No More Learning

" At another time he said, "I have
known Pope these thirty years, and value myself more in his friendship
than"--His grief then suppressed his voice.

Pope expressed undoubting confidence of a future state. Being asked by
his friend Mr. Hooke, a papist, whether he would not die like his father
and mother, and whether a priest should not be called; he answered, "I
do not think it essential, but it will be very right; and I thank you
for putting me in mind of it. "

In the morning, after the priest had given him the last sacraments, he
said, "There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship,
and indeed friendship itself is only a part of virtue. "

He died in the evening of the thirtieth day of May, 1744, so placidly,
that the attendants did not discern the exact time of his expiration. He
was buried at Twickenham, near his father and mother, where a monument
has been erected to him by his commentator, the bishop of Gloucester.

He left the care of his papers to his executors; first to lord
Bolingbroke[144], and, if he should not be living, to the earl of
Marchmont; undoubtedly expecting them to be proud of the trust, and
eager to extend his fame. But let no man dream of influence beyond his
life. After a decent time, Dodsley, the bookseller, went to solicit
preference as the publisher, and was told that the parcel had not been
yet inspected; and, whatever was the reason, the world has been
disappointed of what was "reserved for the next age. "

He lost, indeed, the favour of Bolingbroke, by a kind of posthumous
offence. The political pamphlet, called the Patriot King, had been put
into his hands that he might procure the impression of a very few
copies, to be distributed, according to the author's direction, among
his friends, and Pope assured him that no more had been printed than
were allowed; but, soon after his death, the printer brought and
resigned a complete edition of fifteen hundred copies, which Pope had
ordered him to print, and to retain in secret. He kept, as was observed,
his engagement to Pope, better than Pope had kept it to his friend; and
nothing was known of the transaction, till, upon the death of his
employer, he thought himself obliged to deliver the books to the right
owner, who, with great indignation, made a fire in his yard, and
delivered the whole impression to the flames.

Hitherto nothing had been done which was not naturally dictated by
resentment of violated faith; resentment more acrimonious, as the
violator had been more loved or more trusted. But here the anger might
have stopped; the injury was private, and there was little danger from
the example.

Bolingbroke, however, was not yet satisfied; his thirst of vengeance
excited him to blast the memory of the man over whom he had wept in his
last struggles; and he employed Mallet, another friend of Pope, to tell
the tale to the publick with all its aggravations. Warburton, whose
heart was warm with his legacy, and tender by the recent separation,
thought it proper for him to interpose; and undertook, not indeed to
vindicate the action, for breach of trust has always something criminal,
but to extenuate it by an apology. Having advanced what cannot be
denied, that moral obliquity is made more or less excusable by the
motives that produce it, he inquires what evil purpose could have
induced Pope to break his promise. He could not delight his vanity by
usurping the work, which, though not sold in shops, had been shown to a
number more than sufficient to preserve the author's claim; he could not
gratify his avarice, for he could not sell his plunder till Bolingbroke
was dead: and even then, if the copy was left to another, his fraud
would be defeated, and if left to himself, would be useless.

Warburton, therefore, supposes, with great appearance of reason, that
the irregularity of his conduct proceeded wholly from his zeal for
Bolingbroke, who might, perhaps, have destroyed the pamphlet, which Pope
thought it his duty to preserve, even without its author's approbation.
To this apology an answer was written in a Letter to the most impudent
Man living.

He brought some reproach upon his own memory by the petulant and
contemptuous mention made in his will of Mr. Allen, and an affected
repayment of his benefactions. Mrs. Blount, as the known friend and
favourite of Pope, had been invited to the house of Allen, where she
comported herself with such indecent arrogance, that she parted from
Mrs. Allen in a state of irreconcilable dislike, and the door was for
ever barred against her. This exclusion she resented with so much
bitterness as to refuse any legacy from Pope, unless he left the world
with a disavowal of obligation to Allen. Having been long under her
dominion, now tottering in the decline of life, and unable to resist the
violence of her temper, or, perhaps, with a prejudice of a lover,
persuaded that she had suffered improper treatment, he complied with her
demand, and polluted his will with female resentment. Allen accepted
the legacy, which he gave to the hospital at Bath, observing that Pope
was always a bad accomptant, and that, if to 150_l_. he had put a cipher
more, he had come nearer to the truth[145].

The person of Pope is well known not to have been formed on the nicest
model. He has, in his account of the Little Club, compared himself to a
spider, and, by another, is described as protuberant behind and before.
He is said to have been beautiful in his infancy; but he was of a
constitution originally feeble and weak; and, as bodies of a tender
frame are easily distorted, his deformity was, probably, in part the
effect of his application. His stature was so low, that to bring him to
a level with common tables, it was necessary to raise his seat. But his
face was not displeasing, and his eyes were animated and vivid.

By natural deformity, or accidental distortion, his vital functions were
so much disordered, that his life was a "long disease. " His most
frequent assailant was the headache, which he used to relieve by
inhaling the steam of coffee, which he very frequently required.

Most of what can be told concerning his petty peculiarities was
communicated by a female domestick of the earl of Oxford, who knew him,
perhaps, after the middle of life. He was then so weak as to stand in
perpetual need of female attendance; extremely sensible of cold, so that
he wore a kind of fur doublet, under a shirt of very coarse warm linen
with fine sleeves. When he rose, he was invested in a bodice made of
stiff canvass, being scarcely able to hold himself erect till they were
laced, and he then put on a flannel waistcoat. One side was contracted.
His legs were so slender, that he enlarged their bulk with three pair of
stockings, which were drawn on and off by the maid; for he was not able
to dress or undress himself, and neither went to bed nor rose without
help. His weakness made it very difficult for him to be clean.

His hair had fallen almost all away; and he used to dine sometimes with
lord Oxford, privately, in a velvet cap. His dress of ceremony was
black, with a tie-wig and a little sword.

The indulgence and accommodation which his sickness required, had taught
him all the unpleasing and unsocial qualities of a valetudinary man. He
expected that every thing should give way to his ease or humour; as a
child, whose parents will not hear her cry, has an unresisted dominion
in the nursery:

C'est que l'enfant toujours est homme;
C'est que i'homme est toujours enfant.

When he wanted to sleep he "nodded in company;" and once slumbered at
his own table while the prince of Wales was talking of poetry.

The reputation which his friendship gave procured him many invitations;
but he was a very troublesome inmate. He brought no servant, and had so
many wants that a numerous attendance was scarcely able to supply them.
Wherever he was, he left no room for another, because he exacted the
attention, and employed the activity of the whole family. His errands
were so frequent and frivolous, that the footmen, in time, avoided and
neglected him; and the earl of Oxford discharged some of the servants
for their resolute refusal of his messages. The maids, when they had
neglected their business, alleged that they had been employed by Mr.
Pope. One of his constant demands was of coffee in the night, and to the
woman that waited on him in his chamber, he was very burdensome; but he
was careful to recompense her want of sleep; and lord Oxford's servant
declared, that in a house where her business was to answer his call, she
would not ask for wages.

He had another fault easily incident to those who, suffering much pain,
think themselves entitled to whatever pleasures they can snatch. He was
too indulgent to his appetite: he loved meat highly seasoned and of
strong taste; and at the intervals of the table amused himself with
biscuits and dry conserves. If he sat down to a variety of dishes, he
would oppress his stomach with repletion; and though he seemed angry
when a dram was offered him, did not forbear to drink it. His friends,
who knew the avenues to his heart, pampered him with presents of luxury,
which he did not suffer to stand neglected. The death of great men is
not always proportioned to the lustre of their lives. Hannibal, says
Juvenal, did not perish by the javelin or the sword; the slaughters of
Cannae were revenged by a ring. The death of Pope was imputed, by some
of his friends, to a silver saucepan, in which it was his delight to
heat potted lampreys.

That he loved too well to eat, is certain; but that his sensuality
shortened his life, will not be hastily concluded, when it is
remembered that a conformation so irregular lasted six-and-fifty years,
notwithstanding such pertinacious diligence of study and meditation.

In all his intercourse with mankind, he had great delight in artifice,
and endeavoured to attain all his purposes by indirect and unsuspected
methods. "He hardly drank tea without a stratagem. " If, at the house of
his friends, he wanted any accommodation, he was not willing to ask for
it in plain terms, but would mention it remotely as something
convenient; though, when it was procured, he soon made it appear for
whose sake it had been recommended. Thus he teased lord Orrery till he
obtained a screen. He practised his arts on such small occasions, that
lady Bolingbroke used to say, in a French phrase, that "he played the
politician about cabbages and turnips. " His unjustifiable impression of
the Patriot King, as it can be imputed to no particular motive, must
have proceeded from his general habit of secrecy and cunning; he caught
an opportunity of a sly trick, and pleased himself with the thought of
outwitting Bolingbroke[146].

In familiar or convivial conversation, it does not appear that he
excelled. He may be said to have resembled Dryden, as being not one that
was distinguished by vivacity in company. It is remarkable, that so near
his time, so much should be known of what he has written, and so little
of what he has said: traditional memory retains no sallies of raillery,
nor sentences of observation; nothing either pointed or solid, either
wise or merry. One apophthegm only stands upon record. When an
objection, raised against his inscription for Shakespeare, was defended
by the authority of Patrick, he replied, "horresco referens"--that, "he
would allow the publisher of a dictionary to know the meaning of a
single word, but not of two words put together. "

He was fretful and easily displeased, and allowed himself to be
capriciously resentful. He would sometimes leave lord Oxford silently,
no one could tell why, and was to be courted back by more letters and
messages than the footmen were willing to carry. The table was, indeed,
infested by lady Mary Wortley, who was the friend of lady Oxford, and
who, knowing his peevishness, could by no entreaties be restrained from
contradicting him, till their disputes were sharpened to such asperity,
that one or the other quitted the house.

He sometimes condescended to be jocular with servants or inferiours; but
by no merriment, either of others or his own, was he ever seen excited
to laughter.

Of his domestick character, frugality was a part eminently remarkable.
Having determined not to be dependent, he determined not to be in want,
and, therefore, wisely and magnanimously rejected all temptations to
expense unsuitable to his fortune. This general care must be universally
approved; but it sometimes appeared in petty artifices of parsimony,
such as the practice of writing his compositions on the back of letters,
as may be seen in the remaining copy of the Iliad, by which, perhaps, in
five years five shillings were saved; or in a niggardly reception of his
friends, and scantiness of entertainment, as, when he had two guests in
his house, he would set at supper a single pint upon the table; and,
having himself taken two small glasses, would retire, and say,
"Gentlemen, I leave you to your wine. " Yet he tells his friends, that
"he has a heart for all, a house for all, and, whatever they may think,
a fortune for all. "

He sometimes, however, made a splendid dinner, and is said to have
wanted no part of the skill or elegance which such performances require.
That this magnificence should be often displayed, that obstinate
prudence with which he conducted his affairs would not permit; for his
revenue, certain and casual, amounted only to about eight hundred pounds
a year, of which, however, he declares himself able to assign one
hundred to charity[147].

Of this fortune, which, as it arose from publick approbation, was very
honourably obtained, his imagination seems to have been too full: it
would be hard to find a man, so well entitled to notice by his wit, that
ever delighted so much in talking of his money. In his letters, and in
his poems, his garden and his grotto, his quincunx and his vines, or
some hints of his opulence, are always to be found. The great topick of
his ridicule is poverty; the crimes with which he reproaches his
antagonists are their debts, their habitation in the Mint, and their
want of a dinner. He seems to be of an opinion not very uncommon in the
world, that to want money is to want every thing.

Next to the pleasure of contemplating his possessions, seems to be that
of enumerating the men of high rank with whom he was acquainted, and
whose notice he loudly proclaims not to have been obtained by any
practices of meanness or servility; a boast which was never denied to be
true, and to which very few poets have ever aspired. Pope never set his
genius to sale, he never flattered those whom he did not love, or
praised those whom he did not esteem. Savage, however, remarked, that he
began a little to relax his dignity when he wrote a distich for his
Highness's dog.

His admiration of the great seems to have increased in the advance of
life. He passed over peers and statesmen, to inscribe his Iliad to
Congreve, with a magnanimity of which the praise had been complete, had
his friend's virtue been equal to his wit. Why he was chosen for so
great an honour, it is not now possible to know; there is no trace in
literary history of any particular intimacy between them. The name of
Congreve appears in the letters among those of his other friends, but
without any observable distinction or consequence.

To his latter works, however, he took care to annex names dignified with
titles, but was not very happy in his choice; for, except lord
Bathurst, none of his noble friends were such as that a good man would
wish to have his intimacy with them known to posterity; he can derive
little honour from the notice of Cobham, Burlington, or Bolingbroke.

Of his social qualities, if an estimate be made from his letters, an
opinion too favourable cannot easily be formed; they exhibit a perpetual
and unclouded effulgence of general benevolence and particular fondness.
There is nothing but liberality, gratitude, constancy, and tenderness.
It has been so long said as to be commonly believed, that the true
characters-of men may be found in their letters, and that he who writes
to his friend, lays his heart open before him. But the truth is, that
such were the simple friendships of the Golden Age, and are now the
friendships only of children. Very few can boast of hearts which they
dare lay open to themselves, and of which, by whatever accident exposed,
they do not shun a distinct and continued view; and, certainly, what we
hide from ourselves we do not show to our friends. There is, indeed, no
transaction which offers stronger temptations to fallacy and
sophistication than epistolary intercourse. In the eagerness of
conversation, the first emotions of the mind often burst out before they
are considered; in the tumult of business, interest and passion have
their genuine effect; but a friendly letter is a calm and deliberate
performance in the cool of leisure, in the stillness of solitude, and
surely no man sits down to depreciate by design his own character.

Friendship has no tendency to secure veracity; for by whom can a man so
much wish to be thought better than he is, as by him whose kindness he
desires to gain or keep? Even in writing to the world there is less
constraint; the author is not confronted with his reader, and takes his
chance of approbation among the different dispositions of mankind; but a
letter is addressed to a single mind, of which the prejudices and
partialities are known; and must, therefore, please, if not by favouring
them, by forbearing to oppose them.

To charge those favourable representations which men give of their own
minds with the guilt of hypocritical falsehood, would show more severity
than knowledge. The writer commonly believes himself. Almost every man's
thoughts, while they are general, are right; and most hearts are pure
while temptation is away. It is easy to awaken generous sentiments in
privacy; to despise death when there is no danger; to glow with
benevolence when there is nothing to be given. While such ideas are
formed, they are felt; and self-love does not suspect the gleam of
virtue to be the meteor of fancy.

If the letters of Pope are considered merely as compositions, they seem
to be premeditated and artificial. It is one thing to write, because
there is something which the mind wishes to discharge; and another to
solicit the imagination, because ceremony or vanity requires something
to be written. Pope confesses his early letters to be vitiated with
"affectation and ambition:" to know whether he disentangled Himself from
these perverters of epistolary integrity, his book and his life must be
set in comparison.

One of his favourite topicks is contempt of his own poetry. For this, if
it had been real, he would deserve no commendation; and in this he was
certainly not sincere, for his high value of himself was sufficiently
observed; and of what could he be proud but of his poetry? He writes, he
says, when "he has just nothing else to do;" yet Swift complains that he
was never at leisure for conversation, because he had "always some
poetical scheme in his head. " It was punctually required that his
writing-box should be set upon his bed before he rose; and lord Oxford's
domestick related, that, in the dreadful winter of forty, she was called
from her bed by him four times in one night, to supply him with paper,
lest he should lose a thought.

He pretends insensibility to censure and criticism, though it was
observed, by all who knew him, that every pamphlet disturbed his quiet,
and that his extreme irritability laid him open to perpetual vexation;
but he wished to despise his criticks, and, therefore, hoped that he
did despise them.

As he happened to live in two reigns when the court paid little
attention to poetry, he nursed in his mind a foolish disesteem of kings,
and proclaims that "he never sees courts. " Yet a little regard shown him
by the prince of Wales melted his obduracy; and he had not much to say
when he was asked by his royal highness, "How he could love a prince
while he disliked kings. "

He very frequently professes contempt of the world, and represents
himself as looking on mankind, sometimes with gay indifference, as on
emmets of a hillock, below his serious attention; and sometimes with
gloomy indignation, as on monsters more worthy of hatred than of pity.
These were dispositions apparently counterfeited. How could he despise
those whom he lived by pleasing, and on whose approbation his esteem of
himself was super-structed? Why should he hate those to whose favour he
owed his honour and his ease? Of things that terminate in human life,
the world is the proper judge; to despise its sentence, if it were
possible, is not just; and if it were just, is not possible. Pope was
far enough from this unreasonable temper: he was sufficiently "a fool to
fame," and his fault was, that he pretended to neglect it. His levity
and his sullenness were only in his letters; he passed through common
life, sometimes vexed, and sometimes pleased, with the natural emotions
of common men.

His scorn of the great is too often repeated to be real; no man thinks
much of that which he despises; and, as falsehood is always in danger of
inconsistency, he makes it his boast, at another time, that he lives
among them.

It is evident that his own importance swells often in his mind. He is
afraid of writing, lest the clerks of the post-office should know his
secrets; he has many enemies; he considers himself as surrounded by
universal jealousy: "after many deaths, and many dispersions, two or
three of us" says he, "may still be brought together, not to plot, but
to divert ourselves, and the world too, if it pleases:" and they can
live together, and "show what friends wits may be, in spite of all the
fools in the world. " All this while it was likely that the clerks did
not know his hand; he certainly had no more enemies than a publick
character like his inevitably excites; and with what degree of
friendship the wits might live, very few were so much fools as ever to
inquire.

Some part of this pretended discontent he learned from Swift, and
expresses it, I think, most frequently in his correspondence with him.
Swift's resentment was unreasonable, but it was sincere; Pope's was the
mere mimickry of his friend, a fictitious part which he began to play
before it became him. When he was only twenty-five years old, he related
that "a glut of study and retirement had thrown him on the world," and
that there was danger lest "a glut of the world should throw him back
upon study and retirement. " To this Swift answered with great propriety,
that Pope had not yet either acted or suffered enough in the world to
have become weary of it. And, indeed, it must be some very powerful
reason that can drive back to solitude him who has once enjoyed the
pleasures of society.

In the letters, both of Swift and Pope, there appears such narrowness of
mind, as makes them insensible of any excellence that has not some
affinity with their own, and confines their esteem and approbation to so
small a number, that whoever should form his opinion of the age from
their representation, would suppose them to have lived amidst ignorance
and barbarity, unable to find, among their contemporaries, either virtue
or intelligence, and persecuted by those that could not understand them.

When Pope murmurs at the world, when he professes contempt of fame, when
he speaks of riches and poverty, of success and disappointment, with
negligent indifference, he certainly does not express his habitual and
settled sentiments, but either wilfully disguises his own character, or,
what is more likely, invests himself with temporary qualities, and
sallies out in the colours of the present moment. His hopes and fears,
his joys and sorrows, acted strongly upon his mind; and, if he differed
from others, it was not by carelessness; he was irritable and resentful;
his malignity to Philips, whom he had first made ridiculous, and then
hated for being angry, continued too long. Of his vain desire to make
Bentley contemptible, I never heard any adequate reason. He was
sometimes wanton in his attacks; and, before Chandos, lady Wortley, and
Hill, was mean in his retreat.

The virtues which seem to have had most of his affection were liberality
and fidelity of friendship, in which it does not appear that he was
other than he describes himself. His fortune did not suffer his charity
to be splendid and conspicuous; but he assisted Dodsley with a hundred
pounds, that he might open a shop; and, of the subscription of forty
pounds a year, that he raised for Savage, twenty were paid by himself.
He was accused of loving money; but his love was eagerness to gain, not
solicitude to keep it.

In the duties of friendship he was zealous and constant; his early
maturity of mind commonly united him with men older than himself, and,
therefore, without attaining any considerable length of life, he saw
many companions of his youth sink into the grave; but it does not appear
that he lost a single friend by coldness or by injury; those who loved
him once, continued their kindness. His ungrateful mention of Allen, in
his will, was the effect of his adherence to one whom he had known much
longer, and whom he naturally loved with greater fondness. His violation
of the trust reposed in him by Bolingbroke, could have no motive
inconsistent with the warmest affection; be either thought the action so
near to indifferent that he forgot it, or so laudable, that he expected
his friend to approve it.

It was reported, with such confidence as almost to enforce belief, that
in the papers intrusted to his executors was found a defamatory life of
Swift, which he had prepared as an instrument of vengeance, to be used
if any provocation should be ever given. About this I inquired of the
earl of Marchmont, who assured me, that no such piece was among his
remains.

The religion in which he lived and died was that of the church of Rome,
to which, in his correspondence with Racine, he professes himself a
sincere adherent. That he was not scrupulously pious in some part of his
life, is known by many idle and indecent applications of sentences taken
from the scriptures; a mode of merriment which a good man dreads for its
profaneness, and a witty man disdains for its easiness and vulgarity.
But to whatever levities he has been betrayed, it does not appear that
his principles were ever corrupted, or that he ever lost his belief of
revelation. The positions, which he transmitted from Bolingbroke, he
seems not to have understood; and was pleased with an interpretation,
that made them orthodox.

A man of such exalted superiority, and so little moderation, would
naturally have all his delinquencies observed and aggravated; those who
could not deny that he was excellent, would rejoice to find that he was
not perfect.

Perhaps it may be imputed to the unwillingness with which the same man
is allowed to possess many advantages, that his learning has been
depreciated. He certainly was, in his early life, a man of great
literary curiosity; and, when he wrote his Essay on Criticism, had, for
his age, a very wide acquaintance with books. When he entered into the
living world, it seems to have happened to him, as to many others, that
he was less attentive to dead masters; he studied in the academy of
Paracelsus, and made the universe his favourite volume. He gathered his
notions fresh from reality, not from the copies of authors, but the
originals of nature. Yet, there is no reason to believe, that literature
ever lost his esteem; he always professed to love reading; and Dobson,
who spent some time at his house, translating his Essay on Man, when I
asked him what learning he found him to possess, answered, "More than I
expected. " His frequent references to history, his allusions to various
kinds of knowledge, and his images, selected from art and nature, with
his observations on the operations of the mind, and the modes of life,
show an intelligence perpetually on the wing, excursive, vigorous, and
diligent, eager to pursue knowledge, and attentive to retain it.

From this curiosity arose the desire of travelling, to which he alludes
in his verses to Jervas; and which, though he never found an opportunity
to gratify it, did not leave him till his life declined.

Of his intellectual character, the constituent and fundamental principle
was good sense, a prompt and intuitive perception of consonance and
propriety. He saw immediately, of his own conceptions, what was to be
chosen, and what to be rejected; and, in the works of others, what was
to be shunned, and what was to be copied.

But good sense alone is a sedate and quiescent quality, which manages
its possessions well, but does not increase them; it collects few
materials for its own operations, and preserves safety, but never gains
supremacy. Pope had, likewise, genius; a mind active, ambitious, and
adventurous, always investigating, always aspiring; in its widest
searches still longing to go forward, in its highest flights still
wishing to be higher; always imagining something greater than it knows,
always endeavouring more than it can do.

To assist these powers, he is said to have had great strength and
exactness of memory. That which he had heard or read was not easily
lost; and he had before him not only what his own meditation suggested,
but what he had found in other writers that might be accommodated to his
present purpose.

These benefits of nature he improved by incessant and unwearied
diligence; he had recourse to every source of intelligence, and lost no
opportunity of information; he consulted the living as well as the dead;
he read his compositions to his friends, and was never content with
mediocrity, when excellence could be attained. He considered poetry as
the business of his life; and, however he might seem to lament his
occupation, he followed it with constancy; to make verses was his first
labour, and to mend them was his last.

From his attention to poetry he was never diverted. If conversation
offered any thing that could be improved, he committed it to paper; if a
thought, or, perhaps, an expression more happy than was common, rose to
his mind, he was careful to write it; an independent distich was
preserved for an opportunity of insertion, and some little fragments
have been found containing lines, or parts of lines, to be wrought upon
at some other time.

He was one of those few whose labour is their pleasure: he was never
elevated to negligence, nor wearied to impatience; he never passed a
fault unamended by indifference, nor quitted it by despair. He laboured
his works, first to gain reputation, and afterwards to keep it.

Of composition there are different methods. Some employ at once memory
and invention, and, with little intermediate use of the pen, form and
polish large masses by continued meditation, and write their productions
only when, in their own opinion, they have completed them. It is related
of Virgil, that his custom was to pour out a great number of verses in
the morning, and pass the day in retrenching exuberances and correcting
inaccuracies. The method of Pope, as may be collected from his
translation, was to write his first thoughts in his first words, and
gradually to amplify, decorate, rectify, and refine them.

With such faculties, and such dispositions, he excelled every other
writer in poetical prudence: he wrote in such a manner as might expose
him to few hazards. He used almost always the same fabrick of verse;
and, indeed, by those few essays which he made of any other, he did not
enlarge his reputation. Of this uniformity the certain consequence was
readiness and dexterity. By perpetual practice, language had, in his
mind, a systematical arrangement; having always the same use for words,
he had words so selected and combined as to be ready at his call. This
increase of facility he confessed himself to have perceived in the
progress of his translation.

But what was yet of more importance, his effusions were always
voluntary, and his subjects chosen by himself. His independence secured
him from drudging at a task, and labouring upon a barren topick: he
never exchanged praise for money, nor opened a shop of condolence or
congratulation. His poems, therefore, were scarcely ever temporary. He
suffered coronations and royal marriages to pass without a song; and
derived no opportunities from recent events, nor any popularity from the
accidental disposition of his readers. He was never reduced to the
necessity of soliciting the sun to shine upon a birthday, of calling the
graces and virtues to a wedding, or of saying what multitudes have said
before him. When he could produce nothing new, he was at liberty to be
silent.

His publications were, for the same reason, never hasty. He is said to
have sent nothing to the press till it had lain two years under his
inspection: it is at least certain, that he ventured nothing without
nice examination. He suffered the tumult of imagination to subside, and
the novelties of invention to grow familiar. He knew that the mind is
always enamoured of its own productions, and did not trust his first
fondness. He consulted his friends, and listened with great willingness
to criticism; and, what was of more importance, he consulted himself,
and let nothing pass against his own judgment.

He professed to have learned his poetry from Dryden, whom, whenever an
opportunity was presented, he praised through his whole life with
unvaried liberality; and, perhaps, his character may receive some
illustration, if he be compared with his master.

Integrity of understanding, and nicety of discernment, were not allotted
in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. The rectitude of Dryden's
mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission of his poetical
prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers.
But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment that he had. He
wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people; and when he
pleased others, he contented himself. He spent no time in struggles to
rouse latent powers; he never attempted to make that better which was
already good, nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He
wrote, as he tells us, with very little consideration; when occasion or
necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present moment
happened to supply, and, when once it had passed the press, ejected it
from his mind; for, when he had no pecuniary interest, he had no further
solicitude.
Pope was not content to satisfy; he desired to excel, and, therefore,
always endeavoured to do his best: he did not court the candour, but
dared the judgment of his reader, and, expecting no indulgence from
others, he showed none to himself. He examined lines and words with
minute and punctilious observation, and retouched every part with
indefatigable diligence, till he had left nothing to be forgiven.

For this reason he kept his pieces very long in his hands, while he
considered and reconsidered them. The only poems which can be supposed
to have been written with such regard to the times as might hasten their
publication, were the two satires of Thirty-eight; of which Dodsley told
me, that they were brought to him by the author, that they might be
fairly copied. "Almost every line," he said, "was then written twice
over; I gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some time afterwards
to me for the press, with almost every line written twice over a second
time. "

His declaration, that his care for his works ceased at their
publication, was not strictly true. His parental attention never
abandoned them; what he found amiss in the first edition, he silently
corrected in those that followed. He appears to have revised the Iliad,
and freed it from some of its imperfections; and the Essay on Criticism
received many improvements after its first appearance. It will seldom be
found that he altered, without adding clearness, elegance, or vigour.
Pope had, perhaps, the judgment of Dryden; but Dryden certainly wanted
the diligence of Pope.

In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to Dryden, whose
education was more scholastick, and who, before he became an author, had
been allowed more time for study, with better means of information. His
mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations
from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man
in his general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of
Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation, and those of Pope by
minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, and
more certainty in that of Pope.

Poetry was not the sole praise of either: for both excelled likewise in
prose; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his predecessor. The style
of Dryden is capricious and varied; that of Pope is cautious and
uniform. Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind; Pope constrains his
mind to his own rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and
rapid; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page is a
natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied
exuberance of abundant vegetation; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by
the sithe, and levelled by the roller.

Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet; that quality without
which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert; that energy which
collects, combines, amplifies, and animates; the superiority must, with
some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred, that of
this poetical vigour Pope had only a little, because Dryden had more;
for every other writer since Milton must give place to Pope; and even of
Dryden it must be said, that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not
better poems. Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited by
some external occasion, or extorted by domestick necessity; he composed
without consideration, and published without correction. What his mind
could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he
sought, and all that he gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him
to condense his sentiments, to multiply his images, and to accumulate
all that study might produce, or chance might supply. If the flights of
Dryden, therefore, are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing. If of
Dryden's fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular
and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls
below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with
perpetual delight.

This parallel will, I hope, when it is well considered, be found just;
and, if the reader should suspect me, as I suspect myself, of some
partial fondness for the memory of Dryden, let him not too hastily
condemn me; for meditation and inquiry, may, perhaps, show him the
reasonableness of my determination.

* * * * *

The works of Pope are now to be distinctly examined, not so much with
attention to slight faults, or petty beauties, as to the general
character and effect of each performance.

It seems natural for a young poet to initiate himself by pastorals,
which, not professing to imitate real life, require no experience; and,
exhibiting only the simple operation of unmingled passions, admit no
subtile reasoning or deep inquiry. Pope's pastorals are not, however,
composed but with close thought; they have reference to the times of the
day, the seasons of the year, and the periods of human life. The last,
that which turns the attention upon age and death, was the author's
favourite. To tell of disappointment and misery, to thicken the darkness
of futurity, and perplex the labyrinth of uncertainty, has been always a
delicious employment of the poets. His preference was probably just, I
wish, however, that his fondness had not overlooked a line in which the
zephyrs are made "to lament in silence. "

To charge these pastorals with want of invention, is to require what was
never intended. The imitations are so ambitiously frequent, that the
writer evidently means rather to show his literature, than his wit. It
is surely sufficient for an author of sixteen, not only to be able to
copy the poems of antiquity with judicious selection, but to have
obtained sufficient power of language, and skill in metre, to exhibit a
series of versification, which had in English poetry no precedent, nor
has since had an imitation.

The design of Windsor Forest is evidently derived from Cooper's Hill,
with some attention to Waller's poem on the Park; but Pope cannot be
denied to excel his masters in variety and elegance, and the art of
interchanging description, narrative, and morality. The objection made
by Dennis is the want of plan, of a regular subordination of parts
terminating in the principal and original design. There is this want in
most descriptive poems, because, as the scenes, which they must exhibit
successively, are all subsisting at the same time, the order in which
they are shown must by necessity be arbitrary, and more is not to be
expected from the last part than from the first. The attention,
therefore, which cannot be detained by suspense, must be excited by
diversity, such as his poem offers to its reader.

But the desire of diversity may be too much indulged; the parts of
Windsor Forest which deserve least praise, are those which were added to
enliven the stillness of the scene, the appearance of Father Thames, and
the transformation of Lodona. Addison had in his Campaign derided the
rivers that "rise from their oozy beds" to tell stories of heroes; and
it is, therefore, strange that Pope should adopt a fiction not only
unnatural but lately censured. The story of Lodona is told with
sweetness; but a new metamorphosis is a ready and puerile expedient;
nothing is easier than to tell how a flower was once a blooming virgin,
or a rock an obdurate tyrant.

The Temple of Fame has, as Steele warmly declared, "a thousand
beauties. " Every part is splendid; there is great luxuriance of
ornaments; the original vision of Chaucer was never denied to be much
improved; the allegory is very skilfully continued, the imagery is
properly selected, and learnedly displayed; yet, with all this
comprehension of excellence, as its scene is laid in remote ages, and
its sentiments, if the concluding paragraph be excepted, have little
relation to general manners or common life, it never obtained much
notice, but is turned silently over, and seldom quoted or mentioned with
either praise or blame.

That the Messiah excels the Pollio, is no great praise, if it be
considered from what original the improvements are derived.

The Verses on the unfortunate Lady have drawn much attention by the
illaudable singularity of treating suicide with respect; and they must
be allowed to be written, in some parts, with vigorous animation, and,
in others, with gentle tenderness; nor has Pope produced any poem in
which the sense predominates more over the diction. But the tale is not
skilfully told; it is not easy to discover the character of either the
lady or her guardian. History relates that she was about to disparage
herself by a marriage with an inferiour; Pope praises her for the
dignity of ambition, and yet condemns the uncle to detestation for his
pride; the ambitious love of a niece may be opposed by the interest,
malice, or envy of an uncle, but never by his pride. On such an occasion
a poet may be allowed to be obscure, but inconsistency never can be
right[148].

The Ode for St. Cecilia's Day was undertaken at the desire of Steele:
in this the author is generally confessed to have miscarried, yet he has
miscarried only as compared with Dryden; for he has far outgone other
competitors. Dryden's plan is better chosen; history will always take
stronger hold of the attention than fable: the passions excited by
Dryden are the pleasures and pains of real life, the scene of Pope is
laid in imaginary existence; Pope is read with calm acquiescence, Dryden
with turbulent delight; Pope hangs upon the ear, and Dryden finds the
passes of the mind.

Both the odes want the essential constituent of metrical compositions,
the stated recurrence of settled numbers. It may be alleged that Pindar
is said by Horace to have written "numeris lege solutis:" but as no such
lax performances have been transmitted to us, the meaning of that
expression cannot be fixed; and, perhaps, the like return might properly
be made to a modern Pindarist, as Mr. Cobb received from Bentley, who,
when he found his criticisms upon a Greek exercise, which Cobb had
presented, refuted one after another by Pindar's authority, cried out,
at last, "Pindar was a bold fellow, but thou art an impudent one. "

If Pope's ode be particularly inspected, it will be found that the first
stanza consists of sounds well chosen indeed, but only sounds.

The second consists of hyperbolical commonplaces, easily to be found,
and, perhaps, without much difficulty to be as well expressed.

In the third, however, there are numbers, images, harmony, and vigour,
not unworthy the antagonist of Dryden. Had all been like this--but every
part cannot be the best.

The next stanzas place and detain us in the dark and dismal regions of
mythology, where neither hope nor fear, neither joy nor sorrow, can be
found: the poet, however, faithfully attends us: we have all that can be
performed by elegance of diction, or sweetness of versification; but
what can form avail without better matter?

The last stanza recurs again to commonplaces. The conclusion is too
evidently modelled by that of Dryden; and it may be remarked that both
end with the same fault: the comparison of each is literal on one side,
and metaphorical on the other.

Poets do not always express their own thoughts; Pope, with all this
labour in the praise of musick, was ignorant of its principles, and
insensible of its effects.

One of his greatest, though of his earliest works, is the Essay on
Criticism, which, if he had written nothing else, would have placed him
among the first criticks and the first poets, as it exhibits every mode
of excellence that can embellish or dignify didactick composition,
selection of matter, novelty of arrangement, justness of precept,
splendour of illustration, and propriety of digression. I know not
whether it be pleasing to consider that he produced this piece at
twenty, and never afterwards excelled it: he that delights himself with
observing that such powers may be so soon attained, cannot but grieve to
think that life was ever after at a stand.

To mention the particular beauties of the essay would be unprofitably
tedious; but I cannot forbear to observe, that the comparison of a
student's progress in the sciences with the journey of a traveller in
the Alps, is, perhaps, the best that English poetry can show. A simile,
to be perfect, must both illustrate and ennoble the subject; must show
it to the understanding in a clearer view, and display it to the fancy
with greater dignity; but either of these qualities may be sufficient to
recommend it. In didactick poetry, of which the great purpose is
instruction, a simile may be praised which illustrates, though it does
not ennoble; in heroicks, that may be admitted which ennobles, though it
does not illustrate. 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.