a deed in her favour, giving her forty pounds a year for six years! Before the six years expired there was another difficulty between them—a quarrel, or something of the kind, which was never made up. He ceased to write to her, seldom, if ever, met her, and when he died never mentioned her name in his will. She passed out of his life in 1722. Martha maintained her ascendency over him, though her reign was weakened at one time by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Not that Lady Mary ever disputed it with her. She was no usurper of the fair Martha's rights, but an independent sovereign, whom his majesty, Alexander the Great, had invited to share his little kingdom. He met her in London in 1714, or thereabouts, and was charmed with her beauty and wit. Clever and learned, celebrated as a belle from her childhood, she was just the woman to captivate him. She recognized his genius, and with feminine tact allowed him to shine in her company. Her appreciation flattered him, and touched his heart through his vanity. In 1716 she accompanied her husband (for there was a husband in the case, though a dull one) to Constantinople. Pope was the last person she saw in England before her departure. "In what manner did I behave," he wrote, "the last hour I saw you? What degree of concern did I discover, when I felt a misfortune, which I hope you will never feel, that of parting from what one most esteems? For if my parting looked but like that of your common acquaintance, I am the greatest of all hypocrites that ever decency made. I never since pass by the house but with the same sort of melancholy that we feel upon seeing the tomb of a friend, which only serves to put us in mind of what we have lost," etc., etc. She met his raptures sensibly, and thanked him for the obliging concern which he expressed for her. He continued the correspondence warmly, but was not answered in the same spirit. She gossiped about what she saw in her travels, but avoided any allusion to his passion. Her letters were brilliant and entertaining, and must have delighted him as a wit, but they were not satisfactory to him as a lover. After an absence of two years and a half she returned to England with her husband, and took up her abode in London. Pope engaged a house for them in Twickenham, where he was then residing, and the next summer they moved thither, and he was happy. He renewed his intimacy with Lady Mary, who was a frequent visitor at his house. He wrote notes to her, and verses, and got her to sit to Kneller for her portrait for him. They were the best friends in the world. But by and by there came a change. Their friendship cooled, their intimacy ceased; they hated each other. The cause of the rupture was long a mystery, but years afterwards, when they were both in their graves, it came out, that "at some ill-chosen time, when she least expected what romances call a declaration, he made such passionate love to her, as, in spite of her utmost endeavours to be angry and look grave, produced an immoderate fit of laughter; from that moment he became her implacable enemy." After this unfortunate affair with Lady Mary, Pope returned to his old allegiance with Martha Blount, and for the rest of his life was content with her love, or friendship, or whatever it was she gave him. It was whispered about that they were married, or should have been, but both these charges were denied. Their relation was a subject of scandal in Pope's lifetime, and has been frequently discussed since, but to little purpose. There is no proof in the case, especially in favour of a guilty connection between them, but many circumstances against it, not the least of which is the respect with which Martha Blount was regarded by her contemporaries.

The best people of her time-gentlemen and ladies of unimpeachable virtue-considered themselves honoured by her friendship. But the point is not worth discussing. The reader will form what opinion he pleases: mine is a charitable one. I believe that Pope loved Martha Blount when he was young, as much as he could love any one; but that being, for some reason or other, averse to marriage, he subsided from a lover to a friend. He was Martha Blount's friend, and by all odds the best one she ever had. He managed her affairs for her; introduced her into the houses of the great; quarrelled with his friends when they offended her; in short, watched over her and her interests during his life, and at his death left her the bulk of his fortune. She died on the 12th of July, 1763, nineteen years after Pope, in the seventy-fourth year of her age.

The portrait of Martha Blount given here is from a family picture at Mapledurham. This picture, which is said to have been painted by Kneller, represents her and her sister as gathering flowers, and confirms the line of Gay, who describes the pair, as

"The fair-haired Martha, and Teresa brown."

The coronation mentioned in the poem addressed to Teresa, was that of George the First, which took place in September, 1714. I have not been able to fix the date of the birth-day verses.

EPISTLE TO MRS. TERESA BLOUNT,

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.

As some fond virgin, whom a mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh:
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts forever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caused her discontent;
She sighed not that they stayed, but that she went.
She went to plain work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and prayers three times a day;

To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea,

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;

Up to her godly garret after seven,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.
Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack,
Whose game is whisk, whose treat a toast in sack;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a snacking buss, and cries-no words;
Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things-but his horse.
In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,
See coronations rise on every green;
Before you pass th' imaginary sights

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and gartered knights,
While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme,)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;
Vexed to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.