No More Learning

This fraud could only be counteracted by an edition equally cheap
and more commodious; and Lintot was compelled to contract his folio at
once into a duodecimo, and lose the advantage of an intermediate
gradation. The notes, which in the Dutch copies were placed at the end
of each book, as they had been in the large volumes, were now subjoined
to the text in the same page, and are, therefore, more easily consulted.
Of this edition two thousand five hundred were first printed, and five
thousand a few weeks afterwards; but, indeed, great numbers were
necessary to produce considerable profit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The beginning of the first book stands thus:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Invocation to the catalogue of ships:

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

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

Book v. _v_. 1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Conclusion of Book_ viii. _v_. 687.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Swift's industry in promoting the subscription there remains the
testimony of Kennet, no friend to either him or Pope.

"Nov. 2, 1713, Dr. Swift came into the coffee-house, and had a bow from
every body but me, who, I confess, could not but despise him. When I
came to the ante-chamber to wait, before prayers, Dr. Swift was the
principal man of talk and business, and acted as master of requests.
Then he instructed a young nobleman, that the _best poet in England_ was
Mr. Pope, a papist, who had begun a translation of Homer into English
verse, for which _he must have them all subscribe_; for, says he, the
author _shall not_ begin to print till _I have_ a thousand guineas for
him. "

About this time it is likely that Steele, who was, with all his
political fury, good-natured and officious, procured an interview
between these angry rivals, which ended in aggravated malevolence. On
this occasion, if the reports be true, Pope made his complaint with
frankness and spirit, as a man undeservedly neglected or opposed; and
Addison affected a contemptuous unconcern, and, in a calm even voice,
reproached Pope with his vanity, and, telling him of the improvements
which his early works had received from his own remarks and those of
Steele, said, that he, being now engaged in publick business, had no
longer any care for his poetical reputation, nor had any other desire,
with regard to Pope, than that he should not, by too much arrogance,
alienate the publick.

To this Pope is said to have replied with great keenness and severity,
upbraiding Addison with perpetual dependance, and with the abuse of
those qualifications which he had obtained at the publick cost, and
charging him with mean endeavours to obstruct the progress of rising
merit. The contest rose so high, that they parted at last without any
interchange of civility.

The first volume of Homer was, 1715, in time published; and a rival
version of the first Iliad, for rivals the time of their appearance
inevitably made them, was immediately printed, with the name of Tickell.
It was soon perceived that, among the followers of Addison, Tickell had
the preference, and the criticks and poets divided into factions. "I,"
says Pope, "have the town, that is, the mob, on my side; but it is not
uncommon for the smaller party to supply by industry what it wants in
numbers. I appeal to the people as my rightful judges, and while they
are not inclined to condemn me, shall not fear the highfliers at
Button's. " This opposition he immediately imputed to Addison, and
complained of it in terms sufficiently resentful to Craggs, their common
friend.

When Addison's opinion was asked, he declared the versions to be both
good, but Tickell's the best that had ever been written; and sometimes
said, that they were both good, but that Tickell had more of Homer.

Pope was now sufficiently irritated; his reputation and his interest
were at hazard. He once intended to print together the four versions of
Dryden, Maynwaring, Pope, and Tickell, that they might be readily
compared, and fairly estimated. This design seems to have been defeated
by the refusal of Tonson, who was the proprietor of the other three
versions.

Pope intended, at another time, a rigorous criticism of Tickell's
translation, and had marked a copy, which I have seen, in all places
that appeared defective. But, while he was thus meditating defence or
revenge, his adversary sunk before him without a blow; the voice of the
publick was not long divided, and the preference was universally given
to Pope's performance.

He was convinced, by adding one circumstance to another, that the other
translation was the work of Addison himself; but, if he knew it in
Addison's lifetime, it does not appear that he told it. He left his
illustrious antagonist to be punished by what has been considered as
the most painful of all reflections, the remembrance of a crime
perpetrated in vain.

The other circumstances of their quarrel were thus related by Pope[125].

"Philips seemed to have been encouraged to abuse me in coffee-houses,
and conversations: and Gildon wrote a thing about Wycherley, in which he
had abused both me and my relations very grossly. Lord Warwick himself
told me one day, that it was in vain for me to endeavour to be well with
Mr.
Addison; that his jealous temper would never admit of a settled
friendship between us; and, to convince me of what he had said, assured
me, that Addison had encouraged Gildon to publish those scandals, and
had given him ten guineas after they were published. The next day, while
I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a letter to Mr. Addison, to
let him know that I was not unacquainted with this behaviour of his;
that if I was to speak severely of him in return for it, it should be
not in such a dirty way; that I should rather tell him, himself, fairly
of his faults, and allow his good qualities; and, that it should be
something in the following manner: I then adjoined the first sketch of
what has since been called my satire on Addison. Mr. Addison used me
very civilly ever after[126]. "

The verses on Addison, when they were sent to Atterbury, were considered
by him as the most excellent of Pope's performances; and the writer was
advised, since he knew where his strength lay, not to suffer it to
remain unemployed.

This year, 1715, being, by the subscription, enabled to live more by
choice, having persuaded his father to sell their estate at Binfield, he
purchased, I think, only for his life, that house at Twickenham, to
which his residence afterwards procured so much celebration, and
removed thither with his father and mother.

Here he planted the vines and the quincunx which his verses mention;
and, being under the necessity of making a subterraneous passage to a
garden on the other side of the road, he adorned it with fossile bodies,
and dignified it with the title of a grotto, a place of silence and
retreat, from which he endeavoured to persuade his friends and himself
that cares and passions could be excluded.

A grotto is not often the wish or pleasure of an Englishman, who has
more frequent need to solicit than exclude the sun; but Pope's
excavation was requisite as an entrance to his garden, and, as some men
try to be proud of their defects, he extracted an ornament from an
inconvenience, and vanity produced a grotto where necessity enforced a
passage. It may be frequently remarked of the studious and speculative,
that they are proud of trifles, and that their amusements seem frivolous
and childish; whether it be that men, conscious of great reputation,
think themselves above the reach of censure, and safe in the admission
of negligent indulgences, or that mankind expect from elevated genius an
uniformity of greatness, and watch its degradation with malicious
wonder; like him who, having followed with his eye an eagle into the
clouds, should lament that she ever descended to a perch.

While the volumes of his Homer were annually published, he collected his
former works, 1717, into one quarto volume, to which he prefixed a
preface, written with great sprightliness and elegance, which was
afterwards reprinted, with some passages subjoined that he at first
omitted; other marginal additions of the same kind he made in the later
editions of his poems. Waller remarks, that poets lose half their
praise, because the reader knows not what they have blotted. Pope's
voracity of fame taught him the art of obtaining the accumulated honour,
both of what he had published, and of what he had suppressed.

In this year his father died suddenly, in his seventy-fifth year, having
passed twenty-nine years in privacy. He is not known but by the
character which his son has given him. If the money with which he
retired was all gotten by himself, he had traded very successfully in,
times when sudden riches were rarely attainable.

The publication of the Iliad was at last completed in 1720. The
splendour and success of this work raised Pope many enemies, that
endeavoured to depreciate his abilities. Burnet, who was afterwards a
judge of no mean reputation, censured him in a piece called Homerides,
before it was published. Ducket, likewise, endeavoured to make him
ridiculous. Dennis was the perpetual persecutor of all his studies. But,
whoever his criticks were, their writings are lost; and the names which
are preserved are preserved in the Dunciad.

In this disastrous year, 1720, of national infatuation, when more riches
than Peru can boast were expected from the South-sea, when the contagion
of avarice tainted every mind, and even poets panted after wealth, Pope
was seized with the universal passion, and ventured some of his money.
The stock rose in its price; and for awhile he thought himself the lord
of thousands. But this dream of happiness did not last long; and he
seems to have waked soon enough to get clear with the loss only of what
he once thought himself to have won, and perhaps not wholly of that.

Next year he published some select poems of his friend Dr. Parnell, with
a very elegant dedication to the earl of Oxford; who, after all his
struggles and dangers, then lived in retirement, still under the frown
of a victorious faction, who could take no pleasure in hearing his
praise.

He gave the same year, 1721, an edition of Shakespeare. His name was now
of so much authority, that Tonson thought himself entitled, by annexing
it, to demand a subscription of six guineas for Shakespeare's plays, in
six quarto volumes; nor did his expectation much deceive him; for, of
seven hundred and fifty which he printed, he dispersed a great number at
the price proposed. The reputation of that edition, indeed, sunk
afterwards so low, that one hundred and forty copies were sold at
sixteen shillings each.

On this undertaking, to which Pope was induced by a reward of two
hundred and seventeen pounds twelve shillings, he seems never to have
reflected afterwards without vexation; for Theobald, a man of heavy
diligence, with very slender powers, first, in a book called Shakespeare
Restored, and then in a formal edition, detected his deficiencies with
all the insolence of victory; and as he was now high enough to be feared
and hated, Theobald had from others all the help that could be supplied,
by the desire of humbling a haughty character.

From this time Pope became an enemy to editors, collators, commentators,
and verbal criticks; and hoped to persuade the world, that he miscarried
in this undertaking, only by having a mind too great for such minute
employment.

Pope in his edition undoubtedly did many things wrong, and left many
things undone; but let him not be defrauded of his due praise. He was
the first that knew, at least the first that told, by what helps the
text might be improved. If he inspected the early editions negligently,
he taught others to be more accurate. In his preface, he expanded, with
great skill and elegance, the character which had been given of
Shakespeare by Dryden; and he drew the publick attention upon his works,
which, though often mentioned, had been little read.

Soon after the appearance of the Iliad, resolving not to let the general
kindness cool, he published proposals for a translation of the Odyssey,
in five volumes, for five guineas. He was willing, however, now to have
associates in his labour, being either weary with toiling upon another's
thoughts, or having heard, as Ruffhead relates, that Fenton and Broome
had already begun the work, and liking better to have them confederates
than rivals.

In the patent, instead of saying that he had "translated" the Odyssey,
as he had said of the Iliad, he says, that he had "undertaken" a
translation; and in the proposals, the subscription is said to be not
solely for his own use, but for that of "two of his friends, who have
assisted him in this work. "

In 1723, while he was engaged in this new version, he appeared before
the lords at the memorable trial of bishop Atterbury, with whom he had
lived in great familiarity, and frequent correspondence. Atterbury had
honestly recommended to him the study of the popish controversy, in hope
of his conversion; to which Pope answered in a manner that cannot much
recommend his principles, or his judgment[127]. In questions and
projects of learning they agreed better. He was called at the trial to
give an account of Atterbury's domestick life and private employment,
that it might appear how little time he had left for plots. Pope had but
few words to utter, and in those few he made several blunders.

His letters to Atterbury express the utmost esteem, tenderness, and
gratitude; "perhaps," says he, "it is not only in this world that I may
have cause to remember the bishop of Rochester. " At their last interview
in the Tower, Atterbury presented him with a bible[128].

Of the Odyssey, Pope translated only twelve books; the rest were the
work of Broome and Fenton: the notes were written wholly by Broome, who
was not over-liberally rewarded. The publick was carefully kept ignorant
of the several shares; and an account was subjoined at the conclusion,
which is now known not to be true. The first copy of Pope's books, with
those of Fenton, are to be seen in the Museum. The parts of Pope are
less interlined than the Iliad; and the latter books of the Iliad less
than the former. He grew dexterous by practice, and every sheet enabled
him to write the next with more facility. The books of Fenton have very
few alterations by the hand of Pope. Those of Broome have not been
found; but Pope complained, as it is reported, that he had much trouble
in correcting them.

His contract with Lintot was the same as for the Iliad, except that only
one hundred pounds were to be paid him for each volume. The number of
subscribers was five hundred and seventy-four, and of copies eight
hundred and nineteen; so that his profit, when he had paid his
assistants, was still very considerable. The work was finished in 1725;
and from that time he resolved to make no more translations.

The sale did not answer Lintot's expectation; and he then pretended to
discover something of fraud in Pope, and commenced or threatened a suit
in Chancery.

On the English Odyssey a criticism was published by Spence, at that time
prelector of poetry at Oxford; a man whose learning was not very great,
and whose mind was not very powerful. His criticism, however, was
commonly just; what he thought, he thought rightly; and his remarks were
recommended by his coolness and candour. In him Pope had the first
experience of a critick without malevolence, who thought it as much his
duty to display beauties as expose faults; who censured with respect,
and praised with alacrity.

With this criticism Pope was so little offended, that he sought the
acquaintance of the writer, who lived with him, from that time, in great
familiarity, attended him in his last hours, and compiled memorials of
his conversation. The regard of Pope recommended him to the great and
powerful; and he obtained very valuable preferments in the church.

Not long after, Pope was returning home, from a visit, in a friend's
coach, which, in passing a bridge, was overturned into the water; the
windows were closed, and being unable to force them open, he was in
danger of immediate death, when the postillion snatched him out by
breaking the glass, of which the fragments cut two of his fingers in
such a manner, that he lost their use.

Voltaire, who was then in England, sent him a letter of consolation. He
had been entertained by Pope at his table, where he talked with so much
grossness, that Mrs. Pope was driven from the room. Pope discovered, by
a trick, that he was a spy for the court, and never considered him as a
man worthy of confidence.

He soon afterwards, 1727, joined with Swift, who was then in England, to
publish three volumes of Miscellanies, in which, amongst other things,
he inserted the Memoirs of a Parish Clerk, in ridicule of Burnet's
importance in his own history, and a Debate upon Black and White Horses,
written in all the formalities of a legal process by the assistance, as
is said, of Mr. Fortescue, afterwards master of the Rolls. Before these
Miscellanies is a preface signed by Swift and Pope, but apparently
written by Pope; in which he makes a ridiculous and romantick complaint
of the robberies committed upon authors by the clandestine seizure and
sale of their papers. He tells, in tragick strains, how "the cabinets of
the sick and the closets of the dead have been broke open and
ransacked;" as if those violences were often committed for papers of
uncertain and accidental value, which are rarely provoked by real
treasures; as if epigrams and essays were in danger, where gold and
diamonds are safe. A cat hunted for his musk is, according to Pope's
account, but the emblem of a wit winded by booksellers.

His complaint, however, received some attestation; for, the same year,
the letters written by him, to Mr. Cromwell, in his youth, were sold by
Mrs. Thomas to Curll, who printed them.

In these Miscellanies was first published the Art of Sinking in Poetry,
which, by such a train of consequences as usually passes in literary
quarrels, gave, in a short time, according to Pope's account, occasion
to the Dunciad.

In the following year, 1728, he began to put Atterbury's advice in
practice; and showed his satirical powers by publishing the Dunciad, one
of his greatest and most elaborate performances, in which he endeavoured
to sink into contempt all the writers by whom he had been attacked, and
some others whom he thought unable to defend themselves.

At the head of the _dunces_ he placed poor Theobald, whom he accused of
ingratitude; but whose real crime was supposed to be that of having
revised Shakespeare more happily than himself. This satire had the
effect which he intended, by blasting the characters which it touched.
Ralph[129], who, unnecessarily interposing in the quarrel, got a place
in a subsequent edition, complained that, for a time, he was in danger
of starving, as the booksellers had no longer any confidence in his
capacity.

The prevalence of this poem was gradual and slow; the plan, if not
wholly new, was little understood by common readers. Many of the
allusions required illustration; the names were often expressed only by
the initial and final letters, and, if they had been printed at length,
were such as few had known or recollected. The subject itself had
nothing generally interesting, for whom did it concern to know that one
or another scribbler was a dunce? If, therefore, it had been possible
for those who were attacked to conceal their pain and their resentment,
the Dunciad might have made its way very slowly in the world.

This, however, was not to be expected: every man is of importance to
himself, and, therefore, in his own opinion, to others; and, supposing
the world already acquainted with all his pleasures and his pains, is,
perhaps, the first to publish injuries or misfortunes, which had never
been known unless related by himself, and at which those that hear them
will only laugh; for no man sympathizes with the sorrows of vanity.

The history of the Dunciad is very minutely related by Pope himself, in
a dedication which he wrote to lord Middlesex in the name of Savage.

"I will relate the war of the _dunces_, (for so it has been commonly
called,) which began in the year 1727, and ended in 1730. "

"When Dr. Swift and Mr. Pope thought it proper, for reasons specified
in the preface to their Miscellanies, to publish such little pieces of
theirs as had casually got abroad, there was added to them the treatise
of the Bathos, or the Art of Sinking in Poetry. It happened that, in one
chapter of this piece, the several species of bad poets were ranged in
classes, to which were prefixed almost all the letters of the alphabet;
(the greatest part of them at random;) but such was the number of poets
eminent in that art, that some one or other took every letter to
himself: all fell into so violent a fury, that, for half a year or more,
the common newspapers (in most of which they had some property, as being
hired writers) were filled with the most abusive falsehoods and
scurrilities they could possibly devise; a liberty no way to be wondered
at in those people, and in those papers, that, for many years, during
the uncontrouled license of the press, had aspersed almost all the great
characters of the age, and this with impunity, their own persons and
names being utterly secret and obscure.

"This gave Mr. Pope the thought that he had now some opportunity of
doing good, by detecting and dragging into light these common enemies of
mankind; since to invalidate this universal slander, it sufficed to show
what contemptible men were the authors of it. He was not without hopes
that, by manifesting the dulness of those who had only malice to
recommend them, either the booksellers would not find their account in
employing them, or the men themselves, when discovered, want courage to
proceed in so unlawful an occupation. This it was that gave birth to the
Dunciad; and he thought it an happiness, that, by the late flood of
slander on himself, he had acquired such a peculiar right over their
names as was necessary to this design.

"On the 12th of March, 1729, at St. James's, that poem was presented to
the king and queen (who had before been pleased to read it) by the right
honourable sir Robert Walpole; and, some days after, the whole
impression was taken and dispersed by several noblemen, and persons of
the first distinction.

"It is, certainly, a true observation, that no people are so impatient
of censure as those who are the greatest slanderers, which was
wonderfully exemplified on this occasion. On the day the book was first
vended, a crowd of authors besieged the shop; entreaties, advices,
threats of law and battery, nay, cries of treason, were all employed to
hinder the coming out of the Dunciad; on the other side, the booksellers
and hawkers made as great efforts to procure it. What could a few poor
authors do against so great a majority as the publick? There was no
stopping a torrent with a finger; so out it came.

"Many ludicrous circumstances attended it. The _dunces_ (for by this
name they were called) held weekly clubs, to consult of hostilities
against the author; one wrote a letter to a great minister, assuring him
Mr. Pope was the greatest enemy the government had; and another bought
his image in clay, to execute him in effigy; with which sad sort of
satisfaction the gentlemen were a little comforted.

"Some false editions of the book having an owl in their frontispiece,
the true one, to distinguish it, fixed in its stead an ass laden with
authors. Then another surreptitious one being printed with the same ass,
the new edition in octavo returned, for distinction, to the owl again.
Hence arose a great contest of booksellers against booksellers, and
advertisements against advertisements; some recommending the edition of
the owl, and others the edition of the ass; by which names they came to
be distinguished, to the great honour also of the gentlemen of the
Dunciad. "

Pope appears, by this narrative, to have contemplated his victory over
the _dunces_ with great exultation; and such was his delight in the
tumult which he had raised, that for awhile his natural sensibility was
suspended, and he read reproaches and invectives without emotion,
considering them only as the necessary effects of that pain which he
rejoiced in having given.

It cannot, however, be concealed that, by his own confession, he was the
aggressor; for nobody believes that the letters in the Bathos were
placed at random; and it may be discovered that, when he thinks himself
concealed, he indulges the common vanity of common men, and triumphs in
those distinctions which he had affected to despise. He is proud that
his book was presented to the king and queen by the right honourable sir
Robert Walpole; he is proud that they had read it before; he is proud
that the edition was taken off by the nobility and persons of the first
distinction.

The edition of which he speaks was, I believe, that which, by telling in
the text the names, and in the notes the characters, of those whom he
had satirized, was made intelligible and diverting. The criticks had now
declared their approbation of the plan, and the common reader began to
like it without fear; those who were strangers to petty literature, and,
therefore, unable to decipher initials and blanks, had now names and
persons brought within their view; and delighted in the visible effect
of those shafts of malice, which they had hitherto contemplated, as shot
into the air.

Dennis, upon the fresh provocation now given him, renewed the enmity
which had, for a time, been appeased by mutual civilities; and published
remarks, which he had till then suppressed, upon the Rape of the Lock.
Many more grumbled in secret, or vented their resentment in the
newspapers by epigrams or invectives.

Ducket, indeed, being mentioned as loving Burriet with "pious passion,"
pretended that his moral character was injured, and, for some time,
declared his resolution to take vengeance with a cudgel. But Pope
appeased him, by changing "pious passion" to "cordial friendship;" and
by a note, in which he vehemently disclaims the malignity of meaning
imputed to the first expression.

Aaron Hill, who was represented as diving for the prize, expostulated
with Pope in a manner so much superiour to all mean solicitation, that
Pope was reduced to sneak and shuffle sometimes to deny, and sometimes
to apologize; he first endeavours to wound, and is then afraid to own
that he meant a blow.

The Dunciad, in the complete edition, is addressed to Dr. Swift: of the
notes, part were written by Dr. Arbuthnot; and an apologetical letter
was prefixed, signed by Cleland, but supposed to have been written by
Pope.

After this general war upon dulness, he seems to have indulged himself
awhile in tranquillity; but his subsequent productions prove that he was
not idle. He published, 1731, a poem on Taste, in which he very
particularly and severely criticises the house, the furniture, the
gardens, and the entertainments, of Timon, a man of great wealth and
little taste. By Timon he was universally supposed, and by the earl of
Burlington, to whom the poem was addressed, was privately said, to mean
the duke of Chandos; a man, perhaps, too much delighted with pomp and
show, but of a temper kind and beneficent, and who had, consequently,
the voice of the publick in his favour.

A violent outcry was, therefore, raised against the ingratitude and
treachery of Pope, who was said to have been indebted to the patronage
of Chandos for a present of a thousand pounds, and who gained the
opportunity of insulting him by the kindness of his invitation.

The receipt of the thousand pounds Pope publickly denied; but from the
reproach which the attack on a character so amiable brought upon him, he
tried all means of escaping. The name of Cleland was again employed in
an apology, by which no man was satisfied; and he was at last reduced to
shelter his temerity behind dissimulation, and endeavour to make that
disbelieved which he never had confidence openly to deny. He wrote an
exculpatory letter to the duke, which was answered with great
magnanimity, as by a man who accepted his excuse without believing his
professions. He said, that to have ridiculed his taste, or his
buildings, had been an indifferent action in another man; but that in
Pope, after the reciprocal kindness that had been exchanged between
them, it had been less easily excused.

Pope, in one of his letters, complaining of the treatment which his poem
had found, "owns that such criticks can intimidate him, nay, almost
persuade him to write no more, which is a compliment this age
deserves. " The man who threatens the world is always ridiculous; for the
world can easily go on without him, and, in a short time, will cease to
miss him. I have heard of an idiot, who used to revenge his vexatious by
lying all night upon the bridge. "There is nothing," says Juvenal, "that
a man will not believe in his own favour. " Pope had been flattered till
he thought himself one of the moving powers in the system of life. When
he talked of laying down his pen, those who sat round him entreated and
implored; and self-love did not suffer him to suspect that they went
away and laughed.

The following year deprived him of Gay, a man whom he had known early,
and whom he seemed to love with more tenderness than any other of his
literary friends. Pope was now forty-four years old; an age at which the
mind begins less easily to admit new confidence, and the will to grow
less flexible; and when, therefore, the departure of an old friend is
very acutely felt.

In the next year he lost his mother, not by an unexpected death, for she
had lasted to the age of ninety-three; but she did not die unlamented.
The filial piety of Pope was in the highest degree amiable and
exemplary; his parents had the happiness of living till he was at the
summit of poetical reputation, till he was at ease in his fortune, and
without a rival in his fame, and found no diminution of his respect or
tenderness. Whatever was his pride, to them he was obedient; and
whatever was his irritability, to them he was gentle. Life has, among
its soothing and quiet comforts, few things better to give than such a
son.

One of the passages of Pope's life, which seems to deserve some inquiry,
was a publication of letters between him and many of his friends, which
falling into the hands of Curll, a rapacious bookseller of no good fame,
were by him printed and sold. This volume containing some letters from
noblemen, Pope incited a prosecution against him in the house of lords
for a breach of privilege, and attended himself to stimulate the
resentment of his friends. Curll appeared at the bar, and, knowing
himself in no great danger, spoke of Pope with very little reverence.
"He has," said Curll, "a knack at versifying, but in prose I think
myself a match for him. " When the orders of the house were examined,
none of them appeared to have been infringed; Curll went away
triumphant, and Pope was left to seek some other remedy.

Curll's account was, that one evening a man in a clergy-man's gown, but
with a lawyer's band, brought and offered to sale a number of printed
volumes, which he found to be Pope's Epistolary Correspondence; that he
asked no name, and was told none, but gave the price demanded, and
thought himself authorised to use his purchase to his own advantage.

That Curll gave a true account of the transaction it is reasonable to
believe, because no falsehood was ever detected[130] and when, some
years afterwards, I mentioned it to Lintot, the son of Bernard, he
declared his opinion to be, that Pope knew better than any body else how
Curll obtained the copies, because another parcel was at the same time
sent to himself, for which no price had ever been demanded, as he made
known his resolution not to pay a porter, and consequently not to deal
with a nameless agent.

Such care had been taken to make them publick, that they were sent at
once to two booksellers; to Curll, who was likely to seize them as a
prey; and to Lintot, who might be expected to give Pope information of
the seeming injury. Lintot, I believe, did nothing; and Curll did what
was expected. That to make them publick was the only purpose, may be
reasonably supposed, because the numbers offered to sale by the private
messengers showed that hope of gain could not have been the motive of
the impression.

It seems that Pope, being desirous of printing his letters, and not
knowing how to do, without imputation of vanity, what has in this
country been done very rarely, contrived an appearance of compulsion;
that, when he could complain that his letters were surreptitiously
published, he might decently and defensively publish them himself.

Pope's private correspondence, thus promulgated, filled the nation with
praises of his candour, tenderness, and benevolence, the purity of his
purposes, and the fidelity of his friendship. There were some letters
which a very good or a very wise man would wish suppressed; but, as they
had been already exposed, it was impracticable now to retract them.

From the perusal of those letters, Mr. Allen first conceived the desire
of knowing him; and with so much zeal did he cultivate the friendship
which he had newly formed, that, when Pope told his purpose of
vindicating his own property by a genuine edition, he offered to pay the
cost.

This, however, Pope did not accept; but, in time, solicited a
subscription for a quarto volume, which appeared, 1737, I believe, with
sufficient profit. In the preface he tells, that his letters were
reposited in a friend's library, said to be the earl of Oxford's, and
that the copy thence stolen was sent to the press. The story was
doubtless received with differe at degrees of credit. It may be
suspected that the preface to the Miscellanies was written to prepare
the publick for such an incident; and to strengthen this opinion, James
Worsdale, a painter, who was employed in clandestine negotiations, but
whose veracity was very doubtful, declared that he was the messenger who
carried, by Pope's direction, the books to Curll.

When they were thus published and avowed, as they had relation to recent
facts, and persons either then living or not yet forgotten, they may be
supposed to have found readers; but as the facts were minute, and the
characters, being either private or literary, were little known, or
little regarded, they awakened no popular kindness or resentment; the
book never became much the subject of conversation; some read it as
contemporary history, and some, perhaps, as a model of epistolary
language; but those who read it did not talk of it. Not much, therefore,
was added by it to fame or envy; nor do I remember that it produced
either publick praise or publick censure.

It had, however, in some degree, the recommendation of novelty. Our
language had few letters, except those of statesmen. Howel, indeed,
about a century ago, published his letters, which are commended by
Morhoff, and which alone, of his hundred volumes, continue his memory.
Loveday's letters were printed only once; those of Herbert and Suckling
are hardly known. Mrs. Phillips's (Orinda's) are equally neglected. And
those of Walsh seem written as exercises, and were never sent to any
living mistress or friend. Pope's epistolary excellence had an open
field; he had no English rival, living or dead.

Pope is seen in this collection as connected with the other contemporary
wits, and certainly suffers no disgrace in the comparison; but it must
be remembered, that he had the power of favouring himself; he might have
originally had publication in his mind, and have written with care, or
have afterwards selected those which he had most happily conceived, or
most diligently laboured; and I know not whether there does not appear
something more studied and artificial[131] in his productions than the
rest except one long letter by Bolingbroke, composed with all the skill
and industry of a professed author. It is, indeed, not easy to
distinguish affectation from habit; he that has once studiously formed a
style, rarely writes afterwards with complete ease. Pope may be said to
write always with his reputation in his head; Swift, perhaps, like a man
who remembered he was writing to Pope; but Arbuthnot, like one who lets
thoughts drop from his pen as they rise into his mind.

Before these letters appeared, he published the first part of what he
persuaded himself to think a system of ethicks, under the title of an
Essay on Man; which, if his letter to Swift, of Sept. 14, 1725, be
rightly explained by the commentator, had been eight years under his
consideration, and of which he seems to have desired the success with
great solicitude. He had now many open, and, doubtless, many secret
enemies. The _dunces_ were yet smarting with the war; and the
superiority which he publickly arrogated, disposed the world to wish his
humiliation.

All this he knew, and against all this he provided. His own name, and
that of his friend to whom the work is inscribed, were in the first
editions carefully suppressed; and the poem, being of a new kind, was
ascribed to one or another, as favour determined, or conjecture
wandered; it was given, says Warburton, to every man, except him only
who could write it. Those who like only when they like the author, and
who are under the dominion of a name, condemned it; and those admired it
who are willing to scatter praise at random, which, while it is
unappropriated, excites no envy. Those friends of Pope, that were
trusted with the secret, went about lavishing honours on the new-born
poet, and hinting that Pope was never so much in danger from any former
rival.

To those authors whom he had personally offended, and to those whose
opinion the world considered as decisive, and whom he suspected of envy
or malevolence, he sent his essay as a present before publication, that
they might defeat their own enmity by praises, which they could not
afterwards decently retract.

With these precautions, in 1733, was published the first part of the
Essay on Man. There had been, for some time, a report that Pope was busy
upon a system of morality; but this design was not discovered in the new
poem, which had a form and a title with which its readers were
unacquainted. Its reception was not uniform; some thought it a very
imperfect piece, though not without good lines. While the author was
unknown, some, as will always happen, favoured him as an adventurer, and
some censured him as an intruder; but all thought him above neglect;
the sale increased, and editions were multiplied[132]

The subsequent editions of the first epistle exhibited two memorable
corrections. At first, the poet and his friend,

Expatiate freely o'er this scene of man,
A mighty maze _of walks without a plan_.

For which he wrote afterwards,

A mighty maze, _but not without a plan_:

for, if there were no plan, it were in vain to describe or to trace the
maze.

The other alteration was of these lines:

And spite of pride, _and in thy reason's spite_,
One truth is clear, whatever is, is right;

but having afterwards discovered, or been shown, that the "truth" which
subsisted "in spite of reason" could not be very "clear," he
substituted,

And spite of pride, _in erring reason's spite_.

To such oversights will the most vigorous mind be liable, when it is
employed at once upon argument and poetry.

The second and third epistles were published; and Pope was, I believe,
more and more suspected of writing them; at last, in 1734, he avowed the
fourth, and claimed the honour of a moral poet.

In the conclusion it is sufficiently acknowledged, that the doctrine of
the Essay on Man was received from Bolingbroke, who is said to have
ridiculed Pope, among those who enjoyed his confidence, as having
adopted and advanced principles of which he did not perceive the
consequence, and as blindly propagating opinions contrary to his own.
That those communications had been consolidated into a scheme regularly
drawn, and delivered to Pope, from whom it returned only transformed
from prose to verse, has been reported, but can hardly be true. The
essay plainly appears the fabrick of a poet: what Bolingbroke supplied
could be only the first principles; the order, illustration, and
embellishments, must all be Pope's.

These principles it is not my business to clear from obscurity,
dogmatism, or falsehood; but they were not immediately examined;
philosophy and poetry have not often the same readers; and the essay
abounded in splendid amplifications, and sparkling sentences, which were
read and admired with no great attention to their ultimate purpose; its
flowers caught the eye, which did not see what the gay foliage
concealed, and, for a time, flourished in the sunshine of universal
approbation. So little was any evil tendency discovered, that, as
innocence is unsuspicious, many read it for a manual of piety.

Its reputation soon invited a translator. It was first turned into
French prose, and afterwards, by Resnel, into verse. Both translations
fell into the hands of Crousaz, who first, when he had the version in
prose, wrote a general censure, and afterwards reprinted Resnel's
version, with particular remarks upon every paragraph.

Crousaz was a professor of Switzerland, eminent for his treatise of
logick, and his Examen de Pyrrhonisme; and, however little known or
regarded here, was no mean antagonist. His mind was one of those in
which philosophy and piety are happily united. He was accustomed to
argument and disquisition, and, perhaps, was grown too desirous of
detecting faults; but his intentions were always right, his opinions
were solid, and his religion pure.