[26 October 1726]
. . . I intend to send you two or three poems of Mr Pope, the best poet of England, and at present, of all the world.
J hope you are acquainted enough with the English tongue, to be sensible of all the charms of his works. For my part j look on his poem call'd the essay upon criticism as superior to the art of poetry of Horace; and his rape of the lock, la boucle de cheveux, (that is a comical one) is in my opinion above the lutrin of Despreaux. J never saw so amiable an imagination, so gentle graces, so great varyetry, so much wit, and so refined knowledge of the world, as in this little performance.
Now my dear Tiriot after having fully answered to what you asked about English books, let me acquaint you with an account of my for ever cursed fortune. J came again into England in the latter end of July very much dissatisfied with my secret voiage into France both unsuccessful and expensive. J had about me onely some bills of exchange upon a Jew called Medina for the sum of about eight or nine thousand French livres, rekoning all. At my coming to London i found my damned Jew was broken. J was without a penny, sick to death of a violent agüe, a stranger, alone, helpless, in the midst of a city, wherein j was known to no body. My lord and my lady Bolingbroke were in the country. J could not make bold to see our ambassador in so wretched a condition. J had never undergone such distress; but j am born to run through all the misfortunes of life. In these circumstances, my star, that among all its direful influences pours allways on me some kind refreshment, sent to me an English gentleman unknown to my, who forced me to receive some money that j wanted. An other London citizen that j had seen but once at Paris, carried me to his own country house, where in j lead an obscure and charming life since that time, without going to London, and quite given over to the pleasures of indolence and of friendship. The true and generous affection of this man who sooths the bitterness of my life brings me to love you more and more. All the instances of friendshipp indear my friend Tiriot to me. J have seen often mylord and mylady Bolinbroke. J have found their affection still the same, even increased in proportion to my unhappiness. They offered me all, their money, their house; but j refused all, because they are lords, and j have accepted all from mr Faulknear, because he is a single gentleman.
J had a mind at first to print out Poor Henry at my own expenses in London, but the loss of my money is a sad stop to me design: j question if j shall try the way of subscriptions by the favour of the court. J am weary of courts my Thiriot. All that is King, or belongs to a King, frights my republican philosophy, j won't drink the least draught of slavery in the land of liberty.
J have written freely to the abbot Desfontaines it is true, and j will allwais do so, having no reason to lay myself under any restraint. J fear, j hope nothing from your country. All that j wish for, is to see you one day in London. J am entertaining myself with this pleasant hope. If it is but a dream, let me enjoy it, don't undeceive me, let me believe j shall have the pleasure to see you in London, (drawing up) the strongs pirit of this unaccountable nation. You will translate their thoughts better, when you live among em. You will see a nation fond of their liberty, learned, witty, despising life and death, a nation of philosophers, not but that there are some fools in England, every country has its madmen. It may be, French folly is pleasanter, than English madness, but by god English wisdom and English Honesty is above yours. One day j will acquaint you with the character of this strange people, but tis time to put an end to my English talkativeness. I fear, you will take this long epistle for one of those tedious English books that j have advised you not to translate. Before j make up my letter, j must acquaint you with the reason of receiving yours so late. T'is the fault of my correspondent at Calais, master Dunoquet. So you must write to me afterwards, at my lord Bolingbroke's house, London. This way is shorter and surer. Tell all who will write to me that they ought to make use of this superscription.
J have written so much about the death of my sister to those who had writ to me on this account, that i had almost forgotten so speak to you of her. J have nothing to tell you on that accident but that you know my heart and my way of thinking. J have wept for her death, and j would be with her. Life is but a dream full of starts of folly, and of fancied, and true miseries. Death awakes us from this painful dream, and gives us, either a better existence or no existence at all. Farewell. Write often to me. Depend upon my exactness in answering you when j shall be fixed in London.
Write me some lines in English to show your improvement in your learning.
J have received the letter of the marquess of Villars, and that which came from Turky by Marseille.
J have forgot the romance which you speak of. J don't remember j have ever made verses upon this subject. Forget it, forget all those deliriums of my youth. For my part j have drunk of the River Lethé. J remember nothing but my friends.