LETTER VIII. July 17, 1709. I was THE morning after I parted from you, I found myself (as I had prophesied) all alone, in an uneasy stage-coach; a doleful change from that agreeable company I enjoyed the night before! without the least hope of entertainment but from my last resource in such cases, a Book. I then began to enter into acquaintance with your moralists, and had just received from them some cold consolation for the inconveniences of this life, and the uncertainty of human affairs; when I perceived my vehicle to stop, and heard from the side of it the dreadful news of a sick woman preparing to enter it. 'Tis not easy to guess at my mortification, but being so well fortified with philosophy, I stood resigned with a stoical constancy to endure the worst of evils, a sick woman. indeed a little comforted to find by her voice and dress, that she was young and a gentlewoman; but no sooner was her hood removed, but I saw one of the finest faces I ever beheld, and, to increase my surprize, heard her salute me by my name. I never had more reason to accuse nature for making me short-sighted than now, when I could not recollect I had ever seen those fair eyes which knew me so well, and was utterly at a loss how to address myself; till with a great deal of simplicity and innocence she let me know (even before I discovered my ignorance), that she was the daughter of one in our neighbourhood, lately married, who having been consulting her physicians in town, was returning into the country, to try what good air and a husband could do to recover her. My father, you must know, has sometimes recommended the study of physic to me, but I never had any ambition to be a doctor till this instant. I ventured to prescribe some fruit (which I happened to have in the coach), which being forbidden her by her doctors, she had the more inclination to. In short, I tempted, and she eat; nor was I more like the Devil than she like Eve. Having the good success of the aforesaid tempter before my eyes, I put on the gallantry of the old serpent, and in spite of my evil form accosted her with all the gaiety I was master of; which had so good effect, that in less than an hour she grew pleasant, her colour returned, and she was pleased to 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 gentleman we spoke of, shall never by any alteration in me discover any 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 Ï 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 sepulchro! 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 have continued in my passion for a rural life, and in the same employments of it. Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breath his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Steal from the world, and not a stone LETTER IX. Aug. 19, 1709. IF I were to write 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 shew 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 angel 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 good 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?" per I have dwelt the longer upon this, because I suade 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 insulting 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 What follows, to the end of this letter, is omitted in the Author's own edit. |