I

LETTER V.

London, Nov. 8, 1717.

AM extremely glad to find by a Letter of yours to Mr. Fortefcue, that you have received one from me; and I beg you to keep as the greatest of curiofities, that letter of mine which you received, and I never writ.

But the truth is, that we were made here to expect you in a fhort time, that I was upon the ramble most part of the Summer, and have concluded the feason in grief, for the death of my poor father.

I fhall not enter into a detail of my concerns and troubles, for two reafons; because I am really afflicted and need no airs of grief, and because they are not the concerns and troubles of any but myself. But I think you (without too great a compliment) enough my friend, to be pleased to know he died eafily, without a groan, or the fickness of two minutes; in a word, as filently and peacefully as he lived.

Sic mihi contingat vivere, ficque mori !

I am not in the humour to fay gay things, nor in the affectation of avoiding them. I can't pretend to entertain either Mr. Pultney* or you, as you have done

both

* Pultney took him this year to Aix, in order to divert a dejcction of fpirits, arifing from difappointment in hopes of patronage.

both my Lord Burlington and me, by your Letter to Mr. Lowndes. I am only forry you have no greater quarrel to Mr. Lowndes, and wish you paid fome hundreds a year to the land-tax. That gentleman is lately become an inoffenfive perfon to me too; fo that we may join heartily in our addresses to him, and (like true patriots) rejoice in all that good done to the nation and government, to which we contribute nothing ourfelves.

I fhould not forget to acknowledge your letter fent from Aix; you told me then that writing was not good with the waters, and I find fince, you are of my opinion, that 'tis as bad without the waters. But, I fancy, it is not writing but thinking, that is so bad with the waters; and then you might write without any manner of prejudice, if you write like our brother Poets of these days.

The Duchefs, Lord Warwick, Lord Stanhope, Mrs. Bellenden, Mrs. Lepell, and I can't tell who else, had your Letters: Dr. Arbuthnot and I expect to be treated like friends. I would fend my services to Mr. Pultney, but that he is out of favour at court; and make fome compliment to Mrs. Pultney, if fhe were not a Whig. My Lord Burlington tells me fhe has as much out-fhined all the French ladies, as fhe did the English before: I am forry for it, because

A Poem intitled, To my ingenious and worthy friend, W. Lowndes, Efq. Author of that celebrated Treatife in Folio, called the LAND-TAX BILL. WARBURTON.

because it will be detrimental to our holy religion, if heretical women should eclipfe thofe Nuns and orthodox Beauties, in whofe eyes alone lie all the hopes we can have, of gaining fuch fine gentlemen as you to our church.

Your, etc.

I wish you joy of the birth of the young prince, because he is the only prince we have, from whom you have had no expectations and no disappointments.

LETTER VI.

FROM MR. GAY TO MR. F-*.

Stanton-Harcourt, Aug. 9, 1718.

THE E only news that you can expect to have from

me here, is news from heaven; for I am quite out of the world, and there is fcarce any thing that can reach me except the noife of thunder, which undoubtedly you have heard too. We have read in old authors of high towers levelled by it to the ground, while the humble valleys have escaped: The only thing that is proof against it is the laurel, which, however, I take to be no great fecurity to the brains of modern authors. But to let you fee that the contrary

His friend Fortefcue. Gay was now on a vifit to Lord Harcourt, who, with his other friends, fought, by kindness and change of scene, to diffipate his chagrin. But fee Note, p. 189.

*

trary to this often happens, I muft acquaint you, that the highest and most extravagant heap of towers in the univerfe, which is in this neighbourhood, ftand ftill undefaced, while a cock of barley in our next field has been confumed to afhes. Would to God that this heap of barley had been all that had perifhed! for unhappily beneath this little fhelter fat two much more conftant Lovers than ever were found in Romance under the fhade of a beech-tree. John Hewet was a well-fet man of about five and twenty, Sarah Drew might be rather called comely than beautiful, and was about the fame age. They had paffed through the various labours of the year toge ther, with the greatest fatisfaction; if fhe milk'd, 'twas his morning and evening care to bring the cows to her hand; it was but laft fair that he bought her a prefent of green filk for her ftraw hat, and the pofie on her filver ring was of his chufing. Their love was the talk of the whole neighbourhood; for scandal never affirmed, that they had any other views than the lawful poffeffion of each other in marriage. It was that very morning that he had obtained the confent of her parents, and it was but till the next week that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps in the intervals of their work they were now talking of the wedding cloaths, and John was fuiting feveral forts of poppies and field flowers to her complexion,

to

The fate of these unfortunate Lovers is made the subject of a pathetic Episode in Thomson's Summer, line 1170.

WARTON.

to chufe her a knot for the wedding-day. While they were thus bufied, (it was on the laft of July between two and three in the afternoon,) the clouds grew black, and such a storm of lightning and thunder enfued, that all the labourers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees and hedges afforded, Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a fwoon on a heap of barley. John, who never separated from her, fat down by her fide, having raked together two or three heaps, the better to fecure her from the ftorm. Immediately there was heard fo loud a crack, as if heaven had split afunder; every one was now folicitous for the fafety of his neighbour, and called to one another throughout the field: No answer being returned to those who called to our Lovers, they stept to the place where they lay; they perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then fpied this faithful pair: John with one arm about Sarah's neck, and the other held over her, as to screen her from the lightning. They were ftruck dead, and ftiffened in this tender posture. Sarah's left eye-brow was finged, and there appeared a black spot on her breast: her lover was all over black, but not the leaft figns of life were found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and the next day were interred in Stanton-Harcourt Church-yard. My Lord Harcourt, at Mr. Pope's and my request, has caused a stone to be placed over them, upon condition that we furnished the Epitaph, which is as follows:

When