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: