Arriv'd at last, poor, old, disguis'd, alone,

To all his friends, and even his Queen unknown:
Chang'd as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,
Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs,
In his own palace forc'd to ask his bread,
Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed,
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;

The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew!
Unfed, unhous'd, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay ;
Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient Lord again.
Him when he saw,* he rose, and crawl'd to meet,
("Twas all he could,) and fawn'd and kiss'd his feet,
Seiz'd with dumb joy; then falling by his side,

Own'd his returning Lord, look'd up, and died!

Plutarch relating how the Athenians were obliged to abandon Athens in the time of Themistocles, steps back again out of the way of his history, purely to describe the lamentable cries and howlings of the poor dogs they left behind. He makes mention of one that followed his master across the sea to Salamis, where he died, and was honoured with a tomb by the Athenians, who gave the name of the Dog's Grave to that part of the island where he was buried. This respect to a dog in the most polite people in the world, is very observable. A modern instance of gratitude to a dog (though we have few such) is, that the chief order of Denmark (now injuriously called the order of the elephant)

* I know not sweeter lines in our language than these four. Prior says well in Solomon, b. i.

And dying licks his long-lov'd master's feet.

Which my friend Dobson admirably translated:

Et lambit charum linguâ moriente magistrum. Warton.

was instituted in memory of the fidelity of a dog, named Wild-brat, to one of their kings who had been deserted by his subjects; he gave his order this motto, or to this effect, (which still remains,) Wild-brat was faithful.* Sir William Trumbull has told me a story, which he heard from one that was present: King Charles I. being with some of his court during his troubles, a discourse arose what sort of dogs deserved pre-eminence, and it being on all hands agreed to belong either to the spaniel or greyhound, the king gave his opinion on the part of the greyhound, because (said he) it has all the good-nature of the other, without fawning. A good piece of satire upon his courtiers, with which I will conclude my discourse of dogs. Call me a cynic, or what you please, in revenge for all this impertinence, I will be contented; provided you will but believe me, when I say a bold word for a Christian, that, of all dogs, you will find none more faithful than Your, &c.

* The poetical world has seldom seen any thing more pleasing and elegant on this subject, than Wm. Spencer's Ballad of Beth Gellert, or the Grave of the Greyhound.

Bowles.

+ Sir Philip Warwick tells us this story in his Memoirs.

Warburton.

LETTER XI.

TO MR. CROMWELL.

April 10, 1710.

I HAD written to you sooner, but that I made some scruple of sending profane things to you in Holy Week. Besides, our family would have been scandalized to see me write, who take it for granted I write nothing but ungodly verses. I assure you I am looked upon in the neighbourhood for a very well-disposed person, no great hunter indeed, but a great admirer of the noble sport, and only unhappy in my want of constitution for that, and drinking. They all say it is a pity I am so sickly, and I think it is pity they are so healthy. But I say nothing that may destroy their good opinion of me: I have not quoted one Latin author since I came down, but have learned without book a song of Mr. Thomas Durfey's, who is your only poet of tolerable reputation in this country. He makes all the merriment in our entertainments, and but for him, there would be so miserable a dearth of catches, that, I fear, they would put either the parson or me upon making some for them. Any man, of any quality, is heartily welcome to the best toping table of our gentry, who can roar out some rhapsodies of his works; so that in the same manner as it was said of Homer to his detractors, What! dares any man speak against him who has given so many men to

eat? (meaning the Rhapsodists who lived by repeating his verses;) thus may it be said of Mr. Durfey to his detractors: Dares any one despise him who has made so many men drink? Alas, Sir! this is a glory which neither you nor I must ever pretend to. Neither you with your Ovid, nor I with my Statius, can amuse a board of justices and extraordinary 'squires, or gain one hum of approbation, or laugh of admiration. These things (they would say) are too studious; they may do well enough with such as love reading, but give us your ancient poet Mr. Durfey!* It is mortifying enough, it must be confessed; but, however, let us proceed in the way that Nature has directed -Multi multa scient, sed nemo omnia, as is said in the almanack. Let us communicate our works for our mutual comfort: send me elegies, and you shall not want heroics. At present, I have only these arguments in prose to the Thebaid, which you claim by promise, as I do your translation of Pars me Sulmo tenet,—and the Ring; the rest I hope for as soon as you can conveniently transcribe them, and whatsoever orders you are pleased to give me shall be punctually obeyed by Your, &c.

us

* He was every summer invited to a fishing-party at Mr. Jones's of Ramsbury, a man of considerable property in Wiltshire. Harte told me his friend Fenton alluded to this visit in his elegant Epistle to Lambard:

By long experience, Durfey may, no doubt,
Ensnare a gudgeon, or sometimes a trout;
Yet Dryden once exclaim'd, in partial spite,
He fish because the man attempts to write.

Warton.

LETTER XII.

TO MR. CROMWELL.

May 10, 1710.

I HAD not so long omitted to express my acknowledgements to you for so much good-nature and friendship as you lately shewed me; but that I am but just returned to my own hermitage, from Mr. C's, who has done me so many favours, that I am almost inclined to think my friends infect one another, and that your conversation with him has made him as obliging to me as yourself. I can assure you, he has a sincere respect for you, and this, I believe, he has partly contracted from me, who am too full of you not to overflow upon those I converse with. But I must now be contented to converse only with the dead of this world; that is to say, the dull and obscure, every way obscure, in their intellects as well as their persons: or else have recourse to the living dead, the old authors with whom you are so well acquainted, even from Virgil down to Aulus Gellius, whom I do not think a critic by any means to be compared to Mr. Dennis: and I must declare positively to you, that I will persist in this opinion, till you become a little more civil to Atticus. Who could have imagined, that he, who had escaped all the misfortunes of his time, unhurt even by the

* Probably Mr. Caryl, with whom he was at this time intimate, and at whose instance he wrote the Rape of the Lock.