morning, and coach-hire also; which she durst not refuse, lest she should have been deemed as great a blockhead as the parson who refused thick wine.
In one of the dean's periodical fits of deafness, he sent for Mrs. Pilkington; who having come, he brought out a large book, finely bound in Turkey leather, and handsomely gilt; "This," said he, "is the Translation of the Epistles of Horace, a present to me from the author; it is a special good cover; but I have a mind there should be something valuable within side of it." So, taking out his penknife, he cut out all the leaves close to the inner margin. "Now," said he, "I will give these what they greatly want;" and put them all into the fire. "Your task, madam, is to paste in these letters, in this cover, in the order I shall give them to you: I intended to do it myself, but that I thought it might be a pretty amusement for a child; so I sent for you." She told him, she was extremely proud to be honoured with his commands; but requested to have leave to read the letters as she went on. "Why," said the dean, "provided you will acknowledge yourself amply rewarded for your trouble, I do not much care if I indulge you so far."
In reading the letters, she could not avoid remarking to the dean, that notwithstanding the friendship Mr. Pope professed for Mr. Gay, he could not forbear a great many satirical, or, if she might be allowed to say so, envious remarks on the success of the Beggar's Opera[1]. The dean very frankly owned, he did not think Mr. Pope was so candid
