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 Rogained: For beauties it has, and in no small abundance.

flatter myself sometimes with the thought that it may possibly be otherwise. And that very thought, though it is directly contrary to my reason, does for a few moments make me easy--however not easy enough in good earnest to think of any thing, but the melancholy object that employs them. Therefore wonder not that I do not answer your kind letter: I shall answer it too soon, I fear, by accepting your friendly invitation. When I do so, no conveniences will be wanting For I'll see nobody but you and your mother, and the servants. Visits to statesmen always were to me (and are now more than ever) insipid things; let the men that expect, that wish to thrive by them, pay them that homage; I am free. I want them, they shall hear of me at their doors: When they want me, I shall be sure to hear them at mine. But probably they will despise me so much, and I shall court them so little, that we shall both of us keep our distance.

When

When I come to you, 'tis in order to be with you only; a president of the council, or a star and garter, will make no more impression upon my mind, at such a time, than the hearing of a bag-pipe, or the sight of a puppet-shew. I have said to Greatness sometime ago-Tuas tibi res habeto, Egomet curabo The time is not far off when we shall all be upon the level; and I am resolved, for my part, to anticipate that time, and be upon the level with them now: For he is so, that neither seeks nor wants them. Let them have more virtue and less pride; and then

meas.

Was the good Bishop really cured of all ambitious views at this time?

I'll court them as much as any body: But till they resolve to distinguish themselves some way else than by their outward trappings, I am determined (and, I think, I have a right) to be as proud as they are; though I trust in God, my pride is neither of so odious a nature as theirs, nor of so mischievous a consequence.

I know not how I have fallen into this train of thinking-when I sat down to write I intended only to excuse myself for not writing, and to tell you that the time drew nearer and nearer, when I must dislodge; I am preparing for it: For I am at this moment building a vault in the Abbey, for me and mine. 'Twas to be in the Abbey, because of my relation to the place; but 'tis at the west door of it; as far from Kings and Cæsars as the space will admit of.

I know not but I may step to town to-morrow, to see how the work goes forward; but, if I do, I shall return hither in the evening. I would not have given you the trouble of this letter, but that they tell me it will cost you nothing, and that our privilege of franking (one of the most valuable we have left) is again allowed us.

Your, etc.

This is a peevish sentiment; surely more privileges were left; or rather, what privileges were taken away?

LETTER XVII.

FROM THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

Bromley, May 25, 1722.

I HAD much ado to get hither last night, the water being so rough that the ferry-men were unwilling to venture. The first thing I saw this morning after my eyes were open, was your letter, for the freedom and kindness of which I thank you. Let all compliments be laid aside between us for the future; and depend upon me as your faithful friend in all things within my power, as one that truly values you, and wishes you all manner of happiness. I thank you and Mrs. Pope for my kind reception, which has left a pleasing impression upon me that will not soon be effaced.

*

Lord has pressed me terribly to see him at *, and told me, in a manner betwixt kindness and resentment, that it is but a few miles beyond Twitenham.

I have but a little time left, and a great deal to do in it and must expect that ill health will render a good share of it useless; and therefore what is likely to be left at the foot of the account, ought by me to be cherished, and not thrown away in compliment. You know the Motto of my sun-dial, Vivite, ait, fugio. I will, as far as I am able, follow its advice, and cut off all unnecessary avocations and amusements. There are those that intend to employ me this winter in a way I do not like: if they persist in their intentions, I must apply myself to the work they cut out for me, as well as I can. But withal,

that shall not hinder me from employing myself also in a way which they do not like. The givers of trouble one day shall have their share of it another; that at last they may be induced to let me be quiet, and live to myself with the few (the very few) friends I like; for that is the point, the single point I now aim at though, I know the generality of the world who are acquainted with my intentions and views, think the very reverse of this character belongs to me. I don't know how I have rambled into this account of myself; when I sat down to write, I had no thought of making that any part of my letter.

You might have been sure without my telling you, that my right hand is at ease; else I should not have overflowed at this rate. And yet I have not done, for there is a kind intimation in the end of yours, which I understood, because it seeems to tend towards employing me in something that is agreeable to you. Pray explain yourself, and believe that you have not an acquaintance in the world that would be more in earnest on such an occasion than I, for I love you, as well as esteem you.

All the while I have been writing, Pain, and a fine Thrush, have been severally endeavouring to call off my attention; but both in vain, nor should I yet part with you, but that the turning over a new leaf frights me a little, and makes me resolve to break through a new temptation, before it has taken too fast hold

on me.

I am, etc.