man would be ashamed to own he had received them. If therefore you are ever moved on my account by that spirit, which I take to be as familiar to you as a quotidian ague, I mean the fpirit of goodness, pray never ftint it, in any fear of obliging me to a civility beyond my natural inclination. I dare truft you, Sir, not only with my folly when I write, but with my negligence when I do not; and expect equally your pardon for either.

If I knew how to entertain you thro' the reft of this paper, it should be spotted and diverfified with conceits all over; you should be put out of breath with laughter at each fentence, and pause at each period, to look back over how much wit you have pafs'd. But I have found by experience that people now-a-days regard writing as little as they do preaching: the most we can hope is to be heard just with decency and patience, once a week, by folks in the country. Here in town we hum over a piece of fine writing, and we whistle at a fermon. The ftage is the only place we feem alive at ; there indeed we ftare, and roar, and clap hands for K. George, and the government. As for all other virtues but this loyalty, they are an obfolete train, fo ill-drefs'd, that men, women, and children hifs them out of all good company. Humility knocks fo

fneakingly

fneakingly at the door that every footman outraps it, and makes it give way to the free entrance of pride, prodigality, and vain-glory.

My Lady Scudamore, from having rufticated in your company too long, really behaves herfelf fcandalously among us: fhe pretends to open her eyes for the fake of seeing the fun, and to fleep because it is night; drinks tea at nine in the morning, and is thought to have faid her prayers before; talks, without any manner of shame, of good books, and has not feen Cibber's play of the Non-juror. I rejoiced the other day to fee a libel on her toilette, which gives me fome hope that you have, at least, a taste of scandal left you, in defect of all other vices.

Upon the whole matter, I heartily wish you well; but as I cannot entirely defire the ruin of all the joys of this city, fo all that remains is to wish you would keep your happiness to yourselves, that the happiest here may not die with envy at a blifs which they cannot at

tain to.

I am, &c,

LETTER

Coleshill, April 17, 1718.

I Have read your letter over and over with delight. By your description of the town, I imagine it to lie under fome great enchantment, and am very much concerned for you and all my friends in it. I am the more afraid, imagining, fince you do not fly thofe horrible monsters, rapine, diffimulation, and luxury, that a magic circle is drawn about you, and you cannot escape. We are here in the country in quite another world, furrounded with bleffings and pleasures, without any occafion of exercifing our irafcible faculties; indeed we cannot boast of good-breeding and the art of life, but yet we don't live unpleasantly in primitive fimplicity and good-humour. The fashions of the town affect us but just like a raree-show, we have a curiofity, to peep at them, and nothing more. What you call pride, prodigality, and vain-glory, we cannot find in pomp and fplendor at this distance; it appears to us a fine glittering scene, which if we don't envy you, we you happier than we are, in your enjoyyou may think to perfuade us of the humility of Virtue, and her appearing

think

ing it.

Whatever you may

in rags amongst you, we can never believe: our uninform'd minds represent her fo noble to us, that we neceffarily annex fplendor to her: and we could as foon imagine the order of things inverted, and that there is no man in the moon, as believe the contrary. I can't forbear telling you we indeed read the spoils of Rapine as boys do the English rogue, and hug ourselves full as much over it; yet our rofes are not without thorns. Pray give me the pleasure of hearing (when you are at leisure) how foon I may expect to see the next volume of Homer.

I am, &c.

LETTER IV.

May 1, 1720.

You'll think me very full of myself, when

Υ

after long filence (which however, to say truth, has rather been employed to contemplate of you, than to forget you) I begin to talk of my own works. I find it is in the finishing a book, as in concluding a feffion of Parliament, one always thinks it will be very foon, and finds it very late. There are many unlook'd-for incidents to retard the clearing any public account, and so I see it is in mine. I have plagued myself, like great minifters, with undertaking too much for one man; and with a defire

of

of doing more than was expected from me, have done lefs than I ought.

laborious and

For having defign'd four very uncommon fort of Indexes to Homer, I'm forc'd, for want of time, to publish two only; the defign of which you will own to be pretty, tho' far from being fully executed. I've also been obliged to leave unfinish'd in my desk the heads of two Effays, one on the Theology and Mora→→ lity of Homer, and another on the Oratory of Homer and Virgil. So they must wait for future editions, or perish: and (one way or other, no great matter which) dabit Deus his quoque finem. I think of you every day, I affure you, even without fuch good memorials of you as your fifters, with whom I fometimes talk of you, and find it one of the most agreeable of all fubjects to them. My Lord Digby must be perpetually remember'd by all who ever knew him, or knew his children. There needs no more than an acquaintance with your family, to make all elder fons wish they had fathers to their lives end.

I can't touch upon the subject of filial love, without putting you in mind of an old woman, who has a fincere, hearty, old-fashion'd refpect for you, and conftantly blames her fon for not having writ to oftener to tell you fo.

you