to correct all my mistakes, advise in the most delicate difficulties, laugh at unreal fears, and chide for indulging improper expectations, which give more uneasiness by peevishness and unnecessary anxiety, than the ills we apprehend could do when they happen. I do not allude to any concerns of my own, in what I have mentioned. Though I am not so vainly self-denying, as to pretend that I am indifferent whether I am restored to my friends, and settled agreeably in my own country; yet I am resolved not to make my absence doubly disagreeable by repining and fretfulness. I will do all in my power to soften it, by deserving the kindness and regard of my new countrymen, and behave in a manner that shall make those, who contribute to my return, not ashamed of their zeal for me; or my friends here unwilling to receive me, if I shall be ever thought to deserve the favour of being recalled from my splendid banishment*. I have done all in my power, and I will not be unhappy, if others have it not in theirs to gratify my wishes. I know the thousand accidents and rivalries that may prevent their endeavours for me; and having already obtained so much more of good fortune than I deserve, I will be easy if all is not granted to me I may desire; for I have learnt the wise lesson of being contented; and think there is no virtue and praise in doing so, in my affluence of every blessing of this world, excepting one, and

* Dean Swift always used this language in his correspondence with his English friends, probably with the same view, that of paying an oblique compliment to those of whose conversa, tion he was necessarily deprived, rather than a reflection on the country which certainly deserved well of him.

that indeed is the chief of all, living in the company of those, that esteem and gratitude and affection make me prefer beyond all things; whose value for me is my honour, my merit, and my boasting: and which would be, alone, the highest reward. All here are in high health: we were, about a month since, not a little alarmed for the chancellor, his cold was frightful, and Billy* quite outrageous in his apprehensions. You know the generous worthy impatience of his excellent heart, when those he loves are concerned. He was at once for his giving up the seals, and getting rid of the burthen of business, which he feared endangered the life of the best parent, as well as the best man, that ever lived. But fresh air, and three weeks' exercise, have entirely recovered him, and he is now in as good spirits and cheerfulness of health, as I have ever remembered him.

Is it not quite disloyal in the winds and the waves to detain the monarch of the seas from his longing people, and make him do penance and keep Lent, whilst others are revelling in a carnival? But the perverseness continues, and we can now no more guess when he will be safe at St. James's, than he could thirty days ago. His late danger was as great as any man ever was in, that escaped.-The calm courage of sir C. Wager preserved him. This adventure will teach any mortal humility, and make all sensible, that patience is a most heroic virtue, and ordained to be of service to a prince, as well as a ploughman. The late attempt to return, which hath lost one man of war, and shattered many

William, earl Talbot.

others, will most certainly fill every heart with the intrepidity of being calm and undisturbed in waiting until the west winds cease, and the sea is complaisant to there wishes. I hope the storms on the waters are not ominous of any at land; for there is a sad spirit kindled in the nation. Never were people so uneasy, though they have not one illegal thing to complain of. But I hope, notwithstanding, there will be a calm and serene season during the sessions of parliament.

My friend Thomson, the poet, is bringing another untoward heroine on the stage, and has deferred writing on the subject you chose for him, though he had the whole scheme drawn out into acts and scenes, proper turns of passion and sentiments pointed out to him, and the distress made as touching and important, as new, and interesting, and regular, as any that was ever introduced on the stage at Athens, for the instruction of that polite nation. But, perhaps the delicacy of the subject, and the judgment required in saying bold truths, whose boldness should not make them degenerate into offensiveness, deterred him. His present story is the death of Agamemnon*. An adulteress, who murders her husband, is but an odd example to be presented before, and admonish, the beauties of Great Britain. However, if he will be advised, it shall not be a shocking, though it cannot be a noble story. He will enrich it with a profusion of worthy sentiments and high poetry, but it will be written in a rough, harsh style, and in numbers great, but careless. He wants that neatness and simplicity of diction, which is so na

* A tragedy by Thomson, acted at Drury-lane, 1738,

tural in dialogue. He cannot throw the light of an elegant ease on his thoughts, which will make the sublimest turns of art appear the genuine unpremeditated dictates of the heart of the speaker. But with all his faults, he will have a thousand masterly strokes of a great genius seen in all he writes. And he will be applauded by those who most censure him.

My design is this: After Easter, I will get on horseback, and ramble to Bath, and spend a few days with the unhappy. Thence come to you, and stay with you until Jack* shall fetch me to Barrington. This is my wise intention; but whether I shall have courage to attempt so heroical an enterprise, or throw myself into a chariot, time alone can determine. I see what is right; but, like other weak mortals, fear I shall not be able to accomplish my discreet resolutions.

My humble service to your neighbours. When I began my letter, I imagined I had nothing to say fit to be intrusted to so frail a protection, as a little sealing-wax; but I find when one is in company with a person we value, the difficulty is not to find what to say, but when to give over: and though my pen hath no prudence and moderation, my paper obliges me to be no longer troublesome, but subscribe myself, your, &c.

*The honourable John Talbot, third son of the chancellor, afterwards a Welch judge. He died Sept. 23, 1756.

LETTER XVIII.

DR. THOMAS RUNDLE TO MRS. SANDYS.

OH, MADAM!

Feb. 15, 1736-37.

THE chancellor, the best man that ever breathed, the best judge, the best father, the best friend, is dead *!—What, in his providence, doth the Almighty design to do in merited severity to punish this nation, by removing from it the person, whose wisdom and goodness united was able and desirous to save it, to make it honest and happy! I dread to consider and foresee! What hath the public lost! What hath his dear deserving family! What have I! What have I not lost! I have lost him, whose friendship to me was the only merit to which I pretended, and my highest and truest reward. He died yesterday morning. His illness was an inflammation on his lungs. He continued only from Thursday till Monday, five in the morning. The physicians say, to comfort us, and excuse themselves, or rather their ignorance, that he was worn out in the service of his country, and could not have lasted any time, had not this cold carried him off. He was but fiftyone; he might have blest, and done good to his country, thirty years longer. But God Almighty

* Charles Talbot, lord-high-chancellor of England, died Feb14, 1736-37, universally lamented. He was allowed by all parties to have possessed the eloquence of Cicero, and the integrity of Cato. Thomson published a poem to his memory, replete with gratitude; and a very elegant delineation of his pa tron's character.