Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become
As they draw near to their eternal home.
The Soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,
Lets in new light thro’ chinks that time has made.

2. After all, these conceits, I doubt, are not much to your taste. The instance I am going to give, will afford you more pleasure. Is there a passage in Milton you read with more admiration, than this in the Penseroso?

Entice the dewy-feather’d sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream;
Of lively portraiture display’d
Softly on my eye-lids laid.

Would you think it possible now that the ground-work of this fine imagery should be laid in a passage of Ben Jonson? Yet so we read, or seem to read, in his Vision of Delight.

Break, Phant’sy, from thy cave of cloud,
And spread thy purple wings:
Create of airy forms a stream,
And tho’ it be a waking dream,
Yet let it like an odour rise
To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes
Or musick in their ear.

It is a delicate matter to analyze such passages as these; which, how exquisite soever in the poetry, when estimated by the fine phrenzy of a Genius, hardly look like sense when given in plain prose. But if you give me leave to take them in pieces, I will do it, at least, with reverence. We find then, that Fancy is here employed in one of her nicest operations, the production of a day-dream; which both poets represent as an airy form, or forms streaming in the air, gently falling on the eye-lids of her entranced votary. So far their imagery agrees. But now comes the mark of imitation I would point out to you. Milton carries the idea still further, and improves finely upon it, in the conception as well as expression. Jonson evokes fancy out of her cave of cloud, those cells of the mind, as it were, in which during her intervals of rest, and when unemploy’d, fancy lies hid; and bids her, like a Magician, create this stream of forms. All this is just and truly poetical. But Milton goes further. He employs the dewy-feather’d sleep as his Minister in this machinery. And the mysterious day-dream is seen waving at his wings in airy stream. Jonson would have Fancy immediately produce this Dream. Milton more poetically, because in more distinct and particular imagery, represents Fancy as doing her work by means of sleep; that soft composure of the mind abstracted from outward objects, in which it yields to these phantastic impressions.

You see then a wonderful improvement in this addition to the original thought. And the notion of dreams waving at the wings of sleep is, by the way, further justified by what Virgil feigns of their sticking or rather fluttering on the leaves of his magic tree in the infernal regions. But it is curious to observe how this improvement itself arose from hints suggested by his original. From Jonson’s dream, falling, like sleep upon their eyes, Milton took his feather’d sleep, which he impersonates so properly; And from Phant’sy’s spreading her purple wings, a circumstance, not so immediately connected with Jonson’s design of creating of airy forms a stream, he catched the idea of Sleep spreading her wings; and to good purpose, since the airy stream of forms was to wave at them.

However, Jonson’s image is, in itself, incomparable. It is taken from a winged insect breaking out of its Aurelia state, its cave of cloud, as it is finely called: Not unlike that of Mr. Pope,

So spins the Silk-worm small its slender store,
And labours till it clouds itself all o’er.
IV. Dunc. v. 253.

And nothing can be juster than this allusion. For the ancients always pictured Fancy and Human-love with Insect’s wings.

XIV. Thus then, whether the poet prevaricates, enlarges, or adds, still we frequently find some latent circumstance, attending his management, that convicts him of Imitation. Nay, he is not safe even when he denies himself these liberties; I mean when he only glances at his original. “For, in this case, the borrowed sentiment usually wants something of that perspicuity which always attends the first delivery of it.” This Rule may be considered as the Reverse of the last. A writer, sometimes, takes a pleasure to refine on a plain thought: Sometimes (and that is usually when the original sentiment is well known and fully developed) he does not so much as attempt to open and explain it.

A poet of the last age has the following lines, on the subject of Religion:

Religion now is a young Mistress here,
For which each man will fight, and dye at least;
Let it alone awhile, and ’t will become
A kind of married wife; people will be
Content to live with it in quietness.

Suckling says this in his Tragedy of Brennoralt; which is a Satire throughout on the rising troubles of that time. Butler has taken the thought and applied it on the same occasion:

When hard words, jealousies, and fears
Set folks together by the ears,
And make them fight, like mad or drunk,
For dame Religion, as for Punk.

Setting aside the difference between the burlesque and serious style, one easily sees that this sentiment is borrowed from Suckling. It has not the clear and full exposition of an original thought. Butler only represents men as drunk with Religion and fighting for it as for a Punk. The other gives the reason of the Debauch, namely, fondness for a new face; and tells us, besides, how things would subside into peace or indifference on a nearer and more familiar acquaintance. One could expect no less from the Inventor of this humorous thought; a Borrower might be content to allude to it.

XV. This last consideration puts me in mind of another artifice to conceal a borrowed sentiment. Nothing lies more open to discovery than a Simile in form, especially if it be a remarkable one. These are a sort of purpurei panni which catch all eyes; and, if the comparison be not a writer’s own, he is almost sure to be detected. The way then that refined Imitators take to conceal themselves, in such a case, is to run the Similitude into Allegory. We have a curious instance in Mr. Pope, who has succeeded so well in the attempt, that his plagiarism, I believe, has never been suspected.

The verses, I have in my eye, are these fine ones, addressed to Lord Bolingbroke,

Oh, while along the stream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all it’s fame,
Say, shall my little Bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the Gale?

What think you, now, of these admired verses? Are they, besides their other beauties, perfectly original? You will be able to resolve this question, by turning to the following passage in a Poet, Mr. Pope was once fond of, I mean Statius,

Sic ubi magna novum Phario de litore puppis
Solvit iter, jamque innumeros utrinque rudentes
Lataque veliferi porrexit brachia mali
Invasitque vias, in eodem angusta phaselus
Æquore, et immensi partem sibi vendicat Austri.
Silv. l. V. I. v. 242.

But, especially, this other,

—immensæ veluti CONNEXA carinæ
Cymba minor, cum sævit hyems, pro parte, furentes
Parva receptat aquas, et EODEM VOLVITUR AUSTRO.
Silv. l. I. iv. v. 120.

XVI. I release you from this head of Sentiments, with observing that we sometimes conclude a writer to have had a celebrated original in his eye, when “without copying the peculiar thought, or stroke of imagery, he gives us only a copy of the impression, it had made upon him.”

1. In delivering this rule, I will not dissemble that I myself am copying, or rather stealing from a great critic: From one, however, who will not resent this theft; as indeed he has no reason, for he is so prodigiously rich in these things, as in others of more value, that what he neglects or flings away, would make the fortune of an ordinary writer. The person I mean is the late Editor of Shakespear, who, in an admirable note on Julius Cæsar, taking occasion to quote that passage of Cato,

O think what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods,
Oh, ’tis a dreadful interval of time,
Fill’d up with horror all, and big with death,

observes “that Mr. Addison was so struck and affected with the terrible graces of Shakespear (in the passage he is there considering) that, instead of imitating his author’s sentiments, he hath, before he was aware, given us only the copy of his own impressions made by them. For,

Oh, ’tis a dreadful interval of time,
Fill’d up with horror all, and big with death,

are but the affections raised by such forcible images as these,

——All the Int’rim is
Like a Phantasma, or a hideous dream
——The state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an Insurrection.”

The observation is new and finely applied. Give me leave to suppose that the following is an instance of the same nature.

2. Milton on a certain occasion says of Death, that she

“Grinn’d horrible a ghastly smile—”
P. L. B. II. v. 846.

This representation is supposed by his learned Editor to be taken from Homer, from Statius, or from the Italian poets. A certain friend of ours, not to be named without honour, and therefore not at all on so slight an occasion, suggests that it might probably be copied from Spenser’s,

Grinning griesly—
B. V. c. 12.

And there is the more likelihood in this conjecture, as the poet a little before had call’d death—the griesly terror—v. 704. But after all, if he had any preceding writer in view, I suspect it might be Fletcher; who, in his Wife for a Month, has these remarkable lines,

The game of Death was never play’d more nobly,
The meagre thief grew wanton in his mischiefs,
And his shrunk hollow eyes smil’d on his ruin.

The word Ghastly, I would observe, gives the precise idea of shrunk hollow eyes, and looks as if Milton, in admiration of his original, had only looked out for an epithet to Death’s smile, as he found it pictured in Fletcher.

Thus much, then, may perhaps serve for an illustration of the first part of this Inquiry. We have found out several marks, and applied them to various passages in the best writers, from which we may reasonably enough be allowed to infer an Imitation in point of Sentiment. For what respect the other part of Expression, this is an easier task, and will be dispatched in few words.

Only you will indulge me in an observation or two, to prevent your expecting from me more than I undertake to perform.

When I speak of Expression, then I mean to confine myself “to single words of sentences, or at most the structure of a passage.” When Imitation is carried so far as to affect the general cast of language, or what we call a Style, no great sagacity is, perhaps, required to detect it. Thus the Ciceroniani, if they were not ambitious of proclaiming themselves, are discoverable at the first glance. And the later Roman poets, as well as the modern Latin versifiers, are, to the best of their power, Virgilian. The thing is perhaps still easier in a living language; especially if that language be our own. Milton and Pope, if they have made but few poets, have made many imitators; so many, that we are ready to complain there is hardly an original poet left.

Another point seems of no importance in the present inquiry. I know, it is asked, How far a writer casually or designedly imitates? that is, whether he copies another from memory only, without recollecting, at the time, the passage from which his expression is drawn, or purposely, and with full knowledge of his original. And this consideration is of much weight, as I have shewn at large, where the question is concerning the credit of the supposed imitator. For this is affected by nothing but direct and intended imitation. But as we are looking at present only for those marks in the expression which shew it not to be original, it is enough that the resemblance is such as cannot well be accounted for but on the supposition of some sort of commerce; whether immediately perceived by the writer himself, is not material. ’Tis true, this observation is applicable to sentiments as well as expression; and I have not pretended to give the preceding articles, as proofs, or even presumptions, in all cases, that the later writer copied intentionally from a former. But there is this difference in the two cases. Sentiments may be strikingly similar, or even identical, without the least thought, or even effect, of a preceding original. But the identity of expression, except in some few cases of no importance, is, in the same language, where the writer speaks entirely from himself, an almost impossible thing. And you will be of this mind, if you reflect on the infinitely varied lights in which the same image or sentiment presents itself to different writers; the infinitely varied purpose they have to serve by it; or where it happens to strike precisely in the same manner, and is directed precisely to the same end, the infinite combinations of words in which it may be expressed. To all which you may add, that the least imaginable variation, either in the terms or the structure of them, not only destroys the identity, but often disfigures the resemblance to that degree that we hardly know it to be a resemblance.

So that you see, the marks of imitated or, if you will, derived expression are much less equivocal, than of sentiment. We may pronounce of the former without hesitation, that it is taken, when corresponding marks in the latter would only authorise us to conclude that it was the same or perhaps similar.

I need not use more words to convince you, that the distinction of casual and design’d imitation is still of less significancy in this class of imitations, than the other.

And with this preamble, more particular perhaps and circumstantial than was necessary, I now proceed to lay before you some of those signs of derived expression, which I conceive to be unequivocal. If they are so, they will generally appear at first sight; so that I shall have little occasion to trouble you, as I did before, with my comments. It will be sufficient to deliver the rule, and to exemplify it.

I. An identity of expression, especially if carried on through an intire sentence, is the most certain proof of imitation.

Mr. Waller of Sacharissa,

So little care of what is done below
Hath the bright dame, whom heav’n affecteth so;
Paints her, ’tis true, with the same hand which spreads
Like glorious colours thro’ the flow’ry meads;
When lavish nature with her best attire
Cloaths the gay spring, the season of desire.

Mr. Fenton takes notice that the poet is copying from the Muiopotmos of Spenser.

To the gay gardens his unstaid desire
Him wholly carried to refresh his sprights:
There lavish Nature, in her best attire,
Pours forth sweet odours and alluring sights.

We shall see presently that, besides the identity of expression, there is also another mark of imitation in this passage.

II. But less than this will do, where the similarity of thought, and application of it, is striking.

Mr. Pope says divinely well,

Shall burning Ætna, if a sage requires,
Forget to thunder and recall its fires?
On air or sea new motions be impress’d,
Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast?
When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease if you go by?
Or some old temple nodding to its fall
For Chartres’ head reserve the hanging wall?
Essay IV. V. 123.

Now turn to Mr. Wollaston, an easy natural writer (where his natural manner is not stiffened by a mathematical pedantry) and abounding in fine sallies of the imagination; and see if the poet did not catch his expression, as well as the fire of his conception in this place, from the philosopher:

“As to the course of Nature, if a good man be passing by an infirm building, just in the article of falling, can it be expected that God should suspend the force of gravitation till he is gone by, in order to his deliverance; or can we think it would be increased, and the fall hastened, if a bad man was there, only that he might be caught, crushed, and made an example? If a man’s safety or prosperity should depend upon winds or rains, must new motions be impressed upon the atmosphere, and new directions given to the floating parts of it, by some extraordinary and new influence from God?”

III. Sometimes the original expression is not taken but paraphrased; and the writer disguises himself in a kind of circumlocution. Yet this artifice does not conceal him, especially if some fragments, as it were, of the inventor’s phrase are found dispersedly in the imitation.

For in the secret of her troubled thought
A doubtful combat love and honour fought.
Fairfax’s Tasso, B. IV. S. 70.

Hence Mr. Waller,

There public care and private passion fought
A doubtful combat in his noble thought.
Poems, p. 14.

Public care is the periphrasis of honour, and private passion, of love. For the rest you see—disjecti membra poetæ.

IV. An imitation is discoverable, when there is but the least particle of the original expression, “by a peculiar and no very natural arrangement of words.”

In Fletcher’s faithful Shepherdess, the speaker says,

— — — — — — — In thy face
Shines more awful majesty,
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live

The writer glanced, but very improperly on such an occasion, at Exod. xxxiii. 20. “Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and live.”

V. An uncommon construction of words not identical, especially if the subject be the same, or the ideas similar, will look like imitation.

Milton says finely of the Swan,

— — — — —The Swan with arched neck
Between her white wings mantling proudly ROWS
Her state

I should think he might probably have that line of Fletcher in his head,

How like a Swan she SWIMS HER PACE!

The expression, you see, is very like. ’Tis true, the image in Milton is much nobler. It is taken from a barge of state in a public procession.

VI. We may even pronounce that a single word is taken, when it is new and uncommon.

Milton’s calling a ray of light—a levell’d rule in Comus v. 340, is so particular that, when one reads in Euripides ἡλίου ΚΑΝΩΝ σαφὴς, Suppl. v. 650, one has no doubt that the learned poet translated the Greek word.

Again, Mr. Pope’s,

“Or ravish’d with the whistling of a name,”

is for the same reason, if there were no other points of likeness, copied from Mr. Cowley’s

“Charm’d with the foolish whistlings of a name.”
Transl. of Virgil’s O! fortunati nimium, &c.

VII. An improper use of uncommon expression, in very exact writers, will sometimes create a suspicion. Milton had called the sight indifferently visual nerve and visual ray, P. L. iii. 620. xi. 415. Mr. Pope in his Messiah thought he might take the same liberty, but forgot that though the visual nerve might be purged from film, the visual ray could not. Had Mr. Pope invented this bold expression, he would have seen to apply his metaphor more properly.

VIII. Where the word or phrase is foreign, there is, if possible, still less doubt.

— — — —at last his sail-broad vans
He spreads for flight.
Milton, P. L. ii. v. 927.

Most certainly from Tasso’s,

—Spiega al grand volo i vanni. ix.

And that of Jonson in his Sejanus,

O! what is it proud slime will not believe
Of his own worth, to hear it equal prais’d
Thus with the Gods
A. 1.

from Juvenal’s

— — —nihil est quod credere de se
Non possit, cum laudatur Diis æqua potestas.

IX. Conclude the same when the expression is antique, in the writer’s own language.

In Mr. Waller’s Panegyric on the Protector,

So, when a Lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

The antique formality of the phrase that first took pain, for, that first took the pains, in so pure and modern a speaker, as this poet, looks suspicious. He took it, as he found it in an older writer. There are many other marks of imitation, but we had needed no more than this to make the discovery:

So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And beats his tail, with courage proud, and wroth,
If his commander come, who first took pain
To tame his youth, his lofty crest down go’th.
Fairfax’s Tasso, B. VIII. S. 83.

X. You observe in most of the instances, here given, besides other marks, there is an identity of rhyme. And this circumstance of itself, in our poetry, is no bad argument of imitation, particularly when joined to a similarity of expression. And the reason is, the rhyme itself very naturally brings the expression along with it.

1. “Stuck o’er with titles, and hung round with strings,
That thou mayst be by Kings, or whores of Kings.”
Essay on Man, E. IV. V. 205.

from Mr. Cowley in his translation of Hor. 1. ep. 10.

“To Kings, or to the favourites of Kings.”
2. “Such is the world’s great harmony, that springs
From order, union, full consent of things.”
Ep. III. 295.

from Denham’s Cowper’s Hill,

“Wisely she knew the harmony of things
As well as that of sounds from discord springs.”
3. “Far as the solar walk, or milky way.”
Essay on Man, Ep. I. V. 102.

from Mr. Dryden’s Pindaric Poem to the memory of K. Charles II.

“Out of the solar walk, or heav’n’s high way.”

Though these consonancies chyming in the writer’s head, he might not always be aware of the imitation.

XI. In the examples, just given, there was no reason to suspect the poet was imitating, till you met with the original. Then indeed the rhyme leads to the discovery. But “if an exact writer falls into a flatness of expression for the sake of rhyme, you may ev’n previously conclude that he has some precedent for it.”

In the famous lines,

Let modest Foster, if he will, excell
Ten metropolitans in preaching well.
Ep. to Satires, v. 131.

I used to suspect that the phrase of preaching well so unlike the concise accuracy of Pope, would not have been hazarded by him, if some eminent writer, though perhaps of an older age and less correct taste than his own, had not set the example. But I had no doubt left when I happened on the following couplet in Mr. Waller.

Your’s sounds aloud, and tells us you excell
No less in courage, than in singing well.
Poem to Sir W. D’Avenant.

Our great poet is more happy in the application of these rhymes on another occasion,

Let such teach others, who themselves excell,
And censure freely, who have written well.
Essay on Crit. v. 15.

The reason is apparent. But here he glanced at the Duke of Buckingham’s,

“Nature’s chief master-piece is writing well.”

XII. “The same pause and turn of expression are pretty sure symptoms of imitation.” These minute resemblances do not usually spring from Nature, which, when the sentiment is the same, hath a hundred ways of its own, of giving it to us.

1. That noble verse in the essay on criticism, v. 625.

“For fools rush in, where angels dare not tread,”

is certainly fashion’d upon Shakespear’s,

——————————“the world is grown so bad
That wrens make prey, where angels dare not perch.”
Rich. III. A. I. S. III.

2. The verses to Sir W. Trumbal in Past. 1.

“And carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost.”

from Waller’s Maid’s Tragedy alter’d,

Happy he that from the world retires
And carries with him what the world admires.
p. 215. Lond. 1712.

XIII. When to these marks the same Rhyme is added, the case is still more evident.

“Men would be angels, angels would be Gods.”
Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 126.

Without all question from Sir Fulk Grevil,

Men would be tyrants, tyrants would be Gods.
Works, Lond. 1633. p. 73.

XIV. The seeming quaintness and obscurity of an expression frequently indicates imitation. As when in Fletcher’s Pilgrim we read,

Hummings of higher nature vex his brains.”
A. II. S. 2.

Had the idea been original, the poet had expressed it more plainly. In leaving it thus, he pays his reader the compliment to suppose, that he will readily call to mind,

aliena negotia centum
Per caput, et circa saliunt latus;

which sufficiently explains it: As we may see from Mr. Cowley’s application of the same passage. “Aliena negotia centum per caput et centum saliunt latus. A hundred businesses of other men fly continually about his head and ears, and strike him in the face like Dorres.” Disc. of Liberty. And still more clearly, from Mr. Pope’s,

“A hundred other men’s affairs,
Like bees, are humming in my ears.”

Learned writers of quick parts abound in these delicate allusions. It makes a principal part of modern elegancy to glance in this oblique manner at well-known passages in the classics.

XV. I will trouble you with but one more note of imitated expression, and it shall be the very reverse of the last. When the passages glanced at are not familiar, the expression is frequently minute and circumstantial, corresponding to the original in the order, turn, and almost number of the words. The reasons are, that, the imitated passage not being known, the imitator may give it, as he finds it, with safety, or at least without offence; and that, besides, the force and beauty of it would escape us in a brief and general allusion. The following are instances:

1. “Man never is, but always to be blest.”
Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 69.

from Manilius,

Victuros agimus semper, nec vivimus unquam.
2. —“Hope never comes,
That comes to all.”—
Milton, P. L. I. v. 66.

from Euripides in the Troad. v. 676.

—οὐδ’ ὃ πᾶσι λείπεται βροτοῖς,
Ξύνεστιν ἐλπὶς.—

3. But above all, that in Jonson’s Catiline,

“He shall die:
Shall was too slowly said: He’s dying: That
Is still too slow: He’s dead.”

from Seneca’s Hercules furens, A. III.

“Lycus Creonti debitas poenas dabit:
Lentum est, dabit; dat: hoc quoque est lentum; dedit.”

You have now, Sir, before you a specimen of those rules, which I have fancied might be fairly applied to the discovery of imitations, both in regard to the SENSE and EXPRESSION of great writers. I would not pretend that the same stress is to be laid on all; but there may be something, at least, worth attending to in every one of them. It were easy, perhaps, to enumerate still more, and to illustrate these I have given with more agreeable citations. Yet I have spared you the disgust of considering those vulgar passages, which every body recollects and sets down for acknowledged imitations. And these I have used are taken from the most celebrated of the ancient and modern writers. You may observe indeed that I have chiefly drawn from our own poets; which I did, not merely because I know you despise the pedantry of confining one’s self to learned quotations, but because I think we are better able to discern those circumstances, which betray an imitation, in our own language than in any other. Amongst other reasons, an identity of words and phrases, upon which so much depends, especially in the article of expression, is only to be had in the same language. And you are not to be told with how much more certainty we determine of the degree of evidence, which such identity affords for this purpose, in a language we speak, than in one which we only lisp or spell.

But you will best understand of what importance this affair of expression is to the discovery of imitations, by considering how seldom we are able to fix an imitation on Shakespear. The reason is, not, that there are not numberless passages in him very like to others in approved authors, or that he had not read enough to give us a fair hold of him; but that his expression is so totally his own, that he almost always sets us at defiance.

You will ask me, perhaps, now I am on this subject, how it happened that Shakespear’s language is every where so much his own as to secure his imitations, if they were such, from discovery; when I pronounce with such assurance of those of our other poets. The answer is given for me in the Preface to Mr. Theobald’s Shakespear; though the observation, I think, is too good to come from that critic. It is, that, though his words, agreeably to the state of the English tongue at that time, be generally Latin, his phraseology is perfectly English: An advantage, he owed to his slender acquaintance with the Latin idiom. Whereas the other writers of his age, and such others of an older date as were likely to fall into his hands, had not only the most familiar acquaintance with the Latin idiom, but affected on all occasions to make use of it. Hence it comes to pass, that, though he might draw sometimes from the Latin (Ben Jonson, you know, tells us, He had less Greek) and the learned English writers, he takes nothing but the sentiment; the expression comes of itself, and is purely English.

I might indulge in other reflexions, and detain you still further with examples taken from his works. But we have lain, as the Poet speaks, on these primrose beds, too long. It is time that you now rise to your own nobler inventions; and that I return myself to those, less pleasing, perhaps, but more useful studies from which your friendly sollicitations have called me. Such as these amusements are, however, I cannot repent me of them, since they have been innocent at least, and even ingenuous; and, what I am fondest to recollect, have helped to enliven those many years of friendship we have passed together in this place. I see indeed, with regret, the approach of that time, which threatens to take me both from it, and you. But, however fortune may dispose of me, she cannot throw me to a distance, to which your affection and good wishes, at least, will not follow me.

And for the rest,

“Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.”

The coming years of my life will not, I foresee, in many respects, be what the past have been to me. But, till they take me from myself, I must always bear about me the agreeable remembrance of our friendship.

I am,
Dear Sir,
Your most affectionate
Friend and Servant.
Cambridge,
Aug. 15, 1757.


INDEX
TO THE
TWO VOLUMES.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was published in three sets containing eight individual volumes, of which this is the second volume of the first set. The first volume was released as Project Gutenberg ebook #52998, available here.

The links in the index to the first volume will open the online e-book to the indicated page. The links will not work in e-readers.