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How, indeed, could a man hope to render himself acceptable to the various parties which divide our nation, who professes it as his principle that there is no striking wholly into the measures of any, without renouncing either one's sense or one's integrity? and yet, as the world is at present constituted, it is scarcely possible, I fear, to do any good in one's generation, (in public life I mean) without listing under some or other of those various banners which distinguish the several corps in these our political warfares. To those, therefore, who may have curiosity enough to enter into my concerns, and ask a reason for my quitting the town, I answer, in the words of the historian, Civitatis morum tædet pigetque. But I am wandering from the purpose of my letter, which was not so much to justify my retreat, as to incline you to follow me into it to follow me, I mean, as a visitor only; for I love my country too well to call you off from those great services you are capable of doing her.

I have pitched my tent upon a spot which I am persuaded will not displease you. My villa (if you will allow me to call by that fine name, what, in truth, is no better than a neat farm-house,) is situated upon a gentle rise, which commands a short, though agreeable view, of about three miles in circumference. This is bounded on the north by a ridge of hills, which afford me at once both a secure shelter and a beautiful prospect; for they are as well cultivated as the most fertile valleys. In the front of my house, which stands south-east, I have a view of the river, that runs at the distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile, at the end of my grounds, and, after making several windings

and turnings, seems to lose itself at the foot of those hills I just now mentioned. As for my garden, I am obliged to nature for its chief beauties; having no other (except a small spot which I have allotted for the purposes of my table) but what the fields and meadows afford. These, however, I have embellished with some care, having intermixed among the hedges all the several sorts of flowering shrubs.

But I must not forget to mention what I look upon to be the principal ornament of the place; as, indeed, I do not recollect to have seen any thing of the kind in our English plantations. I have covered a small spot with different sorts of evergreens, many of which are of a species not very usual in our country. This little plantation I have branched out into various labyrinth-walks, which are all terminated by a small temple in the centre. I have a double advantage from this artificial wood; for it not only affords me a very shady retreat in summer, but, as it is situated opposite to my library, supplies me in winter with a perspective of the most agreeable verdure imaginable.

What heightens my relish of this retirement, is the company of my Cleora; as, indeed, many of the best improvements I have made in it are owing to hints which I have received from her exquisite taste and judgment.-She will rejoice to receive you as her guest here, and has given it me in charge to remind you that you have promised to be so. the business of parliament is now drawing to a conclusion, I may urge this to you without any imputation upon my patriotism; though, at the same time, I must add, I make a very considerable sacri

As

fice of private interest, whenever I resign you for the sake of the public. Adieu. I am, &c.

XXXVII. TO HORTENSIUS.

ARE you aware, Hortensius, how far I may mislead you, when you are willing to resign yourself to my guidance through the regions of criticism? Remember, however, that I take the lead in these paths, not in confidence of my own superior knowledge of them, but in compliance with a request, which I never yet knew how to refuse. In short, Hortensius, I give you my sentiments, because it is my sentiments you require; but I give them, at the same time, rather as doubts than decisions.

After having thus acknowledged my insufficiency for the office you have assigned me, I will venture to confess, that the poet who has gained over your approbation, has been far less successful with mine. I have ever thought, with a very celebrated modern writer, that

Le vers le mieux rempli, la plus noble pensée,
Ne peut plaire à l'esprit quand l'oreille est blessée.

Boileau.

Thus, though I admit there is both wit in the raillery, and strength in the sentiments, of your friend's moral epistle, it by no means falls in with those notions I have formed to myself concerning the essential requisites in compositions of this kind. He seems, indeed, to have widely deviated from the model he professes to have had in view, and is no more like Horace, than Hyperion to a satyr. His

deficiency in point of versification, not to mention his want of elegance in the general manner of his poem, is sufficient to destroy the pretended resemblance. Nothing, in truth, can be more absurd, than to write in poetical measure, and yet neglect harmony; as, of all the kinds of false style, that which is neither prose nor verse, but I know not what inartificial combination of powerless words bordered with rhyme, is far, surely, the most insufferable.

But you are of opinion, I perceive, (and it is an opinion in which you are not singular) that a negligence of this kind may be justified by the authority of the Roman satirist: yet, surely, those who entertain that notion, have not thoroughly attended either to the precepts or the practice of Horace. He has attributed, I confess, his satirical composition to the inspiration of a certain Muse, whom he distinguishes by the title of the Musa pedestris, and it is this expression which seems to have misled the generality of his imitators. But though he will not allow her to fly, he by no means intends she should creep on the contrary, it may be said of the Muse of Horace, as of the Eve of Milton, that

Grace is in all her steps.

That this was the idea which Horace himself had of her, is evident, not only from the general air which prevails in his satires and epistles, but from several express declarations, which he lets fall in his progress through them. Even when he speaks of her in his greatest fits of modesty, and describes her as exhibited in his moral writings, he particularly in

sists upon the ease and harmony of her motions. Though he humbly disclaims, indeed, all pretensions to the higher poetry, the acer spiritus et vis, as he calls it; he represents his style as being governed by the tempora certa modosque, as flowing with a certain regular and agreeable cadence. Accordingly we find him particularly condemning his predecessor, Lucilius, for the dissonance of his numbers; and he professes to have made the experiment, whether the same kind of moral subject might not be treated in more soft and easy

measures:

Quid vetat et nosmet Lucil? scripta legentes

Quærere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit
Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes

Mollius?

The truth is, a tuneful cadence is the single prerogative of poetry which he pretends to claim to his writings of this kind: and so far is he from thinking it unessential, that he acknowledges it as the only separation which distinguishes them from prose. If that were once to be broken down, and the musical order of his words destroyed, there would not, he tells us, be the least appearance of poetry remaining:

Non

Invenias etiam disjecti membra poetæ.

However, when he delivers himself in this humble strain, he is not, you will observe, sketching out a plan of this species of poetry in general, but speaking merely of his own performances in particular. His demands rise much higher, when he informs us what he expects of those who would succeed in

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