I HAVE resolved to take time; and in spite of all misfortunes and demurs, which sickness, lameness or disability of any kind can throw in my way, to write you (at intervals) a long letter. My two least fingers of one hand hang impediments to the other[1], like useless dependants, who only take up room, and never are active or assistant to our wants: I shall never be much the better for them I congratulate you first upon what you call your cousin's wonderful book, which is publica trita manu[2] at present, and I prophecy will be hereafter the admiration of all men. That countenance with which it is received by some statesmen, is delightful; I wish I could tell you how every single man looks upon it, to observe which has been my whole diversion this fortnight. I have never been a night in London since you left me, till now for this very end, and indeed it has fully answered my expectations.
I find no considerable man very angry at the book; some indeed think it rather too bold, and too general a satire: but none that I hear of accuse it of
- ↑ This was occasioned by a bad accident as he was returning home in a friend's chariot, which in passing through a river, the bridge being broken down, was overturned. The glasses being up, and Mr. Pope unable to break them, he was in immediate danger of drowning, when the footman who had just recovered himself, beat the glass which lay uppermost to pieces, a fragment of which cut one of Mr. Pope's hands very dangerously.
- ↑ In every body's hands.
