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LETTERS

TO AND FROM

Mr. STEELE, Mr. ADDISON, Mr. CONGREVE, etc.

From 1712 to 1715.

I

LETTER I.

Mr. STEELE to Mr. POPE.

June 1, 1712.

AM at a folitude, an houfe between Hampftead and London, wherein Sir Charles Sedley died. This circumftance fet me a thinking and ruminating upon the employments in which men of wit exercise themselves. It was faid of Sir Charles, who breath'd his last in this room,

Sedley has that prevailing gentle art,
Which can with a refiftless charm impart
The loofeft wishes to the chafteft heart;
Raife fuch a conflict, kindle fuch a fire
Between declining Virtue and Defire,
Till the poor vanquish'd Maid diffolves away
In dreams all night, in fighs and tears all day.

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This was a happy talent to a man of the town, but, I dare fay, without prefuming to make uncharitable

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conjectures on the author's prefent condition, he would rather have had it faid of him that he had pray'd,

Oh thou my voice infpire,

Who touch'd Ifaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!

I have turn'd to every verfe and chapter, and think you have preferv'd the fublime heavenly spirit throughout the whole, efpecially at Hark a glad voice and The lamb with wolves fhall graze

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There is but one line which I think below the original,

He wipes the tears for ever from our eyes.

You have exprefs'd it with a good and pious, but not fo exalted and poetical a spirit as the prophet, The Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces. If you agree with me in this, alter it by way of paraphrafe or otherwise, that when it comes into a volume it may be amended. Your poem is already better than the Pollio. I am

YOU

LETTER II.

The Answer.

Your, &c.

June 18, 1712.

I have oblig'd me with a very kind letter, by which I find you fhift the fcene of your life from the town to the country, and enjoy that mix'd state which wife men both delight in, and are qualified for. Methinks the moralifts and philofophers have generally run too much into extremes in commending entirely either folitude, or public life. In the former, men for the moft part grow useless by too much reft, and in the latter are de

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stroy'd

ftroy'd by too much precipitation; as waters lying fill, putrify, and are good for nothing, and running violently on do but the more mischief in their paffage to others, and are fwallow'd up and loft the fooner themselves. Those indeed who can be useful to all states, fhould be like gentle streams, that not only glide thro' lonely valleys and forests amidst the flocks and the fhepherds, but vifit populous towns in their course, and are at once of ornament and fervice to them. But there are another fort of people who seem design'd for folitude, fuch, I mean, as have more to hide than to fhow. As for my own part, I am one of thofe of whom Seneca fays, Tam umbratiles funt, ut putent in turbido effe quicquid in luce eft. Some men, like some pictures, are fitter for a corner than a full light; and, I believe, fuch as have a natural bent to folitude (to carry on the former fimilitude) are like waters, which may be forced into fountains, and exalted into a great height, may make a noble figure and a louder noife, but after all they would run more fmoothly, quietly, and plentifully, in their own natural courfe upon the ground*. The confideration of this would make me very well contented with the poffeffion only of that Quiet which Cowley calls the companion of Obscurity. But whoever h's the Mufes too for his companions, can never be idle enough, to be uneasy. Thus, Sir, you fee, I would flatter myfelf into a good opinion of my own way of living. Plutarch juft now told me, that 'tis in human life as in a game at tables, where a man may wish for the highest caft, but, if his chance be otherwife, he is e'en to play it as well as he can, and to make the best of it. I am, Your, &c.

*The foregoing Similitudes our Author had put into verfe fome years before, and inferted into Mr. Wycherley's poem on Mix'd Life. We find them in the verfification very diftinct from the rest of that poem. See his pofthumous works, octavo, Page 3 and 4. P.

LET

You

LETTER III.

To Mr. STEELE.

July 15, 1712.

U formerly obferv'd to me, that nothing made a more ridiculous figure in a man's life, than the disparity we often find in him fick and well: thus one of an unfortunate conftitution is perpetually exhibiting a miserable example of the weakness of his mind, and of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent opportunities of late to confider myself in these different views, and, I hope, have receiv'd fome advantage by it, if what Waller fays be true,

that

The foul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light thro' chinks that time has made.

Then furely fickness, contributing no less than old age to the shaking down this fcaffolding of the body, may discover the inward ftructure more plainly. Sickness is a fort of early old age: it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly ftate, and infpires us with the thoughts of a future, better than a thousand volumes of philofophers and divines. It gives fo warning a concuffion to thofe props of our wanity, our ftrength and youth, that we think of fortifying ourselves within, when there is fo little dependance upon our out-works. Youth at the very beft is but a betrayer of human life in a gentler and fmoother manner than age: 'tis like a stream that nourishes a plant upon a bank, and caufes it to flourifh and bloffom to the fight, but at the fame time is undermining it at the root in fecret. My youth has dealt more fairly and openly with me, it has afforded several profpects of my danger, and given me an advantage not very common to young men, that

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the

the attractions of the world have not dazzled me very much; and I'begin, where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all forts of ambition, and the unfatisfactory nature of all human pleasures. When a fmart fit of fickness tells me this fcurvy tenement of my body will fall in a little time, I am e'en as unconcern'd as was that honeft Hibernian, who being in bed in the great ftorm fome years ago, and told the houfe would tumble over his head, made anfwer, What care I for the houfe? 1 am only a lodger. I fancy 'tis the beft time to die when one is in the best humour; and fo exceffively weak as I how am, I may fay with confcience, that I am not at all uneafy at the thought, that many men, whom I never had any eftcem for, are likely to enjoy this world after me.

When I

reflect what an inconfiderable little atom every fingle
man is, with respect to the whole creation, methinks,
'tis a fhame to be concern'd at the removal of fuch

a trivial animal as I am. The morning after my
exit, the fun will rife as bright as ever, the flowers
fmell as fweet, the plants fpring as green, the world
will proceed in its old courfe, people will laugh as
heartily, and marry as faft, as they were us'd to do.
The memory of man, (as it is elegantly exprefs'd
in the Book of Wifdom) paffeth away as the remem-
brance of a gueft that tarrieth but one day.
day. There
are reasons enough, in the fourth chapter of the fame
book, to make any young man contented with the
profpect of death. "For honourable age is not

that which ftandeth in length of time, or is mea"fur'd by number of years. But wisdom is the "grey hair to men, and an unfpotted life is old age. "He was taken away fpeedily, left wickedness "fhould alter his understanding, or deceit beguile "his foul," &c. I am

Your, &c.

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