ORIGINAL LETTERS. NO. 11. From Rachel Lady Russel to Dr. Gilbert Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury. Chatsworth, 3 Sept. 1709. - THE respect and obligations I have soe many years had to you, my Lord, makes me feele myselfe uneasie in the midst of my present contentments, that I have not sooner asked from you the favour to heare how y'r health holds under the oppresion of y'r mind and body too, as I conclude, since even from the method you proposed to take, and seemingly to favour y'rselfe in som degree, yet wou'd be to any other too big a fatigue. I wish you find it not soe to you, who shall ever have my best wishes; but I forget the title you have to them, which is, where I ame now hourly renewed such a mixture ther is betweene joy and sorrow. I do not wel remember, if when I saw y'r Lord'p last I had then fixed my resolve to the great undertaking, I have to this time ben prosperous under, and, in lesse than two months' time, seen eighteene granchildren all comely and prosperous; not deprived of father or mother, but planted with them in pleasant habitations, plenty and honour; and, above all, the three I have brought into the world happy in ther marriages, wonderfully soe: these are comforts and blessings I hope I ame truly sensible of and thankful for; and as truly troubled, that my heart stil sinks whenever I reflect on these and past circumstances, least I offend the great dispensator of all good, and to me soe gratious and uncomon providences; but some wounds are soe malignant they can never heal. I began my progresse by Woburne; stay'd about a month there, til Lord Devon and his wife came to us, stay'd som days, then I went with them to Harboro'; next morning we parted; they went by Hardwick to Chatsworth, and I to Belvoir; stay'd a fortnight, and left Lord Granby's to atend Nottingham races, and his wife and I went to Hardwick, wher, as twas agreed, we met the Duke (of) Devon, and his wife, and my son and his; spent one whole day ther, and came to this fine place the 13 Aug; found their two eldest sons here, and some days after had the addition of the two eldest of Lord Granby's, with himselfe, and have since kept altogether, but now breaking up. Granby's day was yesterday, but defered till Monday, upon hearing Lord Gore (Gower) was dangerously ill, and yesterday we heard that he died on Wednesday. He has ben many years a criple, drawn in a chair, but looked well and cheerful; lay not above six days he made his will on Sunday, and did what he could for younger (children), w'ch wil not be sutable, tis beleeved, to his estate, but he had no power til his son was of age, who is but 15 yeares old. My son purposes to leave us the begining (of) next week: we turn to Woburn, and from thence, if God blesse us as hitherto, to our homes at London. All my home circumstances I have laid before you, and for forraine ones I have no skil; and altho our enemies are able artists at trifling away our time, yet tis the good pleasure of God we have successe: but the long spun thread of the war is in a way, I fear, to hold longer. God, in his infinit goodnesse, prevent the rageing pestilence at Danszick spreading farther: tis time I should take som heed, my scribbling dos not doe soe; but meeting at tea table is a sure stop, for I have no comand of time, but what I get by rising something earlier then the most of them, if not at the breakfast upon tea, to w'h Lady Granby is come to call me, who wil ever continue very sincerely and faithfuly, my Lord or most humble Jure ons To my Lord Bishop off Salsbury, at his palace in Salsbury. Sir, Dr. Jonathan Swift to Ambrose Philips. I was surprised to find, in a letter from Mr. Steele, that you are now in London, and am at a loss whether publick or private business hath brought you over. Your coming has spoilt a letter I had half writt to send you to Copenhagen. It was not lazyness, spleen, or neglect, that made me omitt acknowledging two of yours so long; but downright sickness, which, after a year's pursuing, now I hope begins to leave me where I am, in the country, cultivating half an acre of Irish bog. The taste you sent me of Northern eloquence is very extraordinary. They seem to have heard there is such a thing in the world as witt and sublime; and not knowing better, they supply the want of both with sounding words. That which vexes me, is the difficulty in construing their Latin, and keeping my breath so long between a relative and antecedent, or a noun and a verb. I could match you with Irish poetry, and printed Latin poetry too, but Mr. Addison shewed it me, and can give you the best account of it. You are a better Bickerstaff than I; for you foretold all the circumstances, how I should receive your last pacquet with the honorary memoriall of Monsieur I don't know who. My Lord Wharton gave me the letter. I went aside, and opened it, and people thronged about me to ask what it was; and I shewed it his excellency. My heart is absolutely broke with the misfortunes of the K. of Sweden. Nothing pleased me more in the thoughts of going abroad, than some hopes I had of being sent to that court. And now, to see that poltroon Augustus putting out his manifestoes, and pretending again to Poland, after the tame submissions he made! It puts me in mind of the sick lyon in the fable: among all the insults offered him, nothing vexed him so much as the spurns of an ass. I hope you are laying in new stocks to revive your poeticall reputation: but I am wholly in the dark about you, whether you have left the North, or are onely sent back on an ambassy from the envoy. You have the best friend in the world, Mr. Addison, who is never at ease while any man of worth is not so: and Mr. Steele is alter ab illo. What says my L'd Dorset? You had not me for a councellor when you chose him for a patron. Is Coll. Hunter gone to his govern't? He is mechant homme, and has never writt to me since he came from France, and I came to Ireland. Your Coll. Worsly and I are mighty good acquaintance; he loves and esteems you much, and I am sorry that expedition did not hold. When you write any more poetry, do me honor, mention me in it 'tis the common request of Tully and Pliny to the great authors of their age; and I will contrive it so, that Prince Posterity shall know I was favored by the men of witt in my time. Pray send me word how your affairs are, that I may order my manner of writing to you accordingly; and remember me sometimes in your walks up the park, and wish for me amongst you. I reckon no man is throughly miserable, unless he be condemned to live in Ireland: and yet I have not the spleen, for I was not born to it. And let me know whether the North has cool'd your Geneva flames; but you have one comfort, that the loss of the ladyes fortunes will encrease her love, and assure you her person; and you may now be out of pain of your rival Monsr. le Baron. Pray write to me, and remember me, and drink my health sometimes with our friends, and believe me ever Your most faithfull and most humble Ser't, Jonathan Swift. ON AN INFANT SMILING AS IT AWOKE. AFTER the sleep of night, as some still Lake As if from its calm depths the morning light Reflect a mental Heaven of thine own; In that illumined smile I recognize The sunlight of a sphere to us unknown; Thou hast been dreaming of some previous bliss Hast thou been wafted to Elysian bowers, In some blest star where thou hast pre-existed; Around the golden harps of Seraphs twisted, Perchance all breathing life is but an essence From the great Fountain Spirit in the sky, We deem thy mortal memory not begun, But hast thou no remembrance of the past; No lingering twilight of a former sun, Which o'er thy slumbering faculties hath cast Shadows of unimaginable things, Too high or deep for human fathomings? Perchance, while reason's earliest flush is brightening Disclose a transitory glimpse of Heaven; Mysterious type which none can understand, H.. FAMILIAR TRANSLATION OF HORACE AND LYDIA. Horace. Lydia, whilst thou wert only mine, Lydia. Nor any younger favourite cull Toy'd with that soft white neck of thine, Ere Chloe had thy heart estranged, And Lydia held thee all her own; Horace. To Chloe, now my bosom's queen, Lydia. Young Calais woos me, nothing loth Horace. What if, this folly just worn out, I'd buckle on my ancient chain? And beckon Lydia back again? Lydia. Though he were fair as any star, SONNET. ON A LANDSCAPE BY MR. HOFLAND. YOUNG world of peace and loveliness, farewell! H. M. |