132

POPE'S LETTERS,

&c.

of the world at large, you should bend your talents not to serve a party, or a few, but all mankind. Your genius should mount above that mist in which its participation and neighbourhood with earth long involved it: to shine abroad, and to Heaven, ought to be the business and the glory of your present situation. Remember, that the greatest lights of antiquity dazzled and blazed the most, in their retreat, in their exile, or in their death: but why do I talk of dazzling or blazing? it was then that they did good, that they gave light, and that they became guides, to mankind.

Those aims alone are worthy of spirits truly great; and such 1, therefore, hope will be yours. Resentment indeed may remain, perhaps it cannot be quite extin guished, in the noblest minds; but revenge never will harbour there higher principles than those of the first, and better principles than those of the latter, will infallibly influence men whose thoughts and whose hearts are enlarged; and cause them to prefer the whole to any part of mankind, especially to so small a part as one's single self.

Believe me, my lord, I look upon you as a spirit entered into another life, as one just upon the edge of immortality: where the passions and affections must be much more exalted; and where you ought to despise all little views, and all mean retrospects. Nothing is worth your looking back; therefore, look forward: and make (as you can) the world look after you; not with pity, but with esteem and admiration.

I am, with great sincerity, and desire for your fame as well as happiness,

Your &c.

Alexander Pope.

LETTER X.

Dr. Atterbury to Mr. Pope.

Montpelier, Nov. 20, 1729,

Yes, dear sir, I have had all you designed

for me; and I have read all (as I read whatever you write) with esteem and pleasure: but your last letter, full of friendship and goodness, gave me such impressions of concern and tenderness, as neither I can express, nor you, perhaps, with all the force of your imagination, fully conceive,

I am not yet master enough of myself, after the late wound I have received*, to open my very heart to you; and I am not content with less than that, whenever I converse with you. My thoughts are at present vainly, but pleasingly, employed on what I have lost, and can never recover. I know well I ought, for that reason, to call them off to other subjects; but hitherto I have not been able to do it. By giving them the rein a little, and suffering them to spend their force, I hope in some time to check and subdue them. "Multis fortunæ vulneribus perculsus, huic uni me imparem sensi, et penè succubui." This is weakness, not wisdom, I own; and on that account the fitter to be trusted to the bosom of a friend, where I may safely lodge all my infirmities. As soon as my mind is in some measure collected and calmed, I will endeavour to follow your advice, and turn it to something of use and moment, if I have still life enough left to do any thing that is worth reading and preserving. In the mean time, I shall be pleased to hear that you proceed in what you intend, without any

• The death of his beloved and only daughter, Mrs. Morrice.

such melancholy interruptions as I have had. Your mind is as yet unbroken by age and ill accidents; your knowledge and judgment are at the height: use them in writing something that may teach the present and future times. Remember Virgil died at fifty two, and Horace at fifty eight; and bad as both their constitutions were, yours is yet more delicate and tender. Employ not your precious moments, and great talents, on little men and little things: but choose a subject every way wor◄ thy of you; and handle it, as you can, in a manner which nobody else can equal or imitate. As for ine, my abilities, if I ever had any, are not what they were; and yet I will endeavour to recollect and em ploy them:

"gelidus tardante senecta

Sanguis hebet, frigentque effœto in corpore vires."

However, I should be ungrateful to this place, if I did not own that I have gained upon the gout in the South of France much more than I did at Paris, though even there I sensibly improved. I believe my cure had been perfected, but the earnest desire of meeting one whom I dearly loved, called me abruptly to Montpelier & where I continued two months, under the cruel torture of a sad and fruitless expectation; and I was forced at last to take a long journey to Toulouse. And even there I had missed the person I sought, had she not, with great spirit and courage, ventured all night up the Garonne to see me, which she above all things desired to do before she died. By that means, she was brought where I was, between seven and eight in the morning. She lived twenty hours afterwards: which time was not lost on either side, but passed in such a manner as gave

great satisfaction to both; and such as, on her part, every way became her circumstances and character. She had her senses to the very last gasp; and she exerted them to give me, in those few hours, greater marks of duty and love than she had done in all her lifetime, though she had never been wanting in either. The last words she said to me, were the kindest of all; a reflection on the goodness of God, which had allowed us in this manner to meet once more. Not many minutes. after that, she laid herself on her pillow, in a sleeping posture,

"placidaque ibi demum morte quievit."

Judge, sir, what I felt, and still feel, on this occasion; and spare me the trouble of describing it. At my age, under my infirmities, among utter strangers, how shall I find out proper reliefs and supports? I can have none but those with which Reason and Religion furnish me; and on those I lay hold, and grasp as fast as I can. And I hope that HE who laid the burthen upon me, (for wise and good purposes, no doubt,) will enable me to bear it, in like manner as I have borne others, with some degree of fortitude and firm

ness.

You see how ready I am to relapse into an argument which I had quitted once before in this letter. I shall probably again commit the same fault, if I continue to write; and therefore I stop short here, and, with all sincerity, affection, and esteem, bid you adieu, till we meet, either in this world, if God pleases, or else in another!

LETTER XI.

Dr. Arbuthnot to Mr. Pope.

Hampstead, July 17, 1734.

I little doubt your kind concern for me, nor

that of the lady whom you mention. I have nothing but prayers and good wishes to repay my friends with at present. I have the satisfaction to find that I am as officiously served by them, as he that has thousands to leave in legacies; besides the assurance of their sincerity. God Almighty has made my bodily distress as easy as a thing of that nature can be. I have found some relief, at least occasionally, from the air of this place. My nights are bad; but many poor creatures

have worse.

As for you, my good friend, I think, since our first acquaintance, there have not been any of those little suspicions or jealousies that often affect the sincerest friendships; I am sure, not on my side. I must be so candid as to own, that though I could not help valuing you for those talents which the world prizes, yet they were not the foundations of my friendship: which were quite of another sort; nor shall I at present offend you by enumerating them. And I make it my last request, that you will continue that noble disdain and abhorrence of vice, which you seem naturally endued with; but still with a due regard to your own safety: and that you will study more to reform than chastise, though the one cannot be effected without the other.

Lord Bathurst I have always honoured, for every good quality that a person of his rank ought to have. Pray, give my respects and kindest wishes to the family. My venison stomach is gone; but I have those about