No More Learning

He always spoke
of Pope as too much a lover of money; and Pope pursued him with avowed
hostility; for he not only named him disrespectfully in the Dunciad, but
quoted him more than once in the Bathos, as a proficient in the Art of
Sinking; and in his enumeration of the different kinds of poets
distinguished for the profound, he reckons Broome among "the parrots who
repeat another's words in such a hoarse odd tone as makes them seem
their own. " I have been told that they were afterwards reconciled; but I
am afraid their peace was without friendship.

He afterwards published a Miscellany of Poems, which is inserted, with
corrections, in the late compilation.

He never rose to a very high dignity in the church. He was some time
rector of Sturston, in Suffolk, where he married a wealthy widow; and
afterwards, when the king visited Cambridge, 1728, became doctor of
laws. He was, in August, 1728, presented by the crown to the rectory of
Pulham, in Norfolk, which he held with Oakley Magna, in Suffolk, given
him by the lord Cornwallis, to whom he was chaplain, and who added the
vicarage of Eye, in Suffolk; he then resigned Pulham, and retained the
other two.

Towards the close of his life he grew again poetical, and amused himself
with translating Odes of Anacreon, which he published in the Gentleman's
Magazine, under the name of Chester.

He died at Bath, November 16,1745, and was buried in the abbey church.

Of Broome, though it cannot be said that he was a great poet, it would
be unjust to deny that he was an excellent versifier; his lines are
smooth and sonorous, and his diction is select and elegant. His rhymes
are sometimes unsuitable; in his Melancholy, he makes _breath_ rhyme to
_birth_ in one place, and to _earth_ in another. Those faults occur but
seldom; and he had such power of words and numbers as fitted him for
translation; but, in his original works, recollection seems to have been
his business more than invention. His imitations are so apparent, that
it is part of his reader's employment to recall the verses of some
former poet. Sometimes he copies the most popular writers, for he seems
scarcely to endeavour at concealment; and sometimes he picks up
fragments in obscure corners. His lines to Fenton,

Serene, the sting of pain thy thoughts beguile,
And make afflictions objects of a smile,

brought to my mind some lines on the death of queen Mary, written by
Barnes, of whom I should not have expected to find an imitator;

But thou, O muse! whose sweet nepenthean tongue
Can charm the pangs of death with deathless song,
Canst _stinging plagues_ with easy _thoughts beguile_,
_Make_ pains and tortures _objects of a smile_.

To detect his imitations were tedious and useless. What he takes he
seldom makes worse; and he cannot be justly thought a mean man, whom
Pope chose for an associate, and whose coöperation was considered by
Pope's enemies as so important, that he was attacked by Henley with this
ludicrous distich:

Pope came off clean with Homer; but they say
Broome went before, and kindly swept the way[107].

-----

[Footnote 107: Henley's joke was borrowed. In a copy of verses, entitled
the Time Poets, preserved in a miscellany called Choice Drollery, 1656,
are these lines:
Sent by Ben Jonson, as some authors say,
Broom went before, and kindly swept the way.
J. B. ]




POPE.


Alexander Pope was born in London, May 22, 1688, of parents whose rank
or station was never ascertained: we are informed that they were of
"gentle blood;" that his father was of a family of which the earl of
Downe was the head; and that his mother was the daughter of William
Turner, esquire, of York, who had, likewise, three sons, one of whom had
the honour of being killed, and the other of dying, in the service of
Charles the first; the third was made a general officer in Spain, from
whom the sister inherited what sequestrations and forfeitures had left
in the family.

This, and this only, is told by Pope; who is more willing, as I have
heard observed, to show what his father was not, than what he was. It is
allowed that he grew rich by trade; but whether in a shop or on the
exchange was never discovered till Mr. Tyers told, on the authority of
Mrs. Racket, that he was a linendraper in the Strand. Both parents were
papists.

Pope was, from his birth, of a constitution tender and delicate; but is
said to have shown remarkable gentleness and sweetness of disposition.
The weakness of his body continued through his life[108]; but the
mildness of his mind, perhaps, ended with his childhood[109]. His voice,
when he was young, was so pleasing, that he was called, in fondness,
"the little nightingale. "

Being not sent early to school, he was taught to read by an aunt; and
when he was seven or eight years old, became a lover of books. He first
learned to write by imitating printed books; a species of penmanship in
which he retained great excellence through his whole life, though his
ordinary hand was not elegant[110].

When he was about eight, he was placed in Hampshire, under
Taverner[111], a Romish priest, who, by a method very rarely practised,
taught him the Greek and Latin rudiments together. He was now first
regularly initiated in poetry by the perusal of Ogilby's Homer, and
Sandys's Ovid. Ogilby's assistance he never repaid with any praise; but
of Sandys he declared, in his notes to the Iliad, that English poetry
owed much of its present beauty to his translations. Sandys very rarely
attempted original composition.

From the care of Taverner, under whom his proficiency was considerable,
he was removed to a school at Twyford, near Winchester, and again to
another school about Hyde-park Corner; from which he used sometimes to
stroll to the playhouse: and was so delighted with theatrical
exhibitions, that he formed a kind of play from Ogilby's Iliad, with
some verses of his own intermixed, which he persuaded his schoolfellows
to act, with the addition of his master's gardener, who personated Ajax.

At the two last schools he used to represent himself as having lost part
of what Taverner had taught him; and on his master at Twyford he had
already exercised his poetry in a lampoon. Yet under those masters he
translated more than a fourth part of the Metamorphoses. If he kept the
same proportion in his other exercises, it cannot be thought that his
loss was great.

He tells of himself, in his poems, that, "he lisp'd in numbers;" and
used to say that he could not remember the time when he began to make
verses. In the style of fiction it might have been said of him as of
Pindar, that when he lay in his cradle, "the bees swarmed about his
mouth. "

About the time of the revolution, his father, who was undoubtedly
disappointed by the sudden blast of Popish prosperity, quitted his
trade, and retired to Binfield, in Windsor forest, with about twenty
thousand pounds; for which, being conscientiously determined not to
entrust it to the government, he found no better use than that of
locking it up in a chest, and taking from it what his expenses required;
and his life was long enough to consume a great part of it, before his
son came to the inheritance.

To Binfield Pope was called by his father, when he was about twelve
years old; and there he had, for a few months, the assistance of one
Deane, another priest, of whom he learned only to construe a little of
Tully's Offices. How Mr. Deane could spend, with a boy who had
translated so much of Ovid, some months over a small part of Tully's
Offices, it is now vain to inquire.

Of a youth so successfully employed, and so conspicuously improved, a
minute account must be naturally desired: but curiosity must be
contented with confused, imperfect, and, sometimes, improbable
intelligence. Pope, finding little advantage from external help,
resolved, thenceforward, to direct himself, and at twelve formed a plan
of study, which he completed with little other incitement than the
desire of excellence.

His primary and principal purpose was to be a poet, with which his
father accidentally concurred, by proposing subjects, and obliging him
to correct his performances by many revisals; after which the old
gentleman, when he was satisfied, would say, "these are good rhymes. "

In his perusal of the English poets he soon distinguished the
versification of Dryden, which he considered as the model to be studied,
and was impressed with such veneration for his instructor, that he
persuaded some friends to take him to the coffee-house which Dryden
frequented, and pleased himself with having seen him.

Dryden died May 1, 1701, some days before Pope was twelve[112]; so early
must he, therefore, have felt the power of harmony, and the zeal of
genius. Who does not wish that Dryden could have known the value of the
homage that was paid him, and foreseen the greatness of his young
admirer?

The earliest of Pope's productions is his Ode on Solitude, written
before he was twelve, in which there is nothing more than other forward
boys have attained, and which is not equal to Cowley's performances at
the same age.

His time was now wholly spent in reading and writing. As he read the
classicks, he amused himself with translating them; and, at fourteen,
made a version of the first book of the Thebais, which, with some
revision, he afterwards published. He must have been, at this time, if
he had no help, a considerable proficient in the Latin tongue.

By Dryden's Fables, which had then been not long published, and were
much in the hands of poetical readers, he was tempted to try his own
skill in giving Chaucer a more fashionable appearance, and put January
and May, and the Prologue of the Wife of Bath, into modern English. He
translated, likewise, the epistle of Sappho to Phaon, from Ovid, to
complete the version which was before imperfect; and wrote some other
small pieces, which he afterwards printed.

He sometimes imitated the English poets, and professed to have written
at fourteen, his poem upon Silence, after Rochester's Nothing. He had
now formed his versification, and in the smoothness of his numbers
surpassed the original: but this is a small part of his praise; he
discovers such acquaintance both with human life and publick affairs, as
is not easily conceived to have been attainable by a boy of fourteen in
Windsor forest.

Next year he was desirous of opening to himself new sources of
knowledge, by making himself acquainted with modern languages; and
removed, for a time, to London, that he might study French and Italian,
which, as he desired nothing more than to read them, were, by diligent
application, soon despatched. Of Italian learning he does not appear to
have ever made much use in his subsequent studies.

He then returned to Binfield, and delighted himself with his own poetry.
He tried all styles, and many subjects. He wrote a comedy, a tragedy, an
epick poem, with panegyricks on all the princes of Europe; and, as he
confesses, "thought himself the greatest genius that ever was. "
Self-confidence is the first requisite to great undertakings. He,
indeed, who forms his opinion of himself in solitude, without knowing
the powers of other men, is very liable to errour; but it was the
felicity of Pope to rate himself at his real value.

Most of his puerile productions were, by his maturer judgment,
afterwards destroyed; Alcander, the epick poem, was burnt by the
persuasion of Atterbury. The tragedy was founded on the legend of St.
Genevieve. Of the comedy there is no account.

Concerning his studies it is related, that he translated Tully on Old
Age; and that, besides his books of poetry and criticism, he read
Temple's Essays and Locke on Human Understanding. His reading, though
his favourite authors are not known, appears to have been sufficiently
extensive and multifarious; for his early pieces show, with sufficient
evidence, his knowledge of books.

He that is pleased with himself easily imagines that he shall please
others. Sir William Trumbull, who had been ambassador at Constantinople,
and secretary of state, when he retired from business, fixed his
residence in the neighbourhood of Binfield. Pope, not yet sixteen, was
introduced to the statesman of sixty, and so distinguished himself, that
their interviews ended in friendship and correspondence. Pope was,
through his whole life, ambitious of splendid acquaintance; and he seems
to have wanted neither diligence nor success in attracting the notice
of the great; for, from his first entrance into the world, and his
entrance was very early, he was admitted to familiarity with those whose
rank or station made them most conspicuous.

From the age of sixteen the life of Pope, as an author, may be properly
computed. He now wrote his Pastorals, which were shown to the poets and
criticks of that time; as they well deserved, they were read with
admiration, and many praises were bestowed upon them and upon the
preface, which is both elegant and learned in a high degree: they were,
however, not published till five years afterwards.

Cowley, Milton, and Pope, are distinguished among the English poets by
the early exertion of their powers; but the works of Cowley alone were
published in his childhood, and, therefore, of him only can it be
certain that his puerile performances received no improvement from his
maturer studies.

At this time began his acquaintance with Wycherley, a man who seems to
have had among his contemporaries his full share of reputation, to have
been esteemed without virtue, and caressed without good-humour. Pope was
proud of his notice; Wycherley wrote verses in his praise, which he was
charged by Dennis with writing to himself, and they agreed for awhile to
flatter one another. It is pleasant to remark how soon Pope learned the
cant of an author, and began to treat criticks with contempt, though he
had yet suffered nothing from them.

But the fondness of Wycherley was too violent to last. His esteem of
Pope was such, that he submitted some poems to his revision; and when
Pope, perhaps proud of such confidence, was sufficiently bold in his
criticisms, and liberal in his alterations, the old scribbler was angry
to see his pages defaced, and felt more pain from the detection than
content from the amendment of his faults. They parted; but Pope always
considered him with kindness, and visited him a little time before he
died.

Another of his early correspondents was Mr. Cromwell, of whom I have
learned nothing particular, but that he used to ride a hunting in a
tie-wig. He was fond, and perhaps vain, of amusing himself with poetry
and criticism; and sometimes sent his performances to Pope, who did not
forbear such remarks as were now and then unwelcome. Pope, in his turn,
put the juvenile version of Statius into his hands for correction.

Their correspondence afforded the publick its first knowledge of Pope's
epistolary powers; for his letters were given by Cromwell to one Mrs.
Thomas; and she, many years afterwards, sold them to Curll, who inserted
them in a volume of his miscellanies.

Walsh, a name yet preserved among the minor poets, was one of his first
encouragers. His regard was gained by the Pastorals, and from him Pope
received the counsel by which he seems to have regulated his studies.
Walsh advised him to correctness, which, as he told him, the English
poets had hitherto neglected, and which, therefore, was left to him as a
basis of fame; and being delighted with rural poems, recommended to him
to write a pastoral comedy, like those which are read so eagerly in
Italy; a design which Pope probably did not approve, as he did not
follow it.

Pope had now declared himself a poet; and thinking himself entitled to
poetical conversation, began, at seventeen, to frequent Will's, a
coffee-house on the north side of Russel-street in Covent-garden, where
the wits of that time used to assemble, and where Dryden had, when he
lived, been accustomed to preside.

During this period of his life, he was indefatigably diligent, and
insatiably curious; wanting health for violent, and money for expensive
pleasures, and having excited in himself very strong desires of
intellectual eminence, he spent much of his time over his books; but he
read only to store his mind with facts and images, seizing all that his
authors presented with undistinguishing voracity, and with an appetite
for knowledge too eager to be nice. In a mind like his, however, all
the faculties were at once involuntarily improving. Judgment is forced
upon us by experience. He that reads many books must compare one opinion
or one style with another; and, when he compares, must necessarily
distinguish, reject, and prefer. But the account given by himself of his
studies was, that from fourteen to twenty he read only for amusement,
from twenty to twenty-seven for improvement and instruction; that in the
first part of this time he desired only to know, and in the second he
endeavoured to judge.

The Pastorals, which had been, for some time, handed about among poets
and criticks, were at last printed, 1709, in Tonson's Miscellany, in a
volume which began with the Pastorals of Philips, and ended with those
of Pope.

The same year was written the Essay on Criticism; a work which displays
such extent of comprehension, such nicety of distinction, such
acquaintance with mankind, and such knowledge both of ancient and modern
learning, as are not often attained by the maturest age and longest
experience. It was published about two years afterwards; and, being
praised by Addison in the Spectator[113] with sufficient liberality, met
with so much favour as enraged Dennis, "who," he says, "found himself
attacked, without any manner of provocation on his side, and attacked in
his person, instead of his writings, by one who was wholly a stranger to
him, at a time when all the world knew he was persecuted by fortune; and
not only saw that this was attempted in a clandestine manner, with the
utmost falsehood and calumny, but found that all this was done by a
little affected hypocrite, who had nothing in his mouth at the same time
but truth, candour, friendship, good-nature, humanity, and magnanimity. "

How the attack was clandestine is not easily perceived, nor how his
person is depreciated; but he seems to have known something of Pope's
character, in whom may be discovered an appetite to talk too frequently
of his own virtues.

The pamphlet is such as rage might be expected to dictate. He supposes
himself to be asked two questions; whether the essay will succeed, and
who or what is the author.

Its success he admits to be secured by the false opinions then
prevalent: the author he concludes to be "young and raw. "

"First, because he discovers a sufficiency beyond his little ability,
and hath rashly undertaken a task infinitely above his force. Secondly,
while this little author struts, and affects the dictatorian air, he
plainly shows, that at the same time he is under the rod; and, while he
pretends to give laws to others, is a pedantick slave to authority and
opinion. Thirdly, he hath, like schoolboys, borrowed both from living
and dead. Fourthly, he knows not his own mind, and frequently
contradicts himself. Fifthly, he is almost perpetually in the wrong. "

All these positions he attempts to prove by quotations and remarks; but
his desire to do mischief is greater than his power. He has, however,
justly criticised some passages: in these lines,

There are whom heav'n has bless'd with store of wit,
Yet want as much again to manage it;
For wit and judgment ever are at strife--

is apparent, that _wit_ has two meanings; and that what is wanted,
though called _wit_, is, truly, judgment. So far Dennis is undoubtedly
right; but, not content with argument, he will have a little mirth, and
triumphs over the first couplet in terms too elegant to be forgotten.
"By the way, what rare numbers are here! Would not one swear that this
youngster had espoused some antiquated muse, who had sued out a divorce
on account of impotence from some superannuated sinner; and, having been
p--xed by her former spouse, has got the gout, in her decrepit age,
which makes her hobble so damnably? " This was the man who would reform
a nation sinking into barbarity.

In another place Pope himself allowed, that Dennis had detected one of
those blunders, which are called "bulls. " The first edition had this
line:

What is this wit--
Where wanted, scorn'd; and envied, where acquir'd?

"How," says the critick, "can wit be scorn'd where it is not? Is not
this a figure frequently employed in Hibernian land? The person that
wants this wit may, indeed, be scorned, but the scorn shows the honour
which the contemner has for wit. " Of this remark Pope made the proper
use, by correcting the passage.

I have preserved, I think, all that is reasonable in Dennis's criticism;
it remains, that justice be done to his delicacy. "For his
acquaintance," says Dennis, "he names Mr. Walsh, who had by no means the
qualification which this author reckons absolutely necessary to a
critick, it being very certain that he was, like this essayer, a very
indifferent poet; he loved to be well dressed; and I remember a little
young gentleman, whom Mr. Walsh used to take into his company, as a
double foil to his person and capacity. Inquire, between Sunninghill and
Oakingham, for a young, short, squab gentleman, the very bow of the god
of love, and tell me, whether he be a proper author to make personal
reflections? He may extol the ancients, but he has reason to thank the
gods that he was born a modern; for had he been born of Grecian parents,
and his father, consequently, had, by law, had the absolute disposal of
him, his life had been no longer than that of one of his poems, the life
of half a day. Let the person of a gentleman of his parts be never so
contemptible, his inward man is ten times more ridiculous; it being
impossible that his outward form, though it be that of a downright
monkey, should differ so much from human shape, as his unthinking,
immaterial part does from human understanding. " Thus began the hostility
between Pope and Dennis, which, though it was suspended for a short
time, never was appeased. Pope seems, at first, to have attacked him
wantonly; but, though he always professed to despise him, he discovers,
by mentioning him very often, that he felt his force or his venom.

Of this essay Pope declared, that he did not expect the sale to be
quick, because "not one gentleman in sixty, even of liberal education,
could understand it. " The gentlemen, and the education of that time,
seem to have been of a lower character than they are of this. He
mentioned a thousand copies as a numerous impression.

Dennis was not his only censurer: the zealous papists thought the monks
treated with too much contempt, and Erasmus too studiously praised; but
to these objections he had not much regard.

The essay has been translated into French by Hamilton, author of the
Comte de Grammont, whose version was never printed, by Robotham,
secretary to the king for Hanover, and by Resnel; and commented by Dr.
Warburton, who has discovered in it such order and connexion as was not
perceived by Addison, nor, as is said, intended by the author.

Almost every poem, consisting of precepts, is so far arbitrary and
immethodical, that many of the paragraphs may change places with no
apparent inconvenience: for of two or more positions, depending upon
some remote and general principle, there is seldom any cogent reason why
one should precede the other. But for the order in which they stand,
whatever it be, a little ingenuity may easily give a reason. "It is
possible," says Hooker, "that, by long circumduction, from any one truth
all truth may be inferred. " Of all homogeneous truths, at least of all
truths respecting the same general end, in whatever series they may be
produced, a concatenation by intermediate ideas may be formed, such as,
when it is once shown, shall appear natural; but if this order be
reversed, another mode of connexion equally specious may be found or
made. Aristotle is praised for naming fortitude first of the cardinal
virtues, as that without which no other virtue can steadily be
practised; but he might, with equal propriety, have placed prudence and
justice before it; since without prudence, fortitude is mad; without
justice, it is mischievous.

As the end of method is perspicuity, that series is sufficiently regular
that avoids obscurity; and where there is no obscurity, it will not be
difficult to discover method.

In the Spectator was published the Messiah, which he first submitted to
the perusal of Steele, and corrected in compliance with his criticisms.

It is reasonable to infer, from his letters, that the verses on the
Unfortunate Lady were written about the time when his Essay was
published. The lady's name and adventures I have sought with fruitless
inquiry[114].

I can, therefore, tell no more than I have learned from Mr. Ruffhead,
who writes with the confidence of one who could trust his information.
She was a woman of eminent rank and large fortune, the ward of an uncle,
who, having given her a proper education, expected, like other
guardians, that she should make, at least, an equal match; and such he
proposed to her, but found it rejected in favour of a young gentleman of
inferiour condition.

Having discovered the correspondence between the two lovers, and finding
the young lady determined to abide by her own choice, he supposed that
separation might do what can rarely be done by arguments, and sent her
into a foreign country, where she was obliged to converse only with
those from whom her uncle had nothing to fear.

Her lover took care to repeat his vows; but his letters were intercepted
and carried to her guardian, who directed her to be watched with still
greater vigilance, till of this restraint she grew so impatient, that
she bribed a woman servant to procure her a sword, which she directed to
her heart.

From this account, given with evident intention to raise the lady's
character, it does not appear that she had any claim to praise, nor
much to compassion. She seems to have been impatient, violent, and
ungovernable. Her uncle's power could not have lasted long; the hour of
liberty and choice would have come in time. But her desires were too hot
for delay, and she liked self-murder better than suspense.

Nor is it discovered that the uncle, whoever he was, is with much
justice delivered to posterity as "a false guardian;" he seems to have
done only that for which a guardian is appointed: he endeavoured to
direct his niece till she should be able to direct herself. Poetry has
not often been worse employed than in dignifying the amorous fury of a
raving girl.

Not long after, he wrote the Rape of the Lock, the most airy, the most
ingenious, and the most delightful of all his compositions, occasioned
by a frolick of gallantry, rather too familiar, in which lord Petre cut
off a lock of Mrs. Arabella Fermor's hair. This, whether stealth or
violence, was so much resented, that the commerce of the two families,
before very friendly, was interrupted. Mr. Caryl, a gentleman who, being
secretary to king James's queen, had followed his mistress into France,
and who, being the author of Sir Solomon Single, a comedy, and some
translations, was entitled to the notice of a wit, solicited Pope to
endeavour a reconciliation by a ludicrous poem, which might bring both
the parties to a better temper. In compliance with Caryl's request,
though his name was for a long time marked only by the first and last
letters, C----l, a poem of two cantos was written, 1711, as is said, in
a fortnight, and sent to the offended lady, who liked it well enough to
show it; and, with the usual process of literary transactions, the
author, dreading a surreptitious edition, was forced to publish it.

The event is said to have been such as was desired, the pacification and
diversion of all to whom it related, except sir George Brown, who
complained, with some bitterness, that, in the character of sir Plume,
he was made to talk nonsense. Whether all this be true I have some
doubt; for at Paris, a few years ago, a niece of Mrs. Fermor, who
presided in an English convent, mentioned Pope's work with very little
gratitude, rather as an insult than an honour; and she may be supposed
to have inherited the opinion of her family.

At its first appearance it was termed, by Addison, "merum sal. " Pope,
however, saw that it was capable of improvement; and, having luckily
contrived to borrow his machinery from the Rosicrucians, imparted the
scheme with which his head was teeming to Addison, who told him that his
work, as it stood, was "a delicious little thing," and gave him no
encouragement to retouch it.

This has been too hastily considered as an instance of Addison's
jealousy; for, as he could not guess the conduct of the new design, or
the possibilities of pleasure comprised in a fiction, of which there had
been no examples, he might very reasonably and kindly persuade the
author to acquiesce in his own prosperity, and forbear an attempt which
he considered as an unnecessary hazard.

Addison's counsel was happily rejected. Pope foresaw the future
efflorescence of imagery then budding in his mind, and resolved to spare
no art, or industry of cultivation. The soft luxuriance of his fancy was
already shooting, and all the gay varieties of diction were ready at his
hand to colour and embellish it.

His attempt was justified by its success. The Rape of the Lock stands
forward, in the classes of literature, as the most exquisite example of
ludicrous poetry. Berkeley congratulated him upon the display of powers
more truly poetical than he had shown before; with elegance of
description and justness of precepts, he had now exhibited boundless
fertility of invention.

He always considered the intermixture of the machinery with the action
as his most successful exertion of poetical art. He, indeed, could never
afterwards produce any thing of such unexampled excellence. Those
performances, which strike with wonder, are combinations of skilful
genius with happy casualty; and it is not likely that any felicity,
like the discovery of a new race of preternatural agents, should happen
twice to the same man.

Of this poem, the author was, I think, allowed to enjoy the praise for a
long time without disturbance. Many years afterwards Dennis published
some remarks upon it, with very little force, and with no effect: for
the opinion of the publick was already settled, and it was no longer at
the mercy of criticism.

About this time he published the Temple of Fame, which, as he tells
Steele in their correspondence, he had written two years before; that
is, when he was only twenty-two years old, an early time of life for so
much learning and so much observation as that work exhibits.

On this poem Dennis afterwards published some remarks, of which the most
reasonable is, that some of the lines represent motion, as exhibited by
sculpture[115].

Of the epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, I do not know the date. His first
inclination to attempt a composition of that tender kind arose, as Mr.
Savage told me, from his perusal of Prior's Nut-brown Maid. How much he
has surpassed Prior's work it is not necessary to mention, when,
perhaps, it may be said with justice, that he has excelled every
composition of the same kind. The mixture of religious hope and
resignation gives an elevation and dignity to disappointed love, which
images merely natural cannot bestow. The gloom of a convent strikes the
imagination with far greater force than the solitude of a grove.

This piece was, however, not much his favourite in his latter years,
though I never heard upon what principle he slighted it[116].

In the next year, 1713, he published Windsor Forest; of which, part
was, as he relates, written at sixteen, about the same time as his
pastorals; and the latter part was added afterwards: where the addition
begins, we are not told. The lines relating to the peace, confess their
own date. It is dedicated to lord Lansdowne, who was then high in
reputation and influence among the tories; and it is said, that the
conclusion of the poem gave great pain to Addison, both as a poet and a
politician. Reports like this are often spread with boldness very
disproportionate to their evidence. Why should Addison receive any
particular disturbance from the last lines of Windsor Forest? If
contrariety of opinion could poison a politician, he would not live a
day: and, as a poet, he must have felt Pope's force of genius much more
from many other parts of his works.

The pain that Addison might feel it is not likely that he would confess;
and it is certain that he so well suppressed his discontent, that Pope
now thought himself his favourite; for having been consulted in the
revisal of Cato, he introduced it by a prologue; and when Dennis
published his remarks, undertook, not indeed to vindicate, but to
revenge his friend, by a Narrative of the Frensy of John Dennis.
There is reason to believe that Addison gave no encouragement to this
disingenuous hostility; for, says Pope, in a letter to him, "indeed your
opinion, that 'tis entirely to be neglected, would be my own in my own
case; but I felt more warmth here than I did when I first saw his book
against myself, (though indeed in two minutes it made me heartily
merry. ") Addison was not a man on whom such cant of sensibility could
make much impression. He left the pamphlet to itself, having disowned it
to Dennis, and, perhaps, did not think Pope to have deserved much by his
officiousness.

This year was printed in the Guardian the ironical comparison between
the Pastorals of Philips and Pope; a composition of artifice, criticism,
and literature, to which nothing equal will easily be found. The
superiority of Pope is so ingeniously dissembled, and the feeble lines
of Philips so skilfully preferred, that Steele, being deceived, was
unwilling to print the paper, lest Pope should be offended. Addison
immediately saw the writer's design; and, as it seems, had malice enough
to conceal his discovery, and to permit a publication which, by making
his friend Philips ridiculous, made him for ever an enemy to Pope.

It appears that about this time Pope had a strong inclination to unite
the art of painting with that of poetry, and put himself under the
tuition of Jervas. He was near-sighted, and, therefore, not formed by
nature for a painter: he tried, however, how far he could advance, and
sometimes persuaded his friends to sit. A picture of Betterton, supposed
to be drawn by him, was in the possession of lord Mansfield[117]: if
this was taken from the life, he must have begun to paint earlier; for
Betterton was now dead. Pope's ambition of this new art produced some
encomiastick verses to Jervas, which certainly show his power as a poet;
but I have been told that they betray his ignorance of painting.

He appears to have regarded Betterton with kindness and esteem; and
after his death published, under his name, a version into modern English
of Chaucer's prologues, and one of his tales, which, as was related by
Mr. Harte, were believed to have been the performance of Pope himself by
Fenton, whe made him a gay offer of five pounds, if he would show them
in the hand of Betterton.

The next year, 1713, produced a bolder attempt, by which profit was
sought as well as praise. The poems which he had hitherto written,
however they might have diffused his name, had made very little addition
to his fortune. The allowance which his father made him, though,
proportioned to what he had, it might be liberal, could not be large;
his religion hindered him from the occupation of any civil employment;
and he complained that he wanted even money to buy books[118].

He, therefore, resolved to try how far the favour of the publick
extended, by soliciting a subscription to a version of the Iliad, with
large notes.

To print by subscription was, for some time, a practice peculiar to the
English. The first considerable work, for which this expedient was
employed, is said to have been Dryden's Virgil[119]; and it had been
tried again with great success when the Tatlers were collected into
volumes.

There was reason to believe that Pope's attempt would be successful. He
was in the full bloom of reputation, and was personally known to almost
all whom dignity of employment or splendour of reputation had made
eminent; he conversed indifferently with both parties, and never
disturbed the publick with his political opinions; and it might be
naturally expected, as each faction then boasted its literary zeal, that
the great men, who on other occasions practised all the violence of
opposition, would emulate each other in their encouragement of a poet
who had delighted all, and by whom none had been offended.

With those hopes, he offered an English Iliad to subscribers, in six
volumes in quarto, for six guineas; a sum, according to the value of
money at that time, by no means inconsiderable, and greater than I
believe to have been ever asked before. His proposal, however, was very
favourably received; and the patrons of literature were busy to
recommend his undertaking, and promote his interest. Lord Oxford,
indeed, lamented that such a genius should be wasted upon a work not
original; but proposed no means by which he might live without it.
Addison recommended caution and moderation, and advised him not to be
content with the praise of half the nation, when he might be universally
favoured.

The greatness of the design, the popularity of the author, and the
attention of the literary world, naturally raised such expectations of
the future sale, that the booksellers made their offers with great
eagerness; but the highest bidder was Bernard Lintot, who became
proprietor on condition of supplying, at his own expense, all the copies
which were to be delivered to subscribers, or presented to friends, and
paying two hundred pounds for every volume.

Of the quartos it was, I believe, stipulated that none should be printed
but for the author, that the subscription might not be depreciated; but
Lintot impressed the same pages upon a small folio, and paper, perhaps,
a little thinner; and sold exactly at half the price, for half-a-guinea
each volume, books so little inferiour to the quartos, that by a fraud
of trade, those folios, being afterwards shortened by cutting away the
top and bottom, were sold as copies printed for the subscribers.

Lintot printed two hundred and fifty on royal paper in folio, for two
guineas a volume; of the small folio, having printed seventeen hundred
and fifty copies of the first volume, he reduced the number in the other
volumes to a thousand.

It is unpleasant to relate that the bookseller, after all his hopes and
all his liberality, was, by a very unjust and illegal action, defrauded
of his profit[120]. An edition of the English Iliad was printed in
Holland in duodecimo, and imported clandestinely for the gratification
of those who were impatient to read what they could not yet afford to
buy. This fraud could only be counteracted by an edition equally cheap
and more commodious; and Lintot was compelled to contract his folio at
once into a duodecimo, and lose the advantage of an intermediate
gradation. The notes, which in the Dutch copies were placed at the end
of each book, as they had been in the large volumes, were now subjoined
to the text in the same page, and are, therefore, more easily consulted.
Of this edition two thousand five hundred were first printed, and five
thousand a few weeks afterwards; but, indeed, great numbers were
necessary to produce considerable profit.

Pope, having now emitted his proposals, and engaged not only his own
reputation, but, in some degree, that of his friends who patronised his
subscription, began to be frighted at his own undertaking; and finding
himself at first embarrassed with difficulties, which retarded and
oppressed him, he was for a time timorous and uneasy, had his nights
disturbed by dreams of long journeys through unknown ways, and wished,
as he said, "that somebody would hang him[121]. "

This misery, however, was not of long continuance; he grew, by degrees,
more acquainted with Homer's images and expressions, and practice
increased his facility of versification. In a short time he represents
himself as despatching regularly fifty verses a day, which would show
him, by an easy computation, the termination of his labour.

His own diffidence was not his only vexation. He that asks a
subscription soon finds that he has enemies. All who do not encourage
him, defame him. He that wants money will rather be thought angry than
poor; and he that wishes to save his money conceals his avarice by his
malice. Addison had hinted his suspicion that Pope was too much a tory;
and some of the tories suspected his principles, because he had
contributed to the Guardian, which was carried on by Steele.

To those who censured his politicks were added enemies yet more
dangerous, who called in question his knowledge of Greek, and his
qualifications for a translator of Homer. To these he made no publick
opposition; but in one of his letters escapes from them as well as he
can. At an age like his, for he was not more than twenty-five, with an
irregular education, and a course of life of which much seems to have
passed in conversation, it is not very likely that he overflowed with
Greek. But when he felt himself deficient he sought assistance; and what
man of learning would refuse to help him? Minute inquiries into the
force of words are less necessary in translating Homer than other poets,
because his positions are general, and his representations natural, with
very little dependence on local or temporary customs, or those
changeable scenes of artificial life, which, by mingling original with
accidental notions, and crowding the mind with images which time
effaces, produce ambiguity in diction, and obscurity in books. To this
open display of unadulterated nature it must be ascribed, that Homer has
fewer passages of doubtful meaning than any other poet either in the
learned or in modern languages. I have read of a man, who being, by his
ignorance of Greek, compelled to gratify his curiosity with the Latin
printed on the opposite page, declared that from the rude simplicity of
the lines literally rendered, he formed nobler ideas of the Homeric
majesty, than from the laboured elegance of polished versions.

Those literal translations were always at hand, and from them he could
easily obtain his author's sense with sufficient certainty; and among
the readers of Homer the number is very small of those who find much in
the Greek more than in the Latin, except the musick of the numbers.

If more help was wanting, he had the poetical translation of Eobanus
Hessus, an unwearied writer of Latin verses; he had the French Homers of
la Valterie and Dacier, and the English of Chapman, Hobbes, and Ogilby.
With Chapman, whose work, though now totally neglected, seems to have
been popular almost to the end of the last century, he had very frequent
consultations, and, perhaps, never translated any passage till he had
read his version, which, indeed, he has been sometimes suspected of
using instead of the original.

Notes were likewise to be provided; for the six volumes would have been
very little more than six pamphlets without them. What the mere perusal
of the text could suggest, Pope wanted no assistance to collect or
methodise; but more was necessary; many pages were to be filled, and
learning must supply materials to wit and judgment. Something might be
gathered from Dacier; but no man loves to be indebted to his
contemporaries, and Dacier was accessible to common readers. Eustathius,
was, therefore, necessarily consulted. To read Eustathius, of whose work
there was then no Latin version, I suspect Pope, if he had been willing,
not to have been able; some other was, therefore, to be found, who had
leisure as well as abilities; and he was doubtless most readily employed
who would do much work for little money.

The history of the notes has never been traced. Broome, in his preface
to his poems, declares himself the commentator "in part upon the Iliad;"
and it appears from Fenton's letter, preserved in the Museum, that
Broome was at first engaged in consulting Eustathius; but that after a
time, whatever was the reason, he desisted: another man, of Cambridge,
was then employed, who soon grew weary of the work; and a third, that
was recommended by Thirlby, is now discovered to have been Jortin, a man
since well known to the learned world, who complained that Pope, having
accepted and approved his performance, never testified any curiosity to
see him, and who professed to have forgotten the terms on which he
worked. The terms which Fenton uses are very mercantile: "I think, at
first sight, that his performance is very commendable, and have sent
word for him to finish the seventeenth book, and to send it with his
demands for his trouble. I have here enclosed the specimen; if the rest
come before the return, I will keep them till I receive your order. "

Broome then offered his service a second time, which was, probably,
accepted, as they had afterwards a closer correspondence. Parnell
contributed the Life of Homer, which Pope found so harsh, that he took
great pains in correcting it; and by his own diligence, with such help
as kindness or money could procure him, in somewhat more than five years
he completed his version of the Iliad, with the notes. He began it in
1712, his twenty-fifth year; and concluded it in 1718, his thirtieth
year.

When we find him translating fifty lines a day, it is natural to
suppose that he would have brought his work to a more speedy conclusion.
The Iliad, containing less than sixteen thousand verses, might have been
despatched in less than three hundred and twenty days by fifty verses in
a day. The notes, compiled with the assistance of his mercenaries, could
not be supposed to require more time than the text.

According to this calculation, the progress of Pope may seem to have
been slow; but the distance is commonly very great between actual
performances and speculative possibility. It is natural to suppose, that
as much as has been done to-day, may be done to-morrow; but on the
morrow some difficulty emerges, or some external impediment obstructs.
Indolence, interruption, business, and pleasure, all take their turns of
retardation; and every long work is lengthened by a thousand causes that
can, and ten thousand that cannot be recounted. Perhaps no extensive and
multifarious performance was ever effected within the term originally
fixed in the undertaker's mind. He that runs against time has an
antagonist not subject to casualties.

The encouragement given to this translation, though report seems to have
overrated it, was such as the world has not often seen. The subscribers
were five hundred and seventy-five. The copies, for which subscriptions
were given, were six hundred and fifty-four; and only six hundred and
sixty were printed. For these copies Pope had nothing to pay; he,
therefore, received, including the two hundred pounds a volume, five
thousand three hundred and twenty pounds four shillings without
deduction, as the books were supplied by Lintot.

By the success of his subscription Pope was relieved from those
pecuniary distresses with which, notwithstanding his popularity, he had
hitherto struggled. Lord Oxford had often lamented his disqualification
for publick employment, but never proposed a pension. While the
translation of Homer was in its progress, Mr. Craggs, then secretary of
state, offered to procure him a pension, which, at least during his
ministry, might be enjoyed with secrecy. This was not accepted by Pope,
who told him, however, that, if he should be pressed with want of money,
he would send to him for occasional supplies. Craggs was not long in
power, and was never solicited for money by Pope, who disdained to beg
what he did not want.

With the product of this subscription, which he had too much discretion
to squander, he secured his future life from want, by considerable
annuities. The estate of the duke of Buckingham was found to have been
charged with five hundred pounds a year, payable to Pope, which,
doubtless, his translation enabled him to purchase.

It cannot be unwelcome to literary curiosity, that I deduce thus
minutely the history of the English Iliad. It is, certainly, the noblest
version of poetry which the world has ever seen; and its publication
must, therefore, be considered as one of the great events in the annals
of learning.

To those who have skill to estimate the excellence and difficulty of
this great work, it must be very desirable to know how it was performed,
and by what gradations it advanced to correctness. Of such an
intellectual process the knowledge has very rarely been attainable; but,
happily, there remains the original copy of the Iliad, which, being
obtained by Bolingbroke, as a curiosity, descended, from him, to Mallet,
and is now, by the solicitation of the late Dr. Maty, reposited in the
Museum.

Between this manuscript, which is written upon accidental fragments of
paper, and the printed edition, there must have been an intermediate
copy, that was, perhaps, destroyed as it returned from the press.

From the first copy I have procured a few transcripts, and shall
exhibit, first, the printed lines: then, in a smaller print, those of
the manuscripts, with all their variations. Those words in the small
print, which are given in italicks, are cancelled in the copy, and the
words placed under them adopted in their stead.

[Transcriber's Note: the "smaller print" of the original noted in
the preceeding paragraph is the doubly-indented block in the following
section. ]

The beginning of the first book stands thus:

The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful spring
Of all the Grecian woes, O goddess, sing;
That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign
The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain.

The stern Pelides' _rage_, O goddess, sing,
wrath
Of all the woes of Greece the fatal spring.
Grecian
That strew'd with _warriors_ dead the Phrygian plain,
heroes
And _peopled the dark hell with heroes_ slain;
fill'd the shady hell with chiefs untimely.

Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore,
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore,
Since great _Achilles_ and _Atrides_ strove;
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.

Whose limbs, unburied on the hostile shore,
Devouring dogs and greedy vultures tare,
Since first _Atrides_ and _Achilles_ strove;
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.

Declare, O muse, in what ill-fated hour
Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?
Latona's son a dire contagion spread,
And heap'd the camp with mountains of the dead;
The king of men his reverend priest defy'd,
And for the king's offence the people dy'd.

Declare, O goddess, what offended power
Enflam'd their _rage_, in that _ill-omen'd_ hour;
anger, fatal, hapless
Phoebus himself the _dire_ debate procur'd,
fierce
T' avenge the wrongs his injur'd priest endur'd;
For this the god a dire infection spread,
And heap'd the camp with millions of the dead:
The king of men the sacred sire defy'd,
And for the king's offence the people dy'd.

For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain
His captive daughter from the victor's chain;
Suppliant the venerable father stands,
Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands,
By these he begs, and, lowly bending down,
Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown.

For Chryses sought by _presents to regain_
costly gifts to gain
His captive daughter from the victor's chain;
Suppliant the venerable father stands,
Apollo's awful ensigns grac'd his hands,
By these he begs, and, lowly bending down
_The golden sceptre_ and the laurel crown,
Presents the sceptre
_For these as ensigns of his god he bare,
The god that sends his golden shafts afar_;
Then low on earth, the venerable man,
Suppliant before the brother kings began.

He sued to all, but chief implor'd for grace
The brother kings of Atreus' royal race;
Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crown'd,
And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground;
May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er,
Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

To all he sued, but chief implor'd for grace
The brother kings of Atreus' royal race.
Ye _sons of Atreus_, may your vows be crown'd,
Kings and warriors
_Your labours, by the gods be all your labours crown'd;
So may the gods your arms with conquest bless,
And_ Troy's proud walls _lie_ level with the ground:
_Till_ _laid_
_And crown your labours with deserv'd success_
May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er,
Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

But, oh! relieve a wretched parent's pain,
And give Chryseis to these arms again;
If mercy fail, yet let my present move,
And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove.

But, oh! relieve a hapless parent's pain,
And give my daughter to these arms again;
_Receive my gifts_; if mercy fails, yet let my present move,
And fear _the god that deals his darts around_,
avenging Phosbus, son of Jove.

The Greeks, in shouts, their joint assent declare
The priest to reverence, and release the fair.
Not so Atrides; he, with kingly pride,
Repuls'd the sacred sire, and thus reply'd.

He said, the Greeks their joint assent declare,
_The father said, the gen'rons Greeks relent,_
T' accept the ransom, and release the fair:
_Revere the priest, and speak their joint assent:_
Not so the _tyrant_, he, with kingly pride,
Atrides,
Repuls'd the sacred sire, and thus replied.
[Not so the tyrant. DRYDEN. ]

Of these lines, and of the whole first book, I am told that there was yet
a former copy, more varied, and more deformed with interlineations.

The beginning of the second book varies very little from the printed
page, and is, therefore, set down without a parallel; the few differences
do not require to be elaborately displayed.

Now pleasing sleep had seal'd each mortal eye;
Stretch'd in their tents the Grecian leaders lie;
Th' immortals slumber'd on their thrones above,
All but the ever-watchful eye of Jove.
To honour Thetis' son he bends his care,
And plunge the Greeks in all the woes of war.
Then bids an empty phantom rise to sight,
And thus _commands_ the vision of the night:
directs
Fly hence, delusive dream, and, light as air,
To Agamemnon's royal tent repair;
Bid him in arms draw forth th' embattled train,
March all his legions to the dusty plain.
_Now tell the king_ 'tis given him to destroy
Declare ev'n now
The lofty _walls_ of wide-extended Troy;
tow'rs
For now no more the gods with fate contend,
At Juno's suit the heavenly factions end.
Destruction _hovers_ o'er yon devoted wall,
hangs
And nodding Ilium waits th' impending fall.

Invocation to the catalogue of ships:

Say, virgins, seated round the throne divine,
All-knowing goddesses! immortal nine!
Since earth's wide regions, heaven's unmeasur'd height,
And hell's abyss, hide nothing from your sight,
(We, wretched mortals! lost in doubts below,
But guess by rumour, and but boast we know,)
Oh! say what heroes, fir'd by thirst of fame,
Or urg'd by wrongs, to Troy's destruction came!
To count them all demands a thousand tongues,
A throat of brass and adamantine lungs.

Now, virgin goddesses, immortal nine!
That round Olympus' heavenly summit shine,
Who see through heaven and earth, and hell profound,
And all things know, and all things can resound!
Relate what armies sought the Trojan land,
What nations follow'd, and what chiefs command;
(For doubtful fame distracts mankind below,
And nothing can we tell, and nothing know,)
Without your aid, to count th' unnumber'd train,
A thousand mouths, a thousand tongues, were vain.

Book v. _v_. 1.

But Pallas now Tydides' soul inspires,
Fills with her force, and warms with all her fires;
Above the Greeks his deathless fame to raise,
And crown her hero with distinguish'd praise.
High on his helm celestial lightnings play,
His beamy shield emits a living ray;
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies.
Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies.

But Pallas now Tydides' soul inspires,
Fills with her _rage_, and warms with all her fires;
force,
O'er all the Greeks decrees his fame to raise,
Above the Greeks her _warrior's_ fame to raise,
his deathless
And crown her hero with _immortal_ praise:
distinguish'd
_Bright from_ his beamy _crest_ the lightnings play,
High on helm
From his broad buckler flash'd the living ray;
High on his helm celestial lightnings play,
His beamy shield emits a living ray.
The goddess with her breath the flame supplies,
Bright as the star whose fires in autumn rise;
Her breath divine thick streaming flames supplies,
Bright as the star that fires th' autumnal skies:
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies,
Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies.

When first he rears his radiant orb to sight,
And, bath'd in ocean, shoots a keener light.
Such glories Pallas on the chief bestow'd,
Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow'd;
Onward she drives him, furious to engage,
Where the fight burns, and where the thickest rage.

When fresh he rears his radiant orb to sight,
And gilds old ocean with a blaze of light,
Bright as the star that fires th' autumnal skies;
Fresh from the deep, and gilds the seas and skies;
Such glories Pallas on her chief bestow'd,
Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flow'd;
Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow'd;
Onward she drives him _headlong_ to engage,
furious
Where the _war bleeds_, and where the _fiercest_ rage,
fight burns, thickest

The sons of Dares first the combat sought,
A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault;
In Vulcan's fane the father's days were led,
The sons to toils of glorious battle bred.

There liv'd a Trojan--Dares was his name,
The priest of Vulcan, rich, yet void of blame;
The sons of Dares first the combat sought,
A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault.

_Conclusion of Book_ viii. _v_. 687.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene,
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole;
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies;
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,
And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays;
The long reflections of the distant fires
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.
A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,
And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field.
Pull fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Whose umber'd arms by fits thick flashes send;
Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn,
And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.

As when in stillness of the silent night,
As when the moon, in all her lustre bright;
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heav'n's _clear_ azure _sheds_ her _silver_ light;
pure spreads sacred
As still in air the trembling lustre stood,
And o'er its golden border shoots a flood;
When _no loose gale_ disturbs the deep serene,
not a breath

And _no dim_ cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
not a

Around her silver throne the planets glow,
And stars unnumber'd trembling beams bestow:
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole;
Clear gleams of light o'er the dark trees are seen,
o'er the dark trees a yellow sheds,
O'er the dark trees a yellower _green_ they shed,
gleam
verdure
And tip with silver all the _mountain_ heads
forest
And tip with silver every mountain's head.
The valleys open, and the forests rise,
The vales appear, the rocks in prospect rise,
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise.
All nature stands reveal'd before our eyes;
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies.
The conscious shepherd, joyful at the sight,
Eyes the blue vault, and numbers every light.
The conscious _swains rejoicing at the_ sight,
shepherds gazing with delight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the _vivid_ light,
glorious
useful
So many flames before _the navy_ blaze,
proud Ilion
And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays;
Wide o'er the fields to Troy extend the gleams,
And tip the distant spires with fainter beams;
The long reflections of the distant fires
Gild the high walls, and tremble on the spires;
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires;
A thousand fires at distant stations bright,
Gild the dark prospect, and dispel the night.

Of these specimens every man who has cultivated poetry, or who delights
to trace the mind from the rudeness of its first conceptions to the
elegance of its last, will naturally desire a greater number; but most
other readers are already tired, and I am not writing only to poets and
philosophers.

The Iliad was published volume by volume, as the translation proceeded:
the four first books appeared in 1715. The expectation of this work was
undoubtedly high, and every man who had connected his name with
criticism, or poetry, was desirous of such intelligence as might enable
him to talk upon the popular topick. Halifax, who, by having been first
a poet, and then a patron of poetry, had acquired the right of being a
judge, was willing to hear some books while they were yet unpublished.
Of this rehearsal Pope afterwards gave the following account[122]:

"The famous lord Halifax was rather a pretender to taste, than really
possessed of it. When I had finished the two or three first books of my
translation of the Iliad, that lord desired to have the pleasure of
hearing them read at his house. Addison, Congreve, and Garth, were there
at the reading. In four or five places, lord Halifax stopped me very
civilly, and with a speech each time of much the same kind, 'I beg your
pardon, Mr. Pope; but there is something in that passage that does not
quite please me. Be so good as to mark the place, and consider it a
little at your leisure. I'm sure you can give it a little turn. ' I
returned from lord Halifax's with Dr. Garth, in his chariot: and, as we
were going along, was saying to the doctor, that my lord had laid me
under a great deal of difficulty by such loose and general observations;
that I had been thinking over the passages almost ever since, and could
not guess what it was that offended his lordship in either of them.
Garth laughed heartily at my embarrassment; said, I had not been long
enough acquainted with lord Halifax, to know his way yet; that I need
not puzzle myself about looking those places over and over when I got
home. 'All you need do,' says he, 'is to leave them just as they are;
call on lord Halifax two or three months hence, thank him for his kind
observations on those passages, and then read them to him as altered. I
have known him much longer than you have, and will be answerable for the
event. ' I followed his advice; waited on lord Halifax some time after;
said, I hoped he would find his objections to those passages removed;
read them to him exactly as they were at first; and his lordship was
extremely pleased with them, and cried out, 'Aye, now they are perfectly
right: nothing can be better[123]. '"

It is seldom that the great or the wise suspect that they are despised
or cheated. Halifax, thinking this a lucky opportunity of securing
immortality, made some advances of favour and some overtures of
advantage to Pope, which he seems to have received with sullen coldness.
All our knowledge of this transaction is derived from a single letter,
Dec. 1,1714, in which Pope says, "I am obliged to you, both for the
favours you have done me, and those you intend me. I distrust neither
your will nor your memory, when it is to do good; and if I ever become
troublesome or solicitous, it must not be out of expectation, but out
of gratitude. Your lordship may cause me to live agreeably in the town,
or contentedly in the country, which is really all the difference I set
between an easy fortune and a small one. It is, indeed, a high strain of
generosity in you to think of making me easy all my life, only because I
have been so happy as to divert you some few hours; but, if I may have
leave to add, it is because you think me no enemy to my native country,
there will appear a better reason; for I must of consequence be very
much, as I sincerely am, yours, &c. "

These voluntary offers, and this faint acceptance, ended without effect.
The patron was not accustomed to such frigid gratitude: and the poet fed
his own pride with the dignity of independence. They probably were
suspicious of each other. Pope would not dedicate till he saw at what
rate his praise was valued; he would be "troublesome out of gratitude,
not expectation. " Halifax thought himself entitled to confidence; and
would give nothing, unless he knew what he should receive. Their
commerce had its beginning in hope of praise on one side, and of money
on the other, and ended because Pope was less eager of money than
Halifax of praise. It is not likely that Halifax had any personal
benevolence to Pope; it is evident that Pope looked on Halifax with
scorn and hatred[124].

The reputation of this great work failed of gaining him a patron; but it
deprived him of a friend. Addison and he were now at the head of poetry
and criticism; and both in such a state of elevation, that, like the two
rivals in the Roman state, one could no longer bear an equal, nor the
other a superiour. Of the gradual abatement of kindness between friends,
the beginning is often scarcely discernible by themselves, and the
process is continued by petty provocations, and incivilities sometimes
peevishly returned, and sometimes contemptuously neglected, which would
escape all attention but that of pride, and drop from any memory but
that of resentment. That the quarrel of these two wits should be
minutely deduced, is not to be expected from a writer to whom, as Homer
says, "nothing but rumour has reached, and who has no personal
knowledge. "

Pope doubtless approached Addison, when the reputation of their wit
first brought them together, with the respect due to a man whose
abilities were acknowledged, and who, having attained that eminence to
which he was himself aspiring, had in his hands the distribution of
literary fame. He paid court with sufficient diligence by his prologue
to Cato, by his abuse of Dennis, and with praise yet more direct, by his
poem on the Dialogues on Medals, of which the immediate publication was
then intended. In all this there was no hypocrisy; for he confessed that
he found in Addison something more pleasing than in any other man.

It may be supposed, that as Pope saw himself favoured by the world, and
more frequently compared his own powers with those of others, his
confidence increased, and his submission lessened; and that Addison felt
no delight from the advances of a young wit, who might soon contend with
him for the highest place. Every great man, of whatever kind be his
greatness, has among his friends those who officiously or insidiously
quicken his attention to offences, heighten his disgust, and stimulate
his resentment. Of such adherents Addison doubtless had many; and Pope
was now too high to be without them.

From the emission and reception of the proposals for the Iliad, the
kindness of Addison seems to have abated. Jervas, the painter, once
pleased himself, Aug. 20, 1714, with imagining that he had reestablished
their friendship; and wrote to Pope that Addison once suspected him of
too close a confederacy with Swift, but was now satisfied with his
conduct. To this Pope answered, a week after, that his engagements to
Swift were such as his services in regard to the subscription demanded,
and that the tories never put him under the necessity of asking leave to
be grateful. "But," says he, "as Mr. Addison must be the judge in what
regards himself, and has seemed to be no just one to me, so I must own
to you I expect nothing but civility from him. " In the same letter he
mentions Philips, as having been busy to kindle animosity between them;
but in a letter to Addison, he expresses some consciousness of
behaviour, inattentively deficient in respect.