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Gay is your's and theirs. His Spirit is awakened very much in the Cause of the Dean, which has broke forth in a courageous Couplet or two upon Sir Rich, ard Bl- he has printed it with his name to it, and bravely assigns no other Reafon, than that the faid Sir Richard has abufed Dr Swift. I have also fuffered in the like Cause, and fhall fuffer more ; unlefs Parnelle fends me his Zoilus and Bookworm (which the Bishop of Clogher, I hear, greatly extols) it will be shortly, Concurrere Bellum atque Virum. - I love you all as much as I despise moft Wits in this dull Country. Ireland has turned the Tables tpon England; and if I have no Poetical Friend in my own Nation, I'll be as proud as Scipio, and say, (since I am reduced to Skin and Bone) Ingrata patria, ne offa quidem habeas.
To the same.
Nov. 20. 1716. THAT you have not heard from me of late, to
your pondents but to a ramble to Oxford, where your Name is mentioned with Honour, even in a Land flowing with Tories. I had the good Fortune there to be often in the Converfation of Dr Clarke: He entertained me with several Drawings, and particularly with the Original Designs of Inigo Jones's Whitehall. I there faw and reverenced some of your first Pieces; which future Painters are to look upon as we Poets, do on the Culex of Virgil, and Batrachom of Homer.
Having named this latter Piece, give me leave to ask what is become of Dr Parnelle and his Frogs ? Oblitufque meorum, obliviscendus & illis, might be
Horace's wish, but will never be mine, while I have fuch meorums as Dr Parnelle and Dr Swift. I hope the Spring will restore you to us, and with you all the Beauties and Colours of Nature. Not but I congratulate you on the Pleasure you must take in being admired in your own Country, which fo seldom happens to Prophets and Poets. But in this you have the Advantage of Poets; you are Master of an Art that must profper and grow rich, as long as People love, or are proud of themselves, or their own Perfons. However, you have stay'd long enough, methinks, to have painted all the numberless Histories of old Ogygia. If you have begun to be Historical, I recommend to your hand the story which every pious Irishman ought to begin with, that of St Patrick: To the end you may be obliged (as Dr P. was, when he translated the Batrachomuomacbia.) to come into England to copy the Frogs, and such other Vermine as were never seen in that land sinee the Time of that Confeffor.
I long to see you a History Painter. You have already done enough for the Private, do something for the Public; and be not confined, like the rest, to draw only such filly Stories as our own Faces tell of us. The Ancients too expect you should do them right; those Statues from which you learned your beautiful and noble Ideas, demand it as a piece of Gratitude from you, to make them truly known to all Nations, in the Account you intend to write of their Characters. I hope you think more warmly than ever of that noble design.
As to your enquiry about your House, when I come within the Walls, they put me in mind of those of Carthage where your Friend, like the wandring Trojan,
Animum Pietura pascit inani.
For the spacious Mansion, like a Turkish Caravanserah, entertains the Vagabond with only bare Lodging, I rule the Family very ill, keep bad Hours, and lend out your Pictures about the Town. See what it is to have a Poet in your Houfel Frank indeed does all he can in such a Circumstance, for considering he has a wild Beast in it, he constantly keeps the Door chain'd. Every time it is open'd, the Links rattle, the rusty Hinges roar, the House seeins fo sensible that you are it's support, that it is ready to drop in your Absence ; but I still trust my self under it's Roof, as depending that Providence will preserve so many Raphaels, Titians, and Guido's, as are lodg’d in your Cabinet. Surely the Sins of one Poet can hardly be so heavy, as to bring an old House over the Heads of so many Painters. In a word, your House is falling, but what of that? I am only a Lodger.
Mr Secretary CRAGGs to Mr Pope.
Paris, Sept. 2. 1716. LAST Poft brought me the favour
of your Letter of the roth Aug. O.S. It would be taking too much upon me to decide, that 'twas a witty one; I never pretended to more judgment than to know what pleases me, and can assure you, it was a very agreeable one. The proof I can give you of my sincerity in this Opinion, is, that. I hope and desire you would not stop at this, but continue more of them,
I am in a place where Pleasure is continually flowing. The Princes set the Example, and the Subjects follow at a distance. The Ladies are of all parties, by which means the, Conversation of the Men is very much foftened and fashioned from those blunt disputes on Politics, and rough fefts, we are so guilty of, while the Freedom of the Women takes away all Formality and Constraint. I muft own, at the same Time, these Beauties are a little too artificial for my Taste; you have feen a French Picture the Original is more painted, and such a crust of Powder and Essence in their Hair; that you can see no difference between black and red. By difusing Stays, and indulging themselves at a Table, they are run out of all Shape; but as to that, they may give a good Reason, they prefer Conveniency to Parade, and are by this means as ready, as they are generally willing to be charitable.
I am surpriz'd to find I have wrote fo much Scandal; I fancy I am either setting up for a Wit, or imagine I must write in this Style to a Wit į I hope you'll prove a good natur’d one, and not only let me hear from you fometimes, but forgive the small Encouragement you meet with. If you'll compleat your Favours, pray give my humble Services to Lords W-ck, Stand -. I have had my hopes and fears they would have abused me before this Time; I am sure it is not my business to meddle with a nest of Bees (I speak only of the Honey). I won't trouble my self to finish finely, a true Compliment is better than a good one, and I can affure you without any, that I am very fincerely,
SIR, Tour, &c.
The Reverend Dean *BERKLEY,
to Mr POPE.
Naples, Oft. 22. N. S. 1717.
Have long had it in my Thoughts to trouble you
with a Letter, but was discouraged for want of something that I could think worth sending fifteen hundred Miles. Italy is such an exhausted Subject, that, I dare say, you'd eafily forgive my saying nothing of it; and the Imagination of a Poet is a thing so nice and delicate, that it is no easy matter to find out Images capable of giving Pleasure to one of the few, who in any Age) have come up to that Character. I am nevertheless lately returned from an Island, where I passed three or four Months, which, were' it set out in it's true Colours, might methinks amuse you agreeably enough for a Minute or two. The Ifland Inarime is an Epitome of the whole Earth, containing within the compass of eighteen Miles, a wonderful variety of Hills, Vales, ragged Rocks, fruitful Plains, and barren Mountains, all thrown together in a most romantic Confufion. The Air is in the hottest Season constantly refreshed by cool breezes from the Sea. The Vales produce excellent Wheat and Indian Corn, but are mostly covered with Vineyards, intermixt with Fruit-trees. Besides the common kinds, as Cherries, Apricots, Peaches, &c. they produce Oranges, Limes, Almonds, Pomegranates, Figs, Water Melons, and many other Fruits unknown to our Climates, which lie every where open to the Passenger. The Hills are the greater part covered to the top with Vines, fome
* Afterwards Bishop of Cloyne in Ireland, a celebrated Metaphysician, Author of the Dialogues of Hylas and Pbilonneses, the Minute Pbilosopbar', &c.