faid to be planted with all trees. There were fome who could not bear Ever-greens, and call'd them Never-greens; fome, who were angry at them only when cut into fhapes, and gave the modern Gardeners the name of Ever-green Taylors; fome, who had no diflike to Cones and Cubes, but would have them cut in Forest-trees; and some who were in a passion against any thing in shape, even against clipt hedges, which they call'd green walls. Thefe (my Lord) are our Men of Taste, who pretend to prove it by tafting little or nothing. Sure fuch a Taste is like such a stomach, not a good one, but a weak one. We have the fame fort of Critics in poetry; one is fond of nothing but Heroics, another cannot relish Tragedies, another hates Paftorals, all little Wits delight in Epigrams. Will you give me leave to add, there are the fame in Divinity; where many leading Critics are for rooting up more than they plant, and would leave the Lord's Vineyard either very thinly furnish'd, or very odly trimm'd. I have lately been with my Lord ** who is a zealous, yet a charitable Planter, and has so bad a Taste, as to like all that is good. He has a difpofition to wait on you in his way to the Bath, and, if he can go and return to London in eight or ten days, I am not without a hope of seeing your Lordship with the delight I always fee you. Every where I think of you, and e very where I wish for you. Iam, &c. LETTER XLI. To Mr C Sept. 2. 1732. I Affure you I am glad of your letter, and have long wanted nothing but the permiffion you now give me, to be plain and unreserved upon this head. I wrote to you concerning it long fince; but a friend of yours and mine was of opinion, it was taking too much upon me, and more than I could be intitled to by the mere merit of long acquaintance and good-will. I have not a thing in my heart relating to any friend, which I would not, in my own nature, declare to all mankind. The truth is what you guess; I could not efteem your conduct to an object of misery so near and I have often hinted it 'to you as Mrs.. yourfelf: The truth is, reafon I am able to fee. you as far as your own mind acquits you. I have now no further caufe of complaint, for the unhappy Lady gives me now no further pain: fhe is no longer an object either of yours or my compaffion; the hardships done her, are lodg'd in the hands of God, nor has any man more to do in them, except the perfons concern'd in occafioning them. I cannot yet esteem it for any As for the interruption of our Correspondence, I am forry you seem to put the Teft of my friendship upon that, because it is what I am difqualified from toward my other acquaintance, with whom I cannot hold any frequent commerce. I'll name you the obstacles which I can't furmount: want of health, want of time, want of good eyes; and one yet stronger than them all, I write not upon the terms of other men. For however glad I might be, of expreffing my refpect, opening my mind, or venting my concerns, to my private friends; I hardly dare while there are Curls in the world. If you please to reflect either on the impertinence of weak admirers, the malice of low enemies, the avarice of mercenary Bookfellers, or the filly curiofity of people in general; you'll confefs I have fmall reason to indulge correfpondencies: in which too I want materials, as I live altogether out of town, and have abftracted my mind (I hope) to better things than common news. I wish my friends would fend me back thofe forfeitures of my discretion, commit to my justice what I trusted only to their indulgence, and return me at the year's end thofe trifling letters, which can be to them but a day's amusement, but to me may prove a difcredit as lafting and extenfive, as the aforefaid weak admirers, mean enemies, mercenary fcriblers, or curious fimpletons, can make it. I come now to a particular you complain of, my not answering your question about fome Party-papers, and their authors. This indeed I could not tell you, because I never was, or will be privy to fuch papers: And if by accident, thro' my acquaintance with any of the writers, I had known a thing they conceal'd; I should certainly never be the Reporter of it. For my waiting on you at your country-houfe, I have often wish'd it; it was my compliance to a fuperior duty that hinder'd me, and one which you are too good a Chriftian to wish I should have broken, having never ventur'd to leave my mother (at her great age) for more than a week, which is too little for fuch a journey. Upon the whole, I must acquit myself of any act or thought, in prejudice to the regard I owe you, as so long and obliging an acquaintance and correfpondent. I am fure I have all the good wishes for yourself and your family, that become a friend: There is no accident that can happen to your advantage, and no action that can redound to your credit, which I should not be ready to extol, or to rejoice in. And there. fore I beg you to be affured, I am in difpofition and will, tho' not fo much as I would be in teftimonies or writing, Your, &c. LETTER XLII. To Mr RICHARDSON. Jan. 13. 1732. I Have at last got my Mother fo well, as to allow myself to be absent from her for three days. As Sunday is one of them, I do not know whether I may propose to you to employ it in the manner you mentioned to me once. Sir Godfrey call'd employing the pencil, the prayer of a painter, and affirmed it to be his proper way of serving God, by the talent he gave him. I am fure, in this inftance, it is ferving your friend; and, you know, we are allowed to do that (nay even to help a neighbour's ox or afs) on the fabbath: which tho' it may feem a general precept, yet in one fenfe particularly applies to you, who have help'd many a human ox, and many a human afs, to the likeness of man, not to say of God. Believe, me, dear Sir, with all good wishes for yourself and your family (the happiness of which) ties, I. know by experience, and have learn'd to value from the late danger of losing the best of mine), Your, &c. LETTER XLIII. To the fame. A Twickenham, June 10. 1733. S I know, you and I mutually defire to fee one another, I hoped that this day our wishes would have met, and brought you hither. And this for the very reason which poffibly might hinder your coming, that my poor Mother is dead. I thank God, her death was as eafy, as her life was innocent; and as it coft her not a groan, or even a figh, there is yet upon her countenance fuch an expreffion of Tranquillity, nay, almost of Pleasure, that it is even amiable to behold it. It would afford the finest Image of a Saint expir'd, that ever Painting drew; and it would be the * Mrs Pope died the seventh of June, 1733, aged 93. |