LETTER XIII.

March 14, 1721-2.

I WAS disappointed (much more than those who commonly use that phrase on such occasions) in missing you at the Deanery, where I lay solitary two nights. Indeed I truly partake in any degree of concern that affects you, and I wish every thing may succeed as you desire in your own family, and in that which, I think, you no less account your own, and is, no less your family, the whole world: For I take you to be one of the true friends of it, and to your power its protector. Though the noise and daily bustle for the public be now over, I dare say, a good man is still tendering its welfare; as the sun in the winter, when seeming to retire from the world, is preparing benedictions and warmth for a better season. No man wishes your Lordship more quiet, more tranquillity, than I, who know you should understand the value of it: But I don't wish you a jot less concerned or less active than you are, in all sincere, and therefore warm, desires of public good.

I beg the kindness (and 'tis for that chiefly I trouble you with this letter) to favour me with notice as soon as you return to London, that I may come and make you a proper visit of a day or two: For hitherto I have not been your Visitor, but your Lodger, and I accuse myself of it. I have now no earthly thing to oblige my being in town (a point of no small satisfaction to me) but the best reason,

the seeing a friend. As long, my Lord, as you will let me call you so (and I dare say you will, till I forfeit what, I think, I never shall, my veracity and integrity), I shall esteem myself fortunate, in spite of the South-Sea, Poetry, Popery, and Poverty.

I can't tell you how sorry I am, you should be troubled anew by any sort of people. I heartily wish, Quod superest, ut tibi vivas-that you may teach me how to do the same: Who, without any real impediment to acting and living rightly, do act and live foolishly as if I were a Great man.

I am,

etc.

LETTER XIV.

FROM THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

March 16, 1721-2.

As a visitant, a lodger, a friend (or under what other denomination soever), you are always welcome to me; and will be more so, I hope, every day that we live For, to tell you the truth, I like you as I like myself, best when we have both of us least business. It has been my fate to be engaged in it much and often, by the stations in which I was placed But God, that knows my heart, knows I never loved it; and am still less in love with it than ever, as I find less temptation to act with any hope of success. If I am good for any thing, 'tis in angulo cum libello; and yet a good part of my time has

been spent, and perhaps must be spent far otherwise. For I will never, while I have health, be wanting to my duty in my post, or in any respect, how little soever I may like my employment, and how hopeless soever I may be in the discharge of it.

In the mean time the judicious world is pleased to think that I delight in work which I am obliged to undergo, and aim at things which I from my heart despise; let them think as they will, so I might be at liberty to act as I will, and spend my time in such a manner as is most agreeable to me. I cannot say I do so now, for I am here without any books, and if I had them could not use them to my satisfaction, while my mind is taken up in a more melancholy manner; and how long, or how little a while,

it

may be so taken up God only knows, and to his will I implicitly resign myself in every thing.

MY LORD,

I am, etc.

LETTER XV.

March 19, 1721-2.

I AM extremely sensible of the repeated favour of your kind letters, and your thoughts of me in absence, even among the thoughts of much nearer concern to yourself on the one hand, and of much more importance to the world on the other, which cannot but engage you at this juncture. I am very cer

In his Lady's last sickness. W.

tain of your good will, and of the warmth which is in you inseparable from it.

Your remembrance of Twitenham is a fresh instance of that partiality. I hope the advance of the fine season will set you upon your legs, enough to enable you to get into my garden, where I will carry you up a Mount, in a point of view to shew you the glory of my little kingdom. If you approve it, I shall be in danger to boast, like Nebuchadnezzar, of the things I have made, and to be turned to converse, not with the beasts of the field, but with the birds of the grove, which I shall take to be no great punishment. For indeed I heartily despise the ways of the world, and most of the great ones of it.

Oh keep me innocent, make others great!

And you may judge how comfortably I am strengthened in this opinion, when such as your Lordship bear testimony to its vanity and emptiness. Tinnit, inane est, with the picture of one ringing on the globe with his finger, is the best thing I have the luck to remember in that great Poet Quarles (not that I forget the Devil at bowls; which I know to be your Lordship's favourite cut, as well as favourite diversion).

The situation here is pleasant, and the view rural enough, to humour the most retired, and agree with the most contemplative. Good air, solitary groves, and sparing diet, sufficient to make you fancy yourself (what you are in temperance, though elevated into a greater figure by your station) one of the Fa

thers of the Desert. Here you may think (to use an author's words, whom you so justly prefer to all his followers, that you'll receive them kindly, though taken from his worst work3)*

That in Elijah's banquet you partake,

Or sit a guest with Daniel, at his Pulse.

I am sincerely free with you, as you desire I should, and approve of your not having your coach here, for if you would see Lord C* or any body else, I have another chariot, besides that little one you laughed at when you compared me to Homer in a nut-shell. But if you would be entirely private, nobody shall know any thing of the matter. Believe me (my Lord) no man is with more perfect acquiescence, nay with more willing acquiescence (not even any of your own Sons of the Church), Your obedient, etc.

LETTER XVI.

FROM THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

April 6, 1722.

UNDER all the leisure in the world, I have no leisure, no stomach, to write to you: The gradual approaches of death are before my eyes. I am convinced that it must be so; and yet make a shift to

3 The Paradise Regain'd. I suppose this was in compliment to the Bishop. It could never be his own opinion. W.

The superlative sublimity of the Paradise Lost has eclipsed the milder beauties of Paradise Regained: For beauties it has, and in no small abundance.