you have fine trees grown, that might be made a natural tapestry to the walls, and arch you over-head, where time has uncovered them to the sky. Little paths of earth or sand might be made up the halftumbled walls, to guide from one view to another on the higher parts; and seats placed here and there to enjoy those views, which are more romantic than imagination can form them. I could very much wish this were done, as well as a little temple built on a neighbouring round hill, that is seen from all points of the garden, and is extremely pretty. It would finish some walks and particularly be a fine termination to the river, and be seen from the entrance into that deep scene I have described by the cascade, where it would appear as in the clouds, between the tops of some very lofty trees that form an arch before it, with a great slope downward to the end of the said

river.

What should induce my Lord Digby the rather to cultivate these ruins, and do honour to them, is, that they do no small honour to his family; that castle, which was very ancient, being demolished in the civil wars, after it was nobly defended by one of his ancestors in the cause of the King. I would set up at the entrance of them an obelisk, with an inscription of the fact; which would be a monument erected to the very ruins; as the adorning and beautifying them in the manner I have been imagining, would not be unlike the Egyptian finery, of bestowing ornaments and curiosity on dead bodies. The present master of this place (and I verily believe I can engage the same for the next successors) needs not to fear the record, or shun the remembrance of the actions of his fore

e This is an allusion to the Sherborne Curse, which may be seen in Peck's Desiderata, vol. ii. b. xiv No. 6. p. 5. Osmond, who from a Norman knight became a bishop, gave Sherborne Castle, with other lands, to the church of Salisbury, and laid a curse on all who should alienate or diminish his donation.

fathers. He will not disgrace them, as most modern progeny do, by an unworthy degeneracy of principle or of practice. When I have been describing his agreeable seat, I cannot make the reflection I have often done upon contemplating the beautiful villas of other noblemen, raised upon the spoils of plundered nations, or aggrandized by the wealth of the public. I cannot ask myself the question, "What else has this man to be liked? What else has he cultivated or improved? What good, or what desirable thing appears of him, without these walls?" I dare say his goodness and benevolence extend as far as his territories; that his peasants live almost as happy and contented as himself; and that not one of his children wishes to see this seat his own.

I have not looked much about since I was here. All I can tell you of my own knowledge is, that, going to see the cathedralf in the town hard by, I took notice, as the finest things, of a noble monument, and a beautiful altar-piece of architecture; but if I had not inquired in particular, he nor his had never told me, that both the one and the other was erected by himself. The next pretty thing that catched my eye, was a neat chapel for the use of the towns-people (who are too numerous for the cathedral). My Lord modestly told me, he was glad I liked it, because it was of his own architecture.

I hope this long letter will be some entertainment to you. I was pleased not a little in writing it; but don't let any lady from hence imagine that my head is so full of any gardens as to forget hers. The greatest proof I could give her to the contrary is, that I have spent many hours here in studying for hers, and in drawing new plans for her. I shall soon come home, and have nothing to say when we meet, having here told you all that has pleased me: but Wilton

* Sherborne was formerly the see of a bishop.

is in my way, and I depend upon that for new matter. Believe me ever yours, with a sincerity, as old-fashioned, and as different from modern sincerity, as this house, this family, and these ruins, are from the court, and all its neighbourhood. Dear Madam, adieu.

MADAM,

LETTER VII.

TO MRS. TERESA BLOUNT.

August 7, 1716.

I HAVE so much esteem for you, and so much of

the other thing, that, were I a handsome fellow, I should do you a vast deal of good: but as it is, all I am good for, is to write a civil letter, or to make a fine speech. The truth is, that considering how often and how openly I have declared love to you, I am astonished (and a little affronted) that you have not forbid my correspondence, and directly said, See my face no more. It is not enough, Madam, for your reputation, that you have your hands from the stain of such ink as might be shed to gratify a male correspondent: alas! while your heart consents to encourage him in this lewd liberty of writing, you are not (indeed you are not) what you would so fain have me think you,· -a prude! I am vain enough to conclude (like most young fellows), that a fine lady's silence is consent, and so I write on.

pure

But, in order to be as innocent as possible in this epistle, I'll tell you news. You have asked me news a thousand times, at the first word you spoke to me; which some would interpret as if you expected nothing better from my lips and truly 'tis not a sign two lovers are together, when they can be so impertinent as to inquire what the world does. All I mean by this is, that either you or I cannot be in love with the

:

other: I leave you to guess which of the two is that stupid and insensible creature, so blind to the other's excellencies and charms.

But to my news. My Lord Burlington's and my journey to the North is put off till September. Mr. Gay has had a fall from his horse, and broken his fine snuff-box. Your humble servant has lost his blue

cloak.

Mr. Edmund Curll has been exercised in a blanket, and whipped at Westminster school by the boys, whereof the common prints have given some account. If you have seen a late advertisement you will know that I have not told a lie (which we both abominate), but, equivocated pretty genteelly: you may be confident it was not done without leave from my spiritual director. My next news is a trifle. I will wait upon you at Whiteknight's in a fortnight or three weeks, unless you send me word to the contrary; which I beg you to do if I shall not find you ther. Would to God you could go to Grinsted or the Bath, I would attend you to either.

As I always am impertinent in my questions concerning you, to every body that has seen or heard from you, so I have lately received much gladness, in the belief that you might do so, from the late entertainments of the Lord Cadogan in your neighbourhood. I heartily wish many times you led the same course of life which I here partly enjoy and partly regret; for I am not a day without what they call elegant company. I have not dined but at great entertainments these ten days, in pleasant villas about the Thames, whose banks are now more populous than London, through the neighbourhood of Hamp

ton-Court

[A part of this letter torn off.]

Upon the whole, I am melancholy, which, to say truth, it (all one) gets by pleasures themselves. Yet as I believe melancholy (hurts) me as little as any

one, so I sincerely wish much (rather to) be so myself, than that those I value should partake (of it). In particular, your ease and happiness would be a great part (of my) study, were I your guardian angel: as I am, a poor * * * *, it is one of my most earnest wishes Believe me, dear Madam,

Your most faithful humble servant, etc.

Pray tell Miss Patty, that, though she will not write to me, I hear she writes for me, which I ought to take as kindly: this I was informed of by Mr. Caryll.

LETTER VIII.

Tuesday the I HOPE this will find you both settled in peace and joy at Bath; that your court is numerous enough to keep a court and town lady in spirits, and yet not so importunate as to deprive you of rest. Your health, nevertheless, is my chief concern; which to ladies or gentlewomen, young, or advancing into wisdom (but never above pleasures), is a most comfortable and necessary thing, with or without admirers, even from Lady Wy to her great granddaughter born last week.

I saw Dr. Arbuthnot, who was very cheerful. I passed a whole day with him at Hampstead; he is at the Long Room half the morning, and has parties at cards every night. Mrs. Lepell, and Mrs. Saggioni the singer, and his son and his two daughters, are all with him. He told me he had given the best directions he could to yourself, and to Lady Suffolk separately; that she ought to bleed, and you not; that it is his opinion the waters will not be of service to you, and that there can be no ill consequence if they should heat you; it could only bring out the rash at worst,