sent one by Mr. Stanyan, giving another for lost that went by Lord James Hay to Leghorn, where you was then expected. Mr. Congreve had written some time before, as I acquainted you in that, who, I assure you, no way deserves to be thought forgetful of you. I obey your orders, in sending inclosed two little pieces; the printed one has made much noise, and done some good at court: I am wrongfully suspected to be the author of it. They talk of some alterations there which affect a man who never asked for any thing but your Pastorals. Lady Rich is brought to bed. I can only add my desire of being always thought yours, and of being told I am thought so by yourself, whenever you would make me as happy as I can be at this distance.

Mr. Craggs is very much yours.

Your, etc.

I am just now told you are to go by way of Italy: I hope to God this is true, and that you will stay this winter, to refresh yourself for new travels, at Vienna. The seas will shew no respect to merit or beauty, in the winter season. To give you a convincing proof how romantic I am, if you pass through Italy next spring, and will give me timely notice and direction, it is very possible I may meet you there, and attend you till you take sea again for Constantinople.

MADAM,

LETTER VI.

TO THE SAME.

February 3. I WISH I Could write any thing to divert you, but it is impossible in the unquiet state I am put into by your letter it has grievously afflicted me, without affectation; and I think you would hardly have writ it in so strong terms, had you known to what a degree I feel the loss of those I value (it is only decency that hinders me from saying, of her I value). From this instant you are doubly dead to me; and all the vexation and concern I endured at your parting from England, was nothing to what I suffer the moment I hear you have left Vienna. Till now, I had some small hopes in God, and in fortune; I waited for accidents, and had at least the faint comfort of a wish, when I thought of you; I am nowI can't tell what-I won't tell what, for it would grieve you. This letter is a piece of madness that throws me after you in a distracted manner. I don't know which way to write, which way to send it, or if ever it will reach your hands; if it does, what can you infer from it, but what I am half afraid and half willing you should know,-how very much I was yours, how unfortunately well I knew you, and with what a miserable constancy I shall ever remember you?

If this falls into any other hands, it will say nothing I shall be ashamed to own, when either dis

tance or death (for aught I can tell) shall have removed you for ever from the scandal of so mean an admirer.

What you say of your illness frightens me with a prospect I can never so much as dream of without horror. Though I am never to see you again, may you live to please other eyes, and improve other minds than mine; may you appear to distant worlds like a sun that is sunk out of the sight of our hemisphere, to gladden the other. It is no figure of speech when I tell you, that those mountains of snow, and woods laid in ashes, you describe, are what I could wish to traverse with you. I find I flattered myself when I thought Italy had pleasures that could allure me to have met you there; I see it was only the view of meeting you that made that country appear charming to me and I now envy the desarts and devastations of Hungary more than any parts of the polite world. It is seriously true that I have not, since your last letter, the least inclination to see Italy, though, before I received it, I longed for your summons thither:-but it is foolish to tell you this ;did I say foolish? it is a thousand times worse, it is in vain!

You touch me very sensibly, in saying you think so well of my friendship; in that you do me too much honour. Would to God you would (even at this distance) allow me to correct this period, and change these phrases according to the real truth of my heart. I am foolish again; and methinks I am imitating, in my ravings, the dreams of splenetic enthusiasts and solitaires, who fall in love with saints,

and fancy themselves in the favour of angels and spirits, whom they can never see or touch. I hope indeed that you like one of those better beings, have a benevolence towards me; and I (on my part) really look up to you with zeal and fervour, not without some faint expectation of meeting hereafter, which is something betwixt piety and madness.

Madam, I beg you to be so just to my impatience and anxiety for your sake, as to give me the first notice possible of your health and progress. This letter takes its chance from Mr. Stanhope's office: though you direct me to the merchant-ships bound for Constantinople, I could not stay so long as till one of those sets out. Whether you receive letters from me or not, you may depend upon my having writ, as the consequence of my thinking so often and so warmly of you. May Providence overshadow you; and that spirit which exposes you to dangers, protect you from them. I am the most earnest of your well-wishers, and, I was going to say, your most faithful servant, but am angry at the weakness of all the terms I can use to express myself

Yours.

LETTER VII.

I WRITE this after a very severe illness, that had like to have cost you a friend: and in writing I rebel against a despotic Doctor, whose tyranny the greatest here obey, and from the same servile principles

that most men obey tyrants,-the fear of death. He says I must think but slightly of any thing: now I am practising if I can think so of you, which if I can I shall be above regarding any thing in nature for the future I may then look upon the sun as a spangle, and the world as a hazel-nut. But in earnest, you should be pleased at my recovery, as it is a thing you'll get something by. Heaven has renewed a lease to you of a sincere servant: abundance of good wishes and grateful thanks will be added to those you have had from me already ; and Lady Mary will be spoken of with respect and tenderness some years longer.

This last winter has seen great revolutions in my little affairs. My sickness was preceded by the death of my father, which happened within a few days after I had writ to you, inviting myself to meet you in your journey homewards. I have yet a mother of great age and infirmities, whose last precarious days of life I am now attending, with such a solemn pious kind of officiousness as a melancholy recluse watches the last risings and fallings of a dying taper. My natural temper is pretty much broke, and I live half a hermit within five miles of London. A letter from you sooths me in my reveries; 'tis like a conversation with some spirit of the other world, the least glimpse of whose favour sets one above all taste of the things of this: indeed there is little or nothing angelical left behind you; the women here are-women. I can't express how I long to see you face to face; if ever you come again, I shall never be able to behave with decency, I shall walk, look,