that would not do in our case, while you are so far separated from me, and so long. I begin to fear you will die in Ireland, and that denunciation will be fulfilled upon you, Hibernus es, et in Hiberniam reverteris. I should be apt to think you in Sancho's case; some duke has made you governor of an island, or wet place, and you are administering laws to the wild Irish. But I must own, when you talk of building and planting, you touch my string; and I am as apt to pardon you, as the fellow that thought himself Jupiter would have pardoned the other madmen who called himself his brother Neptune. Alas, Sir, do you know whom you talk to? one that has been a poet, was degraded to a translator, and, at last, through mere dulness, is turned an architect. You know Martial's censure, Præconem facito vel Architectum. However, I have one way left, to plan, to elevate, and to surprize (as Bays says); the next news you may expect to hear, is that I am in debt.

The history of my transplantation and settlement which you desire, would require a volume, were I to enumerate the many projects, difficulties, vicissitudes, and various fates attending that important part of my life: much more, should I describe the many draughts,* elevations, profiles, perspectives, &c., of every palace and garden proposed, intended, and happily raised, by the strength of that faculty wherein all great geniuses excel, imagination. At

* These in his own drawing, at the back of various notes and letters, are in the British Museum.

Bowles.

last, the Gods and fate have fixed me on the borders of the Thames, in the districts of Richmond and Twickenham: it is here I have passed an entire year of my life, without any fixed abode in London, or more than casting a transitory glance (for a day or two at most in a month) on the pomps of the town. It is here I hope to receive you, Sir, returned from eternizing the Ireland of this age. For you my structures rise; for you my colonnades extend their wings; for you my groves aspire, and roses bloom. And, to say truth, I hope posterity (which, no doubt, will be made acquainted with all these things) will look upon it as one of the principal motives of my architecture, that it was a mansion prepared to receive you, against your own should fall to dust, which is destined to be the tomb of poor Frank and Betty, and the immortal monument of the fidelity of two such servants, who have excelled in constancy the very rats of your family.

What more can I tell you of myself? So much, and yet all put together so little, that I scarce care or know how to do it. But the very reasons that upon paper, are as strong

are against putting it

for telling it you in person; and I am uneasy to be so long denied the satisfaction of it.

At present I consider you bound in by the Irish sea, like the ghosts in Virgil,

Tristi palus inamabilis undâ

Alligat, et novies Styx circumfusa coërcet!

and I cannot express how I long to renew our old

intercourse and conversation, our morning conferences in bed in the same room, our evening walks in the park, our amusing voyages on the water, our philosophical suppers, our lectures, our dissertations, our gravities, our reveries, our fooleries, or what not ?-This awakens the memory of some of those who have made a part in all these. Poor Parnelle, Garth, Rowe! You justly reprove me for not speaking of the death of the last: Parnelle was too much in my mind, to whose memory I am erecting the best monument I can. What he gave me to publish, was but a small part of what he left behind him; but it was the best, and I will not make it worse by enlarging it. I would fain know if he be buried at Chester or Dublin; and what care has been, or is to be taken for his monument, &c. Yet I have not neglected my devoirs to Mr. Rowe; I am writing this very day his epitaph for Westminster-Abbey. After these, the best-natured of men, Sir Samuel Garth, has left me in the truest concern for his loss. His death was very heroical, and yet unaffected enough to have made a saint or a philosopher famous. But ill tongues, and worse hearts, have branded even his last moments, as wrongfully as they did his life, with irreligion. You must have heard many tales on this subject; but if ever there was a good Christian without knowing himself to be so, it was Dr. Garth.* Your, &c.

* Dr. Garth died Jan. 1718, and was buried on the 22d of the same month, in the church of Harrow-on-the Hill. Bowles.

LETTER XVII.

FROM SIR GODFREY KNELLER* TO MR. POPE.

DEAR FRIEND,

I HOPE your genus dos and will know myn is with the most acceptable and most accomplished

* Sir Godfrey is well known to have been a man of superlative vanity, which he displayed on all occasions. No flattery was too gross for him, and when it was not voluntarily given he did not scruple to solicit it. When Pope was sitting by him one day whilst he was painting he suddenly stopped, and said: "I can't do so well as I should do, unless you flatter me a little; pray flatter me, Mr. Pope; you know I love to be flattered." On another occasion, Pope, being willing to try how far his vanity would carry him, after considering a picture which he had just finished, very attentively, said to him, in French: "On lit dans les écritures saintes, que le bon Dieu faisoit l'homme après, son image; mais, je crois, que s'il voudroit faire un autre à présent, qu'il le feroit après l'image que voilà." Sir Godfrey turned round and said very gravely: "Vous avez raison, Mons. Pope: par Dieu, je le crois aussi."

66

By G- I love you, Mr. Cock, (said Sir Godfrey, to Cock the auctioneer) and I will do you good; but you must do something for me too, Mr. Cock; one hand can wash the face, but two hands wash one another."

Secretary Craggs brought Dick Estcourt once to Sir Godfrey Kneller's, where he mimicked several persons whom he knew—as Lords Godolphin, Somers, Halifax, &c. Sir Godfrey was highly delighted, took the joke, and laughed heartily. They then gave him the wink, and he mimicked Sir Godfrey himself; who cried :"Nay, now you are out, man; by G- that is not me."

Mr. Spence has recorded the following anecdote in the words of Pope: "I paid Sir Godfrey a visit but two days before he died; and I think I never saw a scene of so much vanity in my life. He was lying in his bed, and contemplating the plan he had made for his own monument. He said many gross things in relation to himself, and the memory he should leave behind him.

He

company to-morrow; for my body is in no condition to stirr out of my bed as jet, and has had no rest these two nights but what it snatches and gets in the daytimes by fits; and I believe my left lag* will be out of order a good wyle. Pray give my hearty good will to the compa. for the deeds, and my most humble servis, being ever yours.

LETTER XVIII.

FROM SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

· DEAR FRIEND,

I FIND them pictures are so very fresh, being painted in three collers, and ought to be near a fier several days; for as they are, it is impracticable to put them where you intend. It would be pitty they should take dust. Jenny stays here eight or ten days, and will not fail of sending them when reddy; and I am, giving my hearty and humble servis to your dear mother, dear Mr. Pope, Your, &c.

He said he should not like to lie among the rascals at Westminster; a memorial there would be sufficient; and desired me to write an epitaph for it. I did so afterwards; and I think it is the worst thing I ever wrote in my life." Spence's Anec. 165, Singer's Edition.

* Who can help smiling at honest Sir Godfrey's account of his left "lag." Walpole thinks such letters need not be published. Certainly not, as fine letters; but they are entertaining and characteristic. It should be remembered, that Sir Godfrey, being a foreigner, was not of course acquainted with the English language. Bowles.