fruit is not so good as I wish, let the gallantry of this wrapping paper make up for it. for it. I am yours.

LETTER X.*

You have put me into so much gaiety of temper, that there will not be a serious word in this day's letter. No more, you will say, there would, if I told you the whole serious business of the town. All last night I continued with you, though your unreasonable regularity drove me out of your doors at three o'clock. I dreamed all over the evening's conversation, and saw the little bed in spite of you. In the morning I waked, very angry at your phantom for leaving me so abruptly.I know you delight in my mortification. I dined with an old beauty; she appeared at the table like a Death's head enamelled. The Egyptians, you know, had such things at their entertainments; but do you think they painted and patched them? However, the last of these objections was soon removed; for the lady had so violent an appetite for a salmon, that she quickly eat all the patches off her face.

on some occasions. It is well known, that his Homer was written on scraps of paper, backs of letters, &c. and here he sends the only copies he had, as wrappers to fruit, and to be carefully returned; although he must have known that nothing was more likely than their being destroyed in the carriage. C. Bowles.

* This and the two following letters appear to have been written by Pope as a specimen of fashionable correspondence for the amusement of the Miss Blounts.

She divided the fish into three parts; not equal, God knows; for she helped Gay to the head, me to the middle, and making the rest much the largest part, took it herself, and cried very naively, I'll be content with my own tail.

My supper was as singular as my dinner. It was with a great poet* and ode-maker (that is, a great poet out of his wits, or out of his way). He came to me very hungry; not for want of a dinner (for that I should make no jest of) but having forgot to dine. He fell most furiously on the broiled relics of a shoulder of mutton, commonly called a blade bone he professed he never tasted so exquisite a thing; begged me to tell him what joint it was; wondered he had never heard the name of this joint, or seen it at other tables; and desired to know how he might direct his butcher to cut out the same for the future. And yet this man, so ignorant in modern butchery, has cut up half a hundred heroes, and quartered five or six miserable lovers in every tragedy he has written. I have nothing more to tell you to-day.

* It is said he meant Dr. Young; and that he laughed at his frequent absence of mind: to which, but not with affectation, he was subject.

Warton.

LETTER XI.

THE ANSWER.*

You should have my day too, Sir, but indeed I slept it out, and so I will give you all that was left, my last night's entertainment. You know the company. I went in late, in order to be better received; but unluckily came in, as Deuce-ace was flinging (Lord H. would say I came in the nick). The lady coloured, and the men took the name of the Lord in vain: nobody spoke to me, and I sat down disappointed; then affecting a careless air, gaped, and cried seven or eight times, D'ye win or lose? I could safely say at that moment I had no temptation to any one of the seven lively sins; and, in the innocent way I was, happy had it been for me, if I had died! Moralizing sat I by the hazard table; I looked upon the uncertainty of riches, the decay of beauty, and the crash of worlds, with as much contempt as ever Plato did. But ah! the frailty of human nature! some ridiculous thought came into my head, wakened my passions, which burst forth into a violent laughter: I rose from my seat, and not considering the just resentments of the losing gamesters, hurled a ball of paper across the table, which stopped the dice, and turned up seven instead of five. Cursed on all sides, and not knowing where to fly, I threw myself into a chair, which I demolished, and never

* Probably written by Pope himself.

spoke a word after. We went to supper, and a lady said, Miss G. looks prodigiously like a Tree. Every body agreed to it, and I had not curiosity to ask the meaning of that sprightly fancy: find it out, and let me know. Adieu, it is time to dress, and begin the business of the day.

LETTER XII.

IN THE STYLE OF A LADY.*

PRAY what is your opinion of Fate? For I must confess I am one of those that believe in fate and predestination.—No, I cannot go so far as that, but I own I am of opinion one's stars may incline, though not compel one; and that is a sort of freewill; for we may be able to resist inclination, but not compulsion.

Do not you think they have got into the most preposterous fashion this winter that ever was, of flouncing the petticoat so very deep, that it looks like an entire coat of lutestring?

It is a little cool indeed for this time of year, but then, my dear, you will allow it has an extreme clean, pretty look.

* In the style of a lady? read Lady M. Montagu's Letters, and confess how little this nonsense is like.

Bowles.

Did Mr. Bowles conceive that Pope ever intended it to be like? any more than the song by a person of quality was intended to be a serious composition?

Aye, so has my muslin apron; But I would not chuse to make it a winter suit of cloaths.

Well now I will swear, child, you have put me in mind of a very pretty dress; let me die if I do not think a muslin flounce, made very full, would give one a very agreeable Flirtation-air.

Well, I swear it would be charming! and I should like it of all things-Do you think there are any such things as Spirits?

Do you believe there is any such place as the Elysian Fields; O Gad, that would be charming! I wish I were to go to the Elysian Fields when I die, and then I should not care if I were to leave the world to-morrow: but is one to meet there with what one has loved most in this world?

Now you must tell me this positively. To be sure you can, or what do I correspond with you for, if you will not tell me all? you know I abominate

reserve.

LETTER XIII.*

TO MRS. TERESA BLOUNT.

(1715.)

You have asked me news a hundred times at the first word you spoke to me, which some would interpret as if you expected nothing better from

* This was written in the year 1715, when great fears were entertained of a rebellion, which soon after happened: a camp was formed in Hyde-Park. Bowles.