessings of beauty, and the more durable ones of fortune, good sense, and an amiable dis- position. I can easily conceive, and as easily excuse you, if you have thought mighty little this winter of your poor rusticated friend. I have been confined ever since Christmas, and confined by a succession of very melancholy occupations. I had scarcely arrived at Beriton, where I l)roposed staying only about a fortnight, when a brother of Mrs. Gibbon's died 682 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. unexpectedly, though after a very long and painful illness. We were scarcely recovered from the confusion, which such an event must produce in a family, when my father was taken dangerously ill, and with some intervals has continued so ever since. I can assure you, my dear Holroyd; that the same event appears in a very different light when the danger is serious and immediate ; or when, in the gaiety of a tavern dinner, we aifect an insensibility, that would do us no great honour were it real. My father is now much better ; but I have since been as- sailed by a severe stroke — the loss of a friend. You remember, perhaps, an of- ficer of our militia, whom I sometimes used to compare to yourself. Indeed, the comparison would have done honour to any one. His feelings were tender and noble, and he was always guided by them : his principles were just and gene- rous, and he acted up to them. I shall say no more, and you will excuse my having said so much, of a man with whom you were unacquainted ; but my mind is just now so very full of him, that I cannot easily talk, or even think, of any thing else. If I know you right, you will not he offended at my weakness. What rather adds to my uneasiness, is the necessity I am under of joining our militia the day after to-morrow. Though the lively hurry of such a scene might contribute to divert my ideas, yet every circumstance of it, and the place itself (which was that of his residence), will give me many a painful moment. I know nothing would better raise my spirits than a visit from you : the request may ( appear unseasonable, but I think I have heard you speak of «?z uncle you had near Southampton. At all events, I hope you will snatch a moment to write to me, and give me some account of your pre- sent situation and future designs. As you are now fettered, I should expect you will not be such a hie et ubique, as you have been since your arrival in Eng- land. I stay at Southampton from the first to the twenty-eighth of May, and then propose making a short visit to town : if you are any where in the neigh- bourhood of it you may depend upon seeing me. I shall then concert mea- sures for seeing a little more of you next winter than I have lately done, as I hope to take a pretty long spell in town. I suppose Guise has often fallen in your way : he has never once written to me^ nor I to him : in the country we want materials, and in London we want time. I ought to recollect, that you even want time to read my unmeaning scrawl. Believe, however, my dear Holroyd, that it is the sincere expression of a heart entirely yours. LETTER LXXXVII. Edivard Gibbon, Esq. to J. Holroyd, Esq, October 6, 1771. Dear Holroyd, I SIT down to answer your epistle, after taking a very pleasant ride. — A ride ! and upon what? — Upon a horse. — You lie ! — I don't. — I have got a droll little poney, and intend to renew the long for- gotten practice of equitation, as it was known in the world before the second of June of the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and sixty-three. As I used to reason against riding, so I can now argue for it; and indeed the principal use I know in human reason is, when called upon, to furnish argu- ments for what we have an inclination to do. What do you mean by presuming to affirm, that 1 am of no use here ? Farmer Gibbon of no use ? Last week 1 sold all my hops, and I believe well, at nine guineas a hundred, to a very responsible man. Some people think I might liave got more at Weyhill fair, but that would have been an additional expense, and a great uncertainty. Our quantity has dis- appointed us very much ; but I think, that besides hops for the family, there will not be less than 500/.; — no con- temptible sum off thirteen small acres, and two of them planted last year only. This week I let a little farm in Peters- field by auction, and propose raising it from 35/. to 35/. per annum : — and farmer Gibbon of no use ! To be serious : I have but one reason for resisting your invitation and my own wishes ; that is, Mrs. Gibbon I left nearly alone all last winter, and shall do the same this. She submits very cheerfully to that state of solitude ; but, on sound- ing her, I am convinced that she would think it unkind were I to leave her at present. I know you so well, that I am sure you will acquiesce in this reason ; Sect. IV. RECENT 683 and let me make my next visit to Shef * field Place from town, which I think may be a little before Christmas. I should like to hear something of the pre- cise time, duration, and extent of your intended tour into Bucks. Adieu. LETfER LXXXVIII. Edward Gibbon, Esq, to J. Holroyd. Esq. at Edinburgh. Bentinck Street, Aug. 7, 1773. Dear Holroyd, I BEG ten thousand pardons for not be- ing dead, as I certainly ought to be. But such is my abject nature, that I had rather live in Bentinck Street, attainted and convicted of the sin of laziness, than enjoy your applause either at Old Nick's or even in the Elysian Fields. After all, could you expect that I should honour with my correspondence a wild barba- rian of the bogs of Erin ? Had the na- tives intercepted my letter, the terrors occasioned by such unknown magic cha- racters might have been fatal to you. But now you have escaped the fury of their hospitality, and are arrived among a cee-vi-leezed nation, I may venture to renew my intercourse. You tell me of a long list of dukes, lords, and chieftains of renown, to whom you are introduced ; were I with you, I should prefer one David to them all. When you are at Edinburgh, I hope you will not fail to visit the stye of that fat- test of Epicurus's hogs, and inform your- self whether there remains no hope of its recovering the use of its right paw. There is another animal o^ great, though not perhaps of equal, and certainly not of similar merit, one Robertson : has he almost created the new world ? Many other men you have undoubtedly seen, in the country where you are at present, who must have commanded your esteem : but when you return, if your are not very honest, you will possess great advantages over me In any dispute concerning Cale- donian merit. Boodle's and Atwood's are now no more. The last stragglers, and Godfrey Clarke in the rear of all, are moved away to their several castles ; and I now enjoy, in the midst of London, a delicious soli- tude. My library, Kensington Gardens, and a few parties with new acquaintance who aie chained to London (among whom I reckon Goldsmith and sir Joshua Reynolds), fill up my time, and the mon- ster Ennui preserves a very respectful distance. By the bye, your friends Batt, sir John Russel, and Lascelles, dined with me one day before they set off ; for I sometimes give the prettiest little din- ner in the world. But all this compo- sure draws near its conclusion. About the sixteenth of this month Mr. Eliot carries me away, and after picking up Mrs. Gibbon at Bath, sets me down at Port Eliot; there 1 shall remain six weeks, or, in other words, to the end of September. My future motions, whether to London, Derbyshire, or a longer stay in Cornwall (pray is not " motion to stay" rather in the Hibernian style?), will depend on the life of Port Eliot, the time of the meeting of parliament, and perhaps the impatience of Mr. ******, lord of Lenborough. One of my plea- sures to town I forgot to mention, the unexpected visit of Deyverdun, who ac- companies his young lord (very young indeed !) on a two month's tour to Eng- land. He took the opportunity of the earl's going down to the duke of *******, to spend a fortnight (nor do I recollect a more pleasant one) in Bentinck Street. They are now gone to- gether into Yorkshire, and I think it doubtful whether I shall see him again before his return to Leipsic. It is a me- lancholy refle€tion, that while one is plagued with acquaintance at the corner of every street, real friends should be separated from each other by unsur- mountable bars, and obliged to catch at a few transient moments of interview. I desire that you and my lady (whom I most respectfully greet) would take your share of that very new and acute obser- vation, not so large a share indeed as my Swiss friend, since nature and for- tune give us more frequent opportunities of being together. You cannot expect news from a desert, and such is London at present. The papers give you the full harvest of public intelligence ; and I imagine, that the eloquent nymphs of Twickenham communicate all the trans- actions of the polite, the amorous, and the marrying world. The great panto- mime of Portsmouth was universally ad- mired ; and I am angry at my own lazi- ness in neglecting an excellent oppor- tunity of seeing it. Foote has given us f)84 ELEGANT E P I S T J. E S. Book IV. the Bankrupt, a serious and sentimental piece, with very"severe strictures on the license of scandal in attacking private characters. Adieu. Forgive and epis- tolize me. I shall not believe you sin- cere in the former, unless you make Ben- tinck Street your inn. I fear I shall he gone ; but Mrs. Ford and the parrot will be proud to receive you and my lady after your long peregrination, from which I expect great improvements. Has she got the brogue upon the tip of her tongue ? LETTER LXXXIX. Edward Gibbon, Esq. to J. Holroydy Esq. Paris, August 13, 1777. Well, and who is the culprit now? — Thus far had 1 written in the pride of my heart, and fully determined to inflict an epistle upon you, even before I re- ceived any answer to my former ; I was very near a bull. But this forward half- line lays ten days barren and inactive, till its generative powers were excited by the missive which I received yester- day. What a wretched piece of work do we seem to be making of it in America ? The greatest force, which any European power ever ventured to transport into that continent, is not strong enough even to attack the enemy ; the naval strength of Great Britain is not sufficient to prevent the Americans (they have al- most lost the appellation of rebels) from receiving every assistance that they want- ed ; and in the mean time you are ob- liged to call out the militia to defend your own coasts against their privateers. You possibly may expect from me some ac- count of the designs and policy of the French court ; but I choose to decline that task for two reasons : 1st, Because you may find them laid open in every newspaper ; and 2dly, Because I live too much with their courtiers and ministers to know any thing about them. I shall only say, that I am not under any vax- mediate apprehensions of a Avar with France. It is much more pleasant, as well as profitable, to view in safety the raging of the tempest, occasionally to pick up some pieces of the wreck, and to improve their trade, their agriculture, and their finances, while the two coun- es are Itnto col Urn duello Far from taking any step to put a speedy end to this astonishing dispute, I should not be surprised if next summer they were to lend their cordial assistance to England, as to the weaker party. As to my per- sonal engagement with the D. of R., I recollect a few slight skirmishes, but nothing that deserves the name of a ge- neral engagement. The extravagance of some disputants, both French and English, who have espoused the cause of America, sometimes inspires me with an extraordinary vigour. Upon the whole, I find it much easier to defend the jus- tice than the policy of our measures ; but there are certain cases, where what- ever is repugnant to sound policy ceases to be just. The more I see of Paris, the more 1 like it. The regular course of the so- ciety in which I live is easy, polite, and entertaining ; and almost every day is marked by the acquisition of some new acquaintance, who is worth cultivating, or who at least is worth remembering. To the great admiration of the French, I regularly dine and regularly sup, drink a dish of strong cofi'ee after each meal, and find my stomach a citizen of the world. The spectacles (particularly the Italian, and above all the French Come- dies), which are open the whole summer, afford me an agreeable relaxation from company ; and to shew you that I fre- quent them from taste, and not from idleness, I have not yet seen the Colisee, the Vauxhall, the Boulvards, or any of those places of entertainment which con- stitute Paris to m.ost of our countrymen. Occasional trips to dine or sup in some of the thousand country houses which are scattered round the environs of Paris, serve to vary the scene. In the mean while the summer insensibly glides away, and the fatal month of October approaches, when I must change the house of ma- dame Necker for the House of Commons. I regret that I could not choose the win- ter, instead of the summer, for this ex- cursion : I should have found many va- luable persons, and should have preserved others whom I have lost as I began to know them. The duke de Choiseul, who deserves attention both for himself and for keeping the best house in Paris, passes seven months of the year in Tou- raine ; and though I have been tempted, I consider with horror a journey of sixty leagues into the country. The princess Sect. IV. RECENT. 685 of Beauveau, who is a most superior wo- man, had been absent about six weeks, and does not return tiil the 24th of this month. A large body of recruits will be assembled by the Fontainbleau journey ; but, in order to have a thorough know- ledge of this splendid country, I ought to stay till the month of January ; and if I could be sure, that opposition would be as tranquil as they were last year — I think your life has been as animated, or, at least, as tumultuous ; and I envy you lady Payne, &c., much more than either the primate or the chief justice. Let not the generous breast of my lady be torn by the black serpents of envy. She still possesses the first place in the senti- ments of her slave : but the adventure of the fan was a mere accident, owing to lord Carmarthen. Adieu. I think you may be satisfied. I say nothing of my terrestrial affairs. LETTER XC. Frojii the same to the same. February 6th, 17':9. You are quiet and peaceable, and do not bark, as usual, at my silence. To reward you, I would send you some news, but we are asleep : no foreign intelligence, except the capture of a frigate ; no cer- tain accounts from the West Indies, and a dissolution of parliament, which seems to have taken place since Christmas. In the papers you will see negociations, changes of departments, &c., and I have some reason to believe that those reports are not entirely without foundation. Portsmouth is no longer an object of speculation ; the whole stream of all men, and all parties, run one way. Sir Hugh is disgraced, ruined, &c. &c. ; and as an old wound has broken out again, they say he must have his leg cut off as soon as he has time. In a night or two we shall be in a blaze of illumi- nation, from the zeal of naval heroes, land patriots, and tallow chandlers ; the last are not the least sincere. I want to hear some details of your military and familiar proceedings. By your silence I suppose you admire Davis, and dislike my pamphlet; yet such is the public folly, that we have a second edition in the press : the fashionable style of the clergy is to say they have not read it. If Maria does not take care, I shall write a much sharper invective against her, for not answering my diabolical book. My lady carried it down, with a solemn promise that I should receive an unassisted French letter. Yet I embrace the little animal, as well as my lady, and the spes altera Romce. Adieu. There is a buz about a peace, and Spanish mediation. LETTER XCI. Edtvard Gibbon, Esq. to the Right Hon. Lord Sheffield. [^ausaone, September 30tb, 1783. I ARRIVED safe in harbour last Saturday, the 27th instant, about ten o'clock in the morning ; but as the post only goes out twice a week it was not in my power to write before this day. Except one day, between Langres and Besan9on, which was laborious enough, I finished my easy and gentle airing without any fatigue, either of mind or body. 1 found Deyverdun well and happy, but much more happy at the sight of a friend, and the accomplishment of a scheme, which he had so long and impatiently desired. His garden, terrace, and park, have even exceeded the most sanguine of my ex- pectations and remembrances ; and you yourself cannot have forgotten the charming prospect of the lake, the mountains, and the declivity of the Pays de Vaud. But as human life is perpe- tually chequered with good and evil, I have found some disappointments on my arrival. The easy nature of Deyverdun, his indolence, and his impatience, had prompted him to reckon too positively that his house would be vacant at Mi- chaelmas ; some unforeseen difficulties have arisen, or have been discovered when it was already too late, and the consummation of our hopes is (I am much afraid) postponed to next spring. At first I was knocked down by the un- expected thunderbolt ; but I have gra- dually been reconciled to my fate, and have granted a free and gracious pardon to my friend. As his own apartment, which afforded me a temporary shelter, is much too narrow for a settled residence, we hired, for the winter, a convenient ready-furnished apartment, in the near- est part of the Rue de Bourg, whose back 680 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. door leads in three steps to the terrace and garden, as often as a tolerable day shall tempt us to enjoy their beauties ; and this arrangement has even its ad- vantage, of giving us time to deliberate and provide, before we enter on a larger and more regular establishment. But this is not the sum of my misfortunes : hear, and pity ! The day after my arrival (Sunday) we had just finished a temperate dinner, and intended a round of visits on foot, chapeau sous le bras, when, most unfortunately, Deyverdun proposed to shew me something in the court : we boldly and successfully ascended a flight of stone steps, but in the descent I missed my footing, and strained, or sprained, my ancle in a painful manner. My old latent enemy (I do not mean the devil), who is always on the watch, has made an ungenerous use of his advantage, and I much fear that my arrival at Lausanne will be marked with a fit of the gout, though it is quite unnecessary, that the intelligence or suspicion should find its way to Bath. Yesterday afternoon I lay, or at least sat, in state, to receive visits, and at the same moment my room was filled with four different nations. The loudest of these nations was the single voice of the abbe Raynal, who, like your friend, has chosen this place for the asy- lum of freedom and history. His con- versation, which might be very agree- able, is intolerably loud, peremptory, and insolent ; and you would imagine, that he alone was the monarch and legislator of the world. Adieu. I embrace my lady, and the infants. With regard to the im- portant transactions, for which you are constituted plenipotentiary, I expect, with some impatience, but with perfect confidence, the result of your labours. You may remember what I mentioned of my conversation with * * * -)t * about the place of minister at Bern : I have talked it over with Deyverdun, who does not dislike the idea, provided this place was allowed to be my villa during at least two-thirds of the year ; but for my part I am sure, that ***** are worth more than ministerial friend- ship and gratitude ; so I am inclined to think, that they are preferable to an of- fice, which would be procured with diffi- culty, enjoyed with constraint and ex- peRse, and lost, perhaps, next April, in the annual revalutions of our domestic gavemment. Again adieu. LETTER XCII. Edward Gibbon, Esq. to the Right Hon. Lady Sheffield. Lausanne, October 28, 1783. The progress of my gout is in general so regular, and there is so much uniformity in the History of its Decline and Fall, that I have hitherto indulged my lazi- ness, without much shame or remorse, without supposing that you would be very anxious for my safety, which has been sufficiently provided for by the tri- ple care of my friend Deyverdun, my humbler friend Caplin, and a very con- versable physician (not the famous Tis- sot), whose ordinary fee is ten batz, about fifteen pence English. After the usual increase and decrease of the mem- ber (for it has been confined to the in- jured part), the gout has retired in good order ; and the remains of weakness, which obliged me to move on the rug- ged pavement of Lausanne with a stick, or rather small crutch, are to be ascribed to the sprain, which might have been a much more serious business. As I have now spent a month at Lausanne, you will inquire, with much curiosity, more kindness, and some mixture of spite and malignity, how far the place has answered my expectations, and whether I do not repent of a resolution, which has appeared so rash and ridiculous to my ambitious friends ? To this question, however natural and reasonable, I shall not return an immediate answer, for two reasons : I . / have not yet made a fair trial. The disappointment and delay, with regard to Deyverdun's house, will confine us this winter to lodgings, ra- ther convenient than spacious or plea- sant. 1 am only beginning to recover my strength and liberty, and to look about on persons and things : the great- est part of those persons are in the country, taken up with their vintage ; my books are not yet arrived ; and, in short, I cannot look upon myself as set- tled in that comfortable way, which you and I understand and relish. Yet the weather has been heavenly, and till this time, the end of October, we enjoy the brightness of the sun, and somewhat gently complain of its immoderate heat. 2. If I should be too sanguine in explain- ing my satisfaction in what I have done, you would ascribe that satisfaction to tlie Sect. IV. REC ENT. 687 novelty of the scene, and the inconstancy of man ; and I deem it far more safe and prudent to postpone any positive decla- ration, till I am placed by experience beyond the danger of repentance and recantation. Yet of one thing I am sure, that 1 possess in this country, as well as in England, the best cordial of life, a sincere, tender, and sensible friend, adorned with the most valuable and plea- sant qualities both of the heart and head. . The inferior enjoyments of leisure and society are likewise in my power ; and in the short excursions, which I have hitherto made, I have commenced or re- newed my acquaintance with a certain number of persons, more especially wo- men (who, at least in France and this country, are undoubtedly superior to our prouder sex), of rational minds and elegant manners. I breakfast alone, and have declared that I receive no visits in a morning, which you will easily suppose is devoted to study. I find it impossible, without inconvenience, to defer my din- ner beyond two o'clock. We have got a very good woman cook. Deyverdun, who is somewhat of an epicurean philosopher, understands the management of a table, and we frequently invite a guest or two, to share our luxurious, but not extrava- gant repasts. The afternoons are (and will be much more so hereafter) devoted to society, and I shall find it necessary to play at cards much oftener than in London : but I do not dislike that way of passing a couple of hours, and I shall not be ruined at shilling whist. As yet I have not supped, but in the course of the winter I must sometimes sacrifice an evening abroad, and in exchange I hope sometimes to steal a day at home, with- out going into company ^ ^ ^ * * * ^ * * * * I have all this time been talking to lord Sheffield ; I hope that he has dis- patched my affairs, and it would give me pleasure to hear that I am no longer member for Lymington, nor lord of Lenhorough. Adieu. I feel every day that the distance serves only to make me think with more tenderness of the per- sons whom I love. LETTER XCin. Edward Gibbon, Esq. to the Right Hon. Lord Sheffield, Lausanne, November 14th, 1783. Last Tuesday, November eleventh, after plaguing and vexing yourself all the morning, about some business of your fertile creation, you went to the House of Commons, and passed the afternoon, the evening, and perhaps the night, without sleep or food, stifled in a close room, heated by the respiration of six hundred politicians, inflamed by party passion, and tired of the repetition of dull nonsense, which, in that illustrious assembly, so far outweighs the proportion of reason and eloquence. On the same day, after a studious morning, a friendly dinner, and a cheerful assembly of both sexes, I retired to rest at eleven o'clock, satisfied with the past day, and certain that the na?:t would afford me the return of the same quiet and rational enjoy- ments. Which has the better bargain ? Seriously, I am every hour more grate- ful to my own judgment and resolution, and only regret that I so long delayed the execution of a favourite plan, which I am convinced is the best adapted to my character and inclinations. Your con- jecture of the revolutions of my face, when I heard that the house was for this winter inaccessible, is probable, but false. I bore my disappointment with the tem- per of a sage, and only use it to render the prospect of next year still more pleasing to my imagination. You are likewise mistaken, in imputing my fall to the awkwardness of my limbs. The same accident might have happened to Slings- by himself, or to any hero of the age, the most distinguished for his bodily ac- tivity. I have now resumed my entire strength, and walk with caution, yet with speed and safety, through the streets of this mountainous city. After a month of the finest autumn I ever saw, the bise made me feel my old acquaintance ; the weather is now milder, and this present day is dark and rainy, not much better than what you probably enjoy in Eng- land. The town is comparatively empty, but the noblesse are returning every day from their chateaux, and I already per- ceive, that I shall have more reason to complain of dissipation than of dulness. As I told lady S., I am afraid of being" 088 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. too rash and hasty in expressmg my sa- tisfaction ; hut I must again repeat, that appearances are extremely favourable. I am sensible, that general praise conveys no distinct ideas, but it is very difficult to enter into particulars where the indi- viduals are unknown, or indifferent to our correspondent. You have forgotten the old generation, and in twenty years a new one is grown up. Death has swept many from the world, and chance or choice has brought many to this place. If you inquire after your acquaintance Catherine, you must be told, that she is solitary, ugly, blind, and universally for- gotten. Your later flame, and our com- mon goddess, the Eliza, passed a month at the inn. She came to consult Tis- sot, and was acquainted with Cerjat. And now to business. * * * With regard to meaner cases, these are two, which you can and will undertake. 1 . As I have not renounced my country, I should be glad to hear of your parlia- mentary squabbles, which may be done with small trouble and expense. After an interesting debate, my lady in due time may cut the speeches from Wood- fall ; you will write or dictate any cu- rious anecdote ; and the whole, inclosed in a letter, may be dispatched to Lau- sanne. 2. A set of Wedgewood china, which we talked of in London, and which would be most acceptable here. As you have a sort of a taste, I leave to your own choice the colour and the pat- tern ; but as I have the inclination and means to live very handsomely here, I desire that the size and number of things may be adequate to a plentiful table. If you see lord North, assure him of my gratitude : had he been a more success- ful friend, I should now be drudging at the Board of Customs, or vexed with business in the amiable society of . To lord Loughborough present an aflFec- tionate sentiment : I am satisfied of his intention to serve me, if I had not been in such a fidget. I am sure you will not fail, while you are in town, to visit and comfort poor aunt Kitty. I wrote to her on my first arrival, and she may be assured that I will not neglect her. To my lady I say nothing ; we have now our private correspondence, into which the eye of a husband should not be per- mitted to intrude. I am really satisfied with the success of the pamphlet ; not only because 1 have a sneaking kindness for the author, but as it shews me, that plain sense, full information, and warm spirit, are still acceptable in the world. You talk of Lausanne as a place of re- tirement, yet, from the situation and freedom of the Pays de Vaud, all na- tions, and all extraordinary characters, are astonished to meet each other. The abb^ Raynal, the grand Gibbon, and Mercier, author of the Tableau de Paris, have been in the same room. The other day the prince and princess de Ligne, the duke and duchess d'Ursel, &c., came from Brussels on purpose (literally true) to act a comedy at * * * * in the country. He was dying, and could not appear ; but we had comedy, ball, and supper. The event seems to have revived him ; for that great man is fallen from his ancient glory, and his nearest relations refuse to see him. I told you of poor Catherine's deplorable state ; but madame de Mesery, at the age of sixty-nine, is still handsome. Adieu. LETTER XCIV. Edioard Gibbon, Esq. to the Right Hon. Lord Sheffield. Lausanne, December 2()lli, J 783. I HAVE received both your epistles ; and as any excuse will serve a man, who is at the same time very busy and very idle, I patiently expected the second before I entertained any thoughts of answering the first. * * ^ * * •X- -X- ¥: -X- ■}{■ * * I therefore conclude, that on every prin- ciple of common sense, before this mo- ment your active zeal has already expel- led me from the house, to which, with- out regret, I bid an everlasting farewell. The agreeable hour of five o'clock in the morning, at which you commonly retire, does not tend to revive my attachment ; but if you add the soft hours of your morning committee, in the discussion of taxes, customs, frauds, smugglers. Sec, I think I should beg to be released, and quietly sent to the galleys as a place of leisure and freedom. Yet I do not depart from my general principles of toleration . Some animals are made to live in the water, others on the earth, many in the air, and some, as it is now believed, even in fire. Your present hurry of parlia- Sect. IV. REC ENT. ment I perfectly understand ; when op- position make the attack, Momenta ciia Horce rs venii, aut victoria Iceta. But when the minister brings forward any strong and decisive measure, he at length prevails ; but his progress is re- tarded at every step, and in every stage of the bill, by a pertinacious, though unsuccessful minority. I am not sorry to hear of the splendour of Fox ; I am proud, in a foreign country, of his fame and abilities, and our little animosities are extinguished by my retreat from the English stage. With regard to the sub- stance of the business, I scarcely know what to think : the vices of the company, both in their persons and constitution, were manifold and manifest : the danger was imminent, and such an empire, with thirty millions of subjects, was not to be lost for trifles. Yet, on the other hand, the faith of charters, the rights of pro- perty ! I hesitate and tremble. Such an innovation would at least require, that the remedy should be as certain as the evil ; and the proprietors may perhaps insinuate, that t/iei/ were as competent guardians of their own affairs, as either * -X- -)t ^ or * * ^- »^ Their acting without a salary seems childish, and their not being removable by the crown is a strange and danger- ous precedent. But enough of politics, w^hich I now begin to view through a thin, cold, distant cloud, yet not with- out a reasonable degree of curiosity and patriotism. From the papers (especial- ly when you add an occasional slice of the Chronicle) I shall be amply inform- ed of facts and debates. From you I expect the causes, rather than the events, the true springs of action, and those in- teresting anecdotes which seldom ascend the garret of a Fleet Street editor. You say that many friends (alias acquaintance) have expressed curiosity and concern ; 1 should not wish to be immediately for- gotten. That others (you once mention- ed Gerard Hamilton) condemn govern- ment for suffering the departure of a man, who might have done them some credit and some service, perhaps as much s -^ * * * * himself. To you, in the confidence of friendship, and without either pride or resentment, I will fairly own that I am somewhat of Ge- rard's opinion : and if I did not compare it with the rest of his character, I should be astonished that * * -x^ -x- * suffered me to depart, without even a ci- vil answer to my letter. Were I capable of hating a man, whom it is not easy to hate, I should find myself amply revenged hj * * * '^. But the happy souls in paradise are susceptible only of love and pity ; and though Lausanne is not a paradise, more especially in winter, I do assure you, in sober prose, that it has hitherto fulfilled, and even surpassed, my warmest expectations. Yet I often cast a look toward Sheffield Place, where you now repose, if you can repose, during the Christmas recess. Embrace my lady, the young baroness, and the gentle Lou- isa, and insinuate to your silent consort, that separate letters require separate an- swers. Elad I an air balloon, the great topic of modern conversation, I would call upon you till the meeting of parlia- ment. Vale. LETTER. XCV. Edivard Gibbon ^ Esq. to Mrs. Porten. Lausanne, December 27th, 1783. Dear madam, The unfortunate are loud and loqua- cious in their complaints, but real hap- piness is content with its own silent en- joyment ; and if that happiness is of a quiet, uniform kind, we suffer days and weeks to elapse without communicating our sensations to a distant friend. By you, therefore, whose temper and un- derstanding have extracted from human life on every occasion the best and most comfortable ingredients, my silence will always be interpreted as an evidence of content, and you would only be alarmed (the danger is not at hand) by the too frequent repetition of my letters. Per- haps I should have continued to slum* ber, I don't know how long, had I not been awakened by the anxiety whicli you express in your last letter. * * '^' •St * ^ * ^ -x-^ From this base subject I ascend to one which more seriously and strongly en- gages your thoughts, the consideration of my health and happiness. And you will give me credit when I assure you with sincerity, that I have not repented a single moment of the step which I have taken, and that I only regret the not 2Y 690 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. having e!secuted the same design two, or five, or even ten years ago. By this time, I might have returned independent and rich to my native country ; I should have escaped many disagreeable events that have happened in the mean while, and I should have avoided the parliamentary life, which experience has proved to be neither suitable to my temper, nor con- ducive to my fortune. In speaking of the happiness which I enjoy, you will agree with me, in giving the preference to a sincere and sensible friend: and though you cannot discern the full extent of his merit, you will easily believe that Deyverdun is the man. Perhaps two persons, so perfectly fitted to live toge- ther, were never formed by nature and education. We have both read and seen a great variety of objects ; the lights and shades of our different characters are happily blended, and a friendship of thirty years has taught us to enjoy our mutual advantages, and to support our unavoidable imperfections. In love and marriage, some harsh sounds will some- times interrupt the harmony, and in the course of time, like our neighbours, we must expect some disagreeable moments ; but confidence and freedom are the two pillars of our union, and I am much mistaken if the building be not solid and comfortable. One disappointment I have indeed experienced, and patiently sup- ported. The family who were settled in Deyverdun's house started some unex- pected difficulties, and will not leave it till the spring ; so that you must not yet expect any poetical, or even histori- cal, description of the beauties of my habitation. During the dull months of winter we are satisfied with a very com- fortable apartment in the middle of the town, and even derive some advantage from this delay : as it gives us time to arrange some plans of alteration and fur- niture, which will embellish our future and more elegant dwelling. In this sea- son I rise (not at four in the morning) but a little before eight ; at nine, I am called from my study to breakfast, which I always perform alone, in the English style ; and, with the aid of Caplin, I perceive no difference between Lausanne and Bentinck Street. Our mornings are usually passed in separate studies ; we never approach each other's door without a previous message, or thrice knocking, and my apartment is already sacred and formidable to strangers. I dress at half past one, and at two (an early hour, to which I am not perfectly reconciled) we sit down to dinner. We have hired a female cook, well skilled in her profes- sion, and accustomed to the taste of every nation ; as for instance, we had excellent mince-pies yesterday. After dinner, and the departure of our company, one, two, or three friends, we read together some amusing book, or play at chess, or retire to our rooms, or make visits, or go to the coffee-house. Between six and seven the assemblies begin, and I am oppressed only with their number and variety. Whist, at shillings or half crowns, is the game I generally play, and I play three rubbers with pleasure. Between nine and ten we withdraw to our bread and cheese, and friendly converse, which sends us to bed at eleven ; but these so- ber hours are too often interrupted by private or numerous suppers, which I have not the courage to resist, though I practise a laudable abstinence at the best furnished tables. Such is the skeleton of my life ; it is impossible to communi- cate a perfect idea of the vital and sub- stantial parts, the characters of the men and women with whom I have very easily connected myself in looser and closer bonds, according to their inclination and my own. If I do not deceive myself, and if Deyverdun does not flatter me, I am already a general favourite ; and as our likings and dislikes are commonly mutual, I am equally satisfied with the freedom and elegance of manners, and (after pro- per allowances and exceptions) with the worthy and amiable qualities of many in- dividuals. The autumn has been beauti- ful, and the winter hitherto mild, but in January we must expect some severe frost. Instead of rolling in a coach, I walk the streets, wrapped up in a fur cloak ; but this exercise is wholesome, and except an accidental fit of the gout of a few days, I never enjoyed better health. I am no longer in Pavillard's house, where I was almost starved with cold and hunger, and you may be assured I now enjoy every benefit of comfort, plenty, aad even decent luxury. You wish me happy ; acknowledge that such a life is more conducive to happiness, than five nights in the week passed in the House of Commons, or five mornings spent at the custom-house. Send me, in return, a fair account of your own situa- Sbct. IV. RECENT. 001 tion in mind and body. I am satisfied your own good sense would have reconciled you to inevitable separation ; but there never was a more suitable diversion than your visit to Sheffield Place. Among the innumerable proofs of friendship which I have received from that family, there are none which affect me more sensibly than their kind civilities to you, though I am persuaded that they are at least as much on your account as on mine. At length madame de * * * * * is delivered by her tyrant's death ; her daughter, a valuable woman of this place, has made some inquiries, and though her own circumstances are narrow, she will not suffer her father's widow to be left totally destitute. I am glad you derived so much melancholy pleasure from the letters, yet had I known it, 1 should have withheld * * * *. LETTER XCVI. Edward Gibbon, Esq. to the Right Hon. Lord Sheffield. Lausanne, August, 1789 After receiving and dispatching the power of attorney, last Wednesday, 1 opened, with some palpitation, the unex- pected missive which arrived this morn- ing. The perusal of the contents spoiled my breakfast. They are disagreeable in themselves, alarming in their conse- quences, and peculiarly unpleasant at the present moment, when I hoped to have formed and completed the arrange- ments of my future life. I do not per- fectly understand what are these deeds which are so inflexibly required ; the wiUs and marriage settlements I have suf- ficiently answered. But your arguments do not convince ****, and I have very little hope from the Lenborough search. Wliat will be the event ? If his objec- tions are only the result of legal scrupu- losity, surely they might be removed, and every chink might be filled, by a general bond of indemnity, in which I boldly ask you to join, as it will be a substantial important act of friendship, without any possible risk to yourself or your successors. Should he still remain obdurate, I must believe what I already suspect, that **** repents of his pur- chase, and wishes to elude the conclu- sion. Our case would then be hopeless, ibi omnis effusus labor, and the estate would be returned on our hands with|the taint of a bad title. The refusal of mort- gage does not please me ; but surely our offer shews some confidence in the good- ness of my title. If he will not take eight thousand pounds at four per cent. we must look out elsewhere ; new doubts and delays will arise, and I am persuaded that you will not place an implicit con- fidence in any attorney. I know not as yet your opinion about my Lausanne purchase. If you are against it, the pre- sent position of affairs gives you great advantage, &c. &c. The Severys are all well : an uncommon circumstance for the four persons of the family at once. They are now at Mex, a country-house six miles from hence, which I visit to- morrow for two or three days. They of- ten come to town, and we shall contrive to pass a part of the autumn together at Roile. I want to change the scene ; and beautiful as the garden and prospect must appear to every eye, I feel that the state of my own mind casts a gloom over them ; every spot, every walk, every bench, recals the memory of those hours, of those conversations, which will return no more. But I tear myself from the subject. I could not help writing to- day, though I do not find I have said any thing very material. As you must be conscious that you have agitated me, you will not postpone any agreeable, or even decisive intelligence. I almost hesitate, whether I shall run over to England, to consult with you on the spot, and to fly from poor Deyverdun's shade, which meets me at every turn. I did not ex- pect to have felt his loss so sharply. But six hundred miles ! Why are we so far off ? Once more, What is the difficulty of the title ? Will men of sense, in a sensi- ble country, never get rid of the tyranny of lawyers, more oppressive and ridicu- ous than even the old yoke of the cler- gy ? Is not a term of seventy or eighty^ years, nearly twenty in my own person, sufficient to prove our legal possession ? Will not the records of fines and recove- ries a'ctest that I am free from any bar entails and settlements.^ Consult some sage of the law, whether tlieir present de- mand be necessary and legal. If your ground be firm, force them to execute the agreement, or forfeit the deposit. But if, as I much fear, they liave a right Gtl2 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. and a wish, to elude the consummation, would it not be better to release them at once, than to be hung" up for five years, as in the case of Lovegrove, which cost me in the end four or five thousand pounds ? You are bold, you are wise ; consult, resolve, act. In my penulti- mate letter I dropped a strange hint, that a migration homeward was not impossi- ble. I know not what to say ; my mind is all afloat ? yet you will not reproach me vdth caprice or inconstancy. How many years did you damn my scheme of retiring- to Lausanne ! I executed that plan ; I found as much happiness as is compatible with human nature, and during four years (1783 — 1787) I never breathed a sigh of repentance. On my return from England, the scene was changed : 1 found only a faint semblance of Deyverdun, and that semblance was each day fading* from my sight. I have passed an anxious year, hot my anxiety is now at an end, and the prospect before me is a meiancholy solitude. I am still deeply rooted in this cou;itry : the pos- session of this paradise ; the iTiendship of the Severys, a mode of society suited to my, taste, and the enormous trouble and expeme of a migration. Yet in Eng- land (when the present clouds are dis- pelled) I could form a very comfortable establishment in London, or rather at Bath ; and I have a very nobie country- seat at about ten miles from East Grin- stead in Sussex. That spot is dearer to me than the rest of the three kingdoms ; and I have sometimes wondered how two men, so opposite in their tempers and pursuits, should have imbibed so long and lively a propensity for each other. Sir Stainier Porten is just dead. He has left his widow with a moderate pension, and two children, my nearest relations : the eldest, Charlotte, is about Louisa's age, and also a most amiable and sensible young creature. I have conceived a ro- mantic idea of educating and adopting her ; as we descend into the vale of years our infirmities require some domestic fe- male society ; Charlotte would be the comfort of my age, and I could reward her care and tenderness with a decent fortune. A thousand difficulties oppose the execution of the plan, which I have never opened but to you ; yet it would be less impracticable in England than in Switzerland. Adieu. I am wounded ; pour some oil into my wounds ; yet I am less unhappy since I have thrown my mind upon paper. Are you not amazed at the French revolution ? They have the power, will they have the moderation, to establish a good constitution ? Adieu, ever yours. LETTER XCVIL Edward Gibbon, Esq. to the Right Hon, Lord Sheffield. Lausanne, Dec, 15tb, 1789. You have often reason to accuse my strange silence and neglect in the most important of my own affairs ; for I will presume to assert, that in a business of yours of equal consequence, you should not find me cold or careless. But on the present occasion my silence is, per- haps, the highest compliment I ever paid you. You remember the answer of Philip of Macedon ; " Philip may sleep, while he knows that Parmenio is awake." I expected, and, to say the truth, I wished that my Parmenio would have decided and acted, without expecting my dilato- ry aiiswer ; and in his decision 1 should have acquiesced with implicit confidence. But siiice you v/ill have my opinion, let us consider the present state of my af- fairs. In the course of rny life 1 have often known, and sometimes felt, the difilculty of getting money ; but I now find myself involved in a more singular distress, the difficulty of placing it, and, if it continues much longer, I shall al- most wish for my land again. 1 perfectly agree with you, that it is bad management to purchase in the funds when they do not yield four pounds per cent. -x- -X: * -x- * ■X: -X- -X- -X- -X- -X- -X- Some of this money I can place safely, by means of my banker here ; and I shall possess, what 1 have always desired, a command of cash, which I cannot abuse to my prejudice, since I have it in my power to supply with my pen any extraordinary or fanciful indulgence of expense. And so much, much indeed, for pecuniary matters. What would you have me say of the affairs of France ? We are too near, and too remote, to form an accurate judgment of that wonderful' scene. The abuses of the court and go- vernment called aloud for reformation ; and it has happened, as it will always happen, that an innocent well-disposed Sect. IV. RECENT. 093 prince has paid the forfeit of the sins of his predecessors ; of the ambition of Lewis the Fourteenth, of the profusion of Lewis the Fifteenth. The French nation had a glorious opportunity; hut they have abused, and may lose their advantages. If they had been content with a liberal translation of our system, if they had respected the prerogatives of the crown and the privileges of the nobles, they might have raised a solid fabric on the only true foundation, the natural aristo- cracy of a free country. How different is the prospect ! Their king, brought a captive to Paris, after his palace had been stained by the blood of his guards ; the nobles in exile ; the clergy plundered in a way which strikes at the root of all property : the capital an independent republic ; the union of the provinces dis- solved ; the flames of discord kindled by the worst of men (in that light I con- sider Mirabeau) ; and the honestest of the assembly a set of wild visionaries (like our Dr. Price), who gravely debate, and dream about tlie establishment of a pure and perfect democracy of iive-and- twenty millions, the virtues of the gold- en age, and the primitive rights and equality of mankind, which would lead, in fair reasoning, to an equal partition of lands and money. How many years must elapse before France can recover any vigour, or resume her station among the powers of Europe ! As yet, there is no symptom of a great man, a Richlieu or a Cromwell, arising, either to restore the monarchy, or to lead the common- wealth. The weight of Paris, more deeply engaged in the funds than all the rest of the kingdom, will long delay a bankruptcy ; and if it should happen, it will be, both in the cause and the ef- fect, a measure of v.eakness, rather than of strength. You send me to Charaber- ry, to see a prince and an archbishop. Alas ! we have exiles enough here, with the marshal de Castries and the duke de Guignes at their head ; and this inunda- tion of strangers, which used to be con- fined to the summer, Avill now stagnate all the winter. The only ones whom I have seen with pleasure are Mr. Mounier, the late president of the national assem- bly, and the count de Lally ; they have both dined with me. Mounier, who is a serious dry politician, is returned to Dauphin^. Lally is an amiable man of the world, and a poet: he passes the winter here. You know hov/ much I pre- fer a quiet select society to a crowd of names and titles, and that I always seek conversation with a view to amusement, rather than information. What happy countries are England and Switzerland*, if they know and preserve their happi- ness ! I have a thousand things to say to my lady, Maria, and Louisa, but I can add only a short postscript about the Ma- deira. Good Madeira is now become essential to my health and reputation. May your hogshead prove as good as the last ; may it not be intercepted by the rebels or the Austrians. What a scene again in that country ! Happy England ! Happy Switzerland ! I again repeat. Adieu. LETTER XCVIii. From the same to the same. Lausanne, April 27, 1793. My dearest friend, for such you most truly are, nor does there exist a pers.on who obtains, or shall ever obtain, a su- perior place in my esteem and affection. After too long a silence I was sitting down to write, when, only yesterday morning (such is now the irregular slowness of the English post), I was sud- denly struck, indeed struck to the heart, by the fatal intelligence ^ from sir Henry Clinton and Mr. De Lally. Alas ! wliat is life, and what are our hopes and pro- jects ! When I embraced her at your de- parture from Lausanne, could I imagine that it was for the last time ? Y.'hen I' postponed to another summer my jour- ney to England, could I apprehend that I never, never should see her again ? I always hoped that she would spin her feeble thread to a long duration, and that her delicate frame would survive (as is often the case) many constitutions of a stouter appearance, hi four days ! in your absence, in that of her chil- dren ! But she is now at rest ; and her mild virtues have surely entitled her to the reward of pure and per- fect felicity. It is for you that I feel, and I can judge of your sentiments by comparing them with my own. I have lost, it is true, an amiable and affection- * The death of lady Sheffiehl. fm ELEGANT K P I S T L E S. Book IV ?tte friend, whom I had known and loved above three-and-twenty years, and whom 1 often Btiled by the endearing name of sister. But you are deprived of the com- panion of your life, the wife of your choice, and the mother of your children ! Poor children ! the liveliness of Maria, and the softness of Louisa, render them almost equally the objects of my tender- est compassion. I do not vvish^to aggra- vate your grief ; but, in the sincerity of friendship, 1 cannot hold a diiaTerent lan- guage. I know the impotence of reason, and I much fear that the strength of your character will serve to make a sharper and more lasting impression. The only consolation in these melan- choly trials to which human life is ex- posed, the only one at least in which I have any confidence, is the presence of a real friend ; and of that, as far as it depends on myself, you shall not be des- titute. I regret the few days that must be Ipst in some necessary preparation ; but I trust that to-morrow se'nnight (May the 5th) I shall be able to set for- wards on my journey to England ; and when this letter reaches you, I shall be considerably advanced on my way. As it is yet prudent to keep at a respectful distance from the banks of the French Rhine, I shall incline a little to the right, and proceed by Schaffouse and Stutgard to Frankfort and Cologne : the Austrian Netherlands are now open and safe, and 1 am sure of being able at least to pass from Ostendto Dover ; v/hence, without passing through London, I shall pursue the direct road to Sheflield Place. Un- less I should meet with some unforeseen accidents and delays, 1 hope, before the end of the month, to share your solitude, and sympathise with your grief. All the difficulties of the journey, which my in- dolence had probably magnified, have now disappeared before a stronger pas- sion ; and you will not be sorry to hear, that, as far as Frankfort to Cologne, I shall enjoy the advantage of the society, the conversation, the German language, and the active assistance of Severy. His attachment to me is the sole motive which prompts him to undertake this troublesome journey ; and as soon as he has seen me over the roughest ground, he will immediately return to Lausanne. The poor young man loved lady S. as a mother, acd the whole family is deeply aifected bv an event, which reminds them too painfully of their own misfortune. Adieu. I could write volumes, and shall therefore break off abrui)tly. I shall write on the road, and hope to find a few lines d paste restanls at Frankfort and Brussels. Adieu ; ever yours. PROM THE LETTERS OF ANNA SEWARD. LETTER XCIX, Anna Seward to George Hardinge, Esq, Lichfield, Nov. 11, 1787. Seducer ! thou hast made me what I thought to have left the world without having ever been — in love with a lord. His last letter, which you enclosed, con- cerning his opinion on capital punish- ments, has fairly done the business ; and I had rather be honoured with lord Ca- melford's amity, than with the marked attention and avowed esteem of most other of the titled sons of our land. Lord C.'s wit, his ease, and those de- scriptive powers, which bring scenery to the eye with the precision of the pencil, had previously delighted me ; but with the heart, sweetly shining out in his last epistle, I am so intemperately charmed, that his idea often fills my eyes with those delicious tears, which, beneath the contemplation of virtues that emulate what we conceive of Deity, instantaneous spring to the lids, without falling from them ; tears, which are at once prompt- ed and exhaled by pleasurable sensations. Suffer me to detain, yet a little longer, these scriptures of genius and of mercy. And now for a little picking at our everlasting bone of contention. Hope- less love is apt to make folk cross ; so you must expect me to snarl a little. I am not to learn that there is a large mass of bad writing in Shakspeare ; of stiff, odd, afi'ected phrases, and words, v/hich somewhat disgrace him, and would ten times more disgrace a modern wri- ter, who has not his excuses to plead. All I contend for, and it is a point on which I have the suflfrage of most inge- nious men, that his best language, being more copious, easy, glowing, bold, and Sect. IV. RECENT. m6 nervous, than that of perhaps any other writer, is the best model of poetic lan- guage to this hour, and will remain so *' to the last syllable of recorded time ;" that his bold licenses, when we feel that they are happy, ought to be adopted by other writers, and thus become esta- blished privileges ; and that present and future English poets, if they know their own interest, will, by using his phrase- ology, prevent its ever becoming ob- solete. Amid the hurry in which I wrote last, my thankless pen made no comment upon the welcome information you had given, that Mr. Wyatt liked me a little. Assure yourself I like him a great deal more than a little. There's fine style for you ! Next to benevolent Virtue, thou. Genius, art my earthly divinity. To thy votaries, in every line, I look up with an awe-mixed pleasure which it is delicious to feel. When he was first introduced to me, the glories of our Pantheon rushing on my recollection, my heart beat like a 'love-sick girl's, on the sight of her ina- morato : — " A difF'rent cause, says Parson Sly, Tiie same effect may give.'* I am glad you like Hayley's counte- nance. How have I seen those fine eyes of his sparkle, and melt, and glow, as wit, compassion, or imagination had the ascendance in his mind ! Mrs. Hardinge seems to have as much wit as yourself ; the conversational ball must be admirably kept up between you. One of your characteristic expressions about her is as complete a panegyric as ever man made upon woman. " She is of all hours." If it is not in Shakspeare, and I do not recollect it there, it is like, it is worthy of his pen. About the Herva of my friend Mathias, we are for once in unison ; but you are not half so candid as I am. ' Ever have you found me ready to acknowledge the prosaism of many lines, which you have pointed out in my most favourite poets. I sent you some of my late friend's, and your idol, Davies, which you could not but feel were unclassical, and inelegant in the extreme ; yet no such concession have you made to those instances. I have frequently mentioned Cowper's Task to you ; but you are invincibly si- lent upon that subject. Have I not rea- son to reproach? How should an en- thusiast in the art she loves bear to see her friend thus coldly regardless of such a poet as Cowper, while he exalts Davies above a Beattie, an Hayley ; above the author of Elfrida and Caractacus ! — for said not that friend, that no modern poet was so truly a poet as Davies ? He who can think so, would, I do be- lieve, peruse, with delectable stoicism, a bard who should now rise up with all the poetic glories that lived on the lyres of Shakspeare and Milton. " If ye believe not Moses and the Prophets, neither shall ye be persuaded by me, though one arose from the dead ;" — and so much at present for prejudice and cri- ticism. As for the last sentence in your letter, my friend, I meddle not with politics ; — yet confess myself delighted with our juvenile minister, of whom, I trust, we may say of his political, as well as natu- ral life, for many years to come — " Our young Mareellus was not born to die." Adieu ! LETTER C. Anna Seward to Captain Seward. Dec. 7, 1787. Is it possible that lord Heathfield should not see the impropriety of my presuming to intrude upon the duke of Richmond's attention with an interference, by re- quest, in military promotion, since I can scarcely be said to have the shadow of a personal acquaintance with his grace ! My father's present state, the almost utter loss of all his intellectual faculties, is known. Did he possess them, imper- tinent surely would be an acknowledg- ment from him, that he supposed the duke meant any thing more than a po- lite compliment, by giving the name of obligation to the civility of ordering our servants to make up a bed for him dur- ing three nights, and to prepare a ba- son of gruel for him in the morning, before he went to the field. This was literally aU he could be prevailed upon to accept beneath this roof, when, in his years of bloom, he united the occupation of Mars to the form of Adonis. - 1 was then a green girl, " something between 69(5 E L E G A N i E P I S T L E S. Hook IV. the woman and the child," nor have I ever since beheld the duke of Richmond. Though I so perfectly remember liim, it is more than probable that he remembers not me ; and it would be more than im- pertinent to presume that I could have interest with him. As to incurring obligations, I should be very glad thus to incur them from the duke for your advantage ; — but ob- servation, and indeed the revolt I have always niyself felt from officious recom- mendation, invariably proved to me that it injures instead of promoting the inte- rests of the recommended. His grace would certainly be disgusted by my seem- ing to suppose, that any mention I could make of a relation, or friend, could ope- rate in their favour. Disgust has a withering influence upon patronage. What is it I could say, that has a shadow of probability to enhance the duke's good opinion of a military/ man ? — that man already recommended to him by lord Heathfield, the greatest general exist- ing, whose praise ought to be the pass- port to martial honours and emolument. An attempt of this sort from me, would be just as likely to be of use, as if, had I been in Gibraltar during the siege, and when our artillery was pouring on the enemy, I had thrown a boniire-squib into the mouth of a forty-pounder to assist the force of the explosion. And, lest it should be apprehended that my poetic reputation might give some degree of consequence to my re- quest, Mr. Hayley, who is the dake'snear neighbour, has told me, that his grace had no fondness for v/orks of imagina- tion. The race of Maecenas is extinct in this period. When my dear father was in his bet- ter days, he lived on terms of intercourse and intimacy with the marquis of Staf- ford. Lord Sandwich and my father, in their mutual youth, had been on the continent together, with the affection of brothers. On my publishing the Mo- nody on Andre, he desired me to present one to each of these lords, expressing an assured belief, that the work of an old friend's daughter would not be unac- ceptable. I, who ever thought that men of rank have seldom any taste for intellectual exertion, which serves not some purpose of their own interest ; and feeling an invincible repugnance to paying atten- tions, which are likely to be repulsed with rude neglect, strongly, warmly, and even with a few proud tears, expostulat- ed against the intrusion. My father never knew that great world, with which, in his youth, he had much intercourse. Frank, unsuspecting, inattentive to those nice shades of manners, those effects, re- sulting from trivial circumstances, which develop the human heart, he judged of others by his own ingenuous disposition. Benevolent, infinitely good-natured, and incapable of treating his inferiors with neglect, he thought every kindness, every civility he received, sincere — every slight shewn, either to himself or others, acci- dental. Thus he Avould persist in the idea, that these lords would be gratified by such a mark of attention to them ; and that i should receive their thanks. I, who had been so much less in their society, knew them better ; that such little great men are as capable of impoliteness as they are incapable of taste for the arts ; — but my obedience was insisted upon. One condition, however, I made, that, if they should not have the good man- ners to write, " I thank you, madam, for your poem," he would never more request me to obtrude my compositions upon titled insolence. They had not the civility to make the least acknow- ledgment. My heart (I own it is in some respects a proud one) swelled with indignation ; — not at the neglect, for I felt it beneath my attention, and had expected it, but because I had been obliged to give them reason to believe that I desired their notice. My life against sixpence, the duke of Richmond would receive a letter from me in the same manner. Ah ! a soul like lord Heathfield's, attentive to intel- lectual exertions in the closet of the stu- dious, as in the field of honour, and ge- nerous enough to encourage and throw around it the lustre of his notice, is even more rare than his valour and military skill. I wish his lordship to see this let- ter. It will explain to him the nature of those convictions, and of those feel- ings, which must be powerful indeed, ere I could hesitate a moment to follow his advice, though but insinuated, on any subject. My devoted respects and good wishes are his, as they are yours, not periodically, but constantly. Sect. IV. RECENT. 697 LETTER CI. Anna Seivard to Miss Weston. Lichfield, April 13, 1788. Tour letter, dear Sophia, is full of eii- tertaiuing" matter, adorned with the wont- ed grace and vivacity of your style. For the payment of such debts our little city is not responsible. I ought, however, to speak to you of an extraordinary being who ranged amongst us during the winter, since he bears your name, amongst us little folk, I mean, for he was by no means calcu- lated to the meridian of our pompous gentry ; though, could he once have been received into their circle, they would perhaps have endured his figure and his profession, and half forgive the superio- rity of his talents, in consideration of his extreme fondness for every game at cards, and of his being an admirable whist player. The profession of this personage is music, organist of Solihull in Warwick- shire ; in middle life; his height and proportion mighty slender, and well enough by nature, but fidgeted and noddled into an appearance not over prepossessing ; nor are his sharp features and very sharp little eyes a whit behind them in quizzity. Then he is drest — ye gods, how he is drest ! — in a salmon- coloured coat, satin waistcoat, and small-clothes of the same warm aurora tint ; his violently protruded chitterlin, more luxuriant in its quantity, and more accurately plaited, than B. B.'s itself, is twice open hemmed. That his capital is not worth a single hair, he laments with a serio-comic coun- tenance, that would make a cat laugh — and, in that ingenuousness with which he confesses all his miserable vanities, as he emphatically calls them^, he tells us, that he had frizzed off the scanty crop three thousand years ago. This loss is , however, supplied by a wig, for the perfection of which he sits an hour and half every day under the hands of the frizzeur, that it may be plumed out like a pigeon upon steady and sailing flight — and it is always powdered with marechall, — *• Sweet to the sense, and yellow to the sight." A hat furiously cocked and pinched, too small in the crown to admit his head. sticks upon the extremest summit of the full -winged caxon. His voice has a scrannel tone, his ar- ticulation is hurried, his accent distin- guished by Staffordshire provinciality; and it is difficult to stand his bow with any discipline of feature. He talks down the hours, but knows nothing of their flight ; eccentric in that respect, and Parnassian in his contempt of the pre- cision of eating times as Johnson him- self. Now look on the other side the medal. His wit, intelligence, and poetic genius, are a mine ; and his taste and real accu- racy in criticism enable him to cut the rich ore they produce brilliant. He knows of every body, and has read every thing. With a wonderfully reten- tive memory, and familiar with the prin- ciples of all the sciences, his conversation is as instructive as it is amusing; for his ideas are always uncommon and striking, either from absolute originality, or from new and happy combination. His powers of mimicry, both in sing- ing and speaking, are admirable. No- body tells a humorous story better; but, in narrating interesting facts, his com- ments, though always in themselves worth attention, often fatigue by their plenitude, and by the supensc in which we are held concerning the principal events. The heart of this ingenious and oddly compounded being is open, ardent, and melting as even female tenderness ; and we find in it a scrupulous veracity, and an engaging dread of being intrusive. He has no vices, and much active virtue. For these good dispositions he is greatly respected by the genteel families round Solihull, and (for his comic powers doubtless) his society is much sought after by them. Hither, while he staid in Lichfield, did he often come. Indeed, I found myself perpetually seduced, by his powers of speeding time, to give up more of that fast fleeting possession to him than I could conveniently spare. Our first interview proved, by mistake, embarrassing and ridiculous. Mr. Dewes being upon a visit to me, he and I were soberly weighing, in our respective ba- lances, the quantity of genius that en- riched the reign of Anne, and the libe- ral portions of |t that our own times may boast. 698 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, It was evening, the grey hour, that " flings half an image on the straining sight." Comparing the dead and the living, by o//ier light tlian that of candles, we had not called for them. In bolts our servant Edward, who had seen as indistinctly as I was about to see. *' Madam, here's young Mr. Weston." — " Indeed !" exclaimed I, and starting up, rushed towards the personage who fol- lowed him, crying out, " Dear Joe, 1 am vastly glad to see you." — " My name is Joseph Weston, madam." The devil it is, thought I ; for the voice, and the ac- companying wriggle with which he bow- ed very low, were not our Joe's voice or bow. " Lord bless me sir," said I, drawing back, " I have a friend of your name, for whom, in this dusky hour, I took you." He then told me, that he had lately passed an evening with Mr. Saville, who had kindly assured him I should pardon an intrusion which had been the wish of years. From that period, October last, Wes- ton has been much in Lichfield, where genius and merit are, to the generality of its inhabitants, as dust in the balance against inferior station and exterior in- elegance. Yet within these walls, and at our theatre, this finical, but glowing disciple of the Muses, passed many ani- mated hours. He has the theatric mania upon him, in all its ardour. The enclosed very in- genious prologue he taught Roxwell, who has a fine person and harmonious voice, to speak very delightfully. I by no means think with you on the general abuse of the higher powers of mind, or respecting their proving inju- rious to the happiness of their possessor. I have generally, though not always, found, that where there is most genius there is most goodness ; and the inex- haustible sources of delight that, closed to common understandings, are open to elevated ones, must inevitably tend to give them a superior degree of happi- ness. Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides has been long too much my admiration, in point of elegance, for me to think, with you, that the letters from Scot- land, in Mrs. Piozzi's publication, how- ever charming, are to be named with it in the strength, or in graces of style. So miss P- isa — can now say with Elo- " Rise Alps between us, and whole oceans roll." May the heroic spirit of this enterprise be as much for her happiness as it is to her honour ! — Adieu. LETTER CII. Anna Seward to Thomas Swift, Esq, Lichfield, June 5, 1788. It was more than compliment when I said I should be glad to see you. There is much interest for my imagination in such an interview. 1 admire your poetic genius, and 1 love your candour, as much as I despise and hate the insen- sibility of the age to poetic excellence. It has no patrons amongst the splen- did and the powerful. The race of Maecenas is extinct. We find senatorial oratory their sole and universal passion. Absorbed in that pursuit, they can spare no hour of attention for the Muses and their votaries. Never was there a pe- riod in which the nymphs of the Cas- talian fountain had a more numerous train ; never were they more bounteous with their glowing inspirations. If we have neither a Shakspeare nor a Milton, it is because the fastidiousness of cri- ticism will not permit those wild and daring efforts, which, fearless of bom- bast and obscurity, often enveloped by them, and always hazarding every thing, enabled our great masters to reach their now unapproachable elevations in the dramatic and epic line. Lyric poetry has risen higher in this than in any age. Suffer me to observe, that you ought not to be discouraged by the apathy of the public taste. It is fatal to the profits of authorship ; but '* fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise ;" and every poetic writer ought to re- member, that the laurel never flourishes till it is planted upon the grave of ge- nius ; — that Milton's L'Allegro and II Penseroso were not known to Pope till he was in middle life — so strangely had even they fallen into that temporary oblivion, whither it is perpetually the fate of poetry to fall ; but, to whatever deserves that name, the hour of emerg- ing will come : — Sect. IV. RECENT. 099 " So sinks the day-etar In tbe ocean's bed, But yet, anon, repairs his drooping head} And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky." Mere verses, it is true, sink, like lead in the mighty waters, never more to rise ; but your Temple has no native alacrity in sinkings Gary, literally but just fifteen, is a mi- racle. I never saw him, nor heard of him till after his Ode to General Elliot came out. My acquaintance with him is not of four months date. His school- fellow and friend, Lister, an inhabitant of this place, has poetic talents of nearly twin excellence . There is only a month's difference in their age. You suspect my having assisted Gary. Upon my honour, I never saw any thing of his that has been published before it was sent away to be printed. The strength and solidity of that boy's mind, his taste, his judg- ment, astonish me, if possible, even more than the vigour and grace of his fancy. He is a warm admirer of your Temple, and has written a sonnet to express his sense of its excellence. I hope, ere this time, he has sent it to you. I charged him to send it to the Gentleman's Ma- gazine. Except my translations of Horace, and some letters, signed Benvolio, in that publication, together with a few sonnets, epitaphs, ballads, &c. that crept into that and other public papers, I have printed nothing but the Elegy on Cook, which I gave to Dodsley, Monody on Andr^, and the Louisa, printed by Jack- son in this town. Monody on Lady Mil- lar, printed by Robinson, and Ode to General Elliot. Some other poems of mine, which obtained the wreath at B. Easton, may be found in the last volume of that collection. I hate ever to think of printers and booksellers — so little in- tegrity have I found amongst them. If I was on terms with Jackson, I would gladly order him to send you the collec- tion you wish, but I have resolved never more to have any thing to say, or give auy order, either to him or Robinson. A set of spirited and witty essays are just come out, entitled Variety ; their principal author is one of my friends. Numbers 25 and 26 are mine. Do not stare at my apparent vanity. Those numbers are not among the witty es- says of this collection. Wit was never my talent. Thank you for your ingenious pro- logue ; but the passage on music is not, perhaps, all it should be. It confounds the distinctions between poetry and mu- sic. Of the latter the ancients knew no- thing more than melody. The princi- ples of harmonic combination, by which all the great independent effects of the science are produced, were utterly un- known to them. We hear much, it is true, of the powers that music possessed over the passions in Greece : but, in reality, those powers were given by the poetry they conveyed, to which musio was merely a pleasing vehicle. We all know that the Grecian bards, with Ho- mer at the head of them, sung their own compositions to the harp. It must have been a simple, little varied, and proba- bly spontaneous melody, to which so long a poem as the Iliad could be adapted. Doubtless the varieties chiefly resulted from the alternately softened tones, and heightened energies of the voice, and by the changes of the countenance. When the ancients spoke of music, they meant it generally as another term for poetry. So much yet of this equivocal expression remains, that we talk even of the modern poets striking the lyre. By that expres- . sion, you know, we do not mean that they are musicians. Since the harmonic principles were discovered, music has been a great inde- pendent science, capable of a sublime union with fine poetry, and greatest when thus united ; but capable also of giving fascinating grace and awful gran- deur to the plainest and mostunpoetic language, provided it is not so coarse or absurd as to force ludicrous images upon the mind, which must ever counteract all its elevating effects. It is, therefore, improper, when we speak upon music as a science, which obtained in Handel the ne plus ultra of its excellence, when we seek to do ho- nour to him, and its other great, though to him subordinate masters, at once the rivals and the friends of our poets ; it is, I say, improper to confound the two arts by beginning with examples so far back as that period, in which it is impossible to separate them. Handel is as absolute a monarch of the human passions as Shakspeare, and his every way various excellencies bear the same comparison to the pretty, sweet, lazy, unvaried compositions of the It«- 700 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, dan school, breathing no other passions than love and jealousy, as the plays of Shakspeare bear to those of Racine, Ot- way, Dryden, Rowe, Voltaire, and our modern tragedies on the French model. Poetry itself, though so much the elder science, for music has been a science only since the harmonic combinations were discovered, possesses not a more inherent empire over the passions than music, of which Handel is the mighty master ; than whom " Nothing went before so great, And nothing greater can succeed." Wlien I speak of that empire, it must be remembered, that a certain mal-con- formation of the auricular membrane as inevitably frustrates this effect, upon even the most susceptible heart and clearest intellect, as mediocrity of ta- lents, and dulness of perception, frus- trate the effects of poetry. Where the ear does not readily distinguish and re- cognise melodies, no sensibility of heart, no strength of imagination, will disclose the magic of the harmonic world. Mil- ton knew music scientifically, and felt all its powers. To Sam Johnson, the sweetest airs and most superb harmonies were but unmeaning noise. I often regret that Milton and Handel were not contemporaries ; that the former knew not the delight of hearing his own poetry heightened as Handel has heightened it. To produce the united effects resulting from the combination of perfect poetry with perfect music, it was necessary that Milton's strains should be set by Handel, and sung by Saville. Of all our public singers, while many are masterly, many elegant, many asto- nishing, he only is sublime: a supe- riority given by his enthusiastic percep- tion of poetic, as well as of harmonic beauty. I should observe, that the rev. Mr. Benjamin Mence, once of St. Paul's and the King's Chapel, was equally great in his expression of solemn music ; but from the harmonic world that sun has long withdrawn its beams. From Mr. Mence Mr. Saville first caught his ener- gies, or rather, by his example, obtained courage to express them. Mr. Harrison has great correctness and delicacy, and some pathos ; but he has no energy, and, without energy, Handel can have no justice from his performer. Colonel Barry lately appeared amongst us, but instantly fleeted away. I was delighted to perceive that he had ex- changed the languor of indisposition for the sprightliness of health. Adieu ! LETTER CIIL Anna Seward to Thomas Christie, Esq. July 1, 1790. Yes, my kind friend. Heaven has at length deprived me of that dear parent to whom I was ever most tenderly attached, and whose infirmities, exciting my hourly pity, increased the pangs of final sepa- ration. It was in vain that my rea- son reproached the selfishness of my sorrow. I cannot receive, as my due, the praise you so lavish upon my filial attentions. Too passionate was my affection to have had any merit in devoting myself to its duties. All was irresistible impulse. I made no sacrifices, for pleasure lost its nature and its name, when I was absent from him. I studied his ease and com- fort, because I delighted to see him cheerful ; and, when every energy of spirit was sunk in languor, to see him tranquil. It was my assiduous endea^ vour to guard him from every pain and every danger, because his sufferings gave me misery, and the thoughts of losing him anguish. And thus did strong affection leave nothing to be performed by the sense of duty. I hope it would have produced the same attentions on my part ; but I am not entitled to say that it would, or to accept of commendation for ten- derness so involuntary. It gives me pleasure that your pro- spects are so bright. A liberal and ex- tended commerce may be as favourable to the expansion of superior abilities as any other profession ; and it is certainly a much more cheerful employment than that of medicine. The humane phy- sician must have his quiet perpetually invaded by the sorrows of those who look anxiously up to him for relief, which no Imman art can, perhaps, ad- minister. I have uniformly beheld, with rever- ence and delight, the efforts of France to throw off the iron yoke of her slavery ; not the less oppressive for having been bound with ribbands and lilies. Ill be- Sect. IV,. RECENT. 701 tide the degenerate Eng-lisli heart, that does not wish her prosperity. You ask rae after Mrs. Cowley. I have not the pleasure of her acquaint- ance, but am familiar wdth her inge- nious writings. This age has produced few better comedies than hers. You are very good to wish to see me in London : but I have no near view of going thither. You will be sorry to hear that I have lost my health, and am oppressed with symptoms of an here- ditary and dangerous disease. Lichfield has been my home since I was seven years old — this house since I was thirteen ; for I am still in the pa- lace, and do not think of moving at present. It is certainly much too large for my wants, and for my income ; yet is my attachment so strong to the scene, that I am tempted to try, if I recover, what strict economy, in other respects, will do towards enabling me to remain in a mansion, endeared to me as the tablet on which the pleasures of my youth are impressed, and the image of those that are everlastingly absent. Adieu. Yours. LETTER CIV. Anna Seward to Lady Gresley. Langford Cottage, July 30, 1791. Dear and revered lady Gresley expressed a wish of hearing from me. I pay glad obedience to a request so flattering. Probably Mr. White will have told your ladyship how quiet we found the lately turbulent Birmingham, though the country round bore mournful traces of desolating fury. I led him over the lawn to Mosely, where my dear friend, lady Carhampton, had set up her rest, after a life -of filial persecutions. We viewed, with aching heart, the scorched and ruined remains of that spacious and elegant mansion, so late the abode of hospitality and cheerfulness, friendship, piety, charity, and peace. Alas ! the flames had resounded in those pleasant apartments, and reduced them to a cluster of falling walls. With a face of woe her gardener approached the chaise, and, in half-choked utterance, narrated the afflicting particulars : his lady driven from her house by a determined mob, who expressed a desire of not injuring* her or hers, and even helping to load the waggons she had procured to convey away her goods from a mansion they devoted to destruction because her land- lord was a presbyterian. Dreadful bi- gotry I by which we see kindled afresh those flames of intolerant hatred for difference in religious opinions, which have been so full of mischief through former ages. Lady Carhampton took refuge in a cottage at the gate of the lawn, till sir Robert Lawley's coach arrived to convey her from the dire spectacle of persecuting flames, bursting through every window of her beloved habitation. " The thick drop serene," which had long quenched her sight, perhaps, in that moment, she thought a friendly curtain drawn between her and an object so cruel; but Mrs. Nutterville, the companion of all her exiles, and to whom Mosely was not less dear as a home, beheld that direful resplendence. Mr. White has perhaps informed you, that the mob threatened, wdth a similar fate, the splendid residence of lord Beau- champ, because he voted for the repeal of the test act. Had not the military iirrived in time, it had probably fallen. Mr. Fitzthomas's rural parsonage, at the foot of the hill on which stands the princely palace of Ragley, is prettily embosomed in circling glades and shrub- beries, whose confines are laved by the silent Arrow, of picturesque course, and with banks very beautifully sylvan. Mr. F.'s passion for umbrageous retire- ment, has made him indulge the growth of his plantations beyond the bounds of comfort; so that, penetrating the recesses of his bowers, we are perpe- tually exposed to the fate of Absalom. But this is only in the interior scene. A pretty little lawn, half-mooned by the house and shrubberies, admits the near hill, so magnificently villaed. Nothing was ever richer in w^oodland scenery than the surrounding country, or more friendly than our welcome to the rural parsonage. I delivered your ladyship's obliging compliments to its owner, who respectfully returns them. His taste and abilities are too decided not to give inevitable value to the con- sciousness of being cordially remembered by lady G. We passed Thursday morning in ex- amining the varied splendours of the 702 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. prouder domain ; but in such precincts, my admiration, however high-strung, has nothing interesting about it. Mr. W. setting out earlier on Friday morn, arrived at Tewksbury an hour before me. Perceiving him lean out of the inn window, w^atching my ap- proach, I cried out to him from the chaise, in the words of Prince Henry's ghost, "False, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence, That slew me in the field at Tewksbury!" Probably to the no small amusement of a few street passengers. These enthusiasms have been a source of unmixed delight to me : they have been always felt on approaching scenes dignified by any great event in the years long vanished, or that have been the abode of genius, or the subject of its songs. Many a vexation have they banished, many a gloom have they illu- minated. H. White has all this local glow of spirit, and it rendered him a thrice plea- sant companion on my journey. Con- sidering how we bustled about in this same town, peeping at the monuments, and all other vestiges of that battle, in which the red roses were blighted, torn up, and deluged in blood — considering, that we walked through the cathedral at Gloucester during choir-service in the afternoon, exulting in the superiority of our own, both as to architectural beau- ty and choral powers — we did great things by my reaching Bristol that night, and Mr. Whalley's early the next morning. At ten o'clock Mr. Whalley arrived in his chaise, to conduct me to his Eden, among the Mendip mountains. Singu- larly, and beyond my high-raised ex- pectations, beautiful I did indeed find it ; situated, built, furnished, and adorn- ed in the very spirit of poetic enthusiasm and polished simplicity. It is about twelve years since Mr. Whalley began to cover, with a profusion of trees and shrubs, one of these vast hills, then barren like its brethren. The planta- tions seem already to have attained their full size, strength, and exuberance of foliage. By the addition of another horse, to help the chaise-horses, we ascended the sylvan steep. At about two -thirds of its height, on a narrow terrace, stands the dear white cottage, whose polished graces seem smilingly to deride its name, though breathing nothing hetero- geneous to cottage simplicity. The first floor consists of a small hall, with a butler's pantry to the right, and good kitchen to the left ; housekeeper's room beyond that ; scullery behind the kit- chen ; the offices at a little distance,, detached from the house, many step& below this bank, and screened from sight by trees. The second floor con- tains, in front, to the north-west, three lightsome, lovely, though not large, apartments, whose spacious sashes are of the Gothic form. These are the din- ing room, drawing room, and elegant boudoir beyond, all opening through each other. My apartment, from which I now write, is behind the boudoir ; its window, at the end of the house, looking to the east, and upon a steep lawn, sprinkled over with larches, poplars, and woodbines, excluded by a circular plant- ation from all prospect of that mag- nificent vale, upon which the front rooms look down, in instant and almost perpendicular descent. A gravel walk winds up this secluded lawn to the mountain top. Mr. and Mrs. Whalley, and their other guests, sleep in the attics. The wide-extended vale beneath us has every possible scenic beauty, excepting only the meanders of a river. Scarce two hundred yards from the villa, on the left hand, a bare brown mountain inter- sects this its woody neighbour, and towers equal heights. The protection it extends from the north-west winds has been every thing to Mr. Whalley, as to the growth and health of his planta- tions. Sloping its giant's foot to the valley, it finely contrasts, with barren sterility, the rich cultivation of the scenery below, and the lavish umbrage that curtains these steeps. With the sort of sensation that a beau- teous country girl, in the first glow of youth and health, surveys an antiquated dowager of rank and riches, seems this little villa to look down on the large stone mansion of Langford Court, the property of Mr. and Mrs. Whalley, and their former residence. It stands in the valley, about half a mile from us, en- circled by its fine lawn of two hundred acres, planted and adorned with great taste. Yet more immediately below us nestles, in a wood, the village of Lang- Sect. I\^ RECENT. 703 ford. The smoke of its farms and cot- tages, curling amongst the trees at early morn, imparts the glow of vitality and cheerfulness to our romantic retirement. I climb, by seven o'clock in a morning, the highest terrace, and " drink the spirit of the mountain gale," which seems to invigorate my whole frame, and give my lungs the freest respiration. Never before did I breathe, for any con- tinuance, an atmosphere so sublimated. The extensive vale finely breaks into inequalities by knolls and dingles. The beautifid fields wearing, from the late rains, the brightest verdure, have waved outlines of plenteous hedge-moss, and appear, by their depth from the eye, shining and smooth as the lawns of our nobility. They are interspersed with thick and dark, though not large, woods. The whole wide expanse is dotted over by white rough-cast cottages, and here and there a village-spire and quiral cha- teau. Fifteen mUes in width, and about seven distant from this elevation, the Bristol channel lies, a sheet of silver, stretched longitudinally over the vale. Beyond, we plainly discern the Welch coast, whose mountains bound the ho- rizon. Mr. Whalley's walks and bowers are finely diversified ; " Shade above shade, a woody theatre." The several terraces ascending over €ach other are connected by steep wind- ing paths for the active, and by grassy steps for the feeble. These terraces are so variously planted and disposed as to avoid all that sameness to which, from their situation, they were liable; now secluded and gloomy ; now admitting the rich world below to burst upon the eye. Hermitages and caves, cut in the rocky steeps, contain rustic seats, dedi- cated to favourite friends, by poetic in- scriptions — one to Mrs. Siddons ; an- other to miss Hannah More ; another to the accomplished Mrs. Jackson of Bath ; one to Mr. Whalley's venerable mother ; another to Mr. Inman, the excellent clergyman of this parish ; one to Sophia Weston ; and one to myself. These grottos relieve us perpetually by their seats amidst ascents so nearly perpen- dicular. On the summit of this pendant gar- den we find a concave lawn, with a large root-house in the centre of that eemi- circular bank, whose thick curtains of firs, larches, poplars, &c. form a darkly verdant fringe, that, rising above the root-house, crowns the mountain-top. This rustic pavilion, supported by pillars made of the boles of old trees, and twined round by woodbines and sweet-peas, is open in front, and commands the Avhole splendour of the vale below. It con- tains a large table, on which we lay our work, our writing, or our book, which we carry thither in a morning, whenever the weather will permit. Hitherto the skies have not shone upon us with much summer warmth and brightness. I had the pleasure to find dear Mrs. Whalley tolerably well, though feeling, at frequent intervals, severe memorials of her dreadful accident. She, Mr.W., and myself, talk of your ladyship and miss Gresleys frequently, and always witli the most lively interest. Mr. Whalley's mother is here, a mi- racle at eighty-five, of clear intellects, upright activity, and graceful manners : also miss Davy, a fine young woman, related to Mrs. Whalley ; but charming Sophia is not here ; the scanty number of these pretty bed-chambers forbids the accommodation of more than two or three friends at the utmost. I have some hopes of seeing her at Bath on Wednesday, whither we have been in- vited by Mrs. Jackson, in a letter of never-excelled spirit, elegance, and kind- ness. She daily expects miss Weston's arrival. My curiosity is on fire to view the drawing-room of Europe, as your lady- ship calls it, and to admire, with my actual sight, those graces which you have so often placed before my mind's eye by very animated description. Late miss Caroline Ansley, married to a Mr. Bosanquet, inhabits the Hall House, Langford Court, and makes Mrs. Whalley a social and pleasant neighbour. Her manners are obliging and inge- nuous. She inquired much after lady and miss Gresleys, whom she said she had the pleasure of knowing very well ; and yesterday the celebrated miss Han- nah More favoured me with a visit, I like her infinitely. Her conversation has all the strength and brilliance which her charming Avritings teach us to ex- pect. Though it was our first inter- view, and no previous connection, cor- 704 E L E G A N T E P 1 S 1^ L E S. Boofi IV, respondence, or even message, had passed between us, she met me with an extended hand, and all the kindness of old ac- quaintance. 1 have wearied my fingers by the length of this letter, and fear a similar fate for your ladyship's attention. Adieu ! dearest madam ! Have the goodness to present my affectionate compliments in your domestic circle, and to believe me, with the highest esteem and attachment, your faithful, obliged, and obedient servant. LETTER CV. Anna Seivard to Mrs. Stokes. Licbfid', July 31, 1796. i HAVE not seen Wakefield's observations on Pope. They may, as you tell me they are, be very ingenious ; but as to pla- giarism. Pope would lose little in my esteem from whatever of that may be proved against him ; since it is allowed, that he always rises above his clumsy models, in their tinsel drapery. Poetry, being the natural product of a highly-gifted mind, however uncul- tivated, must exist, in a rude form at least, from the instant that the social compact gives to a man a superplus of time from that which is employed in pro- viding for his natural wants, together with liberation from that anxiety about obtaining such provision, which is ge- nerally incompatible with those ab- stracted ideas from which poetry results. As this leisure, and freedom to thought, arises with the progress of subordina- tion and inequality of rank, men be- come poets, and this long before their language attains its copiousness and ele- gance. The writers of such periods, there- fore, present poetic ideas in coarse and shapeless ingenuity. In the unskilled attempt to refine them, they become, in the next stage of the progress, an odd mixture of quaintness and simplicity ; but it is reserved for genius, learning, and judgment in combination, supported by the ample resources of a various, mature, and complete language, to ele- vate, polish, and give the last perfection to the rudiments of poetry, first so coarse and abortive, afterwards so quaint, and so shredded out into wearisome re- dundance. That woik of ever -new poetic in- formation and instruction, T. Warton's Critical Notes to Milton's Lesser Poems, will shew you how very largely Milton took, not only from the classics, but from his verse-predecessors in our own language ; from Burton's writings, in- terlarded with verse ; from Drayton ; from Spenser ; from Shakspeare ; from the two Fletchers, and from Drummond. The entire plan, and almost ail the out- lines of the sweet pictures in L'Aliegro, II Penseroso, are in Burton's Anatomic of Melancholy, or a Dialogue between Pleasure and Pain, in verse, with a passage of his in prose ; and these were taken and combined in Milton's imagination, with the fine hints in a song in Beaumont and Fletcher's play. The Nice Valour, or Passionate Mad- man. In Comus, Milton was much indebted to Fletcher's beautiful pastoral play. The Faithful Shepherdess ; but Milton and Pope, though v/ith excellence differ- ent both in nature and degree, were arch-chymists, and turned the lead and tinsel of others to the purest and finest gold. Dr. Stokes is mistaken in supposing Milton my first poetic favourite — ^ great as I deem him, the superior of Virgil, and the equal of Komer, my heart and imagination acknowledge yet greater the matchless bard of Avon. I thank you for the discriminating observations in your letter of April the 24th, upon my late publication. Mil- ton says, that from Adam's lip, not words alone pleased Eve ; so may I say, that from your pen praise alone would not satisfy my avidity of pleasing you. The why and wherefore you are pleased, which is always so ingenious when you write of verse, form the zest, which makes encomium nectar. Mr. Hayley's letter to me on the sub- ject is very gratifying : it joins, to a ge- nerous ardency of praise, the elegance, spirit, and afl^'ection of his former epis- tles. Ah ! yes, it is very certain, that not only some, but all our finest poets, frequently invert the position of the verb, and prove that the Bri- tish Critic, who says it is not the ha- bit of good writers, is a stranger to ISkct. IV. R E C E N T. 705 their compositions. When Thomson says, *' Vanish the woods, the dim seen river seems Sullen and slow to roll his misty train," it is picture ; which it would not have been, if he had coldly written, " The woods are vanish'dj" since, in the former, by the precedence of the verb to the noun, we see the fog- in the very act of shrouding the woods ; but to these constituent excellencies of poetry the eye of a reviewer is the mole's dim curtain. Again, in the same poem. Autumn, this inversion is beautifully used, while its author is paying, in a simile, the finest compliment imaginable to the talents and excursive spirit of his countrymen : — *■* As from their own clear north, in radiant streams, Bright over Europe bursts the Boreal morn." And what spirit does Pope often give his lines, by using this inversion in the Imperative mood: — ** Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, vise!" Then, as to the imputed affectation of the word Lyceum, Thomson calls the woods " Nature's vast Lyceum." For his purpose it was necessary to elevate the term by its epithet, for mine to lower it by that which I applied — minute Lyceum ; and in neither place is its ap- plication affected. I am allowed to be patient of criticism, and trust no one is readier to feel its force, and, when just, to acknowledge and to profit by it ; but to a censor, who does not know the meaning of the word thrill, 1 may, with- out vanity, exclaim, "Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests !" Have you seen Mrs. Inchbald's late work. Nature and Art. She is a favourite novelist with me. Her late work has improbable situations, and is inferior to her Simple Story, which ought to have been the title of this composition, to which it is better suited than to the his- tory of Dorriforth : yet we find in Art and Nature the characteristic force of her pen, which, with an air of un design- ing simplicity, places in a strong point of view the worthlessness of such cha- racters as pass with the world for re- spectable. She seems to remove, as by accident, their specious veil, and with- out commenting upon its removal : and certain strokes of blended pathos and horror, indelibly impress the recollec- tion. But, with yet greater powers than Mrs. Inchbald's, does the author of Caleb Williams grapple our attention. I con- ceive that he said to himself, " I v/ill write a book, that shall have no proto- type, yet the taste of the age for the marvellous shall be humoured. Female pens have given us ruined castles, tolling befls, lights that palely gleaming make darkness visible, whispering voices from viewless forms and beckoning shadows : that ground is preoccupied. Let me try if I cannot harrow readers, who have mind, with dread and breathless expect- ation, without exciting supernatural ideas, and even without the assistance of enamoured interests." If such was his design, the success is complete. Yet has his work many defects ; and we perceive his pernicious principles to be those of an absurd and visionary anarchist, who would open all the prison doors, and let thieves and murderers walk at large, in the hope of philosophizing them into virtue. I learn with regret, that Mr. Mason is going to print a new work of his by a private press, for his friends only. This resolve, doubtless, resulted from disgust to the idea of seeing his compositions si>bject to the ignorance and effrontery of Revievz-impertinence, which assumes the right of supposing, that its fabri- cators understand verse-making better than the first poets of our age — even than he, "Whom on old Humber's bank the Muses bore. And nurs'd his youth along the marshy shore." LETTER CVI. Anna Seward to Thomas Parky Esq. Lichfield, Sept. 95, 1800. I HAVE an immense deal to say to you, and therefore will not waste my time in apologies for the length of my involun- tary silence. Mrs. Park's complaints are unrjues- tionably nervous. Proteus-like, they as- sume, in turn, the form of various dis- eases ; yet, with all their teasing versa- 2 Z 706 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV, tility, and harassing obstinacy, they are not esteemed dangerous. To have seen you both beneath my roof this tropical summer, and in tole- rable health and spirits, would have given me lively pleasure. From the different aspect of my apartments, and the luxu- riant umbrage of my lawns and terrace, the over-fervid sun could not have smote us with his beams. I shall be glad to learn, that no accumulation of malady resulted to either of you from the long duration of the skiey ardours. It is nine years since I passed the three summer months at home. Imperious malady has always expelled me my little Eden, and driven me to the coast in the month of July. I felt very cross and Eveish to leave my scene in the season of light and bloom ; and thus compelled, as I was, to seek the Buxton fountain early in the spring, I ventured to omit my coast-expedition this year. The decided pre-eminence you chal- lenge for Cowper, over all his contem- porary bards, stimulates me considerably. Highly as I deem of his genius, I by no means think it unequalled in his day. The superior popularity of the Task, over any verse-composition of its period, must be acknowledged ; but it is accountable from other causes than poetic pre-emi- nence, viz. its possessing sufficient merit to render it very dear to far the greater part of the discerning few, while it is intelligible and interesting to the un- discerning many. That is not so with some of our noblest poetry, which must be confessed very superior to the Task- as Paradise Lost, Comus, Lycidas, and Gray's two matchless odes, and his De- scent of Odin. Yet not any of those compositions, had they been coeval with the Task, would have had the least chance with it, as to attaining speedy popularity. Therefore is it, that speedy popularity, however genuine and independent of re- view, magazine, and newspaper puffing, is no test of pre-eminence ; though, when thus genuine, it remains a proof of considerable merit. The superior works I have mentioned are all of much too coy grace, and abstracted sublimity, to be really felt and sincerely admired by the common reader, who may yet be truly susceptible of the beauties of such a poem as the Task. Those readers will, however, be clamorous in applauding works, though above the reach of their conceptions, which have, by the slowly accumulating suffrages of the enlighten- ed few, obtained high and established re- putation. Then Cowper's Task, with no incon- siderable portion of true genius and esti- mable sentiments, is not only level with their capacities, but gratifies the two most general and nurtured feelings of the human mind ; its enthusiasm con- cerning the Deity, and its malice to its fellovz-creatures. The sombre piety of that poem gratifies the first, and its se- vere moral satire, and, on some occa- sions, most ungenerous and unjust sa- tire, pampers the second ; while the winter's walk, the winter evening, the post-boy, the newspaper, the tea-table — all sweetly touched and described, will delight thousands, who would feel no thrill of impressive feeling in the au- gustly horrible Pandemonium of Milton, who would be ennuied in his Eden, and puzzled and bewildered in the wild- wood of his enchanter, and by the wizard streams of his Deva. Let it be remembered, that Cowper's compositions mrhyme, whatever strength of thought may be found in them, have no poetic witchery, either of imagery, landscape, or numbers ; that Crowe's Lewesdon Hill, though its subject is less amusingly desultory than that of the Task, may yet, as a work of genius, chal- lenge the finest parts of Cowper's poem. Let it be remembered how variously and how beautifully Hayley has written ; though I confess his genius seems rapidly to have declined from its meridian, since that noble poem, the Essay on Epic Poetry, appeared. Of this decline I am afraid you will think, and that it will be generally thought, his late work. Epis- tles on Sculpture, is another proof; though it has many beauties, and though much learned information on the subject is contained in the notes. He was so good to send it me. You will there see, or have already seen, how passionately he deplores his lost protege ; and that he there gives him his own name, confirm- ing the public surmise that he was his son ; but, if it really was so, he either chose to deceive me on the subject, or I strangely misunderstood him, when I was his guest at Eartham, in the summer 1782, when this youth was an infant, not two years old, and whose real father I understood to be the gallant young Sect. IV. RECENT. 707 Howel, a former adoption of Mr. Hay- ley's, who was lost on his return from the West Indies. But to resume our subject. Recollect the flood of picturesque imagination, which, in richly harmonious verse, Dar- win has poured over the discoveries and systems of philosophic science ; how ori- ginal, how true to nature, and how vivid Ms pictures of the animal and vegetable world ! How appropriate, how varied, how exquisite his landscapes ! What en- tertaining and poetic use he has made of the most remarkable occurrences of the late century ! I deeply feel, that of the first poetic excellence, invention, there is an immensely transcending portion in Darwin's Botanic Garden to what can be found in the Task. Cowper is the poetic son of Dr. Young. More equal, more consistent, more ju- dicious, far less uniformly sombre than his parent, but also much less fre- quently sublime. Darwin has no parent amongst the English poets ; he sprung, in his declining years, with all the strength and fancy of juvenile life, fi'om the temples of an immortal Muse, like Pallas from the head of Jove. Nor should it be forgotten, that Cole- ridge's Ode to the Departing Year is sub- limer throughout than any part of Cow- per 's Task ; that the stripling, Southey, has written an epic poem, full of strength as to idea, and grandeur as to imagery ; that both those writers, in their rhyme- productions, far outshine Cowper's pro- saic couplets. When these claims are made, without mentioning the various and charming Mason, since his poetic sun was setting when Cowper's rose — when they are poised in the scale, surely you will re- sign your colossal claim for the muse of Cowper, destined as she is to immortal remembrance. That destiny I asserted for her to Dr. Darwin and sir Brooke Boothby, ten years ago, when I heard them decide, that the Task was too pro- saic to survive its century, and that they could not read it through. And now, what shall I say to you on the subject of miss Bannerman's volume ? Long as my letter already is, I feel that I have much to add on the subject, to justify my utter dissent from you on that theme. Dr. A.'s lavish praise of powers, which appear to me of such strutting feebleness, surprises me much less than yours, since he pronounced the prosaic and long defunct Leonidas a fine epic poem. In the first place, you style miss B. pre-eminent as a Scotish poetess. Ah ! have you forgotten Helen Williams and her Peru, published when she was under twenty ? I confess an epic poem was too arduous an attempt for years so blossom- ing, an unclassic education, and inexpe- rience in criticism. Peru, consequently, wants strength, and a sufiicient portion of characteristic variety, and its meta- phors and epithets are sometimes incon- gruous ; but the numbers are richly har- monious, the landscapes vivid, and the fancy wildly and luxuriantly elegant. Have you forgotten, also, that miss Baillie, just emerged as the acknowledged author of the Plays on the Passions, is a Scotish woman ; and, in my estimation, if indeed they are hers, as nobody now seems to doubt, a very great poet. What- ever may be the faults of her two trage- dies, poetic strength and beauty are to be found in them, which place her in the first rank of those, who, in this period, have struck the Delphic lyre. No plays, except Jephson's, approach Shakspeare's so nearly. Surely that o])scurity, which Burke pronounces a source of the sublime, is totally different in its nature to the strained and abortive conceptions of miss Bannerman's pen ! The obscurity he means is where sentiment is rather liinted than expressed ; and, to an in- telligent mind, conveys a diiierent meaning to that whicli the words simply bear. Certainly an author is not obliged to find his reader brains ; but that obscu- rity, which puzzles a reader, who has poetic sensibility and taste, to guess what the author means, is a great inexpiable fault ; and, if it occurs frequentl}^ is as sure a proof of weakness in the powers of composition, as the former species is of strength. There are other things, as you well know, which may render poetry obscure to the prosers, without fault in the com- poser ; as inversions, using epithets as verbs active, or as noun substantives, together with the bold and graceful omis- sion of the conjunctives. But the palpable obscure, in which miss B.'s ideas are perpetually struggling, is not the result of the poetic licenses, any 2 Z 2 70B E L E G A N 1 E fM S T L E S. IJOOK IV. more than of that mode of expression, which purposely leaves something to be supplied by the imagination of the reader. Unquestionably she has a good ear for the construction of numbers ; her lines flow tunefully. Flowing numbers are, however, but the drapery of poetry, va- luable when they clothe clear and vigor- ous thoughts and striking imagery ; but worth little v» hen they enrobe such blown and empty conceptions as I find on the pages of miss B. You speak of the wildness of her fancy, — ^it seems to me elaborate, yet incom- prehensible ; inflated, yet trite; and, if 1 know what invention is, that prime es- sential in poetry, she has absolutely none. Therefore is it, that no time, no instruc- tion, no experience, will make her a poet, though her command of numbers tolera- bly qualifies her for a translator ; not of that class, however, which rise upon their originals. I will take an early opportunity of shewing you the ground of these my convictions. Meantime. &c. LETTER CVII. Anna Seivard to Walter Scott, Esq. Liciiiield, April '29, 1802. Accept my warmest thanks for the so far overpaying bounty of your literary present*. In speaking of its contents I shall demonstrate, that my sincerity may- be trusted, whatever cause I may give you to distrust my judgment. In saying that you dare not hope your works will entertain me, you evince the existence of a deep preconceived distrust of the latter faculty in my mind. That distrust is not, I flatter myself, entirely founded, at least if 1 may so gather from the de- light with which I peruse all that is yours, whether prose or verse, in these volumes. Your dissertations place us in Scot- land, in the midst of the feudal period. They throw the strongest light on a part of history indistinctly sketched, and partially mentioned by the English his- torians, and which, till now, has not been sufficiently elucidated, and rescued by those of your country from tlie imputed * Minstrelsy of the Scotish Border, consist- ing: of historical and romantic ballads, eol- iectrd by Walter Scott, esq. — S. guilt of unprovoked depredation on the part of the Scots. The old border ballads of your first volume are so far interesting as they cor- roborate your historic essays ; so far va- luable as that they form the basis of them. Poetically considered, little surely is their worth ; and 1 must think it more to the credit of Mrs. Brown's memory than of her taste, that ^she J could take pains to commit to remembrance, and to retain there, such a quantity of uncouth rhymes, almost totally destitute of all which gives metre a right to the name of poetry. Poetry is like personal beauty ; the homeliest and roughest language cannot conceal the first, any more than coarse and mean apparel the second. But gro- velling colloquial phrase, in numbers in- harmonious ; verse that gives no picture to the reader's eye, no light to his un- derstanding, no magnet to his affections, is, as composition, no more deserving his praise, than coarse forms and features in a beggar's raiment are worth his at- tention. Yet are there critics who seem to mistake the squalid dress of language for poetic excellence, provided the verse and its mean garb be ancient. Of that number seems Mr. Pinkerton, in some of his notes to those old Scotish ballads which he published in 1781 ; and the late Mr. Headly more than so seems in that collection of ancient English ballads, which he soon after gave to the press. We find there an idiot preference of the rude, and, in itself, valueless, foundation, on which Prior raised one of the loveliest poetic edifices in our lan- guage, the Henry and Emma. With equal insolence and stupidity, Mr. Headly terms it " Matt's versification Piece," extolling the imputed superiority of the worthless model. It is preferring a barber's block to the head of Anti- nous. Mr. Pinkerton, in his note to the el- dest Flowers of the Forest, calls it, very justly, an exquisite poetic dirge ; but, unfortunately for his decisions in praise of ancient above modern Scotish verse, he adds, *' The inimitable beauty of the original induced a variety of versifiers to mingle stanzas of their own composition ; but it is the painful, though necessary duty of an editor, by the touchstone of truth, to discriminate such dross from the gold of antiquity ;" and, in the not« to Sect. IV. R E C E N T. 709 that pathetic and truly beautiful elegy, Jjady BothwelFs Lament, he says the four stanzas he has given appear to be all that are genuine. It has since, as you ob- serve, been proved, that both the Fiod- den Dirges, even as he has given them, are modern. Their beauty was a touch- stone, as he expresses it, which might have shewn their younger birth to any critic, whose taste had not received the broad impression of that torpedo, anti- quarianism. You, with all your strength, origina- lity, and richness of imagination, had a slight touch of that torpedo, when you observed, that the manner of the ancient minstrels is so happily imitated in the first Flowers of the Forest, that it required the strongest positive evidence to con- vince you that the song was of modern date. The phraseology, indeed, is of their texture ; biit^ comparing it with the border ballads in your first volume, I should have pronounced it modern, from its so much more touching regrets, so much more lively pictures. Permit me too to confess, that I can discover very little of ail which consti- tutes poetry in the first old tale, which you call beautiful, excepting the second stanza, v/hich gives the unicorns at the gate, and the portraits, " with holly aboon their brie." To give them, no great reach of fancy was requisite ; but still they are picture, and, as such, poetry. Lord Maxwell's Good Night is but a sort of inventory in rhyme of his pro- perty, interspersed with some portion of tenderness for his wife, and some expres- sions of regard for his friends ; but the first has no picture, and the latter little pathos . That ballad induced me, by what appeared its deficiencies, to attempt a somewhat more poetic leave-taking of house, land, and live-stock. My ballad does not attempt the pathetic, and you will smile at my glossary Scotch. Mr. Erskine's supplemental stanzas to the poem, asserted to have b'een written by Collins on the Highland superstitions, have great merit, and no inferiority to those whose manner they assume. In the border ballads, the first strong rays from the Delphic orb illuminate Jellom Grame, in the 4th, 16th, 17th, 18th, and 20th stanzas. There is a good corpse-picture in Clerk Saunders, the rude original, as you observe, of a ballad in Percy, whicli I have thought furnished Burger with the hint for his Leonore. How little delicate touches have improved this verse in Percy's imitation ! " O ! if I come within thy bower I am no mortal man ! And if I kiss thy rosy lip Thy days will not be loiig=^-." And now, in these border ballads, the dawn of poesy, which broke over Jellom Grame, strengthens on its pro- gress. Lord Thomas and fair Annie has more beauty than Percy's ballad of that title. It seems injudiciously al- tered from this in your collection ; but the Binnorie, of endless repetition, has nothing truly patheti* ; and the ludicrous use made of the drowned sister's body, by the harper making a harp of it, to which he sung her dirge in lier father's hail, is contemptible. Your dissertation precediijgTam Lane, in the second voiume, is a little mine of mythologic information and ingenious conjecture, however melancholy the proofs it gives of dark and cruel super- stition. Always partial to the fairies, I am charmed to learn tiiat Shakspeare civilised the elfins, and, so doing, endear- ed their memory on English ground. It is curious to find the Grecian Orpheus metamorphosed into a king of Winchel- sea. The Terrible Graces look through a couple of stanzas in the first part of Thomas the Rhymer, " O they rade on," &c. also, " It was mirk, mirk, night;" and potent are the poetic charms of the second part of this ora- cular ballad, which you confess to have been modernized; yet more potent in the third. Both of them exhibit tender touches of sentiment, vivid pictures, landscapes from nature, not from books, and all of them \Aorthy the author of Glenfinlas. " O tell me how to woo thee" is a pretty ballad of those times, in which it was the fashion for lovers to worship their mistresses, and when ballads, as you beau- tifully observe, reflected the setting rays of chivalry. Mr. Leyden's Cout Keelder pleases me much. The first is a sublime stanza, and sweet are the landscape- touches in the 3d, 10th, and 11th, and striking the winter simile in the 9th. * This stanza has no rhymes, but we do not miss them, so harmouious is the metre. — S. 710 ELEGANT E P 1 S T 1. E S. Book IV The picture of the fern is new in poetry, and to the aye, thus, " The next blast that young Keelder blew. The wind grew deadly still : Yet the sleek fern, with fingery leaves, Wav'd wildly o'er the hill." The " wee demon" is admirably ima- gined. And now the poetic day, which had gTadually risen into beauty and streiigth throug-h this second volume, sets nobly amidst the sombre yet often-iiluminated grandeur of Glenfinlas. Permit me to add one observation to this ah'eady long' epistle. The battle of Flodden-field, so disastrous to Scotland, has been, by two poetic females, beauti- fully mourned ; but your boasted James the Fourth deserved his fate, from the nn- g'enerous advantag-e he sought to take of Henry the Eighth, by breaking the peace, without provocation, when that monarch was engaged in a war with France. So deserve all the rulers of nations, who, imstimulated by recent injuries, thus un- clasp " the purple testament of bleeding- war." Perhaps this voluminous intrusion on your time will be thought merciless ; but it seemed to me that barren thanks, and indiscriminate praise, was an unworthy acknowledgment of the honour confer- red upon me by the gift of these highly curious and ingenious books. A bright luminary in this neighbour- hood recently shot from its sphere, with av.'ful and deplored suddenness — Dr. Darwin, on whose philosophical talents and dissertations, so ingeniously conjec- tural, the adepts in that science looked with admiring, if not always acquiescent respect ; in whose creative, gay, luxuri- ant, and polished imagination, and har- monious numbers, the votaries of poetry basked delighted ; and on whose discern- ment into the cause of diseases, and skill in curing them, his own and the neigh- bouring counties reposed. He w^as born to confute, by his example, a frequent assertion, that the poetic fancy loses its fine efflorescence after middle life. The Eoianic Garden, one of the most highly imaginative poems in our language, was begun after its author had ])assed his forty-siTvth year. I have the honour to remain, sir. Sec. LETTER CVIIL A'.ma Seivard to Miss Fern, L'.chfield, Feb. 7, 18J6, After a seven weeks' stay with mCy Mrs. Martin and her daughters are pre- paring to quit my roof for Mr. Hinck- ley's, and I trust you will hasten to re- sume your friendly influence over my many wants, and few solitary hours. My health and my heart have need of you. We will often resume lord Orford's letters, and bask in the sunshine of their spirit. Often have I seen strange contrarieties in the human soul ; never any which surprised me more than in that of our sometime Horace Walpole. His delight- ful letters have not only amused me in- finitely, but filled me with contrition for the long injustice which I had done to his heart, instigated by my indignation over his conduct to poor Chatterton, which excited so much general reproba- tion, and which certainly deprived the world of his glorious talents. I am now convinced, that lord Orford was no more answerable for that disas- trous event than is the man, who, by a random and inconsiderate shot, deprives an illustrious stranger of life ; and for the following reason : Lord Orford was an extraordinary instance of the possibi- lity of possessing the most brilliant wit and genuine humour, extensive know- ledge of history and of the belles lettres, witli a certain degree of poetic genius, elegant though not eminent ; all this witliout the least perception of the pa- thetic, or the sublime excellencies, either in prose or verse. This strange limitation of talents so considerable, this scarcely conceivable defect in the organization of his sensibi- lities, this miraculous separation of warmth of heart, of cordial sympathizing friendship, from any sympathy with ima- ginary Eori^ows, however consonant to truth, nature, and real life ! — ah ! what a phjenomenon in character do they pre- sent. At first view, it may seem scarcely less strange when I declare, that these con- tradictions, these defects in the feelings, this abortion in the talents of lord Or- ford, unfolding themselves in his epistles, have taught me to love and delight in the man, whom 1 had so long detested Sect. IV. RECENT. 711 for bis apparently unfeeling conduct to- wards the ill-starred Chatterton ; con- vinced, as I was, that it must have pro- ceeded from cold pride and induration of heart. On inspectiuff the recesses of his bo- som, disclosed in these fascinating let- ters, I find, that I might as justly have condemned a blind man for not distin- guishing colours, as the sometime Ho- race Walpole for not perceiving that the manifest deception, offered to his consi- deration, as poetic relics of antiquity, was replete with the noblest effusions of a creative and sublime genius that ever glowed in the fancy of opening youth ; that, compared with Milton's composi- tions at the same early age, their immense transcendency is apparent, and that Chat- terton stood unparalleled, not only by him, but by any child of sixteen that was ever born for the glory of human intellect ; that, with every cultivation which learnmg could bestow, no rose of the Pierian garden ever equalled this amaranth of the desert. Alas! it was not for the man, whose strangely tempered perceptions could feel none of the varied and matchless excellencies of the Clarissa and Grandi- son : and who could despise the most splendid metaphysic poem in any Ian- gauge (Akenside's Pleasures of Imagina- tion), to discern the grandeur of Chat- terton's muse. Her assumed antiquity was an evident, though most pardonable fraud. Lord Orford was disgusted by the fraud, while, to his narrow ideas of poetic excellence, the result appeared to be modern fustian, in the robe of an- cientiT. As to the admiration frequently ex- pressed in these letters, of Homer and Virgil, Pindar, Shakspeare, and ^Ill- ton, that was the poetic religion of his lordship's classic education. If Homer, Virgil, Pindar, Milton, and the tragic parts of Shakspeare's plays, had been first introduced to him in ripened life, and as recent compositions, I dare be sure they would have appeared heavy, tiresome, and bombastic. But for his early personal affection for Gray, so had he deemed of his inspirations. As it was, cold and scanty is the praise allotted to him in the letters of this celebrated commoner, and at length peer of the realm. lliough Akenside stands not an equal height with those pre-eminent bards, yet is his place of great elevation ; and he, who was not aware that it was ele- vated, was not likely to discern the ra- diance of the new Georgium Sidus in the poetic hemisphere. Then Richardson, whose prose has all the painting, the imagery, the dramatic spirit, and the pathetic powers of the best poetry ; what but pity remains for an ingenious man, who has pronounced the grand works of such a writer vapid and dull ! If I was shewn compositions, which I thought turgid as well as deceptive, and believed them the fabrication of a hack writer, I should advise him, as lord Or- ford did, to renounce the muses and mind his engrossing. Wonder, therefore, at defective taste, rather than condemna- tion for supposed cruelty, is all we have a right to feel on that unhappy theme. Of unwortliy pride, which I had im- puted to lord O. as adjunct to hardness of heart, his letters also acquit him. The solicitous attention and time which he bestowed upon that incorrigihly impru- dent and unstable draughtsman, Bentley, is acquittance positive on that head. So also his indulgent and constant friend- ship for Mrs. Clive, of comic memory, even after he became conscious that she drank, and could be provoked to swear like a trooper. Thus this brilliant mor- tal, whom I thought so haughty and heartless, comes out, as to benevolence, pure gold from this epistolary ordeal ; and I cordially remit to his affections the gross defects of his taste. Thus, during a little gleam of exemp- tive health, I have been induced to throv.' on paper, for your consideration, some of those reflections which my ever busy mind has recently revolved. If I could think less frequently, or more superfi- cially, it would probably be better for my impaired constitution. In youth, the energetic emplojTuent of the intellectual faculties strengthens and improves them, without injuring the bodily ones ; but mental, as well as corporal repose, is the necessary cradle of advanced life. My disorder produces much actual drowsi- ness ; that is in itself disorder. "Wlien I am awake, I cannot persuade my spirit to feed on the opiate themes of common- life occurrences. Adieu ! We shall soon, I trust, converse instead of correspond- 712 ELEGANT EP1§TLES. Book IV. ing, which is a much less pressure upon the fibres of the brain : it is then that we skirmish away with the rising ideas, even on abstract subjects, without in- tense investig-ation. FROM THE LETTERS OF BISHOP WAR BURTON. LETTER CIX. Mr. Warhurton to Mr. Hurd. Bedford-vow, October 28tl), 1749. Dear sir, I DEFERRED making" my acknowledg- ments for the favour of your last oblig- ing letter till I came to town. I am now got hither to spend the month of No- vember : the dreadful month of Novem- ber ! when the little wretches hang and drown themselves, and the great ones sell -themselves to the C and the devil. I should be glad if any occasion would bring you hither, that I might have the pleasure of waiting on you — I don't mean to the C and the de- vil, but in Bedford Row. Not that I would fright you from that earthly Pandemonium, a C , because I never go hither. On the contrary, I wish i could get you into the circle. For (with regard to you) I should be some- thing of the humour of honest Cornelius Agrippa, who, when he left off conjur- ing, and wrote of the vanity of the art, could not forbear to give receipts, and teach young novices the way to raise the devil. One method serves for both, and his political representatives are ren- dered tractable by the very same method, namely, fumigations. But these high mysteries you are unworthy to partake of. Ycu are no true son of Agrippa, who choose to waste your incense in raising the meagre spirit of friendship, when the wisdom of the prince of this world v.ould have inspired you with more proiitable sentimerits. Let me hear, at least, of your health ; and believe lliat no absence can lessen what the expressions of your good \v\\\ have made me, that is to say, xnvy much your servant. I have now put that volume, of Avhicli the epistle to Augustus is part, to the press ; so should be obliged to you to send it by your letter carrier, directed to Mr. Knapton, bookseller, in Ludgate- street. But you must be careful not to pay the carriage, because that will en- danger a miscarriage, as I have often experienced. — I intend to soften the conclusion of the note about Grotius and the archbishop, according to your friendly hint. LEITER CX, Mr. Hurd to Dr. Warhurton, Shifnal, September 13th, 1755v Your truly friendly letter, of the 31st past, brought me all the relief I am capable of in my present situation. Yet that relief had been greater, if the fact had been, as you suppose, that the best of fathers was removing from me, in this maturity of age, by a gradual in- sensible decay of nature ; in which case, I could have drawn to myself much ease from the considerations you so kindly suggest to me. But it is not his being out of all hope of recovery (which I had known long since, and was prepared for), but his being in per- petual pain, that afflicts me so much. I left him, last night, in this disconsolate condition. So near a prospect of death, and so rough a passage to it — I own to you I cannot be a wdtness of this, in one whom nature and ten thousand obliga- tions have made so dear to me, without the utmost uneasiness. Nay, I think the very temper and firmness of mind, with which he bears this calamity, sharpens my sense of it. I thank God, an attach- ment to this world has not as yet been among my greater vices. But were I as fond of it as prosperous and happy men sometimes are, what I have seen and felt for this last month were enough to mortify such foolish affections. And in truth it would amaze one, thatTa few such instances as this, which hardly any man is out of the reach of, [did not strike dead all the passions, were it not that Providence has determined, in spite of ourselves, by means of these instincts, to accomplish its own great purposes. But why do I trouble my best friend with this sad tale and rambling reflec- tions ? I designed onlv to tell him that Sect. IV. RECENT 713 I am quite unhappy here; and that, though it is more than time for me to return to Cambridge, I have no power of coming to a thought of leaving this place. However, a very few weeks, per- haps a few days, may put an end to this irresolution. 1 thank you for your fine observa- tion on the neglect to reform the eccle- siastical laws. It is a very material one, and deserves to be well considered. But of these matters when I return to my books, and my mind is more easy. I wish you all the health and all the happiness your virtues deserve, and this wretched world will admit of. I know of nothing that reconciles me more to it than the sense of having such a fi-iend as you in it. I have the greatest obliga- tions to Mrs. Warburton and the rest of your family for their kind condolence. My best respects and sincerest good wishes attend them. I must ever be, &c. R.HURD. LETTER CXI. From the same to the same. Cambridsfe, Dec. 1, 1755. I HAVE to tell you, that it has pleased God to release my poor father from his great misery. You will guess the rest, when I acquaint you that his case was cancerous. All his family have great reason to be thankful for his deliver- ance : and yet I find myself not so well prepared for the stroke as 1 had thought. I blame myself now for having left him. Though when I was with him, as I could not hide my own uneasiness, I saw it only added to his. I know not what to say. He was the best of men in all re- lations, and had a generosity of mind that was amazing in his rank of life. In his long and great affliction he shew- ed a temper which philosophers only talk of. If he had any foible, it was, perhaps, his too great fondness for the un worthiest of his sons. — My mother is better than could be expected from her melancholy attendance. Yet her health has suffered by it. I have many letters to write, but would not omit communi- cating what so tenderly concerns me, to my best friend. I thank you for your book and your kind letters. Mr. Balguy and I think much more hardly of Jortin than you do. I could say much of this matter at an- other time. LETTER CXII. Dr. Warburton to Mr. Hurd. I OUGHT rather to rejoice with all, who loved that good man lately released, than to condole with them. Can there be a greater consolation to all his friends than that he was snatched from human miseries to the reward of his labours ? You I am sure must rejoice, amidst all the tenderness of filial piety and the softenings of natural affection; the gentle melancholy, that the incessant memory of so indulgent a parent and so excellent a man will make habitual ^ will be always brightened by the sense of his present happiness ; where, per- haps, one of his pleasures is his minister- ing care over those which were dearest to him in life. I dare say this will be your case, because the same circum- stances have made it mine My great concern for you was while your father was languishing on his death-bed. And my concern at present is for your mo- ther's grief and ill state of health. True tenderness for your father, and the dread of adding to his distresses, absolutely re- quired you to do what you did, and to retire from so melancholy a scene. As I know your excellent nature, I conjure you by our friendship to divert your mind by the conversation of your friends, and the amusement of trifling reading, till you have fortified it suffi- ciently to bear the reflection on this common calamity of our nature, without any other emotion than that occasioned by a kind of soothing melancholy, which perhaps keeps it in a better frame than any other kind of disposition. You see what man is, when never so little within the verge of matter ,and motion in a ferment. The affair of Lisbon has made men tremble, as well as the continent shake, from one end of Europe to another, from Gibraltar to the Highlands of Scotland. To suppose these desolations the scourge of Heaven for human impieties, is a dreadful re- flection ; and yet to suppose ourselves in a forlorn and fatherless world, is ten 714 ELEGANT EPISTLES. BaoK i\\ times a more frightful consideration. In the first case, we may reasonably hope to avoid our destruction by the amend- ment of our manners ; in the latter, we are kept incessantly alarmed by the blind rage of warring elements. The relation of the captain of a vessel, to the Admiralty, as Mr. Yorke told me the story, has something very striking in it. He lay off Lisbon on this fatal 1st of November, preparing to hoist sail for England. He looked towards the city in the morning, which gave the promise of a fine day, and saw that proud metro- polis rise above the waves, flourishing in wealth and plenty, and founded on a rock that promised a poet's eternity, at least, to its grandeur. He looked an hour after, and saw the city involved in flames, and sinking in thunder. A sight more awful mortal eyes could not behold on this side the day of doom. And yet does not human pride make us miscalculate ? A drunken beggar shall work as horrid a desolation , with a kick of his foot against an ant-hill, as sub- terraneous air and fermented minerals to a populous city. And if we take in the universe of things rather with a phi- losophic than a religious eye, where is the difi^erence in point of real importance between them ? A difl'erence there is, and a very sensible one, in the merit of the two societies. The little Troglo- dytes amass neither superfluous nor ima- ginary wealth ; and consequently have neither drones nor rogues amongst them. In the confusion, we see, caused by such a desolation, we find, by their immediate care to repair and remedy the general mischief, that none abandons himself to despair, and so stands not in need of bedlams and Coroners' inquests : but, as the poet says, ** In this, 'tis God directs; in that, 'tis man." And you will say, remember the sovereignty of reason. To this I reply, that the common definition of man is false : he is not a reasoning animal. The best you can predicate of him is, that he is an animal capable of reason, and this too we take upon old tradition. For it has not been my fortune yet to meet, I won't say with any one man, but I may safely swear with any one order of men, who ever did reason. LETTER CXIIL Dr. Warhurton to Mr. Hurd. Grosvenor Square, Feb. 17, 1759. Though I do not altogether approve of your modest scheme for the furniture of your house, 1 altogether dislike your modest scheme for the future furniture of your mind. What you mention are indeed the necessaries of it; but not so much necessaries for yourself, as neces- saries for the public, and the foundation of erecting something lasting for their use. — Men are never so fond of mora- lizing as when they are ill at ease. I hope that is not your case. If it be, you wrong your friend, who has a right to know it, and to relieve it. I was in hopes that on coming to Leicester you would have had intelligence of your papers. As that is not the case, you ought immediately to advertise them, with a slight reward, as things of no use hut to the owner. 1 can say this, after twenty years' existence, of the sheets of the Divine Legation ; and sure you may say it of things not in esse but in posse. However, we will both hope they may be of use to posterity. Seriously, Dr. Birch tells me (for your loss makes much noise, so much does the malignity of men de- light in mischance), that 'tis very pro- bable the packet will be presently brought to you by such an advertisement. Weston, the son of the late bishop of Ex«ter, the present Gazetteer by pro- fession, by inclination a Methodist, and connected with Thomas and Sherlock, is writing against my conclusion of the Dedication to the Jews, concerning Na- turalization. It seems he wrote in de- fence of that biU. The father was tutor to Walpole, and the son is one of his pupils. I am afraid he will be a sharer in that silent contempt with which I treat my answerers. God bless you. You know it is the court phrase, speaking of some favourite chaplain, that he should be pushed. I know but of one parson that is capable of being pushed, and that is yourself : every body else I meet with are full ready to go of themselves. If you be sparing of your letters to me while I am in town, 1 will call you a niggard, for I am sure that will anger t)ie generosity of your nature most. I have a fine .addition to your note on Sect. IV. RECENT. ^15 Falkland and Walpole. If you have an opportunity, why should not you use it now ? The addition is occasioned by a silly thing said by Spence, in the Life of his Taylor, but whose consequences are not trifling. P. S. I am pleased that you are oblig- ed to be at Leicester, and with Mrs. Arnald, till the settled spring invites you to Thurcaston : or rather till your set- tled love of us brings you to London, to have one peep more at young Ascanius, and see, before inoculation, " Ecquid in antiquain virtutem animosque viriles Et pater JEneas et avunculus excitat Hector?^'' LETTER CXIV. J/r. Hurd to Dr. Warhurton . Thurcaston , August 26, A^'bS. Coming home this week from a short \isit to Mr. Mason and Mr. Wright, of Romely, I received your two favours of the 14th and 19th, together with the enclosed letter of Mr. Yorke ; which had the effect you kindly intended by it, to afford me much pleasure. It was im- possible not to sympathise with him in his pathetic lamentations for his late loss ; and not to esteem the vein of pious reflection with which he supports it. Humanity is but a poor thing at best ; but in certain situations is capable of becoming so wretched, that, let proud philosophy say what it will, it is not to be endured without the aids and hopes of religion. For his obliging compliment on the Dialogues, it was perhaps the more ac- ceptable, as the general opinion of them, as far as I can collect it, is not the most favourable. The Dialogues themselves, it is said, might pass, but for the notes and preface. It is true, I have heard of no good reason why tliis playful part of my book should be so particularly disre- lished. But there is no disputing about tastes ; and if such be that of the public, I have that deference for its decisions which Fenelon had for the Pope's, and Avill myself retract, that is, withdraw, them in another edition. WTiat parti- cularly pleases me in ^Iv. Yorke's com- pliment is, that he finds an extraordinary reach of thought in some passages. For it would have been mortifpng, indeed, if my pen had so far disguised the excel- lent hints you gave me for the two last Dialogues, as not to be taken notice of by a capable and attentive reader. The composition of the characters in lord Clarendon's Continuation is, as you truly observe, its chief fault : of which the following, I suppose, may be the reason. Besides that business, and age, and misfortunes had perhaps sunk his spirit, the Continuation is not so properly the History of the first six years of Charles the Second, as an anxious apo- logy for the share himself had in the ad- ministration. This has hurt the com- position in several respects. Amongst others, he could not with decency allow his pen that scope in his delineation of the chief characters of the court, who were all his personal enemies, as he had done in that of the enemies to the king and mo- narchy in the grand rebellion. The en- deavour to keep up a shew of candour, and especially to prevent the appearance of a rancorous resentment, has deadened his colouring very much, besides that it made him sparing in the use of it. Else, his inimitable pencil had attempted, at least, to do justice to Bennet, to Berke- ley, to Coventry, to the nightly Cabal of facetious memory, to the Lady, and, if his excessive loyalty had not intervened, to his infamous master himself. That there was somewhat of this in the case, seems clear from some passages where he was not so restrained ; such, for in- stance, as the additional touches to Falkland's and Southampton's charac ters. With aU this, I am apt to think there may still be something in what I said of the nature of the subject. Ex- quisite virtue and enormous vice afford a fine field for the historian's genius. And hence Livy and Tacitus are, in their way, perhaps, equally entertaining. But the little intrigues o^ a selfish court, about carrying or defeating this or that measure, about displacing this and bring- ing in that minister, which interest no- body very much but the parties con- cerned, can hardly be made very striking by any ability of the relator. If cardinal de Retz has succeeded, his scene was busier, and of another nature from that of lord Clarendon. But, however this be, and when all abatements are made, one finds the same gracious facility of ex- pression ; above all, one observes the same love of virtue and dignity of senti- ment, which ennobled tlie History of 716 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. the Rebellion. And if this raises one's ideas most of the writer, the Continua- tion supports and confirms all that one was led to conceive of the man and the minister. I return Mr. Yorke's letter, hy this first return of the post, with many thanks ; and am ever, &c. LETTER CXV. Mr. Hurd to the Bishop of Gloucester. Thurcaston, March 4, 17G0, My lord, I HAD your favour of the 19th past, and about the same time received the con- firmation of Mr. Allen's recovery, under his own hand. I hope this fit is now over. But it affects me very much to think that the declining years of this good man are likely to be rendered so uneasy to him, as they must be, by the frequent returns of this disorder. Mrs. Warburton is always extremely kind. From a letter she did me the favour to write to me after her interview with Mrs. Johnson, I find she is intent on dignifying all your lordship's domes- tics, as well as your footmen. For whereas the chaplains of other bishops, and even Lambeth chaplains, are usually thrust, with the other lumber of the family, into any blind corner, she invites me to repose, in state, in the Abbot's apartment at Gloucester. You will judge, after this, if I can have the heart to say one word against the shoulder - knots. Your early intelligence of the success of Dr. Richardson was very obliging. I am glad of it, because I know it will make him very happy ; and because a piece of justice is done at last upon a man, who had no regard to the decency of his own character. Your lordship is always so good to me, that you will be pleased to hear of the health and usual cheerfulness of my mo- ther. She is in a disposition rather to beg your blessing than pay compliments. Though, to conceal nothing, I must tell you her infirmity, that she takes all bi- shops for such as she reads in her Bible they should be. So that 'tis only by ac- cident she does not misapply the vene- ration she professes for your lordship. I resolve to have your Sermon, though at the expense of sixpence ; which your lordship will consider as one argument, amongst others, of the regard with which I am ever, &c. LETTER CXVL The Bishop of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd. Grosvenor Square, March 31, 1760. I HAVE two kind letters of yours to ac- knowledge. I am extremely glad that good Mrs. Hurd enjoys reasonable health. Her mistake about bishops pleases me the more, as an excellent woman, like her- self (my mother), lived and died in this capital error. You ought not to have excepted my Sermon from the poverty of the press. And in the dusky road towards anti- quity, if it drew you aside by its glim- mering, you fared no better than many before you have done, who, in a bad light, have mistaken a glow-worm for a jewel. I am inclined to think that Mr. Allen is not likely to come to London this spring. For my part, I shall leave this place on the recess at Easter ; and, if he has laid aside the thoughts of his jour- ney, I shall not return, but take to the Bath waters ; the first trial I make for my old complaint of indigestion, after having tried every thing else to little purpose. Poor Mr. Towne rather goes backward than advances in his health. He talks of coming this spring to town for his health ; in which I think he judges right ; as little opinion as I have of the physical tribe. LETTER CXVn. Mr. Hurd to the Bishop of Gloucester. Thurcaston, June 22, 1760. Though your lordship can never come sooner to me than I wish, 1 confess the time of your moving northward is ear- lier than I expected. I should other- wise have made some inquiries after Mrs. Warburton's and my little friend's projected flight along with you, which I have been feeding upon in imagina- tion this good while, but which, I am Sect. IV. RECENT. 717 afraid, is now laid aside by your lord- ship's mentioning nothing at all of it. As there is now so little time to delibe- rate upon the matter, I will only say that I shall be at home and alone at the time you mention ; for I hope 1 need not say that my little house, with the best ac- commodations it can aflford, are always wholly at Mrs. Warburton and your lordship's service. The roads are so uncommonly good after this dry spring, that there will be no difficulty in coming hither in your chaise. However, my servant shall be in waiting for you at the Cranes, in Lei- cester, on Tuesday morning, either to shew you the best way for the carriage, or to have my horses ready, if your lordship should prefer riding. Remorseless death has cut down poor Chapman in the flower of his life and fortune. I knew him formerly very well. He was, in his nature, a vain and busy man. I found he had not virtue enough to prefer a long and valu- able friendship to the slightest, nay al- most to no prospect of interest. On which account I dropped him. But the rebuff he afterwards met with in the career of his ambition, might help, and I hope did, to detach his mind from the world, and to make him know himself better. — His preferments, I suppose, are flying different ways. An acquaintance of mine at St. John's is, I hear, besieg- ing the great man for his little govern- ment of Magdalen. I have only to add my humble service to Mrs. Warburton and the family, toge- ther with my best wishes for your lord- ship's good journey to Thurcaston ; which has long prided itself in having given birth to one good bishop, and will not be insensible to the honour of being visited by another. At least, I can answer for its rector, who is ever, with all devotion, &c. LETTER CXVin. The Bishop of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd. Prior Park, November 4, ITCO. I HAVE your kind letter of the 24th past, and would not leave this place without acknowledging it. I am going to look about me in this new world, but am in no more hurry than some older bishops are in their journey to one still newer. The settlement of the court and mini- stry is yet perhaps as little known to themselves as to us. All depends upon the disposition of a new king, who is always the darling of the people, and who suffer him to do all he pleases : as he grows stale, they suffer him to do nothing which they can hinder him from doing. I received a kind letter fi*om Mr. Yorke. He talks still of the chapter of accidents with regard to Lincoln's Inn. As we are turning over a new leaf, that chapter of accidents may be at the beginning'. They talk of changes in the law : but they, who talk, know just as much as you or L You shall hear from me again when I get to town, and have seen a little of the carte du pais. Mr. Allen and family follow me in a week or fortnight. He goes to renew his contract with the government. My wife, I fancy, will stay behind, the Bath waters being now very necessary for the perfect re-establishment of her health. Dr. Balguy is much recovered, and will leave Bath in a week or fortnight : but to return at spring. He goes to Winchester ; from thence to his mo- ther's : and from her, in March, back to Bath. His route lies near you. All here are tolerably well, and en- tirely yours. With what affection I am so, you know : with what effect, God knows. But his providence, which brought us together, will keep us toge- ther. For the rest, caliginosd node premit. LETTER CXIX. From the same to the same. Grosvenor Sqviare, Jan. 6, 1761. I AM here alone, and have been so this fortnight. But I have the satisfaction to tell you, that all the family are well at Prior Park, which I have the pleasure to believe is more agreeable to you to know, than any thing 1 could tell you from the great world ; that is, from this great congeries of vice and folly. Sherlock was much more to blame for not letting his chaplain understand early that he was a blockhead by birth, than the chaplain for not gi zing his 718 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. master the late intelligence that his parts were decayed by time ; because the bishop, with all his infirmities of age, could see the one ; but his chaplain, at his best, could never find out the other. The Poem on the Death of a Lady I had communicated to me by lord Hol- derness. You may be sure I did not slip that opportunity of saying to the patron all that was fitting of the author and his poem. He considered what I said as flattering- to himself, for he acquainted our friend that he had shewn me the poem ; as I understand by a letter I have received from Aston, pretty much to the same purpose with the account I had from you of that matter. In asking after addresses'^, you ask after those ephemera, or water-flies, whose existence, the naturalists tell us, is comprised within the compass of a summer's day. Indeed, these winter- flies have a still shorter date. Into what dark regions mine is retired, with the rest, I don't know. But if you vrould amuse yourself with my thoughts, for sixpence you may have my Discourse on the Lord's Supper ; for, as small as the price is, it is too big to send you in my frank. On this occasion, I will tell you what (though perhaps I may have told it you before) I said in the drawing-room to a knot of courtiers in the old king's time. One chanced to say, he heard the king was not well. Hush, said colonel Ro- binson, it is not polite or decent to talk in this manner ; the king is always well and in health ; you are never to suppose that the diseases of his subjects ever ap- proach his royal person. I perceive then, colonel, replied I, there is some differ- ence between your master and mine. Mine was subject to all human infir- mities, sin excepted : yours is subject to none, sin excepted. But as concern- ing my Discourse, it is assuredly ortho- dox : so says the archbishop of Canter- bury ; and that I have demolished both Hoadly and Bossuet : for *' Tis the same rope at either end they twist." The archbishop did not say this, but Mr. Pope. However, the archbishop says, what you are likely enough to say after him— that the people, for whom * The Address of the Bishop and Clergy of the Diocese of Gloucester. — H. I intend this edition, are not likely to profit much by it. Decay of parts all must have, if not feel, poets as well as priests : and it ia true what Avas told you, that Voltaire has lately given evidence to this truth. What you say of this poet's turn would make an excellent note to — But, sage historians, 'tis your part, 5)^c. and perhaps shall do so. God bless you ; and, when you write next, let me know how your good mo- ther does ; that is, whether her health continues such as not to increase your cares and anxieties. LETTER CXX. Mr. Hurd to the Bishop of Gloucester. Thiu-caston, Dec. 25, 1761. Though I troubled your lordship with a letter not long since, yet you will per- haps excuse my appearing before you, at this time, with my Christmas saluta- tions : a good old custom, which shews our forefathers made a right use of the best tidings that ever came from Heaven ; I mean, tomcveB.se good-will toiuards men. Your lordship will take a guess, from the sermonic cast of this sentence, at my late employment. Though I am not likely to be called upon in this way, I know not what led me to try my hand at a popular sermon or two : I say popular, because the subjects and man- ner of handling are such, but not of the sort that are proper for my Leicester- shire peop/e. To what purpose I have taken this trouble, your lordship may one day understand. For you, who are my example and guide in these exercises, must also be my judge. If you blame, I may learn to write better : if you ap- prove, I shall require no other theatre. But when does your lordship think to instruct us on this head, in the address to your Clergy ? Certainly, the common way of sermonizing is most wretched : neither sense, nor eloquence ; reason, nor pathos. Even our better models are very defective. I have lately turned over Dr. Clarke's large collection, for the use of my parish ; and yet, with much altering, and many additions, I have been able to pick out no more than eight or ten that 1 could think Sect, IV. RECENT. 719 passable for that purpose. He is clear and happy enough in the explication of Scripture ; hut miserably cold and life- less ; no invention, no dignity, no force ; utterly incapable of enlarging- on a plain thought, or of striking out new ones : in short, much less of a genius than I had supposed him. 'Tis well you have not my doings be- fore you, while I am taking this liberty with my betters. But, as I said, your lordship shall one day have it in your power to revenge this flippancy upon me. Your lordship has furnished me with a good part of my winter's entertainment, I mean by the books you recommended to me. I have read the Political Me- moirs of Abbe St. Pierre. I am much taken with the old man : honest and sensible ; full of his projects, and very fond of them ; an immortal enemy to the glory of Louis the XlVth, I suppose, in part, from the memory of his disgrace in the academy, which no Frenchman could ever forget ; in short, like our Burnet, of some importance to himself, and a great talker. These, I think, are the outlines of his character. I love him for his generous sentiments, which in a churchman of his communion are the more commendable, and indeed make amends for the lay -bigotry of Mr.Crevier. I have by accident got a sight of this mighty Fingal. I believe I mentioned my suspicions of the Fragments : they are ten-fold greater of this epic poem. To say nothing of the want of external evidence, or, which looks still worse, his shuffling over in such a manner the little evidence he pretends to give us, every page appears to me to afford internal evidence of forgery. His very citations of parallel passages hear against him. In poems of such rude antiquity, there might be some flashes of genius. But here they are continual, and clothed in very classical expression. Besides, no images, no sentiments, but what are matched in other writers, or may be accounted for from usages still subsist- ing, or well known from the story of other nations : in short, nothing but what the enlightened editor can well ex- plain himself. Above all, what are we to think of a long epic poem, disposed, in form, into six books, with a beginning, middle, and end, and enlivened, in the classic taste, with episodes ? Still this is nothing. What are we to think of a work of this length, preserved and handed down to us entire, by oral tradition, for 1400 years, without a chasm, or so much as a various reading, I should rather say, speaking ? Put all this toge- ther, and if Fingal be not a forgery convict, all I have to say is, that the sophists have a fine time of it. They may write, and lie on, with perfect se- curity. And yet has this prodigy of North-Britain set the world agape. Mr. Gray believes in it : and without doubt this Scotsman may persuade us, by the same arts, that Fingal is an ori- ginal poem, as another employed to prove that Milton was a plagiary. But let James Macpherson beware the con- sequence. Truth will out, they say, and then — " 2ui Bavium non odit, amel tua carmina, McevU' My dear lord, excuse this rhapsody, which I write currente calamo ; and let me hear that your lordship, Mrs. War- burton, and the dear boy, are perfectly well. I think to write by this post to Mr. Allen. LETTER CXXI. The Bishop of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd. Prior Park, Dec. 27, 1761. Let me wish you (as we all do) all the happiness that goodness can derive from this season. The honour this country derives from the duke of York's visit can hardly com- pensate the bad news of a Spanish war, which puts the city of London in a consternation. This event does honour to Mr. Pitt's sagacity, and the wisdom of his advice upon it. Whether this war, which was foreseen by nobody to be inevitable but by him, can be successfully managed by any body but by him, time must shew ; for I would not pretend to be wiser than our teach- ers, I mean, the news-writers, who refer all doubtful cases, as the Treasury does all desperate payments, to time. The best thing which time (since I wrote last) has brought to pass, is the advancement of Mr. Yorke to be attorney-general. I would have you, by all means, write him yo^ir compliments upon it ; for, with a 720 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. high value, he has a great friendship for you. What you say of Hume is true : and (what either I said in my last, or intended to say) you have taught him to write so much better, that he has tho- roughly confirmed your system. I have been both too ill and too lazy to finish my discourse on the Holy Spirit. Not above half of it is yet printed. I have been extremely entertained with the wars of Fingal. It can be no cheat, for I think the enthusiasm of this specifical sublime could [hardly be coun- terfeit. A modern writer would have been less simple and uniform. — Thus far had I written when your letter of Christ- mas-day came to hand ; as you will easily understand by my submitting to take shame upon me, and assuring you, that I am fully convinced of my false opinion delivered just above concerning Fingal. I did not consider the matter as I ought. Your reasons for the forgery are unan- swerable. And of all these reasons, but one occured to me, the want of external evidence; and this, 1 own, did shock me. But you have waked me from a very pleasing dream ; and made me hate the impostor, which is the most uneasy sen- timent of our waking tlioughts. I am much pleased with what you tell me of a set of sermons ad populu7n, I mean to people of condition. For na- ture formed you for, and providence will bring you to, another theatre. Your judgment of Clarke is, like your other judgments of men, perfectly exact and true. I received a letter from Mason of the 14th, and he tells me news — that your Letters on Chivalry are in the press ; and he desire^, when they come out, 1 would send them to him in covers. Sterne has published his fifth and sixth volumes of Tristram. They are wrote pretty much like the first and se- cond ; but whether they will restore his reputation as a writer with the public, is another question. The fellow himself is an irrecoverable scoundrel. My Discourse on the Holy Spirit grows upon me, especially in the latter part about the Methodists, which is the part I could have wished would have grown the least. But a wen grows faster than sound flesh. I have yet printed off but 72 pages. I think the booksellers have an inten- tion of employing Baskerville to print Pope in 4to. ; so they sent me the last octavo to look over. I have added the enclosed to the long note in the be- ginning of the Rape of the Lock, in answer to an impertinence of Joseph Warton. When you have perused it, you will send it back. I have sometimes thought of collect- ing my scattered anecdotes and critical observations together, for the founda- tion of a Life of Pope, which the book- sellers tease me for. If I do that, all of that kind must be struck out of the notes of that edition. You could help me nobly to fill up the canvass. LETfER CXXII. The Bishop of Gloucester to Mr. Hurd. Grosvenor Square, Nov. 24, 1762. My dear rector of Folkton*, This shall be only to remind you of what you may forget. Imprimis, your first fruits. Your friend Pearson has put me in mind of this. Item, Should you not write a letter of thanks to the chancellor, into whose favour you seem to have been much crept ? Item, Should you not write to the bi- shop of London, to thank him for his recommendation to his brothers. Item, Should you not write a letter of thanks to the archbishop of York ? I have sent you his letter enclosed. These, you will say, are like a tailor's items of stay-tape and canvass. But re- member, a coat cannot be made without them. I say nothing to you of the pub- lic. You are too much a philosopher to turn your eyes downwards on the dis- sensions of the great ; and 1 cannot dwell upon the subject with any satis- faction. I am afraid we are at the eve of much disturbance, and ready to ex- change a war abroad for one at home, less murderous, but more calumniating. We have long prayed to be delivered irom our enemies ; I wish the archbishop * The sine cure rectory of Folkton, near Hunmanby, E. R. of Yorkshire* vacated by the translation of Dr. Osbaldiston from Car- lisle to London, and given me by the chan- cellor, lord Northington, at tUe request of Mr .Allen. -H. Sect. IV. RECENT. ^21 could hit upon an efficacious form of prayer, to be delivered from ourselves. God bless you, and preserve the peace at Thurcaston, and in all its borders ! LETTER CXXni. Mr. Hurd to the Bishop of Gloucester. Thurcaston, Feb. 10, 1763. I THANK God that I can now, with some assurance, congratulate with myself on the prospect of your lordship's safe and speedy recovery from your sad disaster *. Mrs. Warburton's last letter was a cordial to me ; and, as the ceasing of intense pain, so this abatement of the fears I have been tormented with for three or four days past, gives a certain alacrity to my spirits, of which your lordship may look to feel the eflfects in a long letter. And now supposing, as 1 trust 1 may do, that your lordship will be in no great pain when you receive this letter, I am tempted to begin, as friends usually do when such accidents befal, with my reprehensions, rather than condolence. I have often wondered why your lordship should not use a cane in your walks, which might haply have prevented this misfortune ; especially considering that Heaven, I suppose the better to keep its sons in some sort of equality, has thought fit to make your outward sight by many degrees less perfect than your inward. Even I, a young and stout son of the church, rarely trust my firm steps into my garden, without some support of this kind. How improvident, then, was it in a father of the church to commit his unsteadfast footing to this hazard ! Not t^^-, who quar- relled Avith me (because his fatlier was a gardener) for asking him if lord Brook 742 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV had planted much. — A-propos to painted glass. I forgot to tell you of a sweet house, which Mr. Montagu carried me to see, belonging to a Mr. Holman, a Ca- tholic, and called Warkworth. The si- tuation is pretty, the front charming, composed of two round and two square towers. The court within is incomplete on one side ; but above stairs is a vast gallery, with four bow windows and twelve other large ones, all filled with the arms of the old peers of England, with all their quarterings entire. You don't deserve, after deserting me, that I should tempt you to such a sight ; but this alone is worth while to carry you to Greatworth. Adieu, my dear sir ! I return to Strawberry to-morrow, and forgive you enough not to deprive myself of the sa- tisfaction of seeing you there, whenever you have nothing else to do. Yours ever. LETTER VIU. The Hon, Horace Walpole to Richard Bentley, Esq. Strawberry Hill, September 18, 1735. My dear sir. After an expectation of six weeks, I have received a letter from you, dated August 23d. Indeed I did not impute any neglect to you ; I knew it arose from the war : but Mr. ^*^ tells me the pacquets will now be more regular. Mr. *** tells me ! —What, has he been in town, or at Strawberry? — No ; but I have been at Southampton ; I was at the Vine ; and on the arrival of a few fine days, the first we liave had this summer, after a deluge, Mr. Chute per- suaded me to take a jaunt to Winchester and Netley Abbey, with the latter of which he is very justly enchanted. I was disappointed in Winchester : it is a paltry town, and small. King Charles the Second's house is the worst thing I ever saw of sir Christopher Wren, a mixture of a town hall and an hospital, not to mention the bad choice of the situation in such a country ; it is all ups that should be downs. I talk to you as supposing that you never have been at Winchester, though I suspect you have, for the entrance of the cathedral is the very idea of that of Malland, I like the smugness of the cathedral, and the pro- fusion of the most beautiful Gothic tombs. That of cardinal Beaufort is in a style more free, and of more taste, than any thing I have seen of the kind,. His figure confirms me in my opinion that I have struck out the true history of the picture that I bought of Robinson, and which I take for the marriage of Henry VI. Be- sides the monuments of the Saxon kings, of Lucius, William Rufus, his brother, &c., there are those of six such great or considerable men as Beaufort, William of Wickham, him of Wainfleet, the bi- shops Fox and Gardiner, and my lord treasurer Portland. How much power and ambition under half a dozen stones ! I own, I grow to look on tombs as last- ing mansions, instead of observing them for curious pieces of architecture ! — Going into Southampton, I passed Bevis Mount, where my lord Peterborough Hung his trophies o'er his garden gate ; but general Mordaunt was there, and we could not see it. We walked long by moonlight on the terrass along the beach — guess, if we talked of and wished for you ! The town is crowded ; sea-baths are established there too. But how shall I describe Netley to you ? I can only by telling you, that it is the spot in the world for which Mr. Chute and I wish. The ruins are vast, and retain fragments of beautiful fretted roofs, pendant in the air, with all variety of Gothic patterns of windows, wrapped round and round with ivy : many trees are sprouted up amongst the walls, and only want to be increased with cypresses ! A hill rises above the abbey, encircled with wood : the fort, in which we would build a tower for habitation, remains, with two small platforms. This little castle is buried from the abbey in a wood, in the very centre, on the edge of the hill : on each side breaks in the view of the Southampton sea, deep blue, glistering with silver and vessels ; on one side ter- minated by Southam})ion, on the other by Calshot castle ; and the Isle of Wight rising above the opposite hills. In short, they are not the ruins of Netley, but of Paradise. Oh ! the purple abbots, what a spot had they chosen to slumber in ! The scene is so beautifully tranquil, yet so lively, that they seem only to have retired into the world. I know nothing of the war, but that Sect. V RECENT. 743 we catch little French ships like craw- fish. They have taken one of ours, with governor *** going to ***. He is a very worthy young man, but so stiffened with sir *** 's old fustian, that I am persuaded he is at this minute in the citadel of Nantes, comparing himself to Regulus. Gray has lately been here. He has begun an ode, which, if he finishes equally, will, I think, inspirit all your drawing again. It is fomided on an old tradition of Edward I. putting to death the Welsh bards. Nothing but you, or Salvator Rosa, and Nicolo Poussin, can paint up to the expressive horror and dignity of it. Don't think I mean to flatter you ; all I would say is, that now the two latter are dead, you must of ne- cessity be Gray's painter. In order to keep your talent alive, 1 shall next week send you flake white, brushes, oil, and the enclosed directions from Mr. Miintz, who is still at the Vine, and whom, for want of you, we labour hard to form. I shall put up in the parcel two or three prints of my eagle, which, as you never would draw it, is very moderately per- formed ; and yet the drawing was much better than the engraving. I shall send you too a trifling snuff-box, only as a sample of the new manufacture at Bat- tersea, which is done with copper-plates. Mr. Chute is at the Vine, where I can- not say any works go on in proportion to my impatience. I have left him an inventionary of all I want to have done there ; but I believe it may be bound up with the century of projects of that fool- ish marquis of Worcester, who printed a catalogue of titles of things, which he gave no directions to execute, nor 1 be- lieve could. Adieu ! yours ever. LETTER IX. From the same to the sa?}ie. Went'AOrth Castlo, August. I ALWAYS dedicate my travels to you. My present expedition has been very amusing ; sights are thick sown in the counties of York and Nottingham : the former is more historic, and the great lords live at a prouder distance : in Nottinghamshire there is a very hep- tarchy of little kingdoms elbowing one another, and the barons of them want nothing but small armies to make In- roads into one another's parks, murder deer, and massacre park-keepers. But to come to particulars. The great road, as far as Stamford, is*" superb ; in any other country it would furnish medals, and immortalize any drowsy monarch in whose reign it was executed. It is con- tinued much farther, but is more rum- bling. I did not stop at Hatfield and Burleigh to see the palaces of my great- uncle ministers, having seen them be- fore. Bugden Palace surprises one pret- tily in a little village ; and the remains of Newark Castle, seated pleasantly, be- gan to open a vein of historic memory. I had only transient and distant views of lord Tyrconnel's at Belton, and of Bel- voir. The borders of Huntingdonshire have churches instead of milestones *, but the richness and extent of Yorkshire quite charmed me. Oh ! what quan-ies for working in Gothic ! Tliis place is one of the very few that I really like ; the situation, woods, views, and the im- provements are perfect in their kinds : nobody has a truer taste than lord Straf- ford. The house is a pompous front, screening an old house : it was built by the last lord, on a design of the Prussian architect Bott, who is mentioned in the King's Memoires de Brandenburg, and is not ugly. The one pair of stairs is entirely engrossed by a gallery of 180 feet, on the plan of that in the Colonna Palace at Rome. It has nothing but four modern statues, and some bad por- traits ; but, on my proposal, is going to have books at each end. The hall is pretty, but low ; the drawing-room hand- some : there wants a good eating-room and staircase ; but I have formed a de- sign for both, and I believe they will be executed. That my plans should be obeyed when yours are not ! I shall bring you a ground plot for a Gothic building, which I have proposed that you should draw for a little wood, but in the manner of an ancient market- cross. Without doors all is pleasing : there is a beautiful (artificial) river, with a fine semicircular wood overlook- ing it, and the temple of Tivoli placed happily on a rising towards the end. Tliere are obelisks, columns, and other buildings, and, above all, a handsome castle, in the true style, on a rude moun- tain, with a court and towers ; in the castle yard a statue of the late lord, who 744 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book iV. buUt It. Without the park is a lake on each side, buried in noble woods. Now contrast all this, and you may have some idea of lord Rockingham's. Imagine a most extensive and most beautiful mo- dern front erected before the great lord Strafford's old house, and this front al- most blocked up with hills, and every thing unfinished round it, nay, within it. The great apartment, which is magnifi- cent, is untouched ; the chimney-pieces lie in boxes unopened. The park is tra- versed by a common road, between two high hedges— not from necessity — oh ! no ; this lord loves nothing but horses, and the enclosures for them take place of every thing. The bowling-green be- hind the house contains no less than four obelisks, and looks like a Brobdingnag nine-pin alley : on a hill near, you would think you saw the York Buildings water- works invited into the country. There are temples in corn fields ; and, in the little wood, a window frame mounted on a bunch of laurel, and intended for an hermitage, in the inhabited part of the -house the chimney-pieces are like tombs ; and on that in the library is the figure of this lord's grandfather, in a nightgown of plaster and gold. Amidst all this litter and bad taste, I adored the fine Vandyck of lord Strafford and his secretary, and could not help reverencing his bed- chamber. With all his faults and arbi- trary behaviour, one must worship his spirit End eloquence : where one esteems but a single royalist, one need not fear being too partial. When 1 visited his tomb in the church (which is remarkably neat and pretty, and enriched with mo- numents), I was provoked to find a little mural cabinet, with his figure, three feet high, kneeling. Instead of a stern bust (and his head would furnish a nobler than Bernini's Brutus), one is peevish to see a plaything that might have been bought at Chenevix's. There is a tender in- scription to the second lord Strafford's wife, written by himself; but his genius was fitter to coo over his wife's memory, than to sacrifice to his father's. Well ! you have had enough of magni- ficence ; you shall repose in a desert. — Old Wortley Montague lives on the very spot where the dragon of Wantley did — only I believe the latter was much better lodged. You never saw such a wretched hovel, lean, unpainted, and half its na- kedness barely shaded with harateen, stretched till it cracks. Here the miser hoards health and money, his only two objects : he has chronicles in behalf of the air, and battens on Tokay, his single indulgence, as he has heard it is particu- larly salutary. But the savageness of the scene would charm your Alpine taste: it is tumbled with fragments of mountains, tha!t look ready laid for build- ing the v/orld. One scrambles over a huge terrass, on which mountain ashes and various trees spring out of the very rocks ; and at the brow is the den, but not spacious enough for such an inmate. However, I am persuaded it furnished Pope with this line, so exactly it answers to the picture : — On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. I wanted to ask if Pope had not visited lady Mary Wortley here, during their in- timacy ; but could one put that question to Avidien himself. There remains an ancient odd inscription here, which has such a whimsical mixture of devotion and romanticness, that I must transcribe it:— " Preye for the soul of sir Thomas Wortley, knight of the body to the kings Edward IV., Richard III., Henry VII., Henry VIII., whose faults God pardon. He caused a lodge to be built on this crag in the midst of Wharncliff (the old orthography) to hear the harts bell, in the year of our Lord 1510." It was a chase, and what he meant to hear was the noise of the stags. During my residence here I have made two little excursions ; and I assure you it requires resolution ; the roads are in- sufferable. They mend them — I should call it spoil them — with large pieces of stone. At Pomfret I saw the remains of that memorable castle " where Rivers, Vaughan, and Grey lay shorter by the head ;" and on which Gray says — And thou, proud boy, from PoiiifVet's walls Shalt send A groan, and envy oft thy happy grandsire's end ! The ruins are vanishing, but well situ- ated ; there is a large demolished church, and a pretty market-house. We crossed a Gothic bridge, of eight arches, at Fer- rybridge, where there is a pretty view^ and went to a large old house of lord Huntingdon's at Ledstone, which has nothing remarkable but a lofty terrace, a whole length portrait of his grandfather Sbct. V R E C E N T. 7^ in tapestry, and the having belonged to the great lord StraflFord. We saw that monument of part of poor sir John ***'s extravagance, his house and garden, which he left orders to make, without once looking at either plan. The house is a bastard Gothic, but of not near the extent I had heard. We lay at Leeds, a dingy large town ; and through very bad black roads (for the whole country is a colliery, or a quarry) we went to Kirkstall Abbey, where are vast Saxon ruins, in a most picturesque situation, on the banks of a river that falls in a cascade among rich meadows, hills, and woods. It belongs to lord Cardigan ; his father pulled down a large house here, lest it should interfere with the family seat, Deane. We returned through Wakefield, where is a pretty Gothic cha- pel on a bridge, erected by Edward IV, in memory of his father, who lived at Sandal Castle just by, and perished in the battle here. There is scarce any thing of the castle extant, but it com- manded a rich prospect. By permission from their graces of Norfolk, who are at Tunbridge, lord Straflford carried us to Worksop, where we passed two days. The house is huge, and one of the magnificent works of old Bess of Hardwicke, who guarded the queen of Scots here for some time, in a wretched little bed-chamber within her own lofty one : there is a tolerable little picture of Mary's needlework. The great apartment is vast and trist, the whole leanly furnished. The great gallery, of above two hundred feet, at the top of the house, is divided into a library, and into nothing. The chapel is decent. There is no prospect, and the barren face of the country is richly furred with evergreen plantations, under the direction of the late lord Petre. On our way we saw Kiveton, an ugly neglected seat of the duke of Leeds, with noble apartments, and several good por- traits. Oh ! portraits ! — I went to Wel- beck. It is impossible to describe the bales of Cavendishes, Harleys, Holleses, Veres, and Ogles ; every chamber is ta- pestried with them, nay, and with ten thousand other fat morsels ; all their histories inscribed ; all their arms, crests, devices sculptured on chimnies of various English marbles in ancient forms (and, to say truth, most of them ugly). Then such a Gothic haU, with pendant fret- work in imitation of the old, and with a chimney-piece extremely like mine in the library ! such water-colour pictures ! such historic fragments ! In short, such and so much of every thing 1 like, that my party thought they should never get me away again. There is Prior's por- trait, and the column and Varelst's flower on which he wrote ; and the authoress duchess of Newcastle in a theatric habit, which she generally wore, and, conse- quently, looking as mad as the present duchess ; and dukes of the same name, looking as foolish as the present duke ; and lady Mary Wortley, drawn as an authoress, with rather better pretew' sions ; and cabinets and glasses wains- coted with the Greendale oak, which was 60 large, that an old steward wisely cut a way through it to make a triumphal passage for his lord and lady on their wedding, and only killed it ! But it is impossible to tell you half what there is. The poor woman, who is just dead, passed her whole widowhood, except in doing ten thousand right and just things, in collecting and monumenting the portraits and reliques of all the great families from which she descended, and which centred in her. The duke and duchess of Port- land are expected there to-morrow, and we saw dozens of cabinets and coffers, with the seals not yet taken off. What treasures to revel over ! The horseman duke's manege is converted into a lofty stable, and there is still a grove or two of magnificent oaks, that have escaped all these great families, though the last lord Oxford cut down above an hundred thousand pounds worth. The place has little pretty, distinct from all these reve- rend circumstances. LETTER X. The Hon. Horace Walpole to George Montagu, Esq. Arlington Street, November 13, 1760.. Even the honey-moon of a new reign don't produce events every day. There is nothing but the common saying of ad- dresses and kissing hands. The chief difficulty is settled ; lord Gower yields the mastership of the horse to lord Huntingdon, and removes to the great wardrobe, from whence sir Thomas Ro- binson was to have gone into Ellis's 746 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book iV. place, but he is saved. The city, how- ever, have a mind to be out of humour ; a paper has been fixed on the Royal Ex- change, with these words, " No petti- coat government, no Scotch minister, no lord George Sackville ;" two hints totally unfounded, and the other scarce true. No petticoat ever governed less ; it is left at Leicester House ; lord George's breeches are as little concerned ; and, except lady Susan Stuart and sir Harry Erskine, nothing has yet been done for ahy Scots. For the king himself, he seems all good-nature, and wishing to satisfy every body ; all his speeches are obliging-. I saw him again yesterday, and was surprised to find the levee room had lost so entirely the air of the lion's den. This sovereign don't stand in one spot, with his eyes fixed royally on the ground, and dropping bits of German news ; he walks about and speaks to every body. I saw him afterwards on the throne, where he is graceful and gen- teel, sits with dignity, and reads his an- swers to addresses well : it was the Cambridge address, carried by the duke of Newcastle in his doctor's gown, and looking like the medecin malgre lui. He had been vehemently solicitous for at- tendance, for fear my lord Westmore- land, who vouchsafes himself to bring the address from Oxford, should out- number him. Lord Litchfield and seve- ral other Jacobites have kissed hands : George Selwyn says, " They go to St. James's, because now there are so many Stuarts there." Do you know I had the curiosity to go to the burying t'other night. I had never seen a royal funeral ; nay, I walked as a rag of quality, which I found would be, and so it was, the easiest way of see- ing it. It is absolutely a noble sight. The prince's chamber, hung with purple, and a quantity of silver lamps, the coffin under a canopy of purple velvet, and six vast chandeliers of silver on high stands, had a very good effect. The ambassador from Tripoli and his son were carried to see that chamber. The procession, through a line of foot-guards, every se- venth man bearing a torch, the horse- guards lining the outside, their officers Avith drawn sabres and crape sashes on horseback, the drums muffled, the fifes, bells tolling, and minute guns ; all this was very solemn. But tlie charm was the entrance of the abbey, where we were received by the dean and chapter in rich robes, the choir and almsmen bearing torches, the whole abbey so illuminated, that one saw it to greater advantage than by day ; the tombs, long aisles, and fretted roof all appearing distinctly, and with the happiest chiara scuro. There wanted nothing but incense, and little chapels here and there, with priests say- ing mass for the repose of the defunct ; yet one could not complain of its not be- ing catholic enough. I had been in dread of being coupled with some boy of ten years old ; but the heralds were not very accurate, and I walked with George Grenville, taller and older, to keep me in countenance. When we came to the chapel of Henry the Seventh, all solem- nity and decorum ceased ; no order was observed, people sat or stood where they could or would ; the yeomen of the guard were crying out for help, oppressed by the immense weight of the coffin ; the bishop read sadly, and blundered in the prayers ; the fine chapter, Man that is born of a woman, was chaunted, not read ; and the anthem, besides being immea- surably tedious, would have served as well for a nuptial. The real serious part was the figure of the duke of Cumber- land, heightened by a thousand melan- choly circumstances. He had a dark brown adonis, and a cloak of black cloth, with a train of five yards. Attending the funeral of a father could not be pleasant ; his leg extremely bad, yet forced to stand upon it near two hours ; his face bloated and distorted with his late paralytic stroke, which has afi'ected too one of his eyes, and placed over the mouth of the vault, into which, in all probability, he must himself so soon descend : think how unpleasant a situation ! He bore it all with a firm and unaffected counte- nance. This grave scene was fully con- trasted by the burlesque duke of New- castle. He fell into a fit of crying the moment he came into the chapel, and flung himself back in a stall, the arch- bishop hovering over him v/ith a smell- ing-bottle : but in two minutes his curi- osity got the better of his hypocrisy, and he ran about the chapel with his glass, to spy who was or was not there, spying with one hand, and mopping his eyes with the other. Then returned the fear of catching cold ; and the duke of Cum- berland, who was sinking with heat, felt himself weighed down, and turning round, Sect. V. RECENT. 747 found it was tlie duke of Newcastle standing upon liis train, to avoid the chill of the marble. It was very thea- tric to look down into the vault, where the coffin lay, attended by mourners with lights. Clavering, the groom of the bed- chamber, refused to sit up with the body, and was dismissed by the king's order. I have nothing more to tell you but a trifle, a very trifle. The king of Prussia has totally defeated marshal Daun. This, which would have been prodigious news a month ago, is nothing to-day ; it only takes its turn among the questions, " Who is to be groom of the bed-cham- ber ? What is sir T. Robinson to have ?" I have been to Leicester Fields to-day ; the crowd was immoderate ; I don't be- lieve it will continue so. Good night. Yours ever. LETTER XI. The Hon. Horace JValpole to George Montagu, Esq. Houghton, March 25, 1761. Here I am at Houghton ! and alone ! in this spot, where (except two hours Jast month) 1 have not been in sixteen years ! Think, what a crowd of reflec- tions ! No, Gray, and forty church- yards, could not ftirnish so many ; nay, I know one must feel them with greater IndiflFerence than I possess, to have pa- tience to put them into verse. Here I am, probably for the last time of my life, though not for the last time : every clock that strikes tells me I am an hour nearer to yonder church — that church, into which I have not yet had courage to enter, where lies that mother on whom I doated, and who doated on me ! There are the two rival mistresses of Houghton, neither of whom ever wished to enjoy it ! There, too, lies he who founded its greatness, to contribute to whose fall Europe was embroiled ; there he sleeps, in quiet and dignity, while his friend and his foe, rather his false ally and real enemy, Newcastle and Bath, are exhausting the dregs of their pitiful lives in squabbles and pamphlets. The surprise the pictures gave me is again renewed ; accustomed for many years to see nothing but wretched daubs and varnished copies at auctions, I look at these as enchantment. My own de- scription of them seems poor ; but shall I tell you truly, the majesty of Italian ideas almost sinks before the warm na- ture of Flemish colouring. Alas ! don't I grow old ? My young imagination was fired with Guido's ideas ; must they be plump and prominent as Abishag to warm me now ? Does great youth feel with poetic limbs, as well as see with poetic eyes ? In one respect I am very young, I cannot satiate myself with looking : an incident contributed to make me feel this more strongly. A party arrived, just as I did, to see the house, a man and three women in riding-dresses, and they rode post through the apartments. I could not hurry before them fast enough ; they were not so long in seeing for the first time, as I could have been in one room, to examine what I knew by heart. I re- member formerly being often diverted with this kind of seers ; they come, ask what such a room is called, in which sir Robert lay, write it down, admire a lob- ster or a cabbage in a market-piece, dis- pute whether the last room was green or purple, and then hurry to the inn for fear the fish should be over-dressed. How different my sensations ! not a pic- ture here but recals a history ; not one, but I remember in Downing Street or Chelsea, where queens and crowds ad- mired them, though seeing them as little as these travellers ! When I had drank tea, I strolled into the garden; they told me it was now called the pleasure-ground. What a dis- sonant idea of pleasure ! those groves, those allees, where I have passed so many charming moments, are now strip- ped up or overgrown — many fond paths I could not unravel, though with a very exact clew in my memory : I met two gamekeepers and a thousand hares ! In the days when all my soul was tuned to pleasure and vivacity (and you will think, perhaps, it is far from being out of tune yet), I hated Houghton and its solitude ; yet 1 loved this garden, as now, with many regrets, 1 love Houghton ; Hough- ton, I know not what to call it, a monu- ment of grandeur or ruin ! How I have wished this evening for lord Bute ! How I could preach to him ! For myself, 1 do not Avant to be preached to ; I have long considered, how every Balbec must wait for the chance of a Mr. Wood. The servants wanted to lay me in the great apartment — what, to make me })aBS my 74a ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. night as I have done my evening"! It were like proposing to Margaret Roper to be a duchess in the court that cut off her father's head, and imagining it would please her. I have chosen to sit in my father's little dressing-room, and am now by his scrutoire, where, in the height of his fortune, her used to receive the ac- counts of his farmers, and deceive him- self, or us, with the thoughts of his economy. How wise a man at once, and how weak ! For what has he built Houghton? for his grandson to annihi- late, or for his son to mourn over. If lord Burleigh could rise and view his re- presentative driving the Hatfield stage, he would feel as I feel now. Poor little Strawberry ! at least it will not be strip- ped to pieces by a descendant! You will find all these fine meditations dic- tated by pride, not by philosophy. Pray consider through how many mediums philosophy must pass, before it is puri- fied— " — How often must it weep, how often burn." My mind was extremely prepared for all this gloom, by parting with Mr. Conway yesterday morning ; moral reflections or common places are the livery one likes to wear, when one has just had a real misfortune. He is going to Germany : I was glad to dress myself up in transi- tory Houghton, in lieu of very sensible concern. To-morrow I shall be distracted with thoughts, at least images of very different complexion. I go to Lynn, and am to be elected on Friday. 1 shall re- turn hither on Saturday, again alone, to expect Burleighides on Sunday, whom I left at Newmarket. I must once in my life see him on his grandfather's throne. Epping, Monday night, thirty-first. No, I have not seen him ; he loitered on the road, and I was kept at Lynn till yesterday morning. It is plain I never knew for how many trades I was formed, when at this time of day I can begin electioneering, and succeed in my new vocation. Think of me, the subject of a mob, who was scarce ever before in a mob, addressing them in the town-hall, riding at the head of two thousand people through such a town as Lynn, dining with above two hundred of them, amid bum- pers, huzzas, songs, and tobacco, and finishing with country dancing at a ball and sixpenny whisk ! I have borne it all cheerfully; nay, have sat hours in conversation^ the thing upon earth that I hate, have been to hear misses play on the harpsichord, and to see an alderman's copies of Rubens and Carlo Marat. Yet to do the folks justice, they are sensible, and reasonable, and civilized ; their very language is polished since I lived among them. I attribute this to their more fre- quent intercourse with the world and the capital, by the help of good roads and post- chaises, which, if they have abridged the king's dominions, have at least tamed his subjects. Well, how comfortable it will be to-morrow, to see my parroquet, to play at loo, and not be obliged to talk seriously! The Heraclitus of the be- ginning of this letter will be overjoyed on finishing it to sign himself your old friend, Democritus. P. S. I forgot to tell you, that my an- cient aunt Hammond came over to Lynn to see me ; not from any affection, but curiosity. The first thing she said to me, though we have not met these six- teen years, was, " Child, you have done a thing to-day, that your father never did in all his life ; you sat as they car- ried you, he always stood the whole time." " Madam," said I, " when I am placed in a chair, I conclude I am to sit in it ; besides, as I cannot imitate my father in great things, I am not at all ambitious of mimicking him in little ones." I am sure she proposes to tell her remarks to my uncle Horace's ghost, the instant they meet. LETTER XIJ. The Hon, Horace Walpole to George Montagu, Esq. Arlington Street, May 5, 1761. We have lost a young genius, sir AV^illiam Williams ; an express from Belleisle, ar- rived this morning, brings nothing but his death. He was shot very unneces- sarily, riding too near a battery ; in sum, he is a sacrifice to his own rash- ness, and to ours. For what are we taking Belleisle? I rejoiced at the little loss we had on landing ; for the glory, I leave it to the common council. I am very willing to leave London to them too, and do pass half the week at Straw- berry, where my two passions, Ulaos Sect. V. RECENT. 749 and nightingales, are in full bloom. I spent Sunday as if it were Apollo's birth- day ; Gray and Mason were with me, and we listened to the nightingales till one o'clock in the morning. Gray has translated two noble incantations from the lord knows who, a Danish Gray, who lived the lord knows when. They are to be enchased in a history of English bards, which Mason and he are writing, but of which the former has not written a word yet, and of which the latter, if he rides Pegasus at his usual foot-pace, will finish the first page two years hence. But the true frantic (Estus resides at present with Mr. Hogarth; I went t'other morning to see a portrait he is painting of Mr. Fox. Hogarth told me he had promised, if Mr. Fox would sit as he liked, to make as good a picture as Vandyke or Rubens could. I was si- lent — " Why now," said he, " you think this very vain, but why should not one speak truth?" This truth was uttered in the face of his own Sigismonda, which is exactly a maudlin, tearing off the trinkets that her keeper had given her, to fling at his head. She has her father's picture in a bracelet on her arm, and her fingers are bloody with the heart, as if she had just bought a sheep's pluck in St. James's market. As I was going, Hogarth put on a very grave face, and said, " Mr. Walpole, I want to speak to you." I sat down, and said, I was ready to receive his commands. For shortness, I will mark this wonderful dialogue by initial letters. H, I am told you are going to enter- tain the town with something in our way. W. Not very soon, Mr. Hogarth. H. I wish you would let me have it, to cor- rect ; I should be very sorry to have you expose yourself to censure ; we painters must know more of those things than other people. W. Do you think no- body understands painting but painters ? H. Oh ! so far from it, there's Reynolds, who certainly has genius ; why, but t'other day he offered a hundred pounds for a picture that I would not hang in my cellar ; and indeed, to say truth, I have generally found, that persons who had studied painting least were the best judges of it. But what I particularly wished to say to you was about sir James Thornhill (you know he married sir James's daughter) : I would not have you say any thing agains t him ; there was a book published some time ago, abusing him, and it gave great offence. He was the first that attempted history in England, and, I assure you, some Ger- mans have said that he was a very great painter, W. My work will go no lower than the year one thousand seven hun- dred, and I really have not considered whether sir James ThornhiU will come within my plan or not ; if he does, I fear you and I shall not agree upon his merits. H. I wish you would let me correct it ; besides, I am writing some- thing of the same kind myself; I should be sorry we should clash. W. I believe it is not much known what my work is, very few persons have seen it. H. Why it is a critical history of painting, is not it ? W. No, it is an antiquarian history of it in England ; I bought Mr. Vertue's MSS. and, I believe, the work will not give much offence ; besides, if it does, I cannot help it : when I publish any thing, I give it to the world to think of it as they please. H. Oh ! if it is an antiquarian work, we shall not clash ; mine is a critical work ; 1 don't know whether I shall ever pub- lish it. It is rather an apology for painters. I think it is owing to the good sense of the English that they have not painted better. W. My dear Mr. Hogarth, I must take my leave of you, you now grow too wild — and I left him. If I had staid, there remained nothing but for him to bite me. I give you my honour this conversation is literal, and, perhaps, as long as you have known Englishmen and painters, you never met with any thing so distracted. I had con- secrated a line to his genius (I mean, for wit) in my preface ; I shall not erase it ; but I hope nobody will ask me if he is not mad. Adieu ! yours ever. LETTER XIII. From the same to the same. Arlington Street, April 6, 1763. You will pity my distress when I tell you that lord Waldegrave has got the smaU-pox, and a bad sort. This day se'nnight, in the evening, I met him at Arthur's : he complained to me of the head-ache, and a sickness in the stomach. I said, " My dear lord, why don't you go home, and take James's powder, you will be well in the morning. " He thanked f50 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. me, said he was glatl I had put him In mind of it, and he would talte my advice. I sent in the morning ; my niece said he had taken the powder, and that James thought he had no fever, but that she found him very low. As he had no fever, I had no apprehension. At eight o'clock on Friday night I was told abruptly at Arthur's that Waldegrave had the small- pox. I was excessively shocked, not knowing if the powder was good or bad for it. I went instantly to the house ; at the door I was met by a servant of lady Ailesbury, sent to tell me that Mr. Conway was arrived. These two oppo- site strokes of terror and joy overcame me so much, that when I got to Mr. Conway's, I could not speak to him, but burst into a flood of tears. The next morning lord Waldegrave, hearing I was there, desired to speak to me alone. I should tell you, that the moment he knew it was the small-pox he signed his will. This has been the unvaried tenor of his behaviour, doing just what is wise and necessary, and nothing more. He told me he knew how great the chance was against his living through that dis- temper at his age. That, to be sure, he should like to have lived a few years Ipnger, but if he did not, he should sub- mit patiently. That all he desired was, that if he should fail, we would do our utmost to comfort his wife, who, he feared, was breeding, and who, he added, was the best woman in the world. I told him he could not doubt our attention to - her, but that at present all our attention was fixed on him. That the great dif- ference between having the sraall-pox young, or more advanced in years, con- sisted in the fear of the latter, but that, as I had so often heard him say, and now saw, that he had none of those fears, the danger of age was considerably les- sened. Dr. Wilmot saySj that if any thing saves him, it will be his tranquil- lity. To my comfort, I am told, that James's powder has probably been a ma- terial ingredient towards his recovery. In the mean time the universal anxiety about him is incredible. Dr. Barnard, the master of Eton, who is in town for the holidays, says, that, from his situa- ation, he is naturally invited to houses of all ranks and parties, and that the concern is general in all. I cannot say so much of my lord, and not do a little justice to my niece too. Her tender- ness, fondness, attention, and courage are surprising. She has no fears to be- come her, nor heroism for parade. I could not help saying to her, " There never was a nurse of your age had such attention." She replied, *' There never was a nurse of my age had such an ob- ject." It is this astonishes one, to see so much beauty sincerely devoted to a man so unlovely in his person ; but if Adonis was sick, she could not stir sel- domer out of his bed-chamber. The physicians seem to have little hopes, but, as their arguments are not near so strong as their alarms, 1 own I do not give it up, and yet I look on it in a very dan- gerous light. I know nothing of news and the world, for I go to Albemarle Street early in the morning, and don't come home tiU late at night. Young Mr. Pitt has been dy- ing of a fever in Bedfordshire. The bishop of Carlisle, whom I have ap-^ pointed visitor of Strawberry, is gone down to him. You will be much disap- pointed if you expect to find the gallery near finished. They threaten me with three months before the gilding can be begun. Twenty points are at a stand by my present confinement, and 1 have a melancholy prospect of being forced to carry my niece thither the next time l* go. The due de Nivernois, in return for a set of the Strawberry editions, has sent me four seasons, which I conclude he thought good, but they shall pass their whole round in London, for they have not even the merit of being badly old enough for Strawberry. Mr. Bent- ley's epistle to lord Melcomb has been published in a magazine. It has less wit by far than I expected from him, and to the full as bad English. The thoughts are old Strawberry phrases ; so are not the panegyrics. Here are six lines writ- ten extempore by lady Temple, on lady Mary Coke, easy and genteel, and almost true : — She sometimes laughs, but never loud : She's handsome too, but soiucwhat prond : At court she bears away the belle; She dresses fine, and figures well; Witli decency she's gay and airy ; Who can this be but lady Mary ? There have been tough doings in par- liament about the tax on cider : and in the western counties the discontent is so great, that if Mr. Wilkes will turn patriot hero, or patnot incendiary in earnest, Sect. V. RECENT. 751 and put himself at their head, he may ohtain a rope of martyrdom before the smiimer is over. Adieu ! I tell you my sorrows, because, if I escape them, I am sure nobody will rejoice more. Yours ever. LETTER XIV. The Hon. Horace Walpole to George Montagu, Esq, Arlington Street, Fridaj'^ night, late. Amidst all my own grief, and all the distress which 1 liave this moment left, I cannot forget you, who have so long been my steady and invariable friend. I cannot leave it to newspapers and cor- respondents to tell you my loss. Lord Waldegrave died to-day. Last night he had some glimmerings of hope. The most desponding of the faculty flattered us a little. He himself joked with the physicians, and expressed himself in this engaging manner, asking what day of the week it was ; they told him Thurs- day. " Sure," said he, " it is Friday." '* No, my lord, indeed it is Thursday." " Well," said he, " see what a rogue this distemper makes one ; I want to steal nothing but a day." By the help of opiates, with which, for two or three days, they had numbed his sufferings, he rested well. This morning he had no worse symptoms. I told lady Walde- grave, that as no material alteration was expected before Sunday, I would go to dine at Strawberry, and return in time to meet the physicians in the evening ; in truth, I was worn out with anxiety and attendance, and wanted an hour or two of fresh air. I left her at twelve, and had ordered dinner at three, that I might be back early. I had not risen from table, when I received an express from lady Betty Waldegrave, to tell me that a sadden change had happened, that they had given him James's powder, but that they feared it was too late, and that he probably would be dead before I could come to my niece, for whose sake she begged I would return immediately. It was, indeed, too late ! too late for every thing — late as it was given, the powder vomited him even in the agonies. Had I had power to direct, he should never have quitted James. But these are vain regrets ! vain to recollect how particu- larly kind he, who was kind to every body, was to me ! I found lady Walde- grave at my brother's ; she weeps with- out ceasing, and talks of his virtues and goodness to her in a manner that dis- tracts one. My brother bears this^mor- tification with more courage than 1 could have expected from his warm passions : but nothing struck me more than to see my rough savage Swiss, Louis, in tears, as he opened my chaise. I have a bitter scene to come ; to-morrow morning I carry poor lady Waldegrave to Straw- berry. Her fall is great, from that ado- ration and attention that he paid her, from that splendour of fortune, so much of which dies with him, and from that consideration, which rebounded to her from the great deference which the world had for his character. Visions, perhaps. Yet who could expect that they would have passed away even before that fleet- ing thing, her beauty ! If I had time or command enough of my thoughts, I could give you as long a detail of as unexpected a revolution in the political v/orld. To-day has been as fatal to a whole nation, I mean to the Scotch, as to our family. Lord Bute resigned this morning. His intention was not even suspected till Wednesday, nor at all known a very few days before. In short, there is nothing, more or less, than a panic ; a fortnight's opposition has demolished that scandalous but vast majority, which a fortnight had pur- chased, and in five months a plan of ab- solute power has been demolished by a panic. He pleads to the world bad health ; to his friends, more truly, that the nation was set at him. He pretends to intend retiring absolutely, and giving no umbrage. In the mean time he is packing up a sort of ministerial legacy, which cannot hold even till next session, and I should think would scarce take place at all. George Grenville is to be at the head of the treasury and chancellor of the exchequer, Charles Townshend to succeed him, and lord Shelburn Charles. Sir Francis Dash wood to have his barony of Despencer and the great wardrobe, in the room of lord Gower, who takes the privy seal, if the duke of Bedford takes the presidentship ; but there are many ifs in this arrangement ; the principal zf is, if they dare stand a tempest, which has so terrified the pilot. You ask what becomes of Mr. Fox ? Not at all pleased 7^ ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. with this sudden determination, which has blown up so many of his projects, and left him time to heat no more, fur- naces, he goes to France by the way of the House of Lords, but keeps his place and his tools till something else happens. The confusion I suppose will be enor- mous, and the next act of the drama a quarrel among the opposition, who would be all powerful, if they could do what they cannot, hold together, and not quar- rel for the plunder. As I shall be at a distance for some days, I shall be able to send you no more particulars of this interlude ; but you will like a pun ray brother made when he was told of this explosion : " Then," said he, " they must turn the Jacks out of the drawing- room again, and again take them into the kitchen." Adieu ! what a world to set one's heart on ! Yours ever. LETTER XV. The Hon. Horace Walpole to George Montagu, Esq. Strawberry Hill, April 14, 1763. I HAVE received your two letters toge- ther, and foresaw that your friendly good heart would feel for us just as you do. The loss is irreparable, and my poor niece is sensible it is. She has such a veneration for her lord's memory, that if her sister and I make her cheerful for a moment, she accuses herself of it the next day to the bishop of Exeter *, as if he was her confessor, and that she had committed a crime. She cried for two days to such a degree, that if she had been a fountain it must have stopped. Till yesterday she scarce eat enough to keep her alive, and looks accordingly ; but at her age she must be comforted : her esteem will last, but her spirits will return in spite of herself. Her lord has made her sole executrix, and added what little douceurs he could to her jointure, which is but a thousand pounds a-year, the estate being but three-and-twenty hundred. The little girls will have about eight thousand pounds a-piece ; for the teller's place was so great during the war, that, notwithstanding his temper was a sluice of generosity, he had saved thirty thousand pounds since his marriage. Her sisters have been here with us the * The bishop of Exeter was married to a sister of lady Waldegrave. whole time. Lady Huntingtower is all mildness and tenderness ; and by dint of attention I have not displeased the other. Lord Huntingtower has been here once ; the bishop most of the time : he is very reasonable and good natured, and has been of great assistance and comfort to me in this melancholy office, which is to last here till Monday or Tuesday. "We have got the eldest little girl too, lady Laura, who is just old enough to be amusing ; and last night my nephew ar- rived here from Portugal. It was a ter- rible meeting at first, but, as he is very soldierly and lively, he got into spirits, and diverted us much with his relations of the war and the country. He confirms all we have heard of the villany, pol- troonery, and ignorance of the Portu- guese, and of their aversion to the Eng- lish ; but I could perceive, even through his relation, that our flippancies and con- tempt of them must have given a good deal of play to their antipathy. You are admirably kind, as you always are, in inviting me to Greatworth, and proposing Bath ; but, besides its being impossible for me to take any journey just at present, I am really very well in health, and the tranquillity and air of Strawberry have done much good. The hurry of London, where I shall be glad to be just now, will dissipate the gloom that this unhappy loss has occasioned ; though a deep loss I shall always think it. The time passes tolerably here ; I have my painters and gilders, and con- stant packets of news from town, besides a thousand letters of condolence to an- swer ; for both my niece and I have re- ceived innumerable testimonies of the regard that was felt for lord Waldegrave. I have heard of but one man who ought to have known his worth that has shewn no concern ; but I suppose his childish mind is too much occupied with the loss of his last governor ! I have given up my own room to my niece, and have be- taken myself to the Holbein chamber, where I am retired from the rest of the family when I choose it, and nearer to overlook my workmen. The chapel is quite finished, except the carpet. The sable mass of the altar gives it a very sober air ; for, notwithstanding the so- lemnity of the painted windows, it had a gaudiness that was a little profane. I can know no news here but by re- bound ; and yet, though they are to re- SfiCT. V. RECENT. 75S bound again to you, they will be as fresh as any you can have at Greatworth. A kind of administration is botched up for the present, and even gave itself an air of that fierceness with which tlie winter set out. Lord Hardwicke was told, that his sons must vote with the court, or be turned out ; he replied, as he meant to have them in place, he chose they should be removed now. It looks ill for the court when he is sturdy. They wished too to have had Pitt, if they could have had him without consequences ; but they don't find any recruits repair to their standard. They brag that they should have had lord Waldegrave ; a most no- torious falsehood, as he had refused every oflfer they could invent the day before he was taken ill. The duke of Cumberland orders his servants to say, that, so far from joining them, he believes, if lord Waldegrave could have been foretold of his death, he would have preferred it to an union with Bute and Fox. The for- mer's was a decisive panic ; so sudden, that it is said lord Egremont was sent to break his resolution of retiring to the king. The other, whose journey to France does not indicate much less ap- prehension, affects to walk in the streets at the most public hours, to mark his not trembling. In the mean time the two chiefs have paid their bravos mag- nificently : no less than fifty-two thou- sand pounds a-year are granted in re- version ! Young Martin, who is older than I am, is named my successor ; but I intend he shall wait some years : if they had a mind to serve me, they could not have selected a fitter tool to set my character in a fair light by the compari- son. Lord Bute's son has the reversion of an auditor of the imprest ; this is all he has done ostensibly for his family, but the great things bestowed on the most insignificant objects, make me sus- pect some private compacts. Yet I may wrong him, but I do not mean it. Lord Granby has refused Ireland, and the Northumberlands are to transport their magnificence thither. I lament that you made so little of that voyage ; but is this the season of unrewarded merit ? One should blush to be preferred within the same year. Do but think that Calcraft is to be an Irish lord ! Fox's millions, or Calcraft's tythes of millions, cannot purchase a grain of your virtue or cha- racter. Adieu ! yours most truly. LETTER XVI. From the same to the same. Arlington Street, April 22, 1763. I HAVE two letters from you, and sliall take care to execute the commission in the second. The first diverted me much. 1 brought my poor niece from Straw- berry on Monday. As executrix, her presence was quite necessary, and she has never refused to do any thing rea- sonable that has been desired of her. But the house and the business have shocked her terribly ; she still eats no- thing, sleeps worse than she did, and looks dreadfully ; 1 begin to think she will miscarry. She said to me t'other day, " They tell me, that if my lord had lived, he might have done great service to his country at this juncture, by the respect all parties had for him. This is very fine ; but as he did not live to do those services, it will never be mentioned in history !" I thought this solicitude for his honour charming. But he will be known by history ; he has left a small volume of memoirs, that are a chef-cToeuvre. He twice shewed them to me, but I kept his secret faithfully ; notv it is for his glory to divulge it. I am glad you are going to Dr. Lewis. After an Irish voyage I do not wonder you want careening. I have often preach- ed~ to you — nay, and lived to you too ; but my sermons were flung away and my example. This ridiculous administration is patch- ed up for the present ; the detail is de- lightful, but that I shall reserve for Strawberry-tide. Lord Bath has com- plained to Fanshaw of lord Pulteney's * extravagance, and added, "if he had lived he would have spent my whole estate." This almost comes up to sir Robert Brown, who, when his eldest daughter was given over, but still alive, on that uncertainty sent for an under- taker, and bargained for her funeral, in hopes of having it cheaper, as it was possible she might recover. Lord Bath has purchased the Hatton vault in West- minster Abbey, squeezed his v/ife, son, and daughter into it, reserved room for himself, and has set the rest to sale. Come ; all this is not far short of sir Robert Brown. * Son of the earl of Bath. 2€ 754 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Hook IV. To my great satisfaction, the new lord Holland kas not taken the least friendly, or even formal notice of me, on lord Walde^rave's death. It dispenses me from the least farther connection with him, and saves explanations, which al- ways entertain the world more than satisfy. Dr. Cumberland is an L'ish bishop ; I hope, before the summer is over, that some beam from your cousin's portion of the triumvirate may light on poor Bent- ley. If he wishes it till next winter, he will be forced to try still new sunshine. I have taken Mrs. Pritchard's house for lady Waldegrave : I offered her to live with me at Strav/berry ; but, with her usual good sense, she declined it, as she thought the children would be trouble- some. Charles Townshend's episode in this revolution passes belief, though he does not tell it himself. If I had a son born, and an old fairy were to appear and offer to endow him with her choicest gifts, I should cry out, " Powerful Goody, give him any thing but parts !" Adieu ! yours ever. LETTER XVII. The Hon. Horace Walpole to the Hon. H. S. Conway. Strawberry Hill, May 1, 1763. I FEEL happy at hearing your happiness ; but, my dear Harry, your vision is much indebted to your long absence, which Makes bleak rocks and barren mountains smile. I mean no offence to Park Place ; but the bitterness of the weather makes m.e wonder how you can find the country tolerable now. This is a May-day for the latitude of Siberia ! The milkmaids should be wrapped in the motherly com- forts of a swan- skin petticoat. In short, such hard words have passed between me and the north wind to-day, that, ac- cording to the language of the times, I was very near abusing it for coming from Scotland, and to imputing it to lord Bute. I don't know whether I should not have written a North Briton against it, if the printers were not all sent to Newgate, and Mr. Wilkes to the Tower — ay, to the Tower, tout de hon. The new mi^ nistry are trying to make up for their ridtculous insignificance by acowp cf eclat. As I came hither yesterday, I do not know whether the particulars I have heard are genuine ; but in the Tower he certainly is, taken up by lord Halifax's warrant for treason : vide the North Briton of Saturday was se'nnight. It is said he refused to obey the warrant, of which he asked and got a copy from the two messengers, telling them he did not mean to make his escape, but sending to demand his habeas corpus, which was re- fused. He then went to lord Halifax, and thence to the Tower ; declaring they should get nothing out of him but what they knew. All his papers have been seized. Lord chief justice Pratt, I am told, finds great fault with the wording of the warrant. I don't know how to execute your commission for books of architecture, nor care to put you to expense, which I know will not answer. I have been consulting my neighbour, young Mr. Thomas Pitt, my present architect : we have all books of that sort here, but can- not think of one which will help you to a cottage or a green-house. For the former you should send me your idea, your dimensions ; for the latter, don't you rebuild your old one, though in an- other place? A pretty green-house I never saw ; nor, without immoderate expense, can it well be an agreeable ob- ject. Mr. Pitt thinks a mere portico without a pediment, and windows re- movable in summer, would be the best plan you could have. If so, don't you remember something of that kind, which you liked, at sir Charles Cotterel's at Rousham ? But a fine green-house must be on a more exalted plan. In short, you must be more particular, before I can be at all so. I called at Hammersmith yesterday about lady Ailesbury's tubs ; one of them is nearly finished, but they will not both be completed these ten days. Shall they be sent to you by water? Good night to her ladyship and you, and the infanta, whose progress in waxen statuary I hope advances so fast, that by next winter she may rival Rackstrow's old man. Do you know, that, though apprised of what I was going to see, it deceived me, and made such impression on my mind, that, thinking on it as I came home in my chariot, and seeing a woman sted- fastly at work in a window in Pall Mall, Sect. V, RECENT. it made me start to see her move. Adieu ! yours ever. Arlington Street, Monday night. The mighty commitment set out with a blunder ; the warrant directed the printer and all concerned (unnamed) to betaken up. Consequently Wilkes had his habeas or seven with very superior under- standings ; some of them with wit, or with softness, or very good sense. Madame GeoflFrin, of whom you have heard much, is an extraordinary woman, with more common sense than I almost ever met with. Great quickness in dis- covering characters, penetration in going to the bottom of them, and a pencil that never fails in a likeness — seldom a fa- vourable one. She exacts and preserves, spite of her birth and their nonsensical prejudices about nobility, great court and attention. This she acquires by a thousand little arts and offices of friend- ship ; and by a freedom and severity, which seems to be her sole end of draw- ing a concourse to her ; for she insists on scolding those she inveigles to her. She has little taste and less knowledge, but protects artisans and authors, and courts a few people to have the credit of serving her dependents. She was bred under the famous madame Tencin, who advised her never to refuse any man ; for, said her mistress, though nine in ten should not care a farthingfor you, the tenth may live to be an useful friend. She did not adopt or reject the whole plan, but fully retained the purport of the maxim. In short, she is an epitome of empire, subsisting by rewards and punishments. Her great enemy, ma- dame du DeflFand, was for a short time mistress of the regent, is now very old and stone blind, but retains all her viva- city, wit, memory, judgment, passions, and agreeableness. She goes to operas, plays, suppers, and Versailles ; gives suppers twice a week ; has every thing new read to her ; makes new songs and epigrams, aye, admirably, and remem- bers every one that has been made these fourscore years. She corresponds with Voltaire, dictates charming letters to him, contradicts him, is no bigot to him or any body, and laughs both at the clergy and the philosophers. In a dis- pute, into which she easily falls, she is very warm, and yet scarce ever in the wrong : her judgment on every subject is as just as possible ; on every point of conduct as wrong as possible ; for she is all love and hatred, passionate for her friends to enthusiasm, still anxious to be loved (I don't mean by lovers), and a vehement enemy, but openly. As she can have no amusement but conversa- tion, the least solitude and ennui are in- supportable to her, and put her into the power of several worthless people, who eat her suppers when they can eat no- body's of higher rank ; wink to one an- other and laugh at her ; hate her beeaus« m ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. slje has forty times more parts — and venture to hate her because she is not rich. She has an old friend, whom I must mention, a monsieur Pondevelle, author of the Fat puni, and the Complaisant, and of those pretty novels the Comte de Cominge, the Siege of Calais, and les Malheur s de F Amour. Would not you expect this old man to be very agree- able ? He can be so, but seldom is : yet he has another very diflferent and very amusing talent, the art of parody, and is unique in his kind. He composes tales to the tunes of long dances : for instance, he has adapted the Regent's Daphnis and Chloe to one, and made it ten times more indecent; but is so old, and sings it so well, that it is permitted in all companies. He has succeeded still better in les caracteres de la danse, to which he has adapted words that ex- press all the characters of love. With all this, he has not the least idea of cheerfulness in conversation : seldom speaks but on grave subjects, and not often on them ; is a humourist, very su- percilious, and wrapt up in admiration of his own country, as the only judge of his merit. His air and look are cold and forbidding ; but ask him to sing, or praise his works, his eyes and smiles open and brighten up. In short, I can shew him to you : the self-applauding :poet in Hogarth's Rake's Progress, the second print, is so like his very features and very wig, that you would know him by it, if you came hither — for he certainly will not go to you. Madame de Mirepoix's understanding is excellent of the useful kind, and can be so, when she pleases, of the agreeable kind. She has read, but seldom shews it, and has perfect taste. Her manner is cold, but very civil ; and she conceals even the blood of Lorrain, without ever forgetting it. Nobody in France knows the world better, and nobody is person- ally so well with the king. She is false, ai'tful, and insinuating beyond measure, when it is her interest, but indolent and a coward. She never had any passion but gaming, and always loses. For ever paying court, the sole produce of a life of art is to get money from the king to carry on a course of paying debts, or contracting new ones, which she dis- charges as fast as she is able. She ad- vertised devotion to get made dame du palais to the queen ; and the very next day this princess of Lorrain was seen riding backwards with madame Pompa- dour in the latter's coach. When the king was stabbed and heartily fright- ened, the mistress took a panic too, and consulted d'Argenson, whether she had not best make off in time. He hated her, and said, " By all means." Ma- dame de Mirepoix advised her to stay. The king recovered his spirits, d'Argen- son was banished, and la marechale in- herited part of the mistress's credit. — I must interrupt my history of illus- trious women with an anecdote of mon- sieur de Maurepas, with whom I am much acquainted, and who has one of the few heads that approach to good ones, and who, luckily for us, was dis- graced, and the marine dropped, because it was his favourite object and province. He employed Pondevelle to make a song on the Pompadour : it was clever and bitter, and did not spare even majesty. This was Maurepas absurd enough to sing at supper at Versailles. Banish- ment ensued ; and, lest he should ever be restored, the mistress persuaded the king that he had poisoned her predeces- sor, madame de Chateauroux. Maurepas is very agreeable, and exceedingly cheer- ful ; yet I have seen a transient silent cloud when politics are talked of. Madame de Boufilers, who was in England, is a sgavante, mistress of the prince of Conti, and very desirous of being his wife. She is two women, the upper and the lower. I need not tell you that the lower is gallant, and still has pretensions. The upper is very sen- sible too, and has a measured eloquence, that is just and pleasing ; but all is spoiled by an unrelaxed attention to ap- plause. You would think she was al- ways sitting for her pifjtuf e to her bio- grapher. Madame de Rochfort is different from all the rest. Her understanding is just and delicate ; with a finesse of wit, that is the result of reflection. Her manner is soft and feminine, and, though a sga- vante, without any declared pretensions. She is the decent friend of monsieur de Nivernois, for you must not believe a syllable of what you read in their novels. * * -x- ^ * * •^ The due de Nivernois has parts, and writes at the top of the mediocre, but, as madame Geoffrin says, is manque par tout ; guerrier manque, amha&md^ur Sect. V. RECENT. 76: vhanque, liomme d'affaires manque^ and auteur manque — ^no, he is not homme de naissance manque. He would think freely, but has some ambition of being governor to the dauphin, and is more afraid of his wife and daughter, who are ecclesiastic fagots. The former out-chatters the duke of Newcastle ; and the latter, ma- dame de Gisors, exhausts Mr. Pitt's elo- quence in defence of the archbishop of Paris. Monsieur de Nivernois lives in a small circle of dependent admirers, and madame de Rochfort is high priestess for a small salary of credit. The duchess of Choiseul, the only young one of these heroines, is not very pretty, but has fine eyes, and is a little model in waxwork, which not being al- lowed to speak for some time as inca- pable, has a hesitation and modesty, the latter of which the court has not cured, and the former of which is atoned for by the most interesting sound of voice, and forgotten in the most elegant turn and propriety of expression. Oh ! it is the gentlest, amiable, civil, little creature that ever came out of a fairy t^g ! So just in its phrases and thoughts, so at- tentive and good-natured! Every body loves it but its husband, who prefers her own sister, the duchesse de Grammont, an Amazonian, fierce, haughty dame, who loves and hates arbitrarily, and is detested. Madame de Choiseul, pas- sionately fond of her husband, was the martyr of this union, but at last submit- ted with a good grace ; has gained a little credit with him, and is still be- lieved to idolize him. But I doubt it — she takes too much pains to profess it. I cannot finish my list without adding a much more common character, but more complete in its kind than any of the foregoing, the marechale de Luxem- bourg. She has been very handsome, very abandoned, and very mischievous. Her beauty is gone, her lovers are gone, and she thinks the devil is coming. This dejection has softened her into being rather agreeable, for she has wit and good-breeding; but you would swear, by the restlessness of her person, and the horrors she cannot conceal, that she had signed the compact, and expected to be called upon in a week for the per- formance. T could add many pictures, but none so remarkable. In those I send you, there is not a feature bestowed gratis or exaggerated. For the beauties, of which there are a few considerable, as mes- dames de Brionne, de Monaco, et d'Eg- mont, they have not yet lost their cha- racters, nor got any. You must not attribute my intimacy with Paris to curiosity alone. An ac- cident unlocked the doors for me. The passe-par-tout, called the fashion, has made them fly open — and what do you think was that fashion? — I myself. Yes, like queen Elinor in the ballad, I sunk at Charing Cross, and have risen in the Fauxbourg St. Germain. A plaisanterie on Rousseau, whose arrival here in his way to you brought me acquainted with many anecdotes conformable to the idea I had conceived of him, got about, was liked much more than it deserved, spread like wildfire, and made me the subject of conversation. Rousseau's devotees were offended. Madame de Boufflers, with a tone of sentiment, and the accents of lamenting humanity, abused me hear- tily, and then complained to myself with the utmost softness. I acted contrition, but had liked to have spoiled all, by growing dreadfully tired of a second lec- ture from the prince of Conti, who took up the ball, and made himself the hero of a history wherein he had nothing to do. I listened, did not understand half he said (nor he neither), forgot the rest, said Yes when I should have said No, yawned when I should have smiled, and was very penitent when I should have rejoiced at my pardon. Madame de Boufflers was more distressed, for he owned twenty times more than I had said : she frowned, and made him signs : but she had wound up his clack, and there was no stopping it. The moment she grew angry, the lord of the house grew charmed, and it has been my fault if I am not at the head of a numerous sect : but when T left a triumphant party in England, I did not come hither to be at the head of a fashion. However, I have been sent for about like an African prince or a learned canary bird, and was, in particular, carried by force to the princess of Talmond, the queen's cousin, who lives in a charitable apartment in the Luxembourg, and was sitting on a small bed hung with saints and Sobi- eskis, in a corner of one of those vast chambers, by two blinking tapers. I stumbled over a cat, a footstool, and a chamber-pot, in my journey to her pre- 768 ELEGANT EPISTLES, Book IV. ^ence. She could trot find a syllable to say to me, and the visit ended with her begging a lap-dog. Thank the Lord ! though this is the first month, it is the last week, of my reign ; and I shall re- sign my crown with great satisfaction to a houiliie of chesnuts, which is just invented, and whose annals will be illus- trated by so many indigestions, that Paris will not want any thing else these three weeks. I will enclose the fatal letter after I have finished this enormous one ; to which I will only add, that no- thing has interrupted my Sevign^ re- searches but the frost. The abb^ de Malesherbes has given me full power to ransack Livry. I did not tell you, that by great accident, when I thought on nothing less, I stumbled on an original picture of the comte de Grammont. — Adieu ! You are generally in London in March ; I shall be there by the end «f it. Yours ever. LETTER XXX. The Hon. Horace Walpole to Mr. Gray, Arlington Street, Feb. 18, 17C8. You have sent me a long and very oblig- ing letter, and yet I am extremely out of humour with you. I saw Poems by Mr. Gray advertised: I called directly at Dodsley's, to know if this was to be more than a new edition. He was not at home himself, but his foreman told me he thought there were some new pieces, and notes to the whole. It was very unkind, not only to go out of town without men- tioning them to me, without shewing them to me, but not to say a word of them in this letter. Do you think I am indifferent, or not curious, about what you write? 1 have ceased to ask you, because you have so long refused to shew me any thing. You could not suppose I thought that you never write. No ; but I concluded you did not intend, at least yet, to publish what you had written. As you did intend it, I might have expected a month's preference. You will do me the justice to own, that I had always ra- ther have seen your writings than have shewn you mine, which you know are the most hasty trifles in the world, and which, though I may be fond of the subject when fresh, I constantly forget in a very short time after they are published. This would sound like affectation to others, but will not to you. It would be affected, even to you, to say I am indifferent to fame. I certainly am not, but I am in- different to almost any thing I have done to acquire it. The greater part are mere compilations ; and no wonder they are, as you say, incorrect, when they are commonly written with people in the room, as Richard and the Noble Authors were. But I doubt there is a more in- trinsic fault in them ; which is, that 1 cannot correct them. If I write tole- rably, it must be at once ; I can neither mend nor add. The articles of lord Capel and lord Peterborough, in the se- cond edition of the Noble Authors, cost me more trouble than all the rest toge- ther : and you may perceive, that the worst part of Richard, in point of ease and style, is what relates to the papers you gave me on Jane Shore, because it was tacked on so long afterwards, and when my impetus was chilled. If, some time or other, you will take the trouble of pointing out the inaccuracies of it, I shall be much obliged to you : at present I shaU meddle no more with it. It has taken its fate ; nor did I mean to com- plain. I found it was condemned indeed beforehand, which was what I alluded to. Since publication (as has happened to me before) the success has gone be- yond my expectation. Not only at Cambridge, but here, there have been people wise enough to think me too free with the king of Prus- sia ! A newspaper has talked of my known inveteracy to him. Truly, I love him as well as I do most kings. The greater offence is my reflection on lord Clarendon. It is forgotten that I had overpraised him before. Pray turn to the new State Papers, from which, it is said, he composed his history. You will find they are the papers from which he did not compose his history. And yet I admire my lord Clarendon more than these pretended admirers do. But I do not intend to justify myself. I can as little satisfy those who complain that I do not let them know what really did happen. If this inquiry can ferret out any truth, I shall be glad. I have picked up a few more circumstances. I now want to know what Perkin Warbeck's proclamation was, which Speed, in his history, says is preserved by bishop Les- lie. If you look in Speed, perhaps you will be able to assist me. Sect. V. RECENT. 769 The duke of Richmond and lord Lyt- telton agree with you, that I have not disculpated Richard of the murder of Henry VI. I own to you, it is the crime of which, in my own mind, I be- lieve him most guiltless. Had I thought he committed it, I should never have taken the trouble to apologize for the rest. I am not at all positive or obsti- nate on your other objections, nor know exactly what I believe on many points of this story. And I am so sincere, that, except a few notes hereafter, I shall leave the matter to be settled or dis- cussed by others. An you have written much too little, I have written a great deal too much, and think only of finish- ing the two or three other things 1 have begun ; and of those, nothing but the last volume of Painters is designed for the present public. What has one to do, when turned fifty, but really think i}i finishing ? I am much obliged and flattered by Mr. Mason's approbation, and particu- larly by having had almost the same thought with him. I said, " People need not be angry at my excusing Richard ; I have not diminished their fund of hatred ; I have only transferred it from Richard to Henry." Well, but I have found you close v/ith Mason. — No doubt, cry prat- ing I, something' will come out*. — Oh ! no— leave us, both of you, to Annabellas and Epistles to Ferney, that give Vol- taire an account of his own tragedies ; to Macarony fables, that are more unintelli- gible than Pilpay's are in the original ; to Mr. Thornton's hurdy-gm-dy poetry ; and to Mr. **>^*, who has imitated him- self worse than any fop in a magazine would have done. In trufch, if you should abandon us, I could not wonder. When Garrick's prologues and epilogues, his own Cymons and farces, and the co- medies of the fools that pay court to him, are the delight of the age, it does not deserve any thing better. Pray read the new account of Corsica. What relates to Paoli will amuse you much. There is a deal about the island and its divisions, that one does not care a straw for. Tlie author, Boswell, is a strange being, and, like ****, has a * « I found him close with Swift."—" In- deed!" — " No doubt," Cries prating Balbus, " something will come out." Papers Epistle to Arhuthnot. rage of knowing any body that ever was talked of. He forced himself upon me at Paris, in spite of ray teeth and my doors, and I see has given a foolish account of all he could pick up from me about king Theodore. He then took an antipathy to me oa Rousseau's account, abused me in the newspapers, and exhorted Rousseau to do so too ; but, as he came to see me no more, I forgave all the rest. 1 see he now is a little sick of Rousseau himself, but I hope it will not cure liim of his anger to rae. However, his book will, I am sure, entertain you. I will add but a word or two more. I am criticised for the expression tinker up in the preface. Is this one of those that you object to? I own I think such a low expression, placed to ridicule an ab- surd instance of w^ise folly, very forcible. Replace it with an elevated word or phrase, and, to my conception, it be- comes as flat as possible. George Selwyn says 1 may, if I please, write historic doubts on the present duke of G**^* too. Indeed they would be doubts, for 1 know nothing certainly. Will you be so kind as to look into Leslie de rebus Scotormn, and see if Perkin's proclamation is there, and if there, how authenticated. You will find in Speed my reason for asking this. I have v/ritten in such a hurry 1 be- lieve you ^vill scarce be able to read my letter : and as I have just been writing French, perhaps the sense may not be clearer tlian the writing. Adieu ! yours ever. LETTER XXXI. The Hon. Horace Walpole to George Montagu, Esq. Strawberry Hill, June ]3, 1768. No, I cannot be so false as to say I am glad you are pleased with your situation. You are so apt to take root, that it re- quires ten years to dig you out again when you once begin to settle. As you go pitching your tent up and down, I wish you were still more a Tartar, and shifted your quarters perpetually. Yes, I will come and see you ; but tell me first, when do your duke and duchess travel to the north ? 1 know he is a very amiable lad, and I do not know that 3 D 770 E LEGAN T E PI STLES. Book IV. she is not as amiable a laddess, but I had rather see their house comfortably, when they are not there. i perceive the deluge fell upon you, before it reached us. It began here but on Monday last, and then rained near eight and forty hours without intermis- sion. My poor hay has not a dry thread to its back. I have had a fire these three days. In short, every summer one lives in a state of mutiny and murmur, and I have found the reason : it is because we will affect to have a summer, and we have no title to any such thing". Our poets learnt their trade of the Romans, and so adopted the terms of their mas- ters. They talk of shady groves, purl- ing streams, and cooling breezes, and we get sore throats and agues with attempting to realize these visions. Mas- ter Damon writes a song, and invites miss Chloe to enjoy the cool of the evening, and the deuce a bit have we of any such thing as a cool evening. Zephyr is a north-east wind, that makes Damon button up to the chin, and pinches Chloe's nose till it is red and blue; and then they cry, this is a bad summer, as if we ever had any other. The best sun we have is made of Newcastle coal, and I am determined never to reckon upon any other. We ruin ourselves with inviting over foreign trees, and make our houses clamber up hills to look at prospects. How our ancestors would laugh at us, who knew there was no being comfortable, unless you had a high hill before your nose, and a thick warm wood at your back ! Taste is too freezing a commodity for us, and depend upon it will go out of fashion again. There is indeed a natural warmth in this country, which, as you say, I am very glad not enjoy any longer ; I mean the hot house in St. Stephen's chapel. My own sagacity makes me very vain, though there was very little merit in it. I had seen so much of all parties, that I had little esteem left for any ; it is most indifferent to me who is in or who is out, or which is set in the pillory, Mr. Wilkes or my lord Mansfield. I see the country going to ruin, and no man with brains enough to save it. That is mor- tifying ; but what signifies who has the undoing it ? I seldom suffer myself to think on this subject : my patriotism could do no good, and my philosophy can make me be at peace. I am sorry you are likely to lose your poor cousin lady Hinchinbrook ; I heard a very bad account of her when 1 was last in town. Your letter to madame Roland shall be taken care of ; but as your are so scrupulous of making me pay postage, I must remember not to overcharge you, as I can frank my idle letters no longer ; therefore, good night ! Yours ever. P. S. I was in town last week, and found Mr. Chute still confined. He had a return in his shoulder, but I think it more rheumatism than gout. LETTER XXXII. The Honourable Horace Walpole to Monsieur de Voltaire. Strawbenv Hill, June 21, 1768. Sir, You read English with so much more facility than I can write French, that I hope you will excuse my making use of my own tongue to thank you for the ho- nour of your letter. If I employed your language, my ignorance in it might be- tray me into expressions that would not do justice to the sentiments I feel at be- ing so distinguished. It is true, sir, I have ventured to con- test the history of Richard the Third, as it has been delivered to us : and I shall obey your commands, and send it to you, though with fear and trembling; for though I have given it to the world, as it is called, yet, as you have justly ob- served, that world is comprised within a very small circle of readers, and un- doubtedly I could not expect that you would do me the honour of being one of the number. Nor do I fear you, sir, only as the first genius in Europe, who have illustrated every science ; I have a more intimate dependence on you than you suspect. Without knowing it, you have been my master ; and perhaps the sole merit that may be found in my writ- ings is owing to my having studied yours : so far, sir, am I from living in that state of barbarism and ignorance with which you tax me when you say que vous m'etes peut-etre inconnu. I was not a stranger to jour reputation very many years ago, but remember to have then thought you honoured our house by dining with my Sect. V. RECENT. 7/1 mother, ihougli I was at school, and had not the. happiness of seeing- you : and yet my father was in a situation that might have dazzled eyes older than mine. The plain name of that father, and the pride of having had so excellent a father, to whose virtues truth at last does justice, is all I have to boast. I am a very pri- vate man, distinguished by neither dig- nities nor titles, which I have never done any thing to deserve ; but as I am certain that titles alone would not have procured me the honour of your notice, I am content without them. But, sir, if I can tell you nothing good of myself, I can at least tell you some- thing bad ; and, after the obligation you have conferred on me by your letter, I should blush if you heard it from any body but myself. I had rather incur your indignation than deceive you. Some time ago 1 took the liberty to find fault in print with the criticisms you had made on our Shakespeare. This freedom, and no wonder, never came to your know- ledge. It was in a preface to a trifling romance, much unworthy of your regard, but which I shall send you, because I cannot accept even the honour of your correspondence, without making you judge whether I deserve it. I might re- tract, I might beg your pardon ; but having said nothing but what I thought, nothing illiberal or unbecoming a gen- tleman, it would be treating you with ingratitude and impertinence, to suppose that you would either be offended with my remarks, or pleased with my recant- ation. You are as much above wanting flattery, as I am above offering it to you. You would despise me, and I should de- spise myself — a sacrifice I cannot make, sir, even to you. Though it is impossible not to know ^oUy sir, 1 must confess my ignorance on the other part of your letter, I know nothing of the history of monsieur de Genonville, nor can tell whether it is true or false, as this is the first time I ever heard of it. But I will take care to inform myself as well as I can, and, if you allow me to trouble you again, will send you the exact account, as far as I can obtain it. I love my country, but I do not love any of my countrymen that have been capable, if they have been so, of a foul assassination. I should have made this inquiry directly, and informed you of the result of it in this letter, had I been in London ; but the respect I owe you, sir, and my impatience to thank you for so unexpected a mark of your favour, made me choose not to delay my grati- tude for a single post. I have the ho- nour to be, sir, your most obliged and most obedient humble servant. LETTER XXXilL From the same to the same. Strawberry Hill, July 27, 1768. One can never, sir, be sorry to have been in the wrong, when one's errors are pointed out to one in so obliging and masterly a manner. Whatever opi- nion I m.ay have of Shakespeare, i should think him to blame, if he could have seen the letter you have done me the honour to write to me, and yet not conform to the rules you have there laid down. When he lived, there had not been a Voltaire both to give law^s to the stage, and to show on what good sense those laws were founded. Your art, sir, goes still farther : for you have sup- ported your arguments, without having recourse to the best authority, your own works. It was my interest perhaps to defend barbarism and irregularity. A great genius is in the right, on the con- trary, to show that when correctness, nay when perfection is demanded, he can still shine, and be himself, whatever fetters are imposed on him. But I will say no more on this head; for I am neither so unpolished as to tell you to your face how much I admire you./ nor, though I have taken the liberty to vindi- cate Shakespeare against your criti- cisms, am I vain enough to think myself an adversary v.^orthy of you. I am much more proud of receiving laws from you than of contesting them. It was bold in me to dispute with you even be- fore I had the honour of your acquaint- ance ; it would be ungrateful now, when you have not only taken notice of me, but forgiven me. The admirable letter you have been so good as to send me, is a proof that you are one of those truly great and rare men, who know at once how to conquer and to pardon. I have made all the inquiry I could into the story of M. de Jumonville ; and though your and our accounts disagree, I own I do not think, sir, that the 3D2 772 ELEGANT E P I S i L E S. Book IV strongest evidence is in our favour. 1 am told we allow he was killed by a party of our men, going to the Ohio. Your countrymen say, he was going with a flag of truce. The commanding officer of our party said M. de Jumonville was going with hostile intentions ; and that very hostile orders were found after his death in his pocket. Unless that officer had proved that he had previous intelligence of those orders, I doubt he will not be justified by finding them afterwards ; for 1. am not at all disposed to believe that he had the foreknowledge of your hermit, who pitched the old woman's nephew into the river, because ce Jeune homme auroit assassine sa tunte dans un an. I am grieved that such disputes should ever subsist between two nations, who have every thing in themselves to create happiness, and who may find enough in each other to love and ad- mire. It is your benevolence, sir, and your zeal for softening the manners of mankind ; it is the doctrine of peace and amity which you preach, that have raised my esteem for you even more than the brightness of your genius. France may claim you in the latter light, but all nations have a right to call you their countryman du cote du coeur. It is on the strength of that connection that I beg you, sir, to accept the ho- mage of, sir, your most obedient humble servant. LETTER XXXIV. The Honourable Horace Walpole to the Honourable H. S. Conway. Strawberry Hill, Sept. 27, 1774. 1 SHOULD be very ungrateful indeed if I thought of complaining of you, who are goodness itself to me : and when I did not receive letters from you, I concluded it happened from your eccentric posi- tions. I am amazed, that, hurried as you have been, and your eyes and thoughts crowded with objects, you have been able to find time to write me so many and such long letters, over and above all those to lady Ailesbury, your daughter, brother, and other friends. Bven lord Strafford brags of your fre- quent remembrance. That your super- abundance of royal beams would dazzle you, I never suspected. Even I enjoy for you the distinctions you have re- ceived — though I should hate such things for myself, as they are particularly troublesome to me, and I am particularly awkward under them ; and as 1 abhor the king of Prussia, and, if I passed through Berlin, should have no joy like avoiding him — like one of our country- men, who changed horses at Paris, and asked what the name of that town was ? All the other civilities you have received I am perfectly happy in. The Germans are certainly a civil, well-meaning people, and I believe one of the least corrupted nations in Europe. T don't think them very agreeable ; but who do I think are so ? A great many French women, some English men, and a few English v/omen — exceedingly few Frenchmen. Italian women are the grossest, vulgarest of the sex. If an Italian man has a grain of sense, he is a buffoon So much for Europe. I have already told you, and feo must lady Ailesbury, that my courage fails me, ^nd I dare not meet you at Paris. As the period is arrived when the gout used to come, it is never a moment out of my head. Such a suffering, such a helpless condition as I was in for five months and a half two years ago, makes me tremble from head to foot. I should die at once if seized in a French inn ; or what, if possible, would be worse, at Paris, where I must admit every body. I, who you know can hardly bear to see even you when I am ill, and who shut up myself here, and would not let lord and lady Hertford come near me — I, who have my room washed though in bed, how could I bear French dirt? In short, 1, who am so capricious, and whom you are pleased to call a philo- sopher, I suppose because I have given up every thing but my own will — how could I keep my temper, who have no way of keeping my temper but by keeping it out of every body's way ! No, I must give up the satisfaction of being with you at Paris. I have just learnt to give up my pleasures, but I cannot give up my pains, which such selfish people as I, who have suffered much, grow to compose into a system, that they are partial to because it is their own. I must make myself amends when you return : you will be more stationary, 1 hope, for the future ; and if I live I shall have intervals of health. Sect. V. R E C E N T. 773 In lieu of me you will have a charm- ing succedaiieum, lady ******. Her father, who is more a hero than I, is packing- up his decrepit bones, and goes too. I wish she may not have him to nurse, instead of diverting herself. The present state oi your country is, that it is drowned and dead drunk ; all water without and wine within. Oppo- sition for the Qext elections everywhere, even in Scotland ; not from party, but as laying out money to advantage. In the head quarters, indeed, party is not out of the question : the day after to- morrow will be a great bustle in the city for a lord mayor *, and all the winter in Westminster, where lord ^lahon and Humphrey Cotes oppose the court. Lady * * * * is saving her money at Ludlow and Powis castles by keeping open house day and night against sir V/atkin Williams, and fears she shall be kept there till the general election. It has rained this whole month, and we have got another inundation. The Thames is as broad as your Danube, and all my meadows are under water. Lady Browne and I, coming last Sunday night from lady Blandford's, were in a piteous plight. The ferry-boat was turned round by the current, and carried to Isleworth. Then we ran against the piers of our new bridge, and the horses were frightened. Luckily my cicisbea was a catholic, and screamed to so many saints, that some of them at the nearest alehouse came and saved us, or I should have had no more gout, or what I dreaded I should ; for I con- cluded we should be carried ashore somewhere, and be forced to wade through the mud up to my middle. So you see one may wrap one's self up in flannel and be in danger, without visiting all the armies on the face of the globe, and putting the immortality of one's chaise to the proof. I am ashamed of sending you but three sides of smaller paper in answer to seven large — but what can I do ? I see nothing, know nothing, do nothing. My castle is finished, I have nothing new to read, 1 am tired of writing, I have no new or old bit for my printer. I have only black hoods around me ; or, if T go to town, the family party in Grosvenor Street. One trait will give * When Mr. Wilkes was elected. you a sample of how 1 pass my time, and made me laugh, as it put me in mind of you, at least it was a fit of absence, much more likely to have hap- pened to you than to me. I was play- ing at eighteenpenny tredriile with the duchess of Newcastle and lady Browne, and certainly not much interested in the game. I cannot recollect nor conceive what I was thinking of, but I pushed the cards very gravely to the duchess, and said, " Doctor, you are to deal." You may guess at their astonishm.ent, and how much it made us all laugh. I wish it may makoyou smile a moment^ or that I had any thing better to send you. Adieu most affectionately. Yours ever. LETTER XXXV. From the same to the same. Strawberry Hill, Sept. 28, 1774. Lady Ailesbury brings you this, which is not a letter, but a paper of directions, and the counterpfirt of what I have written ^to madame du Delfand. I beg of you seriously to take a great deal of notice of this dear old friend of mine. She will perhaps expect more attention from i/ou, as my friend, and as it is her own nature a little, than will be quite convenient to you : but you have an infinite deal of patience and good nature, and will excuse it. I w^as afraid of her importuning lady Ailesbury, who has a vast deal to see and do, and therefore I have prepared mad. du D. and told her lady Ailesbury loves amusements, and that, having never been at Paris before, she must not confine her : so you must pay for both — and it will answer : and I do not, I o^vn, ask this only for ma- dame du Deffand's sake, but for my own, and a little for yours. Since the late king's death she has not dared to. write to me freely, and 1 want to know the present state of France exactly, both to satisfy my own curiosity, and for her sake, as 1 wish to learn whether her pension, &c is in any danger from the present ministry, some of whom are not her friends. She can tell you a great deal if she will — by that I don't mean that she is reserved, or partial to her own country against ours — quite the contrary ; she loves me better than all 774 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. France together — but she hates poli- tics ; ind therefore, to make her talk on it, you must tell her it is to satisfy me, and that I want to know whether she is well at court, wliether she has any fears from the government, parti- cularly from Maurepas and Nivernois ; and that I am eager to have monsieur de Choiseul and ma grandvinnian the duchess restored to power. If yoo take it oo this foot easily, she will talk to you with the utmost frankness and with amazing' cleverness. I have told her you are strangely absent, and that, if she does not repeat it over and over, you will forget every syllable : so I have prepared her to joke and be quite familiar with you at once. She knows more of personal characters, and paints them better than any body : but let this be between yourselves, for I would not have a living soul suspect that I get any intelligence from her, v/hich would hurt her ; and therefore I beg you not to let any human being know of this letter, nor of your conversations with her, nei- ther English uor French. Mad. du Deffand hates les philosophes, so you must give them up to hes. She and madame Geoffrin are no friends : so, if you go thither, don't tell her of it. Indeed you would be sick of that house, whither all the pretended beaux esprits and faux sgavants go, and where they are very impertinent and dogmatic. Let me give you one other caution, which I shall give lady Ailesbury too. Take care of your papers at Paris, and have a very strong lock to your porte- feuille. In the hotels garnis they have double keys to every lock, and examine ■every drawer and paper of the English that they can get at. They will pilfer too whatever they can. I was robbed of half my clothes there the first time, and they wanted to hang poor Louis to save the people of the house, who had stolen the things. Here is another thing I must say. Madame, du Deffand has kept a great many of my letters, and, as she is YQYj old, I am in pain about them. I have written to her to beg she will deliver them up to you to bring- back to .me, and I trust she will. If she does, be so good to take great care of them. If she does not mention them, tell her just before you come away, that I begged you to bring tlunn ; and if she hesitates, convince her how it would hurt me to have letters written in very bad French, and mentioning several people, both French and English, fall into bad hands and perhaps be printed. Let me desire you to read this letter more than once, that you may not forget my requests, v/hich are very important to me ; and I must give you one other caution, without which all would be useless. There is at Paris a made- moiselle de i'Espinasse, a pretended bel e^^jrit, who was formerly an humble companion of madame du Deffand ; and betrayed her and used her very ill. I beg of you not to let any body carry you thither. It would disoblige my friend of all things in the world, and she would never tell you a syllable ; and I own it would hurt me, who have such infinite obligations to her, that I should be very unhappy, if a particular friend of mine showed her this disregard. She has done every thing upon earth to please and serve me, and I owe it to her to be earnest about this attention. Pray do not mention it ; it might look simple in me, and yet I owe it to her, as I know it would hurt her : and at her age, with her misfortunes, and with infinite obli- gations on my side, can I do too much to show my gratitude, or prevent her any new mortification? I dwell upon it, because she has some enemies so spiteful, that they try to carry all Eng- lish to mademoiselle de I'Espinasse. I wish the duchess of Choiseul may come to Paris while you are there ; but 1 fear she will not : you would like her of all things. She has more sense and more virtues than almost any human being. If you choose to see any of the scavanis, let me recommend monsieur Buffon. He has not only much more sense than any of them, but is an ex- cellent old man, humane, gentle, well- bred, and with none of the arrogant pertness of all the rest. If he is at Paris, you will see a good deal of the comte de Broglie at madame du Def- fand's. lie is not a genius of the first water, but lively and sometimes agree- able. The court, I fear, will be at Fon- tainbieau, which will prevent your see- ing many, unless you go thither. Adieu \ at Paris ! I leave the rest of my paper for England, if I happen to have any thing particular to tell you. Sb«t. V. R E C £ N T. 775 LETTER XXXVI. The Hon. Horace Watpole to Dr. Gem*, xirlington Slreet, April 4, 1776. It is but fair, wheii one quits one^s party, to give notice to those one aban- dons ; at least modern patriots, who often imbibe their principles of honour at Newmarket, use that civility. You and I, dear sir, have often agreed in our po- litical notions ; and you, I fear, will die without changing your opinion. For ray part, I must confess I am totally altered ; and, instead of being a warm partisan of liberty, now admire nothing but despot- ism. You will naturally ask what place I have gotten, or what bribe I have taken? Those are the criterions of po- litical changes in England ; but, as my conversion is of foreign extraction, I shall not be the richer for it. In one word, it is the relation du lit de justice y that has operated the miracle. When two ministers % are found so humane, so virtuous, so excellent, as to study no- thing but the welfare and deliverance of the people ; when a king listens to such excellent men ; and when a parliament, from the basest, most interested motives, interposes to intercept the blessing, must I not change my opinions, and admire arbitrary power ? Or can I retain my sentiments, without varying the object? Yes, sir, I am shocked at the conduct of the parliament — one v/ould think it was an English one ! I am scandalized at the speeches of t\\Q. avocat general^, who ^ets up the odious interests of the nobility and clergy against the cries and groans of the poor, and who employs his wicked eloquence to tempt the good young monarch, by personal views, to sacrifice the mass of his subjects to the privileges of the few. But why do I call it eloquence ? The fumes of inte- rest had so clouded his rhetoric, that he falls into a downright Iricism. He tells the king, that the intended tax on the proprietors of land will affect the pro- perty, not only of the rich but of the * An Engiish physician long settled at Pa- ris, no less esteemed for his professional knowledge than for his kind attention to the poor, who applied to him for medical assist- ance. '\- The first lit de justice held by Louis XVI. X Messrs. de Malesherbes and Turgot. § Monsieur de Seguier. poor. 1 should be glad to know what is the property of the poor? Have the poor landed estates? Are those who have landed estates the poor ? Are the poor, that will suffer by the tax, the wTetched labourers, who are dragged from their famishing families to work on the roads ? But it is wicked eloquence when it finds a reason, or gives a reason for continuing the abuse. The advo- cate tells the king, those abuses are presque consacres par rancitiinete. In- deed he says all that can be said for nobility, it is conmcree par i'ancierw.ete; and thus the length of the pedigree of abuses renders them respectable ! His arguments are as contemptible when he tries to dazzle the king by the great names of Henry Quatre and Sully, of Louis XIV and Colbert, two couple v/hom nothing but a mercenary orator would iiave classed together. Nor, were all four equally venerable, would it prove any thing. Even good kings and good ministers, if such have been, may have erred ; nay, may have done the best they could. They would not have been good if they wished their errors should be preserved the longer they had lasted. In^i^rt, sir, I think this resistance of the parliament to the adorable re- formation planned by Messrs. de Turgot and Malesherbes, is more phlegmatically scandalous than the wildest tyranny of despotism. I forget v/hat the nation was, that refused liberty when it was offered. This opposition to so noble a work is worse. A whole people may refuse its own happiness ; but these pro- fligate magistrates resist happiness for ■others, for millions, for posterity! Nay, do they not half vindicate Maupeou, Avho crushed them? And you, dear sir, will you now chide my apostasy ? Have I not cleared myself to your eyes ? I do not see a shadow of sound logic in all monsieur Seguier's speeches, but in his proposing that the soldiers should work on the roads, and that passengers should contribute to their fabric; though, as France is not so luxuriously mad as Eng- land, I do not believe passengers could support the expense of tlie roads. That argument, therefore, is like another that the avocat proposes to the king, and which, he modestly owns, he believes wotild be impracticable. I beg your pardon, sir, for giving you this long trouble ; but I could not help 776 ELEGANT EPISTLES/ Book IV venting myself, when shocked to find such renegade conduct in a parliament, that I was rejoiced had been restored. Poor human kind ! is it always to breed serpents from its own bowels ? In one country it chooses its representatives, and they sell it and themselves — in others it exalts despots — in another it resists the despot when he consults the good of his people ! Can we v/onder mankind is wretched, when men are such beings ? Parliaments run wild with loyalty, when America is to be enslaved or butchered. They rebel, when their country is to be set free! — 1 am not surprised at the idea of the devil being always at our elbows. They who in- vented him, no doubt could not conceive how men could be so atrocious to one another, without the intervention of a fiend. Don't you think, if he had never been heard of before, that he would have been invented on the late partition of Poland ! Adieu, dear sir ! Yours most sincerely. LETTER XXX VIL The Honourable Horace Walpole to the Rev. Mr. Cole, Strawberry Hill, June 3, 1778. I WILL not dispute with you, dear sir, on patriots and politics. One point is past controversy, that the ministers have ruined this country ; and if the church of England's satisfied with being reconciled to the church of Rome, and thinks it a compensation for the loss of America, and all credit in Europe, she is as silly an old woman as any granny in an almshouse. France is very glad Ave are grown such fools, and soon saw that the presbyterian Dr. Franklin had more sense than our ministers together. She has got over all her prejudices, has expelled the Jesuits, and made the pro- tessant Swiss, Necker, her comptroller general. It is a little woeful, that we are relapsing into the nonsense the rest of Europe is shaking off ; and it is the more deplorable, as we know by re- peated experience, that this country has always been disgraced by Tory adminis- trations. The rubric is the only gainer by them in a few roartyrs. 1 do not know yet what is settled about the spofc of lord Chatham's inter- ment. I am no more an enthusiast to his memory than you. I knew his faults and his defects — yet one fact cannot only not be controverted, but I doubt more remarkable every day. I mean, that under him we attained not only our highest elevation, but the most solid authority in Europe. When the names of Marlborough and Chatham are still pronounced with awe in France, our little cavils make a puny sound. Na- tions that are beaten cannot be mis- taken. I have been looking out for your friend a set of my heads of painters, and find I want six or seven. I think I have some odd ones in town ; if I have not, I will have deficiences supplied from the plates, though I fear they will not be good, as so many have been takeii off. I should be very ungrateful for all your kindnesses, if I neglected any op- portunity of obliging you, dear sir. Indeed our old and unalterable friend- ship is creditable to us both, and very uncommon between two persons who differ so much in their opinions relative to church and state, I believe the rea- son is, that we are both sincere, and never meant to take advantage of our principles, which 1 allow is too common on both sides, and I own too fairly more common on my side of the question than on yours. There is a reason too for that : the honours and emoluments are in the gift of the crown : the nation has no separate treasury to reward its friends. If Mr. Tyrrwhit has opened his eyes to Chatterton's forgeries, there is an in- stance of conviction against strong pre- judice ! I have drawn up an account of my transaction with that marvellous young man ; you shall see it one day or other, but I do not intend to print it. I have taken a thorough dislike to being an author ; and if it would not look like begging you to compliment me, by con- tradicting me, I would tell you, what I am most seriously convinced of, that I find what small share of parts I had, grovv^n dulled — and when I pei'ceive it myself, I may well believe that others would not be less sharpsighted. It is very natural; mine were spirits rather than parts ; and as time has abated the one, it must surely destroy their resem- blance to tile other ; pray don't say a syllable in re|)iy on this head, or I shall have done exactly what I said 1 would Sect. V. RECENT. 777 not do. Besides, as you have always been too partial to me, I am on my guard ; and when 1 will not expose my- self to my enemies, I must not listen to the prejudices of my friends ; and as nobody is more partial to me than you, there is nobody I must trust less in that respect. Yours most sincerely. LETTER XXXVIII. From the same to the same. Strawberry Hill, June 10, 1778. 1 A]vi as impatient and in as much hurry as you was, dear sir, to clear myself from the slightest intention of censuring your politics. I know the sincerity and disinterested goodness of your heart/, and when I must be convinced how little certain we are all of what is truth, it would be very presumptuous to condemn the opinions of any good man, and still less an old and unalterable friend, as I have ever found you. The destruction that violent arbitrary principles have drawn on this blinded country has moved my indignation. We never were a great and happy country till the Revolution. The system of these days tended to overturn and has overturned that esta- blishment, and brought on the disgraces that ever attended the foolish and wicked councils of the house of Stuart. If man is a rational being, he has a right to make use of his reason, and to enjoy his liberty. We, we alone almost had a constitution that every other nation upon earth envied or ought to envy. This is all I contend for. 1 will give you up whatever descriptions of men you please ; that is, the leaders of parties, not the principles. These cannot change, those generally do, when power falls into the hands of them or their party, because men are corruptible, which truth is not. But the more the leaders of a party dedicated to liberty are apt to change, the more I adore the principle, because it shows that extent of power is not to be trusted even with those that are the most sensible of the value of liberty. Man is a domineering animal; and it has not only been my principle, but my practice too, to quit every body at the gate of the palace. I trust we shall not much diifer on these outlines, but we will bid adieu to the subject : it is never an agreeable one to those Who do nofc mean to make a trade of it. **-)«• -x- * * * LETTER XXXIX. The Hon Horace Walpole, to the Earl of Strafford. Strawberry Hill, June 12, 1780. My dear lord. If the late events had been within the common proportion of news, I would have tried to entertain your lordship with an account of them ; but they were far beyond that size, and could only create horror and indignation. Religion has often been the cloak of injustice, outrage, and villany : in our late tu- mults, it scarce kept on its mask a mo- ment; its persecution was downright robbery ; and it was so drunk, that it killed its banditti faster than they could plunder. The tumults have been carried on in so violent and scandalous a man- ner, that I trust they will have no copies. When prisons are levelled to the ground, when the bank is aimed at, and refor- mation is attempted by conflagrations, the savages of Canada are the only fit allies of lord George Gordon and his crew. The Tower is much too dignified a prison for him — but he had left no other. I came out of town on Friday, having seen a good deal of the shocking ti-ans- actions of Wednesday night — in fact it was difficult to be in London and not see, or think some part of it in flames. I saw those of the King's Bench, New Prison, and those on the three sides of the Fleet Market, which united into one blaze. The town and parks are now one camp — the next disagreeable sight to the capital being in ashes. It will still not have been a fatal tragedy, if it brings the nation one and all to their senses. It will still be not quite an un- hajipy country, if we reflect that the old constitution, exactly as it was in the last reign, was the most desirable of any in the universe. It made us then the first people in Europe — we have a vast deal of ground to recover — -but can we take a better path than that which king William pointed out to us ? I mean the system he left us at the revolution. I am averse to all changes of it — it fitted us just as it was. For some time even individuals roust 778 ELEGANT EPISTLES, Book IV. be upon their j^uard. Our new and now imprisoned apostle has delivered so many congenial Saint Peters from jail, that one hears of nothing but robberies on the highway. Your lordship's sister, lady Browne, and I have been at Twick- enham Park this evening, and kept to- gether, and had a horseman at our re- turn. Baron d'Aguilar was shot at in that very lane on Thursday night. A troop of the fugitives had rendezvoused in Combe Wood, and were dislodged thence yesterday by the light horse. I do not know a syllable but what re- lates to these disturbances. The news- papers have neglected few truths. Lies, without their natural propensity to false- hoods, they could not avoid, for every minute produces some, at least exagger- ations. We were threatened with swarms of good protestants a bruler from all quarters, and report sent various detach- ments from the metropolis on similar errands ; but thank God they have been but reports. Oh, when shall we have peace and tranquillity ! I hope your lordship and lady Strafford will at least enjoy the latter in your charming woods. I have long doubted which of our pas- sions is the strongest — perhaps every one of them is equally strong in some person or other — but I have no doubt but ambition is the most detestable, and the most inexcusable ; for its mischiefs are by far the most extensive, and its enjoyments by no means proportioned to its anxieties. The latter, I believe, is the case of most passions ; but then all but ambition cost little pain to any but the possessor. An ambitious man must be divested of all feeling but for himself. The torment of others is his high road to happiness. Were the transmigration of souls true, and accompanied by con- sciousness, how delighted would Alex- ander or Crcesus be to find themselves on four legs, and divested of a wish to conquer new worlds, or to heap up all the wealth of this ! Adieu, my dear lord. LETTER XL. The Hon. Horace JValpole to the Rev. Mr. Cole. Berkeley Square, May 4, 1781. I SHALi/ not only be ready to shew Strawberry Hill, at any time he chooses, to Dr. Farmer, as your friend ; but to be honoured with his acquaintance ; though I am very shy now of contracting new. I have great respect for his cha- racter and abilities, and judicious taste ; and am very clear, that he has elucidated Shakspeare in a more reasonable and satisfactory manner than any of his af- fected commentators, who only compli- mented him with learning that he had not, in order to display their own. Pray give me timely notice whenever I am likely to see Dr. Farmer, that I may not be out of the way, when I can have an opportunity of shewing attention to a friend of yours, and pay a small part of your gratitude to him. There shall be a bed at his service ; for you know Strawberry cannot be seen in a moment ; nor are Englishmen so Hants as to get acquainted in the time they are walking through a house. But now, my good sir, how could you suffer your prejudiced partiality to me to run away with you so extravagantly as to call me one of the greatest charac- ters of the age ? You are too honest to flatter, too much a hermit to be inte- rested, and I am too powerless and in- significant to be an object of court, were you capable of paying it from mercenary views. I know, then, that it could pro- ceed from nothing but the warmth of your heart. But if you are blind to- wards me, I am not so to myself. I know not how others feel on such occa- sions ; but if any one happens to praise me, all my faults rush into my face, and make me turn my eyes inward and out- ward with horror. What am I, but a poor old skeleton tottering towards the 'grave, and conscious of ten thousand weaknesses, follies, and worse ! And for talents, what are mine, but trifling and superficial ; and, compared with those of men of real genius, most dimi- nutive. Mine a great character ! Mercy on me ! I am a composition of Anthony Wood and madame Danois, and I know not what trumpery writers. This is the least I can say to refute your panegyric, which I shall burn presently ; for I will not have such an encomiastic letter found in my possession, lest I should seem to have been pleased with it. 1 enjoin you, as a penance, not to contradict one tittle I have said here ; for I am not begging more compliments, and shall take it Sect. V RECENT. 77» seriously ill if you ever pay me another. We have been friends above forty years ; 1 am satisfied of your sincerity and af- fection ; but does it become us, at past threescore each, to be saying fine things to one another ? Consider how soon we shall both be nothing ! I assure you, with great truth, I am at this present very sick of my little va- pour of fame. My tragedy has wandered into the hands of some banditti book- sellers, and I am forced to ])ublish it myself to prevent piracy. All I can do is to condemn it mvself ; and that I shall. I am reading Mr. Pennant's new Welch tour : he has pleased me by mak- ing very handsome mention of you. But I will not do what I have been blaming. My poor dear madame du Deffand's little dog is arrived. She made me pro- mise to take care of it the last time I saw her ; that I will most religiously, and make it as happy as is possible. I have not much curiosity to see your Cambridge Raphael, but great desire to see you, and will certainly this summer accept your invitation, which I take much kinder than your great character, though both flowed from the same friend- ship. Mine for you is exactly what it has been ever since you knew (and few men can boast so uninterrupted a friend- ship as yours and that of), &c. P. S. 1 have seen the Monthly Review. LETTER XLI. The Hon. Horace Walpole to the Earl of Strafford. Berkeley Square, Nov. 27, 1781. Each fresh mark of your lordship's kind- ness and friendship calls on me for thanks and an answer : every other reason would enjom me silence. I not only grow so old, but the symptoms of age increase so fast, that, as they advise me to keep out of the world, that retirement makes me less fit to be informing or entertain- ing. The philosophers who have sported on the verge of the tomb, or they who have affected to sport in the same situa- tion, both tacitly implied that it was not out of their thoughts : and however dear what we are going to leave may be, all that is not particularly dear must cease to interest us much. If those reflections blend themselves with our gayest thoughts, must not their hue grow more dusty when public misfortunes and dis- graces cast a general shade ? The age, it is true, soon emerges out of every gloom, and wantons as before. But does not that levity imprint a still deeper melancholy on those who do think ? Have any of our calamities corrected us ? Are we not revelling on the brink of the precipice? Does administration grow more sage, or desire that we should grow more sober? Are these themes for letters, my dear lord ? Can one re- peat common news with indifference, while our shame is writing for future history by the pens of all our numerous enemies ? When did England see two whole armies lay down their arms, and surrender themselves prisoners ? Can venal addresses efface such stigmas, that will be recorded in every country in Europe ? Or will such disgraces have no consequences ? Is not America lost to us ? Shall we offer up more human victims to the demon of obstinacy ? and shall we tax ourselves deeper to furnish out the sacrifice ? These are thoughts I cannot stifle at the moment that enforces them ; and though I do not doubt but the same spirit of dissipation, that has swallowed up all our principles, will reign again in three days with its wonted sovereignty, I had rather be silent than vent my indignation. Yet I cannot talk, for I cannot think, on any other subject. It was not six days ago, that in the height of four raging wars I saw in the papers an account of the opera, and of the dresses of the company ; and thence the town, and thence of course the whole nation, were informed, that Mr. F***** had very little powder in his hair. Would not one think that our newspapers were penned by boys just come from school, for the information of their sisters and cousins? Had we had Gazettes and Morning Posts in those days, would they have been filled with such tittle-tattle after the battle of xlgincourfc, or in the more resembling weeks after the battle of Naseby ? Did the French trifle equally even during the ridiculous war of the Fronde? If tfliey were as impertinent then, at least they had wit in their levity. We are monkeys in conduct, and as clumsy as bears when we try to gambol. 780 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. Oh, my lord! I have no patience with my country, and shall leave it without regret ! Can we be proud when all Europe scorns us ? It was wont to envy us, sometimes to hate us, but never de- spised us before. James the First was contemptible, but he did not lose an America I His eldest grandson sold us, his younger lost us — but we kept our- selves. Now we have run to meet the ruin — and it is coming! I beg your lordship's pardon if I have said too much, but I do not believe I have. You have never sold yourself, and, therefore, have not been accessary to our destruction. You must be happy novo not to have a son, who would live to grovel in the dregs of England. Your lordship has long been so wise as to se- cede from the follies of your countrymen. May you and lady StraflTord long enjoy the tranquillity that has been your option even in better days ! and may you amuse yourself without giving loose to such re- flections as have overflowed in this letter from your devoted humble servant. LETTER XLII. The Hon. Horace Walpole to the Earl of Strafford, Strawberry Hill, Aug. 1, 17S3. It would be great happiness indeed to me, my dear lord, if such nothings as my letters could contribute to any part of your lordship's ; but as your own partiality bestows their chief merit on them, you see they owe more to your friendship than to the writer. It is not my interest to depreciate them ; much less to undermine the foundation of their sole worth. Yet it would be dishonest not to warn your lordship, that if my letters have had any intrinsic recom- mendation, they must lose of it every day. Years aild frequent returns of gout have made a ruin of me. Dulness, in the form of indolence, grows upon me. I am inactive, lifeless, and so indifferent to most things, that I neither inquire after nor remember any topics that might enliven my letters. Nothing is so insipid as my way of passing my time. But I need not specify what my letters speak : they can have no spirit left, and would be perfectly inanimate, if attach- ment and gratitude to your lordship were as liable to be extinguished by old age as our more amusing qualities. I make no new connections ; but cherish those that remain with all the warmth of youth and the piety of grey hairs. The weather here has been, and is, with very few intervals, sultry to this moment. I think it has been of service to me ; though by overheating myself I had a few days of lameness. The har- vest is half over already all round us, and so pure, that not a poppy or corn- flower is to be seen. Every field seems to have been weeded, like B ^ * ^ * *'s bowling-green. If Ceres, Avho is at least as old as many of our fashionable ladies, loves tricking herself out in flowers as they do, she must be morti- fied ; and with more reason, for she looks well always Avith top-knots of ul- tramarine and vermilion, which modern goddesses do not for half so long ab they think they do. As Providence showers so many blessings on us, I wish the peace may confirm them. Ne- cessary I am sure it was ; and when it cannot restore us, where should we have been had the war continued? Of our situation and prospect I confess my opi- nion is melancholy ; not from present politics but from past. We flung away the most brilliant position ; I doubt for a long season. With politics I have to- tally done. I wish the present ministers may last, for I think better of their principles than of those of their oppo- nents (with a few salvos on both sides), and so I do of their abilities. But it would be folly in me to concern myself about new generations : how little a way can I see of their progress ! I am rather surprised at the new countess of *****. How could a woman be ambitious of resembling Pro- metheus, to be pawed, and clawed, and gnawed by a vulture ? 1 beg your earl- dom's pardon, but I could not conceive that a coronet was so very tempting ! Lady Browne is quite recovered — unless she relapses from what we suffer at Twickenham Park, from a lord N * * * *, an old seaman, who is come to Richmond on a visit to the duke of Montrose. I think the poor man must be out of his senses — at least he talks us out of ours. It is the most incessant and incoherent rhapsody that ever was heard. He sits by the card-table, and pours on Mrs. N ^ * * * all that ever Sect. V RECENT. 781 happened in his voyages or his memory. He details the ship's allowance, and talks to her as if she were his first mate. Then in t]ie mornings he carries his daughter to town to see St. Paul's, and the Tower, and Westminster Abbey ; and at night disgorges all he has seen ; till we don't know the ace of spades from queen Elizabeth's pocket pistol in the armoury. Mercy on us ! and mercy on your lordship too ! Why should you be stunned with that alarum? Have you had your earthquake, my lord ? Many have had theirs. I assure you I have had mine. Above a week ago, when broad awake, the doors of the cabinet by my bedside rattled, without a breath of wind. I imagined somebody was walking on the leads, or had broken into the room under me. It was between four and five in the morning. I rang my bell. Before my servant could come it happened again, and was exactly like the horizontal tremor I felt from the earthquake some years ago. As I had rung once, it is plain I was awake. I rang again, but heard nothing more. I am quite persuaded there was some com- motion ; nor is it surprising, that the dreadful eruptions of fire on the coasts of Italy and Sicily should have occasioned some alteration, that has extended faintly hither, and contributed to the heats and mists that have been so extraordinary. George Montagu said of our last earth- quake, that it was so tame you might have stroked it. It is comfortable to live where one can reason on them with- out dreading them. What satisfaction should you have in having erected such a monument of your taste, my lord, as Wentworth Castle, if you did not know but it might be overturned in a moment and crush you? Sir William Hamilton is expected ; he has been groping in all these devastations. Of all vocations I would not be a professpr of earthquakes. I prefer studies that are couleur de rose; nor would ever think of calamities, if I can do nothing to relieve them. Yet this is a weakness of mind that I do not defend. They are more respectable, who can behold philosophically the great the- atre of events — or rather this little the- atre of ours ! In some ampler sphere, they may look on the catastrophe of Messina as we do on kicking to pieces an ant-hiU. Bless me ! what a farrago is my let- ter! It is like the extracts of books in a monthly magazine — I had no right to censure poor lord N * * * *'s ramblings. Lady Strafford will think he has infected me. Good night, my dear lord and lady. Your ever devoted. LETTER XLIII. The Hon. Horace Walpole to Mr. Pink- er tern*. March, J 7, 1785. I AM much obliged to you, sir, for the many civil and kind expressions in your letter, and for the friendly information you give me. Partiality, I fear, dictated the former ; but the last I can only ascribe to the goodness of your heart. I have published nothing of any size but the pieces you mention, and one or two small tracts, now out of print and forgotten. The rest have been prefaces to some of my Strawberry editions, and to a few other publications, and some fugitive pieces, which I reprinted seve- ral years ago in a small volume, and which shall be at your service with the Catalogue of Noble Authors. With regard to the bookseller who has taken the trouble to collect my writings (amongst which I do not doubt but he will generously bestow on me many that I did not write, according to the lauda- ble practice of such compilers), and who also intends to write my life, to which, as ] never did any thing worth the notice of the public, he must likewise be a volunteer contributor, it would be vain for me to endeavour to prevent such a design. Whoever has been so unadvised as to throw himself on the public, must pay such a tax in a pamphlet or a maga- zine when he dies ; but happily the in- sects that prey on carrion are still more short-lived than the carcasses were from which they draw temporary nutriment. Those momentary abortions live but a day, and are thrust aside like embryos. Literary characters, when not illustrious, are known only to a few literary men, and, amidst the world of books, few readers can come to my share. Print- ing, that secures existence (in libraries) to indifferent authors of any bulk, is like * The author of an Essay on Medals, and the History of Scotland from the A(;cession of the House of Stuart to that of Mary, &c, &c. 782 E L E G A N T E P I S T L E S. Book IV. those cases of Egyptian mummies which in catacombs preserve bodies of one knows not whom, and which are scrib- bled over with characters that nobody attempts to read, till nobody under- stands the language in Avhich they were written. I believe, therefore, it will be most wise to swim for a moment on the pass- ing current, secure that it will soon hurry me into the ocean where all things are forgotten. To appoint a biographer is to bespeak a panegyric ; and 1 doubt whether they who collect their works for the public, and, like me, are conscious of no intrinsic worth, do not beg man- kind to accept of talents (whatever they were) in lieu of virtues. To anticipate spurious publications by a comprehensive and authentic one, is almost as great an evil. It is giving a body to scattered atoms ; and such an act, in one's old age, is declaring a fondness for the in- discretions of youth, or for trifles of an age, which, though more mature, is only the less excusable. It is most true, sir, that so far from being prejudiced in fa- vour of my own writings, I am persuaded that, had I thought early as I think now, I should never have appeared as an au- thor. Age, frequent illness, and pain, have given me many hours of reflection in the intervals of the latter, which, be- sides shewing me the inutility of all our little views, have suggested an observa- tion that I love to encourage in myself, from the rationality of it. I have learnt and have practised the mortifying- task of comparing myself with great authors, and that comparison has annihilated all the flattery that self-love could suggest. I know how trifling my own writings are, and how far below the standard that constitutes excellence ; for the shades that distinguish the degrees of medio- crity, they are not worth discrimination ; and he must be humble, or easily satis- fied, who can be content to glimmer for a moment a little more than his brethren glow-worms. Mine therefore, you find, sir, is not humility, but pride. When young, I wished for fame ; not examin- ing whether I was capable of attaining it, nor considering in what light fame was desirable. There are two sorts of honest fame— that attendant on the truly great, and that better kind which is due to the good. I fear I did not aim at the latter, nor discovered that 1 could never compass the former. Having neglected the best road, and having, instead of the other, strolled into a narrow path that led to no goal worth seeking, I see the idleness of my journey, and hold it more graceful to abandon my wanderings to chance or oblivion, than to mark solici- tude for trifles, which I think so myself. 1 beg your pardon for talking so much about myself; but an answer was due to the unmerited attention you have paid to my writings. I turn with more pleasure to speak on yours. Forgive me if I shall blame you, whether you either abandon your intention*, or are too im^ patient to finish it. Your preface proves that you are capable of treating the sub- ject ably ; but allow me to repeat, that it is a kind of subject that ought not to be executed impetuously. A mere reca- pitulation of authenticated facts would be dry. A more enlarged plan would demand acquaintance with the charac- ters of the actors, and with the probable sources of measures. The age is accus- tomed to details and anecdotes ; and the age immediately preceding his own is less known to any man than the history of any other period. You are young enough, sir, to collect information on many particulars that will occur in your progress, from living actors, at least from their contemporaries ; and great as your ardour may be, you will find yourself de- layed by the want of materials and by further necessary inquiries. As you have variety of talents, why should you not exercise them on works that will admit of more rapidity, and, at the same time, at leisure moments, commence, digest, and enrich your plan, by collecting new matter for it ? In one word, I have too much zeal for your credit, not to dissuade precipitation in a work of the kind you meditate. That I speak sincerely and without flat- tery, you are sure, as accident, not de- sign, made you acquainted with my ad- miration of your tract on medals. If I wish to delay your history, it must be that it may appear with more advan- tages ; and I must speak disinterestedly, as my age will not allow me to hope to see it, if not finished soon. I should not forgive myself if I turned you from pro- secution of your work ; but as I am sure my writings can have given you no opi- * Of writing a History of the Reign af George II. Sect. V. R E C E N T. 7S3 nion of my having sound and deep judg"- ment, pray foliow your own, and allow no merit but that of sincerity and zeal to the sentiments of your obliged and obe- dient humble servant. LETTER XLIV. The Hon. Horace Walpole to the Earl of Strafford. Strawberry Hill, An.u;ust 29, 1786. Since I received the honour of your lord- ship's last, I have been at Park Place for a few days. Lord and lady Frederick Campbell and Mrs. Darner were there. We went on the Thames to see the new bridge at Henley, and Mrs. Damer's co- lossal masks. There is not a sight in the island more worthy of being visited. The bridge is as perfect as if bridges were natural productions, and as beauti- ful as if it had been built for Wentworth Castle ; and the masks as if the Romans had left them here. We saw them in a fortunate moment ; for the rest of the time was very cold and uncomfortable, and the evenings as chill as many we have had lately. In short, I am come to think that the beginning of an old ditty, which passes for a collection of blunders, was really an old English pastoral, it is so descriptive of our cli- mate : — Three children sliding on the ice, All on a summer's day I have been overwhelmed more than ever by visitants to my house. Yester- day I had couiit Oghinski, who was a pretender to the crown of Poland at the last election, and has been stripped of mostof avast estate. He had on a ring of the new king of Prussia, or 1 should have wished him joy on the death of one of the plunderers of his country. It has long been my opinion, that the out-pensioners of Bedlam are so nume- rous, that the shortest and cheapest way would be to confine in Moorfields the few that remain in their senses, who would then be safe ; and let the rest go at large. They are the out-pensioners who are for destroying poor dogs ! The whole canine race never did half so much mischief as lord George Gordon ; nor even worry hares, but when hallooed on by men. As it is a persecution of ani- mals, I do not love hunting ; and what old writers mention as a commendation makes me hate it the more, its being an image of war. Mercy on us ! that de- struction of any species should be a sport or a merit ! What cruel, unre- flecting imps we are ! Every body is unwilling to die, yet sacrifices the lives of others to momentary pastime, or to the still emptier vapour, fame ! A hero or a sportsman who wishes for longer life is desirous of prolonging devastation. We shall be crammed, I suppose, with panegyrics and epitaphs on the king of Prussia. 1 am content that he can now have an epitaph. But, alas! the emperor will write one for him probably in blood! and, while he shuts up con- vents for the sake of population, will be stuffing hospitals with maimed soldiers, besides making thousands of widows ! I have just been reading a new pub- lished history of the colleges in Oxford, by Anthony Wood, and there found a feature in a character that always of- fended me, that of archbishop Chicheley, who prompted Henry V. to the invasion of France, to divert him from squeezing the overgrown clergy. When that priest meditated founding All Souls, and " con- sulted his friends (who seem to have been honest men) what great matter of piety he had best perform to God in his old age, he was advised by them to build an hospital for the wounded and sick sol- diers, that daily returned from the wars then had in France ;" — J doubt his grace's friends thought as I do of his artifice — " but," continues the historian, " dislik- ing those motions, and valuing the welfare of the deceased more than the wounded and diseased, he resolved with himself to promote his design, which was, to have masses said for the king, queen, and himself, &c. while living, and for their souls when dead." And that mum- mery the old foolish rogue thought more efficacious than ointments and medicines for the wretches he had made ! And of the chaplains and clerks he instituted in that dormitory, one was to teach gram- mar, and another, prick-song. How history makes one shudder and laugh by turns ! But I fear I have wearied your lordship with my idle declamation, and you will repent having commanded me to send you more letters ; and I can only plead that I am your (perhaps too) obe- dient humble servant. 784 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETFER XLV. The Hon. Horace Walpoleto Lady Craven. Berkeley Square, Dec. 11, 1788. It is agreeable to your ladyship's usual pfoodness to honour me with another let- ter — and I may say to your equity too, after I had proved to monsieur Mercier, by the list of dates of my letters, that it was not mine but the post's fault, that you did not receive one that I had the honour of writing" to you above a year ago. Not, madam, that I could wonder if you had the prudence to drop a corre- spondence with an old superannuated man, who, conscious of his decay, has had the decency of not troubling with his dotages persons of not near your ladyship's youth and vivacity. I have long been of opinion that few persons know when to die ; I am not so English as to mean when to dispatch themselves — no, but when to go out of the world. I have usually applied this opinion to those who have made a considerable figure, and consequently it was not adapt- ed to myself. Yet even we cyphers ought not to fatigue the public scene when we are become lumber. Thus, being quite out of the question, I will explain my maxim, which is the more wholesome, the higher it is addressed. My opinion, then, is, that when any personage has shewn as much as is possible in his or her best walk (and, not to repeat both genders every minute, I will use the male as the common of the two), he should take up his Strulbrugism, and be heard of no more. Instances will be still more explanatory. Voltaire ought to have pretended to die after Alzire, Mahomet, and Semiramis, and not to have produced his wretched last pieces. Lord Chatham should have closed his political career with his immortal war. And how weak was Garrick, when he had quitted the stage, to limp after the tatters of fame, by writing and reading pitiful poems, and even by sitting to read plays which he had acted with such fire and energy? We have another example in Mr. Anstey ; who, if he had a friend upon earth, would have been obliged to him for being knocked on the head the mo- ment he had published the first edition of the Bath Guide ; for even in the second he had exhausted his whole stock of in- spiration, and has never written any thing tolerable since. When such unequal au- thors print their works together, one may apply hi a new light the old hacked simile of Mezentius, who tied together the living and the dead. We have just received the works of an author, from whom 1 find I am to re- ceive much less entertainment than I expected, because I shall have much less to read tlian I intended. His memoirs, I am told, are almost wholly military, which, therefore, T shall not read ; and his poetry, I am sure, I shall not look at, because I should understand it. What I saw of it formerly convinced me, that he would not have been a poet, even if he had written in his own language ; and, though I do not understand Ger- man, I am told it is a fine language ; and 1 can easily believe that any tongue (not excepting our old barbarous Saxon, which, a bit of an antiquary as 1 am, I abhor) is more harmonious than French. It was curious absurdity, therefore, to pitch on the most unpoetic language in Europe, the most barren, and the most clogged with difficulties. I have heard Russian and Polish sung, and both sounded musical ; but to abandon one's own tongue, and not adopt Italian, that is even sweeter, and softer, and more copious than the Latin, was a want of taste that I should think could not be applauded even by a Frenchman born in Provence. But what a language is the French, which measures verses by feet that never are to be pronounced, which is the case wherever the mute e is found ! What poverty of various sounds for rhyme, when, lest similar cadences should too often occur, their mechanic bards are obliged to marry masculine and feminine terminations as alternately as the black and white squares of a chess-board ! Nay, will you believe me, madam? — yes, you will; for you may convince your own eyes, that a scene of Zaire begins with three of the most nasal adverbs that ever snorted together in a breath. Enjin, done, deformais, are the culprits in question. Enfin done, need I tell your ladyship, that the author I alluded to at the beginning of this long tirade is the late king of Prussia. I am conscious that I have taken a little liberty when I excommunicate a tongue in which your ladyship has con- descended to write ; but I only condemn it for verse and pieces of eloquence, of Sect. V. RECENT. 785 which I thought it alike incapabk^, till I read Rousseau of Geneva. It is a most sociable language, and charming for nar- rative and epistles. Yet, write as well as you will in it, you must be liable to express yourself better in the speech natural to you ; and your own country has a right to understand all your works, and is jealous of their not being as per- fect as you could make them. Is it not more creditable to be translated into a foreign language than into your own ? and will it not vex you to hear the trans- lation taken for the original, and to find vulgarisms that you could not have com- mitted yourself? But I have done, and will release you, madam ; only observ- ing, that you flatter me with a vain hope when you tell me you shall return to England some time or other. Where will that time be for me? — and, when it arrives, shall not I be somewhere else ? 1 do not pretend to send your lady- ship English news, nor to tell you of English literature. You must, before this time, have heard of the dismal state into which our chief personage is fallen ! That consideration absorbs all others. The two houses are going to settle some intermediate succedaneum, and tlie ob- vious one, no doubt, will be fixed on. This letter, I hope, will be more for- tunate than my last. 1 should be very unhappy to seem again ungrateful, when I have the honour of being, with the greatest respect, madam, &c. &c. LETTER XLVI. Tlie Earl of Orford to Mrs. H. More. Berkeley Square, Jan. \, 1792. My much-esteemed friend, I HAVE not so long delayed answering your letter from the pitiful revenge of recollecting how long your pen is fetch- ing breath before it replies to mine. Oh ! no ; you know 1 love to lieap coals of kindness on your head, and to draw you into little sins, that you may forgive yourself, by knowing your time Vvas em- ployed on big virtues. On the contrary, you would be revenged ; for here have you, according to ^owr notions, inv^eigled me into the fracture of a commandment ; for I am writing to you on a Sundaj/^ being the first moment of leisure that I have had since I received your letter. It does not, indeed, clash with my religious ideas, as I hold paying one's debts as good a deed as praying and reading sermons for a whole day in every week, when it is impossible to fix the attention to one course of thinking for so many hours for fifty-two days in every year. Thus, you see, T can preach too. But seriously — and indeed I am little disposed to cheer- fulness now — I am overwhelmed with troubles and with business — and busi- ness that I do not understand. Law, and the management of a ruined estate, are subjects ill suited to a head, that never studied any thing that in worldly language is called useful. The tran- quillity of my remnant of life will be lost, or so perpetually interrupted, that I expect little comfort; not that 1 am already intending to grow rich, but the moment one is supposed so, there are so many alert to turn one to their own account, that I have more letters to write to satisfy, or rather to dissatisfy them, than about my own affairs, though the latter are all confusion. I have such missives, on agriculture, pretensions to livings, offers of taking care of my game, as I am incapable of it, self-recommend- ations of making my robes, and round hints of taking out my writ, that at least I may name a proxy, and give my dor- mant conscience to somebody or other ! I trust you think better of my heart and understanding than to suppose that I have listened to any one of these new friends. Yet, though I have negatived all, I have been forced to answer some of them before yoa ; and that will con- vince you how cruelly ill I have passed my time lately, besides having been made ill Avith vexation and fatigue. But I am tolerably well again. For the other empty metamor})hosTS that has happened to the outward man*, you do me justice in concluding that it can do nothing but tease me ; it is being called names in one's old age. I had rather be my lord mayor, for then I should keep the nickname but a year, and mine I may retain a little longer; not that at seventy-five 1 reckon on Ije- coming my lord Methusalem. Vainer, however, I believe I am al- ready become ; for 1 have wasted almost 5^ His accession to his title. This is the last letter but one signed Horace Walpole ; and that one follows it, being without date or other internal evidence of the time it was written. 3E 78a ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. two pages about myself, and said not a tittle about your health, which I most cordially rejoice to hear you are recover- ing) and as fervently hope you will en- tirely recover. I have the highest opi- nion of the element of water as a constant beverage, having so deep a conviction of the goodness and wisdom of Providence, that I am persuaded, that when it in- dulged us in such a luxurious variety of eatables, and gave us but one drinkable, it intended that our sole liquid should be both wholesome and corrective. Your system, I know, is different. You hold that mutton and water were the only cock and hen that were designed for our nou- rishment ; but I am apt to doubt whether draughts of water for six weeks are ca- pable of restoring health, though some are strongly impregnated with mineral and i)ther particles. Yet you have stag- gered me : the Bath water, by your ac- count, is like electricity, compounded of contradictory qualities ; the one attracts and repels ; the other turns a shilling yellow, and whitens your jaundice. I shall hope to see you (when is that to be?) without alloy. I must finish, wishing you three hun- dred and thirteen days of happiness for the new year that is arrived this morn- ing; the fifty -two that you hold in commendam, I have no doubt, will be rewarded as suet good intentions de- serve. Adieu, my too good friend ! My di- rection shall talk superciliously to the postman * : but do let me continue, un- changeably, your faithful and sincere, &c. LETTER XLVIL The Earl of Orford to the Hon, H. S. Conway. Strawberry Hill, June 13, 1793. I THANK you much for all your informa- tion — some parts made me smile : yet, if what you heard of **** proves true, I rather think it deplorable ! How can love of money, or the still vainer of all vanities, ambition of wearing a high but most insignificant office, which even poor lord **^*** could execute, tempt a very old man, who loves his ease and his own * He means franking his letter by his newly acquired title of earl of Orford. way, to stoop to wait like a footman l>e- hind a chair, for hours, and in a court whence he had been cast ignominiously ? 1 believe I have more pride than most men alive : I could be flattered by ho- nours acquired by merit, or by some singular action of eclat ; but for titles, ribbands, offices of no business, which any body can fill, and must be given to many, I should just as soon be proud of being the top 'squire in a country village. It is only worse to have waded to distinction through dirt, like lord All this shifting of scenes may, as you say, be food to the Fronde — Sed defendit numerus. It is perfectly ridiculous to use any distinction of parties but the ins and the outs. Many years ago I thought that the wisest appellations for contend- ing factions, ever assumed, were those in the Roman empire, who called them- selves the greens and the blues : it was so easy, when they changed sides, to slide from one colour to the other — and then a blue might plead that he had never been true blue, but always a greenish blue ; and vice versa. I allow that the steadiest party man may be staggered by novel and unfore- seen circumstances. The outrageous proceedings of the French republicans have wounded the cause of liberty, and will, I fear, have shaken it for centuries ; for Condorcet, and such fiends, are worse than the imperial and royal dividers of Poland. But I do not see why detesta- tion of anarchy and assassination must immediately make one fall in love with garters and seals. I am sitting by the fire, as I have done ever since I came hither ; and, since I do not expect warm weather in June, I am wishing for rain, or I shall not have a mouthful of hay, nor a noseful of roses. Indeed, as I have seen several fields of hay cut, I wonder it has not brought rain, as usual. My creed is, that rain is good for hay, as I conclude every cli- mate and its productions are suited to each other. Providence did not trouble itself about its being more expensive to us to make our hay over and over ; it only took care it should not want water enough. Adieu ! Sect. V RECENT. 787 LETl^ER XLVIII. The Earl of Orford to Wni. Roscoe, Esq. Berkeley Square, April 4, 1195. To judge of my satisfaction and grati- tude, on receiving the very acceptable present of your book *, sir, you should have known my extreme impatience for it from the instant Mr. Edwards had kindly favoured me with the first chap- ters. You may consequently conceive the mortification I felt at not being able to thank you immediately, both for the volume and the obliging letter that ac- companied it, by my right arm and hand being swelled, and rendered quite im- moveable and useless, of which you will perceive the remains, if you can read these lines which I am forcing myself to write, not without pain, the first moment I have power to hold a pen ; and it will cost me some time, I believe, before I can finish my whole letter, earnest as I am, sir, to give a loose to my gratitude. If you ever had the pleasure of read- ing such a delightful book as your own, imagine, sir, what a comfort it must be to receive such an anodyne in the midst of a fit of the gout, that has already lasted above nine weeks, and which at first I thought might carry me to Lo- renzo de Medici, before he should come to me ! The complete volume has more than answered the expectations which the sample had raised. The Grecian sim- plicity of the style is preserved through- out ; the same judicious candour reigns in every page; and, without allowing yourself that liberty of indulging your own bias towards good or against crimi- nal characters, which over-rigid critics prohibit, your artful candour compels your readers to think with you, without seeming to take a part yourself. You have shown, from his own virtues, abi- lities, and heroic spirit, why Lorenzo deserved to have Mr. Roscoe for his bio- grapher. And since you have been so, sir (for he was not completely known before, at least not out of Italy), I shall be extremely mistaken if he is not hence- forth allowed to be, in various lights, one of the most excellent and greatest men with whom we are well acquainted, espe- cially if we reflect on the shortness of * The Life of Lorenzo de Medici. his life, and the narrow sphere in which he had to act. Perhaps 1 ought to blame my own ignorance, that I did not know Lorenzo as a beautiful poet : I confess I did not. Now I do, 1 own I admire some of his sonnets more than several — yes, even of Petrarch ; for Lorenzo's are frequently more clear, less alembiques, and not inharmonious, as Petrarch's often are, from being too crowded with words, for which room is made by nu- merous elisions, which prevent the soft- ening alternacy of vowels and consonants. That thicket of words was occasioned by the embarrassing nature of the sonnet — a form of composition I do not love, and which is almost intolerable in any lan- guage but Italian, whicli furnishes such a profusion of rhymes. To our tongue the sonnet is mortal, and the parent of insipidity. The imitation in some degree of it was extremely noxious to a true poet, our Spenser ; and he was the more injudicious, by lengthening his stanza, in a language so barren of rhymes as ours, and in which several words, whose ter- minations are of similar sounds, are so rugged, uncouth, and unmusical. The consequence was, that many lines which he forced into the service, to complete the quota of his stanza, are unmeaning, or silly, or tending to weaken the thought he would express. Well, sir, but if you have led me to admire the compositions of Lorenzo, you have made me intimate with another poet of whom I had never heard, nor had the least suspicion ; and who, though writ- ing in a less harmonious language than. Italian, outshines an able master of that country, as may be estimated by the fair- est of all comparisons, which is, when one of each nation versifies the same ideas and thoughts. That novel poet I boldly pronounce is Mr. Roscoe. Several of his translations of Lorenzo are superior to the originals, and the verses more poetic ; nor am I bribed to give this opinion by the pre- sent of your book, nor by any partiality, nor by the surprise of finding so pure a writer of history as able a poet. Some good judges to whom I have shewn your translations entirely agree with me. I will name one most competent judge, Mr. Hoole, so admirable a poet himself, and such a critic in Italian, as he has proved by a'translation'^of Ariosto. That I am not flattering you, sir, 1 3E2 788 E L E G A N T EPISTLE S. Book IV. will demonstrate ; for I am not satisfied with one essential line in your version of the most beautiful, I think, of all Lo- renzo's stanzas. It is his description of jealousy, in page 268, equal, in my hum- ble opinion, to Dryden's delineations of the passions, and the last line of which is — » Mai dorme, ed ostinata a se sol crede. The thought to me is quite new, and your translation, I own, does not come up to it. Mr. Hoole and I hammered at it, but could not content ourselves. Perhaps, by altering your last couplet, you may enclose the whole sense, and make it equal to the preceding six. I will not ask your pardon, sir, for taking so much liberty with you. You have displayed so much candour and so much modesty, and are so free from pre- tensions, that I am confident you will allow, that truth is the sole ingredient that ought to compose deserved incense ; and if ever commendation was sincere, no praise ever flowed with purer veracity than all I have said in this letter does from the heart of, sir, your infinitely obliged humble servant. LETTER XLIX. The Earl of Orford to the Countess Qf * * * *^ Jan. 13, 1797. My dear madam. You distress me infinitely by shewing my idle notes, which I cannot conceive can amuse any body. My old-fashioned breeding impels me every now and then to reply to the letters you honour me with writing ; but in truth very unwil- lingly, for 1 seldom can have any thing particular to say ; I scarce go out of my own house, and then only to two or three very private places, where 1 see nobody that really knows any thing— and what I learn comes from newspapers, that collect intelligence from coffee-houses — consequently, what I neither believe nor report. At home I see only a few cha- ritable elders, except about fourscore nephews and nieces of various ages, who are each brought to me once a year, to stare at me as the Methusalem of the family; and they can only speak of their own contemporaries, which interest me no more than if they talked of their dolls, or bats and balls. Must not the result of all this, madam, make me a very entertaining correspondent? — and can such letters be worth shewing ? — or can I have any spirit, when so old and reduced, to dictate? Oh, my good madam, dispense with me from such a task, and think how it must add to it to apprehend such letters being shewn. Pray send me no more such laurels, which I desire no more than their leaves when decked with a scrap of tinsel, and stuck on twelfth-cakes, that lie on the shopboards of pastry-cooks at Christmas. I shall be quite content with a sprig of rosemary thrown after me, when the par- son of the parish commits my dust to dust*. Till then, pray, madam, accept the resignation of your ancient servant. FROai THE LETTERS OF DR. FRANKLIN. LETTER L. Dr. Franklin to George Whitfield \. Sir, Philadelphia, June 6, 1753. I RECEIVED your kind letter of the 2d instant, and am glad to hear that you increase in strength. I hope you will continue mending till you recover your former health and firmness. Let me know whether you still use the cold bath, and what effect it has. As to the kindness you mention, I wish it could have been of more service to you |. But if it had, the only thanks 1 should desire is, that you would always be equally ready to serve any other per- ^ son that may need your assistance, and so let good offices go round, for mankind are all of a family. For my own part, when I am employed in serving others, I do not look upon myself as conferring favours, but as pay- ing debts. In my travels, and since * Lord Orford died in little more than six weeks after the date of this letter. -f- One of the founders of the Methodists. X Dr. Franklin had relieved Mr. WhitBeld in a paralytic case, by the application of elec- tricity. Sect. V. R E C E N T. my settlement, I liave received much kindness from men, to wliom I shall never have any opportunity of making the least direct return ; and numberless mercies from God, who is infinitely above being- benefited by our services. Those kindnesL^es from men I can therefore only return on their fellow-men ; and I can only shew my gratitude for these mercies from God by a readiness to help his other children, and my brethren. For I do not think that thanks and compli- ments, though repeated weekly, can dis- charge our real obligations to each other, and much less those to our Creator. You will see in this my notion of good works, that I am far from expecting to merit heaven by them. By heaven we un- derstand a state of happiness, infinite in degree and eternal in duration : I can do nothing to deserve such rewards. He that for giving a drauglit of water to a thirsty person should expect to be paid with a good plantation, would be modest in his demands, compared with those, who think they deserve heaven for the little good they do on earth. Even the mixed, imperfect pleasures we enjoy in this world are rather from God's good- ness than our merit ; how much more such happiness of heaven ! The faith you mention has certainly its use in the world : I do not desire to see it diminished, nor would I endeavour to lessen it in any man. But I wish it were more productive of good works than I have generally seen it : I mean real good works ; works of kindness, charity, mercy, and public spirit ; not holiday- keeping, sermon -reading, or hearing ; performing church ceremonies or making long prayers, filled with flat- teries and compliments, despised even by wise men, and much less capable of pleasing the Deity. The worship of God is a duty ; the hearing and reading of sermons are useful ; but if men rest in hearing and praying, as too many do, it is as if a tree should value itself on being watered and putting forth leaves, though it never produced any fruit. Your great Master thought much less of these outward appearances and pro- fessions than many of his modern dis- ciples. He preferred the doers of the word to the mere hearers; the son, that seemingly refused to obey his father, and yet performed his commands, to him that professed his readiness but neglected the work ; the Jieretical but charitable Samaritan, to the uncharitable though orthodox priest and sanctified Levite ; and those who gave food to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, raiment to the na- ked, entertainment to the stranger, and relief to the sick, though they never heard of his name, he declares shall in the last day be accepted ; when those who cry Lord ! Lord ! who value them- selves upon their faith, though great enough to perform miracles, but have neglected good works, shall be rejected. He professed that he came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance ; which implied his modest opinion, that there were some in his time who thought themselves so good, that they need not hear even him for improvement ; but now-a-days we have scarce a little par- son that does not tliink it the duty of every man witliin h-s reach to sit under his petty ministrations, and that who- ever omits them offends God. I wish to such more humility, and to you health and happiness, being your friend and servant. LETTER LL Dr. Franklin to Miss Stevenson at Wanstead. Craven Street, May 16, 1760. I SEND my good girl the books I men- tioned to her last night. I beg her to accept of them as a small mark of my esteem and friendship. They are writ- ten in the familiar, easy manner for w^hich the French are so remarkable ; and afi'ord a good deal of philosophic and practical knowledge, unembarrassed with the dry mathematics, used by more exact reasoners, but which is apt to dis- courage young beginners. I would advise you to read with a pen in your hand, and enter in a little book short hints of what you find that is cu- rious, or that may be useful ; for this will be the best method of imprinting such particulars in your memory, where they will be ready, either for practice on some future occasion, if they are matters of utility, or at least to adorn and improve your conversation, if they are rather points of curiosity. And as many of the terms of science are such as you cannot have met with in your 790 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Hook IV. common reading, aiKl may therefore be unacquainted with, 1 think it would be well for you to have a good dictionary at hand, to consult immediately when you meet with a word you do not compre- hend the precise meaning of. This may at first seem troublesome and interrupt- ing ; but it is a trouble that will daily diminish, as you will daily find less and less occasion for your dictionary, as you become more acquainted with the terms ; and in the mean time you will read with more satisfaction, because with more understanding. When any point occurs, in which you would be glad to have far- ther information than your book aflfords you, I beg you would not in the least apprehend, that I should think it a trouble to receive and answer your ques- tions. Tt will be a jdeasure, and no trouble. For though I may not be able, out of my own little stock of knowledge, to afford you what you require, I can easily direct you to the books where it may most readily be found. Adieu, and believe me ever, my dear friend, yours affectionately. LETTER LIL Dr. franklin to John Alleyne, Esq, Craven Street, August 9, 1768. Dear Jack, You desire, you say, my impartial thoughts on the subject of an early marriage, by way of answer to the num- berless objections, that have been made by numerous persons to your own. You may remember, when you consulted me on the occasion, that I thought youth on both sides to be no objection. Indeed, from the marriages that have fallen under my observation, I am rather in- clined to think, that early ones stand the best chance of happiness. The tem- per and habits of the young are not yet become so stiff and uncomplying as when more advanced in life : they form more easily to each other, and hence many occasions of disgust are removed. And if youth has less of that prudence, which is necessary to manage a family, yet the parents and elder friends of young mar- ried persons are generally at hand to afford their advice, which amply sup- plies that defect ; and by early marriage youth is sooner formed to regular and useful life ; and possibly some of those accidents or connections, that might have injured the constitution, or repu- tation, or both, are thereby happily prevented. Particular circumstances of particular persons may possibly some- times make it prudent to delay entering into that state; but in general, when nature has rendered our bodies fit for it, the presumption is in nature's favour, that she has not judged amiss in making us desire it. Late marriages are often attended, too, with this farther incon- venience, that there is not the same chance that the ])arents shall live to see their offspriitg educated. " Late chil- dren," says the Spanish proverb, " are early orphans." A melancholy reflection to those whose case it may be. With us, in America, marriages are generally in the morning of life ; our children are therefore educated and settled in the world by noon ; and thus, our business being done, we have an afternoon and evening^ of cheerful leisure to ourselves ; such as our friend at present enjoys. By these early marriages we are blessed with more children ; and from the mode among us, founded by nature, of every mother suckling and nursing her own child, more of them are raised. Thence the swift progress of population among us, unparalleled in Europe. In fine, I am glad you are married, and congra- tulate you most cordially upon it. You are now in the way of becoming a useful citizen ; and you have escaped the un- natural state of celibacy for life — the fate of many here, who never intended it, but who, having too long postponed the change of their condition, find, at length, that it is too late to think of it, and so live all their lives in a situation that greatly lessens a man's value. An odd volume of a set of books bears not the value of its proportion to the set : what think you of the odd half of a pair of scissars ? it can't well cut any thing ; it may possibly serve to scrape a trencher. Pray make my compliments and best wishes acceptable to your bride. I am old and heavy, or I should ere this have presented them in person. I shall make but small use of the old man's privilege, that of giving advice to younger friends. Treat your wife always with respect ; it will procure respect to you, not only from her, but from all that observe it. Sect. V. RECENT. 791 Never use a slighting- expression to her, even in jest ; for slights in jest, after frequent bandyings, are apt to end in angry earnest. Be studious in your profession, and you will be learned. Be industrious and frugal, and you will be rich. Be sober and temperate, and you will be healthy. Be in general virtuous, and you will be happy. At least you will, by such conduct, stand the best chance for such consequences. I pray God to bless you both ; being ever your affectionate friend. LETTER LIII. Dr. Franklin to Governor Franklin*, New Jersey. London, August 19, 1772. * * * In yours of May 14, you ac- quaint me with your indisposition, which gave me great concern. The resolution you have taken to use more exercise is extremely proper ; and I hope you will steadily perform it. It is of the greatest importance to prevent diseases, since the cure of them by physic is so very pre- carious. In considering the different kinds of exercise, I have thought that the quantum of each is to be judged of, not by time or by distance, but by the degree of warmth it produces in the body : thus, when I observe if I am cold when I get into a carriage in a morning, I may ride all day without being warmed by it ; that if on horseback my feet are cold, 1 may ride some hours before they become warm ; but if I am ever so cold on foot, I cannot walk an hour briskly, without glowing from head to foot by the quickened circulation : I have been ready to say (using round numbers without regard to exactness, but merely to make a great difference), that there is more exercise in one mile's riding on horseback than in five in a coach ; and more in one mile's walking on foot than in jive on horseback ; to which I may add, that there is more in walking one mile up and down stairs, than in five on a level floor. The two latter exercises may be had within doors, when the weather discourages going abroad ; and the last maybe had when one is pinched for time, as containing a great quantity * Dr. Franklin's son, to whom the first part of the Memoirs of his Life is addressed. of exercise in a handful of minutes. The dumb bell is another exercise of the latter compendious kind ; by the use of it I have in forty swings quickened my pulse from sixty to one hundred beats in a minute, counted by a second watch ; and 1 suppose the warmth generally in- creases with quickness of pulse. LETTER LIV. Dr. Franklin to Dr. Priestley. London, September 19, 1772. Dear sir, In the affair of so much importance to you, wherein you ask my advice, I can- not, for want of sufficient premises, counsel you what to determine ; but if you please, I will tell you ftow. When those difficult cases occur, they are difficult chiefly because, while we have them under consideration, all the reasons pro and con are not present to the mind at the same time ; but sometimes one set present themselves ; and at other times another, the flrst being out of sight. Hence the various purposes or inclinations that alternately prevail, and the uncertainty that perplexes us. To get over this, my way is, to divide half a sheet of paper by a line into two co- lumns : writing over the one pro, and, over the other con ; then during three or four days' consideration, I put down, under the different heads, short hints of the different motives that at different times occur to me, for or against the measure. When I have thus got them all together in one view, I endeavour to estimate their respective weights, and where I find two (one on each side), that seem equal, I strike them both out. If I find a reason pro equal to some two reasons con, I strike out the three. If I judge some two reasons con equal to some three reasons pro, I strike out the five; and thus proceeding, I find at length where the balance lies; and if after a day or two of farther consider- ation, nothing new that is of import- ance occurs on either side, I come to a determination accordingly. And though the weight of reasons cannot be taken with the precision of algebraic quantities, yet, when each is thus considered sepa- rately and comparatively, and the whole lies before me, I thhik I caij judge 792 E L K G A N T i : P I S J^ L E S. KooK IV. better, and am less liable to make a rasb step ; find in fact I have found great advantage from this kind of equa- tion, in what may be called moral or prudential algebra. Wishing- sincerely that you may deter- mine for the best, 1 am ever, my dear friend, yours most aifectionately. LETTER LV. Dr. Franklin to Blrs. Thomas, at Lisle. Paris, Feb. 8, 1777. YoY are too early, Imssi/^ as well as too saucy, in calling- me rebel ; you should wait for the event, which will determine whether it is a rebellion or only a revo- lution. Here the ladies are more civil ; they call us les Insurgent-; a character that usually pleases them : and methinks all other women who smart, or have smarted under the tyranny of a bad hus- band, ought to be fixed in revolution principles, and act accordingly. In my way to Canada last spring, I saw dear Mrs. Barrow, at New York. Mr. Barrow had been from her two or three months to keep Governor Tryon, and other tories, company on board the Asia, one of the king's ships which lay in the harbour ; and in all that time that naughty man had not ventured once on shore to see her. Our troops were then pouring into the town, and she was packing up to leave it, fearing, as she had a large house, they would incommode her, by quartering officers in it. As she apjjeared in great perplexity, scarce knowing where to go, I persuaded her to stay ; and 1 went to the general officers then commanding there, and recommended her to their protection ; which they promised and performed. On my return from Canada, where I was a piece of a governor (and I think a very good one) for a fortnight, and might have been so till this time, if your wicked army, enemies to all good go- vernment, had not come and driven me out, I found her still in quiet possession of her house. I inquired how our peo- ple had behaved to her ; she spoke in high terms of the respectful attention they had paid her, and the quiet and security they had procured her. I said I was glad of it ; and that if they had used her ill, I would have turned tory. Then, said she (with that pleasing gaiety so natural to her), / ivish they had. VoY you must know she is a lory ess as well as you, and can as flippantly call rebel. 1 drank tea with her ; we talked afl'ectionately of you and our other friends the Wilkes's, of whom she had received no late intelligence : what became of her since, I have not heard. The street she lived in was some months after chiefly burnt down *, but as the town was then, and ever since has been, in possession of the king's troops, 1 have had no opportunity of knowing whether she suffered any loss in tbe conflagration. I hope she did not, as if she did, I should wash I had not persuaded her to stay tliere. I am glad to learn from you, that that unhappy, though deserving family, the W.'s, are getting into some business that may afl'ord them subsist- ence. I pray that God will bless them, and that they may see happier days. Mr. Cheap's and Dr. H.'s good fortunes please me. Pray learn, if you have not already learnt, like me, to be pleased with other people's pleasures, and happy with their happiness, when none occur of your own ; then perhaps you will not so soon be weary of the place you chance to be in, and so fond of rambling to get rid of your ennui. I fancy you have hit upon tbe right reason of your being Aveary of St. Omers, viz. that you are out of temper, which is the effect of full living and idleness. A month in Bride- well, beating hemp, upon bread and water, would give you health and spirits, and subsequent cheerfulness and con- tentment, with every other situation. I prescribe that regimen for you, my dear, in pure good-will, without a fee. And let me tell you, if you do not get into temper, neither Brussels nor Lisle will suit you. I know nothing of the price of living in either of those places ; but I am sure a single woman, as you are, might with economy upon two hun- dred pounds a-year maintain herself comfortably any where ; and me into the bargain. Do not invite me in ear- nest, however, to come and live with you ; for being posted here, I ought not to comply, and I am not sure 1 should be able to refuse. Present my respects to Mrs. Payne, and Mrs. Heathcot; for though I have not the honour of know- ing them, yet as you say they are friends to the American cause, I am sure they must be women of good understanding. Sect. V RECENT. 703 I know you wish you could see me, but as you can't, I will describe myself to you. Figure me in your mind as jolly as formerly, and as strong and hearty, only a few years older ; very plainly dressed, wearing my thin grey straight hair, that peeps out under my only coiffure, a fine fur cap ; which comes down my forehead almost to my specta- cles. Think how this must appear, among the powdered heads of Paris ! I wish every lady and gentleman in France would only be so obliging as to follow my fashion, comb their own heads as I do mine, dismiss their friseurs, and pay me half the money they pay to them. You see the gentry might well afford this, and I could then enlist these friseur,s (who are at least 100,000), and with the money 1 would maintain them, make a visit with them to England, and dress the heads of your ministers and privy coun- sellors ; which I conceive at present to be un peu derangees. Adieu ! madcap ; and believe me ever your affectionate friend and humble servant. P. S. Don't be proud of this long letter. A fit of the gout, which has confined me five days, and made me refuse to see company, has given me a little time to trifle ; otherwise it would have been very short, visitors and busi- ness would have interrupted : and per- haps, with Mrs. Barrow, you wish they had. LETTER LVI. Dr. Franklin to Dr. Cooper, Boston. Paris, May 1, 1777. 1 THANK you for your kind congratula- tions on my safe arrival here, and for your good wishes. I am, as you sup- posed, treated with great civility and re- spect by all orders of people ; but it gives me still greater satisfaction to find that our being here is of some use to our country. On that head 1 cannot be more explicit at present. I rejoice with you in the happy change of affairs in America last winter : I hope the same train of success will con- tinue through the summer. Our ene- mies are disappointed in the number of additional troops they purposed to send over. What they have been able to muster will not probably recruit their army to the state it was in the begin- ning of last campaign ; and ours I hope will be equally numerous, better armed, and better clothed, than they have been heretofore. All Europe is on our side of the ques- tion, as far as applause and good wishes can carry them. Those who live under arbitrary power do nevertheless approve of liberty, and wish for it : they almost despair of recovering it in Europe ; they read the translations of our separate colony constitutions with rapture ; and there are such numbers everywhere who talk of removing to America, with their families and fortunes, as soon as peace and our independence shall be esta- blished, that it is generally believed we shall have a prodigious addition of strength, wealth, and arts, from the emigrations of Europe ; and it is thought, that to lessen or prevent such emigrations, the tyrannies established here must relax, and allow more liberty to their people. Hence it is a common observation here, that our cause is the cause of all mankind ; and that we are fighting for their liberty in defending our own. It is a glorious task assigned us by providence ; which has, I trust, given us spirit and virtue equal to it, and will at last crown it with success. [ am ever, my dear friend, yours most affectionately. LETTER LVII. Dr. Franklin to Dr. Price, London. Passy, February 6, 1780. Dear sir, I RECEIVED but very lately your kind favour of October 14th, Dr. Ingenhausz, who brought it, having staid long in Holland. I sent that enclosed directly to Mr. L. It gave me great pleasure to understand that you continue well. Your writings, after all the abuse you and they have met with, begin to make serious impressions on those who at first rejected the counsels you gave ; and they will acquire new weight every day, and be in high esteem when the cavils against them are dead and for- gotten. Please to present my affec- tionate respects to that honest, sensible, and intelligent society^, who did me so long the honour of admitting me to * Supposed to allude to a club at the Lon- don coffee house. 794 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. share in their instructive eonversations. I never think of the hours I so happily spent in that company, without regret- ting that they are never to be repeated ; for I see no prospect of an end to this unhappy war in my time. Dr. Priestley, you tell me, continues his experiments with success. We make daily great im- provements in natural — there is one I wish to see in 7noral philosophy ; the discovery of a plan that would induce and oblige nations to settle their dis- putes without first cutting one another's throats. When will human reason be sufficiently improved to see the advan- tage of this ? When will men be con- vinced, that even successful wars at length become misfortunes to those who unjustly commenced them, and who triumphed blindly in their success, not seeing all its consequences? Your great comfort and mine in this war is, that we honestly and faithfully did every thing in our power to prevent it. Adieu, and believe me ever, my dear friend, yours, &c. LETTER LVIII. Dr. Franklin to General Washington. Passv, March 5, i780. Sir, 1 HAVE received but lately the letter your excellency did me the honour of writing to me in recommendation of the Marquis de la Fayette. His modesty detained it long in his own hands. We became acquainted, however, from the time of his arrival at Paris ; and his zeal for the honour of our country, his activity in our affairs here, and his firm attachment to our cause, and to you, impressed me with the same regard and esteem for him that your excellency's letter would have done had it been im- mediately delivered to me. Should peace arrive after another campaign or two, and afford us a little leisure, I should be happy to see your excellency in Europe, and to accompany you, if my age and strength would permit, in visiting some of its ancient and most famous kingdoms. You would, on this side the sea, enjoy the great reputation you have acquired, pure and free from those little shades that the jealousy and envy of a man's countrymen and cotemporaries are ever endeavouring to cast over living merit. Here you would know, and enjoy, what posterity will say of Washington. For a thousand leagues have nearly the same effect as a thousand years. The feeble voice of those grovelling passions can- not extend so far either in time or dis- tance. At present I enjoy that pleasure for you : as I frequently hear the old generals of this martial country (who study the maps of America, and mark upon them all your operations) speak with sincere approbation and great ap- plause of your conduct ; and join in giving you the character of one of the greatest captains of the age. I must soon quit the scene, but you may live to see our country flourish, as it will amazingly and rapidly after the war is over ; like a field of young Indian corn, which long fair weather and sun- shine had enfeebled and discoloured, and which, in that weak state, by a thunder gust of violent wind, hail, and rain, seemed to be threatened with absolute destruction ; yet the storm be- ing past, it recovers fresh verdure, shoots up with double vigour, and de- lights the eye not of its owner only, but of every observing traveller. The best wishes that can be formed for your health, honour, and happiness, ever attend you, from yours, &c. LETTER LIX. Dr. Franklin to Mr. Small, Paris. Passy, July 22, 1780. You see, my dear sir, that I was not afraid my masters would take it amiss if I ran to see an old friend, though in the service of their enemy. They are reasonable enough to allow, that dif- fering politics should not prevent the intercommunication of philosophers, who study and converse for the benefit of mankind. But you have doubts about coming to dine with me. I suppose you will not venture it; your refusal will not indeed do so much honour to your generosity and good-nature of your government, as to your sagacity. You know your people, and I do not expect you. 1 think too that in friendship I ought not to make you more visits, as I Sect. V. RECENT. 795 intended : but I send my grandson to pay his duty to his physician. You inquired about my gout, and I forgot to acquaint you, that 1 had treated it a little cavalierly in its two last ac- cesses. Finding one night that my foot gave me more pain after it was covered warm in bed, I put it out of bed naked ; and perceiving it easier, I let it remain longer than 1 at first designed, and at length fell asleep, leaving it there till morning. The pain did not return, and I grew well. Next winter, having a second attack, I repeated the experi- ment ; not with such immediate success in dismissing the gout, but constantly with the effect of rendering it less pain- ful, so that it permitted me to sleep every night. I should mention, that it was my son* who gave me the first in- timation of this practice. He being in the old opinion, that the gout was to be drawn out by transpiration. And hav- ing heard me say, that perspiration was carried on more copiously when the body was naked than when clothed, he put his foot out of bed to increase that discharge, and found ease by it, which he thought a confirmation of the doc- trine. But this method requires to be confirmed by more experiments, before one can conscientiously recommend it. I give it you, however, in exchange for your receipt of tartar emetic, because the commerce of philosophy as well as other commerce, is best promoted by taking care to make returns. I am ever, yours most affectionately. LETTER LX. Dr. Franklin to Miss Georgiana Shipleyf. Passy, October 8, 1780. It is long, very long, my dear friend, since I had the great pleasure of hearing from you, and receiving any of your very pleasing letters. But it is my fault. I have long omitted my part of the correspondence. Those who love to receive letters should write letters. I wish I could safely promise an amend- ment of that fault. But besides the indolence attending age, and growing * Governor Franklin. f Daughter of Dr. Shipley, bishop of St. Asaph. upon us with it, my time is engrossed by too much business, and I have too many inducements to postpone doing, what I feel I ought to do for my own sake, and what I can never resolve to omit entirely. Your translations from Horace, as far as I can judge of poetry and trans- lations, are very good. That of the 2uo quo ruitis is so suitable to the times, that the conclusion (in your version) seems to threaten like a pro- phecy ; and methinks there is at least some appearance of danger that it may be fulfilled. I am unhappily an enemy, yet I think there has been enough of blood spilt, and I wish what is left in the veins of that once loved people, may be spared, by a peace solid and everlasting. It is a great while since I heard any thing of the good bishop. Strange, that so simple a character should sufficiently distinguish one of that sacred body ! Donnez-moi de ses nouvelles. I have been some time flattered with the ex- pectation of seeing the countenance of that most honoured and ever-beloved friend, delineated by your pencil. The portrait is said to have been long on the way, but is not yet arrived : nor can I hear where it is. Indolent as I have confessed myself to be, I could not, you see, miss this good and safe opportunity of sending you a few lines, with my best wishes for your happiness, and that of the whole dear and amiable family in whose sweet society I have spent so many happy hours. Mr. Jones % tells me he shall have a pleasure in being the bearer of my letter, of which I make no doubt : I learn from him, that to your drawing, and music, and painting, and poetry, and Latin, you have added a proficiency in chess ; so that you are, as the French say, re?nplie de talents. May they and you fall to the lot of one that shall duly value them, and love you as much as I do ! Adieu. X Afterwards sir William Jones, who married the bishop of St. Asaph's eldest daug^hter, Anna Maria Shipley. 796 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV. LETTER LXL Di'. Franklin to the Rev. William Nixon. Passy, ?ept. 5, 1781. Rev. sir. I DULY received the letter you did me the honour of writing to me the 25th past, together with the valuable little book, of which you are the author. There can be no doubt but that a gen- tleman of your learning and abilities might make a very useful member of society in our new country, and meet with encouragement there, either as an instructor in one of our universities, or as a clergyman of the church of Ireland. But I am not empowered to engage any person to go over thither, and my abili- ties to assist the distressed are very limited. 1 suppose you will soon be set at liberty in England by the cartel for the exchange of prisoners : in the mean time if Jive Louis d'ors may be of present service to you, please to draw on me for that sum, and your bill shall be paid on sight. Some time or other you may have an opportunity of assisting with an equal sum a stranger who has equal need of it. Do so. By that means you will discharge any obligation you may suppose yourself under to me. Enjoin him to do the same on occasion. By pursuing such a practice, much good may be done with little money. Let kind offices go round : mankind are all of a family. 1 have the honour to be, rev. sir, &c. LETTER LXII. Dr. Franklin to Edmund Burke ^ Esq. M.P. Passy, Oct. 15, 1781, Sir, I RECEIVED but a few days since your very friendly letter of August last, on the subject of General Burgoyne. Since the foolish part of mankind will make wars from time to time with each other, not having sense enough other- wise to settle their differences, it cer- tainly becomes the wiser part, who can- not prevent those wars, to alleviate as much as possible the calamities attend- ing them. Mr. Burke always stood high in my esteem ; but his affectionate concern for his friend renders him still more amiable, and makes the honour he does me, of admitting me of the number, still more precious. I do not think the congress have any wish to persecute General Burgoyne. I never heard till I received your letter that they had recalled him : if they have made such a resolution, it must be, I suppose, a conditional one, to take place in case their offer of exchanging him for Mr. Laurens should not be ac- cepted ; a resolution intended merely to enforce that offer. I have just received an authentic copy of the resolve containing that offer, and authorizing me to make it. As I have no communication with your ministers, I send it enclosed to you*. If you can find any means of negociating this busi- ness, I am sure the restoring another worthy man to his family and friends, will be an addition to your pleasure. With great and invariable respect and affection, I am, sir, your most obedient and most humble servant. LETTER LXIII. Dr. Franklin to the Rev. Dr. Priestlet/. Passy, June 7, 1782, Dear sir, I RECEIVED your kind letter of the 7th of April, also one of the 3d of May. I have always great pleasure in hearing from you, in learning that you are well, and that you continue your experiments. I should rejoice much if I could once more recover the leisure to search with you into the works of nature ; I mean the inanimate, not the animate or moral part of them : the more I discovered of the former, the more I admired them ; the more I know of the latter, the more I am digusted with them. Men, I find to be a sort of beings very badly con- structed, as they are generally more easily provoked than reconciled, more disposed to do mischief to each other than to make reparation, and much more easily deceived than undeceived * * -^ *. A virtuous action it would be, and a vicious one the killing of them, if the species were really worth producing or * Wanting, Sect. V R E C E N T. 757 preserving- ; but of this I begin to doubt. I know you have no such doubts, because, in your zeal for their welfare, you are taking a great deal of pains to save their souls. Perhaps as you grow older, you may look upon this as a hope- less project, or an idle amusement, re- pent of having murdered in mephitic air so many honest, harmless mice, and wish that to prevent mischief you had used boys and girls instead of them. In what light we are viewed by superior beings, may be gathered from a piece of late West India news, which possibly has not yet reached you. A young angel of distinction being sent down to this world on some business, for the first time, had an old courier-spirit as- signed him as a guide : they arrived over the seas of Martinico, in the middle of the long day of obstinate fight be- tween the fleets ©f Rodney and De Grasse. When, through the clouds of smoke, he saw the fire of the guns, the decks covered with mangled limbs, and bodies dead or dying ; the ships sink- ing, burning, or blown into the air ; and the quantity of pain, misery, and destruction, the crews yet alive were thus with so much eagerness dealing round to one another, he turned angrily to his guide, and said, " You blunder- ing blockhead, you are ignorant of your business ; you undertook to conduct me to the earth, and you have brought me into hell ! " " No, sir," says the guide, " I have made no mistake; this is really the earth, and these are men. Devils never treat one another in this cruel manner; they have more sense, and more of what men (vainly) call humanity." But to be serious, my dear old friend, I love you as much as ever, and I love all the honest souls that meet at the London Coffee House. 1 only wonder how it happened that they and my other friends in England came to be such good creatures in the midst of so perverse a generation. I long to see them and you once more, and I labour for peace with more earnestness, that I may again be happy in your sweet society. I shewed your letter to the Duke de la Rochefaucault, who thinks with me, that the new experiments you have made are extremely curious, and he has given me thereupon a note^ which I en- close, and I request you would furnish me with the answer desired. Yesterday the Count du Nord* was at the Academy of Sciences, when sun- dry experiments were exhibited for his entertainment; among them, one by M. Lavoisier, to shew that the strongest fire we yet know is made in a charcoal blown upon with dephlogisticated air. In a heat so produced, he melted platina presently, the fire being much more powerful than that of the strongest burning mirror. Adieu, and believe me ever, yours most affectionately. LETTER LXIV. Dr. Franklin to Dr. Shipley, Bishop of St. Asaph. Passy, June 10, 17&2, I RECEIVED and read the letter from my dear and much respected friend, with infinite pleasure. After so long a si- lence, and the long continuance of its unfortunate causes, a line from you was a prognostic of happier times approach- ing, when we may converse and com- municate freely, without danger from the malevolence of men enraged by the ill success of their distracted projects. I long with you for the return of peace, on the general principles of humanity. The hope of being able to pass a few more of my last days happy in the sweet conversations and company I once enjoyed atTwyfordf, is a par- ticular motive that adds strength to the general wish, and quickens my industry to procure that best of blessings. After much occasion to consider the folly and mischiefs of a state of warfare, and the little or no advantage obtained even by those nations who have conducted it with the most success, I have been apt to think that there has never been, nor ever will be, any such thing as a good war, or a bad peace. You ask if I still relish my old stu- dies ? I relish them, but I cannot pur- sue them. My time is engrossed un- happily with other concerns. I re- quested of the congress last year my discharge from this public station, that I might enjoy a little leisure in the * The Grand Duke of Russia, afterwards Emperor Paul I. f The country residence of the bishop. f^s ELEGANT EPISTLES- Book IV. evening of a long life of business ; but it was refused me, and I have been ob- liged to drudge on a little longer. You are happy as your years come on, in having that dear and most ami- able family about you. Four daughters ! how rich ! I have but one, and she necessarily detained from me at a thou- sand leagues distance. I feel the want of that tender care of me which might be expected from a daughter, and would give the world for one. Your shades are all placed in a row over my fire place, so that I not only have you al- ways in my mind, but constantly before my eyes. The cause of liberty and America has been greatly obliged to you. I hope you will live long to see that country flourish under its new constitution, which I am sure will give you great pleasure. Will you permit me to ex- press another hope, that now your friends are in power, they will take the first opportunity of shewing the sense they ought to have of your virtues and your merit ! Please to make my best respects ac- ceptable to Mrs. Shipley, and embrace for me tenderly all our dear children. With the utmost esteem, respect, and veneration, I am ever, my dear friend, yours most aflfectionately. LETTER LXV. Dr, Franklin to Miss Alexander. Passy, June 24, 1782. I AM not at all displeased that the thesis and dedication with which we were threatened are blown over, for I dislike much all sorts of mummery. The republic of letters has gained no reputation, whatever else it may have gained, by the commerce of dedications ; I never made one, and I never desired that one should be made to me. When I submitted to receive this, it was from the bad habit I have long had of doing every thing that ladies desire me to do : there is no refusing any thing to Ma- dame la Marck, nor to you. I have been to pay my respects to that amiable lady, not merely because it was a com- pliment due to her, but because I love her, which induces me to excuse her not letting me in ; the same reason I should have for excusing your faults, if you had any. I have not seen your papa since the receipt of your pleasing letter, so could arrange nothing with him respecting the carriage. During seven or eight days I shall be very busy : after that you shall hear from me, and the carriage shall be at you service. How could you think of writing to me about chimneys and fires, in such wea- ther as this ! Now is the time for the frugal lady you mention to save her wood, obtain p/ys de chaleur, and lay it up against winter, as people do ice against summer. Frugality is an en- riching virtue ; a virtue I never could acquire in myself : but I was once lucky enough to find it in a wife, who thereby became a fortune to me. Do you pos- sess it ? If you do, and 1 were twenty years younger, I would give your father one thousand guineas for you. I know you would be worth more to me as a menagere; but I am covetous and love good bargains. Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours most affec- tionately. LETTER LXVI. Dr. Franklin to Mrs. HevosoV' Passy, January 27, 1783, The departure of my dearest friend*, which 1 learn from your last letter, greatly affects me. To meet with her once more in this life was one of the principal motives of my proposing to visit England again before my return to America. The last year carried off my friends Dr. Pringle and Dr. Fother- gill, and Lord Kaimes and Lord Le Despencer ; this has begun to take away the rest, and strikes the hardest. Thus the ties I had to that country, and indeed to the world in general, are loosened one by one ; and I shall soon have no attachment left to make me un- willing to follow. I intended writing when I sent the eleven books, but lost the time in look- ing for the first. I wrote with that ; and hope it came to hand. I therein asked your counsel about my coming to England ; on reflection, I think I can, from my knowledge of your prudence, * Refers to Mrs. Hewson's mother. Sect. V. RECENT. 799 foresee what it will be ; vh. not to come too soon, lest It should seem braving and insulting some who ought to be re- spected. I shall therefore omit that journey till 1 am near going to America, and then just step over to take leave of my friends, and spend a few days with you. I purpose bringing Ben* with me, and perhaps may leave him under your care. At length we are in peace, God be praised; and long, very long may it continue. All wars are follies, very expensive and very mischievous ones : when will mankind be convinced of this, and agree to settle their differences by arbitration ? Were they to do it even by the cast of a dye, it would be better than by fighting and destroying each other. Spring is coming on, when travelling will be delightful. Can you not, when your children are all at school, make a little party and take a trip hither ? I have now a large house, delightfully situated, in which I could accommodate you and two or three friends ; and I am. but half an hour's drive from Paris. In looking forward, twenty-five years seem a long period; but in looking back, how short I Could you imagine that it is now fiill a quarter of a century ^ since we were first acquainted ? it was in 1757« During the greatest part of the time I lived in the same house with my dear deceased friend your mother ; of course you and I saw and conversed with each other much and often. It is to all our honours, that in all that time we never had among us the smallest misunderstanding. Our friendship has been all clear sunshine, without any the least clouds in its hemisphere. Let me conclude by saying to you, what I have had too frequent occasions to say to my other remaining old friends, the fewer we become, the more let us love one another. Adieu, &c. LETTER LXVII. Dr. Franklin to the Bishop of St. Asaph {Dr. Shipley.) Passy, March 17, 1783. I RECEIVED with great pleasure my dear and respected friend's letter of the * Benjamin Franklin Bache, a grandson of Dr, Franklin, by his daughter. 5th instant, as it informed me of the welfare of a family I so much esteem and love. The clamour against the peace in your parliament would alarm me for its dura- tion, if I were not of opinion with you, that the attack is rather against the minister. I am confident none of the opposition would have made a better peace for England if they had been in his place ; at least I am sure that Lord Stormont, who seems loudest in railing at it, is not the man that could have mended it. My reasons I will give you when I have what I hope to have, the great happiness of seeing you once more, and conversing with you. They talk much of their being no reciprocity in our treaty ; they think nothing then of our passing over in silence the atrocities committed by their troops, and de- manding no satisfaction for their wanton burnings and devastation of our fair towns and countries. They have here- tofore confessed the war to be unjust, and nothing is plainer in reasoning than that the mischiefs done in an unjust war should be repaired. Can Englishmen be so partial to themselves, as to ima- gine they have a right to plunder and destroy as much as they please ; and then, without satisfying for the injuries they have done, to have peace on equal terms ? We were favourable, and did not demand what justice entitled us to. We shall probably be blamed for it by our constituents ; and I still think it would be the interest of England volun- tarily to offer reparation of those inju- ries, and effect it as much as may be in her power. But this is an interest she will never see. Let us now forgive and forget. Let each country seek its advancement in its own internal advantages of arts and agriculture, not in retarding or pre- venting the prosperity of the other. America will, with God's blessing, be- come a great and happy country : and England, if she has at length gained wisdom, will have gained something more valuable, and more essential to her prosperity, than all she has lost ; and will still be a great and respectable nation. Her great disease at present is the number and enormous salaries and emoluments of office. Avarice and ambition are strong passions, and sepa- rately act with great force on the human 800 ELEGANT E P 1 S T Ji E S. Book IV mind ; but when both are united, and may be gratified in the same object, their violence is almost irresistible, and they hurry men headlong into factions and contentions destructive of all good government. As long therefore as these great emoluments subsist, your parlia- ment will be a stormy sea, and your public councils confounded by private interests. But it requires much public spirit and virtue to abolish them ; more perhaps than can now be found in a nation so long corrupted. LETTER LXVIH. Dr. Franklin to Sir Joseph Banks. Passy, July 27, 1783. Dear sir, 1 RECEIVED your very kind letter by Dr. Blagden, and esteem myself much honoured by your friendly remembrance. I have been too much and too closely engaged in public affairs since his being here, to enjoy all the benefit of his con- versation you were so good as to intend me. I hope soon to have more leisure, and to spend a part of it in those stu- dies that are much more agreeable to me than political operations. I join with you most cordially in rejoicing at the return of peace. I hope it will be lasting, and that man- kind will at length, as they call them- selves reasonable creatures, have rea- son and sense enough to settle their differences without cutting throats : for, in my opinion, there never ivas a good wcir, or a had 'peace. What vast addi- tions to the conveniences and com- forts of living might mankind have ac- quired, if the money spent in wars had been employed in works of public utility ! What an extension of agriculture, even to the tops of our mountains ; what rivers rendered navigable, or joined by canals ; what bridges, aqueducts, new roads, and other public works, edifices, and improvements, rendering England a complete paradise, might not have been obtained by spending those mil- lions in doing good, which in the last war have been spent in doing mischief ; in bringing misery into thousands of families, and desticying the lives of so many thousands of working people, who might have performed the useful la- bour ! I am pleased with the late astrono- mical discoveries made by our society. Furnished as all Europe now is with academies of science, with nice instru- ments and the spirit of experiment, the progress of human knowledge will be rapid, and discoveries made, of which Ave have at present no conception. I begin to be almost sorry I was born so soon, since I cannot have the happiness of knowing what will be known one hundred years hence. I wish continued success to the la- bours of the Royal Society, and that you may long adorn their chair ; being with the highest esteem, dear, sir, &c. Dr. Blagden will acqnaint you with the experiment of a vast globe sent up into the air, much talked of here, and which, if prosecuted, may furnish means of new knowledge. LETTER LXTX. Dr. Franklin to Mrs. Bache. Passy, Jan. 2(5, 1784. My dear child. Your care in sending me the news- papers is very agreeable to me. I re- ceived by Captain Barney those relating to the Cincinnati. My opinion of the institution cannot be of much import- ance : I only wonder, that, when the united wisdom of our nation had, in the articles of confederation, manifested their dislike of establishing ranks of nobility, by authority either of the con- gress or of any particular state, a num- ber of private persons should think proper to distinguish themselves and their posterity from their fellow-citi- zens, and form an order of hereditaria knights, in direct opposition to the solemnly declared sense of their coun- try ! I imagine it must be likewise contrary to the good sense of most of those drawn into it, by the persuasion of its projectors, who have been too much struck with the ribbands and crosses they have seen hanging to the buttonholes of foreign officers. And I suppose those who disapprove of it have not hitherto given it much opposition, from a principle somewhat like that of your good mother, relating to puncti- lious persons, who are always exacting Sect. V. R E C E N V 801 little observances of respect ; that " if people can be pleased with small matters, it is a pitjj hut tkei/ should have thejn." In this view, perhaps, I should not my- self, if my advice had been asked, have objected to their wearing* their ribband and badge themselves according- to their fancy, though I certainly should to the entailing it as an honour on their poste- rity. For honour, worthily obtained (as that for example of our oflficers), is in its nature a personal thing, and in- communicable to any but those who had some share in obtaining it. Thus among the Chinese, the most ancient, and from long experience the wisest of nations, honour does not descend, but ascends. If a man from his learning, his wisdom, or his valour, is promoted by the em- peror to the rank of mandarin, his pa- rents are immediately entitled to all the same ceremonies of respect from the people, that are established as due to the mandarin himself; on the suppo- sition that it must have been owing to the education, instruction, and good example aflforded him by his parents, that he was rendered capable of serving the public. This ascending honour is therefore useful to the state, as it en- courages parents to give their children a good and virtuous education. But the descending honour, to a posterity who could have no share in obtaining it, is not only groundless and absurd, but often hurtful to that posterity, since it is apt to make them proud, disdaining to be employed in useful arts, and thence falling into poverty, and all the mean- nesses, servility, and wretchedness at- tending it ; which is the present case with much of what is called the noblesse in Europe. Or if, to keep up the dig- nity of the family, estates are entailed entire on the eldest male heir, another pest to industry and improvement of the country is introduced, which will be followed by all the odious mixture of pride, and beggary, and idleness, thathave half depopulated and decultivated Spain ; occasioning continual extinction of fami- lies by the discouragements of marriage, and neglect in the improvement of es- tates. I wish therefore that the Cin- cinnati, if they must go on with their project, would direct the badges of their^ order to be worn by their fathers ^ and' mothers, instead of handing them down t<> their children. It would be a good precedent, and might liave good eflFects. It would also be a kind of obedience to the fifth commandment, in v/hich God enjoins us to honour our father and mo- ther, but has nowhere directed us to honour our children. And certainly no mode of honouring those immediate authors of our being can be more effec- tual than that of doing praiseworthy actions, which reflect honour on those who gave us our education ; or more becoming than that of manifesting, by some public expression or token, that it is to their instruction and example we t ascribe the merit of those actions. But the absurdity of descending honours is not a mere matter of philosophical opinion, it is capable of mathematical demonstration. A man's son, for in-^ stance, is but half of his family, the other half belonging to the family of his wife. His son, too, marrying into an- other family, his share in the grandson is but a fourth ; in the great grandson, by the same process, it is but an eighth. In the next generation a sixteenth ; the next a thirty-second ; the next a sixty- fourth ; the next an hundred and twenty- eighth ; the next a two hundred and fifty-sixth ; and the next a five hundred and twelfth : thus in nine generations, which will not require more than three hundred years (no very great antiquity for a family) our present Chevalier of the Order of Cincinnatus's share in the then existing knight will be but a five hundred and twelfth part; which, al- lowing the present certain fidelity of American wives to be insured down through all those nine generations, is So small a consideration, that methinks no reasonable man would hazard, for the sake of it, the disagreeable consequences of the jealously, envy, and ill-will of his countrymen. Let lis go back with our calculation from this young noble, the five hundred and twelfth part of the present knight, through his nine generations, till we return to the year of the institution. He must have had a father and mother, they are two ; each of them had a father and mother, they are four. Those of the next preceding generation will be eight, the next sixteen, the next thirty- two, the next sixty-four, the next one hundred and twenty eight, the next two hundred and fifty-six, and the ninth in this retrocession five hundred p.nd twelve, 3F 802 E L E G A NT E P I S T h E S. Book IV. who must be now existing', and all con- tribute their proportion of this future Clievalier de Cincinnatus. These, with the rest, mxike together as follows : — 2 4 8 16 32 64 128 256 512 Total 1022 One thousand and twenty-two men and women, contributors to the formation of one knifi^ht. And if we are to have a thousand of these future knights, there must be now and hereafter existing one million and twenty-two thousand fathers and mothers, who are to contribute to their production, unless a part of the number are employed in making more knights than one. Let us strike off then the twenty-two thousand on the supposition of this double employ, and then consider, whether, after a reasonable estimation of the number of rogues, and fools, and scoundrels, and prostitutes, that are mixed with, and make up ne- cessarily their million of predecessors, posterity will have much reason to boast of the noble blood of the then existing set of chevaliers of Cincinnatus. The future genealogists too of these cheva- liers, in proving the lineal descent of their honour through so many genera- tions (even supposing honour capable in its nature of descending), will only prove the small share of this honour which can be justly claimed by any one of them, since the above simple process in arithmetic makes it quite plain and clear, that, in proportion as the antiquity of the family shall augment, the right to the honour of the ancestor will diminish ; and a few generations more would reduce it to something so small as to be very nsear an absolute nullity. J hope, there- fore, that the order will drop this part of their project, and content themselves as the knights of the garter, bath, thistle, St. Louis, and other orders of Europe do, with a life enjoyment of their little hubdge and ribband, ajid kt the distinction die with those who have merited it. This I imagine will give no offence. For my own part, I shall think it a con- venience, when I go into a company where there may be faces unknown to me, if I discover, by this badge, the persons who merit some particular ex- pression of my respect ; and it will save modest virtue the trouble of calling for our regard, by awkward round-about intimations of having been heretofore employed as officers in the continental service. The gentleman, who made the voyage to France to provide the ribbands and medals, has executed his commission. To me they seem tolerably done ; but all such things are criticised. Some find fault with the Latin, as wanting classical elegance and correctness ; and since our nine universities were not able to furnish better Latin, it was pity, they say, that the mottos had not been in English. Others object to the title, as not properly assumable by any but General Washington, and a few others, who served without pay. Others object to the bald eagle ^, as looking too much like a dindon or turkey. For my own part, I wish the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country ; he is a bird of bad moral cha- racter : he does not get his living ho- nestly ; you may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labour of the fishing hawk ; and when that dili- gent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to his nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him, and takes it from him. With all this injustice he is never in good case, but like those among men, who live by sharping and robbing, he is generally poor, and often very lousy. Besides, he is a rank coward : the little king bird, not bigger than a sparrow, attacks him boldly, and drives him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest Cincinnati of America, who have driven all the king-birds from our country ; though exactly fit for that order of knights which the French call chevaliers d^industrie. 1 am on this * The white-headed erne, or ba'.d eagle (falco leucocepkalus. Linn.), peculiar to North America; and the emblem adopted by the .society of Cincinnati. Sect, V ii E C E N T. 803 account not displeased, tliat the figure is not known as a bald eagle, but looks more like a turkey. For in truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respect- able bird, and withal a true original native of America. Eagles have been found in all countries, but the turkey was peculiar to ours ; the first of the vspecies seen in Europe being brought to France by the Jesuisls from Canada, and served up at the wedding table of Charles the Ninth. He is besides (though a little vain and silly 'tis true, but not the worse emblem for that) a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade liis farm yard with a red coat on. I shall not enter into the criticisms made upon their Latin. The gallant officers of America may not have the merit of being great scholars, but they undoubtedly merit much as brave sol- diers from their country, v/hich should therefore not leave them merely to /(wie for their " virtutis premium/' which is one of their Latin mottos. Their " esto perpetual'' another, is an excellent wish, if they meant it for their country ; bad, if intended for their order. The states should not only restore to them the omnia of their first motto, which many of them have left and lost, but pay them justly, and reward them generously. They should not be suffered to remain with all their new-created chivalry en- tirely in the situation of the gentleman in the story, which their omnia retiquit reminds me of. You know every thing makes me recollect some story. He had built a very fine house, and there- by much impaired his fortune. He had a pride however in showing it to his acquaintance. One of them, after viewing it all, remarked a motto over the door, uja VANITas. What, says he, is the meaning of o[A ? 'tis a word I don't understand. I will tell you, said the gentleman : I had a mind to have the motto cut on a piece of smooth marble, but there was not room for it between the ornaments, to be put in characters large enougli to be read. I therefore made use of a contraction anciently very common in Latin manu- scripts, whereby the mh and n''s in words are omitted, and the omission noted by a little dash above, which you may see there, so that the word is omniu, omnia VANITAS. O, said his friend, I now comprehend the meaning of your motto, it relates to your edifice ; and signifies, that if you have abridged your omnia, you have nevertheless left your vanitas legible at full length. I am, as ever, your affectionate fa- ther. LETTER LXX. Dr. Franklin to B. Foughan, Esq. Passy, July 26, 1784. Dear friend, I HAVE received several letters from you lately, dated June 16, June 30, and July 13. I thank you for the information respect- ing the proceedings of your West India merchants, or rather planters. The re- straints, whatever they may be upon our commerce with your islands, will prejudice their inhabitants, I apprehend, more than us. it is wonderful how preposterously the affairs of this world are managed. Naturally one would imagine, that the interests of a few parti- culars should give way to general inte- rest. But particulars manage their affairs with so much more application, industry, and address, than the public do theirs, that general interest most commonly gives way to particular. We assemble parliaments and councils to have the benefit of their collected wis- dom, but we necessarily have at the same time the inconvenience of their collected passions, prejudices, and pri- vate interests. By the help of these, artful men overpower the wisdom, and dupe its possessors ; and if we may judge by the acts, decrees, and edicts all the world over for regulating com- merce, an assembly of wise men is the greatest fool upon earth. I have re- ceived Cook's Voyages, which you put Mr. Oswald in the way of sending to me. By some mistake the first volume was omitted, and instead of it a duplicate sent of the third. If there is a good print of Cook 1 should be glad to have it, being personally acquainted with him. I thank you for the pamphlets by Mr. Estlin. Every thing you send me gives me pleasure ; to receive your ac- count would give me more than all. I am told that the little pamphlet of Advice to such as ivoui'd remove to Ami- 3F2 804 E i. E G A N r K P 1 S T L E S. Book IV. rica*, is reprinted in London, with my name to it, which I would rather had been omitted ; but Avish to see a copy when you have an opportunity of send- ing it. Mr. Hartley has long continued here in expectation of instructions for making a treaty of commerce, but they do not come, and ' I begin to suspect none are intended ; though perhaps the delay is only occasioned by the over-great bur- then of business at present on the shoulders of your ministers. We do not ]()ress the matter, -but are content to wait till they can see their interest re- specting America more clearly, being certain that we can shift as well as you without a treaty. The coiyectures I sent you concerning the cold of last winter still appear to me probable : the moderate season in Russia and Canada does not weaken them. I think our frost here began about the 24th of December, in America the 1 2th of January. I thank you for recom- mending to me Mr. Arbuthnot ; I have had pleasure in his conversation. I wish much to see the new pieces you had in hand. I congratulate you on the return of your w^edding-day, and wish for your sake and Mrs. Vaughan's, that you may see a great many of them, all as happy as the first. I like the young stranger very much : he seems sensible, ingenious, and mo- dest, has a good deal of instruction, and makes judicious remarks. He will probably distinguish himself advantage- ously. I have not yet heard from Mr. Nairne. Dr. Price's pamphlet of Advice to America is a good one, and will do good. You ask " what remedy I have for the growing luxury of my country, which gives so much offence to all Eng- lish travellers without exception?" I answer, that 1 think it exaggerated, and that travellers are no good judges, whe- ther our luxury is growing or diminish- ing. Our people are hospitable, and have indeed too much. pride in display- ing upon their tables before strangers the plenty and variety that our country affords. They have the vanity too of sometimes borrowing one another's plate, to entertain more spendidly. Strangers * See Writings, part iii. Miscellanies, seot. ij. being invited from house to house, and meeting every day with a feast, imagine what they see is the ordinary way of living of all the families where they dine ; when perhaps each family lives a week after upon the remains of the dinner given. It is, I own, a folly in our peo- ple to give such offence to English tra- vellers. The first part of the proverb is thereby verified, that fools make feasts. 1 wish in this case the other were as true, and wise men eat them. These travellers might, one would think, find some fault they could more decently reproach us with, than that of our ex- cessive civility to them as strangers. I have not indeed yet thought of a remedy for luxury : I am not sure that in a great state it is capable of a remedy ; nor that the evil is in itself always so great as it is represented. Suppose we include in the definition of luxury all unnecessary expense, and then let us consider, whether laws to prevent such expense are possible to be executed in a great country ; and whether, if they could be executed, our people generally would be happier, or even richer. Is not the hope of one day being able to purchase and enjoy luxuries a great spur to labour and industry ? May not luxury, therefore, produce more than it consumes, if, without such a spur, people would be, as they are naturally enough inclined to be, lazy and indolent ? To this purpose I remember a circumstance. The skipper of a shallop, employed be- tween Cape May and Philadelphia, had done us some small service, for which he refused pay. My wife understanding that he had a daughter, sent her as a present a new-fashioned cap. Three years after, this skipper being at my house vidth an old farmer of Cape May, his passenger, he mentioned the cap, and hoAv much his daughter had been pleased with it ; but, said he, it proved a dear cap to our congregation. How so ? When my daughter appeared in it at meeting, it was so much admired, that all the girls resolved to get such caps from Philadelphia ; and my wife and I computed that the whole could not have cost less than one hundred pounds. True, said the farmer, but you do not tell all the story ; I think the cap was nevertheless an advantage to us ; for it was the first thing that set our girls upon knitting Avorsted mittens Sect. V, RECENT. 805 for sale at Philadelphia, that they might have wherewithal to buy caps and rib- bands there ; and you know that that industry has continued, and is likely to continue and increase to a much greater value, and answer better purposes. Upon the whole, 1 was more reconciled to this little piece of luxury, since not only the girls were made happier by having fine caps, but the Philadelphians by the supply of warm mittens. In our commercial towns upon the sea coast, fortunes will occasionally be made. Some of those who grow rich will be prudent, live within bounds, and preserve what they have gained for their posterity. Others, fond of showing their wealth, will be extravagant and ruin themselves. LaAvs cannot prevent this, and perhaps it is not always an evil to the public. A shilling spent idly by a fool may be picked up by a wiser person, who knows better what to do with it : it is therefore not lost. A vain silly fellow builds a fine house, furnishes it richly, lives in it expensively, and in a few years ruins himself; but the masons, carpenters, smiths, and other honest tradesmen, have been by his employ assisted in maintaining and rais- ing their families ; the farmer has been paid for his labour and encouraged, and the estate is now in better hands. In some cases, indeed, certain modes of luxury may be a public evil, in the same manner as it is a private one. If there be a nation, for instance, that exports its beef and linen to pay for its impor- tations of claret and porter, while a great part of its people live upon pota- toes, and wear no shirts, wherein does it diflfer from the sot, who lets his family starve, and sells his clothes to buy drink ? Our American commerce is, I confess, a little in this way. We sell our victuals to your islands for rum and sugar ; the substantial necessaries of life for its superfluities. But we have plenty and live well nevertheless ; though by being soberer we might be richer, by the bye, here is just issued an arret of council taking off all the duties upon the exportation of brandies, which, it is said, will render them cheaper in America than your rum : in which case there is no doubt but they will be pre- ferred, and we shall be better able to bear your restrictions on our commerce. There are views here, by augmenting their settlements, of being able to supply the growing people of America with the sugar that may be wanted there. On the whole, I believe England will get as little by the commercial war she has begun with us as she did by the mili- tary. But to return to luxury. The vast quantity of forest lands we have yet to clear and put in order for cultivation, will for a long time keep the body of our nation labo- rious and frugal. Forming an opinion of our people and their manners, by what is seen among the inhabitants of the sea ports, is judging from an im- proper sample. The people of the trad- ing towns may be rich and luxurious, while the country possesses all the vir- tues that tend to private happiness and public prosperity. Those towns are not much regarded by the country; they are hardly considered as an essential part of the states. And the experience of the last war has shewn, that their being in possession of the enemy did not necessarily draw on the subjection of the country, which bravely continued to maintain its freedom and independence notwithstanding. It has been computed by some poli- tical arithmetician, that if every man and woman would work four hours each day in something useful, that labour would produce sufficient to procure all the necessaries and comforts of life ; want and misery would be banished out of the world, and the rest of the twenty- four hours might be leisure and pleasure. What then occasions so much want and misery ? It is the employment of men and women in works that produce neither the necessaries nor conveniences of life ; who, with those who do nothing, consume the necessaries raised by the laborious. To explain this, — The first elements of wealth are ob- tained by labour from the earth and waters. I have land, and raise corn ; with this I feed a family that does no- thing : my corn will be consumed ; and at the end of the year I shall be no richer than I was at the beginning. But if, while I feed them, I employ them, some in spinning, others in hewing timber and sawing boards, others in making bricks, &c. for building, the value of my corn will be arrested, and remain with me, and at the end of the year we may all be better clothed and better lodged. 806 E L E G A N r E P I S T J. E S. Book IV And if, instead of employing a man I / feed in making bricks, 1 employ him in fiddling for me, the corn he eats is gone, and no part of his manufacture remains to augment the wealth and the conveni- ences of the family. I shall therefore be the poorer for this fiddling man, urdess the rest of my family work more or eat less to make up the deficiency he occa- sions. Look round the world and see the millions employed in doing nothing, or in something that amounts to nothing, when the necessaries and conveniences of life are in question. What is the bulk of commerce, for which we fight and destroy each other, but the toil of millions for superfluities, to the great hazard and loss of many lives by the constant dangers of the sea? How much labour spent in building and fit- ting great ships to go to China and Arabia for tea and for coffee, to the West Indies for sugar, to America for tobacco ! These things cannot be called the necessaries of life, for our ancestors lived very comfortably without them. A question may be asked ; could all these people now employed in raising, making, or carrying superfluities, be subsisted by raising necessaries ? I think they might. The world is large, and a great part of it still uncultivated. Many hundred millions of acres in Asia, Africa, and America, are still forest, and a great deal even in Europe. On one hundred acres of this forest a man might become a substantial farmer, and one hundred thousand men employed in clearing each his one hundred acres (instead of being, as they are, French hair dressers), would hardly brighten a spot big enough to be visible from the moon (unless with Herschell's teles- cope), so vast are the regions still in the world unimproved. 'Tis however some comfort to reflect, that upon the whole the quantity of in- dustry and prudence among mankind exceeds the quantity of idleness and folly. Hence the increase of good buildings, farms cultivated, and popu- lous cities filled with wealth all over Europe, v/hich a few ages since were only to be found on the coasts of the Mediterranean. And this notwithstand- ing the mad wars continually raging, by which are often destroyed in one year the works of many years' peace. So that we may hope the luxury of a few merchants on the sea coast will noj; be the ruin of America. One reflection more, and I Avill end this long rambling letter. Almost all parts of our bodies require some ex- pense. The feet demand shoes, the legs stockings, the rest of the body clothing, and the belly a good deal of victuals. Our eyes, though exceedingly useful, ask, when reasonable, only the cheap assistance of spectacles, which could not much impair our finances. But THE EYES OF OTHER PEOPLE are the eyes that ruin us. If all but myself were blind, I should want neither fine clothes, fine houses, nor fine furniture. Adieu, my dear friend. I am yours ever. P. S. This will be delivered to you by my grandson. I am persuaded you will afl*ord him your civilities and coun- sels. Please to accept a little present of books I send by him, curious for the beauty of the impression. LETTER LXXI. Dr. Franklin to David Hartley, Esq. MP. Passv, July 5, 1785. I CANNOT quit the coasts of Europe without taking leave of my ever dear friend Mr. Hartley. We were long fellow labourers in the best of all works, the work of peace. I leave you still in the field ; but having finished my day's task, } am going home to go to bed f Wish me a good night's rest, as I do you a pleasant evening. Adieu ! And believe me ever yours most affectionately*. LETTER hX±U. Dr. Franklin to Dr. Shipley, Bishop of St. Asaph. Philadelphia, Feb. i^-i, 178G. Dear friend, I RECEIVED lately your kind letter of November 27. My reception here was, as you have heard, very honourable in- deed ; but I v;as betrayed by it and by some remains of ambition, from which * Written in his 80th year. Sect. y. RECENT. 807 I had imagined myself free, to accept of the chair of government for the state of Pennsylvania, when the proper thing for me was repose and a private life. I hope however to be able to bear the fatigue for one year, and then to retire. I have much regretted our having so little opportunity for conversation when we last met. You could have given me informations and counsels that I wanted; but we were scarce a mi- nute together without being broken in upon. I am to thank you however for the pleasure I had after our parting, in reading the new book you gave me, which I think generally well written and likely to do good ; though the read- ing time of most people is of late so taken up with newspapers and little periodical pamphlets, that few now-a-days venture to attempt reading a quarto volume. I have admired to see, that in the last century a folio. Burton on Melancholy, went through six editions in about forty years. We have, I believe, more readers now, but not of such large books. You seem desirous of knowing what progress we make here in improving our governments. We are I think in the right road of improvement, for we are making experiments. I do not op- pose all that seem wrong, for the multi- tude are more effectually set right by experience, than kept from going wrong by reasoning with them : and I think we are daily more and more enlightened ; so that I have no doubt of our obtain- ing in a few years as much public feli- city as good government is capable of affording. Your newspapers are filled with fictitious accounts of anarchy, con- fusion, distresses and miseries we are supposed to be involved in, as conse- quences of the revolution ; and the few remaining friends of the old government among us take pains to magnify every little inconvenience a change in the course of commerce may have occa- sioned. To obviate the complaints they endeavour to excite, was written the enclosed little piece*, from which you may form a truer idea of our situation than your own public prints would give you : and 1 can assure you, that the great body of our nation find themselves happy in the change, and have not the smallest inclination to return to the * Uncertain what piece is alluded to. domination of Britain. There could not be a stronger proof of the general appro- bation of the measures that promoted the change, and of the change itself, than has been given by the assembly and council of this state, in the nearly una- nimous choice for their governor, of one, who had been so much concerned in those measures ; the assembly being themselves the unbribed choice of the people, and therefore may be truly sup- posed of the same sentiments. I say nearly unanimous, because of between seventy and eighty votes, there were only my own and one other in the negative. As to my domestic circumstances, of which you kindly desire to hear some- thing, they are at present as happy as I could wish them. I am surrounded by my offspring, a dutiful and affectionate daughter in my house, with six grand- children, the eldest of which you have seen, who is now at college in the next street, finishing the learned part of his education ; the others promising both for parts and good dispositions. What their conduct may be when they grow up, and enter the important scenes of life, I shall not live to see, and I cannot foresee. I therefore enjoy among them the present hour, and leave the future to Providence. He that raises a large family does indeed, while he lives to observe them, stand, as Watts says, a broader mark for sorrow; but then he stands a broader mark for pleasure too. When we launch our little fleet of barks into the ocean, bound to different ports, we hope for each a prosperous voyage ; but contrary winds, hidden shoals, storms and ene- mies, come in for a share in the dispo- sition of events ; and though these occa- sion a mixture of disappointment, yet considering the risk where we can make no insurance, we should think ourselves happy if some return with success. My son's son (Temple Franklin), whom you have also seen, having had a fine farm of six hundred acres conveyed to him by his father when we were at Southampton, has dropped for the pre- sent his views of acting in the political line, and applies himself ardently to the study and practice of agriculture. This is much more agreeable to me, who esteem it the most useful, the most in- dependent, and therefore the noblest of 808 ELEGANT EPISTLES. Book IV employments. His lands are on navi- gable water, communicating with the Delaware, and but about sixteen miles from this city. He has associated to himself a very skilful English farmer lately arrived here, who is to instruct him in the business, and partakes for a term of the profits ; so that there is a great apparent probability of their suc- cess. You will kindly expect a word or two concerning ipyself. My health and spirits continue, thanks to God, as when you saw me. The only complaint I then had does not grow worse, and is tolerable. I still have enjoyment in the company of my friends ; and being easy in my circumstances, have many reasons to like living. But the course of nature must soon put a period to my present mode of existence. This I shall submit to with less regret, as, having seen during a long life a good deal of this world, I feel a growing curiosity to be acquainted with some other ; and can cheerfully with filial confidence re- sign my spirit to the conduct of that great and good Parent of mankind who created it, and who has so graciously protected and prospered me from my birth to the present hour. Wherever I am, I hope always to retain the pleasing remembrance of your friend- ship ; being with sincere and great esteem, my dear friend, yours most aflfectionately. We all join in respects to Mrs. Ship- ley, and best wishes for the whole amiable family. LETTER LXXIIL Vr. Tranklin to Mrs. Hewson, London. Philadelphia, May 6, 1786. My dear friend, A LONG winter has passed, and I have not had the pleasure of a line from you, acquainting me with your and your children's welfare, since I left England. I suppose you have been in Yorkshire out of the way and knowledge of oppor- tunities ; for I will not think you have forgotten me. To make me some amends, I received a few days past a large packet from Mr. Williams, dated September, 1776, near ten years since, containing three letters from you, one of December 12, 1775. This packet had been received by Mr. Bache after my departure for France, lay dormant among his papers during all my absence, and has just now broke out upon me like words, that had been, as somebody said, " concealed in ?i or them air." Therein I find all the pleasing little family history of your children ; how William had begun to spell, overcoming by strength of memory all the. difficulty occasioned by the common wretched alphabet ; while you were convinced of the utility of our new one. How Tom, genius-like, struck out new paths, and relinquishing the old names of the let- ters, called U Bell and P Bottle. How Eliza began to grow jolly, that is fat and handsome, resembling Aunt Rook, whom I used to call mi/ loveli/ : together with all the then news of Lady Blunt's having produced at length a boy ; of Dolly's being well, and of poor good Catherine's decease. Of your affairs with Muir and Atkinson, and of their contract for feeding the fish in the channel. Of the Vinys, and their jaunt to Cambridge in the long carriage. Of Dolly's journey to Wales with Mr. Scot. Of the Wilkes's, the Pearces, Elphin- ston, &c. &c. Concluding with a kind of promise, that as soon as the ministry and Congress agreed to make peace, I should have you with me in America. That peace has been some time made, but alas ! the promise is not yet ful- filled. And why is it not fulfilled ? I have found my family here in health, good circumstances, and well respected by their fellow citizens. The companions of my youth are indeed al- most all departed, but 1 find an agree- able society among their children and grandchildren. I have public business enough to preserve m« from ennui, and private amusement besides, in con- versation, books, my garden, and cribbage. Considering our well-fur- nished plentiful market as the best of gardens, I am turning mine, in the midst of which my house stands, into grass plats, and gravel walks, with trees and flowering shrubs. Cards we sometimes play here in long winter even- ings ; but it is as they play at chess, not for money, but for honour, or the plea- sure of beating one another. This will not be quite a novelty to you, as you may remember we played together in Sect. V. RECENT. that manner during the winter you helped me to pass so agreeably at Passy. I have indeed now and then a little com- punction in reflecting that I spend time so idly ; but another reflection comes to relieve me, whispering, " You know the soul is immortal ; why then should you be such a niggard of a little time, when you have a whole eternity before you?" So being easily convinced, and, like other reasonable creatures, satis- lied with a small reason, when it is in favour of doing what I have a mind to do, I shuffle the cards again and be- gin another game. As to public amusements, we have neither plays nor operas, but we had yesterday a kind of oratorio, as you will see by the enclosed paper ; and we have assemblies, balls, and concerts, besides little parties at one another's houses, in which there is sometimes dancing, and frequently good music ; so that we jog on in life as pleasantly as you do in England, any where but in London ; for there you have plays performed by good actors. That however is, I think, the only advantage London has over Phila- delphia. Temple has turned his thoughts to agriculture, which he pursues ardently, being in possession of a fine farm that his father lately conveyed to him. Ben is finishing his studies at college, and continues to behave as well as when you knew him, so that I still think he will make you a good son. His younger brothers and sisters are also all pro- mising, appearing to have good tempers and dispositions, as well as good consti- tutions. As to myself, I think my gene- ral health and spirits rather better than when you saw me, and the particular malady I then complained of continues tolerable. With sincere and very great esteem, 1 am ever, my dear friend, yours most affectionately. P. S. My children and grandchildren join with me in best wishes for you and yours. My love to my godson, to Eliza, and to honest Tom. They will all find agreeable companions here. Love to Dolly*, and tell her she will do well to come with you. * Mrs. Dorothy Blunt. LETTER LXXIV. Dr. Franklin to M. le Marquis de la Fayette. Philadelphia, April 17, 1787. Dear friend, 1 RECEIVED the kind letter you did me the honour of writing in February, 1786. The indolence of old age, and the per- petual teasing of too much business, have made me so bad a correspondent, that I have hardly written a letter to any friend in Europe during the last twelvemonth; but as I have always a pleasure in hearing from them, which I cannot expect will be continued if I do not write to them, I again take up my pen, and begin with those whose cor- respondence is of the greatest value ; among which I reckon that of the Mar- quis de la Fayette. I was glad to hear of your safe return to Paris, after so long and fatiguing a journey. That is the place where your enlightened zeal for the welfare of our country can employ itself most to our advantage, and I know it is always at work, and indefatigable. Our enemies are, as you observe, very industrious in depreciating our national character. Their abuse sometimes provokes me, and 1 am almost ready to retaliate 4 but I have held my hand, though there is abundant room for recrimination j be- cause I would do nothing that might hasten another quarrel by exasperating those who are still sore from their late disgraces. Perhaps it may be best that they should please themselves with fan- cying us weak, and poor, and divided, and friendless ; they may then not be jealous of our growing strength (which, since the peace, does really make rapid progress), and may be less intent on interrupting it. I do not wonder that the Germans, who know little of free constitutions, should be ready to suppose that such cannot support themselves. We think they may, and we hope to prove it. That there should be faults in our first sketches or plans of government is not surprising; rather, considering the times and the circumstances under which they were formed, it is surprising that the faults are so few. Those in 810 E L E G A N T E tM S T L E 8. Book IV. the general confederating articles are now about to be considered in a conven- tion called for that express purpose ; these will indeed be the most difficult to rectify. Those of particular states will undoubtedly be rectified, as their inconveniences shall by experience be made manifest. And whatever differ- ence of sentiment there may be among us respecting particular regulations, the enthusiastic rejoicings with which the day of declared independence is annually celebrated, demonstrate the universal satisfaction of the people with the revo- lution and its grand principles. I enclose the vocabulary you sent me, with the words of the Shawanese and Delaware languages, which Colonel Har- mar has procured for me. He is promised one more complete, which I shall send you as soon as it comes to my hands. My grandson, whom you so kindly inquire after, is at his estate in the Jerseys, and amuses himself with culti- vating his lands. I wish he would seriously make a business of it, and renounce all thoughts of public em- ployment ; for I think agriculture the most honourable, because the most in- dependent of all professions. But I believe he hankers a little after Paris, or some other of the polished cities of Europe, thinking the society there pre- ferable to what he meets with in the woo3s of Ancocas ; as it certainly is. If he was now here, he would un- doubtedly join with me and the rest of my family (who are much flattered by your remembrance of them) in best wishes for your health and prosperity, and that of your whole amiable fireside. You will allow an old friend of fourscore to say he loves your wife, when he adds, and children, and prays God to bless them all. Adieu ! and believe me ever, yours most affectionately. LETTER LXXV. Dr. Franklin to Count de Bvffon, Paris. Philadelphia, Nov. 19, 1787. Dear sir, I AM honoured by your letter desiring to know by what means I am relieved in a disorder, with which you are also unfortunately afflicted. 1 have tried all the noted prescriptions for diminishing the stone, without perceiving any good effect. But observing temperance in eating, avoiding wine and cyder, and using daily the dumb beli, which exer- cises the upper part of the body without much moving the parts in contact with the stone, I think I have prevented its increase. As the roughness of the stone lacerates a little the neck of the bladder, I find, that when the urine happens to be sharp, 1 have much pain in making water and frequent urgencies. For re- lief under this circumstance I take, going to bed, the bigness of a pigeon's egg of jelly of blackberries : the receipt for making it is enclosed. While I continue to do this every night I am generally easy the day following, making water pretty freely, and with long in- tervals. I wish most sincerely that this simple remedy may have the same happy effect with you. Perhaps currant jelly, or the jelly of apples, or of raspberries, may be equally serviceable ; for 1 sus- pect the virtue of the jelly may lie prin- cipally in the boiled sugar, which is in some degree candied by the boiling of the jelly. Wishing you for your own sake much more ease, and for the sake of mankind many more years, I remain with the greatest esteem and respect, dear sir, your most obedient and affec- tionate servant. LETTER LXXVI. Dr. Franklin to Dr. Rush. Philadelphia (without date, but supposed to be in 1789). My dear friend. During our long acquaintance you have shewn many instances of your regard for me, yet I must now desire you to add one more to the number, which is, that if you publish your ingenious dis- course on the moral sense, you will to- tally omit and suppress that most ex- travagant encomium on your friend Franklin, which hurt me exceedingly in the unexpected hearing, and will mortify me beyond conception, if it should appear from the press. Con- Sect. ¥. RECENT. 811 fidiug in your compliance with this ear- nest request, I am ever, my dear friend, yours most affectionately. LETTER LXXVIl. Dr. Franklin to David Hartley, Esq. Philadelphia, Dec. 4, 1789. My very dear friend, 1 RECEIVED your favour of August last. Your kind condolences, on the painful state of my health, are very ohliging. I am thankful to God, however, that, among the numerous ills human life is subject to, one only of any importance is fallen to my lot ; and that so late as almost to insure that it can he but of short dura- tion. The convulsions in France are at- tended with some disagreeable circum- stances ; but if by the struggle she ob- tains and secures for the nation its future liberty, and a good constitution, a few years' enjoyment of those blessings will amply repair all the damages their ac- quisition may have occasioned. Ood grant that not only the love of liberty, but a thorough knowledge of the rights of man, may pervade all the nations of the earth, so that a philosopher may set his foot anywhere on its surface, and say. This is my country ! Your wishes for a cordial and perpetual friendship between Britain and her ancient colo- nies, are manifested continually in every one of your letters to me ; something of ray disposition on the same subject may appear to you in casting your eye over the enclosed paper*. I do not by this opportunity send you any of our gazettes ; because the postage from Liverpool would be more than they are worth. I can now only add my best wishes of every kind of felicity for the three ami- able Hartleys, to whom I have the ho- nour of being an affectionate friend and most obedient humble servant. * Uncertain what paper. LETTER LXXVIH. fo *^'^**, (Without date.) Dear sir, I HAVE read your manuscript with some attention. By the argument it contains against a particular Providence, though you allow a general Providence, you strike at the foundations of all religion. For without the belief of a Providence that takes cognizance of, guards and guides, and may favour particular per- sons, there is no motive to worship a Deity, to fear its displeasure, or to pray for its protection. I will not enter into any discussion of your principles, though you seem to desire it. At present I shall only give you my opinion, that though your reasonings are subtle, and may prevail with some readers, you will not succeed so as to change the general sentiments of mankind on that subject ; and the consequence of printing this piece will be, a great deal of odium drawn upon yourself, mischief to you, and no benefit to others. He that spits against the wind, spits in his own face. But were you to succeed, do you ima- gine any good would be done by it? You yourself may find it easy to live a virtuous life without the assistance af- forded by religion ; you having a clear perception of the advantages of virtue, and the disadvantages of vice, and pos- sessing a strength of resolution sufl&cient to enable you to resist common temp- tations. But think how great a por- tion of mankind consists of weak and ignorant men and women, and of inexperienced, inconsiderate youth of both sexes, who have need of the mo- tives of religion to restrain them from vice, to support their virtue, and retain them in the practice of it till it becomes habitual, which is the great point for its security. And perhaps you are in- debted to her originally, that is to your religious education, for the habits of virtue upon which you now justly value yourself. You might easily display your excellent talents of reasoning upon a less hazardous subject, and thereby ob- tain a rank with our most distinguished authors. For among us it is not neces- sary, as among the Hottentots, that a youth, to be raised into the company of 812 E L E O A NT E P 1 S T L E S. men, sbould prove his manhood by beating- his mother. I would advise you therefore not to attempt unchaining- the tiger, but to burn this piece before it is seen by any other person, whereby you will save yourself a great deal of mortification from the enemies it may raise against you, and perhaps a good deal of regret and repentance. If men '.'....'^•'?"):Book1V. are so wicked with religion. What would they be if without it* ? I intend this letter itself as a proof oi my friendship, and therefore add no professions to it ; but subscribe simply yours. * Montesquieu says, " La religion, meme fausse, est le meilleur garant que les hommes puissent avoir de la probite des hommes." (Esprit des Loix, chap. 25, liv. 8.) "K-. THE END. CHARLES WOOD, Printer, Poppin's Court, Fleet Street, London/ ^ 1 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatnnent Date: Feb. 2009 PreservatlonTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111