_From my own Apartment, September 27._[1]

The following letter has laid before me many great and manifest evils in
the world of letters[2] which I had overlooked; but they open to me a
very busy scene, and it will require no small care and application to
amend errors which are become so universal. The affectation of politeness
is exposed in this epistle with a great deal of wit and discernment; so
that whatever discourses I may fall into hereafter upon the subjects the
writer treats of, I shall at present lay the matter before the World
without the least alteration from the words of my correspondent.


"TO ISAAC BICKERSTAFF ESQ;

"SIR,

"There are some abuses among us of great consequence, the reformation of
which is properly your province, though, as far as I have been conversant
in your papers, you have not yet considered them. These are, the
deplorable ignorance that for some years hath reigned among our English
writers, the great depravity of our taste, and the continual corruption
of our style. I say nothing here of those who handle particular sciences,
divinity, law, physic, and the like; I mean, the traders in history and
politics, and the _belles lettres;_ together with those by whom books
are not translated, but (as the common expressions are) 'done out of
French, Latin,' or other language, and 'made English.' I cannot but
observe to you, that till of late years a Grub-Street book was always
bound in sheepskin, with suitable print and paper, the price never above
a shilling, and taken off wholly by common tradesmen, or country pedlars,