WINDSOR FOREST AND STONOR.

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He made frequent resolutions to separate himself from the society of these ladies, but they were ineffectual, and

fled from the face (I wish I could say the horned face) of Moses B—, who dined in the midway thither, I passed the rest of the day in those woods where I have so often enjoyed a book and a friend; I made a hymn as I passed through, which ended with a sigh, that I will not tell you the meaning of."

In the original (dated September 13, 1717) the passage runs thus:"I was heartily tired, and glad to be gone by eight o'clock next morning; hired no d- -d horses; galloped to Staines; kept Miss Griffin from church all the Sunday, and lay at my brother's, near Bagshot, that night. Colonel Butler (who is as well known by the name of Fair Butler as ever Fair Helen was) came to complain of me to my Lady Arran. That gentleman chanced to keep his word in calling at Hampton Court, but I was too quick by an hour or two. I met him here, and there ensued an excellent discourse of quackery: Dr. Shadwell was mentioned with honour. Lady Arran walked a whole hour abroad without dying after it, at least in the time I stayed, though she seemed to be fainting, and had convulsive motions several times in her head. I arrived at Mr. Doncastle's by Tuesday noon, having fled from the face (I wish I could say the horned face) of Mr. Weston, who dined that day at my brother's. I passed the rest of the day in those woods where I have so often enjoyed an author and a book; I made a hymn as I passed through, which ended with a deep sigh that I will not tell you the meaning of.

"All hail! once pleasing, once inspiring shade,

Scene of my youthful loves, and happier hours!
Where the kind Muses met me, as I stray'd,

And gently press'd my hand, and said, Be ours.
Take all thou e'er shall have, a constant Muse:

At court thou may'st be liked, but nothing gain:
Stocks thou may'st buy and sell, but always lose;
And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.

"On Thursday I went to Stonor, which I have long had a mind to see since the romantic description you gave me of it. The melancholy which go near to cast a cloud

my wood and this place have spread over me, will upon the rest of my letter, if I don't make haste to conclude it here. I know you wish my happiness so much, that I would not have you think I have any other reason to be melancholy; and after all, he must be a beast that is so, with two such fine women for his friends. 'Tis enough to make any creature easy, even such an one as your humble servant."

We wonder Pope had the heart to leave out the fine verses. In some of

when Martha was attacked by small-pox-the deadly and dreaded scourge of that day-his tenderness and anxiety the letters there are profane allusions and an affectation on the part of the poet (which Byron also possessed) of wishing to appear desperately wild and wicked-a Don Juan in miniature. He begs Teresa not to pray for him! Yet he writes to Martha, "Mrs. Teresa has honestly assured me, that but for some whims of that kind which she can't entirely conquer, she would go a-raking with me in man's clothes." All this must be taken as mere braggadocio. Sir Alexander Croke, in his Genealogical History of the Croke Family (originally Le Blount), is at great pains to vindicate the purity of Pope's connection with the sisters. Martha Blount enjoyed, he says, not only the favour of her own family, but was honoured with the friendship and intimacy of persons of rank and respectability till her death; and among these he mentions Pope's friends, Lyttelton, Lord Cornbury, Judge Fortescue, the Duchess of Queensberry, Lady Cobham, Lady Gerard, &c. "Without stronger proof than has yet been brought, can it be believed that a man of honour, and moral character, would so dishonourably have corrupted the daughters of a family with which he was living in such habits of friendship; or that young ladies of such respectable connections, and so highly educated, would have so completely disgraced themselves, by becoming, as they have been lately called, the chères amies (so called by Bowles) of a poet? Especially when the gallant Lothario, the gay seducer, was a little miserable object, so weak that he could not hold himself upright without stays, so sickly that his whole life was a continued illness, and of such illness and of such frail materials that he could scarcely be kept alive without constant care and attention?" This is to represent Pope as he was in advanced life-not as he was up to his fortieth year. His connection with the sisters, particularly Martha, was undoubtedly injurious to their reputation, and was probably the cause why both remained unmarried. In this respect, his conduct, like that of Swift, was highly inconsiderate, if not cruel. Mr. Bowles first published a note written by Martha Blount, which, he says, "is short, but very much to the purpose," a comment which Mr. Roscoe indignantly disclaims, as containing an insinuation that will be rejected by every candid mind. The note is as follows, correctly copied from the original in the British Museum:

"SIR,-My sister and I shall be at home all day: if any company comes that you don't like, I'll go up into my room with you. I hope we shall "Yours, M.

see you.

"Sunday Morning.

"To Mr. Pope, at Mr. Jervasses, Cleevland Court."

Pope evidently saw nothing in the note requiring concealment, for he has written some of the lines of his Homer on the back of the paper, and it was kept among his other manuscripts.

ILLNESS OF MARTHA BLOUNT.

49

were expressed in the following touching and beautiful communication addressed to Teresa. The greater part of this letter has been printed, but we copy it verbatim from the original; the date is unfortunately torn off:

MADAM,-The chief cause I have to repent my leaving the town, is the uncertainty I am in every day of your sister's state of health. I really expected by every post to have heard of her recovery, but, on the contrary, each letter has been a new awakening to my apprehensions, and I have ever since suffered alarms upon alarms on her account. A month ago I should have laughed at any one, who had told me my heart would be perpetually beating for a lady that was thirty miles off from me; and, indeed, I never imagined my concern would be half so great for any young woman whom I have been no more obliged to than to so innocent an one as she. But, madam, it is with the utmost seriousness I assure you, no relation you have can be more sensibly touched at this than I, nor any danger, if any I have, could affect me with more uneasiness (though as I never had a sister, I can't be quite so good a judge as you how far human nature would carry me). I have felt some weaknesses of a tender kind, which I would not be free from; and I am glad to find my value for people so rightly placed as to perceive them on this occasion.

I cannot be so good a Christian as to be willing to resign my own happiness here, for hers in another life. I do more than wish for her safety, for every wish I make I find immediately changed into a prayer, and a more fervent one than I had learned to make till now.

May her life be longer and happier than perhaps herself may desire, that is, as long and as happy as you can wish: may her beauty be as great as possible, that is, as it always was, or as yours is. But whatever ravages a merciless distemper may commit, I dare promise her boldly, what few (if any) of her makers of visits and compliments dare to do: she shall have one man as much her admirer as ever. As for your part, madam, you have me so more than ever, since I have been a witness to the generous tenderness you have shown upon this occasion.

I beg Mrs. Blount and Mr. Blount to believe me very faithfully their servant, and that your good mother will accept of a thousand thanks for the favour of her maid's letters, and oblige me with the continuance of them every post. I entreat her pardon that I did not take my leave of her; for when I parted from you I was under some confusion, which I believe you might perceive. I thought at that moment to have snatched a minute or two more to have called again that night. But when I know I act uprightly, I depend upon forgiveness from such as I think you are. I hope

you will always be just, and that is, always look upon me as, madam, your most obedient, faithful and humble servant,

To Mrs. Teresa Blount, next door to my Lord Salisbury's,

in King Street, by St. James's Square.

A. POPE.

The calm good sense, kind consideration, and propriety of this letter, need not be pointed out. The poet continued to write to both sisters, and it was long ere the elder was deposed. The following passage, descriptive of a visit to Lord Bathurst's seat of Oakley Bower, near Cirencester, (where the poet's walk is still pointed out,) shows that even in prose Pope could render egotism agreeable. It begins:

DEAR LADIES,-I am with Lord Bathurst, at my bower; in whose groves we had yesterday a dry walk of three hours. It is a place that of all others I fancy; and I am not yet out of humour with it, though I have had it some months: it does not cease to be agreeable to me so late in the season: the very dying of the leaves adds a variety of colours that is not unpleasant. I look upon it, as upon a beauty I once loved, whom I should reserve a respect for in her decay; and as we should look upon a friend, with remembrance how he pleased us once, though now declined from his gay and flourishing condition.

I write an hour or two every morning, then ride out a hunting upon the downs, eat heartily, talk tender sentiments with Lord B., or draw plans for houses and gardens, open avenues, cut glades, plant firs, contrive waterworks, all very fine and beautiful in our own imagination. At night we play at commerce, and play pretty high: I do more, I bet too; for I am really rich, and must throw away my money if no deserving friend will use it. I like this course of life so well, that I am resolved to stay here till I hear of somebody's being in town that is worth coming after.

Since you are so silent in the country, I can't expect a word from you when you get to London. The first week must needs be wholly employed in making new gowns, the second in showing them, the third in seeing other people's, and fourth, fifth, and so on, in balls, plays, assemblies, operas, &c. How can a poor translator and hare-hunter hope for a minute's memory? Yet he comforts himself, to reflect that he shall be remembered when people have forgot what colours you wore, and when those at whom you dress shall be dust! This is the pride of a poet: let me see if you dare own what is the pride of a woman; perhaps one article of it may be, to despise those who think themselves of some value, and to show your friends you can live without thinking of them at all. Do keep your own secrets, that such fellows as I may laugh at ye in the valley of Jehoshaphat, where cunning will be the foolishest thing in nature.

A journey to Oxford, after the publication of his Homer, produced a pleasing and picturesque epistle addressed to Martha :

Nothing could have more of that melancholy which once used to please me, than my last day's journey; for after having passed through my favourite woods in the Forest, with a thousand reveries of past pleasures, I rid over hanging hills, whose tops were edged with groves, and whose feet watered with winding rivers, listening to the falls of cataracts below, and the murmuring of the winds above. The gloomy verdure of Stonor succeeded to these, and then the shades of the evening overtook me. The moon rose in the clearest sky I ever saw, by whose solemn light I paced on slowly, without company, or any interruption to the range of my thoughts. About a mile before I reached Oxford, all the bells tolled in different notes; the clocks of every college answered one another, and sounded forth (some in a deeper, some in a softer tone) that it was eleven at night. All this was no ill preparation to the life I have led since, among those old walls, venerable galleries, stone porticoes, studious walks, and solitary scenes of the university. I wanted nothing but a black gown and a salary, to be as mere a book-worm as any there. I conformed myself to the college-hours, was rolled up in books, lay in one of the most ancient, dusky parts of the university, and was as dead to the world as any hermit of the desert. If anything was alive or awake in me, it was a little vanity, such as even those good men used to entertain, when the monks of their own order extolled their piety and abstraction. For I found myself received with a sort of respect, which this idle part of mankind, the learned, pay to their own species; who are as considerable here, as the busy, the gay, and the ambitious are in your world.

Indeed I was treated in such a manner, that I could not but sometimes ask myself in my mind, what college I was founder of, or what library I had built? Methinks I do very ill to return to the world again, to leave the only place where I make a figure, and, from seeing myself seated with dignity on the most conspicuous shelves of a library, put myself into the abject posture of lying at a lady's feet in Bolton-street.

An excursion to Bath about the same time elicited another tender declaration, which included both ladies, but is also addressed to Martha :

I must tell you a truth, which is not, however, much to my credit. I never thought so much of yourself and your fair sister as since I have been fourscore miles distant from you. At Binfield I look upon you as good neighbours, at London as pretty kind of women, and here as Divinities, Angels, Goddesses, or what you will. In like manner, I never knew at