polish and refine what was in the original, rough, unharmonious, and indelicate, proved disgustful to the old gentleman, then near 70, who, perhaps, was a little ashamed, that a boy at 16 should so severely correct his works.  Letters of dissatisfaction were written by Mr. Wycherley, and at last he informed him, in few words, that he was going out of town, without mentioning to what place, and did not expect to hear from him ’till he came back.  This cold indifference extorted from Mr. Pope a protestation, that nothing should induce him ever to write to him again.  Notwithstanding this peevish behaviour of Mr. Wycherley, occasioned by jealousy and infirmities, Mr. Pope preserved a constant respect and reverence for him while he lived, and after his death lamented him.  In a letter to Edward Blount, esq; written immediately upon the death of this poet, he has there related some anecdotes of Wycherly, which we shall insert here, especially as they are not taken notice of in his life.

’DEAR SIR,

’I know of nothing that will be so interesting to you, at present, as some circumstances of the last act of that eminent comic poet, and our friend, Wycherley.  He had often told me, as, I doubt not, he did all his acquaintance, that he would marry, as soon as his life was despaired of:  accordingly, a few days before his death, he underwent the ceremony, and joined together those two sacraments, which, wise men say, should be the last we receive; for, if you observe, matrimony is placed after extreme unction in our catechism, as a kind of hint of the order of time in which they are to be taken.  The old man then lay down, satisfied in the conscience of having, by this one act, paid his just debts, obliged a woman, who, he was told, had merit, and shewn a heroic resentment of the ill usage of his next heir.  Some hundred pounds which he had with the lady, discharged those debts; a jointure of four hundred a year made her a recompence; and the nephew he left to comfort himself, as well as he could, with the miserable remains of a mortgaged estate.  I saw our friend twice after this was done, less peevish in his sickness, than he used to be in his health, neither much afraid of dying, nor (which in him had been more likely) much ashamed of marrying.  The evening before he expired, he called his young wife to the bed side, and earnestly entreated her not to deny him one request, the last he should ever make.  Upon her assurance of consenting to it, he told her, my dear, it is only this, that you will never marry an old man again.  I cannot help remarking, that sickness, which often destroys both wit and wisdom, yet seldom has power to remove that talent we call humour.  Mr. Wycherley shewed this even in this last compliment, though, I think, his request a little hard; for why should he bar her from doubling her jointure on the same easy terms.’