No More Learning

Masham had
performed in former times: but his flatteries were like those of other
wits, unsuccessful; the lady either wanted power, or had no ambition of
poetical immortality.

He was seized not long afterwards by a fit of giddiness, and again heard
of the sickness and danger of Mrs. Johnson. He then left the house of
Pope, as it seems, with very little ceremony, finding "that two sick
friends cannot live together;" and did not write to him till he found
himself at Chester.

He turned to a home of sorrow: poor Stella was sinking into the grave,
and, after a languishing decay of about two months, died in her
forty-fourth year, on January 28, 1728. How much he wished her life, his
papers show; nor can it be doubted that he dreaded the death of her whom
he loved most, aggravated by the consciousness that himself had hastened
it.

Beauty and the power of pleasing, the greatest external advantages that
woman can desire or possess, were fatal to the unfortunate Stella. The
man whom she had the misfortune to love was, as Delany observes, fond of
singularity, and desirous to make a mode of happiness for himself,
different from the general course of things and order of providence.
From the time of her arrival in Ireland he seems resolved to keep her in
his power, and, therefore, hindered a match sufficiently advantageous,
by accumulating unreasonable demands, and prescribing conditions that
could not be performed. While she was at her own disposal he did not
consider his possession as secure; resentment, ambition, or caprice,
might separate them; he was, therefore, resolved to make "assurance
doubly sure," and to appropriate her by a private marriage, to which he
had annexed the expectation of all the pleasures of perfect friendship,
without the uneasiness of conjugal restraint. But with this state poor
Stella was not satisfied; she never was treated as a wife, and to the
world she had the appearance of a mistress. She lived sullenly on, in
hope that in time he would own and receive her; but the time did not
come till the change of his manners and depravation of his mind made her
tell him, when he offered to acknowledge her, that "it was too late. "
She then gave up herself to sorrowful resentment, and died under the
tyranny of him, by whom she was in the highest degree loved and
honoured.

What were her claims to this eccentrick tenderness, by which the laws of
nature were violated to retain her, curiosity will inquire; but how
shall it be gratified? Swift was a lover; his testimony may be
suspected. Delany and the Irish saw with Swift's eyes, and, therefore,
add little confirmation. That she was virtuous, beautiful, and elegant,
in a very high degree, such admiration from such a lover makes it very
probable: but she had not much literature, for she could not spell her
own language; and of her wit, so loudly vaunted, the smart sayings which
Swift himself has collected afford no splendid specimen.

The reader of Swift's Letter to a Lady on her Marriage, may be allowed
to doubt whether his opinion of female excellence ought implicitly to be
admitted; for, if his general thoughts on women were such as he
exhibits, a very little sense in a lady would enrapture, and a very
little virtue would astonish him. Stella's supremacy, therefore, was,
perhaps, only local; she was great, because her associates were little.

In some remarks lately published on the Life of Swift, this marriage is
mentioned as fabulous, or doubtful; but, alas! poor Stella, as Dr.
Madden told me, related her melancholy story to Dr. Sheridan, when he
attended her as a clergyman to prepare her for death; and Delany
mentions it not with doubt, but only with regret. Swift never mentioned
her without a sigh. The rest of his life was spent in Ireland, in a
country to which not even power almost despotick, nor flattery almost
idolatrous, could reconcile him. He sometimes wished to visit England,
but always found some reason of delay. He tells Pope, in the decline of
life, that he hopes once more to see him; "but if not," says he, "we
must part as all human beings have parted. "

After the death of Stella, his benevolence was contracted, and his
severity exasperated; he drove his acquaintance from his table, and
wondered why he was deserted. But he continued his attention to the
publick, and wrote, from time to time, such directions, admonitions, or
censures, as the exigency of affairs, in his opinion, made proper; and
nothing fell from his pen in vain.

In a short poem on the presbyterians, whom he always regarded with
detestation, he bestowed one stricture upon Bettesworth, a lawyer
eminent for his insolence to the clergy, which, from very considerable
reputation, brought him into immediate and universal contempt.
Bettesworth, enraged at his disgrace and loss, went to Swift, and
demanded whether he was the author of that poem? "Mr. Bettesworth,"
answered he, "I was in my youth acquainted with great lawyers, who,
knowing my disposition to satire, advised me, that if any scoundrel or
blockhead whom I had lampooned should ask, 'Are you the author of this
paper? ' I should tell him that I was not the author; and, therefore, I
tell you, Mr. Bettesworth, that I am not the author of these lines. "

Bettesworth was so little satisfied with this account, that he publickly
professed his resolution of a violent and corporal revenge; but the
inhabitants of St. Patrick's district embodied themselves in the dean's
defence. Bettesworth declared in parliament, that Swift had deprived him
of twelve hundred pounds a year.

Swift was popular awhile by another mode of beneficence. He set aside
some hundreds to be lent in small sums to the poor, from five shillings,
I think, to five pounds. He took no interest, and only required that, at
repayment, a small fee should be given to the accomptant; but he
required that the day of promised payment should be exactly kept. A
severe and punctilious temper is ill qualified for transactions with the
poor: the day was often broken, and the loan was not repaid. This might
have been easily foreseen; but for this Swift had made no provision of
patience or pity. He ordered his debtors to be sued. A severe creditor
has no popular character; what then was likely to be said of him who
employs the catchpoll under the appearance of charity? The clamour
against him was loud, and the resentment of the populace outrageous; he
was, therefore, forced to drop his scheme, and own the folly of
expecting punctuality from the poor[105].

His asperity continually increasing, condemned him to solitude; and his
resentment of solitude sharpened his asperity. He was not, however,
totally deserted; some men of learning, and some women of elegance,
often visited him; and he wrote, from time to time, either verse or
prose; of his verses he willingly gave copies, and is supposed to have
felt no discontent when he saw them printed. His favourite maxim was,
"Vive la bagatelle;" he thought trifles a necessary part of life, and,
perhaps, found them necessary to himself. It seems impossible to him to
be idle, and his disorders made it difficult or dangerous to be long
seriously studious, or laboriously diligent. The love of ease is always
gaining upon age, and he had one temptation to petty amusements peculiar
to himself; whatever he did, he was sure to hear applauded; and such was
his predominance over all that approached, that all their applauses were
probably sincere. He that is much flattered, soon learns to flatter
himself: we are commonly taught our duty by fear or shame, and how can
they act upon the man who hears nothing but his own praises?

As his years increased, his fits of giddiness and deafness grew more
frequent, and his deafness made conversation difficult; they grew
likewise more severe, till in 1736, as he was writing a poem called the
Legion Club, he was seized with a fit so painful and so long continued,
that he never after thought it proper to attempt any work of thought or
labour.

He was always careful of his money, and was, therefore, no liberal
entertainer; but was less frugal of his wine than of his meat. When his
friends of either sex came to him, in expectation of a dinner, his
custom was to give every one a shilling, that they might please
themselves with their provision. At last his avarice grew too powerful
for his kindness; he would refuse a bottle of wine, and in Ireland no
man visits where he cannot drink.

Having thus excluded conversation, and desisted from study, he had
neither business nor amusement; for, having by some ridiculous
resolution, or mad vow, determined never to wear spectacles, he could
make little use of books in his later years; his ideas, therefore, being
neither renovated by discourse, nor increased by reading, wore gradually
away, and left his mind vacant to the vexations of the hour, till, at
last, his anger was heightened into madness.

He, however, permitted one book to be published, which had been the
production of former years; Polite Conversation, which appeared in 1738.
The Directions for Servants was printed soon after his death. These two
performances show a mind incessantly attentive, and, when it was not
employed upon great things, busy with minute occurrences. It is
apparent, that he must have had the habit of noting whatever he
observed; for such a number of particulars could never have been
assembled by the power of recollection.

He grew more violent, and his mental powers declined, till, 1741, it was
found necessary that legal guardians should be appointed of his person
and fortune. He now lost distinction. His madness was compounded of rage
and fatuity. The last face that he knew was that of Mrs. Whiteway; and
her he ceased to know in a little time. His meat was brought him cut
into mouthfuls; but he would never touch it while the servant staid,
and, at last, after it had stood perhaps an hour, would eat it walking;
for he continued his old habit, and was on his feet ten hours a day.

Next year, 1742, he had an inflammation in his left eye, which swelled
it to the size of an egg, with biles in other parts; he was kept long
waking with the pain, and was not easily restrained by five attendants
from tearing out his eye.

The tumour at last subsided; and a short interval of reason ensuing, in
which he knew his physician and his family, gave hopes of his recovery;
but in a few days he sunk into a lethargick stupidity, motionless,
heedless, and speechless. But it is said, that, after a year of total
silence, when his house-keeper, on the 30th of November, told him that
the usual bonfires and illuminations were preparing to celebrate his
birthday, he answered, "It is all folly; they had better let it alone. "

It is remembered, that he afterwards spoke now and then, or gave some
intimation of a meaning; but at last sunk into perfect silence, which
continued till about the end of October, 1745, when, in his
seventy-eighth year, he expired without a struggle.

* * * * *

When Swift is considered as an author, it is just to estimate his powers
by their effects. In the reign of queen Anne he turned the stream of
popularity against the whigs, and must be confessed to have dictated,
for a time, the political opinions of the English nation. In the
succeeding reign he delivered Ireland from plunder and oppression; and
showed that wit, confederated with truth, had such force as authority
was unable to resist. He said truly of himself, that Ireland "was his
debtor. " It was from the time when he first began to patronise the
Irish, that they may date their riches and prosperity. He taught them
first to know their own interest, their weight, and their strength, and
gave them spirit to assert that equality with their fellow-subjects to
which they have ever since been making vigorous advances, and to claim
those rights which they have at last established. Nor can they be
charged with ingratitude to their benefactor; for they reverenced him as
a guardian, and obeyed him as a dictator.

In his works he has given very different specimens both of sentiment
and expression. His Tale of a Tub has little resemblance to his other
pieces. It exhibits a vehemence and rapidity of mind, a copiousness of
images, and vivacity of diction, such as he afterwards never possessed,
or never exerted. It is of a mode so distinct and peculiar, that it must
be considered by itself; what is true of that, is not true of any thing
else which he has written.

In his other works is found an equable tenour of easy language, which
rather trickles than flows. His delight was in simplicity. That he has
in his works no metaphor, as has been said, is not true; but his few
metaphors seem to be received rather by necessity than choice. He
studied purity; and though, perhaps, all his strictures are not exact,
yet it is not often that solecisms can be found; and whoever depends on
his authority may generally conclude himself safe. His sentences are
never too much dilated or contracted; and it will not be easy to find
any embarrassment in the complication of his clauses, any inconsequence
in his connexions, or abruptness in his transitions.

His style was well suited to his thoughts, which are never subtilised by
nice disquisitions, decorated by sparkling conceits, elevated by
ambitious sentences, or variegated by far-sought learning. He pays no
court to the passions; he excites neither surprise nor admiration: he
always understands himself; and his reader always understands him: the
peruser of Swift wants little previous knowledge; it will be sufficient
that he is acquainted with common words and common things; he is neither
required to mount elevations, nor to explore profundities; his passage
is always on a level, along solid ground, without asperities, without
obstruction.

This easy and safe conveyance of meaning it was Swift's desire to
attain, and for having attained he deserves praise, though, perhaps, not
the highest praise. For purposes merely didactick, when something is to
be told that was not known before, it is the best mode; but against that
inattention by which known truths are suffered to lie neglected, it
makes no provision; it instructs, but does not persuade.

By his political education he was associated with the whigs; but he
deserted them when they deserted their principles, yet without running
into the contrary extreme; he continued throughout his life to retain
the disposition which he assigns to the Church of England Man, of
thinking commonly with the whigs of the state, and with the tories of
the church.

He was a churchman rationally zealous; he desired the prosperity, and
maintained the honour of the clergy; of the dissenters he did not wish
to infringe the toleration, but he opposed their encroachments.

To his duty as dean he was very attentive. He managed the revenues of
his church with exact economy; and it is said by Delany, that more money
was, under his direction, laid out in repairs, than had ever been in the
same time since its first erection. Of his choir he was eminently
careful; and, though he neither loved nor understood musick, took care
that all the singers were well qualified, admitting none without the
testimony of skilful judges.

In his church he restored the practice of weekly communion, and
distributed the sacramental elements in the most solemn and devout
manner with his own hand. He came to church every morning, preached
commonly in his turn, and attended the evening anthem, that it might not
be negligently performed.

He read the service, "rather with a strong, nervous voice, than in a
graceful manner; his voice was sharp and high-toned, rather than
harmonious. "

He entered upon the clerical state with hope to excel in preaching; but
complained, that, from the time of his political controversies, "he
could only preach pamphlets. " This censure of himself, if judgment be
made from those sermons which have been published, was unreasonably
severe.

The suspicions of his irreligion proceeded, in a great measure, from
his dread of hypocrisy; instead of wishing to seem better, he delighted
in seeming worse than he was. He went in London to early prayers, lest
he should be seen at church; he read prayers to his servants every
morning with such dexterous secrecy, that Dr. Delany was six months in
his house before he knew it. He was not only careful to hide the good
which he did, but willingly incurred the suspicion of evil which he did
not. He forgot what himself had formerly asserted, that hypocrisy is
less mischievous than open impiety. Dr. Delany, with all his zeal for
his honour, has justly condemned this part of his character.

The person of Swift had not many recommendations. He had a kind of muddy
complexion, which, though he washed himself with oriental scrupulosity,
did not look clear. He had a countenance sour and severe, which he
seldom softened by any appearance of gaiety. He stubbornly resisted any
tendency to laughter.

To his domesticks he was naturally rough; and a man of a rigorous
temper, with that vigilance of minute attention which his works
discover, must have been a master that few could bear. That he was
disposed to do his servants good, on important occasions, is no great
mitigation; benefaction can be but rare, and tyrannick peevishness is
perpetual. He did not spare the servants of others. Once, when he dined
alone with the earl of Orrery, he said of one that waited in the room,
"That man has, since we sat to the table, committed fifteen faults. "
What the faults were, lord Orrery, from whom I heard the story, had not
been attentive enough to discover. My number may, perhaps, not be exact.

In his economy he practised a peculiar and offensive parsimony, without
disguise or apology. The practice of saving being once necessary, became
habitual, and grew first ridiculous and at last detestable. But his
avarice, though it might exclude pleasure, was never suffered to
encroach upon his virtue. He was frugal by inclination, but liberal by
principle; and if the purpose to which he destined his little
accumulations be remembered, with his distribution of occasional
charity, it will, perhaps, appear, that he only liked one mode of
expense better than another, and saved, merely that he might have
something to give. He did not grow rich by injuring his successors, but
left both Laracor and the deanery more valuable than he found them. With
all this talk of his covetousness and generosity, it should be
remembered that he was never rich. The revenue of his deanery was not
much more than seven hundred a year.

His beneficence was not graced with tenderness or civility; he relieved
without pity, and assisted without kindness; so that those who were fed
by him could hardly love him.

He made a rule to himself to give but one piece at a time, and,
therefore, always stored his pocket with coins of different value.

Whatever he did, he seemed willing to do in a manner peculiar to
himself, without sufficiently considering, that singularity, as it
implies a contempt of the general practice, is a kind of defiance which
justly provokes the hostility of ridicule; he, therefore, who indulges
peculiar habits, is worse than others, if he be not better.

Of his humour, a story told by Pope[106] may afford a specimen.

"Dr. Swift has an odd, blunt way, that is mistaken by strangers for
ill-nature. 'Tis so odd, that there's no describing it but by facts. I'll
tell you one that first comes into my head. One evening, Gay and I went
to see him: you know how intimately we were all acquainted. On our
coming in, 'Heyday, gentlemen, (says the Doctor,) what's the meaning of
this visit? How came you to leave all the great lords that you are so
fond of, to come hither to see a poor dean? ' 'Because we would rather
see you than any of them. ' 'Aye, any one that did not know so well as I
do might believe you. But since you are come, I must get some supper for
you, I suppose. ' 'No, doctor, we have supped already. ' 'Supped already?
that's impossible! why, 'tis not eight o'clock yet. That's very strange;
but if you had not supped, I must have got something for you. Let me
see, what should I have had? A couple of lobsters; aye, that would have
done very well; two shillings--tarts, a shilling: but you will drink a
glass of wine with me, though you supped so much before your usual time
only to spare my pocket? ' 'No, we had rather talk with you than drink
with you. ' 'But, if you had supped with me, as in all reason you ought
to have done, you must then have drunk with me. A bottle of wine, two
shillings--two and two is four, and one is five: just two and sixpence
apiece. There, Pope, there's half a crown for you, and there's another
for you, sir; for I won't save any thing by you, I am determined. ' This
was all said and done with his usual seriousness on such occasions; and,
in spite of every thing we could say to the contrary, he actually
obliged us to take the money. "

In the intercourse of familiar life, he indulged his disposition to
petulance and sarcasm, and thought himself injured if the licentiousness
of his raillery, the freedom of his censures, or the petulance of his
frolicks was resented or repressed. He predominated over his companions
with very high ascendency, and, probably, would bear none over whom he
could not predominate. To give him advice was, in the style of his
friend Delany, "to venture to speak to him. " This customary superiority
soon grew too delicate for truth; and Swift, with all his penetration,
allowed himself to be delighted with low flattery.

On all common occasions, he habitually affects a style of arrogance, and
dictates rather than persuades. This authoritative and magisterial
language he expected to be received as his peculiar mode of jocularity:
but he, apparently, flattered his own arrogance by an assumed
imperiousness, in which he was ironical only to the resentful, and to
the submissive sufficiently serious.

He told stories with great felicity, and delighted in doing what he knew
himself to do well; he was, therefore, captivated by the respectful
silence of a steady listener, and told the same tales too often.

He did not, however, claim the right of talking alone; for it was his
rule, when he had spoken a minute, to give room, by a pause, for any
other speaker. Of time, on all occasions, he was an exact computer, and
knew the minutes required to every common operation.

It may be justly supposed that there was in his conversation, what
appears so frequently in his letters, an affectation of familiarity with
the great, an ambition of momentary equality sought and enjoyed by the
neglect of those ceremonies which custom has established as the barriers
between one order of society and another. This transgression of
regularity was, by himself and his admirers, termed greatness of soul.
But a great mind disdains to hold any thing by courtesy, and, therefore,
never usurps what a lawful claimant may take away. He that encroaches on
another's dignity, puts himself in his power; he is either repelled with
helpless indignity, or endured by clemency and condescension.

Of Swift's general habits of thinking, if his letters can be supposed to
afford any evidence, he was not a man to be either loved or envied. He
seems to have wasted life in discontent, by the rage of neglected pride,
and the languishment of unsatisfied desire. He is querulous and
fastidious, arrogant and malignant; he scarcely speaks of himself but
with indignant lamentations, or of others but with insolent superiority
when he is gay, and with angry contempt when he is gloomy. From the
letters that pass between him and Pope it might be inferred that they,
with Arbuthnot and Gay, had engrossed all the understanding and virtue
of mankind; that their merits filled the world; or that there was no
hope of more. They show the age involved in darkness, and shade the
picture with sullen emulation.

When the queen's death drove him into Ireland, he might be allowed to
regret, for a time, the interception of his views, the extinction of his
hopes, and his ejection from gay scenes, important employment, and
splendid friendships; but when time had enabled reason to prevail over
vexation, the complaints which at first were natural, became ridiculous,
because they were useless. But querulousness was now grown habitual, and
he cried out when he probably had ceased to feel. His reiterated
wailings persuaded Bolingbroke that he was really willing to quit his
deanery for an English parish; and Bolingbroke procured an exchange,
which was rejected; and Swift still retained the pleasure of
complaining.

The greatest difficulty that occurs, in analyzing his character, is to
discover by what depravity of intellect he took delight in revolving
ideas, from which almost every other mind shrinks with disgust. The
ideas of pleasure, even when criminal, may solicit the imagination; but
what has disease, deformity, and filth, upon which the thoughts can be
allured to dwell? Delany is willing to think that Swift's mind was not
much tainted with this gross corruption before his long visit to Pope.
He does not consider how he degrades his hero, by making him at
fifty-nine the pupil of turpitude, and liable to the malignant influence
of an ascendant mind. But the truth is that Gulliver had described his
yahoos before the visit; and he that had formed those images had nothing
filthy to learn.

I have here given the character of Swift as he exhibits himself to my
perception; but now let another be heard who knew him better. Dr.
Delany, after long acquaintance, describes him to lord Orrery in these
terms:

"My lord, when you consider Swift's singular, peculiar, and most
variegated vein of wit, always intended rightly, although not always so
rightly directed; delightful in many instances, and salutary even where
it is most offensive: when you consider his strict truth, his fortitude
in resisting oppression and arbitrary power; his fidelity in friendship;
his sincere love and zeal for religion; his uprightness in making right
resolutions, and his steadiness in adhering to them; his care of his
church, its choir, its economy, and its income; his attention to all
those that preached in his cathedral, in order to their amendment in
pronunciation and style; as also his remarkable attention to the
interest of his successors, preferably to his own present emoluments;
his invincible patriotism, even to a country which he did not love; his
very various, well-devised, well-judged, and extensive charities,
throughout his life; and his whole fortune (to say nothing of his
wife's) conveyed to the same christian purposes at his death; charities,
from which he could enjoy no honour, advantage, or satisfaction of any
kind in this world; when you consider his ironical and humorous, as well
as his serious schemes, for the promotion of true religion and virtue;
his success in soliciting for the first-fruits and twentieths, to the
unspeakable benefit of the established church of Ireland; and his
felicity (to rate it no higher) in giving occasion to the building of
fifty new churches in London:

"All this considered, the character of his life will appear like that of
his writings; they will both bear to be reconsidered and reexamined with
the utmost attention, and always discover new beauties and excellencies
upon every examination.

"They will bear to be considered as the sun, in which the brightness
will hide the blemishes; and whenever petulant ignorance, pride, malice,
malignity, or envy, interposes to cloud or sully his fame, I take upon
me to pronounce, that the eclipse will not last long.

"To conclude--No man ever deserved better of any country, than Swift did
of his; a steady, persevering, inflexible friend; a wise, a watchful,
and a faithful counsellor, under many severe trials and bitter
persecutions, to the manifest hazard both of his liberty and fortune.

"He lived a blessing, he died a benefactor, and his name will ever live
an honour to Ireland. "

* * * * *

In the poetical works of Dr. Swift, there is not much upon which the
critick can exercise his powers. They are often humorous, almost always
light, and have the qualities which recommend such compositions,
easiness and gaiety.

They are, for the most part, what their author intended. The diction is
correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. There seldom
occurs a hard-laboured expression, or a redundant epithet; all his
verses exemplify his own definition of a good style, they consist of
"proper words in proper places. "

To divide this collection into classes, and show how some pieces are
gross, and some are trifling, would be to tell the reader what he knows
already, and to find faults of which the author could not be ignorant,
who certainly wrote often not to his judgment, but his humour.

It was said, in a preface to one of the Irish editions, that Swift had
never been known to take a single thought from any writer, ancient or
modern. This is not literally true; but, perhaps, no writer can easily
be found that has borrowed so little, or that, in all his excellencies
and all his defects, has so well maintained his claim to be considered
as original.

-----

[Footnote 92: Mr. Sheridan, in his Life of Swift, observes, that this
account was really written by the dean, and now exists in his own
handwriting in the library of Dublin college. R. ]

[Footnote 93: Spence's Anecdotes, vol. ii. p. 273. ]

[Footnote 94: The words _speciali gratia_, or _per specialem gratium_,
were used in the record of his degree in the college of Dublin; but were
never entered in any _testimonium_, which merely states the fact of a
degree having been taken, and, therefore, the account that they were
omitted as a favour to Swift is incorrect.
]

[Footnote 95: The affecting and amiable circumstances attending this
resignation are not mentioned by Johnson, but may be seen in Sheridan's
Life of Swift, p. 21, 22. ]

[Footnote 96: The publisher of this collection was John Dunton. R. ]

[Footnote 97: How does it appear that Stella's father was steward to sir
William Temple? In his will he does not say one word of her father's
services, and did not leave Esther Johnson a thousand pounds, but a
lease. His bequest runs thus: "I leave the lease of some lands I have in
Morris-town, in the county of Wicklow, in Ireland, to Esther Johnson,
_servant_ to my sister Gifford. " M. ]

[Footnote 98: See Sheridan's Life, edit. 1784, p. 525; where are some
remarks on this passage. R. ]

[Footnote 99: The whole story of this bishoprick is a very blind one.
That it was ever intended for Swift, or that Sharpe and the dutchess of
Somerset ever dissuaded queen Anne from promoting him, is not
ascertained by any satisfactory evidence. M. ]

[Footnote 100: Mr. Sheridan, however, says, that Addison's last Whig
Examiner was published October 12, 1711; and Swift's first Examiner, on
the 10th of the following November. R. ]

[Footnote 101: This emphatic word has not escaped the watchful eye of
Dr. Warton, who has placed a nota bene at it. ]

[Footnote 102: See this affair very differently represented in Swift's
Panegyrist, Sheridan, p. 530. ]

[Footnote 103: An account somewhat different from this is given by Mr.
Sheridan, in his Life of Swift, p. 511. R. ]

[Footnote 104: It is but justice to the dean's memory, to refer to Mr.
Sheridan's defence of him from this charge. See the Life of Swift, p.
458. R. ]

[Footnote 105: This account is contradicted by Mr. Sheridan, who, with
great warmth, asserts, from his own knowledge, that there was not one
syllable of truth in this whole account from the beginning to the end.
See Life of Swift, edit. 1784, p. 532. R. ]

[Footnote 106: Spence. ]




BROOME.


William Broome was born in Cheshire, as is said, of very mean parents.
Of the place of his birth, or the first part of his life, I have not
been able to gain any intelligence. He was educated upon the foundation
at Eton, and was captain of the school a whole year, without any
vacancy, by which he might have obtained a scholarship at King's
college. Being, by this delay, such as is said to have happened very
rarely, superannuated, he was sent to St. John's college, by the
contributions of his friends, where he obtained a small exhibition.

At his college he lived for some time in the same chamber with the
well-known Ford, by whom I have formerly heard him described as a
contracted scholar and a mere versifier, unacquainted with life, and
unskilful in conversation. His addiction to metre was then such, that
his companions familiarly called him poet. When he had opportunities of
mingling with mankind, he cleared himself, as Ford likewise owned, from
great part of his scholastick rust.

He appeared early in the world as a translator of the Iliads into prose,
in conjunction with Ozell and Oldisworth. How their several parts were
distributed is not known. This is the translation of which Ozell boasted
as superiour, in Toland's opinion, to that of Pope: it has long since
vanished, and is now in no danger from the criticks.

He was introduced to Mr. Pope, who was then visiting sir John Cotton, at
Madingley, near Cambridge, and gained so much of his esteem, that he was
employed, I believe, to make extracts from Eustathius for the notes to
the translation of the Iliad; and, in the volumes of poetry published by
Lintot, commonly called Pope's Miscellanies, many of his early pieces
were inserted.

Pope and Broome were to be yet more closely connected. When the success
of the Iliad gave encouragement to a version of the Odyssey, Pope,
weary of the toil, called Fenton and Broome to his assistance; and,
taking only half the work upon himself, divided the other half between
his partners, giving four books to Fenton, and eight to Broome. Fenton's
books I have enumerated in his life; to the lot of Broome fell the
second, sixth, eighth, eleventh, twelfth, sixteenth, eighteenth, and
twenty-third, together with the burden of writing all the notes.

As this translation is a very important event in poetical history, the
reader has a right to know upon what grounds I establish my narration.
That the version was not wholly Pope's, was always known: he had
mentioned the assistance of two friends in his proposals, and, at the
end of the work, some account is given by Broome of their different
parts, which, however, mentions only five books as written by the
coadjutors; the fourth and twentieth by Fenton; the sixth, the eleventh,
and the eighteenth, by himself; though Pope, in an advertisement
prefixed afterwards to a new volume of his works, claimed only twelve. A
natural curiosity after the real conduct of so great an undertaking,
incited me once to inquire of Dr. Warburton, who told me, in his warm
language, that he thought the relation given in the note "a lie;" but
that he was not able to ascertain the several shares. The intelligence
which Dr. Warburton could not afford me, I obtained from Mr. Langton, to
whom Mr. Spence had imparted it.

The price at which Pope purchased this assistance was three hundred
pounds paid to Fenton, and five hundred to Broome, with as many copies
as he wanted for his friends, which amounted to one hundred more. The
payment made to Fenton I know not but by hearsay; Broome's is very
distinctly told by Pope, in the notes to the Dunciad.

It is evident, that, according to Pope's own estimate, Broome was
unkindly treated. If four books could merit three hundred pounds, eight,
and all the notes, equivalent, at least, to four, had certainly a right
to more than six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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




POPE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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