Miscellanies
in
Prose
and
Verse.

By Miss Mary Jones.

Oxford
Printed; and delivered by Mr. Dodsley in Pall-Mall, Mr.
Clements
in Oxford, and Mr. Frederick in Bath. 1750MDCCL.

a1r

To
Her Royal Highness
the
Princess Royal
and of
Orange

the Following Miscellanies
Already Distinguished by
Her Royal Highness’s Name
and Farther Indebted to
Her Royal Highness’s Favour
for the Addition Of
Her Illustrious Family
the House of Orange
Are
With the Profoundest Deference
and Gratitude
Inscribed
by


Her Royal Highness’s
Most Obliged
Most Obedient and
Most Humble Servant

the Author.

a1v a2r ( v )

Advertisement.

The following pieces, the produce of pure
nature only, and most of them wrote at a very
early age, stand so much in need of an apology for
their appearance in the world, that the author can
assure her readers, they would scarce have been
troubled with them upon any considerations of her
own. Her friends had often desired her to collect
something of this sort for the press; but the
difficulties, or, more properly, the dread of such an
undertaking, together with the respect she had for
them, the world, and herself, always kept such a
thought at the greatest distance imaginable. Nor
had she at length prevailed with herself to set
about so disagreeable a task, but for the sake of
a relation, grown old and helpless thro’ a series
of misfortunes; and whom she had no other methods
of effectually assisting. This her numerous
and generous subscribers have put it into her power
to do; and therefore she cannot but take this public
opportunity of giving them their share of the satisfaction;tisfaction; a2v ( vi )
as well as of acknowledging, in the most
respectful manner, the favour as done to herself.

As the success of the work is entirely submitted
to their candour, to plead the many disadvantages,
the almost perpetual interruptions that have attended
it, and last of all, the death of the dearest
and best of mothers, when it was near its publication,
would perhaps be unnecessary; but whatever
its fate may be, the vanity of the author will
have very little to answer for, since it will scarce
be read with greater reluctance than it was
printed. The poetry she can say nothing to; it
being quite accidental, that her thoughts ever
rambled into rhyme. And as to the letters, the
ladies to whom they are address’d having thought
proper to preserve them, is the best apology she can
make for them.

Some errors they will meet with of the press,
but many more, she fears, of the author.

b1r

Subscribers.


  • His
    Most Serene Highness
    the
    Prince of Orange,
    Hereditary Stadtholder,
    and
    Captain General of the United Provinces.

  • Her Royal Highness
    the Princess Royal, and of Orange.

  • His Serene Highness the Hereditary Prince of Nassau Orange.

  • Her Serene Highness
    the Princess Caroline of Nassau Orange.
b b1v xviii
  • A.

    • Her Grace the Duchess of St. Albans, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Ancram, royal paper.
    • Sir John Abdy, Bart. Knight of the Shire for the County
      of Essex.
    • Sir Richard Atkins, Bart. royal paper.
    • Sir John St. Aubyn, Bart.
    • The Rev. Dr. Allen, Archdeacon of Middlesex, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Amphlett, Fellow of Worcester Coll. r.p.
    • Mrs. Archer, of Hanover-square, royal paper.
    • Miss Archer, royal paper.
    • Mr. Robert Armorer, of his Majesty’s Houshold.
    • John Allen, Esq; Apothecary to his Majesty’s Board of Works.
    • Rev. Mr. Aylmer, Rector of Camberwell.
    • Thomas Aubrey, Esq; of Bosthall.
    • Miss Arnold of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Tracy Atkins.
    • Henry Ashurst, Esq;
    • Mr. Nathaniel Atkinson.
    • Nathaniel Alcock, M.D. of Oxford, F. R. S..
    • Mrs. Atherton, of Tiverton.
    • Mr. Allen, of Oxford.
    • John Andrew, M. D. of Exeter.
    • John Atkins, Surgeon, of Dartmouth.
    • Rev. Mr. Acmouty, of St. Edmund’s Hall.
    • Edward Andrews, Esq; of Hill-House, near Bristol.
    • Mrs. Andrews.
    • Mr. De L’Angle, Student of Christ Church.
    • Rev. Mr. D’Aeth, B.C.L. of Wadham Coll.
    • Rev. James Allet, A.M. Chaplain to the Right Hon. the
      Earl of Uxbridge.
    • Mr. Gilbert Allex, of Camberwell.
    • Rev. Mr. Airson, Minor Canon of Canterbury.
    • Abraham b2r xiix
    • Abraham Atkins, Esq;
    • Miss Austin, of Canterbury.
    • Charles Alexander, Esq; of Doctors-Commons.
    • Mr. Audsley.
    • Mr. John Askew, of Queen’s Coll.
    • Miss Jane Arnold, of Corsham, Wilts.
    • Mr. Ash, of Trinity Coll.
    • John Ashurst, Esq; Student of Ch. Ch.
    • Mrs. Abraham.
    • Mrs. Airey, of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • Mrs. Ashby, of Ledgers Ashby, Northamptonshire.
    • Mrs. Apthorp, of Eton.
    • Rev. Mr. Ashton, Fellow of Eton Coll.
    • Charles Amscot, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Andrew, M.A. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
  • B.

    • His Grace the Duke of Beaufort, royal paper.
    • Her Grace the Duchess of Beaufort, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lord Vere Beauclerk, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lord Henry Beauclerk, 5 books, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Henry Beauclerk, 5 books, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lord George Beauclerk, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Bateman, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Elizabeth Bertie.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Camilla Bennnet.
    • The Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Bristol, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mr. Boyle, Student of Ch. Ch. royal paper.
    • Lady Bucke.
    • Sir William Bowyer, Bart. royal paper.
    • Lady Bowyer, royal paper.
    • William Bowyer, Esq;
    • Mrs. Bowyer.
    • Mrs. Frances Bowyer, royal paper.
    • b2 Mrs. b2v xiix
    • Mrs. Charlot Bowyer.
    • Captain Thomas Bowyer, royal paper.
    • Lieutenant Richard Bowyer.
    • Mrs. Julia Bowyer.
    • The Hon. William Burnaby, Esq; Capt. of his Majesty’s
      Navy.
    • Sir John Bosworth, Knt.
    • Samuel Bosworth, Esq; of Newgate-street.
    • Rev. Mr. Bosworth, Fell. of Oriel Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Brown, Master of University Coll. and Vice-
      Chancellor of the University of Oxford, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Barton, Canon of Ch. Ch. royal paper.
    • Mrs. Barton, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Barton, Fellow of New Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Barton, Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Miss Barton.
    • The Rev. Dr. Bolton, Dean of Carlisle.
    • Mrs. Bolton.
    • The Rev. Mr. Burchet, Prebendary of Windsor.
    • Norris Bertie, Esq; Knight of the Shire for the County of
      Oxford, royal paper.
    • Mr. Bradshaw, of Soho-square, 3 books, royal paper, 2 small.
    • Mrs. Baron, of Windsor.
    • Richard Buckley, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mr. Perry Buckley, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Ballard, 2 books, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Dorothy Sarah Best, of Boxley, Kent.
    • Mrs. Brown, of Golden-square, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Eliz. Brown.
    • Samuel Baldwin, Gent. of Maiden-lane.
    • Mr. Samuel Baldwin, jun. 2 books.
    • Mr. William Bull, of the New River Office.
    • Rev. Mr. Betsworth, of University Coll.
    • Edward Bangham, Esq;
    • Mr. Barry, of his Majesty’s Theatre, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Bell.
    • Mrs. b3r xiiixi
    • Mrs. Bethel.
    • Edward Bayntun, Esq;
    • Mrs. Boothby.
    • William Battie, M.D. of Great Russel-street.
    • Miss Barkley.
    • Luke Benne, Esq;
    • ——Burgh, Esq;
    • Mrs. Booth, of Windsor, royal paper.
    • Henry Bainbrigg Buckeridge, Esq;
    • Rev. Thomas Bracken, M.A.
    • Mrs. Bradley, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Bowler, of Great Milton, I book, royal paper, 2 sm.
    • Rev. Mr. William Bowdry, of Reading.
    • Miss Beaver, of Oxford.
    • Coplestone War. Bampfylde, Esq;
    • Captain Birch.
    • Miss Bennet.
    • Mr. Brouche, of Watlington.
    • Stuckley Bayntun, Esq;
    • Mrs. Brownsmith.
    • Rev. Mr. John Burton, Fellow of Eton Coll.
    • Roger Bourchier, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mrs. Brown, of Oxford.
    • Mr Bourne.
    • The Rev. Edward Bentham, D.D. Fellow of Oriel Coll.
    • Luke Bennet, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Brent, Fellow of Pembroke Coll. and Rector of
      St. Aldate’s in Oxford.
    • George Baker, B.M. Fellow of King’s Coll. Cambridge.
    • Miss Bickley, of Langford.
    • Edward Blackit, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Ralph Brideoak, Rector of Abbot-stock, Devon.
    • James Barnard, Esq;
    • Mr. Maurice Barnard,of Threadneedle-street.
    • Mr. Thomas Le Breton,
    • Mr. John Beardwell, of Oxford.
    • Mr. b3v xivxii
    • Mr. Richard Bradgate, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Bedingfield, Vice-Principal of Hertford Coll.
    • Mr. Bruce, Student of Christ Church.
    • Captain Bembow, of Uxbridge.
    • Rev. Mr. Bradshaw, B.D. royal paper.
    • Miss Margaret Banks.
    • Rev. Mr. Bourchier, of Hertford.
    • Rev. Mr. Bruce.
    • Mr. Joseph Bullock, Postmaster of Merton Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Thomas Berdmore, Rector of Arston le
      Wall
      , Northamptonshire.
    • The Rev. Dr. Edward Berdmore, Fellow of St. John’s Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Daniel Burton, Chancellor of Oxford, r.p.
    • The Rev. Dr. Tho. Burton, Archdeacon of St. David’s, r.p.
    • Rev. Mr. Brereton, Fellow of All Souls Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Blake, of Exeter.
    • Mr. George Ballard, of Magdalen Coll.
    • Miss Susanna Bridgman, of Aldgate, High-street.
    • Mrs. Blewit.
    • Mr. Bull, of Milk-street.
    • Richard Bateman, Esq; of Old Windsor, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Bristowe, Rector of St. Mary Staining.
    • Dr. John Bettesworth, of Doctors Commons, royal paper.
    • George Bell, Esq; F.R.S. of Red Lion-square, royal paper.
    • James Brockman, Esq; of Beachborough in Kent.
    • Mr. John Butler, Merchant, of London.
    • Mr. James Butler.
    • Rev. Mr. Duke Butler.
    • Mr. Berwick, Commoner of Lincoln Coll.
    • Mr. Bates, Commoner of University Coll.
    • John Blandy, Esq; of Kingston, Berks.
    • John Brune, Esq;
    • Francis Bernard, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Barret, of Ashford in Kent.
    • Mrs. Beresford.
    • Dr. Blackstone, Fellow of All Souls Coll.
    • Rev. b4r xvxiii
    • Rev. Mr. Bridle, Fellow of New Coll.
    • Hugh Bosvile, Esq; of Lancellan, Monmouthshire
    • Mrs. Bacheler, of Bristol.
    • Mrs. Bacheler,
    • Miss Bacheler, of Taunton.
    • Mrs. Boswell,
    • Isaac Baugh, Esq; of Bristol.
    • Mrs. Boycot.
    • Miss Barker.
    • Mrs. Bowles, of Pool.
    • Mr. James Buckingham, Sojourner of Exeter Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Bryant, of Bryantston,
    • Rev. Mr. Bromfield, Rector of Bloxworth,
    • Charles Brune, Esq; of Plumber,
    • Thomas Bower, Esq; of Ewerne, Dorsetshire.
    • Mr. Bingham, of Bingham’s Melcombe,
    • Miss Barfoot, of Pool, royal paper.
    • William Bridges, Esq; of South Wales, royal paper.
    • Miss Rebecca Bell, of Greenwich.
    • Rev. Dr. Brickenden.
    • Mrs. Bigg.
    • Rev. Mr. Baker.
    • Rev. Phillip Brown, M.A. Fellow of Queen’s Coll.
    • Miss Berrow.
    • Mr. William Dottin Batten, of Queen’s Coll. 2 books.
    • Rev. Mr. Buckler, Fellow of All Souls Coll.
    • Mr. Burrell, B.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • Mr. Baxter, of Henrietta-street.
    • Mr. Bean, junior.
    • Mr. James Bandinell, of Winchester Coll.
    • Mr. Bulbeet, Gent. Com. of Corpus Christi Coll.
    • Miss Brent, of Bristol.
    • Rev. Mr. Bridges, Rector of Orlingbury,
    • Rev. Mr. Baker, Rector of Staverton, Northamptonsh
    • Miss Brooke of Oakley,
    • Rev. Mr. Bray, B.D. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Hugh b4v xvixiv
    • Hugh Barker Bell, Esq; of Aylesbury.
    • Henry Langford Brown, Esq; of Combsatchfield, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Bew, of Oxford.
    • Miss Banks, of Stanton St. John’s.
    • Mr. John Barrett, of Oxford.
    • Mr. Bissell, Scholar of Brazen-Nose Coll.
  • C.

    • The Right Hon. the Earl of Chesterfield, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Earl of Cholmondley, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess Cowper, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Countess of Conningsby, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Lord Viscount Cobham, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Elizabeth Cecil, 2 books, I royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Henrietta Conyers.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Jane Conway.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Ann Conway.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Elizabeth Courtenay.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Cotes.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Chetwynd.
    • William Chetwynd Esq;
    • John Chetwynd, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mrs. Deborah Chetwynd, of Dover-Street.
    • Rev. Mr. Cotes, of Trinity Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Edward Cotes.
    • Mrs. Elizabeth Cotes.
    • John Conyers, Esq;
    • Admiral Charles Cotterel.
    • Mrs. Charlot Clayton, royal paper.
    • William Champnies, Esq;
    • Mrs. Frances Clapham. of Boxley, in Kent.
    • Mr. John Charlton.
    • Charles Carey, Esq;
    • Mrs. Carr, of Twickenham, royal paper.
    • Mrs. c1r xviixv
    • Mrs. Clarke.
    • Mrs. Chambers
    • Miss Conybeare, of Oxford, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Cook, of Denham.
    • Mrs. Carbonell.
    • Mr. Isaac Collivoe, of Maiden-lane.
    • Captain Compton.
    • Mrs. Carew.
    • Mrs. Clarke, of Bloomsbury-square,
    • Miss Crooke, of Oxford, 2 books.
    • Miss Church.
    • Mrs. Cox.
    • Mrs. Cheeke, of Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields.
    • Mrs. Sarah Cheeke.
    • Mrs. Clarkson, of Marlborough-street, 4 books.
    • Lieutenant Col. Cockayne, of Bond-street, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Cockayne, M.A.
    • The Rev. Dr. Conen, Fellows of St. John’s Coll.
    • Rev. Daniel Chadsley, L.L.B.
    • Mrs. Church.
    • Mrs. Cook. of Oxford.
    • Miss Joanna Coates, of Greenwich.
    • Mrs. Claxton.
    • Mr. Capper, of Balliol Coll.
    • Mrs. Rebecca Chambre, of Llanfoyst, Monmouthshire.
    • Rev. Dr. Cosserat, Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Mrs. Culley, of Oxford.
    • John Carew, Esq;
    • Richard Chester, Esq;
    • Charles Cocks, Esq; Member of Parliament for Rygate.
    • Mr. Caslon, Letter-Founder, of Chiswell-street, 6 books.
    • Mrs. Crutchley.
    • Rev. Mr. Fran. Champernowne, Rector of Dartington, Dev.
    • William Chadder, Esq; Mayor of Totnes.
    • Mr. George Carwithen, Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Miss Carne, of Oxford.
    • c Miss c1v xviiixvi
    • Miss Molly Carne, of Oxford.
    • John Carne, Esq; of Marcham, Berks.
    • Mr. John Carne, Commoner of Jesus Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Coxeter, Student of Christ Church.
    • George Robert Carter, Esq; of Hasley.
    • ——Carter, M.D. of Canterbury.
    • Mr. Cooper, Fellow of All Souls Coll.
    • The Rev, Dr. Cholmley, Fellow of Magdalen Coll.
    • Mr. James Chauvel, of St. Alban’s-street.
    • Mrs. Chauvel, of the Strand, 3 books.
    • The Rev. Dr. Coxed, Warden of Winchester College,
      10 books.
    • The Rev. Dr. Cobden, Archdeacon of London.
    • Andrew Coltee Du Carel, Esq; of Doctors-Commons.
    • Philip Crespigney, Esq;
    • Claude Crespigney, Esq; of the South-Sea House.
    • Mr. John Castle, Surgeon, of Eltham in Kent.
    • Francis Clarke, Esq; of North-Weston.
    • Mrs. Coke, of Barham in Kent.
    • Mrs. Carter, of Deal.
    • Mrs. Cage, of Canterbury.
    • Mrs. Carver, Eckington, Derbyshire.
    • The Rev. Dr. Cowper, Chaplain in Ordinary to his Majesty,
      royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Coulson, Fellow of University Coll.
    • Mr. Cooksy, Fellow of Merton, Coll.
    • Richard Combe, Esq; of Bristol.
    • Rev. Mr. Camplin, of Brompton, Somersetshire.
    • Mrs. Camplin.
    • Rev. Mr. Camplin, Minor Canon of Bristol.
    • Mr. Will. Camplin, B.A. of Corpus Christi Coll.
    • Mr. Camplin, of Bristol.
    • Miss Polly Cleves, of Pool.
    • Rev. Mr. Culme, M.A. Fellow of Wadham Coll.
    • Miss Colson, of Frampton,
    • Miss Culme, of Studland, Dorsetshire.
    • Mrs. c2r xixxvii
    • Mrs. Combe, of Henley, Dorsetshire.
    • Mr. Chapman.
    • Ralph Congreve, Esq;
    • The Rev. Dr Church, Vicar of Battersea.
    • Mr. John Chester, of Queen’s Coll.
    • Robert Cann, Esq;
    • Mr. Thomas Collins.
    • Miss Cox.
    • Mr. Coham.
    • Rev. Mr. Cox.
    • Miss Catherine Case.
    • Mrs. Colombine.
    • Nathaniel Castleston, Esq; royal paper.
    • William Cook, Esq;
    • Mrs. Cox, of Stanford, Berks.
    • Richard Cheslyn, Esq;
    • Thomas Carter, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
    • Rev. Mr. Cawley, Rector of Dudcote, Berks.
    • Mr. Clay, Bookseller in Daventry.
    • Rev. Mr. Clendon, Fellow of Emanuel Coll. Cambridge.
    • Rev. Mr. Castleman, Prebendary of Bristol.
    • Gilbert Caldecot, Esq; royal paper.
    • Pierce Cornish, Esq;
  • D.

    • The Right Hon. the Earl of Dalkeith, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Dalkeith, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Earl of Dartmouth, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Dysart.
    • The Hon. and Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of St. David’s,
    • royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Mary Digby.
    • Sir James Dashwood, Bart. Knight of the Shire for the
    • County of Oxford, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Derham, President of St. John’s Coll. 4 books,
    • royal paper.
    • c2 John c2v xxxviii
    • John Delmè, Esq;
    • Mrs. Delmè, of Grosvenor-square, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Dolliffe.
    • John Drummond, Esq;
    • Mrs. Drummond, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Katherine Dahl.
    • Mrs. Dry, royal paper.
    • Mr. Draper of Covent-garden, royal paper.
    • Henry Drax, Esq; royal paper.
    • Miss Dodemead, of Covent-garden.
    • James Douglas, Esq royal paper.
    • Mrs. Duvernet, of Leicester-fields.
    • John Day, Esq; Gentleman Commoner, of Queen’s Coll.
    • Mrs. Dormer, of Ayscott, Oxfordshire, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Devisme.
    • Mr. Frederick-William-Guy Dickens, of Ch. Ch. r. p.
    • Mrs. Daddo, of Tiverton.
    • Rev. Mr. Dickens, Student of Christ Church, and one of the
    • Proctors of the University of Oxford, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Dobson, Student of Christ Church.
    • Rev. Mr. Dipple, of Egham.
    • Rev. Erasmus Dryden, B.D. Rector of Easthamsted, r. p.
    • Mr. Durel, Scholar of Pembroke Coll.
    • Mrs. Denison, of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Dixon, of Canterbury
    • Mrs. Denew, of St. Stephen’s Court, near Canterbury.
    • Mrs. Davis, of Tarllyn, Brecon.
    • Mr. John Dick, Merchant, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Dry, Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Mr. James Daltera, of Bristol.
    • Richard Dayrell, Esq; of Lillingstone Dayrell, Bucks, r.p.
    • John Dalton, Esq; of Shaston, Dorsetshire.
    • Mr. William Dallaway, of Bretuscomb, Gloucestershire.
    • Miss Patty Durell, of Pool.
    • Rev. Mr. Stanton Degg, 2 books.
    • Mrs. Devall, of Flower, Northamptonshire.
    • William c3r xxixix
    • William Draper, Esq; of Adscomb, Surry, royal paper.
    • William-Whorwood A’Deane, Esq; of Charlgrove, Oxf.
    • William Daniel, Esq;
    • Miss Dove, of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • Miss Disney, of Cranbrook in Kent.
    • Dr. Dinham, of Harborough, Leicestershire.
    • Rev. Mr. Darch, M.A. Fellow of Balliol Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Dockwray.
    • Miss Dewe, of Ensham, Oxfordshire.
    • Mrs. Draper, of Newbury.
    • Mr. John Davie, Scholar of Balliol Coll.
  • E.

    • The Right Hon. Lady Charlotte Edwin, royal paper.
    • Sir John Elwell, Bart.
    • Mrs. East, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Katherine Edwin, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Ewer, of North Audley-street, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Ewers, of Bottesford.
    • Mrs. Eyres, of Surrey-street.
    • Rev. Mr. Evans, of Covent-garden.
    • Rev. Richard Eyres, B.D. royal paper.
    • Mr. Eaton, Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Evans, Rector of Langadock, Wales.
    • Rev. Mr. Edwards, Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Rev. Peter Ellice, B.D. Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Mr. John Eversman, of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Henrietta Egerton.
    • Rev. Mr. Robert Edwards, of St. John’s, Southwark.
    • Rev. Mr. Robert Ewings, Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Edowes, Rector of Broughton.
    • The Rev. Dr. Edgcumbe, late Rector of Exeter Coll.
    • Mrs. Eston.
    • Rev. John Egerton, L.L.B.
    • The c3v xxiixx
    • The Rev. Mr. Exton, Prebendary of Winchester.
    • Rev. Mr. Eustace, M.A. Vicar of Abergavenny.
    • Mrs. Erle, of Blanford, Dorsetshire.
    • The Rev. Dr. Ernly, Fellow of All Souls Coll.
    • Mrs. Barbara Ellison,
    • Miss Jenny Ellison, of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • Miss Ellison, of Park House,
    • Miss Molly Ellison, Northumberland.
    • Miss Elizabeth Ellison,
    • Miss Eldridge, of Great Milton, Oxfordshire.
    • Mr. Bickham Escott, Sojourner of Exeter Coll.
    • Rev. St. John Elliott, of Cornwall, 2 books.
  • F.

    • The Right Hon. Lord Viscount Fermanagh, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Fermanagh, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Charlotte Finch.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Juliana Farmor.
    • The Right Hon. Lord Foley, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Mr. Vice Chamberlain Finch.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Fairfax.
    • Thomas Fisher, Esq; of Whitehall, royal paper.
    • Mr. Thomas Farraine.
    • Mr. Finch, of Covent-garden.
    • Thomas Fanshaw, Esq; of Pallmall.
    • Charles Frewen, Esq;
    • Mr. Thomas Fownes, B.A. of Queen’s Coll.
    • Miss Forester, of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Frewen, of Oxford, royal paper.
    • Mr. Forrester, Student of Christ Church.
    • Mrs. Fox.
    • Mrs. Foley, of Hereford.
    • Mrs. Frederick, of Leicester Fields.
    • Mr. Henry Fisher, M.A. of Jesus Coll.
    • Miss Fuller.
    • Mrs. c4r xxiiixxi
    • Mrs. Foster, of Hanover-square, royal paper.
    • Henry Faure, Esq; of Egham.
    • Mrs. Mary Foreman, of Epsom.
    • The Rev. Dr. Fothergill, royal paper,
    • Rev. Mr. Thomas Fothergill, M.A. Fell. of Queen’s Coll.
    • Mrs. Fazakerly of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Butler Fenton.
    • Rev. Mr. Forster, Fellow of University Coll.
    • The Rev. Thomas Fry, D.D. Fellow of St. John’s Coll.
    • Mrs. Eliz. Faucet.
    • The Rev. Dr. Fortescue, Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Gorges Foyll, Esq;
    • Mr. Thomas Farr, of Bristol.
    • Mrs. Forest
    • Mrs. Fanshawe.
    • Mrs. Farrer, of Brampton,
    • Miss Freeman, of Flower, Northamptonshire.
    • Miss Ann Freeman,
    • Rev. Mr. Fleetwood.
    • Mrs. Foley.
    • Thomas Ford, Esq; of Aldermanbury.
    • Mr. Fenwick,
    • Mrs. Fenwick, of Bywell, Northumberland.
    • Miss Fenwick,
    • Mrs. Fenwick, of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • Mr. Ferinhough, of Newcastle Underline.
    • The Rev. Dr. Fanshawe, Canon of Christ Church, and
      Regius Professor of Divinity, 2 books, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Fowel, M.A. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
  • G.

    • The Right Hon. The Earl of Granville.
    • The Right Hon. Earl Gower, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Gage.
    • The c4v xxivxxii
    • The Hon. Mrs. Granville.
    • Lady Gresham, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Green, Fellow of St. John’s Coll. 2 books, r.p.
    • Dr. John Green, of Greenwich, 2 books, royal paper.
    • George Gibson, Esq; of Whitehall, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Edmund Gibson, M.A. Precentor of St. Paul’s, r.p.
    • The Rev. William Gibson, D.D. Archdeacon of Essex, r.p.
    • Rev. Rob. Gibson, M.A. Rector of St. Magnus, royal paper.
    • Mr. Graham, of Golden-square.
    • Mr. Grubb.
    • Mr. Edward Grubb.
    • Miss Goodison, of Long Acre, royal paper.
    • David Garrick, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mr. Gunter, of Covent-garden.
    • Mrs. Gore, of Devonshire-street.
    • Thomas Gore, Esq; royal paper.
    • Edward Gore, Esq;
    • ——Gaylard, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Griesly, M.A.
    • Mrs. Graine,
    • Mr. Green, of Oxford.
    • Mr. Godfrey,
    • The Rev. Dr. Gower, Provost of Worcester Coll. royal paper.
    • Mr. John Glubb, B.A. of Exeter Coll.
    • Mrs. Gosling.
    • Mrs. Gibberd.
    • Mrs. Gibson, of Oxford, royal paper.
    • William Gore, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Griffith, M.A. Fellow of Pembroke Coll.
    • Mrs. Nab. Gubbins, of Kinsale, Ireland.
    • Mrs. Gataker of Park Place, St. James’s.
    • The Rev. Dr. Geekie, Prebendary of Canterbury.
    • Rev. Mr. Gregory, Vicar of North Elmham.
    • Mrs. Gregory, of Uley,
    • Miss Gregory, Gloucestershire.
    • Rev. Mr. Gregory, Minor Cannon of Canterbury.
    • Mrs. d1r xxvxxiii
    • Mrs. Gregory,
    • Mr. Le Geyt, of Canterbury.
    • Mrs. Le Geyt,
    • Mrs. Godschall, 3 books.
    • Miss Godschall, 3 books.
    • Mrs. Giffard, of Neuffield, Berks.
    • Mrs. Goldsborough, of Bruton, Somersetshire.
    • Mrs. Gardiner, of Henbury, near Bristol.
    • Rev. Mr. Gresly, Chaplain of Wadham Coll.
    • Mrs. Gordon, of Bristol.
    • Miss Goodding.
    • Francis Gashry, Esq;
    • Miss Galpine, of Blandford.
    • Miss Thomasin Galpine.
    • Mr. Glover.
    • John Greenway, Esq; of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Giffard, Rector of Cle-haydon, Devon.
    • Miss Giffard.
    • Edward Goddard, Esq;
    • Miss Ann Golding.
    • Rev. Mr. Golding, Fellow of New Coll.
    • Miss Gyde, of Gloucestershire.
    • Miss Gwatkin.
    • James Gilpin, Esq; of Oxford.
    • Charles Gould, Esq; Student of Christ Church.
    • Mr. Groves, of Richmond.
    • Francis Gwyn, Esq; Member of Parliament for Wells.
    • Mrs. Gwyn.
    • William Goodwin, Esq;
    • Bernard Granville, Esq; of Park-street, 2 books, royal paper.
    • Mr. James Gunter.
    • Mr. Gower, Fellow of Brazen-Nose Coll.
    • Mrs. Greenhalf, of Bourton, Oxfordshire, royal paper.
    • Miss Gibbs, royal paper.
    • Mr. Glass, Surgeon, of Oxford, 2 books.
    • d The d1v xxvixxiv
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Harcourt.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Hertford, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. and Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Hereford,
      royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Howe, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Mary Howard, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Patty Harley.
    • The Hon. Robert Harley, Esq; sen.
    • The Hon. Robert Harley, Esq; jun.
    • The Hon. John Harley, Esq;
    • The Hon. Mrs. Herbert, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Thomas Howard, of Astead.
    • The Rev. Sir Philip Hoby, Bart.
    • Sir John Honywood, Bart. royal paper.
    • William Harvey, Esq; Knight of the Shire for Essex, r.p.
    • The Rev. Dr. Hodges, Provost of Oriel Coll.
    • Mrs. Hodges.
    • Edmund Herbert, Esq;
    • George Hay, L.L.D. royal paper.
    • Miss Huddon, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Judith Hoskins, of Red Lyon-square, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Mary Hoskins, royal paper.
    • Miss Katherine Hoskins, royal paper.
    • ——Hoskins, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mr. Hull, Apothecary, of the Strand.
    • Mrs. Humphries, of Oxford.
    • Miss Humphries, of Pall-Mall.
    • Mr. Francis Humphries, Student of Hertford Coll.
    • ——Hall, Esq; of the Temple, 2 books, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Hinchliff, of Covent-garden.
    • Mrs. Haywood.
    • Mrs. d2r xxviixxv
    • Mrs. Harris, of Eton.
    • Mrs. Hooker, of Greenwich.
    • Rev. Mr.—Harris, Gent. Commoner of Exeter Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Hunt, Canon of Christ Church, and Professor
      of the Heb. and Arab. Languages; 6 books, I royal paper.
    • Mr. Hotchings, of Lincoln Coll.
    • Mrs. Margaret Hanbury, of Llanfoyst, Monmouthshire.
    • Philip Henshaw, Esq; of Bussock, Berks.
    • Mr. Henshaw.
    • Mr. Phocion Henley, B.A. of Wadham Coll.
    • Mr. Benjamin Holland.
    • John Horn, Esq;
    • William Hammond, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Hewitt, M.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • Captain Head.
    • Mrs. Hargrave.
    • Mr. Thomas Hatrell,
    • Mrs. Mary Hatrell, of Newcastle Underline.
    • Rev. Mr. Harding.
    • The Rev. Dr. Hayward, Rector of Stanlake.
    • Rev. Mr. Hopkins, M.A. Chaplain of Christ Church.
    • Benjamin Heath, Esq; of Exeter, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Holdsworth, of Dartmouth.
    • Rev. Mr. Harwood, Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Hoare, B.D. Fellow of Jesus Coll. and Chaplain
      in Ordinary to his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.
    • Rev. Mr. Holloway, Rector of Bladen and Woodstock.
    • Rev. Mr. Holwell, M.A. Student of Christ Church, r.p.
    • Mrs. Haywood.
    • Rev. Mr. Haly, M.A. of Hertford Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Hind, Student of Christ Church.
    • The Rev. Dr. Head, Archdeacon of Canterbury.
    • Mrs. Hardres,
    • Mrs. Frances Holcombe, of Canterbury.
    • Rev. Mr. Hayman, B.A. of Queen’s Coll.
    • William Heywood, Esq; of Crouchley Park, royal paper.
    • d2 Thede d2v xxviiixxvi
    • Thede Heywood, Esq;
    • Mrs. Heywood, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Holdsworth, Rector of Chalfont.
    • George Hunt, Esq; of Sackville-street.
    • Rev. Mr. Henry Hammond.
    • Rev. Mr. William Holford, Lecturer of Camberwell, r.p.
    • Mr. Richard Holford, Attorney at Law, royal paper.
    • Mr. Holmes, of University Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Hawkins, Rector of Kingsnorth in Kent.
    • Miss Hall, of Canterbury.
    • Frances Huchenson, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Harris, Vicar of Llantrissent, Glamorganshire.
    • Miss Harris.
    • The Rev. Dr. Hutchins, Fellow of Lincoln Coll.
    • Mr. Hibbs, of Bristol.
    • Mrs. Hay, of Hartrow, Somersetshire.
    • Mrs. Mary Hay.
    • John Harrington, Esq;
    • Miss Holden, of Oxford.
    • Mr. Thomas Hyde, of Pool.
    • Rev. Mr. Henning, Rector of Warmwell, Dorsetshire.
    • Mr. Harris, Surgeon, 2 books.
    • Miss Heasman, of Cookfield, Sussex.
    • James Hayes, jun. Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Howard.
    • Mrs. Holbrow, of Gloucestershire.
    • Miss Eliz. Holbrow.
    • Miss Harris, of Wotton, Oxfordshire.
    • The Rev. Dr. Hume, Residentiary of St. Paul’s.
    • Mrs. Hume, royal paper,
    • Mr. Nathanael Hume, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Howell, Fellow of Pembroke Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Hill, Rector of Chilton Canteloe, Somersetshire.
    • Mrs. Hindmarsh, of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • Mrs. Frances Hunt,
    • Mrs. Dorcas Hunt, of Chester.
    • Mrs. d3r xxixxxvii
    • Mrs. Hatt, of Lachamsted, Berks.
    • Eliab Harvey, Esq;
    • Thomas Hunt, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
    • Mr. John Haines, Commoner of Pembroke Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Hill, M.A. of Balliol Coll.
    • Mr. Howel, of Ensham, Oxfordshire.
    • Miss Ann Hale,
    • Miss Hilman, of Devonshire.
    • Mr. Henry Harrington, B.A. of Queen’s Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Horndon, M.A. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. James Head, Attorney at Law, of Newbury.
    • George Heneage, Esq;
    • Mrs. Heneage.
    • Mr. William Hayes, of Oxford, 2 books.
    • Mr. John Heskyn, B.A. Student of Ch. Ch.
    • Mr. Thomas Hewgoe, Scholar of Balliol Coll.
  • I.

    • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Irwin.
    • Lady Irby.
    • The Rev. Eusebius Isham, D.D. Rector of Lincoln Coll.
    • Mrs. Vere Isham.
    • Mrs. Edmunda Isham.
    • Edward Jones, Esq;
    • Mrs. Jones.
    • Mr. Jones, Student of Christ Church.
    • Miss Jones, of St. James’s Place.
    • The Rev. Dr. Edward Jones, Rector of Aston Clinton.
    • Rev. Mr. John Jones, Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Mrs. Jones, of Oxford, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Jones, M.A. Precentor of Christ Church, r.p.
    • Mr. John Jones, of Red Lion-square.
    • Mr. Jones, of the Custom-house.
    • Rev. Mr. Jones, of Fakenham.
    • Mr. Edward Jones.
    • Rev. d3v xxxxxviii
    • Rev. Mr. Jenkin.
    • Mrs. James.
    • Mr. Jackson, of Cursitor-street, 2 books.
    • Rev. Mr. Thomas Jones, M.A. Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Mrs. Jagger, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Jane, M.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • Benjamin James, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Jubb, Student of Christ Church.
    • Mrs. Jarvis.
    • William Ives, Esq; of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Johnson, Vicar of St. Dunstan’s, Canterbury.
    • Mrs. Johnson.
    • Esco Jackson, Esq; of Bush-lane.
    • Miss Ingoldsby.
    • Mrs. Inglish, of the Strand, 2 books.
    • Samuel Ingram, Esq;
    • Miss Mary Johnson, of Canterbury.
    • William Jenkins, Esq; of Abergavenny.
    • Rev. James Ibbetson, B.D. Rector of Bushey.
    • Mr. Jennings, Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Miss Jones, of Frodsham, Cheshire.
    • Miss Molly Johnstone,
    • Miss Sophia Johnstone, of Drayton, Oxfordshire.
    • Mr. Johnstone, of Newgate-street, 2 books, royal p. 4 small.
    • Mrs. Jemmitt, of Bicester.
    • Rev. Mr. Jemson, Vicar of Weeden, Northamptonshire.
    • Mrs. Jackson, of Donhead, Wilts.
    • Mr. Jackson, of Oxford.
  • K.

    • The Right Hon. Lady Susan Keck, 2 books, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Knight, 10 books, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Kingdom.
    • Edward Kingdom, Esq; of Englefield Green, royal paper.
    • Rev. Arnold King, L.L.B.
    • Mr. d4r xxxixxix
    • Mr. Kelsey, of Compton-street, royal paper.
    • Mr. William Kinleside.
    • Rev. Mr. Kennicott, M.A. Fell. of Exeter Coll. royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Kilner, M.A. Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. King, M.A. of St. Mary Hall.
    • Rev. Mr. Kipling, M.A. of Thame.
    • The Rev. Dr. Kemp, Rector of St. Michael’s, Crooked-lane.
    • Mrs. Knox, of Norfolk-street.
    • Mrs. Kinnersley, of Loxley, Staffordshire.
    • Mrs. Kein, of Kensington.
    • Mrs. Keyt.
    • Anthony Keck, Esq; of Twickenham.
    • Miss Knight.
    • Mr. Edward King, of Oxford.
    • The Rev. William Knowler, L.L.D. Rector of Bodington,
      Northamptonshire.
    • Francis Knollys, Esq; of Thame, 2 books, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Joshua Kyte, M.A. Student of Ch. Ch.
  • L.

    • Her Grace The Duchess of Leeds.
    • The Right Hon. The Earl of Litchfield, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Lovelace, 2 books, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Lee.
    • The Hon. Miss Lyddel, royal paper.
    • The Hon. George Lyttelton, Esq; 2 books, royal paper.
    • Sir William Lee, Bart. royal paper.
    • Sir William Lowther, Bart. royal paper.
    • The Rev. Mr. Lowth, Archdeacon of Winchester, and
      Poetry Professor at Oxford, 2 books.
    • —Lawson, M.D. of Soho-square.
    • Rev. Mr. Letsome.
    • Thomas Lupton, jun. Esq;
    • Mr. John Longden.
    • Peter Leigh, Esq; High Bayliff of Westminster.
    • John d4v xxxiixxx
    • John Lloyd, Esq; of Shrewsbury.
    • Mrs. Lee, of Norfolk-street.
    • Rev. Mr. John Lloyd, of Shrewsbury.
    • Mr. Locke, Student of Christ Church.
    • The Rev. Dr. Long, Rector of Chievely, Berks.
    • Rev. Mr. Long, Student of Christ Church.
    • Miss Lea, of Bussock, Berks.
    • Mr. Lewis of Christ Church.
    • Joseph Langton, Esq;
    • Richard Luther, Esq;
    • Mr. Lads, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Lye, Rector of Yerley Hastings, Northamptonshire.
    • Mrs. Lewis, of Brooke-street.
    • Rev. Mr. Langford, Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Mrs. Lampriere, of Hatton-Garden.
    • William Lewis, M.D. of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Elizabeth Lemon.
    • Edward Lovibond, Esq; of Bath.
    • Mr. Thomas Lee, of Addlestrop, Oxfordshire.
    • Mrs. Leigh of Canterbury.
    • Richard Lyster, Esq; Knight of the Shire for the County of
      Salop, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Low.
    • —Lowndes, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Lyson, Rector of Longworth, Berks.
    • Mrs. Lynch, of Canterbury, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Lamprey, Minor Canon of Canterbury.
    • Miss Lewis, Of Penlyne, Glamorganshire,.
    • Miss Eleanor Lewis, of Abergavenny.
    • Rev. Francis Lewis, Rector of Langattock, Monmouthshire.
    • Rev. Mr. Lawghton, of Stafford Grove, Somersetshire.
    • Mrs. Lawrence.
    • Rev. Mr. Leach, of Piddletown, Dorsetshire.
    • Mrs. Loveday.
    • Mr. Lysons, Commoner of Oriel Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Lloyd, Rector of Stowe nine Churches.
    • Mr. e1r xxxiiixxxi
    • Mr. Abraham Langford.
    • Erasmus Lewis, Esq; of Cork-street, royal paper.
    • John Levett, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
    • Rev. Mr. Lowry, M.A. Fellow of Queen’s Coll.
    • Miss Anna Lake, of Devon.
    • John Lansdell, Esq; of Newbury.
    • Mrs. Juliana Luscombe, of Comb, Devon.
    • John Lawrance, Esq; Gent. Commoner of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. Robt. Lloyd, of Trinity Coll. Cambridge.
  • M.

    • Her Grace the Duchess of Marlborough, 2 books, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lord Masham, 2 books, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Masham, royal paper.
    • The Hon. John Maitland, Esq;
    • Sir John Moore, Bart. royal paper.
    • Sir Capel Molyneux, Bart. royal paper.
    • Lady Molyneux, royal paper.
    • Miss Molyneux, royal paper.
    • Richard Middleton, Esq; of Chirk Castle, Member of Parliament
      of Denbigh, royal paper.
    • Richard Morgan, Esq; of Dublin, royal paper.
    • Moses Mendes, Esq; royal paper.
    • William Macham, L.L.B. Fellow of St. John’s Coll.
    • Mrs. Marriott, late House-keeper of Windsor Castle, 2 books
      royal paper, 18 small.
    • Mrs. Marriott, of Took’s Court.
    • Mrs. Mein, of Wandsworth.
    • Mr. Metayer,
    • Miss Morgan, of Pallmall.
    • Miss Peggy Morgan,
    • The Rev. Dr. James Musgrave, 10 books, royal paper.
    • Thomas Musgrave, B.M. Fellow of St. John’s Coll.
    • Captain Morrice, royal paper.
    • e —Morley e1v xxxivxxxii
    • ——Morley, M.D. of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 2 books.
    • George Milborne, Esq;
    • Mrs. Marten, of Windsor, royal paper.
    • ——Martin, Esq;
    • Mrs. Martin.
    • John Merrick, M.D. of Twickenham, 6 books.
    • Robert Monypenny, Esq;
    • Mrs. Eliz. Monypenny.
    • John Monro, M.D.
    • Rev. Mr. Monro, M.A. Fellow of Corp. Christ Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. William Moore, B.A. of Wadham Coll.
    • John Mallack, Esq;
    • John Macie, Esq;
    • Paul Methuen, Esq;
    • John Martin, Esq; of the Inner Temple, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Maycock, of Oxford.
    • Mr. Edward Marshall, Sojourner of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. Thomas Mander, Fellow of Oriel Coll.
    • Henry Mander, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
    • John Mangey, Esq; of St. Mary Hall.
    • Rev. Morgan Morgan, B.A. of Jesus Coll. 2 books.
    • Rev. Mr. Mudge, M.A. of Pembroke Coll.
    • Edward Matthew, of Aberammon, Esq;
    • William LeMerchant, Esq; of Newbury.
    • James Le Merchant, B.D. Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Joshua Le Merchant, Scholar of Pembroke Coll.
    • Joshua Le Merchant, Esq; his Majesty’s Sollicitor in
      Guernsey.
    • Mrs. Mabbott, of Cassington, Oxfordshire, royal paper.
    • Sanderson Miller, Esq; of Radway, Warwickshire.
    • Mrs. Miller, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Manning.
    • Wm. Midford, Esq; of Lovett’s Hill, Windsor Forest, r.p.
    • Mrs. Mayow, of Oxford.
    • Richard Mead, Esq. of Windsor, royal paper.
    • Lomax Martyn, Esq; of Lincoln’s Inn.
    • Mrs. Michell, of Gerard-street, royal paper.
    • Rev. e2r xxxvxxxiii
    • Rev. Mr. Mortimer,
    • Rev. Mr. Morton, of University Coll.
    • Rev. Chardin Musgrave, M.A.
    • John Merril, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mrs. Olympia Morshead, of Cartuther, Cornwall.
    • Mrs. Masters, of Pool.
    • Miss Polly Mills, of Bridgwater, Somersetshire.
    • Mr. John Mills, Merchant, of London.
    • Rev. Mr. Morshead, M.A. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • John Montague, Esq; of Wales, royal paper.
    • Miss Matthews, of Wallingford.
    • Mr. Thomas Monkhouse, B.A. of Queen’s Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Meeke, M.A. Fellow of Pembroke Coll.
    • Mrs. Miller, of Ozelworth, Gloucestershire.
    • Mrs. Mitchell, of Steyning, in Sussex.
    • Miss Moore.
    • Miss May.
    • Mrs. Madane, of Bond-street, royal paper.
    • John Miller, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
    • Rev. Mr. Morris, Fellow of Brazen Nose Coll.
    • James Moncaster, Esq; M.A.
    • Miss Martin, of Woodstock.
    • Mr. Thomas Mitchell, Sojourner of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. Morland, of Coggs.
    • Edward Mundy, Esq;
    • Thomas Manwaring, Esq;
    • Miss Patty Musgrove,
    • Miss Polly Musgrove, of Oxford.
    • Miss Mann, of Linton,
    • Miss Martin, of Loose, in Kent.
  • N.

    • Her Grace the Duchess of Newcastle, 2 books, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Northumberland, r.p.
    • The Hon. Mr. Noel, royal paper.
    • e2 The e2v xxxvixxxiv
    • The Hon. Mr. Nassau, royal paper.
    • Lady Newdigate, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Norris.
    • Mrs. Nichols.
    • Miss Nichols, of Great Ormond-street.
    • George Nares, Esq; of Oxford, 2 books.
    • Miss Newton, of Tiverton, royal paper.
    • Charles Nourse, Surgeon, of Oxford.
    • Mr. Norman, of Oxford.
    • Rev. M. Neve, M.A. Fellow of Corp. Christ Coll.
    • Mr. North, Attorney at Law, of Watlington.
    • Mrs. Newsham, of Marston, Warwickshire.
    • Miss Napleton, of Canterbury.
    • Miss Norman, of Henly upon Thames.
    • Miss Nelmes, of Bradley, Gloucestershire.
    • Christopher Neville, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mrs. Niblett, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Noel, M.A. Fellow of New Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Nash, Chancellor of Norwich.
    • Rev. Mr. Neal, Fellow of Clare Hall, Cambridge.
    • Mr. Nourse, Fellow of All Souls, Coll.
    • Mrs. Nourse, of Wood Eaton.
    • Mr. Wm. Norton, Attorney at Law, of Oxford, 2 books.
    • Rev. Mr. Norton.
    • The Rev. Dr. Nicholas.
    • Mr. John Notley.
    • Robert Needham, Esq;
    • Mr. Norris, M.A. Fellow Commoner of Magd. Coll.
  • O.

    • Mrs. Ogle, of Camberwell.
    • Rev. Humphrey Owen, B.D. Publick Librarian of the
      University of Oxford.
    • Miss Owens, of Emmor Green, Berks.
    • William e3r xxxviixxxv
    • William Oliver, M.D. of Bath.
    • Miss Osborne, of Workley, Gloucestershire.
    • Rev. Mr. Osborne, Rector of Godmanstone, Dorsetshire.
  • P.

    • The Right Hon. Lady Caroline Peachy, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Earl of Plymouth, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Pomfret.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Parker.
    • Sir John Philipps, Bart.
    • Edward Popham, Esq; Knight of the Shire for the County
      of Wilts, royal paper.
    • Sir Wm. Beauchamp Proctor, Knight of the Shire for the
      County of Middlesex, royal paper.
    • Wm. Proctor, Esq; of Somerset House, royal paper.
    • Robert Paul, Esq;
    • Mr. Pringle.
    • Mr. Parsons.
    • John Periam, Esq;
    • Miss Harriot Proctor.
    • Mrs. Pullen.
    • Mr. Paget, of Oriel Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Pead, M.A. Fellow of Wadham Coll.
    • Mrs. Price, of Dorchester.
    • Miss Pretty.
    • Thomas Perrot, Esq; of Bath.
    • Michael Pope, Esq;
    • Mr. Thomas Phillips.
    • Mrs. Panting,
    • Mrs. Sarah Panting, of Oxford.
    • Miss Panting,
    • George Pitt, Esq; of Stratfield Sea, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Pitt, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Mary Perrie, of Furnival’s Inn-court.
    • Mr. e3v xxxviiixxxvi
    • Mr. Thomas Proctor, of Queen’s Coll.
    • Mrs Pottle, of Oxford.
    • Miss Parrot.
    • Rev. Mr. Parker, M.A. Fellow of Trinity Coll.
    • The Rev. John Potter, D.D. Archdeacon of Oxford, royal
      paper.
    • Thomas Potter, Esq; Member of Parliament for St. Germans,
      royal paper.
    • Mrs. Pierce, of Tiverton.
    • Mrs. Price, of Carmarthenshire.
    • Rev. Mr. Price, B.D. Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Pardo, Principal of Jesus coll.
    • The Rev. Mr. Payn, Dean of the Island of Jersey, r.p.
    • Mrs. Payn.
    • Mr. Price, Student of Christ Church.
    • Mrs. Price, of Took’s Court.
    • Miss Palmer.
    • Mrs. Prall, of Epsom.
    • Rev. Mr. Periam, M.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • Mr. John Philips, of Jesus Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Pennicott, M.A. of Exeter College.
    • Rev. Mr. Portall, Sojourner of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. Pypon.
    • Miss Pratveil.
    • Mrs. Frances Perrice, of Saville Row.
    • Mrs. Poultney, of Cleveland Row.
    • Mrs. Frances Poultney.
    • Jonathan Moreton Pleydell, Esq; of Lincoln’s Inn.
    • Mr. Pratt, Commoner of University Coll.
    • Amos Prowse, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Plomer, M.A. Fellow of Lincoln Coll.
    • German Pool, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Robert Pye.
    • Francis Page, Esq;
    • —Pigott, B.M. Fellow of New Coll.
    • The Rev Dr. Purnell, Warden of New Coll.
    • Charles e4r xxxixxxxvii
    • Charles Price, Esq; of Blount’s Court.
    • Lewis Pryse, Esq; of Woodstock.
    • Mr. Thomas Price, Attorney at Law, of Abergavenny.
    • Rev. Mr. Phelp, Rector of Heathfield, Somersetshire.
    • Miss Peach, of Chaford, Gloucestershire.
    • Miss Pyke, of Clanfield, Dorsetshire.
    • Rev. Mr. Parsons, Vicar of Marcham, Berks.
    • Rev. Peter Pinnell, M.A. Rector of Bermondsey.
    • Rev. Mr. John Priest
    • Miss Mary Philips, of Brecon.
    • Miss Pysing.
    • Mrs. Pinney.
    • Rev. Mr. Pinkney, M.A. Minor Canon of St. Paul’s.
    • Rev. Mr. Parry, M.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • Thomas Peach, Esq; of Harborough, Lecestershire.
    • Rev. Mr. Patten, B.D. Fellow,
    • Mr. Patten, Gent. Commoner, of Corp. Christ Coll.
    • Mrs. Parkhurst, of Catesby, Northamptonshire.
    • Mrs. Eliz. Pierce, of Devon.
    • Rev. Mr. Pugh, of Aylesbury.
    • Mr. James Payne, of Brackley.
    • Rev. Mr. Pyle, Rector of West Alvington, Devon.
    • Mr. John Pering, M.A. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
  • Q.

    • Mrs. Questead, of Canterbury.
    • John Quick, Esq;
    • Nutcombe Quick, Esq; of Devonshire.
  • R.

    • The Right Hon. the Earl of Rochford, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Rochford, royal paper.
    • The e4v xlxxxviii
    • The Right Hon. Lord Ravensworth. royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Ravensworth, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Sir Peter Rivers. Bart. royal paper.
    • Lady Richardson.
    • William Rea, Esq;
    • Matthew Robinson, Esq;
    • Samuel Renardson, Esq; of Great Ormond-street.
    • Richard Riggs, Esq;
    • Captain Russel, of Edinburgh.
    • Mr. John Rigg, of Covent Garden.
    • Mrs. Rogers.
    • Mrs. Rutter, of Windsor.
    • —Roberts, M.D. of Abergavenny.
    • Richard Roberts, Esq; of Wootton.
    • Mrs. Roberts.
    • Mr. John Roberts, Commoner of Jesus Coll.
    • Mr. William Roberts, of Eton School.
    • Daniel Rich, Esq;
    • The Rev. Dr. Ratcliff, Master of Pembroke Coll.
    • John Robertson, M.D. of Pitcomb.
    • Rev. Mr. Read, B.D. Fellow of Jesus Coll.
    • Henry Rowe, Esq; of Bloomsbury Square.
    • Nathanael Rowe, Esq;
    • Mr. John Roberts, Scholar of Brazen Nose Coll.
    • Miss Reading, of Sherborne, Dorsetshire.
    • Rev. Mr. Russel, Rector of Meeth, Devon.
    • Miss Sarah Russell, of Biddiford.
    • Mrs. Judith Reynolds.
    • Ambrose Andrew Rhodes, Esq; of Exeter Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Rennel, of Drewsteignton, Devon.
    • Philip Rashleigh, Esq; of New Coll.
    • Miss Sally Reeves, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Royse, Rector of Winsham, Somerset.
    • Mrs. Rice, royal paper. of Wales.
    • George Rice, Esq; royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Rowdon, Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • The f1r xlixxxix
    • The Rev. Dr. Robinson, Warden of Merton Coll.
    • The Rev. Thomas Robinson, D.D. Prebendary of Peterborough,
      and Vicar of Port Eland.
    • Miss Robinson.
    • Mr. Rogers, Commoner of Pembroke Coll.
    • Miss Rogers.
    • Miss Rainstorp.
    • William Russell, Esq; Student of Christ Church.
    • Rev. Edward Pickering Rich, M.A. of North-Cerney,
      Gloucestershire.
    • Mrs. Rutherford, of Chievely, Berks.
    • Mrs. Reay, of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • The Rev. Dr. Reynell, Precentor of Conner in Ireland.
    • Mrs. Reynell.
    • Mrs. Reynell, of Bampton, Oxfordshire.
    • William Beauchamp Rey, Esq; royal paper.
    • Thomas Rowney, Esq; Member of Parliament for the City
      of Oxford, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Michael Rawlins, of Abingdon.
    • Rev. Mr. Joseph Robertson, B.A. of Queen’s Coll.
    • Mrs. Roberts, of Oxford.
  • S.

    • Her Grace the Duchess of Somerset, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Stamford.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Sunderland, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. the Earl of Shaftesbury, 2 books, I r.p.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Shaftesbury, 2 books, r.p.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess Dowager of Strafford.
    • The Right Hon. Lord Francis Seymour.
    • The Hon. Mr. Sandys.
    • The Hon. Matthew Skinner, Chief Justice of Chester.
    • Sir John Stonhouse, Bart.
    • William Stonhouse, Esq; royal paper.
    • f Rev. f1v xliixl
    • Rev. Mr. James Stonhouse.
    • Mrs. Mary Stonhouse.
    • Peter Serle, Esq;
    • Mrs. Serle.
    • Mrs. Serle, jun.
    • Conningsby Sibthorp, Esq; Member of Parliament for the
      City of Lincoln, royal paper.
    • Humphry Sibthorp, M.D. Botany Professor at Oxford,
      6 books, royal paper, 6 small.
    • Mrs. Sibthorp.
    • Jonathan Skinner, Esq;
    • Thomas Sewel, Esq; of Serjeant’s Inn, royal paper.
    • Mr. John Sewel, 4 books, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Scot.
    • Mrs. Sarney, of Oxford.
    • Philip Sharp, Esq; royal paper.
    • Captain Sharp.
    • Henry Sexby, Esq;
    • Miss Shelley.
    • George Spiltimber, Esq;
    • Mr. Smith.
    • Mrs. Sarah Shapleigh.
    • Mr. Isaac Shard, of Hatton Garden.
    • Rev. Mr. Sanderson, of Cambridge.
    • The Rev. Richard Smallbrook, L.L.D.
    • John Skinner, M.A. Fellow of St. John’s Coll.
    • Mr. Thomas Swale, of Mildenhall, Suffolk.
    • Mr. John Swale, of Hatton Garden.
    • Rev. Samuel Francis Swinden, M.A.
    • Meyer Schamberg, M.D. of Fenchurch-street.
    • Isaac Schamberg, M.D. of Covent Garden.
    • Rev. William Smith, B.D. Fellow of Lincoln Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Stephens, of Queen’s Coll.
    • Mr. Sparrow, of Oriel Coll.
    • Mrs. Smith, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Stebbing, of Magdalen Coll.
    • Rev. f2r xliiixli
    • Rev. Mr. Saunders, M.A. Chaplain of Christ Church.
    • Rev. Mr. Secker, M.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • Mr. John Sampson, B.A. Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Mr. Seely, Student of Christ Church.
    • William Sheldon, Esq;
    • Miss Southam.
    • Mr. Seymour.
    • Rev. Mr. Swan, M.A. Fellow of Magd. Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Shepherd, Rector of Norton.
    • Rev. Mr. Sharp, M.A.
    • Rev. Mr. Smalwell, M.A. Student of Christ Ch.
    • Mr. Charles Jasper Sedwin,
    • Miss Smythe, of Cuddesden, royal paper.
    • Hans Stanley, Esq;
    • Mrs. Eliz. Searle, of Epsom.
    • John Short, Esq; of Hatton Garden.
    • Mr. William Smith, Postmaster of Merton Coll.
    • Miss Molly Smith, of Beckley, Oxfordshire.
    • Mrs. Stevens, of Fawley.
    • Miss Sturt, of Henley.
    • Mr. Sherrard, Apothecary, of Hungerford.
    • Mr. Sandford, of Oriel Coll.
    • Joseph Smith, L.L.D. of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Smith.
    • Mrs. Sykes, of Cavendish-square.
    • George Scot, Esq; of Woolston Hall, Essex, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Sharp, of University Coll.
    • Mr. Stapylton, Gent. Commoner of University Coll.
    • The Rev. Mr. Smart, Prebendary of Litchfield and Student
      of Christ Church.
    • The Rev. John Spier, D.D. Fellow of St. John’s Coll.
    • Rev. John Saunders, B.D.
    • Miss Scot, of Barham, in Kent.
    • Miss Seidal, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Nathanael Sandford, M.A. of New Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Shuter, Rector of Kebworth, Leicestershire.
    • f2 Rev. f2v xlivxlii
    • Rev. Mr. Sayer, of Worton, Oxfordshire.
    • Rev. Mr. Stephens, B.D. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Saunders, M.A.
    • Rev. Mr. Snowden, M.A. Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Miss Sallway, of the Moor, Shropshire, royal paper.
    • Roles Scydiamore, Esq; of Bristol.
    • Mrs. Spencer, of Upper Brook-street.
    • Miss Stevens, of Oxford.
    • Miss Mary Speke, of Somersetshire,.
    • Mrs. Alice Speke, of Ilminster.
    • Miss Sergison, of Cookfield, Sussex.
    • Rev. Mr. Smith, of Balliol Coll.
    • Yerbery Smith, of Oriel Coll.
    • Miss Smith, of Spoxton, Somersetshire.
    • Mrs. Smith, of College Green, Bristol.
    • Mrs. Ann Smith.
    • Miss Southwell.
    • Rev. Mr. Singer, of Barnes, Surrey.
    • Mr. Spry, B.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • Mrs. Short, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Eliz. Sherwood, of Hungerford.
    • Mr. James Salisbury.
    • Mrs. Starssey.
    • The Rev. Dr. Shipley, Canon of Christ Church, royal p.
    • Rev. Robert Swinburn, M.A.
    • John Swinburn, Esq;
    • William Swinburn, Esq; of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • Miss Swinburn, royal paper.
    • The Rev. Dr. Shipman, Fellow of All Souls Coll.
    • Wm. Swimmerton, Esq;
    • Samuel Salt, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
    • Rev. Mr. Rich. Stock, M.A. of Balliol Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Swinton, M.A. 2 books.
    • John Saumarez, Esq; late of Pembroke Coll. and his Majesty’s
      Attorney in Guernsey.
    • Mrs. Strete, of Harborough, Leicestershire.
    • Mrs. f3r xlvxliii
    • Mrs. Spinckes, of Aldwinkle, Northamptonshire.
    • Mrs. Sanford, of Ninehead, Somersetshire.
    • Mr. Edward Score, of Exeter.
    • Mr. George Stinton, Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. Samuel Slocock, of Newbury.
    • Mr. Christopher Smart, M.A. Fellow of Pembroke Hall,
      Cambridge.
    • The student.
  • T.

    • The Marchioness of Tweeddale.
    • The Right Hon. the Countess of Tankerville.
    • The Right Hon. the Earl Tilney, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Tracy.
    • The Hon. and Rev. George Talbot, 2 books, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Talbot.
    • Sir Charles Tynte, Bart, royal paper.
    • Lady Thorold.
    • Miss Talbot.
    • Charles Henry Talbot, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Talbot, of Kineton, Warwickshire.
    • Mrs. Talbot.
    • Mrs. Tracy, of Coscombe, Gloucestershire.
    • Mrs. Tracy, of Stanway, Gloucestershire, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Tracy, of Sandywell, Gloucestershire.
    • Mrs. Travell, of Swerford.
    • Mrs. Jane Travell.
    • Miss Travell.
    • William Travell, Esq; of Roehampton.
    • Mr. Travell, Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Thomas Thornton, Esq; of Brockhall, Northamptonshire.
    • Mrs. Thornton.
    • John Thornton, Esq; roy al paper.
    • Mr. Bonnell Thornton, M.A. Student of Christ Ch. 6 books,
      1 royal paper.
    • Mr. f3v xlvixliv
    • Mr. Travers, Organist of Covent Garden.
    • Rev. Mr. Thomas, of Boxley, in Kent.
    • Mrs. Terrick.
    • Mrs. Tucker.
    • Rev. John Territ, B.D.
    • Cornwall Tathwell, M.A. Fellows of St. John’s Coll.
    • Miss Kitty Treadwell, of Oxford.
    • Miss Joanna Thorp.
    • Fiennes Trotman, Esq; of Bicester.
    • Mr. Samuel Trotman.
    • Mrs. Tervilè
    • Mr. Nathan Thomas, of Jesus Coll. 2 books.
    • Mrs. Ann Tanner, of Monmouth.
    • The Rev. John Tottie, M.A. Archdeacon of Worcester,
      royal paper.
    • Mrs. Tottie, royal paper.
    • Miss Jenny Trollope,
    • Miss Tawney, of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Townshend.
    • Bartholomew Tipping, Esq; of Wooley, Berks.
    • Mrs. Tipping.
    • Thomas Taylor, Esq; of Denbury.
    • John Taylor, Esq; of Yorkshire.
    • Miss Taylor, of Red Lyon-square.
    • Mr. Tanqwry, of Christ Church.
    • Mr. Trollope, Demi of Magdalen Coll.
    • Mr. Francis Taynton, Commoner of Jesus Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Thomas, M.A. of Covent Garden.
    • Rev. Wm. Thompson, M.A. Fell. of Queen’s Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Savage Tyndall, Fellow of All Souls Coll.
    • Miss Theker, of Milk-street.
    • Rev. Mr. Taswell, M.A. Vicar of Wotton-under-edge,
      2 books.
    • Miss Mary Trevor, royal paper.
    • Miss Trimnal.
    • Miss Grace Tyrrell.
    • Robert Tynte, Esq; of Ireland.
    • Mrs. f4r xlviixlv
    • Mrs. Tryst,
    • Mrs. Turner, of Abergavenny.
    • Gilbert Trow, M.D.
    • Rev. Mr. Twynihoe, M.A. Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Mrs. Ann Thomas, of Covent Garden.
    • Mrs. Templer.
    • Mrs. Taylor.
    • Miss Tompkins.
    • Mrs. Thornhill, of Pool.
    • Mrs. Travers, of Fenchurch-street.
    • Miss Trenchard, of Lytchet, Dorsetshire.
    • Thomas Tregonnewell, Esq; of Anderson, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Tench, of Cookfield, Sussex.
    • Benjamin Tilden, Esq; of Eltham.
    • James Tillson, Esq; royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Tookie, Student of Christ Ch.
    • Mrs. Trip.
    • Mrs. Treacher, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Taylor, of Bifrons, in Kent.
    • Mrs. Taylor.
    • Rev. Mr. Turner, Vicar of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • John Tuckfield, Esq; of Fulford, royal paper.
    • Rev. Mr. Tucker, of Cullumpton, Devon.
    • Rev. Mr. Turner, Fellow of New Coll.
    • Mrs. Twiner, of Hunton, in Kent.
    • Capt. Edmund Toll, Commander of his Majesty’s Ship the
      Oxford.
    • Miss Toll.
    • James Thomas, Esq; of his Majesty’s Office of the Imprest,
      royal paper.
  • V.

    • The Right Hon. Lady Grace Vane.
    • Sir Richard Vyvyan, Bart. Oriel Coll. royal paper.
    • Lady f4v xlviiixlvi
    • Lady Vanbrugh.
    • Arthur Vansittart, Esq; royal paper.
    • John Vanhattem, Esq;
    • Mrs. Vanhattem.
    • Miss Vanhattem.
    • Miss Lydia Catherine Vanhattem.
    • Mr. Richard Vivian, of Oriel Coll.
    • Miss Vallis, of Oxford.
    • Rev. Mr. Vatas, M.A. Student of Christ Church.
    • James Viney, Esq; of St. Mary Hall.
    • Mrs. Vaughan, of Fritwell.
    • Rev. Francis Upton, M.A. Fellow of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. Vivian, M.A. Fellow of Balliol Coll.
  • W.

    • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Windsor.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Frances Williams, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Eliz. Warren, royal paper.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Ann Wallop.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Wenman, royal paper.
    • The Hon. Horace Walpole, Esq; royal paper.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Windsor.
    • Lady Williams Wynne, royal paper.
    • Sir John Worden, Bart. royal paper.
    • Lady Worden, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Wheeler, 20 books, royal paper.
    • Thomas Wilson, Esq;
    • Mrs. Woodroff, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Weston, of Somerset-house.
    • Francis Wace, Esq;
    • Mr. Wace.
    • Rev. Mr. Williams.
    • Mr. Whiting.
    • Rev. Mr. Wheatland, Rector of Stanton St. John’s, 6 books.
    • Mr. g1r xlixxlvii
    • Mr. Wishart, of Cursitor-street, 2 books.
    • Mr. Worgan, Organist, royal paper.
    • John Worgan, Bac. Mus.
    • Miss Worgan, Teacher of Musick, royal paper.
    • Edward Williams, Esq;
    • Mrs. Ann Whitchurch.
    • Mr. Whitfield, of Windsor.
    • Hugh Watson, Esq;
    • John Willes, Esq; Member of Parliament for Banbury.
    • Edward Willes, Esq; Member of Parliament for Aylesbury.
    • Miss Sally Wood.
    • Samuel Welles, Esq;
    • Miss Patty Way, of Norfolk-street.
    • Mr. Christopher Watkins, A.B. of Christ Church.
    • Mr. Wolley, of Oxford.
    • John Knightly Wightwick, jun. Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Warneford, of Sinnington, royal paper.
    • Rev. Thomas Warneford, M.A. Rector of Bagpath, and
      Chaplain of Christ Ch. I book royal paper, I small.
    • Mrs. Whalley, of Oxford.
    • Mr John Walsh, of Catherine-street.
    • Mrs. Wright.
    • Miss Wilks.
    • Rev. Mr. Waterhouse, Fellow of Dulwich Coll.
    • Henry Worth, Esq; of Worth.
    • Mrs. Worth, of Tiverton.
    • Rev. Francis Wise, B.D. Keeper of the Archives of the
      University of Oxford, I royal paper, I small.
    • Mr. Edward Wife, jun. of Harlow.
    • Mrs. Wife,
    • Mrs. Sarah Wife,
    • Miss Wheatley, of Oxford.
    • Mr. Ward,
    • Mr. John Willes, of Totness.
    • Rev. James Williams, B.D. Fellow of
    • Mr. Thomas Williams, of Jesus Coll.
    • g Hampden g1v lxlviii
    • Hampden Weston, Esq; of Norfolk-street.
    • Mrs. Whatley, of Nonsuch Park.
    • The Rev. Dr. Walwin, Prebendary of Canterbury.
    • Mr. John Walker, of Bix.
    • George Wright, Esq;
    • Rev. Mr. Wood, of Darlington in the Bishoprick of Durham.
    • Mrs. Warner, of St. James’s-street.
    • Mrs. Wyatt.
    • Major Weldon, of Gerard-street.
    • The Rev. Christopher Wilson, D.D. Prebendary of Westminster.
    • Rev. Mr. Wood, Fellow of University Coll.
    • The Rev. James Weedon, D.D. Fell. of St. John’s Coll.
    • Rev. William Wheeler, M.A.
    • Mrs. Welby, of Welborn.
    • Browne Willis, Esq;
    • The Rev. Dr. Webber, Rector of Exeter Coll.
    • Mr. Wright, Fellow of Merton Coll.
    • Francis Winnington, Esq; Member of Parliament for Droitwich,
      2 books.
    • Miss Worgan, of Andover, Dorsetshire.
    • Mrs. Wyndham, of Bruton-street.
    • John Williams, Esq; Gent. Commoner of Exeter Coll.
    • Miss Walter, of Cookfield, Sussex.
    • Mr. Whitchurch, Gent. Commoner of Queen’s Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Whiting, Fellow
    • Mr. Wilie, B.A. of Oriel Coll.
    • John Whitlocke, Esq;
    • Miss Judith Whitlocke.
    • Mrs. Whitlock, of Wotton-under-edge.
    • Mrs. Wragge.
    • Rev. Mr. Thomas Williams, Vicar of Brecon.
    • Mrs. Wade, royal paper.
    • Mrs. Warry.
    • Mrs,. White, of Newcastle upon Tyne.
    • Mrs. White, of Dorsetshire.
    • Rev. g2r lixlix
    • Rev. Mr. Welshman, Rector of Dodford, Northamptonsh
    • Mr. Walker, Attorney at Law, of Oxford.
    • Francis Wheeler, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
    • Joseph Wilcox, Esq; royal paper,
    • Rev. Mr. Waterhouse, M.A. Students of Christ Ch.
    • Mrs. Eliz. Walker, of Harborough, Leicestershire.
    • Rev. Mr. Wickham, Rector of Sandford, Somersetshire.
    • William Woolascot, Esq; of Newbury.
    • Mrs. Walford, of Sibford, Oxfordshire.
    • Rev. Mr. Woods, of Abingdon.
    • John Wilkes, Esq; of Aylesbury, royal paper.
    • Edmund Warkman, Esq; royal paper.
    • Mr. Richard Williams, of Brecon.
    • Mr. Edward Withers, Surgeon of Newbury.
    • Peter Waldo, Esq; Gent. Commoner of University Coll.
      royal paper.
    • Miss Waldo.
    • Mr. John Webber, B.A. of Exeter Coll.
    • Rev. Mr. Winyate, Rector of Charlton, Devon.
    • Mr. Watters, of Daventry.
    • Miss Jane Whitten, of Burford.
    • Mr. Thomas Warton, M.A. of Trinity Coll.
    • Cornelius Wittnoon, Esq; of Watford.
  • Y.

    • The Rev. Dr. Yarborough, Principal of Brazen-nose Coll.
    • The Rev. Dr. Young, Rector of Wellwyn, royal paper.
    • Miss Yates, of Oxford.
    • Mrs. Yea, of Ockington, Somersetshire.
    • The Rev. Dr. Yates, Fellow of Queen’s Coll.
    • Shute Shrimpton Yeamans, Esq; royal paper.
g2 Appen. g2v liil

Appendix.

  • The Right Hon. Lady Mary Gregory, royal paper.
  • The Right Hon. the Countess of Litchfield, royal paper.
  • The Right Hon. the Countess of Deloraine.
  • The Right Hon. Lady Viscountess Lymmington.
  • The Right Hon Lady Viscountess Donerayle, 2 books.
  • The Right Hon. Lady Emma Long, royal paper.
  • The Hon. Mrs. Lee, royal paper.
  • The Hon. Cecil Calvert, Esq;
  • Lady Turner.
  • Sir Robert Long, Bart. Knight of the Shire for the County
    of Wilts, royal paper.
  • Sir Henry Lawson, Bart.
  • Sir Phillip Touchit Chetwode, Bart.
  • George Cooke, Esq; Knight of the Shire for the County of
    Middlesex, royal paper.
  • Francis Gashry, Esq; Member of Parliament for East Loe in
    Cornwall, royal paper.
  • The Rev. Dr. Leigh, Master of Baliol Coll.
  • The Rev. Dr. Gregory, Canon of Ch. Ch. royal paper.
  • Francis Popham Esq; Gent. Com. of St. Mary Hall, r. pap.
  • Miss Onslow.
  • Miss Elizabeth Horne of Otham in Kent.
  • Rev. Mr. Dalton of Stanmore, Middlesex.
  • Capel Payne, Esq; of the Inner Temple.
  • Miss Sarah Rhodes of Plympton,
  • John Luscombe, Esq; of Comb Royal, Devon.
  • John Seal, Esq; of Mount Boon.
  • Mr. Bennet of Oriel Coll.
  • Miss Carolina Brathwaite.
  • Mr. John Acland, Scholar of Baliol Coll.
  • The g3r liiili
  • The Rev. Dr. Bowles of Brackley, Oxfordshire.
  • John Kelly, M.A. of Ch. Ch.
  • Mr. Warren, Student of Ch. Ch.
  • Mr. Whitfield, Commoner of Ch. Ch.
  • Rev. Mr. Hayter, Rector of Chagford, and Chaplain to the
    Lord Bishop of Norwich.
  • Miss Eliz. Tucker of Exeter, royal paper.
  • James Leigh, Esq;
  • Mr. Pardoe, Merchant, of London.
  • Mr. Tremlet, Merchant, of Exeter.
  • Rev. Mr. Monteath, M.A.
  • James Urmston, Esq;
  • Mr. Lomas.
  • Mr. Soresby, Gent. Com. St. Mary Hall.
  • Miss Tichborne of Wolverhampton.
  • Phillip Pargiter, Esq; of Litchfield.
  • Rev. Mr. Mence, M.A. Vicar of Pancras.
  • Miss Disney of Cranbrook,
  • Miss Haswell of Horsmonden,
  • Miss Beale, in Kent.
  • John Cook, Esq; of Swifts,
  • Richard S—Dyke, Esq;
  • Mr. Cruttenden,
  • Mrs. Cruttenden,
  • Rev. Mr. Hayley, of Burwich in Sussex.
  • Mrs. Hussey,
  • Miss Hussey,
  • Rev. Mr. Affleck,
  • Miss Eleanor Clerk, of Daventry, Northamptonshire.
  • Miss Eliz. Clay,
  • Mr. Humphrey Payne, Goldsmith, in London.
  • Mr. Cooper, Attorney at Law, of Henly.
  • Miss Molly Wyment, of Daventry.
  • Mrs. Wittewrong.
  • Thomas Corbett, Esq;
  • James g3v livlii
  • James Forster, Esq;
  • Mrs. Parkhurst of Catesby, 2 books.
  • Mr. William Sawbridge.
  • Mrs. Dolben of Finedon,
  • Rev. Mr. Walton of Burton,
  • Miss Mary Proctor of Claycoten,
  • Mrs. Eliz. Mobbs of Weston Weedon, Northamptonshire.
  • Mrs. Horton of Guilsbrough,
  • Rev. Mr. Tho. Hartly of Winwick,
  • Miss Catherine Burbridge of Staverton
  • Miss Mary Plumer of Billen, Warwickshire.
  • Miss Grace Rawson of Halifax, Yorkshire.
  • Mr. William Davis of Brazen Nose Coll.
  • Miss Eliz. Davis.
  • Miss Mary Davis.
  • William Buller, Esq;
  • Miss Mary Buller.
  • Miss Eliz. Buller.
  • Mr. William Richards.
  • Mr. Samuel Robinson.
  • Mr. Edward Eltum.
  • Mess. Samuel and Nathaniel Buck.
  • George Phillips, Esq;
  • William Pate, Esq;
  • Mr. Mash of Bishopgate-street.
  • Rev. Mr. Congreve of Blockley.
  • Mrs. Dashwood.
  • Mrs. Hughes of Cheltenham.
  • Mrs. Potter of Chard, Somersetshire.
  • Dr. Hayes of Oxford.
  • Mr. Lysons, Fellow Commoner of Magdalen College.
  • George Kalmer, Esq;
  • Mrs. Knightly of Offchurch,
  • Miss Lucy Knightley of Charwelton, Northamptonshire.
  • The Rev. Dr. Faucett, Fellow of C.C. Coll.
  • Rev. g4r lvliii
  • Rev. Mr. Powell, Fellow of Trinity Coll. Cambridge, and
    senior Assistant of Westminster school, royal paper.
  • —Low, Esq; of Derbyshire.
  • Miss Kitty Bathurst
  • Miss Lawton.
  • Mrs. Sheldon of Weston, Warwickshire.
  • Mrs. Oury of Woodland,
  • Mrs. Rhodes of Modbury, Devon.
  • Miss Susanna Nicoll, of Highwood Hill, royal paper.
  • Mrs. Sarah Fenwicke, of Park-street.
  • Miss Camille Richmond,
  • Rev. Mr. Lambe, Newcastle upon Tyne.
  • Mrs. Bland of Hurworth,
  • Mrs. Gale,
  • Rev. Mr. Harrison,
  • Gabeths Norton, Esq;
  • Mrs. Norton,
  • Christopher Crowe, Esq;
  • Rev. Mr. Stapylton, Northumberland.
  • Rev. Mr. Etherington,
  • Rev. Mr. Tennant,
  • Rev. Mr. Collins,
  • Miss Eliz. Routh,
  • Miss Charlotte Fielding,
  • Rev. Mr. Kay,
g4v B1r ( I )

Miscellanies
in
Verse and Prose.

An Epistle to Lady Bowyer.

How much of paper’s spoil’d! what floods
of ink!

And yet how few, how very few can think!

The knack of writing is an easy trade;

But to think well requires—at least a Head.

Once in an age, one Genius may arise,

With wit well-cultur’d, and with learning wise.

Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot!

No tender scions springing at the root.

B Whilst B1v 2

Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurell’d head,

No lays, like mine, can live beneath his shade.

Nothing but weeds, and moss, and shrubs are found.

Cut, cut them down, why cumber they the ground?

And yet you’d have me write!—For what?
for whom?

To curl a Fav’rite in a dressing-room?

To mend a candle when the snuff’s too short?

Or save rappee for chamber-maids at Court?

Glorious ambition! noble thirst of fame!—

No, but you’d have me write—to get a name.

Alas! I’d live unknown, unenvy’d too;

’Tis more than Pope, with all his wit can do.

’Tis more than You, with wit and beauty join’d,

A pleasing form, and a discerning mind.

The world and I are no such cordial friends;

I have my purpose, they their various ends.

I say my pray’rs, and lead a sober life,

Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus’ wife.

What’s fame to me, who pray, and pay my rent?

If my friends know me honest, I’m content.

Well B2r 3

Well, but the joy to see my works in print!

My self too pictur’d in a Mezzo-Tint!

The Preface done, the Dedication fram’d,

With lies enough to make a Lord asham’d!

Thus I step forth; an Auth’ress in some sort.

My Patron’s name? “O choose some Lord at Court.

One that has money which he does not use,

One you may flatter much, that is, abuse.”

For if you’re nice, and cannot change your note,

Regardless of the trimm’d, or untrimm’d coat;

Believe me, friend, you’ll ne’er be worth a groat.

Well then, to cut this mighty matter short,

I’ve neither friend, nor interest at Court.

Quite from St. James’s to thy stairs, Whitehall,

I hardly know a creature, great or small,

Except one Maid of Honour, Honourable Miss Lovelace. worth ’em all.

I have no bus’ness there. Let those attend

The courtly Levee, or the courtly Friend,

Who more than fate allows them, dare to spend.

Or those whose avarice, with much, craves more,

The pension’d Beggar, or the titled Poor.

B2 These B2v 4

These are the thriving Breed, the tiny Great!

Slaves! wretched Slaves! the Journeymen of State!

Philosophers! who calmly bear disgrace,

Patriots! who sell their country for a place.

Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme?

For these, like Bavius creep, or Glencus climb?

Shall I go late to rest, and early rise,

To be the very creature I despise?

With face unmov’d, my poem in my hand,

Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand?

Perhaps my lady’s maid, if not too proud,

Will stoop, you’ll say, to wink me from the croud.

Will entertain me, till his lordship’s drest,

With what my lady eats, and how she rests:

How much she gave for such a birth-day gown,

And how she trampt to ev’ry shop in town.

Sick at the news, impatient for my lord,

I’m forc’d to hear, nay smile at ev’ry word.

Tom raps at last,—“His lordship begs to know

Your name? your bus’ness—Sir, I’m not a foe.

I come B3r 5

I come to charm his lordship’s list’ning ears

With verses, soft as music of the spheres.

Verses!—Alas! his lordship seldom reads:

Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads;

But my good lord, as all the world can tell,

Reads not ev’n tradesmen’s bills, and scorns to spell.

But trust your lays with me. Some things I’ve read,

Was born a poet, tho’ no poet bred:

And if I find they’ll bear my nicer view,

I’ll recommend your poetry—and you.”

Shock’d at his civil impudence, I start,

Pocket my poem, and in haste depart;

Resolv’d no more to offer up my wit,

Where footmen in the seat of critics sit.

Is there a Lord Right Hon. Nevil Lord Lovelace, who dy’d soon after, in the
28th year of his age.
whose great unspotted soul,

Not places, pensions, ribbons can control;

Unlac’d, unpowder’d, almost unobserv’d,

Eats not on silver, while his train are starv’d;

Who B3v 6

Who tho’ to nobles, or to kings ally’d,

Dares walk on foot, while slaves in coaches ride;

With merit humble, and with greatness free,

Has bow’d to Freeman, and has din’d with Me;

Who bred in foreign courts, and early known,

Has yet to learn the cunning of his own;

To titles born, yet heir to no estate,

And, harder still, too honest to be great;

If such an one there be, well-bred, polite?

To Him I’ll dedicate, for Him I’ll write.

Peace to the rest I can be no man’s slave;

I ask for nothing, tho’ I nothing have.

By Fortune humbled, yet not sunk so low

To shame a friend, or fear to meet a foe.

Meanness, in ribbons or in rags, I hate;

And have not learnt to flatter, ev’n the Great.

Few friends I ask, and those who love me well;

What more remains, these artless lines shall tell.

Of honest. parents, not of great, I came;

Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame.

Frugal B4r 7

Frugal and plain, at no man’s cost they eat,

Nor knew a baker’s, or a butcher’s debt.

O be their precepts ever in my eye!

For one has learnt to live, and one to die.

Long may her widow’d age by heav’n be lent

Among my blessings! and I’m well content.

I ask no more, but in some calm retreat,

To sleep in quiet, and in quiet eat.

No noisy slaves attending round my room;

My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb.

No orphans cheated, and no widow’s curse,

No houshold lord, for better or for worse.

No monstrous sums to tempt my soul to sin,

But just enough to keep me plain, and clean.

And if sometimes, to smooth the rugged way,

Charlot should smile, or You approve my lay,

Enough for me. I cannot put my trust

In lords; smile lies, eat toads, or lick the dust

Fortune her favours much too dear may hold:

An honest heart is worth its weight in gold.

Of B4v 8 [Table of contents omitted] C Of C1v 10

Of Patience.

An Epistle to
The Right Honourable Samuel Lord Masham.

Patience, my Lord, a virtue rare, I grant;

And what, I fear, the wisest of us want:

Easy the task in Action to excell,

The soul’s last trial lies in suff’ring well.

From fear, or shame what specious acts proceed!

And worldly aims oft prompt the shining deed.

Look but on half the boasted things we do,

And praise, or profit is the point in view.

From these, what crops of virtue bless the land!

With these, how oft the mower fills his hand!

Prompted by these the knave we oft regard,

While suff’ring virtue is her own reward;

Silent and meek she passes unobserv’d,

Nor prais’d by whom she’s over-reach’d or starv’d.

But granting nobler motives to the few,

And fame or int’rest not the point in view;

Grant C2r 11

Grant of the wretched’s suff’rings we partake,

And praise, or pity ev’n for virtue’s sake;

Yet that soft temper of the gen’rous mind,

That very breast, benevolent and kind,

That noble sense, which feels what others feel,

Which you, my Lord, who know it, best can tell;

Itself opprest, can least resistance show,

But pines, or sinks beneath its proper woe.

What tho’ in Action brave, unaw’d by fear,

Resolv’d as Clayton, Lieut. General Clayton; who, after a life spent in the service
of his King and Country, into which he enter’d at 17
years old, was at last kill’d by a random ball at the Battle
of Dettingen, in his 68th year; after the defeat of the Enemy,
and as he was riding thro’ the ranks to encourage the pursuit.
He was buried at Hanau, under a triple discharge of cannon,
with other military honours due to his distinguish’d merit and
character. His personal bravery under the reigns of King
William
, Queen Anne, and the present Royal Family, is too
well known to need a remark; and his domestic character was
so amiable in all its several relations, that I can only express
my sense of it in the words of Hamlet, “He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.”
or as Swift severe;

In diff’rent views their trials, tempers scan,

Ev’n Swift can weep, and Clayton is a man.

C2 Superior C2v 12

Superior faculties avail not here,

Wit points the shaft, and valour pours the tear.

The same nice nerve which vibrates to the brain

Its sense of pleasure, gives as quick its pain:

And all the diff’rence ’twixt the fool and wise,

In their sensations, and perceptions lies.

The Man of Wit in many parts is sore,

Touch but a Genius, and he smarts all o’er.

The wise his Wisdom to This word is generally us’d to express Anger, or a Sense
of Injury; but comes from the French Ressentiment, and originally
means no more than a sensible Apprehension, or true Feeling:
as, Il avoit quelque Ressentiment de Goute. Je ne perdrai
jamais le Ressentiment des Bontez que vous m’avez temoignèées.

(See Miege’s Dict.) In which sense it is here us’d.
Resentment owes,

The Fool feels little, for he little knows.

The downright Ass is passive, mild, and tame,

By blows or kindness urg’d, is still the same:

His stoic breast no kindling passions prove,

Kick him you may, but you can never move.

O envy’d creature! who nor feels or fears,

Who all things suffers, all things bravely bears.

Whom C3r 13

Whom neither Hope, or Fear, or Shame can move,

Nor kindling mounts to Rage, or melts to Love.

His pleasures always equal, flowing, full,

For ever patient and for ever dull!

If then from Wisdom half our pains arise,

Say, Masham, what avails it to be wise?

The greatest good proud Science can bestow,

But learn’d the latest, is—Our selves to know.

Yet after all their search, the wise complain,

This very knowledge irritates their pain.

In vain you tell me of the stoic train:

Where is the man not sensible of pain?

All find, all feel it too in some degree;

It makes old Zeno fret as well as me.

Else why not choose, for contemplation sake,

The burning plough-share, or the tort’ring rack?

If pain’s no ill, why not prefer the stone

To velvet cushions, and to beds of down?—

I grant he reason’d calmly in the gout,

But try him farther, and you’ll find him out.

Touch C3v 14

Touch but his pride, at once you make him smart:

A stoic only, just in such a part;

In all the rest susceptible of pain,

And feels and reasons much like other men.

Among th’ intrepid breed I know there are,

Who any hardship, any pains can bear.

To whom less shocking is th’ impending sword,

Than to the meek of soul, a slighting word.

What hardy ’squires, what soldiers daily feel,

A thousand soft Adonises wou’d kill.

“Yet whence is this?”—From reason, sir, no doubt.

But pray, will abstract reason cure the gout?

Did ever axioms sooth the nervous ill?

Or syllogisms pay the doctor’s bill?

Too much, I fear, of reason’s aid we boast,

Where most ’tis wanted, there it fails us most.

’Tis not the soldier’s reason makes him bear

Th’ inclement season, and the toilsome war;

’Tis not the nice deduction of the ’squire,

That keeps him well and warm without a fire:

The C4r 15

The mind does little; ’tis the body here,

That is, in strictness, the philosopher.

Those only then are truly said to hear,

Who feel the pain, no matter what, or where.

Suppose it of th’ acute, or lingring kind,

Suppose it of the body or the mind;

Suppose it touch the welfare of a friend,

Suppose it only at the finger’s end;

Yet, if you feel the stroke, ’tis pain to you,

And if you bear it well, you’re patient too.

For pain, as such, is neither more or less,

But borrows all its sting from passiveness.

From those nice touches which from sense arise,

Or which when past, reflection oft supplies.

In this, I grant, are infinite degrees,

But hence results our misery or ease:

Not from the stroke, so much as from the smart,

Not from the wound, but from the head or heart.

Hence Timon’s peevish, Dromio mild and tame;

But shall we flatter one, the other blame,

Because their feelings are not just the same?

C4v 16

Yet quite a Wretch who feels and frets we call,

And quite a Saint who nothing feels at all.

This too, perchance, may serve to reconcile

The virgin’s panicks, and the stoic’s smile.

’Tis this makes Charlot at a spider scream—

This spite of reason, resolution, fame,

May make a soldier shrink, a saint blaspheme.

This to a medium every station brings,

This levels with their slaves the proudest kings,

And reconciles th’ unequal face of things.

This inward sense, the feeling of the soul,

Of pain and pleasure comprehends the whole.

In vain soft Conti warbles in my ear,

If the lax nerve convey no pleasure there.

In vain the picture, and the splendid feast,

If this not strike the eye, nor that the taste.

Less pleas’d am I with Farinelli’s note,

Than the rude Cobler in his merry throat:

He, who beneath some shatter’d bulk reclin’d,

Smiles at the tempest, and derides the wind.

Who D1r 17

Who hunger, dirt, and all but thirst can bear,

To spleen a stranger, and a foe to fear.

His mind no rude sensations discompose,

Nor smells offensive e’er affront his nose;

Nor high debates, nor falling stocks he minds,

His awful temples, lo! a fillet binds;

Patient he eyes the future and the past,

And, as a king, is happy to the last.

To me it seems, howe’er our lot may fall,

That pain and pleasure’s dealt alike to all;

That ev’ry station has its proper ill,

In what we fancy, or in what we feel;

That ev’ry worldly pleasure we may gain,

Is dropt again in some attendant pain.

Thus wisely deals th’ impartial hand of Heav’n,

To check our pride, and keep the ballance ev’n.

Tell me, ye Proud ones! who this world possess,

Are not the high and low, the great and less,

Born with an equal plea to happiness?

D True D1v 18

True, in your wants and wishes you succeed;

But are you better than the slaves you feed?

Have you more virtue who of ven’son eat,

Than he who thirsts and hungers at your gate?

Alas! with plenty, peace is seldom giv’n,

Nor Beccaficoes always gifts of Heav’n.

Tell me, ye Poor ones! and your state explain,

Whose patience Heav’n proportions to your pain,

To whom is wanting ev’ry earthly good,

But quiet sleeps, and appetites subdu’d;

Whose hopes to no wild summit ever prest,

No keen sensations to disturb your breast:

Say, why were all these wondrous blessings giv’n,

But to convince you of the care of Heav’n?

To shew how equally its gifts are lent,

To some in Gold, to others in Content.

Still those are restless discontented these,

The poor for riches sigh, the rich for ease.

Thus Curio pines with envy at the great,

While you, my Lord, are sick of pomp and state.

“My D2r 19

“My fate is hard, (cries one) o’erlook’d! forgot!

Yet all life’s comforts are my neighbour’s lot.

See, he’s possess’d of all that Heav’n can grant,

But I, unhappy! ev’ry blessing want;

His life, tho’ vile, is one luxurious treat,

Whilst I have virtue, but not bread to eat.”

Well, but you’ve friends, in health too pretty sound.

“That’s not the case; I want—ten thousand pound.

Still you have—What! no reason to complain?”

Perhaps not much. However, think again.

As yet but half this envy’d man you’ve seen,

The outside’s fair indeed, but look within;

Perhaps there’s something there corrodes his breast,

That cruel something, common to the rest:

Some fav’rite wish too wild, or weak to own,

Some secret pang, to all besides unknown.

Or with his blessings, count his want of health,

And to the pleasures, add the plagues of wealth:

On ev’ry side the envy’d creature view,

Then tell me which is happiest, He or You?

D2 Possessing D2v 20

Possessing all things, cou’d we all enjoy,

Wou’d neither appetites, nor objects cloy,

Were ev’ry sense, each pleasing passion keen,

Not pall’d by surfeits, nor chastis’d with spleen;

How blest the rich! how curst indeed the poor!

One to enjoy, the other to endure.

But why repine at what to wealth is giv’n?

Since gouts and cholics set the matter ev’n.

Behold the man of luxury and wine!

His station too, it seems, is hard as thine.

What, tho’ for him our stateliest turbots swim,

And France her vines luxuriant prunes for him;

Yet he complains, when lab’ring thro’ the feast,

Of loss of appetite, and want of taste;

Envies the very beggar at his gate,

Who hardly knows the luxury to eat.

But what? your barns are full, your rents increase;

Sir Robert too has promis’d you a Place.

Have comfort, man! let not your spirits fail!

Perhaps to morrow you may relish quail.

Think D3r 21

Think rather of the pleasures which you share,

And learn their inconveniencies to bear.

Rejoice in cray-fish soup! be glad in trout!

But pray have patience, when you feel the gout;

Sit down resign’d, when cholics rack your breast,

Or rise, like Bethel, from th’ intemp’rate feast

Thus each has something to enjoy, and bear;

And none may envy much his neighbour’s share.

Envy! the source of half the wretched feel,

And where it strikes, the hardest wound to heal.

Yet why repine at what my neighbours taste?

Since I in something else am just as blest

To me perhaps kind heav’n indulgent grants

The spirits, health, or limbs my neighbour wants;

To me has giv’n a quicker sense of shame,

While he feels nothing of contempt or blame:

To me no acres of paternal ground,

To him the spleen and fifty thousand pound.

If doom’d severer trials to sustain,

Some secret pow’r may blunt the edge of pain:

The D3v 22

The keen sensation use may reconcile,

And added Hope affliction’s sting beguile.

Wou’d you enquire, why man’s to suff’ring born;

To feel his frailties, and his nature mourn?

Why each has his peculiar ill assign’d,

Some pain of body, or some plague of mind;

Some lingring malady for years endur’d,

Some hopeless passion, never to be cur’d:

And why not rather temp’rate, wise, serene,

Without all healthful, and all peace within?

Know, thankless man! that He, who rules the ball,

In goodness infinite permits it all.

For nat’ral Evil, rightly understood,

Works but the grand design, our moral Good;

And he unjustly of his lot complains,

Who finds his strength proportion’d to his pains.

This life, with pain and pleasure intermixt,

Is but a state of trial for the next;

A stage, on which amid’ the vary’d scenes,

Promiscuous Cesars tread with Harlequins.

Where D4r 23

Where none of all the self-admiring train,

May choose his part, or strut his hour again:

Our bus’ness only thro’ the measur’d span,

To act it well, and wisely as we can.

Pain was permitted in the various part,

To check the manners, and chastise the heart;

To blunt the appetite to moral ill;

To curb, restrain, and rectify the will;

To call us back from ev’ry wild pursuit;

To clear the soil for virtue’s plants to shoot;

To move compassion for our neighbour’s ill,

And teach us where to weep, from what we feel:

To fix, to urge the bus’ness of our span;

To raise the hero, and to mend the man.

Strong trials must the headstrong temper break,

As gentler methods oft reclaim the meek.

When lightnings flash, the most obdurate mind

Some efforts sure of penitence must find:

Ev’n Felix trembles at a gen’ral doom,

And owns the terrors of a world to come.

These D4v 24

These are the ends for which afflictions came,

To rouze our reason, and our passions tame;

To set fair Virtue in her proper light,

And fix the wavering attention right.

What tho’ your part amid’ the gen’ral scene,

Too high or hard appear, too low or mean;

Beset with wants, with cares and fears opprest,

The sport of fortune, and of men the jest:

Yet wait awhile, whatever chance befal,

Heav’n’s ways are equal, thine unequal all.

Here but as strangers journeying for a space,

To seek some sure, some distant resting-place;

Some perils by the way we must endure,

The cruel robber, and the night obscure.

Yet, arm’d with Patience, let us boldly dare,

The end is certain, and the prospect fair.

He, who proportions largely all our gain,

Weighs ev’ry loss, and counts out ev’ry pain;

Sees all our frailties, measures dust by dust,

In all he gives and takes, supremely just:

That E1r 25

That pow’r eternal will our steps befriend,

And guide us safely to our journey’s end;

Where ev’ry pang, where ev’ry fear shall cease,

And each immortal guest subside to peace.

To him who suffer’d well, will much be giv’n,

And Patience wear the brightest wreath in Heav’n.

For you, my Lord, in various conflicts seen,

Not spoil’d with peevishness, nor sow’rd with spleen,

The best of tempers, and the best of men:

For you, alas! one trial yet remains;

O suffer righteously these proving strains!

And if unmov’d, unruffled you can hear,

What Patienceself perchance could hardly bear;

If yet this sorer trial you survive,

Your Lordship is the patient’st man alive.

E Of E1v 26

Of Desire.

An Epistle to the Hon. Martha, only Sister of Nevil, the Last Lord Lovelace, & Maid
of honour to Queen Caroline; afterwards married to Lord
Henry Beauclerc
, a younger Son of the first Duke of St. Albans.
Miss Lovelace.

Whence these impetuous movements of
the breast?

Why beat our hearts, unknowing where to rest?

Must we still long untasted joys to taste,

Pant for the future, yet regret the past?

Can reason, can a stoic’s pride control

This unremitting sickness of the soul?

Reason! what’s that, when lawless Passion rules?

The jest of sense, and jargon of the schools.

Some few perhaps have by its lore been taught

To think, and wish, just only what they ought:

Sufficient to themselves, their wants are such,

They neither ask amiss, nor wish too much.

Here freedom dwells, and revels unconfin’d,

With plenty, ease, and indolence of mind;

True greatness, wisdom, virtue, hence must rise;

And here that home-felt joy, Contentment, lies.

O Thou! E2r 27

O Thou! for whom my fancy prunes her wing,

For whom I love to tune the trembling string,

What would we more than wisdom, virtue, ease?

Tell, if you can, for you’re content with these.

Why reason some, and some why passion rules,

Is because some are wise, and some are fools;

Their reason and their passion still at strife,

Like some meek pair in wedlock yok’d for life:

In the same int’rest, tugging diff’rent ways,

What one commands, the other disobeys.

Blest state! where this alone is fixt and sure,

To disagree, while sun and moon endure.

Hence listless, weary, sick, chagrin’d at home,

In search of happiness abroad we roam:

And yet the wisest of us all have own’d,

If ’twas not there, ’twas no where to be found.

There ev’n the poor may taste felicity,

If with contentment any such there be.

“Monstrous!” (cries Fulvia) “’twou’d a stoic vex!”

“For what’s content without a coach and fix?”

E2 So E2v 28

So humble, Fulvia! so deserving too!

Pity such worth should unregarded go—

Down on your knees again, and beg of fate,

Instead of six, to give your chariot eight.

Elvira’s passion was a china jar;

The brute, her lord, contemns such brittle ware.

No matter. —See! the glitt’ring columns rise,

Pile above pile, and emulate the skies.

Fresh cargoes come, fresh longings these create;

And what is twenty pieces for a plate?

Debates ensue; he brandishes his cane,

Down go the pyramids of Porcellane.

She faints, she falls, and in a sigh profound,

Yeilds her high soul, and levels with the ground.

“Cruel! farewel!—(were the last words she spoke)

For what is life, now all my China’s broke!”

Few can the stings of Disappointment bear!

One sends a curse to Heav’n, and one a pray’r;

The pious motive’s much the same in both,

In him that swears, and him that fears an oath.

The E3r 29

The fervent curse, and penitential pray’r,

Proceed alike from anguish, pride, despair.

Hence sober Catius lifts his hands and eyes,

And mad Corvino curses God, and dies.

“What joy, (cries Cotta in his calm retreat)

Had I but such an office in the state!

That post exactly suits my active mind,

And sure my genius was for courts design’d.”

Thou hast it, friend,—for ’tis in Fancy’s pow’r;

Learn to be thankful, and teaze Heav’n no more.

See! how kind Fancy gen’rously supplies

What a whole thankless land thy worth denies.

See! how she paints the lovely flatt’ring scene,

With all the pleasure, and without the pain.

Make much of Fancy’s favours, and believe

You’ll hardly match the pleasures she can give.

Of injur’d merit some aloud complain;

“My cruel angel!”—cries the love-sick swain.

Her marble heart at length to love inclin’d,

His cruel angel grows perversely kind.

What E3v 30

What would he more?—One wish remains to make,

That Heav’n, in pity, would his angel take.

Oft on events most men miscalculate,

Then call misfortune, what indeed was fate.

We see a little, and presume the rest,

And that is always right which pleases best

Why supple Courtine miss’d of such a post,

Was not his want of conduct, or of cost,

For he brib’d high; five hundred pieces gave;

But ah! hard fate! his patron scorns a knave.

“O for a husband, handsome and well-bred!”

(Was the last pray’r the chaste Dyctinna made.)

Kind Heav’n at length her soft petition heeds,

But one wish gain’d, a multitude succeeds—

She wants an heir, she wants a house in town,

She wants a title, or she wants a gown.

Poor Cornus! make thy will, bequeath, and give;

For if her wants continue, who would live?

Sure E4r 31

Sure to be wishing still, is still to grieve;

And proves the man or poor, or much a slave.

Will none the wretched crawling thing regard,

Who stoops so very low, and begs so hard?

You call this meanness, and the wretch despise;

Alas! he stoops to soar, and sinks to rise:

Now on the knee, now on the wing is found,

As insects spring with vigour from the ground.

Bless me! the Doctor!—what brings him to court?

It is not want; for lo! his comely port.

The lion’s lack, and hunger feel, I grant;

But they who serve the Lord can nothing want.

Why stands he here then, elbow’d to and fro?

Has he no care of souls? No work to do?

Go home, good doctor, preach and pray, and give;

By far more blessed this, than to receive.—

Alas! the doctor’s meek, and much resign’d;

But all his tenants pay their tithes in kind:

So that of debts, repairs, and taxes clear,

He hardly saves—two hundred pounds a year.

Then E4v 32

Then let him soar, ’tis on devotion’s wing;

Who asks a bishopric, asks no bad thing:

A coach does much an holy life adorn;

Then muzzle not the ox who treads the corn.

“Enough of these. Now tell us, if you can,

Is there that thing on earth, a happy man?”

Well then, the wondrous man I happy call,

Has but few wishes, and enjoys them all.

Blest in his fame, and in his fortune blest,

No craving void lies aching in his breast

His passions cool, his expectations low,

Can he feel want, or disappiontment know?

Yet if success be to his virtues giv’n,

Can relish that, and leave the rest to Heav’n.

What, tho’ for ever with our selves at strife,

None wishes to lay down his load of life.

The wretch who threescore suns has seen roll o’er,

His lungs with lacerating ulcers sore,

Sollicits Heav’n to add the other score.

To F1r 33

To day, indeed, his portion’s pain and sorrow;

But joy and ease are hoarded for tomorrow.

Soft smiling Hope! thou anchor of the mind!

The only resting-place the wretched find;

How dost thou all our anxious cares beguile!

And make the orphan, and the friendless smile.

All fly to thee, thou gentle dawn of peace!

The coward’s fortitude, the brave’s success,

The lover’s ease, the captive’s liberty,

The only flatt’rer of the poor and me.

With thee, on pleasure’s wings, thro’ life we’re born,

Without thee, wretched, friendless, and forlorn.

Possest of thee, the weary pilgrim strays

Thro’ barren desarts, and untrodden ways:

Thirsty and faint, his nerves new vigour strings,

And full of thee he quaffs immortal springs.

The martyr’d saint, whom anguish and the rod

Have prov’d, thro’ thee walks worthy of his God.

In vain are axes, flames, and tort’ring wheels;

He feels no torment, who no terrour feels:

F Thro’ F1v 34

Thro’ thee his well-try’d spirit upward springs,

And spurns at titles, scepters, thrones, and kings.

O full of thee! in quiet may I live,

The few remaining moments Heav’n shall give!

Come then, thou honest flatt’rer, to my breast!

Friend of my health, and author of my rest!

Thro’ thee, the future cloudless all appears,

A short, but smiling train of happy years.

Pass but this instant, storms and tempests cease,

And all beyond’s the promis’d land of peace.

No passion’s mists, by no false joys misled,

No ties forgot, no duties left unpaid,

No lays unfinish’d, and no aching head.

Born with a temper much inclin’d to ease,

Whatever gives me that, is sure to please.

I ask not riches; yet alike would fly

The friendless state of want and penury.

This wish howe’er be mine: to live unknown,

In some serene retreat, my time my own,

To all obliging, yet a slave to none.

Content F2r 35

Content, my riches; silence be my fame;

My pleasures, ease; my honours, your esteem.

And you, blest maid! who all you want possess,

Already to your self your happiness,

This modest wish methinks you now let fall,

“O give me Wisdom, Heav’n! and I have all.”

F2 In F2v 36

In Memory of the Rt. Hon. Lord Aubrey Beauclerk, Who was slain at Carthagena.

(Written in the year 17431743, at the request of his Lady.)

Shall so much worth in silence pass away,

And no recording muse that worth display?

Shall public spirit like the private die,

The coward with the brave promiscuous lie?

The hero’s toils should be the muses care,

In peace their guardian, and their shield in war:

Alike inspir’d, they mutual succours lend;

The Muses His, and He the Muses friend.

To me the solemn lyre you reach in vain,

The simple warbler of some idle strain.

What tho’ the hero’s fate the lay demands,

What tho’ impell’d and urg’d by your commands;

Yet F3r 37

Yet, weak of flight, in vain I prune the wing,

And, diffident of voice, attempt to sing.

What dreadful slaughter on the western coast!

How many gallant warriors Britain lost,

A British muse would willingly conceal;

But what the muse would hide, our tears reveal.

Pensive, we oft recal those fatal shores,

Where Carthagena lifts her warlike tow’rs.

High o’er the deep th’ embattl’d fortress heaves

Its awful front, its basis in the waves;

Without impregnable by nature’s care,

And arm’d within with all the rage of war.

Deep in oblivion sink th’ill-omen’d hour,

That call’d our legions to the baneful shore!

Where death, in all her horrid pomp array’d,

O’er the pale clime her direful influ’nce shed.

Want, famine, war, and pestilential breath,

All act subservient to the rage of death.

Those whom the wave, or fiercer war would spare,

Yeild to the clime, and sink in silence there:

No F3v 38

No friend to close their eyes, no pitying guest

To drop the silent tear, or strike the pensive breast

Here Douglas fell, the gallant and the brave!

Here much-lamented Watson found a grave.

Here, early try’d, and acting but too well,

The lov’d, ennobled, gen’rous Beauclerk fell.

Just as the spring of life began to bloom,

When ev’ry grave grew softer on the tomb;

In all that health and energy of youth,

Which promis’d honours of maturer growth;

When round his head the warriour laurel sprung,

And temp’rance brac’d the nerve which valour strung;

When his full heart expanded to the goal,

And promis’d victory had flush’d his soul,

He fell!—His country lost her earliest boast;

His family a faithful guardian lost;

His friend a safe companion; and his wife,

Her last resource, her happiness in life.

O ever honour’d, ever happy shade!

How well hast thou thy debt to virtue paid!

Brave, F4r 39

Brave, active, undismay’d in all the past;

Compos’d, intrepid, steady to the last

When half thy limbs, and more than half was lost

Of life, thy valour still maintain’d it’s post:

Gave the last signal After both his legs were shot off. See the account of
his death in the prose-inscription in Westminster-Abbey, written
by the author, under his Lady’s directions. The verse by
Dr. Young.
for thy country’s good,

And, dying, seal’d it with thy purest blood.

Say, what is Life? and wherefore was it giv’n?

What the design, the purpose mark’d by Heav’n?

Was it in lux’ry to dissolve the span,

To raise the animal, and sink the man?

In the soft bands of pleasure, idly gay,

To frolic the immortal gift away?

To tell the tale, or flow’ry wreath to bind,

Then shoot away, and leave no track behind?

Arise no duties from the social tie?

No kindred virtues from our native sky?

No F4v 40

No truths from reason, and the thought intense?

Nothing result from soul, but all from sense?

O thoughtless reptile, Man!—Born! yet ask why?

Truly, for something serious—Born to die.

Knowing this truth, can we be wise too soon?

And this once known, sure something’s to be done—

To live’s to suffer; act, is to exist;

And life, at best, a trial, not a feast:

Our bus’ness virtue; and when that is done,

We cannot sit too late, or rise too soon.

“Virtue!—What is it?—Whence does it arise!”

Ask of the brave, the social, and the wise;

Of those who study’d for the gen’ral good,

Of those who fought, and purchas’d it with blood;

Of those who build, or plant, or who design,

Ev’n those who dig the soil, or work the mine.

If yet not clearly seen, or understood;

Ask the humane, the pious, and the good.

To no one station, stage, or part confin’d,

No single act of body, or of mind;

But G1r 41

But whate’er lovely, just, or fit we call,

The fair result, the congregate of all.

The active mind, ascending by degrees,

Its various ties, relaions, duties sees:

Examines parts, thence rising to the whole,

Sees the connexion, chain, and spring of soul;

Th’ eternal source! from whose pervading ray

We caught the flame, and kindled into day.

Hence the collected truths coercive rise,

Oblige as nat’ral, or as moral ties.

Son, brother, country, friend demand our care;

The common bounty all partake, must share.

Hence virtue in its source, and in its end,

To God as relative, to Man as friend.

O friend to truth! to virtue! to thy kind!

O early call’d to leave these ties behind!

How shall the muse her vary’d tribute pay,

Indulge the tear, and not debase the lay!

Come, fair example of heroic truth!

Descend, and animate the British. youth:

G Now G1v 42

Now, when their country’s wrongs demand their care,

And proud Iberia meditates the war:

Now, while the trumpet sounds her shrill alarms,

And calls forth all her gen’rous sons to arms;

Pour all thy genius, all thy martial fire

O’er the brave youth, and ev’ry breast inspire.

Say, this is virtue, glory, honour, fame,

To rise from sloth, and catch the martial flame,

When fair occasion calls their vigour forth,

To meet the call, and vindicate its worth:

To rouse, to kindle, animate, combine,

Revenge their country’s wrongs, and think on Thine.

Go, happy shade! to where the good, and blest

Enjoy eternal scenes of bliss and rest:

While we below thy sudden farewel mourn,

Collect thy virtues, weeping o’er the urn;

Recal their scatter’d lustre as they past,

And see them all united in the last

So the bright orb, which gilds the groves and streams,

Mildly diffusive of his golden beams;

Drawn G2r 43

Drawn to a point, his strong concenter’d rays

More fulgent glow, and more intensely blaze.

And Thou! late partner of his softer hour,

Ordain’d but just to meet, and meet no more;

Say, with the virtues how each grace combin’d!

How brave, yet social! how resolv’d, yet kind!

With manners how sincere! polite with ease!

How diffident! and yet how sure to please!

Was he of ought but infamy afraid?

Was he not modest as the blushing maid?

Asham’d to flatter, eager to commend;

A gen’rous master, and a steady friend.

Humane to all, but warm’d when virtuous grief,

Or silent modesty, imply’d relief.

Pure in his principles, unshaken, just;

True to his God, and faithful to his trust

Beauclerk, farewel!—If, with thy virtues
warm’d,

And not too fondly, or too rashly charm’d,

G2 I strive G2v 44

I strive the tributary dirge to pay,

And form the pinion to the hasty lay;

The feeble, but well-meaning flight excuse:

Perhaps hereafter some more gen’rous muse,

Touch’d with thy fate, with genius at command,

May snatch the pencil from the female hand;

And give the perfect portrait, bold and free,

In numbers such as Young’s, and worthy Thee.

Song G3r 45

Song from the Opera of Elpidia.

Pupillette, Il mio core,

Vezzosette, Nel mirarvi,

Pur dormendo Sente ardore,

Voi splendete. Sente pena,

Siete belle, Si, dormite.

Ma ferite.

Thus translated. This and the following translation were the author’s
first essays in rhime; given her as an exercise by her
Italian master, when she was under sixteen: as the best apology
for several of the following pieces is, that they were written
under twenty.

Such radiant eyes who can withstand,

That ev’n in sleeping charm?

Or who resist the soft command,

Since thro’ their shades they warm?

Insensible how much they shine,

As ah! how much I grieve;

I greedy gaze, you sleep supine,

Nor know the wounds you give.

From G3v 46

From the same Opera.

Un vento lusinghier Cosi fortuna, e amor,

Tal or porta il nocchier, Fa scherno del mio cor;

Presso del lido; Mi guidan presso il porto,

Poi altro vento insido, Poi privo di conforto,

Lo balza in altro mar. Mi lascian naufragar.

Translation.

I.

When gentle whispers of a prosp’rous gale

Direct the sailor to the much-lov’d shore,

To court the breeze he hoists the swelling sail,

With hope elate he plies the lab’ring oar.

II.

When strait the treach’rous winds are taught to roar,

The angry waves obey the harsh command;

With stupid grief he views the less’ning shore,

And vainly strives to reach the distant land.

III.

Thus cruel fate, inconstant as the air,

Just shews me joys, that ah! I ne’er must taste;

And when I stretch my arms to grasp the fair,

She snatches from me the inviting feast

G4r 47

Written at the
Request of a young Divine,
to be Sent
To his mistress, with the Beggar’s Opera.

In matters of important faith,

You rev’rence what the Parson saith;

With equal gravity peruse

The dictates of the Parson’s Muse.

But, ere I tune my artless lays,

To sing your wit, and beauty’s praise;

Let me in grateful notes renew

My thanks for obligations due.

And who indebted would not stand

For favours from so fair a hand?

Whose sprightly wit can always charm,

Whose beauty never fails to warm;

Virtue G4v 48

Virtue and innocence your guide,

Your sex’s pattern, and their pride.

Adorn’d with all these charms, beware

How you exert your pow’r too far;

Mould into smiles each pretty feature,

And act the tyrant with good-nature.

For see! this Op’ra will reveal

How great a crime it is to steal!

What laws invented to keep under

People inclin’d to theft and plunder.

What pity ’tis we cannot boast

Of laws to regulate a Toast!

For if a wretch, who steals a horse,

Or civilly demands your purse,

Deserves poor Mackheath’s threaten’d fate,

And for example swings in state;

What shall we do with those, I pray,

Who steal poor people’s Hearts away?

Matri- H1r 49

Matrimony. The rhymes first put down by a gentleman, for the author
to fill up as she pleas’d.

Cloe, coquet and debon――air,

Haughty, flatter’d, vain, and――fair;

No longer obstinately ――coy,

Let loose her soul to dreams of ――joy.

She took the husband to her ――arms,

Resign’d her freedom and her ――charms;

Grew tame, and passive to his ――will,

And bid her eyes forbear to ――kill.

But mighty happy still at ――heart,

Nor room was there for pain, or ――smart.

At length she found the name of ――wife

Was but another word for ――strife.

That cheek, which late out-blush’d the ――rose,

Now with unwonted fury ――glows.

H Those H1v 50

Those tender words, “my dear, I ――die,”

The moving tear, and melting ――sigh,

Were now exchang’d for something ――new,

And feign’d emotions yeild to ――true.

Reproach, debate, and loss of ――fame,

Intrigues, diseases, duns, and ――shame.

No single fault He strives to ――hide;

Madam has virtue, therefore ――pride.

Thus both resent, while neither ――spares,

And curse, but cannot break their ――snares.

To Mrs. Clayton,
With a Hare.

A ’Squire who long had fed on ale,

(Or thick or clear, or mild or stale,

Concerns us not,) a hunting goes,

Last Thursday morn’, ere Phebus rose,

Headlong he rides full many a mile,

O’er many a hedge, and many a stile;

Dire H2r 51

Dire horror spread where’er he came,

And frighten’d all his Lordship’s game:

Nay hares and foxes yet unborn

May rue the hunting of that morn’.

A luckless Hare at length pass’d by;

The dogs take scent, away they fly;

Tears and intreaties come too late,

Poor puss, alas! submits to fate.

One boon she begs before she dies,

“And pray what’s that?” the ’Squire replies.

Only when this my house of clay,

Shall to the hounds become a prey,

(As soon, ah cruel hounds! it must,)

And these sad eyes return to dust;

May this my last request be heard,

And decently my corps interr’d

Within a concave basket’s womb,

With this inscription on my tomb;

“To Mrs. Clayton, Poland Street

Bear me, ye porters! while I’m sweet.”

H2 And H2v 52

And now farewel what once was mine!

With pleasure I these fields resign:

Happy, if that good Lady owns

My flesh was good, and picks my bones.

To Miss Clayton.

Occasion’d by her breaking an appointment to visit the Author.

Now ponder well, Miss Clayton dear,

And read your Bible book;

Lest you one day should rue the time

That you your promise broke.

’Twas on that bed where you have lain

Full many a restless night,

That you did say, nay swear it too—

But you’ve forgot it quite.

Your tender mother eke also,

Did ratify the same;

And strok’d me o’er the face, and vow’d—

Much more than I will name.

But H3r 53

But what are women’s oaths, and vows,

With which we make such pother?

Ah, trust us not, ye faithful swains!

Who cannot trust each other.

The swain may vow eternal love,

And yet that vow revoke;

For lovers vows alas! are made

On purpose to be broke.

The courtier breaks his word, ’tis true,

Or keeps it but in part;

But you, whene’er you break your word,

Perhaps may break a heart.

The chemist says he’ll turn to gold

Each thing he lights upon;

And so he will, whene’er he finds

The philosophic stone.

The lawyer says he’ll get your cause,

Then loses cause, and cost;

But there’s a maxim in the law,

Says, “Fees must not be lost”.

Allegiance H3v 54

Allegiance firm to gracious King

Swear parsons one and all:

Pity! Christ’s vicars, or of Bray,

Should ever swear at all.

Physicians too can promise fair,

In figures and in tropes —

Then let your faith and fees be great,

And while there’s life, there’s hopes.

But when all confidence is lost,

Small comfort hopes afford;

For whom hereafter can I trust,

Now You have broke your Word?

To the same.

On her desiring the Author to write a satire upon her.

Full of my self, resolv’d to rail,

I summon’d all my pride;

Ill-nature form’d th’ invidious tale,

And rage its aid supply’d.

Each H4r 55

Each fav’rite female vice I paint,

And every folly join:

In short, description is but faint;

A libel was each line.

The picture thus ill-nature fram’d,

By malice was apply’d;

Those real charms for which you’re fam’d,

I took most pains to hide.

But how unlike the finish’d draught

Of Clayton’s lovely mind!

Ev’n I who drew it, knew it not,

Nor could one likeness find.

Thus, dawber like, with low design,

I spoilt a beauteous frame;

And conscious of each faulty line,

Was forc’d to write your name.

In Eden thus, its shades among,

Ere vice could fix a stain,

The serpent roll’d his pointless tongue,

And hiss’d and twin’d in vain.

Again H4v 56

Again fair virtue loves to dwell

In your engaging form;

As pure as Eve before she fell,

As free from inward storm.

Keen satire now, with soften’d gaze,

Unvends her wrinkled brow;

And looks serenely gen’rous praise,

Who never prais’d till now.

Elegy,

On a favourite dog, suppos’d to be poison’d.

To Miss Molly Clayton.

O All ye spotted brutes that guard the Fair,

Lie on their laps, or wait upon their chair;

Ye Cupids, Cloes, Phillis’s or Shocks,

Ye who defend the houshold, or the flocks:

But chiefly ye in ladies’ chambers nurst,

Who leap at sweetmeats, snifting at a crust,

Come and bemoan poor Sparky’s poison’d dust

Hither I1r 57

Hither your little whimp’ring offspring lead,

And join the dismal howl, to wail him dead.

Shame on the wretch, who dealt the deadly
draught!

Thou human brute! whose very name’s a blot.

O that kind fate would poison all thy life

With some smart vixen, very much a Wife!

And when the end of thy chastisement’s near,

May’st thou want ratsbane then—to poison Her.

Whilst the cold drug was struggling hard with
life,

And sense awhile maintain’d the doubtful strife;

With much of gratitude and sorrow mix’d,

On me his scarce-perceiving eyes he fixt:

Then to these arms with stagg’ring steps did haste,

There, where he oft had slept, to sleep his last

The tear was vain; nor will I blush to own

A heart of softer workmanship than stone:

Yet lest the wise my weakness should reprove,

The tear I dropt to gratitude, and love.

I Now I1v 58

Now die, O Tabby! all ye fav’rites fall!

Dogs, parrots, squirrels, monkeys, beaus and all!

For thou wert all those tender names in one;

That thou could’st yet survive!—but thou art gone.

Ah! what avails thy honours now to trace!

Thy high descent, thy ancient royal race!

Thy length of ears proclaim’d the gen’rous seed,

Hereditary heir of Charles’s breed;

And had not William chang’d the face of things,

Mightst still have bark’d beneath the throne of kings.

No more shalt thou, with each revolving day,

Expect the warm repast of milk and tea;

Nor when the balmy slumber I prolong,

Ascend the stairs, and wake me with thy tongue:

No more shall thy discerning nose descry

The sav’ry steams, that speak the dinner nigh.

Soon didst thou wake, and ev’ry cat assail,

Then, strutting, shake the honours of thy tail.

With look importunate, and begging face,

Scarce could he wait the tediousness of grace:

But I2r 59

But that perform’d, he barks exulting round;

The cats are scar’d, the neighb’ring roofs resound.

Whether by instinct, or by reason taught,

His just conclusions spoke the use of thought.

When smart toupèée exhal’d the soft perfume,

He smelt a Beau, and sullen left the room.

Or when the ruddy ’Squire grew loud and vain,

And practis’d all the noises of the plain;

With sneaking step, at distance he’d retire,

Then mount his tail, and ev’n out-bark the wellmouth’d
’Squire.

But most the Fool was his invet’rate foe,

That thing all over talk, all over beau:

Well he distinguish’d ’twixt brocade and sense,

And growl’d contempt beneath the sev’n-fold fence.

O ever-watchful! ever-faithful guard!

No more shall I thy gratitude reward.

That cream, that bread and butter soak’d in tea,

Is now lapp’d up as puss’s lawful fee:

12 While I2v 60

While she, proud vixen! often seems to say,

“Peace to his shade!—each dog must have his day.”

Yet Thou, his mistress once, and late his friend,

Awhile the softly-falling tear suspend:

And think, whene’er your Lark shall be no more,

How vain are tears, since Spark was wept before.

Or rather, how uncertain life’s short date,

Since ev’n your fav’rites must submit to fate.

But could your smile, which sure gives life to all,

Back from the grave his much-lov’d form recal;

Then should these hands the welcome office pay,

To wipe the dust from his reviving clay:

With pleasure guard him from a world of ill,

And aid his vengeance at the pois’ner’s heel—

Ah! smile then; try, exert your saving pow’r!

Be Spark your present now, as once before.

Rhymes, I3r 61

Rhymes, to Miss Charlot Clayton.

As Damon was pensively walking one day,

Three pretty tight lasses he met in his way:

And who should they be, that were taking the air,

But Nelly, and Molly, and Charlot so fair.

The swain, who to beauty had never been blind,

Thought this was the season to tell ’em his mind:

But first he debated, to which lovely lass

He should offer his tenders, and open his case.

That Nelly was pretty he could not deny,

But Molly, he thought, had the sprightliest eye;

So on her his affections they rested awhile,

’Till Charlot appear’d, with a look and a smile:

With a look and a smile which sure mischief had done,

Had the swain been encounter’d by Charlot alone.

Perplext in his thought, and disturb’d in his breast,

And unable to tell which bright lass he lov’d best;

He folded his arms, to the grove he retir’d,

And decently on the green willow expir’d.

To I3v 62

To Damon’s sad fate lend a pitying ear,

For three at a time what poor mortal could bear?

One alone, trust me Charlot, had made him rejoice,

And the swain been quite happy—“With what?”

Hopson’ An admirer of that Lady’s. s choice.

On one of her Eyes.

The orders giv’n, John saddles Grey;

The nymph ascends: the pad so gay,

First neighs his joy, then trots away.

To that fam’d town Abingdon. the fair one rides,

Where Nancy, harmless nymph! resides.

That town so fam’d in Lent for figs,

For custards, conventicles, eggs;

Renown’d of old for scandal picking,

For bottled cyder, and cold chicken.

How often there have Oxford smarts,

Regal’d their nymphs on goosb’ry tarts!

While Mrs. Mary at the Bear,

Call’d all the chamber-maids to stare.

Thither I4r 63

Thither she rides, as authors say,

To sip with Nancy harmless tea;

And o’er their cups to have a fling

At this, or t’other aukward thing:

But with no other earthly view,

Except to chat an hour or two.

The sun had run thro’ half his course,

Ere Charlot ventur’d to take horse;

And near th’ horizon shot his ray,

Ere she a second time mounts Grey.

But, O dire fate! O sad mischance!

The high-fed beast begins to prance;

Shakes his curl’d neck, disdains the ground,

And longs to scale yon quickset mound.

She shrieks—in vain—she tumbles o’er!

While heedless John jogg’d on before.

Fie on the brute! and may’st thou bear

No more the witty, or the fair;

But doom’d the country round to stroll,

With pedlar’s pack, or beggar’s trull.

And I4v 64

And here my muse, in mournful wise,

Relate how Charlot weeps and sighs:

Well might she weep, well might she sigh,

For when she look’d, she miss’d an eye.

So have I seen, in cloudless nights,

The sky bedeck’d with radiant lights,

Thus gleam and glitter from afar,

Till in a jelly drops a star.

Now John was set to search the ground,

John search’d indeed, no eye was found.

Explor’d each flow’r the fairies climb on,

Careful as Indian slave for di’mond;

But had he Argos’ hundred eyes,

He’d ne’er discover where it lies.

Some folks, ’tis true, believe ’twas hurl’d

To multiply the starry world;

And say, those babies in her eyes

Inhabit now the azure skies.

Whitesides, A famous Astronomer. I’m told, was seen to stare

Last night, with more than usual care;

And K1r 65

And has e’er since been plodding on it,

From whence could come that glitt’ring planet;

That star, that made there such a bustle,

And Venus from her place would justle.

Now this is only what folks guest;

But trust the Muse, for she knows best

Venus, the Charlot of the skies,

Was always piqu’d at her bright eyes;

And saw with pain, at Charlot’s throne,

Such crouds of vot’ries, not her own.

For which good reason, when it dropt,

The goddess stoop’d, and pick’d it up:

And to repair the nymph’s disgrace,

Clapt her own orbit in the place.

On Her Birth-Day, --12-11December 11.

The shortest day, and longest night,

Gave birth to all that’s fair and bright.

So from the cloud of blackest dye,

The brightest lightnings always fly.

K On K1v 66

On the Reasonableness of
Her coming to the Oxford Act.

Beauty, the bounty of indulgent Heav’n,

To favour’d Maids of mortal race was giv’n;

Not to retire with to some lonely scene,

But to shine forth, and to be seen of Men.

The sun thus radiant with diffusive light,

In his own native day appears most bright,

And leaves the moon the empire of the night.

By his example, Charlot, shine away;

Be thou the goddess, as he’s god of day:

So shall Oxonians own thy sacred pow’r,

And worship Thee, as Persians Him adore.

Whilst Danae liv’d immur’d within her tow’r,

None but old Jove confess’d her gentle pow’r:

But had the hapless maid dwelt always there,

Who could have said she was, or was not fair?

Her K2r 67

Her charms had been unheard of in the throng;

Nor Horace left us his immortal song.

The sea-born goddess, rising from the main,

Unheeded might have dabbled there again;

Had not Apelles snatch’d the faultless dame,

And made her charms immortal as his fame.

’Tis therefore common prudence to appear,

That some Apelles may record you fair;

Lest future dawbers should the task essay,

And, like dull R—smear your charms away.

Come then, and leave those unfrequented shades,

To dirty shepherds, and to homely maids:

To our Athenian Theatres repair,

And let the learn’d and gay admire thee there.

Inspire, and then reward some gen’rous youth,

Nurs’d in the arms of science, and of truth:

For trust me, Charlot, who no flatt’ry mean—

To be admir’d, you only need be seen.

K2 To K2v 68

To the same.

Written at Fern-Hill, Her father’s seat in Windsor Forest. while dinner was waiting
for her.

In imitation of modern Pastoral.

I.

Haste, Charlot, haste; and come away,

For John his cloth ere long must lay.

Come, lest the dinner should be spoil’d,

The beef’s already too much boil’d;

The very turkey on the spit

Cries out, make haste and pick a bit.

Cook’s rage and soup have each boil’d o’er,

And thrice the wicked creature swore.

Then, Charlot, haste, and come away,

For dinner will no longer stay.

II.

Hungry I am, ’tis true, and cold;

Yet ne’ertheless should I be told,

That K3r 69

That dinner’s on the table set,

And thou not come from Denham Seat of Sir William Bowyer. yet;

Tho’ hungry as a horse I be,

And twice as cold as charity,

Yet hear me, Charlot, when I swear,

That very dinner I’d forbear:

And may I feel thy utmost ire,

If I’d go near the smallest fire.

Then, Charlot haste and come away,

For hunger’s sharp, and will not stay.

III.

Didst thou but know, how Puss and I

Together for thy presence sigh,

Together for thy absence mourn,

In murm’ring sounds for thy return;

Thou surely woud’st pack up thy awls,

And hear at least, when D’oman The Cat’s name. calls.

Nay more, the Major bid me say,

That he impatient at thy stay,

Had mounted Crop, and jogg’d away.

Then Charlot, haste, out strip the wind,

Lest love grow deaf, as well as blind.

K3v 70

IV.

Sarah in vain has scrubb’d your room,

Her gentle mistress is not come;

In vain clean linnen she has spread,

Upon your spotless virgin bed.

Thrice has she tumbled up the stairs,

And that’s good luck the maid avers.

But yet, I ween, we’re ne’er the near,

If Charlot’s deaf, and will not hear.

Puss slighted and abandon’d may

Sit purring all the live-long day:

Sarah may tumble up or down,

May break a limb, or soil her gown:

The Major too, in doleful dump,

May take the faithful lover’s jump:

And I may starve, without relief—

But see, she comes!—John, bring the beef.

The K4r 71

The Spider.

The sun had left the western road,

And drove his steeds to rest;

When Charlot on her bed was laid,

With downy sleep opprest

Full o’er her head a Spider dwelt,

Secure from brush or broom,

By heedless Sarah undescry’d,

Whene’er she swept the room.

This Spider’s citadel was large,

And cunningly contriv’d,

T’ ensnare the heedless wand’ring fly,

Upon whose spoils he thriv’d.

Now bent on prey, one luckless night,

This bloody-minded wretch,

Peep’d from his battlements above,

Nor dream’d—Harm watch, harm catch.

He K4v 72

He Charlot spy’d full fast asleep,

Her milk-white bosom bare,

A fresh’ning bloom o’er-spread her cheek,

And loosely fell her hair.

Charm’d with the sight, his bowels yearn,

From whence he spins a thread,

On which he glides as swift as thought

Down to the sleeping maid.

So grandsire Jove, transported much

By some fair mortal’s charms,

Descended on a sun-beam down,

And sunk into her arms.

And now he travels o’er her breast

With wonder and delight;

And on her tucker, in a fold,

Repos’d his limbs all night.

Snug was the word, and up he rolls

His carcase full of ill;

So round and black, she might have took

His Worship for a pill.

But L1r 73

But now the nymph begins to wake,

And lift her radiant eyes;

Nor can I here in language paint

How great was her surprize.

But this I will affirm, had she

An armed Man espy’d there,

’Twou’d not have scar’d her half so much

As this vile lurking Spider.

In short, she shriek’d, and Sarah ran

Impatient to her aid;

But when she saw the hideous thing,

She likewise was dismay’d.

At length, with equal courage arm’d,

They dash’d him on the floor;

Lye there, quoth Charlot, miscreant vile!

And welter in thy gore.

Yet, ere I take thy forfeit life,

This full conviction gain,

That fraud, and guile, and cobweb art,

May flourish long in vain.

L The L1v 74

The sage advice the Spider heard,

As on the floor he lay;

But just as Sarah reach’d the tongs,

He wisely —march’d away.

Heaven.

To Stella.

Occasion’d by her asking the Author what hers consisted in, as they were viewing the prospect from Cooper’s Hill.

Let learn’d Divines, to whom ’tis giv’n

To search the mysteries of Heav’n,

Say, if their science can devise

Where this thrice happy region lies:

Say, what the sacred books declare

Of joys unknown to eye or ear;

Joys, which the busy mind of man

Strives fully to explore—in vain.

This awful theme ’tis theirs to preach,

(O may we treasure what they teach!)

My muse shall sing in Windsor’s shade,

The Heaven of a harmless maid.

Stella L2r 75

Stella describe the pleasing scene,

And shew me where your joys begin.

Has Love e’er touch’d your tender heart?

In Damon’s pains have you no part?

Has no unguarded look betray’d

That Stella is a mortal Maid?

Did ne’er that thing call’d female pride

Conceal, what ’twas a pain to hide?

If not, we safely may aver,

That Stella’s Heaven is not here.

Some in ambition place their bliss,

And to be great—is happiness.

Ambition, luxury and pride,

Could ne’er in Stella’s heart reside.

And yet she loves a little state;

A coach and six she does not hate:

But never falls into a swoon,

When aukward Betty pins her gown.

Can dine extremely well at two,

As other sober people do;

L2 But L2v 76

But yet, for reasons good, can wait

The modish hours of sev’n or eight.

Does not directly hate quadrille;

But likes to play, or to fit still,

Just as the Beaus and Ladies will.

At church can pass an hour or two,

With much good breeding in her pew;

Altho’ the op’ra does not fill,

And side boxes are empty still.

Hence some have thought, when Stella there

Has lifted up her eyes in pray’r,

(Have thought indeed! at six and sev’n)

That ’mongst the stars lay Stella’s Heav’n;

But folks may think what e’er they will,

None but the Muse, I’m sure, can tell.

You know what flatt’ring bards devise

About the Heav’n, that’s in your eyes;

And likewise how they call your breast

The blissful seat of joy and rest:

Your looks, say they, are all divine,

Immortal pleasures round you shine;

And L3r 77

And having o’er your beauties run,

They make their rhyme, and so have done.

Now, as concerning this your breast—

These truths in metaphor exprest,

Believe me, Stella, are no jest

For, to be serious, after all,

Whatever mortals pleasure call,

Whatever happiness we know,

To our own hearts alone we owe.

Your easy wit, and chearful air

A harmony within declare;

Which to a gen’rous nature join’d,

Brings sweet content, and peace of mind.

In vain thro’ various scenes we roam,

The muse bids Stella look at home:

And let her wander where she will,

Her Heav’n she’ll bear about her still,

To Windsor’s shades, or Cooper’s Hill.

To L3v 78

To the same.

On her parting with the first copy of Heaven, and sending for another.

Say, Stella, didst thou never look

Into that great, that holy book,

Which on the parson’s desk is spread,

And once a week, at least, is read;

There, Stella, didst thou never see,

How Angels lost their Heav’n, like Thee?

And for a punishment beside,

We’re doom’d for ever to reside

In hell, the fittest place for pride.

Reflect on this—Yet lest thy heart

Should with a thought so horrid start,

Lest thy soft nature should relent,

And Stella for her crime repent;

Know, that the guilt for which they fell,

Justly deserv’d the hottest hell.

Thou L4r 79

Thou thro’ good nature may’st have err’d,

And therefore shall thy pray’r be heard;

Thy ev’ry wish shall be obtain’d,

And Paradise with ease regain’d.

After the Small Pox.

When skillful traders first set up,

To draw the people to their shop,

They strait hang out some gaudy sign,

Expressive of the goods within.

The Vintner has his boy and grapes,

The Haberdasher thread and tapes,

The Shoemaker exposes boots,

And Monmouth Street old tatter’d suits.

So fares it with the nymph divine;

For what is Beauty but a Sign?

A face hung out, thro’ which is seen

The nature of the goods within.

Thus the coquet her beau ensnares

With study’d smiles, and forward airs:

The L4v 80

The graver prude hangs out a froun

To strike th’ audacious gazer down;

But she alone, whose temp’rate wit

Each nicer medium can hit,

Is still adorn’d with ev’ry grace,

And wears a sample in her face.

What tho’ some envious folks have said,

That Stella now must hide her head,

That all the stock of beauty’s gone,

And ev’n the very sign took down:

Yet grieve not at the fatal blow;

For if you break a while, we know,

’Tis bankrupt like, more rich to grow.

A fairer sign you’ll soon hang up,

And with fresh credit open shop:

For nature’s pencil soon shall trace,

And once more finish off your face,

Which all your neighbours shall out-shine,

And of your Mind remain the Sign.

Sublime M1r 81

Sublime Strains.

On the Author’s walking to visit Stella, in a windy
morning, at Privy Garden.

O Nymph divine! as op’ning morning fair!

Bright as the sun! yet lighter than the air!

Harmless as bleating lambs, or mountain hinds!

Yet more uncertain than the whistling winds!

Where shall we find, or fix your resting place?

Now here, now there, eluding still the chace.

O’ tis in vain, as ancient proverbs say,

“To seek a needle in a load of hay”;

As vain it is to fix your certain bound:

Like Happiness, you’re no where to be found.

And yet I sought you where soft pleasure dwells,

And mirth and ease each low-born care expels.

Pleasure, thou soft retreat! but hard to find,

And op’ning only to the patient mind.

Thro’ various alleys, perilous and dark,

My way I shape, and ev’ry foot-step mark;

M Lest M1v 82

Lest thro’ some passage, elbow’d to and fro,

I feel the pond’rous weight of chairman’s toe.

Meanwhile the blust’ring wind the deep deforms,

And Boreas vext your slave with all his storms.

Like a small skiff my little bark was hurl’d,

Toss’d to and fro amidst a laughing world;

And, what is worse—my tresses all uncurl’d.

Yet, spite of these, I boldly ventur’d forth,

And bid defiance to the surly North.

By You, my Polar Star, awhile I steer,

But that once lost, towards St. James’s veer;

There, there I land, no more of winds the sport,

And found the gallant Lovelace safe in port.

The sailor thus, in search of India’s coast,

His reck’ning failing, and his compass lost,

Some hospitable shore at length in view,

Pushes to land, with all his jovial crew:

There, pleas’d, the myrtle’s fragrant breath inhales,

Nor envies India, or her spicy gales.

The M2r 83

The Heel-piece of her Shoe.

Stella requiring more rhymes, and the Author at
a loss for a subject

Swains, of high or low degree,

Poets, Peers, whate’er you be;

Ye who pen the lofty lay,

Or who sigh and nothing say;

Ye who talk of flames and darts,

Radiant eyes, and marble hearts;

Say, (for Lovers never lie,)

Are ye half so blest as I?

All the live-long happy day,

Lo! at Stella’s feet I lay;

And at night when she’s undress’d,

Next her bed behold I’m plac’d.

Swains, can you these favours see,

And not envy happy Me?

M2 If M2v 84

If the mazy dance she tread,

I sustain the tripping maid;

Easy tho’ to all, and free,

Yet she foots it but with Me.

Or at church, or at the play,

If she ogle, or she pray,

When she trips along the meads,

Or on Persian carpets treads,

In the sprightly month of May,

(Fatal month! some authors say,)

I both morning, noon, and night,

Order all her steps aright.

Who durst say, when I was by,

Stella ever trod awry?

Me she’ll ever find a friend,

Her support unto my end.

If a pilgrim she should go

Where the streams of Jordan flow,

I’ll sustain her in the way,

Where the streams of Jordan stray.

Weary tho’ and faint she be,

All her cares shall rest. on Me.

Need M3r 85

Need I say that Stella’s fair?—

Venus, in her shape and air:

Cruel tho’, nor does she know

Half the pain I undergo.

Tall and comely tho’ she be,

Owes she not an inch to Me?

Me, on whom she treads, and tramples;

O the force of ill examples!

Die, forsaken lovers! die;

Favour’d less, tho’ true as I.

As the needle to the steel,

So’s the Heel-piece to the heel;

True and constant, and will never

From her Shoe, or Slipper sever,

Till the Sole, as ah! it must,

Seeks its resting place in dust

Swains, if still you envy Me,

(As from envy who is free!)

Come, pour out your last adieus;

Die—and Heel-piece Stella’s Shoes.

On M3v 86

On her Birth-day,

Being the --12-1111th of December.

Why this day’s shorter than the rest,

A modern bard full well has guest

The sun who shines the year about,

And ev’ry lesser light puts out,

This day submits, and will not rise,

But lends his rays to Stella’s eyes.

Another.

Since this day comes but once a year,

Let ev’ry joy with it appear.

Come then, and let us laugh and sport,

And merry be it, tho’ ’tis short.

Nor will I, Stella, now advise;

A word’s sufficient to the wise.

Yet Beauty’s reign, the learned say,

Is shorter than the shortest day.

Her M4r 87

Her Epitaph.

Which the Author hopes will live as long as
she does.

Here rests poor Stella’s restless part:

A riddle! but I lov’d her heart.

Thro’ life she rush’d a headlong wave,

And never slept, but in her grave.

Some wit, I think, and worth she had:

No saint indeed, nor yet quite mad;

But laugh’d, built castles, rhym’d and sung,

“Was ev’ry thing, but nothing long.”

Some honest truths she would let fall;

But much too wise to tell you all.

From thought to thought incessant hurl’d,

Her scheme was—but to rule the world.

At morn she won it with her eyes,

At night, when beauty sick’ning sighs,

Like the mad Macedonian cry’d,

What, no more worlds, ye Gods!—and dy’d.

The M4v 88

The Lass of the Hill.

Humbly inscribed to
Her Grace the Dutchess of Marlborough.

I.

On the brow of a Hill a young Shepherdess
dwelt,

Who no pangs of ambition or love had e’er felt:

For a few sober maxims still ran in her head,

That ’twas better to earn, ere she eat her brown bread:

That to rise with the lark was conducive to health,

And, to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth.

II.

Now young Roger, who liv’d in the valley below,

Who at Church and at Market was reckon’d a Beau;

Had many times try’d o’er her heart to prevail,

And would rest on his pitch-fork to tell her his tale:

With his winning behaviour he melted her heart;

But, quite artless herself, she suspected no art.

He N1r 89

III.

He had sigh’d and protested, had kneel’d and implor’d,

And could lye with the grandeur and air of a Lord:

Then her eyes he commended in language well drest,

And enlarg’d on the torments that troubled his breast;

’Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind’

That in downright compassion to love she inclin’d.

IV.

But as soon as he’d melted the ice of her breast,

All the flames of his Love in a moment decreast;

And at noon he goes flaunting all over the vale,

Where he boasts of his conquest to Susan and Nell:

Tho’ he sees her but seldom, he’s always in haste,

And if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest

V.

All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her head,

And her thoughts are so pester’d, she scarce earns
her bread;

The whole village cry shame when a milking she goes,

That so little affection is shew’d to the cows:

But she heeds not their railing, e’en let e’em rail on,

And a fig for the cows, now her sweet-heart is gone.

N Now N1v 90

VI.

Now beware, ye young Virgins of Britain’s gay isle,

How ye yield up your hearts to a look and a smile:

For Cupid is artful, and Virgins are frail,

And you’ll find a false Roger in every vale,

Who to court you, and tempt you will try all his
skill;

But remember the Lass on the brow of the Hill.

Consolatory Rhymes to Mrs. East,

On the Death of her Canary Bird.

Since Kings, and Queens, and Duchesses
must die,

And crowns and frokins undistinguish’d lie;

The Monarch justled by the saucy slave,

And next a Queen’s perhaps a Milk-maid’s grave;

Since all their flight to other climes must wing,

And even signor Boschi cease to sing;

Grieve not your Bird: for tho’ no more his throat

Melodious swells the sweetly-tortur’d note;

Improperly N2r 91

Improperly we measure life by breath,

He ceases not to be, who tastes of death.

When life goes out, the Samian sages say,

We only change our tenement of clay.

The Quack, once fam’d for curing ev’ry ill,

Lurks in a bolus, or informs a pill.

The learned Dunce, whom science seem’d to shun,

Hums thro’ his next dull stage a bagpipe’s drone;

While Wits, more pert, the livelier notes become,

And teaze, and torture still the tuneless hum.

The wretch, who fatten’d on his neighbour’s spoil,

Now crawls a spider, swoln with fraud and guile:

A softer form the gentle mind puts on,

While harden’d hearts are petrify’d to stone.

Perhaps your Captive now, on wings sublime,

Once more beholds his friends, and native clime;

Sees all his little race about him throng,

And tells his raptures in a sweeter song:

Or else his soul some Farinelli warms,

And crouded theatres confess his charms;

His cage, his silken wings, and untaught note,

(All but his Mistress’ favours) quite forgot.

N2 So N2v 92

So some poor Exile, long in bondage kept,

Dead to his friends, and ev’n by strangers wept,

Disdaining bondage, tho’ in chains of gold,

Breaks thro’ his prison, by resentment bold:

Yet if some gen’rous friend, of soul sincere,

Soften’d his fate, or smooth’d his bed of care,

Deep in his heart the grateful sense remains,

And when he thinks on him, forgets his chains.

Harmonious shade! what honours can atone

Thy music murder’d, and thy spirit gone!

By thy false guardian left to foes at large,

O most unworthy the important charge!—

What tho’ no solemn mutes, of ghastly shape,

Croud silent round thee, and look sad in crape;

Yet shall thy Mistress’ tear adorn thy hearse,

And all the Muse can offer, Fame and Verse:

Fresh flow’rs shall deck thee with their earliest bloom,

And yearly roses blossom on thy tomb.

There too shall mournful Philomel complain,

And on thy stone these lasting notes remain;

“Beneath N3r 93

“Beneath in silence sleeps, and ceas’d his song,

The Farinelli of the feather’d throng:

Of manners simple, uncorrupt of life,

A friend to harmony, a foe to strife.

This turf his Mistress to his mem’ry ow’d,

And for his songs the gen’rous tear bestow’d.”

Holt Waters. A Tale.

Extracted from the Natural History of Berkshire.

Two Nymphs of chaste Diana’s train,

Both fair, and tolerably vain,

One morning early left their beds,

And said their pray’rs, and drest their heads.

The coach was order’d, in they step,

Not well awake, nor quite asleep:

Of well-dress’d Beaus a brace they chuse,

At once for ornament, and use.

Their conversation need I tell?

Or who spoke most, or which spoke well?

Or N3v 94

Or how it ran of various things,

Of Queens and grottos, wars and Kings,

Of fortune-tellers, or the fashion,

Of marriage, or predestination—?

In short, they settled all the nation.

Not many miles the Nymphs were come,

Ere Cloe wish’d she’d stay’d at home.

Her lively colour comes and goes,

The lilly struggled, and the rose.

“I wish!”—Wish on, thou gentle maid;

Of Wishes need one be afraid?

“Why then”—and whisper’d something low;

But what, or when, or where, or how,

None but the Muse shall ever know.

Yet trust me, Prudes, it was no more,

Than you or I have wish’d before:

Bright Emily, of royal race,

Might wish the same in such a case.

In short,—the lady—but no matter:

I’ll never tell one earthly creature.

For N4r 95

For why should I, in lays forbidden,

Unveil what Custom would have hidden?

But lest the Beaus, for Beaus might blame,

Should hear, and after hurt her fame,

On each she cast a languid look,

And thus the Heroes twain bespoke.

What vast variety of woe

Does Jove let fall on folks below!

Poor Kitty, who but yesterday

Was all so giggling, and so gay,

Is pouring now the frantic tear,

And bares her breast, and beats the air:

All the comfort from her bosom’s fled,

For ah! her Parroquet is dead.

Now ’tis but civil, as I guess,

To visit people in distress;

If not for love, in spite, or joke,

To see how horridly they look:

For grief the fairest cheek will stain,

And make folks look extremely plain.

“Then N4v 96

Then wonder not, if I alight,

To fo what’s decent, and what’s right;

To visit first the hapless maid,

Then pay the rite to Polly’s shade:

Whose grave I’ll sprinkle—with my tears,

And mix my friendly drops with hers.

Excuse me then—I can no more—

Here, Thomas, stop; undo the door.

Tom stops, and Cloe soon alights,

Looks pleas’d, but full of fears and frights.

“O no, Sir Fopling!—You’ll excuse it;

Time’s precious, and we must not lose it.”

Away she flies, as swift as wind,

And leaves the lover far behind.

At length a little farm she sees,

Surrounded by a clump of trees;

No yelping Cur was heard from far,

The door had neither bolt nor bar:

So O1r 97

So in she goes, and looks around,

But no expedient’s to be found.

What shall she do? Her wants are pressing,

And speedily require redressing.

In haste she trips it to the dairy,

In hopes to find or Nan or Mary;

But not a living soul was there,

Nor cat to squall, nor mouse to stir.

In short, the bus’ness must be done;

Time to consider there was none.

The cream-pot first she fill’d with liquor,

Fit for the thorax of the Vicar.

Nay Jove himself, the skies protector,

Would call such liquor heav’nly Nectar.

So, in a grot, I’ve seen enthron’d

Some river goddess, osier-crown’d,

Pour all her copious urns around.

Hence plenteous crops our harvests yield,

And Ceres laughs thro’ all the field.

A pan of milk, unskimm’d its cream,

Did next receive the bounteous stream;

O The O1v 98

The bounteous stream in bubbles breaks,

And many a curious eddy makes.

O stop, dear nymph; alack! forbear;

Spoil not our cheese! our butter spare!

What will poor Gooddy Baucis say,

To see her milk all turn’d to whey?

The nymph was deaf, the noise was loud,

And who hear less than those that shou’d?

So in an aqueduct I’ve stood,

And heard aghast the headlong flood:

What tho’ with Stentor’s lungs you call,

I hear you not, I’m deafness all.

The rite perform’d, herself much eas’d,

And Polly’s gentle shade appeas’d,

Back to her company she flies,

Quite unobserv’d by vulgar eyes.

The muse indeed behind her stood,

And heard the noise, and saw the flood.

But when poor Baucis from the field

Return’d, and saw her vessels fill’d;

How O2r 99

How did she lift her hands, and stare!

And cry’d—

“What Fairy has been here?

I left this milk-pan yet to skim,

And saw no bubbles on the brim!

My cream-pot too was hardly full,

But now it over-flows the bowl!

Yet no disorder I can view,

No six-pence left in Kattern’s shoe:

My pewter on the shelves have slept,

The house too’s neither brusht nor swept.

Well; guard us all, I say, from evil!

For mighty watchful is the Devil.”

A large brown jugg stood there apart,

The reservoir of near a quart;

The liquor pure, as amber fine,

But stock’d with particles saline.

Now Baucis, who came hot from work,

Was very dry, her dinner pork;

One draught, cry’d she, of good sound beer!

I’m thirsty, and no creature near—

Let’s see what Heav’n has sent us here.

O2 She O2v 100

She smelt it, and no full-blown rose

Sent half the fragrance to her nose.

It looks, thinks she, like cowslip wine,

And if not sweet, I’m sure ’tis fine:

However, ’tis a sin to waste it,

I’ll e’en take heart o’ grace, and taste it—

She drank, and down the liquor went;

“A little, and therewith content,

We learn, says she, from good St. Paul:

And sure Content is all in all!

Our beer is dead, but no great matter,

’Tis better still than common water.”

We poor folks must make shift, ’tis true;

Howe’er, to give the dev’l his due,

E’en let him bake, but never brew.

Soliloquy, on an empty Purse.

Alas! my Purse! how lean and low!

My silken Purse! what art thou now!

Once I beheld—but stocks will fall—

When both thy Ends had wherewithal.

When O3r 101

When I within thy slender fence

My fortune plac’d, and confidence;

A Poet’s fortune!—not immense:

Yet, mixt with keys, and coins among,

Chinkt to the melody of song.

Canst thou forget when, high in air,

I saw thee flutt’ring at a fair?

And took thee, destin’d to be sold,

My lawful Purse, to have and hold?

Yet us’d sof oft to disembogue,

No prudence could thy fate prorogue.

Like wax thy silver melted down,

Touch but the brass, and lo! ’twas gone:

And gold would never with thee stay,

For gold had wings, and flew away.

Alas, my Purse! yet still be proud,

For see the Virtues round thee croud!

See, in the room of paltry wealth,

Calm Temp’rance rise, the nurse of Health;

And Self-denial, slim and spare,

And Fortitude, with look severe;

O3v 102

And Abstinence, to leanness prone,

And Patience worn to skin and bone:

Prudence, and Foresight on thee wait,

And Poverty lies here in state!

Hopeless her spirits to recruit,

For ev’ry virtue is a mute.

Well then, my Purse, thy sabbaths keep;

Now Thou art empty, I shall sleep.

Now silver sounds shall thee molest,

Nor golden dreams disturb my breast

Safe shall I walk the streets along,

Amidst temptations thick and strong;

Catch’d by the eye, no more shall stop

At Wildey’s toys, or Pinchbeck’s shop;

Nor, cheap’ning Payne’s ungodly books,

Be drawn aside by pastry cooks:

But fearless now we both may go

Where Ludgate’s Mercers bow so low;

Beholding all with equal eye,

Nor mov’d at—“Madam, what d’ye buy?”

Away O4r 103

Away, far hence each worldly care!

Nor dun, nor pick-purse shalt Thou fear,

Nor flatt’rer base annoy My ear.

Snug shalt thou travel thro’ the mob,

For who a Poet’s purse will rob?

And softly sweet, in garret high,

Will I thy virtues magnify;

Out-soaring flatt’rers stinking breath,

And gently rhyming rats to death.

Written in an
Ivory Book
For the Honourable Miss Hamilton;

To be sent to her Mamma.

No system this of deep devotion,

A Book indeed, without a notion:

And yet in these fair leaves you’ll find

An emblem of my tender Mind;

Both spotless, ready to receive

Each kind impression you shall give.

Extem- O4v 104

Extempore.
on a
Drawing of Frances Thynne, Wife of Algernon, Earl of Hertford. the Countess of Hertford’s,
now Duchess of Somerset
.

This piece to latest times when shown,

Hertford, shall dignify your own;

Where as a visitor you came,

Just shew’d yourself, and left your name.

So, Prior says, some years ago,

Apelles left his name at Co.

Learn hence, ye Nymphs of Britain’s isle,

How Hertford writes, and mark her style.

Answer to a Letter
From the Hon. Miss Lovelace.

As half resign’d, in Clayton’s green retreats,

Once more I trod the Muse’s sacred seats,

Pleas’d where the rose its purple bloom display’d,

And calm’d where poplars spread their awful shade;

Just P1r 105

Just as my heart had beat itself to rest,

Your lines arriv’d: the lyre I snatch’d in haste,

And emulation fir’d my panting breast

Henceforth, I cry’d, let Glory be my aim,

For Hertford smiles, whose very smiles are Fame.

The pow’r of song invok’d, my voice I raise,

And all my soul was tun’d to Hertford’s praise:

Whether in verse melodiously she flows,

Or the bold image paints in nervous prose;

Whether once more the sister arts she joins,

And gives to Reuben’s colours, Titian’s lines;

Or, sweetly-studious, bends the thoughtful brow,

Or smiles indulgent o’er her yet lov’d Rowe;

Or, in the private scene, retir’d from view,

(That scene so oft with pleasure mark’d by You)

Still as she came, my voice grew faint with fear,

So graceful She, so amiably severe.

What could I more?—Adieu ye tuneful throng!

Farewel the sounding lyre, and raptur’d song!

P Presumptuous P1v 106

Presumptuous notes! whene’er my voice I raise,

If nought the Muse will dictate but her praise;

Vain is the song, too delicate her ear,

And these the very sounds she will not hear.

To the Prince of Orange,
On his Marriage.

Written at the time of the Oxford Verses.

To foreign notes while others tune the lyre,

Me let a free-born English Muse inspire:

Unskill’d in all the graces of her art,

She boasts of nothing but an honest heart;

To Oxford’s Sons resigns the verdant bays,

And neither asks, nor yet despises praise.

Patrons of Freedom, and their Country’s peace,

Inur’d to dangers, and despising ease—

Such were th’ illustrious Heroes of thy Race!

Such was Nassau! and we with Pleasure see

Our guardian Genius rise again in Thee.

Thee P2r 107

Thee Britain hails, and with a gen’rous Pride

Beholds Thy virtues to Her Throne ally’d.

Auspicious Match!—may Heav’n indulgent shed

Its choicest blessings round the genial bed!

Hail wedded Love! perpetual source of peace;

The Calm, where restless Passion sinks to Ease.

When hearts united thus each other claim,

How sweet the friendship! and how soft the flame!

Wealth, Honour, Empire far behind are thrown,

And all the World’s well lost for Thee alone.

Hence those endearing Interests of life,

The Father, Son, the Brother, and the Wife:

Here Love extended runs thro’ diff’rent names,

The fruitful fountain of ten thousand streams.

Thrice happy Princess! bright with ev’ry grace,

Blest shalt Thou be, and blest in all thy Race:

For, like the royal Stock from whence you came,

A chosen Offspring shall extend your fame;

And nations, yet unborn, shall bless your name.

P2 Here P2v 108

Here then, young Hero! fix thine eyes, and see,

Æneas-like, thy glorious Progeny — — — —

See future Nassau’s in bright order rise,

Fearless as William, and as Maurice wise.

And as their Forms in gay procession glide,

Thy gen’rous heart shall beat with noble pride;

Pleas’d that such prospects on thy Virtues wait,

Which from this glorious Æra take their date;

Pleas’d that thy Race succeeding times shall bless,

And give to warring nations Laws, and Peace.

Verses
to the
Memory of Miss Clayton.

If ought can merit thy regard below,

If when this life, its hopes and fears are o’er,

The soul retains its passions, or can know

What storms or tempests reach our distant shore;

View P3r 109

View this fond tribute with thy wonted love,

And whilst the Muse attempts the solemn strain,

Leave unenjoy’d awhile the realms above,

And to my Fancy once descend again.

Fancy, alas! to Memory ally’d,

Thou cool disturber of our calmest days!

How dost thou oft our rising transports chide!

And steal between us and our wish’d-for peace.

Still, but for Thee, regardless might I stray,

Where gentle Charwell rolls her silent tide;

And wear at ease my span of life away,

As I was wont, when Thou wert by my side.

But now no more the limpid streams delight,

No more at ease unheeding do I stray;

Pleasure and Thou are vanish’d from my sight,

And life, a span! too slowly hastes away.

Yet if thy friendship lives beyond the dust,

Where all things else in peace and silence lie,

I’ll seek Thee there, among the Good and Just,

’Mong those who living wisely—learnt to die.

And P3v 110

And if some friend, when I’m no more, should
strive

To future times my mem’ry to extend,

Let this inscription on my tomb survive,

“Here rest the ashes of a faithful friend.”

A little while, and lo! I lay me down,

To land in silence on that peaceful shore,

Where never billows beat, or tyrants frown,

Where we shall meet again, to part no more.

Epitaph

On Brigadier General Hill.

Of manners gentle, yet a friend to truth,

With age not peevish, nor yet vain in youth:

Brave, yet humane, and blameless tho’ severe;

His speech was open, and his heart sincere:

In courts unbrib’d, not factious tho’ retir’d;

Most lov’d the Soldier, more the Man admir’d.

A Queen P4r III

A Queen his Mistress, Queen Anne. and his Friend, Mankind;

His Fortunes!—to yon little spot Englefield Green. confin’d.

Such once was Hill—and various tho’ his lot,

The same Companion, favour’d, or forgot.

Epitaph

On a Young Nobleman
Kill’d in an Engagement at Sea.

Youth, beauty, strength, the trophy, and
the bust,

Not these his honours to the Tomb we trust;

But modest manners, innocent of art,

The open nature, and the moral heart.

Such love of truth as ancient Britains bore,

Such fortitude, as never Roman more:

And call’d betimes, his task of glory done,

To mix with nature’s social as his own.

On P4v 112

On the Right Honourable
Lady Betty Bertie’s Birth-Day.
By * * * * * * * * * * *

Inserted at the Request of Norris Bertie, Esq;

The day that gave Eliza breath,

May give ten thousand swains their death.

Why then, fond youth! so wond’rous gay,

Is this a fit rejoycing day?

As well might Priam’s subjects load

The altars of their guardian God:

As well express untimely Joy,

At the great birth-day of the Boy

Whom fate ordain’d to fire their Troy.

Rhymes, Q1r

Rhymes
to the
Hon. Miss Lovelace;
Now
Lady Henry Beauclerk.

Q Q1v 114

On her attending
Miss Charlot Clayton
In the Small-pox.

O Thou! to whom the Muse is justly dear,

In Fancy elegant, in Judgement clear,

In whom the Virtues with the Graces blend

The faultless Female, and the faithful Friend;

Awhile suspend the Taste improv’d by Art,

And take the Lay spontaneous from the Heart.

Fantastic Females! ye who paint, and prate

Of self, or somewhat, or of God knows what!

Who mimic every thing but what ye should,

And even Virtue, to be reckon’d good;

Alas! no varnish can that want supply,

No specious talk conceal the acted lye.

While you on trifles waste the tedious day,

And dress, or dream your useless hours away;

Or Q2r 115

Or worse, indulge the very crime you blame,

Plot the dark scandal, or disperse the shame:

She on her Friend attends with pious care,

Sooths all her griefs, and softens ev’ry fear;

That higher sense indulging, void of art,

The virtuous feeling of a gen’rous heart;

And finds self-love attain its noblest end,

When it transfers from Self to serve a Friend.

How few for Friendship Nature has design’d!

Th’ unmelting temper, and th’ unmeaning mind,

The crafty, selfish, dark perfidious, see!

O sacred Friendship! all unworthy Thee.

Where then shall she, whose native manners start

Beyond the narrow bounds of low-bred art,

Whose soul is open, as her purpose clear,

Foe to evasion, as of heart sincere;

Not too familiar, nor yet too precise,

With humour witty, with politeness wise;

Where find a Friend to bear the equal part?

Say, Charlot, where? if not within thy heart.

Q2 Yet Q2v 116

Yet Thou, whose worth might sweeter sounds
inspire,

Indulge these efforts of a youthful lyre:

No flatt’ring purpose has the Muse in view,

Tho’ prompt to praise, wherever Praise is due;

Averse to flatter, cautious to commend,

Hardly she sooths the frailities of a Friend.

But sick of the insipid senseless train,

For Thee she feels the animated strain:

O be she sacred to the wise and good!

Nor prostitute her praises to the croud;

With whom less pleas’d than pain’d, her lyre
unstrung,

Upon a neighb’ring willow useless hung;

Till gentle deeds, and corresponding Love

Impell’d the sympathetic strings to move

To Nature’s harmony; while artless lays,

To her and Lovelace tun’d, grow music in their
praise.

Birth- Q3r 117

Birth-day
To the same, on Richmond-Green,
Soon after her being
Maid of Honour to Queen Caroline.

Bring, bring the lyre, to usher in the morn;

Delia, the gentlest Maid, to day was born:

And tho’ she twenty summer suns has seen,

Tho’ now among the nymphs of Britain’s Queen,

Is still the gentlest Maid upon the green.

Sure guardian Sylphs around her paths attend!

Without a foe, and worthy ev’ry Friend.

In one bright calm may each succeeding year

Roll guiltless on, unruffled by a care!

Till future Maids of Honour have approv’d

The grove she haunted, and the stream she lov’d;

And each bright Sister, emulous, proclaim,

That Innocence and Pleasure are the same.

The Q3v 118

The Fall.

Ye Maids of Honour, mind your ways,

Nor wholesome counsel slight;

For oh! ’tis hard, in these our days,

To hold one’s Dish upright.

By fate the strongest of us all,

And eke the steadiest too,

Are doom’d, or soon or late, to fall,

Nor are examples few.

The first of all the falling sex

Was Eve, our parent frail!—

Ah, Satan! Satan! thy sly tricks

Her daughters still bewail.

The next in fame, that made a trip

(O hear each Maid and Wife!)

Was Delia—and the only slip

She ever made in life.

But Q4r 119

But fate foresaw the whole affair,

And plac’d before her eyes

A ball, three footmen, and a chair,

And eke a Beau likewise.

In such a case, what mortal Maid

In circumspection deals?

Or when a ball affects the head,

What nymph can mind her heels?

For, eager to be gone, ’tis said,

That morn she miss’d her pray’rs;

But vengeance swift o’ertook the Maid,

Alas! she fell down stairs.

Hence, ladies fair, with caution tread,

Be warn’d by Delia’s slip;

And keep this maxim in your head—

To “look, before you leap”.

For she a Mourner is become,

Does penance for her sin;

And, ’stead of dancing, stays at home,

To weep a broken Shin.

On Q4v 120

On her Bed-Chamber’s Chimney
Being blown down at St. James’s

“Go, Betty, (gentle Delia said)

And warm my spotless virgin bed:

I’m Frost, I’m Ice, all cold as stone!

But how can One be warm alone?

Well, be it so—‘What can’t be cur’d’,

The Proverb says,” “‘must be endur’d.’

Stay—go, I mean—but on my chair

Besure lay Farquhar’s Constant Pair.

My Psalms and Hymns, here, take away,

Methinks I’ve no great mind to pray:

Soft Vigils rather let me keep;

Damon, alas! has murderd sleep.”

She said, when lo! a storm arose,

Which first her Fav’rites discompose:

Her China next disorder’d shakes,

And see! the Chimney, how it quakes!

The R1r 121

The Palace totters to its fall,

And down comes China, Chimney, all!

What shall she do? or whither run?

Behold in dust her Bed of down!

Yet, Delia, let it ne’er be said,

You know not where to lay your head.

What! shrinking back, now danger’s near!

A Soldier’s Daughter too, and fear!

Where, where’s that Fortitude you boast?

The Post of Danger’s Virtue’s Post:

And thunder, lighten, rain, or shine,

The Bed of Honour still is Thine.

Moral.

Adown the pretty purling stream

The little Loves may loll and dream;

And please, and prune themselves with care,

And fancy Virtue lodges there.

The soft Affections thus, and strong,

Adown life’s current glide along;

And all-appeas’d and uncontroul’d,

Awhile their equal measure hold.

R Till R1v 122

Till sailing fatrther on the deep,

Or mounting Virtue’s lofty steep,

The pretty system sinks away,

The little loves, and smiles decay.

Unnumber’d waves and storms we find

To raise—not to depress the mind,

The conscious mind, which dares endure,

And, fixt on Virtue, stands secure:

Nor shrinks, dismay’d, when danger’s nigh,

Nor drops her aims beneath the sky.

The Story of
Jacob and Rachel attempted.

To the same.

Thou! to whom nature variously imparts,

The gift of conq’ring, and of keeping hearts,

Smile on the lay—nor deem the Tale too long,

Which, but for Thee, had yet remain’d unsung.

So may some chosen Youth hereafter view

All Rachel’s Graces bloom in Thee anew,

And love, like Jacob, tenderly and true.

Far R2r 123

Far in the East, as Sacred Writ records,

Dwelt Laban, rich in sundry flocks and herds;

Near Haran’s famous Well was his abode,

There smoak’d his altars to his Houshold-God.

His dwellings large, and fertile was his land,

And num’rous servants waited his command;

The fruitful lawn, the hill, the levell’d down,

Far as the eye could stretch, were all his own:

Throughout the East extended Laban’s fame,

And where he journey’d, there he left a name.

Two only Daughters to his age remain’d,

And Leah one, and one was Rachel named.

Time had from Leah rifled ev’ry grace—

But blooming beauty dwelt on Rachel’s face.

Well-favour’d, graceful, in the bloom of life,

She led the flocks, or tript it to the fife;

When summer suns burnt fiercely o’er their heads,

She drove the wantons frisking to the shades;

Or when the merry pipe rejoic’d the vale,

Led up the dance, or told the jocund tale;

R2 Chearful R2v 124

Chearful and blythe she pass’d the day along,

And ev’ry valley echo’d with her song.

She was each shepherd’s theme, each swain’s delight,

Their talk by day, their vision in the night;

Whene’er they feasted on their homely cheer,

No mirth was heard, if Rachel was not there:

’Mongst all their rural sports She still was seen,

And foremost at the feast, as on the green.

Her Fame and Charms soon reach’d young
Jacob’s ear,

Rebekah’s best belov’d, and Isaac’s Heir:

But ere his friends and family he leaves,

His Father’s Blessing on his head he craves.

To Padan-aram now his course he steers,

His hopes succeeded by a thousand fears;

The mingled passions take up all his soul,

And vast events within his bosom roll.

As on he journey’d far into the East,

Fatigued himself, his camels wanting rest,

Not R3r 125

Not far away, with pleasure he beheld

A spacious well, amidst a fruitful field;

Where with their flocks the sun-burnt shepherds
came,

Panting and faint, to quaff the limpid stream.

Of these he ask’d their country and their name:

“From Haran (they reply’d) thy servants came.”

And know ye Laban? lives he, can ye tell?

“He lives, my Lord; thy servants know him well:

His num’rous flocks in yonder valley stray,

And with them, lo! his daughter comes this way.”

When Jacob saw the Maid, his beating breast

The pow’r of Love and radiant eyes confest

Quick thro’ his veins the gen’rous pleasure flow’d,

His bosom with unusual fervours glow’d;

Around his heart the soft’ning passions crept,

He gaz’d, he sigh’d, he wonder’d, and he wept;

Then seiz’d her hand, and kiss’d her rosy cheek,

And trembling from his lips the accents break.

When R3v 126

When Rachel heard his family and name,

Their common stock, the tribe from whence she
came;

With decent haste, exulting o’er the plain,

She, with the tidings, to her Father ran.

Meanwhile her harmless flock neglected stray,

Or round the Well in expectation lay:

These Jacob water’d, could he well do less?

He lov’d the sheep, but more the Shepherdess.

When Laban heard the tidings, forth he went

To meet, and welcome Jacob to his tent.

“My joy (cry’d Laban) let my actions speak;

A kind embrace, and friendly welcome take,

—This for Rebekah—this for Isaac’s sake.”

Now mirth and feasting thro’ the house were found,

The damsels tript it to the tabret’s sound,

And the brisk bowl to Jacob’s health went round.

Each in the gen’ral joy asserts his share,

And none seem’d pensive, but the Patriarch’s Heir.

He R4r 127

He oft on Rachel gazes, oft approves,

And much he muses, for as much he loves:

All night her pleasing image sooth’d his mind;

He found her fair, and hop’d to prove her kind.

Soon as the rosy morn unveil’d the light,

And with her splendor chas’d the gloom of night;

Jacob arose, and blest the new-born day,

Then sought the flock, where Rachel led the way.

And now he guides ’em to the flow’ry hill,

Or drives ’em skipping to the distant rill:

At noon secures ’em from scorching heat;

With Rachel near him, Jacob’s toil is sweet.

If on the reed his skilful fingers move,

He pours the song to harmony and Love.

Oft on the trees imprints her much-lov’d name,

Or sighs his passion to the murm’ring stream;

To deck her hair the flow’ry wreath prepares,

The flow’ry wreath for Jacob’s sake she wears:

Jacob! whom now she views with partial eye,

Nor pass’d his slightest deeds unnotic’d by.

Nor R4v 128

Nor were their thoughts to Love alone confin’d,

To mutual vows instructive talk they join’d.

As how the stars in beauteous order stood,

And each the splendid witness of a God!—

Their signs and seasons they observe with care,

And mark their influence on the earth and air:

Which threats their flocks, or which destroys their
vines,

And which with good, or baleful aspect shines.

Thus pass’d their time. When Laban now beheld

His flocks increase, his vines more clusters yield;

Pleas’d with his growing wealth, he strait prepares

To offer some reward for Jacob’s cares.

Jacob, whose heart nor gold nor gems could move,

Look’d with disdain on all—but Rachel’s Love;

And thus reply’d.

“If gracious Laban means

Or to reward my past, or future pains;

Bless, with a bounteous hand, bless all my life,

And give me lovely Rachel for a Wife.

“I ask S1r 129

I ask no dow’r my fortunes to improve,

Rich in possession of my Rachel’s Love.

Let sordid swains, whom thirst of gain invites

To woo the Fair-One to the nuptial rites,

Bargain for Love, and sell their vows for gold;

But let not Rachel, like her sheep, be sold.

Rachel! whose beauty softens ev’ry breast,

Whose worth outweighs the treasures of the East!

Full sev’n long years I’ll serve thee for the Maid;

The toil looks pleasing, when so well repaid.”

Laban consents, and Jacob joys to find

The Sire as courteous as the Daughter kind,

Nor e’er suspects the depths of Laban’s mind.

His upright heart, as yet, no guile could see;

He thought men honest, as they seem’d to be.

But when the long-expected day appears,

That Rachel should reward her Jacob’s cares,

When with united hearts they join to bless

The first fair dawnings of their mutual peace;

Laban prepares a banquet, and invites

The neighb’ring swains to grace the nuptial rites.

S In S1v 130

In num’rous crouds they came from distant lands,

To hail the Bride, with presents in their hands;

Rich sparkling wines, or firstlings of the flock,

Or swelling clusters from the pendent rock.

A flowing mantle lovely Rachel wore,

Emboss’d with gems, with gold embroider’d o’er;

In wanton ringlets wav’d her aubourn hair,

Succinct her robe, her buskin’d legs half bare.

She gave the health, She welcom’d ev’ry guest,

And seem’d to all the Mistress of the Feast

But when the sun withdrew his kindling beams,

And the last ray danc’d faintly on the streams;

The guileful Laban, whose long-frozen breast

No more the youthful pow’r of Love confest,

Observ’d how Leah often look’d askance,

And cast on Rachel many an envious glance,

Himself the willing wayward damsel led

To Rachel’s Place, and seiz’d the bridal bed.

But when the morn appear’d, and by his side

Jacob beheld his unexpected Bride;

Enrag’d, S2r 131

Enrag’d, he smote his breast, his clothes he rent,

And sorrowing sought the faithless Laban’s tent,

And thus upbraids

“What hast thou done? Why led

The tasteless Leah to my nuptial bed?

Did I serve thee for Her? ungentle fair!—

And dost thou thus reward my honest care?

Little wast Thou, thou know’st it, ere I came;

How God has blest thee since, let Me proclaim.

What time I’ve serv’d thee, have I done thee
wrong?

Have or thy Ews or Goats once cast their Young?

That which was torn of beasts I brought thee not,

I bare the loss, nor hast thou suffer’d aught.

Thus, thus I was; for Thee my sleep I lost,

Endur’d the summer’s sun, and winter’s frost

Unrighteous Man! is this then my return?

I serv’d for Rachel—but for Leah mourn.”

Laban reply’d,

“What tho’, young man, I led

My first-born Leah to thy arms, and bed;

Know, ’tis our country’s custom: ’twere a crime

To give the younger first—yet both are thine,

S2 If S2v 132

If, with thy boasted fondness, thou canst bear

Sev’n added years of servitude and care.”

Ill-fated Jacob! who must now embrace

These hard conditions of his happiness,

Or lose his lovely Maid, his much-lov’d Fair!

Source of his woes, and partnerof his care—

Twice sev’n long years! ’twas hard for Love to bear.

Yet all his trials well did he sustain,

And Rachel shar’d, or soften’d ev’ry pain,

Till Heav’n at length confirm’d Her all his own;

When, to their mutual joy, She bare a son,

And thence enjoy’d his Love unrival’d, and alone.

Written on some Ivory Leaves.

Ye spotless Leaves! by all confest

Fair emblems of your Mistress’ breast

Thrice happy He of human race,

Whose Name in this fair Book has place!

O happier still, whoe’er thou art,

Whose Name’s engraven on her Heart!

The S3r 133

The Author’s Silence excus’d.

Whilst You fair Masham Sister of Th. Wirmington Esq., first Wife of Simon, 2d Lord Masham. entertain

With sense and sparkling wit;

A stranger to the flowing vein,

I all attention fit.

Let other Maids, of happier lungs,

The painful silence break;

I envy not their gift of tongues,

If You, or Masham speak.

Epistle, from Fern-Hill.

To the same.

Charlot, who my controller is chief,

And dearly loves a little mischief,

Whene’er I talk of packing up,

To all my measures puts a stop:

And tho’ I plunge from bad to worse,

Grown duller than her own dull horse;

Yet S3v 134

Yet out of Complaisance exceeding,

Or pure Perverseness, call’d Good-breeding,

Will never let me have my way

In any thing I do, or say.

At table, if I ask for Veal,

In complaisance, she gives me Quail.

I like your Beer; ’tis brisk, and fine—

“O no; John, give Miss—some Wine.”

And tho’ from two to four you stuff,

She never thinks you’re sick enough:

In vain your Hunger’s cur’d, and Thirst;

If you’d oblige her, you must burst

Whether in pity, or in ire,

Sometimes I’m seated next the fire;

So very close, I pant for breath,

In pure Good-manners scorch’d to death.

Content I feel her kindness kill,

I only beg to make my Will;

But still in all I do, or say,

This nusance Breeding’s in the way;

O’er S4r 135

O’er which to step I’m much too lazy,

And too obliging to be easy.

Oft do I cry, I’m almost undone

To see our Friends in Brooke-street, London.

As seriously the Nymph invites

Her slave to stay till moon-shine nights.

Lo! from her lips what Language breaks!

What sweet perswasion, when she speaks!

Her Words sof soft! her Sense so strong!

I only wish—to slit her Tongue.

But this, you’ll say’s to make a clutter,

Forsooth! about one’s bread and butter.

Why, be it so; yet I’ll aver,

That I’m as great a plague to Her;

For well-bred folks are ne’er so civil,

As when they wish you at the D—l.

So, Charlot, for our mutual ease,

Let’s e’en shake hands, and part in peace;

To keep me here, is but to teaze ye,

To let me go, would be to ease ye.

As S4v 136

As when (to speak in phrase more humble)

The Gen’ral’s guts begin to grumble,

Whate’er the cause that inward stirs,

Or pork, or pease, or wind, or worse;

He wisely thinks the more ’tis pent,

The more ’twill struggle for a vent:

So only begs you’ll hold your nose,

And gently lifting up his clothes,

Away th’imprison’d vapour flies,

And mounts a zephyr to the skies.

So I (with rev’rence be it spoken)

Of such a Guest am no bad token;

In Charlot’s chamber ever rumbling,

Her Pamphlets, and her Papers tumbling,

Displacing all the things she places,

And, as is usual in such cases,

Making her cut most sad wry faces.

Yet, spite of all this rebel rout,

She’s too well bred to let me out,

For T1r 137

For fear you squeamish Nymphs at Court

(Virgins of not the best report)

Should on the tale malicious dwell,

When me you see, or of me tell.

O Charlot! when alone we sit,

Laughing at all our own (no) wit,

You wisely with your Cat at play,

I reading Swift, and spilling tea;

How would it please my ravish’d ear,

To hear you, from your easy chair,

With look serene, and brow uncurl’d,

Cry out, A— for all the world!

But You, a slave to too much breeding,

And I, a fool, with too much reading,

Follow the hive, as bees their drone,

Without one purpose of our own:

Till tir’d with blund’ring and mistaking,

We die sad fools of others making.

Stand it recorded on yon post,

That both are fools then, to our cost!

The question’s only, which is most?

T I T1v 138

I, that I never yet have shewn

One steady purpose of my own;

Or You, with both your blue eyes waking,

Run blund’ring on, by Choice mistaking?—

Alas! we both might sleep contented,

Our errors purg’d, our faults repented;

Could you, unmov’d, a squeamish look meet,

Or I forget our Friend in Brooke-Street.

Birth-day.

Shall this Day unheeded fly,

And like vulgar days pass by?

Dull as — tho’ I be,

Shall it pass unsung by Me?

No, when I this Day forget,

May I share that Poet’s fate!

Singing what is daily said,

Rhyming what is never read.

Now for Blessings, such as ease,

Health and joy, long life and peace.

Pray T2r 139

Pray we next—for Poets may

Sure, as well as Prose-Folks, pray—

And as this Day rolls around,

May you still be perfect found:

Still, in Virtue’s noble race,

Pressing for the foremost place;

Scorning all that’s low, or lewd,

Daring to be great and good:

Till your race of life is done,

And the glorious meed your own;

Such as Angels now receive,

Such as Heav’n alone can give.

In Memory of the Right Hon.
Nevil Lord Lovelace.

In the calm hour, when pleasure most prevails,

And smooth prosperity has swell’d your sails,

The sportive Muse her humble lyre has strung,

To join the triumph with some idle song:

T2 And T2v 140

And shall she now, when nature smiles no more,

When tempests rise, and surges lash the shore,

Sit doubtful, and the serious lay refuse?

Shall Lovelace sigh, nor sympathize the Muse?

In life’s mixt scene, where various parts agree

To form one tedious Tragi-Comedy,

How few, alas! in either part can shine?

But both to grace, what forces must combine!

In some low scene is Silia deem’d a wit?

With patience’ meekest ear attentive sit.

In mimic state, and proud fantastic pow’r,

Is Fulvia crown’d the Queen of half an hour?

The Queen of half an island if she please;

The wise have no debates with such as these.

But when the rising scenes with anguish swell,

’Tis Yours the higher, harder part to tell,

And dignify distress by suff’ring well.

Whether the Stoic’s, or the Christian’s part,

Found in the head, or working at the heart;

Here all the kind affections, touch’d, comply;

There rous’d again to study’d apathy.

Come, T3r 141

Come, false Philosophy! as proud as vain,

Talk well of virtue, talk it o’er again;

Deep in the heart true Fortitude’s conceal’d,

And needs no eloquence to be reveal’d.

Yet speak! O tell me! whence this calm of mind?

The will obedient, and the wish resigned;

The steady temper, and the look serene,

And all a Sister’s woe in silence seen?

That I may learn, when by misfortune prest,

To yeild with meekness, or with strength resist

Brave Youth! with ev’ry virtue crown’d, farewel!

How truly lov’d, young Walpole’ Hon. Horace Walpole, Esq; s Muse can tell.

He to the Tomb has led the weeping Nine,

And hung the wreath of friendship o’er the shrine.

Not sweeter notes, whom Pope consigns to fame,

“Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham.”

Here the pale Loves, and sick’ning Graces mourn,

And there the Sister weeping o’er the Urn:

Like some fair pillar nodding o’er it’s base,

The last remaining ruin of her race;

Left T3v 142

Left but to make their milder virtues known,

And fill the radiant circle with her own.

Useless the marble, and the mournful crest,

No tomb so lovely as a sister’s breast;

There shall thy mem’ry live, by time improv’d,

And she for virtues, once thy own, be lov’d:

Not such as make of Kings and Queens a Friend,

But such as grac’d thy life, and bless’d thy end;

Truth unaffected, Manners void of art,

Plain Sense, and strong Benevolence of heart.

Oft as she eyes yon bright etherial plain,

And burns to follow Thee, and mix again;

Some tender friendships, some endearing ties,

Cling round her heart, and hold her from the skies.

A little while, and these shall all decay,

And the free soul emerge to endless day:

Where, having long sustain’d the faithful part,

The strong attraction seizing all her heart,

Her gentler orb shall round it’s center move,

Re-kindled into Harmony and Love.

T4r 143

Life.

(Occasion’d by some lines upon Death.)

Say, Delia, has not Death a pain

Beyond what mortals fear, or feign?

Beyond th’ oppressor’s scourge, or scorn?

Beyond what suff’ring worth may mourn?

Do not the wise, the learn’d, the great,

At his approach, appall’d, retreat?

Do not the brave with horror start,

And, shock’d, betray th’ unconquer’d heart?

To Death for ease we fly in vain,

And pleasure lose for certain pain.

Nor is this all. The conscious mind

Connects an awful scene behind:

Where ev’ry crime shall be expos’d,

And ev’ry secret guilt disclos’d;

Where hearts unus’d to melt, shall bleed,

And sad remorse, with pangs succeed.

Then T4v 144

Then cease awhile the doubtful strife,

And, reconcil’d, look back on life.

How full of smiles is it begun!

With what delight does youth glide on!

What pleasures sparkle in our eyes,

When first the infant passions rise!

If Love invades the sprightly veins,

With all its cares, and pleasing pains;

Tho’ absence heighten the distress,

Or jealous fears disturb our peace;

Tho’ the soft flame, with which we burn,

Be pay’d with pride, neglect, or scorn;

Slight he the nymph, or she the swain,

Yet there’s a pleasure in the pain.

In Friendship what relief we find!

What ease, from int’rests thus combin’d;

By mutual ties of honour bound,

How kind, how faithful, Friends are found!

How full each word! how fair each deed!

(Save just in case of real need)

Without U1r 145

Without reserve their joys they share,

And by dividing lessen care.

What tho’ dull moralists of old,

Strange tales of broken faith have told;

What tho’ there were, for private ends,

Those who debas’d the name of friends;

Yet these were things done long ago,

The world is strangely mended now!

And in this upright age we see,

Friends are—what they appear to be.

Next young Ambition smiling brings

Alternate joy to Slaves and Kings.

The Monarch, lo! in transports hurl’d,

Surveys in thought a conquer’d world.

The Peasant o’er his clod espies

Preferments, riches, honours rise;

Till, (what sometimes is vastly odd)

The vision flies, and leaves the clod:

Yet Expectation gilds his joys;

Fruition only cures, and cloys.

U Gay, U1v 146

Gay, blooming Expectation strays

To charming scenes, thro’ charming ways;

With wondrous art it can foresee

What never was, nor e’er can be:

Yet who would wish to spy the cheat?

Or who’d not hug the dear deceit?

Since life’s prime bliss, it is believ’d,

Consists in being—well-deceiv’d.

Nor must we laugh at, nor may blame

The man who thirsts, or bleeds for Fame.

Renown, tho’ Late, at length succeeds,

And tho’ it comes not till his fall,

’Tis better late—than not at all.

Observe the Man of dress, and lace:

How soft his air! how sweet his face!

The youth has lov’d, and learnt to dance:

And now he travels into France,

Fresh manners to import, and mark

The sword-knot of the Grand Monarque.

Then U2r 147

Then, fine and finish’d, homeward roves,

Each taste corrects, refines, improves;

Admires awhile, and is admir’d;

And tiring others, till he’s tir’d,

Walks off, a little sick of life,

And takes, by way of cure, a Wife:

Enquires—whose house is to be let,

(His own being quitted for a debt)

Then, as his finances require,

To frugal Yorkshire does retire,

And ends a plain, contented ’Squire.

Nor Youth alone has joy in view,

Age has its satisfactions too.

Who envies not the miser’s store?

Who seeming rich, and really poor,

Yet that one passion, lust of gain,

Supports him under ev’ry pain:

Amidst a thousand ills he’ll thrive,

And think it worth his while to live.

The venerable Sage, who deals

In long, insipid, ancient tales,

U2 Who U2v 148

Who dwells on feats of former times,

And loudly taxes modern crimes;

Whose tedious lore at morn’s begun,

And ends but with the setting sun;

At ninety odd, this happy man

Repines, that life is but a span!

That as the sparks fly upwards all,

So mortal man is doom’d to fall!

That flesh is grass; and like the flow’r,

Springs, blooms, and dies within an hour!—

More truths, perhaps, he might unfold;

But ah! he dies; his tale is told.

Nor are these all the joys of age:

Love may exert its feebler rage

Thro’ each re-animated vein,

Enliv’ning all the heart again:

Past scenes restoring to its view,

And warmth, as well as youth renew.

Nor this prepost’rous call, or strange;

Winter itself, grown old, will change,

And U3r 149

And put Spring’s youthful liv’ry on,

Pervaded by the gen’rous sun.

Delia, if this is Life, and these

Can pass it off with so much ease;

Or all-enamour’d with the scene,

Would act it o’er and o’er again:

If these can taste the present hour,

What joys has Wisdom in her pow’r!

Who leads, with lasting pleasure blest,

Fair Virtue, ever-chearful guest!

The constant inmates of your breast

With Delia, Love’s a gentle flame,

Whose source is honour and esteem.

Her Friendship still is more refin’d,

A gen’rous sympathy of mind.

Ambitious—only to excell,

And be supreme in doing well.

And hence, as a reward, may claim

Our just returns of Praise, and Fame.

Live U3v 150

Live then, and condescend to taste,

Tho’ you’re digusted with the feast;

Live for your own, for Virtue’s sake,

And Pleasure with the Wise partake:

And (if the fates so much decree)

A little longer live—for Me.

Written at her:
Apartment in Windsor-Castle.

I.

Whilst You, dear Maid, to soft alarms

Resign the genial hour,

Forsaking all for Henry’s charms,

Your own, and Ours no more:

II.

I lean my philosophic head

On table cold as clay,

And read—good Gods, how I do read!

My very soul away.

My U4r 151

III.

My Lady hears away her rage

In tragedy so deep:

Fringes no more her soul engage—

Ev’n John has leave to sleep.

IV.

Thus all forgetting, or forgot,

While You are from our view,

To knot and read, and read and knot,

Is all we have to do.

Birth-day.

Come, my Muse, prepare the lay,

Once more hail this happy Day.

Bid it shine o’er all the past;

Brightest, since it is the last

For her full meridian ray,

Soon must sicken, and decay:

See! she hastens down the skies,

In another sphere to rise;

In U4v 152

In a world unknown, untry’d,

Sets a Maid, to rise a Bride.

So the sun, with splendid ray,

Having shone his summer’s day,

Gilding all the groves and plains,

Drops at length the golden reins,

And night’s curtain round him spread,

Hides his beams in Thetis’ bed.

From New Lodge Right Hon. Lord Henry Beauclerk’s in Windsor Forest. to Fern-Hill.

In a very rainy Summer Season.

Thee, gentle Charlot on the Hill,

(A scene the Muse remembers still)

We, humble tenants of the vale,

Greeting, congratulate and hail.

In vain retir’d from city noise,

From Mackrel cries, and Watchmen’s voice,

To X1r 153

To where Lord Henry plants the grove,

Sacred to silence and to Love;

If here reserv’d, for crimes unknown,

(Dreadful reverse!) to hang, or drown.

See, how the rushing torrents pour!

A deluge now in ev’ry show’r!

The mountain tops apace decay,

The little hillocks melt away:

No more in ponds the gosling talks,

But sails secure on gravel walks.

The very fish have left the floods,

And glide, or graze among the woods; Several fish were taken gliding among the forest walks.

Unknowing where to shape their way,

Or which is earth, or which is sea.

Ev’n little Joe, amphibious creature!

Lives solely now beneath the water.

Yet ere the springs of life decay,

Ere quite dissolv’d, or wash’d away,

X If, X1v 154

If, curious of our weal or woe,

You ask, how fares the vale below;

Behold, the Muse her flight prepares,

And in her mouth the olive bears,

Emblem of peace! Yet if she brings

No friendly token on her wings;

If to the vale she echoes round,

That Charlot’s turkies too are drown’d;

And all her ducks, and all her drakes,

Are hurry’d down the dreadful lakes;

In vain we hail the Hill or Thee,

In vain we put our barks to sea.

But see! the deluge drives apace,

And seems to threaten all the race.

Yet happy we of human kind,

Who have one comfort still behind—

Let but my Lady safe remain!

She’ll people all the earth again.

Ode X2r 155

Ode
To the Right Hon. Lady Henry Beauclerk.

I.

The summit reach’d of earthly joys,

Your nurs’ry full of Girls and Boys,

Your Lord in peace return’d;

Your rents improv’d, your lands increas’d,

The good old Right Hon. Lady Wentworth. Baroness
deceas’d,

And with due honours mourn’d;

II.

What more remains, but safe ashore,

Grateful indulge the present hour,

And, while you feel, impart;

Nor let a feebler pulse control

One gen’rous purpose of your soul,

One virtue of your heart.

X2 The X2v 156

III.

The ruling passion, bold and strong,

May struggle in the bosom long,

Yet wants its time to shoot;

But when kind Heav’n the soil supplies

With bolder Suns, and brighter skies,

It yields its gen’rous fruit.

IV.

Whether we view your morning scene,

A favour’d Maid near Britain’s Queen,

(The rest let Envy tell)

Or now arriv’d at noon of life,

A frugal Mother, and a Wife,

Thus far, at least, was well.

V.

And thus far too your praise I’ve sung,

And still the burden of my song

Was—“Ne’er be Fortune’s Creature!”

For, tho’ she open all her store,

And tho’ she give you ten times more,

“To be yourself is greater.”

The X3r 157

VI.

The songs I sung you kindly took,

And bid me put ’em in a book,

Because I scorn’d to flatter;

But now more great, that is, more rich,

God knows what Demons may bewitch,

And spoil your honest Nature.

VII.

Should you grow artful, foolish, nice,

Or sink to sneaking avarice,

Much good may Riches do ye!

But then, how simple I shall look?—

Do, tear your Songs, and burn your Book,

And say—I never knew ye.

X3v X4r 159

Abstract of an
Order of Convocation
in Relation to
Melissa’s taking off Medals, &c. in Paper.

Madam,

After returning You Thanks for the
curious specimens You’ve been pleas’d
to send me of your Art, I am order’d to inform
you—That yesterday a Convocation was
held at O—d,consisting of all the Doctors,
both the Proctors, all Heads and Governors of
Colleges and Halls, together with a numerous
appearance of Masters; when this venerable
and learned Body, in consideration of your extraordinary
Merits, and at the instance of their
Chancellor, were pleas’d to confer the following
singular Favour upon You, in the following
manner.

The House being regularly seated, the Vice-
Chancellor (as usual upon such occasions) rose
up, and delivered to the senior Proctor a Letter
from the Chancellor, which the said Proctor read X4v 160
read very audibly; beginning in the usual
Form, with “Mr. V. Chancr and Gent.
I have been mov’d on the behalf of the
amiable and eminent Melissa,”

And ending—“To this laudable request I
give my consent; and am,
Mr. V. Chancr and Gent. &c.”

The heads of which Letter were as follow.

“That leave be given to the said Melissa, already
perfect mistress of the several branches
of Natural Philosophy, and now deep in the
study of Mechanics, particularly that of copying
Medals by a new plastic art, in Basso Relievo,
on Paper—to pursue her said studies in
the public Library of this University; and
that the reverend and learned the Keeper of the
Archives, Medals, &c. be order’d to attend her
during her stay here, and supply her with all
the materials she shall have occasion for. And
moreover, that the said Melissa may have the
farther Favour of an honorary degree conferr’d
upon her, as a public testimony of the
regard of this University to real Merit.”

After some debates upon the subject matter of
the Letter, as well as the nature of the request, in regard Y1r 161
regard to the Novelty of it, and the extreme presumption
of suffering so beautiful a Person to pervade
the recesses of the Learned—

Order’d,

That Leave be given to the said Senior Proctor
(who, ’tis said, was first mov’d to petition the
Chancellor) to enlarge upon the Merits of the
Case, and more fully to explain the Nature and
Tendency of so extraordinary a Request, together
with the Benefits which might accrue to the Society
in general; which, after three laudable
Hems, in order to remove all obstructions, he
proceeded to do, as follows:

“That, as it has seem’d good to the Chancellor
to move us on the behalf of Melissa, who is descended
in a direct Line from a Lady right
cunning in the Art of making pretty Faces, and
who has given undoubted specimens of her uncommon
Genius in that, as well as other liberal
Sciences; ’tis hop’d that this University, so remarkable
for distinguishing Merit, will be particularly
unanimous in their vote, that Leave be
given to the said Melissa to pursue her studies, in
a regular manner, in this ancient and honourable
University.
That among variety of other Medals, belonging
to it’s Archives, are those which were struck
upon the Duke of Marlborough’s battles; and Y ’tis Y1v 162
’tis pray’d that this fair Student may have leave
to take all his Towns again in Paper; and
put his famous Battle of Blenheim, which cost
so many Millions, within the compass of a
Crown Piece.
That this is moreover a more safe, and expeditious
way of taking Towns than the present
bloody one now in use; and might therefore
be of infinite service to vast numbers of the
Gentlemen of the Army and Marine.
That by this means the immortal Actions of
that great General will be more effectually perpetuated,
and compris’d within the Cabinets of
the Curious; and since the Brave have from
time immemorial protected the Fair, ’tis but
reasonable that the Fair should, at least, record
the Brave.
That since the Lady is naturally of a cruel
disposition, and seems at present to have no
thoughts of transmitting her own Face to Posterity;
’tis hop’d she may be indulg’d in the
liberty of making free with other People’s.
And lastly, That in Consideration of her
high Birth, and singular Merit, as well as in
regard to the Chancellor’s Letter, she may have
confer’d upon her an honorary degree,
and the Title of Mistress of Arts; with
leave, not only to Vote in Convocation, but also
to have the Last Word.”
Y As Y2r 163

As nothing material was objected to this
Motion, except a sort of Whisper which went
round among the queer Faces; it pass’d without
a Division. Only the Rev. Dr. Sh—pp—n,
who has always the good of the Society at
heart, mov’d that a Clause might be added, viz.

That in consideration of her being a Lady
of a pleasing Aspect, and penetrating Eye, no
Student under the Degree of Doctor, be suffer’d
to approach the place of her Studies; and that
for every such Offence, the Offender shall be
obliged to stand upon his Head for the space of
two hours, within sight of the Lady; or pay
the sum of Forty Shillings for Peeping.

As this was so unusual a Favour, and for which
they had no precedent to proceed upon, it was
afterwards debated in what manner they are to
receive you into the Arms of the University, and
pay their Respects to you at your Entrance;
which ’tis pray’d may be a Public one, and is to
be perform’d in the manner following.

You are to be met at the City Gates by the
whole Body of the University, in their proper
Habiliments, and with their Arms extended.
As soon as you alight from your Coach, the Vice-
Chancellor is to uncover his head, and approach
you in the most respectful manner, to lead you to
his; where you are to be seated on his Right Y2 hand Y2v 164
hand, and are requir’d not to discompose the
gravity of his face, by any unseasonable Simperings
of your own. When you arrive at the
Theatre, the Company are order’d to halt, while
the Vice-Chancellor leads you out of his Coach,
and walks before you, in Procession, towards
the Public Library. The two Senior Proctors
are to be your Supporters, and your Train is to
be born up by any two Gentlemen Commoners,
whose Faces you have no objection to. When
you arrive at the Library, the Keys which unlock
the valuable Treasures of Sir Thomas Bodley
and other Benefactors, are to be deliver’d into
your hands, with the ancient and laudable Ceremony
of a Kiss from all the venerable Body of
Doctors. After this you are to be conducted in
the same manner to your apartment here in St.
Toles, which will be prepar’d for your reception
against the --03-2525th of March next, being Lady-
Day
.


I am, Madam, &c.

N. B. I am to have the honour of supporting
your Fan during the Ceremony.

Advertisement. Y3r 165

Advertisement.

A Very incorrect Copy of the following Letter
to Dr. Pitt, which by some means or other
got abroad in Manuscript, having been lately
printed, with the Author’s name to it, tho’ entirely
without her Knowledge or Consent; she
thinks proper to give it a place in this Collection,
as well in regard to her Self, as at the particular
request of several of her Friends.—
Occasion of it was to quicken the Performance
of the Doctor’s Promises of repairing with a
Wall, a very sorry and shatter’d old Mound of
Pales; the inconveniency of which Nusance had
for some years been submitted to with the Complaisance
of Neighbours. But little Probability appearing
when this stupendous Fabric was to be
built, upon failure of a number of these Promises,
the Author, being going from home for some
time, left this Letter for him behind her; in hopes
of its having, as the Editor of the printed Copy
says it had, it’s desir’d effect But that was a
Mistake. For it growing more and more convenientvenient Y3v 166
for the Doctor to let the Times he fix’d
lapse as usual, he continued his Promises for a
year or two longer; and then, unluckily for his
good Neighbours, his Workmen, ’tis said, thought
proper to make a little too free with their Territory;
which tho’ absolutely without his Approbation,
and entirely against his Consent, some
people have imagin’d not much to the Doctor’s
Honour. The Author therefore could not help
mentioning this Circumstance, not only in defence
of the Doctor’s Character, which she hears has
suffer’d upon this occasion from the Malice of
his Enemies; but also in regard to the Editor of
the printed Copy, whom (in return for the compliments
he is pleas’d to make her) she was willing
to treat with a new Preface to his second
Edition, which she heartily wishes may sell as
well as the first

Letter Y4r 167

Letter

To Dr. Pitt.

Sir,

As the use of Mounds and Fences has in
all ages obtain’d, as well for the security
of Property, as the safety, ornament, and
defence of the Proprietor; I take the liberty to
address You, not as a Mechanic, or Lawyer,
but as a Doctor of Physic, upon the manifest
Infirmity of your Pallisades. You must undoubtedly
have observ’d, in your perambulations
towards the little Edifice at the bottom
of your Garden, that they have for some years
been in a declining cachectic state; that there is
a manifest decay of the Fluids, and that the
Solids have lost their Tone and Elasticity. But
while You yourself were taken up in the contemplation
of the Human Fabric, it could not
be expected that this shatter’d frame should
claim much of Your attention; and therefore
Mrs. Pitt, in Your Absence, has sometimes assay’d
the Medical Art, in support of the tottering
Edifice. Her Practice was chiefly some of the
Woods, with great Quantities of Steel, and otherther Y4v 168
Astringents; which she generally administer’d
with her own hands. But as her Remedies
were sometimes pretty violent, and at
best but topical or palliative, they only shatter’d
the weaker and more contiguous Fibres;
and by plaistering and patching up the unsound
Parts for a while, precipitated the ruin of the
Whole.—As Searcloths, on a weakly Person,
seem to strengthen one part, while they debilitate
all the rest However she did what she
could, on so frail a Subject; but having at first
mistaken the Case, and seeing your unwillingness
to be call’d in, ’tis no wonder she
miss’d of the Cure. In the mean time several
eminent Persons, who have look’d upon the
infirm and deplorable state of your Frontier,
have consider’d the Case in different Lights.—
Some imputing it to the total decay of the radical
Moisture; others to the manifest defects
of the Stamina; others to the violent shocks
and concussions of neighbouring Bodies; but
the more judicious to worms.—In short,
whatever the Cause be, the Cure is only to be
expected from You; which I fear, nothing but
the most powerful Alternatives can bring about.

I’m sensible a Ruin has a very good effect in a
Prospect; and I would by no means have your
Garden defective of Ornament. But you have
already on the South-side a Malt-house magnificentlycently Z1r 169
shatter’d; on the North a Barn, or Hovel
in its last perfection; besides Dragon’s Kennel in
the Western view. So that you want no Decoration
of this sort; and indeed can have no pretence
for not making a general discharge of the
morbid Matter, and thoroughly purging the
whole System. If you were to have a consultation,
the whole Faculty, I’m perswaded, would
be of this opinion; and I’m sure F—n, if he
was call’d in, would approve of the Practice, as
entirely consistent with his doctrine of Evacuation.

Indeed it is not for me to direct so able-minded
a Physician in the minutest part of his Art;
and I should have been entirely silent upon this
head, if I was not myself a sufferer in the calamitous
scene. But having long since satisfy’d my
eyes and ears with seeing and hearing in public,
I would now gladly pass the rest of my time in
silence and obscurity; but those lamentable fractures
and disjointings in your partition-fence expose
me to all the world. Many, whom your
skill in the laws of Motion (particularly the peristaltic)
has sent on hasty errands to the bottom
of your Garden, have stopp’d short to contemplate
Me in my hortensical Operations, to the
obstruction of your physical ones. Sometimes
I’ve been surpriz’d with a paddle, or other instrument
of husbandry in my hand; generally in Z some Z1v 170
some ignoble occupation, and always in dishabille.
’Tis true, these dreadful chasms, in return, naturally
enlarge my views, and discover to me objects
well worthy the observation of a Philosopher.
—So, “The Soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d, Lets in new lights thro’ chinks which time has made.”
I say, thro’ the gaps and breaches of this corruptible
Fabric, I’ve seen You, Sir, busied in contemplation
of the works of Nature, and Mrs.
Pitt in those of Art; but then it must be sufficiently
mortifying to be seen myself in (the last
light our sex would chuse to be seen) an Undress.
However, seeing you so regardless of the weak
fence between us, as if you chose to be under
no restraint or bounds, but were for having all
things in common; I say finding there was
little hopes from the Physician, I one day apply’d
myself to Mr. G—, whom every body
knows to be a Gentleman of a fair character, and
well skill’d in Chirurgical Operations. I shew’d
him the Fractions, Dislocations, Strains, &c.
here a rotten Member, and there a Limb quite
dropp’d off; and the whole tending to a Mortification
and Putrescence; but indeed to very little
purpose. He likewise was for repeating the Palliatives;liatives; Z2r 171
for bracing up, strengthening, and corroberating
the weaker parts; and in short, what
with plaistering, patching, trepanning, and other
terms of Art, he put me out of all patience. I
left him with some indignation (as well knowing
the Surgeon is always in Fee with the Physician)
and resolved from that moment to apply myself
to You, from whom only I expect a Cure; and
that too by total Excision.

And now, in this miserable situation, good
Doctor, behold your Frontier! Naturally of a
thin scurvy Habit, and now in an advanc’d age,
attended with a constant trepidation, lowness,
and sinking; subject to violent Paroxysms, and
even Epilepsies in a North-Easterly wind; and in
short, by length of time, and inclement seasons,
reduc’d to the last stages of an Atrophy. And
will you thus suffer the Ornament and Defence
of your Person and House to sink in ruin, and
not stretch out your healing Hand to build it up
again? You have before often had to do with
rotten Subjects, and render’d ’em quite sound and
healthy again. Give us then a cast of your Art
in support of this miserable sinking Frame. But
if the Case is too far gone, and (as I fear) absolutely
out of the reach of Physic; nothing remains but
that you convince the World of the effects of
your Lyre; and, like a true son of Apollo, make Z2 the Z2v 172
the stones dance up into a Wall, as a standing
Monument of your Fame to future Ages.


I am Sir, &c.

P.S. There has lately appear’d a little swelling,
tumor, or protuberance (call’d by the Italians
Terraccia) of a livid colour, and quite
schirrous, upon the extremities at the bottom of
your Garden, which is extremely offensive to
Me; in that the spectator has from thence a full
view of that little Temple of ours, dedicated to
Cloacina. But as Mr. G—.has brought it to a
state of Maturation, I hope you’ll take proper
methods to disperse it, as I would by now means
have the mysteries of that Goddess expos’d.

Treatise of Demoniacs.

In a Letter to a Friend.

Your Letters, dear Madam, besides the
pleasure they always give me, generally
lead me into some learned, or useful Enquiry;
and either set my Imagination at work to divert
you, or my Spirit of Contradiction to dispute
with you. My last, I think, was a Dissertation
upon Eels; in which, I hope, I accounted for certain Z3r 173
certain Phenomena relating to those vermiform
Animals, entirely to the satisfaction of the Learned.
In this, I propose to enquire into the Nature,
and Existence of Demons, (or blue Devils,
as you call ’em) and examine the Powers they
have over the Minds or Bodies of Men: Beings,
which you seem to speak of with so little respect,
as if you had either no notion of their existence,
or were not in the least afraid of them. But I,
who am not sure I have not formerly been under
the Influence of some of ’em, and am still terrify’d
with the Stories I’ve heard of ’em, cannot so
easily free myself from their apprehensions; and
having found certain Impulses and Impressions upon
my mind, which I could not otherwise account
for, have no longer any cause to doubt of
their existence. Besides, I like the Country
Fellow’s prudence, who would not hear even the
smallest Imp abused, because he did not know
whose hands he might fall into.

It was the opinion of the ancient Greeks and
Romans, that every Man had two Genii, or
Demons attending him from his Nativity to his
Death. The good ones were called Lares; the
bad Larvæ, or Lemures. They were suppos’d
to have the inspection of human affairs, to be
the dispensers of Good and Evil to Men; and to
them were particularly attributed any extraordis
nary Diseases
. It is of no consequence to the point Z3v 174
point in debate whether these Demons were the
Souls of departed Men, as Hesiod, and others have
imagin’d; or whether they were Beings of another
Order, and endued with other Powers and
Faculties. All that I am concern’d to prove, is,
the Existence of some such Beings, and the Influence
they were suppos’d to have over the Minds,
and Bodies of Men.

This Notion was so generally allow’d of even
by Jewish and Christian, as well as Heathen
Writers, that ’twere endless to multiply Authorities
in support of it. I shall therefore only observe
to you, that Justin Martyr says, “The
Gods of the Heathens are Demons.”
Josephus
calls ’em, “The Souls of wicked Men.” And
Celsus observes, “That Gods as well as Demons
descended from Heaven for the Service, or
Punishment of Men.”
Now if there were
really no such Beings, whence came the general
Belief? If it be answer’d from Tradition, the
same Question will recur, Whence had they
this Tradition? And how came they by the Notion
at first?

The Influence they were suppos’d to have over
Mankind, is equally certain. Yet I can readily
allow the Demonology of the Ancients had a
Mixture of Truth and Error in it. Their
mysterious kind of Worship naturally led them
to great degrees of Superstition; and any extraordinaryordinary Z4r 175
Event they could not other wise account
for, was immediately ascrib’d to some invisible
Being, as the Cause. It is for this reason
probably, that Hippocrates seems to ridicule the
Notion, in his Treatise de Morbo Sacro. But tho’
he was undoubtedly enlighten’d with great
degrees of Knowledge, yet we must not entirely
give up the sense of Antiquity, for the
sake of this divine old Man. For we have
frequent and incontestible accounts of several
sorts of Possessions among them; and the Epilepsy
and Madness were always particularly look’d
upon as sacred Diseases; that is, as having their
Origin from some or other of their Gods, or
Demons. Besides these, we have the concurrent
Testimony of the Fathers against him; and St.
Cyprian
expresly observes, “That these are they
who inspire the breasts of the Prophets; who
are the Authors of Oracles; who, creeping
into Mens Bodies raise secret Terrors in their
Minds distort thier Limbs, destroy their
Health, and cause Distempers.”
And among
the Pagan Writers, Homer, describing the
Case of a Man who languish’d under a painful
Disease, wasting him away by degrees, says,
“That a hateful Demon had enter’d into him.”
If any one doubts their Influence after this, I
would fain know to what Purpose were their
Offerings and Lustrations? And why were Exorcismsorcisms Z4v 176
and Incantations made use of to cure
the distemper’d Person, rather than medicinal
Applications? To say nothing of the Power of
Music, which, as Xenocrates and others have
observ’d, “has freed those that were troubled
with evil Spirits,”
I shall only mention an
instance of the efficacy of Magical Charms from
JosephusSolomon, says he, left behind him
certain Charms by which they could expel Demons,
&c.
and this method of Cure remains
with us to this day. He then relates a Story
upon his own Knowledge, of one Eleazer, who,
by applying a Ring which had one of the
Roots which Solomon had taught the Virtues of,
under the Seal of it, drew out the Demon thro’
the Nose of him that smelt to it
. But being
willing to satisfy the Spectators entirely, (who
were no less than Vespasian, his Sons and Officers)
he commanded the Demon, as he went
out, to overturn a little Vessel of Water that
stood at some distance; which he effectually
did, to the entire Conviction, as well as Astonishment
of all the Spectators.

As therefore certain Disorders were ascrib’d
to certain invisible Beings, so they had particular
Appellations to signify the Nature and Degree
of the Possession. Thus, those who only
look’d wild, and talk’d somewhat incoherently, were Aa1r 177
were call’d Larvati, as being possess’d with
the Larvæ, or Goblins and Spectres. Others,
that were more raving and frantic, and were
besides terrified a nights with some such disorder
as that we call the Night-Mare, were styl’d
Lymphatici, as being under the Possession of of
the Nymphæ, or Lymphæ. Some such Beings
perhaps as those we call Fairies or Hags;
who inhabit chiefly moist places, where the
Nymphæ are said to reside, and sometimes entertain
the Traveller with soft Music. And a
third sort there were, who being seiz’d with
a higher degree of Frenzy, ran into Woods and
Desarts, howling and fancying themselves Wolves:
and these were call’d Lycanthropi. But all, according
to Justin Martyr, who are seiz’d by the
Souls of deceas’d Beings or Demons, are such
as all Men agree in calling Demoniacs.

Having now settled the Existence of Demons,
and the Influence they were suppos’d to have
over Mankind by the Ancients; I shall proceed
to shew in what manner they act now, and
what particular cases may reasonably be attributed
to their Operation.

All natural Defects, such as arise from invincible
Ignorance or Folly, may be attributed
either to our original Make and Constitution,
or to some accidental Deficiency of the Organs.
But all that kind of Depravity which is of our Aa own Aa1v 178
own seeking, or more properly, all that species
of Folly or Madness which comes under the
Notion of Wrongheadedness or Perverseness, may,
I think, be reckon’d purely Demoniacal; (the
perversion of our rational Faculties, or the immoderate
indulgence of our natural, being the
most likely Avenues for the Demon to enter)
or, in a word, all those effects which have no
visible Causes, may, I think, fairly be imputed
to invisible ones. For how can we otherwise
account for those egregious Blunders against
common Decency, and common Sense, we
daily meet with in Persons of no mean Understanding
in other respects, but by supposing
them under the Influence of some Demon
for the time? Is it reasonable to think, that
some of our gentlest Men, all smooth and jessamy
with the gentlest virtues, should want the
heart to exert ’em in the only instances where
they are Virtues? Or sacrifice the Ties of Honour,
or Friendship, to some prevailing Interest
or predominant Whim, if some invisible Agent
did not lurk somewhere about the Heart? Or
that Women of the first Rank, and finest Notions,
should condescend to put all the flowers
of Rhetoric out of countenance, only to convince
a poor Mercer out of Half a Crown?
Or elope from their loving Husbands, and
splendid Apartments, to some obscure Corner, and Aa2r 179
and the only Man they ought not to love, if
they were not entirely possess’d by the Larvæ;
and ty’d, chain’d down by these evil Beings?
Therefore, whenever I see a gentle Man bedawb
his gentle Character, or a gentle Woman
skinning flints, and saving the droppings of
her nose, under a notion of Frugality; or
squandering away her Virtue, Reputation, and
Health, under the notion of Pleasure; I’m so
far from making those uncharitable reflections
upon their conduct the World generally makes,
or for confining her under Lock and Key, as
cruel Parents are wont; that I’m for having
certain magic Circles first drawn round the Parties
affected, and the Curate, if he be a knowing
Man and understands Greek, sent for to
exorcise ’em.

You sometimes tell me (as little credit as you
seem to give to these things) that I am either mad,
or possess’d myself; and, as I said before, I am
not sure you have not some Foundation for what
you say. At least, I am myself often astonish’d
at a number of things I say, and do—I don’t
know why or wherefore, unless at those times
I am under the Power of some or other of
these capricious Agents. I very often will one
thing and do another, even against the most
determinate Resolutions of my own Mind; and
have more than once said No, when I meant Aa2 Yes; Aa2v 180
Yes; not with any design to falsify, but from
a certain Absence, or rather Possession of Mind,
which sometimes seizes me unawares, and overrules
all my Faculties. And what are those
Poetic Fits I am frequently trouble with, but
the violent and tumultuous influx of some Demon,
upon my Blood and Spirits, agitating all
within? For I feel my Breast of a sudden
prompted and inflamed, my eye sparkle and
look wild, like the Pythoness when she had
caught Inspiration; and, in short, for the Time
am full of the Larvae.

Perhaps you think it extremely absurd to
see a Judge dance, or a Senator selling bargains:
alas! ’tis not the Judge that jumps over the
Stick, or the Senator that sells you the Pennyworth
of Wit, Reputation, or Probity; ’tis the
evil Spirit within, that performs the feats of
Activity in the one, and diverts himself with
the trading Genius of the other.

Not long ago Music was the reigning Madness;
and then what crowds of the Lymphatici
(deviating from their ancient Mansion of Moorfields)
us’d to throng to the Opera-House, to
hear the enchanting sounds of Italy! There
you might see all the various expressions of
Frenzy strong in every Face—Some beat their
Breasts, and tore their nicely-compos’d Hair;
others howl’d bitterly, and were scarcely to be held Aa3r 181
held by their Keepers—Some again seem’d
pensive and gloomy, their eyes fix’d, and reclining
upon a bench; others, starting from their
seats, would tear up their buttons in a rage,
and pour out the most horrid exclamations.
In short, the whole Atmosphere, as well as the
Breasts of the Audience, seem’d to be inhabited
by Demons; and I could wish some of the
ancient Lustrations were made use of to purge
the air thereabouts, which, I fear, is not totally
cleans’d to this day.

At present the musical Mania seems to give
place to a kind of religious Frenzy, which has
spread much of late; and manifests itself chiefly
in Boastings of extraordinary Gifts and Communications,
confus’d pourings-out of Texts, vehement
Preachings and Printings for, and against
Election and Reprobation; casting Lots for Inspiration;
asking Counsel of God by bits of
Paper; feeling violent inflations and puffings
up, and writing ventiloquent Journals of the
Spirit. The poor Wretches, who are thus seiz’d,
call themselves Methodists; and have, at the
Head of one Party of ’em, a chosen Bramin
or Ventiloquist, who, impatient of the Lenity
of the civil Magistrate, calls out upon Persecution,
that he may have the Glory of sacrificing
himself for the few of the Elect—They fast
themselves to Skeletons, because they have a Text Aa3v 182
Text to prove, that the Way to Heaven is
thro’ a strait Gate; and therefore no fat Peocan
enter in. Several of these Lycanthropi,
having divested themselves not only of the Incumbrances
of the Flesh, but even of their
Calling and all visible Means of subsistence,
for the kingdom of Heaven’s sake, are now setting
out for the Wilderness, Georgia. in order to be
fed by Ravens, that they may be able to get
in at a Chink.

There are likewise several other kinds of
Deliria which are periodical, and return only at
certain Seasons. Of this sort is the Tulipomania,
or Tulip-Frenzy, which generally rages
pretty strongly all this month, and disappears
again all the rest of the year. But as this is not
properly a demoniacal Case, (tho’ the Ancients
had their Cerriti, those who were possess’d by
Ceres, as well as their Larvati, &c.) and as several
of my acquaintance are far gone in this
Malady, I shall content my self with having just
hinted it, and return to my Demoniacs.

For instance, whenever I see Divines, learned
or unlearned, labouring more after Quaintnesses
than Truth; teazing a Metaphor from
page to page; tormenting a Text to Meanings
it never meant; explaining some most obscure Point Aa4r 183
Point by hard-to-be-conceiv’d Prettinesses, and
Tricks upon Words, by Similies which have
no similitude, by Illustrations totally dark, by
Proofs which prove nothing, and by arguments,
which, if they prove any thing, prove too much;
I say, when I hear nothing but a jumble of
Sounds, a hash of Words, and a nothingness
of Sense, I conceive I have great Charity if I
only consider the Man (for I would not be understood
of the serious and sensible Divine) as
full of the Larvæ; and like the ancient Vates,
or Prophets, mistaking his own pious Rhapsodies
for holy Infusions of the Spirit.

Again, when I observe Physicians reasoning
about absolute Incertainties with the greatest
Certainty, confuting Hypothesis with Hypothesis,
making the Laws of Nature give place to
Algebraical Calculations, boldly opposing their
Wisdom to Hers, and either obstructing or diverting
her Course, when She would help
her self; murdering Health by rules of Art,
and trying Practices, or writing Treatises on Life,
by some call’d Meditations on Death; I say,
when I consider a Son of Æsculpaius in this
view, how can I hold my self from fancying
that he is the very Demon or Disease himself,
and permitted to enter into Mens Bodies, for
their Sins, in the shape of a Bolus, or a Pill?

Hence Aa4v 184

Hence too we may account for various Diseases,
and their several Phenomena, which pass
under the notion of Acts of the Will, or Understanding;
but which, from the high Inflammations
of some (which sometimes manifest
themselves in Party Zeal) and the hot and cold
fits of others (which never shew themselves distinctly
enough to observe whether they are of the
acute or nervous kind, or whether ’tis the sensitive
or the rational Faculty that is affected) are
shrewdly to be suspected, according to Celsus
and Hippocrates beforemention’d, to be the
work of some of these invisible Agents. Of
this kind likewise are several other sorts of Inflammations,
or Fevers; The Romans consider’d Fever as an intelligent Being, or
Goddess, to whom they built altars, and sacrific’d.
particularly those
which happen about the vernal Season of Life,
and are generally known by the name of Love-
Fits
. The Party, thus seiz’d, is by turns not
only the sport of all the Passions, but is hurried
away, as it were involuntarily, to the most extravagant
Actions; sometimes capable of encountering
the greatest Difficulties, and at others
not able to step over a Straw. But I need
not describe the symptoms, nor the Genius or
Goddess to whose Impulse they are owing; She
being equally known to the Moderns, as the Ancients. Bb1r 185
Ancients. I shall therefore only observe, that
in Love, the reverse of War, (which is likewise
a demoniacal Case) the Victors fly, and the
Vanquish’d pursue; and as all Warriors had
their Genius or Demon, so, Plato says, all Lovers
are inspir’d; that is, something more than
mortal.

But the most dangerous of this sort of Fevers,
are those autumnal ones which are sometimes
observ’d to rage so violently about the grand
Climacteric. For then the Patient being entirely
unguarded and unprepar’d, as apprehending
no farther attacks from this Quarter,
the Demon makes his full descent upon the
Blood and Spirits, and occasions all that preternatural
effervescence, so unlook’d for at this time
of life. In this case, some Authors have been for
making an incision in the left arm, wide enough
for the Demon to escape thro’ the orifice; and
after having attack’d him from within with a
sufficient quantity of Water-gruel, and other cooling
liquors, they order the Patient to be thrice
totally immers’d in the Cold-bath. The Church
of Rome makes use of a lustral Water, upon
these occasions; but I should think, some of
our petrifying Springs might do as well. However,
if this does not effect the Cure, there is
but one Remedy more I have met with in the
course of my Reading; and that is, certain Bb mysterious Bb1v 186
mysterious Origen says, the very Sound of certain Words, rightly
spoken, were effectual to drive out Demons. B. iv. P. 184.
Words compos’d in the form of
Anagrams, to be repeated either backwards or
forwards, as the Paroxisms require. Of which
class in the famous Abracadabra of Basilides;
a Word of such singular effecacy in demoniacal
Cases, that (if we may credit the sense of Antiquity)
when worn about the neck, and wrote in
the following manner, never fail’d of a Cure.
“Abracadabra
Abracadabr
Abracadab
Abracada
Abracad
Abraca
Abrac
Abra
Abr
Ab
A”

There is another Case, which seems to me to
be purely Demoniacal, and which generally goes
under the denomination of the Spleen, or Hypocondriac
Affection. Some Physicians have conceiv’d
this Disease to be entirely modern, particularlyticularly Bb2r 187
the accurate Dr. Cheyne, who dates it’s æra
from the first openings of our present reigning
Luxury and Voluptuousness. But there are many
reasons to suppose it of a much earlier date;
and if we only compare the Symptoms of the
Hypocondriaci, with those of the Larvati, &c.
together with the methods of Cure even now
in use, I fear we shall find it to be one and the
same Disorder. For the Hypocondriaci suffer
all those cruel Dejections and Perturbations of
Spirit, so common to the Demoniac; are scar’d
with Dreams and Illusions of the Night, tortur’d
with imaginary Fears, trembling with the
Apprehensions of all manner of Evils, peevish
and prone to Anger when no-body hurts ’em,
and not only out of humour with the World,
but even bearing Malice and Hatred against
themselves; and yet all this while (as their
Doctors have told ’em) have been in sound
Health of Body, but I’m sure very far from
their right Mind. Nay some of them have
actually fancy’d themselves transform’d too;
and I knew a poor Hypocondriac, who being
(imperceptibly) chang’d into a glass Window,
was afraid to stir out, for fear the Boys should
break her.

Now these are all Acts, or rather Depravations
of the Imagination, or Mind; but how Bb2 the Bb2v 188
the Mind can be the Seat of the Disease, is,
to me, perfectly unintelligible. It may indeed
so oddly associate its ideas, by the intervention
of some of these evil Beings, that it may fancy
all the Pains and Penalties that ever were inflicted
upon the poor Body; but can a Disease
(properly so call’d) appear in the shape of an
Easterly wind, and vanish again with the least
change of the Weather-cock? Can this particular
one assume what form it pleases; be an
Asthma to-day, and a Pleurisy to-morrow, a
Dropsy one Moment, and a deep Consumption
the next? Such changes Proteus himself
never underwent; but such changes a poor
Demoniac may easily be suppos’d to undergo.
For ’tis one of the properties of the Genii to
assume what shape they please, as well as to
imprint the most fantastic Images upon the
Minds of Men. Hence the Party is one moment
franticly merry, and, and the next sullen
and dumb. And tho’ the former symptoms
seem rather to be the instigations of the Larvæ,
yet this effect may perhaps be more properly
attributed to the Lares, who were the offspring
of a dumb Goddess, by the Demon of Mirth,
as he was carrying her to the infernal Shades.

But that this is really a demoniacal Case, will
further appear, when we compare the presentsent Bb3r 189
methods of Cure, with the ancient manner
of appeasing, or exorcising these Beings. Now
any one that will but be at the trouble of reading
over that painful Enquirer, Alexander Ross, Myst. Poet.
may know, that upon these occasions they us’d
to offer to the Genii Wine, and the smoke of
Frankincense. And does not our learned and
judicious Sydenham order the most generous
Wines to be given moderatley in this Case; and
also various Fumigations made, not only of
the odoriferous kind, but even all manner of
fætids?—They (says he) thought it an abomination
to offer any living Creature to these
Beings, or to worship them with the loss of any
Beasts’s life. Cheyne observes the same Method
to this day, and will suffer none of his Patients
to taste of animal Food. And if the Frenzy
be very high, he enjoins a total Milk Diet.—
The place where they worshipp’d these Beings
(he tells us) was in their Chimneys, &c. Conformable
to this Practice, Mandeville orders
the Hypocondriaci to indulge themselves in
warm rooms, and by good fires, &c.

In short, from the Moderns retaining thus
much of the ancient Practice, ’tis plain they
agree as to the Effects of this Disorder, tho’ they Bb3v 190
they seem not to have the least Notion of the
Cause. And this it is which renders the Cure
so extremely difficult at present, as well as their
Practice so diametrically opposite to each others.
For while the Ancients, who from a thorough
Knowledge of the Cause, observ’d a kind of
religious Practice, and mixt something of Devotion
with their Drugs; the Moderns, who
seem to have no Faith in any Powers, but those
of Medicine, rest the whole upon Principles of
Physic. And thus after having amus’d the
World, and puzzled themselves with Crudities,
Flatulencies, fizy Juices, lax Solids, and I know
not what beside, they (with a peculiar Mixture
of Science and Generosity) lay it all upon the
poor Patient’s Fancy; and call it nothing but
Imagination, forsooth! And thus, at length,
they hit off the Case. But the misfortune is,
this lucky Thought never comes into their
Heads till they have teaz’d and tormented the
poor Patient with Remedies that are worse than
the Disease; and amus’d him with Hope, till
he despairs. But not to enter farther into the
Mysteries of the Science, this sufficiently shews
how little is to be depended upon from the Moderns
in this Case; which, together with an
earnest desire of imprinting proper Notions of
these Beings on your Mind (lest at some time or Bb4r 191
or other they should take Possession of you, as a
Punishment for your Incredulity) were the chief
Motives which set me upon this Enquiry.

And now I shall leave my Labours with the
Practitioners in Physic, to reform their Practice
by; with the young Students in Divinity, to try
their Doctrines by; and with the rest of the
World, to make what Uses they please of: not
doubting but I shall receive the Thanks of Posterity,
for recovering so much of the learned
and useful Dust of Antiquity, tho’ the present
Age may possibly envy me the Glory of it.


I remain, &c.
Letters Bb4v

Letters
to
Mrs * * * * * * *

Cc1r 193

As I’ve an impatience in my Nature to
satisfy all its laudable Impulses, give me
leave, dear Madam, to remind you, with some
earnestness, of the Promise you were so obliging
as to make me in Town. The pleasure you
gave me in your Conversation, only makes me
more eagerly desire that of your Correspondence;
as an elegant Preface to a Book, raises
our Curiosity to know more of the Author.
But the first Letter, like the first Visit, is generally
the most irksome part of the Ceremony.
One is at such a loss for Words, so distress’d
about Forms, and so embarrass’d with Civilities,
that ’tis impossible to speak easily, or move
gracefully. No one disengages her self so readily
of these incumbrances as Mrs. —, or
so easily dispenses with the Law of Ceremony
from others. You take one into your Dressing-
Room, seat one in one of Rableais’ easy Chairs,
unlock your Treasures of Science, and (tho’ one
has never spoke to you before) lead one thro’
all Subjects with so much ease, and so little reserve,
that ’tis not above five Minutes that one
can possibly fancy one’s self a stranger. You
see, I can’t yet speak of your Dressing-Room
without rapture. How often have I, when all Cc my Cc1v 194
my thoughts have been groveling in * * * *, been
caught up thither, as it were in a Trance, with
St. Teresa and your self! While you, like some
good Genius, willing to raise my Ideas beyond
the Confines of this World, not only seem’d to
beckon me away, but gave me power to emerge.
Attach’d as I was to this or that particular System,
this Sun, or those Stars; yet I found there
was Something still beyond them, that not only
encourag’d my pursuit, but directed my steps.
I had made many Pilgrimages to my Saint in
Burlington-Street, in order to fix my thoughts
upon some rational Object of Devotion; but
’twas entirely owing to you, that my Notions,
in Town, were so highly rectify’d, as to relish
the conversation of the Spirits of Teresa and
Austin.

Once more give me Leave to remind you of
your promise of farther communications, by assuring
you I’m all Impatience already, and
would fain have old Time mow down the intermediate
hours faster than usual. Nor can you
wonder at my eagerness to be acknowledg’d for
an humble Correspondent, who am already so
much, and so


Sincerely, &c.
September Cc2r 195

’Tis paying you but an ill Compliment,
to let one of the most entertaining Letters,
I’ve met with for some years, remain so
long unacknowledg’d. But when I inform you
I’ve had a house full of Strangers almost ever
since, who have taken up all my time, I’m
sure you’ll excuse, if not pity me. “Who
steals my Purse, steals trash; ’twas mine, ’tis
his, and has been slave to thousands: but
he, who filches from me my precious Moments,
robs me of that, which not enriches
him, and makes me poor indeed.”
’Tis owing
to this want, I should not say loss of time,
(for the hours have not pass’d by unimprov’d or
unentertaining) that I have not been able to
tell you sooner, how much I envy you that leisure
and retirement of which you make such
admirable use. There ’tis the mind unbends
and enlarges itself; drops off the forms and
incumbrances of this world, (which, like garments
trail’d about for state, as some Author
has it, only hinder our motions) and seizes and
enjoys the Liberty it was born to. O when
shall I see my little Farm! that calm recess,
low in the Vale of Obscurity, which my Imagination
so often paints to me! You know I’m Cc2 always Cc2v 196
always in raptures about the Country; but your
description of Richmond is enough to intoxicate
the soundest head.

You say, I must not flatter you. But when the
Sun shines, may I not say he shines without flattery?
By no means, you tell me. For the Sun, tho’
he is so eminently bright himself, and warms and
irradiates numberless other Orbs, yet is so excessively
humble, that he is not even conscious of his
own perfections; and if you should mention
’em to him, perhaps he may grow proud, and
warm and light us no more.—Indeed if that
were to be the case, I should be extremely
cautious, how I mention’d the word shining;
but if h should take it into his head to say this
was flattering him, what must he say to the
poor Persians who adore him?—In short, you
must either suppose me incapable of being
warm’d or pleas’d; or so obsequiously civil as
to flatter Sun, Moon, and Stars promiscuously;
for neither of which characters I reckon my
self much indebted to you.

The truth is, you’ll read St. Austin ’till you
fancy you have not a single Excellency left in
you. A most comfortable Reflection surely!
and must administer high satisfaction to the human
Mind, to see itself divested of all it’s Powers,
Faculties, and Endowments; for fear the bare Cc3r 197
bare consciousness of ’em should elate it too
much. But you carry matters still farther;
for we must strip to pure Spirit, and naked
Soul, before we can make any tolerable figure
in your scale of Perfection.—How the Mind
will act when disembody’d, I can’t say; but
in it’s present state, I find my five Senses extremely
necessary to it’s operations, and have
no notion of parting with any of my natural
powers, ’till I find it can exert it’s faculties
without ’em. I never met with any but Teresa
that could shoot away from the Body, and leave
it uninform’d in some melancholy cell, while
her better part went and enjoy’d itself in Vision.
But she was a Saint. I wish You have not
some sort of ambition that way. For if I
flatter you now, who knows but then I may
turn Catholic, and adore you?

I Find you have not heartily forgiven me my
ill manners in not acknowledging your first
Favour sooner; which, I confess, was a high
instance of disrespect, but impossible for me not
to be guilty of. Only consider; with five People
in the house, and the most part strangers,
who had never seen the pomps and vanities of this, Cc3v 198
this, or the neighbouring places; and your Slave
Mistress of the Ceremonies — I say, how could
I possibly sit down to write under this weight
of affairs? Or where find a place to be alone
in? I repeat my reasons, because I’d fain have
you convinc’d that they are not excuses; tho’ if
this is your manner of expressing your resentments,
’tis so agreeable, that I’m afraid hereafter
I shall have a sort of pleasure in offending
you. One would think, I had a taste of it
already, because I’m just going to find fault
with you. ――

As to the Instability of the human Mind,
the supreme Intelligence would have frustrated
his own designs, if he had made it incapable of
being touch’d, or mov’d with the appearance
of Good. The Present and Future is all we are
concern’d about. The Present will naturally
take place, ’till we have tasted and try’d it;
and if it is found insufficient, he has given us
the reasoning Faculty to carry our Researches
farther, even to Revelation, which will light us
thro’ the Mists of Error and Ignorance. If then
we use this Faculty right, it will lead us on, ’till
we arrive at the highest Good;—the improvement
of our Natures here, and Glory and Immortality
hereafter. This instable disposition thereforefore Cc4r 199
of the human Mind is it’s proper state; as it
leads us, by just gradations, on to Perfection, and
at the same time leaves us free Agents.

The manifest insufficiency of sensual enjoyments
no one surely ever deny’d.—A life of Pleasure,
a total immersion in Sensuality, can by no
means be the proper happiness of a human Creature:
a Creature compos’d of two distinct principles
of action, Reflection as well as Sensation.
From the latter we may infer the temperate
gratification of the inferior faculties; and from
the former the necessity of restraining them
within proper bounds. For whenever they exceed,
either in kind or degree, they encroach
upon that faculty, which ought to be the governing
principle, and consequently destroy that happiness
they were design’d to promote.

There is so close a connection between the
Body and Soul, that whatever one enjoys or
suffers, the other partakes of. Now the Body
is as much a part of our Nature as the Soul;
our appetites and passions, as our reason: therefore
whatever gives the body its proper tone
or vigour, that is, whatever is most likely to
smooth and harmonize the Passions, and
hinder them from preying upon themselves,
or others, must at the same time bid fairest
for regulating the powers of the Understanding,
and give them likewise their due force and Cc4v 200
and energy. Temperate gratifications therefore,
as they are highly conducive to these ends, must
of consequence promote, rather than disturb
the harmony of Virtue; in that, by contributing
to (or rather being) the health of the Body,
they corroberate the powers of the Mind, and
keep the Passions in good humour, which would
otherwise contract Sourness and Morosity, and
create a perpetual War within.—Take away the
Passions entirely, and, in effect, you take away
Virtue and Vice; invert their order or course,
and you turn every thing topsy turvy; but under
proper regulations, and allow’d their due
influence, they come in for a considerable share
of the harmony, and render the balance on
Virtue’s side, more strong, compleat, and full.

If by Religion, or Virtue, is meant only
divine Adoration, or the Worship of the Deity,
this is so far from being the sole Business or
Happiness of a moral Agent, that ’tis only one
particular branch of it, tho’ undoubtedly the
first and highest Our Neighbours, and our
selves require a large portion of our care and
concern; and these again branch’d out into their
several Relations and Duties. But if we suffer
one particular Duty (even the Worship of
the Deity) to engross us all, or even to entrench
upon the rest, we make but a very imperfect
Essay towards Religion, or Virtue, and are Dd1r 201
are still at a considerable distance from the Business
of a moral Agent.

There are many well-meaning people, who,
out of a mistaken Zeal for Religion, have carry’d
this Duty to such an excess, as to exclude
not only Pleasure, but even Morality from its
Society.—Have conceiv’d, they might at any
time set aside some of the slighter matters of the
Law, such as Justice, Mercy, Fidelity, when
the bell rings for Church; and can easily dispense
with a Commandment or two, if they are but
time enough for the Absolution. For your own
part, I not only believe, but know you to be
truly religious, in a sense of the highest import;
but at the same time, I say, ’tis possible to be
highly religious in the other sense; that is,
omit no Acts of Devotion either in public or
private, and yet be very immoral Agents. And
’tis no wonder Pleasure should be excluded from
this Scheme, where neither the relation we stand
in to our selves, or Society, is at all consider’d;
and nothing but a gloomy dread of the Almighty,
whose darling Attribute is Love, or an
intemperate Zeal for his Service, which Zeal
he bids us manifest in loving one another,
prevails.

By Virtue therefore I mean an universal Obedience
to the Will of the supreme Law-giver;
and this, we equally grant, is the sole Business Dd and Dd1v 202
and Happiness of a moral Agent. But Virtue
no where forbids those temperate gratifications
and relaxations of the Body, which are necessary
to invigorate the languid powers of the
Soul; which soften our Toils, alleviate our
Cares and Disappointments, and keep the contending
Powers in humour with each other.
Virtue then (which ought never to be distinguish’d
from Religion) is no more than Harmony;
the sweet concording Power within us,
which compounds, unites, and regulates all the
Dissonances of our Nature, reconciles Reason to
Sense, and even to itself. Whatever therefore is
destructive of this Harmony, must be so far wrong
or vicious; whether it be an immoderate use of
Pleasure, or an intemperate Zeal for any single
Act of Duty. The first implies irregularity
and disorder in the Appetite; and the latter
a confus’d and erroneous Understanding.

Your Letter from Bath had a most agreeable
effect upon my Spirits, and contributed
not a little to the harmony and health
of their companion, the Mind. I hope the
Waters of that place will have the same effect upon Dd2r 203
upon yours; the co-operation of the animal
Machine being, you know, part of my Creed.

The Conversation of the more virtuous and
wiser sort, I hope, I shall always be fond of,
and aim at. If they think me worthy to partake
of their Friendships, they heighten my
Enjoyments, and improve a Taste I would not
part with for any of the sensual Gratifications I
know of. For tho’ I can by no means strike
these entirely out of my Scheme of Harmony,
yet as strongly as I’ve seem’d to plead for the
Passions, and five of the Senses, at least, (I won’t
answer for it, if there is not a sixth) and their
proper and subordinate use in the complicated
System, I think I’m far from a Voluptuary my
self, tho’ I profess my self no great Friend, in
general, to those very mortifying Doctrines you
speak of. However, those who know me, and
my manner of Life, I believe see nothing very
notorious in me of the sensual kind; and where
there are no Overt-acts, ’tis but Charity to suppose
the best of what is behind the Curtain.
Not that I mention this as matter of Merit
in me, nor am I indebted for it to any signal
combats of Flesh and Spirit; those high efforts
of Virtue which some generous dispositions have
visibly display’d, when they have had strong
Obliquities of nature to conquer. My taste of
mental pleasures is a good deal constitutional, Dd2 and Dd2v 204
and depends strongly upon the original Cast of
my Nature. But finding these on all hands allow’d
the preference, what was at first only my
original Complexion, is now become matter of
Choice with me; and as I can safely indulge in
these, ’tis an additional pleasure to strike in
with the Prevalence of my Nature, and at the
same time make a sort of Virtue of my Dispositions.
I say, a sort of Virtue; because mental,
any more than sensual Gratifications, are neither
virtuous nor vicious, otherwise than as they are
order’d or directed. But if they’ve no Aim or
Direction at all, farther than to amuse the Mind
within itself; yet if they’re preferable to sensual
ones, and pursu’d on that account, so far at least,
they partake of the Nature of Virtue.

The love of Ease, with respect to the Body,
and a settled calm and composure of Mind (dispositions
which would by no means comport
with sensual Enjoyments) I find strongly impress’d
upon me; and most of my Actions have
a tendency that way. This Propensity naturally
inclines me to prefer a contemplative to an active
Life; and consequently the pleasures of the
Mind to those of Sense. So that tho’ ’tis no
Virtue to have a Taste in one’s Nature for pleasures
of a superior kind, yet ’tis certainly a
Happiness when our Dispositions take this friendly
turn; and to be so form’d as not only to prefer, Dd3r 205
prefer, but to relish what is best.—’Tis the
same with regard to Actions strictly virtuous.
This inward Taste, or, according to Philosophers,
moral Sense, (which is what I mean by
the sixth) or these good Dispositions, according
to Divines, render Virtue infinitely easier to
be practis’d, than where there are obstinate
Propensities to the contrary. And tho’ more is
due to the Merit of those who subdue these Propensities,
more Virtue in bravely combating,
and carefully composing the irregularities of our
Nature; yet I cannot think, (tho’ I place it very
low, in regard to the other) that there is no
Virtue at all in following virtuous Propensities.
As I said before, ’tis infinitely easier to pursue
the Bent of our Nature, than oppose it; but
Providence surely has given us these Talents for
some end; and that end must be to improve
them. Suppose, for instance, I’ve a Disposition
to that branch of Charity, Alms-giving, and
cannot see a necessitous object without stretching
out my hand to relieve him; am I, because
this is a Tendency in my Nature, to with-hold
my Alms? Or is it no Virtue in me, because
I’ve a Pleasure in it, and am careful of all opportunities
to improve it? Certainly this is using
the Talent I was entrusted with; which was
given me for that purpose, which must imply Mismanage- Dd3v 206
Mismanagement if secreted, and which will be
required at my hands, with Usury, at the final
account of things.—I conclude therefore, that
tho’ ’tis no Merit on our part to come out of
the hands of our Maker with good Dispositions,
yet it is so to improve the friendly Soil; and
so to foster the good Seeds, that we may be
able not only to give an Account of ’em, but
to reap their Fruits at the general Harvest—
We must only be careful to preserve a proper
medium; and not let the particular virtue, that
coincides with our Nature, and which we can
so easily strike in with, encroach upon others
of equal importance. In a word, we must not
bestow indiscriminately; neither must our Charity
interfere with our Justice. All the Relations
we stand in to others must be taken into
the Consideration; and Pleas of Right preferr’d
to those of Necessity.

But I’m for carrying this Doctrine of striking
in with our Propensities still farther, even
into things indifferent, and which concern only
our personal Character, or outward Appearance
in the World. All kinds of Affectation, and appearing
out of Character is (to me) silly, and
unamiable. Better follow the bent of our Nature,
and the Direction imprest upon it, (tho’
there may be something of Oddity and Peculiarity
in it) than go out of it, and be significantcant Dd4r 207
for—I know not what. There’s something
in the Cast of a Coxcomb, or an excessive
fine Lady, which in general, is not unentertaining;
but if you lower the Vanity of
the one, and strike off the over-acted Delicacy
of the other, they would settle into absolute
Nothing. They’d have no Character at all.
But here, their particular Bent paints ’em. The
Image before you is somewhat. ’Tis alive,
and keeps you awake; besides the Entertainment
they’re of to themselves. But oppose this Bent,
set the Coxcomb to reading the Fathers, or the
fine Lady to darning her Children’s stockings,
you rob the World of two illustrious Characters,
and themselves of the Felicity of Life.

I don’t know what Figure I, for my own
part, make in the World; nor am I sure I
am not soundly ridiculous, by being true to the
honest Tendencies of my Nature. But this I
am sure of, that if I had set up for the fine
Lady, and been to travel thro’ all the forms
of Dress and Delicacy that are necessary to finish
the Character; not even the Fashion itself
could have produc’d any thing so incongruous, or
disproportion’d as this my second Birth had been.
Great must have been my struggles to have
furnish’d out the plastic form and fitted it, in
some measure, to the enlivening principle within.
A motley appearance at my first entrance into the World, Dd4v 208
World, and worse as I proceeded. For having
with much pains and inveteracy struck out the
original Lines, the particular Stamp and Impress
of my Nature; and imprinted there fresh
Characters, new Types, and staring Hieroglyphics,
from the Ball, the Opera, and the Assembly,
I should at length have come up to the
publick view—What?—Not a Creature of
God’s making, but the Fashion’s.

I’m sensible, however, that mine’s a very
unfinish’d, as well as an insipid Character; and
I labour with it, that is, oppose it, as much as
is consistent with my love of Ease, in compliance
to the Fashions of the World; one of
which is—never to be alone. I would by
choice oftner be so than most people; but from
a particular affection to the Living, and an incredible
satisfaction I take in the society of the
Dead and the Dumb, am seldomer so than any
body. Again, I honour the Living, no one
more; but having no Genius at a Conversation,
am generally the most unentertaining Person in
Company. But Custom and Acquaintance have
made it necessary for me to be much in it;
and I acquiesce, oftner than I rejoyce. In short,
with an aversion to hear my self speak, and a
consciousness that no one will be a bit the wiser
when I have done, I’ve arriv’d at such a Comfortable
disuse of Words, such a perfect lassitude of Ee1r 209
Expression, that I am now absolutely the worst
Conversation-piece you ever saw. But one degree
above Still-life. My courteous Correspondents
are my only sufferers; for the Stream,
that’s pent up for the benefit of my Hearers,
overwhelms my Readers. I’m sorry the misfortune
falls upon You, at present; but you
flatter’d me in your last, and so have drawn
down this Deluge of a Letter upon you. But
I’ll exercise your exemplary Patience no longer
—The truth is; my first Edition, which
was of a moderate size, was a little too much
blotted to send to you: and when I came to
transcribe it, it so grew upon my hands, that
’twas with difficulty I could circumscribe it
within the bounds you see.

I Began to be afraid you were heartily tir’d
of me; and so long a Letter, as my last,
must indeed be fatiguing. My only hope was,
that you were not return’d yet from Bath; and
that whenever you did arrive, if it came to
your hands, you’d be enough in a hurry to
throw it by among the forgotten things, the
- - - - - - - and the - - - - - - - - of the Ee Age. Ee1v 210
Age. However I should not have let another
Post pass without writing; being desirous you
should know I found a vacancy in my Scheme,
since your Silence, and that there was a part
wanting in my System of Harmony.

I’m very glad, however, that you interpret
my Letter better than I had done my self; and
that you believe my concern for your Health,
which I rejoyce to hear is so much mended,
was something more than matter of Form.
You were not mistaken, when you concluded it
came from my Heart; as I hope I am not,
when I flatter my self that some of the obliging
things you say to me are not very remote
from Yours. Not that I’m vain enough to be
over credulous in these matters; nor weak
enough to apply Compliments, and Things of
Course, seriously. I will believe you don’t dislike
my way of thinking, because you continue
to write to me; and have no objection to my
Morals, because you never told me you had
any. And so, having discours’d over both these
Subjects, we’ll do as many other great Writers
do—leave things just as we found’em.

I can’t say, I have any natural Propensity towards
London, at present; and unless I find
some new Direction, some foreign Spring inserted
among my Wheels, shall hardly gravitatetate Ee2r 211
towards your Hemisphere this Spring. And
yet I heartily wish this little Citadel in St. Toles,
my proper Orb, could now and then roll within
the attraction of your Vortex, without incomoding
our Neighbours. ’Twould be pleasant
enough, if Houses were Planetary Systems;
and the Inhabitants could shake hands, and converse,
as they sail’d by each other. But we
must not expect such glorious Revolutions,
while we inhabit these paultry Tenements;
nor hope to tread on Stars, while we converse
with such miserable Mortals.


I remain, &c.

P.S. I’m sorry I can’t at this time obey
your Call for Poetry; but the Fit comes upon
me only by intervals, and is perfectly involuntary,
like other natural Excretions, which happen
(according to Physicians) thro’ Weakness,
or want of Power to restrain ’em. Besides I
take in - - - - - - - - - Any body, who is
never so far gone, only let ’em peruse those
Monthly Lays; and if it does not cure ’em,
nothing in Nature will.

Ee2 April Ee2v 212

Among all the difficulties and discouragements
of this mortal Coil (as Shakespear
calls it) your silence touches me very sensibly.
What have I done, that you wont write to me?
Or what are you doing, that I can neither hear
of you, or from you? These Questions would
be impertinent in one of your civil curt’seying
acquaintance, that does not care a half-penny
for you; but where we are in earnest, we are
apt to be eager and peremtory.

If you enquire why I’ve let you rest so long;
why, when you were folding your arms and
closing your eyes, I made no noise, but left you
quietly to your repose; I answer, I had no
Power to wake you. I’ve been confin’d, shut
up for this last six weeks; even my very
Thoughts imprison’d. In sober sadness, I’ve
been sick, every body in the house sick. But
all this while to find you in so profound a Lethergy,
at length rouses all my Forces. I have
no longer Patience. Lo! here I deposit the
remains of a Fever, and am determin’d to wake
you with the residue of my Ravings. If this
has no effect, I fear I shall grow louder and
louder. If Prose wont wake you, Verse shall; and Ee3r 213
and if you wont hear my from my Closet, I’ll
make a noise in the World. Some way or other
I am determin’d to disturb you; for I have not
Patience to let You rest, when I can’t.

I Will not let my acknowledgments for your
last Favour grow cold, to wait for the coming
of fine Speeches; but hasten to inform you,
that it prov’d a most excellent Succedaneum to
the Bark. I’ve no longer any feverish Symptoms,
my Rage subsides, and Poetry is no more.
When I wrote last my Head was full of misshapen
Forms, flowry Desarts, sandy Fields,
seas of Milk, and Ships of Amber. But those
two admirable Specifics, your Letter and the
Peruvian Cortex, have restor’d Objects to their
proper Forms, and set Imagination and Judgment
right again. I see no longer any ghastly
appearances in your silence; have no farther apprehensions
of losing your Correspondence; and
consequently am cur’d of my Poetry, as well as
the rest of my Deliriums.

In my last, I ask’d what I had done that you
would not write to me? I have a much stricter
Account to call you to now; and enquire, what
it is I have done, that you flatter me? At such Ee3v 214
such a rate too, that I blush for my own Perfections!
—One reason, I think, the Duchess
of Marlborough gives, why Queen Mary did not
like her, was—that her Majesty was soon tir’d
of any one that did not talk a great deal. I suppose
most Queens love Flattery; and consequently
the more talk her Subjects treated her
with, the more her Majesty had of that precious
Commodity. But now whenever I begin talking
upon the Subject of your Perfections, you
have so little of this Queen-like Taste about you,
that you wont so much as hear me; and instead
of recommending my self to your good Graces
by this Sovereign Method, I lose all credit, and
esteem with you.

But pray, my dear Madam, is it reasonable
you should have all the talk to yourself? Are
you to monopolize fine Words? And be the
sole Dispenser of soothing Things? I beseech you,
leave me a little of the Polish of the Age; and
don’t confine me always to the Province of puting
forth unwelcome Truths, to the discredit of
my Breeding. In short, I must have Liberty;
I will have Liberty. ’Tis the common Cry
now—Liberty! and hang Sir Robert. Do not
- - - - - - - - - - and shall I be deny’d this
Priviledge? Abridge the first Motions of my
Heart, and—

I have Ee4r 215

I have but three words more to say to you.
I must have Liberty. I will have Liberty. Ay,
ay, (as the Mob says in Julius Cesar) “We’ll all
have Liberty”
.

The first Letter from an absent Friend is
surely the most agreeable thing to muse
over in Nature. Yours from Hatfield reviv’d in
me those pleasing remembrances which not
only enliven, but expand the Heart; that very
Heart which, but the moment before, felt itself
mightily shrunk and contracted at the thoughts
of your Departure. Lady H. Beauclerk partook
of the Pleasure. The moment she saw your
Hand, she crav’d half!—and read it most
complacently over my shoulder.

’Tis to no purpose to tell you, how much
you were miss’d by every body that stay’d in
town; how often I cast my eyes up at your
Dressing-Room windows, or how many people
I’ve run over in contemplating your Dining-
Room shutters. All I have to beg of you is, to
write to me very often, to be mindful of your
Health; and to order John, when I go to Town
again, to tye up the knocker.—I could tell you Ee4v 216
you many stories of the sensible Things; but
of all the insensible ones upon this occasion, your
Lamp provok’d me the most To see that Creature,
when I’ve gone by in an Evening, burn
so pertly, and with so much alacrity, has put
me out of all patience. To what purpose should
he light us into your house now? Or who’d be
oblig’d to him for his paultry rays?—I took a
contemplative turn or two in your Dressing-
Room once or twice; but ’twas so like walking
over your Grave, that I could not bear to
stay.— Lady H. departed two days after you;
and in short, I liv’d to see almost every body I
lov’d, go before me. So last Saturday made
my own exit, with equal decency, and dignity;
that is, with a thorough resignation of the World
I left, and an earnest desire after that I am
now enjoying with Lady Bowyer, and Miss Peggy
Stonhouse
. I shall begin verging towards my last
Home, after having just touch’d upon the Confines
of Lady H.B.’s World, there to subside, and
be at Peace; where I shall have nothing farther
to hope for—but to meet with a Letter
from you.

I have implor’d St. Swithin in your behalf;
but he either not hears me; or, to pay you a
greater Compliment, weeps plentifully for your
absence. I fear you’ve had a terrible Journey,
for scarce a day has pass’d that he has not shed
many Tears.

Ff1r 217

Yesterday I arriv’d here, where in the midst
of my Joy I had the Pleasure to meet
with a Letter from You. I assure you I slept
the better for it; and as the consciousness of
your kind remembrance of me was one of the
last things that past thro’ my Head last Night,
I cannot let the Morning pass without sitting
down to thank you for it; tho’ I fear you’ll
have left Scarborough before this can reach you.

Indeed you flatter me too much. Your Esteem
is among the high things I’m panting after;
but while You’re soothing a very laudable Passion,
you administer Food to a very impertinent
one. There’s nothing that Vanity is so apt to
catch and kindle at as Praise; and when the
Flame is once lighted up, there’s no knowing
where ’twill end. It may begin at my House;
but if you won’t be alarm’d, when one cries
Fire! I won’t answer for the Damages it may
do to yours. In short, if the goodly Fabric,
that high opinion of my self you’ve flatter’d me
into, should fall; ’tis no fault of mine, if you’re
involv’d in the Ruins.

I had the pleasure of your former Letter, at
Denham-Court; but have been in such a moving Ff way Ff1v 218
way from place to place ever since, that I have
not had time to sit still long enough to thank
you for it. I entertain’d Lady H.B. highly
with your Adventure of the Portmantle, and
the hundred Pound; which most other people
would have had a thousand Cares about. Pray,
if ever you publish any Memoirs of your self,
let me have the honour to write your Ecclesiastical
History; where the Adventure of the Portmantle
may be inserted by way of Digression,
to the great emolument of the Reader.

I should be sorry to hear you’re so ill accommodated
as to Lodging, but that I know you’ve
learnt with the greatest Ecclesiastic the Church
ever produc’d, to be therewith content. Drums
and disagreeable Noises you must expect to
meet with; but may all other Disquiets ever
be far from you! I shall live in hopes of hearing
from you, when you get to Town; but can
give you no manner of encouragement about
altering your Style, and Manner of Writing.
Leave Pains and Study to Critics and Commentators;
but write to me from your heart, as I
do from mine, when I assure you,

I am, &c.

You can’t imagine, how happy I feel my self!
all my Friends in health, and every body glad to see Ff2r 219
see me. I hate no body upon earth but Mrs.
- - - - - -; and hate her, only because I envy
her. She sees you every day, but I shan’t see
you again this twelvemonth.

I Rejoyce in your safe return from Scarborough,
and the short History you afford me of your
self. A light Heart is no bad thing to travel
with; but a Purse, or a Portmantle in those
Circumstances, is a very melancholy object I’ve
been contemplating mine with a philosophic
eye, ever since I came home; and find nothing
so productive of moral Reflections as Poverty.
Ever since I’ve had no Money, I’ve been enlarging
upon the Virtues of Frugality, and Selfdenial;
and have had prodigious flights of
Eloquence upon the Vanity of all worldly Possessions.
If ever you design to make a Convert
of me, take me now; for if you stay ’till I’m
reimburs’d, I’m lost

Your Observations upon human Friendships
are very just and speculative; but, I fear, rather
too refin’d for Practice. We cannot divest
ourselves of our Affection whenever we would;
nor disengage ourselves of these Ties, which are Ff2 twisted Ff2v 220
twisted in with our Natures, upon every disappointment.
However those Friends I meant,
were chiefly those whom the Ties of Blood
had united to me, and of whose Affection I
have not the shadow of a Doubt. These I may
certainly depend upon, and rejoyce in. But in
regard to those Friendships, which are matter
of Choice, or voluntary Inclination, I cannot
think so cheaply of ’em as you seem to do;
nor yet so highly as to place any extraordinary
Degrees of Confidence in ’em. Human
Nature, in general, gives us very few instances
of their principal ingredients, Generosity,
Disinterestedness, and Steadiness; but very many
of narrowness of Spirit, Selfishness, and Levity.
So that any one, that knows thus much of
it, must strangely over-rate it’s Merits, to depend
much upon Favours, that one does not pay down
the Price for. And in regard to the Affection itself,
whether it ever flows out into good Offices
towards you or not, nothing in Nature, I grant
you, is so capricious. But in the mean time,
what shall I do with this Tendency I feel within
my self towards social Affection? Shall I withdraw
it from the publick Stock, and settle it
all upon my self? That’s but poor doings. Or
shall I e’en take people’s good Dispositions as I
find ’em, and indulge the mutual satisfaction
while it lasts? I know the Wind will change; but Ff3r 221
but ’tis so common a Case, that I’m not disappointed.

That a great deal of my Happiness is in the
hands of my Friends, I’ve a pleasure in acknowledging.
I see nothing absurd in loving
those who love me, without any hopes of Advantage
from ’em; and if their Affection contributes
to my present Satisfactions, why should
I disturb my self with enquiring how long
’twill last? I am, however, very sensible that
strange Misunderstandings, and unaccountable
Coolnesses will frequently happen. At this time
I feel very sensibly the denoûment of a Friendship,
which had been many Years a forming.
But I cannot help it; the Wind chang’d, my
Friend put on a new Character; and I thought
my self under no Obligation to conform to a
Character I had never profess’d any thing to.
To this Moment I can’t account for the Vicissitude,
and she’s too much my Superior to
give me a Reason for her Actions: but shall I
conclude, from a single Instance, that there’s
neither Truth nor Fidelity left in the World?
’Twould be unreasonable to distrust the Community,
and draw out my Stock, for the sake
of one Disappointment. I’ll e’en venture it in
another Bottom; and if I can’t succeed with Vernon,
I’ll go round the Globe with Anson.

Every Ff3v 222

Every one, the least conversant in the world,
must have met with these Caprices, as well as
myself; and consequently be extremely confident,
or extremely credulous, to depend upon
people’s Affections, or to be disappionted if they
fail ’em. But your Arguments, drawn from
this acknowledg’d instability, would prove at
the same time, that we must take Delight in
nothing; have no Satisfactions, reasonable or
unreasonable, because they are not permanent.
But, my dear Madam, because ’twill rain to
morrow, may we not enjoy the Sun-shine to
day?—Every thing we’re conversant about
here, was made to endure only for a certain
Period. A clean Apron will last us but for
a Day, and the warmest Friend may grow cold
before Night—I am but a Passenger, and neither
these Groves, or those Fields, or that Fellow-Traveller,
I know, were design’d for my
ultimate Good. However, as we’re both going
the same Road, let us make the best of the
Amusements we meet with by the way. The
Rose unfolds its Buds, and my Fellow-Traveller
his Heart—But, you say, my Rose-Buds will
fade before Night, and my Friend depart by
To-morrow—Why then, let us e’en make the
best of To-Day.

After all, there is a seriousness in Friendship,
that ought not to be trifled with; and a sacrednessness Ff4r 223
in its Communications and Confidences,
that nothing can excuse the breach of. ’Tis
the highest Relation we can stand in to each other;
and is of the Nature of those Ties which
ought never to be dissolv’d.— But the Subject
is too fruitful to trust my Pen any farther,
than just to assure You how sincerely,

I am, &c.

I Don’t know any one whose Letters give me
greater Pleasure, notwithstanding the different
Sentiments we seem to be of, in most of
the important Matters that have fallen under
our Consideration. But as we set out in the
Spirit of Liberty, and are, I trust, agreed upon
the Act of Toleration in regard to Opinions,
we have only this farther Virtue to aim at—
that of being mutually patient of Contradiction.
If you’re prepar’d, I proceed in my Dissentions,
as usual.

To begin with your Description of Friendship,
“That it must consist in an Agreement of
Humours, &c.”
This has been the Opinion
of many great Writers, as well as your self; and Ff4v 224
and if you are as much at Leisure as I am, if
you please, we’ll examine it.—For my own
part, I think nothing more need be meant by it
than an obliging Behaviour, and a kind of general
complaisance, or deference to the Opinions of our
Friends, which is neither so obstinate as to be
always in the Right, nor so servile as to have
no Opinions of our own. As for the rest, a
likeness of Humours or Inclinations, is so little
necessary to form a perfect Friendship, that I
can’t see the least occasion for their Similarity;
besides that it supposes a mighty narrow way
of thinking. To be charmed only with sweet
Self, or its beautiful resemblance in the Composition
of another, supposes indeed a most perfect
benevolence for the Party concern’d, but
for nothing else in Nature; this sweet resemblance
being only Self at second hand. ’Tis
however agreed, that if one loves ones Friend
as ones Self, one does pretty well; and consequently
the nearer the resemblance, the
more perfect will be the Union, since there’s
nothing that has not a most sincere Affection
for itself.— All this I grant, but then must add
that this Self-Affection, I fear, will go but a
very little way, even in one remove only from
the Individual. The infinite Partiality we have
for our real Selves, won’t always extend itself
to our second Selves; and we often commit Follies, Gg1r 225
Follies, and indulge Humours in our own Persons,
which are not half so amiable in those of
others, nor will admit of half the Excuses.
Neither do I think a Sameness of Humours will
mix and associate so well as their Contraries:
like perfect Chords in Musick, they rather
tire than enliven. For instance, two people are
of a melancholy, or a choleric disposition. How
shall we enliven the deficiency of Bile in the one,
or correct it’s super-abundance in the other?
Won’t they both drop asleep, or fall together by
the ears?—Suppose they’re equally endu’d with
the powers of Eloquence. May’nt they have
an equal inclination to speak at the same time?
And how painful must it be to either Orator
to hear?—Or suppose (if you’ll suffer me to
suppose once more) they’re a little given to
Contradiction, like You and I: won’t they often
stand in need of a Moderator; and be forc’d
to call in a third Person to adjust their Disputes?
In short, a parity of Humours, or Sentiments,
must often render Conversation fade
and insipid; and when we meet with nothing
new, nothing but what we have at home, such
a Friendship must soon grow tedious and languishing.
’Tis scarce worth going even so far out
of our selves for. Besides, as our own Humours
are so uncertain and multifarious, it must, as Gg you Gg1v 226
you say, be extremely liable to change; be indeed
the most variable thing in Nature.

Let us see then what sort of Friendship different
dispositions will produce. And that we
may not run away from our Argument, as You
and I generally do, let us define our Terms.
Friendship then, in my Definition of it, is a
sweet Attraction of the Heart towards the merit
we esteem, or the Perfections we admire; and
produces a mutual Inclination between two
Persons, to promote each other’s Interest or
Happiness.—Now we none of us, I believe,
will choose to assert that we possess all sorts of
Merit, and every degree of Perfection our selves;
but most of us are so humble as to own that
we esteem it in others, and can be pleas’d
with Perfections we do not possess. To a generous
Mind, Merit, in whatever shape it appears,
is not only estimable, but attractive. By
its Operations on the sympathetic Powers of
our Nature, it calls forth the affections of the
Heart to meet it, and even byasses the Judgment
in favour of the whole Character. Thus
when we see a Patriot bleed in defence of
his Country, we are not so anxious about
his speaking in the House; we can for once
allow, that ’tis not necessary for a Patriot to be
an Orator. I am my self an extreme Coward, (save Gg2r 227
(save just in Speculation) and have not the
least Thirst for any one’s Blood; but yet I turn
away my eyes from the Man who trembles at a
Sword, and find my self attracted by the Hero.
In short; the Mind, I should think, must receive
an additional pleasure in contemplating
those perfections in a Friend, which it has not
within itself; and may, in effect, fancy itself the
Proprietor or Possessor of those Advantages which
adorn its other half.

But by this difference or diversity of Humours
or Characters, I would not be understood
to mean their Incompatibility. Friendship
could not long subsist under this disadvantage;
the union must dissolve, and aversion succeed.
But this Incompatibility (I whichwish I could
think of a shorter word) does not always arise
from the difference, but the too great uniformity
of Humours. Thus two people equally haughty,
peremptory, or positive, must soon finish
their affairs; and yet these Dispositions would
mix extremely well with their Contraries.

Neither do I think equality of Rank or Fortune
necessary to form a perfect Friendship.
For perfect Friendship is founded on Virtue,
on the Perfections of the Mind, or the Goodness
of the Heart; and consults neither Title,
nor Fortune. It does not tye itself to the Genealogy,
or the Rent-Roll, but to the Person. Gg2 Our Gg2v 228
Our superiours, as such, have a right only to our
Complaisance, and ’tis a Tribute that Decency
allows ’em; but the Esteem which comes from
the Heart, is due only to true Merit. The
Great have a thousand ways of obliging or
plaguing us; but they have but one of making
themselves belov’d, and that is, by a superiority
of Merit. When they condescend to rank this
among their Advantages, they are truly amiable;
they attract, and are attracted. Their own Hearts
are enlarg’d, the Object finds an easy admittance;
they please, and are pleased they have so
many ways of obliging. An Inferiour, however,
sets out with many disadvantages, which
are not so much his Demerits, as the necessary
Consequences of his situation; has Requests to
be gratify’d, or perhaps Humours to be indulg’d
as well as his Betters; and these may by degrees
dissolve the Charm. But a Superiour may be
oblig’d, and perhaps oftner insists upon being
pleas’d. If the former can wave his Pretensions,
resign his Interest, or Humour, to his Friendship,
he is no longer the Inferiour; his generosity of
of Sentiment gives him his Rank, and entitles
him to equal Indulgencies. But an Equality is
often as fatal. Jealousies, Emulations, and oppositions
of Interests, are rocks upon which
the firmest Friendships have split. An Inequality,
however, steers clear of these; and if it has Gg3r 229
has any other Wrecks to fear, they are no more
than are common to both.

In short, true Friendship, found it upon what
you will, can never subsist long, but upon Sense
and Virtue. And whether we are of different,
or the same Dispositions, Equals, or Inequals,
have a narrow way of thinking, or no way at all,
(for every thing will unite itself to somewhat)
when once the Mind has pass’d it’s Judgment
upon the Object, and the Heart has found its
attraction, it examines no farther, but takes the
most effectual and speedy methods of uniting
itself to it.

I believe that last thought was none of my
own; but, if ’tis not, I don’t know who it
belongs to; so cannot pay the right Owner
my Acknowledgments.

I Began to be afraid you had quite given me
up; that I had murder’d you, wrote you to
death with a long Letter; and fairly seen the
End, or (as Authors say) Finis, of your Epistolary
Life. Truly I mourn’d your loss; not indeed
as the Fashion is, in high Spirits and black
Cloaths; but seriously and in sober sadness. But Gg3v 230
But since you’re reviv’d again, to my great
Consolation, I’ll promise to take great Care of
your precious Life for the future. You shall
have no more Volumes to damp your Spirits; only
a single Sheet, and that the smallest I can
get. In that too I’ll observe the greatest Continence
as to Words, and study the highest Laconism
of Phrases; any thing, so i can but preserve
your literary Life, ’till I’m weary of mine.

However, as desirous as I am of having you
linger out a few Years with me, I should not
have let you have dy’d in peace, if my time
had not been too much taken up to write Letters,
even to the Living. But am in earnest,
when I assure you, I’m sorry and surpriz’d to
find you at Bath, literally in an ill state of
Health. I wish my Letters have not made you
sick. But I hope you won’t think of leaving
that place, ’till you find s8ome good effects from
it. You did not stay above half so long as
you ought to have done, the last time; and
I hope nothing will happen to hurry you away
now. You can be of no use in - - - - -
nor, any where else upon earth, answer the ends
of your Creation (of which Self-preservation is
one) at present, but at Bath. The care of
your Health is as much a moral Duty, as the
care of your Family; and will be equally requir’d
at your Hands. And if Morality won’t keep Gg4r 231
keep you there, I’ll prove it to be a Christian
Duty in my next; and then if you stir, Lady C.
shall hear of it, and good Mrs. B. lift up her
hands and eyes. Only consider, what intellectual
Conversation you’ll lose, if they shut you out of
the pale of their Society. And as for the heathen
World, I’ll take care your Apostacy shall
be no secret there.—Think seriously of these
things before you leave Bath (which I have not
patience to hear you talk of) and when you
bestow a thought on me, be it that I am

Most sincerely Yours, &c.

The Lass of the Hill is ornamented with two
Voices here, and a blind Fiddler. Sells special
well. The Author, I think, is chiefly indebted
to You, for the universal reception her Performance
has met with.

Mrs. M—,

You know I always honour’d you extremely;
and if you’ll only be so good as to lock all the
Doors, lose all the Keys, and order the Coach-
Wheels to be knock’d off ’till after the 15th
Day of January next, you’ll do a real good Office
by your Lady, and in a particular manner
oblige

Your most obedient, &c.
Gg4v 232

The pleasure you’ve given me by your
Letter is so great, that I won’t even
upbraid you with your Silence, only with the
occasion of it, the want of a Frank. Alas!
that I should be so exalted in your Opinion,
that you should think I doat upon a bit of
paultry Metal; and prefer a crooked Six-pence
to a Letter of Yours. Is this the Philosophy
you mean? These the Affections I am not proof
against!—I must own they are tender and
moving: the contemplation of a crooked Sixpence
is a fine contemplation; and then the
beautiful gradation from a Six-pence to a Shilling,
and so on ’till you arrive at the blessedness
of a Crown! How must the Mind rejoyce
in it’s Power of Numbers, the Order and Symmetry
of the various Pieces, and the Relation
they severally stand in to the beauteous System
of a Guinea! Are not these Contemplations infinitely
preferable to the Beauty and Symmetry
of Hutchinson, or the Ideas and Harmony of
Plato? Not that you must imagine I read these
Authors, because I quote ’em; I only know
their Names and their Faces, like many others
of my Acquaintance, whom I never spoke to in Hh1r 233
in my life. For I never have time to read;
my manner is to skip thro’ a Book, or catch a
a general View from the Preface, or the Index,
(as I do of the Contents of my Acquaintance,
from their Faces) which is the utmost of my
philosophic Learning. Nevertheless, would give
all the Sixpences I’m worth, for time to read
about half a dozen Books that have stood at my
elbow these seven years, and yet at this instant
am so very idle as to be reading M―; Book
the most absurd I ever met with!—Don’t you
laugh at my inconsistency? Or is it just what you
do your self? A Pamphlet I can make shift to
travel thro’; have seen two of the Night Thoughts,
and like ’em so well as to be impatient for
a Third. There are some noble soul-awakening
things in ’em, that make my blood run cold
when I read ’em. And thus you’ve the History
of my present state of Literature.

Now give me leave to assure you, I rejoyce
with you in the good effects of the Bath. I
love to hear you’re well, I mean as to your Bodily
plight; your Mind’s Health I never enquire
after, knowing

“That nothing here can cloud, or can destroy That Part’s calm sunshine—” Hh My Hh1v 234

My Friend begins to sit very easy upon my
Thoughts. I believe I might interpret some
actions in my favour; but I study to be uniform,
and consistent. Am I a Philosopher now,
think you; or a poor Wretch, unsteady, various,
and multiform? Pray, give it on the side of my
Philosophy; for I assure you, I can’t hold out
above a Week longer. However, I reckon my
self oblig’d for any thing that looks like an Overture;
because ’tis a tacit acknowledgment
that I have not offended too much to be forgiven.
—But why should I complain of having
lost one Friend? ’Tis the only one I ever lost;
and every body, I comfort myself, has met with
some such Accident in their Lives. While
there’s a Mrs.— in the World that suffers
me to converse with her sometimes, or a Lady
H.B. that endures my Nonsense, I shall miss
my other Friend the less. And so, trusting
you’ll let me walk amicably on with you for a
a few years, till You get the Stone, I the Cholick,
and Lady H. is laid up with the Gout;
in short, ’till we’ve run with patience this motley
Race of Love, Friendship, Ambition, Avarice,
Disgust, — and at length, Indifference,
’till we’re all out of breath; I say, trusting
in this,

I remain, &c.
Hh2r 235

I Hope you know I honour you extremely,
because I’m just going to tell you (after
having thank’d you most cordially for your agreeable
Letter) that I’ll never trust you with
any more secrets as long as I live. The very
moment I had given you the inside of my Breast,
to order your Chariot, and drive away with it
to the first person you could meet with—O
Times! O Manners! O my Sex! Is there none
that can contain a Secret? No, not one.

But what, my good Madam, could move
you to communicate to Lady H. or any Lady in
the Land, a stupid Letter of mine? Even if
there are no Secrets, ’tis impossible for a second
Person to understand a Letter; and if there are,
’tis Perfidy, downright Perfidy to shew one.—
How amiable was the Picture I had been forming
of You! I had just begun to think you an
Angel; but the Post-man knock’d at the door,
and spoilt my Vision.

Your Advice, however, is very sober and significant;
and much the same I’d give, but
don’t care to take—otherwise, I mean, than
very kindly. But why humble my self, I beseechHh2 seech Hh2v 236
you? (for I find I can’t help trusting
you again already) and all of a sudden fall to
owning I’ve done wrong, when I’ve only been
passive in the Affair, and done nothing. My
Friend absconded, and I did not so much as upbraid
her; I only—acquiesc’d. Nothing in
Nature had happen’d; ’twas all calm and quiet
as a Summer’s Sea; but in a moment the face
of the Sky was obscur’d, and I’ve been totally
in the dark, as to the Reason why, ever since.
Now and then, indeed, a friendly Star or two
look’d out upon me from a distant Quarter, and
in some measure supply’d the absence of the
Sun. You, like an Aurora Borealis, for a while
relum’d my ancient Light. Lady Frances Williams
was a Meteor. She darted her Rays upon
me for a Moment; but being of irregular appearance,
and among the surprising, tho’ pleasing
Phenomena, there’s no accounting for her
motions by any of the stated Laws of Being.
I had only one fix’d Orb to cast up my eyes to,
and guide me thro’ the dark profound. She
shone, and still shines with undiminish’d Rays;
and you may see her every Night at Somerset-
House
, calmly moving on her own Axis, and out
of the reach of those Haloes, and Hurricanes that
disturb the planetary System.

In this situation, I say, my Friend withdrew
her Beams. And for this Reason you’d have me Hh3r 237
me betake my self to the wholsome Duty of Humiliation,
and go and confess I’ve been extremely
in the wrong. I own, ’tis an humbling consideration,
and I never was more mortify’d in my
life; but how to bring my self to Confession,
and own I’ve done what I’ve only suffer’d, is a
Strain of Humility quite out of the Reach of
my unassisted Reason. ’Tis somewhat like those
pious Forms of Confession one meets with in
some over-righteous Books, which shock ones
Nature to repeat. As they are most of them
penn’d for general Use, in order to take in
particular Cases, the poor Penitent is to declare
that he’s the vilest of Sinners, and the worst of
Men
; not only a Liar, an Adulterer, or a Sabathbreaker,
but, in short, every Commandmentbreaker
of the Ten. And the Confession to be
sure is a very righteous Confession for those
it hits; but I never repeat any of this
sort, as having no manner of Relation to my
particular Sins. So that in regard to this part
of your Advice, I must beg leave to dissent a
little; conceiving it both absurd and inconsistent
with Truth, to confess what never enter’d into
my Head to commit.

But to talk seriously, and like a good Catholic,
for I love to confess to you —(O that
you could but keep a secret!) That we are all
liable to Mistakes, that we as often disgusted with Hh3v 238
with ourselves as with others, and that Misbehaviour
as often arises from Infirmity as Design,
I can readily allow, (for I am very far from
thinking that every body, that does a Wrong,
means one) I say, when we take these, and
many more Considerations into the Question, one
may, nay one certainly ought to overlook an
Indignity, tho’ there’s nothing hinders that one
should not feel one. I question whether ever
we thoroughly hate a friend we have been long
us’d to converse with without reserve. At least
one must be of a very malevolent Cast indeed,
not to feel some returns of Affection, upon the
slightest Overtures of a returning Friendship.
The Strings which have been so long, and so
equally wound, will naturally vibrate when their
corresponding Notes are touch’d. But this can
only happen when the Harmony is discontinu’d;
if ’tis totally disconcerted, and persisted
in, nothing remains but Dissonance and Discord.
In regard to the former, each Party
must give up a few Niceties of Ear, for the
sake of the Tune; and if, after that, they can
only adjust their Crotchets and Quavers, all will
be well. But in my particular Case, I can’t
possibly be call’d upon to assist, because there’s
no part left for me to perform. I don’t care to
offer at an Air, and am above appearing in
Recitative; so that ’tis impossible we should ever Hh4r 239
ever have another Concert, unless my Friend
condescends to open it her self with a Solo.
In this Case, whatever Dissonances my Temper
may have acquir’d since this Rupture, I
assure you, not a Note shall be lost for want
of the highest attention.

Thus have I trusted you once more with the
Secret of my Heart, in Metaphor. If you
should choose to communicate this likewise to
her Ladyship, I’ve no objections. For I had
rather she knew every thing I say, than not;
and should like to be in a corner, and hear
you both upon the Case. For tho’ I think my
self in the right; the rest of the World, perhaps,
may think me in the wrong.

Every part of your Letter is extremely agreeable
and entertaining; except where you apologize
for what is most so to me, writing so
soon. I believe none of your Correspondents
ever made that a Complaint against you; we
only suffer when you’re silent long.

Will you forgive all this Nonsense, in a few
Words? Or shall I add to your Troubles by a
more formal Apology?

July Hh4v 240

Not the Voice of singing Men, or singing
Women, not the Notes of Monticelli, or
Miss Trevor, not even - - - - - - - - - - -
could give me half the Pleasure your Letter
did. But you either compliment or rally me
with so serious a face, upon my late Attempts
at Wit, that it quite disconcerts all my Aims.
I had hopes, from your former, of being pointed
at as I went along, and having it said,—
“There she goes!—That’s her!”—but now
you write down my Ambitions in such glaring
Characters, and preach down my Vanity to such
unmerciful Strains of Humility, that I shall
never recover it again; never be the Woman I
have been, that’s certain. Where I shall turn
me next, I don’t know. If to Divinity, your
darling Divinity; there you have me again. That
Post you gain’d above a twelve-month ago, and
I’ve never been able to retake it since. In short,
you’ve overturn’d all my ideal Worlds, driven
me out of every Subject, reason’d away all my
Arguments, and out-imagin’d all my Imaginations;
and now I’ve nothing left to furnish out
even the appearance of a Letter upon. If ’twas
not for the refreshing things you tell me from Lady Ii1r 241
Lady F.rances W.illiams and that Lady H.B. and your self
sometimes descend to make me the Subject of
your Tète à Tètes, I should languish into a total
cessation of Ideas.—I wish you had settled the
Affair about publishing my Works, to either of
your satisfactions; because ’tis a thing, I think
verily, I shall never be able to connect with any
of my own. If some of you Wits of the Age
would make me a Present of Yours, I don’t
know but I might grow desperate, when thus
protected. But hto’ I’ve no such Designs my
self, what shall I do with Lady A. Beauclerk?
She prints ’em, tho’ I won’t; Her Ladyship caus’d the Verses to the Memory of Lord
Aubrey Beauclerk to be twice printed, in order to disperse among
her Acquaintance.
and has so
powerfully exhausted her first Edition, that
She’s now preparing to persecute her Friends
with a Second. I told her at first ’twould never
answer; I still remonstrate, but ’tis to no
purpose. She modestly assur’d me, she would
print, with my Consent, if she could get it;
if not, without it. And truly so she did. And
this, you see, one gets by “letting one’s Friends
enjoy the pleasing Secrets of one’s writing,”

as you observe.—The Post being just ready to
depart, and the Spirit of Scribbling quite departed,

I remain, &c.
Ii Do Ii1v 242

Do what you will with my Letters. Since
your last, my Heart is so enlarg’d towards you,
that I don’t care if you expose me to the whole
Town. I only declar’d War with you for that
particular Letter, which contain’d the History of
mon ami; a Secret I hold sacred with every
Body, but her Ladyship and your Self: and told
it to you, only because I love to hear your Sentiments
upon every thing.

Ive had great Remorse ever since I wrote last,
in that I made a thousand apologies for my
silence, as if ’twas a thing of vast consequence to
you; and never once beg’d the favour of a Reply,
tho’ ’twas the only End and Purpose I had in
view when I sat down to write. Did you ever
set out for a Place, and forget where you were
going? Or talk upon a Subject your Mind knows
nothing of, but is all the while in deep Contemplation
of something else? If you have, you’ve
an idea of your humble Servant in both these
situations; and even in this instant of scribbling.
For while I’m collecting my scatter’d Ideas to
fix on You, Lady Lovelace requires a Letter to be Ii2r 243
be compos’d, concerning Tea, Drops, and
other important Matters to our well-being; while
my hard-to-be-gotten Frank requires a third to
be enclos’d, of no less importance to social Happiness.
In this situation permit me to write to
You, and not think of You; or rather to have
my Thoughts too much interrupted, or terrify’d,
to write to you with pleasure. For at the same
time the Cloth is laying for Supper, on the very
Table that supports my Elbows and my Paper,
(which Mr. John every moment officiously displaces)
while the brandish’d knives and forks
put me in bodily fear.—In one word, I’ve
been here a Week, and have the utmost impatience
to hear from you, which is all I mean by
this, except that

I am, &c.

Am just come from New-Lodge, where I saw
Lady H.B. upon the very pinacle of human
Happiness; a sight I should have enjoy’d extremely,
if it had not been allay’d by seeing poor Miss
Clayton
in the other extreme of human Misery,
for the loss of her Father. How various, and
how susceptible is the Human Heart in Friendship!
I participated most sincerely with both;
wept with the one, and smil’d with the other.
But the miserable Object made the deepest impression,
and remains with me still.

Ii2 Windsor- Ii2v 244

Your Letter refresh’d my Mind, the only part
of me that wanted Refreshment; for my
good Lady L. takes thought for the Body, and is
never wanting in administring those material
comforts. But these vanish while we’re enjoying
them, or rather are no Enjoyment at all to your
true Mind-indulging Epicure; at best, but insipid
to the Luxuries you impart, the Feasts of
the Imagination, heighten’d with the flow of
Friendship. I only object to those high Sauces
you sometimes make, which savour a little too
much of that intoxicating ingredient, Flattery—
unless, in return, you’ll lend a patient ear to a
certain sort of Music, I never can perswade you
to hearken to—your own Praises. While you
sooth mine (mightily inclin’d to listen) with
such insinuating Sounds, and at the same
time forbid me to strike the corresponding
Chords; ’tis taking me at a disadvantage, and
allowing me no Part in the Harmony. The
slightest thing, you say in my Favour, strikes sensibly
upon my Nature, and makes me long to
reverberate the sound.

Am I so happy too, as to hit off any of the
nicer Movements (for I cannot drop the Metaphor)phor) Ii3r 245
of Lady F.W.’s composition? Happy indeed!
tho’ I come in only among the Chorusses,
where two such eminent Hands are the principal
Parts.

Except religious Works, (which, bad as the
World is, ’tis some comfort it abounds with)
there are, you say, generally but two reasons for
printing; Vanity and Poverty. Mr. Pope’s expression,
I think, is, “Hunger, and Request
of Friends”
—My Vanity I shall say but little
of: You, who can raise it, can at any time sufficiently
humble it; but as to my Poverty, I could
write a Volume upon the Subject For alas!
I’ve only all the Necessaries of Life, and a
few of the Conveniencies; while my Betters
(with Reverence be it spoken) are rolling
in Riches. Now ’tis plain, Gold is the only
Good, because every body seeks after it; and
the first Question people ask you, when you
come into a room, is, “Are you rich?”“If
you are, sit down.”
The Virtues follow immediately.
See! they paint themselves upon your
Garment, thick as the deadly Sins upon an Inquisition
Petticoat. Every body bows, and acknowledges
’em.—And will you grudge me the
means, the only means I have, of getting a
Penny; I, who pant after Virtue? Who would
fain be thought wise, magnanimous, generous,
every thing that’s great and noble? But who that’s Ii3v 246
that’s poor can have the Impudence to pretend
to Virtue?—Therefore, seek ye first Riches,
and the Appurtenances thereof, and then all
the Virtues shall be added unto You.

I am, however, much indebted to you for
your Zeal about my turning Author; and when
ever I do, shall desire no better Recommendation
to the World than Yours. But at present
am not so far gone in the Disease of Writing as
to attempt any thing to the Memory of that
brave Man, General Clayton; nor would I have
you think my Performance upon Lord Aubrey
Beauclerk
, by any means, a voluntary thing.
For I had suffer’d Lady Aubrey to ask it, above
seven Months before I attempted a single Line;
and had not set about it then, if I could have
convinc’d her I was only incapable, not unwilling,
to oblige her. So I leave her Ladyship
to answer for it’s Faults; thinking my self no
otherwise accountable for ’em, than I should be
for breaking a Leg or an Arm, when any
body insisted upon my walking over a Precipice.

You dare me to write to you, in proof of
my Disinterestedness with regard to Pence. For
the Pleasure of hearing from you, you see
there’s nothing I dare not do; therefore send
you back your Defiance, whatsoever it costs
me. Three-pence to be sure ’twill be, if you accept Ii4r 247
accept my Challenge; and it may be Six-pence.
But I am resolv’d; set your Price, and as ’tis
Happiness, I’ll purchase it at any rate. Shall I
give you farther Proofs of my contempt of
Riches, when they come in competition with
my Honours, and my Pleasures? Or will you
not rather believe, that I love, and desire to
hear from you, either with or without the
Permission of a Member of Parliament; and
that

I am ever, &c.

Finding my self arriv’d safe at my Seat at
Oxford, I can’t help casting my Eye back,
my Eye of Affection and Pity, on those I’ve left
behind me in Town: particularly those, who are
running to and fro after Happiness; while I am
so humble, as to sit down contented with Peace.
You, my dear madam, are one of the first in
my Mind’s Eye, from whom I never return
without something better about my Heart. You
bring Truths home to it, which however lightly
I may sometimes treat ’em, while I’m with
you, I never fail to apply seriously in my hours of Ii4v 248
of Recess and Recollection. Particularly your
Maxim, “Be humble, and be happy;” which
I now feel the Force of, and am enjoying
most sensibly. A little Raillery, I know you
excuse; the - - - - - - - - I’m sure you’ve forgiven
me; and as to what you’ve given me, I
profess it startles me every time I look at it.
I’ve liv’d a matter of - - - - - - Years in this
wicked World, on and off, and (except your
self) never had a Present from any of those
good folks, my Betters, save a Ring from Lady
A.B
. for singing Praises of her Lord, and a
- - - - - - from - - - - - for singing Ballads
to - - - - -. But what I had done to You,
that you should decoy me away into a Mercer’s
Shop, divest your self of all Passion and Affection
for Guineas and Three-Pound-Twelves, and
clothe me in Purple and Yellow; sedately too,
and in your right Mind, astonishes me beyond
any thing I’ve met with. You charg’d me not
to tell it to the World, and indeed I obey’d
you; for I was unwilling to give the least
Ground of Suspicion about your Intellects;
tho’ I saw nothing wrong in your Behaviour
my self. You made up your Accounts with
Mr. Hoare, with as much Circumspection as if
you really knew the Value of Money; and
except your flinging it away again on Mr. B’s Counter, Kk1r 249
Counter, I could perceive nothing in your Conduct
that was at all delirious. However, I
would not trust the World with the Secret
upon any account; because to give, you know,
is so diametrically opposite to those establish’d
Maxims of to save, and to get, that I was afraid
people would lift up their eyes still more
at you. A few saving Maxims in relation to a
Part that is not at all material, they know
you’re not to beat out of; but should they
be told how lavish you are of the foremention’d
precious Moveable, and how little Value you
set upon a Groat, ’twould be in vain to insist
upon either the Goodness of your Heart, or
the Soundness of your Head.—“Not; save
her Money! Nay then, the Inference is
plain”
.

In hopes I shall hear of you soon, and
that you’re trusted by your self, and suffer’d
to walk about as usual,


I remain,
In Admiration of your Virtues, &c.
Kk January Kk1v 250

In good earnest, my dear Madam, you’ll
undo me; you’ll be the ruin of me, to all
the intents and purposes of that Humility you
preach. You reason, you convince me ’tis
the very Virtue I ought to aim at; and yet
pamper that very Virtue, ’till I’ve lost it. I
am humble no more. Hence, ye low-born
Thoughts, that debase the Soul with Ideas of
its Weakness and Imperfections, enfeebling and
enervating all its purposes! Come, lofty Notions,
and high-born Reflections! - - - - -

See, the effects of your Praises! I but just
read your Letter over, and caught an Ardor
enough to enflame the breast of a Poet, for
a whole eighteen-penny Pamphlet; or a Hero
for another Battle upon the Rhine. And when
you’ve thus warm’d, and rais’d me, will you
quench the noble Flame with the cold Virtue
of Humility? When my Heart beats
high with Applause, and is capable of any
Virtue, any Enterprize, must I sit meekly down,
and counter-act and confound it’s Part; let
down all it’s Strings, and call for my Sackcloth,
and lick the Dust?— It can never
be done.

I will Kk2r 251

I will say nothing of your own Letters, for
indeed I dare not; you use me so unmercifully,
whenever I pour out my self in Encomium or
Praise. But as for Lady F.W. I think ’tis
not fair her Ladyship should look into all
mine, unless she’ll favour me with some Standard
from her self to write by, or give me Letters
of Marque and Reprisal upon You. I’ve
often try’d to seduce you upon that Head,
but could never obtain my Wishes; You are
so very perfect, so much above all Temptation.
But since I can neither prevail with you
to unlock your Cabinet, nor with her Ladyship
to furnish me with a Standard of writing,
nothing shall her all-penetrating Genius
henceforward have of me, but Praise and Panegyrick;
such Praise, as her Delicacy shall
sicken at; and such Panegyrick, as shall be like,
and yet not be, Flattery.

The Pleasure, I receive from your Correspondence,
is like that we find from
some well reflecting Mirrour; which, whilst it
points out any little Excellence of Feature, is
as faithful in discovering a Pimple, or a Freckle.
To such a Glass, who, in this progressive State Kk2 of Kk2v 252
of Good to Better, would not oft repair?
Who, with high Desires, and Aims not short
of fair Perfection, would not here adjust the
doubtful Sentiment, call out the wrong Idea
to the Test, and dress and decorate the Mind
anew?

Your Advice, “to allow a place for Selfinterest
and Vanity in the Hearts of those we
most esteem,”
is much too wholesome to
be disputed; and is another of your short Precepts
I shall mark down in my Mind. But
the reason you give for it, viz. “That ’tis a
nobler Principle to love a Person whose
Weakness we’ve discover’d, than one we flatter
over selves has none,”
is not quite so
clear to me; and for the following Reasons.—
Excellence, either real or imaginary, is the sole
Foundation of Affection. When this Excellence
disappears, either in the Idea or the
Object, the Esteem or Affection of consequence
ceases. For we cannot love Imperfection,
as such; nor can any different Modifications
of it, any adventitious Circumstances
with which it may be connected, render it in
it’s own Nature amiable. If therefore ’tis
nobler to love a Person whose Weakness we’ve
discovere’d, ’tis nobler to love Imperfection than
Perfection; Folly or Vice, rather than Wisdom
or Virtue. Consequently all those fine Ideas Kk3r 253
Ideas of the amiableness and excellency of moral
Beauty and Symmetry, are only the Dreams
of Visionaries and Enthusiasts; and that high
intellectual Feeling, call’d the moral Sense, the
most ignoble Affection, or Taste we have.—
Thus far however I can readily acknowledge,
that people who have discover’d some Faults
or Weaknesses, may yet have great and unblemish’d
Virtues remaining, which may in
some measure conciliate the Affections again,
and so render them the Objects of a mixt
Esteem. A Consideration likewise of our own
Failings or Follies, may lead us to overlook,
or forgive those in others; but cannot lead us
to love, what we must hate and condemn in
our selves. Thus far, therefore, your Assertion
holds good, that ’tis nobler to overlook,
or pardon the Frailties of our Friends, than
always to resent ’em; but the person who has
none, or (more properly) in whom we see
none, is certainly the nobler Object of Esteem
and Affection.

But what shall I do with you, or what can
I say to you, when you tell me you’re continually
publishing (that is exposing) both my
public and private Sentiments; and in a manner
too that I ought not to approve of, and
yet can’t be angry with you for? Does not
this prove that there are, in whom I can see something Kk3v 254
something to find fault with, and yet have not
the heart to hate ’em for?—Well, since you
will expose me, be it at your peril; for ’tis
incumbent on you to defend me. ’Twould be
cruel to call me out of my Shades and rural
Inclosures, and then leave me to be justled
and elbow’d about in a Croud, whom I never
meant to offend. I am, however, indebted
to ’em for the Memory they give me, in aid of
my Reveries, and the Brother to correct ’em.
The former I have not found, except wanting;
and the latter wears much too severe a Brow to
be trusted with any Lays of mine. If ever I
ask him to look over any thing, which is but
mighty seldom, it so discomposes the Muscles of
his Face all the time he’s reading; while he,
on the other hand, so disconcerts all my Rhymes
with his Rules of Criticism, and Laws of
Grammar, (things I never concern my self about)
that now I neither punish nor consult him.
Seriously, if ’twas a thing of any Consequence,
so far from correcting, he scarce ever saw six
things of my writing in his life.—But my
Paper will only permit me to assure you how
truly

I am, &c.
April Kk4r 255

Id give the World for a fair Pretence to find
fault with you; but you sin against all the
Ties of Conversation with so good a Grace,
and confess so honestly when you’ve done, that
’tis impossible to find out where to aim a
Reproof. Were I not perfectly convinc’d of
your Orthodoxy, I should begin to suspect you
had not thoroughly abjur’d the Church of Rome
and the Pretender, by your manner of sinning
and confessing. They of that Communion
know beforehand, that ’tis but bringing a valuable
Consideration to the Priest, and the good
Man grows blind, and absolves in an instant.
Now your committing these Enormities, of exposing
my Letters, is undoubtedly a heinous
Crime against the Community and Fellowship of
Wit and Humour, tho’ there should be neither
one or t’other found in ’em; but your manner
of confessing and exculpating your self, is
enough to disarm the Rage of an Inquisitor.
In short, yours is the worst kind of Corruption;
for you bribe me against my self.
Every Letter of yours blinds and corrupts
the plainest Dictates of my own Conscience.
And what’s still worse, were I proof against the Kk4v 256
the Bribe, you’re so rich in Grace, that the
Pope himself would have a secret Pleasure in
absolving you.

The thoughts of appearing in a Court of
Judicature, where the Person who presides is
universally acknowledg’d as supreme Judge of
Wit, and is no less than Lady F.W. her self;
to hold up my Hand before that illustrious Personage,
and stand indicted perhaps as a Plagiary,
or Petty-Larcen; as a Retailer of low Spirit
without a Licence, or a Counterfeit of the sterling
Sense of my Sovereigns in Science; a Consideration,
I say, of this kind, is surely enough
to disconcert the most flow’ry Imagination,
and turn Pope himself into Prose. Yet from the
Candour of my Judge, and often imploring the
Favour of the Court, (as we Culprits use) some
hopes of escaping Justice might possibly remain.
But when you terrify my Pleadings
with an Author-Wit, and inform me that one
of the wiser Sex is become my Inquisitor, my
Pen drops from my hand; and I expect not,
in a Protestant Country, even the Benefit of the
Clergy.—Before ’tis too late, consider, my dear
Madam, what you’ve brought me to. I told
you, did not I tell you, you’d be my Ruin?
But hearkening to your enticing Words, and
not heeding the Advice of my Friends, I’ve
gone on from one degree of Prose to another, ’till Ll1r 257
’till at length you call for my Fetters, and order
me to make my appearance the next Sessions
in Rhyme.

The influence that some sorts of People
have over us would be very surprising, were it
not so notorious. I should incontinently have
given way to this wicked Suggestion of yours,
and have sung, (as one may say) the Solitude I
love, if I was not, like my friends in Moorfields,
deny’d the use of Pen, Ink, and Paper. Seriously,
I’ve had a bad Cold these two months;
and it has taken a fancy to get into my eyes.
You’ll scarce believe it, from this long Letter;
but I can no more forbear— “――like Lee, or Budgel, In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,”
I must write on.—However, plain Prose must
be my fate at present. For that (when the
fit’s on) I can write without seeing, as I always
do without thinking. But Poetry requires
grander efforts. The Inspiration strains and
dilates every Muscle, and during the Operation,
Bards, you know, (as Prior sings) “Have Troubles utterly unknown to those, Who let their Fancy loose in rambling Prose.”

Ll I have Ll1v 258

I have, however, met with a fair Copy of
one of those Pieces you mention, which I shall
inclose; for, you know, upon certain Conditions,
your power is absolute. But if Lady F.
is to sit upon my Poetical Sins too, I humbly
intreat I may have Jury of Matrons; for I’ve
always met with most favour from those venerable
Characters. And moreover, before her
Ladyship pronounces the authoritative Sentence,
(which methinks I hear, and tremble at) ’tis
humbly conceiv’d necessary, that she give her
Charge to the Jury; and (with submission) a
Word of Advice too at the same time to the
poor Criminal. This, as ’tis no uncommon
Circumstance in judicial Proceedings, nor at
all derogates from the Majesty of the Bench,
would be of singular Comfort to the poor
Prisoner at the Bar. This good effect it would
certainly have, that if I should be so lucky as
to be acquitted of this first Fact, the Advice of
so upright and candid a Judge, so well skill’d
in every part of Science, and so particularly
learned in the poetical Laws, would leave such
a lively and lasting impression upon my Mind,
as nothing would ever efface; and be the
only Means of reclaiming me from these bad
Courses.

This, with the humblest Submission to her
Ladyship and the Court, never forgetting the Deference Ll2r 259
Deference, which will be always due from
me to You,

Concludes me, &c.

Your Promise of answering my Notes, tho’
I draw upon you so often, gives me the greatest
Pleasure. Such a Stock of Good-nature, as you
always carry about you, will always have great
Demands, and yet need never fear being exhausted.
For Good-nature is only Charity,
which, you know, never fails.

I Am much indebted to you for your excellent
moral Lecture; which I read with
more attention than, I fear, I sometimes give to
Sundays Sermons; which, tho’ of general Use,
don’t always come up to particular Cases. A
licenc’d Orator, like a licenc’d Physician, has
it in his power to prescribe what Remedies he
pleases to his Sunday’s Patients; but ’tis melancholy
to be forc’d to swallow a Vomit, when
one wants only a gentle Cathartic. But you are
a Voluntier in Divinity, as the Bishop of Cloyne
is in Physic. Your Prescriptions may be taken Ll2 as Ll2v 260
as safely as Tar-Water; and, I believe, proceed
from the same generous Motive too.

And now I’ve stepp’d from Divinity to Tar-
Water, as his Lordship has from Tar-Water
to the Trinity, I long to know if you’ve taken
it for your bodily Disorders; for I think you’ve
few of the Mind, but what you can cure without
the help of a Doctor. For my own part,
my Mind’s too ill at ease, at present, to expect
any good effects from the common Methods
of Prescription; and yet I believe all the
Virtues of Tar-Water, upon the single Testimony
of it’s great generous promulger.

Lady H.B. is grown quite a Philosopher—
since Prince Charles pass’d the Rhine. I heartily
wish she may keep up her Spirits; or,
which is equal to ’em, a certain Indolence of
Mind, which she loves to indulge, ’till her
Lord returns. For my part, my Sensations are
so alive and awake to Pain, at present, that
even Shadows disconcert me. Nay, I’ve wasted
I know not how much good Christian Pity upon
her Ladyship, notwithstanding I was at that
time an Object my self; which is provoking,
to think one has been pitying a Philosopher
or bestowing one’s Charity upon one that does
not want.

And now I talk of Ladies Sensations, pray do
you know any thing of Lady Egmont? Sister of Sir Philip Parker & Wife of the first Earl of Egmont. I think I’ve Ll3r 261
I’ve heard you mention her Ladyship, and
want to be acquainted with her History much.
She was here a week or ten days for Dr. Frewin’s
Advice, for a violent Pain in her Head;
and not being able to go to Church, my Brother
had the Honour to administer her Spiritual
things. Going by the Common-Jail one
day, she gave a Prisoner, who was begging his
Fees at the Gate, half a Crown; and the next,
enquiring what they amounted to, pay’d ’em,
and releas’d him. These Things, like Tar-
Water, awaken one’s Attention; and make one
particularly curious in enquiring into the History
of their Author. Her Ladyship, I must
likewise mention, honour’d my Mother and I
with a Visit; who being quite Strangers to her,
I’m at a loss to account for such a marvellous
act of Condescension. For to be sure, Countesses,
in their natural State, can have no Ideas of
Association with common Mortals; they must
be regenerate, before they can speak, or think
like humbler Folks. In short, her Ladyship
appears to me to be one of those sort of People,
whose Sensations are too delicate to be quite
in Raptures with this World, and too just not
to feel some important Hints in relation to another;
and therefore being convinc’d there is
such a thing as Pain, feels for her self, and
for every thing else in misery. This seems to confirm Ll3v 262
confirm a Tenet I’ve long held, tho’ no body
believes me, that Happiness and Misery are
equally distributed amongst us here: that is,
take the whole of a Life, with the different
Degrees of Sensation, Constitution, and other
adventitious Circumstances, a King is no happier
than a Beggar, nor a Beggar more miserable
than a King. Extraordinary Acts, or Habits
of Virtue, I fear, are no Exceptions in the
Case; for Virtue suffers, rather than is rewarded
here; and therefore it’s proper Reward is reserv’d
for another State. As the Havock and
Misery, that extraordinary vicious Dispositions
introduce here, with Impunity, will be punish’d
with proportionate Durations of Pain hereafter.
In hopes that you and I shall meet in those
eternal Fields of Pleasure, where no Pain approaches,
I remain (not quite a Philosopher in
this School of Patience) most truly,

Your, &c.

You console me much in regard to my Memory;
and if great Geniusses, as you observe,
would only date their Works, they would not
be so often accus’d of stealing from one another.
I remember, in an Epistle to Lord
Masham
, some time ago, I had this Couplet, Envies Ll4r 263 “Envies the very Beggar at his gate, Who hardly knows the Luxury to eat.”

I thought the Image entirely my own, and
was greatly rejoyc’d in the Contemplation of
it: but about two Months after, out comes
Pope to Murray, with the very Thought, only
better clothes on; “Call’d Dog! the Beggar at the Door, And envy’d Thirst and Hunger to the poor.”

and so Mr. Pope, being the greater Genius,
had all the honour of it. But as he’s dead
now, I won’t dispute it with him.—The plain
Truth about my Memory, which because it
steals sometimes, is reckon’d a good one, is only
this: ’tis so very bad, that I assure you, I
don’t know when I steal. I’ve sometimes detected
my self in other people’s Works, to my
surprize.

Lady F. is in the right. There is indeed
a great deal that ought to be struck out. Lady
Sunderland Titchborne, last Wife of Charles Earl of Sunderland, and
remarried to Sir Robert Sutton.
is good-natur’d; and I should honour
her for that good Quality, even if she
had no other. But I rather think her Complaisance
to You, who introduces me into all this Ll4v 264
this good Company, (not asham’d of an humble
Friend) occasion’d her not expressing any
dislike.

If I had been alone when I receiv’d your
your last Favour, I believe I should have
shed a Tear over it. That kind sympathizing
sentence, “I have felt for you ever since your
last,”
convey’d such a pleasing Anguish to my
Heart, as I know not how to describe, otherwise
than that it was one of the most delicate
Sensations I ever felt.—Your Observations upon
the Nature of Advice, in the first sallies
of Grief, are too well founded. We know we
ought to take it, we love the Friend that gives
it, we’ve a farther pleasure in seeing a Friend
so far interested as to give it; and yet when
the Shaft lies deep, and the Case is such that
in Truth and Decency we ought to be afflicted,
there must be something extremely selfish, or
affected, to want Sorrow upon such occasions.

Lady H. is a better Philosopher by half.
She either not feels, or not tells. I tell all I
know; and when I feel, cannot even affect
Insensibility. However, she begins to speak out Mm1r 265
out now, and own there is such a thing as Pain.
But to see her Ladyship nothing mov’d in such
a conjuncture as hers, while I was troubled above
measure at mine, and catching panicks
from Phantoms and Echoes, mortify’d me extremely.
But I love her prodigiously, now she
begins to talk like a human creature; that is,
like a Being, that has two Principles of Action,
and fluctuates alternately between both. To let
in the full force of the Passions upon the
Mind, is wild work; but to stifle the poor
Infants quite, because they’re apt to be a little
wayward, is unnatural. I love to see Nature’s
Children, as well as the Face of Nature agitated
a little; tho’ I veil my head, when Thunder
shakes the Pole.—Your Philosophy digests infinitely
better with my Constitution; for while
you fortify the weaknesses of human Nature,
you make allowances for ’em. You don’t tell
me, ’tis wrong to burn when I’m in a Fever;
but having found the Sympton upon me, apply
a Medicine, which, like Tar-Water, cools
and comforts at the same time. Continue
your kind Prescriptions; I find my self much the
easier for ’em; and have some hopes, as you’ve
already sympathiz’d, you will soon rejoice with

Your most faithful, &c.
Mm February Mm1v 266

Ive been long abridg’d in one of the most
elegant Pleasures I have, my Correspondence;
but have felt no Silence so properly as
Yours. A succession of teazing, as well as
painful Affairs, has kept the Spirits of Philosophy
up to so exalted a pitch, that I’ve been
absent to most other things, but the fear of
being forgot by You. Indeed I had told you such
dismal stories of my self of late, that I could
not but acknowledge you had reason to be
comforted in my silence. But I revere your
Patience, I honour your Sentiments, I love
your Letters; and tho’ I cannot reduce ’em
to practice, I contemplate them as a Rule of
Faith; and put more Trust in You, tho’ a
Woman, than ever I did in Man.—Lady H.
never tells me a word about you; only in one
Letter said, she had seen you but once since
you came from Bath. But not a word did
she tell me of your Arm; nor I dare say ever
dreamt of any Blood, but what was to flow
from her Lord’s Wounds. I’m rejoyc’d you’ve
recover’d the use of it, both for your own
sake and mine. Your Sentiments are so delicate,
and your Heart (as far as I know of it) so Mm2r 267
so honest, that ’tis pity you should ever want a
Hand to express either.

I’ve always so much to say to you, when I
write, that I ought to apostrophize your Patience,
did I not know that you love to exercise
your self in all Virtue. But this I design
to be a short Letter, (O may it prove so!)
having hopes of seeing you next Month. I’m
going to Town to have a Conference with no
less a person than Dr. Young, upon an affair
that is to endure for ever. But hope you’ll
let me have the pleasure of hearing from you,
before I grow Immortal; because I know not
what changes and transmigrations may happen
to me, when I come to tread on Stars, and
talk with Poets. I’ll only add, the sight of
your Hand gave me so much pleasure in this
mortal State, that I hope you’ll never lose the
use of your Arm, ’till I’m rais’d above it.

Lady F.W. does me higher Honours than
perhaps she means me; as great Souls diffuse
Pleasure whether they will or no. Lady H.B.
is quite silent, and I have not time to interrupt
her Repose. All the notion I have of her Ladyship
at present, is, that she’s very fat, and
short breath’d.

Mm2 Cecil- Mm2v 268
1745-04-02Cecil-street, April 2, 1745.

’Tis a most sensible Mortification, that day
after day passes by me, and I can’t be
so happy as to see You. My last resolution
every Night is to wait upon you to Morrow;
but my frailties and disappointments are too
great not to render the path to Virtue and You
equally difficult. You are ill, and I am rude
and ungrateful; that is, I neither call, or send
to enquire after You, and so am the very Person
I hate. The rest of this Day, and I fear
to Morrow, are destin’d to the duties of Mortification,
Tea, Cards, and a Supper. ’Tis
Lent with me all the year to be oblig’d to sit so
long in a Place. The next, am to go to
Hammersmith, about this business of Immortality;
so am desirous of settling my worldly Affairs
first, for fear I should be above ’em afterwards.
Lady H. says, I hinder’d her going to You yesterday;
which is a scandal upon my good
Name—But dinner’s upon table; and I write
this only to give You to understand how much
I love and honour You, and that I hate to be
so near You, and can’t have the pleasure of
seeing You.

I am, &c.
Mm3r 269

Ive been trying to sequester an hour to my
dear Friend upon Richmond-Green, ever since
I came home; but find it difficult to rise to a
state of Contemplation, where so many things
about me are in Action. ’Tis You only, that
can abstract your self from the several vortices,
and shoot away from orb to orb, with as much
agility as if You were no part of the System.
One moment immerst in books of Accounts;
and the next with Fontenelle, and all his Worlds:
this instant on Earth, among drums and routs;
the next, silent and soft, and soar’d to Heaven.
I’ve often took notice how small a portion of
time you allow yourself at your Toilet; and
how precipitately caps, handkerchiefs, and
gloves are hurry’d on. But when you dress
your Mind, how curious of your Ornaments!
and what a croud of goodly Tire-Men for your
attendants! Clarke sets all right about your
Head; and the good Bishop of Cambray holds
the glass, and shews you your Heart. While
Mr. Locke ascertains the fashion of your Ideas,
settles your Modes of thinking, and gives to
every part of Speech its proper force and figure.

Thus much came, before I look’d over yours,
to see whereabouts to begin an answer. And now Mm3v 270
now I’ve read it, dare not trust my self. Every
sentence whets my edge, and I could go on for
this half hour without thinking; but that I hate
to be at ease and laughing, when any thing I
love is in such Distress as poor Lady H.B. must
be, while there are no accounts from my Lord.
The Solitude, she treated me with while she
went to town, was beyond any thing I’ve felt
this twelvemonth. O that you had been but a
Mile off, (for I would not have had an Angel in
the house with me, if I must have found Conversation
for it) that I might have communicated
my contentments once a day, and then retir’d
into my self again!—Tears—how could you
have such a Thought? What, for the World! The
London I left behind me!—Tears were far from
me. ’Twas all mild, complacent, and heavenly.
The Lodge itself a Paradise, and then in
its highest (which is next to immortal) Bloom.
“Sweet was the breath of morn, and sweet the
dewy eve.”
I pass’d the day among jessamins
and roses, in grots or arbors, to the melody of
Nature’s Songsters; and at night read, or wrote
to my Sovereign, from whom I deriv’d these
blessings of Quiet and Liberty. Pray’d little,
but often felt the silent and sweet Emotions of
Praise and Thanksgiving. I’m glad you forgot
that sentence about “weeping the Follies of
the World, and deploring its Loss;”
Sensationstions Mm4r 271
so far from my breast, that if it had not
been for about as many chosen Spirits as Noah
took into the Ark with him, I should have forgot
there was such a World in being. Even my
Friend - - - - - - - could not tempt me back
again, tho’ it was to a Palace. The only Pain
I felt (for every other I left behind me at Hyde
Park
corner) was, when I cast my eyes back upon
the gentle Pair, once happy tenants of these
Shades; but now drive from their Paradise by
some evil Angel,— perhaps never to return!
This Thought I could not bear. But when I
heard my Lord was order’d into the Field (a
secret reserv’d from her Ladyship) it rous’d all
the noble Ardor within me; and asham’d of
my inglorious Ease, I took the Field too, a
Voluntier among his Hay-makers. I was under
Arms, and in the Trenches (very properly so,
for ever Furrow was full of Water) several
Days; and acquitted my self with such Spirit
and Resolution, that the commander in chief,
our Field Mareschal Richard, soon honour’d me
with the command of a Company.

I begg’d her Ladyship would communicate
the poetical accounts of the Deluge to you,
when she saw you, but did not imagine she’d
think ’em worth a Transcript. Am glad however
that you approve of the Author’s Vein,
which at that time flow’d pretty spontaneously; and Mm4v 272
and when any thing else comes, you’ll certainly
hear of it.—I’ll allow you to rally my Wit as
much as you please, if you’ll only write to me
all you know, and think. I like my Epitaph
extremely, and will ask no body’s Opinion about
it; for I won’t have a word alter’d. Love your
Prose of all things, but ’tis a shame to live at
Richmond, and not be Poetical. My Rhymes
would not succeed with the World, if I was
to try ’em. However, am highly sensible of the
partiality you shew to my Plants of both kinds,
and the Sun-shine you afford ’em.

1745-04-06April 6, 1745.

I Rejoice in Lady H’s earthly blessings, but
must not I give You joy too of more worldly
Goods? For I read in the papers t’ other day,
that - - - - - - - had given - - - - - - a place
in the Pay-Office, worth I know not how many
hundred pounds a year. ’Tis vastly provoking,
to see how the goods of this World are distributed.
As for her Ladyship, she had all manner
of Comforts and Conveniencies before; and you
had ten times as much as you wanted, or ever
could want, for any Gratifications of your own.
How then could you think of asking for more?
For to be sure, these sort of things come only by Prayer. Nn1r 273
Prayer. For my part, I had only a little Garden,
fit for my Mind, fit for my Muse: but
one of your small Gentry, a high German Practitioner,
fell a building a Wall; and happening
to have an unnatural Craving upon him, unluckily
mistook the Case, and abridg’d me of
half on’t. And so the things of this World go
round! Those that have much, to them shall
be given; and those that have little, from them
shall be taken, even that which they have.
However, I can’t say I murmur at your overflowings,
because you not only make a good
use of ’em, but came honestly by ’em; I’m
only sorry, or rather rejoyce, in that they will
a little intangle your immaterial Part, and so
bring you down upon a Level with us Mortals
again. While you are here, I’d fain have you
partake a little of the Soil, and cling kindly to
the Earth about you; but how you great Folks
will manage, when you come to drop your
Trappings and your Furniture, I can’t tell. We,
who came naked into the World, and are likely
to go out of it again just as we came, have nothing
to retard our flight; but mix cordially with
the Ether about us, and shoot at once into Spirit
and pure Being. But Lady H. and you,
who are clogg’d, and cloath’d upon again with
the Incumbrances of Riches, must have many
Struggles and suffocating Fits, before you can Nn think Nn1v 274
think of reaching the third Region, the pure
Ether of all. But I would not absolutely dishearten
you, as Riches are very good things honestly
got, and innocently us’d; all my Concern
is, least you should be stung with the
Thorns, or choak’d with the Cares, that spring
up with ’em. If ever they should lay hold of
your Heart, they’d cling like a Polypus; ’tis
at present much too generous, much too honest
for such Society. But for fear you should be
weary of mine (as people are apt to sleep over
moral Lectures) I hasten to release you,

And remain, &c.

From the flurries of Races, and that running
after something, commonly call’d
Happiness, lo! I resume my Pencil in order
to retouch your Picture, since I find you a little
discontented with some of my late sketches.
But how shall I paint you? Shall I fancy you
a Machine, that Mrs. - - - - - winds up every
morning, and sets a going; or an amiable intelligent
Being, that has the Springs of Motion
within it self? If you’ll never allow your self Nn2r 275
self any Merit, nor let me fancy any for you,
give me a Reason why I should love or honour
You; for I profess I can’t tell. Shall
I pay my Adorations to your Rank, your Fortune,
or the good Dinners you give me? With
all my Heart, for indeed I’m indebted to you
upon each of these accounts. But if you’d
have me love, or esteem you; trust me, my
dear Madam, it must be for something higher
than the highest of these. When you change
your Style,—of Life, I mean,—perhaps I
may change mine; but as you say you have
not been at Court yet, I need not study a
new language. I was in hopes some Demon
or other had tempted you thither, not that
I’ve any Grudge to You or It; but because
I’d have all your Virtues try’d, and all your
Passions tempted. Till they are, we neither
know our selves, nor are known of others;
as I readily agree with You. We’ve now the
satisfaction of seeing our honour’d Friend, who
was bred there, in (what I reckon) her highest
state of Probation; and I’ve so good an opinion
of the soundness of her Head, and the
sameness of her Heart, that I think a few additional
Acres won’t spoil ’em. But who can
say? If they should, she has more to answer
for than most people; not only as she has receiv’d
more, but as having rais’d our ExpectationsNn2 tations Nn2v 276
higher. For my part, I keep my eye
steadfastly upon her, to see how Riches operate
upon a Mind I think I know, and I’m
sure I love. Whether of an astringent
quality, and contract the Fibres of the Heart;
or whether they pass easily thro’ their proper
Channels, and diffuse Life and Chearfulness
to every thing within their reach. In weak
Habits, and cold Complexions, they’re apt to
purge off the good Dispositions a little too precipitately;
but upon a sound Constitution, as
I take her Ladyship’s to be, they must operate
as a Cordial, and comfort and restore the beneficent
Passions; which, for want of Power
to exert themselves, often grow faint, and at
last die away. I don’t doubt but they’ll have
this effect upon her Ladyship; but if they
should not, I can only add, that God Almighty
gave her good Dispositions, but the
Devil sent her Riches, and spoilt ’em all.

After all, as you observe, I believe we had
as good take this World as we find it, and
make the best of our way into a better. Nobody
will believe me, but I still say, all Happiness
is equal here. The difference will be
hereafter. Outward Circumstances signify nothing.
’Tis all at Home, in the Head, or
the Heart, the keen or the blunted Sensation.
The highest Characters have their Chagrins, as Nn3r 277
as well as the lowest; and what you mention,
in regard to a royal Garden, can move
your honest Indignation a little, as well as the
Loss of a Piece of free Land mine. You say I
can indulge all the Pleasures of my Imagination
in half a Garden, as well as in a whole one.
’Tis very true; I have as lively Ideas, and my
Notions of Virtue or Vice are just the same.
But if a frightful-looking Man comes and tells
me, I will have a Piece of that Ground you’re
walking upon; I’ll dispute it with him, tho’
it were but an Inch. The Injury with regard
to Me is not all; ’tis the Insult upon
Honour and Honesty, which every one is
concern’d to discountenance. In short, ’tis the
right or the wrong Notions, the good or the
bad Actions, that must constitute that homefelt
Happiness I was speaking of; and when
these are once secur’d, ’tis not a half-penny
matter whether you’re worth one Acre, or
ten.

I beseech you don’t be an hundred Years a
writing to me, because your Letters, singly,
refresh me greatly; and the Bundle together
is my Body of Ethics.

November Nn3v 278

I Thank you, my dear Madam, for a most
excellent Letter, as well as a most welcome
instance of your Regard for me. At least, I
will flatter my self I’ve some share in your
Friendship, as ’tis one of the best Pleasures I
have, and would indulge (with your permission)
as long as I live. Am entirely of your
Opinion in regard to some of our late Conversations,
and think moreover that ’tis the
easiest thing imaginable to compass what we
call Happiness here. But at the same time
am equally perswaded, that the Person whose
views are chain’d down to this Life, and whose
groveling plan has no connection with Eternity,
not only the most miserable, but but the most
abject of Beings. This preference seems to
me to be, not so much for want of a Taste
for moral Truths, as of Attention to ’em. Every
body seems to be convinc’d of ’em at first
view; at least, for my own part, I am struck
with their Beauty whenever they appear to me,
and feel a warmth for their Interests, like the
Enthusiasm of a Lover. Among several noble
Images of this kind, in the Pleasures of the Imagination,’gination’, Nn4r 279
I never could read the following without
being most sensibly touch’d.

“――Is ought so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the Spring, In the bright eye of Vesper, or the Morn, In Nature’s fairest Forms, is ought so fair As virtuous Friendship; as the candid Blush Of him, who strives with Fortune to be just; The graceful Tear, that streams for others Woe; Or the mild Majesty of private Life?—”

These strike, and convince at first View, at
least, they have that effect upon my Composition;
but ’tis no uncommon Case for people
to seem, nay even to relish, approve, admire,—
and the very next moment forget. Some predominant
Keenness intervenes, some fresh Taste
succeeds; and neither the one, nor the other being
settled habits in the Mind, but a sort of
desultory Emotions, ’tis no wonder if we fluctuate
alternately between both. What ever there
is of Virtue in our Composition, must be the
effect of habit and consideration, of choice and
circumspection; and much oftner still, of Opposition
to our natural Tastes and Tendencies.
Even tho’ these in themselves (abstracted from
other Considerations) may be right and virtuoustuous Nn4v 280
Sensations. But ’twou’d take up too
much time at present to pursue this Point.

You’re so lost of late to this sublunary World,
that I’ve been thinking whether ’tis not a fruitless
attempt to endeavour to find you any where
below the Stars. Where to direct this to you,
I scarce know; and yet to have a Letter of
yours so long in my Possession, and not in
my Power to acknowledge it, is vastly disagreeable
to one so sensible of your Favours as
I am. ’Tis dated --08-11August the 11th, almost
ever since which time I’ve been from Home,
but was not so lucky as to meet with any
one who knew where to fix you. Even Lady
H.B
. with whom I had the pleasure to spend a
month, knew as little of you as I did. As
you seem’d much embarrass’d with teazing Affairs
by your last, I hope this will find you
enjoying that sweet Sensation, Peace, among
a thousand other good things I wish you. In
the mean time, don’t be so good a Christian
as to hate me for my different sentiments in
some few religious Matters. If that is a Mark,
I am indeed too much an Infidel not to love
you, tho’ we differ. I write this in a hurry,
because I’d catch you before you go; but wish
you’d order me to look out for a House for
you somewhat hereabouts. See, how interested my Oo1r 281
my notions of Friendship are! But these are
Doctrines I can subscribe to, clear and consistent
in themselves, and connected with the
general Laws of Benevolence, which go on in
a regular progression, and link the Social with
the Divine.

I am, &c.

All Hurry and Confusion as I am, I’ve
an Impatience to resume our correspondence;
for I always find, that the moment I
lose sight of You, I long to hear from You.
You told me I should, and that’s Pleasure to
come. I love Hope; ’tis one of the prettiest
of all the Passions.

The Thought, that you have not got a House
for the Summer yet, is another Pleasure; for
I’ve been hoping ever since, that you won’t
get one above three or four Miles from Oxford.
For which reason I began enquiring after
Houses almost as soon as I left Hyde-Park-
Corner
; and full of this Hope, will ask every
body I meet, ’till I despair. Could I hear of
any place you’d like, within the distance of a
Walk, and you know I don’t affect the shortest,Oo est Oo1v 282
how much sure and certain Satisfaction
would it afford me! There I might often
have the Pleasure of seeing You, and You me,
if you please; there, far from the Busy, the
Idle, and the Troublesome, we might walk and
converse with Nature, and her unaffected Children;
and there, abstracted from the little
Systems about us, raise our Ideas to the larger
Orbs of Being, ’till by degrees we shoot into
the World of Spirits, and lose our Way in the
Contemplation of pure Intellect See what a
Jaunt my Imagination has already led you!
and what a pleasing Picture it has form’d for
itself! What pity ’tis ’twill exist no where else!

Surely nothing was ever so good-natur’d as
your lending me my Letters again! I long’d
much to see something belonging to You in
my book, and have lov’d you for indulging me
ever since. And tho’ in my Precipitancies I
forget ’em, I valu’d ’em too much to let any
body fetch ’em but my self. Indeed now I do
value them, and for two reasons: first, because
you’ve thought ’em worth preserving, which I
never dreamt of; and next, because they’ll tell
the World I had the honour of conversing with
one of the most amiable Characters in it. Some
people have a trick of obliging you, without
pleasing; but your doing this, in such a goodnatur’d
way, is like every thing else You do: You Oo2r 283
You always double a Favour by your manner
of doing it.

In short, every thing within your reach is the
happier for you. My poor Relation, who never
saw you, or ever will see you, ’till you
meet in Heaven, blesses you every day. Your
repeated Bounty, with the little I’ve borrow’d
from the Public (which I’ll pay again in Wit—
if I can; if not, such as my good Friends find,
they’re welcome to) has pour’d Joy and Gladness
into her Heart at seventy-three. I know
you don’t love to hear your own praises, and
will never forgive me for publishing this Letter;
but to mortify you still more, see I join my
self in the Panegyric. I’m rather inclin’d to
hate my self; and the farther I go, the less I
feel my self enamour’d. But such little Incidents
as these reconcile me again to this Compost
of Clay; and even my spirit rekindles,
while I see those I love engag’d in the same
Plan. Bear with this Nonsense, if you can;
if not, burn it,

and believe me always, &c.

This will travel towards you in a Pot of Butter,
but if it should happen to be greasy, ’twill
burn the better.

Oo2 Oo2v

Letters
to the
Hon. Miss Lovelace.

Oo3r 285

Madam,

A Correspondence with You, after much
sollicitation, had been a Satisfaction equal
to my Vanity; but there has been something
so generous in your manner of complying with
my Request, that I’m at a Loss how to acknowledge
it—otherwise than by resolving
for the future to trust every thing to your
Generosity. And this I shall effectually do,
every time I oblige my self this way. I have
been too well inform’d of the Justness of your
Taste, not to have had some Fears as to the
success of my former Attempts; but those
Fears will all vanish when I consider, that the
same Good-nature, which first admitted me to
the honour of a Correspondent, will also incline
you to overlook the critical Faults of
one, who will promise to endeavour to please.
As for the rest, whatever may tend to it’s
Continuance, or promote Chearfulness and gold
Humour, I shall, for my own sake, endeavour
to observe; promising at the same time
that nothing rude, or indecent shall ever
come near you.

And Oo3v 286

And now, ’tis time to look about me. I
begin to consider my self as one, who has found
out a rich Mine, but has not Materials to carry
on the Workmanship. This indeed I ought
to have consider’d before; but our eagerness,
in the pursuit of Pleasure, generally makes us
overlook the Means of enjoying it. I ought
to have sat down seriously, and calculated the
expences of Wit and Pleasantry I must necessarily
be at, to furnish out Entertainment for
so nice a Taste as yours: or, like a prudent
General, have first consider’d my Strength, before
I had been so improvident as to hazard
an Engagement. Your obliging Epistle has already
given me such a formidable view of your
Forces, that I’m begining beforehand to call
out for Mercy; or, at least, think it adviseable
to bring you to capitulate. In short, I dare not
proceed, unless you’ll subscribe to the following
Articles; or, to give it a more magnificent
Air, if you please, we’ll call it a Treaty.

Article I. That whereas the original Right
of Trafficking in Wit and Humour has, from
time immemorial, remain’d in the Hands of
a certain Nation, that shall be nameless: We,
who are likely to be great sufferers thereby,
unless the said Traffick be restrain’d under
proper Regulations, do humbly propose, that for Oo4r 287
for the future, it may not be employ’d to the
disturbance or molestation of Us, or Our Tranquility.

2. And whereas, by the present Situation of
our Affairs, we are somewhat humbled in our
own Opinion; we conceive it but just and reasonable,
that our Conquerors should treat us
with Compassion, and not expose our Weaknesses
to the neighbouring Nations.

3. That on the contrary, there may be a free
and uninterrupted Commerce carry’d on between
us; and that We, on our Parts, may
modestly expect all the Profits of the Trade.

4. That this Commerce may continue during
the space of ninety and nine Years, from the
Date hereof; and as much longer as our Occasions
shall require.

5. That if, on any Emergency, we should
happen to beg, borrow, or steal from any of
our neighbouring Nations, or even from our
Conquerors themselves, and pretend to vend
those Commodities for our own Wares; that
They shall make no Reprisals, but in return,
give us double the Value in their own genuine
Manufacture.

6. And that if at any time our Occasions
should oblige us to draw upon them faster
than our Credit will bear; that they shall never
refuse our Notes on Pretence of want of Specie; Oo4v 288
Specie; and in return for their great Clemency,
we will promise to answer all theirs on the
whitest gilt Paper we can get.


Sign’d and seal’d in Presence
of Our Self at Fern-Hill.

All that remains now, is, for You to set
your Signature to this Treaty, which, as ’tis
modestly calculated with a view only to my
own Interest, will most certainly be punctually
observ’d by me.—’Tis odd, you’ll say, for a
State so newly form’d, and in so weak a Condition,
to talk of Terms; but our more powerful
Neighbours will, I hope, remember, that
we treat with Pen in hand—However, without
a Metaphor, I believe you’d be very glad
of a Cessation for this time, as well as I am
of an Opportunity of subscribing my self.
&c.

What ever may have prevented me, I
hope you’ll impute my not acknowledging
your last Favour sooner, to any thing
rather than an Insensibility of it. The Pleasure
I’ve already found, and much more that
I expect to find, makes me regret every Intervalterval Pp1r 289
of this agreeable Correspondence. Your
Letters are like a splendid Feast, which I sit
down to with a keen Appetite, and in the
end make a most comfortable Meal of ’em.
But I know not how it is, like a true Epicure,
even in the first hour of Digestion, I’m
apt to wish for a second Course; but being
depriv’d of that, comfort my self with the
Thoughts of setting it by cold for the next
Day. These things being duly attended to,
I hope, as my Appetite increases, your Bill
of Fare will increase too; for I love to see
a great deal of that which is Good, and ’twill
be cruel to let me starve in the midst of
Plenty.

It would now perhaps, in strictness, become
me to reply to some few of those Compliments
you’re pleased to make me; but I have several
weighty reasons for not doing it. First, I
conceive ’twould be great Ill-manners to contradict
you; and to say I don’t deserve ’em,
would, in effect, be telling you that you have
a very undistinguishing Taste. The first I
won’t do, for my own sake; and the latter
I can by no means admit of, for reasons every
bit as good. So that for my own private
Satisfaction, I think it advisable to acquiesce
in every thing of that kind; the Pleasure
of undeceiving our selves being no ways equalPp qual Pp1v 290
to that of being perpetually well-deceiv’d.
And this it is, which constitutes the very Quintence
of human Happiness. For now suppose,
after mustch Study and Application, I should
be able to find out (as ten to one but I might)
that you had a much better Opinion of me
than I deserv’d; what Satisfaction could such
a Reflection afford me? Had not I better sit
down contented with your Approbation, without
enquiring exactly whether ’tis just or not;
or whether it has any, or no Foundation?
In short, upon the strictest enquiry into the
Nature of human Happiness, I’ve generally
found, that Credulity is the first step towards
it; it being not very material, in many Cases,
why we are pleas’d, if we find we really are
so. For these important Reasons, have judg’d
it expedient not to examine too nicely whether
I deserve the things you say of me, or
not; for ’tis such an agreeable Deception to
think you mean ’em, that I would not for
the World be undeceiv’d. I only wish your
Application of what the Czar said to the King
of Sweden had been as just, as ’tis pretty. If
I remember, the Character Voltaire gives of
the former is, that He was as remarkable for his
Clemency, as that glorious Madman was for
his Courage; and chose rather to be lov’d than
fear’d: a Parallel you forgot to take notice of— In Pp2r 291
In short, I’ve been able to make one Observation
from the whole, vastly soothing to my
self; and that is, That you’re neither too good
to be approach’d, nor too proud to be pleas’d.
For which Reason, as I’ve hitherto been so
happy as to have your Approbation, it shall,
for the future, be my constant Endeavour to
deserve it, as long as I shall have the honour
of subscribing my self, &c.

The Pleasure, your last Favour gave me,
ought not to have been pass’d over in
silence so long, had not my Benevolencies been
prevented by a violent Cold, which I can’t yet
get rid of. The common Remedies have had
so little Effect, that now I’m convinc’d that
nothing, but a Prescription from You, can relieve
me. The first, I had the honour to receive
from you, cur’d me of a violent Fit of the
Tooth-ach; which, by reading over only three
times, charm’d away the Pain. Another, I remember,
in the Month of November, discomfited
a tedious fit of the Spleen; and insensibly
dispers’d five hundred gloomy Ideas, which Pp2 are Pp2v 292
are sometimes of fatal Consequence at that Season
of the Year. Your last but one cur’d me
of three several Disorders at once; and your
last of all has given me Spirits ever since. So
that when you consider of what vast Efficacy
a Line from You is, I’m persuaded you’ll take
Pen in Hand, and prescribe for me immediately.
Especially as the Case seems to be desperate,
and requires speedy application. The Doctors
I’ve hitherto consulted are either not agreed, as
to the Nature of my Disorder, or else differ
with regard to the Remedies. Some are of
Opinion, that a Discharge of some of the Humours
by Phlebotomy, or Perspiration, would
be proper. Others affirm, a dark Room and
clean Straw would have a better Effect But
they all agree, that the Seat of the Disorder is
in the Brain; and therefore finding me much
adicted to rhyming, since my Illness, have allow’d
me free use of Pen, Ink, and Paper; and
according as I find the Humours flow, have
given me full liberty to blot as much as I
please. Yesterday great quantities of my Disorder
came away in the following Verses; and
I’ve found my Head much easier ever since. You
told me in your last, you had the misfortune
to fall down stairs; and as every Action of
Yours is of Importance to me, so this has reliev’d
my Brain of some Rhymes, which might otherwise Pp3r 293
otherwise have been of dangerous Consequence
to Church or State. The subject will not admit
of much Variety; but I could not bear
the thought of your falling down Stairs in
Prose.

I Am not sure I ought to trepass upon
your Tranquility so soon; but I’ve a great
Inclination to it, and that’s with Me, a tolerable
good Reason. I’ve spent the afternoon
very silently in a great deal of Company; and
am now retir’d to my Closet to talk. Happy,
if Miss L. would likewise retire from the
Croud to hear me. My Company was a Divine,
a Physician, one old Woman, and three
young Virgins, whose Tongues were gifted with
the perpetual Motion. In this confusion of
Persons and Languages, I deliver’d up my Ears
with great Resignation; which indeed have suffer’d
extremely, during the Perils of the day.
For in the very heat of their Eloquence, when
Words flew thickest, I having no use for my Lips,
they levell’d ’em all, full at my Ears. In order
therefore to abstract my self as much as possible
from their Meaning, if they had any, for Pp3v 294
(for I could not help hearing the sound thereof)
I compos’d an Ode to that Edifice which
is erected in most of the Market Places of this
Island, to the destruction of Ears; which I
design’d to have spoken to my Audience. But
having waited a full hour for a silent Interval,
was forc’d to resume my sense of Hearing,
till they left me and my Ears to their
usual quiescent State.

I have complain’d to you upon this Head
before, and the Consolation you then gave me,
makes me take the same Liberty again. For
as I’m a quiet peaceable Person myself, and
have a mortal Antipathy to noises of any kind,
I think it hard that my Ears should be the
perpetual receptacle of G solreut in alt; a Note
so harsh and untuneable to me, that I can
scarce bear it in my Harpsichord. Now would
people only consider the Importance and Dignity
of Ears, or the Ignominy that attends the loss
of ’em, they’d be more careful how they touch’d
their fellow Creatures in so tender a Part.
’Tis from this antipathy to Noise, that I’ve
contracted a particular liking to all dumb Animals;
my chief Companions, and with whom
I most frequently converse, being one old Cat,
two Kittens, a large Spaniel, and a small, tho’
tuneable Linnet. Tom (for that is his name)
is a Dog of great Sagacity. Our Conversation is Pp4r 295
is chiefly by signs, and in that Dialect he shews
himself to be a person of extraordinary Penetration.
He’s likewise chearful, honest, and
good-natur’d; and what, I must own, has gain’d
most upon my Affections, never contradicts me.
To sum up the Character of this my faithful
Friend and Companion, we were bred up
together; and tho’ difference of Education has
sometimes been the Ruin of the most promising
Friendships, as being the occasion of different
Notions and Pursuits; it has made no
Alteration in ours. We are seldom asunder,
and yet never had a Dispute in our Lives.

It has indeed been objected to me, during
the Course of our Friendship, that I might find
out much properer Companions among my own
Species; that even the veriest Fox-hunter is
preferable to the Animal he hunts with; and
that therefore my Fondness for this dumb Domestic
is a blameable one, and of Consequence
ought to be corrected. To this I answer, that
Persons, of much greater Reputation in the
World than ever I can possibly arrive at, have
had a remarkable Veneration for the Brute Creation;
that one of the Roman Emperors, to
shew his Esteem for his Horse, would have
made him a Consul; and that even in our own
times, that renowned Hero and Traveller, Lemuel
Gulliver
, would leave his Wife and Childrendren Pp4v 296
whole Days together, for the more silent
Society of his sorrel Mare. The behaviour of
the latter (for I shall pass over the History of
Miss Charlot and her Cat) indeed proceeded
from a Disgust he had taken to the human
Species; but mine only from my Incapacity of
being upon a Level with them in the Faculty
of Prating. I remember when I was at School,
I have had many a rap on the Fingers, about
the eight Parts of Speech; and my Master,
who was a Man of profound Learning, and
whose Fist makes me tremble to this Day,
could never drub that part of the French Grammar
into my Understanding. But at that time,
’twas currently reported in the Neighbourhood,
“That one Tongue was enough for a Woman”;
and this Report was supported by such irrefragable
Arguments, that it gave my Mother some
Uneasiness; insomuch that she consulted my
Master about it. But he gave her such satisfactory
Answers to all her Scruples, that she
readily consented I should make all the Acquisitions
in Language her Privy-purse could afford
me. So that tho’ I have now a little smattering
in a Dialect or two besides my Mother’s
Tongue, (which, to my shame be it spoken,
every good Christian ought to know, and learn)
yet how have I been put to it sometimes to
make out a Sentence! What heterogeneous Words Qq1r 297
Words have I hook’d in! and what disagreeing
Ideas united!—Speaking is certainly useful
for many good Purposes; for Advice, Instruction,
Reproof: but alas! I am depriv’d of
all these Advantages. I cannot give Advice
to my fellow Creatures, because I don’t care
to make so many Words about it; and I cannot
receive it from ’em, on account of the great
tenderness in the Tympanum of my Ears. So
that all the Instruction I can receive, which is
from Writing, or Printing, I must take in at my
Eyes; which Consideration I hope, will induce
Miss L. to regale them, and of consequence my
Understanding, very often with her Letters;
the only thing that can make up to me the
Deficiencies of my Tongue and Ears.

I am, &c.

As you’ve made my writing, or rather troubling
you with two Letters, a necessary
Article towards obtaining one from You; I’m
always impatient till I’ve scribbled my Last,
because till then I’ve no Chance of being so
happy. For which reason I hope you always
forgive me the Necessity I am under, of beingQq ing Qq1v 298
doubly Dull, since ’tis in order to so substantial
a thing as Happiness. And indeed
Dulness itself, however despicalbe it may appear
to some people, is, in my opinion, a
great Happiness. To be exceeding indocile
and insensible, to partake of the solidity and
impenetrability of the Dumplin, and if one has
any Notions at all, to have wrong ones of
most things, if ’tis not real Happiness, ’tis
certainly something very like it. Of consequence
a Blockhead, which is a thing but just
awake, will ever be a much happier Animal
than a Genius, who is alive at every Nerve;
as the same Machine in a Barber’s Shop will
be so, in proportion, as it has, for the most
part, fewer Sensations than it’s Master.

But of all Characters, especially among my
own ever honour’d Sex, a Wit, is my greatest
dread. By a Wit, I mean here only those
insupportable Geniusses who affect the Character,
without the Materials; and with an
unweary’d set of Phrases, great volubility of
Tongue, and uncommon Power of Face,
intrude upon all Companies, engross all Conversation,
and are remarkable for nothing so
much as making People stare. They are undoubtedly
the life of Conversation, only mistake
the end of it, by an unfortunate Satisfaction
they have in hearing themselves talk: And Qq2r 299
And if you are so unlucky as to be a little
modest and unpresuming, they are the first
persons to find out your Foible; and kindly
relieve you of it, by putting you out of Countenance.
For to be very rude, and very surprizing,
is, with many People, to be very
witty.

Wit mixt with Good-nature, and corrected
with good Manners, is certainly an agreeable
Qualification, and many times an useful one
too. But as ’tis generally manag’d, I reckon
a Tooth-drawer, or a Corn-cutter by far more
useful Members of Society. Nay have heard
some of our Male-Critics possitively assert, that
she who can make a Pudding, or a Pye, has
a much better Title to their Approbation, than
she who can make a Pun, or a Preamble of
an Hour long.

By this time you see what reason I have to
support the cause of Dulness; but if (as Falstaff
observes) “I am the Cause of Wit in other
People,”
as I hope to experience again
soon in Miss L. have I not double reason to
rejoice in the want of it? And yet methinks
I could hardly pardon my self those rheams
of Absurdities, with which I trouble you almost
weekly, were it not for that Good-nature
of yours, which I hope is still in my interests,
and which has hitherto stood me in Qq2 stead Qq2v 300
stead of a thousand Excuses. And thus ends
(I wish I could add the Dullness of)

Your most Obedient, &c.

As I’ve been indebted to you for an incident,
which has given me great Pleasure;
am only concern’d I have not been able to
acknowledge it in a better Manner. But ’tis
a common Case for our best Endeavours to
succeed the worst You intimated something
as if I should meet with some Entertainment,
from the same elegant Hand soon; and indeed
Yesterday I had a Feast for an Empress.
I should be ungrateful not to return you Thanks
for it, as well as your much admir’d nameless
Friend. You may imagine that I long to
know to whom I am so much oblig’d; but
will suspend my Curiosity, lest I should be
thought impertinent.

The whole Species of Thinkers may be
divided into two sorts, the slow ones, and
the quick ones. Your slow Thinkers are seldom
very sudden, but very sure; the quick ones
see thro’ and Idea in an instant, and have you at Qq3r 301
at every turning. You must therefore be very
sure of your Words, if you would not be misunderstood,
or rally’d. Of this latter Class is
the Hon. Miss L. I can’t let fall a Sentence
that may be misapply’d, but, whip! you have
me; and when I’ve drawn a Character the most
unlike you in the World, presently you cry out,
“that’s I.” But this is not fair: and therefore
I take this Opportunity, once for all, to declare,
that when I speak in praise of No-meaning,
I never mean any body about St. James’s; and
whenever I pour out my self upon the Subject
of Dulness, I always exclude her Majesty’s
Maids of Honour.

I am rejoyc’d to hear that the Roads are
passable between Covent-Garden and St. James’s;
or rather, that the Way thither is so well pav’d
for me. The Pilgrim’s Progress, if you have
not read, I would exhort you to read. ’Tis a
very good Book, and full of useful Instructions;
setting forth the Difficulties we Travellers are
forc’d to encounter, and the many Lets and
Hindrances we daily meet with upon the Road,
especially by you better sort of Christians, who
ride in Coaches. And I would the rather exhort
you to read this good Book at this Time,
because I am my self, or shall be soon, a Traveller
or Pilgrim, wandering about from House
to House, in order to partake of the Benevolencieslencies Qq3v 302
of such good People as you are. For
I shall sometimes be tempted to knock at your
hospitable Gate, which, I hear, is always open
to Strangers; and therefore trust it will be so
to one who is so much a Stranger to every thing
but your merits, that she scarce knows your Person,
not withstanding she is so remarkably of
the number of

Your most Obedients, &c.

I’m sorry to find my much honour’d invisible
Correspondent is vanish’d so soon. But why
do I say vanish’d? For, as Swift observes, “One may see by the Hand, she has no cloven Foot.”

Nothing is so common as to hear people
talking of their great Alliances, and
boasting themselves upon the Merits of their
Ancestors. This Vanity is generally most conspicuous
in those, who have few Merits of
their own, and who are oblig’d to their Forefathers
for all the Credit and Esteem they meet
with in the World. A few days ago I was invited
to attend the Hearse of a good old Aunt of Qq4r 303
of my Mother’s to South-Newington, the burying
place of the Family, about four miles from
Banbury. The Pomp of Death, and the humiliating
scene of a Charnel-house, are Objects
I’m not very fond of; but the vanity of
viewing the Sepulchres of my Fathers, and the
good old Hall where my Grandfather and the
Vicar so often settled the Affairs of the Nation,
inclin’d me to attend the Solemnity as a Relation,
I cannot say a Mourner. As we came
near the Town we were met by some of the
most venerable Personages of the Place; but the
Corps was no sooner put down in the Hall,
than the whole Village came in upon us.
When we had satisfy’d the Curiosity of the
whole Parish, and fitted the Hands of some of
’em, we convey’d the poor old Woman to
Church; where the first thing that struck my
eyes were the Portraits of Time and Death;
two Figures dress’d out in all the Pomp of red
and blue, extremely picturesque, and the most
formidable Monsters I ever beheld. They seem’d
to be fighting a Duel; and indeed we left ’em
at Daggers drawing, for we had not time to
stay to see the end of the Combat: Tho’ ’tis
generally believ’d in the Parish, that Time will
get the better of it; for they have it upon
very good Authority, that “Time conquers all
Things.”

After Qq4v 304

After the old Lady was decently deposited,
and the Crowd pretty well dispers’d, (finding,
to my great satisfaction, that the Remains of
our Family occupy half the Chancel) I desir’d
the Clerk to sweep away the rubbish a little,
that I might look over the Tomb-stones, in
hopes to find some pompous Inscription, recording
the heroic Deeds of my Forefathers.
But alas! my Vanity was sufficiently mortify’d,
when I discover’d that the Family of
the Penns have only been born, and dy’d,
for some hundred Years past However I
comforted my self that this Neglect might have
been owing to the great Modesty of my Ancestors,
who (I was willing to presume) were
wise enough to content themselves with a Consciousness
of their own Virtue, without depending
upon Hic jacet—and a thousand Lies, for
their Fame.

I won’t pretend to trace out the History
of our ancient and numerous Family (for I’ve
had as many Fore-fathers as Bourbon or Nassau
but if I may guess any thing from the Arms
we bear, I’ve a notion the Founder of it was
by trade a Comb-maker; for, among other
devices, I find part of the Field, or Lozenge
upon my seal, charg’d with two Small-tooth
Combs. However, let the Founders of it have
been what they will, ’tis no matter, since the Family Rr1r 305
Family is ancient; and ’tis so long ago since
the Comb-maker liv’d, that no body can trace
us up to our Original. What became of Him,
or his Posterity, we know nothing of, nor
indeed do we much care; (only the famous
Sir William Penn the Quaker, and his Father
the Vice Admiral, we still mention with Honour)
but to comfort me under my Disappointment,
I learnt part of the private history
of some of his Successors, from an old Woman
who stood next me, and whose Grandmother
had occupy’d the place of a Dairy-
Maid in the Family, about six-score years ago.
’Twas with great satisfaction I heard that my
great Grand-father was remarkable for nothing
(except having his Hen-roost robb’d by the
Parliament’s Party in Charles the first’s time)
but for smoaking three pipes a day, and minding
his own Business; but was a little disconcerted
again, when I found that his Help-mate
had some discordant Notes in her Composition,
and was a little given to Passion, on account
of the Fortune she brought. However,
I recover’d my self again, when I found that
their Children all took good courses; but that
joy was soon allay’d, when I recollected the
Mischance that one of my Uncles had with his
Mother’s Maid. But my Grandfather being a Rr prudent Rr1v 306
prudent man, the affair was soon hush’d up;
and as the Child was suppos’d to have had
many Fathers, we don’t look upon this Sprout
to be properly a Branch of the Family, or Blot
in our Escutcheon.—In the next Compartment
lay my Grandfather; the first of his particular
Branch that ever set up for a Gentleman.
He was quite the reverse of his Father’s temper;
for he minded every body’s Business but his
own, and smoak’d no Tobacco. However, he
was look’d upon as a very knowing Man in the
Parish, and they all apply’d to him to adjust
their Accounts, and their Controversies. He
dy’d much lamented by all that knew him,
after having settled the Tranquility of his Neighbours,
and run out part of his Estate, which
was but small; for he was too much of a Gentleman
to live within Bounds.—In the same
Repository slept my Grandmother; that good
old Woman, who made such excellent Cheeses,
and rear’d so many Turkies every Year. She
was counted the best Housewife in the Village;
and no body would set a Hen, or wean a Child,
without consulting her. She resign’d her Spirit
in a good old age; and we reckon it among
her Funeral Honours, that that last Act of her
Life was attended with the Tears of the whole
Parish

I came Rr2r 307

I came home not perfectly satisfy’d with the
History of my Progenitors; for, according to
the description of an ancient Aunt I have (who
piques herself much upon her Family) they
ought to have been all Heroes; or, at least very
illustrious Personages. I can’t say they, any
of ’em, answer’d my Expectations; except my
Grandmother, whose Memory I honour very
much.—This put me upon considering the Vanity
of those of gentle Race, who boast themselves
upon the Merits of their Birth and Family,
presuming that more than ordinary Respect is
due to them upon that score; without considering,
that to be worthless themselves, is to be doubly
so with these Advantages. I need not make
Miss L. a Compliment here, who considers her
self only as an Executrix in Trust of her Father’s
Merits. The World has already been
beforehand with me in doing Justice to her’s,
as she has done to theirs, by reflecting back
the Lustre she has receiv’d. But is it not rididiculous
to hear a Coward boast of his Descent
from Alexander the Great, or a common Strumpet
trace up her Family as high as Lucretia?
Our real Worth must depend upon Our selves;
and if we borrow any Honours from our Ancestors,
we must take care to pay ’em back again;
lest, while we are priding our selves uponRr2 on Rr2v 308
them, they should be asham’d of us. For,
after all our blust’ring and strutting, Mr.Pope
will still be in the right, “Nought can ennoble Sots, and Slaves, and Cowards; Alas! not all the Blood of all the Howards.”

Reasons humbly offer’d to the Consideration
of the Hon. Miss L. why the
Treaty of Fern-Hill, concluded in the
Year 17321732, should be totally set aside; or
remain to Posterity with the following Emendations.

Whereas it was provided by that
Treaty, that M. J. of the City of Oxford,
Spinster, in regard to the various Avocations,
and important Affairs transacted by the
said Hon. Miss L. should be obliged to furnish
out two Letters, for every one of that
Lady’s:

And whereas the said M. J. has punctually
observ’d the Contents of this Treaty for the
space of two Years, and upwards; but finding
it absolutely destructive of her real and natural
Interests, she humbly conceives, that she can’t Rr3r 309
can’t in Honour and Conscience observe it a
moment longer:

That her real and natural Interests are closely
connected with, and absolutely depend upon
the Frequency of the said Lady’s Letters;
and that it has always been esteem’d the highest
degree of human Prudence, to trample upon
Honour and Conscience, whenever they come
in Competition with these:

That, during this time, the said M. J. has
been at vast expence of Brains, in furnishing
out Blunders, absurdities, quaint Conundrums,
and starv’d Conceits, without having receiv’d
the least Equivalent in return; but has constantly
been put off from time to time, with
nothing but Wit, Humour, and good Sense:

That she is utterly unable to bear the Burthen
of such an expensive Treaty any longer,
unless the aforesaid contracting Power shall graciously
condescend to be witty, as often as her
said Correspondent shall find her self under
the necessity of being dull:

That it has always been a Rule, from time
out of mind, for all and every Correspondent
to reply as often as they receive; but that by
this Treaty, the said M. J. has not only suffer’d
in her natural Rights as a Correspondent,
but has also been greatly abridg’d in those
more inviolable ones, her Pleasures:

That Rr3v 310

That not knowing her good Friend and
Ally was in such a flourishing Condition, and
had so much ready Wit always circulating thro’
her Veins, she suffer’d her at the Time of this
Treaty, out of her great Regard and Tenderness,
to make what Terms she pleas’d; but
finding her self no longer in a Condition to comply
with them, she humbly proposes, That
this Treaty may henceforth become null and
void; or else remain among the Papers of this
House, with the following Emendation, viz.

That the said Hon. Miss L. out of her native
Generosity, and without any regard to the
Merits, how great soever, of the said M. J.
has at length graciously resolv’d, That her Inclination
to oblige shall, for the future, go hand
in hand with her Power of doing so; and that
both shall be mutually employed for the sole
Benefit and Advantage of the said M. J.

Sign’d and seal’d as before.

Much am I oblig’d to you for the Honour
of your last, and glad you’ve receiv’d
the second Edition of my saucy Epistle
to - - - - - - - - - safe. I’m afraid I must now Rr4r 311
now bid adieu to the other; for I had a Letter
from that Lady the other day, and she’s
silent upon the Head. Well, since the French
say, Il faut souffrir patiemment ce qui est
inevitable, all I’ve to hope for is, that it may
fall into good Hands. I reckon my Faults
safe with You, who are of the number of the
Few, the very Few, whom I trust with my
Poetical Secrets. For indeed I’ve such an awful
respect for the Many, that I’d as soon
publish a Catalogue of my Sins, as my Poetry;
and have hitherto been as careful of concealing
the one, as the other. So careful, that
my most intimate Friends here, hardly know
I ever wrote a Verse; and I’m so fond of their
good Opinion, that I believe ’twill be the last
of my Foibles they’ll ever know from me.
Ever since you put Curl in my Head, I’ve
been looking over the Advertisements; but, to
my great Comfort, find no Letter from a certain
Honourable Lady just ready for the Press;
nor any Epistle to - - - - - - - - speedily to be
publish’d
. Of all the Characters, that have appear’d
in the ancient Families of the Jones’s
and the Penn’s, be that of an Operator of
Rhymes far from ’em! What would my Grandmother
say, that good old Woman I had the
honour to introduce to you t’other day, were
she to rise from her Grave and see me measuringsuring Rr4v 312
of Syllables, and murdering the King’s
English; when I should be manufacturing of
Minc’d-Pyes, or writing out Receipts for kib’d
Heels? Would not she blush for her Offspring?
What then will she say, when I come out in a
Twelve-penny Pamphlet, with an audacious
Appeal to that great Tribunal, the Public;
where every Buyer, who has but a Shilling to
spare, and every Borrower, who has not even
that, has a right to turn Critic, and pronounce
the irrevocable Sentence upon Me, and my
Works!—Well, if it be so, I shall have the
honour of being exhibited with a Lady, (the
only Consolation I have) the least of whose
good Works will atone for all my bad ones. To
that Lady I’m also oblig’d for her Concern at
my present Intranquillity; and the very Thought
that Miss L. is at all interested in it, has almost
animated me enough to bid defiance to
Curl, Miscellanies, and the Multitude. However,
to be serious, I begin to be pretty easy
about the Matter; for there’s a certain Secret
in my Works, that I’ll engage, will preserve
’em, even in the hands of a Bookseller.

I cannot but be in high Spirits at your liking
my Epistle to your self. Your Approbation
has entirely satisfy’d my Thirst of Fame;
so Mr. Curl may spare himself the Pains. But
yet I must acknowledge my self much indebted to Ss1r 313
to your Friend in the Corner (I’d give fifteen
irregular Odes, and a couple of Satires, that
are to be publish’d after my decease, only to
see her Face) whose good Opinion I’ve so
much reason to be ambitious of. ’Tis probable
I may never be so happy; and yet she
can’t otherwise make me amends for the painful
Curiosity she has rais’d in me. I’ve promis’d
not to be too inquisitive; but if you’ll
only tell me the first Letter of her name, I’ll
never ask another Favour of you as long as
I live—except that your Letters may be long,
and frequent, and your Correspondence as lasting
as the Esteem of

Your, &c.

Iv’e’ve at last had the inexpressible Pleasure
of reading Mr. Pope’s Letters; and am so
well satisfy’d with ’em, that I shall read all
future Letters (except Miss L’s) with a great
deal less Pleasure for their sake. In his other
Productions I have always admir’d the Author,
but now I love the Man. There is,
throughout, such a spirit of Benevolence, such
noble strains of Generosity (particularly in his
Friendship to Mr. Gay) that that breast must Ss be Ss1v 314
be a stranger to all the tendernesses, all the
dignities of human Nature, that can read him
without being warm’d with the same Affections.

To tell you which Letter I like best, or
which particular Thought pleases me most,
would be like pointing out the most finish’d
Piece, or the most masterly strokes in the Beauty-room
at Hampton-Court; where every Picture
was done by the best Hand, and the
Originals the greatest Beauties of the Age they
liv’d in. Or if you chuse a Simile nearer home,
’tis like going into Kensington Gardens; where
the Rose, the Carnation, and the Jessamin are
plac’d in such beautiful Order, and again diversify’d,
with a regular wildness, amidst such
a variety of Plants, Flowers, or Shrubs of
different Colours, and peculiar Fragrancies, that
one knows not which to give the Preference
to. After all, neither of these Similies come
up to Mr. Pope’s Beauties, or my Admiration
of them. ’Twill be doing him more Justice
to say — he is inimitable, like Nature, in
all his Works. Nor am I the only Admirer
Mr. Pope has, that he knows nothing of, nor
is it very material he should know; but I
should be much wanting to my self, if I did
not take all Opportunities of assuring Miss L.

how Ss2r 315

how much I am hers, as well as how sincerely

I remain, &c.

What more can I say to you, in regard to
your agreeable Friend? I know, “She’s as
capable of pleasing, as of being pleas’d;”
I
believe “She’s a most agreeable Companion,
as well as a generous Friend”
; and am persuaded
she has all the Accomplishments you
speak of; but if I’m never to hear from her
more, to what Purpose is it to tantalize me
with all these fine Descriptions? I now begin
to wish she had ten thousand Faults, and that
I was witness to every one of them. O, that
every Word of her delightful Epistles was
spelt wrong, and every Sentence Nonsense!
that she was all over Vanity, Affectation, and
Self-sufficiency! and in short, had every Foible
I could name; unless she again convinces me
under her Hand and Seal, that She’s superiour
to every one of them. For how is it possible
to support the Loss of her Correspondence,
while she has so many Excellencies?
In short, she’s every thing you’ve said of her,
and ten times more. I wish she had some
Faults. Unless she has, I am inconsolable.

Ss2 September Ss2v 316

The suddenness of my reply to your last
Favour, was one effect of the Joy it
gave me when I receiv’d it. As your Interval
of Silence had been longer than usual, I
began to be in pain, lest you should take my
Management, in relation to Chaucer, ill. But
that good Sense and good Nature I trusted
to when I return’d the Specimen, and which
I’ve so often been indebted to, inclin’d me to
hope you’d pardon a Freedom I had not allow’d
my self in, but upon those Considerations.
However, for fear I should at any time
presume too much upon your Indulgence, give
me leave to add, as a Truth that may always
be referr’d to upon such Occasions—
That as it would be my greatest Pleasure, to
oblige You; so you may always depend upon
it, that the contrary will for ever remain
among those things I shall never be guilty of
wilfully, and with my Eyes open.

We’ve had but little Company at our Races.
I had some faint Hopes of being honour’d
with a view of - - - - - - - -; but being disappointed
there, was indifferent enough to look
upon the rest pretty equally. For I think I begin Ss3r 317
begin to have enough of that important Article,
“To see, and be seen;” and tho’ I
sometimes mix with the Croud, to avoid the
Affectation of Singularity, yet I can’t say I
find out much Pleasure in it. I’m a prodigious
lover of Silence, and Musing—and sometimes,
you’ll say, of being be-mus’d too —
to which let me add, another of my Loves,
and that is, a running over, not reading, all
manner of Books, from Milton’s Paradise, down
to the Dragon of Wantley. You have too good
an Opinion of me, if you imagine these Amours
to be the Effects of my Judgment, which are
really nothing but the Vagaries of my Nature:
for I pretend not to more Sense, or more Gravity
than my Neighbours; only hope my singularities
will be excus’d on account of my
want of Taste. However, thus far I agree
with you, that I anticipate few Pleasures by
Expectation; and the Reason is, because I’m
not very sanguine in my Wishes. Yet I have
had my Ambitions, as well as others; and
the Ascent to ’em seem’d so easy, that I’ve
sometimes suffer’d my self to be led, a little
Way, in those flow’ry Paths. But have found
either by Experience, or Philosophy (for I
won’t answer for it, if Disappointment has not
been the Parent of the latter) that the silent
Pleasures of a low Fortune, arising from Temperance,perance Ss3v 318
moderate Desires, and easy Reflectiions,
will at any time compensate for the loss
of all our gilded Dreams. This however,
has always been a serious subject with me;
and ’tis not now a flourish of the Imagination,
but a sentiment of my Heart. For which
reason, how sparingly soever Fortune shall dispence
her favours to me, whether I dwell in a
Cottage or a Palace, eat Mutton or Ortolans,
or sleep upon Feathers or Down; yet if Providence
is only so gracious to me as to continue
the Cottage, the Mutton, and the Feather-bed,
(and let me add but one wish more,
the few Friends I enjoy at present, with the
same Health and Leisure) I shall go off the
Stage with a Heart full of Gratitude to my
beneficent Creator, and neither repine at my
own Fate, nor envy the Successes of others.
Most people, at some time or other of their
Lives, have had Opportunities of bettering
their Fortunes. If by honest means, they’re
in the right to pursue ’em; provided they’ve
Heads strong enough to bear good Fortune,
and Hearts to enjoy it: if by dishonest ones,
or low Compliances, they have shewn a noble
Pride in rejecting it. Such a Reflection will
afford a lasting Satisfaction, when Fortune has
no more to give; but such a Reflection will
be a Canker at the very root of our Enjoyments,ments Ss4r 319
if they’ve been purchas’d at the Expence
of our Integrity. Such Retrospections
as these have been able to make the worst,
that Fortune has done for me, sit easy upon
my Memory: and tho’ (I thank her) she has
never shown me any severe Reverse; yet I
can truly say, I never was indebted to her
for a single Blessing I’ve enjoy’d. Even now
she’s playing me a Trick - - - - - - - But “Welcome, for thee, fair Virtue! all’s that’s past; For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev’n the last”
You see, I can quote no-body but Mr. Pope;
and indeed there’s no Author I love so well.
I’m pleas’d to have the honour of thinking
with you in that respect, and could be glad
to do so in many others. But since ’tis impossible
for me to imitate you in your Perfections,
if you’ll only be so good as to let
me often admire you in your Letters; you’ll
help to make this whimsical Journey of my
Life a very pleasant one, and at the same time
satisfy all the Ambition that remains unconquer’d
in the Heart of

Your most Obedient, &c.
January Ss4v 320

Our Poetry Professor Mr. Spence, was to make
me a visit the other day, and ask’d me if I
had seen the famous Mrs. Barber’s Works? He
told me, he had just receiv’d a very valuable Present
from that Lady, no less than a beautiful
Quarto Edition of her Works; and if I had that
Curiosity, which he took it for granted I was
not without, they should be with me early
the next Morning. I found the Professor had
no acquaintance with the Author; but being
a Man of Character in the learned, as well as
the polite World, had, I suppose, on that account
been honour’d with this mark of Distinction
from her. I was highly delighted at
the sight of so pompous an Edition from a
Person of my own Sex; and very glad to find
she had met with such Encouragement from
so many persons of Distinction, who have honour’d
her Subscription.—I’ve now had the
satisfaction of going thro’ the whole Book;
and only wish the Volume had been less,
that I might have admir’d the Author more.
I am always pleas’d with any Attempts of this
nature among my own Sex; and could be
glad, if the Exercise of our Heads were a little
more in Fashion: since it too often happens,pens, Tt1r 321
that that is the only uncultivated Part
about us. But Custom, and (what is more discouraging)
the Lords over us, determine against
us; and we must do as our Neighbours and
They would have us, no matter whether right
or wrong. I can’t help making an Observation
here, greatly to the Author’s Honour,
that throughout her whole Book, I don’t remember
to have met with one immodest expresion;
nor, what is more remarkable, a Word
of that Passion which has made so many female
Poets; I mean Love. Whenever I meet
with a Sister in print, I always expect to hear
that Corydon has prov’d false; or that Sylvia’s
cruel parents have had prudence enough to
keep two mad People from playing the Fool
together, for Life. I’ve often wish’d, for the
honour of our Sex, that these Subjects had
been exhausted seventeen hundred years ago;
but am afraid that seventeen hundred years
hence, we shall have the same false Corydon’s,
and the same complaining Sylvia’s. ’Tis pity,
that this passion alone should set us to Rhyming.
The subject is so beaten, that it can’t
possibly afford us any thing new; and probably
that’s one reason, why we so seldom succeed
in our Poetical Excursions. There is, however,
one Affection I cannot but admire in
this Authoress; and that is, her excess of GratitudeTt titude Tt1v 322
to all those by whom she has been any
ways oblig’d. In this, tho’ no Authoress, I
am ambitious of equaling her; and tho’ I dare
not publish to the World how many Obligations
I have to the Honourable Miss L. yet
I’ll whisper it to the Reeds how sensible I
am of them, and how sincerely, &c.

You’ve now surpris’d and oblig’d me beyond
my Expectation; a thing not very
usual among one’s Betters: who, ’tis said, seldom
surprise people that way. Indeed you have
this in common with other People of Quality,
that you always raise our Expectations very
high; but then you generally manage it so,
as if you thought it incumbent upon you to
answer them. How this whimsical Notion
came into your Head, I can’t pretend to account
for; but this I know, that the Ideas I
had conceiv’d of you before I had the honour
to correspond with you, were of such a
Nature, that if you did answer them, ’twas
more than I expected.

I’ve no other way of acknowledging your
last Favour, but by sitting down to thank you for Tt2r 323
for it as soon as you answer’d my Nonsense
of February. Why you had not that so soon
as ’twas dated, was owing to my usual strength
of Memory: I sat down in a violent hurry to
write it, seal’d it, lock’d it up in my Bureau,
and forgot it.

Be it known to your provoking Friend behind
the Curtain, that Dangers are not to
be trifled with, even tho’ they are at a distance:
That people whose Sensations are as quick as
as mine, are not apt to forget. But that since
she has begun afresh to disturb that Calm I
was going to possess, she herself must answer
for the Consequences. And she can avoid ’em
no other way, than by granting me the Favour
she has so often more than half promis’d me
by You her Surety. If she still persists, her
most secret History shall be no longer a Secret;
and those very Perfections she’s so industrious
to conceal, I shall make no scruple
of publishing to all the World. Bid her hear
this, and tremble.

As to the Passion of Love, ’tis a pretty amusement,
I grant you, for the Heart; but
when once it gets up into the Head, ’tis bitter
bad. Not but its effects are different in different
Constitutions; tho’ perhaps a species of Madness
in all. Its Essence is made up of Contradictions,Tt2 tradictions, Tt2v 324
and there’s nothing so great, or so
mean that it will not attempt. In the breast
of the Hero, ’tis many times an incitement to
Virtue, or something that looks very much
like it. In little Souls, it creeps, and fawns,
and lies, and betrays. ’Tis well, if among our
Sex it goes off in Rhyming; for if once we
can settle our selves to write about it, I reckon
the Danger is over. All that I would
advise in such Circumstances is, not to publish
just in the Fit; but wait ’till the Paroxysm
is a little abated, and the Patient begins
to cool. Not that I am of the Opinion
of those, who are for driving this, or any of
the tender Passions from the human Breast
They are all of Use; and, under proper regulations,
have a Right to be heard. They smooth
and temper the rough and fiercer ones, (which
perhaps are by far the more mischievous of the
two) introduce those friendly and benign Sensations,
which serve to correct our very Virtues;
and by relaxing, or softening the
Movements we have in common with other
Machines, pour all the powers of harmony
thro’ the Soul. With ’em, we are sometimes
more than Human; without ’em, Savages.
But because I’ve call’d the Passion
of Love a sort of Madness, I shall give you Mr. Dryden’s Tt3r 325
Dryden’s
sentiments; who never fails of the
most masterly Images, whenever he touches
this Affection.

“Love is that Madness, which all Lovers have; But yet ’tis sweet and pleasant so to rave. ’Tis an Enchantment, where the Reason’s bound; But Paradise is in th’ enchanted Ground. A Palace void of Envy, Care and Strife, Where gentle hours delude so much of Life. To take these Charms away and set me free, Is but to lead me into Misery; And Prudence, of whose Cure so much you boast, Restores the Pains which that sweet Folly lost Conquest of Granada.”
1736-05-16May 16, 1736.

I Am certainly one of the happiest of Creatures;
or, which is much the same thing,
I think my self so; for my Correspondents
are all very good to me, my Friends very kind,
my Acquaintance civil, and I think I’ve nothing
to complain of but a Lover or two,
who have forsaken me. But the Lovers are
such a whimsical race of People, and their Flights
so much above the reach of common Understandings,standings Tt3v 326
that I think one has no great loss
of them. Their Absence indeed implies that
one has no longer Charms to keep ’em; but
what is such a Reflection to one bred up among
Philosophers?

You fancy I love Variety so well, that I
shall one day think of changing this Philosophic
state, for a better. But alas! Madam,
our wise Ancestors, I mean the Founders of
this ancient Seat of Learning, had so little regard
for this better State, the Marry’d one;
that tho’ they are recorded as Men famous
in their Generation themselves, they have permitted
none of their Disciples to enter into
it. In vain then do we Female Philosophers
preach up the Necessity and Usefulness of Marriage,
when those who ought to have been
our Help-mates are under a Vow of Celibacy.
So that were we never so desirous of
changing this solitary State of Life (to which
we Virgins of Oxford are more peculiarly call’d)
’tis to no purpose to think of it, unless the
present Parliament in their great Wisdom (as
we hear they intend it) shall graciously take
our Cases into Consideration, and allow our
Fellows of Colleges to marry. Then indeed
we might have some hopes of becoming joyful
Mothers of Children; and then we have
but one request more to make to ’em, and that Tt4r 327
that is, that they will only be so tender-hearted,
when they’ve done, as to provide Hospitals
for the poor Babes. But these great, and promising
Events we must leave to Time, and the
Wisdom of the Nation, now assembled. At
present (as Hudibras complains to his Widow) “Love in our Hearts as idly burns As Fire in antique Roman Urns, To warm the Dead; and vainly light Those only, who see nothing by’t.”
I’m heartily vext the Post has depriv’d me
of the Pleasures you design’d me, your Manuscripts
being some of the greatest I have. You
seem to hint indeed, that you had refus’d to
comply with the Terms of the last Treaty;
which is only a more agreeable way of convincing
me, that some people can refuse a Favour
with a better Grace, than others can do
one. For your very Refusal is a Compliment;
and convinces me either that my Letters are
not so dull as I apprehend ’em to be; or
(which I rather believe) that Miss L. has
Good-nature enough to excuse the dullest of

Her most Obedient’s, &c.
The Tt4v 328

The humble Petition of M.J. Spinster,
To his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace
for the Parish of St. James’s.
Sheweth,

That whereas there is a certain Lady of
the Parish aforesaid, utterly unknown to
your Petitioner, but perfectly well known to that
tatling Gossip, Fame; who with Malice prepense,
and without any Provocation, did on
Sunday 1734-12-06December 6, Anno Dom. 1734, with
certain Words, folded up in the shape and
form of a Letter, secretly, and maliciously conspire
against, molest, and utterly disconcert the
Peace and Tranquility of your Petitioner, and
his Majesty’s loving Subject:

That your Petitioner conceives these Words
were a sort of Charm, or Incantation, such as
the Egyptians were wont to make use of in
their abominable Rites:

That your Petitioner has never been right
sound in her Intellects since; but, on the contrary,
has been observ’d upon reading these
Charms (for she has receiv’d two more of
them) to break out into odd strains of Admiration,
and to repeat the Words—Excellent!— Inimitable! Uu1r 329
Inimitable!—with certain extravagant and unbecoming
Emotions:

That, walking about the room one day, in
one of her Raptures, she had the misfortune
to overset a Tea-Table, with its Equipage, to
the great Confusion and Dismay of all the sober
part of the Family:

That your Petitioner was put into great bodily
Fear, during the late Storm; as well knowing
who had a Hand in the brewing of it:

That by these her wicked and abominable
Fascinations, your Petitioner has been kept awake
whole nights together with studying who
this invisible Tormentor should be; to the great
detriment of her Health, and pleasant Dreams:

That ’tis commonly reported, that one Delia
is her Familiar and Associate in these abominable
Practices; and that between ’em, they’re
arriv’d at such perfection in the Art of Charming,
that unless a speedy stop be put to their
illicit Designs, ’tis doubted whether even your
Honours may be safe.

The Premises tenderly consider’d, your Petitioner
humbly hopes that these Offenders may
be brought to condign Punishment; and that
your Honours will forthwith order them to do
Penance in a White-Sheet, before the Face
of your humble Petitioner,

Who, as in Duty bound, shall ever pray, &c.
Uu July Uu1v 330

My Letter, as you prophetically imagine,
would infallibly have been upon the
road the day I had the Honour of yours, had
not the Vicar of St. Sepulcher’s been a Man
of too much spirit to know his own Mind.
He was that day to have set out for London,
and had promis’d to disperse throughout the
Corners of the Earth about half a score Letters
of mine; among which was one to your
self. Being willing to wait his Motions, I have
deferr’d this ’till now. The chief business of
the other, was indeed, as you rightly concluded,
to enquire after my Lord Lovelace’s
Health; and to inform you there was a Letter
in Town for you, which I heard was detain’d.
For I was concern’d to be wanting in my acknowledgments,
at a time too when you had
so particularly oblig’d me; as well as impatient
to hear, from your self, some accounts of
his Lordship’s Health. I’m sure ’tis so necessary
to your Ease, that were my Lord’s Merits
so very moderate as (Mr. Pope says) some
Lords are; yet I hope that would have been a
sufficient reason for my Curiosity. I believe I
need not assure you that I am sincerely rejoyc’d at Uu2r 331
at his Recovery, and as sincerely hope all your
Fears on his Account may soon be at an End.

If my Dreams were worth telling, I would
inform you, that you appear to me in my
Sleep just as easy of Access, as obliging to your
Inferiours, and as negligent of your own Rank,
as you do to other People when they’re awake.
That you likewise suffer me to speak freely
upon all manner of Subjects, and never by a
certain stiffen’d Stateliness, that drags itself thro’
all the Forms of Pride and Affectation, bid me
be uneasy all the time I am in your Company.
Nor, as I remember, ever gave the least Hint
to the Defamation of any Person breathing; on
the contrary, have always appear’d quite easy
to your self, and so had no Temptation to be
severe on others. These are some of my Visions
of You; but whether they are only Visions, I
must leave to your Consideration. For my part,
I care not to be undeceiv’d; on the contrary,
shall expect to have all my Dreams made out
next Winter; and if I have been in an Error,
’tis an Error that has so much the Appearance
of Truth, that I doubt not but I shall continue
in it as long as I live.

I am, &c.

Your last came kindly to my Relief before
it’s Time
, tho’ I assure you ’twas no Abortive. Uu2 From Uu2v 332
From my Heart I always wish you such quick
Deliveries. If you knew what Loads of Paper
I fold up in the Shape of Letters, how I’m
distress’d for Subjects to suit the various Geniusses
of my several Correspondents, and what
hard Labours I sometimes have upon these Occasions;
I’m sure you’d pity me oft’ner, as
you oblige me always.

I Hope by this time all your Fears for Lord
Lovelace are at an End; and that this will
find you in that State of Tranquillity, which the
Mind often feels, after it has been ruffled by
Affliction.

’Twas a saying of one of the wiser Heathens,
“That no Man is more miserable than Him,
that hath no Adversity:”
And tho’ ’tis an
Assertion that has something the Air of a Paradox,
yet ’tis certainly true, both in a natural
and moral Sense. Adversity, in a moral Sense, is
the proper Scene for exercising our Virtues,
particularly those of Fortitude, Patience, and
Resignation; and for checking those Seeds of
Vice, which are ever in the most forward and
flourishing Condition, when the Mind is becalm’d
by Prosperity. It calls off our Thoughts from Uu3r 333
from the trifling Pursuits of this World; and convinces
us, better than a thousand Volumes, of
the Necessity of looking out for a better. How
perswasive is Pain! I knew a young Fellow,
who upon a flow of Prosperity, had almost
forgot he was a Man. He neither eat, drank,
nor talk’d like Beings of such an inferiour Order.
Women and Dice have, of late, made
him recollect himself. He was once Master
of twenty thousand pounds, but is now a Beggar;
and has ever since behav’d like a reasonable
Creature.

In a natural Sense, Afflictions serve to checquer
Life; and relieve, or rather set off the
dead calm of Prosperity. The Mind is easier
for having been a little agitated; as the Sea
is more beautiful after a Storm. When we
are said to pass thro’ the Waves of this World,
we may consider them only as so many Movements,
which serve to diversify the particular
scene we are acting in, while they are carrying
on the Business, or more important Transactions
of the whole. Our Minds would grow
languid and be opprest under a constant flow
of Prosperity; and they are no more fitted for
an uninterrupted state of Happiness here, than
our eyes are for gazing continually at the Sun.
Pain and Disappiontment quicken our relish for
Pleasure; and those, who would arrive at the full Uu3v 334
full enjoyment of any thing, must first suffer
themselves to want it. Again, the dark parts
of Life serve to render the bright ones more
luminous; as the deeper the shades are in a
Picture, the more full and glowing are its Lights.
And as darkness, throughout Nature, is as necessary
as light; so the Advantages we reap from
either would be lost, were it not for the grateful
Vicissitudes of day and night.

I write this in great Incertainties; but whatever
the Event may be, that your Mind may
preserve its equal State, is sincerely wish’d by

Your, &c.

As I’m generally a Hearer in company, rather
than a Speaker; I was well enough
diverted this evening with a young Thing,
who, I dare say, looks upon her self as a Curiosity.
She’s one, who values her self extremely
upon what the World calls a Polite Education;
has a French-woman to teach her to
murder English, a Music-master to instruct her
in the Art of spoiling Music, and a Dancingmaster
who is to teach her to forget how to
Walk. She wears no Stays but what are done by Uu4r 335
by a German hand, drinks no Tea but Mahood’s;
and her Mantua-maker, Milliner, nay
her very Shoe-maker are all of French extraction.
With all these Accomplishments, which
she is continually informing you of, there’s no
difficulty in perswading her, that all her acquaintance
are a very insignificant set of People;
and that herself is the only Person of Consequence
in all Companies. For which reason
she always thinks she has a right to the
first Curt’sey, the first Seat, and not only the
first, but the fulsomest Compliments that are
paid. I had acquitted my self so much to
her satisfaction in all these Particulars, and had
gain’d so entirely upon her Affections by my
extreme Complaisance; that she not only suffer’d
me to sit next her, during the whole
Ceremony, but directed the greatest part of her
Discourse to me, as a Mark of her Esteem.
I was excessively proud of the Distinction, and
testify’d my satisfaction by applauding every
thing she said. Among several other very extraordinary
Assertions (occasion’d by the profound
Gravity of the rest of the Company, who
were lost in Admiration) she wonder’d how
people could ever be grave, or out of Humour;
or ever sit still long enough to be uneasy.
After signifying my Astonishment at her uncommon
Philosophy, I made her a complimentment Uu4v 336
upon the superiority of her Understanding;
both which were graciously receiv’d. And
to convince me that my good Opinion of her
was no more than her due, she assur’d me,
with an air of Pre-eminence and Self-sufficiency,
that is not to be describ’d, “That for her
Part, nothing should ever make her uneasy,
as long as she liv’d.”
I was so well satisfy’d
with this last Speech, that I long’d to return
to my Closet, and that Oglio of Fools, which
Mr. Pope has been so good as to let me have
always at my Elbow. Among which “Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her Mind, Prepares a standing Jest for all Mankind.”
There are Characters in Life, whose Distresses
rather destroy our Compassion, than awaken it;
and if ever I find the emotions of Humanity
fail me (and I think I am not naturally of an
obdurate Nature) ’tis for such Fools as these.
But I find I’m growing satirical; so shall turn
my Thoughts to a much more agreeable Subject
—your gentle, but incomprehensible Friend
in the Mask. Hope is undoubtedly a most
pleasing Passion; and you had flatter’d mine so
agreeably when you told me, she would have
wrote to me”
, that I should have taken my last
leave of Despair, if you had not been so kind as Xx1r 337
as to assure me in the very next Sentence, “that
she was much better engag’d”
. Was ever poor
innocent Creature, that never hurt either of
you, so teaz’d and tantaliz’d? In short, if
you’re resolv’d to go on in these abominable
Practices, I’m determin’d to be blind not above
a Month longer. Half a word, and I’ll
describe every Feature of her Face. What tho’
that ingenious Comedian, Mr. Bullock, has told
us—that Woman is a Riddle, and has wrote
a dull Comedy to prove it; yet Riddles have
been unriddled, and Mysteries clear’d up. Therefore
if she desires to conceal herself any longer,
her only way will be to make herself known:
as we give over looking after the Sun, as
soon as he comes out of an Eclipse.

Your last Favour, which by the date I
ought to have had the 1736-10-2828th of last
Month
, seem’d by the shatter’d condition
of its Cover, either to have lain at the
Post-Office, or to have slept at Peace in your
Footman’s Pocket, ’till the 1736-11-055th of this; and
came to me half open on the 1736-11-066th. I can
hardly forgive the Party-colour’d Gentleman Xx (if Xx1v 338
(if ’twas his Fault) the Injury he has done
me by his Forgetfulness; who, like the Miser,
for I can’t compare him to a worse Creature,
was all that time in possession of a Treasure
which he durst not use, and which I, who
knew the value of it, was in daily expectation
of. I beg pardon for detaining you so long
with my quarrel to Mr. John, and proceed to
my self (a Person of much greater Importance
to me) who have had variety of Fears since you
became dumb, and had sometimes resolv’d
to send you a Catalogue of ’em. But have been
extremely busy of late in sorting of Ribbons,
and disposing of bits of Edging to advantage,
in order to make a decent Appearance with
my Brother’s Wife at Covent-Garden Church.
But I find these things are so much above my
Genius, and am afraid my Country Airs will
hang so aukwardly about me, that the polite
Ladies of that Place will soon find me out,
and smoak me (if I may use so coarse a Phrase)
as the Wits do a Parson at the Play-House.
’Tis now three years since my Nose was regal’d
with the sweet stinks of London; during
which time I’ve been breathing pure unadulterated
Country Air, and learning to undress
my self. How I shall do to inhale the various
Odours of Covent-Garden Market, and
make a disposal of the Ornaments of my Personson Xx2r 339
to advantage, I’m at a loss to imagine. I
have such a violent inclination for Ease, that
I don’t care to stick a Pin extraordinary, where
it interferes with that; and had rather have
my Apron rumpled, than suffer the least discomposure
of Mind. So that I’m likely to
make a very extraordinary Figure when I come
there; and as I’ve neither Fortune or Philosophy
enough to dare to be singular, am in
daily apprehensions about my Appearance. I
wish you’d satisfy my scruples in these particulars;
as how far a Person of my littleness may
dare to depart from the common road, when
’tis no longer convenient to be in it. Whether
I may not venture to hang on my Cloaths in
five minutes, for Conveniency, rather than be
two hours in pinning ’em on, for Shew; and
use my Legs sometimes, when ’twou’d be more
decent to be seen in a Coach. In short, whether
I may not consider my self as Person
I have an unfeign’d Affection for; and of consequence
so far assert my Liberty, as to do
many things I’ve a Mind to do. For tho’
I’ve the greatest deference for the Manners and
Customs of the World, yet I can’t help leaning
sometimes to Sir William Temple’s Opinion,
“That one of the greatest Pleasures in Life
is, to possess such a degree of Liberty, as to Xx2 “be Xx2v 340
be able to walk ones own Pace, and ones
own Way.”


Your Advice in these important Articles,
would be of great Use to your well-meaning,
but extremely diffident, &c.

Want of Time is, I think, the general
Complaint of all Letter-Writers; and
Yours in haste, concludes Wit, Business, every
thing. For my own part, my whole Life is
little more than a perpetual Hurry of doing Nothing;
and I think I never had more Business
of that sort upon my Hands than now. But
as I can generally find Time to do any thing
I’ve a Mind to do; so can always contrive to
be at Leisure to pay my respects to Miss L.

Want of Spirits is another heavy Complaint
I frequently meet with; and I’ve a Correspondent
who never writes to me without
grievous Invectives against the Spleen. I will not
add how often I have my self borrow’d the
shape of the Spleen to be dull in; and it
would be of singular Service to me at this
time, if you’d only be so good as to believe
me far gone in that hopeful Distemper.

But Xx3r 341

But the most universal Complaint among
Scribblers of my Rank is, want of Sense.
These generally begin with an Apology for
their long Silence; and end with that moving
Petition, Excuse this Nonsense. This is modest,
indeed; but tho’ I’m excessive good-natur’d,
I’m resolv’d for the future not to pardon it
entirely, in any one but my self.

I’ve often thought there never was a
Letter wrote well, but what was wrote easily;
and if I had not some private Reasons
for being of a contrary Opinion at this
time, should conclude this to be a MasterPiece
of the kind; both as to Easiness of
Thought, and Facility of Expression. And
in this Easiness of Writing (which Mr. Wycherly
says, is easily wrote) methinks I excel
even Mr. Pope himself; who is often too elaborate
and ornamental, even in some of his
best Letters; tho’ it must be confess’d he outdoes
me in some few Trifles of another sort,
such as Spirit, Taste, and Sense. But let me
tell Mr. Pope, that Letters, like Beauties, may
be over-drest There is a becoming Negligence
in both; and if Mr. Pope could only
contrive to write without a Genius, I don’t know
any one so likely to hit off my Manner as
himself. But he insists upon it, that a Genius
is as necessary towards Writing, as Straw towards Xx3v 342
towards making Bricks; whereas, ’tis notorious,
that the Israelites made Bricks without the
Material, as well as with.

The Conclusion of the whole Matter is this;
I never had more Inclination to write to you,
and never fewer Materials at hand to write
with. Therefore have fled for refuge to my
old Companion, Dullness, who is ever at hand
to assist me; and have made Use of all those
genuine Expressions of her self which are included
under the Notion of want of Time, want
of Spirits
, and in short, want of every thing
but the most unfeign’d regard for that Lady
whose most devoted

I remain, &c.

The humble Remonstrance of M.J.
Inhabitant of the Parish of St. Paul, Covent-Garden,
To the honourable Miss L. Maid
of Honour to our most gracious Queen Caroline,

Sheweth,

That whereas we little Folks, out of the
tender Regard we bear to you great
Folks, do often infest your Levees, spill your
Tea, and eat up your Bread and Butter; and
have moreover such pitiful Looks, and begging
Countenances; ’tis therefore humbly pray’d that, Xx4r 343
that, for the future, you would contract your
Brows, sit silent, or trifle with your Slipper
during such Intervals, as well for your own
ease, as the satisfaction and quiet of his Majesty’s
loving Subjects:

That while you continue to smile upon every
thing that teazes you, and talk to every
thing that talks to you, you make your single
Apartment (notwithstanding the Contiguity
of the Drawing-Room) the center of Attraction;
and draw crouds of Triflers into your
Vortex, who would otherwise be moving about
in their proper Spheres:

That by the mere force of this Attraction,
in general, your Petitioner is often drawn aside
from her right way; and by (what Sir Isaac
Newton
calls) the centripetal Force, in particular,
is frequently impell’d towards St. James’s,
when she had calculated her Motions for the
Royal-Exchange:

That for this reason your Petitioner is oblig’d
to make Use of a Vehicle, never so much
as mention’d in Sir Isaac’s Principia; and as
it’s Impulses and Tendencies are contrary to
all the known Laws of Motion, she conceives
it to be not only inconsistent with the regular
courses of Nature, but also beneath the
Dignity of a Philosopher to be seen in such
a Vehicle:

That Xx4v 344

That this Machine was originally call’d, by
the Ancients, a Sedan, by the Moderns, its denomination
is a Chair; but as your Petitioner
professes her self to be of the Sect of the Peripatetics,
or walking Philosophers, she humbly
conceives it to be a Disgrace to her Order,
to pursue her Studies any longer in such
an ignoble Vehicle:

That it is nevertheless look’d upon as a
mark of Respect for we sublunary Bodies to
approach you celestial ones in such a Machine;
but that notwithstanding your Petitioner (out
of her tender regard to your Honour) hath
been thrice pent up in this manner, in her
Perihelion; yet you have not once taken the
least notice of it, or so much as enquir’d whether
she came upon two Legs or four:

That your Petitioner brought with her several
good golden Guineas to this Place, with his
Majesty’s royal Face thereon; but that in compliance
with this unnatural Custom, her Golden
Age has been entirely reduc’d to the Silver
one; and if this Enormity is suffer’d to
continue, she makes no doubt but that she shall
soon be driven to the last Extremities of an
Age of Brass.

Your Petitioner therefore humbly hopes you
will graciously condescend to take her Circumstances
into Consideration, and that you will forthwith Yy1r 345
forthwith issue out Orders, that a Commission
of Foot
be granted to your Petitioner; or else,
that the moment you hear her scaling your
Walls, or tampering with your Guards, you
give immediate Orders, that no Subaltern be
admitted within the Garrison.

And your Petitioner, &c.

Company, which I hate in general, as much
as, I’ve lately found out, I love yours
in particular, has prevented my paying my Devoirs
to you so early as I design’d. What I
mean by that violent Expression is, that I’ve
hardly been alone since I came home; and
all the use I’ve been able to make of it is,
that it has only shewn me the difference between
Yours, and common Conversations; and
by that means put me oftner in Mind of what
I’ve lost Really you’ve quite spoil’d my Taste,
and I must never hope to be so cheaply pleas’d
as I have been.

I’d fain unlade my Heart of a little of
what it owes you; but ’twou’d take up so much Yy of Yy1v 346
of your Time and mine to clear the Vessel,
that I think I’d better bear about me the
grateful Sensation, ’till I’ve some better Opportunity
of discharging it. Besides, ’twou’d look
so much like that Commodity, which you
have in such great plenty at St. James’s, that
perhaps ’twou’d be more adviseable to consume
the precious Incense, as the Dutch do their
Spices, than glut the Market.

Shall I tell you an Adventure? Last Sunday
as I sat receiving Compliments and Congratulations
upon my arrival, a good old Lady in
one corner of the room, was lifting up her
Eyes at something her next neighbour was
telling her about Lady - - - - - -. I could only
catch now and then a Word, enough to
raise my Curiosity; and therefore as soon as I
could creep a little nearer, begg’d to know
who this extraordinary Lady was? What she
did? And how long she had been in Oxford?
I was extremely delighted with the History,
which the other related with the utmost punctuality;
but found, after all the two sorts of
things she said of her, the Fine and the Odd,
that she thought her Ladyship a little mad.
This pleas’d me, as it gave me some of the
nicer sketches of the Picture, as well as strongly
imprest the Idea of my native soil. Having
heard as much as I had occasion for, and my Spirits Yy2r 347
Spirits being up; as soon as I was alone, I sat
down, and with the most compos’d Assurance
that ever my faculties were sensible of, wrote
the following Epistle.

“To the Right Honourable - - - - - - - About a year and half ago, I had the
honour to receive three Letters from
some invisible Being, whose Name and Rank
in the Creation I was then utterly a stranger
to, and have ever since been in the utmost
perplexities about. Various have been my cogitations
upon this Subject; but hearing just
now that Lady - - - - - - - - - - was in Oxford,
and considering and comparing Circumstances
and Similitudes, I had no longer any
doubts upon the Matter; but came immediately
to honest Hamlet’s Resolution, that, ‘Whether your Intents were wicked, or charitable, You come in such a questionable Shape, That I will speak to you.’
If I am mistaken, I hope I shall have your
Ladyship’s Pardon; but if not, I fear I’ve ten
times more reason to ask it. I was really
amaz’d and asham’d when I had some Hints
given me, who I had been writing to; and my Yy2 Confusion Yy2v 348
Confusion increas’d, as the Scene brighten’d up.
But, as I wrote at a venture, hope your Ladyship
will pardon me all the improper and random
Expressions I then made use of.
My Curiosity, I must confess, has ever since
been as great as the Occasion of it; and I
shall haunt all the publick Places in Oxford, in
order to get a Glimpse of your Ladyship’s Person.
If therefore any pensive discontented
Thing should glide by you, wishing to speak,
but not daring, till spoken to; your Ladyship
may conclude, that this Phænomenon is an
humble and real Admirer of l’agreable Inconu;
and, with the greatest Deference,
Lady - - - - - most obedt. H. Servant.”

To my inexpressible Surprise and Pleasure,
I receiv’d a most elegant and obliging Answer
from her Ladyship, together with a particular
Invitation to her Lodgings. I need not give
you an account of my Palpitations and Tremors;
I believe you can form a pretty strong Idea
of them. To tell you the truth, when my
Spirits began to drop, I was so astonish’d at
my own Impudence, that I had hardly Courage
enough left to shew my Face. However, I
met with a most gracious Reception; and her
Ladyship was so good as to dissipate my Panics, by Yy3r 349
by the most obliging Behaviour in the world.
(N.B. I’ll take your word another time for all
the agreeable Characters you can draw.) The
conversation ran much upon You; but I would
not so much as mention you in the Letter, because
I wou’d not draw you in to support any
Extravagancies I might be guilty of. But as
you told me her Ladyship had made some
Enquiries after me, I thought that a pretty
good Foundation to hazard a Letter upon.
However, pray give me your real Sentiments
upon this extraordinary Adventure. You are
the only infallible Guide I can admit of in
these Protestant Realms; and therefore shall be
in pain, till I know how you decide.

I believe I have tir’d you; but as these
are the first Efforts of my Pen since I came
home, I could not tell where to stop till this
momemt—but (till I’ve quite wrote you to
death) hope you’ll continue to allow me a Place
among your most devoted, &c.

I’m just going to repeat my Assignation— “Courage, mes amis!”

August Yy3v 350

The best Idea I can give you of the
Joy and Precipitation with which I ran
to meet your delectable Letter (for I distinguish’d
it from twenty in the Postman’s hand,
tho’ I was a story above him) is, that in my
Flight downwards, I sprain’d an Ancle. But
I, who always weigh my Pleasures against my
Pains, and from thence calculate the amount
of my Happiness, found at this time the pleasurable
Scale preponderate so much, that tho’
the Ancle was extremely painful, the Letter
over-balanc’d it.

I don’t often lay Schemes, because I have
not Spirit enough to execute ’em. The only
one I attempted in Town was to coax Lady
Lovelace
only to venture her Neck with me
in a Chair to Richmond, while you was there.
By the mere dint of Eloquence I had half
prevail’d, when my good old Lady Vane, and
Mrs:,. Wishart stepp’d in with their Chariots,
and ruin’d all my Hopes. But Lady - - - - -’s
Adventure has given me fresh Spirits; and now
I have your Approbation, let all the World,
even Lady - - - - - - her self say ’twas wrong,
I say ’twas right. Much does her Ladyship suffer, Yy4r 351
suffer, and much she ought, for indeed much
she laughs at us. In return, we pity her, ’tis
true, because, poor Lady! we reckon her—
not quite in her right Mind: and I’ve been
ask’d very gravely, if ever I ventur’d to sit
next her; because people in that unhappy
way, are apt to have their Flights. But I
assure them I’ve trusted my self within half
a yard of her; and as wild as she looks, she’s
quite gentle and inoffensive, when you come
to talk with her: and that I never saw her
do any thing vastly extravagant, except giving
Mr. - - - - - - - a box on the Ear one Day,
and kicking her Slipper out of Window to a
poor Woman that wanted Charity. But all
I can say, can’t perswade ’em she has only a
little Disorder of the animal Spirits; they will
have it, that’s she’s too far gone to be trusted
in a Room with two Windows in it. In short,
all the difference I can perceive between her
Ladyship’s way of thinking and ours, is, that
she looks down, and pities Us; and we look
up, are astonish’d, and stare!—a Faculty we
are much inclin’d to, at any extraordinary Appearance.

After all, seriously, she’s in a very bad way,
for she has two Physicians— a dangerous
Symptom! I was to wait on her Ladyship
two or three times, while she stay’d, and alwaysways Yy4v 352
came away pleas’d. She took her Flight
on Saturday. And thus endeth the History of
Lady - - - - -.

There are about five people in the world
that I am as perfectly resign’d to in the Business
of speaking, as I am sometimes with you.
I am often in their company, love ’em dearly,
and am fond of their Approbation; they stroak
me, they humour me, they do every thing
I’d have ’em do, but I cannot grow tame before
’em for my Life. If I’m laughing before
they come in, I immediately put on my Solemnities;
if quite degagèé, and putting forth all
that comes, their very sight strikes me dumb;
and every sentence after, is forc’d, unnatural,
and affected. But if you’ll only all keep at the
distance you yourself are at present, and allow
me the free use of Pen, Ink, and Paper, I
assure you I mind you no more than I do
the Monument. All Strangers I have an unconquerable
Aversion to; and among a very extensive
Acquaintance, have not ten intimate ones.
In short, I must confess I’ve a little of the
Savage in my Nature, and am prodigiously
fond of a Desart. You inquire the reasons of
all this; but as they are most of ’em philosophical,
and lie very deep, ’twould take up
too much time and paper to investigate ’em. However, Zz1r 353
However, not one of ’em are of the kind
you mention.

I love all your Letter, but that part where
you say I flatter you, and where you speak disrespectfully
of yourself: a Liberty, I assure you,
no one else upon Earth shall ever take in my presence
unreprov’d. But wherein have I flatter’d
you? If I fancy you have more Merit
than you really have; that’s your Fault, not
mine. That is, if the Judgment I have form’d
of you, from all outward appearance, be
wrong; ’tis You that have deceiv’d me, and
and not I flatter’d you. But if after all, you
are the very Person I take you to be (and you
have not undeceiv’d me yet) ’tis a Character
that will always please me; that I love, and
that I cannot speak of in a cold insipid Phrase.
And if this is Flattery, then am I a Flatterer;
and deserve not the least returns of Affection or
Friendship, the ultimate End of all my pious
Adulation.

I don’t know how it fares with your Patience,
but I’ve fifty things to say still, and had
as many to do yesterday; but one Letter from
you puts every thing out of my Head, ’till
I’ve answer’d it. My next shall be in Italian,
only to shew you how far the Spirit of Emulation
will carry me; for I design to follow
you, my bright Example! thro’ all the imitable Zz parts Zz1v 354
parts of your Character, tho’ at an awful distance,
as usual. For as I desire nothing so
much as your Friendship; so it will always be
my Ambition to be your’s by a kind of similitude
of Tastes and Amusements, as well as
Inclination. In Testimony whereof we have
caus’d these our Letters to be made Patent, and
to continue in Force for ninety and nine Years,
and no longer.

Witness ourself at Oxford.

I now want every thing to express the Contentments
you give me, for I want even Words.
Among the Vivacities, there is a certain Pitch
we’re allow’d to arrive at, which we can express,
and which the most Insensible may feel;
but after that, ’tis all Rapture and Enthusiasm;
at least, with we Poetic Folks. I am,
at present, in one of these I-don’t-know-howto-express-it-Raptures;
all over-power’d with
a hurry of grateful Sensations, and yet dare
not give the reins to my Imagination; for
fear if I should happen to over-flow a little,
you should mistake it for Flattery. I can’t
stay now to enquire into the meaning of that
poor Word, that is so often abus’d; but proceed,ceed, Zz2r 355
with my usual Rapidity, to the thing
that comes next. Hear what Lady - - - - - -
says, “She’s honest—she means well.” Five
Words, that are a Volume in your Praise—
I’m rejoyc’d to find I stand in some degree
of that Lady’s Approbation; tho’ my Remerciments
are rather due to your self, on whom
I lean’d for support, under that amazing Trial
of my Courage and Constancy; and for whose
sake alone her Ladyship stepp’d down from
the - - - - - -’s, as you have often done from
Queen Caroline, and the Lovelaces, to entertain
Me. Happy Girl! “Who wanting nothing, all possess; And knowing, taste my Happiness.”
I don’t know who that Fragment belongs to,
but ’tis in your Hand-writing.—I wanted much
to ask Lady - - - - - - - to give me the Honour
of making her some Tea, in these our
Terrestrial Abodes; but my Tongue falter’d just
about the beginning of the Speech, so I left
that Point to be discuss’d by abler Geniusses.
I had likewise another Wish, equally importunate
to be communicated; but which however
was immediately stifled by my Virtues,
I mean, my excessive Modesty, and exemplary
Self-denial. This was only for a little more Zz2 of Zz2v 356
of her Ladyship’s Correspondence. I know
you’ll cry out, I’m never contented. But I
can’t help that: who ever was so? I’m sure
you never met with any thing in human Shape,
that was.

When you write to your Cousin in Holland,
I wish you’d desire her to give my kind Love
to the Princess of Orange, and tell her I honour
her beyond all the Princesses in the
World. I have been told, that you shew’d
her Royal Highness some of my Letters; and
forgot to be vain to you upon it. I beseech
you tell me, what Subjects they were upon,
and all about it. And when your Hand’s in,
the next time you win a Pool of your Royal
Mistress, I shall be oblig’d to you, if you’ll
only pour a few of my high merits into her
sacred Ear; and give her Majesty to understand,
that I want prodigiously to have a little
House built in Bushy Park, in Defiance of
Stephen Duck. This, you may assure her Majesty,
is a Scheme purely disinterested with regard
to my self; and with a view only to
watch the Motions of her Maids of Honour.

You see I’m determin’d to persecute you,
wherever you go; but you bid me write on,
and I can’t stop my Pen when ’tis once set
a going. Among all the Virtues, there’s none
I so frequently and earnestly recommend to my Zz3r 357
my courteous Correspondents, as Patience. To
this alone ’tis owing, that my immortal Labours
are read, when Pope and Young are neglected.
O may you never want this Virtue,
while I can hold a Pen! In consequence of
which may some of the better sort of Angels
guard you in your Journey into Nottinghamshire;
and at Tunbridge, may neither Beau
Nash
, nor any evil thing come near to hurt
you. I hope Lady Lovelace believes she has
an affectionate Servant in M.J. My Paper
fails me to tell how much I am,

Yours, &c.

You begin by asking me about fifty Questions
in a Breath; and if you are not
vastly impatient, I will answer ’em all as fast
as my sedateness of Temper will let me, for
I love not to be put in a hurry.

1st Then, I am overjoy’d to find you
again, for I began to be inconsolable for your
Loss.

2dly. I have thought of you upon my Bed,
in Company, in my Closet; which I assure
you is more than I do of any body, or any
thing, except my Poetry, and my Sins.

Zz3v 358

3dly, I’ve had various Pains and Fears for
your Welfare; and had just advertis’d you at
Fern-Hill when yours arriv’d.

4thly. I neither can recant, nor do repent of
any one thing I ever said of you in my Life.

5thly and lastly. Whenever I do, you shall
certainly hear of it.

Having thus reduc’d your Questions to Form
and Method, ’twill now be necessary to inform
you wherefore I’ve so long kept Silence.
As to that part of the time, during your Travels
into foreign Parts (of which I hop’d to
have had some useful Memoirs) I profess I was
not prophetic enough to foresee that a Letter
would come to your Hands, which could possibly
have no Direction. And since your auspicious
Return, I’ve had no time. My Mother
is gone to London, and has left the government
of her kingdom upon my Shoulders.
What time have I then to write, who am
the sole Arbitress of the Differences between
John and Mary? And how can I recollect my
dissipated Thoughts, while the Silver Spoons
lie scatter’d about the Kitchen? Alas! the day
is half spent, before I can determine whether
our Mutton shall be roast or boyl’d.

Another grand revolution has happen’d in my
Affairs, and that is, I’ve been pulling down
part of my Closet, in order to inlarge the Windowdow Zz4r 359
thereof, and admit more of Apollo’s rays
into my Rhymes. While these grand Affairs
were in Agitation, could I sit idly trifling with
my Pen? And while my learned Shelves underwent
various Mutations, could I trust my
valuable Manuscripts to the prophane Hands of
the vulgar? These, and numberless other Avocations
have chang’d the current of my Thoughts
from You, and taken up all the vacant spaces
of my Time.

My raptures upon the Princess of Orange
were occasion’d by Miss C’s telling me, that
her Royal Highness had a languishing Desire
to see some of my Letters, and that you had
shewn her some. Now as I take it for granted
that the Princess was charm’d with my
Writings, so of consequence I was equally
charm’d with her Judgment; and this gave
occasion to my Raptures. But if you should
inform me, that her Royal Highness was not
quite so much enchanted as I would chuse to
have her be; yet still I must admire her Judgment,
because, among Friends, ’tis the best
Proof of it of the two. So that you see I
am really the Princess of Orange’s Admirer,
whether She’s mine or no.

I’ve about fifty reasons for not going to
London this Winter, and scarce one for going,
unless ’tis to see You. I’ve no Business there, or Zz4v 360
or Pleasure, except in the foremention’d Article;
and ’tis going so much out of my road
of Life, which at Oxford is one certain invariable
Path, that whenever I do go there, I am
not able to recover the Thread of my Affairs
again in a twelvemonth. However, I wish
you Operas and Fiddles in abundance; and if
I can contrive to take St. James’s into my
Plan of Operations after Christmas, shall have
a particular satisfaction in rendering my Curt’sies
at your Levee, and remain, for the rest of
my Travels,

Your &c.

The Face of things is so much alter’d
since I wrote last, that I know not how
to begin a Letter to you, or how to express
my self upon an Affair so interesting and striking
as the Death of the Queen. There’s no
one so far remov’d from the Throne, but what
must feel such a Loss; as, I think Queen
Caroline’s
is universally felt and lamented,
even by the meanest of her Subjects. But for
my own part, I’ve more than a Subject’s share
in the common Calamity, tho’ at the same
time have an affectionate Subjects’ Concern. I Aaa1r 361
I wish ’twere of any Use to you to know,
that you have never been out of my thoughts
since this important Event; and if I’ve been
really more affected than my neighbours, it has
been upon your account. We have lost only a
good Queen; but you a Mistress, a Friend,
and (I may say) a Parent; in short, every
thing you could lose under all these relations.

I would not add to your Concern, by troubling
you with unnecessary Reflections; but surely, I
think, you were born to be the sport of Fortune.
One day she seems to smile upon you, only to
insult you more effectually the next. But she
has taught you an useful Lesson; for I think
you had Indifference enough to distrust her
Smiles, and must therefore be equal to her
Frowns.

I know how disagreeable it must be, but
cannot conclude without begging the favour of
a Line from you, at this time in particular.
I can hear from no one so well as your self,
how you bear your Loss; and it would be the
most agreeable news I could hear, to find you
bear it with your usual Temper, and that it
will in some measure be render’d supportable to
you. Forgive me, if I’m impertinent; for I had
rather be thought so, than indifferent.

Aaa December Aaa1v 362

Nothing could be more welcome to
me than your obliging Letter. I confess,
I had something of Curiosity mixt with
my concern for you; and have a real Satisfaction
in seeing you support just the same character
in ever scene of Life. May that unaffected
Calmness and Magnanimity, of which
you’ve lately had so eminent an Instance, never
be wanting to you, whenever Heaven shall please
to demand them from you. For since much,
I think, is requir’d of you, much undoubtedly
will be given.

I am in love with the Character you give
me of your Royal Mistress; and not at all surpriz’d
to find, that those noble Sentiments, which
always warm’d her Breast, should exert themselves
with greater vigour, the nearer they were
being extinguish’d. But tho’ you must necessarily
miss her more immediate Influence, yet she
has left you something that will be of use to
you; and that is, her bright Example. After
this, I need only wish you to take care of your
Health; and to bestow just as much consideration
upon your Body, as is necessary to keep
your Mind in its proper (and that is the full)
Enjoyment of its Faculties. For tho’ you’ve had Aaa2r 363
had an illustrious Proof of what Mind can do,
unassisted, or rather discourag’d and depress’d
by its corporeal partner; yet such Instances are
rare and uncommon. It more frequently happens,
that a good state of the Solids and Fluids
has made more Philosophers than people are
aware of; and that Medicines have sometimes
serv’d to regulate our conduct, when Maxims
were of no use.

I’m sincerely rejoyc’d to hear Lady Lovelace is
so much better, as to go abroad. Mr. B. tells
me, he had her Ladyship’s commands to write
to me from Tunbridge; but, I assure you, I
never receiv’d the Letter: otherwise, should
certainly have acknowledg’d it, as I always shall
many other obligations I have to her Ladyship.

I am writing for you daily, or rather nightly;
(for I never begin my Studies, till other people
are abed and asleep) but am afraid you’ll lose
your taste for such trifles, before I’ve finish’d
my Lucubrations, and put Finis to this intolerable
Book. However, in hopes they may
sometimes relieve a melancholy hour, I proceed
with some degree of chearfulness.

Pray send me all the good News you know of
your self; for all that passes for News in the
world besides, is equally indifferent to me.

Aaa2 How Aaa2v 364

How shall I contrive to shape my self to both
your Commands, that of writing to you, as
well as for you; and that of saving my Eyes?
I wish you had been somewhat more explicit in
your advice; because I’ve generally so much
pleasure in doing any thing you bid me, that I
never spare any thing, not even your Patience.
But to deal, as I always do with you, very
plainly, your Advice is arrived somewhat of the
latest; for my Eyes, which I hope have done
their worst, are, of consequence, of very little
use to me farther than as they serve to distinguish
a post from a pillar, or a friend from a
foe; and therefore as to all the peculiar and momentous
purposes of Eyes, they are hardly
worth the saving. So that I can only thank
you for your advice, and write on.—

Thus much for Eyes. I could now be glad,
if my Ears were a little entertain’d; for I’ve a
wonderful complacency in hearing you speak.
But among all the revolutions and changes of
this World, this, I think, is a vicissitude I can
hardly hope for; unless Fate, who has certainly
a pride in putting your Spirits in motion, should
at length whirl you just upon this point of the
Globe where I’m now writing. I do assure you, Aaa3r 365
you, if ever such an event should happen,
during my state of rest and inaction here, I
wou’d leave ev’n Pope himself to speak to you.
This perhaps, you, who are us’d to curt’sies, and
other courtly distortions of the body, may think
no great Compliment; yet nevertheless, ’tis the
greatest I can pay you, and what, I assure you, I
never offer to any thing below crown’d Heads.

Any good news from my Lady L. is always
welcome to me, particularly that which concerns
her Health. In what manner Fate intends
to dispose of her humble servant this Spring, is
at present, wrapt in obscurity; only this I know,
I shall be impatient to produce my self at her
Ladyship’s Feet, if the winds or the waves of
this World should waft me as far as London.
But, at present, have no Views beyond being
snug and warm, my own closet and the parlour
fire; unless my Brother, who talks of going
there next month, should be so civil as to alter
his resolutions.

I’ve yet seen nothing, which relates to the
Queen; tho’ I’ve curiosity enough, and reckon
my self much indebted to you for your obliging
offer, &c.—In the mean time, keep good
hours, laugh as much as you can, and write
long Letters; which I think, includes the
whole I have to say to you at present. I must
now return to researches among the Dead, and Aaa3v 366
and leave you to your circle among the Living.
Adieu. And when I’m no more, when all that
remains of me (which Heav’n avert!) shall be
bound together in one miscellaneous Volume,
like many others which are now the lumber of
my Shelves; cast a favourable Eye upon the
doubtful page, and treat my Ashes with respect
And when you hear the Critics busy with my
Fame, rise up—and, gently waving thrice your
lilly hand, say, “What once was Molly J**** full well I knew; No Poet, but a good Maid, and a true: Content her Riches, Silence was her Fame, Her Pleasures Ease, her Honours—my Esteem.”
In hopes that you’ll venture thus much for me,

I remain, &c.

What strange Reformations a little
change of Air makes! and how fast
do People improve in Virtue on this side of
the Park, to what they do on the other! ’Tis
not long since, when I never heard you so much
as mention the word Conscience; and now, you say Aaa4r 367
say, it even flies in your Face. When you were
a Courtier, your Conscience was too well bred
to give you any Disturbance; but since your
reformation to a private Gentlewoman, bless
me! how it makes you startle! Then, you
made no Conscience of insisting upon two
Letters for one; but now, you see the full
Force of the Law of Retaliation, and graciously
afford me Letter for Letter. Then you
had not the least remorse at being silent for a
Month or two together; but now in a much
less time, your Conscience, you say, sounds
Molly J. in your ears every time you take
Pen in hand. What a wonderful change is
this! And how much do I rejoice to find
that I’ve been, in some measure, the Occasion
of awakening that faithful Monitor in your
Breast, who never durst peep into the Bosom
of a Maid of Honour.

Another Virtue I’ve also observ’d in you,
which requires some touches of my applauding
Pen, equally marvellous! equally unknown
to the six immortal Maids! and that is, Sincerity.
This Virtue, ’tis said, was first brought
over by Wilhelmina-Carolina, Daughter of Frederick,
Marquis of Brandenburg-Anspach
: but
as it was a Plant perfectly exotic, and could
never be brought to flourish in this Soil; that
illustrious Princess did not much attempt to culti- Aaa4v 368
cultivate it, except in a few warm Bosoms like
her own. Some few Seeds of it she left behind
her among her Maids of Honour, to be
disperst among their Country Friends; (the
only thing, we hear, for certain, she did leave
’em) but among many other excellent Maxims,
she charg’d ’em never to hazard any of
it among their Courtly Acquaintance, if they
propos’d making their Fortunes when she was
gone.

But what I chiefly admire you for in your
retreat is, your thorough Contempt of all the
Interludes, Farces, and Entertainments of this
World, except that most excellent one, The
Dragon of Wantley
. I’ve a brother now in
Town, a sober Man, and in Holy Orders, to
whom I shall frequently recommend the sight
of this exemplary Performance. But lest he
should think going to Plays a sort of Prophanation;
for his farther encouragement, I shall
exhort him, that when he’s tir’d with the notable
Exploits of St. George and the Dragon,
to cast his Eyes on a Side-Box on his right
Hand, where he may possibly see a Lady (tho’
no Saint) who is now combating all those wild
Beasts within, the Passions; a set of Monsters,
which the Ladies of the present Generation
seem particularly fond of. Nay, ’tis generally
believ’d, that most of ’em preserve one, the ruling Bbb1r 369
ruling Monster, to run loose about their Breasts.
But as I have a much higher Idea of You
than I have of the generality of my own Sex, or
even of St. George himself, the Champion of
the other, I shall expect to hear you get the
better of this also. For ’tis the ruling Passion,
what ever it be, that is the very Dragon
of Wantley
, and which it particularly behoves
all sober Virgins to conquer.

Your account of the Shades of Windsor,
and your Invitation to ’em, is equally
pleasing and poetical. The first puts me in
mind of the Elysian Groves, where the great
Souls of antiquity repose themselves on beds of
Flowers, to the sound of immortal Lyres; as
there perhaps the ghosts of departed Kings
and Queens are still regaling themselves with
soft Music, and gliding about their ancient
Mansion, in Fresco; and the latter, of some
gentle Spirit, the departed Genius of some Maid
of Honour (rather too plump for a Ghost) who
beckons me into ’em. I’m impatient ’till I
land at those calm retreats, that Asylum from
curt’seying and compliment which I despair’d
of arriving at in this sublunary State: Where Bbb if Bbb1v 370
if one can but get into the Groupe, all Distinction
ceases; where, you say, I may do any
thing I’ve a Mind to do, without Impeachment
of my Breeding; and where, disengag’d
from all the Forms and Incumbrances of this
nether World, I’m likely to be in perfect good
humour with my self, which in most other
Places, would be reckon’d excessively rude.

“O Liberty! thou Goddess heav’nly bright, Profuse of Bliss, and pregnant with Delight!” Addison.

Little did expect to meet with thee so near
the seat of Polite Education, much less in King’s
Palaces, and among their honourable Women—
Tuesday then I set out for this glorious Land,
and the Genius that presides over it, if nothing
very amazing intervenes. Many are my
Thanks for your offer of a Servant to meet
me; but as I choose to give you as little Trouble
as possible, shall take an Equipage along with
me to kill the Dragons and Monsters in Maidenhead-Thicket.
These difficulties being overcome,
shall lay my spoils at your feet, as Lady of
the Enchanted Castle; and ever after remain

Your most peaceable Servant, &c.
Bbb2r 371

I’m so very nice in my Pleasures, at present
that out of ten Books upon my Table, I
can’t pick out one that pleases me; and out
of as many Correspondents that I ought to write
to, I can’t fix upon one that I choose to write to,
except your self. Which I think is the best
reason I can give for troubling you at present;
except that Miss Clayton will be no more for
this half hour. In the mean time, Je suis tout
à Vous
; as indeed You have been the Subject
all our Tête à Têtes hitherto.

Your Letter, before you left Windsor, gave
me a wonderful Comlacency, (a Quaintness
which, I hope, is expressive of something we
take Delight in) as indeed every new Discovery
you make of your self has that effect
You are like those prospects which improve
upon the Eye, the more we view ’em; and
I, like those Travellers, who at first setting out,
only wish’d to get to the top of such a Hill,
or such a Mountain; but, having reach’d that,
see s o many fresh Pictures, and beautiful Landscapes
before ’em, that, at last, nothing but
the whole Horizon will satisfy them. I set
out first with a view only to your Correspondence
and Acquaintance; but those Eminencies Bbb2 gain’d, Bbb2v 372
gain’d, my Ambition (the only raving Fit upon
me of late) was, at length, to be satisfy’d
with nothing less than your Esteem and Friendship:
an altitude, which terminates my Prospects,
and finishes my Travels.

What a marvellous change do we find in
this part of the Globe, since You left it! I
went with our Friends here to Windsor t’other
day, in a broad laugh from Forest-Gate; but
when we approach’d the Castle, and I beheld
its Turrets, and your Tower!—there was no
longer any Spirit left in me. And I said in
mine Heart, (what the Queen of Sheba said
to King Solomon) It was a true Report which
I heard in mine own Land, of thine Acts,
and of thy Wisdom. Howbeit, I believed
not their Words, until I came, and mine
Eyes had seen it. And behold the one half
of the greatness of thy Wisdom was not told
unto me.

These were the cogitations of my Heart at
that time; but since this, I hear you’ve had a
consultation of Tire-women, those foes to fine
Ideas, who not only curl, but turn young Ladies
Heads aside from sound Philosophy. In
short, I hear you’ve been at Court again, and
danc’d! at which I shiver! When I go to
Town, I expect to find you quite a new Creature;
all be-drest, and all be-power’d, and much Bbb3r 373
much too fine to be good for any thing.—
Alas!; trust a Friend, (or if you curt’sie above
an inch lower, a Foe) that you can put on
no courtly Ornaments, either of Body, or Mind,
that will become you half so well as your
open Heart, and your old grey Gown: that
token of Respect you still wear (I’m sorry
’tis so near worn out) for your Royal Mistress.
As well as I love Mrs. Gordon, I hope she’ll
inherit all your Virtues, and all your Graces,
(transplanting ’em one by one into her Mind,
and into her Wardrobe) but that grey Gown.
’Tis a little whimsical, but Mr. Locke, I think,
accounts for it, in his Chapter of the Association
of Ideas; ’tis a little whimsical I say, but
one is apt to take a particular liking to such
a Walk, or such a Room, where one has been
very happy, tho’ never so long ago. But Fashions
will alter, and Pink and Silver be the Mode
again: it may chance that Ruffs and Farthingals
may succeed to Hoops and Tippets; but for
my part, I shall never have any other Idea
of You fifty years hence, at least, not a
higher, than I have now, in your grey Gown,
at Windsor-Castle; with Queen Elizabeth’s walk
in the Connection, and your elbows upon the
Table.

You gave me free liberty of Speech, and thus
you have my present sentiments, freely as they flow. Bbb3v 374
flow. Whenever I know any thing worse of
you, you shall certainly hear of it—if you
please: If not, I shall conclude you’re too
proud; and that will save you the trouble.—
And now I’ve indulg’d my self in the Liberty
you defy’d me to, I shou’d be glad if you’d
use a little kind Severity with me; and shew me
the greatest stranger imaginable, my self. This
will still be adding to those Favours, which a
large Portion of my future Conduct must be accountable
to you for. In short, never spare
me, never forgive me a single Fault, till you’re
convinc’d I mean you ill. After that perhaps
you’ll find me too proud—I was going to say—
however, too well satisfied with our mutual
proceedings, to be any longer ambitious of the
honour of being,

Yours, &c.

I’ll allow you to be a little astonish’d at my
present Vivacities; but I never treat any body
with this kind of Respect, but those I’ve a real
Regard for; as mad Folks have a spite to none,
but their best Friends.

From Bbb4r 375

Alas! the Transition!—From Yesterday
Henrietta-street, Mrs. L. and Mrs.—,
to a nasty Inn, the officious Mrs. Mary, damp
Sheets, and perhaps the Itch before Morning.
Yet say not I want Resolution; never Virtue had
more. Sick to death from the moment you left
me, head-ach beyond description, five men and
two Women to compliment my way thro’ in
the afternoon; yet boldly rush’d thro’ them all,
and took my place in the Stage-Coach my self.
After all, lost five Shillings earnest by a blunder,
went in the wrong coach at last, and such
a morning!—But then I had worshipful Society!
All silent and sick as my self; for
which I thank’d my Stars: for if they had
spoke, I had been murder’d. Mrs.—had
almost talk’d me into non-existence yesterday
morning; and I had been totally annihilated, if
you had not come in and restor’d me to my
identity. Pray tell her this, in revenge for my
head-ach.

All our Friends that we took up in the
morning, we dropt gradually one by one, as we
do when we set out upon the Journey of Life;
and now I’ve only a young Student of Oxford, to Bbb4v 376
to finish the Evening of my Day with, and
prepare for the grand events of to morrow.
I’ve just been eating a boyl’d chicken with him,
and talking about Homer and Madam Roland;
and am now retir’d with Mrs. Mary to my
bed-chamber, whom I shall dismiss, with her
warming-pan, in a moment. If you don’t
permit me to pour out the present set of ideas
upon all this paper, I’m inconsolable; for I’ve
no book, and was too absent till now to think I
should want one.—How sudden, and how capricious
are the Transitions of this mortal Stage!
Pleasure and pain are parted but by a single
moment. Windsor, Fern-hill, Brook-street, and
your grey gown, are no more; nor with all
Mr. Locke’s Associations, can I associate a single
Idea of the past with the present. Even Lady
—is defunct And yet she might—But she
is no more; & de Mortuis nil nisi bonum,

“While Virtue shines, or sinks beneath - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -”

This effort of Poetry, and that scrap of Latin,
which I dont understand, has so exhausted all
my forces, that I find my self gradually sinkinging Ccc1r 377
into the arms of Sleep, and must now resign
to the gentle power of Dreams.

“Farewel!—and when, like me opprest with care, You to your own Aquinum shall repair, To taste a mouthful of sweet country air; Be mindful of your Friend, and send me word What joys your fountains, and cool streams afford: Then to assist your rhapsodies I’ll come, And add new spirit, when we speak of Rome.” Juvenal.

I was heartily rejoic’d at the sight of so long
and obliging a Letter: the former convinces
me, you’re well yourself; and the latter, that
you wish me so.—I find you think me half
an Infidel in regard to the Virtues of my Betters,
you take so much pains to convince me.
But tho’ I’m not entirely of the Orthodoxy in
every point of Court-Divinity; yet I’ve my private
Creeds, my particular Articles of Faith,
as well as other Heretics. I assure you, my
dear Madam, I do firmly believe there are a
matter of four or five Women of Honour left
in the World, who have receiv’d a smile from
the Queen; and pretty near as many Men, Ccc who Ccc1v 378
who hope for one from the King—notwithstanding
all Mr. Pope, my moral Guide and
Director, has said upon the case. But you are
as careful to convince me, as if I had no Faith
at all. I am serious, however, when I assure
you I am entirely satisfy’d with every thing you
say or do; am convinc’d you mean me well;
and, what is still more extraordinary, that you
mean all you say. So that I think ’tis plain
you’ve convinc’d me that there is, at least, one
Woman of Honour left in the World; and if,
amidst such a variety, there should happen to be
here and there one that has none, I’m so charitable
as to believe, that ’tis not because they
want the most sublime notions of the virtue,
but because they don’t understand the meaning
of the Word.

I am however glad you continue taking Asses
Milk, and my Advice; two things, which
jointly us’d, I’ve observ’d to be of great service
to all those who have try’d them. The
former, I believe, is pretty expensive in Town;
but the latter, I mean Advice, from the great
plenty of the Animal that gives it, must certainly
be the cheapest thing you can take. Indeed
every body gives it for nothing; and the
only difference between your Morning and Evening
Draughts is, that you admit the Hees and
Shees of the human Herd into your dressing room; Ccc2r 379
room; but suffer the poor Philosophers, because
they’re a little ragged, to wait at your door.
Yet these give you their Milk, not as we do
our Advice, merely for your Benefit, and without
any Views of their own; whereas, as Swift
observes, “—the very best of Us advise, Half to serve You, and half to pass for wise.”
However, if you’ll only take mine, your welcome
to the motive. For I am not, just now,
for your high flights of Virtue, your abstract notions
of things, which soar away one knows not
whither, and leave the poor Subject in which
they inhere, in the lurch; I am (for the present,
at least) for your pure interested Maxims,
and for exhibiting the human Composition just
as it is—a mixture of Earth and Air: a little
too exalted for Brutes, and much too abject for
Angels. And my reasons are, I don’t think I
laugh’d quite so heartily, when you were ill;
and have a notion I shall miss something, when
you’re got among the Stars. Therefore can’t
help hinting these Advices, which are just arriv’d
from my Senses; for (as the same Poet
observes)

Some Ccc2v 380 “Some great misfortune to portend, No Enemy can match a Friend.”

I’ve added a few lines to the Fragment you
desir’d, in Memory of my Lord Lovelace, which
I revere and love; but refer the Reader to a
sweeter Muse for his Character. ’Tis not for
Claxton A Miniature Painter. or I to draw his Picture; yet I’ve
often look’d at his imperfect Copy with regret
and pleasure. Adieu, and think of me,
as usual, among

Your most faithful, &c.

Your Letters will come safe directed to me in
St. Toles, or only in Oxford. But I insist upon
it, that all I save you on the outside, may be
added within; for I’ve no notion of losing a
word of your Writing. The weather’s so hot,
I can write no more myself; tho’ I owe every
body Letters. But I’ve no Sense, and have had
none these six Weeks. I’m all Music now;
dissolv’d into crotchets and quavers. So that I
don’t propose writing above ten Letters more as
long as I live; and if I sing, ’twill be literally
to the Lyre.
I dreamt of Lady Lovelace last night, a sign
I’m much her Servant to day.

Ccc3r 381

The Weather being something cooler, and
having taken two or three Airings, and two
or three Dippings since I wrote last, I find the
heroic Virtues begin to return again; and all those
little Benevolences which skip about the Heart
when the Sun shines, recovering their Places
apace. For with all my Philosophy - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - -.

But there’s one particular Species of self
Satisfaction, which I can’t yet reduce to rules
of Physic (tho’ I’ve great Hopes of it, from
my indefatigable application to the Sciences, for
the good of my fellow Creatures) and without
which ’tis impossible to arrive at perfect Happiness;
and that is, Vanity. I mean such a
Competency of that enlivening Ingredient, as
leaves one quite satisfy’d with ones own Perfections;
and brim-full of a most sprightly Contempt
of others. My only Nostrum in this
Case is, the cold Bath; a great comforter of
weak Nerves, and the only remedy in Nature
for those that are modest, and apt to blush
Most People indeed soar after Happiness; but
I am forc’d to plunge for it. So You roast
your Tripe; but all the rest of the World
boil it. The only difference is in the Means; the Ccc3v 382
the End, I believe, is pretty much the same,
whether we roast or boil, sink or swim. At
least, as far as I can discern, Happiness is only
something at a distance, which by various
Methods, every body is soaring or diving after,
and sure they shall catch, one time or other.
Not to Day perhaps, or to Morrow; but some
time next Week, or the Week after, at farthest
Like the letter M,

“’Tis found in ev’ry Climate, But not in Earth or Sea; ’Tis in all sorts of Timber, But not in any Tree.”

In short, ’tis every where, and no where,
unless ’tis where You are at this present Writing
“And fled from Monarchs, dwells
at length with Thee.”

Vanity, however, has this advantageous step
towards it, that it is never discourag’d or discountenanc’d,
is always its own Admirer, and
continually views itself with the utmost complacency.
And I should have had great Hopes
from this Passion, were not every little blunder,
every impotent attempt to excel, even the
creaking of a door, sufficient to put me out
of conceit of the Dignity of my Nature. Your
last indeed a little reconcil’d me to it again; and Ccc4r 383
and I could reap a sufficient stock of Self-admiration
from thence, but for some few Observations,
which a long acquaintance with my
self had enabled me to make; but which, my
dear Madam, you’ll never be able to make as
long as you live.—But I’ll teaze you no longer,
for the present. A most agreeable Stupor is
creeping over all my Faculties, which I love
to indulge. Something about six weeks ago
brush’d away one of my Schemes of Happiness;
but I’ve forgot what it was, and now ’tis
too much Trouble to recollect it. If I write
any more, you’ll certainly hear of me: If not,
you may conclude there are few things that
I’d be at the Trouble of mending my Pen
for.

To the Right Hon. Lady Henry Beauclerk.

Hitherto, to my shame be it spoken, the
Frost has got the better of my Inclinations;
but they prevail at last, and set me
to writing. Surely we’re in a worse condition
than our Friends in Nova Zembla; for
there their Words only are congeal’d; but my
very Thoughts are frozen. In short, a warm Heart, Ddd1r 384
Heart, and a few warm Wishes, are, I think,
the only warm things that are left me. A
melancholy Truth, but I must own it.

However, since your Ladyship will permit
me neither to be a cold, nor to want Time,
or Sense, or any thing else, I am without excuse
for my Silence. Yet I have not had a
Letter my self this Month, that did not begin
about the Cold; and ’tis mighty unreasonable
to expect, that my Lamp of Life should burn
stronger and brighter than my Neighbours.
Even Mrs.- - - - - - -’s genial Warmth but
just peeps above the Socket; and to be sure
poor Miss C. is an Isicle by this time. Your
Ladyship, one might persume, had been froze
into a Gem; if it had not been for Lord Harry’s
genial Warmth. If it does not thaw ’till that
Lady goes to Town, good Heaven increase
our Coal Heaps! for by that time, I’m afraid
I shall have nothing but my Poetic Fire left
to warm me.

I had great Joy to hear of your Ladyship’s
safe arrival in Town, tho’ I think my Fears
for you in your Windsor Journey were rather
greater. But how shall I sufficiently make my
Praises and Acknowledgments known to the
Holes in Hatchet-Lane! For if one ought to
commend the Bridge one goes over, surely those
two Holes deserve a Panegyric. At least, they Ddd shall Ddd1v 385
shall always be gratefully remember’d by me,
your adventrous Chaise-oteer! who am not yet
reconcil’d to the Terrors of leaving your Ladyship
in the Mire.

’Tis impossible to pen down the gladness
my Journey to New-Lodge left with me; both
as it regarded my own personal Satisfaction,
as well as gave me an opportunity of being
an Eye-witness to that agreeable Prospect which
seems to be preparing for your Ladyship; and
which may nothing ever disturb! I entertain’d
Miss C. with your Picture for three Days, as
the sketches occur’d, in all the attitudes of
Repose, Indolence, and Plenty. But the last
Morning in my Lord’s dressing-room, was beyond
Description: and I shall never meet with
the Portraits of some of the plumper sort of
your ancient Right Honourables, but I shall
think of your Ladyship, and the Present State
of Great Britain, forty years hence. I beg
his Lordship may know I’m all acknowledgments
for the Honour he did me, in whirling
me away to this enchanted Scene, his alreadyextended
Vistas, his future Grots and Groves,
together with the rest of his never-to-be-finish’d
Plans; tho’ ’tis not the only Instance of his
Good-nature, that I’m concern’d to be grateful
for.

With Ddd2r 386

With the assistance of my Friend Mr. B.
a blind Horse to our Vehicle, a Lacquey to
precede it, in case of Accidents, and our own
Legs to help us out of ’em, as we should happen
to be expos’d, I got safe, thro’ half-frozen
Roads, to Beaconsfield a Friday night; and a
Saturday arriv’d, a Compost of Ice, and all
the freezing qualities of the Air, at my own
Fire-side: two Days that will stand remarkable
among our Annals of Cold.

And now I’ve nothing more to fatigue your
Ladyship with but my Wishes, which are,
that some of the good Geniuses (especially of
your Forest Oaks) may always be ready to
guard you; and among the Goddesses (of which
you’ll meet with many in the Woods, and
near your Fountains) Lucina. This would have
run better in Verse; but as I’ve some particular
reasons for not being Poetical at this time,
chose rather to finish with a Specimen of that
kind of writing, call’d, Prose run mad.—
What more remains must be reserv’d for warmer
Climates, and brighter Suns; except that I
find my self at this time particularly oblig’d,
and always to be commanded by, your Ladyship,
&c.

Ddd2 April Ddd2v 387

Your Ladyship’s scientific Epistle has so
perfectly satisfy’d my Intellectual Cravings,
that I think I have not found a Want
of any thing ever since. Not that I’m overnice
in my mental Food; for I taste of every
thing that’s set before me, and generally with
a pretty good Appetite. But there are, what
the French call Friandises, tit-bits; which one
must have a very undistinguishing Taste, not
to have a peculiar Relish for. I often wonder,
considering how much I read, and eat,
that I’m neither the wiser for the one, nor the
fatter for the other. But when one considers
how small a part of the Food goes towards
the nourishment of the Animal, in proportion
to what is purely useless, and excrementitious;
’tis not so much to be wonder’d at, that I
make so inconsiderable a Figure in the World
as I do. Besides; all Wits, Mr. Pope says,
“are born to be lean”; as all Poets are to be
poor.—The Case, I believe, is pretty much the
same, in regard to our mental Food. One
reads—for People will publish, and therefore
one must read—one reads, I say, every body’s
Sentiments, in hopes to be the wiser for some of Ddd2v 388
of ’em; but when we’ve read all we can,
and consider’d, compar’d, and shook it all well
together, ’tis generally little more than three
blue Beans in one blue Bladder. For in Books
too, as well as Victuals, we find but a mighty
little that is perfectly nutritious, and fit to be
digested or separated for Use; the rest, like
other excrements, go off thro’ the Pores of the
Understanding, and are never heard of more.

That craving in my first Sentence was a
lucky Metaphor, which has help’d me to a
Page and a half, without the least Study or
Application; whereas three Minutes before, I
did not know I had a Word to say to your
Ladyship, except to thank you very sincerely
for your Letter, and enquire after the Health
and Perfections of little Master. ’Tis a great
priviledge for us Wits, to be upon such good
Terms without courteous Readers, as to be allow’d
the Liberty of saying every thing, and
particularly the first thing that comes; and
not to wait the labour and midwifry of Invention,
for what is not worth bringing forth,
when one’s deliver’d. And this puts me in
Mind of your Ladyship, who certainly has the
prettiest Conceptions, (if I may take Mrs. Gordon’s
Word for it) and the easiest Delivery of
any Lady upon Earth. In short, I always
admire your Ladyship’s Quickness and Vivacity; but Ddd3r 389
but as I take this last Production to be your
Chef-d’œuvre, am fill’d with Impatience to
peruse it.

Shall I torment you any longer, or shall I go
down to my Harpsichord (the only way I have
of making a noise in the World) and torment
other People? The first Chord I strike sends
my Brother to bed, and lulls the rest of the
Family. But I love to be alone —except
when I’m within ten yards of your Ladyship;
and yet, as great a regard as I have for your
Ladyship, shall, in five minutes, leave you for
a Song.

Your Ladyship, I most cordially acknowledge,
has made me some amends for
your Silence in the length of your Letter; but
I have not done grumbling for all that. All,
till one comes to your Expedition, I like mighty
well, and ’tis prodigious pretty reading. But
how cou’d any Lady in the Land be so provokingly
civil, as to spend two whole pages in
description of a Spring Morning, to one in
Town! of a rural taste too; and who has no
Pleasures, scarce any Sensations, at this time of
the Year, but of the rural kind? To one too, who Ddd3v 390
who has left all her Renuncula’s and Tulips just
ready to bloom; her future Sallads and Coss-
Lettuce in their Mother Earth, and to the care
of April Showers; her Morning Walks and
Noon-tide Loiterings over beds of Hyacinths
and Jonquils; I say, what have I done, that
your Ladyship should revenge your self with
such a malicious Description, and pick out all
the Beauties of the Spring to mortify me with?
Me, who the moment you nodded from your
rose-unfolding Bower, left all these enamourating
Pleasures, these sweet Relaxations, to hurry
away to Lady Lovelace, in this nasty Town?
Had you told me of dreary Desarts, and uncomfortable
Wilds; craggy Mountains, Rocks, and
barren Sands; this had help’d me to digest the
dust of Bond-street, and swallow the smoke of a
thousand Chimnies. I beseech your Ladyship,
in your next, communicate some melancholy
Story of Lover pendant over purling Stream, or
Infant Kitten struggling in the Mud; of Swain
misguided by the Glow-worm’s Ray, or grimly
Ghost detected thro’ the Trees,—that I may
have something to ruminate upon in my Afternoon
walks round Grosvenor-square, sufficient
to drive all the Honey-suckles and Nightingales
out of my Head.

But this I only hint by the way. What I
would principally inculcate from the foregoing Observation Ddd4r 391
Observation is, That People who are very happy
themselves, should never communicate their
Happiness to those who are less so; because that
is apt to make ’em envy ’em—and when
once they envy ’em, they soon begin to hate
’em—and after they have sufficiently hated
’em, they go on gradually till they bear Malice
against ’em—and assoon as ever they arrive
upon the borders of Malice, they never stop,
till they’ve conceiv’d all manner of Uncharitableness
against them. So that, tho’ your Ladyship
should arrive at the highest Pitch of human
Felicity, (as I think you seem in a pretty
fair Way for it) I must beg of you to be very
cautious how you mention it, upon any
Account whatever. For ’tis such an Insult upon
the many, and the miserable, of your fellow
Creatures; that unless you abridge your
Descriptions, or make over some of the overflowings
of your Heart in behalf of we poor
Sufferers, who are all your Foes; you won’t
have an Acquaintance left soon, but what will
hate you as much as I do, at this present
writing. Which, I think, is all I have to
communicate, except that Lady L. is rather
better than she has been, and in general, as
well as ever she will be, with her kind of
Regimen—the only painful thing to her
Friends, she has steadiness enough to persevere in. Ddd4v 392
in. Her Medicine she has took once, and
but once, since your Ladyship left her; for
just about the time she ought to take it, she
has always so many invincible Arguments at
hand, that ’tis in vain to oppose them. In
short, with the best Constitution in the World,
her Ladyship will one Day, not die, but have
done existing, with all the Springs of Life in
their full Force and Vigour; and come to an
untimely End at Fourscore.

I have been trying, by all the chymical
preparations I’m Mistress of, to extract an
hour for your Ladyship, from the several portions
of time that have pass’d by me for these
three weeks; but the more subtile parts, the
moments, are so volatile, and the minutes fly
off so fast, that I have not been able to gain the
pure unmixt Essence before-mention’d, with all
my industry and indefatigableness of Writing.
And yet, of late, my pen has seldom been out of
my hand. But every body, I think, is in a writing
way, at present. Miss C. calls upon me for Philology;
Miss—for the Continuation of my
Catalogue of Plants and Animals (particularly those Eee1r 393
those of the human Species, of which there are
several Families, or Tribes, of both kinds);
Mrs.— for Metaphysics; and twenty others
for as many different Speculations. Even your
Ladyship has wrote twice, and in vain call’d
upon me for the the History of braided Shoes.
How shall I demean my self between you
all! Or where find Words to answer you?
I’ve given Miss— all the technical ones in
Botany I’m worth, and yet she is not satisfy’d.
She still cries out more Plants! more Animals!
or we shall never arrive at a perfect knowledge
of all the Simples in Nature.

In this Situation our Catalogue stands, while
I’m now going to make a Digression upon Shoes
— (which the Author thinks, now she’s transcribing
this Letter for the Press, she need not
trouble the World with
.)

The money and books came sound as a Roach.
Safe is so common an Expression, that I’m tired
of telling People for ever, Things came safe.
We Geniusses are forc’d to vary our expressions,
and invent new terms; as well to shew our surprizing
compass of Thought, as our great command
of Language. This sometimes appears
stiff and affected, to the common class of readers,
or hearers, who are apt to be out of their
element, upon hearing any new or unusual
Sounds; but our nicer ears cannot always bear Eee the Eee1v 394
the same Cadences. There’s something peculiar
in the Make and Structure of the auditory
Nerve, that requires Diversification, and
Variety; as well as some skill in the Anatomy
of Language, to make an Impression on
it, without wounding it. ’Tis for this reason,
when I ask a Favour (a thing I seldom choose
to do) I always select the most delicate Phrases
I’m Mistress of; but in regard to Forms, which
most People are sick of, and yet surfeit their
Friends with, these I vary according as my own
humour or inclination preponderates. Of consequence,
when I come towards the end, or peroration
of a Letter, I sometimes communicate my compliments
sometimes desire they may be made
known
—or where there’s a large Family, and
of consequence a number of Civilities to be
paid, the Laconic Style of—my Deferences,
as usual
, has sometimes succeeded beyond my
Expectation. I’m sick of saying for ever, I
beg my Compliments to such a one.—But as
I propose soon to give your Ladyship a particular
Dissertation upon Styles, and as I’ve many
Flowers of Rhetoric yet unexhausted; I shall
wind up the Words above-mentioned, into the
form of a Letter, and communicate all the
Things I have to say in the Postscript—
which, as was before observ’d, is judg’d not necessary
to be transcrib’d, as they would be of no
manner of Use to the courteous Reader
.

Eee2r 395

I Remember, formerly, to have read and heard
very credible and affecting Stories concerning
Witchcraft; and tho’ I’ve sometimes been
so faithless as to doubt of the Facts, as well
as the Testimonies of my Authors, yet having
assur’d me they’ve been eye and ear Witnesses
(to things which neither eye nor ear ever
saw or heard) ’twou’d, I think, argue great
want of Credulity to hesitate any longer about
’em. ’Tis likewise certain, that in all Country
Places, there are always one or two Witches,
at east, in the Neighbourhood; and your Ladyship,
since you became a Mother, I dare say
has heard how they stick Pins and Needles
into young Children, to make ’em cry; and
when they’re ricketty, or don’t thrive, how
they look upon ’em with an evil Eye. The
Phrase is different in different Countries, tho’
the Belief is the same; and a Lady of my acquaintance,
who liv’d at the Madeiras, told me
—that her Child gradually pin’d away for several
Weeks, and no-body could tell what was
the matter with it; ’till her Physician assur’d
her ’twas in vain to evacuate, or phlebotomize
any more, for that the Child was certainly
Over-look’d.

Eee2 I had Eee2v 396

I had been phlebotomiz’d by the advice of
a very able Physician just before I came from
Oxford, and had taken a gentle Cathartic or
two besides; but what my Case is at present,
I’m at a loss to comprehend. For I’ve such
an extraordinary flow, and flurry of Spirits,
(not Apparitions) such a groupe of Images
working, and chasing each other thro’ my
Brain, that unless your Ladyship will permit
me to write ’em off, wither in Verse or Prose,
(as you know I’m a great Friend to Evacuations
whenever they can be safely procur’d)
I know not what may be the consequence.
Whether any evil Eyes have been upon me,
I can’t tell; but there’s an old Lady over
the way, I a little suspect, who has very bad
ones; and I’m pretty sure I’ve been overlook’d
by her twenty times, for she’s for
ever at her Window. ’Tis now past four o’
clock, clear Morning! (as the Watchman says)
and I have not yet had a wink of Sleep;
my Imagination hurrying me away from
Thought to Thought involuntarily, and, as if
it were, mechanically. I’m neither in Malice,
Hatred, nor Love (that I know of) have neithe
Spleen, Vapours, nor a single Passion to
torment me. Every body likes to see me,
that I like to see; and those who love me,
and I love, write to me. What evil Thing then Eee3r 397
then can have taken Possession of me, to disturb
my Ideas so that I can’t sleep? Your
Ladyship talks of coming to Town; I wish
you may come soon; for I’ve been talking to
you this half hour in my Imagination, and have
a notion, that if some good Being was but to
answer me, ’twou’d compose my Spirits. I’ll
tell you how Mrs. W. pleases and entertains
me; how many Congresses I’ve had the honour
to be present at with Lady F.W. how
the Lass of the Hill is become the Fashion
of the Town; how Lady L.has just learnt
it, in order to carry it to Paris; how Miss
T
. sings it here like a Nightingale; and how
’tis now cry’d about the Streets, among twenty
four other excellent new Ballads, for so small
a Price as one half-penny. I’ll tell you moreover,
how I lose my dinners in York-street,
and my rest near Hanover-square; how I suffer’d
one of your workmen to lock me into your
Garden at Somerset-House, one evening after
they were all gone, that I might indulge my
love of Society, by a total Separation from all
human kind; how I pass’d one of the most
charming Hours of my Life there alone, and
no one near me; how I had very few apprehensions
about being knock’d o’the Head,
and bury’d under the rubbish; or strangled,
as Sir Edmundbury Godfrey was, pretty near the Eee3v 398
the same spot; but how a frightful white Post,
with a round Head upon’t, on the Stair-Case
(the Window being open) often startled me,
when I turn’d that way; and how I recollected
my self again, when I found ’twas but
a Post. In short, how I’ve seen how this
Specimen looks in writing, I shall reserve the
rest of the wondrous things that have pass’d
thro’ my poor Brain this Night, ’till your
Ladyship arrives in Burlington-street; and once
more try to shut my Eyes, if the Sun, and
that old Lady will let me.—Lady Lovelace,
who has thought me bewitch’d for these three
days, bid me be sure to mention something
I’ve forgot, which was the chief reason of my
writing by this Post. But taking it for granted
your Ladyship knows every thing that passes
here, by Intuition; I’ve discharg’d my Trust, and
remain, (for I can by no means rest)

Your Ladyship’s, &c.

Has your Ladyship ever seen two People
thunder-struck? Have you ever seen two
Niobes petrify’d? Have you ever seen the pictures
of Amazement and Astonishment? If you have Eee4r 399
have, you have by this time seen Lady Lovelace
and your Slave in the Attitudes your sudden
flight to the Lodge left us. Her Ladyship let
fall her work-basket, and resum’d it thrice;
then ask’d, and answer’d herself, fifty questions
in a breath; and not arriving at any satisfactory
accounts of the matter, call’d for Tea—but
did not pour it out, because the amazement of
her mind had swallowed up all her faculties,
but those of speech.—I, in whom the passions
operate differently, and sometimes not at all,
stood motionless for a while, with my eyes fixt
upon the ground; then, as my forces gradually
decay’d, sunk gently down upon the Setteè, and
Word spake never more
.—I’ve just recover’d
the use of Language enought to inform your Ladyship,
that the Virtues are all exhausted; and
that ’tis impossible to have any longer Patience
with you, or Charity for you. And for my
own part, I should leave this land with Malice
in my heart, if it was not for the hopes of
seeing you again from Denham Court, the land
I’m going into a Monday; which I need not
describe, because your Ladyship knows ’tis a
good and pleasant one; and which Sir William
and my Lady are peopling with Sons and
Daughters as fast as they can; tho’ at the same
time, retain so much of the good old English hospi- Eee4v 400
hospitality, as not to grudge their Friends a
hearty welcome.

Lady L. began moving by nine o’clock this
morning, that is, from the bed chamber to the
back parlour; and by to morrow night, I
reckon, the chairs and pictures will be at the
door, to be ready for the Chairmen against Monday
morning. Alas! my dressing glass! which
is just now sent for, her own being pack’d up.
I tremble for my bed! but have promis’d to be
up by six o’clock a Monday morning, tho’ I
am not to set out till two in the afternoon.
Sure nothing gives her Ladyship so much spirits
as a Remove! Most People at her time of Life
love to sit still; a plain proof that Lady L. is
younger than most old People, and not so old
as many young ones. But I believe the pleasure
of being so near your Ladyship, has added a
little to her Vivacities; as the hopes of a better
state, in the intellectual world, animates us
enough to go thro’ with the evils of the natural.
Of so much use (perhaps of little more)
are the Passions: which, I believe, comes pretty
near the Truth; however, I don’t insist upon
it, because I shall find out something more
about ’em.

I go every day to learn the History of your
Doors, a piece of still Life, which affords not
many observations; except that last night they were Fff1r 401
were in the situation your Ladyship left ’em.
Have left the picture in Mrs. W’s dressing room,
but cou’d not stay to deposit it in a proper Light;
for since You both departed, I’ve found out that
I’ve fifty things to do of my own, which never
enter’d into my head before. But just so (to
resume the metaphor) we hurry thro’ Life.
Among the variety of Amusements, which catch
us as we go along, and which we seldom fail to
make the most of, there’s generally a favourite
Pleasure or two, which fixes and engrosses our
Attention so entirely, that we even forget where
we’re going—’till a Friend or two drops
round us, and then we begin to think it high
time to make our Will. (’Tis well if we do
even that.) And this, which is generally the
last act of the the important Scene, is, of
course, hurry’d over much in the same manner
as this of mine in Town: only with this difference,
that I’ve nothing to leave behind me
worth setting my Friends together by the ears
for, when I’m gone; tho’ cou’d not decently go
off the Stage, without bidding your Ladyship
Adieu.

Fff Red Fff1v 402

My Acknowledgments are so emphatically
due to your Ladyship for the Pleasures
You’ve so lately given me among your Shades;
that I shou’d hate my self, if I cou’d relish any
other, till I’ve honestly thank’d you for these.
But as Words are prodigiously inexpressive,
when one wants to express a vast deal by ’em,
I shall not trouble your Ladyship with their
abundance; but leave it to your self to guess
how many Satisfactions I feel, from the few I’m
able to describe.

Nothing occurs here worth your Ladyship’s
notice, and very few things worth mine. For
proud Augusta (tho’ I think one shou’d always
call her plain London in Summer) is not what
she was; now You, and a few others I could
name, are retir’d into the country: and her
Squares, the stateliest things in Europe, are no
more to me, who am just arriv’d from Groves
and Fields, than other four-corner’d things.
I’ve been govering round and round Somerset
House
(your Castle of Indolence here—
Thompson’s you’ll have to morrow) but have
not ventur’d to trust my footsteps within it, for
fear of its Enchantments. For were I once to
enter your Dressing-room, the easy Look, the welcome Fff3r 403
welcome Smile, my Lord lolling here, and
your Ladyship there (not quite a Mile asunder)
together with your little, I shou’d have said,
beautiful Groupe of Figures, at their several
Amusements, strew’d round you—in short, all
the Ideas of the place wou’d return so strong
upon me, that I shou’d e’en fold my arms, and
close my eyes; and forget the hardy Deeds, the
bold Enterprize, I’m going to undertake.

In one word, the thing I was mentioning
to your Ladyship at the Lodge, and which
you’ve often hinted to me among the rest of my
Friends, I’m coming towards a resolution
of putting in execution; tho’ ’tis with difficulty
that I’m beginning to bethink my self of that
low affair, of getting Money. My scatter’d
Leaves, if I can possibly collect ’em, are, I
fear, at length destin’d for the Press; (a fate,
I’m sure never design’d ’em by me) and my
s8ole End and Aim—just as much Gold as I
can get for ’em: a thing I’ve wanted all my
Life, but never had sense enough to think it
worth the pains some People take about it, till
very lately. But as I’ve a vast quantity of
Friends—pretty near as many as David Simple
—and as these are a Treasure infinitely beyond
Guineas and half Crowns; I assure your Ladyship,
I never had the least design upon their
Pockets till now. But having been at great Fff3 expence 404
expence of Pen, Ink, and Paper for their various
Amusement and Entertainment, which
they have all most kindly and cordially acknowledg’d
in their several Writings; I make no
doubt of their uncommon Zeal in forwarding
the Subscription, and generously receiving all
the half Crowns that come: tho’, as Gold is my
ruling Passion at present, I should rather prefer
the half Guineas.—Indeed your general and
most approv’d motive for Printing is Fame. But
I’ve been thinking about that Article; and I find
two things requisite towards the attainment of
so substantial a Good. First, that the Author
be able to write, which is a thing I don’t pretend
to; and next, that the Book be read,
which is the very thing I wou’d not have mine
be. Now as ’twou’d be very nonsensical to expect,
what I am not so unreasonable as to desire,
and, I’m confident, can never deserve; I
must e’en stick by my first Mover, Riches: and
as to the other, if it comes—why, let it—but
’twill be, like Falstaff’s honour, unlook’d for.
I know there will be many objections even to
this Motive; but as ’tis impossible to answer ’em
all, if your Ladyship will only be so good as to
signify me to your Acquaintance, as a Person
who has very proper notions of Money, but
declines Fame; I make no doubt of having
Riches flow in upon me in great Abundance. And 405
And as to those who don’t read—“never choose
it”
—(an Expression better understood than describ’d)
all these, I reckon, I’m sure of, upon
my own terms; at least, your Ladyship will
have an Answer ready for ’em.

But, I’m so full of my Subject, I had almost
forgot ’tis time to put an end to your Ladyship’s
troubles for the present; and to remain, with
my usual Sincerities, which are the greatest Deferences
I can pay You,


Your Ladyship’s
most faithful,
and devoted, &c.

Finis.