say my prescription had wrought an immediate cure. In a word, I had the pleasantest journey imaginable. Thus far (methinks) my letter has something of the air of a romance, though it be true. But I hope you will look on what follows as the greatest of truths, that I think myself extremely obliged by you in all points; especially for your kind and honourable information and advice in a matter of the utmost concern to me, which I shall ever acknowledge as the highest proof at once of your friendship, justice, and sincerity. At the same time be assured, that Gentleman1 we spoke of, shall never by any alteration in me discover my knowledge of his mistake; the hearty forgiving of which is the only kind of return I can possibly make him for so many favours: And I may derive this pleasure at least from it, that whereas I must otherwise have been a little uneasy to know my incapacity of returning his obligations, I may now, by bearing his frailty, exercise my gratitude and friendship more than himself either is, or perhaps ever will be, sensible of. Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores Abstulit; ille habeat secum, servetque sepulcro! Mr. Wycherley.-From his last letters to Mr. Pope the reader may perceive something of a growing coldness and disgust, apparently proceeding from the liberties his young friend had taken with his versification and composition. Little virtue, and an excessive affectation of being witty, joined to the common infirmities of old age, jealousy and loss of memory, are sufficient to account for the instability of his friendship, though we were not to suppose (what was the fact) that our Poet had ill offices done him by those who were generally about the old man. For (as Mr. Pope rightly observes) each ill Author is as bad a Friend. W. But in one thing, I must confess you have yourself obliged me more than any man, which is, that you have shewed me many of my faults, to which as you are the more an implacable enemy, so much the more you are a kind friend to me. I could be proud in revenge, to find a few slips in your verses, which I read in London, and since in the country, with more application and pleasure: The thoughts are very just, and you are sure not to let them suffer by the versification. If you would oblige me with the trust of any thing of yours, I should be glad to execute any commissions you would give me concerning them. I am here so perfectly at leisure, that nothing would be so agreeable an entertainment to me; but if you will not afford me that, do not deny me at least the satisfaction of your letters as long as we are absent, if you would not have him very unhappy, who is very sincerely Your, etc. Having a vacant space here, I will fill it with a short Ode on Solitude, which I found yesterday by great accident, and which I find by the date, was written when I was not twelve years old; that you may perceive how long I continued in my passion for a rural life, and in the same employments of it. Happy the man2, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. "The contemplating, reflecting, philosophic turn of mind, for which our Author was afterward so eminent, is here very conspicuous. And the purity and correctness of style are extraordinary in a youth of only twelve years old. But his verses on Silence are still more extraordinary. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Blest who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away, Quiet by day. Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. LETTER IX. Aug. 19, 1709. If I were to write to you as often as I think of you, my letters would be as bad as a rent-charge; but though the one be but too little for your goodnature, the other would be too much for your quiet, which is one blessing good-nature should indispensably receive from mankind, in return for those many it gives. I have been informed of late, how much I am indebted to that quality of yours, in speaking well of me in my absence; the only thing by which you prove yourself no wit nor critic: though indeed I have often thought, that a friend will show just as much indulgence (and no more) to my faults when I am absent, as he does severity to them when I am present. To be very frank with you, Sir, I must own, that where I received so much civility at first, I could hardly have expected so much sincerity afterwards. But now I have only to wish, that the last were but equal to the first, and that as you have omitted nothing to oblige me, so you would omit nothing to improve me. I caused an acquaintance of mine to enquire twice of your welfare, by whom I have been informed, that you have left your speculative angle in the Widow's Coffee-house, and bidding adieu for some time to all the Rehearsals, Reviews, Gazettes, etc. have marched off into Lincolnshire. Thus I find you vary your life in the Scene at least, though not in the Action; for though life for the most part, like an old play, be still the same, yet now and then a new scene may make it more entertaining. As for myself, I would not have my life a very regular play, let it be a good3 merry farce, a G-d's name, and a fig for the critical unities! For the generality of men, a true modern life is like a true modern play, neither tragedy, comedy, nor farce, nor one nor all of these; every actor is much better known by his having the same face, than by keeping the same character: for we change our minds as often as they can their parts, and who was yesterday Cæsar, is this day Sir John Daw. So that one might ask the same question of a modern life that Rich did of a modern play; "Pray do me the favour, Sir, to inform, me; is this your Tragedy or your Comedy ?" 3 Tolerable farce in the Author's own Edit. a God's name omitted there. W. I have dwelt the longer upon this, because I persuade myself it might be useful, at a time when we have no theatre, to divert ourselves at this great one. Here is a glorious standing comedy of Fools, at which every man is heartily merry, and thinks himself an unconcerned spectator. This (to our singular comfort) neither my Lord Chamberlain, nor the Queen herself can ever shut up or silence. While that of Drury (alas !) lies desolate, in the profoundest peace and the melancholy prospect of the nymphs yet lingering about its beloved avenues, appears no less moving than that of the Trojan dames lamenting over their ruined Ilium! What can they hope, dispossessed of their ancient seats, but to serve as captives to the insulted victors of the Hay-market? The afflicted subjects of France do not, in our Postman, so grievously deplore the obstinacy of their arbitrary monarch, as these perishing people of Drury the obdurate heart of that Pharaoh, Rich, who, like him, disdains all proposals of peace and accommodation. Several libels have been secretly affixed to the great gates of his imperial palace in Bridges-street; and a memorial, representing the distresses of these persons, has been accidentally dropt (as we are credibly informed by a person of quality) out of his first minister the chief box-keeper's pocket, at a late conference of the said person of quality, and others, on • What follows to the end of this Letter, is omitted in the Author's own Edit. W. A full account of these Theatrical squabbles may be seen in Cibber's entertaining Life, and in Davies' Dramatic Miscellanies. |