and whom I never beheld since she was a brat in hanging sleeves. I am, and shall be ever, with the greatest respect and gratitude, madam, your grace's most obedient, and most humble, &c.
FROM LORD BOLINGBROKE.
I WRITE this letter, in hopes that Pope, a man scattered in the world (according to the French phrase) will soon procure me an opportunity of conveying it safely to you, my reverend dean. For my own part, half this wicked nation might go to you, or half your beggarly nation might come to us, and the whole migration be over before I knew any thing of the matter. My letter will concern neither affairs of state, nor of party; and yet I would not have it fall into the hands of our ministers: it might pass in their excellent noddles for a piece of a plot against themselves, if not against the state; or, at least, it might furnish them with an opportunity of doing an ill natured, and disappointing a good natured thing; which being a pleasure to the malicious and the base, I should be sorry to give it on any occasion, and especially on this, to the par nobile fratrum[1].
After this preamble, I proceed to tell you, that there is in my neighbourhood, in Berkshire, a clergy--
- ↑ Sir Robert Walpole, and his brother Horace.
