the labourers to what shelter the trees or hedges afforded. Sarah, frighted and out of breath, sunk on a haycock, and John-who never separated from her-sat by her side, having raked two or three heaps together to secure her. Immediately there was heard so loud a crack as if heaven had burst asunder. The labourers, all solicitous for each other's safety, called to one another: those that were nearest our lovers, hearing no answer, stepped to the place where they lay: they first saw a little smoke, and after, this faithful pair-John with one arm about his Sarah's neck, and the other held over her face, as if to screen her from the lightning. They were struck dead, and already grown stiff and cold in this tender posture. There was no mark or discolouring on their bodies, only that Sarah's eyebrow was a little singed, and a small spot between her breasts. They were buried the next day in one grave, in the parish of Stanton-Harcourt in Oxfordshire, where my Lord Harcourt, at my request, has erected a monument over them. Of the following epitaphs which I made, the critics have chosen the godly one: I like neither, but wish you had been in England to have done this office better: I think it was what you could not have refused me on so moving an occasion.

When Eastern lovers feed their funeral fire,
On the same pile their faithful fair expire;
Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found,
And blasted both that it might neither wound.
Hearts so sincere the Almighty saw well pleased,
Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized.
Think not, by rigorous judgment seized,
A pair so faithful could expire;
Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased,
And snatched them in celestial fire.

Live well, and fear no sudden fate:

When God calls virtue to the grave,
Alike 'tis justice, soon or late,
Mercy alike to kill or save.
Virtue unmoved can hear the call,

And face the flash that melts the ball.

Upon the whole, I cannot think these people unhappy. The greatest happiness, next to living as they would have done, was to die as they did. The greatest honour people of this low degree could have, was to be remembered on a little monument; unless you will give them another-that of being honoured with a tear from the finest eyes in the world. I know you have tenderness; you must have it; it is the very emanation of good sense and virtue: the finest minds, like the finest metals, dissolve the easiest.

An Ancient English Country-seat.
TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

DEAR MADAM-'Tis not possible to express the least part of the joy your return gives me; time only and experience will convince you how very sincere it is. I excessively long to meet you, to say so much, so very much to you, that I believe I shall say nothing. I have given orders to be sent for the first minute of your arrival-which I beg you will let them know at Mr Jervas's. I am fourscore miles from London, a short journey compared to that I so often thought at least of undertaking, rather than die without seeing you again.

Though the place I am in is such as I would not quit for the town, if I did not value you more than any, nay everybody else there; and you will be convinced how little the town has engaged my affections in your absence from it, when you know what a place this is which I prefer to it; I shall therefore describe it to you at large, as the true picture of a genuine ancient country-seat.

:

You must expect nothing regular in my description of a house that seems to be built before rules were in fashion the whole is so disjointed, and the parts so detached from each other, and yet so joining again, one cannot tell how, that-in a poetical fit-you would imagine it had been a village in Amphion's time, where twenty cottages had taken a dance together, were all out, and stood still in amazement ever since. A stranger would be grievously disappointed who should ever think to get into this house the right way. One would expect, after entering through the porch, to be let into the hall; alas! nothing less, you find yourself in a brewhouse. From the parlour you think to step into the drawing-room; but, upon opening the iron-nailed door, you are convinced, by a flight of birds about your ears and a cloud of dust in your eyes, that it is the pigeonhouse. On each side our porch are two chimneys, that wear their greens on the outside, which would do as well within, for whenever we make a fire, we let the smoke out of the windows. Over the parlour window hangs a sloping balcony, which time has turned to a very convenient penthouse. The top is crowned with a very venerable tower, so like that of the church just by, that the jackdaws build in it as if it were the true steeple.

The great hall is high and spacious, flanked with long tables, images of ancient hospitality; ornamented with monstrous horns, about twenty broken pikes, and a matchlock musket or two, which they say were used in the civil wars. Here is one vast arched window, beautifully darkened with divers scutcheons of painted glass. There seems to be great propriety in this old manner of blazoning upon glass, ancient families being like ancient windows, in the course of generations seldom free from cracks. One shining pane bears date 1286. The youthful face of Dame Elinor owes more to this single piece than to all the glasses she ever consulted in her life. Who can say after this that glass is frail, when it is not half so perishable as human beauty or glory? For in another pane you see the memory of a knight preserved, whose marble nose is mouldered from his monument in the church adjoining. And yet, must not one sigh to reflect that the most authentic record of so ancient a family should lie at the mercy of every boy that throws a stone? In this hall, in former days, have dined gartered knights and courtly dames, with ushers, sewers, and seneschals; and yet it was but the other night that an owl flew in hither, and mistook it for a barn.

This hall lets you up (and down) over a very high threshold, into the parlour. It is furnished with historical tapestry, whose marginal fringes do confess the moisture of the air. The other contents of this room are a broken-bellied virginal, a couple of crippled velvet chairs, with two or three mildewed pictures of mouldy ancestors, who look as dismally as if they came fresh from hell with all their brimstone about 'em. These are carefully set at the further corner: for the windows being everywhere broken, make it so convenient a place to dry poppies and mustard seed in, that the room is appropriated to that use.

Next this parlour lies, as I said before, the pigeonhouse, by the side of which runs an entry that leads, on one hand and t'other, into a bed-chamber, a buttery, and a small hole called the chaplain's study. Then follow a brew-house, a little green and gilt parlour, and the great stairs, under which is the dairy. A little further on the right, the servants' hall; and by the side of it, up six steps, the old lady's closet, which has a lattice into the said hall, that, while she said her prayers, she might cast an eye on the men and maids. There are upon this ground floor in all twenty-four apartments, hard to be distinguished by particular names; among which I must not forget a chamber that has in it a large antiquity of timber, which seems to have been either a bedstead or a cider-press.

Our best room above is very long and low, of the exact proportion of a bandbox; it has hangings of the finest work in the world; those, I mean, which Arachne spins out of her own bowels: indeed, the roof is so decayed, that after a favourable shower of rain, we may, with God's blessing, expect a crop of mushrooms between the chinks of the floors.

All this upper story has for many years had no other inhabitants than certain rats, whose very age renders them worthy of this venerable mansion, for the very rats of this ancient seat are gray. Since these have not quitted it, we hope at least this house may stand during the small remainder of days these poor animals have to live, who are now too infirm to remove to another they have still a small subsistence left them in the few remaining books of the library.

I had never seen half what I have described but for an old starched gray-headed steward, who is as much an antiquity as any in the place, and looks like an old family picture walked out of its frame. He failed not, as we passed from room to room, to relate several memoirs of the family; but his observations were particularly curious in the cellar: he shewed where stood the triple rows of butts of sack, and where were ranged the bottles of tent for toasts in the morning: he pointed to the stands that supported the iron-hooped hogsheads of strong beer; then stepping to a corner, he lugged out the tattered fragments of an unframed picture: 'This,' says he, with tears in his eyes, 'was poor Sir Thomas, once master of all the drink I told you of: he had two sons (poor young masters!) that never arrived to the age of his beer; they both fell ill in this very cellar, and never went out upon their own legs.' He could not pass by a broken bottle without taking it up to shew us the arms of the family on it. He then led me up the tower, by dark winding stone steps, which landed us into several little rooms, one above another; one of these was nailed up, and my guide whispered to me the occasion of it. It seems the course of this noble blood was a little interrupted about two centuries ago by a freak of the Lady Frances, who was here taken with a neighbouring prior; ever since which the room has been made up, and branded with the name of the adultery chamber. The ghost of Lady Frances is supposed to walk here: some prying maids of the family formerly reported that they saw a lady in a fardingale through the keyhole; but this matter was hushed up, and the servants forbid to talk of it.

I must needs have tired you with this long letter; but what engaged me in the description was a generous principle to preserve the memory of a thing that must

itself soon fall to ruin; nay, perhaps, some part of it before this reaches your hands: indeed, I owe this old house the same sort of gratitude that we do to an old friend that harbours us in his declining condition, nay, even in his last extremities. I have found this an excellent place for retirement and study, where no one who passes by can dream there is an inhabitant, and even anybody that would visit me dares not venture under my roof. You will not wonder I have translated a great deal of Homer in this retreat; any one that sees it will own I could not have chosen a fitter or more likely place to converse with the dead. As soon as I return to the living, it shall be to converse with the best of them. I hope, therefore, very speedily to tell you in person how sincerely and unalterably I am, madam, your most faithful, obliged, and obedient servant. I beg Mr Wortley to believe me his most humble servant.

The house from which Pope dated this and the preceding letter was the mansion of Stanton Harcourt, here described with fantastic additions and alterations; here Pope did translate part of the Iliad.

care.

To Bishop Atterbury, in the Tower.

May 17, 1723

Once more I write to you, as I promised, and this once, I fear, will be the last! The curtain will soon be drawn between my friend and me, and nothing left but to wish you a long good-night. May you enjoy a state of repose in this life not unlike that sleep of the soul which some have believed is to succeed it, where we lie utterly forgetful of that world from which we are gone, and ripening for that to which we are to go. If you retain any memory of the past, let it only image to you what has pleased you best; sometimes present a dream of an absent friend, or bring you back an agreeable conversation. But, upon the whole, I hope you will think less of the time past than of the future, as the former has been less kind to you than the latter infal libly will be. Do not envy the world your studies; they will tend to the benefit of men against whom you can have no complaint; I mean of all posterity: and, perhaps, at your time of life, nothing else is worth your What is every year of a wise man's life but a censure or critic on the past? Those whose date is the shortest, live long enough to laugh at one half of it; the boy despises the infant; the man, the boy; the philosopher, both; and the Christian, all. You may now begin to think your manhood was too much a puerility, and you will never suffer your age to be but a second infancy. The toys and baubles of your childhood are hardly now more below you than those toys of our riper and our declining years, the drums and rattles of ambition, and the dirt and bubbles of avarice. At this time, when you are cut off from a little society, and made a citizen of the world at large, you should bend your talents, not to serve a party or a few, but all mankind. Your genius should mount above that mist in which its participation and neighbourhood with earth long involved it; to shine abroad, and to heaven, ought to be the business and the glory of your present situation. Remember it was at such a time that the greatest lights of antiquity dazzled and blazed the most, in their retreat, in their exile, or in their death. But why do I talk of dazzling or blazing?—it was then that they did good, that they gave light, and that they became guides to mankind.

Those aims alone are worthy of spirits truly great, and such I therefore hope will be yours. Resentment, indeed, may remain, perhaps cannot be quite extinguished in the noblest minds; but revenge never will harbour there. Higher principles than those of the first, and better principles than those of the latter, will infallibly influence men whose thoughts and whose hearts are enlarged, and cause them to prefer the whole to any part of mankind, especially to so small a part as one's single self.

Believe me, my lord, I look upon you as a spirit entered into another life, as one just upon the edge of immortality, where the passions and affections must be much more exalted, and where you ought to despise all little views and all mean retrospects. Nothing is worth your looking back; and, therefore, look forward, and make, as you can, the world look after you. But take care that it be not with pity, but with esteem and admiration.

I am, with the greatest sincerity and passion for your fame as well as happiness, your, &c.

Atterbury went into exile a month or two after this, and never returned to England. His farewell letter to Pope from the Tower is given above at page 158.

Pope was one of the authors of the Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus, and in them lavished much wit on subjects which are now mostly of little interest. He ridiculed Burnet's History of my Own Times with infinite humour in Memoirs of P. P., Clerk of this Parish; and he contributed several papers to the Guardian. His prose works contain also a collection of Thoughts on Various Subjects, such as these:

There never was any party, faction, sect, or cabal whatsoever, in which the most ignorant were not the most violent; for a bee is not a busier animal than a blockhead. However, such instruments are necessary to politicians; and perhaps it may be with states as with clocks, which must have some dead-weight hanging at them, to help and regulate the motion of the finer and more useful parts.

When men grow virtuous in their old age, they only make a sacrifice to God of the devil's leavings.

He who tells a lie is not sensible how great a task he undertakes; for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain one.

Get your enemies to read your works in order to mend them for your friend is so much your second self, that he will judge too like you.

There is nothing wanting to make all rational and disinterested people in the world of one religion but that they should talk together every day.

A short and certain way to obtain the character of a reasonable and wise man is, whenever any one tells you his opinion, to comply with him.

The character of covetousness is what a man generally acquires more through some niggardliness or ill grace in little and inconsiderable things than in expenses of any consequence. A very few pounds a year would ease that man of the scandal of avarice.

Recipe for an Epic Poem-from the 'Guardian.'

It is no small pleasure to me, who am zealous in the interests of learning, to think I may have the honour of leading the town into a very new and uncommon road

of criticism. As that kind of literature is at present carried on, it consists only in a knowledge of mechanic rules which contribute to the structure of different sorts of poetry; as the receipts of good housewives do to the making puddings of flour, oranges, plums, or any other ingredients. It would, methinks, make these my instructions more easily intelligible to ordinary readers, if I discoursed of these matters in the style in which ladies learned in economics dictate to their pupils for the improvement of the kitchen and larder. I shall begin with Epic Poetry, because the critics agree it is the greatest work human nature is capable of.

...

For the Fable.-Take out of any old poem, historybook, romance, or legend-for instance, Geoffrey of Monmouth, or Don Belianis of Greece-those parts of story which afford most scope for long descriptions: put these pieces together, and throw all the adventures you fancy into one tale. Then take a hero whom you may choose for the sound of his name, and put him into the midst of these adventures: there let him work for twelve books; at the end of which, you may take him out ready prepared to conquer or to marry; it being necessary that the conclusion of an Epic Poem be fortunate.

To make an Episode.-Take any remaining adventure of your former collection, in which you could no way involve your hero; or any unfortunate accident that was too good to be thrown away; and it will be of use, applied to any other person who may be lost and evaporate in the course of the work, without the least damage to the composition.

For the Moral and Allegory.-These you may extract out of the Fable afterwards at your leisure. Be sure you strain them sufficiently.

For the Manners.-For those of the hero, take all the best qualities you can find in all the best celebrated heroes of antiquity; if they will not be reduced to a consistency, lay them all in a heap upon him. But be sure they are qualities which your patron would be thought to have; and to prevent any mistake which the world may be subject to, select from the alphabet those capital letters that compose his name, and set them at the head of a dedication before your poem. However, do not absolutely observe the exact quantity of these virtues, it not being determined whether or no it be necessary for the hero of a poem to be an honest man. For the under characters, gather them from Homer and Virgil, and change the names as occasion serves.

For the Machines.-Take of deities, male and female, as many as you can use; separate them into two equal parts, and keep Jupiter in the middle. Let Juno put him in a ferment, and Venus mollify him. Remember on all occasions to make use of volatile Mercury. If you have need of devils, draw them out of Milton's Paradise, and extract your spirits from Tasso. The use of these machines is evident; for since no Epic Poem can possibly subsist without them, the wisest way is to reserve them for your greatest necessities. When you cannot extricate your hero by any human means, or yourself by your own wits, seek relief from Heaven, and the gods will do your business very readily. This is according to the direct prescription of Horace in his Art of Poetry:

'Nec deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus Inciderit-'

'Never presume to make a god appear,

But for a business worthy of a god.'-ROSCOMMON.

That is to say, a poet should never call upon the gods for their assistance but when he is in great perplexity.

For the Descriptions.-For a Tempest.-Take Eurus, Zephyr, Auster, and Boreas, and cast them together in one verse: add to these, of rain, lightning, and of thunder (the loudest you can), quantum sufficit. Mix your clouds and billows well together till they foam, and thicken your description here and there with a quicksand. Brew your tempest well in your head before you set it a-blowing.

For a Battle.-Pick a large quantity of images and descriptions from Homer's Iliads, with a spice or two of Virgil; and if there remain any overplus, you may lay them by for a skirmish. Season it well with similes, and it will make an excellent battle.

For a Burning Town.-If such a description be necessary, because it is certain there is one in Virgil, Old Troy is ready burnt to your hands. But if you fear that would be thought borrowed, a chapter or two of the Theory of the Conflagration, well circumstanced, and done into verse, will be a good succedaneum.

As for Similes and Metaphors, they may be found all over the creation; the most ignorant may gather them; but the danger is in applying them. For this, advise with your bookseller.

For the Language.-(I mean the diction.) Here it will do well to be an imitator of Milton, for you will find it easier to imitate him in this than anything else. Hebraisms and Grecisms are to be found in him, without the trouble of learning the languages. I knew a painter, who, like our poet, had no genius, make his daubings be thought originals by setting them in the smoke. You may, in the same manner, give the venerable air of antiquity to your piece, by darkening it up and down with Old English. With this you may be easily furnished upon any occasion by the dictionary commonly printed at the end of Chaucer.

I must not conclude without cautioning all writers without genius in one material point; which is, never to be afraid of having too much fire in their works. I should advise rather to take their warmest thoughts, and spread them abroad upon paper, for they are observed to cool before they are read.

The first edition of Pope (1751), by his friend Bishop Warburton, was an answer to Bolingbroke's attack on Pope's memory. Warton's (1797) was virtually a reply to Warburton's; Bowles and Roscoe each published an edition of his works; but all other editions have been superseded by that of Elwin and Courthope, with a Life of the poet by Courthope in the last volume (10 vols. 1871-89).

John Dennis (1657-1734) was known as 'the critic,' and some of his critical disquisitions show an acute but narrow and coarse mind. The son of a prosperous London saddler, he had received a learned education at Harrow and Cambridge, and was well read in ancient and modern literature. He took his place among the men of wit and fashion, and brought a rancorous pen to the assistance of the Whigs. But his intolerable vanity, irritable temper, intemperance, and failure to attain literary success led him into feuds which rendered his whole life a scene of warfare. His critiques on Addison's Cato and Pope's Homer are well known. He wrote nine plays, for one of which-a tragedy called Appius and Virginia (1708)—he invented a

new species of thunder, which was approved of in the theatres. The play was not successful; and being afterwards present at a representation of Macbeth, and hearing his own thunder made use of, he growled, 'See how these rascals use me; they will not let my play run, and yet they steal my thunder!' Many ludicrous stories are told of his self-importance, which amounted to a disease. Southey has praised his critical powers, and Mr Gosse, who speaks highly of his earlier work, has noted his 'fervent and judicious eulogy of Milton;' but Dennis is remembered mainly for his bitter attacks on the new school of poetry in his time, and for his quarrels with Pope, whom he assailed as a 'stupid and impudent hunch-backed toad.' Pope took ample vengeance.

Charles Gildon (1665–1724), born at Gillingham in Dorsetshire, was a Catholic bred at Douay who became a deist, and was converted back to Protestant orthodoxy. He was an industrious hack-writer, wrote unsuccessful plays, occasional poems, a Life of Defoe, and some critical books, including one on The Laws of Poetry. As he preferred Tickell as a translator, and Ambrose Philips as a pastoral poet, to Pope, he was severely handled in the Dunciad and Moral Essays.

Edmund Smith (1672–1710) was, according to Dr Johnson, 'one of those lucky writers who have without much labour attained high reputation, and who are mentioned with reverence rather for the possession than the exertion of uncommon abilities; but the reputation and the reverence have vanished, and little is remembered but his name and the fact that he wrote an artificial play, Phædra and Hippolytus, on Racine's model, which had the honour of a prologue by Addison and an epilogue by Prior, but was 'hardly heard the third night.' Johnson sympathised with the public rather than with Addison, but highly praised Smith's Latin ode on the death of the orientalist, Dr Pococke, and his (English) elegy on John Philips. Handsome, slovenly 'Rag' Smith (for so he was known to his contemporaries) was the son of a London merchant called Neale, but assumed the name of a relative by whom he was brought up; he was expelled from Christ Church, Oxford, for his irregular life, and died of a dose of physic taken in defiance of the doctor.

John Hughes (1677-1720), born at Marlborough, and educated at the same Dissenting academy as Dr Isaac Watts, is best known as author of a successful tragedy, The Siege of Damascus, and as a contributor to the Tatler, the Spectator, the Guardian, and other serials. Pope and Swift thought more highly of his character than of his poetry. But he is one of Johnson's poets, having written a number of Poems on Several Occasions, odes, &c., as well as the libretto for an English opera, Calypso and Telemachus, a masque, and several cantatas set to music by Handel and other eminent musicians.

He wrote two volumes of a History of England, completed by another hand, and translated from French and Italian.

William King (1663–1712) was admitted among Johnson's poets on the strength of Mully of Mountown, in honour of a cow at a friend's house near Dublin; The Art of Cookery, in imitation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry;' The Art of Love, after Ovid; and one or two other poems, mostly humorous. But he was better known as a miscellaneous and controversial writer, an indolent and inefficient place-holder, and a 'starving wit.' The son of a well-connected London family, he studied at Westminster and Christ Church, became D.C.L. and advocate at Doctors' Commons, and was for a time Judge of the Admiralty Court in Ireland. succeeded Steele as Gazetteer, but could keep the post only a year and a half. He took part in the controversy with Bayle against Bentley, supported the Tory and High Church interest in the Sacheverell and other cases, and wrote against Marlborough. His best-known works are Dialogues of the Dead (against Bentley), and a travesty, A Journey to London, in the character of a Frenchman, in which the vein of jocularity is very thin. Thus he tediously enumerates trifling facts :

He

I found the houses some of them stone entire, some of brick with free-stone; as the Crown-Tavern upon Ludgate Hill and the corner house of Birchen lane and several others. Divers of the citizens houses have portcochers to drive in a coach or a cart either, and consequently have courts within and mostly remises to set them up. Such persons as have no port-cochers, and consequently no courts or remises, set up their coaches at other places and let their horses stand at livery. The cellar windows of most houses are grated with strong bars of iron to keep thieves out, and Newgate is grated up to the top to keep them in. Which must be a vast expence. There are beggars in London and people whose necessities force them to ask relief from such as they think able to afford it. . . . There is a great deal of noise in this city, of public cries of things to be sold, and great disturbance from pamphlets and hawkers.

Orpheus and Euridice is a burlesque overflowing with 'modernity,' and runs on in this fashion :

This Orpheus was a jolly boy,
Born long before the siege of Troy;
His parents found the lad was sharp,
And taught him on the Irish harp;
And when grown fit for marriage life,
Gave him Euridice for wife,

And they, as soon as match was made,
Set up the ballad-singing trade.
The cunning varlet cou'd devise,
For country folks ten thousand lies;
Affirming all those monstrous things
Were done by force of harp and strings;
Cou'd make a tyger in a trice
Tame as a cat, and catch your mice;
Cou'd make a lyon's courage flag,
And straight cou'd animate a stag,

And by the help of pleasing ditties,

Make mill-stones run, and build up cities;
Each had the use of fluent tongue,
If Dice scolded, Orpheus sung.
And so by discord without strife,
Compos'd one harmony of life;
And thus, as all their matters stood,
They got an honest livelihood.

Happy were mortals could they be
From any sudden danger free;
Happy were poets could their song,
The feeble thread of life prolong.
But as these two went strouling on,
Poor Dice's scene of life was done;
Away her fleeting breath must fly,
Yet no one knows wherefore, or why.
This caus'd the general lamentation,
To all that knew her in her station;
How brisk she was still to advance
The harper's gain, and lead the dance,
In every tune observe her trill,

Sing on, yet change the money still.

Another contemporary William King (1650–1729) was-though born in Aberdeenshire-Archbishop of Dublin, and a writer on divinity; a third (16851763), born at Stepney, and Principal of St Mary Hall, Oxford, was author of The Toast, a mockheroic satire levelled against his opponents in a troublesome lawsuit about a property in Galway.

Aaron Hill (1685–1750), the son of a Wiltshire squire, was bred at Barnstaple and Westminster, and travelled with a tutor to Constantinople and the Levant. He wrote numerous poems and a dozen plays, and cut a considerable figure among the literary men of the first half of the eighteenth century, not a few of whom were his debtors for encouragement and help; but he is best remembered for his controversy with Pope, the allusion to him in the Dunciad, for the spirit with which he met Pope's attack, and the victory he obtained in the ensuing correspondence. Only one of Hill's dramas, the tragedy of Zara, after Voltaire, can be said to have been popular. He was an ingenious, speculative man, projected a new way of making potash, extracted oil from beech-mast, manufactured wine from a vineyard in Essex, and tried to develop the rafting of timber down the Spey for the navy, but was seldom successful in any of his schemes.

Hill is not the contemptible poetaster he is often taken for, though in the eighty-two closely printed, double-columned pages occupied by his poetical works in Anderson's British Poets there is much wearisome commonplace, as well as some felicity of diction and real poetry, and much of no little interest, in a form old-fashioned enough to seem ungraceful, yet not archaic enough to be quaint. He praised Pope, encouraged Thomson with sound advice excellently versified, and enthusiastically greeted 'the unknown author of the beautiful new piece called Pamela.' He intervened warmly in prose and verse on behalf of Savage. He wrote