202 LETTERS TO AND FROM THE HON. JAMES CRAGGS. self, since his hand and head, which I could least have spared, remain in their former vigour and condition. I do not see why this misfortune is to be completed by the loss of Dr. Arbuthnot's and your good company, which you will give me leave to expect to-morrow at Battersea; when we will drink Sir Godfrey's health, and make a new appointment against his recovery. I am entirely, Dear Sir, Yours. We are informed by Mr. Spence that the person at whose instance Pope wrote the Rape of the Lock, was old Mr. Caryll of Sussex. This Gentleman, as appears from Pope's own account, had been Secretary to Queen Mary, wife of James II., and was author of the Comedy of Sir Solomon Single, and of several translations in Dryden's Miscellanies. Whether the same person was the correspondent of Pope may perhaps be doubted; as the first letter of the ensuing series is addressed to Mr. Caryll, jun. who was probably the author of the letters addressed to Pope in this Collection, and the person alluded to in the following account given by Mr. Bowles: “The widow of this respectable gentleman lived at West Grinstead many years. She had one daughter. The estate descended to a nephew. He sold it, and afterwards went to Boulogne, where he died. The family were rigid Catholics, but of great respectability. The Caryll mentioned here left a sum of money to support a Catholic chapel, which is used for that purpose at present, though there are none of the family, which was once so rich and extensive, remaining. Gay says, in his Welcome." 66 the Carylls come by dozens." The park and estate now belong to Walter Burrel, Esq. second son of Sir William Burrel, of Deepden, near Dorking, Surrey.” WHILE you are pursuing the sprightly delights of the field, springing up with activity at the dawning day, rousing a whole country with shouts and horns, and inspiring animals and rationals with like fury and ardour; while your blood boils high in every vein, your heart bounds in your breast, and as vigorous a confluence of spirits rushes to it at the sight of a fox as could be stirred up by that of an army of invaders; while the zeal of the chase devours the whole man, and moves him no less than the love of our country, or the defence of our altars could do; while, I say, (and I think I say it like a modern orator, considering the length of my period, and the little sense that is to follow it,) while you are thus employed, I am just in the reverse of all this spirit and life, confined to a narrow closet, lolling on an arm chair, nodding away my days over a fire, like the picture of January in an old Salisbury Primer. I believe no mortal ever lived in such indolence and inactivity of body, though my 1 This very interesting and characteristic letter is now first published by the obliging permission of Dawson Turner, Esq. from the original in his possession. mind be perpetually rambling (it no more knows whither than poor Adrian's did when he lay a-dying). Like a witch, whose carcase lies motionless on the floor, while she keeps her airy sabbaths, and enjoys a thousand imaginary entertainments abroad, in this world and in others; I seem to sleep in the midst of the hurry, even as you would swear a top stands still, when it is in the whirl of its giddy motion. It is no figure, but a serious truth I tell thee when I say that my days and nights are so much alike, so equally insensible of any moving power but fancy, that I have sometimes spoke of things in our family as truths and real accidents, which I only dreamt of; and again, when some things that actually happened came into my head, have thought (till I inquired) that I had only dreamed of them; this will show you how little I feel in this state either of pleasure or pain; I am fixed in a stupid settled medium between both. But possibly some of my good friends, whom we have lately spoke of in our last letters, may give me a more lively sense of things in a short time, and awaken my intellects to a perfect feeling of myself and them. I therefore have some reason to hope no man that calls himself my friend (except it be such an obstinate, refractory person as yourself), will do me the injury to hinder these well-meaning gentlemen from beating up my understanding. Whipt wits, like whipt creams, afford a most sweet and delectable syllabub to the taste of the town, and often please them better with the dessert than all the meal they had before. So, if Sir Plume should take the pains to dress me2, I might possibly make the last course better than the first. When a stale cold fool is well heated, and hashed This passage confirms the received opinion that Sir George Brown was so highly displeased, on being represented under the character of Sir Plume, as to have threatened personal violence to the author. |