The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lives of the English Poets: Prior, etc. by Samuel Johnson (#7 in our series by Samuel Johnson) Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Lives of the English Poets: Prior, Congreve, Blackmore, Pope Author: Samuel Johnson Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5101] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on April 26, 2002] [Most recently updated: April 26, 2002] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII
Transcribed from the 1891 Cassell and Company edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
THE LIVES OF THE ENGLISH POETS: PRIOR, CONGREVE, BLACKMORE AND POPE
INTRODUCTION
When, at the age of sixty-eight, Johnson was writing these “Lives
of the English Poets,” he had caused omissions to be made from
the poems of Rochester, and was asked whether he would allow the printers
to give all the verse of Prior. Boswell quoted a censure by Lord
Hailes of “those impure tales which will be the eternal opprobrium
of their ingenious author.” Johnson replied, “Sir,
Lord Hailes has forgot. There is nothing in Prior that will excite
to lewdness;” and when Boswell further urged, he put his questionings
aside, and added, “No, sir, Prior is a lady’s book.
No lady is ashamed to have it standing in her library.”
Johnson distinguished strongly, as every wise man does, between offence
against convention, and offence against morality.
In Congreve’s plays he recognised the wit but condemned the morals,
and in the case of Blackmore the regard for the religious purpose of
Blackmore’s poem on “The Creation” gave to Johnson,
as to Addison, an undue sense of its literary value.
With his “Life of Pope,” which occupies more than two-thirds
of this volume, Johnson took especial pains. “He wrote it,”
says Boswell, “‘con amore,’ both from the early
possession which that writer had taken of his mind, and from the pleasure
which he must have felt in for ever silencing all attempts to lessen
his poetical fame. . . . I remember once to have heard Johnson say,
‘Sir, a thousand years may elapse before there shall appear another
man with a power of versification equal to that of Pope.’”
Pope’s laurel, since Johnson’s days, has flourished, without
showing a dead bough, for all the frosts of hostile criticism.
H. M.
PRIOR
Matthew Prior is one of those that have burst out from an obscure original
to great eminence. He was born July 21, 1664, according to some,
at Wimborne, in Dorsetshire, of I know not what parents; others say
that he was the son of a joiner of London: he was perhaps willing enough
to leave his birth unsettled, in hope, like Don Quixote, that the historian
of his actions might find him some illustrious alliance. He is
supposed to have fallen, by his father’s death, into the hands
of his uncle, a vintner near Charing Cross, who sent him for some time
to Dr. Busby, at Westminster; but, not intending to give him any education
beyond that of the school, took him, when he was well advanced in literature,
to his own house, where the Earl of Dorset, celebrated for patronage
of genius, found him by chance, as Burnet relates, reading Horace, and
was so well pleased with his proficiency, that he undertook the care
and cost of his academical education. He entered his name in St.
John’s College, at Cambridge, in 1682, in his eighteenth year;
and it may be reasonably supposed that he was distinguished among his
contemporaries. He became a Bachelor, as is usual, in four years,
and two years afterwards wrote the poem on the Deity, which stands first
in his volume.
It is the established practice of that College to send every year to
the Earl of Exeter some poems upon sacred subjects, in acknowledgment
of a benefaction enjoyed by them from the bounty of his ancestor.
On this occasion were those verses written, which, though nothing is
said of their success, seem to have recommended him to some notice;
for his praise of the countess’s music, and his lines on the famous
picture of Seneca, afford reason for imagining that he was more or less
conversant with that family.
The same year he published “The City Mouse and Country Mouse,”
to ridicule Dryden’s “Hind and Panther,” in conjunction
with Mr. Montague. There is a story of great pain suffered, and
of tears shed, on this occasion by Dryden, who thought it hard that
“an old man should be so treated by those to whom he had always
been civil.” By tales like these is the envy raised by superior
abilities every day gratified. When they are attacked every one
hopes to see them humbled; what is hoped is readily believed, and what
is believed is confidently told. Dryden had been more accustomed
to hostilities than that such enemies should break his quiet; and, if
we can suppose him vexed, it would be hard to deny him sense enough
to conceal his uneasiness.
“The City Mouse and Country Mouse” procured its authors
more solid advantages than the pleasure of fretting Dryden, for they
were both speedily preferred. Montague, indeed, obtained the first
notice with some degree of discontent, as it seems, in Prior, who probably
knew that his own part of the performance was the best. He had
not, however, much reason to complain, for he came to London and obtained
such notice that (in 1691) he was sent to the Congress at the Hague
as secretary to the embassy. In this assembly of princes and nobles,
to which Europe has perhaps scarcely seen anything equal, was formed
the grand alliance against Louis, which at last did not produce effects
proportionate so the magnificence of the transaction.
The conduct of Prior, in this splendid initiation into public business,
was so pleasing to King William, that he made him one of the gentlemen
of his bedchamber; and he is supposed to have passed some of the next
years in the quiet cultivation of literature and poetry.
The death of Queen Mary (in 1695) produced a subject for all the writers
- perhaps no funeral was ever so poetically attended. Dryden,
indeed, as a man discountenanced and deprived, was silent; but scarcely
any other maker of verses omitted to bring his tribute of tuneful sorrow.
An emulation of elegy was universal. Mary’s praise was not
confined to the English language, but fills a great part of the Musæ
Anglicanæ.
Prior, who was both a poet and a courtier, was too diligent to miss
this opportunity of respect. He wrote a long ode, which was presented
to the king, by whom it was not likely to be ever read. In two
years he was secretary to another embassy at the Treaty of Ryswick (in
1697), and next year had the same office at the court of France, where
he is said to have been considered with great distinction. As
he was one day surveying the apartments at Versailles, being shown the
“Victories of Louis,” painted by Le Brun, and asked whether
the King of England’s palace had any such decorations: “The
monuments of my master’s actions,” said he, “are to
be seen everywhere but in his own house.”
The pictures of Le Brun are not only in themselves sufficiently ostentatious,
but were explained by inscriptions so arrogant, that Boileau and Racine
thought it necessary to make them more simple. He was in the following
year at Leo with the king, from whom, after a long audience, he carried
orders to England, and upon his arrival became Under Secretary of State
in the Earl of Jersey’s office, a post which he did not retain
long, because Jersey was removed, but he was soon made Commissioner
of Trade.
This year (1700) produced one of his longest and most splendid compositions,
the “Carmen Seculare,” in which he exhausts all his powers
of celebration. I mean not to accuse him of flattery; he probably
thought all that he writ, and retained as much veracity as can be properly
exacted from a poet professedly encomiastic. King William supplied
copious materials for either verse or prose. His whole life had
been action, and none ever denied him the resplendent qualities of steady
resolution and personal courage. He was really in Prior’s
mind what he represents him in his verses; he considered him as a hero,
and was accustomed to say that he praised others in compliance with
the fashion, but that in celebrating King William he followed his inclination.
To Prior, gratitude would dictate praise, which reason would not refuse.
Among the advantages to arise from the future years of William’s
reign, he mentions a Society for Useful Arts, and among them:-
“Some that with care true eloquence shall teach,
And to just idioms fix our doubtful speech;
That from our writers distant realms may know
The thanks we to our monarchs owe,
And schools profess our tongue through every land
That has invoked his aid, or blessed his hand.”
Tickell, in his “Prospect of Peace,” has the same hope of
a new academy:-
“In happy chains our daring language bound,
Shall sport no more in arbitrary sound.”
Whether the similitude of those passages, which exhibit the same thought
on the same occasion, proceeded from accident or imitation, is not easy
to determine. Tickell might have been impressed with his expectation
by Swift’s “Proposal for Ascertaining the English Language,”
then lately published.
In the Parliament that met in 1701 he was chosen representative of East
Grinstead. Perhaps it was about this time that he changed his
party, for he voted for the impeachment of those lords who had persuaded
the king to the Partition Treaty, a treaty in which he himself had been
ministerially employed.
A great part of Queen Anne’s reign was a time of war, in which
there was little employment for negotiators, and Prior had, therefore,
leisure to make or to polish verses. When the Battle of Blenheim
called forth all the verse-men, Prior, among the rest, took care to
show his delight in the increasing honour of his country by an epistle
to Boileau. He published, soon afterwards, a volume of poems,
with the encomiastic character of his deceased patron, the Earl of Dorset.
It began with the College exercise, and ended with the “Nutbrown
Maid.”
The Battle of Ramillies soon afterwards (in 1706) excited him to another
effort of poetry. On this occasion he had fewer or less formidable
rivals, and it would be not easy to name any other composition produced
by that event which is now remembered.
Everything has its day. Through the reigns of William and Anne
no prosperous event passed undignified by poetry. In the last
war, when France was disgraced and overpowered in every quarter of the
globe, when Spain, coming to her assistance, only shared her calamities,
and the name of an Englishman was reverenced through Europe, no poet
was heard amidst the general acclamation; the fame of our counsellors
and heroes was entrusted to the Gazetteer. The nation in
time grew weary of the war, and the queen grew weary of her ministers.
The war was burdensome, and the ministers were insolent. Harley
and his friends began to hope that they might, by driving the Whigs
from court and from power, gratify at once the queen and the people.
There was now a call for writers, who might convey intelligence of past
abuses, and show the waste of public money, the unreasonable conduct
of the allies, the avarice of generals, the tyranny of minions, and
the general danger of approaching ruin. For this purpose a paper
called the Examiner was periodically published, written, as it
happened, by any wit of the party, and sometimes, as is said, by Mrs.
Manley. Some are owned by Swift; and one, in ridicule of Garth’s
verses to Godolphin upon the loss of his place, was written by Prior,
and answered by Addison, who appears to have known the author either
by conjecture or intelligence.
The Tories, who were now in power, were in haste to end the war, and
Prior, being recalled (1710) to his former employment of making treaties,
was sent (July, 1711) privately to Paris with propositions of peace.
He was remembered at the French court; and, returning in about a month,
brought with him the Abbé Gaultier and M. Mesnager, a minister
from France, invested with full powers. This transaction not being
avowed, Mackay, the master of the Dover packet-boat, either zealously
or officiously, seized Prior and his associates at Canterbury.
It is easily supposed they were soon released.
The negotiation was begun at Prior’s house, where the queen’s
ministers met Mesnager (September 20, 1711), and entered privately upon
the great business. The importance of Prior appears from the mention
made of him by St. John in his letter to the queen:-
“My Lord Treasurer moved, and all my Lords were of the same opinion,
that Mr. Prior should be added to those who are empowered to sign; the
reason for which is because he, having personally treated with Monsieur
de Torcy, is the best witness we can produce of the sense in which the
general preliminary engagements are entered into; besides which, as
he is the best versed in matters of trade of all your Majesty’s
servants who have been trusted in this secret, if you shall think fit
to employ him in the future treaty of commerce, it will be of consequence
that he has been a party concerned in concluding that convention, which
must be the rule of this treaty.”
The assembly of this important night was in some degree clandestine,
the design of treaty not being yet openly declared and when the Whigs
returned to power was aggravated to a charge of high treason; though,
as Prior remarks in his imperfect answer to the Report of the Committee
of Secrecy, no treaty ever was made without private interviews and preliminary
discussions.
My business is not the history of the peace, but the life of Prior.
The conferences began at Utrecht on the 1st of January (1711-12), and
the English plenipotentiaries arrived on the 15th. The ministers
of the different potentates conferred and conferred; but the peace advanced
so slowly that speedier methods were found necessary, and Bolingbroke
was sent to Paris to adjust differences with less formality. Prior
either accompanied him or followed him, and after his departure had
the appointments and authority of an ambassador, though no public character.
By some mistake of the queen’s orders the court of France had
been disgusted, and Bolingbroke says in his letter, “Dear Mat,
- Hide the nakedness of thy country, and give the best turn thy fertile
brain will furnish thee with to the blunders of thy countrymen, who
are not much better politicians than the French are poets.”
Soon after, the Duke of Shrewsbury went on a formal embassy to Paris.
It is related by Boyer that the intention was to have joined Prior in
the commission, but that Shrewsbury refused to be associated with a
man so meanly born. Prior therefore continued to act without a
title till the duke returned next year to England, and then he assumed
the style and dignity of ambassador. But while he continued in
appearance a private man, he was treated with confidence by Louis, who
sent him with a letter to the queen, written in favour of the Elector
of Bavaria. “I shall expect,” says he, “with
impatience, the return of Mr. Prior, whose conduct is very agreeable
to me.” And while the Duke of Shrewsbury was still at Paris,
Bolingbroke wrote to Prior thus:- “Monsieur de Torcy has a confidence
in you; make use of it, once for all, upon this occasion, and convince
him thoroughly that we must give a different turn to our Parliament
and our people according to their resolution at this crisis.”
Prior’s public dignity and splendour commenced in August, 1713,
and continued till the August following; but I am afraid that, according
to the usual fate of greatness, it was attended with some perplexities
and mortifications. He had not all that is customarily given to
ambassadors: he hints to the queen in an imperfect poem that he had
no service of plate; and it appeared by the debts which he contracted
that his remittances were not punctually made.
On the 1st of August, 1714, ensued the downfall of the Tories and the
degradation of Prior. He was recalled, but was not able to return,
being detained by the debts which he had found it necessary to contract,
and which were not discharged before March, though his old friend Montague
was now at the head of the Treasury. He returned, then, as soon
as he could, and was welcomed on the 25th of March by a warrant, but
was, however, suffered to live in his own house, under the custody of
the messenger, till he was examined before a committee of the Privy
Council, of which Mr. Walpole was chairman, and Lord Coningsby, Mr.
Stanhope, and Mr. Lechmere were the principal interrogators, who, in
this examination, of which there is printed an account not unentertaining,
behaved with the boisterousness of men elated by recent authority.
They are represented as asking questions sometimes vague, sometimes
insidious, and writing answers different from those which they received.
Prior, however, seems to have been overpowered by their turbulence;
for he confesses that he signed what, if he had ever come before a legal
judicature, he should have contradicted or explained away. The
oath was administered by Boscawen, a Middlesex justice, who at last
was going to write his attestation on the wrong side of the paper.
They were very industrious to find some charge against Oxford, and asked
Prior, with great earnestness, who was present when the preliminary
articles were talked of or signed at his house? He told them that
either the Earl of Oxford or the Duke of Shrewsbury was absent, but
he could not remember which, an answer which perplexed them, because
it supplied no accusation against either. “Could anything
be more absurd,” says he, “or more inhuman, than to propose
to me a question, by the answering of which I might, according to them,
prove myself a traitor? And notwithstanding their solemn promise
that nothing which I should say should hurt myself, I had no reason
to trust them, for they violated that promise about five hours after.
However, I owned I was there present. Whether this was wisely
done or no I leave to my friends to determine.” When he
had signed the paper, he was told by Walpole that the committee were
not satisfied with his behaviour, nor could give such an account of
it to the Commons as might merit favour; and that they now thought a
stricter confinement necessary than to his own house. “Here,”
says he, “Boscawen played the moralist, and Coningsby the Christian,
but both very awkwardly.” The messenger, in whose custody
he was to be placed, was then called, and very indecently asked by Coningsby
“if his house was secured by bars and bolts.” The
messenger answered, “No,” with astonishment. At which
Coningsby very angrily said, “Sir, you must secure this prisoner;
it is for the safety of the nation: if he escape, you shall answer for
it.”
They had already printed their report; and in this examination were
endeavouring to find proofs.
He continued thus confined for some time; and Mr. Walpole (June 10,
1715) moved for an impeachment against him. What made him so acrimonious
does not appear; he was by nature no thirster for blood. Prior
was a week after committed to close custody, with orders that “no
person should be admitted to see him without leave from the Speaker.”
When, two years after, an Act of Grace was passed, he was excepted,
and continued still in custody, which he had made less tedious by writing
his “Alma.” He was, however, soon after discharged.
He had now his liberty, but he had nothing else. Whatever the
profit of his employments might have been, he had always spent it; and
at the age of fifty-three was, with all his abilities, in danger of
penury, having yet no solid revenue but from the fellowship of his college,
which, when in his exaltation he was censured for retaining it, he said
he could live upon at last. Being, however, generally known and
esteemed, he was encouraged to add other poems to those which he had
printed, and to publish them by subscription. The expedient succeeded
by the industry of many friends, who circulated the proposals, and the
care of some who, it is said, withheld the money from him lest he should
squander it. The price of the volume was two guineas; the whole
collection was four thousand; to which Lord Harley, the son of the Earl
of Oxford, to whom he had invariably adhered, added an equal sum for
the purchase of Down Hall, which Prior was to enjoy during life, and
Harley after his decease. He had now, what wits and philosophers
have often wished, the power of passing the day in contemplative tranquillity.
But it seems that busy men seldom live long in a state of quiet.
It is not unlikely that his health declined, he complains of deafness;
“for,” says he, “I took little care of my ears while
I was not sure if my head was my own.”
Of any occurrences of his remaining life I have found no account.
In a letter to Swift, “I have,” says he, “treated
Lady Harriet, at Cambridge (a Fellow of a College treat!) and spoke
verses to her in a gown and cap! What, the plenipotentiary, so
far concerned in the damned peace at Utrecht; the man that makes up
half the volume of terse prose, that makes up the report of the committee,
speaking verses! Sic est, homo sum.”
He died at Wimpole, a seat of the Earl of Oxford, on the 18th of September,
1721, and was buried in Westminster; where on a monument, for which,
as the “last piece of human vanity,” he left five hundred
pounds, is engraven this epitaph:-
Sui Temporis Historiam meditanti,
Paulatim obrepens Febris
Operi simul et Vitæ filum abrupit,
Sept. 18. An. Dom. 1721. Ætat. 57.
H.S.E.
Vir Eximius Serenissimis
Regi GULIELMO Reginæque MARIÆ
In Congressione Fœderatorum
Hagæ anno 1690 celebrata,
Deinde Magnæ Britanniæ Legatis
Tum iis,
Qui anno 1697 Pacem RYSWICKI confecerunt,
Tum iis,
Qui apud Gallos annie proximis Legationem obierunt
Eodem etiani anno 1657 in Hiberniâ
SECRETARIUS;
Necnon in utroque Honorabili consessu
Eorum,
Qui anno 1700 ordinandis Commercii negotiis,
Quique anno 1711 dirigendis Portorii rebus,
Præidebant,
COMMISSIONARIUS;
Postremo ab ANNA,
Felicissimæ memoriæ Reginâ,
Ad LUDOVICUM XIV. Galliæ Regem
Missus anno 1711
De Pace stabiliendâ
(Pace etiam num durante
Diuque ut boni jam omnes sperant duraturâ),
Cum sunmâ potestate Legatus;
MATTHÆS PRIOR Armiger
Qui
Hos omnes, quibus cumulates est, Titulos
Humanitatis, Ingenii, Ereditionis laude
Superavit;
Cui enim nascenti faciles arriserant Mesæ.
Hunc Puerum Schola hîc Regia perpolivit;
Jevenem in Collegio S’ti Johannis
Cantabrigia optimis Scientiis instruxit;
Virum denique auxit, et perfecit,
Multa cum viris Principibus censuetudo;
Ita natus, ita institutus,
A Vatam Choro avelli numquam potuit,
Sed solebat sæpe rerum civilium gravitatem
Amœniorum Literarum Studiis condire:
Et cum omne adeo Poeticës genus
Haud infeliciter tentaret,
Tum in Fabellis concinne lepideque texendis
Mirus Artifex
Neminem habuit parem.
Hæc liberalis animi oblectamenta:
Quam nullo illi labore constiterint,
Facile ii perspexêre, quibus usus est Amici;
Apud quos Urbanitatem et Leporum plenus
Cum ad rem, quæcunque forte inciderat,
Aptè varie copiosèque alluderet,
Interea nihil quæsitum, nihil vi expressum
Videbatur,
Sed omnia ultro effluere,
Et quasi jugi è foote affatim exuberare,
Ita suos tandem dubios reliquit,
Essetne in Scriptis, Poeta Elegantior,
An in Convictu, Comes Jocundior.
Of Prior, eminent as he was, both by his abilities and station, very
few memorials have been left by his contemporaries; the account, therefore,
must now be destitute of his private character and familiar practices.
He lived at a time when the rage of party detected all which it was
any man’s interest to hide; and, as little ill is heard of Prior,
it is certain that not much was known. He was not afraid of provoking
censure; for when he forsook the Whigs, under whose patronage he first
entered the world, he became a Tory so ardent and determinate. that
he did not willingly consort with men of different opinions. He
was one of the sixteen Tories who met weekly, and agreed to address
each other by the title of Brother; and seems to have adhered,
not only by concurrence of political designs, but by peculiar affection,
to the Earl of Oxford and his family. With how much confidence
he was trusted has been already told.
He was, however, in Pope’s opinion, fit only to make verses, and
less qualified for business than Addison himself. This was surely
said without consideration. Addison, exalted to a high place,
was forced into degradation by the sense of his own incapacity; Prior,
who was employed by men very capable of estimating his value, having
been secretary to one embassy, had, when great abilities were again
wanted, the same office another time; and was, after so much experience
of his own knowledge and dexterity, at last sent to transact a negotiation
in the highest degree arduous and important, for which he was qualified,
among other requisites, in the opinion of Bolingbroke, by his influence
upon the French minister, and by skill in questions of commerce above
other men.
Of his behaviour in the lighter parts of life, it is too late to get
much intelligence. One of his answers to a boastful Frenchman
has been related; and to an impertinent he made another equally proper.
During his embassy he sat at the opera by a man who, in his rapture,
accompanied with his own voice the principal singer.
Prior fell to railing at the performer with all the terms of reproach
that he could collect, till the Frenchman, ceasing from his song, began
to expostulate with him for his harsh censure of a man who was confessedly
the ornament of the stage. “I know all that,” says
the ambassador, “mais il chante si haut, que je ne sçaurois
vous entendre.”
In a gay French company, where every one sang a little song or stanza,
of which the burden was “Bannissons la Mélancolie,”
when it came to his turn to sing, after the performance of a young lady
that sat next him, he produced these extemporary lines
“Mais cette voix, et ces beaux yeux,
Font Cupidon trop dangereux,
Et je suis triste quand je crie
Bannissons la Mélancolie.”
Tradition represents him as willing to descend from the dignity of the
poet and statesman to the low delights of mean company. His Chloe
probably was sometimes ideal: but the woman with whom he cohabited was
a despicable drab of the lowest species. One of his wenches, perhaps
Chloe, while he was absent from his house, stole his plate and ran away,
as was related by a woman who had been his servant. Of his propensity
to sordid converse, I have seen an account so seriously ridiculous,
that it seems to deserve insertion.
“I have been assured that Prior, after having spent the evening
with Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, and Swift, would go and smoke a pipe
and drink a bottle of ale with a common soldier and his wife in Long
Acre before he went to bed, not from any remains of the lowness of his
original, as one said, but I suppose that his faculties -
“‘ - strained to the height,
In that celestial colloquy sublime,
Dazzled and spent, sunk down, and sought repair.’”
Poor Prior; why was he so strained, and in such want of repair,
after a conversation with men not, in the opinion of the world, much
wiser than himself? But such are the conceits of speculatists,
who strain their faculties to find in a mine what lies
upon the surface. His opinions, so far as the means of judging
are left us, seem to have been right; but his life was, it seems, irregular,
negligent, and sensual.
Prior has written with great variety, and his variety has made him popular.
He has tried all styles, from the grotesque to the solemn, and has not
so failed in any as to incur derision or disgrace. His works may
be distinctly considered as comprising Tales, Love Verses, Occasional
Poems, “Alma,” and “Solomon.”
His tales have obtained general approbation, being written with great
familiarity and great sprightliness; the language is easy, but seldom
gross, and the numbers smooth, without appearance of care. Of
these tales there are only four: “The Ladle,” which is introduced
by a preface, neither necessary nor pleasing, neither grave nor merry.
“Paulo Purganti,” which has likewise a preface, but of more
value than the tale. “Hans Carvel,” not over-decent;
and “Protogenes and Apelles,” an old story mingled, by an
affectation not disagreeable, with modern images. “The Young
Gentleman in Love” has hardly a just claim to the title of a tale.
I know not whether he be the original author of any tale which he has
given us. The adventure of Hans Carvel has passed through many
successions of merry wits, for it is to be found in Ariosto’s
“Satires,” and is perhaps yet older. But the merit
of such stories is the art of telling them.
In his amorous effusions he is less happy; for they are not dictated
by nature or by passion, and have neither gallantry nor tenderness.
They have the coldness of Cowley, without his wit, the dull exercises
of a skilful versifier, resolved at all adventures to write something
about Chloe, and trying to be amorous by dint of study. His fictions,
therefore, are mythological. Venus, after the example of the Greek
epigram, asks when she was seen naked and bathing. Then
Cupid is mistaken; then Cupid is disarmed; then he loses
his darts to Ganymede; then Jupiter sends him a summons by Mercury.
Then Chloe goes a-hunting with an ivory quiver graceful at her side;
Diana mistakes her for one of her nymphs, and Cupid laughs at the blunder.
All this is surely despicable; and even when he tries to act the lover
without the help of gods or goddesses, his thoughts are unaffecting
or remote. He talks not “like a man of this world.”
The greatest of all his amorous essays is “Henry and Emma,”
a dull and tedious dialogue, which excites neither esteem for the man
nor tenderness for the woman. The example of Emma, who resolves
to follow an outlawed murderer wherever fear and guilt shall drive him,
deserves no imitation; and the experiment by which Henry tries the lady’s
constancy is such as must end either in infamy to her or in disappointment
to himself.
His occasional poems necessarily lost part of their value, as their
occasions, being less remembered, raised less emotion, Some of them,
however, are preserved by their inherent excellence. The burlesque
of Boileau’s ode on Namur has in some parts such airiness and
levity as will always procure it readers, even among those who cannot
compare it with the original. The epistle to Boileau is not so
happy. The “Poems to the King,” are now perused only
by young students, who read merely that they may learn to write; and
of the “Carmen Seculare,” I cannot but suspect that I might
praise or censure it by caprice without danger of detection; for who
can be supposed to have laboured through it? Yet the time has
been when this neglected work was so popular that it was translated
into Latin by no common master.
His poem on the Battle of Ramillies is necessarily tedious by the form
of the stanza. An uniform mass of ten lines thirty-five times
repeated, inconsequential and slightly connected, must weary both the
ear and the understanding. His imitation of Spenser, which consists
principally in I ween and I weet, without exclusion of
later modes of speech, makes his poem neither ancient nor modern.
His mention of Mars and Bellona, and his comparison of Marlborough to
the eagle that bears the thunder of Jupiter, are all puerile and unaffecting;
and yet more despicable is the long tale told by Louis in his despair
of Brute and Troynovante, and the teeth of Cadmus, with his similes
of the raven and eagle and wolf and lion. By the help of such
easy fictions and vulgar topics, without acquaintance with life, and
without knowledge of art or nature, a poem of any length, cold and lifeless
like this, may be easily written on any subject.
In his epilogues to Phædra and to Lucius he is very happily facetious;
but in the prologue before the queen the pedant has found his way with
Minerva, Perseus, and Andromeda.
His epigrams and lighter pieces are, like those of others, sometimes
elegant, sometimes trifling, and sometimes dull; among the best are
the “Chamelion” and the epitaph on John and Joan.
Scarcely any one of our poets has written so much and translated so
little: the version of Callimachus is sufficiently licentious; the paraphrase
on St. Paul’s Exhortation to Charity is eminently beautiful.
“Alma” is written in professed imitation of “Hudibras,”
and has at least one accidental resemblance: “Hudibras”
wants a plan because it is left imperfect; “Alma” is imperfect
because it seems never to have had a plan. Prior appears not to
have proposed to himself any drift or design, but to have written the
casual dictates of the present moment.
What Horace said when he imitated Lucilius, might be said of Butler
by Prior; his numbers were not smooth nor neat. Prior excelled
him in versification; but he was, like Horace, inventore minor;
he had not Butler’s exuberance of matter and variety of illustration.
The spangles of wit which he could afford he knew how to polish; but
he wanted the bullion of his master. Butler pours out a negligent
profusion, certain of the weight, but careless of the stamp. Prior
has comparatively little, but with that little he makes a fine show.
“Alma” has many admirers, and was the only piece among Prior’s
works of which Pope said that he should wish to be the author.
“Solomon” is the work to which he entrusted the protection
of his name, and which he expected succeeding ages to regard with veneration.
His affection was natural; it had undoubtedly been written with great
labour; and who is willing to think that he has been labouring in vain?
He had infused into it much knowledge and much thought; had often polished
it to elegance, often dignified it with splendour, and sometimes heightened
it to sublimity: he perceived in it many excellences, and did not discover
that it wanted that without which all others are of small avail - the
power of engaging attention and alluring curiosity.
Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults; negligence or errors are
single and local, but tediousness pervades the whole; other faults are
censured and forgotten, but the power of tediousness propagates itself.
He that is weary the first hour is more weary the second, as bodies
forced into motion, contrary to their tendency, pass more and more slowly
through every successive interval of space. Unhappily this pernicious
failure is that which an author is least able to discover. We
are seldom tiresome to ourselves; and the act of composition fills and
delights the mind with change of language and succession of images.
Every couplet, when produced, is new, and novelty is the great source
of pleasure. Perhaps no man ever thought a line superfluous when
he first wrote it, or contracted his work till his ebullitions of invention
had subsided. And even if he should control his desire of immediate
renown, and keep his work nine years unpublished, he will be
still the author, and still in danger of deceiving himself: and if he
consults his friends he will probably find men who have more kindness
than judgment, or more fear to offend than desire to instruct.
The tediousness of this poem proceeds not from the uniformity of the
subject, for it is sufficiently diversified, but from the continued
tenor of the narration; in which Solomon relates the successive vicissitudes
of his own mind without the intervention of any other speaker or the
mention of any other agent, unless it be Abra; the reader is only to
learn what he thought, and to be told that he thought wrong. The
event of every experiment is foreseen, and therefore the process is
not much regarded. Yet the work is far from deserving to be neglected.
He that shall peruse it will be able to mark many passages to which
he may recur for instruction or delight; many from which the poet may
learn to write and the philosopher to reason.
If Prior’s poetry be generally considered, his praise will be
that of correctness and industry, rather than of compass of comprehension
or activity of fancy. He never made any effort of invention: his
greater pieces are only tissues of common thoughts; and his smaller,
which consist of light images or single conceits, are not always his
own. I have traced him among the French epigrammatists, and have
been informed that he poached for prey among obscure authors.
The “Thief and Cordelier” is, I suppose, generally considered
as an original production, with how much justice this epigram may tell,
which was written by Georgius Sabinus, a poet now little known or read,
though once the friend of Luther and Melancthon:-
“De Sacerdote Furem consolante.
“Quidam sacrificus furem comitatus euntem
Huc ubi dat sontes carnificina neci.
Ne sis mœstus, ait; summi conviva Tonantis
Jam cum coelitibus (si modo credis) eris.
Ille gemens, si vera mihi solatia præbes,
Hospes apud superos sis meus oro, refert.
Sacrificus contra; mihi non convivia fas est
Ducere, jejunas hac edo luce nihil.”
What he has valuable he owes to his diligence and his judgment.
His diligence has justly placed him amongst the most correct of the
English poets; and he was one of the first that resolutely endeavoured
at correctness. He never sacrifices accuracy to haste, nor indulges
himself in contemptuous negligence, or impatient idleness; he has no
careless lines, or entangled sentiments; his words are nicely selected,
and his thoughts fully expanded. If this part of his character
suffers an abatement, it must be from the disproportion of his rhymes,
which have not always sufficient consonance, and from the admission
of broken lines into his “Solomon;” but perhaps he thought,
like Cowley, that hemistichs ought to be admitted into heroic poetry.
He had apparently such rectitude of judgment as secured him from everything
that approached to the ridiculous or absurd; but as law operates in
civil agency, not to the excitement of virtue, but the repression of
wickedness, so judgment in the operations of intellect can hinder faults,
but not produce excellence. Prior is never low, nor very often
sublime. It is said by Longinus of Euripides, that he forces himself
sometimes into grandeur by violence of effort, as the lion kindles his
fury by the lashes of his own tail. Whatever Prior obtains above
mediocrity seems the effort of struggle and of toil. He has many
vigorous, but few happy lines; he has everything by purchase, and nothing
by gift; he had no nightly visitations of the Muse, no infusions
of sentiment or felicities of fancy. His diction, however, is
more his own than of any among the successors of Dryden; he borrows
no lucky turns, or commodious modes of language, from his predecessors.
His phrases are original, but they are sometimes harsh; as he inherited
no elegances, none has he bequeathed. His expression has every
mark of laborious study, the line seldom seems to have been formed at
once; the words did not come till they were called, and were then put
by constraint into their places, where they do their duty, but do it
sullenly. In his greater compositions there may be found more
rigid stateliness than graceful dignity.
Of versification he was not negligent. What he received from Dryden
he did not lose; neither did he increase the difficulty of writing by
unnecessary severity, but uses triplets and alexandrines without scruple.
In his preface to “Solomon” he proposes some improvements
by extending the sense from one couplet to another with variety of pauses.
This he has attempted, but without success; his interrupted lines are
unpleasing, and his sense, as less distinct, is less striking.
He has altered the stanza of Spenser as a house is altered by building
another in its place of a different form. With how little resemblance
he has formed his new stanza to that of his master these specimens will
show:-
SPENSER.
“She flying fast from Heaven’s fated face,
And from the world that her discovered wide,
Fled to the wasteful wilderness space,
From living eyes her open shame to hide,
And lurked in rocks and caves long unespied.
But that fair crew of knights, and Una fair,
Did in that castle afterwards abide,
To rest themselves, and weary powers repair,
Where store they found of all that dainty was and rare?”
PRIOR.
“To the close rock the frightened raven flies,
Soon as the rising eagle cuts the air;
The shaggy wolf unseen and trembling lies,
When the hoarse roar proclaims the lion near.
Ill-starred did we our forts and lines forsake,
To dare our British foes to open fight:
Our conquest we by stratagem should make;
Our triumph had been founded in our flight.
’Tis ours by craft and by surprise to gain;
’Tis theirs to meet in arms, and battle in the plain.”
By this new structure of his lines he has avoided difficulties; nor
am I sure that he has lost any of the power of pleasing, but he no longer
imitates Spencer. Some of his poems are written without regularity
of measures; for, when he commenced poet, he had not recovered from
our Pindaric infatuation; but he probably lived to be convinced that
the essence of verse is order and consonance. His numbers are
such as mere diligence may attain; they seldom offend the ear, and seldom
soothe it; they commonly want airiness, lightness, and facility.
What is smooth is not soft. His verses always roll, but they seldom
flow.
A survey of the life and writings of Prior may exemplify a sentence
which he doubtless understood well when he read Horace at his uncle’s,
“The vessel long retains the scent which it first receives.”
In his private relaxation he revived the tavern, and in his amorous
pedantry he exhibited the college. But on higher occasions and
nobler subjects, when habit was overpowered by the necessity of reflection,
he wanted not wisdom as a statesman, or elegance as a poet.
CONGREVE
William Congreve descended from a family in Staffordshire of so great
antiquity, that it claims a place among the few that extend their hue
beyond the Norman Conquest, and was the son of William Congreve, second
son of Richard Congreve, of Congreve and Stratton. He visited,
once at least, the residence of his ancestors; and, I believe, more
places than one are still shown in groves and gardens, where he is related
to have written his Old Bachelor.
Neither the time nor place of his birth is certainly known.
If the inscription upon his monument be true, he was born in 1672.
For the place, it was said by himself that he owed his nativity to England,
and by everybody else that he was born in Ireland. Southern mentioned
him with sharp censure as a man that meanly disowned his native country.
The biographers assigned his nativity to Bardsa, near Leeds, in Yorkshire,
from the account given by himself, as they suppose, to Jacob.
To doubt whether a man of eminence has told the truth about his own
birth is, in appearance, to be very deficient in candour; yet nobody
can live long without knowing that falsehoods of convenience or vanity,
falsehoods from which no evil immediately visible ensues, except the
general degradation of human testimony, are very lightly uttered, and
once uttered are sullenly supported. Boileau, who desired to be
thought a rigorous and steady moralist, having told a pretty lie to
Louis XIV., continued it afterwards by false dates; thinking himself
obliged in honour, says his admirer, to maintain what, when he
said it, was so well received. [Congreve was baptised at Bardsey,
February 10, 1670.]
Wherever Congreve was born, he was educated first at Kilkenny, and afterwards
at Dublin, his father having some military employment that stationed
him in Ireland; but after having passed through the usual preparatory
studies, as may be reasonably supposed, with great celerity and success,
his father thought it proper to assign him a profession, by which something
might be gotten, and about the time of the Revolution sent him, at the
age of sixteen, to study law in the Middle Temple, where he lived for
several years, but with very little attention to statutes or reports.
His disposition to become an author appeared very early, as he very
early felt that force of imagination, and possessed that copiousness
of sentiment, by which intellectual pleasure can be given. His
first performance was a novel called “Incognita; or, Love and
Duty Reconciled;” it is praised by the biographers, who quote
some part of the preface, that is, indeed, for such a time of life,
uncommonly judicious. I would rather praise it than read it.
His first dramatic labour was The Old Bachelor, of which he says,
in his defence against Collier, “That comedy was written, as several
know, some years before it was acted. When I wrote it I had little
thoughts of the stage; but did it to amuse myself in a slow recovery
from a fit of sickness. Afterwards, through my indiscretion it
was seen, and in some little time more it was acted; and I, through
the remainder of my indiscretion suffered myself to be drawn into the
prosecution of a difficult and thankless study, and to be involved in
a perpetual war with knaves and fools.”
There seems to be a strange affectation in authors of appearing to have
done everything by chance. The Old Bachelor was written
for amusement in the languor of convalescence. Yet it is apparently
composed with great elaborateness of dialogue, and incessant ambition
of wit. The age of the writer considered, it is indeed a very
wonderful performance; for, whenever written, it was acted (1693) when
he was not more than twenty-one years old; and was then recommended
by Mr. Dryden, Mr. Southern, and Mr. Maynwaring. Dryden said that
he never had seen such a first play; but they found it deficient in
some things necessary to the success of its exhibition, and by their
greater experience fitted it for the stage. Southern used to relate
of one comedy, probably of this, that when Congreve read it to the players
he pronounced it so wretchedly, that they had almost rejected it; but
they were afterwards so well persuaded of its excellence that, for half
a year before it was acted, the manager allowed its author the privilege
of the house.
Few plays have ever been so beneficial to the writer, for it procured
him the patronage of Halifax, who immediately made him one of the commissioners
for licensing coaches, and soon after gave him a place in the Pipe-office,
and another in the Customs, of six hundred pounds a year. Congreve’s
conversation must surely have been at least equally pleasing with his
writings.
Such a comedy, written at such an age, requires some consideration.
As the lighter species of dramatic poetry professes the imitation of
common life, of real manners. and daily incidents, it apparently presupposes
a familiar knowledge of many characters, and exact observation of the
passing world; the difficulty, therefore, is to conceive how this knowledge
can be obtained by a boy.
But if The Old Bachelor be more nearly examined, it will be found
to be one of those comedies which may be made by a mind vigorous and
acute, and furnished with comic characters by the perusal of other poets,
without much actual commerce with mankind. The dialogue is one
constant reciprocation of conceits or clash of wit, in which nothing
flows necessarily from the occasion, or is dictated by nature.
The characters, both of men and women, are either fictitious and artificial,
as those of Heartwell and the ladies, or easy and common, as Wittol,
a tame idiot; Bluff, a swaggering coward; and Fondlewife, a jealous
Puritan; and the catastrophe arises from a mistake, not very probably
produced, by marrying a woman in a mask. Yet this gay comedy,
when all these deductions are made, will still remain the work of very
powerful and fertile faculties; the dialogue is quick and sparkling,
the incidents such as seize the attention, and the wit so exuberant
that it “o’er-informs its tenement.”
Next year he gave another specimen of his abilities in The Double
Dealer, which was not received with equal kindness. He writes
to his patron the Lord Halifax a dedication, in which he endeavours
to reconcile the reader to that which found few friends among the audience.
These apologies are always useless: de gestibus non est disputandem.
Men may be convinced, but they cannot be pleased, against their will.
But though taste is obstinate, it is very variable, and time often prevails
when arguments have failed. Queen Mary conferred upon both those
plays the honour of her presence; and when she died soon after, Congreve
testified his gratitude by a despicable effusion of elegiac pastoral,
a composition in which all is unnatural and yet nothing is new.
In another year (1695) his prolific pen produced Love for Love, a
comedy of nearer alliance to life, and exhibiting more real manners,
than either of the former. The character of Foresight was then
common. Dryden calculated nativities; both Cromwell and King William
had their lucky days; and Shaftesbury himself, though he had no religion,
was said to regard predictions. The Sailor is not accounted very
natural, but he is very pleasant. With this play was opened the
New Theatre, under the direction of Betterton, the tragedian, where
he exhibited two years afterwards (1687) The Mourning Bride,
a tragedy, so written as to show him sufficiently qualified for
either kind of dramatic poetry. In this play, of which, when he
afterwards revised it, he reduced the versification to greater regularity;
there is more bustle than sentiment; the plot is busy and intricate,
and the events take hold on the attention; but, except a very few passages,
we are rather amused with noise and perplexed with stratagem, than entertained
with any true delineation of natural characters. This, however,
was received with more benevolence than any other of his works, and
still continues to be acted and applauded.
But whatever objections may be made either to his comic or tragic excellence,
they are lost at once in the blaze of admiration, when it is remembered
that he had produced these four plays before he had passed his twenty-fifth
year, before other men, even such as are some time to shine in eminence,
have passed their probation of literature, or presume to hope for any
other notice than such as is bestowed on diligence and inquiry.
Among all the efforts of early genius, which literary history records,
I doubt whether any one can be produced that more surpasses the common
limits of nature than the plays of Congreve.
About this time began the long-continued controversy between Collier
and the poets. In the reign of Charles I. the Puritans had raised
a violent clamour against the drama, which they considered as an entertainment
not lawful to Christians, an opinion held by them in common with the
Church of Rome; and Prynne published “Histriomastix,” a
huge volume in which stage-plays were censured. The outrages and
crimes of the Puritans brought afterwards their whole system of doctrine
into disrepute, and from the Restoration the poets and players were
left at quiet; for to have molested them would have had the appearance
of tendency to puritanical malignity. This danger, however, was
worn away by time, and Collier, a fierce and implacable non-juror, knew
that an attack upon the theatre would never make him suspected for a
Puritan; he therefore (1698) published “A Short View of the Immorality
and Profaneness of the English Stage,” I believe with no other
motive than religious zeal and honest indignation. He was formed
for a controvertist, with sufficient learning, with diction vehement
and pointed, though often vulgar and incorrect, with unconquerable pertinacity,
with wit in the highest degree and sarcastic, and with all those powers
exalted and invigorated by just confidence in his cause. Thus
qualified and thus incited, he walked out to battle, and assailed at
once most of the living writers, from Dryden to Durfey. His onset
was violent; those passages, which, while they stood single, had passed
with little notice, when they were accumulated and exposed together,
excited horror. The wise and the pious caught the alarm, and the
nation wondered why it had so long suffered irreligion and licentiousness
to be openly taught at the public charge.
Nothing now remained for the poets but to resist or fly. Dryden’s
conscience or his prudence, angry as he was, withheld him from the conflict.
Congreve and Vanbrugh attempted answers. Congreve, a very young
man, elated with success, and impatient of censure, assumed an air of
confidence and security. His chief art of controversy is to retort
upon his adversary his own words: he is very angry, and hoping to conquer
Collier with his own weapons, allows himself in the use of every term
of contumely and contempt, but he has the sword without the arm of Scanderbeg;
he has his antagonist’s coarseness but not his strength.
Collier replied, for contest was his delight. “He was not
to be frighted from his purpose or his prey.”
The cause of Congreve was not tenable; whatever glosses he might use
for the defence or palliation of single passages, the general tenour
and tendency of his plays must always be condemned. It is acknowledged,
with universal conviction, that the perusal of his works will make no
man better, and that their ultimate effect is to represent pleasure
in alliance with vice, and to relax those obligations by which life
ought to be regulated.
The stage found other advocates, and the dispute was protracted through
ten years: but at last comedy grew more modest, and Collier lived to
see the reformation of the theatre.
Of the powers by which this important victory was achieved, a quotation
from Love for Love, and the remark upon it, may afford a specimen:-
Sir Samps. “Sampson’s a very good name; for
your Sampsons were strong dogs from the beginning.”
Angel. “Have a care - if you remember, the strongest
Sampson of your name pulled an old house over his head at last.”
“Here you have the sacred history burlesqued, and Sampson once
more brought into the house of Dagon, to make sport for the Philistines!”
Congreve’s last play was The Way of The World, which, though,
as he hints in him dedication it was written with great labour and much
thought, was received with so little favour, that being in a high degree
offended and disgusted, he resolved to commit his quiet and his fame
no more to the caprices of an audience.
From this time his life ceased to be public; he lived for himself and
his friends, and among his friends was able to name every man of his
time whom wit and elegance had raised to reputation. It may be
therefore reasonably supposed that his manners were polite, and his
conversation pleasing. He seems not to have taken much pleasure
in writing, as he contributed nothing to the Spectator, and only
one paper to the Tatler, though published by men with whom he
might be supposed willing to associate: and though he lived many years
after the publication of his “Miscellaneous Poems,” yet
he added nothing to them, but lived on in literary indolence, engaged
in no controversy, contending with no rival, neither soliciting flattery
by public commendations, nor provoking enmity by malignant criticism,
but passing his time among the great and splendid, in the placid enjoyment
of his fame and fortune.
Having owed his fortune to Halifax, he continued, always of his patron’s
party, but, as it seems, without violence or acrimony, and his firmness
was naturally esteemed, as his abilities were reverenced. His
security therefore was never violated; and when, upon the extrusion
of the Whigs, some intercession was used lest Congreve should be displaced,
the Earl of Oxford made this answer:-
“Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Pœni,
Nec tam aversus equos Tyriâ sol jungit ab urbe.”
He that was thus honoured by the adverse party might naturally expect
to be advanced when his friends returned to power, and he was accordingly
made secretary for the island of Jamaica, a place, I suppose without
trust or care, but which, with his post in the Customs, is said to have
afforded him twelve hundred pounds a year. His honours were yet
far greater than his profits. Every writer mentioned him with
respect, and among other testimonies to his merit, Steele made him the
patron of his “Miscellany,” and Pope inscribed to him his
translations of the “Iliad.” But he treated the muses
with ingratitude; for, having long conversed familiarly with the great,
he wished to be considered rather as a man of fashion than of wit; and,
when he received a visit from Voltaire, disgusted him by the despicable
foppery of desiring to be considered not as an author but a gentleman;
to which the Frenchman replied, “that, if he had been only a gentleman,
he should not have come to visit him.”
In his retirement he may be supposed to have applied himself to books,
for he discovers more literature than the poets have commonly attained.
But his studies were in his later days obstructed by cataracts in his
eyes, which at last terminated in blindness. This melancholy state
was aggravated by the gout, for which he sought relief by a journey
to Bath: but, being overturned in his chariot, complained from that
time of a pain in his side, and died at his house in Surrey Street in
the Strand, January 29, 1728-9. Having lain in state in the Jerusalem
Chamber, he was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument is erected
to his memory by Henrietta Duchess of Marlborough, to whom, for reasons
either not known or not mentioned, he bequeathed a legacy of about ten
thousand pounds, the accumulation of attentive parsimony, which, though
to her superfluous and useless, might have given great assistance to
the ancient family from which he descended, at that time, by the imprudence
of his relation, reduced to difficulties and distress.
Congreve has merit of the highest kind; he is an original writer, who
borrowed neither the models of his plot nor the manner of his dialogue.
Of his plays I cannot speak distinctly, for since I inspected them many
years have passed, but what remains upon my memory is, that his characters
are commonly fictitious and artificial, with very little of nature,
and not much of life. He formed a peculiar idea of comic excellence,
which he supposed to consist in gay remarks and unexpected answers;
but that which he endeavoured, he seldom failed of performing.
His scenes exhibit not much of humour, imagery, or passion: his personages
are a kind of intellectual gladiators; every sentence is to ward or
strike; the contest of smartness is never intermitted; his wit is a
meteor playing to and fro with alternate coruscations. His comedies
have, therefore, in some degree, the operation of tragedies, they surprise
rather than divert, and raise admiration oftener than merriment.
But they are the works of a mind replete with images, and quick in combination.
Of his miscellaneous poetry I cannot say anything very favourable.
The powers of Congreve seem to desert him when he leaves the stage,
as Antæus was no longer strong than when he could touch the ground.
It cannot be observed without wonder, that a mind so vigorous and fertile
in dramatic compositions should on any other occasion discover nothing
but impotence and poverty. He has in these little pieces neither
elevation of fancy, selection of language, nor skill in versification:
yet, if I were required to select from the whole mass of English poetry
the most poetical paragraph, I know not what I could prefer to an exclamation
in the “Mourning Bride”:-
ALMERIA.
It was a fancied noise; for all is hushed.
LEONORA.
It bore the accent of a human voice.
ALMERIA.
It was thy fear, or else some transient wind
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted isle:
We’ll listen -
LEONORA.
Hark!
ALMERIA.
No, all is hushed and still as death. - ’Tis
dreadful!
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give use thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice - my own affrights me with its echoes.
He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he
feels what he remembers to have felt before, but he feels it with great
increase of sensibility; he recognises a familiar image, but meets it
again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and enlarged with
majesty. Yet could the author, who appears here to have enjoyed
the confidence of Nature, lament the death of Queen Mary in lines like
these:-
“The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills
Furrow the brows of all the impending hills.
The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn,
And each, with streaming eyes, supplies his wanting urn.
The fauns forsake the woods, the nymphs the grove,
And round the plain in sad distractions rove:
In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,
And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.
With their sharp nails, themselves the satyrs wound,
And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground.
Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak,
Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke
See Pales weeping too in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bosses bare.
And see yon fading myrtle, where appears
The Queen of Love, all bathed in flowing tears;
See how she wrings her hands, and beats her breast,
And tears her useless girdle from her waist:
Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves!
For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves.”
And many years after he gave no proof that time had improved his wisdom
or his wit, for, on the death of the Marquis of Blandford, this was
his song:-
“And now the winds, which had so long been still,
Began the swelling air with sighs to fill;
The water-nymphs, who motionless remained
Like images of ice, while she complained,
Now loosed their streams; as when descending rains
Roll the steep torrents headlong o’er the plains.
The prone creation who so long had gazed
Charmed with her cries, and at her griefs amazed,
Began to roar and howl with horrid yell,
Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell!
Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around,
And echo multiplied each mournful sound.”
In both these funeral poems, when he has yelled out many syllables
of senseless dolour, he dismisses his reader with senseless
consolation. From the grave of Pastora rises a light that forms
a star, and where Amaryllis wept for Amyntas from every tear sprung
up a violet. But William is his hero, and of William he will sing:-
“The hovering winds on downy wings shall wait around,
And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying sound.”
It cannot but be proper to show what they shall have to catch and carry:-
“’Twas now, when flowery lawns the prospect made,
And flowing brooks beneath a forest shade,
A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd,
Stood feeding by; while two fierce bulls prepared
Their arméd heads for light, by fate of war to prove
The victor worthy of the fair one’s love;
Unthought presage of what met next my view;
For soon the shady scene withdrew.
And now, for woods, and fields, and springing flowers,
Behold a town arise, bulwarked with walls and lofty towers;
Two rival armies all the plain o’erspread,
Each in battalia ranged, and shining arms arrayed
With eagle eyes beholding both from far,
Namur, the price and mistress of the war.”
The “Birth of the Muse” is a miserable fiction. One
good line it has which was borrowed from Dryden. The concluding
verses are these:-
“This said, no more remained. The ethereal host
Again impatient crowd the crystal coast.
The father now, within his spacious hands,
Encompassed all the mingled mass of seas and lands;
And, having heaved aloft the ponderous sphere,
He launched the world to float in ambient air.”
Of his irregular poems, that to Mrs. Arabella Hunt seems to be the best;
his Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day, however, had some lines which Pope
had in his mind when he wrote his own. His imitations of Horace
are feebly paraphrastical, and the additions which he makes are of little
value. He sometimes retains what were more properly omitted, as
when he talks of vervain and gums to propitiate Venus.
Of his Translations, the “Satire of Juvenal” was written
very early, and may therefore be forgiven, though it had not the massiness
and vigour of the original. In all his versions strength and sprightliness
are wanting; his “Hymn to Venus,” from Homer, is perhaps
the best. His lines are weakened with expletives, and his rhymes
are frequently imperfect. His petty poems are seldom worth the
cost of criticism; sometimes the thoughts are false and sometimes common.
In his verses on Lady Gethin, the latter part is in imitation of Dryden’s
ode on Mrs. Killigrew; and “Doris,” that has been so lavishly
flattered by Steele, has indeed some lively stanzas, but the expression
might be mended, and the most striking part of the character had been
already shown in “Love for Love.” His “Art of
Pleasing” is founded on a vulgar, but perhaps impracticable principle,
and the staleness of the sense is not concealed by any novelty of illustration
or elegance of diction. This tissue of poetry, from which he seems
to have hoped a lasting name, is totally neglected, and known only as
it is appended to his plays.
While comedy or while tragedy is regarded, his plays are likely to be
read; but, except what relates to the stage, I know not that he has
ever written a stanza that is sung, or a couplet that is quoted.
The general character of his “Miscellanies” is that they
show little wit and little virtue. Yet to him it must be confessed
that we are indebted for the connection of a national error, and for
the cure of our Pindaric madness. He first taught the English
writers that Pindar’s odes were regular; and though certainly
he had not the lire requisite for the higher species of lyric poetry,
he has shown us that enthusiasm has its rules, and that in mere confusion
there is neither grace nor greatness.
BLACKMORE
Sir Richard Blackmore is one of those men whose writings have attracted
much notice, but of whose life and manners very little has been communicated,
and whose lot it has been to be much oftener mentioned by enemies than
by friends. He was the son of Robert Blackmore, of Corsham in
Wiltshire, styled by Wood Gentleman, and supposed to have been
an attorney, having been for some time educated in a country school,
he was at thirteen sent to Westminster, and in 1668 was entered at Edmund
Hall in Oxford, where he took the degree of MA. June 8, 1676, and resided
thirteen years, a much longer time than is usual to spend at the university,
and which he seems to have passed with very little attention to the
business of the place; for, in his poems, the ancient names of nations
or places, which he often introduces, are pronounced by chance.
He afterwards travelled. At Padua he was made doctor of physic,
and, after having wandered about a year and a half on the Continent,
returned home.
In some part of his life, it is not known when, his indigence compelled
him to teach a school, a humiliation with which, though it certainly
lasted but a little while, his enemies did not forget to reproach him,
when he became conspicuous enough to excite malevolence; and let it
be remembered for his honour, that to have been once a schoolmaster
is the only reproach which all the perspicacity of malice, animated
by wit, has ever fixed upon his private life.
When he first engaged in the study of physic, he inquired, as he says,
of Dr. Sydenham, what authors he should read and was directed by Sydenham
to “Don Quixote”: “which” said he, “is
a very good book; I read it still.” The perverseness of
mankind makes it often mischievous to men of eminence to give way to
merriment; the idle and the illiterate will long shelter themselves
under this foolish apophthegm. Whether he rested satisfied with
this direction, or sought for better, he commenced physician, and obtained
high eminence and extensive practice. He became Fellow of the
College of Physicians, April 12, 1687, being one of the thirty which,
by the new charter of King James, were added to the former fellows.
His residence was in Cheapside, and his friends were chiefly in the
City. In the early part of Blackmore’s time a citizen was
a term of reproach; and his place of abode was another topic, to which
his adversaries had recourse in the penury of scandal.
Blackmore, therefore, was made a poet not by necessity but inclination,
and wrote not for a livelihood but for fame; or, if he may tell his
own motives, for a nobler purpose, to engage poetry in the cause of
virtue.
I believe it is peculiar to him that his first public work was an heroic
poem. He was not known as a maker of verses till he published
(in 1695) “Prince Arthur,” in ten books, written, as he
relates, “by such catches and starts, and in such occasional uncertain
hours as his profession afforded, and for the greatest part in coffee-houses,
or in passing up and down the streets.” For the latter part
of this apology he was accused of writing “to the rumbling of
his chariot wheels.” He had read, he says, “but little
poetry throughout his whole life; and for fifteen years before had not
written a hundred verses except one copy of Latin verses in praise of
a friend’s book.” He thinks, and with some reason,
that from such a performance perfection cannot be expected; but he finds
another reason for the severity of his censurers, which he expresses
in language such as Cheapside easily furnished. “I am not
free of the Poet’s Company, having never kissed the governor’s
hands: mine is therefore not so much as a permission poem, but a downright
interloper. Those gentlemen, who carry on their poetical trade
in a joint stock, would certainly do what they could to sink and ruin
an unlicensed adventurer, notwithstanding I disturbed none of their
factories, nor imported any goods they have ever dealt in.”
He had lived in the City till he had learned its note.
That “Prince Arthur” found many readers is certain; for
in two years it had three editions, a very uncommon instance of favourable
reception, at a time when literary curiosity was yet confined to particular
classes of the nation. Such success naturally raised animosity;
and Dennis attacked it by a formal criticism, more tedious and disgusting
than the work which he condemns. To this censure may be opposed
the approbation of Locke, and the admiration of Molyneux, which are
found in their printed “Letters.” Molyneux is particularly
delighted with the song of Mopas, which is therefore subjoined to this
narrative.
It is remarked by Pope, that “what raises the hero, often sinks
the man.” Of Blackmore is may be said that, as the poet
sinks, the man rises; the animadversions of Dennis, insolent and contemptuous
as they were, raised in him no implacable resentment; he and his critic
were afterwards friends; and in one of his latter works he praises Dennis
“as equal to Boileau in poetry, and superior to him in critical
abilities.” He seems to have been more delighted with praise
than pained by censure, and instead of slackening, quickened his career.
Having in two years produced ten books of “Prince Arthur,”
in two years more (1697) he sent into the world “King Arthur”
in twelve. The provocation was now doubled, and the resentment
of wits and critics may be supposed to have increased in proportion.
He found, however, advantages more than equivalent to all their outrages.
He was this year made one of the physicians in ordinary to King William,
and advanced by him to the honour of knighthood, with the present of
a gold chaise and medal. The malignity of the wits attributed
his knighthood to his new poem, but King William was not very studious
of poetry; and Blackmore perhaps had other merit, for he says in his
dedication to “Alfred,” that “he had a greater part
in the succession of the house of Hanover than ever he had boasted.”
What Blackmore could contribute to the Succession, or what he imagined
himself to have contributed, cannot now be known. That he had
been of considerable use, I doubt not but he believed, for I hold him
to have been very honest; but he might easily make a false estimate
of his own importance. Those whom their virtue restrains from
deceiving others, are often disposed by their vanity to deceive themselves.
Whether he promoted the Succession or not, he at least approved it,
and adhered invariably to his principles and party through his whole
life.
His ardour of poetry still continued; and not long after (1700) he published
a “Paraphrase on the Book of Job, and other parts of the Scripture.”
This performance Dryden, who pursued him with great malignity, lived
long enough to ridicule in a Prologue.
The wits easily confederated against him, as Dryden, whose favour they
almost all courted, was his professed adversary. He had, besides,
given them reason for resentment, as, in his preface to “Prince
Arthur,” he had said of the dramatic writers almost all that was
alleged afterwards by Collier; but Blackmore’s censure was cold
and general, Collier’s was personal and ardent; Blackmore taught
his reader to dislike what Collier incited him to abhor.
In his preface to “King Arthur” he endeavoured to gain at
least one friend, and propitiated Congreve by higher praise of his “Mourning
Bride” than it has obtained from any other critic.
The same year he published a “Satire on Wit,” a proclamation
of defiance which united the poets almost all against him, and which
brought upon him lampoons and ridicule from every side. This he
doubtless foresaw, and evidently despised; nor should his dignity of
mind be without its praise, had he not paid the homage to greatness
which he denied to genius, and degraded himself by conferring that authority
over the national taste, which he takes from the poets, upon men of
high rank and wide influence, but of less wit and not greater virtue.
Here is again discovered the inhabitant of Cheapside, whose head cannot
keep his poetry unmingled with trade. To hinder that intellectual
bankruptcy which he affects to fear he will erect a “Bank for
Wit.” In this poem he justly censured Dryden’s impurities,
but praised his powers, though in a subsequent edition he retained the
satire, and omitted the praise. What was his reason, I know not;
Dryden was then no longer in his way. His head still teemed with
heroic poetry; and (1705) he published “Eliza,” in ten books.
I am afraid that the world was now weary of contending about Blackmore’s
heroes, for I do not remember that by any author, serious or comical,
I have found “Eliza” either praised or blamed.
She “dropped,” as it seems, “dead-born from the press.”
It is never mentioned, and was never seen by me till I borrowed it for
the present occasion. Jacob says “it is corrected and revised
from another impression,” but the labour of revision was thrown
away.
From this time he turned some of his thoughts to the celebration of
living characters, and wrote a poem on the Kit-Cat Club, and “Advice
to the Poets how to celebrate the Duke of Marlborough” but on
occasion of another year of success, thinking himself qualified to give
more instruction, he again wrote a poem of “Advice to a Weaver
of Tapestry.” Steele was then publishing the Tatler,
and, looking round him for something at which he might laugh, unluckily
alighted on Sir Richard’s work, and treated it with such contempt
that, as Fenton observes, he put an end to that species of writers that
gave advice to painters.
Not long after (1712) he published “Creation,” a philosophical
poem, which has been, by my recommendation, inserted in the late collection.
Whoever judges of this by any other of Blackmore’s performances
will do it injury. The praise given it by Addison (Spectator,
339) is too well known to be transcribed; but some notice is due to
the testimony of Dennis, who calls it a “philosophical poem, which
has equalled that of ‘Lucretius’ in the beauty of its versification,
and infinitely surpassed it in the solidity and strength of its reasoning.”
Why an author surpasses himself it is natural to inquire. I have
heard from Mr. Draper, an eminent bookseller, an account received by
him from Ambrose Philips, “That Blackmore, as he proceeded in
this poem, laid his manuscript from time to time before a club of wits
with whom he associated, and that every man contributed, as he could,
either improvement or correction; so that,” said Philips, “there
are perhaps nowhere in the book thirty lines together that now stand
as they were originally written.”
The relation of Philips, I suppose, was true; but when all reasonable,
all credible allowance is made for this friendly revision, the author
will still retain an ample dividend of praise; for to him must always
be assigned the plan of the work, the distribution of its parts, the
choice of topics, the train of argument, and, what is yet more, the
general predominance of philosophical judgment and poetical spirit.
Correction seldom effects more than the suppression of faults: a happy
line, or a single elegance, may perhaps be added; but of a large work,
the general character must always remain. The original constitution
can be very little helped by local remedies; inherent and radical dulness
will never be much invigorated by intrinsic animation. This poem,
if he had written nothing else, would have transmitted him to posterity
among the first favourites of the English muse; but to make verses was
his transcendent pleasure, and, as he was not deterred by censure, he
was not satiated with praise. He deviated, however, sometimes
into other tracks of literature, and condescended to entertain his readers
with plain prose. When the Spectator stopped, he considered
the polite world as destitute of entertainment, and in concert with
Mr. Hughes, who wrote every third paper, published three times a week
the “Lay Monastery,” founded on the supposition that some
literary men, whose characters are described, had retired to a house
in the country to enjoy philosophical leisure, and resolved to instruct
the public by communicating their disquisitions and amusements.
Whether any real persons were concealed under fictitious names is not
known. The hero of the club is one Mr. Johnson, such a constellation
of excellence, that his character shall not be suppressed, though there
is no great genius in the design nor skill in the delineation.
“The first I shall name is Mr. Johnson, a gentleman that owes
to nature excellent faculties and an elevated genius, and to industry
and application many acquired accomplishments. His taste is distinguishing,
just, and delicate; his judgment clear, and his reason strong, accompanied
with an imagination full of spirit, of great compass, and stored with
refined ideas. He is a critic of the first rank and, what is his
peculiar ornament, he is delivered from the ostentation, malevolence,
and supercilious temper, that so often blemish men of that character.
His remarks result from the nature and reason of things, and are formed
by a judgment free and unbiassed by the authority of those who have
lazily followed each other in the same beaten track of thinking, and
are arrived only at the reputation of acute grammarians and commentators;
men who have been copying one another many hundred years without any
improvement, or, if they have ventured farther, have only applied in
a mechanical manner the rules of ancient critics to modern writings,
and with great labour discovered nothing but their own want of judgment
and capacity. As Mr. Johnson penetrates to the bottom of his subject,
by which means his observations are solid and natural, as well as delicate,
so his design is always to bring to light something useful and ornamental;
whence his character is the reverse to theirs, who have eminent abilities
in insignificant knowledge, and a great felicity in finding out trifles.
He is no less industrious to search out the merit of an author, than
sagacious in discerning his errors and defects, and takes more pleasure
in commending the beauties than exposing the blemishes of a laudable
writing. Like Horace, in a long work he can bear some deformities,
and justly lay them on the imperfection of human nature, which is incapable
of faultless productions. When an excellent drama appears in public,
and by its intrinsic worth attracts a general applause, he is not stung
with envy and spleen; nor does he express a savage nature in fastening
upon the celebrated author, dwelling upon his imaginary defects, and
passing over his conspicuous excellences. He treats all writers
upon the same impartial foot, and is not, like the little critics, taken
up entirely in finding out only the beauties of the ancient and nothing
but the errors of the modern writers. Never did any one express
more kindness and good-nature to young and unfinished authors, he promotes
their interests, protects their reputation, extenuates their faults,
and sets off their virtues, and by his candour guards them from the
severity of his judgment. He is not like those dry critics who
are morose because they cannot write themselves, but is himself master
of a good vein in poetry; and though he does not often employ it, yet
he has sometimes entertained his friends with his unpublished performances.”
The rest of the lay monks seem to be but feeble mortals an comparison
with the gigantic Johnson, who yet, with all his abilities and the help
of the fraternity, could drive the publication but to forty papers,
which were afterwards collected into a volume, and called in the title
“A Sequel to the Spectators.”
Some years afterwards (1716 and 1717) he published two volumes of essays
in prose, which can be commended only as they are written for the highest
and noblest purpose - the promotion of religion. Blackmore’s
prose is not the prose of a poet, for it is languid, sluggish, and lifeless;
his diction is neither daring nor exact, his flow neither rapid nor
easy, and his periods neither smooth nest strong. His account
of wit will show with how little clearness he is content to think,
and how little his thoughts are recommended by his language.
“As to its efficient cause, wit owes its production to
an extraordinary and peculiar temperament in the constitution of the
possessor of it, in which is found a concurrence of regular and exalted
ferments, and an affluence of animal spirits, refined and rectified
to a great degree of purity; whence, being endowed with vivacity, brightness,
and celerity, as well in their reflections as direct motions, they become
proper instruments for the sprightly operations of the mind, by which
means the imagination can with great facility range the wide field of
Nature, contemplate an infinite variety of objects, and, by observing
the similitude and disagreement of their several qualities, single out
and abstract, and then suit and unite, those ideas which will best serve
its purpose. Hence beautiful allusions, surprising metaphors,
and admirable sentiments, are always ready at hand; and while the fancy
is full of images, collected from innumerable objects, and their different
qualities, relations, and habitudes, it can at pleasure dress a common
notion in a strange but becoming garb, by which, as before observed,
the same thought will appear a new one, to the great delight and wonder
of the hearer. What we call genius results from this particular
happy complexion in the first formation of the person that enjoys it,
and is Nature’s gift, but diversified by various specific characters
and limitations, as its active fire is blended and allayed by different
proportions of phlegm, or reduced and regulated by the contrast of opposite
ferments. Therefore, as there happens in the composition of facetious
genius a greater or less, though still an inferior, degree of judgment
and prudence, one man of wit will be varied and distinguished from another.”
In these essays he took little care to propitiate the wits, for he scorns
to avert their malice at the expense of virtue or of truth.
“Several, in their books, have many sarcastical and spiteful strokes
at religion in general; while others make themselves pleasant with the
principles of the Christian. Of the last kind this age has seen
a most audacious example in the book entitled ‘A Tale of a Tub.’
Had this writing been published in a pagan or popish nation, who are
justly impatient of all indignity offered to the established religion
of their country, no doubt but the author would have received the punishment
he deserved. But the fate of this impious buffoon is very different,
for in a Protestant kingdom, zealous of their civil and religious immunities,
he has not only escaped affronts and the effects of public resentment,
but has been caressed and patronised by persons of great figure, and
of all denominations. Violent party-men, who differed in all things
besides, agreed in their turn to show particular respect and friendship
to this insolent derider of the worship of his country, till at last
the reputed writer is not only gone off with impunity, but triumphs
in his dignity and preferment. I do not know that any inquiry
or search was ever made after this writing, or that any reward was ever
offered for the discovery of the author, or that the infamous book was
ever condemned to be burnt in public. Whether this proceeds from
the excessive esteem and love that men in power, during the late reign,
had for wit, or their defect of zeal and concern for the Christian religion
will be determined best by those who are best acquainted with their
character.”
In another place he speaks with becoming abhorrence of a godless
author who has burlesqued a Psalm. This author was supposed
to be Pope, who published a reward for any one that would produce the
coiner of the accusation, but never denied it, and was afterwards the
perpetual and incessant enemy of Blackmore.
One of his essays is upon the spleen, which is treated by him so much
to his own satisfaction, that he has published the same thoughts in
the same words; first, in the “Lay Monastery,” then in the
“Essay,” and then in the “Preface to a Medical Treatise
on the Spleen.” One passage, which I have found already
twice, I will here exhibit, because I think it better imagined and better
expressed than could be expected from the common tenor of his prose:-
“ - As the several combinations of splenetic madness and folly
produce an infinite variety of irregular under-standing, so the amicable
accommodation and alliance between several virtues and vices produce
an equal diversity in the dispositions and manners of mankind; whence
it comes to pass, that as many monstrous and absurd productions are
found in the moral as in the intellectual world. How surprising
is it to observe among the least culpable men, some whose minds are
attracted by heaven and earth with a seeming equal force; some who are
proud of humility; others who are censorious and uncharitable, yet self-denying
and devout; some who join contempt of the world with sordid avarice;
and others, who preserve a great degree of piety with ill-nature and
ungoverned passions. Nor are instances of this inconsistent mixture
less frequent among bad men, where we often with admiration see persons
at once generous and unjust, impious lovers of their country, and flagitious
heroes, good-natured sharpers, immoral men of honour, and libertines
who will sooner die than change their religion; and though it is true
that repugnant coalitions of so high a degree are found but in a part
of mankind, yet none of the whole mass, either good or bad, are entirely
exempted from some absurd mixture.”
He about this time (August 22, 1716) became one of the elects of the
College of Physicians, and was soon after (October 1) chosen Censor.
He seems to have arrived late, whatever was the reason, at his medical
honours.
Having succeeded so well in his book on Creation, by which he established
the great principle of all religion, he thought his undertaking imperfect,
unless he likewise enforced the truth of Revelation, and for that purpose
added another poem on “Redemption.” He had likewise
written before his “Creation” three books on the Nature
of Man.
The lovers of musical devotion have always wished for a more happy metrical
version than they have yet obtained of the Book of Psalms. This
wish the piety of Blackmore led him to gratify, and he produced (1721)
“A New Version of the Psalms of David fitted to the Tunes used
in Churches,” which being recommended by the archbishops and many
bishops, obtained a license for its admission into public worship; but
no admission has it yet obtained, nor has it any right to come where
Brady and Tate have got possession. Blackmore’s name must
be added to those of many others who, by the same attempt, have obtained
only the praise of meaning well.
He was not yet deterred from heroic poetry. There was another
monarch of this island (for he did not fetch his heroes from foreign
countries) whom he considered as worthy the epic muse, and he dignified
“Alfred” (1723) with twelve books. But the opinion
of the nation was now settled; a hero introduced by Blackmore
was not likely to find either respect or kindness; “Alfred”
took his place by “Eliza” in silence and darkness.
Benevolence was ashamed to favour, and malice was weary of insulting.
Of his four epic poems, the first had such reputation and popularity
as enraged the critics; the second was at least known enough to be ridiculed;
the two last had neither friends nor enemies.
Contempt is a kind of gangrene, which, if it seizes one part of a character,
corrupts all the rest by degrees. Blackmore being despised as
a poet, was in time neglected as a physician; his practice, which was
once invidiously great, forsook him in the latter part of his life,
but being by nature, or by principle, averse from idleness, he employed
his unwelcome leisure in writing books on physic, and teaching others
to cure those whom he could himself cure no longer. I know not
whether I can enumerate all the treatises by which he has endeavoured
to diffuse the art of healing, for there is scarcely any distemper of
dreadful name which he has not taught the reader how to oppose.
He has written on the small-pox, with a vehement invective against inoculation;
on consumption, the spleen, the gout, the rheumatism, the king’s
evil, the dropsy, the jaundice, the stone, the diabetes, and the plague.
Of those books, if I had read them, it could nor be expected that I
should be able to give a critical account. I have been told that
there is something in them of vexation and discontent, discovered by
a perpetual attempt to degrade physic from its sublimity, and to represent
it as attainable without much previous or concomitant learning.
By the transient glances which I have thrown upon them I have observed
an affected contempt of the ancients, and a supercilious derision of
transmitted knowledge. Of this indecent arrogance the following
quotation from his preface to the “Treatise on the Small-pox”
will afford a specimen, in which, when the reader finds what I fear
is true, that, when he was censuring Hippocrates, he did not know the
difference between aphorism and apophthegm, he will not
pay much regard to his determinations concerning ancient learning.
“As for this book of aphorisms, it is like my Lord Bacon’s
of the same title, a book of jests, or a grave collection of trite and
trifling observations; of which, though many are true and certain, yet
they signify nothing, and may afford diversion, but no instruction,
most of them being much inferior to the sayings of the wise men of Greece,
which yet are so low and mean, that we are entertained every day with
more valuable sentiments at the table conversation of ingenious and
learned men.”
I am unwilling, however, to leave him in total disgrace, and will therefore
quote from another preface a passage less reprehensible.
“Some gentlemen have been disingenuous and unjust to me, by wresting
and forcing my meaning, in the preface to another book, as if I condemned
and exposed all learning, though they knew I declared that I greatly
honoured and esteemed all men of superior literature and erudition,
and that I only undervalued false or superficial learning, that signifies
nothing for the service of mankind; and that as to physic, I expressly
affirmed that learning must be joined with native genius to make a physician
of the first rank; but if those talents are separated, I asserted,
and do still insist, that a man of native sagacity and diligence will
prove a more able and useful practiser than a heavy notional scholar,
encumbered with a heap of confused ideas.”
He was not only a poet and a physician, but produced likewise a work
of a different kind, “A True and Impartial History of the Conspiracy
against King William of Glorious Memory in the Year 1695.”
This I have never seen, but suppose it is at least compiled with integrity.
He engaged likewise in theological controversy, and wrote two books
against the Arians: “Just Prejudices against the Arian Hypothesis,”
and “Modern Arians Unmasked.” Another of his works
is “Natural Theology; or, Moral Duties considered apart from Positive;
with some Observations on the Desirableness and Necessity of a Supernatural
Revelation.” This was the last book that he published.
He left behind him “The Accomplished Preacher; or, an Essay upon
Divine Eloquence,” which was printed after his death by Mr. White
of Nayland, in Essex, the minister who attended his death-bed, and testified
the fervent piety of his last hours. He died on the 8th of October,
1729.
Blackmore, by the unremitted enmity of the wits, whom he provoked more
by his virtue than his dulness, has been exposed to worse treatment
than he deserved. His name was so long used to point every epigram
upon dull writers, that it became at last a byword of contempt but it
deserves observation, that malignity takes hold only of his writings,
and that his life passed without reproach, even when his boldness of
reprehension naturally turned upon him many eyes desirous to espy faults
which many tongues would have made haste to publish. But those
who could not blame, could, at least, forbear to praise, and therefore
of his private life and domestic character there are no memorials.
As an author, he may justly claim the honours of magnanimity.
The incessant attacks of his enemies, whether serious or merry, are
never discovered to have disturbed his quiet, or to have lessened his
confidence in himself: they neither awed him to silence nor to caution:
they neither provoked him to petulance, nor depressed him to complaint.
While the distributors of literary fame were endeavouring to depreciate
and degrade him, he either despised or defied them, wrote on as he had
written before, and never turned aside to quiet them by civility, or
repress them by confutation. He depended with great security on
his own powers, and perhaps was for that reason less diligent in perusing
books. His literature was, I think, but small. What he knew
of antiquity, I suspect him to have gathered from modern compilers;
but, though he could not boast of much critical knowledge, his mind
was stored with general principles, and he left minute researches to
those whom he considered as little minds. With this disposition
he wrote most of his poems. Having formed a magnificent design,
he was careless of particular and subordinate elegances; he studied
no niceties of versification; he waited for no felicities of fancy,
but caught his first thoughts in the first words in which they were
presented; nor does it appear that he saw beyond his own performances,
or had ever elevated his was to that ideal perfection which every genius
born to excel is condemned always to pursue, and never overtake.
In the first suggestions of his imagination he acquiesced; he thought
them good, and did not seek for better. His works may be read
a long time without the occurrence of a single line that stands prominent
from the rest. The poem on “Creation” has, however,
the appearance of more circumspection; it wants neither harmony of numbers,
accuracy of thought, nor elegance of diction. It has either been
written with great care, or, what cannot be imagined of so long a work,
with such felicity as made care less necessary. Its two constituent
parts are ratiocination and description. To reason in verse is
allowed to be difficult; but Blackmore not only reasons in verse, but
very often reasons poetically; and finds the art of uniting ornament
with strength and ease with closeness. This is a skill which Pope
might have condescended to learn from him, when he needed it so much
in his “Moral Essays.”
In his descriptions both of life and nature, the poet and the philosopher
happily co-operate; truth is recommended by elegance, and elegance sustained
by truth. In the structure and order of the poem, not only the
greater parts are properly consecutive, but the didactic and illustrative
paragraphs are so happily mingled, that labour is relieved by pleasure,
and the attention is led on through a long succession of varied excellence
to the original position, the fundamental principle of wisdom and of
virtue.
As the heroic poems of Blackmore are now little read, it is thought
proper to insert, as a specimen from “Prince Arthur,” the
song of Mopas mentioned by Molyneux:-
“But that which Arthur with most pleasure heard
Were noble strains, by Mopas sung the bard,
Who to his harp in lofty verse began,
And through the secret maze of Nature ran.
He the Great Spirit sung, that all things filled,
That the tumultuous waves of Chaos stilled;
Whose nod disposed the jarring seeds to peace,
And made the wars of hostile Atoms cease.
All Beings, we in fruitful Nature find,
Proceeded from the Great Eternal mind:
Streams of his unexhausted spring of power,
And, cherished with his influence, endure.
He spread the pure cerulean fields on high,
And arched the chambers of the vaulted sky,
Which he, to suit their glory with their height,
Adorned with globes, that reel, as drunk with light.
His hand directed all the tuneful spheres,
He turned their orbs, and polished all the stars.
He filled the Sun’s vast lamp with golden light:
And bid the silver Moon adorn the night.
He spread the airy Ocean without shores,
Where birds are wafted with their feathered oars.
Then sung the bard how the light vapours rise
From the warm earth, and cloud the smiling skies;
He sung how some, chilled in their airy flight,
Fall scattered down in pearly dew by night;
How some, raised higher, sit in secret steams
On the reflected points of bounding beams,
Till, chilled with cold, they shade th’ ethereal plain,
Then on the thirsty earth descend in rain;
How some, whose parts a slight contexture show,
Sink hovering through the air in fleecy snow;
How part is spun in silken threads, and clings
Entangled in the grass is gluey strings;
How others stamp to stones, with rushing sound
Fall from their crystal quarries to the ground;
How some are laid in trains, that kindled fly,
In harmless fires by night, about the sky;
How some in winds blow with impetuous force,
And carry ruin where they bend their course,
While some conspire to form a gentle breeze,
To fan the air, and play among the trees;
How some, enraged, grow turbulent and loud,
Pent in the bowels of a frowning cloud,
That cracks, as if the axis of the world
Was broke, and Heaven’s bright towers were downwards hurled.
He sung how earth’s wide ball, at Jove’s command,
Did in the midst on airy columns stand;
And how the soul of plants, in prison held,
And bound with sluggish fetters, lies concealed,
Till with the spring’s warm beams, almost released
From the dull weight, with which it lay opprest,
Its vigour spreads, and makes the teeming earth
Heave up, and labour with the sprouting birth:
The active spirit freedom seeks in vain,
It only works and twists a stronger chain;
Urging its prison’s sides to break a way,
It makes that wider, where ’tis forced to stay:
Till, having formed its living house, it rears
Its head, and in a tender plant appears.
Hence springs the oak, the beauty of the grove,
Whose stately trunk fierce storms can scarcely move.
Hence grows the cedar, hence the swelling vine
Does round the elm its purple clusters twine.
Hence painted flowers the smiling gardens bless,
Both with their fragrant scent and gaudy dress.
Hence the white lily in full beauty grows,
Hence the blue violet and blushing rose.
He sung how sunbeams brood upon the earth,
And in the glebe hatch such a numerous birth;
Which way the genial warmth in Summer storms
Turns putrid vapours to a bed of worms;
How rain, transformed by this prolific power,
Falls from the clouds an animated shower.
He sung the embryo’s growth within the womb,
And how the parts their various shapes assume.
With what rare art the wondrous structure’s wrought,
From one crude mass to such perfection brought;
That no part useless, none misplaced we see,
None are forgot, and more would monstrous be.”
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, but the mildness
of his mind perhaps ended with his childhood. 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. When he was about eight he
was placed in Hampshire, under Taverner, 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’
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 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 play-hones, 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 lisped 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; 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
performance at the same age. His time was now wholly spent in
reading and writing. As he read the classics 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
the smoothness of his numbers surpassed his original; but this is a
small part of his praise; he discovers such acquaintance both with human
life and public 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
epic poem, with panegyrics 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 error; 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 epic 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 criticisms, 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 critics 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 a while to flatter one another. It is pleasant to remark how
soon Pope learned the cant of an author, and began to treat critics
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
public 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 from 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 Russell 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 his 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 critics, 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, 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 pedantic 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 Heaven has blessed with store of wit,
Yet want as much again to manage it:
For wit and judgment ever are at strife - ”
It 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--d 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 scorned; and envied where acquired?”
“How,” says the critic, “can wit be scorned 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 critic, 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
Sunning Hill and Oakingham, for a young, short, equal, 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 downright monkey, should differ so much from human
shape as his unthinking, immaterial part does from human understanding.”
Thus began the hostility between Pope and Dennis, which, though it was
suspended for a short time, never was appeased. Pope seems, at
first, to have attacked him wantonly; but though he always professed
to despise him, he discovers, by mentioning him very often, that he
felt his force or his venom.
Of this essay, Pope declared that he did not expect the sale to be quick,
because “not one gentleman in sixty, even of liberal education,
could understand it.” The gentleman, and the education of
that time, seem to have been of a lower character than they are of this.
He mentioned a thousand copies as a numerous impression.
Dennis was not his only censurer; the zealous Papists thought the monks
treated with too much contempt, and Erasmus too studiously praised;
but to these objections he had not much regard.
The “Essay,” has been translated into French by Hamilton,
author of the “Comte de Grammont,” whose version was never
printed, by Robotham, secretary to the king for Hanover, and by Resnel;
and commented by Dr. Warburton, who has discovered in it such order
and connection as was not perceived by Addison, nor, as it is said,
intended by the author.
Almost every poem, consisting of precepts, is so far arbitrary and immethodical,
that many of the paragraphs may change places with no apparent inconvenience;
for of two or more positions, depending upon some remote and general
principle, there is seldom any cogent reason why one should precede
the other. But for the order in which they stand, whatever it
be, a little ingenuity may easily give a reason. “It is
possible,” says Hooker, “that, by long circumduction, from
any one truth all truth may be inferred.” Of all homogeneous
truths, at least of all truths respecting the same general end, in whatever
series they may be produced, a concatenation by intermediate ideas may
be formed, such as, when it is once shown, shall appear natural; but
if this order be reversed, another mode of connection equally spacious
may be found or made. Aristotle is praised for naming fortitude
first of the cardinal virtues, as that without which no other virtue
can steadily be practised; but he might, with equal propriety, have
placed prudence and justice before it; since without prudence fortitude
is mad; without justice, it is mischievous. As the end of method
is perspicuity, that series is sufficiently regular that avoids obscurity;
and where there is no obscurity, it will not be difficult to discover
method.
In the Spectator was published the “Messiah,” which
he first submitted to the perusal of Steele, and corrected in compliance
with his criticisms. It is reasonable to infer from his “Letters”
that the verses on the “Unfortunate Lady” were written about
the time when his “Essay” was published. The lady’s
name and adventures I have sought with fruitless inquiry. I can
therefore tell no more than I have learned from Mr. Ruffhead, who writes
with the confidence of one who could trust his information. She
was a woman of eminent rank and large fortune, the ward of an uncle,
who, having given her a proper education, expected, like other guardians,
that she should make at least an equal match; and such he proposed to
her, but found it rejected in favour of a young gentleman of inferior
condition. Having discovered the correspondence between the two
lovers, and finding the young lady determined to abide by her own choice,
he supposed that separation might do what can rarely be done by arguments,
and sent her into a foreign country, where she was obliged to converse
only with those from whom her uncle had nothing to fear. Her lover
took care to repeat his vows; but his letters were intercepted and carried
to her guardian, who directed her to be watched with still greater vigilance,
till of this restraint she grow so impatient that she bribed a woman
servant to procure her a sword, which she directed to her heart.
From this account, given with evident intention to raise the lady’s
character, it does not appear that she had any claim to praise nor much
to compassion. She seems to have been impatient, violent, and
ungovernable. Her uncle’s power could not have lasted long;
the hour of liberty and choice would have come in time. But her
desires were too hot for delay, and she liked self-murder better than
suspense. Nor is it discovered that the uncle, whoever he was,
is with much justice delivered to posterity as “a false guardian.”
He seems to have done only that for which a guardian is appointed; he
endeavoured to direct his niece till she should be able to direct herself.
Poetry has not often been worse employed than in dignifying the amorous
fiery of a raving girl.
Not long after he wrote the “Rape of the Lock,” the most
airy, the most ingenious, and the most delightful off all his compositions,
occasioned by a frolic of gallantry, rather too familiar, in which Lord
Petre cut off a lock of Mrs. Arabella Fermor’s hair. This,
whether stealth or violence, was so much resented that the commerce
of the two families, before very friendly, was interrupted. Mr.
Caryl, a gentleman who, being secretary to King James’s queen,
had followed his mistress into France, and who, being the author of
Sir Solomon Single, a comedy, and some translations, was entitled
to the notice of a wit, solicited Pope to endeavour a reconciliation
by a ludicrous poem which might bring both the parties to a better temper.
In compliance with Caryl’s request, though his name was for a
long time marked only by the first and last letter, “C--l,”
a poem of two cantos, was written (1711), as is said, in a fortnight,
and sent to the offended lady, who liked it well enough to show it;
and, with the usual process of literary transactions, the author, dreading
a surreptitious edition, was forced to publish it.
The event is said to have been such as was desired, the pacification
and diversion of all to whom it related, except Sir George Brown, who
complained with some bitterness that, in the character of Sir Plume,
he was made to talk nonsense. Whether all this be true I have
some doubt; for at Paris, a few years ago, a niece of Mrs. Fermor, who
presided in an English convent, mentioned Pope’s work with very
little gratitude, rather as an insult than an honour; and she may be
supposed to have inherited the opinion of her family. At its first
appearance at was termed by Addison “merum sal.” Pope,
however, saw that it was capable of improvement; and, having luckily
contrived to borrow his machinery from the Rosicrucians, imparted the
scheme with which his head was teeming to Addison, who told him that
his work, as it stood, was “a delicious little thing,” and
gave him no encouragement to retouch it.
This has been too hastily considered as an instance of Addison’s
jealousy, for, as he could not guess the conduct of the new design,
or the possibilities of pleasure comprised in a fiction of which there
had been no examples, he might very reasonably and kindly persuade the
author to acquiesce in his own prosperity, and forbear an attempt which
he considered as an unnecessary hazard. Addison’s counsel
was happily rejected. Pope foresaw the future efflorescence of
imagery then budding in his mind, and resolved to spare no art or industry
of cultivation. The soft luxuriance of his fancy was already shooting,
and all the gay varieties of diction were ready at his hand to colour
and embellish it. His attempt was justified by its success.
The “Rape of the Lock” stands forward, in the classes of
literature, as the most exquisite example of ludicrous poetry.
Berkeley congratulated him upon the display of powers more truly poetical
than he had shown before with elegance of description and justness of
precepts he had now exhibited boundless fertility of invention.
He always considered the intermixture of the machinery with the action
as his most successful exertion of poetical art. He, indeed, could
never afterwards produce anything of such unexampled excellence.
Those performances, which strike with wonder, are combinations of skilful
genius with happy casualty; and it is not likely that any felicity,
like the discovery of a new race of preternatural agents, should happen
twice to the same man. Of this poem the author was, I think, allowed
to enjoy the praise for a long time without disturbance. Many
years afterwards Dennis published some remarks upon it with very little
force and with no effect; for the opinion of the public was already
settled, and it was no longer at the mercy of criticism.
About this time he published the “Temple of Fame,” which,
as he tells Steele in their correspondence, he had written two years
before - that is, when he was only twenty-two years old, an early time
of life for so much learning and so much observation as that work exhibits.
On this poem Dennis afterwards published some remarks, of which the
most reasonable is that some of the lines represent motion as exhibited
by sculpture.
Of the Epistle from “Eloisa to Abelard,” I do not know the
date. His first inclination to attempt a composition of that tender
kind arose, as Mr. Savage told me, from his perusal of Prior’s
“Nut-brown Maid.” How much he has surpassed Prior’s
work it is not necessary to mention, when perhaps it may be said, with
justice, that he has excelled every composition of the same kind.
The mixture of religious hope and resignation gives an elevation and
dignity to disappointed love, which images merely natural cannot bestow.
The gloom of a convent strikes the imagination with far greater force
than the solitude of a grove. This piece was, however, not much
his favourite in his later years, though I never heard upon what principle
he slighted it.
In the next year (1713) he published “Windsor Forest,” of
which part was, as he relates, written at sixteen, about the same time
as his Pastorals, and the latter part was added afterwards. Where
the addition begins we are not told. The lines relating to the
peace confess their own date. It is dedicated to Lord Lansdowne,
who was then in high reputation and influence among the Tories; and
it is said that the conclusion of the poem gave great pain to Addison,
both as a poet and a politician. Reports like this are often spread
with boldness very disproportionate to their evidence. Why should
Addison receive any particular disturbance from the last lines of “Windsor
Forest”? If contrariety of opinion could poison a politician,
he could not live a day; and, as a poet, he must have felt Pope’s
force of genius much more from many other parts of his works.
The pain that Addison might feel it is not likely that he would confess;
and it is certain that he so well suppressed his discontent that Pope
now thought himself his favourite, for, having been consulted in the
revisal of “Cato” he introduced it by a prologue; and, when
Dennis published his remarks, undertook, not indeed to vindicate, but
to revenge his friend, by a “Narrative of the Frenzy of John Dennis.”
There is reason to believe that Addison gave no encouragement to this
disingenuous hostility, for, says Pope, in a letter to him, “indeed
your opinion, that ’tis entirely to be neglected, would be my
own in my own case; but I felt more warmth here than I did when I first
saw his book against myself (though, indeed, in two minutes it made
me heartily merry).” Addison was not a man on whom such
cant of sensibility could make much impression. He left the pamphlet
to itself, having disowned it to Dennis, and perhaps did not think Pope
to have deserved much by his officiousness.
This year was printed in the Guardian the ironical comparison
between the pastorals of Philips and Pope, a composition of artifice,
criticism, and literature, to which nothing equal will easily be found.
The superiority of Pope is so ingeniously dissembled, and the feeble
lines of Philips so skilfully preferred, that Steele, being deceived,
was unwilling to print the paper, lest Pope should be offended.
Addison immediately saw the writer’s design, and, as it seems,
had malice enough to conceal his discovery, and to permit a publication
which, by making his friend Philips ridiculous, made him for ever an
enemy to Pope.
It appears that about this time Pope had a strong inclination to unite
the art of painting with that of poetry, and put himself under the tuition
of Jervas. He was near-sighted, and therefore not formed by nature
for a painter; he tried, however, how far he could advance, and sometimes
persuaded his friends to sit. A picture of Betterton, supposed
to be drawn by him, was in the possession of Lord Mansfield. If
this was taken from the life, he must have begun to paint earlier, for
Betterton was now dead. Pope’s ambition of this new art
produced some encomiastic verses to Jervas, which certainly show his
power as a poet; but I have been told that they betray his ignorance
of painting. He appears to have regarded Betterton with kindness
and esteem, and after his death published, under his name, a version
into modern English of Chaucer’s Prologues and one of his Tales,
which, as was related by Mr. Harte, were believed to have been the performance
of Pope himself by Fenton, who made him a gay offer of five pounds if
he would show them in the hand of Betterton.
The next year (1713) produced a bolder attempt, by which profit was
sought as well as praise. The poems which he had hitherto written,
however they might have diffused his name, had made very little addition
to his fortune. The allowance which his father made him, though,
proportioned to what he had, it might be liberal, could not be large;
his religion hindered him from the occupation of any civil employment;
and he complained that he wanted even money to buy books. He therefore
resolved to try how far the favour of the public extended by soliciting
a subscription to a version of the “Iliad,” with large notes.
To print by subscription was, for some time, a practice peculiar to
the English. The first considerable work for which this expedient
was employed is said to have been Dryden’s “Virgil,”
and it had been tried again with great success when the Tatlers were
collected into volumes.
There was reason to believe that Pope’s attempt would be successful.
He was in the full bloom of reputation and was personally known to almost
all whom dignity of employment or splendour of reputation had made eminent;
he conversed indifferently with both parties, and never disturbed the
public with his political opinions; and it might be naturally expected,
as each faction then boasted its literary zeal, that the great men,
who on other occasions practised all the violence of opposition, would
emulate each other in their encouragement of a poet who delighted all,
and by whom none had been offended. With these hopes, he offered
an English “Iliad” to subscribers, in six volumes in quarto,
for six guineas, a sum according to the value of money at that time
by no means inconsiderable, and greater than I believe to have been
ever asked before. His proposal, however, was very favourably
received, and the patrons of literature were busy to recommend his undertaking
and promote his interest. Lord Oxford, indeed, lamented that such
a genius should be wasted upon a work not original, but proposed no
means by which he might live without it. Addison recommended caution
and moderation, and advised him not to be content with the praise of
half the nation when he might be universally favoured.
The greatness of the design, the popularity of the author, and the attention
of the literary world, naturally raised such expectations of the future
sale, that the booksellers made their offers with great eagerness; but
the highest bidder was Bernard Lintot, who became proprietor on condition
of supplying, at his own expense, all the copies which were to be delivered
to subscribers, or presented to friends, and paying two hundred pounds
for every volume.
Of the quartos it was, I believe, stipulated that none should be printed
but for the author, that the subscription might not be depreciated;
but Lintot impressed the same pages upon a small folio, and paper perhaps
a little thinner, and sold exactly at half the price, for half a guinea
each volume, books so little inferior to the quartos that, by fraud
of trade, those folios being afterwards shortened by cutting away the
top and bottom, were sold as copies printed for the subscribers.
Lintot printed two hundred and fifty on royal paper in folio for two
guineas a volume; of the small folio, having printed seventeen hundred
and fifty copies of the first volume, he reduced the number in the other
volumes to a thousand. It is unpleasant to relate that the bookseller,
after all his hopes and all his liberality, was, by a very unjust and
illegal action, defrauded of his profit. An edition of the English
“Iliad” was printed in Holland in duodecimo, and imported
clandestinely for the gratification of those who were impatient to read
what they could not yet afford to buy. This fraud could only be
counteracted by an edition equally cheap and more commodious; and Lintot
was compelled to contract his folio at once into a duodecimo, and lose
the advantage of an intermediate gradation. The notes which in
the Dutch copies were placed at the end of each book as they had been
in the large volumes, were now subjoined to the text in the same page,
and are therefore more easily consulted. Of this edition two thousand
five hundred were first printed, and five thousand a few weeks afterwards;
but indeed great numbers were necessary to produce considerable profit.
Pope, having now emitted his proposals, and engaged not only his own
reputation but in some degree that of his friends who patronised his
subscription, began to be frightened 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.” 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 would 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 politics were added enemies more dangerous,
who called in question his knowledge of Greek, and his qualifications
for a translator of “Homer.” To these he made no public
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,
on those changeable scenes of artificial life, which, by mingling original
with accidental notions and crowding the mind with images which time
effaces, produces ambiguity in dictation 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 music 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 he indeed 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, an 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 public 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 small print, those of the manuscripts,
with all their variations. Those words in the small print, which
are given in italics, are cancelled in the copy, and the words placed
under them adopted in their stead:
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 hurled 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 too fatal spring,
Grecian
That screwed with warriors dead the Phrygian plain,
heroes
And peopled the dark with heroes slain:
filled 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 tore,
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 heaped the camp with mountains of the dead;
The King of Men his reverend priest defied,
And for the King’s offence the people died.
Declare, O Goddess, what offended Power
Enflamed their rage in that ill-omened
hour;
anger fatal, hapless
Phœbus himself the dire debate procured,
fierce
To avenge the wrongs his injured priest endured;
For this the god a dire infection spread,
And heaped the camp with millions of the dead:
The King of men the sacred sire defied,
And for the King’s offence the people died.
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 graced 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 who sends his golden shaft afar;
Then low on earth the venerable man,
Suppliant before the brother kings began.
He sued to all, but chief implored for grace,
The brother kings of Atreus’ royal race;
Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crowned,
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 implored for grace
The brother kings of Atreus’ royal race.
Ye sons of Atreus, may your vows be crowned,
kings and warriors
Your labours, by the gods be all your labours crowned;
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 desired 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 Chryses to these arms again;
If mercy fail, yet let my present move,
And dread avenging Phœbus, 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 who deals his darts around,
avenging Phœbus, 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,
Repulsed the sacred sire, and thus replied.
He said, the Greeks their joint assent declare,
The father said, the generous Greeks relent,
To accept the ransom, and restore the fair:
Revere the priest, and speak their joint assent;
Not so the tyrant; he, with kingly pride,
Atrides,
Repulsed 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 any parallel. The few
slight differences do not require to be elaborately displayed.
Now pleasing sleep had sealed each mortal eye:
Stretched in the tents the Grecian leaders lie;
The Immortals slumbered on their thrones above,
All but the ever-wakeful 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 the embattled train,
March all his legions to the dusty plain.
Now tell the King ’tis given him to destroy
Declare even now
The lofty walls of wide-extended Troy;
towers
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 Ilion waits the 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 unmeasured 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, fired by thirst of fame,
Or urged 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 followed, and what chiefs command;
(For doubtful fame distracts mankind below,
And nothing can we tell, and nothing know)
Without your aid, to count the unnumbered 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 distinguished praise,
High on his helm celestial lightnings play,
His beamy shield emits a living ray;
The unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies,
Like the red star that fires the 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 hisfame to raise,
Above the Greeks her warrior’s fame to raise,
his deathless
And crown her hero with immortal praise:
distinguished
Bright from his beamy crest the lightnings play,
High on helm
From his broad buckler flashed 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 the autumnal skies:
The unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies,
Like the red star that fires the autumnal skies.
When fresh he rears his radiant orb to sight,
And bathed in ocean shoots a keener light,
Such glories Pallas on the chief bestowed,
Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flowed;
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 the autumnal skies,
Fresh from the deep, and gilds the seas and skies:
Such glories Pallas on her chief bestowed,
Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flowed,
Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flowed,
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 lived 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 unnumbered 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;
Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Whose umbered 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 Heaven’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 unnumbered trembling beams bestow;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumbered 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 revealed 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 great 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 1713. 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 topic. 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:-
“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 please me. Be
so good as to mark the place, and consider it a little at your leisure.
I am 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
at 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,
‘Ay, now they are perfectly right; nothing can be better.’”
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
(December 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.
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 superior. Of the gradual abatement of kindness
between friends, the beginning is often scarcely discernible to 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 (August 20,1714) with imagining that he had re-established 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 seems to have no very just one in regard
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.
“November 2, 1713, Dr. Swift came into the coffee-house, and had
a bow from everybody but me, who, I confess, could not but despise him.
When I came to the antechamber 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 public 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 public.
To this Pope is said to have replied with great keenness and severity,
upbraiding Addison with perpetual dependence, and with the abuse of
those qualifications which he had obtained at the public 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 critics 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 high-flyers 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 off 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 public was not long divided, and the preference 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 lie 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:-
“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 not be 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.”
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 fossil 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 all Englishmen, 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
a 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 critics
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 a while 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 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 critics, 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 public 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 his 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. In questions and
projects of learning they agree better. He was called at the trial
to give an account of Atterbury’s domestic 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.
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 public
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 were 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 1723; 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 a 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 critic 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 window’s
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 romantic complaint of the robberies committed upon authors by the
clandestine seizure and sale of their papers. He tells in tragic
strains how “the cabinets of the sick and the closets of the dead
have been broken 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, 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
sympathises 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 occasionally 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 uncontrolled 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
a 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
public? 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 his 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 a while 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 at
may be discovered that, when he thinks himself concealed, he indulges
the common vanity of common men, and triumphs in those distinctions
which he 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 satirised, was made intelligible and diverting. The critics
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 effects 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 Burnet 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 the
meaning imputed to the first expression. Aaron Hill, who was represented
as diving for the prize, expostulated with Pope in a manner so much
superior to all mean solicitation, that Pope was reduced to sneak and
shuffle, sometimes to deny, and sometimes to apologies; 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
a while 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 is 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 public 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 publicly 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 critics 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 (1733) 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 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 clergyman’s
gown, but with a lawyer’s band, brought and offered for 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;
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 anybody
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 public, 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
he expected to give Pope information of the seeming injury. Lintot,
I believe, did nothing, and Curll did what was expected. That
to make them public was the only purpose may be reasonably supposed,
because the numbers offered to sale by the private messengers showed
that the 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 the 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 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 different degrees
of credit. It may be suspected that the preface to the “Miscellanies”
was written to prepare the public for such an incident; and, to strengthen
this opinion, James Worsdale, a painter, who was employed in clandestine
negotiations, but whose voracity 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 awaked no popular kindness or
resentment. The book never became much the subject of conversation.
Some read it as a 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 public praise or public 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 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 that 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 Ethics, under the
title of an “Essay on Man,” which, if his letter to Swift
(of September 14, 1723), 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 from the war, and the superiority which he publicly 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 enemity 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. 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 was no plan it was in vain to describe or to trace the
maze.
The other alteration was of these lines:-
“And spike of pride, and in thy reason’s spite,
One truths 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 hardly can be true.
The essay plainly appears the fabric 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
logic, 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. His incessant
vigilance for the promotion of piety disposed him to look with distrust
upon all metaphysical systems of theology, and all schemes of virtue
and happiness purely rational; and therefore it was not long before
he was persuaded that the positions of Pope, as they terminated for
the most part in natural religion, were intended to draw mankind away
from revelation, and to represent the whole course of things as a necessary
concatenation of indissoluble fatality, and it is undeniable that in
many passages a religious eye may easily discover expressions not very
favourable to morals or to liberty.
About this time Warburton began to make his appearance in the first
ranks of learning. He was a man of vigorous faculties, a mind
fervid and vehement, supplied by incessant and unlimited inquiry, with
wonderful extent and variety of knowledge, which yet had not oppressed
his imagination nor clouded his perspicacity. To every work he
brought a memory full fraught, together with a fancy fertile of original
combinations and at once exerted the powers of the scholar, the reasoner,
and the wit. But his knowledge was too multifarious to be always
exact, and his pursuits were too eager to be always cautions.
His abilities gave him a haughty confidence, which he disdained to conceal
or mollify, and his impatience of opposition disposed him to treat his
adversaries with such contemptuous superiority as made his readers commonly
his enemies, and excited against the advocate the wishes of some who
favoured the cause. He seems to have adopted the Roman Emperor’s
determination, oderint dum metuant; he used no allurements of
gentle language, but wished to compel rather than persuade. His
style is copious without selection, and forcible without neatness.
He took the words that presented themselves. His diction is coarse
and impure, and his sentences are unmeasured. He had in the early
part of his life pleased himself with the notice of inferior wits, and
corresponded with the enemies of Pope. A letter was produced,
when he had perhaps himself forgotten it, in which he tells Concanen,
“Dryden, I observe, borrows for want of leisure, and Pope for
want of genius, Milton out of pride, and Addison out of modesty.”
And when Theobald published Shakespeare, in opposition to Pope, the
best notes were supplied by Warburton. But the time was now come
when Warburton was to change his opinion, and Pope was to find a defender
in him who had contributed so much to the exaltation of his rival.
The arrogance of Warburton excited against him every artifice of offence,
and therefore it may be supposed that his union with Pope was censured
as hypocritical inconstancy, but surely to think differently at different
times of poetical merit may be easily allowed. Such opinions are
often admitted, and dismissed without nice examination. Who is
there that has not found reason for changing his mind about questions
of greater importance?
Warburton, whatever was his motive, undertook, without solicitation,
to rescue Pope from the talons of Crousaz, by freeing him from the imputation
of favouring fatality or rejecting revelation; and from month to month
continued a vindication of the “Essay on Man,” in the literary
journal of that time called the “Republic of Letters.”
Pope, who probably began to doubt the tendency of his own work, was
glad that the positions, of which he perceived himself not to know the
full meaning, could by any mode of interpretation be made to mean well.
How much he was pleased with his gratuitous defender the following letter
evidently shows:-
“April 11, 1739.
“Sir, - I have just received from Mr. R. two more of your letters.
It is in the greatest hurry imaginable that I write this; but I cannot
help thanking you in particular for your third letter, which is so extremely
clear, short, and full, that I think Mr. Crousaz ought never to have
another answer, and deserved not so good an one. I can only say,
you do him too much honour, and me too much right, so odd as the expression
seems; for you have made my system as clear as I ought to have done,
and could not. It is indeed the same system as mine, but illustrated
with a ray of your own, as they say our natural body is the same still
when it is glorified. I am sure I like it better than I did before,
and so will every man else. I know I meant just what you explain;
but I did not explain my own meaning so well as you. You understand
me as well as I do myself; but you express me better than I could express
myself. Pray accept the sincerest acknowledgments. I cannot
but wish these letters were put together in one book, and intend (with
your leave) to procure a translation of part at least, or of all of
them, into French; but I shall not proceed a step without your consent
and opinion,” &c.
By this fond and eager acceptance of an exculpatory comment Pope testified
that, whatever might be the seeming or real import of the principles
which he had received from Bolingbroke, he had not intentionally attacked
religion; and Bolingbroke, if he meant to make him, without his own
consent, an instrument of mischief, found him now engaged, with his
eyes open, on the side of truth. It is known that Bolingbroke
concealed from Pope his real opinions. He once discovered them
to Mr. Hooke, who related them again to Pope, and was told by him that
he must have mistaken the meaning of what he heard: and Bolingbroke,
when Pope’s uneasiness incited him to desire an explanation, declared
that Hooke had misunderstood him.
Bolingbroke hated Warburton, who had drawn his pupil from him; and a
little before Pope’s death they had a dispute, from which they
parted with mutual aversion. From this time Pope lived in the
closest intimacy with his commentator, and amply rewarded his kindness
and his zeal, for he introduced him to Mr. Murray, by whose interest
he became preacher at Lincoln’s Inn, and to Mr. Allen, who gave
him his niece and his estate, and by consequence a bishopric.
When he died, he left him the property of his works, a legacy which
may be reasonably estimated at four thousand pounds.
Pope’s fondness for the “Essay on Man” appeared by
his desire of its propagation. Dobson, who had gained reputation
by his version of Prior’s “Solomon,” was employed
by him to translate it into Latin verse, and was for that purpose some
time at Twickenham; but he left his work, whatever was the reason, unfinished;
and, by Benson’s invitation, undertook the longer task of “Paradise
Lost.” Pope then desired his friend to find a scholar who
should turn his essay into Latin prose; but no such performance has
ever appeared.
Pope lived at this time among the great, with that reception
and respect to which his works entitled him, and which he had not impaired
by any private misconduct or factious partiality. Though Bolingbroke
was his friend, Walpole was not his enemy, but treated him with so much
consideration as, at his request, to solicit and obtain from the French
Minister an abbey for Mr. Southcot, whom he considered himself as obliged
to reward, by his exertion of his interest, for the benefit which he
had received from his attendance in a long illness. It was said,
that when the Court was at Richmond, Queen Caroline had declared her
intention to visit him. This may have been only a careless effusion,
thought on no more. The report of such notice, however, was soon
in many mouths; and, if I do not forget or misapprehend Savage’s
account, Pope, pretending to decline what was not yet offered, left
his house for a time, not, I suppose, for any other reason than lest
he should be thought to stay at home in expectation of an honour which
would not be conferred. He was therefore angry at Swift, who represents
him as “refusing the visits of a queen,” because he knew
that what had never been offered had never been refused.
Beside the general system of morality, supposed to be contained in the
“Essay on Man,” it was his intention to write distinct poems
upon the different duties or conditions of life, one of which is the
“Epistle to Lord Bathurst” (1733) on the “Use of Riches,”
a piece on which he declared great labour to have been bestowed.
Into this poem some hints are historically thrown, and some known characters
are introduced, with others of which it is difficult to say how far
they are real or fictitious: but the praise of Kryle, the Man of Ross,
deserves particular examination, who, after a long and pompous enumeration
of his public works and private charities, is said to have diffused
all those blessings from five hundred a year. Wonders are willingly
told and willingly heard. The truth is, that Kyrle was a man of
known integrity and active benevolence, by whose solicitation the wealthy
were persuaded to pay contributions to his charitable schemes.
This influence he obtained by an example of liberality exerted to the
utmost extent of his power, and was thus enabled to give more than he
had. This account Mr. Victor received from the minister of the
place, and I have preserved it, that the praise of a good man, being
made more credible, may be more solid. Narrations of romantic
and impracticable virtue will be read with wonder, but that which is
unattainable is recommended in vain; that good may be endeavoured it
must be shown to be possible. This is the only piece in which
the author has given a hint of his religion, by ridiculing the ceremony
of burning the Pope, and by mentioning with some indignation the inscription
on the Monument.
When this poem was first published, the dialogue having no letters of
direction was perplexed and obscure. Pope seems to have written
with no very distinct idea, for he calls that an “Epistle to Bathurst,”
in which Bathurst is introduced as speaking. He afterwards (1734)
inscribed to Lord Cobham his “Characters of Men,” written
with close attention to the operations of the mind and modifications
of life. In this poem he has endeavoured to establish and exemplify
his favourite theory of the ruling passion, by which he means
an original direction of desire to some particular object, an innate
affection which gives all action a determinate and invariable tendency,
and operates upon the whole system of life, either openly, cut more
secretly by the intervention of some accidental or subordinate propension.
Of any passion, thus innate and irresistible, the existence may reasonably
be doubted. Human characters are by no means constant; men change
by change of place, of fortune, of acquaintance. He who is at
one time a lover of pleasure, is at another a lover of money.
Those, indeed, who attain any excellence commonly spend life in one
pursuit, for excellence is not often gained upon easier terms.
But to the particular species of excellence men are directed, not by
an ascendant planet or predominating humour, but by the first book which
they read, some early conversation which they heard, or some accident
which excited ardour and emulation. It must at least be allowed
that this ruling passion, antecedent to reason and observation, must
have an object independent on human contrivance, for there can be no
natural desire of artificial good. No man, therefore, can be born,
in the strict acceptation, a lover of money, for he may be born where
money does not exist; nor can he be born in a moral sense a lover of
his country, for society politically regulated is a state contradistinguished
from a state of nature, and any attention to that coalition of interests
which makes the happiness of a country is possible only to those whom
inquiry and reflection have enabled to comprehend it. This doctrine
is in itself pernicious as well as false; its tendency is to produce
the belief of a kind of moral predestination or over-ruling principle
which cannot be resisted. He that admits it is prepared to comply
with every desire that caprice or opportunity shall excite, and to flatter
himself that he submits only to the lawful dominion of nature in obeying
the resistless authority of his ruling passion.
Pope has formed his theory with so little skill that in the examples
by which he illustrates and confirms it he has confounded passions,
appetites, and habits. To the “Characters of Men”
he added soon after, in an epistle supposed to have been addressed to
Martha Blount, but which the last edition has taken from her, the “Characters
of Women.” This poem, which was laboured with great diligence
and in the author’s opinion with great success, was neglected
at its first publication, as the commentator supposes, because the public
was informed by an advertisement that it contained no character drawn
from the life, an assertion which Pope probably did not expect nor wished
to have been believed, and which he soon gave his readers sufficient
reason to distrust, by telling them in a note that the work was imperfect
because part of his subject was vice too high to be yet exposed.
The time, however, soon came in which it was safe to display the Duchess
of Marlborough under the name of Atossa, and her character was inserted
with no great honour to the writer’s gratitude.
He published from time to time (between 1730 and 1740) imitations of
different poems of Horace, generally with his name, and once, as was
suspected, without it. What he was upon moral principles ashamed
to own he ought to have suppressed. Of these pieces it is useless
to settle the dates, as they had seldom much relation to the times,
and perhaps had been long in his hands. This mode of imitation,
in which the ancients are familiarised by adapting their sentiments
to modern topics, by making Horace say of Shakespeare what he originally
said of Ennius, and accommodating his satires on Pantolabus and Nomentanus
to the flatterers and prodigals of our own time, was first practised
in the reign of Charles the Second, by Oldham and Rochester, at least
I remember no instances more ancient. It is a kind of middle composition
between translation and original design, which pleases when the thoughts
are unexpectedly applicable, and the parallels lucky. It seems
to have been Pope’s favourite amusement, for he has carried it
farther than any former poet. He published likewise a revival,
in smoother numbers, of Dr. Donne’s “Satires,” which
was recommended to him by the Duke of Shrewsbury and the Earl of Oxford.
They made no great impression on the public. Pope seems to have
known their imbecility and therefore suppressed them while he was yet
contending to rise in reputation, but ventured them when he thought
their deficiencies more likely to be imputed to Donne than to himself.
The “Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot,” which seems to be derived
in its first design from Boileau’s Address à son Esprit,
was published in January, 1735, about a month before the
death of him to whom it is inscribed. It is to be regretted that
either honour or pleasure should have been missed by Arbuthnot, a man
estimable for his learning, amiable for his life, and venerable for
his piety. Arbuthnot was a man of great comprehension, skilful
in his profession, versed in the sciences, acquainted with ancient literature,
and able to animate his mass of knowledge by a bright and active imagination;
a scholar with great brilliance of wit, a wit who, in the crowd of life,
retained and discovered a noble ardour of religious zeal. In this
poem Pope seems to reckon with the public. He vindicates himself
from censures, and with dignity rather than arrogance enforces his own
claims to kindness and respect. Into this poem are interwoven
several paragraphs which had been before printed, as a fragment, and
among them the satirical lines upon Addison, of which the last couplet
has been twice corrected. It was at first -
“Who would not smile if such a man there be?
Who would not laugh if Addison were he?”
Then -
“Who would not grieve if such a man there be?
Who would not laugh if Addison were he?”
At last it is -
“Who but must laugh if such a man there he?
Who would not weep if Atticus were he?”
He was at this time at open war with Lord Hervey, who had distinguished
himself as a steady adherent to the ministry, and being offended with
a contemptuous answer to one of his pamphlets, had summoned Pulteney
to a duel. Whether he or Pope made the first attack perhaps cannot
now be easily known. He had written an invective against Pope,
whom he calls, “Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure;”
and hints that his father was a hatter. To this Pope wrote a reply
in verse and prose. The verses are in this poem, and the prose,
though it was never sent, is printed among his letters; but to a cool
reader of the present time exhibits nothing but tedious malignity.
His last “Satires” of the general kind, were two Dialogues,
named, from the year in which they were published, “Seventeen
hundred and thirty-eight.” In these poems many are praised
and many reproached. Pope was then entangled in the opposition,
a follower of the Prince of Wales, who dined at his house, and the friend
of many who obstructed and censured the conduct of the ministers.
His political partiality was too plainly shown; he forgot the prudence
with which he passed, in his earlier years, uninjured and unoffending,
through much more violent conflicts of faction. In the first Dialogue,
having an opportunity of praising Allen of Bath, he asked his leave
to mention him as a man not illustrious by any merit of his ancestors,
and called him in his verses “low-born Allen.” Men
are seldom satisfied with praise introduced or followed by any mention
of defect. Allen seems not to have taken any pleasure in his epithet,
which was afterwards softened into “humble Allen.”
In the second Dialogue he took some liberty with one of the Foxes among
others; which Fox in a reply to Lyttelton, took an opportunity of repaying,
by reproaching him with the friendship of a lampooner, who scattered
his ink without fear or decency, and against whom he hoped the resentment
of the Legislature would quickly be discharged.
About this time Paul Whitehead, a small poet, was summoned before the
Lords for a poem called “Manners,” together with Dodsley,
his publisher. Whitehead, who hung loose upon society, skulked
and escaped, but Dodsley’s shop and family made his appearance
necessary. He was, however, soon dismissed, and the whole process
was probably intended rather to intimidate Pope than to punish Whitehead.
Pope never afterwards attempted to join the patriot with the poet, nor
drew his pen upon statesmen. That he desisted from his attempts
of reformation is imputed by his commentator to his despair of prevailing
over the corruption of the time. He was not likely to have been
ever of opinion that the dread of his satire would countervail the love
of power or of money; he pleased himself with being important and formidable,
and gratified sometimes his pride, and sometimes his resentment, till
at last he began to think he should be more safe if he were less busy.
The “Memoirs of Scriblerus,” published about this time,
extend only to the first book of a work projected in concert by Pope,
Swift, and Arbuthnot, who used to meet on the time of Queen Anne, and
denominated themselves the “Scriblerus Club.” Their
purpose was to censure the abuses of learning by a fictitious life of
an infatuated scholar. They were dispersed; the design was never
completed, and Warburton laments its miscarriage as an event very disastrous
to polite letters. If the whole may be estimated by this specimen,
which seems to be the production of Arbuthnot, with a few touches perhaps
by Pope, the want of more will not be much lamented; for the follies
which the writer ridicules are so little practised that they are not
known; nor can the satire be understood but by the learned. He
raises phantoms of absurdity, and then drives them away. He cures
diseases that were never felt. For this reason this joint production
of three great writers has never obtained any notice from mankind.
It has been little read, or when read has been forgotten, as no man
could be wiser, better, or merrier, by remembering it. The design
cannot boast of much originality; for, besides its general resemblance
to “Don Quixote,” there will be found in it particular imitations
of the “History of Mr. Ouffle.”
Swift carried so much of it into Ireland as supplied him with hints
for his “Travels;” and with those the world might have been
contented, though the rest had been suppressed.
Pope had sought for images and sentiments in a region not known to have
been explored by many other of the English writers. He had consulted
the modern writers of Latin poetry, a class of authors whom Boileau
endeavoured to bring into contempt, and who are too generally neglected.
Pope, however, was not ashamed of their acquaintance, nor ungrateful
for the advantages which he might have derived from it. A small
selection from the Italians, who wrote in Latin, had been published
at London, about the latter end of the last century, by a man who concealed
his name, but whom his preface shows to have been qualified for his
undertaking. This collection Pope amplified by more than half,
and (1740) published it in two volumes, but injuriously omitted his
predecessor’s preface. To these books, which had nothing
but the mere text, no regard was paid; the authors were still neglected,
and the editor was neither praised nor censured. He did not sink
into idleness; he had planned a work, which he considered as subsequent
to his “Essay on Man,” of which he has given this account
to Dr. Swift:-
“March 25, 1736.
“If ever I write any more Epistles in verse, one of them shall
be addressed to you. I have long concerted it and begun it; but
I would make what bears your name as finished as my last work ought
to be, that is to say, more finished than any of the rest. The
subject is large, and will divide into four Epistles, which naturally
follow the ‘Essay on Man,’ viz: 1. Of the Extent and
Limits of Human Reason and Science. 2. A view of the useful and
therefore attainable, and of the unuseful and therefore unattainable
Arts. 3. Of the Nature, Ends, Application, and Use, of different
Capacities. 4. Of the Use of Learning, of the Science, of the
World, and of Wit. It will conclude with a satire against the
misapplication of all these, exemplified by Pictures, Characters, and
Examples.”
This work in its full extent - being now afflicted with an asthma, and
finding the powers of life gradually declining - he had no longer courage
to undertake; but, from the materials which he had provided, he added,
at Warburton’s request, another book to the “Dunciad,”
of which the design is to ridicule such studies as are either hopeless
or useless, as either pursue what is unattainable, or what, if it be
attained, is of no use. When this book was printed (1742) the
laurel had been for some time upon the head of Cibber, a man whom it
cannot be supposed that Pope could regard with much kindness or esteem,
though in one of the imitations of Horace he has liberally enough praised
the “Careless Husband.” In the “Dunciad,”
among other worthless scribblers, he had mentioned Cibber, who, in his
“Apology,” complains of the great Poet’s unkindness
as more injurious, “because,” says he, “I never have
offended him.”
It might have been expected that Pope should have been in some degree
mollified by this submissive gentleness, but no such consequence appeared.
Though he condescended to commend Cibber once, he mentioned him afterwards
contemptuously in one of his satires, and again in his “Epistle
to Arbuthnot,” and in the fourth book of the “Dunciad”
attacked him with acrimony, to which the provocation is not easily discoverable.
Perhaps he imagined that, in ridiculing the Laureate, he satirised those
by whom the laurel had been given, and gratified that ambitious petulance
with which he affected to insult the great. The severity of this
satire left Cibber no longer any patience. He had confidence enough
in his own powers to believe that he could disturb the quiet of his
adversary, and doubtless did not want instigators, who, without any
care about the victory, desired to amuse themselves by looking on the
contest. He therefore gave the town a pamphlet, in which he declares
his resolution from that time never to bear another blow without returning
it, and to tire out his adversary by perseverance if he cannot conquer
him by strength.
The incessant and unappeasable malignity of Pope he imputes to a very
distant cause. After the Three Hours After Marriage had
been driven off the stage, by the offence which the mummy and crocodile
gave the audience, while the exploded scene was yet fresh in memory,
it happened that Cibber played Bayes in the Rehearsal; and, as
it had been usual to enliven the part by the mention of any recent theatrical
transactions, he said, that he once thought to have introduced his lovers
disguised in a mummy and a crocodile. “This,” says
he, “was received with loud claps, which indicated contempt for
the play.” Pope, who was behind the scenes, meeting him
as he left the stage, attacked him, as he says, with all the virulence
of a “wit out of his senses;” to which he replied, “that
he would take no other notice of what was said by so particular a man,
than to declare, that as often as he played that part he would repeat
the same provocation.” He shows his opinion to be that Pope
was one of the authors of the play which he so zealously defended, and
adds an idle story of Pope’s behaviour at a tavern.
The pamphlet was written with little power of thought or language, and,
if suffered to remain without notice, would have been very soon forgotten.
Pope had now been enough acquainted with human life to know, if his
passion had not been too powerful for his understanding, that, from
a contention like his with Cibber, the world seeks nothing but diversion,
which is given at the expense of the higher character. When Cibber
lampooned Pope, curiosity was excited. What Pope would say of
Cibber nobody inquired, but in hope that Pope’s asperity might
betray his pain and lessen his dignity. He should therefore have
suffered the pamphlet to flutter and die, without confessing that it
stung him. The dishonour of being shown as Cibber’s antagonist
could never be compensated by the victory. Cibber had nothing
to lose. When Pope had exhausted all his malignity upon him, he
would rise in the esteem both of his friends and his enemies.
Silence only could have made him despicable; the blow which did not
appear to be felt would have been struck in vain. But Pope’s
irascibility prevailed, and he resolved to tell the whole English world
that he was at war with Cibber; and, to show that he thought him to
common adversary, he prepared no common vengeance. He published
a new edition of the “Dunciad,” in which he degraded Theobald
from his painful pre-eminence, and enthroned Cibber in his stead.
Unhappily the two heroes were of opposite characters, and Pope was unwilling
to lose what he had already written. He has therefore depraved
his poem by giving to Cibber the old books, the old pedantry, and the
sluggish pertinacity of Theobald.
Pope was ignorant enough of his own interest to make another change,
and introduced Osborne contending for a prize among the booksellers.
Osborne was a man entirely destitute of shame, without sense of any
disgrace but that of poverty. He told me, when he was doing that
which raised Pope’s resentment, that he should be put into the
“Dunciad;” but he had the fate of Cassandra. I gave
no credit to his prediction, till in time I saw it accomplished.
The shafts of satire were directed equally in vain against Cibber and
Osborne; being repelled by the impenetrable impudence of one, and deadened
by the impassive dulness of the other. Pope confessed his own
pain by his anger; but he gave no pain to those who had provoked him.
He was able to hurt none but himself; by transferring the same ridicule
from one to another, he reduced himself to the insignificance of his
own magpie, who from his cage calls cuckold at a venture.
Cibber, according to his engagement, repaid the “Dunciad”
with another pamphlet, which, Pope said, “would be as good as
a dose of hartshorn to him;” but his tongue and his heart were
at variance. I have heard Mr. Richardson relate that he attended
his father the painter on a visit, when one of Cibber’s pamphlets
came into the hands of Pope, who said, “These things are my diversion.”
They sat by him while he perused it, and saw his features writhing with
anguish: and young Richardson said to his father, when they returned,
that he hoped to be preserved from such diversion as had been that day
the lot of Pope. From this time, finding his diseases more oppressive,
and his vital powers gradually declining, he no longer strained his
faculties with any original composition, nor proposed any other employment
for his remaining life than the revisal and correction of his former
works, in which he received advice and assistance from Warburton, whom
he appears to have trusted and honoured in the highest degree.
He laid aside his Epic Poem, perhaps without much loss to mankind; for
his hero was Brutus the Trojan, who, according to a ridiculous fiction,
established a colony in Britain. The subject, therefore, was of
the fabulous age; the actors were a race upon whom imagination has been
exhausted, and attention wearied, and to whom the mind will not easily
be recalled, when it is invited in blank verse, which Pope had adopted
with great imprudence, and, I think, without due consideration of the
nature of our language. The sketch is, at least in part, preserved
by Ruffhead, by which it appears that Pope was thoughtless enough to
model the names of his heroes with terminations not consistent with
the time or country in which he places them. He lingered through
the next year, but perceived himself, as he expresses it, “going
down the hill.” He had for at least five years been afflicted
with an asthma, and other disorders, which his physicians were unable
to relieve. Towards the end of his life he consulted Dr. Thomson,
a man who had, by large promises, and free censures of the common practice
of physic, forced himself up into sudden reputation. Thomson declared
his distemper to be a dropsy, and evacuated part of the water by tincture
of jalap, but confessed that his belly did not subside. Thomson
had many enemies, and Pope was persuaded to dismiss him.
While he was yet capable of amusement and conversation, as he was one
day sitting in the air with Lord Bolingbroke and Lord Marchmont, he
saw his favourite Martha Blount at the bottom of the terrace, and asked
Lord Bolingbroke to go and hand her up. Bolingbroke, not liking
his errand, crossed his legs and sat still; but Lord Marchmont, who
was younger and less captious, waited on the lady, who, when he came
to her, asked, “What, is he not dead yet?” She is
said to have neglected him with shameful unkindness, in the latter time
of his decay; yet, of the little which he had to leave she had a very
great part. Their acquaintance began early; the life of each was
pictured on the other’s mind; their conversation therefore was
endearing, for when they met, there was an immediate coalition of congenial
notions. Perhaps he considered her unwillingness to approach the
chamber of sickness as female weakness, or human frailty; perhaps he
was conscious to himself of peevishness and impatience, or, though he
was offended by her inattention, might yet consider her merit as overbalancing
her fault; and if he had suffered his heart to be alienated from her,
he could have found nothing that might fill her place; he could have
only shrunk within himself. It was too late to transfer his confidence
or fondness.
In May, 1744, his death was approaching. On the 6th he was all
day delirious, which he mentioned for days afterwards as a sufficient
humiliation of the vanity of man; he afterwards complained of seeing
things as through a curtain, and in false colours, and one day, its
the presence of Dodsley, asked what arm it was that came from the wall.
He said that his greatest inconvenience was inability to think.
Bolingbroke sometimes wept over him in this state of helpless decay;
and being told by Spence, that Pope, at the intermission of his deliriousness,
was always saying something kind either of his present or absent friends,
and that his humanity seemed to have survived his understanding, answered,
“It has so.” And added, “I never in my life
knew a man that had so tender a heart for his particular friends, or
more general friendship for mankind.” At another time he
said, “I have known Pope these thirty years, and value myself
more in his friendship than - ” His grief then suppressed
his voice.
Pope expressed undoubting confidence of a future state. Being
asked by his friend Mr. Hooke, a papist, whether he would not die like
his father and mother, and whether a priest should not be called, he
answered, “I do not think it essential, but it will be very right;
and I thank you for putting me in mind of it.” In the morning,
after the priest had given him the last sacraments, he said “There
is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship; and indeed
friendship itself is only a part of virtue.” He died in
the evening of the 30th day of May 1744, so placidly, that the attendants
did not discern the exact time of his expiration. He was buried
at Twickenham, near his father and mother, where a monument has been
erected to him by his commentator, the Bishop of Gloucester.
He left the care of his papers to his executors; first to Lord Bolingbroke,
and, if he should not be living, to the Earl of Marchmont, undoubtedly
expecting them to be proud of the trust, and eager to extend his fame.
But let no man dream of influence beyond his life. After a decent
time Dodsley, the bookseller, went to solicit preference as the publisher,
and was told that the parcel had not been yet inspected; and, whatever
was the reason, the world has been disappointed of what was “reserved
for the next age.” He lost, indeed, the favour of Bolingbroke
by a kind of posthumous offence. The political pamphlet called
“The Patriot King” had been put into his hands that he might
procure the impression of a very few copies, to be distributed, according
to the author’s direction, among his friends, and Pope assured
him that no more had been printed than were allowed; but, soon after
his death, the printer brought and resigned a complete edition of fifteen
hundred copies, which Pope had ordered him to print and retain in secret.
He kept, as was observed, his engagement to Pope better than Pope had
kept it to his friend; and nothing was known of the transaction till,
upon the death of his employer, he thought himself obliged to deliver
the books to the right owner, who, with great indignation, made a fire
in his yard, and delivered the whole impression to the flames.
Hitherto nothing had been done which was not naturally dictated by resentment
of violated faith; resentment more acrimonious, as the violator had
been more loved or more trusted. But here the anger might have
stopped; the injury was private, and there was little danger from the
example. Bolingbroke, however, was not yet satisfied. His
thirst of vengeance excited him to blast the memory of the man over
whom he had wept in his last struggles; and he employed Mallet, another
friend of Pope, to tell the tale to the public, with all its aggravations.
Warburton, whose heart was warm with his legacy and tender by the recent
separation, thought it proper for him to interpose, and undertook, not
indeed to vindicate the action, for breach of trust has always something
criminal, but to extenuate it by an apology. Having advanced what
cannot be denied, that moral obliquity is made more or less excusable
by the motives that produce it, he inquires what evil purpose could
have induced Pope to break his promise. He could not delight his
vanity by usurping the work, which, though not sold in shops, had been
shown to a number more than sufficient to preserve the author’s
claim; he could not gratify his avarice, for he could not sell his plunder
till Bolingbroke was dead; and even then, if the copy was left to another,
his fraud would be defeated, and if left to himself would be useless.
Warburton therefore supposes, with great appearance of reason, that
the irregularity of his conduct proceeded wholly from his zeal for Bolingbroke,
who might perhaps have destroyed the pamphlet, which Pope thought it
his duty to preserve, even without its author’s approbation.
To this apology an answer was written in “A letter to the most
impudent man living.” He brought some reproach upon his
own memory by the petulant and contemptuous mention made in his will
of Mr. Allen and an affected repayment of his benefactions. Mrs.
Blount, as the known friend and favourite of Pope, had been invited
to the house of Allen, where she comported herself with such indecent
arrogance that she parted from Mrs. Allen in a state of irreconcilable
dislike, and the door was for ever barred against her. This exclusion
she resented with so much bitterness as to refuse any legacy from Pope
unless he left the world with a disavowal of obligation to Allen.
Having been long under her dominion, now tottering in the decline of
life, and unable to resist the violence of her temper, or perhaps, with
the prejudice of a lover, persuaded that she had suffered improper treatment,
he complied with her demand, and polluted his will with female resentment.
Allen accepted the legacy, which he gave to the hospital at Bath, observing
that Pope was always a bad accountant, and that if to £150 he
had put a cipher more he had come nearer to the truth.
The person of Pope is well known not to have been formed by the nicest
model. He has, in his account of the “Little Club,”
compared himself to a spider, and by another is described as protuberant
behind and before. He is said to have been beautiful in his infancy,
but he was of a constitution originally feeble and weak; and, as bodies
of a tender frame are easily distorted, his deformity was probably in
part the effect of his application. His stature was so low, that
to bring him to a level with common tables, it was necessary to raise
his seat. But his face was not displeasing, and his eyes were
animated and vivid. By natural deformity, or accidental distortion,
his vital functions were so much disordered, that his life was “a
long disease.” His most frequent assailant was the headache,
which he used to relieve by inhaling the steam of coffee, which he very
frequently required.
Most of what can be told concerning his petty peculiarities was communicated
by a female domestic of the Earl of Oxford, who knew him perhaps after
the middle of life. He was then so weak as to stand in perpetual
need of female attendance; extremely sensible of cold, so that he wore
a kind of fur doublet, under a shirt of a very coarse warm linen with
fine sleeves. When he rose, he was invested in bodice made of
stiff canvas, being scarcely able to hold himself erect till they were
laced, and he then put on a flannel waistcoat. One side was contracted.
His legs were so slender, that he enlarged their bulk with three pairs
of stockings, which were drawn on and off by the maid, for he was not
able to dress or undress himself, and neither went to bed nor rose without
help. His weakness made it very difficult for him to be clean.
His hair had fallen almost all away, and he used to dine sometimes with
Lord Oxford, privately, in a velvet cap. His dress of ceremony
was black, with a tie-wig, and a little sword. The indulgence
and accommodation which his sickness required, had taught him all the
unpleasing and unsocial qualities of a valetudinary man. He expected
that everything should give way to his ease or humour, as a child, whose
parents will not hear her cry, has an unresisted dominion in the nursery.
“C’est que l’enfant toujours est homme,
C’est que l’homme est toujours enfant.”
When he wanted to sleep he “nodded in company,” and once
slumbered at his own table while the Prince of Wales was talking of
poetry.
The reputation which his friendship gave procured him many invitations,
but he was a very troublesome inmate. He brought no servant, and
had so many wants, that a numerous attendance was scarcely able to supply
them. Wherever he was, he left no room for another, because he
exacted the attention, and employed the activity of the whole family.
His errands were so frequent and frivolous, that the footmen in time
avoided and neglected him, and the Earl of Oxford discharged some of
his servants for their resolute refusal of his messages. The maids,
when they had neglected their business, alleged that they had been employed
by Mr. Pope. One of his constant demands was of coffee in the
night, and to the woman that waited on him in his chamber he was very
burthensome. But he was careful to recompense her want of sleep,
and Lord Oxford’s servant declared, that in the house where her
business was to answer his call, she would not ask for wages.
He had another fault, easily incident to those who, suffering much pain,
think themselves entitled to what pleasures they can snatch. He
was too indulgent to his appetite: he loved meat highly seasoned and
of strong taste; and, at the intervals of the table, amused himself
with biscuits and dry conserves. If he sat down to a variety of
dishes, he would oppress his stomach with repletion; and though he seemed
angry when a dram was offered him, did not forbear to drink it.
His friends, who knew the avenues to his heart, pampered him with presents
of luxury, which he did not suffer to stand neglected. The death
of great men is not always proportioned to the lustre of their lives.
Hannibal, says Juvenal, did not perish by the javelin or the sword,
the slaughters of Cannæ were revenged by a ring. The death
of Pope was imputed by some of his friends to a silver saucepan, in
which it was his delight to eat potted lampreys. That he loved
too well to eat is certain; but that his sensuality shortened his life
will not be hastily concluded, when it is remembered that a conformation
so irregular lasted six-and-fifty years, notwithstanding such pertinacious
diligence of study and meditation. In all his intercourse with
mankind he had great delight in artifice, and endeavoured to attain
all his purposes by indirect and unsuspected methods. “He
hardly drank tea without a stratagem.” If at the house of
friends he wanted any accommodation, he was not willing to ask for it
in plain terms, but would mention it remotely as something convenient;
though when it was procured, he soon made it appear for whose sake it
had been recommended. Thus he teased Lord Orrery till he obtained
a screen. He practised his arts on such small occasions, that
Lady Bolingbroke used to say, in a French phrase, that “he played
the politician about cabbages and turnips.” His unjustifiable
impression of the “Patriot King,” as it can be attributed
to no particular motive, must have proceeded from his general habit
of secrecy and cunning; he caught an opportunity of a sly trick, and
pleased himself with the thought of outwitting Bolingbroke. In
familiar or convivial conversation, it does not appear that he excelled.
He may be said to have resembled Dryden, as being not one that was distinguished
by vivacity in company. It is remarkable that, so near his time,
so much should be known of what he has written, and so little of what
he has said: traditional memory retains no sallies of raillery, nor
sentences of observation: nothing either pointed or solid, either wise
or merry. One apophthegm only stands upon record. When an
objection, raised against his inscription for Shakespeare, was defended
by the authority of Patrick, he replied, horresco referens, that
he “would allow the publisher of a dictionary to know the meaning
of a single word, but not of two words put together.”
He was fretful and easily displeased, and allowed himself to be capriciously
resentful. He would sometimes leave Lord Oxford silently, no one
could tell why, and was to be courted back by more letters and messages
than the footmen were willing to carry. The table was indeed infested
by Lady Mary Wortley, who was the friend of Lady Oxford, and who, knowing
his peevishness, could by no entreaties be restrained from contradicting
him, till their disputes were sharpened to such asperity, that one or
the other quitted the house. He sometimes condescended to be jocular
with servants or inferiors; but by no merriment, either of others or
his own, was he ever seen excited to laughter.
Of his domestic character, frugality was a part eminently remarkable.
Having determined not to be dependent, he determined not to be in want,
and therefore wisely and magnanimously rejected all temptations to expense
unsuitable to his fortune. This general care must be universally
approved; but it sometimes appeared in petty artifices of parsimony,
such as the practice of writing his compositions on the back of letters,
as may be seen in the remaining copy of the “Iliad,” by
which perhaps in five years five shillings were saved; or in a niggardly
reception of his friends, and scantiness of entertainment, as, when
he had two guests in his house, he would set at supper a single pint
upon the table; and having himself taken two small glasses, would retire,
and say, “Gentlemen. I leave you to your wine.”
Yet he tells his friends that “he has a heart for all, a house
for all, and whatever they may think, a fortune for all.”
He sometimes, however, made a splendid dinner, and is said to have wanted
no part of the skill or elegance which such performances require.
That this magnificence should be often displayed, that obstinate prudence
with which he conducted his affairs would not permit; for his revenue,
certain and casual, amounted only to about eight hundred pounds a year,
of which, however, he declares himself able to assign one hundred to
charity. Of this fortune, which, as it arose from public approbation,
was very honourably obtained, his imagination seems to have been too
full: it would be hard to find a man so well entitled to notice by his
wit, that ever delighted so much in talking of his money. In his
Letters and in his poems, his garden and his grotto, his quincunx and
his vines, or some hints of his opulence, are always to be found.
The great topic of his ridicule is poverty; the crimes with which he
reproaches his antagonists are their debts, their habitation in the
Mint, and their want of a dinner. He seems to be of an opinion
not very uncommon in the world, that to want money is to want everything.
Next to the pleasure of contemplating his possessions, seems to be that
of enumerating the men of high rank with whom he was acquainted, and
whose notice he loudly proclaims not to have been obtained by any practices
of meanness or servility; a boast which was never denied to be true,
and to which very few poets have ever aspired. Pope never set
genius to sale; he never flattered those whom he did not love, nor praised
those whom he did not esteem. Savage, however, remarked that he
began a little to relax his dignity when he wrote a distich for “his
Highness’s dog.”
His admiration of the great seems to have increased in the advance of
life. He passed over peers and statesmen to inscribe his “Iliad”
to Congreve, with a magnanimity of which the praise had been complete,
had his friend’s virtue been equal to his wit. Why he was
chosen for so great an honour, it is not now possible to know; there
is no trace in literary history of any particular intimacy between them.
The name of Congreve appears in the Letters among those of his other
friends, but without any observable distinction or consequence.
To his latter works, however, he took care to annex names dignified
with titles, but was not very happy in his choice; for, except Lord
Bathurst, none of his noble friends were such as that a good man would
wish to have his intimacy with them known to posterity; he can derive
little honour from the notice of Cobham, Burlington, or Bolingbroke.
Of his social qualities, if an estimate be made from his Letters, an
opinion too favourable cannot easily be formed; they exhibit a perpetual
and unclouded effulgence of general benevolence, and particular fondness.
There is nothing but liberality, gratitude, constancy, and tenderness.
It has been so long said as to be commonly believed, that the true characters
of men may be found in their letters, and that he who writes to his
friend lays his heart open before him. But the truth is that such
were the simple friendships of the Golden Age, and are now the friendships
only of children. Very few can boast of hearts which they dare
lay open to themselves, and of which, by whatever accident exposed,
they do not shun a distinct and continued view; and, certainly, who
we hide from ourselves we do not show to our friend. There is,
indeed, no transaction which offers strange temptations to fallacy and
sophistication than epistolary intercourse. In the eagerness of
conversation the first emotions of the mind often burst out before they
are considered; in the tumult of business, interest and passion have
their genuine effect; but a friendly letter is a calm and deliberate
performance in the cool of leisure, in the stillness of solitude, and
surely no man sits down to depreciate by design his own character.
Friendship has no tendency to secure veracity; for by whom can a man
so much wish to be thought better than he is, as by him whose kindness
he desires to gain or keep? Even in writing to the world there
is less constraint; the author is not confronted with his reader, and
takes his chance of approbation among the different dispositions of
mankind; but a letter is addressed to a single mind, of which the prejudices
and partialities are known; and must therefore please, if not by favouring
them, by forbearing to oppose them. To charge those favourable
representations, which men give of their own minds, with the guilt of
hypocritical falsehood, would show more severity than knowledge.
The writer commonly believes himself. Almost every man’s
thoughts, while they are general, are right; and most hearts are pure
while temptation is away. It is easy to awaken generous sentiments
in privacy; to despise death when there is no danger; to glow with benevolence
when there is nothing to be given. While such ideas are formed
they are felt; and self-love does not suspect the gleam of virtue to
be the meteor of fancy.
If the Letters of Pope are considered merely as compositions, they seem
to be premeditated and artificial. It is one thing to write because
there is something which the mind wishes to discharge, and another to
solicit the imagination because ceremony or vanity requires something
to be written. Pope confesses his early Letters to be vitiated
with affectation and ambition: to know whether he disentangled
himself from these perverters of epistolary integrity, his book and
his life must be set in comparison. One of his favourite topics
is contempt of his own poetry. For this, if it had been real,
he would deserve no commendation; and in this he was certainly not sincere,
for his high value of himself was sufficiently observed; and of what
could he be proud but of his poetry? He writes, he says, when
“he has just nothing else to do;” yet Swift complains that
he was never at leisure for conversation, because he “had always
some poetical scheme in his head.” It was punctually required
that his writing-box should be set upon his bed before he rose; and
Lord Oxford’s domestic related that, in the dreadful winter of
Forty, she was called from her bed by him four times in one night, to
supply him with paper, lest he should lose a thought. He pretends
insensibility to censure and criticism, though it was observed by all
who knew him that every pamphlet disturbed his quiet, and that his extreme
irritability laid him open to perpetual vexation; but he wished to despise
his critics, and therefore hoped that he did despise them. As
he happened to live in two reigns when the court paid little attention
to poetry, he nursed in his mind a foolish disesteem of kings, and proclaims
that “he never sees courts.” Yet a little regard shown
him by the Prince of Wales melted his obduracy; and he had not much
to say when he was asked by his Royal Highness, “How he could
love a prince while he disliked kings?”
He very frequently professes contempt of the world, and represents himself
as looking on mankind, sometimes with gay indifference, as on emmets
of a hillock, below his serious attention; and sometimes with gloomy
indignation, as on monsters more worthy of hatred than pity. These
were dispositions apparently counterfeited. How could he despise
those whom he lived by pleasing, and on whose approbation his esteem
of himself was superstructed? Why should he hate those to whose
favour he owed his honour and his ease? Of things that terminate
in human life, the world is the proper judge: to despise its sentence,
if it were possible, is not just; and if it were just, is not possible.
Pope was far enough from this unreasonable temper; he was sufficiently
a fool to fame, and his fault was that he pretended to neglect
it. His levity and his sullenness were only in his letters; he
passed through common life, sometimes vexed, and sometimes pleased,
with the natural emotions of common men. His scorn of the great
is repeated too often to be real; no man thinks much of that which he
despises; and as falsehood is always in danger of inconsistency, he
makes it his boast at another time that he lives among them. It
is evident that his own importance swells often in his mind. He
is afraid of writing, lest the clerks of the post-office should know
his secrets; he has many enemies; he considers himself as surrounded
by universal jealousy: “After many deaths, and many dispersions,
two or three of us,” says he, “may still be brought together,
not to plot, but to divert ourselves, and the world too, if it pleases;”
and they can live together, and “show what friends wits may be,
in spite of all the fools in the world.” All this while
it was likely that the clerks did not know his hand; he certainly had
no more enemies than a public character like his inevitably excites;
and with what degree of friendship the wits might live, very few were
so much fools as ever to inquire. Some part of this pretended
discontent he learned from Swift, and expresses it, I think, most frequently
in his correspondence with him. Swift’s resentment was unreasonable,
but it was sincere; Pope’s was the mere mimicry of his friend,
a fictitious part which he began to play before it became him.
When he was only twenty-five years old, he related that “a glut
of study and retirement had thrown him on the world,” and that
there was danger lest “a glut of the world should throw him back
upon study and retirement.” To this Swift answered with
great propriety, that Pope had not yet acted or suffered enough in the
world to have become weary of it. And, indeed, it must have been
some very powerful reason that can drive back to solitude him who has
once enjoyed the pleasures of society.
In the Letters both of Swift and Pope there appears such narrowness
of mind as makes them insensible of any excellence that has not some
affinity with their own, and confines their esteem and approbation to
so small a number, that whoever should form his opinion of their age
from their representation, would suppose them to have lived amidst ignorance
and barbarity, unable to find among their contemporaries either virtue
or intelligence, and persecuted by those that could not understand them.
When Pope murmurs at the world, when he professes contempt of fame,
when he speaks of riches and poverty, of success and disappointment,
with negligent indifference, he certainly does not express his habitual
and settled resentments, but either wilfully disguises his own character,
or, what is more likely, invests himself with temporary qualities, and
sallies out in the colours of the present moment. His hopes and
fears, his joys and sorrows, acted strongly upon his mind, and if he
differed from others it was not by carelessness; he was irritable and
resentful; his malignity to Philips, whom he had first made ridiculous
and then hated for being angry continued too long. Of his vain
desire to make Bentley contemptible I never heard any adequate reason.
He was sometimes wanton in his attacks, and before Chandos, Lady Wortley,
and Hill, was mean in his retreat. The virtues which seem to have
had most of his affection were liberality and fidelity of friendship,
in which it does not appear that he was other than he describes himself.
His fortune did not suffer his character to be splendid and conspicuous,
but he assisted Dodsley with a hundred pounds that he might open a shop,
and of the subscription of forty pounds a year that he raised for Savage
twenty were paid by himself. He was accused of loving money, but
his love was eagerness to gain, not solicitude to keep it. In
the duties of friendship he was zealous and constant; his early maturity
of mind commonly united him with men older than himself, and therefore,
without attaining any considerable length of life, he saw many companions
of his youth sink into the grave; but it does not appear that he lost
a single friend by coldness or by injury; those who loved him once continued
their kindness. His ungrateful mention of Allen in his will was
the effect of his adherence to one whom he had known much longer, and
whom he naturally loved with greater fondness. His violation of
the trust reposed in him by Bolingbroke could have no motive inconsistent
with the warmest affection; he either thought the action so near to
indifferent that he forgot it, or so laudable that he expected his friend
to approve it. It was reported with such confidence as almost
to enforce belief, that in the papers entrusted to his executors was
found a defamatory Life of Swift, which he had prepared as an instrument
of vengeance, to be used if any provocation should be ever given.
About this I inquired of the Earl of Marchmont, who assured me that
no such piece was among his remains.
The religion in which he lived and died was that of the Church of Rome,
to which, in his correspondence with Racine, he professes himself a
sincere adherent. That he was not scrupulously pious in some part
of his life is known by many idle and indecent applications of sentences
taken from the Scriptures, a mode of merriment which a good man dreads
for its profaneness, and a witty man disdains for its easiness and vulgarity.
But to whatever levities he has been betrayed, it does not appear that
his principles were ever corrupted, or that he ever lost his belief
of revelation. The positions which he transmitted from Bolingbroke
he seems not to have understood, and was pleased with an interpretation
that made them orthodox.
A man of such exalted superiority and so little moderation would naturally
have all his delinquencies observed and aggravated; those who could
not deny that he was excellent would rejoice to find that he was not
perfect. Perhaps it may be imputed to the unwillingness with which
the same man is allowed to possess many advantages, that his learning
has been depreciated. He certainly was in his early life a man
of great literary curiosity, and when he wrote his “Essay on Criticism,”
had, for his age, a very wide acquaintance with books. When he
entered into the living world it seems to have happened to him, as to
many others, that he was less attentive to dead masters; he studied
in the academy of Paracelsus, and made the universe his favourite volume.
He gathered his notions fresh from reality, not from the copies of authors,
but the originals of Nature. Yet there is no reason to believe
that literature ever lost his esteem; he always professed to love reading,
and Dobson, who spent some time at his house translating his “Essay
on Man,” when I asked him what learning he found him to possess,
answered, “More than I expected.” His frequent references
to history, his allusions to various kinds of knowledge, and his images
selected from art and nature, with his observations on the operations
of the mind and the modes of life, show an intelligence perpetually
on the wing, excursive, vigorous, and diligent, eager to pursue knowledge,
and attentive to retain it. From this curiosity arose the desire
of travelling, to which he alludes in his verses to Jervas, and which,
though he never found an opportunity to gratify it, did not leave him
till his life declined.
Of his intellectual character, the constituent and fundamental principle
was good sense, a prompt and intuitive perception of consonance and
propriety. He saw immediately of his own conceptions what was
to be chosen and what to be rejected, and, in the works of others, what
was to be shunned and what was to be copied. But good sense alone
is a sedate and quiescent quality, which manages its possessions well,
but does not increase them; it collects few materials for its own operations,
and preserves safety, but never gains supremacy. Pope had likewise
genius; a mind active, ambitious, and adventurous, always investigating,
always aspiring; in its widest searches still longing to go forward,
in its highest flights still wishing to be higher, always imagining
some thing greater than it knows, always endeavouring more than it can
do. To assist these powers he is said to have had great strength
and exactness of memory. That which he had heard or read was not
easily lost, and he had before him not only what his own meditations
suggested, but what he had found in other writers that might be accommodated
to his present purpose. These benefits of Nature he improved by
incessant and unwearied diligence; he had recourse to every source of
intelligence, and lost no opportunity of information; he consulted the
living as well as the dead; he read his compositions to his friends,
and was never content with mediocrity when excellence could be attained.
He considered poetry as the business of his life, and however he might
seem to lament his occupation he followed it with constancy; to make
verses was his first labour, and to mend them was his last. From
his attention to poetry he was never diverted. If conversation
offered anything that could be improved, he committed it to paper; if
a thought, or perhaps an expression, more happy than was common, rose
to his mind, he was careful to write it; an independent distich was
preserved for an opportunity of insertion, and some little fragments
have been found containing lines, or parts of lines, to be wrought upon
at some other time. He was one of those few whose labour is their
pleasure; he was never elevated to negligence nor wearied to impatience;
he never passed a fault unamended by indifference, nor quitted it by
despair. He laboured his works first to gain reputation, and afterwards
to keep it.
Of composition there are different methods. Some employ at once
memory and invention, and, with little intermediate use of the pen,
form and polish large masses by continued meditation, and write their
productions only when, in their own opinion, they have completed them.
It is related of Virgil that his custom was to pour out a great number
of verses in the morning, and pass the day in retrenching exuberances
and correcting inaccuracies. The method of Pope, as may be collected
from his translation, was to write his first thoughts in his first words,
and gradually to amplify, decorate, rectify, and refine them.
With such faculties and such dispositions he excelled every other writer
in poetical prudence; he wrote in such a manner as might expose him
to few hazards. He used almost always the same fabric of verse,
and, indeed, by those few essays which he made of any other, he did
not enlarge his reputation. Of this uniformity the certain consequence
was readiness and dexterity. By perpetual practice language had,
in his mind, a systematical arrangement; having always the same use
for words, he had words so selected and combined as to be ready at his
call. This increase of facility he confessed himself to have perceived
in the progress of his translation. But what was yet of more importance,
his effusions were always voluntary, and his subjects chosen by himself.
His independence secured him from drudging at a task, and labouring
upon a barren topic; he never exchanged praise for money, nor opened
a shop of condolence or congratulation. His poems, therefore,
were scarcely ever temporary. He suffered coronations and royal
marriages to pass without a song, and derived no opportunities from
recent events, nor any popularity from the accidental disposition of
his readers. He was never reduced to the necessity of soliciting
the sun to shine upon a birthday, of calling the graces and virtues
to a wedding, or of saying what multitudes have said before him.
When he could produce nothing new he was at liberty to be silent.
His publications were for the same reason never hasty. He is said
to have sent nothing to the press till it had lain two years under his
inspection: it is at least certain that he ventured nothing without
nice examination. He suffered the tumult of imagination to subside,
and the novelties of invention to grow familiar. He knew that
the mind is always enamoured of its own productions, and did not trust
his first fondness. He consulted his friends, and listened with
great willingness to criticism; and, what was of more importance, he
consulted himself, and let nothing pass against his own judgment.
He professed to have learned his poetry from Dryden, whom, whenever
an opportunity was presented, he praised through his whole life with
unvaried liberality; and perhaps his character may receive some illustration
if he be compared with his master.
Integrity of understanding and nicety of discernment were not allotted
in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. The rectitude of
Dryden’s mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission of his
poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged
numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment that
he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people;
and when he pleased others, he contented himself. He spent no
time in struggles to rouse latent powers; he never attempted to make
that better which was already good, nor often to mend what he must have
known to be faulty. He wrote, as he tells us, with very little
consideration; when occasion or necessity called upon him, he poured
out what the present moment happened to supply, and, when once it had
passed the press, ejected it from his mind; for, when he had no pecuniary
interest, he had no further solicitude.
Pope was not content to satisfy; he desired to excel, and therefore
always endeavoured to do his best; he did not court the candour, but
dared the judgment of his reader, and, expecting no indulgence from
others, he showed none to himself. He examined lines and words
with minute and punctilious observation, and retouched every part with
indefatigable diligence, till he had left nothing to be forgiven.
For this reason he kept his pieces very long in his hands, while he
considered and reconsidered them. The only poems which can be
supposed to have been written with such regard to the times as might
hasten their publication, were the two satires of “Thirty-eight;”
of which Dodsley told me that they were brought to him by the author,
that they might be fairly copied. “Almost every line,”
he said, “was then written twice over; I gave him a clean transcript,
which he sent some time afterwards to me for the press, with almost
every line written twice over a second time.” His declaration,
that his care for his works ceased at their publication, was not strictly
true. His parental attention never abandoned them; what he found
amiss in the first edition, he silently corrected in those that followed.
He appears to have revised the “Iliad,” and freed it from
some of its imperfections; and the “Essay on Criticism”
received many improvements after its first appearance. It will
seldom be found that he altered without adding clearness, elegance,
or vigour. Pope had perhaps the judgment of Dryden; but Dryden
certainly wanted the diligence of Pope.
In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to Dryden, whose
education was more scholastic, and who before he became an author had
been allowed more time for study, with better means of information.
His mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations
from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden knew more
of man in his general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The
notions of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation, and those
of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge
of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. Poetry was not
the sole praise of either; for both excelled likewise in prose; but
Pope did not borrow his prose from his predecessor. The style
of Dryden is capricious and varied; that of Pope is cautious and uniform.
Dryden observes the motions of his own mind; Pope constrains his mind
to his own rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement
and rapid; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden’s
page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by
the varied exuberance of abundant vegetation; Pope’s is a velvet
lawn, shaven by the scythe, and levelled by the roller.
Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet; that quality without
which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert; that energy which collects,
combines, amplifies, and animates; the superiority must, with some hesitation,
be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred that of this poetical
vigour Pope had only a little, because Dryden had more; for every other
writer since Milton must give place to Pope; and even of Dryden it must
be said that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems.
Dryden’s performances were always hasty, either excited by some
external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity; he composed without
consideration, and published without correction. What his mind
could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought,
and all that he gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him
to condense his sentiments, to multiply his images, and to accumulate
all that study might produce or chance might supply. If the flights
of Dryden therefore are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing.
If of Dryden’s fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope’s the
heat is more regular and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation,
and Pope never falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment,
and Pope with perpetual delight. This parallel will, I hope, when
it is well considered, be found just; and if the reader should suspect
me, as I suspect myself, of some partial fondness for the memory of
Dryden, let him not too hastily condemn me; for meditation and inquiry
may, perhaps, show him the reasonableness of my determination.
The Works of Pope are now to be distinctly examined, not so much with
attention to slight faults or petty beauties, as to the general character
and effect of each performance.
It seems natural for a young poet to initiate himself by pastorals,
which, not professing to imitate real life, require no experience; and,
exhibiting only the simple operation of unmingled passions, admit no
subtle reasoning or deep inquiry. Pope’s pastorals are not,
however, composed but with close thought; they have reference to the
times of the day, the seasons of the year, and the periods of human
life. The last, that which turns the attention upon age and death,
was the author’s favourite. To tell of disappointment and
misery, to thicken the darkness of futurity and perplex the labyrinth
of uncertainty, has been always a delicious employment of the poets.
His preference was probably just. I wish, however, that his fondness
had not overlooked a line in which the Zephyrs are made to lament in
silence. To charge these pastorals with wane of invention, is
to require what was never intended. The imitations are so ambitiously
frequent, that the writer evidently means rather to show his literature
than his wit. It is surely sufficient for an author of sixteen,
not only to be able to copy the poems of antiquity with judicious selection,
but to have obtained sufficient power of language, and skill in metre,
to exhibit a series of versification which had in English poetry no
precedent, nor has since had an imitation.
The design of “Windsor Forest” is evidently derived from
“Cooper’s Hill,” with some attention to Waller’s
poem on “The Park;” but Pope cannot be denied to excel his
masters in variety and elegance, and the art of interchanging description,
narrative, and morality. The objection made by Dennis is the want
of plan, of a regular subordination of parts terminating in the principal
and original design. There is this want in most descriptive poems,
because as the scenes, which they must exhibit successively, are all
subsisting at the same time, the order in which they are shown must
by necessity be arbitrary, and more is not to be expected from the last
part than from the first. The attention, therefore, which cannot
be detained by suspense, must be excited by diversity, such as this
poem offers to its reader. But the desire of diversity may be
too much indulged; the parts of “Windsor Forest” which deserve
least praise are those which were added to enliven the stillness of
the scene - the appearance of Father Thames, and the transformation
of Lodona. Addison had in his “Campaign” derided the
rivers that “rise from their oozy beds” to tell stories
of heroes; and it is therefore strange that Pope should adopt a fiction
not only unnatural, but lately censured. The story of Lodona is
told with sweetness; but a new metamorphosis is a ready and puerile
expedient; nothing is easier than to tell how a flower was once a blooming
virgin, or a rock an obdurate tyrant.
The “Temple of Fame” has, as Steele warmly declared, a “thousand
beauties.” Every part is splendid; there is great luxuriance
of ornaments; the original vision of Chaucer was never denied to be
much improved; the allegory is very skilfully continued, the imagery
is properly selected, and learnedly displayed; yet, with all this comprehension
of excellence, as its scene is laid in remote ages, and its sentiments,
if the concluding paragraph be excepted, have little relation to general
manners or common life, it never obtained much notice, but is turned
silently over, and seldom quoted or mentioned with either praise or
blame.
That the “Messiah” excels the “Pollio” is no
great praise, if it be considered from what original the improvements
are derived.
The “Verses on the Unfortunate Lady” have drawn much attention
by the illaudable singularity of treating suicide with respect; and
they must be allowed to be written in some parts with vigorous animation,
and in others with gentle tenderness; nor has Pope produced any poem
in which the sense predominates more over the diction. But the
tale is not skilfully told; it is not easy to discover the character
of either the lady or her guardian. History relates that she was
about to disparage herself by a marriage with an inferior; Pope praises
her for the dignity of ambition, and yet condemns the uncle to detestation
for his pride; the ambitious love of a niece may be opposed by the interest,
malice, or envy of an uncle, but never by his pride. On such an
occasion a poet may be allowed to be obscure, but inconsistency never
can be right.
The “Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day” was undertaken at
the desire of Steele: in this the author is generally confessed to have
miscarried, yet he has miscarried only as compared with Dryden; for
he has far outgone other competitors. Dryden’s plan is better
chosen; history will always take stronger hold of the attention than
fable: the passions excited by Dryden are the pleasures and pains of
real life, the scene of Pope is laid in imaginary existence; Pope is
read with calm acquiescence, Dryden with turbulent delight; Pope hangs
upon the ear, and Dryden finds the passes of the mind. Both the
odes want the essential constituent of metrical compositions, the stated
recurrence of settled numbers. It may be alleged that Pindar is
said by Horace to have written numeris lege solutis; but as no
such lax performances have been transmitted to us, the meaning of that
expression cannot be fixed; and perhaps the like return might properly
be made to a modern Pindarist as Mr. Cobb received from Bentley, who,
when he found his criticisms upon a Greek exercise, which Cobb had presented,
refuted one after another by Pindar’s authority, cried out at
last, “Pindar was a bold fellow, but thou art an impudent one.”
If Pope’s ode be particularly inspected, it will be found that
the first stanza consists of sounds well chosen indeed, but only sounds.
The second consists of hyperbolical commonplaces, easily to be found,
and perhaps without much difficulty to be as well expressed. In
the third, however, there are numbers, images, harmony, and rigour,
not unworthy the antagonist of Dryden. Had all been like this
- but every part cannot be the best. The next stanzas place and
detain us in the dark and dismal regions of mythology, where neither
hope nor fear, neither joy nor sorrow can be found: the poet, however,
faithfully attends us; we have all that can be performed by elegance
of diction or sweetness of versification; but what can form avail without
better matter? The last stanza recurs again to commonplaces.
The conclusion is too evidently modelled by that of Dryden; and it may
be remarked that both end with the same fault; the comparison of each
is literal on one side and metaphorical on the other. Poets do
not always express their own thoughts: Pope, with all this labour in
the praise of music, was ignorant of its principles and insensible of
its effects.
One of his greatest, though of his earliest works, is the “Essay
on Criticism,” which, if he had written nothing else, would have
placed him among the first critics and the first poets, as it exhibits
every mode of excellence that can embellish or dignify didactic composition,
selection of matter, novelty of arrangement, justness of precept, splendour
of illustration, and propriety of digression. I know not whether
it be pleasing to consider that he produced this piece at twenty, and
never afterwards excelled it: he that delights himself with observing
that such powers may be soon attained, cannot but grieve to think that
life was ever after at a stand.
To mention the particular beauties of the essay would be unprofitably
tedious: but I cannot forbear to observe that the comparison of a student’s
progress in the sciences with the journey of a traveller in the Alps
is perhaps the best that English poetry can show. A simile, to
be perfect, must both illustrate and ennoble the subject; must show
it to the understanding in a clearer view, and display it to the fancy
with greater dignity; but either of these qualities may be sufficient
to recommend it. In didactic poetry, of which the great purpose
is instruction, a simile may be praised which illustrates, though it
does not ennoble; in heroics, that may be admitted which ennobles, though
it does not illustrate. That it may be complete, it is required
to exhibit, independently of its references, a pleasing image; for a
simile is said to be a short episode. To this antiquity was so
attentive, that circumstances were sometimes added, which, having no
parallels, served only to fill the imagination, and produced what Perrault
ludicrously called “comparisons with a long tail.”
In their similes the greatest writers have sometimes failed; the ship-race,
compared with the chariot-race, is neither illustrated nor aggrandised;
land and water make all the difference: when Apollo, running after Daphne,
is likened to a greyhound chasing a hare, there is nothing gained; the
ideas of pursuit and flight are too plain to be made plainer; and a
god and the daughter of a god are not represented much to their advantage
by a hare and dog. The simile of the Alps has no useless parts,
yet affords a striking picture by itself; it makes the foregoing position
better understood, and enables it to take faster hold on the attention;
it assists the apprehension and elevates the fancy. Let me likewise
dwell a little on the celebrated paragraph in which it is directed that
“the sound should seem an echo to the sense;” a precept
which Pope is allowed to have observed beyond any other English poet.
This notion of representative metre, and the desire of discovering frequent
adaptations of the sound to the sense, have produced, in my opinion,
many wild conceits and imaginary beauties. All that can furnish
this representation are the sounds of the words considered singly and
the time in which they are pronounced. Every language has some
words framed to exhibit the noises which they express, as thump,
rattle, growl, hiss. These, however, are but few, and the
poet cannot make them more, nor can they be of any use but when sound
is to be mentioned. The time of pronunciation was in the dactylic
measures of the learned languages capable of considerable variety; but
that variety could be accommodated only to motion or duration, and different
degrees of motion were perhaps expressed by verses rapid or slow, without
much attention of the writer, when the image had full possession of
his fancy: but our language having little flexibility, our verses can
differ very little in their cadence. The fancied resemblances,
I fear, arise sometimes merely from the ambiguity of words; there is
supposed to be some relation between a soft line and soft
couch, or between heard syllables and hard fortune.
Motion, however, may be in some sort exemplified; and yet it may be
suspected that in such resemblances the mind often governs the ear,
and the sounds are estimated by their meaning. One of their most
successful attempts has been to describe the labour of Sisyphus:-
“With many a weary step, and many a groan,
Up a high hill he heaves a huge round stone;
The huge round stone, resulting with a bound,
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.”
Who does not perceive the stone to move slowly upward, and roll violently
back? But set the same numbers to another sense:-
“While many a merry tale, and many a song,
Cheered the rough road, we wished the rough road long.
The rough road, then, returning in a round,
Mocked our impatient steps, for all was fairy ground.”
We have now surely lost much of the delay and much of the rapidity.
But, to show how little the greatest master of numbers can fix the principles
of representative harmony, it will be sufficient to remark that the
poet who tells us that -
“When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow:
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o’er th’ unbending corn, and skims along the main;”
when he had enjoyed for about thirty years the praise of Camilla’s
lightness of foot, he tried another experiment upon sound and
time, and produced this memorable triplet:-
“Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full resounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine.”
Here are the swiftness of the rapid race, and the march of slow-paced
majesty, exhibited by the same poet in the same sequence of syllables,
except that the exact prosodist will find the line of swiftness by
one time longer than that of tardiness. Beauties of this
kind are commonly fancied, and, when real, are technical and nugatory,
not to he rejected and not to be solicited.
To the praises which have been accumulated on the “Rape of the
Look” by readers of every class, from the critic to the waiting-maid,
it is difficult to make any addition. Of that which is universally
allowed to be the most attractive of all ludicrous compositions, let
it rather be now inquired from what sources the power of pleasing is
derived.
Dr. Warburton, who excelled in critical perspicacity, has remarked that
the preternatural agents are very happily adapted to the purposes of
the poem. The heathen deities can no longer gain attention; we
should have turned away from a contest between Venus and Diana.
The employment of allegorical persons always excites conviction of its
own absurdity; they may produce effects, but cannot conduct actions;
when the phantom is put in motion it dissolves; thus Discord may
raise a mutiny, but Discord cannot conduct a march nor besiege
a town. Pope brought in view a new race of beings, with powers
and passions proportionate to their operation. The Sylphs and
Gnomes act at the toilet and the tea-table what more terrific and more
powerful phantoms perform on the stormy ocean or the field of battle:
they give their proper help and do their proper mischief. Pope
is said, by an objector, not to have been the inventor of this petty
notion, a charge which might with more justice have been brought against
the author of the “Iliad,” who doubtless adopted the religious
system of his country; for what is there but the names of his agents
which Pope has not invented? Has he not assigned them characters
and operations never heard of before? Has he not, at least, given
them their first poetical existence? If this is not sufficient
to denominate his work original, nothing original ever can be written.
In this work are exhibited in a very high degree the two most engaging
powers of an author. New things are made familiar, and familiar
things are made new. A race of aërial people never heard
of before is presented to us in a manner so clear and easy that the
reader seeks for no further information, but immediately mingles with
his new acquaintance, adopts their interests, and attends their pursuits,
loves a Sylph, and detests a Gnome. That familiar things are made
new every paragraph will prove. The subject of the poem is an
event below the common incidents of common life; nothing real is introduced
that is not seen so often as to be no longer regarded; yet the whole
detail of a female day is here brought before us, invested with so much
art of decoration that, though nothing is disguised, everything is striking,
and we feel all the appetite of curiosity for that from which we have
a thousand times turned fastidiously away.
The purpose of the poet is, as he tells us, to laugh at “the little
unguarded follies of the female sex.” It is therefore without
justice that Dennis charges the “Rape of the Lock” with
the want of a moral, and for that reason sets it below the “Lutrin,”
which exposes the pride and discord of the clergy. Perhaps neither
Pope nor Boileau has made the world much better than he found it; but
if they had both succeeded, it were easy to tell who would have deserved
most from public gratitude. The freaks, and humours, and spleen,
and vanity of women as they embroil families in discord, and fill houses
with disquiet, do more to obstruct the happiness of life in a year than
the ambition of the clergy in many centuries. It has been well
observed that the misery of man proceeds not from any single crush of
overwhelming evil, but from small vexatious continually repeated.
It is remarked by Dennis, likewise, that the machinery is superfluous;
that, by all the bustle of preternatural operation, the main event is
neither hastened nor retarded. To this charge an efficacious answer
is not easily made. The Sylphs cannot be said to help or oppose;
and it must be allowed to imply some want of art that their power has
not been sufficiently intermingled with the action. Other parts
may likewise be charged with want of connection - the game at ombre
might be spared; but if the lady had lost her hair while she was
intent upon her cards it might have been inferred that those who are
too fond of play will be in danger of neglecting more important interests.
Those, perhaps, are faults, but what are such faults to so much excellence!
The Epistle of “Eloise to Abelard” is one of the most happy
productions of human wit; the subject is so judiciously chosen that
it would be difficult in turning over the annals of the world to find
another which so many circumstances concur to recommend. We regularly
interest ourselves most in the fortune of those who most deserve our
notice. Abelard and Eloise were conspicuous in their days for
eminence of merit. The heart naturally loves truth. The
adventures and misfortunes of this illustrious pair are known from undisputed
history. Their fate does not leave the mind in hopeless dejection,
for they both found quiet and consolation in retirement and piety.
So new and so affecting is their story that it supersedes invention,
and imagination ranges at full liberty without straggling into scenes
of fable. The story thus skilfully adopted has been diligently
improved. Pope has left nothing behind him which seems more the
effect of studious perseverance and laborious revisal. Here is
particularly observable the curiosa felicitas, a fruitful soil
and careful cultivation. Here is no crudeness of sense nor asperity
of language. The sources from which sentiments which have so much
vigour and efficacy have been drawn are shown to be the mystic writers
by the learned author of the “Essays on the Life and Writings
of Pope,” a book which teaches how the brow of Criticism may be
smoothed, and how she may be enabled, with all her severity, to attract
and to delight.
The train of my disquisition has now conducted me to that poetical wonder,
the translation of the “Iliad,” a performance which no age
or nation can pretend to equal. To the Greeks translation was
almost unknown; it was totally unknown to the inhabitants of Greece.
They had no recourse to the barbarians for poetical beauties, but sought
for everything in Homer, where, indeed, there is but little which they
might not find. The Italians have been very diligent translators,
but I can hear of no version, unless, perhaps, Anguillara’s “Ovid”
may be excepted, which is read with eagerness. The “Iliad”
of Salvini every reader may discover to be punctiliously exact; but
it seems to be the work of a linguist skilfully pedantic; and his countrymen,
the proper judges of its power to please, reject it with disgust.
Their predecessors, the Romans, have left some specimens of translation
behind them, and that employment must have had some credit in which
Tully and Germanicus engaged; but unless we suppose, what is perhaps
true, that the plays of Terence were versions of Menander, nothing translated
seems ever to have risen to high reputation. The French in the
meridian hour of their learning were very laudably industrious to enrich
their own language with the wisdom of the ancients; but found themselves
reduced by whatever necessity to turn the Greek and Roman poetry into
prose. Whoever could read an author could translate him.
From such rivals little can be feared.
The chief help of Pope in this audacious undertaking was drawn from
the versions of Dryden. Virgil had borrowed much of his imagery
from Homer; and part of the debt was now paid by his translator.
Pope searched the pages of Dryden for happy combinations of heroic diction,
but it will not be denied that he added much to what he found.
He cultivated our language with so much diligence and art, that he has
left in his “Homer” a treasure of poetical elegances to
posterity. His version may be said to have tuned the English tongue;
for since its appearance no writer, however deficient in other powers,
has wanted melody. Such a series of lines, so elaborately corrected,
and so sweetly modulated, took possession of the public ear; the vulgar
was enamoured of the poem, and the learned wondered at the translation.
But in the most general applause discordant voices will always be heard.
It has been objected by some who wish to be numbered among the sons
of learning that Pope’s version of Homer is not Homerical; that
it exhibits no resemblance of the original and characteristic manner
of the Father of Poetry, as it wants his artless grandeur, his unaffected
majesty. This cannot be totally denied; but it must be remembered
that necessitas quod cogit defendit; that may be lawfully done
which cannot be forborne. Time and place will always enforce regard.
In estimating this translation, consideration must be had of the nature
of our language, the form of our metre, and, above all, of the change
which two thousand years have made in the modes of life and the habits
of thought. Virgil wrote in a language of the same general fabric
with that of Homer, in verses of the same measure, and in an age nearer
to Homer’s time by eighteen hundred years; yet he found even then
the state of the world so much altered, and the demand for elegance
so much increased, that mere nature would be endured no longer; and,
perhaps, in the multitude of borrowed passages, very few can be shown
which he has not embellished.
There is a time when nations, emerging from barbarity, and falling into
regular subordination, gain leisure to grow wise, and feel the shame
of ignorance and the craving pain of unsatisfied curiosity. To
this hunger of the mind plain sense is grateful; that which fills the
void removes uneasiness, and to be free from pain for a while is pleasure;
but repletion generates fastidiousness; a saturated intellect soon becomes
luxurious, and knowledge finds no willing reception till it is recommended
by artificial diction. Thus it will be found, in the progress
of learning, that in all nations the first writers are simple, and that
every age improves in elegance. One refinement always makes way
for another; and what was expedient to Virgil was necessary to Pope.
I suppose many readers of the English “Iliad,” when they
have been touched with some unexpected beauty of the lighter kind, have
tried to enjoy it in the original, where, alas! it was not to be found.
Homer doubtless owes to his translator many Ovidian graces not exactly
suitable to his character; but to have added can be no great crime,
if nothing be taken away. Elegance is surely to be desired, if
it be not gained at the expense of dignity. A hero would wish
to be loved, as well as to be reverenced. To a thousand cavils
one answer is sufficient; the purpose of a writer is to be read, and
the criticism which would destroy the power of pleasing must be blown
aside. Pope wrote for his own age and his own nation: he knew
that it was necessary to colour the images and point the sentiments
of his author; he therefore made him graceful, but lost him some of
his sublimity. The copious notes with which the version is accompanied,
and by which it is recommended to many readers, though they were undoubtedly
written to swell the volumes, ought not to pass without praise: commentaries
which attract the reader by the pleasure of perusal have not often appeared;
the notes of others are read to clear difficulties; those of Pope to
vary entertainment. It has, however, been objected, with sufficient
reason, that there is in the commentary too much of unseasonable levity
and affected gaiety; that too many appeals are made to the ladies, and
the ease which is so carefully preserved is sometimes the ease of a
trifler. Every art has its terms, and every kind of instruction
its proper style; the gravity of common critics may be tedious, but
is less despicable than childish merriment.
Of the “Odyssey” nothing remains to be observed; the same
general praise may be given to both translations, and a particular examination
of either would require a large volume. The notes were written
by Broome, who endeavoured, not unsuccessfully, to imitate his master.
Of the “Dunciad” the hint is confessedly taken from Dryden’s
“Mac Flecknoe;” but the plan is so enlarged and diversified
as justly to claim the praise of an original, and affords the best specimen
that has yet appeared of personal satire ludicrously pompous.
That the design was moral, whatever the author might tell either his
readers or himself, I am not convinced. The first motive was the
desire of revenging the contempt with which Theobald had treated his
Shakspeare, and regaining the honour which he had lost, by crushing
his opponent. Theobald was not of bulk enough to fill a poem,
and therefore it was necessary to find other enemies with other names,
at whose expense he might divert the public.
In this design there was petulance and malignity enough; but I cannot
think it very criminal. An author places himself uncalled before
the tribunal of criticism, and solicits fame at the hazard of disgrace.
Dulness or deformity are not culpable in themselves, but may be very
justly reproached when they pretend to the honour of wit or the influence
of beauty. If bad writers were to pass without reprehension, what
should restrain them? impune diem consumpserit ingens Telephus;
and upon bad writers only will censure have much effect. The satire
which brought Theobald and Moore into contempt dropped impotent from
Bentley, like the javelin of Priam. All truth is valuable, and
satirical criticism may be considered as useful when it rectifies error
and improves judgment; he that refines the public taste is a public
benefactor. The beauties of this poem are well known; its chief
fault is the grossness of its images. Pope and Swift had an unnatural
delight in ideas physically impure, such as every other tongue utters
with unwillingness, and of which every ear shrinks from the mention.
But even this fault, offensive as it is, may be forgiven for the excellence
of other passages; such as the formation and dissolution of Moore, the
account of the Traveller, the misfortune of the Florist, and the crowded
thoughts and stately numbers which dignify the concluding paragraph.
The alterations which have been made in the “Dunciad,” not
always for the better, require that it should be published, as in the
present collection, with all its variations.
The “Essay on Man” was a work of great labour and long consideration,
but certainly not the happiest of Pope’s performances. The
subject is perhaps not very proper for poetry; and the poet was not
sufficiently master of his subject; metaphysical morality was to him
a new study; he was proud of his acquisitions, and, supposing himself
master of great secrets, was in haste to teach what he had not learned.
Thus he tells us, in the first Epistle, that from the nature of the
Supreme Being may be deduced an order of beings such as mankind, because
infinite excellence can do only what is best. He finds out that
these beings must be “somewhere;” and that “all the
question is, whether man be in a wrong place.” Surely if,
according to the poet’s Leibnitzian reasoning, we may infer that
man ought to be, only because he is, we may allow that his place is
the right place, because he has it. Supreme Wisdom is not less
infallible in disposing than in creating. But what is meant by
somewhere, and place, and wrong piece, it had been
in vain to ask Pope, who probably had never asked himself.
Having exalted himself into the chair of wisdom, he tells us much that
every man knows, and much that he does not know himself; that we see
but little, and that the order of the universe is beyond our comprehension;
an opinion not very uncommon; and that there is a chain of subordinate
beings “from infinite to nothing,” of which himself and
his readers are equally ignorant. But he gives us one comfort,
which without his help he supposes unattainable, in the position “that
though we are fools, yet God is wise.”
This essay affords an egregious instance of the predominance of genius,
the dazzling splendour of imagery, and the seductive powers of eloquence.
Never was penury of knowledge and vulgarity of sentiment so happily
disguised. The reader feels his mind full, though he learns nothing;
and, when he meets it in its new array, no longer knows the talk of
his mother and his nurse. When these wonder-working sounds sink
into sense, and the doctrine of the essay, disrobed of its ornaments,
is left to the powers of its naked excellence, what shall we discover?
That we are, in comparison with our Creator, very weak and ignorant;
that we do not uphold the chain of existence; and that we could not
make one another with more skill than we are made. We may learn
yet more that the arts of human life were copied from the instinctive
operations of other animals; that if the world be made for man, it may
be said that man was made for geese. To these profound principles
of natural knowledge are added some moral instructions equally new;
that self-interest, well understood, will produce social concord; that
men are mutual gainers by mutual benefits; that evil is sometimes balanced
by good; that human advantages are unstable and fallacious, of uncertain
duration and doubtful effect; that our true honour is not to have a
great part, but to act it well; that virtue only is our own; and that
happiness is always in our power. Surely a man of no very comprehensive
search may venture to say that he has heard all this before; but it
was never till now recommended by such a blaze of embellishments, or
such sweetness of melody. The vigorous contraction of some thoughts,
the luxuriant amplification of others, the incidental illustrations,
and sometimes the dignity, sometimes the softness of the verses, enchain
philosophy, suspend criticism, and oppress judgment by overpowering
pleasure. This is true of many paragraphs; yet, if I had undertaken
to exemplify Pope’s felicity of composition before a rigid critic,
I should not select the “Essay on Man;” for it contains
more lines unsuccessfully laboured, more harshness of diction, and more
thoughts imperfectly expressed, more levity without elegance, and more
heaviness without strength, than will easily be found in all his other
works.
The “Characters of Men and Women” are the product of diligent
speculation upon human life; much labour has been bestowed upon them,
and Pope very seldom laboured in vain. That his excellence may
be properly estimated, I recommend a comparison of his “Characters
of Women” with Boileau’s Satire; it will then be seen with
how much more perspicacity female nature is investigated, and female
excellence selected; and he surely is no mean writer to whom Boileau
should be found inferior. The “Characters of Men,”
however, are written with more, if not with deeper, thought, and exhibit
many passages exquisitely beautiful. The “Gem and the Flower”
will not easily be equalled. In the women’s part are some
defects; the character of Atossa is not so neatly finished as that of
Clodio, and some of the female characters may be found, perhaps, more
frequently among men; what is said of Philomede was true of Prior.
In the Epistles to Lord Bathurst and Lord Burlington, Dr. Warburton
has endeavoured to find a train of thought which was never in the writer’s
head, and, to support his hypothesis, has printed that first which was
published last. In one the most valuable passage is perhaps the
Elegy on Good Sense, and the other the end of the Duke of Buckingham.
The Epistle to Arbuthnot, now arbitrarily called the “Prologue
to the Satires,” is a performance consisting, as it seems, of
many fragments wrought into one design, which, by this union of scattered
beauties, contains more striking paragraphs than could probably have
been brought together into an occasional work. As there is no
stronger motive to exertion than self-defence, no part has more elegance,
spirit, or dignity, than the poet’s vindication of his own character.
The meanest passage is the satire upon Sporus.
Of the two poems which derived their names from the year, and which
are called the “Epilogue to the Satires,” it was very justly
remarked by Savage that the second was in the whole more strongly conceived,
and more equally supported, but that it had no single passages equal
to the contention in the first for the dignity of Vice and the celebration
of the triumph of Corruption.
The “Imitations of Horace” seem to have been written as
relaxations of his genius. This employment became his favourite
by its facility; the plan was ready to his hand, and nothing was required
but to accommodate as he could the sentiments of an old author to recent
facts or familiar images; but what is easy is seldom excellent.
Such imitations cannot give pleasure to common readers; the man of learning
may be sometimes surprised and delighted by an unexpected parallel,
but the comparison requires knowledge of the original, which will likewise
often detect strained applications. Between Roman images and English
manners there will be an irreconcilable dissimilitude, and the works
will be generally uncouth and parti-coloured, neither original nor translated,
neither ancient nor modern.
Pope had, in proportions very nicely adjusted to each other, all the
qualities that constitute genius. He had intention, by
which new trains of events are formed and new scenes of imagery displayed,
as in the “Rape of the Lock,” and by which extrinsic and
adventitious embellishments and illustrations are connected with a known
subject, as in the “Essay on Criticism.” He had imagination,
which strongly impresses on the writer’s mind, and enables
him to convey to the reader the various forms of nature, incidents of
life, and energies of passion, as in his “Eloisa,” “Windsor
Forest,” and “Ethic Epistles.” He had judgment,
which selects from life or Nature what the present purpose requires,
and by separating the essence of things from its concomitants, often
makes the representation more powerful than the reality; and he had
colours of language always before him, ready to decorate his matter
with every grace of elegant expression, as when he accommodates his
diction to the wonderful multiplicity of Homer’s sentiments and
descriptions.
Poetical expression includes sound as well as meaning. “Music,”
says Dryden, “is inarticulate poetry;” among the excellences
of Pope, therefore, must be mentioned the melody of his metre.
By perusing the works of Dryden, he discovered the most perfect fabric
of English verse, and habituated himself to that only which he found
the best; in consequence of which restraint his poetry has been censured
as too uniformly musical, and as glutting the ear with unvaried sweetness.
I suspect this objection to be the cant of those who judge by principles
rather than perception, and who would even themselves have less pleasure
in his works if he had tried to relieve attention by studied discords,
or affected to break his lines and vary his pauses. But though
he was thus careful of his versification, he did not oppress his powers
with superfluous rigour. He seems to have thought with Boileau
that the practice of writing might be refined till the difficulty should
overbalance the advantage. The construction of the language is
not always strictly grammatical; with those rhymes which prescription
had conjoined he contented himself, without regard to Swift’s
remonstrances, though there was no striking consonance, nor was he very
careful to vary his terminations or to refuse admission, at a small
distance, to the same rhymes. To Swift’s edict for the exclusion
of alexandrines and triplets he paid little regard; he admitted them,
but, in the opinion of Fenton, too rarely; he uses them more liberally
in his translation than his poems. He has a few double rhymes,
and always, I think, unsuccessfully, except once in the “Rape
of the Lock.” Expletives he very early ejected from his
verses, but he now and then admits an epithet rather commodious than
important. Each of the six first lines of the “Iliad”
might lose two syllables with very little diminution of the meaning,
and sometimes, after all his art and labour, one verse seems to be made
for the sake of another. In his latter productions the diction
is sometimes vitiated by French idioms, with which Bolingbroke had perhaps
infected him.
I have been told that the couplet by which he declared his own ear to
be most gratified was this:-
“Lo, where Mæotis sleeps, and hardly flows
The freezing Tanais through a waste of snows.”
But the reason of this preference I cannot discover.
It is remarked by Watts that there is scarcely a happy combination of
words, or a phrase poetically elegant in the English language, which
Pope has not inserted into his version of Homer. How he obtained
possession of so many beauties of speech it were desirable to know.
That he gleaned from authors, obscure as well as eminent, what he thought
brilliant or useful, and preserved it all in a regular collection, is
not unlikely. When, in his last years, Hall’s “Satires”
were shown him, he wished that he had seen them sooner. New sentiments
and new images others may produce; but to attempt any further improvement
of versification will be dangerous. Art and diligence have now
done their best, and what shall be added will be the effort of tedious
toil and needless curiosity. After all this, it is surely superfluous
to answer the question that has once been asked, Whether Pope was a
poet, otherwise than by asking in return, If Pope be not a poet, where
is poetry to be found? To circumscribe poetry by a definition
will only show the narrowness of the definer, though a definition which
shall exclude Pope will not easily be made. Let us look round
upon the present time and back upon the past; let us inquire to whom
the voice of mankind has decreed the wreath of poetry; let their productions
be examined, and their claims stated, and the pretensions of Pope will
be no more disputed. Had he given the world only his version,
the name of poet must have been allowed him: if the writer of the “Iliad”
were to class his successors he would assign a very high place to his
translator, without requiring any other evidence of genius.
The following letter, of which the original is in the hands of Lord
Hardwicke, was communicated to me by the kindness of Mr. Jodrell:-
“To MR. BRIDGES, at the Bishop of London’s, at
Fulham.
“SIR, - The favour of your letter, with your remarks, can never
be enough acknowledged, and the speed with which you discharged so troublesome
a task doubles the obligation.
“I must own you have pleased me very much by the commendations
so ill bestowed upon me; but I assure you, much more by the frankness
of your censure, which I ought to take the more kindly of the two, as
it is more advantage to a scribbler to be improved in his judgment than
to be smoothed in his vanity. The greater part of those deviations
from the Greek which you have observed I was led into by Chapman and
Hobbes; who are, it seems, as much celebrated for their knowledge of
the original as they are decried for the badness of their translations.
Chapman pretends to have restored the genuine sense of the author from
the mistakes of all former explainers in several hundred places; and
the Cambridge editors of the large Homer, in Greek and Latin, attributed
so much to Hobbes, that they confess they have corrected the old Latin
interpretation very often by his version. For my part, I generally
took the author’s meaning to be as you have explained it; yet
their authority, joined to the knowledge of my own imperfectness in
the language, overruled me. However, sir, you may be confident,
I think you in the right, because you happen to be of my opinion; for
men (let them say what they will) never approve any other’s sense
but as it squares with their own. But you have made me much more
proud of and positive in my judgment, since it is strengthened by yours.
I think your criticisms which regard the expression very just, and shall
make my profit of them; to give you some proof that I am in earnest,
I will alter three verses on your bare objection, though I have Mr.
Dryden’s example for each of them. And this, I hope, you
will account no small piece of obedience, from one who values the authority
of one true poet above that of twenty critics or commentators.
But, though I speak thus of commentators, I will continue to read carefully
all I can procure, to make up that way for my own want of critical understanding
in the original beauties of Homer. Though the greatest of them
are certainly those of invention and design, which are not at all confined
to the language; for the distinguishing excellences of Homer are (by
the consent of the best critics of all nations), first in the manners
(which include all the speeches, as being no other than the representations
of each person’s manners by his words): and then in that rapture
and fire, which carries you away with him, with that wonderful force,
that no man who has a true poetical spirit is master of himself while
he reads him. Homer makes you interested and concerned before
you are aware, all at once, where Virgil does it by soft degrees.
This, I believe, is what a translator of Homer ought principally to
imitate; and it is very hard for any translator to come up to it, because
the chief reason why all translations fall short of their originals
is, that the very constraint they are obliged to renders them heavy
and dispirited.
“The great beauty of Homer’s language, as I take it, consists
in that noble simplicity which runs through all his works (and yet his
diction, contrary to what one would imagine consistent with simplicity,
is at the same time very copious). I don’t know how I have
run into this pedantry in a letter, but I find I have said too much,
as well as spoken too inconsiderately; what farther thoughts I have
upon this subject I shall be glad to communicate to you (for my own
improvement) when we meet, which is a happiness I very earnestly desire,
as I do likewise some opportunity of proving how much I think myself
obliged to your friendship, and how truly I am, sir,
“Your most faithful humble servant,
“A. POPE.”
The criticism upon Pope’s Epitaphs, which was printed in “The
Universal Visitor,” is placed here, being too minute and particular
to be inserted in the Life.
Every art is best taught by example. Nothing contributes more
to the cultivation of propriety than remarks on the works of those who
have most excelled. I shall therefore endeavour at this visit
to entertain the young students in poetry with an examination of Pope’s
Epitaphs.
To define an epitaph is useless; every one knows that it is an inscription
on a tomb. An epitaph, therefore, implies no particular character
of writing, but may be composed in verse or prose. It is, indeed,
commonly panegyrical, because we are seldom distinguished with a stone
but by our friends; but it has no rule to restrain or mollify it except
this, that it ought not to be longer than common beholders may be expected
to have leisure and patience to peruse.
On CHARLES Earl of DORSET, in the church of Wythyham
in Sussex.
Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muse’s
pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state;
Yet soft in nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Blest satirist! who touched the means so true,
As showed Vice had his hate and pity too.
Blest courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred kept his friendship and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefathers’ every grace
Reflecting, and reflected on his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patriots still, or pests, deck the line.
The first distich of this epitaph contains a kind of information which
few would want, that the man for whom the tomb was erected died.
There are indeed some qualities worthy of the praise ascribed to the
dead, but none that were likely to exempt him from the lot of man, or
incline us much to wonder that he should die. What is meant by
“judge of nature” is not easy to say. Nature is not
the object of human judgment; for it is in vain to judge where we cannot
alter. If by nature is meant what is commonly called nature
by the critics, a just representation of things really existing,
and actions really performed, nature cannot be properly opposed to art;
nature being, in this sense, only the best effect of art.
The scourge of pride -
Of this couplet the second line is not what is intended, an illustration
of the former. Pride in the Great, is indeed well
enough connected with knaves in state, though knaves is a word
rather too ludicrous and light; but the mention of sanctified pride
will not lead the thoughts to fops in learning, but rather to
some species of tyranny or oppression, something more gloomy and more
formidable than foppery.
Yet soft his nature -
This is a high compliment, but was not first bestowed on Dorset by Pope.
The next verse is extremely beautiful.
Blest satirist! -
In this distich is another line of which Pope was not the author.
I do not mean to blame these imitations with much harshness; in long
performances they are scarcely to be avoided, and in shorter they may
be indulged, because the train of the composition may naturally involve
them, or the scantiness of the subject allow little choice. However,
what is borrowed is not to be enjoyed as our own, and it is the business
of critical justice to give every bird of the Muses his proper feather.
Blest courtier! -
Whether a courtier can properly be commended for keeping his ease
sacred, may perhaps be disputable. To please king and country
without sacrificing friendship to any change of times was a very uncommon
instance of prudence or felicity, and deserved to be kept separate from
so poor a commendation as care of his ease. I wish our poets would
attend a little more accurately to the use of the word sacred, which
surely should never be applied in a serious composition, but where some
reference may be made to a higher Being, or where some duty is exacted
or implied. A man may keep his friendship sacred, because promises
of friendship are very awful ties; but methinks he cannot, but in a
burlesque sense, be said to keep his ease sacred.
Blest peer! -
The blessing ascribed to the peer has no connection with his
peerage; they might happen to any other man whose posterity were likely
to be regarded.
I know not whether this epitaph be worthy either of the writer or the
man entombed.
II.
On Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL, one of the principal Secretaries
of State to King WILLIAM III., who, having resigned his place,
died in his retirement at Easthamstead, in Berkshire, 1716.
A pleasing form, a firm, yet cautious mind,
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resigned;
Honour unchanged, a principle profest.
Fixed to one side, but moderate to the rest;
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too,
Just to his prince, and to his country true;
Filled with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A generous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny;
Such this man was; who new from earth removed
At length enjoys that liberty he loved.
In this epitaph, as in many others, there appears at the first view
a fault which I think scarcely any beauty can compensate. The
name is omitted. The end of an epitaph is to convey some account
of the dead; and to what purpose is anything told of him whose name
is concealed? An epitaph, and a history of a nameless hero, are
equally absurd, since the virtues and qualities so recounted in either
are scattered at the mercy of fortune to be appropriated by guess.
The name, it is true, may be read upon the stone; but what obligation
has it to the poet, whose verses wander over the earth and leave their
subject behind them, and who is forced, like an unskilful painter, to
make his purpose known by adventitious help? This epitaph is wholly
without elevation, and contains nothing striking or particular; but
the poet is not to be blamed for the defect of his subject. He
said perhaps the best that could be said. There are, however,
some defects which were not made necessary by the character in which
he was employed. There is no opposition between an honest courtier
and a patriot; for an honest, courtier cannot but
be a patriot. It was unsuitable to the nicety required
in short compositions to close his verse with the word too; every
rhyme should be a word of emphasis: nor can this rule be safely neglected,
except where the length of the poem makes slight inaccuracies excusable,
or allows room for beauties sufficient to overpower the effects of petty
faults.
At the beginning of the seventh line the word filled is weak
and prosaic, having no particular adaptation to any of the words that
follow it. The thought in the last line is impertinent, having
no connection with the foregoing character, nor with the condition of
the man described. Had the epitaph been written on the poor conspirator
who died lately in prison, after a confinement of more than forty years,
without any crime proved against him, the sentiment had been just and
pathetical; but why should Trumbull be congratulated upon his liberty
who had never known restraint?
III.
On the Hon. SIMON HARCOURT, only son of the Lord Chancellor
HARCOURT, at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt in Oxfordshire, 1720.
To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw
near,
Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear;
Who ne’er knew joy, but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.
How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father’s sorrows mix his own!
This epitaph is principally remarkable for the artful introduction of
the name, which is inserted with a peculiar felicity, to which chance
must concur with genius, which no man can hope to attain twice, and
which cannot be copied but with servile imitation. I cannot but
wish that, of this inscription, the two last lines had been omitted,
as they take away from the energy what they do not add to the sense.
IV.
On JAMES CRAGGS, Esq., in Westminster Abbey.
JACOBVS CRAGS,
REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIAE A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBVS,
PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPVLI AMOR ET DELICIAE:
VIXIT TITLIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR
ANNOS HEV PAVCOS, XXXV.
OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.
Statesman, yet friend to truth; of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no premise, served no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
Praised, wept, and honoured by the Muse he loved.
The lines on Craggs were not originally intended for an epitaph; and
therefore some faults are to be imputed to the violence with which they
are torn from the poems that first contained them. We may, however,
observe some defects. There is a redundancy of words in the first
couplet: it is superfluous to tell of him, who was sincere, true,
and faithful, that he was in honour clear. There
seems to be an opposition intended in the fourth line, which is not
very obvious: where is the relation between the two positions, that
he gained no title and lest no friend?
It may be proper here to remark the absurdity of joining in the same
inscription Latin and English or verse and prose. If either language
be preferable to the other, let that only be used; for no reason can
be given why part of the information should be given in one tongue,
and part in another on a tomb, more than in any other place, or any
other occasion; and to tell all that can be conveniently told in verse,
and then to call in the help of prose, has always the appearance of
a very artless expedient, or of an attempt unaccomplished. Such
an epitaph resembles the conversation of a foreigner, who tells part
of his meaning by words, and conveys part by signs.
V.
Intended for Mr. ROWE, in Westminster Abbey.
Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And sacred, place by Dryden’s awful dust;
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest;
One grateful women to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.
Of this inscription the chief fault is that it belongs less to Rowe,
for whom it was written, than to Dryden, who was buried near him; and
indeed gives very little information concerning either.
To wish peace to thy shade is too mythological to be admitted
into a Christian temple: the ancient worship has infected almost all
our other compositions, and might therefore be contented to spare our
epitaphs. Let fiction, at least, cease with life, and let us be
serious over the grave.
VI.
On Mrs. CORBET, who died of a Cancer in her Breast.
Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense;
No conquest she, but o’er herself, desired;
No arts essayed, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that Virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind,
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refined,
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;
The saint sustained it, but the woman died.
I have always considered this as the most valuable of all Pope’s
epitaphs; the subject of it is a character not discriminated by any
shining or eminent peculiarities; yet that which really makes, though
not the splendour, the felicity of life, and that which every wise man
will choose for his final and lasting companion in the languor of age,
in the quiet of privacy, when he departs weary and disgusted from the
ostentatious, the volatile, and the vain. Of such a character,
which the dull overlook and the gay despise, it was fit that the value
should be made known and the dignity established. Domestic virtue,
as it is exerted without great occasions, or conspicuous consequences,
in an even unnoted tenor, required the genius of Pope to display it
in such a manner as might attract regard and enforce reverence.
Who can forbear to lament that this amiable woman has no name in the
verses? If the particular lines of this inscription be examined,
it will appear less faulty than the rest. There is scarce one
line taken from commonplaces, unless it be that in which only Virtue
is said to be our own. I once heard a lady of great
beauty and excellence object to the fourth line that it contained an
unnatural and incredible panegyric. Of this let the ladies judge.
VII.
On the Monument of the Hon. ROBERT DIGBY, and of his Sister
MARY, erected by their Father the Lord DIGBY in the church
of Sherborne in Dorsetshire, 1727
Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth:
Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great
Just of thy word, in every thought sincere,
Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:
Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human kind:
Go, live! for heaven’s eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy mortal to divine.
And thou, blest maid! attendant on his doom.
Pensive hast followed to the silent tomb,
Steered the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more!
Go, then, where only bliss sincere is known!
Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!
Yet take these tears, Mortality’s relief,
And, till we share your joys, forgive our grief:
These little rites a stone, a verse receive.
’Tis all a father, all a friend can give!
This epitaph contains of the brother only a general indiscriminate character,
and of the sister tells nothing but that she died. The difficulty
in writing epitaphs is to give a particular and appropriate praise.
This, however, is not always to be performed, whatever be the diligence
or ability of the writer; for the greater part of mankind have no
character at all, have little that distinguishes them from others,
equally good or bad, and therefore nothing can be said of them which
may not be applied with equal propriety to a thousand more. It
is indeed no great panegyric that there is enclosed in this tomb one
who was born in one year, and died in another; yet many useful and amiable
lives have been spent which yet leave little materials for any other
memorial. These are however not the proper subjects of poetry;
and whenever friendship, or any other motive, obliges a poet to write
on such subjects, he must be forgiven if he sometimes wanders in generalities,
and utters the same praises over different tombs.
The scantiness of human praises can scarcely be made more apparent than
by remarking how often Pope has, in the few epitaphs which he composed,
found it necessary to borrow from himself. The fourteen epitaphs
which he has written comprise about a hundred and forty lines, in which
there are more repetitions than will easily be found in all the rest
of his works. In the eight lines which make the character of Digby
there is scarce any thought or word which may not be found in the other
epitaphs. The ninth line, which is far the strongest and most
elegant, is borrowed from Dryden. The conclusion is the same with
that on Harcourt, but is here more elegant and better connected.
VIII.
On Sir GODFREY KNELLER, in Westminster Abbey, 1723.
Kneller, by Heaven, and not a master, taught,
Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures thought;
Now for two ages, having snatched from fate
Whate’er was beauteous, or whate’er was great,
Lies crowned with Princes, honours, Poets, lays,
Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise.
Living, great Nature feared he might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.
Of this epitaph the first couplet is good, the second not bad, the third
is deformed with a broken metaphor, the word crowned not being applicable
to the honours or the lays, and the fourth is not only borrowed from
the epitaph on Raphael, but of a very harsh construction.
IX.
On General HENRY WITHERS, in Westminster Abbey, 1729.
Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind,
Thy country’s friend, but more of human kind.
O born to arms! O worth in youth approved!
O soft humanity in age beloved!
For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere
Withers, adieu! yet not will thee remove
Thy martial spirit, or thy social love!
Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Still leave some ancient virtues to our age:
Nor let us say (those English glories gone)
The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.
The epitaph on Withers affords another instance of commonplaces, though
somewhat diversified by mingled qualities, and the peculiarity of a
profession. The second couplet is abrupt, general, and unpleasing;
exclamation seldom succeeds in our language; and, I think, it may be
observed that the particle O! used at the beginning of a sentence, always
offends. The third couplet is more happy; the value expressed
for him, by different sorts of men, raises him to esteem; there is yet
something of the common cant of superficial satirists, who suppose that
the insincerity of a courtier destroys all his sensations, and that
he is equally a dissembler to the living and the dead. At the
third couplet I should wish the epitaph to close, but that I should
be unwilling to lose the two next lines, which yet are dearly bought
if they cannot be retained without the four that follow them.
X.
On Mr. ELIJAH FENTON, at Easthamstead in Berkshire, 1730.
This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, Here lies an honest man:
A poet, blest beyond the poet’s fate,
Whom Heaven kept sacred from the Proud and Great:
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace.
Calmly he looked on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret or there to fear;
From Nature’s temperate feast rose satisfied,
Thanked Heaven that he lived, and that he died.
The first couplet of this epitaph is borrowed from Crashaw. The
four next lines contain a species of praise peculiar, original, and
just. Here, therefore, the inscription should have ended, the
latter part containing nothing but what is common to every man who is
wise and good. The character of Fenton was so amiable, that I
cannot forbear to wish for some poet or biographer to display it more
fully for the advantage of posterity. If he did not stand in the
first rank of genius, he may claim a place in the second; and, whatever
criticism may object to his writings, censure could find very little
to blame in his life.
XI.
On Mr. GAY, in Westminster Abbey, 1732.
Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a muse; simplicity, a child:
With native humour tempering virtuous rage,
Formed to delight at once and lash the age:
Above temptation, in a low estate,
And uncorrupted, ev’n among the Great:
A safe companion and an easy friend,
Unbiased through life, lamented in thy end,
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mixed with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the Good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms - Here lies GAY.
As Gay was the favourite of our author this epitaph was probably written
with an uncommon degree of attention, yet it is not more successfully
executed than the rest, for it will not always happen that the success
of a poet is proportionate to his labour. The same observation
may be extended to all works of imagination, which are often influenced
by causes wholly out of the performer’s power, by hints of which
he perceives not the origin, by sudden elevations of mind which he cannot
produce in himself, and which sometimes rise when he expects them least.
The two parts of the first line are only echoes of each other; gentle
manners and mild affections, if they mean anything, must
mean the same.
That Gay was a man in wit is a very frigid commendation; to have
the wit of a man is not much for a poet. The wit of man and
the simplicity of a child make a poor and vulgar contrast, and
raise no ideas of excellence, either intellectual or moral.
In the next couplet rage is less properly introduced after the
mention of mildness and gentleness, which are made the
constituents of his character; for a man so mild and gentle
to temper his rage was not difficult. The next
line is inharmonious in its sound, and mean in its conception; the opposition
is obvious, and the word lash used absolutely, and without any
modification, is gross and improper. To be above temptation
in poverty and free from corruption among the Great is indeed
such a peculiarity as deserved notice. But to be a safe companion
is a praise merely negative, arising not from possession of virtue
but the absence of vice, and that one of the most odious.
As little can be added to his character by asserting that he was lamented
in his end. Every man that dies is, at least by the writer
of his epitaph, supposed to be lamented, and therefore this general
lamentation does no honour to Gay.
The first eight lines have no grammar; the adjectives are without any
substantive, and the epithets without a subject. The thought in
the last line, that Gay is buried in the bosoms of the worthy and
good, who are distinguished only to lengthen the line, is so
dark that few understand it, and so harsh, when it is explained, that
still fewer approve.
XII.
Intended for Sir ISAAC NEWTON, in Westminster Abbey.
ISAACUS NEWTONIUS:
Quem Immortalem
Testantur, Tempus, Natura, Cœlum:
Mortalem hoc marmor fatetur.
Nature, and Nature’s laws, lay hid in night:
God said, Let Newton be! And all was light.
On this epitaph, short as it is, the faults seem not to be very few.
Why part should be Latin and part English it is not easy to discover.
In the Latin the opposition of Immortalis and Mortalis is
a mere sound, or a mere quibble; he is not immortal in any sense
contrary to that in which he is mortal. In the verses the
thought is obvious, and the words night and light are
too nearly allied.
XIII.
On EDMUND Duke of BUCKINGHAM, who died in the 19th
Year of his Age, 1735.
If modest youth, with cool reflection crowned,
And every opening virtue blooming round,
Could save a parent’s justest pride from fate,
Or add one patriot to a sinking state;
This weeping marble had not asked thy tear,
Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!
The living virtue now had shone approved,
The senate heard him, and his country loved.
Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame,
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham:
In whom a race, for courage famed and art,
Ends in the milder merit of the heart;
And, chiefs or sages long to Britain given,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to heaven.
This epitaph Mr. Warburton prefers to the rest, but I know not for what
reason. To crown with reflection is surely a mode
of speech approaching to nonsense. Opening virtues blooming
round is something like tautology; the six following lines are poor
and prosaic. Art is in another couplet used for arts,
that a rhyme may be had to heart. The six last lines
are the best, but not excellent.
The rest of his sepulchral performances hardly deserve the notice of
criticism. The contemptible dialogue between He and She should
have been suppressed for the author’s sake.
In his last epitaph on himself, in which he attempts to be jocular upon
one of the few things that make wise men serious, he confounds the living
man with the dead:
“Under this stone, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, &c.”
When a man is once buried, the question, under what he is buried, is
easily decided. He forgot that though he wrote the epitaph in
a state of uncertainty, yet it could not be laid over him till his grave
was made. Such is the folly of wit when it is ill employed.
The world has but little new, even this wretchedness seems to have been
borrowed from the following tuneless lines:-
“Ludovici Areosti humantur ossa
Sub hoc marmore, vel sub hac humo, seu
Sub quicquid voluit benignus hæres
Siv hærede benignior comes, seu
Opportunius incidens Viator:
Nam scire haud potuit futura, sed nec
Tanti erat vacuum sibi cadaver
Ut utnam cuperet parere vivens,
Vivens ista tamen sibi paravit.
Quæ inscribi voluit suo sepulchro
Olim siquod haberetis sepulchrum.”
Surely Ariosto did not venture to expect that his trifle would have
ever had such an illustrious imitator.
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