No More Learning

That it may be complete, it is required to exhibit,
independently of its references, a pleasing image; for a simile is said
to be a short episode. To this antiquity was so attentive, that
circumstances were sometimes added, which, having no parallels, served
only to fill the imagination, and produced what Perrault ludicrously
called "comparisons with a long tail. " In their similes the greatest
writers have sometimes failed; the ship-race, compared with the
chariot-race, is neither illustrated nor aggrandized; land and water
make all the difference: when Apollo, running after Daphne, is likened
to a greyhound chasing a hare, there is nothing gained; the ideas of
pursuit and flight are too plain to be made plainer, and a god and the
daughter of a god are not represented much to their advantage by a hare
and dog. The simile of the Alps has no useless parts, yet affords a
striking picture by itself; it makes the foregoing position better
understood, and enables it to take faster hold on the attention; it
assists the apprehension, and elevates the fancy.

Let me, likewise, dwell a little on the celebrated paragraph, in which
it is directed that "the sound should seem an echo to the sense;" a
precept which Pope is allowed to have observed beyond any other English
poet.

This notion of representative metre, and the desire of discovering
frequent adaptations of the sound to the sense, have produced, in my
opinion, many wild conceits and imaginary beauties. All that can furnish
this representation are the sounds of the words considered singly, and
the time in which they are pronounced. Every language has some words
framed to exhibit the noises which they express, as _thump, rattle,
growl, hiss_. These, however, are but few, and the poet cannot make them
more, nor can they be of any use but when sound is to be mentioned. The
time of pronunciation was, in the dactylick measures of the learned
languages, capable of considerable variety; but that variety could be
accommodated only to motion or duration, and different degrees of motion
were, perhaps, expressed by verses rapid or slow, without much attention
of the writer, when the image had full possession of his fancy; but our
language having little flexibility, our verses can differ very little in
their cadence. The fancied resemblances, I fear, arise sometimes merely
from the ambiguity of words; there is supposed to be some relation
between a _soft_ line and a _soft_ couch, or between _hard_ syllables
and _hard_ fortune.

Motion, however, may be in some sort exemplified; and yet it may be
suspected that even in such resemblances the mind often governs the ear,
and the sounds are estimated by their meaning. One of the most
successful attempts has been to describe the labour of Sisyphus:

With many a weary step, and many a groan,
Up a high hill he heaves a huge round stone;
The huge round stone, resulting with a bound,
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.

Who does not perceive the stone to move slowly upward, and roll
violently back? But set the same numbers to another sense:

While many a merry tale, and many a song,
Cheer'd the rough road, we wish'd the rough road long.
The rough road then, returning in a round,
Mock'd our impatient steps, for all was fairy ground.

We have now, surely, lost much of the delay, and much of the rapidity.

But, to show how little the greatest master of numbers can fix the
principles of representative harmony, it will be sufficient to remark
that the poet, who tells us, that

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow:
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main;

when he had enjoyed, for about thirty years, the praise of Camilla's
lightness of foot, tried another experiment upon _sound_ and _time_, and
produced this memorable triplet:

Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full resounding line,
The long majestick march, and energy divine.

Here are the swiftness of the rapid race, and the march of slow-paced
majesty, exhibited by the same poet in the same sequence of syllables,
except that the exact prosodist will find the line of _swiftness_ by one
time longer than that of _tardiness_.

Beauties of this kind are commonly fancied; and, when real, are
technical and nugatory, not to be rejected, and not to be solicited.

To the praises which have been accumulated on the Rape of the Lock by
readers of every class, from the critick to the waiting-maid, it is
difficult to make any addition. Of that which is universally allowed to
be the most attractive of all ludicrous compositions, let it rather be
now inquired from what sources the power of pleasing is derived.

Dr. Warburton, who excelled in critical perspicacity, has remarked that
the preternatural agents are very happily adapted to the purposes of the
poem. The heathen deities can no longer gain attention: we should have
turned away from a contest between Venus and Diana. The employment of
allegorical persons always excites conviction of its own absurdity; they
may produce effects, but cannot conduct actions; when the phantom is put
in motion, it dissolves; thus Discord may raise a mutiny, but Discord
cannot conduct a march, or besiege a town. Pope brought into view a new
race of beings, with powers and passions proportionate to their
operation. The sylphs and gnomes act, at the toilet and the tea-table,
what more terrifick and more powerful phantoms perform on the stormy
ocean, or the field of battle; they give their proper help, and do their
proper mischief.

Pope is said, by an objector, not to have been the inventer of this
petty nation; a charge which might, with more justice, have been brought
against the author of the Iliad, who, doubtless, adopted the religious
system of his country; for what is there, but the names of his agents,
which Pope has not invented? Has he not assigned them characters and
operations never heard of before? Has he not, at least, given them their
first poetical existence? If this is not sufficient to denominate his
work original, nothing original ever can be written.

In this work are exhibited, in a very high degree, the two most engaging
powers of an author. New things are made familiar, and familiar things
are made new. A race of aërial people, never heard of before, is
presented to us in a manner so clear and easy, that the reader seeks for
no further information, but immediately mingles with his new
acquaintance, adopts their interests, and attends their pursuits, loves
a sylph, and detests a gnome.

That familiar things are made new, every paragraph will prove. The
subject of the poem is an event below the common incidents of common
life; nothing real is introduced that is not seen so often as to be no
longer regarded; yet the whole detail of a female day is here brought
before us invested with so much art of decoration, that, though nothing
is disguised, every thing is striking, and we feel all the appetite of
curiosity for that from which we have a thousand times turned
fastidiously away.

The purpose of the poet is, as he tells us, to laugh at "the little
unguarded follies of the female sex. " It is, therefore, without justice
that Dennis charges the Rape of the Lock with the want of a moral, and
for that reason sets it below the Lutrin, which exposes the pride and
discord of the clergy. Perhaps neither Pope nor Boileau has made the
world much better than he found it; but if they had both succeeded, it
were easy to tell who would have deserved most from publick gratitude.
The freaks, and humours, and spleen, and vanity of women, as they
embroil families in discord, and fill houses with disquiet, do more to
obstruct the happiness of life in a year than the ambition of the clergy
in many centuries. It has been well observed, that the misery of man
proceeds not from any single crush of overwhelming evil, but from small
vexations continually repeated.

It is remarked by Dennis likewise, that the machinery is superfluous;
that, by all the bustle of preternatural operation, the main event is
neither hastened nor retarded. To this charge an efficacious answer is
not easily made. The sylphs cannot be said to help or to oppose; and it
must be allowed to imply some want of art, that their power has not been
sufficiently intermingled with the action. Other parts may, likewise, be
charged with want of connexion; the game at _ombre_ might be spared;
but, if the lady had lost her hair while she was intent upon her cards,
it might have been inferred that those who are too fond of play will be
in danger of neglecting more important interests. Those, perhaps, are
faults; but what are such faults to so much excellence?

The epistle of Eloise to Abelard is one of the most happy productions of
human wit: the subject is so judiciously chosen, that it would be
difficult, in turning over the annals of the world, to find another
which so many circumstances concur to recommend. We regularly interest
ourselves most in the fortune of those who most deserve our notice.
Abelard and Eloise were conspicuous in their days for eminence of merit.
The heart naturally loves truth. The adventures and misfortunes of this
illustrious pair are known from undisputed history. Their fate does not
leave the mind in hopeless dejection; for they both found quiet and
consolation in retirement and piety. So new and so affecting is their
story, that it supersedes invention, and imagination ranges at full
liberty without straggling into scenes of fable.

The story, thus skilfully adopted, has been diligently improved. Pope
has left nothing behind him, which seems more the effect of studious
perseverance and laborious revisal. Here is particularly observable the
"curiosa felicitas," a fruitful soil and careful cultivation. Here is no
crudeness of sense, nor asperity of language.

The sources from which sentiments, which have so much vigour and
efficacy, have been drawn, are shown to be the mystick writers by the
learned author of the Essay on the Life and Writings of Pope; a book
which teaches how the brow of criticism may be smoothed, and how she may
be enabled, with all her severity, to attract and to delight.

The train of my disquisition has now conducted me to that poetical
wonder, the translation of the Iliad, a performance which no age or
nation can pretend to equal. To the Greeks translation was almost
unknown; it was totally unknown to the inhabitants of Greece. They had
no recourse to the barbarians for poetical beauties, but sought for
every thing in Homer, where, indeed, there is but little that they might
not find.

The Italians have been very diligent translators; but I can hear of no
version, unless, perhaps, Anguillara's Ovid may be excepted, which is
read with eagerness. The Iliad of Salvini every reader may discover to
be punctiliously exact; but it seems to be the work of a linguist
skilfully pedantick; and his countrymen, the proper judges of its power
to please, reject it with disgust.

Their predecessors, the Romans, have left some specimens of translation
behind them, and that employment must have had some credit in which
Tully and Germanicus engaged; but, unless we suppose, what is perhaps
true, that the plays of Terence were versions of Menander, nothing
translated seems ever to have risen to high reputation. The French, in
the meridian hour of their learning, were very laudably industrious to
enrich their own language with the wisdom of the ancients; but found
themselves reduced, by whatever necessity, to turn the Greek and Roman
poetry into prose. Whoever could read an author, could translate him.
From such rivals little can be feared.

The chief help of Pope in this arduous undertaking was drawn from the
versions of Dryden. Virgil had borrowed much of his imagery from Homer,
and part of the debt was now paid by his translator. Pope searched the
pages of Dryden for happy combinations of heroick diction; but it will
not be denied that he added much to what he found. He cultivated our
language with so much diligence and art, that he has left in his Homer a
treasure of poetical elegancies to posterity. His version may be said to
have tuned the English tongue; for, since its appearance, no writer,
however deficient in other powers, has wanted melody. Such a series of
lines, so elaborately corrected, and so sweetly modulated, took
possession of the publick ear; the vulgar was enamoured of the poem, and
the learned wondered at the translation.

But in the most general applause discordant voices will always be
heard. It has been objected, by some who wish to be numbered among the
sons of learning, that Pope's version of Homer is not Homerical; that it
exhibits no resemblance of the original and characteristick manner of
the father of poetry, as it wants his awful simplicity, his artless
grandeur, his unaffected majesty[149]. This cannot be totally denied;
but it must be remembered that "necessitas quod cogit defendit;" that
may be lawfully done which cannot be forborne. Time and place will
always enforce regard. In estimating this translation, consideration
must be had of the nature of our language, the form of our metre, and,
above all, of the change which two thousand years have made in the modes
of life and the habits of thought. Virgil wrote in a language of the
same general fabrick with that of Homer, in verses of the same measure,
and in an age nearer to Homer's time by eighteen hundred years; yet he
found, even then, the state of the world so much altered, and the demand
for elegance so much increased, that mere nature would be endured no
longer; and, perhaps, in the multitude of borrowed passages, very few
can be shown which he has not embellished.

There is a time when nations, emerging from barbarity, and falling into
regular subordination, gain leisure to grow wise, and feel the shame of
ignorance and the craving pain of unsatisfied curiosity. To this hunger
of the mind plain sense is grateful; that which fills the void removes
uneasiness, and to be free from pain for awhile is pleasure; but
repletion generates fastidiousness; a saturated intellect soon becomes
luxurious, and knowledge finds no willing reception till it is
recommended by artificial diction. Thus it will be found, in the
progress of learning, that in all nations the first writers are simple;
and that every age improves in elegance. One refinement always makes way
for another; and what was expedient to Virgil, was necessary to Pope.

I suppose many readers of the English Iliad, when they have been touched
with some unexpected beauty of the lighter kind, have tried to enjoy it
in the original, where, alas! it was not to be found. Homer, doubtless,
owes to his translator many Ovidian graces not exactly suitable to his
character; but to have added can be no great crime, if nothing be taken
away. Elegance is surely to be desired, if it be not gained at the
expense of dignity. A hero would wish to be loved, as well as to be
reverenced.

To a thousand cavils one answer is sufficient; the purpose of a writer
is to be read, and the criticism which would destroy the power of
pleasing must be blown aside. Pope wrote for his own age and his own
nation: he knew that it was necessary to colour the images and point the
sentiments of his author; he, therefore, made him graceful, but lost him
some of his sublimity.

The copious notes with which the version is accompanied, and by which it
is recommended to many readers, though they were undoubtedly written to
swell the volumes, ought not to pass without praise: commentaries which
attract the reader by the pleasure of perusal have not often appeared;
the notes of others are read to clear difficulties, those of Pope to
vary entertainment.

It has, however, been objected, with sufficient reason, that there is in
the commentary too much of unseasonable levity and affected gaiety; that
too many appeals are made to the ladies, and the ease which is so
carefully preserved is, sometimes, the ease of a trifler. Every art has
its terms, and every kind of instruction its proper style; the gravity
of common criticks may be tedious, but is less despicable than childish
merriment.

Of the Odyssey, nothing remains to be observed: the same general praise
may be given to both translations, and a particular examination of
either would require a large volume. The notes were written by Broome,
who endeavoured, not unsuccessfully, to imitate his master.

Of the Dunciad, the hint is confessedly taken from Dryden's Mac
Flecknoe; but the plan is so enlarged and diversified, as justly to
claim the praise of an original, and affords the best specimen that has
yet appeared of personal satire ludicrously pompous.

That the design was moral, whatever the author might tell either his
readers or himself, I am not convinced. The first motive was the desire
of revenging the contempt with which Theobald had treated his
Shakespeare, and regaining the honour which he had lost, by crushing his
opponent. Theobald was not of bulk enough to fill a poem, and,
therefore, it was necessary to find other enemies with other names, at
whose expense he might divert the publick.

In this design there was petulance and malignity enough; but I cannot
think it very criminal. An author places himself uncalled before the
tribunal of criticism, and solicits fame at the hazard of disgrace.
Dulness or deformity are not culpable in themselves, but may be very
justly reproached when they pretend to the honour of wit or the
influence of beauty. If bad writers were to pass without reprehension,
what should restrain them? "impune diem consumpserit ingens Telephus;"
and upon bad writers only will censure have much effect. The satire
which brought Theobald and Moore into contempt, dropped impotent from
Bentley, like the javelin of Priam.

All truth is valuable, and satirical criticism may be considered as
useful when it rectifies errour and improves judgment; he that refines
the publick taste is a publick benefactor.

The beauties of this poem are well known; its chief fault is the
grossness of its images. Pope and Swift had an unnatural delight in
ideas physically impure, such as every other tongue utters with
unwillingness, and of which every ear shrinks from the mention.

But even this fault, offensive as it is, may be forgiven for the
excellence of other passages; such as the formation and dissolution of
Moore, the account of the traveller, the misfortune of the florist, and
the crowded thoughts and stately numbers which dignify the concluding
paragraph.

The alterations which have been made in the Dunciad, not always for the
better, require that it should be published, as in the present
collection, with all its variations.

The Essay on Man was a work of great labour and long consideration, but
certainly not the happiest of Pope's performances. The subject is,
perhaps, not very proper for poetry, and the poet was not sufficiently
master of his subject; metaphysical morality was to him a new study; he
was proud of his acquisitions, and, supposing himself master of great
secrets, was in haste to teach what he had not learned. Thus he tells
us, in the first epistle, that from the nature of the supreme being may
be deduced an order of beings such as mankind, because infinite
excellence can do only what is best. He finds out that these beings must
be "somewhere;" and that "all the question is, whether man be in a wrong
place. " Surely if, according to the poet's Leibnitzian reasoning, we may
infer that man ought to be, only because he is, we may allow that his
place is the right place, because he has it. Supreme wisdom is not less
infallible in disposing than in creating. But what is meant by
"somewhere" and "place," and "wrong place," it had been vain to ask
Pope, who, probably, had never asked himself.

Having exalted himself into the chair of wisdom, he tells us much that
every man knows, and much that he does not know himself; that we see but
little, and that the order of the universe is beyond our comprehension;
an opinion not very uncommon: and that there is a chain of subordinate
beings "from infinite to nothing," of which himself and his readers are
equally ignorant. But he gives us one comfort, which, without his help,
he supposes unattainable, in the position "that though we are fools, yet
God is wise. "

This essay affords an egregious instance of the predominance of genius,
the dazzling splendour of imagery, and the seductive powers of
eloquence. Never were penury of knowledge and vulgarity of sentiment so
happily disguised. The reader feels his mind full, though he learns
nothing; and, when he meets it in its new array, no longer knows the
talk of his mother and his nurse. When these wonder-working sounds sink
into sense, and the doctrine of the essay, disrobed of its ornaments, is
left to the powers of its naked excellence, what shall we discover? That
we are, in comparison with our creator, very weak and ignorant; that we
do not uphold the chain of existence; and that we could not make one
another with more skill than we are made. We may learn yet more: that
the arts of human life were copied from the instinctive operations of
other animals; that if the world be made for man, it may be said that
man was made for geese. To these profound principles of natural
knowledge are added some moral instructions equally new; that
self-interest, well understood, will produce social concord; that men
are mutual gainers by mutual benefits; that evil is sometimes balanced
by good; that human advantages are unstable and fallacious, of uncertain
duration and doubtful effect; that our true honour is, not to have a
great part, but to act it well; that virtue only is our own; and that
happiness is always in our power.

Surely a man of no very comprehensive search may venture to say that he
has heard all this before; but it was never till now recommended by such
a blaze of embellishment, or such sweetness of melody. The vigorous
contraction of some thoughts, the luxuriant amplification of others, the
incidental illustrations, and sometimes the dignity, sometimes the
softness of the verses, enchain philosophy, suspend criticism, and
oppress judgment by overpowering pleasure.

This is true of many paragraphs; yet if I had undertaken to exemplify
Pope's felicity of composition before a rigid critick, I should not
select the Essay on Man; for it contains more lines unsuccessfully
laboured, more harshness of diction, more thoughts imperfectly
expressed, more levity without elegance, and more heaviness without
strength, than will easily be found in all his other works.

The Characters of Men and Women are the product of diligent speculation
upon human life: much labour has been bestowed upon them, and Pope very
seldom laboured in vain. That his excellence may be properly estimated,
I recommend a comparison of his Characters of Women with Boileau's
Satire; it will then be seen with how much more perspicacity female
nature is investigated, and female excellence selected; and he surely is
no mean writer to whom Boileau shall be found inferiour. The Characters
of Men, however, are written with more, if not with deeper, thought, and
exhibit many passages exquisitely beautiful. The Gem and the Flower will
not easily be equalled. In the women's part are some defects: the
character of Atossa is not so neatly finished as that of Clodio; and
some of the female characters may be found, perhaps, more frequently
among men; what is said of Philomede was true of Prior.

In the epistles to lord Bathurst and lord Burlington, Dr. Warburton has
endeavoured to find a train of thought which was never in the writer's
head, and, to support his hypothesis, has printed that first which was
published last. In one, the most valuable passage is, perhaps, the Elogy
on good Sense; and the other, the End of the Duke of Buckingham.

The epistle to Arbuthnot, now arbitrarily called the Prologue to the
Satires, is a performance consisting, as it seems, of many fragments
wrought into one design, which, by this union of scattered beauties,
contains more striking paragraphs than could, probably, have been
brought together into an occasional work. As there is no stronger
motive to exertion than self-defence, no part has more elegance, spirit,
or dignity, than the poet's vindication of his own character. The
meanest passage is the satire upon Sporus.

Of the two poems which derived their names from the year, and which are
called the Epilogue to the Satires, it was very justly remarked by
Savage, that the second was, in the whole, more strongly conceived, and
more equally supported, but that it had no single passages equal to the
contention in the first for the dignity of vice, and the celebration of
the triumph of corruption.

The imitations of Horace seem to have been written as relaxations of his
genius. This employment became his favourite by its facility; the plan
was ready to his hand, and nothing was required but to accommodate, as
he could, the sentiments of an old author, to recent facts or familiar
images; but what is easy is seldom excellent; such imitations cannot
give pleasure to common readers; the man of learning may be sometimes
surprised and delighted by an unexpected parallel; but the comparison
requires knowledge of the original, which will likewise often detect
strained applications. Between Roman images and English manners, there
will be an irreconcilable dissimilitude, and the work will be generally
uncouth and party-coloured; neither original nor translated, neither
ancient nor modern[150].

Pope had, in proportions very nicely adjusted to each other, all the
qualities that constitute genius. He had invention, by which new trains
of events are formed, and new scenes of imagery displayed, as in the
Rape of the Lock; and by which extrinsick and adventitious
embellishments and illustrations are connected with a known subject, as
in the Essay on Criticism. He had imagination, which strongly impresses
on the writer's mind, and enables him to convey to the reader, the
various forms of nature, incidents of life, and energies of passion, as
in his Eloisa, Windsor Forest, and Ethick Epistles. He had judgment,
which selects from life or nature what the present purpose requires, and
by separating the essence of things from its concomitants, often makes
the representation more powerful than the reality: and he had colours of
language always before him, ready to decorate his matter with every
grace of elegant expression, as when he accommodates his diction to _the
wonderful multiplicity_ of Homer's sentiments and descriptions.

Poetical expression includes sound as well as meaning; "Musick," says
Dryden, "is inarticulate poetry;" among the excellencies of Pope,
therefore, must be mentioned the melody of his metre. By perusing the
works of Dryden, he discovered the most perfect fabrick of English
verse, and habituated himself to that only which he found the best; in
consequence of which restraint, his poetry has been censured as too
uniformly musical, and as glutting the ear with unvaried sweetness. I
suspect this objection to be the cant of those who judge by principles
rather than perception; and who would even themselves have less pleasure
in his works, if he had tried to relieve attention by studied discords,
or affected to break his lines and vary his pauses.

But, though he was thus careful of his versification, he did not oppress
his powers with superfluous rigour. He seems to have thought, with
Boileau, that the practice of writing might be refined till the
difficulty should overbalance the advantage. The construction of his
language is not always strictly grammatical; with those rhymes, which
prescription had conjoined, he contented himself, without regard to
Swift's remonstrances, though there was no striking consonance; nor was
he very careful to vary his terminations, or to refuse admission, at a
small distance, to the same rhymes.

To Swift's edict, for the exclusion of alexandrines and triplets, he
paid little regard; he admitted them, but, in the opinion of Fenton, too
rarely; he uses them more liberally in his translation than his poems.

He has a few double rhymes; and always, I think, unsuccessfully, except
once in the Rape of the Lock.

Expletives he very early ejected from his verses; but he now and then
admits an epithet rather commodious than important. Each of the six
first lines of the Iliad might lose two syllables with very little
diminution of the meaning; and sometimes, after all his art and labour,
one verse seems to be made for the sake of another. In his latter
productions the diction is sometimes vitiated by French idioms, with
which Bolingbroke had, perhaps, infected him.

I have been told, that the couplet by which he declared his own ear to
be most gratified, was this:

Lo, where Mæotis sleeps, and hardly flows
The freezing Tanais through a waste of snows.

But the reason of this preference I cannot discover.

It is remarked by Watts, that there is scarcely a happy combination of
words, or a phrase poetically elegant, in the English language, which
Pope has not inserted into his version of Homer. How he obtained
possession of so many beauties of speech, it were desirable to know.
That he gleaned from authors, obscure as well as eminent, what he
thought brilliant or useful, and preserved it all in a regular
collection, is not unlikely. When, in his last years, Hall's Satires
were shown him, he wished that he had seen them sooner.

New sentiments, and new images, others may produce; but to attempt any
further improvement of versification will be dangerous. Art and
diligence have now done their best, and what shall be added will be the
effort of tedious toil and needless curiosity.

After all this, it is, surely, superfluous to answer the question that
has once been asked, whether Pope was a poet? otherwise than by asking
in return, if Pope be not a poet, where is poetry to be found? To
circumscribe poetry by a definition, will only show the narrowness of
the definer, though a definition, which shall exclude Pope, will not
easily be made. Let us look round upon the present time, and back upon
the past; let us inquire to whom the voice of mankind has decreed the
wreath of poetry; let their productions be examined, and their claims
stated, and the pretensions of Pope will be no more disputed. Had he
given the world only his version, the name of poet must have been
allowed him: if the writer of the Iliad were to class his successors, he
would assign a very high place to his translator, without requiring any
other evidence of genius.

* * * * *

The following Letter, of which the original is in the hands of lord
Hardwicke, was communicated to me by the kindness of Mr. Jodrell.

"To Mr. BRIDGES, at the bishop of London's, at Fulham.

"Sir,--The favour of your letter, with your remarks, can never
be enough acknowledged; and the speed with which you discharged
so troublesome a task, doubles the obligation.

"I must own, you have pleased me very much by the commendations
so ill bestowed upon me; but, I assure you, much more by the
frankness of your censure, which I ought to take the more kindly
of the two, as it is more advantageous to a scribbler to be
improved in his judgment, than to be soothed in his vanity. The
greater part of those deviations from the Greek, which you have
observed, I was led into by Chapman and Hobbes; who are, it
seems, as much celebrated for their knowledge of the original,
as they are decried for the badness of their translations.
Chapman pretends to have restored the genuine sense of the
author, from the mistakes of all former explainers, in several
hundred places; and the Cambridge editors of the large Homer, in
Greek and Latin, attributed so much to Hobbes, that they confess
they have corrected the old Latin interpretation, very often by
his version. For my part, I generally took the author's meaning
to be as you have explained it; yet their authority, joined to
the knowledge of my own imperfectness in the language, overruled
me. However, sir, you may be confident I think you in the right,
because you happen to be of my opinion: for men (let them say
what they will) never approve any other's sense, but as it
squares with their own. But you have made me much more proud of,
and positive in, my judgment, since it is strengthened by yours.
I think your criticisms, which regard the expression, very just,
and shall make my profit of them: to give you some proof that I
am in earnest, I will alter three verses on your bare objection,
though I have Mr. Dryden's example for each of them. And this, I
hope, you will account no small piece of obedience, from one,
who values the authority of one true poet above that of twenty
criticks or commentators. But, though I speak thus of
commentators, I will continue to read carefully all I can
procure, to make up, that way, for my own want of critical
understanding in the original beauties of Homer. Though the
greatest of them are certainly those of the invention and
design, which are not at all confined to the language: for the
distinguishing excellencies of Homer are (by the consent of the
best criticks of all nations) first in the manners, (which
include all the speeches, as being no other than the
representations of each person's manners by his words;) and then
in that rapture and fire, which carries you away with him, with
that wonderful force, that no man, who has a true poetical
spirit, is master of himself, while he reads him. Homer makes
you interested and concerned before you are aware, all at once;
whereas, Virgil does it by soft degrees. This, I believe, is
what a translator of Homer ought, principally, to imitate; and
it is very hard for any translator to come up to it, because the
chief reason, why all translations fall short of their originals
is, that the very constraint they are obliged to, renders them
heavy and dispirited.

"The great beauty of Homer's language, as I take it, consists in
that noble simplicity which runs through all his works; (and yet
his diction, contrary to what one would imagine consistent with
simplicity, is, at the same time, very copious. ) I don't know
how I have run into this pedantry in a letter, but I find I have
said too much, as well as spoken too inconsiderately; what
farther thoughts I have upon this subject, I shall be glad to
communicate to you, for my own improvement, when we meet; which
is a happiness I very earnestly desire, as I do likewise some
opportunity of proving how much I think myself obliged to your
friendship, and how truly I am, sir,

"Your most faithful, humble servant,

"A. POPE. "

The criticism upon Pope's epitaphs, [151] which was printed in the
Universal Visiter, is placed here, being too minute and particular to be
inserted in the life.

Every art is best taught by example. Nothing contributes more to the
cultivation of propriety, than remarks on the works of those who have
most excelled. I shall, therefore, endeavour, at this _visit_, to
entertain the young students in poetry with an examination of Pope's
epitaphs.

To define an epitaph is useless; every one knows that it is an
inscription on a tomb. An epitaph, therefore, implies no particular
character of writing, but may be composed in verse or prose.
It is,
indeed, commonly panegyrical; because we are seldom distinguished with a
stone but by our friends; but it has no rule to restrain or modify it,
except this, that it ought not to be longer than common beholders may
be expected to have leisure and patience to peruse.

I.

_On_ CHARLES, _earl of_ DORSET, _in the church of Wythyham, in Sussex_.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the muse's pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, dy'd,--
The scourge of pride, though sanctify'd or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state;
Yet soft in nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Blest satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd, vice had his hate and pity too.
Blest courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred kept his friendship, and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefather's every grace
Reflecting, and reflected on his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

The first distich of this epitaph contains a kind of information which
few would want, that the man for whom the tomb was erected, _died_.
There are, indeed, some qualities worthy of praise ascribed to the dead,
but none that were likely to exempt him from the lot of man, or incline
us much to wonder that he should die. What is meant by "judge of
nature," is not easy to say. Nature is not the object of human judgment;
for it is vain to judge where we cannot alter. If by nature is meant
what is commonly called _nature_ by the criticks, a just representation
of things really existing, and actions really performed, nature cannot
be properly opposed to _art_; nature being, in this sense, only the best
effect of _art_.

The scourge of pride--

Of this couplet, the second line is not, what is intended, an
illustration of the former. _Pride_ in the _great_, is, indeed, well
enough connected with _knaves in state_, though _knaves_ is a word
rather too ludicrous and light; but the mention of _sanctified_ pride
will not lead the thoughts to _fops in learning_, but rather to some
species of tyranny or oppression, something more gloomy and more
formidable than foppery.

Yet soft his nature--

This is a high compliment, but was not first bestowed on Dorset by
Pope[152]. The next verse is extremely beautiful.

Blest satirist!

In this distich is another line of which Pope was not the author. I do
not mean to blame these imitations with much harshness; in long
performances they are scarcely to be avoided; and in shorter they may be
indulged, because the train of the composition may naturally involve
them, or the scantiness of the subject allow little choice. However,
what is borrowed is not to be enjoyed as our own; and it is the business
of critical justice to give every bird of the muses his proper feather.

Blest courtier!

Whether a courtier can properly be commended for keeping his _ease
sacred_, may, perhaps, be disputable. To please king and country,
without sacrificing friendship to any change of times, was a very
uncommon instance of prudence or felicity, and deserved to be kept
separate from so poor a commendation as care of his ease. I wish our
poets would attend a little more accurately to the use of the word
_sacred_, which surely should never be applied in a serious composition,
but where some reference may be made to a higher being, or where some
duty is exacted, or implied. A man may keep his friendship sacred,
because promises of friendship are very awful ties; but, methinks, he
cannot, but in a burlesque sense, be said to keep his ease _sacred_.

Blest peer!

The blessing ascribed to the _peer_ has no connexion with his peerage;
they might happen to any other man whose ancestors were remembered, or
whose posterity are likely to be regarded.

I know not whether this epitaph be worthy either of the writer or of the
man entombed.

II

_On sir_ WILLIAM TRUMBULL, one of the principal secretaries of state to
king William the third, who, having resigned his place, died in his
retirement at Easthamstead, in Berkshire, 1716.

A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd;
Honour unchang'd, a principle profest,
Fix'd to one side, but mod'rate to the rest:
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince, and to his country true;
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A gen'rous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny;
Such this man was; who now, from earth remov'd,
At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.

In this epitaph, as in many others, there appears, at the first view, a
fault which, I think, scarcely any beauty can compensate. The name is
omitted. The end of an epitaph is to convey some account of the dead;
and to what purpose is any thing told of him whose name is concealed? An
epitaph, and a history of a nameless hero, are equally absurd, since the
virtues and qualities so recounted in either are scattered at the mercy
of fortune to be appropriated by guess. The name, it is true, may be
read upon the stone; but what obligation has it to the poet, whose
verses wander over the earth, and leave their subject behind them, and
who is forced, like an unskilful painter, to make his purpose known by
adventitious help?

This epitaph is wholly without elevation, and contains nothing striking
or particular; but the poet is not to be blamed for the defects of his
subject. He said, perhaps, the best that could be said. There are,
however, some defects which were not made necessary by the character in
which he was employed. There is no opposition between an _honest
courtier_ and a _patriot_; for, an _honest courtier_ cannot but be a
_patriot_.

It was unsuitable to the nicety required in short compositions, to close
his verse with the word _too_: every rhyme should be a word of emphasis;
nor can this rule be safely neglected, except where the length of the
poem makes slight inaccuracies excusable, or allows room for beauties
sufficient to overpower the effects of petty faults.

At the beginning of the seventh line the word filled is weak and
prosaick, having no particular adaptation to any of the words that
follow it.

The thought in the last line is impertinent, having no connexion with
the foregoing character, nor with the condition of the man described.
Had the epitaph been written on the poor conspirator[153] who died
lately in prison, after a confinement of more than forty years, without
any crime proved against him, the sentiment had been just and
pathetical; but why should Trumbull be congratulated upon his liberty,
who had never known restraint?

III.

_On the honourable_ SIMON HARCOURT, _only son of the lord chancellor_
HARCOURT, _at the church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire_, 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near,
Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear:

Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.
How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh! let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

This epitaph is principally remarkable for the artful introduction of
the name, which is inserted with a peculiar felicity, to which chance
must concur with genius, which no man can hope to attain twice, and
which cannot be copied but with servile imitation.

I cannot but wish that, of this inscription, the two last lines had been
omitted, as they take away from the energy what they do not add to the
sense.

IV.

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

_In Westminster Abbey. _

JACOBVS CRAGGS,
REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIAE A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBVS
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPVLI AMOR ET DELICIÆ
VIXIT TITVLIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR,
ANNOS HEV PAVCOS, XXXV.
OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd.

The lines on Craggs were not originally intended for an epitaph; and,
therefore, some faults are to be imputed to the violence with which they
are torn from the poem that first contained them. We may, however,
observe some defects. There is a redundancy of words in the first
couplet: it is superfluous to tell of him, who was _sincere, true_, and
_faithful_, that he was _in honour clear_.

There seems to be an opposition intended in the fourth line, which is
not very obvious: where is the relation between the two positions, that
he _gained no title_ and _lost no friend_?

It may be proper here to remark the absurdity of joining, in the same
inscription, Latin and English, or verse and prose. If either language
be preferable to the other, let that only be used; for no reason can be
given why part of the information should be given in one tongue, and
part in another, on a tomb, more than in any other place, or any other
occasion; and to tell all that can be conveniently told in verse, and
then to call in the help of prose, has always the appearance of a very
artless expedient, or of an attempt unaccomplished. Such an epitaph
resembles the conversation of a foreigner, who tells part of his meaning
by words, and conveys part by signs.

V.

INTENDED FOR MR. ROWE.

_In Westminster Abbey_[154].

Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust;
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.

Of this inscription the chief fault is, that it belongs less to Rowe,
for whom it is written, than to Dryden, who was buried near him; and,
indeed, gives very little information concerning either.

To wish "Peace to thy shade," is too mythological to be admitted into a
Christian temple: the ancient worship has infected almost all our other
compositions, and might, therefore, be contented to spare our epitaphs.
Let fiction, at least, cease with life, and let us be serious over the
grave.

VI.

ON MRS. CORBET,

_Who died of a cancer in her breast_[155].

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:
No conquest she, but o'er herself, desir'd;
No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind,
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin'd,
Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.

I have always considered this as the most valuable of all Pope's
epitaphs; the subject of it is a character not discriminated by any
shining or eminent peculiarities; yet that which really makes though not
the splendour, the felicity of life, and that which every wise man will
choose for his final and lasting companion in the languor of age, in the
quiet of privacy, when he departs weary and disgusted from the
ostentatious, the volatile, and the vain. Of such a character, which the
dull overlook, and the gay despise, it was fit that the value should be
made known, and the dignity established. Domestick virtue, as it is
exerted without great occasions, or conspicuous consequences, in an even
unnoted tenour, required the genius of Pope to display it in such a
manner as might attract regard, and enforce reverence. Who can forbear
to lament that this amiable woman has no name in the verses?

If the particular lines of this inscription be examined, it will appear
less faulty than the rest. There is scarcely one line taken from
commonplaces, unless it be that in which _only virtue_ is said to be our
own. I once heard a Jady of great beauty and excellence object to the
fourth line, that it contained an unnatural and incredible panegyrick.
Of this let the ladies judge.


VII.

_On the monument of the honourable_ ROBERT DIGBY, _and of his sister
MARY, erected by their father the lord_ DIGBY, _in the church of
Skerborne, in Dorsetshire, 1727. _

Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth:
Compos'd in sufferings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great.
Just of thy word, in ev'ry thought sincere,
Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:
Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human kind:
Go, live! for heav'n's eternal year is thine;
Go, and exalt thy mortal to divine.
And thou, blest maid! attendant on his doom,
Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,
Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more!
Go, then, where only bliss sincere is known!
Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!
Yet take these tears, mortality's relief,
And, till we share your joys, forgive our grief:
These little rites, a stone, a verse receive,
'Tis all a father, all a friend can give!

This epitaph contains of the brother only a general indiscriminate
character, and of the sister tells nothing but that she died. The
difficulty in writing epitaphs is to give a particular and appropriate
praise. This, however, is not always to be performed, whatever be the
diligence or ability of the writer; for, the greater part of mankind
_have no character at all_, have little that distinguishes them from
others equally good or bad, and, therefore, nothing can be said of them
which may not be applied with equal propriety to a thousand more. It is,
indeed, no great panegyrick, that there is inclosed in this tomb one who
was born in one year, and died in another; yet many useful and amiable
lives have been spent, which yet leave little materials for any other
memorial. These are, however, not the proper subjects of poetry; and
whenever friendship, or any other motive, obliges a poet to write on
such subjects, he must be forgiven if he sometimes wanders in
generalities, and utters the same praises over different tombs.

The scantiness of human praises can scarcely be made more apparent, than
by remarking how often Pope has, in the few epitaphs which he composed,
found it necessary to borrow from himself. The fourteen epitaphs, which
he has written, comprise about a hundred and forty lines, in which there
are more repetitions than will easily be found in all the rest of his
works. In the eight lines which make the character of Digby, there is
scarce any thought, or word, which may not be found in the other
epitaphs.

The ninth line, which is far the strongest and most elegant, is borrowed
from Dryden. The conclusion is the same with that on Harcourt, but is
here more elegant and better connected.

VIII.
ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

_In Westminster Abbey, 1723. _

Kneller, by heav'n, and not a master, taught,
Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought;
Now for two ages, having snatch'd from fate
Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great,
Lies crown'd with princes' honours, poets' lays,
Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise.
Living, great nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.

Of this epitaph the first couplet is good, the second not bad, the third
is deformed with a broken metaphor, the word _crowned_ not being
applicable to the _honours_ or the _lays_; and the fourth is not only
borrowed from the epitaph on Raphael, but of very harsh construction.

IX.

ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS.

_In Westminster Abbey_, 1723.

Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country's
friend, but more of human kind. O! born to arms! O! worth in
youth approv'd! O! soft humanity in age belov'd! For thee the
hardy vet'ran drops a tear, And the gay courtier feels the sigh
sincere.

Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove Thy martial spirit, or
thy social love! Amidst corruption, luxury and rage, Still leave
some ancient virtues to our age: Nor let us say (those English
glories gone) The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

The epitaph on Withers affords another instance of commonplaces, though
somewhat diversified, by mingled qualities, and the peculiarity of a
profession.

The second couplet is abrupt, general, and unpleasing; exclamation
seldom succeeds in our language; and, I think, it may be observed, that
the particle O! used at the beginning of a sentence, always offends.

The third couplet is more happy; the value expressed for him, by
different sorts of men, raises him to esteem; there is yet something of
the common cant of superficial satirists, who suppose that the
insincerity of a courtier destroys all his sensations, and that he is
equally a dissembler to the living and the dead[156].

At the third couplet I should wish the epitaph to close, but that I
should be unwilling to lose the two next lines, which yet are dearly
bought if they cannot be retained without the four that follow them.

X.

ON MR. ELIJAH FENTON.

_At Easthamstead, in Berkshire, 1730. _

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, here lies an honest man:
A poet, blest beyond the poet's fate,
Whom heav'n kept sacred from the proud and great:
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace.
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfy'd,
Thank'd heav'n that he liv'd, and that he dy'd.

The first couplet of this epitaph is borrowed from Crashaw. The four
next lines contain a species of praise, peculiar, original, and just.
Here, therefore, the inscription should have ended, the latter part
containing nothing but what is common to every man who is wise and good.
The character of Fenton was so amiable, that I cannot forbear to wish
for some poet or biographer to display it more fully for the advantage
of posterity. If he did not stand in the first rank of genius, he may
claim a place in the second; and, whatever criticism may object to his
writings, censure could find very little to blame in his life.

XI.

ON MR. GAY.

_In Westminster Abbey, 1732. _

Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a man; simpicity, a child;
With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age;
Above temptation, in a low estate;
And uncorrupted e'en among the great:
A safe companion and an easy friend,
Unblam'd through life, lamented in thy end;
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms--Here lies Gay!

As Gay was the favourite of our author, this epitaph was probably
written with an uncommon degree of attention; yet it is not more
successfully executed than the rest, for it will not always happen that
the success of a poet is proportionate to his labour. The same
observation may be extended to all works of imagination, which are often
influenced by causes wholly out of the performer's power, by hints of
which he perceives not the origin, by sudden elevations of mind which he
cannot produce in himself, and which sometimes rise when he expects them
least.

The two parts of the first line are only echoes of each other; _gentle
manners_ and _mild affections_, if they mean any thing, must mean the
same.

That Gay was a _man in wit_ is a very frigid commendation; to have the
wit of a man, is not much for a poet. The _wit of a man_[157], and the
_simplicity of a child_, make a poor and vulgar contrast, and raise no
ideas of excellence, either intellectual or moral.

In the next couplet _rage_ is less properly introduced after the mention
of _mildness_ and _gentleness_ which are made the constituents of his
character; for a man so _mild_ and _gentle_ to _temper_ his _rage_, was
not difficult.

The next line is inharmonious in its sound, and mean in its conception;
the opposition is obvious, and the word _lash_ used absolutely, and
without any modification, is gross and improper.

To be _above temptation_ in poverty, and _free from corruption among
the great_, is, indeed, such a peculiarity as deserved notice. But to be
a _safe companion_ is praise merely negative, arising not from the
possession of virtue, but the absence of vice, and one of the most
odious.

As little can be added to his character, by asserting that he was
_lamented in his end_. Every man that dies is, at least, by the writer
of his epitaph, supposed to be lamented; and, therefore, this general
lamentation does no honour to Gay.

The first eight lines have no grammar; the adjectives are without any
substantive, and the epithets without a subject.

The thought in the last line, that Gay is buried in the bosoms of the
_worthy_ and the _good_, who are distinguished only to lengthen the
line, is so dark that few understand it; and so harsh, when it is
explained, that still fewer approve[158].

XII.

INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

_In Westminster Abbey_.

ISAACUS NEWTONIUS:
Quem immortalem
Testantur, _tempus, natura, coelum_:
Mortalem
Hoc marmor fatetur.
Nature, and nature's law, lay hid in night:
God said, _Let Newton be_! And all was light.

Of this epitaph, short as it is, the faults seem not to be very few. Why
part should be Latin, and part English, it is not easy to discover. In
the Latin the opposition of _immortalis_ and _mortalis_, is a mere
sound, or a mere quibble; he is not _immortal_ in any sense contrary to
that in which he is _mortal_.

In the verses the thought is obvious, and the words _night_ and _light_
are too nearly allied.

XIII.

_On_ EDMUND _duke of_ BUCKINGHAM, _who died in the nineteenth year of his
age_, 1735.

If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,
And ev'ry op'ning virtue blooming round,
Could save a parent's justest pride from fate,
Or add one patriot to a sinking state;
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear,
Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!
The living virtue now had shone approv'd,
The senate heard him, and his country lov'd.
Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame,
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham:
In whom a race, for courage fam'd and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart:
And, chiefs or sages long to Britain giv'n,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to heav'n.

This epitaph Mr. Warburton prefers to the rest; but I know not for what
reason. To _crown_ with _reflection_ is surely a mode of speech
approaching to nonsense. _Opening virtues blooming round,_ is something
like tautology; the six following lines are poor and prosaick _Art_ is,
in another couplet, used for _arts_, that a rhyme may be had to _heart. _
The six last lines are the best, but not excellent.

The rest of his sepulchral performances hardly deserve the notice of
criticism. The contemptible Dialogue between He and She should have been
suppressed for the author's sake.

In his last epitaph on himself, in which he attempts to be jocular upon
one of the few things that make wise men serious, he confounds the
living man with the dead:

Under this stone, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, &c.

When a man is once buried, the question, under what he is buried, is
easily decided. He forgot that though he wrote the epitaph in a state of
uncertainty, yet it could not be laid over him till his grave was made.
Such is the folly of wit when it is ill employed.