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out a mighty sensible fellow; so I got him a place with an undertaker, and he is now merry in good earnest. I put some pretty thoughts in his head, before he left me. A cousin of mine sent them me from Lisbon, in certain long-necked bottles, corked and sealed up. My Lord Peterborough has a cellar full of very pretty thoughts. God grant we all keep our bealth! and then, young gentleman, (looking very seriously at me, for I believe he thought my countenance expressed a little surprise) and then we shall turn our thoughts to advantage for ourselves and for others.

Mrs. Pope. If there's any gentleman who could do without his wine, I think it must be my lord. When I was a young woman, I fancied that all great generals were all tall stately persons, with one arm a-kimbo, and a truncheon held out in the other hand; and I thought they all spoke grand, and like a book.

Dr. Swift.-Madam, that was Mr. Pope's poetry, struggling to be born before its time.

Mrs. Pope.-I protest, when I first had the honour of knowing my Lord Peterborough, he almost frightened me with his spirits. I believe he saw it; for all of a sudden he became the finest, softest-spoken gentleman that I ever met with; and I fell in love with him.

Mrs. Blount.-Oh, Madam, I shall tell! and we'll all dance at my lady's wedding.

I do not know which was the handsomer sight; the little blush that came over the good lady's cheek as she ended her speech, or the affectionate pleasantness with which her son regarded her.

Mr. Pope. You did not fall in love with Lord Peterborough because he is such a fine-spoken gentleman, but because he is a fine gentleman and a mad-cap besides. I know the tastes of you ladies of the civil wars.

The Dean.-'Tis a delicious rogue! (and then, as if he had spoken too freely before strangers,) 'tis a great and rare spirit! If all the world resembled Lord Peterborough, they might do without consciences. I know no fault in him, but that he is too fond of fiddlers and singers.

Mr. Pope.-Here is Mr. Honeycomb, who will venture to dispute with you on that point.

I said Mr. Pope paid me too great a compliment. I might venture to differ with Dr. Swift, but hardly to dispute.

Dr. Swift.-Oh, Mr. Honeycomb, you are too modest, and I must pull down your pride. You have heard of little Will Harrison, poor lad, who wrote the Medicine for the Ladies, in "The Tatler." Well, he promised to be one of your great wits, and was very much of a gentleman; and so he took to wearing thin waistcoats, and died of a birthday suit. Now thin waistcoats and soft sounds are both of 'em bad habits, and encourage a young man to keep late hours, and get his death o' cold.

I asked whether he could not admit a little "higher argument" in the musician than the tailor. Shakspeare says of a flute, that it "discoursed excellent music ;” as if it had almost been a rational creature.

Dr. Swift.-A rational fiddlestick! It is not Shakspeare that says it, but Hamlet, who was out of his wits. Yes, I have heard of a flute discourse. Let me see I have heard a whole room full of 'em discourse. (And then he played off an admirable piece of mimicry, which

ought to have been witnessed, to do it justice.) Let me see-let me see. The flute made the following excellent remarks-Tootle, tootle, tootle, tootle,-tootle, tootle, tootle, tee ;-and then again, what I thought a new observation-Tootle, tootle, tootle, with my reedle, tootle, ree. Upon which the violin observed, in a very sprightly manner, Niddle, niddle, niddle, niddle, niddle, niddle, nee, with my nee, with my long nee; which the bass-viol, in his gruff but sensible way, acknowledged to be as witty a thing as he had ever heard. This was followed by a general discourse, in which the violin took the lead, all the rest questioning and reasoning with one another, as hard as they could drive, to the admiration of the beholders, who were never tired of listening. They must have carried away a world of thoughts. For my part, my deafness came upon me. I never so much lamented it. There was a long story told by a hoboy, which was considered so admirable, that the whole band fell into a transport of scratching and tootling. I observed the flute's mouth water, probably at some remarks on green peas, which had just come in season. It might have been guessed, by the gravity of the hearers, that the conversation chiefly ran upon the new king and queen; but I believe it was upon periwigs; for turning to that puppy Rawlinson, and asking him what he concluded from all that, he had the face to tell me, that it gave him "a heavenly satisfaction."

We laughed heartily at this sally against music-Dr. Swift was very learned on the dessert. He said he owed his fructification to Sir William Temple. I observed that it was delightful to see so great a man as Sir William Temple so happy as he appears to have been. The otium cum dignitate is surely nowhere to be found, if not as he has painted it in his Works.

Dr. Swift.-The otium cum digging potatoes is better. I could shew you a dozen Irishmen (which is a great many, for thriving ones,) who have the advantage of him. Sir William was a great, but not a happy man. He had an ill stomach. What is worse, he gave me one. He taught me to eat platefulls of cherries and peaches, when I took no exercise.

A. H.-What can one trust to, if the air of tranquillity in his writings is not to be depended on?

Mr. Pope. I believe he talks too much of his ease, to be considered very easy. It is an ill head that takes so much concern about its pillow. Dr. Swift.-Sir William Temple was a martyr to the "good sense" that came up in those days. He had sick blood, that required stirring; but because it was a high strain of good sense to agree with Epicurus and be of no religion, it was thought the highest possible strain, in any body who could go so far, to live in a garden as Epicurus did, and lie quiet, and be a philosopher. So Epicurus got a great stone in his kidneys; and Sir William used to be out of temper, if his oranges got smutted.

I thought there was a little spleen in this account of Temple, which surprised me, considering old times. But if it be true that the giddiness, and even deafness, to which the Dean is subject, be owing to the philosopher's bad example, one can hardly wonder at its making him melancholy. He sat amidst a heap of fruit without touching it.

Mr. Pope.-Sir William, in his Essay on Gardening, says, he does not know how it is, that Lucretius's account of the gods is thought

more impious than Homer's, who makes them as full of bustle and bad passions as the meanest of us. Now it is very clear: for the reason is, that Homer's gods have something in common with us, and are subject to our troubles and concerns; whereas Lucretius's live like a parcel of bon-vivants by themselves, and care for nobody.

The Dean.-There are two admirable good things in that essay. One is an old usurer's, who said, that "no man could have peace of conscience, that run out of his estate." The other is a Spanish proverb; that "a fool knows more in his own house, than a wise man in another's."

The conversation turning upon our discussion last time respecting anglers, the Dean said he once asked a scrub who was fishing, if he ever caught the fish called the scream. The man protested he had never heard of such a fish. "What !" says the doctor," you an angler, and never heard of the fish that gives a shriek when coming out of the water? It is true, it is not often found in these parts; but ask any Crim Tartar, and he will tell you of it. 'Tis the only fish that has a voice; and a sad dismal sound it is." The man asked who could be so barbarous as to angle for a creature that shrieked. "That," says the doctor, "is another matter: but what do you think of fellows that I have seen, whose only reason for hooking and tearing all the fish they can get at, is that they do not scream." I shouted this not in his car, and he almost shuffled himself into the river.

Mr. Walscott. Surely, Mr. Dean, this argument would strike the dullest.

Not

Dr. Swift.-Yes, if you could turn it into a box on the ear. else. They would fain give you one meantime, if they had the courage; for men have such a horror of the very notion of doing wrong, that they would rather do it, than be told of it. You know Mr. Wilcox of Hertfordshire (to Mr. Pope); I once convinced him he did an inhuman thing to angle; at least I must have gone very near convincing him; for he cut short the dispute, by referring me to his friends for a good character. It gives me the spleen to see an honest man make such an owl of himself.

Mr. Pope. And all anglers perhaps, as he was?

Dr. Swift-Very likely, 'faith. A parcel of sneaking, scoundrelly understandings get some honest man to do as they do, and then, forsooth, must dishonour him with the testimony of their good opinion. No it requires a very rare benevolence, or as great an understanding, to see beyond even such a paltry thing as this angling, in angling times; about as much as it would take a good honest-hearted cannibal to see further than man-eating, or a goldsmith beyond his money. What! isn't Tow-woo a good husband and jaw-breaker; and must he not stand upon reputation?

Mr. Walscott.-It is common to hear people among the lower orders talk of "the poor dumb animal,” when they desire to rescue a cat or dog from ill-treatment.

The Dean.-Yes; and the cat is not dumb; nor the dog either. A horse is dumb; a fish is dumber; and I suppose this is the reason why the horse is the worst used of any creature, except trout and grayling. Come: this is melancholy talk. Mrs. Patty, why didn't you smoke

the bull?

Mrs. Blount.-Smoke the bull, Sir?

Dr. Swift.-Yes; I have just made a bull. I said horses were dumb, and fish dumber.

Mrs. Pope.-Pray, Mr. Dean, why do they call those kind of mistakes bulls ?

Dr. Swift.-Why, Madam, I cannot tell; but I can tell you the prettiest bull that ever was made. An Irishman laid a wager with another, a bricklayer, that he could not carry him to the top of a building, in his hod. The fellow took him up, and at the risk of both their necks landed him safely. "Well," cried the other, "you have done it; there's no denying that; but at the fourth story I had hopes."

Mr. Pope.-Doctor, I believe you take the word smoke to be a modern cant phrase. I found it, when I was translating Homer, in old Chapman. He says, that Juno smoked Ulysses through his disguise.

Mention was made of the strange version of Hobbes. Mr. Pope.You recollect, Mr. Honeycomb, the passage in the first book of Homer, where Apollo comes down to destroy the Greeks, and how his quiver sounded as he came.

"Yes, Sir," said I, " very well;" and 1 quoted from his translation:

Fierce as he moved, the silver shafts resound.

Mr. Pope. I was speaking of the original; but that line will do very well to contrast with Hobbes. What think you of

His arrows chink as often as he jogs?

Mr. Pope mentioned another passage, just as fidiculous. I forget something of the first line, and a word in the second :-speaking of Jupiter,

With that his great black brow he nodded

Wherewith (astonish'd) were the powers divine :
Olympus shook at shaking of his god-head;
And Thetis from it jump'd into the brine.

Mr. Pope.-Dryden goodnaturedly says of Hobbes, that he took to poetry when he was too old.

Dr. Swift.-(With an arch look.) Perhaps had he begun at forty, as Dryden did, he would have been as great as my young master.

Mr. Walscott could not help laughing to hear Dryden, and at forty, called" my young master." However, he was going to say something, but desisted.

I wish I could recollect many more things that were said, so as to do them justice. Altogether, the day was not quite so pleasant as the former one. With Mr. Pope, one is both tranquil and delighted. Doctor Swift somehow makes me restless. I could hear him talk all day long, but should like to be walking half the time, instead of sitting. Besides, he did not appear quite easy himself, notwithstanding what the boatman said; and he looked ill. I am told he is very anxious about the health of a friend in Ireland.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

From "The Portrait-Gallery," an unfinished Poem.

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair
(Famed were its tresses in Provençal song),
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A Child's light hand is roving
'Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face

Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
-Yet that bright Lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a Mother's!-on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
-These may be dreams?-but how shall woman tell
Of woman's shame ?-that radiant creature fell!
That Mother left that Child!-went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply not without a sigh—
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-but no! it could not thus have been,
For she pass'd on!-forsook her home and hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendors of a King!

Her Lord, in very weariness of life,

Girt on his mail for scenes of distant strife;
He reck'd no more of glory; grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his Halls

Crept year by year; the Minstrel pass'd their walls,
The Warders horn hung mute: meantime the Child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth, for well, too well, she knew
Her Mother's tale!-Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;

Froze on her lip the stream of song, which fain

Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain

If met by sudden glance, and gave a tone

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,

Even to the Spring's glad voice!-Her own was low
As drooping bird's-there lie such depths of woe

In a young blighted spirit !-Manhood rears

A haughty brow, and Age hath done with tears,
But Youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its young days;
And thus it was with her!-A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fair,—
Not with her Mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Her's were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom; but tender still, and meek

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