give you the truest idea of that generous intercourse, may I not justly refer you back to the sentiments of your own heart? I am sure, at least, 1 have learned to improve my own notions of that refined affection, by those instances which I have observed in yourself; as it is from thence I have received the clearest conviction, that it derives all its strength and stability from virtue and good

sense.

There is not, perhaps, a quality more uncommon in the world, than that which is necessary to form a man for this refined commerce: for however sociableness may be esteemed a just characteristic of our species, friendliness, I am persuaded, will scarce be found to enter into its general definition. The qualifications requisite to support and conduct friendship in all its strength and extent, do not seem to be sufficiently diffused among the human race, to render them the distinguishing marks of mankind, unless generosity and good sense should be allowed (what they never can be allowed) universally to prevail. On the contrary, how few are in possession of those most amiable of endowments! How few are capable of that noble elevation of mind, which raises a man above those little jealousies and rivalships that shoot up in the paths of common amities!

We should not, indeed, so often hear complaints of the inconstancy and falseness of friends, if the world in general were more cautious than they usually are, in forming connexions of this kind. But the misfortune is, our friendships are apt to be too forward, and thus either fall off in the blossom, or never arrive at just maturity. It is an ex

cellent piece of advice, therefore, that the poet Martial gives upon this occasion:

Tu tantum inspice, qui novus paratur,
An possit fieri vetus sodalis.

Were I to make trial of any person's qualifications for an union of so much delicacy, there is no part of his conduct I would sooner single out, than to observe him in his resentments. And this not upon the maxim frequently advanced, "that the best friends make the bitterest enemies;" but, on the contrary, because I am persuaded that he who is capable of being a bitter enemy can never possess the necessary virtues that constitute a true friend. For must he not want generosity (that most essential principle of an amicable combination) who can be so mean as to indulge a spirit of settled revenge, and coolly triumph in the oppression of an adversary? Accordingly, there is no circumstance in the character of the excellent Agricola that gives me a higher notion of the true heroism of his mind, than what the historian of his life mentions concerning his conduct in this particular instance : Ex iracundia (says Tacitus) nihil supererat : secretum et silentium ejus non timeres. His elevated spirit was too great to suffer his resentment to survive the occasion of it; and those who provoked his indignation had nothing to apprehend from the secret and silent workings of unextinguished malice. But the practice, it must be owned, (perhaps I might have said the principle too) of the world runs strongly on the side of the contrary disposition; and thus, in opposition to that generous sentiment of your admired orator, which I have so often heard

you quote with applause, our friendships are mortal, whilst it is our enmities only that never die.

But though judgment must collect the materials of this goodly structure, it is affection that gives the cement; and passion as well as reason should concur in forming a firm and lasting coalition. Hence, perhaps, it is, that not only the most powerful, but the most lasting friendships are usually the produce of the early season of our lives, when we are most susceptible of the warm and affectionate impressions. The connexions into which we enter in any after period, decrease in strength, as our passions abate in heat; and there is not, I believe, a single instance of a vigorous friendship that ever struck root in a bosom chilled by years. How irretrievable then is the loss of those best and fairest acquisitions of our youth! Seneca, taking notice of Augustus Cæsar's lamenting, upon a certain occasion, the death of Maecenas and Agrippa, observes, that he who could instantly repair the destruction of whole fleets and armies, and bid Rome, after a general conflagration, rise out of her ashes even with more lustre than before; was yet unable, during a whole life, to fill up those lasting vacancies in his friendship: a reflection which reminds me of renewing my solicitations, that you would be more cautious in hazarding a life which I have so many reasons to love and honour. For whenever an accident of the same kind shall separate (and what other accident can separate?) the happy union which has so long subsisted between us, where shall I retrieve so severe a loss? I am utterly indisposed to enter into new habitudes, and extend the little circle of my friendships; happy if I may but preserve

it firm and unbroken to the closing moment of my life! Adieu. I am, &c.

XI. TO HORTENSIUS.

Aug. 12, 1742.

If any thing could tempt me to read the Latin poem you mention, it would be your recommendation, But shall I venture to own, that I have no taste for modern compositions of that kind? There is one prejudice which always remains with me against them, and which I have never yet found cause to renounce: no true genius, I am persuaded, would submit to write any considerable poem in a dead language. A poet, who glows with the genuine fire of a warm and lively imagination, will find the copiousness of his own native English scarce sufficient to convey his ideas in all their strength and energy. The most comprehensive language sinks under the weight of great conceptions; and a pregnant imagination disdains to stint the natural growth of her thoughts to the confined standard of classical expression. An ordinary genius, indeed, may be humbly contented to pursue words through indexes and dictionaries, and tamely borrow phrases from Horace and Virgil; but could the elevated invention of Milton, or the brilliant sense of Pope, have ingloriously submitted to lower the force and majesty of the most exalted and nervous sentiments, to the scanty measure of the Roman dialect? For copiousness is by no means in the number of those advantages which attend the Latin language; as many of the ancients have both confessed and lamented. Thus Lucretius and Seneca complain of its deficiency with respect to subjects of philosophy;

as Pliny the younger owns he found it incapable of furnishing him with proper terms, in compositions. of wit and humour. But if the Romans themselves found their language thus penurious, in its entire and most ample supplies, how much more contracted must it be to us, who are only in possession of its broken and scattered remains?

To say truth, I have observed, in most of the modern Latin poems which I have accidentally run over, a remarkable barrenness of sentiment, and have generally found the poet degraded into the parodist. It is usually the little dealers on Parnassus, who have not a sufficient stock of genius to launch out into a more enlarged commerce with the Muses, that hawk about these classical gleanings. The style of these performances always puts me in mind of Harlequin's snuff, which he collected by borrowing a pinch out of every man's box he could meet, and then retailed it to his customers under the pompous title of tabac de mille fleurs. Half a line from Virgil or Lucretius, pieced out with a bit from Horace or Juvenal, is generally the motley mixture which enters into compositions of this sort. One may apply to these jack-daw poets, with their stolen feathers, what Martial says to a contemporary plagiarist :

Stat contra, dicitque tibi tua pagina: Fur es.

This kind of theft, indeed, every man must necessarily commit, who sets up for a poet in a dead language. For, to express himself with propriety, he must not only be sure that every single word: which he uses is authorised by the best writers, but he must not even venture to throw them out of that