Produced by Al Haines
ENGLISH LANDS LETTERS AND KINGS
Queen Anne and the Georges
BY
DONALD G. MITCHELL
NEW YORK
Charles Scribner's Sons
MDCCCXCVII
Copyright, 1895, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
ENGLISH LANDS LETTERS AND KINGS
_By Donald G. Mitchell_
I. from Celt to Tudor
II. From Elizabeth to Anne
III. Queen Anne and the Georges
IV. The Later Georges to Victoria
_Each 1 vol., 12mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50_
AMERICAN LANDS AND LETTERS
From the Mayflower to Rip Van Winkel
_1 vol., square 12mo, Illustrated, $2.50_
_LETTER OF DEDICATION_
[To Mrs. Grover Cleveland.]
MY DEAR MADAM:
_Many bookmakers of that early Georgian period covered by this little
volume eagerly sought to dignify their opening pages with the name and
titles of some high-placed patron or patroness. It is not, my dear
Madam, to revive this practice that I have asked permission to inscribe
this little book to so worthy an occupant of the Presidential Mansion;
but, rather, I have had in mind the courteous reception which--while
yet an inmate of a college on the beautiful banks of Cayuga Lake--you
once gave to some portions of the literary talk embodied in these
pages; and remembering, furthermore, the unswerving dignity, and the
unabating womanly gentleness by which you have conquered and adorned
the trying conditions of a high career, I have wished to add my
applause (as I do now and here) for the grace and kindliness which have
ennobled your life, and made us all proud of such an example of
American womanhood._
_Very respectfully yours,_
Don^d. G. Mitchell.
_Edgewood, June,_ 1895.
{vii}
_CONTENTS._
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
An Irish Bishop, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
A Scholar, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Two Doctors, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Lady Wortley Montagu, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Alexander Pope, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
His Poetic Methods, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
The Rape of the Lock, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
Pope's Homer, and Life at Twickenham, . . . . . . . . . . 43
His Last Days, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
CHAPTER II.
From Stuart to Brunswick, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Samuel, Richardson, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Harry Fielding, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Poet of the Seasons, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Thomas Gray, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
A Courtier, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
Young Mr. Johnson, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
{viii}
CHAPTER III.
Johnson and Rasselas, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
The Painter and the Club, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Some Old Club-Men, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Mr. Boswell, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Gibbon, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
Oliver Goldsmith, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130
The Thrales and the End, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
CHAPTER IV.
A Scottish Historian, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
A Pair of Poets, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
Miss Burney, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Hannah More, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
CHAPTER V.
King George III., . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
Two Orators, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188
An Orator and Playwright, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
The Boy Chatterton, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202
Laurence Sterne, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
CHAPTER VI.
Macpherson and other Scots, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
George Crabbe, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231
William Cowper, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
His Later Life, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
{ix}
CHAPTER VII.
Parson White, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259
A Hampshire Novelist, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
Old Juvenilia, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
Miss Edgeworth, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277
Some Early Romanticism, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281
Vathek, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
Robert Burns, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291
CHAPTER VIII.
A Banker Poet, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301
Coleridge, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
Charles Lamb, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319
Wordsworth, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327
His Poems, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 330
Personal History, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337
{1}
_ENGLISH LANDS, LETTERS, & KINGS._
CHAPTER I.
We open in this book upon times--belonging to the earlier quarter of
the eighteenth century--when, upon the Continent of Europe, Peter the
Great was stamping out sites for cities in the bogs by the Finland
gulf--when that mad-cap Swedish King Charles XII. was cutting his
bloody swathe through Poland--when Louis XIV., tired at last of wars,
and more tired of Marlborough, was nearing the end of his magnificent
career, and when King Mammon was making ready his huge bloat of the
Mississippi Bubble for France and of the South Sea Company for England.
{2}
Queen Anne, that great lady of the abounding ringlets--so kindly and so
weak--was now free from the clutch of Sara of "Blenheim"; and veering
sometimes, under Harleyan influences, toward her half-brother the
"Pretender;" and other times under persuasion of such as Somers,
favoring her cousins of Hanover.
The visitor to London in those times could have taken the "Silent way"
along the river--a shilling for two oarsmen and sixpence for a
"scull"--from the Bridge to Limehouse; or he might encounter, along the
Strand, sooty chimney sweepers and noisy venders of eggs and butter,
with high-piled baskets upon their heads. Sir Roger de Coverley coming
to town--if we may believe Addison--cannot sleep the first week by
reason of the street cries; while Will Honeycomb, on the other hand,
likens these cries to songs of nightingales: always and everywhere this
difference of ear, between those who love the country and those who
love the towns!
There were lumbering hackney cabs in London streets to be hired at ten
shillings a day (of twelve hours) for those who preferred this to the
"Silent {3} way"; and there were grand coaches for those who could pay
for such display; evidences of wealth were growing year by year. The
Venetian Republic, now in its last days of power, made a brave if false
show upon London streets in those times. Luttrel[1] says, under date
of May, 1707:--
"Yesterday the V^n ambassadors made their public entry thro' the city
to Somerset House in great state and splendor; their coach of state
embroidered with gold, and the richest that ever was seen in England:
They had two with 8 horses, and eight with 6 horses, trimmed very fine
with ribbons; 48 footmen in blue velvet covered with gold lace; 24
gentlemen and pages on horseback with feathers in their hats, etc."
Dr. Swift, four years after, writes to Stella--"The Venetian coach is
the most monstrous, huge, fine, rich, gilt thing I ever saw."
_An Irish Bishop._
It could not have been more than two or three years after this sight of
the Venetian Coach that Dean Swift introduced to his friend Miss {4}
Vanhomrigh (Vanessa) a young protege of his, whom he had known at
Dublin, and who had made a great reputation there among thinkers, by an
ingenious _Theory of Vision_, and by his eloquent advocacy of an
Idealism, which he believed would cut away all standing ground for the
materialism that threatened Christian Faith.
[Sidenote: Bishop Berkeley.]
This protege was George Berkeley[2]--afterward Dean and Bishop--a most
engaging and winning person then and always. Addison befriended this
young philosopher, who wrote half a dozen papers for Steele's
_Guardian_, with much of Steele's grace in them, and more than Steele's
Christian earnestness. He went over to the Continent in the wake of a
British Ambassador--was four or five years there, variously employed,
equipping himself in worldly knowledge, and came back to warn[3]
Englishmen against that extravagance and {5} greed for money, which had
made possible the South-Sea disaster. New Yorkers might read the
warning with profit now. For himself, he comes presently to the
Deanship of Derry, and to a considerable legacy from that Miss
Vanhomrigh--the acquaintance of an hour--so impressed had she been by
Berkeley's promise of good. Nor was the promise ever belied.
With an altruism unusual then, and unusual now, he braved the loss of
his Deanship, and current friendships in England, and set his heart,
his energies, and his fortune upon a scheme for building up the English
colonies in America in ways of Christian living, and of learning. Long
before, the devout George Herbert had said that Religion was "ready to
pass to the American Strand;" and now Berkeley, fresh from the sight of
dearth and decay in Europe, was earnest in the belief that Christian
civilization was to win its greatest coming conquests "over seas." His
enthusiasms had, for once, carried him into verse, of which a prophetic
refrain has tingled in many an American ear:--
Westward the course of Empire takes its way!
{6}
The nidus of the good Dean's hopes and schemes lay in a great college
which was to be built up in the Summer Islands (Bermuda) where the air
"is perpetually fanned and kept cool by sea-breezes." But his
stepping-stone on the way thither was Rhode Island; and for the harbor
of Newport he sailed, with a few friends, and a newly married wife in
the year 1728, after long and weary waiting for a grant, which at last
is made good on parchment, but never made good in money.
[Sidenote: Berkeley at Newport.]
Yet he has faith; and for nearly three years lingers there at his farm
of Whitehall (the old house still standing), within sound of the surf
that breaks upon the ribbed and glistening sands of Newport beaches.
The winter is not so mild as in England, but he "has seen colder ones
in Italy." Possibly it may be well to set up the college in Newport
rather than the Summer Islands--when the grant comes: but the grant
does _not_ come. He makes friends of the farmers about him--of the
Quakers, the Methodists; sometimes he preaches at Trinity Church (still
there), and his sermons are unctuous with the broadest and most liberal
Churchism: "Sad," he says in one, "that {7} Religion, which requires us
to love, should become the cause of our hating one another." He
corresponds with Samuel Johnson, of Stratford, Ct.;[4] also, possibly,
with Mr. Jonathan Edwards, not as yet driven away into the wilds of
Western Massachusetts, by theologic contumacies, from his pleasant
Northampton home. In the hearing of the pleasant lapse of the waters
upon the beaches--while he waits--the Dean sets himself to that
pleasant, curious writing of _The Minute Philosopher_ in which he
adroitly parries thrusts with the whole tribe of Free Thinkers, and
sublimates anew his old and cherished theory--that the spiritual
apprehension of material things is the only condition (or cause) of
their being.
Children are born to him--and death winnows his small flock--while he
waits. John Smibert, who was fellow-voyager with him, painted that
little family of the Dean, and the picture is now in possession of Yale
College. At last, in despair of receiving the royal grant, he goes
back with his {8} family to England (1731). Many of his books,[5] and
eventually his Whitehall farm, were bestowed upon Yale; and in that
lively institution year after year, there be earnest students who
contend still for Berkeley scholarships and Berkeley prizes; while the
name of the good Dean is still further kept in American remembrance, by
that noble site of a Great Pacific University, which on the Californian
shores, looks through a Golden Gate to a pathway still bearing
"Westward."
We may well believe that the Dean was disheartened by the breaking
down--through no fault of his own--of the great scheme and hope of his
life. But he found friendly hands and hearts upon his return to
England. Through the influences of Queen Caroline (consort of George
II.) he was given the bishopric of Cloyne--seated among the heathery
hills which lie northward of the harbor of Queenstown. All the poor
people of that region loved him: and who did not?
{9}
He was never so profound a thinker, as he was ingenious, subtle, and
acute. Though his philosophies all were over-topped by his sweet
humanities,[6] yet American students may well cherish his memory, and
keep his _Alciphron_--if not his _Hylas and Philonous_--upon their
book-rolls.
_A Scholar._
[Sidenote: Richard Bentley]
It is certain that in your forays into the literature of these
times--if made with any earnestness--you will come upon the name of Dr.
Bentley;[7] if nowhere else, then attached to critical footnotes at the
bottom of books.
His demolition of the claims, long maintained by an older generation of
scholars, respecting certain _Epistles of Phalaris_, commanded
attention {10} at an early stage of his career, and showed ability to
cross swords, in a scholastic and bitter way, with such men as
Atterbury and Boyle; and--if need were--with such others as Sir William
Temple and Dr. Swift.
As early as 1700 he had come to the mastership of Trinity College,
Cambridge (where a portrait of him by Thornhill now hangs in the
Master's Lodge), a proud position--made prouder by his large
hospitalities. He had a sensible wife, courteous "for two"--as many
scholars' wives have need to be--and two daughters; one of whom
inheriting the father's sharp tongue, made a good many young fellows of
the college sing; and made some of them sigh too--marrying at last a
certain young Cumberland, who became the father of Richard Cumberland,
the poet and dramatist.[8]
Some small chronicler tells us of his preference for port over claret;
indeed he loved all intense things, rather than things diluted, and was
inaccessible to those finer, milder, delicater {11} graces--whether of
wine or poetry--which ripen under long reposeful workings. I spoke of
a portrait of him in the Master's Lodge; there was another in Pope's
_Dunciad_--not so flattering:
"The mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains
Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains;
Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain,
Critics like me shall make it prose again."
--Lib. iv., 211 _et seq._
[Sidenote: Bentley's scholarship]
He left no great work; yet what he did in lines of classical criticism
could not by any possibility have been better done by others. He
supplied interpretations--where the world had blundered and
stumbled--which blazed their way to unquestioned acceptance. He
mastered all the difficulties of language, and wore the mastership with
a proud and insolent self-assertion--a very Goliath of learning, with
spear like a weaver's beam, and no son of Jesse to lay him low. One
wishing to see his slap-dash manner and his amazing command of
authorities should read the _Dissertation on Phalaris_; not a lovable
man surely, but prince of all schoolmastery lore: and how rarely we
love the schoolmaster! When you meet with that name of {12} Bentley
you may safely give it great weight in all scholarly matters, and not
so much in matters of taste. Trust him in foot-notes to Aristophanes
(a good mate for him!) or to Terence; trust him less in foot-notes to
Milton,[9] or even Horace (when he leaves prosody to talk of rhythmic
_susurrus_). You will think furthermore of this Dr. Bentley as living
through all his fierce battles of criticisms and of college mastership
to an extreme old age, and into days when Swift and Pope and Steele and
Addison were all gone--a gray, rugged, persistent, captious old man,
with a great, full eye that looked one through and through, and with a
short nose, turned up--as if he always scented a false quantity in the
air.
_Two Doctors._
We approach a doctor now as mild and gentle as Bentley was irritable
and pugnacious; a man not {13} often enrolled among literary veterans;
treated with scorn, maybe, by the professional critics; and yet this
name now brought to your attention is I think, tenderly associated with
New Englanders' earliest recollections of rhyme or verse; and it is
specially these literary firstlings of the memory that it is well for
us to trace and hold in hand. Let us listen for a moment to that old
cradle hymn:
"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head."
How the quaint, simple melody lingers yet, coming from far-away times,
when it drifted over hundreds of New England homes, which as yet knew
not _Pinafore_ nor Mr. Sankey!
[Sidenote: Isaac Watts]
It is of Dr. Watts's[10] familiar name that I speak: he was the son of
a lodging-house keeper in Southampton--in which city a Watts memorial
Hall was dedicated as late as 1875. Being a {14} dissenter, he was
debarred the advantages of a university education, but he taught
dissenters how to put grace into their hymns and sermons; and without
being a strong logician, he put such clearness into his _Treatise upon
Logic_ as to carry it for a time into the curriculum of Oxford.
Our American poet, Bryant, had great admiration for the familiar
Watts's version of the 100th Psalm:--
We'll crowd thy gates with thankful songs,
High as the heavens our voices raise;
And earth, with her ten thousand tongues,
Shall fill thy courts with sounding praise.
And what pious tremors shook the air, when the country choirs in New
England meeting-houses lifted up their voices to the old hymn,
commencing:--
There is a land of pure delight!
I don't know but these bits of moral music may have been hustled out
from modern church primers for something more aesthetic; but I am sure
that a good many white-haired people--of whom I hope to count some
among my readers--are carried back pleasantly by the rhythmic jingle of
the good Doctor to those child days when hopes were {15} fresh, and
holidays a joy, and summers long; and when flowery paths stretched out
before us, over which we have gone toiling since--to quite other music
than that of Dr. Isaac Watts. And if his songs are gone out of our
fine books, and have fallen below the mention of the dilettanti
critics, I am the more glad to rescue his name, as that of an honest,
devout, hard-working, cultivated man who has woven an immeasurable deal
of moral fibre into the web and woof of many generations of men and
women.
By the generosity of a friend he was endowed with all the privileges of
a beautiful baronial home (Abney Park) where he lived for thirty odd
years--reaching almost four score--never forgetting his simplicities,
his humilities, his faith, his sweet humanities, and never having done
harm, or wished harm, to any of God's creatures; and this cannot be
said of many who preach, and of many of whom we are to talk.
[Sidenote: Edward Young.]
There was another clerical poet of less private worth, who had a very
great reputation early in the eighteenth century. Fragments of his
sombre-colored and magniloquent _Night Thoughts_ {16} are still
frequently encountered in Commonplace Books of Poetry; while some of
his picturesque or full-freighted lines, or half lines, have passed
into common speech; such as--
"The undevout astronomer is mad;"
"Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep;"
"Procrastination is the thief of time."
[Sidenote: Doctor Young.]
You will recognize these as old acquaintances; and you are to credit
them to Dr. Edward Young,[11] who was born about two hundred years ago
down in Hampshire, son of a father who had been Chaplain to King
William III. He was an Oxford man, lived a wild life there--attaching
himself to a fast young Duke of Wharton, who led him into many awkward
scrapes--and developing an early love, which clung by him through life,
for attaching himself to great people. He wrote plays which were not
good, and odes which were worse than the plays, but touched off with
little jets of terrific adulation:--
"To poets, sacred is a Dorset's name,
Their wonted passport thro' the gates of fame;
{17}
It bribes the partial reader into praise
And throws a glory round the sheltered lays."
And so on--to a Compton, a Lady Germaine, a Duke, in nauseous
succession. In fact, he seemed incapable of using any colors but gaudy
or resplendent ones, and is nothing if not exaggerated, and using heaps
of words. Would you hear how he puts Jonah into the whale's mouth?--
"As yawns an earthquake, when imprisoned air
Struggles for vent, and lays the centre bare,
The whale expands his jaws' enormous size.
The prophet views the cavern with surprise,
Measures his monstrous teeth, afar descried,
And rolls his wondering eyes from side to side,
Then takes possession of the spacious seat
And sails secure within the dark retreat."
This is from his poem of the _Last Day_, which has some of his best
work in it. He wrote flattering words of Addison, which Addison could
not return in the same measure. He had acquaintance with Pope, with
Swift, with Lady Mary Montagu, and others whom he counted worth
knowing. He made a vain run for Parliament, and ended by taking church
orders somewhat late in life--staying {18} one of his plays,[12] which
was just then in rehearsal, as inconsistent with his new duties. He
married the elegant widowed daughter of an earl, who died not many
years thereafter; and from this affliction, and his brooding over it,
came his best-known poem of _Night Thoughts_. It had great currency in
England, and was admired, and translated, and read largely upon the
Continent. For many a year, a copy of Young's mournful, magniloquent
poem, bound in morocco and gilt-edged, was reckoned one of the most
acceptable and worthy gifts to a person in affliction.
[Sidenote: Young's Night Thoughts.]
But of a surety it has not the same hold upon people in this century
that it had in the last. There are eloquent passages in it--passages
almost rising to sublimity. His love of superlatives and of wordy
exaggerations served him in good stead when he came to talk of the
shortness of time, and the length of eternity, and the depth of the
grave, and the shadows of death. Amidst these topics he moved on the
great sable pinions of his muse with {19} a sweep of wing, and a
steadiness of poise, that drew a great many sorrowing and pious souls
after him.
This is his Apostrophe to Night:
"O majestic Night!
Nature's great ancestor! Day's elder born!
And fated to survive the transient sun!
By mortals and immortals seen with awe!
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns,
An azure zone thy waist; clouds in Heaven's loom
Wrought through varieties of drapery divine
Thy flowing mantle form, and heaven throughout
Voluminously pour thy pompous train."
There is no well-considered scheme or method in his poems; but his
august sorrowing and devout meditations, clothed in a great pomp of
language, chase each other over his mind, as vagrant high-sweeping
clouds chase over the sky. You may watch and follow them in dreamy
hours, with a languid pleasure; but a real sorrow, or a real task do
not, I think, find much help in them.
Dr. Young believed, in the moodiness of his grief, that he was going to
bid adieu to the world; but he did not; we find him back at court long
after the funeral bells had sounded in his verse:--back {20} there too,
in search of offices of some sort; bowing obsequiously to those who had
gifts in their hands.
Good Mrs. Hannah More tells us that being on one occasion at a
Parliamentary party, where some volumes of original letters were shown,
she was specially anxious to see one of her dear Dr. Young, for whose
_Night Thoughts_ she expressed enthusiastic admiration. Her anxiety
was gratified, and she adds that she had
"the mortification to read the most fawning, servile, mendicant letter
that was perhaps ever penned by a clergyman, imploring the mistress of
George II. to exert her interest for his preferment."
I do not like to tell such things to those who admire the poet; but we
are after the truth--first of all. A curious mixture he was, of
frugality and piety--of love for reputation and emotional religion. He
essayed the writing of some of his tragic episodes in a dark room,
"with a candle stuck in a skull;" and such love of claptrap abode with
him and qualified most of his work.
_Night Thoughts_ has some unforgetable things in it: there is a lurid
splendor in many of the {21} lines, and great imaginative range. But
his was an imagination not chastened by a severe taste or held in check
by the discretions of an elevated and cultured judgment. Upon the
whole, I have more respect for the memory of Dr. Watts, than for the
memory of Dr. Young.
_Lady Wortley Montagu._
[Sidenote: Mary Wortley Montagu.]
It is a lady that I next introduce; a very much admired lady in her
day; and much admired by many even now. She was correspondent at one
time of Dr. Young, as well as of Pope, Steele, and Swift (who was one
of the few men she feared). She knew and greatly admired Congreve, had
free entree to the palace in time of George I., could and did translate
Epictetus before she was turned of twenty, and wrote letters to her
daughter, Lady Bute, that were long held up to young ladies as patterns
of epistolary work: of course it is Lady Mary Montagu,[13] of whom I
speak.
{22}
[Sidenote: Lady Mary Montagu.]
She was born at Thoresby Park, a little northward of Sherwood Forest in
Nottingham; was the petted daughter of the Earl of Kingston, and he
introduced her (as the story runs) when only eight years old to that
famous Kit-Kat Club, which held its summer sessions out by Hampstead
Heath; and the applause that greeted her beauty and sprightliness
there, very likely fastened upon her that greed for public triumphs
which clung to her all her life. She presided at her father's table,
was taught in Greek, Latin, French, Italian; was full of
accomplishments, and at twenty-one fell in with Mr. Montagu, similarly
accomplished, whom she had a half mind to marry. Her father, however,
had other views, against which the self-willed young lady rebelled; she
had, however, her hesitations--sometimes flinging a new bait to Mr.
Montagu and then showing a coquettish coolness. Finally, between two
days, she decides; orders Mr. Montagu to have his chaise and four in
readiness and makes a runaway match of it.
Their life for some time is in a suburb of London; where the Lady Mary
chafes at the retirement, {23} in a way which is not very agreeable to
Mr. Montagu and nettles him; and the nettles creep into their future
correspondence. But her husband being appointed (1716) ambassador to
Constantinople, her Ladyship sets off delightedly with a retinue of
attendants to the shores of the Bosphorus; and writes thence and on her
way thither, letters full of piquancy and charm.
To the distinguished Mr. Pope, who has addressed her in almost a
lover's strain, she says:
"'Tis certain that I may, if I please, take the fine things you say to
me for wit and raillery; and, it may be, it would be taking them right.
But I never in my life was half so well disposed to believe you in
earnest as I am at present."
And thereupon she goes on to describe a Sunday at the opera in the
garden of the Favorita at Vienna.
First of all Englishwomen, she had her son inoculated for the
small-pox; this method of prevention being practised at that time in
portions of Turkey. Succeeding in this, she brought the method, and
strong advocacy of it, back to England with her. It was a bold thing
to do, and she {24} always loved boldnesses. It was a humane thing to
do, and her humanities were always active. The medical professors
looked doubtingly upon it; even the clergy preached against it as
contravening the intentions of Providence--just as some zealots, fifty
years ago, declared against the employment of chloroform and other
anaesthetics. But Lady Mary succeeded in her endeavors, and inoculation
became shortly after an approved and adopted practice.
On the return from the Turkish embassy Mr. Montagu, perhaps at the
instance of Pope, bought a home for her at Twickenham, a delightful
suburb of London, where the poet was then residing, and at the zenith
of his fame. His poetic worship at her shrine was renewed with all the
old ardor. He gave Sir Godfrey Kneller a commission to paint her
portrait in Turkish dress, with which she had done great execution at
court balls.
"The picture," says Pope, in a letter to her, "dwells really at my
heart, and I have made a perfect passion of preferring your present
face to your past."
{25}
What the past had been we may infer from this bit of verse, written
while she was in the East:
"In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains and of sloping greens.
Joy dwells not there; to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.
What are the gay parterre and checkered shade,
The morning bower, the evening colonnade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds
To sigh unheard into the passing winds;
So the struck deer in some sequestered part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;
There, stretched unseen, in coverts hid from day
Bleeds drop by drop and pants his life away."
But this worship is not for very long; there comes a quarrel, which is
so sharp and bitter, and with such echoes in ode or satire, as to
become the scandal of the neighborhood.
What brought it about cannot be so distinctly told. Lady Mary
persisted in saying that the crippled sensitive poet had forgotten
himself to so impudent an avowal of love that she had repelled him with
a shout of laughter, and so turned his heart into gall.
That his heart was all gall toward her {26} thereafter there needed no
proof beyond his stinging couplets; and though he denied her tale with
unction, he never told a story of his own in respect to this affair
which made _her_ character seem the worse, or _his_ the better.
In an evil hour her ladyship (who had written verse already, which for
her fame's sake it were better she had never written), undertook, with
the aid of her friend Lord Hervey, to reply to the lampoons of Pope.
Thereupon the shrinking, keen-smarting poet made other burning verses,
by which the Hervey and the Montagu were both put to the torture. It
must have been uncomfortable weather for her ladyship at Twickenham in
those days. True, Hervey, Peterborough, Bolingbroke, and many of the
courtiers were at her service; and she was a favorite of George I.--so
far as any respectable woman could be called a favorite of that gross
creature; but Pope's shafts of ridicule had a feather of grace about
them that carried them straight and far. Mr. Montagu himself was a
husband who loved London and his coal-fields without her ladyship,
rather better than Twickenham gardens _with_ her ladyship.
{27}
Twenty years of gay "outing" she lives, between London and its suburbs;
happy, yet not happy; courted and not courted. She writes to her
sister Lady Mar[14] in these times:
"Don't you remember how miserable we were in the little parlor at
Thoresby? We then thought marrying would put us at once in possession
of all we wanted.... One should pluck up a spirit and live upon
cordials, when one can have no other nourishment. These are my present
endeavors, and I run about though I have five thousand pins and needles
running into my heart. I try to console myself with a small damsel
[her daughter, afterward Lady Bute] who is at present everything I
like; but, alas, she is yet in a white frock. At fourteen she may run
away with the butler."
And when this maiden in white had married (better than the mother dared
hope), and her son, a vagrant, had gone out into the world and the
night, Lady Mary--believing in "cordials"--gathered her robes about
her, and took her fading face into the blaze of the Continental cities.
Her reputation for wit, and daring, and beauty has gone before her, and
she writes piquantly and with great complacency of the attentions and
{28} greetings that meet her in Venice, Florence, and Milan. The
appetite for this life grows with feeding; so it becomes virtually a
separation from her husband, though cool, business-like letters
regularly pass between them. Her son, though grown up into an
"accomplished" man, is a scoundrel--drifting about Europe; and when
they encounter the mother insists that he shall drop his name, and deny
relationship.
Twenty-two years she lives in that Continental exile, writing all the
while letters to her daughter, which she loved to compare with the
letters of Madame de Sevigne. They are witty and sparkling and have
passed into a certain place in English literature, but they are not
Sevigne letters. Toward the last of her residence abroad she bought an
old ruinous palace in Lombardy, not far from Lago di Guarda, equipped
three or four of its rooms, and with a little bevy of servants, lived
in retirement--busied with reading, with her ducks, her pigeons, and
her garden.
She writes her daughter:
"The active scenes are over at my age; I indulge, with all the art I
can, my taste for reading. If I _could_ confine it to {29} valuable
books; they are almost as scarce as valuable men.... As I approach a
second childhood I endeavor to enter into the pleasures of it.... I am
reading an idle tale, not expecting wit or truth in it; and am very
glad it is not metaphysics to puzzle my judgment, or history to mislead
my opinion."
She is well past sixty and has lost all her old graces when she falls
into this misanthropic spirit; has grown strangely neglectful of her
person too; she says that for eleven years now she has not looked in a
mirror.[15]
But presently Mr. Montagu dies leaving an immense fortune; there are
business reasons demanding her return; so she brings back that
shrunken, unseemly face, and figure of hers to London; takes a house
there and fills it with servants. A cousin, speaking of a call upon
her, says:
"It is like the Tower of Babel; a Hungarian servant takes your name at
the door, he gives it to an Italian, who delivers it to a Frenchman.
The Frenchman to a Swiss, and the Swiss to a Polander; so that by the
time you get to her ladyship's presence you have changed your name five
times, without the expense of an Act of Parliament."
{30}
Horace Walpole pays her a visit, and says, "she was old, dirty, tawdry,
and painted." But he did not like her: I do not think she liked him.
Could it be that this old lady--past seventy--with her fine house and
her polyglot of service and her flush purse, thought to call back the
old trail of flatterers? I do not know. I know very well she did not,
and that within a twelvemonth she died.
There is in Lichfield Cathedral a cenotaph representing Beauty weeping
the loss of her Preserver; it was placed there by some grateful person
to perpetuate the memory of the Lady Mary's benevolence in introducing
inoculation; and I think it is the only eulogy to be found on any
memorial tablet of this strange, witty, beautiful, indiscreet,
studious, unhappy, disappointed woman.
_Alexander Pope._
[Sidenote: Alexander Pope.]
We close our chapter with some mention of that proud, shy, infirm poet
of whom we have caught shadowy glimpses in the story of Wortley {31}
Montagu. There are scores of little crackling couplets floating about
on the lips of people well known as Pope's.[16]
"A wit's a feather and a chief's a rod,
An honest man's the noblest work of God."
"Know then, this truth, eno' for man to know,
Virtue alone is happiness below."
"Honor and shame from no condition rise,
Act well your part; _there_ all the honor lies!"
These must be familiar; and your school must differ from most schools,
if some of these or other such, from the same author, have not one time
done service as snappers at the end of a composition, or as a bit of
decoration in the middle of it.
All know, too, in a general way, that Pope was an infirm man, without
perhaps a clear idea of what his infirmity may have been; some of those
{32} fierce lampoons already alluded to, which went flying back and
forth around the shades of Twickenham, speak of the poet as an ape, a
hunchback, a monster. The truth is that he inherited from his father a
feeble and crooked frame with some spinal weakness which did give a
measure of excuse to the coarse and brutal satirists of those days.
His height was much below that of ordinary men, so that cushions or a
higher chair were always necessary at table to bring him to the level
of his friends; his legs were thin and shrunken and he walked feebly;
his countenance was drawn and pinched; yet he had good features, with
the delicate complexion of a woman, and a great blue eye, full of
expression. His toilette was always a serious affair for
him--specially when he went abroad or would appear at his best (as he
always wished to do)--involving the assistance of one or two attendants
to adjust his paddings, his stays, his canvas jackets, and his twice
doubled hose.
I have dwelt with more particularity upon his personal aspect, because
it serves to explain, or at least largely to qualify, a great many
apparent mysteries in his social career.
{33}
He was a London boy, born of Romish parents; his father being a small
trader in the city, but retiring, about the time of this weakly boy's
birth, to a home at Binfield--a country parish lying between Windsor
and Reading, where they show now a grove of beaches which was a
favorite haunt of the boy poet. He caught schooling in a hap-hazard
way, as Romanists needed to do in those times; but had a quick, big
brain, that made up for many shortcomings in teachers. Before twelve
he had his Latin with some Greek, and had written verse; and after that
age was his own master--sucking literary sweets where he could find
them.
Before twelve, too, he had made many London visitations--partly to
study French there and partly to find his way to Will's coffee-house,
and catch sight of old John Dryden, then drawing near to the end of his
worldly honors. And this thin, white-faced, crippled boy looking
stealthily up at the master, even then had wild ambitious dreams of the
day when he too should have his dignities and lay down the law for
English letters.
Out by Binfield he happened upon good friends. {34} Among others a
Blount family to which belonged two daughters Blount--sympathetic
companions to him then and long afterward; scores of letters, too,
there were, to which now Teresa Blount and now Miss Patty Blount were
parties: He seeming in those romantic days (upon the edge of Windsor
Forest) sometimes in love with one and sometimes the other; and they,
in this mixing of letters getting probably as confused as he, and a
great deal more vexed; and so came coldness and short-lived
quarrelling, making one thing pretty sure--that when a young man or
woman begins to play with the different tenses of the verb "I love," a
single correspondent is much better than two. However, his friendship
with Miss Patty Blount lasted his life out.
An old baronet of the neighborhood, who had been diplomat in James I.'s
day, took a fancy to this keen-thoughted lad and made a companion of
him. He came to know old Wycherly too, and scores of men about town;
even Jacob Tonson, the famous publisher of those times, had written to
Pope before he was twenty, asking the privilege of printing certain
pastorals of his writing, which {35} had been handed about in the
clubs; and thought them--what they really were--astonishing for their
literary finish.
_His Poetic Methods._
[Sidenote: Poetry of Pope.]
But young Mr. Pope does not think much of the pastorals, save as
stepping-stones; they paved his way to a large acquaintance with the
London wits; and it would seem that at one time he thought of living at
the dreadful pace of these gentlemen--in bottles and midnight routs;
perhaps he tried it for a while; but his feeble frame could stand no
such neck-breaking gallop. He can, however, put more of wearisome
elaboration and pains-taking skill to his rhymes than any of the
verse-makers of his time. He has by nature a mincing step of his
own--different as possible from the long, easy lope of Dryden--and that
step he perfects by unwearied practice, and word-mongering, until it
comes to the wondrous ten-syllabled movement, which for polish, and
rhythmic tric-trac is unmatchable.
The _Essay on Criticism_, _Windsor Forest_, and {36} the _Rape of the
Lock_, all belonged to those early years at Binfield, and I give a test
of each; first, from the _Essay_:--
"Where'er you find 'the cooling Western breeze,'
In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees:'
If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,'
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep;'
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along."
Next this bustling bit, from _Windsor Forest_:--
"See, from the brake the whirring pheasant springs
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.
* * * * *
Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold."
And again, this, from the _Rape of the Lock_:--
"Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace
A two-edged weapon from her shining case;
So ladies in romance assist their knight,
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight,
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends
The little engine on his fingers' ends;
{37}
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair,
A thousand wings, by turns, throw back the hair;
And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear,
Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near."
And yet again--this worthier excerpt from the same dainty poem:--
"Fair nymphs, and well-drest youths around her shone
But every eye was fixed on her alone.
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those;
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends."
Ten pages of extracts would not show better his amazing attention to
details--his quick eye--his gifts in word-craft, and his musical
exploitation of his themes. I know that this poet works in harness,
and has not the free movement of one who gallops under a loose rein;
the couplets fetter him; may be they cramp him; but there is a blithe,
strong resonance of true metal, in the clinking chains that bind him.
No, I do not think that Pope is to be laughed out of court, in {38} our
day, or in any day, because he labored at form and polish, or because
he loved so much the tingle of a rhyme; I think there was something
else that tingled in a good deal that he wrote and will continue to
tingle so long as Wit is known by its own name.
The good word spoken for him in the _Spectator_--the great printed
authority in literary matters--brought him into more intimate
association with the Literary Guild of that paper; he wrote for the
_Spectator_ on several occasions. An early contribution is that of
1712 (November 10th), where he calls attention to the famous verses
which the Emperor Adrian spoke on his death-bed; he says:--
"I was in company the other day with five or six men of learning, who
agreed that they showed a gayety unworthy that prince in those
circumstances;" and he quotes the lines:
Animula vagula, blandula
Hospes Comes que Corporis
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, etc.
"But," he says, "methinks it was by no means a gay, but a very serious
soliloquy to his soul at the point of his departure."
{39}
And out of this comment and thought of Pope's, contributed casually (if
Pope ever did anything _casually_) to the _Spectator_, came by and by
from the poet's anvil, that immortal hymn we all know,--
"Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame;
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!"
_The Rape of the Lock._
[Sidenote: Rape of the Lock]
I cited two significant fragments from the _Rape of the Lock_, a poem
belonging to Pope's early period, and which is reckoned by most poets
and critics,[17] as well as biographers, his masterpiece, and a
beautiful work of the highest literary art. I recognize the superior
authority, but cannot share the exalted admiration; at least, it does
not beget such loving approval as brings one back again and again to
its perusal. It does not seem to me to furnish very inspiring reading.
{40}
The setting of this little poem is not large; the story is of a stolen
lock of hair, and of the resentments that follow; and if one might
venture upon a synopsis of so delicate a feat of workmanship, it might
run in this way:--Belinda, the despoiled heroine, sleeps; sprites put
dreams in her head and give warning of impending woe. "Shock" (her
dog) barks and wakes her; she betakes herself to her toilet--the
fairy-fingered sylphs assisting:
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear,
--all pictured like carving on a cherry-stone. At last, fully
equipped, she goes to a fete upon the Thames; pretty glimpses of the
river scenes follow; a crazy baron covets a lock of Belinda's hair.
The zephyrs play; day fades; cards come; crowding sprites pile into the
game, and twist all into a fairy cable. The covetous baron snips off a
lock of Belinda's hair, while she bends over the tea-pot. The nimble
sylphs bring from the "Cave of Spleen" a stock of shrieks, and tears,
and megrims. Sir Plume ("of amber snuff-box justly vain") champions
Belinda, and demands satisfaction of the {41} ravisher--which he does
not win; so the battle rages--"Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough
whalebones crack," and in the hurly-burly the stolen lock gets wafted
into "lunar spheres," and comet-like, closes the shining tale:
"This lock the muse [thus] consecrates to Fame
And midst the stars inscribes Belinda's name."
Yet Belinda's sovereignty is of an ignoble sort; her tiara made up of
pins and pomades; indeed the women all are as small as the sylphs; toy
creatures, and creatures of toys; no nobility, in or about them; and
very much to make an honest, self-respecting woman of our time fling
down the silvery poem with a wearisome distaste.
All this is said with a thorough recognition of its art--its amazing
dexterities of verse--its playful leaps of fancy--its bright shimmer of
over-nature; and yet those gossamer gnomes seem to me like an
intrusion; I cannot forget that they were an afterthought of Pope
himself; I cannot bring myself to think of the charming fairy-folk of
Fletcher, or of Drayton's _Nymphidia_, or of the _Midsummer Night's
Dream_ wallowing in pomades, {42} and straining at whalebone stays!
These live through an eternal frolic in the air; those--of the _Rape of
the Lock_--lie in a literary show-case, like a taxidermist's trophies.
In the sobered time of life, when the iris hues have only fitful play,
I think a man goes away from these earlier poems of Pope (if he reads
them) with new zest, to those wonderful metric condensations of old
truths, which flash and burn along the lines of his moral essays.
There could be few more helpful rhetorical lessons, for boy or girl,
than the effort to pack some of Pope's stinging couplets, or decades of
lines, into an equal number of lines in prose; the difficulties would
be great indeed and would vitalize the lesson; and the lesson, I think,
would be far fuller of profitable ends, than the old "parsing"
exercise, and syntactic analysis and description of sentences according
to the nomenclature of Mr. Lindley Murray or of Mr. Somebody-else.
{43}
_Pope's Homer, and Life at Twickenham_.
[Sidenote: Homer of Pope.]
Notwithstanding his much writing, Pope in those early days under the
beeches of Windsor forest, was not winning such financial rewards as
his friends thought he deserved. The _Spectator_ did not pay much
money for little poetic trifles--such as the _Messiah_; and Jacob
Tonson was the screw which some publishers are. There can be no doubt
that the poet, with his fine tastes, felt the restraints of a limited
income; his old father, who perhaps did not carry sharp business habits
into his retirement, had been compelled to leave the country house of
Binfield, and had gone over to a suburban street dwelling near to
Chiswick. In this emergency, (if emergency it were,) was it not the
oddest thing in the world that his friends should have advised a
translation of Homer?
Yet they did; and so this dauntless young fellow, not over-critical in
his Greek knowledge, but with an abounding sense of the marvellous
beauties that lay in the old Homeric hexameters, {44} sets about his
task; and after five years' toil accomplishes it in such a way as makes
it probable that there can never be an English Homer that will quite
match it. There are juster ones; there are faithfuller ones; but not
one that has been so enduringly popular. Steeping himself in the
mythologies and the Trojan traditions, he has grafted thereupon his
stock of British word-craft: Ajax, Achilles, and the rest range to
their places in the martial clank of his couplets, with a life and
charm which, if not imbued with Homeric limpidities and melodies,
possess an engaging picturesqueness that belongs to few long English
epics.
And the poem took: that trenchant Dean Swift strode into the ante-rooms
of the great men of Court, and swore that he must have a hundred or a
thousand pounds subscribed for the new Homer of Mr. Pope; and he got
it; Mr. Pope was the fashion.
Up to that time in the whole history of English literature there had
been no such payment for literary wares as accrued to the author of the
new Homer--the sum reaching, for both Iliad and {45} Odyssey, some
L9,000; with which the shrewd poet bought an annuity (cheaper then than
now) of some L500, and a long lease of the Twickenham house and
gardens; where, thereafter, amidst his willows and his grottos, he
lived until his death.
The house[18]--if indeed any part be now the same--has been built over
and enlarged, and has a jaunty suburban villa pretension that does not
look Homeric; but the grotto, or tunnel, which he cut under the high
road running parallel with the Thames, and through which he might pass
unobserved from garden to garden and from his house to the river, is
still to be seen there; and trees of his planting still hang their
limbs over the pretty greensward that goes down in gentle slope to the
Thames banks. He put the same polish upon his grounds he did upon his
verse: his grotto flashed with curious spars, glass jewels, and
prismatic tinted shells; his walks were decorously {46} paved and
rolled and his turf shorn to a nicety. He entertained there in his
thrifty way, watching his butler very sharply, and by reason of his
infirmities, was very measured in his wine-drinking. Swift, who used
to come and pass days with him, may have made the glasses jingle: and
there were other worthy friends who, when they came for a dinner, kept
the poet in a tremor of unrest. The Prince of Wales, after the Georges
of Hanover had come in, used sometimes to honor the poet with a visit;
and the rich and powerful Bolingbroke--what time he lived at
Battersea--used to come up in his barge, landing at the garden
entrance--as most great visitors did--and discuss with him those
faiths, dogmas, truisms, and splendid generalities which afterward took
form in the famous _Essay on Man_.
Though the Twickenham home was on a great high road from London to
Teddington and Hampton Court, and the greater high road of the river,
it had, like all English suburban places now, its high enclosing walls
that gave privacy; and the river shores had their skirting of
rhododendrons and willows and great beds of laurestina, so that {47}
the weak, misshapen poet might take his walks unobserved. He had his
vanities, but he did not love to be pointed at. He carried a mind of
extreme sensitiveness under that dwarfed figure; and is mad--maybe,
sometimes, with destiny, that has crippled him so; and bites that thin
lip of his till the blood starts. But he does not waste force or pride
on repinings; he feels an altitude in that supple mind of his which
lifts him above the bad lines of portraits or figures. He knows that
the ready hand and brain, and the faculty of verse which comes tripping
to his tongue, and the wit which flashes through and through his
utterance, will make for him--has made for him--a path through whatever
beleaguerments of sense, straight up and on to the gates of the Temple
of Fame.
[Sidenote: Pope's vanities.]
We have had many vain men to encounter in these talks of ours--men
assured of their own judgment and taste; but not one, I think, as yet,
so thoroughly and highly conscious that his cleverness and scholarship
and deftness and wit were as sure of their reward as the sun was sure
to shine.
I can fancy him pausing after having wrought {48} some splendid score
of Homeric lines, which blaze and palpitate with new Greek fire: I can
fancy him humming them over to himself--growing heated with the flames
that flash and play in them--his slight, frail figure trembling with
the rhythmic outburst, and he smiling serenely at a mastery which his
will and wit have brought to such supreme pitch of excellence that no
handling of English will go beyond it.
_His Last Days._
[Sidenote: Last days of Pope.]
I have spoken of one face--I mean Lady Mary Montagu's--which used
sometimes to light up the grotto of Mr. Pope, and have told you how
that badly managed friendship went out in a great muddle of sootiness
and rage; nor were the mud and the filth, which he used in that
direction with such cruel vigor, weapons which he was unused to
handling: poor John Dennis, a poet and critic of that day, had been put
in a rage over and over. Lord Hervey had been scarified. Blackmore
and Phillips and Bentley had caught his stiletto thrusts; even Daniel
Defoe had been subject of his sneers; and {49} so had the bland,
courteous Addison. This sensitive, weak-limbed man saw offence where
other men saw none; and straightway drew out that flashing sword of his
and made the blood spurt. Of course there were counter-thrusts, and
heavy ones, that caused that poor decrepid figure of his to writhe
again--all the more because he pretended a stoicism that felt no such
attack. To say that he often made his thrusts without reason, and that
much of his satire was dastardly, is saying what all the world knows,
and what every admirer of his fine powers must lament. But he had his
steady friendships, too, and his tendernesses. Nothing could exceed
the kindly consideration and affectionate watchfulness which belonged
to his protection and shelter of his old mother, lingering in that
poet's faery home of Twickenham till over ninety. A strange, close
friendship knit him to Dean Swift, who had seemed incapable of rallying
this sensitive man's--or, indeed, any man's--affections. Pope, and
Bolingbroke--the brilliant and the courted--were long bound together in
very close and friendly communion; the tears of this latter were among
the honestest which {50} fell when the poet died. Bishop Warburton,
too, was most kindly treated by Pope in all his later years, and to
this gentleman most of his books were left. There can be no doubt,
also, that the poet felt the tenderest regard for that neighbor of his,
Miss Patty Blount, who had grown old beside him, and who used at times
to bring her quiet face into the parlors of Twickenham. Pope in his
last days would, I think, have seen her oftener--did covertly wish for
a sight of that kindly smile, which he had known so long and perhaps
had valued more than he had dared to confess. But in those final days
she had gone her ways; maybe was grown tired of waiting upon the
peevish humors of the poet; certainly was not seen by him more often
than a fair neighborly regard would dictate. Yet he left her all his
rights there at Twickenham, and much money beside.
[Sidenote: Death of Pope.]
They say that at the last he complained of seeing things dimly--seeing
things, too, which others did not see (as the bystanders told him).
"Then, 'twas a vision," he said. Two days thereafter he entered very
quietly upon the visions all men see after death; leaving that poor,
scathed, {51} misshapen body--I should think gladly--leaving the
pleasant home shaded by the willows he had planted; and leaving a few
wonderful poems which I am sure will live in literature as long as
books are printed.
[1] Narcisse Luttrel: _A brief historical Relation of State affairs_
from September, 1678, to April, 1714.
[2] George Berkeley, b. 1685; d. 1753. His works (3 vols.) and Life
and Letters (1 vol.); edited by Fraser, in 1871. See also very
interesting monograph on Berkeley, in Professor Tyler's _Three Men of
Letters_, Putnam, 1895.
[3] _An essay toward preventing the Ruin of Great Britain_, 1721.
[4] Dr. Samuel Johnson, afterward, 1754, first President of King's (now
Columbia) College, New York; he was a graduate of Yale; life by Dr.
Beardsley.
[5] In 1730, he writes to Samuel Johnson, of Stratford, Ct.: "Pray let
me know whether they [the college authorities] would admit the writings
of Hooker and Chillingworth to the Library of the College of New Haven?"
[6] One of his last publications was, "_Siris: a chain of Philosophical
Reflections and inquiries concerning the Virtues of Tar-water._" And
it is remarkable that its arguments and teeming illustrations have not
been laid hold of by our modern venders of Tar-soap.
[7] Richard Bentley, b. 1662; d. 1742. Native of Oulton, Yorkshire.
Was first Boyle Lecturer, 1692; Master of Trinity, 1700; _Works_,
edited by Dyce, London, 1836 (only 3 vols. issued of a proposed 8 vol.
edition). _Life_, by Jacob Maehly, Leipsic, 1868.
[8] B. 1732; d. 1811. Best known by his _Memoirs_, 1806; among his
plays is _False Impressions_, in which appears Scud, the forerunner of
Dickens's _Alfred Jingle_.
[9] All along the foot-notes in a great Quarto of the _Paradise Lost_
(London, 1732) Bentley's critical pyrotechnics flame, and flare; and he
closes a bristling preface with this droll caveat;--"I made [these]
notes _extempore_, and put them to the Press as soon as made; without
any Apprehension of growing leaner by Censures, or plumper by
Commendations."
[10] Isaac Watts, b. 1674; d. 1748. _Horae Lyricae_: Memoir by Southey
(vol. ix., _Sacred Classics_: London, 1834). Lowndes (_Bib. Manual_)
says, that up to 1864, there were sold annually 50,000 copies of
Watts's Hymns.
[11] B. 1681; d. 1765. Works, with memoir, by J. Mitford. 2 vols.,
12mo. London, 1834.
[12] Only _staying_; since the play (of _The Brothers_) was brought out
in 1753, some twenty years after his establishment in the rectory of
Welwyn.
[13] Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, b. 1690 (or 1689?); d. 1762. Works (3
vols.), edited by her great grandson, Lord Wharncliffe: Later edition
(1861), with life by Moy Thomas.
[14] Wife of Lord Mar, who was exiled for his engagement in the
abortive rebellion of 1715.
[15] Dilke; _Papers, etc._, vol. ii. pp. 354-5.
[16] Alexander Pope, b. 1688; d. 1744. Editions of his works are
numerous. I name those by Bowles and Roscoe, with that of Elwin and
Courthope; see also Dilke's _Papers of a Critic_, Leslie Stephen's
_Life_, and notices by Lowell, Minto, and Mrs. Oliphant.
[17] Lowell, Professor Minto, De Quincey, Hazlitt, Covington, etc. De
Quincey says, "It is the most exquisite monument of playful fancy that
universal literature offers."
[18] The identity of the house of Pope was destroyed by a lady owner
(widow of Dr. Phipps, the Court oculist) in or about 1807. Pope loved
landscape gardening and was aided by Kent and Bridgeman. Warburton
speaks extravagantly of the poetic graces which he lavished upon his
grotto.
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