Letters of Mr. Pope, and several eminent persons, from the year 1705, to 1711: [pt.2]

LETTERS OF Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL, Mr. STEELE, Mr. ADDISON, and Mr. POPE.

From 1711 to 1715.

LETTERS OF Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL, Mr. STEELE, Mr. ADDISON, &c.

* 1.1 Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE this moment receiv'd the fa|vour of yours of the 8th instant; and will make you a true excuse, (tho' per|haps no very good one) that I defer'd the troubling you with a letter, when I sent back your Papers, in hopes of seeing you at Binfield before this time. If I had met with any fault in your performance, I should freely now (as I have done too pre|sumptuously in conversation with you) tell

you my opinion; which I have frequently ventur'd to give you, rather in compliance with your desires than that I could think it reasonable. For I am not yet satisfied upon what grounds I can pretend to judge of Poetry, who never have been practic'd in the Art. There may possible be some hap|py genius's, who may judge of some of the natural beauties of a Poem, as a man may of the proportions of a building, without having read Vitruvius, or knowing any thing of the rules of architecture: But this, tho' it may sometimes be in the right, must be subject to many mistakes, and is certainly but a superficial knowledge; without entring into the art, the methods, and the particular excellencies of the whole composure, in all the parts of it.

Besides my want of skill I have another reason why I ought to suspect my self, by reason of the great affection I have for you, which might give too much biass, to be kind to every thing that comes from you; but after all, I must say (and I do it with an old-fashion'd sincerity) that I en|tirely approve of your Translation of those Pieces of Homer, both as to the versifica|tion and the true sense that shines thro' the whole; nay I am confirm'd in my former application to you, and give me leave to renew it upon this occasion, that you

wou'd proceed in translating that incompa|rable Poet, to make him speak good En|glish, to dress his admirable characters in your proper, significant, and expressive con|ceptions, and to make his works as useful and instructive to this degenerate age, as he was to our friend Horace, when he read him at Proeneste, Qui, quid sit pul|chrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non, &c. I break off with that quid non? with which I confess I am charm'd.

Upon the whole matter I intreat you to send this presently to be added to the Mis|cellanies, and I hope it will come time enough for that purpose.

I have nothing to say of my Nephew B.'s observations, for he sent them to me so late, that I had not time to consider them; I dare say he endeavour'd very faithfully (tho' he told me very hastily) to execute your commands.

All I can add is, that if your excess of mo|desty shou'd hinder you from publishing this Essay, I shall only be sorry that I have no more credit with you, to persuade you to oblige the publick, and very particularly, dear Sir,

Your most faithful humble Servant, W. Trumbull.

Apr. 9, 1708.

Mr. POPE to the Hon. J. C. Esq

June 15, 1711.

I Send you Dennis's remarks on the* 1.2 Es|say, which equally abound in just Cri|ticisms and fine Railleries: The few obser|vations in my hand in the margins, are what a mornings leisure permitted me to make, purely for your perusal. For I 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 an|swer'd, and that way I wou'd not take after what he informs me in his preface, that he is at this time persecuted by For|tune. This I knew not before; if I had, his name had been spar'd in the Essay, for that only reason. I can't conceive what ground he has for so excessive a re|sentment; nor imagine how those † 1.3 three lines can be call'd a reflection on his Per|son, which only describe him subject a little to Anger on some occasions. I have heard of combatants so very furious, as to fall

down themselves with that very blow which they design'd to lay heavy on their anta|gonists. But if Mr. Dennis's rage proceeds only from a zeal to discourage young and unexperienc'd writers from scribling, he shou'd frighten us with his Verse not Prose: for I have often known, that when all the precepts in the world would not re|claim a sinner, some very sad example has done the business* 1.4. Yet to give this man his due, he has objected to one or two lines with reason, and I will alter 'em 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. What he observes at the bottom of page 20th of his reflections, was objected to by your self, and had been mended but for the haste of the press: 'Tis right Hiber|nian, and I confess it what the English call a Bull in the expression, tho' the sense be manifest enough: Mr. Dennis's Bulls are seldom in the expression, they are always in the sense.

I shall certainly never make the least reply to him, not only because you advise me, but because I have ever been of opi|nion, that if a book can't answer for itself

to the publick, 'tis to no sort of purpose for its author to do it. If I am wrong in any sentiment of that Essay, I protest sin|cerely, I don't desire all the world should be deceiv'd (which wou'd be of very ill consequence) meerly that I my self may be thought right, (which is of very little con|sequence). I'd be the first to recant, for the benefit of others, and the glory of my self; 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 advan|tage by the publishing that book of D_…_…s's which otherwise I should never have known: It has been the occasion of ma|king me friends, and open abetters, of se|veral gentlemen of known sense and wit; and of proving to me what I have till now doubted, that my writings are taken some notice of by the world in general, or I should never be attack'd thus in par|ticular. I have read that 'twas a custom among the Romans, while a General rode in triumph, to have common soldiers in the streets that rail'd at him and reproach'd him; to put him in mind, that tho' his services were in the main approved and rewarded, yet he had faults enough to keep him humble.

You will see by this, that whoever sets up for wit in these days ought to have the constancy of a primitive christian, and be prepar'd to suffer martyrdom in the cause of it. But sure this is the first time that a Wit was attack'd for his Religion, as you'll find I am most zealously in this treatise: and you know Sir, what alarms I have had from the * 1.5 opposite side on this account. Have I not reason to cry out with the poor fellow in Virgil,

Quid jam misero mihi denique restat? Cui neque apud Danaos usquam locus, & super ipsi Dardanidae infensi poenas cum Sanguine pos|cunt!

'Tis however my happiness that you, Sir, are impartial,

Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian, For you well know, that Wit's of no Religion.

The manner 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which Mr. D. takes to pieces several particular lines, detach'd from their natural places, may shew how easy it is to a caviller to give a new sense, or

a new nonsence to any thing. And in|deed his constructions are not more wrest|ed from the genuine meaning, than theirs who objected to the heterodox parts, as they call'd 'em.

Our friend the Abbè is not of that sort, who with the utmost candour and free|dom, 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 difference between us in relation to the Monks, is, that he thinks most sorts of learning flourish'd a|mong 'em, and I am of opinion that only some sort of learning was barely kept alive by 'em: he believes, that in the most na|tural and obvious sense, that line (A second deluge Learning over-run) will be under|stood of Learning in general; and I fancy 'twill be understood only (as 'tis meant) of polite Learning, Criticism, Poetry, &c. which is the only learning concern'd 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 Barba|rism, or at least stood at a stay while others rose from thence, insomuch that even Eras|mus and Reuchlin could hardly laugh them out of it. I am highly oblig'd to the Ab|be's zeal in my commendation, and good|ness

in not concealing what he thinks my error. And his testifying some esteem for the book, just at a time when his brethren rais'd a clamour against it, is an instance of great generosity and candor, which I shall ever acknowledge.

Yours, &c.

To the Same.

June 18, 1711.

IN your last you informed me of the mistaken zeal of some people, who seem to make no less their business to persuade men they are erroneous, than Do|ctors do that they are sick; only that they may magnify their own cure, and triumph over an imaginary distemper. The Simile objected to in my Essay.

(Thus wit, like faith, by each man is apply'd To one small Sect, and all are damn'd beside.)

Plainly concludes at this second line, where stands a full stop: and what follows Mean|ly they seek, &c.) speaks only of Wit, (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 genius's of the northern climates? I fear these gentlemen understand grammer as little as they do criticisim; and perhaps out of good nature to the Monks, are willing to take from 'em the censure of ignorance, and to have it to themselves. The word They refers (as I am sure I meant, and as I thought every one must have known) to those critics there spoken of, who are par|tial to some perticular sett of writers, to the prejudice of all others. And the very simile it self, if twice read, may convince them, that the censure here of damning lies not on our Church at all, unless they call our Church one small Sect and the cautious words, (by each man) manifestly show it a general reflection on all such (whoever they are) who entertain those narrow rnd limited notions of the mercy of the Almighty; which the Reform'd mi|nisters and Presbyterians are as guilty of as any people living.

Yet after all, I promise you Sir, if the alteration of a word or two will gratify any man of sound faith tho' weak understand|ing, I will (tho' it were from no other principal than that of common good na|ture) 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 stumbling-block, tho' it be but a little pebble, shall be removed out of their way. If the heat of these good disputants (who I am afraid being bred up to wrangle in the schools, cannot get rid of the humor all their lives) shou'd pro|ceed so far as to personal reflections upon me, I assure you notwithstanding I will do, or say nothing, however provok'd (for some people can no more provoke than oblige) that is unbecoming the character of a true Catholick. I will set before me the example of that great man, and great Saint Erasmus; who in the midst of ca|lumny proceeded with all the calmness of innocence, and the unrevenging spirit of primitive christianity. However I wou'd advise them to suffer the mention of him to pass unregarded, lest I shou'd be forc'd to do that for his reputation which I wou'd never do for my own; I mean, to vindicate so great a light of our Church from the malice of past times, and the ig|norance of the present, in a language which the Trifle about Criticism is writen. I wish these gentlemen wou'd be contented with finding fault with me only, who will sub|mit to 'em right or wrong, as far as I on|ly am concern'd; 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 wou'd do a Priest none: For as St. Austin finely says, Ubi Charitas, ibi Humilitas; ubi Humilitas, ibi Pax.

Yours, &c.

To the Same.

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 believ'd the best piece of service one cou'd do to our religion, was openly to express our detestation and scorn of all those mean artifices and Pioe fraudes, which it stands so little in need of, and which have laid it under so great a scan|dal amongst its enemies.

Nothing has been so much a scarecrow to them, as that too peremptory and seem|ingly-uncharitable assertion of an utter Im|possibility of Salvation to all but ourselves; invincible ignorance excepted, which in|deed some people define under so great li|mitations and with such exclusions, that it seems as if that word were rather in|vented as a salvo, or expedient, not to be thought too bold with the thunder-bolts of God (which are hurl'd about so freely on almost all mankind by the hands of ecclesiasticks) than as a real exception to almost-universal damnation. For besides the small number of the truly faithful in our Church, we must again subdivide; the Jansenist is damn'd by the Jesuit, the Jesuit by the Jansenist, the Scotist by the Thomist, and so forth.

There may be Errors I grant, but I can't think'em of such consequenceas to destroy utterly the charity of mankind; the very greatest bond in which we are ingag'd by God to one another. Therefore I own to you, I was glad of any opportunity to ex|press my dislike of so shocking a sentiment as those of the religion I profess are com|monly charg'd with; and I hop'd, a slight insinuation, introduc'd so easily by a ca|sual similitude only, cou'd never have gi|ven offence; but on the contrary must

needs have done good; in a nation and time, wherein we are the smaller party and consequently 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 Empire, which is too manifest a truth to be deny'd, 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 allow and persist in those biggotries; which yet in reality all good and sensible Men despise, tho' they are persuaded not to speak against 'em; I can't tell why, since now, 'tis no way the interest even of the worst of our Priesthood (as it might have been then) to have them smother'd in si|lence: For as the opposite Sects are now prevailing, 'tis too late to hinder our Church from being slander'd; 'tis our business now to show it is slander'd unjustly, and to vindicate our selves from being thought abettors of what they charge us with. This can't so well be brought about with serious faces; we must laugh with them at what deserves it; and then we need not doubt of being clear'd, ev'n in their opi|nions.

As to particulars; you cannot but have observ'd that at first the whole objection against the simile of wit and faith lay to the word They: When that was beyond contradiction removed (the very Grammar serving to confute 'em) then the objection lies against the Simile itself; or if that si|mile will not be objected to (sense and common reason being indeed a little stub|born, and not apt to give way to every body) next the mention of Superstition must become a crime (as if Religion and she were sisters, or that scandal upon the family of Christ, to say a word against the Devil's bastard.) Afterwards, more mischief is discover'd in a place that seem'd innocent at first, the two lines about Schis|matics, at the bottom of page 24. An or|dinary man wou'd imagine the author plainly declar'd against those schismatics, for quitting the true faith out of contempt of the understanding of some few of its believers: But these believers are call'd Dull, and because that I say those schis|matics think some believers dull, therefore these charitable interpreters of my mean|ing will have it, that I think all believers dull. I was telling lately Mr. _____ _____ these objections: who assur'd me I had said no|thing which a Catholick need to disown,

and I have cause to know that gentle|man's fault (if he has any) is not want of zeal: He put a notion into my head which I confess I can't but perfectly acquiesce in; that when a sett of people are piqu'd at any truth which they think to their own disadvantage, their method of re|venge on the truth-speaker is to attack his reputation a By-way, and not openly to object to the place they are really gall'd by: What these therefore (in his opinion) are in earnest angry at, is, that Erasmus whom their tribe oppress'd and persecuted shou'd be vindicated after an age of ob|loquy by one of their own people, willing to utter an honest truth 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'd Mr. Walsh with honour who as he never refus'd to any one of merit of any party the praise due to him, so honestly deserv'd it from all others, tho' of ever so diffe|rent interests or sentiments. May I be ever guilty of this sort of liberty, and la|titude of principle! which gives us the hardiness of speaking well of those whom envy oppresses ev'n after death. As I wou'd 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 expect no thanks forit.

Thus, Sir, you see I do in my Conscience persist in what I have written; yet in my friendship I will recant and alter what|ever you please, in case of a second edi|tion (which I think the book will not so soon arrive at, for Tonson's printer told me he drew off a thousand copies in this first impression, and I fancy a treatise of this nature, which not one gentleman in three|score even of a liberal education can un|derstand, can hardly exceed the vent of that number.) You shall find me a true Trojan in my faith, and friendship, in both which I will persevere to the end.

Your, &c.

To General . . . . . . . . upon his having translated into French Verse the Essay on Criticism.

IF I could as well express or (if you will allow me to say it) translate the sentiments 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. 'Tis an advantage very rarely known, to receive at once a great honour and a great im|provement. This Sir, you have afforded me, having at the same time made others take my sense, and taught me to under|stand my own; if I may call that my own which is indeed more properly yours: Your verses are no more a translation of mine, than Virgil's are of Homer, but are like his, the justest Imitation and the no|blest 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 na|turaliz'd me into a country which is fa|mous for making every man a fine gentle|man. It is by your means, that (contrary to most young travellers) I am come back much better than I went out.

I cannot but wish we had a bill of com|merce for Translation established the next parliament, we could not fail of being gainers by that, nor of making our selves amends for all we have lost by the war. Nay tho' we should insist upon the demo|lishing

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 can be, of the terms I have gain'd 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 here* 1.6; to which if you will be so obliging to give me leave to prefix your name, it will be the only addition you can make to the hounour al|ready done me. I am,

Your, &c.

The Hon. J. C. to Mr. POPE.

May 23, 1712.

I AM very glad, for the sake of the Widow, and for the credit of the de|ceas'd,

that † 1.7 Betterton's remains are fallen into such hands as may render 'em repu|table to the one and beneficial to the other. Besides the publick acquaintance I long had with that poor man, I also had a slender knowledge of his parts and capacity by private conversation, and ever thought it pity, he was necessitated by the straitness of his fortune, to act (and especially to his latest hours) an imaginary and fictitious part, who was capable of exhibiting a real one, with credit to himself and advantage to his Neighbour.

I hope your health permitted you to ex|ecute your design of giving us an imitation of Pollio, I am satisfy'd 'twill be doubly Divine and I shall long to see it. I ever thought church-musick the most ravishing of all harmonious compositions, and must also believe sacred subjects, well handled, the most inspiring of all Poetry.

But where hangs the Lock now? (tho' I know that rather than draw any just re|flection upon your self, of the least shadow of ill-nature, you would freely have sup|prest one of the best of Poems.) I hear no more of it—will it come out in Lintot's

Miscellany or not? I wrote to Lord Petre upon the subject of the Lock, some time since, but have as yet had no answer, nor indeed do I know when he'll be in Lon|don. I have, since I saw you, correspond|ed with Mrs. W. I hope she is now with her Aunt, and that her journey thither was something facilitated by my writing to that Lady as pressingly as possible, not to let any thing whatsoever obstruct it. I sent her obliging answer to the party it most concern'd; and when I hear Mrs. W. is certainly there, I will write again to my Lady, to urge as much as possible the ef|fecting the only thing that in my opinion can make her Niece easy. I have run out my extent of paper, and am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE's Answer.

May 28, 1712.

IT is not only the disposition I always have of conversing with you, that makes me so speedily answer your oblig|ing letter, but the apprehension left your charitable intent of writing to my Lady A.

on Mrs. W.'s affair should be frustrated, by the short stay she makes there. She went thither on the 25th with that mixture of expectation and anxiety, with which peo|ple usually go into unknown or half-dis|cover'd countries, utterly ignorant of the dispositions of the inhabitants, and the treatment they are to meet with. The Unfortunate of all people are the most un|fit to be left alone; yet we see the world generally takes care they shall be so. Where|as if we took a considerate prospect of humane nature, the business and study of the happy and easy shou'd be to divert and humour, as well as comfort and pity, the distressed. I cannot therefore excuse some near Allies of mine for their conduct of late towards this Lady, which has given me a great deal of anger as well as sorrow. All I shall say to you of 'em at present is, that they have not been my relations these two months: The consent of opinions in our minds, is certainly a nearer tye than can be contracted by all the blood in our bodies; and I am proud of finding I have something congenial with you. Will you permit me to confess to you, that all the favours and kind offices you have shown towards Me, have not so strongly cement|ed me yours, as the discovery of that ge|nerous and manly compassion you mani|fested

in the case of this unhappy Lady? I am afraid to insinuate to you how much I esteem you: Flatterers have taken up the stile which was once peculiar to friends, and an honest man has now no way left to express himself besides the common one of knaves: so that true friends now-a-days differ in their address from flatterers, much as right mastiffs do from spaniels, and show themselves by a dumb surly sort of fidelity, rather than by their complaisant and open kindness.—Will you never leave commending my Poetry? In fair truth Sir, I like it but too well my self already—Expose me no more, I beg you, to the great danger of Vanity, (the rock of all men, but most of young men) and be kindly content for the future, when you wou'd please me throughly, to say only you like what I write.

Your, &c.

Mr. STEELE to Mr. POPE.

June 1, 1712.

I AM at a solitude, an house between Hampstead and London wherein Sir Charles Sedley died. This circumstance set

me a thinking and ruminating upon the employments in which Men of wit exer|cise themselves. It was said of Sir Charles, who breath'd his last in this room,

Sedley has that prevailing gentle art, Which can with a resistless charm impart, The loosest wishes to the chastest heart; Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire Between declining Virtue and Desire. Till the poor vanquish'd Maid dissolves away In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day.

This was an happy talent to a man of the Town, but I dare say, without presuming to make uncharitable conjectures on the author's present condition, he would ra|ther have had it said of him that he had pray'd,

—Oh thou my voice inspire, Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!

I have turn'd to every verse and chap|ter, and think you have preserv'd the sub|lime heavenly spirit throughout the whole, especially at—Hark a glad voice—and—The lamb with wolves shall graze—There is but one line which I think be|low the original,

He wipes the tears for ever from our eyes.

You have express'd it with a good and pious, but not with so exalted and poetical a spirit as the prophet. The Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces. If you agree with me in this, alter it by way of paraphrase or otherwise, that when it comes into a volume it may be amended. Your Poem is already better than the Pollio. I am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

June 18, 1712.

YOU have oblig'd 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 mix'd state which wise men both delight in, and are quali|fy'd for. Methinks the Moralists and Phi|losophers have generally run too much into extreams in commending intirely either solitude, or publick life. In the former, men for the most part grow useless by too much rest, and in the latter are destroy'd by too much precipitation; as waters lying still, putrify and are good for nothing, and

running violently on do but the more mischief in their passage to others, and are swallow'd up and lost the sooner themselves. Those indeed who can be useful to all states, should be like gentle streams, that not only glide thro' lonely valleys and forests amidst the flocks and the shepherds, but visit populous towns in their course and are at once of ornament and service to them. But there are an|other sort of people who seem design'd for solitude, such I mean as have more to hide than to show: As for my own part, I am one of those of whom Seneca says, Tam umbratiles sunt, ut putent in turbido esse quic|quid in luce est. Some men, like some pic|tures, 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 which may be forc'd into fountains and exalted into a great height, and make a noble figure and a louder noise, but after all they would run more smoothly, quietly and plentiful|ly, in their own natural course upon the ground. The consideration of this would * 1.8

make me very well contented with the possession only of that Quiet which Cowley calls the Companion of Obscurity. But who|ever has the Muses too for his companions, can never be idle enough to be uneasy. Thus Sir you see I would flatter my self into a good opinion of my own way of living. Plutarch just now told me, that 'tis 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 e'en to play it as well as he can and to make the best of it. I am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

July 15, 1712.

YOU formerly observ'd to me, that nothing 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 perpetually exhibiting a miserable example of the weak|ness of his mind, and of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent opportunities of late to consider my self in these diffe|rent views, and I hope have receiv'd some

advantage by it, if what Mr. Waller says be ture, that

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light thro' chincks 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. Sickness is a sort of early old age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state and inspires us with the thoughts of a future, better than a thousand volumes of philosiphers and divines. It gives so warning a con|cussion to those props of our vanity, our strength and youth, that we think of for|tifying our our selves within, when there is so little dependance upon our out-works. Youth at the very best is but a betrayer of human life in a gentler and smoother manner than age: 'Tis like a stream that nourishes 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 dazzle me very much; and I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasure. When a smart fit of sickness tells me this scurvy tenement of my body will fall in a little time, I am e'en as unconcern'd as was that honest Hiberniam, who being in bed 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 'tis the best time todie when one is in the best hu|mour, and so excessively weak as I now am I may say with conscience, that I am not at all uneasy at the thought that ma|ny men whome I never had any esteem for, are likely to enjoy this world after me. When I reflect what an inconsiderable little attom every single man is, with respect to the whole creation, methinks 'tis a shame to be concern'd at the removal of such a trivial animal as I am. The morning af|ter 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 old course, people will laugh as hear|tily, and marry as fast as they were us'd to do. The memory of man, (as it is ele|gantly express'd in the wisdom of Solomon)

passeth away as the Remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but one day. There are rea|sons enough, in the fourth chapter of the same book, to make any young man con|tented with the prospect of death. For ho|nourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, or is measur'd by number of years. But wisdom is the gray hair to men, and an unspotted life is old age. He was taken away speedily, lest wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul, &c. I am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

Nov. 7. 1712.

I Was the other day in company with five of 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 't was a piece of Gaiety unworthy of that Prince in those circumstances. I could not but differ from this opinion: Methinks it was by no means a gay, but a very serious so|liloquy to his soul at the point of his de|parture; in which sense I naturally took

the verses at my first reading them when I was very young, and before I knew what interpretation the world generally put up|on them.

Animula vagula, blandula, Hospes comesque corporis, Quae nunc abibis in loca? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec (ut Soles) dabis joca!

"Alas, my soul! thou pleasing companion of this body, thou fleeting thing that art now deserting it! whither art thou fly|ing? to what unknown Scene? all trem|bling, fearful, and pensive. Non what 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? 'Tis the most natu|ral and abvious reflection imaginable to a dying man: and if we consider the Em|peror was a heathen, that doubt concern|ing the future fate of his soul will seem so far from being the effect of want of thought, that 'twas scarce reasonable he should think otherwise; not to mention that here is a plain confession included of his belief in its immortality. The dimi|nutive epithets of vagula, glandula, and the

rest, appear not to me as expressions of levity, but rather of endearment and con|cern; such as we find in Catullus, and the authors of Hendeca-syllabi after him, where they are us'd 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 pleas'd to insert it in the Spectator, if not, to suppress it. I am,

Your, &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, chearful Guest?

Whither, ah whither art thou flying! To what dark, undiscover'd Shore? Thou seem'st all trembling, shiv'ring, dying, And Wit and Humour are no more!

Mr. STEELE to Mr. POPE.

Nov. 12. 1712.

I 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 beauties. Mr. Ad|dison shall see it to marrow: 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 your self. If your thoughts are unen|gaged, I shall explain my self further. I am,

Your, &c.

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 seve|rity I hope for from you. No errors are so trivial, but they deserve to be mended;

but since you say you see nothing that may be call'd a fault, can you but think it so, that I have confin'd the attendance of * 1.9 Guardian spirits to Heaven's favourites on|ly? I could point you to several, but 'tis my business to be informed of those faults I do not know, and as for those I do, not to talk of 'em but to correct 'em. You speak of that Poem in a style I 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 beauties. I mean, if Mr. Addison and Your self shou'd like it in the whole; otherwise the trou|ble of correction is what I would not take, for I was really so diffident of it as to let it lie by me these † 1.10 two years, just as you now see it. I am afraid of nothing so much as to impose any thing on the world which is unworthy of its acceptance.

As to the last period of your letter, I shall be very ready and glad to contribute to any design that tends to the advantage of mankind, which I am sure all yours do. I wish I had but as much capacity as leisure, for I am perfectly idle: (a sign I have not much capacity.)

If you will entertain the best opinion of me, be pleas'd to think me your friend. Assure Mr. Addison of my most faithful service, of every one's esteem he must be assur'd already. I am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

Nov. 29, 1712.

I AM sorry you publish'd that nation about Adrian's Verses as mine; had I imagin'd you wou'd use my name, I shou'd have express'd my sentiments with more modesty and diffidence. I only sent it to have your opinion, and not to publish my own, which I distrusted. But I think the supposition you draw from the notion of Adrian's being addicted to Magick, is a little uncharitable, (

"that he might fear no sort of Deity, goog or bad"

) since in the third verse he plainly testifies his apprehen|sion of a future state, by being sollicitous whither his soul was going? As to what you mention of his using gay and ludicrous expressions, I have own'd my opinion to be that the expressions are not so, but

that diminutives are as often in the Latin tongue used as marks of tenderness and con|cern.

Anima is no more than my soul, Ani|mula has the force of my dear soul. To say Virgo Bella is not half so endearing as Virguncula bellula, and had Augustus only call'd Horace Lepidum Hominem, it had amounted to no more than that he thought him a pleasant fellow: 'Twas the Homunciolum that exprest the love and ten|derness that great Emperor had for him. And perhaps I should my self be much better pleas'd, if I were told you call'd me your little friend, than if you compli|mented me with the title of a great Ge|nius, or an Eminent hand (as Jacob does all his authors.) I am.

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to . . . . . . .

Decemb. 5, 1712.

YOU have at length comply'd with the request I have often made you, for you have shown me, I must confess, several of my faults in the sight of those letters. Upon 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 unreserv'd friendship, thoughts just warm from the brain, without any polishing or dress, the very dishabille of the understanding. You have prov'd your self more tender of an|other's embroyo's than the fondest mothers are of their own, for you have preserv'd every thing that I miscarry'd of. Since I know this, I shall 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 I 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 let|ters has been a kind of examination of conscience to me; so fairly and faithfully have I set down in 'em from time to time the true and undistinguish'd state of my mind. But I find that these, which were intended as sketches of my friendship, give as imperfect images of it, as the little landscapes we commonly see in black and white, do of a beautiful country; they can represent but a very small part of it, and that depriv'd of the life and lustre of nature. I perceive that the more I en|deavour'd

to render manifest the real affe|ction and value I ever had for you, I did but injure it by representing less and less of it: as glasses which are design'd 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 dis|pleasing on that score: So I hope the fore|knowledge 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 intitle 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 challeng'd me for it: and those who say it are such, whose writings no man ever borrow'd from, so have the least reason to complain: Their works are granted on all hands to be but too much their own.—Another has been pleas'd to declare, that my Verses are corrected by

other men: I verily believe theirs were ne|ver corrected by any man: But indeed if mine have not, 'twas not my fault, I have endeavour'd my utmost that they should. But these things only whisper'd, and I will not encroach upon Bay's province and Pen Whispers, so hasten to conclude

Your, &c.

Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL to Mr. POPE.

March 6, 1713.

I Think a hasty scribble shews more what flows from the heart, than a let|ter after Balzac's manner in studied phra|ses; therefore I will tell you as fast as I can, that I have receiv'd your favour of the 26th past, with your kind present of The Rape of the Lock. You have given me the truest satisfaction imaginable, not only in making good the just opinion I have ever had of your reach of thought, and my Idea of your comprehensive genius; but likewise in that pleasure I take as an English Man to see the French, even Boileau him|self in his Lutrin, outdone in your Poem: For you descend, leviore plectro, to all the nicer

touches, that your own observation and wit furnish, on such a subject as requires the finest strokes, and the liveliest ima|gination. But I must say no more (tho' I could a great deal) on what pleases me so much: and henceforth I hope you will never condemn me of partiality, since I only swim with the stream, and approve what all men of good taste (notwith|standing the jarring of Parties) must and do universally applaud. I now come to what is of vast moment, I mean the preservation of your health, and beg of you earnestly to get out of all Tavern-compa|ny, and fly away tanquam ex incendio. What a misery it is for you to be destroy'd by the foolish kindness ('tis all one whether real or pretended) of those who are able to bear the Poison of bad Wine, and to engage you in so unequal a combat? As to Homer, by all I can learn your business is done; therefore come away and take a little time to breathe in the country. I beg now for my own sake, but much more for yours; methinks Mr. _____ _____ has said to you more than once,

Heu fuge, nate dea, teque his, ait, eripe flam|mis!

I am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL.

March 12, 1713.

THough any thing you write 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 'tis a common opinion that a young scribler is as ill pleas'd to hear truth as a young Lady. From the moment one sets up for an author, one must be treated as ceremo|niously, that is as unfaithfully,

As a King's Favourite, or as a King.

This proceeding, join'd to that natural va|nity which first makes a man an author, is certainly enough to render him a cox|comb for life. But I must grant it is but a just judgement upon Poets, that they whose chief pretence is Wit, shou'd be treated just as they themselves treat Fools, that is, be cajoll'd with praises. And I believe, Poets are the only poor fellows in the world whom any body will flatter.

I would not be thought to say this as if the obliging letter you sent me deserv'd this imputation, only it put me in mind of it; and I fancy one may apply to one's friend when Caesar said of his Wife; It was not sufficient that he knew her to be chaste himself, but she shou'd not be so much as suspected by others.

As to the wonderful discoveries, and all the good news you are pleas'd to tell me of my self; I treat it as you who are in the Secret treat common news, groundless reports of things at a distance which I who look into the true springs of the affair at home, in my own breast, know to have no foundation at all. For Fame tho' it be as Milton finely calls it, The last Infirmity of noble Minds, is scarce so strong a temp|tation as to warrant our loss of time here: It can never make up lie down contentedly on a death-bed (as some of the ancients are said to have done with that thought). You Sir have your self taught me, that an easy situation at that hour, can proceed from no ambition less noble than that of an eternal felicity, which is unattainable by the strongest endeavours of the Wit, but may be gain'd 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 mind, not the ex|tent

of the capacity: Friendship here is an emanation from the same source as Beati|tude there: the same benevolence and grate|ful disposition that qualifies us for the one, if extended farther, makes us partakers of the other. The utmost point of my de|sires in my present state terminates in the society and good-will of worthy men, which I look upon as no ill earnest and fore-taste of the society and alliance of happy souls hereafter.

The continuance of your favours to me is what not only makes me happy, but causes me to set some value upon my self as a part of your care. The instances I daily meet with of these agreeable awa|kenings of friendship, are of too pleasing a nature not to be acknowledged whenever I think of you. I am

Your, &c.

To the Same.

April 30, 1713.

I Have been almost every day employ'd in following your advice and amusing my self in Painting, in which I am most particularly

obliged to Mr. Jervas, who gives me daily instructions and examples. As to poe|tical affairs, I am content at present to be a bare looker-on, and from a practitioner turn an admirer, 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 tho' all the foolish industry possible has been used to make it thought a Party-play, yet what the au|thor once said of another may the most properly in the world be apply'd to him on this occasion.

Envy itself 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 eccho'd back by the Tories on the other; while the Author sweated be|hind the scenes with concern, to find their applause proceeding more from the hand than the head. This was the case too of the Prologue-writer, who was clapp'd into a stanch Whig, at almost ev'ry too lines. I believe you have heard, that after all the applauses of the opposite Faction, my Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth who play'd Cato, into the box,

between one of the acts, and presented him with fifty guinea's; in acknowledgment (as he exprest it) for defending the cause of Liberty so well against a Perpetual Di|ctator. The Whigs are unwilling to be distanc'd this way, (as 'tis said) and there|fore design a present to the same Cato very speedily; in the mean time they are get|ting ready as good a Sentence as the for|mer on their side: So betwixt them, 'tis probable that Cato (as Dr. Garth exprest it) may have something to live upon, after he dies. I am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON.

July 30, 1713.

I AM more joy'd at your return than I should be at that of the Sun, so much as I wish for him this melancholy wet season; but 'tis his fate too, like yours, to be displeasing to Owls and obscene animals, who cannot bear his lustre. What put me in mind of these night-birds was John Dennis, whom I think you are best re|veng'd upon, as the Sun was in the fable

upon those batts and beastly birds above-mention'd, only by Shining on. I am so far from esteeming it any misfortune, that I congratulate you upon having your share in that, which all the great men and all the good men that ever liv'd have had their part of, Envy and Calumny. To be uncensur'd and to be obscure, is the same thing. You may conclude from what I here say, that 'twas never in my thoughts to have offer'd 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. * 1.11But indeed your opinion that 'tis intirely to be neglected, would have been my own had it been my own case: but I felt more warmth here than I did when first I saw his book a|gainst myself, (tho' indeed in two minutes it made me heartily merry). He has written against every thing the world has approv'd 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. _____ _____ , whose zeal in your concern is worthy a friend, and honourer of you. He writ to me in the most pressing terms about it, tho' with that just contempt of the Cri|tic that he deserves. I think in these days one honest man is oblig'd to acquaint an|other 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 look'd upon no better than themselves. I am

Your, &c.

Mr. ADDISON to Mr. POPE.

October 26, 1713.

I Was extreamly glad to receive a letter from you, but more so upon reading the contents of it. The * 1.12 Work you men|tion will I dare say very sufficiently recom|mend itself when your name appears with the Proposals: And if you think I can any way contribute to the forwarding of them,

you cannot lay a greater obligation upon me than by employing me in such an of|fice. As I have an ambition of having it known that you are my Friend, I shall be very proud of showing it by this, or any other instance. I question not but your Translation will enrich our Tongue and do Honour to our Country: for I conclude of it already from those performances with which you have oblig'd the publick. I would only have you consider how it may most turn to your advantage. Excuse my impertinence in this particular, which pro|ceeds from my zeal for your ease and hap|piness. The work wou'd cost you a great deal of time, and unless 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 besides your self.

I am at present wholly immersed in coun|try business, and begin to take delight in it. I wish I 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.

Mr. ADDISON to Mr. POPE.

Nov. 2, 1713.

I Have receiv'd your letter, and am glad to find that you have laid so good a scheme for your great undertaking. I que|stion not but the Prose will require as much care as the Poetry, but the variety will give your self some relief, and more pleasure to your readers.

You gave me leave once to take the liberty of a friend, in advising you not to content your self with one half of the Nation for your Admirers when you might command them all: If I might take the freedom to repeat it, I would on this occasion. I think you are very happy that you are out of the Fray, and I hope all your undertakings will turn to the better account for it.

You see how I presume on your friend|ship in taking all this freedom with you, but I already fancy that we have lived many years together, in an unreserved conversa|tion, and that we may do many more, is the sincere wish of

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON.

YOUR last is the more obliging, as it hints at some little niceties in my conduct, which your candor and affection prompt you to recommend to me, and which (so trivial as things of this nature seem) are vet of no slight consequence, to people whom every body talks of, and every body as he pleases. 'Tis a sort of Tax that attends an estate in Parnas|sus, which is often rated much higher than in proportion to the small posses|sion an author holds. For indeed an au|thor who is once come upon the town, is enjoy'd without being thank'd for the pleasure, and sometimes ill-treated by those very persons that first debauch'd him. Yet to tell you the bottom of my heart, I am no way displeas'd that I have offend|ed the violent of all Parties already; and at the same time I assure you conscien|tiously, I feel not the least malevolence or resentment against any of those who misrepresent me, or are dissatisfied with me. This frame of mind is so easy, that I am perfectly content with my condi|tion

As I hope and would flatter my self, that you know me and my thoughts so entirely as never to be mistaken in either, so 'tis a pleasure to me that you guess'd so right in regard to the Author of that Guardian you mention'd. But I am sorry to find it has taken air that I have some hand in those Papers, because I write so very few as neither to deserve the credit of such a report with some people, nor the disrepute of it with others. An honest Jacobite spoke to me the sense or non-sense of the weak part of his Party ve|ry fairly, that the good people took it ill of me, that I writ with Steele, tho' upon never so indifferent subjects—This I know you will laugh at as well as I do: yet I doubt not but many little ca|lumniators and persons of sower disposi|tions will take occasion hence to bespatter me. I confess I scorn narrow souls, of all parties, and if I renounce my reason in religious matters, I'll hardly do it in any other.

I can't imagine whence it comes to pass that the few Guardians I have written are so generally known for mine: that in par|ticular which you mention I never disco|ver'd to any man but the publisher, till ve|ry lately: yet almost every body I met told me of it.

The true reason that Mr. Steele laid down the Paper, was a quarrel between him and Jacob Tonson. He stood ingag'd to his bookseller, in articles of Penalty, for all the Guardians: and by desisting two days and altering the title of the paper to that of the Englishman, was quit of his obliga|tion: these papers being printed by Buck|ley.

As to his taking a more Politick turn, I cannot any way enter into that secret, nor have I been let into it, any more than into the rest of his politicks. Tho' 'tis said, he will take into these papers also several sub|jects of the politer kind, as before: But I assure you as to my self, I have quite done with 'em, for the future. The little I have done, and the great respect I bear Mr. Steele as a Man of Wit, has render'd me a suspected Whig to some of the vio|lent, but (as old Dryden said before me) 'Tis not the Violent I design to please.

I generally employ the mornings in paint|ing with Mr. Jervas* 1.13; and the evenings in the conversation of such, as I think can most improve my mind, of whatever Party or Denomination they are. I ever must set the highest value upon men of truly great,

that is honest Principles, with equal capa|cities. The best way I know of overco|ming Calumny and Misconstruction, is by a vigorous perseverance in every thing we know to be right, and a total neglect of all that can ensue from it. 'Tis partly from this maxim that I depend upon your friendship, because I believe it will do ju|stice to my intention in every thing; and give me leave to tell you, that (as the world goes) this is no small assurance I repose in you. I am

Your, &c.

To the Same.

Dec. 14, 1713.

I Have been lying in wait for my own imagination, this week and more, and watching what thoughts came up in the whirl of the fancy, that were worth communicating to you in a letter. But I am at length convinc'd that my rambling head can produce nothing of that sort; so I must e'en be contented with telling you the old story, that I love you heartily. I have often found by experience, that na|ture

and truth, tho' never so low or vul|gar, are yet pleasing when openly and artlessly represented; it would be divert|ing to me, to read the very letters of an infant, could it write its innocent in|consistencies and tautologies just as it thought 'em. This makes me hope a let|ter from me will not be unwelcome to you, when I am conscious I write with more unreservedness than ever man wrote, or perhaps talk'd to another. I trust your good nature with the whole range of my follies, and really love you so well, that I would rather you should pardon me than esteem me, since one is an act of goodness and benevolence, the other a kind of con|strain'd deference.

You can't wonder my thoughts are scarce consistent, when I tell you how they are distracted. Ev'ry hour of my life, my mind is strangely divided; this minute per|haps I am above the stars, with a thousand systems round about me, looking forward into a vast Abyss, and losing my whole comprehension in the boundless space of creation, in dialogues with W_…_… and the Astronomers; the next moment I am below all trifles, groveling with T_…_… in the very center of nonsense. Now I am recreated with the brisk sallies and quick turns of wit, which Mr. Steele in his liveliest

and freest humours darts about him; and now levelling my application to the insig|nificant observations and quirks of Grammar of Mr. _____ _____ and D_…_…

Good Good! What an incongruous ani|mal is Man? how unsettled in his best part, his Soul; and how changing and variable in his frame of Body? The constancy of the one shook by every Notion, the tempe|rament of the other affected by every blast of wind! What is Man altogether, but one mighty Inconsistency! Sickness and Pain is the lot of one half of us; Doubt and Fear the portion of the other! What a bustle we make about passing our time, when all our space is but a point? What aims and am|bitions are crowded into this little instant of our life, which (as Shakespear finely words it) is Rounded with a Sleep? Our whole extent of Being no more, in the eyes of him who gave it, than a scarce perceptible motion of duration. Those animals whose circle of living is limited to three or four hours, as the Naturalists assure us, are yet as long-lived and possess as wide a scene of action as a man, if we consider him with an eye to all Space, and all Eternity. Who knows what plots, what atchievements a mite may perform in his kingdom of a grain of dust, within his life of some minutes? and of how much less

consideration than even this, is the life of man in the fight of that God, who is from Ever, and for Ever!

Who that thinks in this train, but must see the world and its contemptible gran|deurs lessen before him at every thought? 'Tis enough to make one remain stupify'd, in a poize of inaction, void of all desires, of all designs, of all friendships.

But we must return (thro' our very con|dition of being) to our narrow selves, and those things that affect our selves: our pas|sions, our interests, flow in upon us, and unphilosophize us into meer mortals. For my part I never return so much into my self, as when I think of you, whose friend|ship is one of the best comforts I have for the insignificancy of my self. I am

Your, &c.

To the Same.

Jan. 30, 1713-4.

YOur letter found me very busy in my grand undertaking, to which I must wholly give my self up for some time, un|less when I snatch an hour to please my self with a distant conversation with you

and a few others, by writing. 'Tis no com|fortable prospect to be reflecting, that so long a siege as that of Troy lies upon my hands, and the campagne above half over, before I have made any progress, Indeed the Greek fortification upon a nearer ap|proach does not appear so formidable as it did, and I am almost apt to flatter my self, that Homer secretly seems inclin'd to a cor|respondence with me, in letting me into a good part of his intentions. There are indeed, a sort of underling auxiliars to the difficulty of a work, call'd Commentators and Critics, who wou'd frighten many peo|ple by their number and bulk, and perplex our progress under pretence of fortifying their author. These lie very low in the trenches and ditches they themselves have digg'd, encompass'd with dirt of their own heaping up, but I think there may be found a method of coming at the main works by a more speedy and gallant way than by mining under ground, that is, by using the Poetical Engines, Wings, and fly|ing over their heads.

While I am engag'd in the fight, I find you are concern'd how I shall be paid, and are sollicitous that I may not have the ill fate of many discarded Generals, to be first envy'd and malign'd, then perhaps prais'd, and lastly neglected. The former (the con|stant

attendant upon all great and lau|dable enterprizes) I have already experi|enc'd. Some have said I am not a Master in the Greek, who either are so themselves or are not: If they are not, they can't tell; and if they are, they can't without having catechiz'd me. But if they can read (for I know some Critics can, and others cannot) there are fairly lying be|fore them some specimens of my tran|slation from this Author in the Miscel|lanics, which they are heartily welcome to. I have met with as much malignity another way, some calling me a Tory, because the heads of that party have been distinguishingly favourable to me; some a Whig because I have been favour'd with yours, Mr. Congreve's, and Mr. Craggs his friendship, and of late with my Lord Hal|lifax's Patronage. How much more natu|ral a conclusion might be form'd, by any good-natur'd man, that a person who has been well us'd by all sides, has been offen|sive to none. This miserable age is so sunk between animosities of Party and those of Religion, that I begin to fear, most men have politicks enough to make (thro' vio|lence) the best Scheme of Government a bad one; and faith enough to hinder their own Salvation. I hope for my own part, never to have more of either than is con|sistent

with common justice and charity, and always as much as becomes a christian and honest man. Tho' I find it an unfortunate thing to be bred a Papist here, where one is obnoxious to four parts in five as being so too much, and to the fifth part as being so too little; I shall yet be easy under both their mistakes, and be what I more than seem to be, for I suffer for it. God is my witness that I no more envy you Protestants your places and possessions, than I do our Priests their charity or learning. I am am|bitious of nothing but the good opinion of good men, on both sides; for I know that one virtue of a free spirit is more worth, than all the virtues put together of all the narrow-soul'd people in the world. I am

Your, &c.

The Reverend Dean BERKLEY to Mr. Pope.

Leghorne, May I, 1714.

AS I take Ingratitude to be a greater crime than Impertinence, I chuse ra|ther to run the risque of being thought guilty of the latter, than not to return

you my thanks for a very agreeable enter|tainment you just now gave me. I have accidentally met with your Rape of the Lock here, having never seen it before Stile, Painting, Judgment, Spirit, I had al|ready admir'd in others of your Writings; but in this I am charm'd with the magic of your Invention, with all those images, allusions, and inexplicable beauties, which you raise so surprizingly and at the same time so naturally, out of a trifle. And yet I cannot say that I was more pleas'd with the reading of it, than I am with the pre|text it gives me to renew 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 mention some half-form'd 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 breath'd the same Air with Virgil and Horace?

There are here an incredible number of Poets, that have all the inclination but want the genius, or perhaps the art, of the Ancients. Some among them who un|derstand English, begin to relish our Au|thors; and I am informed that at Florence 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 wou'd probably be a means to retrieve them from their cold, trivial con|ceits, to an imitation of their Predeces|sors.

As Merchants, Antiquaries, Men of Plea|sure, &c. have all different views in tra|velling; 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, flow'ry meadows and purling streams, are no where in such perfection as in England: but if you wou'd know lightsome days, warm suns, and blue skys, you must come to Italy: and to en|able a man to describe rocks and precipi|ces, it is absolutely necessary 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 come into these parts I shou'd 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 Peterborough; who about three months since left the great|est part of his family in this town. God knows how long we shall stay here. I am

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to the Honourable _____ _____

June 8, 1714.

THE Question you ask in relation to Mr. Ad_…_… and Mr. Philips, I shall an|swer in a few words. Mr. Philips did ex|press himself with much indignation against me one evening at Button's Coffee-house (as I was told) saying, That I was enter'd into a Cabal with Dean Swift and others to write against the Whig-Interest, and in par|ticular to undermine his own reputation, and that of his friends Steel and Addison. But Mr. Philips never open'd his lips to my face, on this or any like occasion, tho' I was almost every night in the same room with him, nor ever offer'd me any indecorum. Mr. Addison came to me a night or two after Philips had talk'd in this idle manner, and assur'd me of his dis|belief of what had been said, of the friend|ship we should always maintain, and de|sir'd I would say nothing further of it. My Lord Hallifax did me the honour to stir in this matter, by speaking to several people to obviate a fal&se aspersion, which might have done me no small prejudice with one Party. However Philips did all

he could, secretly to continue the report 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 I ought to be with a man whom I think a scoundrel) I wou'd not even ask him for this money, but commission'd one of the Players, his equals, to receive it. This is the whole matter; but as to the secret grounds of Philips's 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 this management of Philips, that the world owes Mr. Gay's Pastorals. The ingenious Author is extream|ly your servant, and would have comply'd with your kind invitation, but that he is just now appointed Secretary to my Lord Clarendon, in his Embassy to Hanover.

I am sensible of the zeal and friendship with which I am sure you will always 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 con|temptible

opponents. May their envy and ill nature ever increase, to the glory and pleasure of those they would injure; may they represent me what they will, as long as you think me what I am,

Your, &c.

To the Same.

July 13, 1714.

YOU mention the account I gave you some time ago of the things which Philips said in his foolishness; but I can't tell from any thing in your Letter, whe|ther you receiv'd a long one from me a|bout a fortnight since. It was principally intended to thank you for the last obliging favour you did me; and perhaps for that reason you pass it in silence. I there launch'd into some account of my tem|poral affairs, and intend now to give you some hints of my spiritual. The conclu|sion of your Letter draws this upon you, where you tell me, you pray'd for me: Your proceeding, Sir, is contrary to that of most other Friends, who never talk of praying for a Man after they have done

him a service, but only when they will do him none. Nothing can be more kind than the hint you give me of the vanity of human Sciences, which I assure you I am daily more and more convinc'd of; and indeed I have for some years past, look'd upon all of 'em no better than amusements. To make them the ultimate end of our pursuit, is a miserable and short ambition, which will drop from us at ev'ry little dis|appointment here, and even in case of no disappointments here, will infallibly desert us hereafter. The utmost fame they are capable of bestowing, is never worth the pains they cost us, and the time they lose us. If you attain the top of your desires that way, all those who envy you will do you harm; and of those who admire you, few will do you good. The unsuccessful writers are your declared enemies, and pro|bably the successful your secret ones: For those hate not more to be excell'd, than these to be rivall'd. And at the upshot, after a life of perpetual application, to re|flect that you have been doing nothing for your self, and that the same or less In|dustry might have gain'd you a Friendship that can never deceive or end, a satisfaction which praise cannot bestow, nor vanity feel, and a glory which (tho' in one respect like same, not to be had 'till after death,) yet

shall be felt and enjoy'd to eternity. These, dear Sir, are unfeignedly my sentiments, whenever I think at all; for half the things that employ our heads deserve not the name of thoughts, they are only stronger dreams or impressions upon the imagination: Our schemes of government, our systems of phi|losophy, our golden worlds of poetry, are all but so many shadowy images, and airy pros|pects, which arise to us but so much the livelier and more frequent, as we are more o'ercast with the darkness, and disturb'd with the fumes of human vanity.

The same thing that makes old men wil|ling to leave this world, makes me willing to leave poetry, long-habit, and weariness of the same track. Homer will work a cure upon me; fifteen thousand verses are equivalent to fourscore years, to make one old in Rhime: And I shou'd be sorry and ashamed, to go on jingling to the last step, like a waggoner's horse, in the same road, and so leave my Bells to the next silly ani|mal that will be proud of 'em. That man makes a mean figure in the eyes of reason, who is measuring syllables and coupling rhimes, when he shou'd be mending his own Soul, and securing his own immortality. If I had not this opinion, I shou'd be unwor|thy even of those small and limited parts

which God has given me; and unworthy of the friendship of such a man as you. I am

Your, &c.

To the Same.

July 25, 1714.

I Have no better excuse to offer you, that I have omitted a task naturally so plea|sing to me as conversing upon paper with you; but that my time and eyes have been wholly employ'd upon Homer, whom I al|most fear I shall find but one way of imita|ting, which is, in his blindness. I am per|petually afflicted with headach's, that very much affect my sight; and indeed since my coming hither I have scarce past an hour agreeably, except that in which I read your letter. I would seriously have you think, you have no man who more truly knows to place a right value on your friendship, than he who least deserves it on all other ac|counts than his due sense of it. But let me tell you, you can hardly guess what a task you undertake, when you profess your self my friend; there are some Tories who will take you for a Whig, some Whigs

who will take you for a Tory, some Pro|testants who will esteem you a rank Papist, and some Papists who will account you a Heretick.

I find by dear experience, we live in an age, where it is criminal to be moderate; and where no one man can be allowed to be just to all men. The notions of right and wrong are so far strain'd that perhaps to be in the right so very violently, may be of worse consequence than to be easily and qui|etly in the wrong. I really wish all men so well, that I am satisfied but few can wish me so; but if those few are such as tell me they do, I am content, for they are the best people I know: While you believe me what I profess as to Religion, I can bear any thing the bigotted may say; while Mr. Congreve likes my poetry, I can endure Dennis and a thousand more like him; while the most honest and moral of each party think me no ill man, I can easily support it, tho' the most violent and mad of all parties rose up to throw dirt at me.

I must expect an hundred attacks upon the publication of my Homer. Whoever in our times would be a professor of learning above his fellows, ought at the very first to enter the world with the constancy and re|solution of a primitive Christian, and be prepared to suffer all sort of publick Perse|cution.

It is certainly to be lamented, that if any man does but endeavour to distinguish himself, or gratify others by his studies, he is immediately treated as a common enemy, instead of being look'd upon as a common friend; and assaulted as generally, as if his whole design were to prejudice the State, and ruin the publick. I will venture to say, no man ever rose to any degree of prefection in writing, but through obstinacy and an in|veterate resolution against the stream of man|kind: So that if the world has receiv'd any benefit from the labours of the Learned, it was in its own despite. For when first they essay their parts, all people in general are prejudiced against new beginners; and when they have got a little above contempt, then some particular person who were before un|fortunate in their own attempts, are sworn foes to them only because they succeed.—Upon the whole, one may say of the best writers, that they pay a severe fine for their fame, which it is always in the power of the most worthless part of mankind to levy upon them when they please.

I am, &c.

To Mr. JERVAS.

July 28, 1714.

I Am just enter'd upon the old way of life again, sleep and musing. It is my employment to revive the old of past ages to the present, as it is yours to transmit the young of the present, to the future. I am copying the great Master in one art, with the same love and diligence with which the Painters hereafter will copy you in another.

Thus I should begin my Epistle to you, if it were a Dedicatory one. But as it is a friendly letter, you are to find nothing mention'd in your own praise but what only one in the world is witness to, your particular good-natur'd offices to me. What|ever mankind in general would allow you, that I am not to give you to your face; and if I were to do it in your absence, the world would tell me I am too partial to be permitted to pass any judgment of you.

So you see me cut out from any thing but common acknowledgments, or common dis|course. The first you wou'd take ill, tho' I told you but half what I ought; so in short the last only remains.

And as for the last, what can you expect from a man who has not talk'd these five days? who is withdrawing his thoughts as far as he can, from all the present world, its customs and its manners, to be fully possest and absorpt in the past? When people talk of going fo Church, I think of Sacri|fices and libations; when I see the parson, I address him as Chryses priest of Apollo; and instead of the Lord's Prayer, I begin

—God of the silver Bow, &c.

While you in the world are concerned about the Protestant Succession, I consider only how Menalaus may recover Helen, and the Trojan war be put to a speedy conclusion. I never inquire if the Queen be well or not, but heartily wish to be at Hector's fu|neral. The only things I regard in this life, are whether my friends are well? whether my Translation go well on? whether Den|nis be writing criticisms? whether any body will answer him, since I don't? and whether Lintott be not yet broke?

I am, &c.

To the Same.

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 orna|ments he is to appear in, like a modish mo|dern auther,—

—Picture in the front, With bays and wicked ryme upon't.

I have the greatest proof in nature at present of the amusing power of Poetry, for it takes me up so intirely that I scarce see what passes under my nose, and hear nothing that is said about me. To fol|low Poetry as one ought, one must forget father and mother, and cleave to it alone. My Rêverie has been so deep, that I have scarce had an interval to think myself un|easy in the want of your Company. I now and then just miss you as I step into bed; this minute indeed I want extremely to see you, the next I shall 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 pretty sure there never was a friendship of so easie a nature. We neither of us demand any mighty things from each other; what Va|nity we have expects its gratification 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 'tis 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. 'Tis not unlike the happy friendship of a stay'd man and his wife, who are seldom so fond as to hin|der the business, 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 romantick friend|ships, like violent loves, begin with dis|quiets, proceed to jealousies, and conclude in animosities. I have liv'd to see the fierce advancement, the sudden turn, and the abrupt period of three or four of these enormous friendships, and am perfectly con|vinc'd of the truth of a Maxim we once agreed in, That nothing hinders the con|stant agreement of people who live toge|ther,

but meer vanity; a secret insisting upon what they think their dignity or merit, and an inward expectation of such an Over-measure of deference and regard, as answers to their own extravagant false scale; and which no body can pay, because none but themselves can tell, exactly, to what pitch it amounts?

I am, &c.

Mr. POPE to EDWARD BLOUNT, Esq

Aug. 27, 1714.

WHatever studies on the one hand, or amusements on the other, it shall be my fortune to fall into, I shall be equally incapable of forgetting you in any of 'em. The Task I undertook* 1.14, tho' of weight enough in itself, has had a voluntary in|crease by the inlarging my design of the Notes; and the necessity of consulting a number of books has carry'd me to Ox|ford: But I fear, thro' my Lord Harcourt's and Dr. Clarke's means, I shall be more con|versant with the pleasures and company of

the place, than with the Books and Manu|scripts of it.

I find still more reason to complain of the negligence of the Geographers in their Maps of old Greece, since I look'd upon two or three more noted names in the publick libraries here. But with all the care I am capable of, I have some cause to fear the Engraver will prejudice me in a few situ|ations. I have been forced to write to him in so high a style, that were my epistle in|tercepted, it would raise no small admira|tion in an ordinary man. There is scarce an order in it of less importance, than to remove such and such mountains, alter the course of such and such Rivers, place a large city on such a coast, and raze another in another country. I have set bounds to the sea, and said to the land, thus far shalt thou advance and no further* 1.15. In the mean time, I who talk and command at this rate, am in danger of losing my horse, and stand in some fear of a country Justice. To dis|arm me indeed may be but prudential, con|sidering what armies I have at present on foot, and in my service: a hundred thou|sand Grecians are no contemptible boby; for all that I can tell, they may be as for|midable

as four thousand Priests; and they seem proper forces to send against those in Barcelona. That siege deserves as fine a poem as the Iliad, and the machining part of poetry would be the juster in it, as they say the inhabitants expect Angels from hea|ven to their assistance. May I venture to say, who am a Papist, and to say to you who are a Papist, that nothing is more a|stonishing to me, than that people so greatly warm'd with a sense of Liberty, should be capable of harbouring such weak Supersti|tion, and that so much bravery, and so much folly, can inhabit the same breasts?

I could not but take a trip to London, on the death of the Queen, mov'd by the com|mon curiosity of mankind, who leave their own business to be looking upon other men's. I thank God that as for my self, I am be|low all the accidents of State-changes by my circumstances, and above them by my phi|losophy. Common charity of man to man, and universal good will to all, are the points I have most at heart; and I am sure those are not to be broken for the sake of any go|vernors, or government. I am willing to hope the best, and what I more wish than my own or any particular man's advance|ment, is, that this turn may put an end entirely to the divisions of Whig and Tory; that the parties may love each other as

well as I love them both; or at least hurt each other as little as I would either; and that our own people may live as quietly as we shall certainly let theirs; that is to say, that want of power it self in us may not be a surer prevention of harm, than want of will in them. I am sure if all Whigs and all Tories had the spirit of one Roman-Catholick that I know, it would be well for all Roman-Catholicks; and if all Roman-Catholicks had always had that spirit, it had been well for all others, and we had never been charg'd with so wicked a spirit as that of Persecution.

I agree with you in my sentiment of the state of our nation since this change: I find my self just in the same situation of mind you describe as your own, hear|tily wishing the good, that is the quiet of my country, and hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

I am, &c.

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 suspence 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 plac'd behind the wainscot, or behind some half-length Picture to have heard. He assur'd me that he wou'd 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 in|sinuations were spread that he did not care you shou'd 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 carry'd you too far among the enemy during the heat of the animosity, but now

all is safe, and you are escap'd even in his opinion. I promis'd in your name, like a good Godfather, not that you should re|nounce the devil and all his works, but that you would be delighted to find him your friend merely for his own sake; therefore prepare your self for some civilities.

I have done Homer's head, shadow'd and heighten'd carefully; and I inclose the out|line of the same size, that you may deter|mine whether you wou'd have it so large, or reduc'd to make room for feuillage or laurel round the oval, or about the square of the Busto? Perhaps there is something more solemn in the Image itself, if I can get it well perform'd.

If I have been instrumental in bringing you and Mr. Addison together with all sin|cerity, I value my self upon it as an ac|ceptable piece of service to such a one as I know you to be.

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE's Answer.

Aug. 27, 1714.

I Am just arriv'd from Oxford, very well diverted and entertain'd there—all very honest fellows—much concern'd for

the Queen's death. No panegyricks ready yet for the King.

I admire your Whig-principles of Resist|ance exceedingly, in the spirit of the Bar|celonians. I joyn in your wish for them. Mr. Addison's verses on Liberty, in his let|ter from Italy, would be a good form of prayer in my opinion, O Liberty! thou Goddess heavenly bright! &c.

What you mention'd of the friendly office you endeavour'd to do betwixt Mr. Addison and me, deserves acknowledg|ments on my part. You thoroughly know my regard to his character, and my pro|pensity to testify it by all ways in my power. You as thoroughly know the scandalous meanness of that proceeding which was used by Philips. to make a man I so highly value, suspect my dispositions toward him. But as, after all, Mr. Addi|son must be the judge in what regards him|self, and has seem'd to be no very just one to me; so I must own to you I expect no|thing but civility from him, how much soever I wish for his friendship: And as for any offices of real kindness or service which it is in his power to do me, I should be asham'd to receive 'em from any man who had no better opinion of my morals, than to think me a party-man; nor of my temper, than to believe me capable of ma|ligning

or envying another's reputation as a Poet. So I leave it to time to convince him as to both, to shew him the shallow depths of those half-wited creatures who mis-inform'd him, and to prove that I am incapable of endeavouring to lessen a person whom I would be proud to imitate, and therefore asham'd to flatter. In a word, Mr. Addison is sure of my respect at all times, and of my real friendship when|ever he shall think fit to know me for what I am.

For all that pass'd 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 ser|vices 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 never so obnoxious to any party: nor did the Tory-party ever put me to the hardship of asking this leave, which is the greatest obligation I owe to it; and I expect no greater from the Whig-party than the same liberty.—A curse on the word Party, which I have been forc'd to use so often in this period! I wish 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 people do as you and I, believe what they please and be friends.

I am, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON.

Octob, 10, 1714.

I Have been acquainted by one of my friends who omits no opportunities of gratifying me, that you have lately been pleas'd 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 it you would judge by probabilities, I beg to know which of your poetical acquaintance has so little In|terest 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 by 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 injustice.

I will not value my self 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 car'd for you or not.

As to what you have said of me, I shall never believe that the Author of Cato can speak one thing and think another. 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, which are now in the hands of my Lord Halifax. I am sensible how much the reputation of any poetical work will depend upon the character you give it: 'tis therefore some evidence of the trust I repose in your good will, when I give you this opportunity 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.

I 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 N^o 253. The period 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 wou'd 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 with|out mercy.

Since we are upon proofs of sincerity (which I am pretty confident will turn to the advantage of us both in each others opinion) give me leave to name another passage in the same Spectator, which I wish you would alter. It is where you men|tion an observation upon Homer's Verses of Sysiphus's Stone, as * 1.16 never having been made before by any of the Criticks: I happen'd to find the same in Dyonisius of Halicarnassus's Treatise, 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, who treats very largely upon these Verses. I know you will think fit to soften your expression, when you see the passage; which you must needs have read tho' it be since slipt out of your memory. I am with the ut|most esteem,

Your, &c.

Mr. POPE to the Earl of HALIFAX.

Dec. 1, 1714.

My LORD,

I Am oblig'd to you both for the favours you have done me, and for those you intend me. I distrust neither your will nor your memory, when it is to do good: and if ever I become troublesome or sollicitous, it must not be out of expectation, but out of gratitude. Your Lordship may either cause me to live agreeably 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 generosity in you, to think of making me easy all my life, only be|cause I have been so happy as to divert you some few hours: But if I may have leave to add, it is because you think me no ene|my to my native country, there will ap|pear a better reason; for I must of conse|quence be very much, (as I sincererly am)

My Lord, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. CONGREVE.

Jan. 16, 1714-15.

MEthinks when I write to you, I am making a confession, I have got (I can't tell how) such a custom of throwing my self out upon paper without reserve. You were not mistaken in what you judg'd 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 prov'd, than in dis|covering its own faults at first view: as when a Stream shows the dirt at its bot|tom, it shows also the transparency of the water.

My spleen was not occasion'd how|ever, by any thing an * 1.17 abusive, angry Critick could write of me. I take very kindly your heroick manner of congra|tulation upon this scandal; for I think nothing more honourable, than to be in|volved in the same fate with all the great

and the good that ever lived; that is, to be envy'd and censur'd by bad writers.

You do no more than answer my ex|pectations of you, in declaring how well you take my freedom in sometimes neg|lecting as I do, to reply to your Letters so soon as I ought, those who have a right taste of the substantial part of friend|ship, 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 pleas'd with a saying of Monsieur Tourreil:

"When a Man writes, he ought to animate himself with 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 past a few days in my way with my Lord Blingbroke: I go to London in three days time, and will not fail

or pay a visit to Mr. M_…_…, whom I saw not long since at my Lord Halifax's. I hoped from thence he had some hopes of advantage from the present administra|tion: for few people (I think) but I, pay respects to great Men without any pros|pects. I am in the fairest way in the world of being not worth a groat, being born both a Papist and a Poet. This puts me in mind of reacknowledging your continued endea|vours to enrich me: But I can tell you 'tis to no purpose, for without the Opes, Aequum animum mi ipse parabo.

I am your, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. CONGREVE.

March 19, 1714-15.

THE Farce of the What-d'ye-call-it, has occasioned many different specu|lations in the town. Some look'd upon it as meer jest upon the tragic poets, others as a satire upon the late war. Mr. Cromwell hearing none of the words, and seeing the action to be tragical, was much astonished to find the audience laugh; and says, the Prince and Princess must doubtless be un|der no less amazement on the same account. Several templers, and others of the more

vociferous kind of criticks, went with a re|solution to hiss, and confest they were forced to laugh so much, that they forgot the de|sign they came with. The Court in gene|ral has in a very particular manner come into the jest, and the three first Nights, (notwithstanding two of them were court-nights) were distinguish'd by very full audi|ences of the first quality. The common people of the pit and gallery, receiv'd 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, that one or two criticks 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 resolv'd a Preface shall be prefixt to the Farce, in vindication of the nature and dignity of this new way of writing.

Yesterday Mr. Steel's affair was decided: I am sorry I can be of no other opinion than yours, as to his whole carriage and writings of late. But certainly he has not only been punish'd by others, but suffer'd much even from his own party in the point of character, nor (I believe) receiv'd any

amends in that of interest, as yet; what|ever 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 succeed as ill: but am really amazed that so much of that sower and pernicious quality shou'd be joyned with so much natural good hu|mour as I think Mr. Steele is possess'd of.

I am, &c.

To Mr. CONGREVE.

April 7, 1715.

MR. Pope is going to Mr. Jervas's, where Mr. Addison is sitting for his picture; in the mean time amidst clouds of tobacco at a coffee-house I write this letter. There is a grand revolution at Will's, Morrice has quitted for a coffee|house in the city, and Titcomb is restor'd to the great joy of Cromwell, who was at a great loss for a person to converse 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 his dis|covery of the longitude in an extraordinary copy of Verses* 1.18. Mr. Rowe's Jane Gray is to be play'd in Easter-week, when Mrs. Oldfield is to personate a character directly opposite to female nature; for what wo|man ever despis'd Sovereignty? You know Chaucer has a tale where a knight saves his head, by discovering it was the thing which all woman most coveted. Mr. Pope's Homer is retarded by the great rains that have fal|len 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 weather, that his work may go on. There is a six-penny Criticism lately pub|lish'd upon the Tragedy of the 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 a|gainst the Pilgrims Progress being read, which he says is directly levell'd at Cato's reading Plato; to back this censure, he goes on to tell you, that the Pilgrims Progress being mention'd 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 show, that every particular passage of the play alludes to some fine part of Tragedy, which he says I have injudiciously and profanely abused* 1.19. Sir Samuel Garth's Poem upon my Lord Clare's house, I believe will be publish'd in the Easter-week.

Thus far Mr. Gay—who has in his let|ter forestall'd all the subjects of diversion; unless it should be one to you to say, that I sit up till two a-clock over Burgundy and Champagne; and am become so much a rake, that I shall be asham'd in a short time to be thought to do any sort of bu|siness. I fear I must get the gout by drink|ing, purely for a fashionable pretence to sit still long enough to translate four books of Homer. I hope you'll by that time be up again, and I may succeed to the bed and cough of my predecessor: Pray cause the stuffing to be repaired, and the crutches shorten'd for me. The calamity of your gout is what all your friends, that is to say all that know you, must share in; we de|sire you in your turn to condole with us,

who are under a persecution, and much afflicted with a distemper which proves grievous to many poets, a Criticism. We have indeed some relieving intervals of laugh|ter, (as you know there are in some Dis|eases;) and it is the opinion of divers good guessers, that the last fit will not be more violent than advantageous; for poets as|sail'd by critics, are like men bitten by Tarantula's, they dance on so much the faster.

Mr. Thomas Burnet hath play'd the pre|cursor to the coming of Homer, in a trea|tise call'd Homerides. He has since risen very much in his criticisms, and after as|saulting Homer, made a daring attack upon the * 1.20 What-d'ye-call-it. Yet is there not a proclamation issued for the burning of Ho|mer and the Pope by the common hang|man; nor is the What-d'ye-call-it yet silenc'd by the Lord-Chamberlain. They shall sur|vive the conflagration of his father's works, and live after they and he are damned; (for that the B_…_…p of S. already is so, is the opinion of Dr. Sacheverel and the Church of Rome.)

I am, &c.

Mr. POPE to the Earl of B_…_…

My LORD,

IF your Mare could speak, she would give you an account of the extraordi|nary company she had on the road; which since she cannot do, I will.

It was the enterprizing Mr. Lintott, the redoubtable rival of Mr. Tonson, who mount|ed on a stonehorse, (no disagreeable compa|nion to your Lordship's mare) overtook me in Windsor-forest. He said, he heard I de|sign'd for Oxford, the seat of the muses, and would, as my bookseller, by all means ac|company me thither.

I ask'd him where he got his horse? He answer'd, he got it of his publisher:

"For that rogue, my printer, (said he) disap|pointed me: I hoped to put him in good humour by a treat at the tavern, of a brown fricassee of rabbits which cost two shillings, with two quarts of wine, be|sides my conversation. I thought myself cocksure of his horse, which he readily promis'd me, but said, that Mr. Tonson had just such another design of going to Cambridge, expecting there the copy of a Comment upon the Revelations; and if

Mr. Tonson went, he was preingag'd to attend him, being to have the printing of the said copy."

So in short, I borrow'd this stonehorse of my publisher, which he had of Mr. Old-mixon for a debt; he lent me too the pret|ty boy you see after me; he was a smutty dog yesterday, and cost me near two hours to wash the ink off his face: but the De|vil is a fair-condition'd Devil, and very forward in his catechise: if you have any more baggs, he shall carry them.

I thought Mr. Lintott's civility not to be neglected, so gave the boy a small bagg, containing three shirts and an Elzevir Vir|gil; and mounting in an instant procceded on the road, with my man before, my curteous stationer beside, and the aforesaid Devil behind.

Mr. Lintott began in this manner.

"Now damn them! what if they should put it into the news-paper, how you and I went together to Oxford? why what would I care? If I should go down into Sussex, they would say I was gone to the Speaker. But what of that? if my son were but big enough to go on with the business, by G__d I would keep as good company as told Jacob."

Hereupon I enquir'd of his son.

"The lad (says he) has fine parts, but is some|what

sickly, much as you are—I spare for nothing in his education at Westmin|ster. Pray don't you think Westminster to be the best school in England? most of the late Ministry came out of it, so did many of this Ministry; I hope the boy will make his fortune."

Don't you design to let him pass a year at Oxford?

"To what purpose? (said he) the Universities do but make Pedants, and I intend to breed him a man of Bu|siness."

As Mr. Lintott was talking, I observ'd he sate uneasy on his saddle, for which I express'd some sollicitude: Nothing says he, I can bear it well enough; but since we have the day before us, methinks it would be very pleasant for you to rest a-while under the Woods. When were alighted,

"See here, what a mighty pretty Horace I have in my pocket? what if you amus'd your self in turning an Ode, till we mount again? Lord! if you pleas'd, what a clever Miscellany might you make at lei|sure hours."

Perhaps I may, said I, if we ride on; the motion is an aid to my fancy; a round trott very much awakens my spirits. Then jog on apace, and I'll think as hard as I can.

Silence ensu'd for a full hour; after which Mr. Lintott lug'd the reins, stopt

short, and broke out,

"Well Sir, how far have you gone?"

I answer'd seven miles.

"Z_…_…ds Sir, said Lintott, I thought you had done seven stanza's. Oldsworth in a ramble round Wimbleton-hill, would translate a whole Ode in half this time. I'll say that for Oldsworth, (tho' I lost by his Timothy's) he translates an Ode of Horace the quickest of any man in En|gland. I remember Dr. King would write verses in a tavern three hours after he could n't speak: and there's Sir Richard in that rumbling old Chariot of his, be|tween Fleet-ditch and St. Gile's pound shall make you half a Job."

Pray Mr. Lintott (said I) now you talk of Translators, what is your method of ma|naging them?

"Sir (replied he) those are the saddest pack of rogues in the world: In a hungry fit, they'll swear they un|derstand all the languages in the uni|verse: I have known one of them take down a Greek book upon my counter and cry, Ay this is Hebrew, I must read it from the latter end. By G__d I can never be sure in these fellows, for I nei|ther understand Greek, Latin, French, nor Italian my self. But this is my way: I agree with them for ten shillings per sheet, with a proviso, that I will have their doings corrected by whom I

please; so by one or other they are led at last to the true sense of an author; my judgment giving the negative to all my Translators."

But how are you se|cure that those correctors may not impose upon you?

"Why I get any civil genetle|man, (especially any Scotchman) that comes into my shop, to read the origi|nal to me in English; by this I know whether my first Translator be deficient, and whether my Corrector merits his money or no?"

"I'll tell you what happen'd to me last month: I bargain'd with S_…_… for a new version of Lucretius to publish against Tonson's; agreeing to pay the au|thor so many shillings at his producing so many lines. He made a great pro|gress in a very short time, and I gave it to the corrector to compare with the Latin; but he went directly to Creech's translation, and found it the same word for word, all but the first page. Now, what d'ye think I did? I arrested the Translator for a cheat; nay, and I stopt the Corrector's pay too, upon this proof that he had made use of Creech instead of the original."

Pray tell me next how you deal with the Critics?

"Sir (said he) nothing more easy. I can silence the most formidable

of them; the rich one's for a sheet a|piece of the blotted manuscript, which costs me nothing. They'll go about with it to their acquaintance, and pre|tend they had it from the author, who submitted to their correction: this has given some of them such an air, that in time they come to be consulted with, and dedicated to, as the top critics of the town.—As for the poor Critics, I'll give you one instance of my manage|ment, by which you may guess at the rest. A lean man that look'd like a very good scholar, came to me t'other day; he turn'd over Homer, shook his head, shrug'd up his shoulders, and pish'd at every line of it; One would wonder (says he) at the strange presumption of men; Homer is no such easy task, that every Stripling, every Versifier—he was going on when my Wife call'd to dinner: Sir, said I, will you please to eat a piece of beef with me? Mr. Lintott, said he, I am sorry you should be at the expence of this great book, I am really con|cern'd on your account—Sir I am much oblig'd to you: if you can dine upon a piece of beef, together with a slice of pudding—Mr. Lintott, I do not say but Mr. Pope, if he would condescend to ad|vise with men of learning—Sir, the pud|ding

is upon the table, if you please to go in—My critic complies, he comes to a taste of your poetry, and tells me in the same breath, that the Book is commendable, and the Pudding excel|lent."

Now Sir (concluded Mr. Lintott) in re|turn to the frankness I have shewn, pray tell me,

"Is it the opinion of your friends at Court that my Lord L_…_… will be brought to the Bar or not?"

I told him I heard not, and I hop'd it, my Lord be|ing one I had particular obligations to.

"That may he (reply'd Mr. Lintott) but by G__d if he is not, I shall lose the print|ing of a very good Trial."

These my Lord are a few traits by which you may discern the genius of my friend Mr. Lintott, which I have chosen for the subject of a letter. I dropt him as soon as I got to Oxford, and paid a visit to my Lord Carlion at Middleton.

The conversations I enjoy here are not to be prejudic'd by my pen, and the plea|sures from them only to be equal'd when I meet your Lordship. I hope in a few days to cast my self from your horse at your feet.

I am, &c.

Dr. PARNELL to Mr. POPE.

June 27, 1715.

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 fan|cy if I were with you, I cou'd remove some of the uneasiness which you may have felt from the opposition of the world, and which you should be asham'd to feel, since it is but the testimony which one part of it gives you that your merit is un|questionable: What wou'd you have other|wise, from ignorance, envy, or those tem|pers which vie with you in your own way? I know this in mankind, 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 happier studies, and sighing con|demn the excellence which we find above our reach.—

My * 1.21 Zoilus which you us'd to write about, I finish'd 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, imagin'd 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, which came out at a time when it cou'd 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 spi|rit have an equal mastery with yours; but what surprizes me more is, that, a scholar being concern'd, 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 translating what you call ablution by the word Offals, and so leaving Water out of the rite of lustration, &c. but you must have taken notice of this before. I write not to inform you, but to shew I always have you at heart.

I am, &c.

From a Letter of the Reverend Do|ctor BERKELEY Dean of Lon|don-derry.

July 7, 1715.

—Some days ago, three or four Gentle|men and my self exerting that right which all readers pretend to over Authors, sate in judgment upon the two new Transla|tions of the first Iliad. Without partia|lity to my country-men, I assure you they all gave the preference where it was due; being unanimously of opinion, that yours was equally just to the sense with Mr. _____ _____ 's, and without comparison more easy, more poetical, and more sub|lime. But I will say no more on such a thread-bare subject, as your late performance is at this time.

I am, &c.

Extract from a Letter from 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 pleas'd with your Tran|slation, but a few at Button's; and that Sir Richard Steele told him, that Mr. Ad|dison said Tickel's translation was the best that ever was in any language* 1.22. He treat|ed me with extream civility, and out of kindness gave me a squeeze by the Sore finger.—I am inform'd that at Button's your character is made very free with as morals, &c. and Mr. A_…_… says, that your translation and Tickel's are both very well done, but that the latter has more of Homer.

I am, &c.

Extract from a Letter of Dr. AR|BUTHNOT to Mr. POPE.

July 9, 1715.

—I congratulate you upon Mr. Tickel's first Book. It does not indeed want its merit; but I was strangely disappointed in my expectation of a Translation nicely true to the original; whereas in those parts where the greatest exactness seems to be demanded, he has been the least careful, I mean the History of ancient Ceremonies and Rites, &c. in which you have with great judgment been exact.

I am, &c.

Mr. POPE to the Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Esq

July 15, 1715.

I Lay hold of the opportunity given me by my Lord Duke of Shrewsbury, to

assure you of the continuance of that esteem and affection I have long born you, and the memory of so many agreeable conver|sations as we have pass'd together. I wish it were a compliment to say such conver|sations as are not to be found on this side of the Water: for the Spirit of Dissention 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, society, and good hu|mour. Party affects us all, even the wits, tho' they gain as little by politicks as they do by their wit. We talk much of fine sense, refin'd sense, and exalted sense; but for use and happiness give me a little com|mon sense. I say this in regard to some gentlemen, profess'd wits of our acquain|tance, who fancy they can make Poetry of consequence at this time of day, in the midst of this raging fit of Politicks. For they tell me, the busy part of the nation are not more divided about Whig and Tory, than these idle fellows of the Feather about Mr. Tickel's and my Translation. I (like the Tories) have the town in general, that is the mob, on my side; but 'tis usual with the smaller Party to make up in industry what they want in number, and that's the case with the little Senate of Cato. How|ever, if our Principles be well consider'd, I

must appear a brave Whig, and Mr. Tickel a rank Tory; I translated Homer for the pub|lick in general, he to gratify the inordi|nate desires of One man only. We have it seems, a great Turk in Poetry, who can ne|ver bear a Brother on the throne; and has his Mutes too, a sett of Nodders, Winkers, and Whisperers, whose business is to strangle all other offsprings of wit in their birth. The new Translator of Homer is the hum|blest slave he has, that is to say, his first Minister; let him receive the honours he gives him, but receive them with fear and trembling: let him be proud of the ap|probation of his absolute Lord; I appeal to the People, as my rightful judges and masters; and if they are not inclin'd to condemn me, I fear no arbitrary high-flying proceedings from the small Court-faction at Button's. But after all I have said of this great Man, there is no rupture be|tween us: We are each of us so civil and obliging, that neither thinks he is obliged. And I for my part treat with him, as we do with the Grand Monarch; who has too many great qualities not to be respected, tho' we know he watches any occasion to oppress us.

When I talk of Homer, I must not forget the early Present you made me of Mon|sieur de la Motte's Book. And I can't con|clude

this letter without telling you a me|lancholy piece of news which affects our very Entrails,—is dead, and Soupes are no more! You see I write in the old fa|miliar 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.

Mr. POPE to Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL.

Decemb. 16, 1715.

IT was one of the Enigma's of Pytha|goras, When the Winds rise, worship the Eccho. A modern Writer explains this to signify,

"When popular Tumults begin, retire to Solitudes, or such places where Eccho's are commonly found; Rocks, Woods, &c."

I am rather of opinion it should be interpreted,

"When Rumours increase, and when there is abundance of Noise and Clamour, be|lieve the second Report:"

This I think agrees more exactly with the Eccho, and is the more natural application of the Symbol.

However it be, either of these precepts is extreamly proper to be followed at this sea|son; and I cannot but applaud your reso|lution of continuing in what you call your Cave in the forest, this winter; and prefer|ring the noise of breaking Ice to that of breaking Statesmen, the rage of Storms to that of Parties, and fury and ravage of Floods and Tempests, to the precipitancy of some, and the ruin of others, which I fear will be our daily prospect in London.

I sincerely wish my self 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 tumultuous time, to attend the gingling of rhimes and the measuring of syllables: To be almost the only trifler in the nation; and as ridicu|lous as the Poet in Petronius, who while all the rest in the ship were either labour|ing or praying for life, was scratching his head in a little room, to write a fine de|scription of the tempest.

You tell me you like the sound of no arms but those of Achilles: for my part I like them as little as the others. I list|ed my self in the battles of Homer, and I am no sooner in war, but like most other folks, I wish my self out again.

I heartily joyn 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 opposite parties, and for opposite religions, with great sincerity. I think to be a lover of one's Country is a glo|rious Elogy, but I do not think it so g eat a one as to be a lover of Mankind.

Mr. J_…_… and I sometimes celebrate you under these denominations, and join your health with that of the whole world; a truly Catholick 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 ge|nerously. These, dear Sir, are my gene|ral dispositions, but whenever I pray or wish for particulars, you are one of the first in the thoughts and affections of

Your, &c.

Sir W. TRUMBULL'S Answer.

Jan. 19, 1715-6.

I Should be asham'd of my long idleness, in not acknowledging your kind advice, about Eccho, and your most ingenious ex|planation of it, relating to Popular tumults; which I own to be very useful: And yet give me leave to tell you, that I keep my self to a shorter receipt of the same Py|thagoras, which is Silence; and this I shall observe, if not the whole time of his dis|cipline, yet at least till Your return into this country. I am oblig'd further to this me|thod, by the most severe weather I ever felt; when tho' I keep as near by the fire as may be, yet Gelidus concrevit frigore San|guis: and often I apprehend the circulation of the blood begins to be stop'd. I have further, great losses (to a poor farmer) of my poor Oxen—Intereunt pecudes, stant circumfusa pruinis Corpora magna Boum, &c.

Pray comfort me if you can, by telling me that your second Volume of Homer is not frozen; for it must be express'd very poetically to say now, that the Presses sweat.

I cannot forbear to add a piece of at|tifice I have been guilty of, on occasion of my being oblig'd to congratulate the birth-day of a friend of mine: When finding I had no materials of my own, I very frankly sent him your imitation of Martial's Epigram on Antonius Primus* 1.23. This has been applauded so much, that I am in danger of commencing Poet, perhaps Laureat, (pray desire my good friend Mr. Rowe to enter a Caveat) provided you will further increase my stock in this bank. In which proceeding I have laid the foun|dation of my estate, and as honestly as many others have begun theirs. But now being a little tender, as young beginners often are, I offer to you (for I have con|ceal'd the true author) whether you will give me orders to declare who is the Father of this fine child, or not? What|ever you determine, my fingers, pen, and ink are so frozen, that I cannot thank you more at large. You will forgive this and all other faults of, Dear Sir,

Your, &c.

To Mr. Jervas, in Ireland.

July 9, 1716.

THO', as you rightly remark, I pay my Tax but once in half a Year, yet you shall see by this Lettet upon the neck of my last, that I pay a double Tax, as we Non-Jurors ought to do. Your Ac|quaintance on this side the Sea are un|der terrible Apprehensions, from your long stay in Ireland, that you may grow too Polite for them; for we think (since the great success of so damn'd' a Play as the Non-Juror) that Politeness is gone over the Water. But others are of opinion it has been longer among you, and was intro|duced much about the same time with Frogs, and with equal Success. Poor Poetry! the little that's left of it here longs to cross the Seas, and leave Eusden in full

and peaceable Possession of the British Lau|rel: And we begin to wish you had the singing of our Poets, as well as the croak|ing of our Frogs, to yourselves in Saecula Seculorum. 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. Swist. I am (like the rest of the World) a Sufferer by his Idle|ness. 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 become a person out of the question; for a Trans|lator is no more a Poet, than a Taylor is a Man.

You are doubtless persuaded of the Va|lidity of that famous Verse,

'Tis Expectation makes a Blessing dear:

but why would you make your Friends fon|der of you than they are? There's no man|ner of need of it—We begin to expect you no more than Anti-christ. A Man that hath absented himself so long from his Friends, ought to be put into the Ga|zette.

Every Body here has great need of you. Many Faces have died for ever for want of your Pencil, and blooming Ladies have

wither'd in expecting your return. Even Frank and Betty (that constant Pair) can|not console themselves for your Absence; I fancy they will be forced to make their own Picture in a pretty Babe, before you come home: 'T will be a noble Subject for a Family Piece. Come then, and having peopled Ireland with a World of beau|tiful Shadows, come to us, and see with that Eye (which, like the Eye of the World, creates Beauties by looking on them) see, I say, how England has alter'd the Airs of all its heads in your Absence; and with what sneaking City Attitudes our most celebrated Personages appear in the meer mortal Works of our Painters.

Mr. Fortescue is much yours; Gay com|memorates you; and lastly (to climb by just steps and degrees) my Lord Burlington desires you may be put in mind of him. His Gardens flourish, his Strutures rise, his Pictures arrive, and (what is far nobler and more valuable than all) his own good Qualities daily extend themselves to all about him: Whereof, I the meanest (next to some Italian Chymists, Fidlers, Brick|layers, and Opera-makers) am a living Instance.

To the Same.

Nov. 14, 1716.

IF I had not done my utmost to lead my Life so pleasantly as to forget all Misfortunes, I should tell you I reckoned your Absence no small one; but I hope you have also had many good and plea|sant Reasons to forget your Friends on this side the World. If a wish could transport me to you, and your present Companions, I coild do the same. Dr. Swift, I believe, is a very good Landlord, and a chearful Host at his own Table; I suppose he has perfectly learn'd himself, what he has taught so many others, Rupta non insanire lagena. Else he would not make a proper Host for your humble Servant, who (you know) tho' he drinks a Glass as seldom as any Man, contrives to break one as often. But 'tis 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 of all friendly Laziness, and have taken an inviolable Oath to each other, always to do what we will; I should reproach 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 awaken'd very much in the Cause of the Dean, which has broke forth in a cou|rageous Couplet or two upon Sir Richard Bl_…_… 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 suffer'd in the like Cause, and shall suffer more; unless Parnelle sends me his Zoilus and Bookworm (which the Bishop of Clogher, I hear greatly extols) it will be shortly, Concurrere Bellum atque Virum.—I love you all, as much as I despise most Wits in this dull Country. Irelnd has turned the tables upon England; and if I have no Poetical Friend in my own Nation, I'll be as proud as Scipio, and say (since I am reduced to Skin and Bone) Ingrata patria, ne ossa quidem ha|beas.

To the same.

Nov. 29, 1716.

THAT you have not heard from me of late, ascribe not to the usual lazi|ness of your Correspondent, but to a ram|ble to Oxford, where your name is men|tion'd 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 entertain'd me with several Drawings, and particularly with the origi|nal designs of Inigo Jones's Whitehall. I there saw and reverenced some of your first Pieces; which future Painters 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? Oblitusque meorum, oblivis|cendus & illis, might be Horace's wish, but will never be mine, while I have such meo|rums 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 congratulate you on the pleasure you must take in being admir'd in your own Country, which so seldom hap|pens to Prophets and Poets. But in this you

have the Advantage of Poets; you are Master of an Art that must prosper and grow rich, as long as people love, or are proud of themselves, or their own persons. However, you have stay'd long enough, me|thinks, to have painted all the numberless Histories of old Ogygiae. If you have begun to be Historical, I recommend to your hand the story which every pious Irishman ought to begin with, that of St. Patrick: To the end you may be obliged (as Dr. P. was, when he translated the Batrachomuo|machia) to come into England to copy the Frogs, and such other Vermine as were ne|ver 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 Publick; and be not confined, like the rest, to draw only such silly stories as our own faces tell of us. The Ancients too expect you should do them right; those Statues from which you learn'd your beautiful and noble Ideas, demand it as a piece of Gratitude from you, to make them truly known to all nations, in the ac|count you intend to write of their Charac|ters. I hope you think more warmly than ever of that noble design.

As to your enquiry about your House, when I come within the walls, they put

me in mind of those of Carthage, where your Friend, like the wandring Trojan,

Animunt Pictura pascit inani.

For the spacious Mansion, like a Turkish Caravanserah, entertains the Vagabond with only bare Lodging. I rule the Family 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 in|deed does all he can in such a Circumstance, for considering he has a wild Beast in it, he constantly keeps the Door chain'd. Every time it is open'd, 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 my self under its Roof, as depend|ing that Providence will preserve so many Raphaels, Titian's and Guido's, as are lodg'd 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 fal|ling, but what of that? I am only a Lodger.

Mr. Secretary Craggs, to Mr. Pope.

Paris, Sept. 2, 1716.

LAST post brought me the favour of your letter of the 10th Aug. O. S. It would be taking too much upon me to de|cide, that 'twas a Witty one; I never pre|tend to more judgment than to know what pleases me, and can assure you, it was a very Agreeable one. The proof I can give you of my sincerity in this Opinion, is, that I hope and desire you would not stop at this, but continue more of them.

I am in a place where Pleasure is con|tinually flowing. The Princes set the Ex|ample, and the Subjects follow at a distance. The Ladies are of all parties, by which means the conversation of the Men is very much softned and fashioned from those blunt disputes on Politicks, and rough Jests, we are so guilty of; while the Freedom of the Women takes away all Formality and Constraint. I must own, at the same time, these Beauties are a little too artificial for my Taste; you have seen a French Picture, the Original is more painted, and such a crust of Powder and essence in their Hair, that you can see no difference between

black and red. By disusing Stays, and in|dulging themselves at Table, they are run out of all Shape; but as to that, they may give a good reason, they prefer Con|veniency to Parade, and are by this means as ready, as they are generally willing to be Charitable.

I am surpriz'd to find I have wrote so much Scandal; I fancy I am either setting up for a Wit, or imagine I must write in this Style to a Wit; I hope you'll prove a good natured one, and not only let me hear from you sometimes, but forgive the small Encouragement you meet with. If you'll compleat your favours, pray give my humble Services to Lords W_…_…ck, St_…_…, and H_…_…y. I have had my hopes and fears they would have abused me before this Time; I am sure it is not my business to meddle with a nest of Bees (I speak only of the Honey.) I won't trouble my self to finish finely, a true Compliment is better than a good one, and I can assure you without any, that I am very Sincerely,

SIR,

Yours, &c.

The Rev^d. Dean * 1.24 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 discouraged for want of something that I could think worth sending fifteen hundred Miles. Italy is such an exhausted Subject, that, I dare say, you'd easily forgive my saying nothing of it; and the imagination of a Poet, is a thing so nice and delicate, that it is no easy matter to find out Images capable of giving Pleasure to one of the few, who (in any Age) have come up to that Character. I am nevertheless lately return'd from an Island, where I passed three or four Months, which, were it set out in its true Colours, might methinks amuse you agreeably enough for a minute or two. The Island Inarime, is an Epitome of the whole Earth, containing within the compass of eighteen Miles, a wonderful 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 Season, constantly refreshed by cool breezes from the Sea. The Vales produce excellent Wheat and Indian Corn, but are mostly covered with Vineyards, in|termixt with Fruit-trees. Besides the com|mon kinds, as Cherries, Apricots, Pea|ches, &c. they produce Oranges, Limes, Almonds, Pomegranates, Figs, Water Me|lons, and many other Fruits unknown to our Climates, which lie every where 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 in the Northern side are divided by hedge-rows of Myrtle. Several Fountains and Rivulets add to the Beauty of this Land|scape, which is likewise set off by the va|riety 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 Volcano, by the An|cients 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 Pro|spect 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 Lestrygones, the Bay of Naples, the Promontory of Minerva, and the whole Campagnia felice, make but a part of this noble Landscape; which would demand an Imagination as warm, and num|bers as flowing as your own, to describe it. The Inhabitants of this delicious Isle, as they are without Riches and Honours, so are they without the Vices and Follies that attend them; and were they but as much strangers to Revenge, as they are to Ava|rice or Ambition, they might in fact answer the poetical Notions of the Golden Age. But they have got, as an alloy to their Hap|piness, an ill habit of murdering one another on slight Offences. We had an Instance of this the second Night after our Arrival; a Youth of eighteen, being shot dead by our Door: And yet by the sole secret of minding our own Business, we found a means of living securely among these dangerous People. Would you know how we pass the time at Naples? Our chief En|tertainment is the Devotion of our Neigh|bours.

Besides the gayety of their Churches (where Folks go to see what they call una bella Devotione (i. e.) a sort of Religious Opera) they make Fireworks almost every Week, out of Devotion; the Streets are often hung with Arras, out of Devotion; and (what is still more strange) the Ladies invite Gentlemen to their Houses, and treat them with Musick and Sweetmeats, out of Devotion; in a word, were it not for this Devotion of its Inhabitants, Naples would have little else to recommend it, beside the Air and Situation. Learning is in no very thriving state here, as indeed no where else in Italy. However, among many pretenders, some Men of taste are to be met with. A Friend of mine told me not long since, that being to visit Salvini at Florence, he found him reading your Homer. He liked the Notes extreamly, and could find no other fault with the Version, but that he thought it approached too near a Paraphrase; which shews him not to be sufficiently ac|quainted with our Language. I wish you Health to go on with that noble Work, and when you have that, I need not wish you Success. You will do me the Justice to believe, that whatever relates to your Welfare is sincerely wished, by

Yours, &c.

Mr. Pope to _____ _____

Dec. 12, 1718.

THE old project of a Window in the bosom, to render the Soul of Man visible, is what every honest friend has manifold reason to wish for; yet even that would not do in our case, while you are so far separated from me, and so long. I be|gin to fear you'll die in Ireland, and that the Denunciation will be fulfilled upon you, Hibernus es, & in Hiberniam reverteris—I should be apt to think you in Sancho's case; some Duke has made you Governor of an Island, or wet place, and you are ad|ministring Laws to the wild Irsh. But I must own, when you talk of Building and Planting, you touch my String; and I am as apt to pardon you, as the Fellow that thought himself Jupiter would have par|don'd the other Madman who call'd him|self his Brother Neptune. Alas, Sir, do you know whom you talk to? One that had been a Poet, was degraded to a Transla|tor, and at last thro' meer dulness is turn'd an Architect. You know Martial's Censure—Praeconem facito, vel Architectum. However I have one way left, to plan, to elevate, and

to surprize (as Bays says.) The next you may expect to hear, is that I am in Debt.

The History of my Transplantation and Settlement which you desire, would require a Volume, were I to enumerate the many projects, difficulties, vicissitudes, and various fates attending that important part of my Life: Much more, should I describe the many Draughts, Elevations, Profiles, Perspectives, &c. of every Palace and Gar|den propos'd, intended, and happily raised, by the strength of that Faculty wherein all great Genius's excel, Imagination. At last, the Gods and Fate have fix'd me on the borders of the Thames, in the Districts of Richmond and Twickenham. It is here I have past an entire Year of my life, without any fix'd abode in London, or more than casting a transitory glance (for a day or two at most in a Month) on the pomps of the Town. It is here I hope to receive you, Sir, return'd in triumph from Eternizing the Ireland of this Age. For you my Structures rise; for you my Colonades extend their Wings; for you my Groves aspire, and Roses bloom. And to say truth, I hope Posterity (which no doubt will be made acquainted with all there things) will look upon it as one of the principal Motives of my Architecture, that it was a Mansion prepar'd to receive you, against your own

should fall to dust, which is destin'd to be the Tomb of poor—and—and the immortal Monument of the Fidelity of two such Servants, who have excell'd in Con|stancy the very Rats of your Family.

What more can I tell you of myself? so much, and yet all put together so little, that I scarce care, or know, how to do it. But the very reasons that are against putting it upon Paper, are as strong for telling it you in Person; and I am uneasy to be so long de|ny'd the satisfaction of it.

At present I consider you bound in by the Irish Sea, like the Ghosts in Virgil,

—Tristi palus inamabilis unda Alligat, & novies Styx circumfusa coërcet!

and I can't express how I long to renew our old intercourse and conversation, our morning Conferences in bed in the same Room, our evening Walks in the Park, our amusing Voyages on the Water, our philo|sophical Suppers, our Lectures, our Disser|tations, our Gravities, our Reveries, our Fooleries, our what not?—This awak|ens the memory of some of those who have made a part in all these. Poor Parnelle, Garth, Rowe! You justly reprove me for not speaking of the Death of the last: Parnelle was too much in my mind, to

whose Memory I am erecting the best Mo|nument I can. What he gave me to publish, was but a small part of what he left behind him, but it was the best, and I will not make it worse by enlarging it. I'd fain know if he be buried at Chester, or Dublin; and what care has been, or is to be taken for his Monument, &c. Yet I have not neglected my Devoirs to Mr. Rowe; I am writing this very day his Epitaph for Westminster-AbbeyAfter these, the best natur'd of Men, Sir Samuel Garth, has left me in the truest concern for his loss. His Death was very Heroical, and yet unaffected enough to have made a Saint, or a Philosopher fa|mous: But ill Tongues, and worse Hearts have branded even his last Moments, as wrongfully as they did his Life, with Ir|religion. You must have heard many Tales on this Subject; but if ever there was a good Christian without knowing himself to be so, it was Dr. Garth.

I am, &c.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Secretary of State to King William the Third.
• * 1.2

  On Criticism.
• † 1.3

  But Appius reddens at each word you speak, And stares tremendous with a threatning eye, Like some fierce Tyrant in old Tapestry.
• * 1.4

  This Thought we find afterwards put into Verse in the Dunciad, Book 1.
• * 1.5

  See the ensuing Letters.
• * 1.6

  This was never done, for the two printed French Versions are neither of this hand. The one was the work of Monsieur Roboton, private Secretary to King George the first, printed in 4^o at Amsterdam and at London 1717. The other by the Abbe Resnel, in 8^o with a large Preface and Notes, at Paris, 1730.
• † 1.7

  A Translation of some Part of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, the Prologues, &c. printed in a Miscellany with some works of Mr. Pope, in 2 Vol, 12ves, by B. Lintot.
• * 1.8

  The foregoing Similitudes our Author had put into Verse some years before and inserted into Mr, Wycherley's poem an Mixt Life. We find him apparently in the Versification of them, as they are since printed in Wycherley's posthumous Works, 8^o Page 3d and 4th.
• * 1.9

  This is not now to be found in the Temple of Fame, of which poem he speaks here.
• † 1.10

  Hence it appears this Poem was writ before the Author was 22 Years old.
• * 1.11

  This relates to the Paper occasion'd by Dennis's remarks upon Cato, call'd Dr. Norris's Narative of the Frenzy of John Den_…_…
• * 1.12

  The Translation of the Iliad.
• * 1.13

  See Mr. Pope's Epistle to him in Verse, writ about this time.
• * 1.14

  The Translation of Homer's Iliad.
• * 1.15

  This relates to the Map of ancient Greece, laid down by our Author in his Observations on the second Iliad.
• * 1.16

  These Words are since left out in Mr. Tickel's Edition, but were extant in all during Mr. Addison's Life.
• * 1.17

  Dennis, who writ an abusive Pamplet this Year, in|titled, Remarks on Mr. Pope's Homer.
• * 1.18

  Call'd An Ode on the Longitude, in Swift and Pope's Miscellany.
• * 1.19

  This curious Piece was entitled, A compleat Key to the What-d'ye-call-it. It was written by one Griffin a Player, assisted by Lewis Theobald.
• * 1.20

  In one of his Papers call'd The Grumbler; long since dead.
• * 1.21

  Printed for B. Lintott 1715, 8^o under this Title.
• * 1.22

  Sir Richard Steele afterwards, in his Preface to an Edi|sion of the Drummer, a Comedy by Mr. Addison, shews it to be his opinion, that

  "not Mr. Tickel but Mr. Addison himself was the Person that translated this book."
• * 1.23

  Jam numerat placido felix Antonius aevo, &c.

  Sir William Trumbull was born at Easthampsted in Berk|shire: He was Fellow of All Souls College in Oxford, follow'd the Study of the Civil Law, and was sent by King Charles the Second Judge-Advocate to Tangier, thence Envoy to Flo|rence, Turin, &c. and in his way back, Envoy Extraordinary to France: from thence, sent by King James the Second Ambas|sador to the Ottoman Porte. Afterwards he was made Lord of the Treasury, then Secretary of State with the Duke of Shrews|bury, which Office he resign'd in 1697. He retir'd to East|hamsted, in Windsor Forest, and died in the Place of his Na|tivity in December 1716, aged 77 Years. Our Author cele|brated that Retirement in his Poem on the Forest, and addrest to him his first Pastoral at 16 Years of Age.
• * 1.24

  Afterwards Bishop of Cloyne in Ireland, a celebrated Metaphysician, Author of the Dialogues of Hylas and Philo|nuses, the Minute Philosopher, &c.