FROM

I MIGHT be dead, or you in Yorkshire, for anything that I am the better for your being in town; I have been sick ever since I saw you last, and now have a swelled face, and very bad; nothing will do me so much good as the sight of dear Lady Mary; when you come this way let me see you, for indeed I love you.

I FIND after all by your letter of yesterday, that Mrs. D is resolved to marry the old greasy curate. She was always High Church in an excessive degree, and you know she used to speak of Sacheverel as an apostolic saint, who was worthy to sit in the same place with St. Paul, if not a step above him. It is a matter, however, very doubtful to me, whether it is not still more the man than the apostle that Mrs. D- looks to in the present alliance. Though at the age of forty, she is, I assure you, very far from being cold and insensible; her fire may be covered with ashes, but it is not extinguished. Don't be deceived, my dear, by that prudish and sanctified air. Warm devotion is [sic] no equivocal mark of warm passions; besides, I know it is a fact, of which I have proofs in hand, which I will tell you by word of mouth, that our learned and holy prude is exceedingly disposed to use the means supposed in the primitive command, let what will come of the end.

The curate, indeed, is very filthy. Such a red,

This note was published by Mr. Dallaway as from Pope; but it bears no signature, and the handwriting has little resemblance to that of Pope. It is addressed “To the Right Honble the Lady Mary Wortley, in Charles-street, Westminster."-T. [See, however, vol. i. p. 321, where it is erroneously assumed that Mr. Thomas had overlooked the letter. It may be noted that all Pope's editors from Warton to Elwin and Courthope give this letter as by Pope.]

2 This letter was first published in the Additional Volume of 1767. Its authenticity is extremely doubtful. It is useless to endeavour to ascertain who were the persons referred to in initials, or to imagine a reason for suppressing their names after fifty years, if the publisher had really possessed the original.—T.

spongy, warty nose! Such a squint! In short, he is ugly beyond expression; and what ought naturally to render him peculiarly displeasing to one of Mrs. D's constitution and propensities, he is stricken in years. Nor do

I really know how they will live. He has but forty-five pounds a year-she but a trifling sum; so that they are likely to feast upon love and ecclesiastical history, which will be very empty food without a proper mixture of beef and pudding. I have, however, engaged our friend, who is the curate's landlord, to give them a good lease; and if Mrs. D, instead of spending whole days in reading Collier, Hickes, and vile translations of Plato and Epictetus, will but form the resolution of taking care of her house and minding the dairy, things may go tolerably. It is not likely that their tender loves will give them many sweet babes to provide for.

I met the lover, yesterday, going to the alehouse in his dirty nightgown, with a book under his arm to entertain the club; and as Mrs. D- was with me at the time, I pointed out to her the charming creature: she blushed and looked prim; but quoted a passage out of Herodotus, in which it is said that the Persians wore long nightgowns. There is really no more accounting for the taste in marriage of many of our sex, than there is for the appetite of your neighbour Miss S-y, who makes such waste of chalk and charcoal when they fall in her way.

As marriage produces children, so children produce care and disputes; and wrangling, as is said (at least by old bachelors and old maids), is one of the sweets of the conjugal state. You tell me that our friend Mrs. is at length blessed with a son; and that her husband, who is a great philosopher (if his own testimony is to be depended upon), insists on her suckling it herself. You ask my advice on this matter; and to give it you frankly, I really think that Mr. -'s demand is unreasonable, as his wife's constitution is tender, and her temper fretful. A true philosopher would consider these circumstances, but a pedant is always throwing his system in your face, and applies it equally to all things, times, and places, just like a tailor who would make a coat out of his own head, without any regard to the bulk or figure of the person that must

wear it. All those fine-spun arguments that he has drawn from Nature to stop your mouth, weigh, I must own to you, but very little with me.-This same Nature is indeed a specious word, nay, there is a great deal in it if it is properly understood and applied, but I cannot bear to hear people using it to justify what common sense must disavow. Is not Nature modified by art in many things? Was it not designed to be so? And is it not happy for human society that it is so? Would you like to see your husband let his beard grow, until he would be obliged to put the end of it in his pocket, because this beard is the gift of Nature? The instincts of Nature point out neither tailors, nor weavers, nor mantua-makers, nor sempsters, nor milliners; and yet I am very glad that we don't run naked like the Hottentots. But not to wander from the subject-I grant that Nature has furnished the mother with milk to nourish her child; but I maintain at the same time, that if she can find better milk elsewhere, she ought to prefer it without hesitation. I don't see why she should have more scruple to do this, than her husband has to leave the clear fountain, which Nature gave him, to quench his thirst, for stout October, port, or claret. Indeed, if Mrs.

was a buxom, sturdy woman, who lived on plain food, took regular exercise, enjoyed proper returns of rest, and was free from violent passions (which you and I know is not the case), she might be a good nurse for her child: but as matters stand, I do verily think that the milk of a good comely cow, who feeds quietly in her meadow, never devours ragouts, nor drinks ratifia, nor frets at quadrille, nor sits up till three in the morning elated with gain or dejected with loss, I do think that the milk of such a cow, or of a nurse that came as near it as possible, would be likely to nourish the young squire much better than hers. If it be true that the child sucks in the mother's passions with her milk, this is a strong argument in favour of the cow, unless you may be afraid that the young squire may become a calf; but how many calves are there both in State and Church, who have been brought up with their mothers' milk!

I promise faithfully to communicate to no mortal the letter you wrote me last. What you say of the two rebel lords, I believe to be true; but I can do nothing in the

matter. If my projects don't fail in the execution, I shall see you before a month passes. Give my service to Dr. Blackbeard. He is a good man, but I never saw in my life such a persecuting face cover a humane and tender heart. I imagine (within myself) that the Smithfield priests, who burned the Protestants in the time of Queen Mary, had just such faces as the doctor's. If we were Papists, I should like him very much for my confessor; his seeming austerity would give you and I a great reputation for sanctity, and his good indulgent heart would be the very thing that would suit us in the affair of penance and ghostly direction.

Farewell, my dear lady, &c. &c.

FROM MR. JAMES CRAGGS.'

Cockpit, July 25, 1720.

MADAM, I will not fail to insert your ladyship's name in my list for the next South Sea subscription, though I am not sure whether the directors will receive another from me. I am, with great respect, madam,

Your ladyship's most obedient humble servant.

FROM SARAH DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.

Windsor Lodge, Sept. 25 [1722].

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YOUR letter (dear Lady Mary) is so extremely kind upon the subject of poor dear Lord Sunderland, that I cannot help thanking you, and assuring you that I shall always return your goodness to me in the best manner I can. It is a cruel misfortune to lose so valuable a young man in all respects, though his successor has all the virtues that I

1 Mr. Craggs, who was secretary of state, was deeply implicated in the South Sea scheme, and died before its detection. His father was censured by Parliament.-D.

2 The stock was at this moment at its highest point, being on the 1st of July and 1st of August at “ 950 with the dividend." On the 1st of September it had fallen to 770: on the first of October to 280.-T.

Her son-in-law, Charles Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, died April 19, 1722; and his only child died two days later from inoculation for the small-pox, the countess being at the time enceinte.-T.

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could wish for, but still it is a heavy affliction to me to have one droop so untimely from the only branch that I can ever hope to receive any comfort from, in my own family. Your concern for my health is very obliging, but as I have gone through so many misfortunes,' some of which were very uncommon, it is plain that nothing will kill [me] but distempers and physicians.

Pray do me the favour to present my humble service to Mr. Wortley, and to your agreeable daughter; and believe me as I am very sincerely,

Dear madam,

Your most faithful and most humble servant.

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS CALTHORPE.2

London, Dec. 7 [1723].

My knight-errantry is at an end, and I believe I shall, henceforth, think freeing of galley-slaves, and knocking down windmills, more laudable undertakings than the defence of any woman's reputation whatever. To say truth, I have never had any great esteem for the generality of the fair sex, and my only consolation for being of that gender has been the assurance it gave me of never being married to any one among them. But I own at present I am so much out of humour with the actions of Lady Holdernesse, that I never was so heartily ashamed of my petticoats before. You know, I suppose, that by this discreet match she renounces the care of her children, and I am laughed at by all my acquaintance for my faith in her honour and understanding. My only refuge is the sincere hope that she is out of her senses; and taking herself for Queen of Sheba, and Mr. Mildmay for King Solomon. I do not think it quite so ridiculous. But the men, you may well imagine, are not so charitable: and they agree in the kind reflection,

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1 The great Duke of Marlborough died June the 10th, 1722. This, and the facts above stated, explain the duchess's allusion to "uncommon misfortunes."-T.

2 Addressed" To the Honourable Mrs. Calthorpe, at Elvetham, near Hartfordbridge, Hampshire." She was one of the daughters of Henry first Viscount Longueville, whose son was created Earl of Sussex.-T. a See notes on the Letters to Lady Mar.-T.