men of power and quality: but a series of infirmities (for my whole life has been but one long disease) has hindered me from following your advices. I this day have writ to Lord Peterborough a letter with your poem. The familiarity in which we have lived some years, makes it not unusual, in either him or me, to tell each other any thing that pleases us otherwise you might think it arrogant in me to pretend to put so good a thing into his hands, in which I have no merit. Your mention of our friend Mr. Mallet I thank you for, and should be glad he would give me an opportunity of thanking you in person, who am, with sincerity, Sir, Your, &c.

DEAR SIR,

LETTER XI.

TO MR. HILL.

Twickenham, April 4, 1731.

you

It is a serious pleasure to me to find concerned that I should do your good sense and discernment the justice it deserves. It is impossible for me not to think just what you would have me on this head; the whole spirit and meaning of your poem shews all little thoughts to be strangers to your soul. I happen to know many particulars relating to the Earl of Peterborough's conduct, and just glory, in that scene you draw so well but no man ought (I think) to attempt what you aim at, or can pretend to do him more ho

nour than what you yourself here have done, except himself. I have long pressed him to put together many papers lying by him, to that end. On this late occasion he told me you had formerly endeavoured the same, and it comes into my mind, that on many of those papers I have seen an endorsement, A. H. which I fancy might be those you overlooked. My lord spoke of you with great regard, and told me how narrowly you both missed of going together on an adventurous expedition.† The real reason I carried him your poem was, that I imagined you would never send it him, of all mankind; and that I was truly pleased with it.

I am troubled to reflect, how unequal a correspondent I am to you, partly through want of health, (for I have since had a fever,) partly through want of spirits, and want of solitude; for the last thing we poets care to own, is the other want, that of abilities.

But I am sensibly pleased with your letter, not only with that which seemed to prompt it, but with the things said in it: and I thank you for both. Believe me desirous to see you: when, and where, you shall determine; though I wish it were here. You will see a place seeming more fit for me than it is; looking poetical, yet too much in the

* Referring to a passage in Hill's Advice to the Poets, in which Lord Peterborough is alluded to with great applause. Hill also wrote a poem, intitled Camillus, addressed to Lord Peterborough, and celebrating his exploits in Spain.

† On an expedition to the West Indies.

Warton.

world romantic and not retired: however, I can lock up all avenues to it sometimes, and I know no better reason for doing so, or for shutting out the world, than to enjoy such a one as yourself.

I am, Sir, with esteem and sincerity,

LETTER XII.

TO MR. HILL.

Your, &c.

Sept. 1, 1731.

I COULD not persuade myself to write to you since your great loss,* till I hoped you had received some alleviation to it, from the only hand which can give any, that of Time. Not to have mentioned it, however fashionable it may be, I think unnatural, and in some sense inhuman; and I fear the contrary custom is too much an excuse, in reality, for that indifference we too usually have for the concern of another: in truth, that was not my case. I know the reason of one man is of little effect towards the resignation of another; and when I compared the forces of yours and mine, I doubted not which had the advantage, even though

in your own concern. It is hard, that even in these tender afflictions, the greatness of the mind and the goodness are opposite to each other; and that while reason, and the consideration upon what conditions we receive all the goods of this life operate

*The death of Mrs. Hill.

towards our quiet, even the best of our passions (which are the same things with the softest of our virtues) refuse us that comfort. But I will say no more on this melancholy subject. The whole intent of this letter is to tell you how much I wish you capable of consolation, and how much I wish to know when you find yourself so. I would hope you begin to seek it to amuse your mind with those studies, of which Tully says, Adversis perfugium et solatium præbent, and to transcribe (if I may so express it) your own softnesses and generous passions into the hearts of others who more want them. I do not flatter you in saying I think your tragedy will do this effectually (to which I had occasion the other day to do justice to Mr. Wilks), or whatever else you chuse to divert your own passion with, and to raise that of your readers. I wish the change of place, or the views of nature in the country, made a part of your scheme. You once thought of Richmond; I wish you were there or nearer. I have thrice missed of you in town, the only times I have been there my last month was passed at my Lord Cobham's, and in a journey through Oxfordshire. I wish you as susceptible at this time of these pleasures as I am. I have been truly concerned for you, and for your daughter, who I believe is a true part of I will trouble you no farther, but with the assurance that I am not unmindfully, Sir, yours, &c.

you.

LETTER XIII.

DEAR SIR,

I

TO MR. HILL.

September 3, 1731.

HAVE been, and yet am, totally confined by my mother's relapse, if that can be called so, which is rather a constant and regular decay. She is now on her last bed, in all probability, from whence she has not risen in some weeks, yet in no direct pain, but a perpetual languor. I suffer for her, for myself, and for you, in the reflection of what you have felt at the side of a sick bed, which I now feel, and of what I probably soon shall suffer, which you now suffer, in the loss of one's best friend. I have wished (ever since I saw your letter), to ask you, since you find your own house a scene of sordays in mine; which I begin to think I shall soon have the same melancholy reason to shun. In the mean time, I make a sort of amusement of this melancholy situation itself, and try to derive a comfort in imagining I give some to her. I am seldom prompted to poetry in these circumstances; yet I will send you a few lines I sent the other day from her bed-side to a particular friend. Indeed I want spirits and matter, to send you any thing else, or on any other subject. These too are spiritless, and incorrect.

rows, to pass some

While ev'ry joy, successful youth! is thine,

Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.