POPE.

Alexander Pope was born in London, May 22, 1688, of parents whose rank

or station was never ascertained: we are informed that they were of

"gentle blood;" that his father was of a family of which the earl of

Downe was the head; and that his mother was the daughter of William

Turner, esquire, of York, who had, likewise, three sons, one of whom had

the honour of being killed, and the other of dying, in the service of

Charles the first; the third was made a general officer in Spain, from

whom the sister inherited what sequestrations and forfeitures had left

in the family.

This, and this only, is told by Pope; who is more willing, as I have

heard observed, to show what his father was not, than what he was. It is

allowed that he grew rich by trade; but whether in a shop or on the

exchange was never discovered till Mr. Tyers told, on the authority of

Mrs. Racket, that he was a linendraper in the Strand. Both parents were

papists.

Pope was, from his birth, of a constitution tender and delicate; but is

said to have shown remarkable gentleness and sweetness of disposition.

The weakness of his body continued through his life[108]; but the

mildness of his mind, perhaps, ended with his childhood[109]. His voice,

when he was young, was so pleasing, that he was called, in fondness,

"the little nightingale."

Being not sent early to school, he was taught to read by an aunt; and

when he was seven or eight years old, became a lover of books. He first

learned to write by imitating printed books; a species of penmanship in

which he retained great excellence through his whole life, though his

ordinary hand was not elegant[110].

When he was about eight, he was placed in Hampshire, under

Taverner[111], a Romish priest, who, by a method very rarely practised,

taught him the Greek and Latin rudiments together. He was now first

regularly initiated in poetry by the perusal of Ogilby's Homer, and

Sandys's Ovid. Ogilby's assistance he never repaid with any praise; but

of Sandys he declared, in his notes to the Iliad, that English poetry

owed much of its present beauty to his translations. Sandys very rarely

attempted original composition.

From the care of Taverner, under whom his proficiency was considerable,

he was removed to a school at Twyford, near Winchester, and again to

another school about Hyde-park Corner; from which he used sometimes to

stroll to the playhouse: and was so delighted with theatrical

exhibitions, that he formed a kind of play from Ogilby's Iliad, with

some verses of his own intermixed, which he persuaded his schoolfellows

to act, with the addition of his master's gardener, who personated Ajax.

At the two last schools he used to represent himself as having lost part

of what Taverner had taught him; and on his master at Twyford he had

already exercised his poetry in a lampoon. Yet under those masters he

translated more than a fourth part of the Metamorphoses. If he kept the

same proportion in his other exercises, it cannot be thought that his

loss was great.

He tells of himself, in his poems, that, "he lisp'd in numbers;" and

used to say that he could not remember the time when he began to make

verses. In the style of fiction it might have been said of him as of

Pindar, that when he lay in his cradle, "the bees swarmed about his

mouth."

About the time of the revolution, his father, who was undoubtedly

disappointed by the sudden blast of Popish prosperity, quitted his

trade, and retired to Binfield, in Windsor forest, with about twenty

thousand pounds; for which, being conscientiously determined not to

entrust it to the government, he found no better use than that of

locking it up in a chest, and taking from it what his expenses required;

and his life was long enough to consume a great part of it, before his

son came to the inheritance.

To Binfield Pope was called by his father, when he was about twelve

years old; and there he had, for a few months, the assistance of one

Deane, another priest, of whom he learned only to construe a little of

Tully's Offices. How Mr. Deane could spend, with a boy who had

translated so much of Ovid, some months over a small part of Tully's

Offices, it is now vain to inquire.

Of a youth so successfully employed, and so conspicuously improved, a

minute account must be naturally desired: but curiosity must be

contented with confused, imperfect, and, sometimes, improbable

intelligence. Pope, finding little advantage from external help,

resolved, thenceforward, to direct himself, and at twelve formed a plan

of study, which he completed with little other incitement than the

desire of excellence.

His primary and principal purpose was to be a poet, with which his

father accidentally concurred, by proposing subjects, and obliging him

to correct his performances by many revisals; after which the old

gentleman, when he was satisfied, would say, "these are good rhymes."

In his perusal of the English poets he soon distinguished the

versification of Dryden, which he considered as the model to be studied,

and was impressed with such veneration for his instructor, that he

persuaded some friends to take him to the coffee-house which Dryden

frequented, and pleased himself with having seen him.

Dryden died May 1, 1701, some days before Pope was twelve[112]; so early

must he, therefore, have felt the power of harmony, and the zeal of

genius. Who does not wish that Dryden could have known the value of the

homage that was paid him, and foreseen the greatness of his young

admirer?

The earliest of Pope's productions is his Ode on Solitude, written

before he was twelve, in which there is nothing more than other forward

boys have attained, and which is not equal to Cowley's performances at

the same age.

His time was now wholly spent in reading and writing. As he read the

classicks, he amused himself with translating them; and, at fourteen,

made a version of the first book of the Thebais, which, with some

revision, he afterwards published. He must have been, at this time, if

he had no help, a considerable proficient in the Latin tongue.

By Dryden's Fables, which had then been not long published, and were

much in the hands of poetical readers, he was tempted to try his own

skill in giving Chaucer a more fashionable appearance, and put January

and May, and the Prologue of the Wife of Bath, into modern English. He

translated, likewise, the epistle of Sappho to Phaon, from Ovid, to

complete the version which was before imperfect; and wrote some other

small pieces, which he afterwards printed.

He sometimes imitated the English poets, and professed to have written

at fourteen, his poem upon Silence, after Rochester's Nothing. He had

now formed his versification, and in the smoothness of his numbers

surpassed the original: but this is a small part of his praise; he

discovers such acquaintance both with human life and publick affairs, as

is not easily conceived to have been attainable by a boy of fourteen in

Windsor forest.

Next year he was desirous of opening to himself new sources of

knowledge, by making himself acquainted with modern languages; and

removed, for a time, to London, that he might study French and Italian,

which, as he desired nothing more than to read them, were, by diligent

application, soon despatched. Of Italian learning he does not appear to

have ever made much use in his subsequent studies.

He then returned to Binfield, and delighted himself with his own poetry.

He tried all styles, and many subjects. He wrote a comedy, a tragedy, an

epick poem, with panegyricks on all the princes of Europe; and, as he

confesses, "thought himself the greatest genius that ever was."

Self-confidence is the first requisite to great undertakings. He,

indeed, who forms his opinion of himself in solitude, without knowing

the powers of other men, is very liable to errour; but it was the

felicity of Pope to rate himself at his real value.

Most of his puerile productions were, by his maturer judgment,

afterwards destroyed; Alcander, the epick poem, was burnt by the

persuasion of Atterbury. The tragedy was founded on the legend of St.

Genevieve. Of the comedy there is no account.

Concerning his studies it is related, that he translated Tully on Old

Age; and that, besides his books of poetry and criticism, he read

Temple's Essays and Locke on Human Understanding. His reading, though

his favourite authors are not known, appears to have been sufficiently

extensive and multifarious; for his early pieces show, with sufficient

evidence, his knowledge of books.

He that is pleased with himself easily imagines that he shall please

others. Sir William Trumbull, who had been ambassador at Constantinople,

and secretary of state, when he retired from business, fixed his

residence in the neighbourhood of Binfield. Pope, not yet sixteen, was

introduced to the statesman of sixty, and so distinguished himself, that

their interviews ended in friendship and correspondence. Pope was,

through his whole life, ambitious of splendid acquaintance; and he seems

to have wanted neither diligence nor success in attracting the notice

of the great; for, from his first entrance into the world, and his

entrance was very early, he was admitted to familiarity with those whose

rank or station made them most conspicuous.

From the age of sixteen the life of Pope, as an author, may be properly

computed. He now wrote his Pastorals, which were shown to the poets and

criticks of that time; as they well deserved, they were read with

admiration, and many praises were bestowed upon them and upon the

preface, which is both elegant and learned in a high degree: they were,

however, not published till five years afterwards.

Cowley, Milton, and Pope, are distinguished among the English poets by

the early exertion of their powers; but the works of Cowley alone were

published in his childhood, and, therefore, of him only can it be

certain that his puerile performances received no improvement from his

maturer studies.

At this time began his acquaintance with Wycherley, a man who seems to

have had among his contemporaries his full share of reputation, to have

been esteemed without virtue, and caressed without good-humour. Pope was

proud of his notice; Wycherley wrote verses in his praise, which he was

charged by Dennis with writing to himself, and they agreed for awhile to

flatter one another. It is pleasant to remark how soon Pope learned the

cant of an author, and began to treat criticks with contempt, though he

had yet suffered nothing from them.

But the fondness of Wycherley was too violent to last. His esteem of

Pope was such, that he submitted some poems to his revision; and when

Pope, perhaps proud of such confidence, was sufficiently bold in his

criticisms, and liberal in his alterations, the old scribbler was angry

to see his pages defaced, and felt more pain from the detection than

content from the amendment of his faults. They parted; but Pope always

considered him with kindness, and visited him a little time before he

died.

Another of his early correspondents was Mr. Cromwell, of whom I have

learned nothing particular, but that he used to ride a hunting in a

tie-wig. He was fond, and perhaps vain, of amusing himself with poetry

and criticism; and sometimes sent his performances to Pope, who did not

forbear such remarks as were now and then unwelcome. Pope, in his turn,

put the juvenile version of Statius into his hands for correction.

Their correspondence afforded the publick its first knowledge of Pope's

epistolary powers; for his letters were given by Cromwell to one Mrs.

Thomas; and she, many years afterwards, sold them to Curll, who inserted

them in a volume of his miscellanies.

Walsh, a name yet preserved among the minor poets, was one of his first

encouragers. His regard was gained by the Pastorals, and from him Pope

received the counsel by which he seems to have regulated his studies.

Walsh advised him to correctness, which, as he told him, the English

poets had hitherto neglected, and which, therefore, was left to him as a

basis of fame; and being delighted with rural poems, recommended to him

to write a pastoral comedy, like those which are read so eagerly in

Italy; a design which Pope probably did not approve, as he did not

follow it.

Pope had now declared himself a poet; and thinking himself entitled to

poetical conversation, began, at seventeen, to frequent Will's, a

coffee-house on the north side of Russel-street in Covent-garden, where

the wits of that time used to assemble, and where Dryden had, when he

lived, been accustomed to preside.

During this period of his life, he was indefatigably diligent, and

insatiably curious; wanting health for violent, and money for expensive

pleasures, and having excited in himself very strong desires of

intellectual eminence, he spent much of his time over his books; but he

read only to store his mind with facts and images, seizing all that his

authors presented with undistinguishing voracity, and with an appetite

for knowledge too eager to be nice. In a mind like his, however, all

the faculties were at once involuntarily improving. Judgment is forced

upon us by experience. He that reads many books must compare one opinion

or one style with another; and, when he compares, must necessarily

distinguish, reject, and prefer. But the account given by himself of his

studies was, that from fourteen to twenty he read only for amusement,

from twenty to twenty-seven for improvement and instruction; that in the

first part of this time he desired only to know, and in the second he

endeavoured to judge.

The Pastorals, which had been, for some time, handed about among poets

and criticks, were at last printed, 1709, in Tonson's Miscellany, in a

volume which began with the Pastorals of Philips, and ended with those

of Pope.

The same year was written the Essay on Criticism; a work which displays

such extent of comprehension, such nicety of distinction, such

acquaintance with mankind, and such knowledge both of ancient and modern

learning, as are not often attained by the maturest age and longest

experience. It was published about two years afterwards; and, being

praised by Addison in the Spectator[113] with sufficient liberality, met

with so much favour as enraged Dennis, "who," he says, "found himself

attacked, without any manner of provocation on his side, and attacked in

his person, instead of his writings, by one who was wholly a stranger to

him, at a time when all the world knew he was persecuted by fortune; and

not only saw that this was attempted in a clandestine manner, with the

utmost falsehood and calumny, but found that all this was done by a

little affected hypocrite, who had nothing in his mouth at the same time

but truth, candour, friendship, good-nature, humanity, and magnanimity."

How the attack was clandestine is not easily perceived, nor how his

person is depreciated; but he seems to have known something of Pope's

character, in whom may be discovered an appetite to talk too frequently

of his own virtues.

The pamphlet is such as rage might be expected to dictate. He supposes

himself to be asked two questions; whether the essay will succeed, and

who or what is the author.

Its success he admits to be secured by the false opinions then

prevalent: the author he concludes to be "young and raw."

"First, because he discovers a sufficiency beyond his little ability,

and hath rashly undertaken a task infinitely above his force. Secondly,

while this little author struts, and affects the dictatorian air, he

plainly shows, that at the same time he is under the rod; and, while he

pretends to give laws to others, is a pedantick slave to authority and

opinion. Thirdly, he hath, like schoolboys, borrowed both from living

and dead. Fourthly, he knows not his own mind, and frequently

contradicts himself. Fifthly, he is almost perpetually in the wrong."

All these positions he attempts to prove by quotations and remarks; but

his desire to do mischief is greater than his power. He has, however,

justly criticised some passages: in these lines,

There are whom heav'n has bless'd with store of wit,

Yet want as much again to manage it;

For wit and judgment ever are at strife--

is apparent, that _wit_ has two meanings; and that what is wanted,

though called _wit_, is, truly, judgment. So far Dennis is undoubtedly

right; but, not content with argument, he will have a little mirth, and

triumphs over the first couplet in terms too elegant to be forgotten.

"By the way, what rare numbers are here! Would not one swear that this

youngster had espoused some antiquated muse, who had sued out a divorce

on account of impotence from some superannuated sinner; and, having been

p--xed by her former spouse, has got the gout, in her decrepit age,

which makes her hobble so damnably?" This was the man who would reform

a nation sinking into barbarity.

In another place Pope himself allowed, that Dennis had detected one of

those blunders, which are called "bulls." The first edition had this

line:

What is this wit--

Where wanted, scorn'd; and envied, where acquir'd?

"How," says the critick, "can wit be scorn'd where it is not? Is not

this a figure frequently employed in Hibernian land? The person that

wants this wit may, indeed, be scorned, but the scorn shows the honour

which the contemner has for wit." Of this remark Pope made the proper

use, by correcting the passage.

I have preserved, I think, all that is reasonable in Dennis's criticism;

it remains, that justice be done to his delicacy. "For his

acquaintance," says Dennis, "he names Mr. Walsh, who had by no means the

qualification which this author reckons absolutely necessary to a

critick, it being very certain that he was, like this essayer, a very

indifferent poet; he loved to be well dressed; and I remember a little

young gentleman, whom Mr. Walsh used to take into his company, as a

double foil to his person and capacity. Inquire, between Sunninghill and

Oakingham, for a young, short, squab gentleman, the very bow of the god

of love, and tell me, whether he be a proper author to make personal

reflections? He may extol the ancients, but he has reason to thank the

gods that he was born a modern; for had he been born of Grecian parents,

and his father, consequently, had, by law, had the absolute disposal of

him, his life had been no longer than that of one of his poems, the life

of half a day. Let the person of a gentleman of his parts be never so

contemptible, his inward man is ten times more ridiculous; it being

impossible that his outward form, though it be that of a downright

monkey, should differ so much from human shape, as his unthinking,

immaterial part does from human understanding." 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 gentlemen, 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 connexion as was not

perceived by Addison, nor, as 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 connexion equally specious 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[114].

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

inferiour 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 grew 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 fury of a

raving girl.

Not long after, he wrote the Rape of the Lock, the most airy, the most

ingenious, and the most delightful of all his compositions, occasioned

by a frolick 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

letters, 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 it 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 any thing 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 publick 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[115].

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 latter years,

though I never heard upon what principle he slighted it[116].

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 high in

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 would 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 Frensy 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[117]: 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

encomiastick 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, whe 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[118].

He, therefore, resolved to try how far the favour of the publick

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[119]; 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 publick 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 had delighted all, and by whom none had been offended.

With those 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 inferiour to the quartos, that by a 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[120]. 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 frighted at his own undertaking; and finding

himself at first embarrassed with difficulties, which retarded and

oppressed him, he was for a time timorous and uneasy, had his nights

disturbed by dreams of long journeys through unknown ways, and wished,

as he said, "that somebody would hang him[121]."

This misery, however, was not of long continuance; he grew, by degrees,

more acquainted with Homer's images and expressions, and practice

increased his facility of versification. In a short time he represents

himself as despatching regularly fifty verses a day, which would show

him, by an easy computation, the termination of his labour.

His own diffidence was not his only vexation. He that asks a

subscription soon finds that he has enemies. All who do not encourage

him, defame him. He that wants money will rather be thought angry than

poor; and he that wishes to save his money conceals his avarice by his

malice. Addison had hinted his suspicion that Pope was too much a tory;

and some of the tories suspected his principles, because he had

contributed to the Guardian, which was carried on by Steele.

To those who censured his politicks were added enemies yet more

dangerous, who called in question his knowledge of Greek, and his

qualifications for a translator of Homer. To these he made no publick

opposition; but in one of his letters escapes from them as well as he

can. At an age like his, for he was not more than twenty-five, with an

irregular education, and a course of life of which much seems to have

passed in conversation, it is not very likely that he overflowed with

Greek. But when he felt himself deficient he sought assistance; and what

man of learning would refuse to help him? Minute inquiries into the

force of words are less necessary in translating Homer than other poets,

because his positions are general, and his representations natural, with

very little dependence on local or temporary customs, or those

changeable scenes of artificial life, which, by mingling original with

accidental notions, and crowding the mind with images which time

effaces, produce ambiguity in diction, and obscurity in books. To this

open display of unadulterated nature it must be ascribed, that Homer has

fewer passages of doubtful meaning than any other poet either in the

learned or in modern languages. I have read of a man, who being, by his

ignorance of Greek, compelled to gratify his curiosity with the Latin

printed on the opposite page, declared that from the rude simplicity of

the lines literally rendered, he formed nobler ideas of the Homeric

majesty, than from the laboured elegance of polished versions.

Those literal translations were always at hand, and from them he could

easily obtain his author's sense with sufficient certainty; and among

the readers of Homer the number is very small of those who find much in

the Greek more than in the Latin, except the musick of the numbers.

If more help was wanting, he had the poetical translation of Eobanus

Hessus, an unwearied writer of Latin verses; he had the French Homers of

la Valterie and Dacier, and the English of Chapman, Hobbes, and Ogilby.

With Chapman, whose work, though now totally neglected, seems to have

been popular almost to the end of the last century, he had very frequent

consultations, and, perhaps, never translated any passage till he had

read his version, which, indeed, he has been sometimes suspected of

using instead of the original.

Notes were likewise to be provided; for the six volumes would have been

very little more than six pamphlets without them. What the mere perusal

of the text could suggest, Pope wanted no assistance to collect or

methodise; but more was necessary; many pages were to be filled, and

learning must supply materials to wit and judgment. Something might be

gathered from Dacier; but no man loves to be indebted to his

contemporaries, and Dacier was accessible to common readers. Eustathius,

was, therefore, necessarily consulted. To read Eustathius, of whose work

there was then no Latin version, I suspect Pope, if he had been willing,

not to have been able; some other was, therefore, to be found, who had

leisure as well as abilities; and he was doubtless most readily employed

who would do much work for little money.

The history of the notes has never been traced. Broome, in his preface

to his poems, declares himself the commentator "in part upon the Iliad;"

and it appears from Fenton's letter, preserved in the Museum, that

Broome was at first engaged in consulting Eustathius; but that after a

time, whatever was the reason, he desisted: another man, of Cambridge,

was then employed, who soon grew weary of the work; and a third, that

was recommended by Thirlby, is now discovered to have been Jortin, a man

since well known to the learned world, who complained that Pope, having

accepted and approved his performance, never testified any curiosity to

see him, and who professed to have forgotten the terms on which he

worked. The terms which Fenton uses are very mercantile: "I think, at

first sight, that his performance is very commendable, and have sent

word for him to finish the seventeenth book, and to send it with his

demands for his trouble. I have here enclosed the specimen; if the rest

come before the return, I will keep them till I receive your order."

Broome then offered his service a second time, which was, probably,

accepted, as they had afterwards a closer correspondence. Parnell

contributed the Life of Homer, which Pope found so harsh, that he took

great pains in correcting it; and by his own diligence, with such help

as kindness or money could procure him, in somewhat more than five years

he completed his version of the Iliad, with the notes. He began it in

1712, his twenty-fifth year; and concluded it in 1718, his thirtieth

year.

When we find him translating fifty lines a day, it is natural to

suppose that he would have brought his work to a more speedy conclusion.

The Iliad, containing less than sixteen thousand verses, might have been

despatched in less than three hundred and twenty days by fifty verses in

a day. The notes, compiled with the assistance of his mercenaries, could

not be supposed to require more time than the text.

According to this calculation, the progress of Pope may seem to have

been slow; but the distance is commonly very great between actual

performances and speculative possibility. It is natural to suppose, that

as much as has been done to-day, may be done to-morrow; but on the

morrow some difficulty emerges, or some external impediment obstructs.

Indolence, interruption, business, and pleasure, all take their turns of

retardation; and every long work is lengthened by a thousand causes that

can, and ten thousand that cannot be recounted. Perhaps no extensive and

multifarious performance was ever effected within the term originally

fixed in the undertaker's mind. He that runs against time has an

antagonist not subject to casualties.

The encouragement given to this translation, though report seems to have

overrated it, was such as the world has not often seen. The subscribers

were five hundred and seventy-five. The copies, for which subscriptions

were given, were six hundred and fifty-four; and only six hundred and

sixty were printed. For these copies Pope had nothing to pay; he,

therefore, received, including the two hundred pounds a volume, five

thousand three hundred and twenty pounds four shillings without

deduction, as the books were supplied by Lintot.

By the success of his subscription Pope was relieved from those

pecuniary distresses with which, notwithstanding his popularity, he had

hitherto struggled. Lord Oxford had often lamented his disqualification

for publick employment, but never proposed a pension. While the

translation of Homer was in its progress, Mr. Craggs, then secretary of

state, offered to procure him a pension, which, at least during his

ministry, might be enjoyed with secrecy. This was not accepted by Pope,

who told him, however, that, if he should be pressed with want of money,

he would send to him for occasional supplies. Craggs was not long in

power, and was never solicited for money by Pope, who disdained to beg

what he did not want.

With the product of this subscription, which he had too much discretion

to squander, he secured his future life from want, by considerable

annuities. The estate of the duke of Buckingham was found to have been

charged with five hundred pounds a year, payable to Pope, which,

doubtless, his translation enabled him to purchase.

It cannot be unwelcome to literary curiosity, that I deduce thus

minutely the history of the English Iliad. It is, certainly, the noblest

version of poetry which the world has ever seen; and its publication

must, therefore, be considered as one of the great events in the annals

of learning.

To those who have skill to estimate the excellence and difficulty of

this great work, it must be very desirable to know how it was performed,

and by what gradations it advanced to correctness. Of such an

intellectual process the knowledge has very rarely been attainable; but,

happily, there remains the original copy of the Iliad, which, being

obtained by Bolingbroke, as a curiosity, descended, from him, to Mallet,

and is now, by the solicitation of the late Dr. Maty, reposited in the

Museum.

Between this manuscript, which is written upon accidental fragments of

paper, and the printed edition, there must have been an intermediate

copy, that was, perhaps, destroyed as it returned from the press.

From the first copy I have procured a few transcripts, and shall

exhibit, first, the printed lines: then, in a smaller print, those of

the manuscripts, with all their variations. Those words in the small

print, which are given in italicks, are cancelled in the copy, and the

words placed under them adopted in their stead.

[Transcriber's Note: the "smaller print" of the original noted in

the preceeding paragraph is the doubly-indented block in the following

section.]

The beginning of the first book stands thus:

The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful spring

Of all the Grecian woes, O goddess, sing;

That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign

The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain.

The stern Pelides' _rage_, O goddess, sing,

wrath

Of all the woes of Greece the fatal spring.

Grecian

That strew'd with _warriors_ dead the Phrygian plain,

heroes

And _peopled the dark hell with heroes_ slain;

fill'd the shady hell with chiefs untimely.

Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore,

Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore,

Since great _Achilles_ and _Atrides_ strove;

Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.

Whose limbs, unburied on the hostile shore,

Devouring dogs and greedy vultures tare,

Since first _Atrides_ and _Achilles_ strove;

Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.

Declare, O muse, in what ill-fated hour

Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?

Latona's son a dire contagion spread,

And heap'd the camp with mountains of the dead;

The king of men his reverend priest defy'd,

And for the king's offence the people dy'd.

Declare, O goddess, what offended power

Enflam'd their _rage_, in that _ill-omen'd_ hour;

anger, fatal, hapless

Phoebus himself the _dire_ debate procur'd,

fierce

T' avenge the wrongs his injur'd priest endur'd;

For this the god a dire infection spread,

And heap'd the camp with millions of the dead:

The king of men the sacred sire defy'd,

And for the king's offence the people dy'd.

For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain

His captive daughter from the victor's chain;

Suppliant the venerable father stands,

Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands,

By these he begs, and, lowly bending down,

Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown.

For Chryses sought by _presents to regain_

costly gifts to gain

His captive daughter from the victor's chain;

Suppliant the venerable father stands,

Apollo's awful ensigns grac'd his hands,

By these he begs, and, lowly bending down

_The golden sceptre_ and the laurel crown,

Presents the sceptre

_For these as ensigns of his god he bare,

The god that sends his golden shafts afar_;

Then low on earth, the venerable man,

Suppliant before the brother kings began.

He sued to all, but chief implor'd for grace

The brother kings of Atreus' royal race;

Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crown'd,

And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground;

May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er,

Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

To all he sued, but chief implor'd for grace

The brother kings of Atreus' royal race.

Ye _sons of Atreus_, may your vows be crown'd,

Kings and warriors

_Your labours, by the gods be all your labours crown'd;

So may the gods your arms with conquest bless,

And_ Troy's proud walls _lie_ level with the ground:

_Till_ _laid_

_And crown your labours with deserv'd success_

May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er,

Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

But, oh! relieve a wretched parent's pain,

And give Chryseis to these arms again;

If mercy fail, yet let my present move,

And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove.

But, oh! relieve a hapless parent's pain,

And give my daughter to these arms again;

_Receive my gifts_; if mercy fails, yet let my present move,

And fear _the god that deals his darts around_,

avenging Phosbus, son of Jove.

The Greeks, in shouts, their joint assent declare

The priest to reverence, and release the fair.

Not so Atrides; he, with kingly pride,

Repuls'd the sacred sire, and thus reply'd.

He said, the Greeks their joint assent declare,

_The father said, the gen'rons Greeks relent,_

T' accept the ransom, and release the fair:

_Revere the priest, and speak their joint assent:_

Not so the _tyrant_, he, with kingly pride,

Atrides,

Repuls'd the sacred sire, and thus replied.

[Not so the tyrant. DRYDEN.]

Of these lines, and of the whole first book, I am told that there was yet

a former copy, more varied, and more deformed with interlineations.

The beginning of the second book varies very little from the printed

page, and is, therefore, set down without a parallel; the few differences

do not require to be elaborately displayed.

Now pleasing sleep had seal'd each mortal eye;

Stretch'd in their tents the Grecian leaders lie;

Th' immortals slumber'd on their thrones above,

All but the ever-watchful eye of Jove.

To honour Thetis' son he bends his care,

And plunge the Greeks in all the woes of war.

Then bids an empty phantom rise to sight,

And thus _commands_ the vision of the night:

directs

Fly hence, delusive dream, and, light as air,

To Agamemnon's royal tent repair;

Bid him in arms draw forth th' embattled train,

March all his legions to the dusty plain.

_Now tell the king_ 'tis given him to destroy

Declare ev'n now

The lofty _walls_ of wide-extended Troy;

tow'rs

For now no more the gods with fate contend,

At Juno's suit the heavenly factions end.

Destruction _hovers_ o'er yon devoted wall,

hangs

And nodding Ilium waits th' impending fall.

Invocation to the catalogue of ships:

Say, virgins, seated round the throne divine,

All-knowing goddesses! immortal nine!

Since earth's wide regions, heaven's unmeasur'd height,

And hell's abyss, hide nothing from your sight,

(We, wretched mortals! lost in doubts below,

But guess by rumour, and but boast we know,)

Oh! say what heroes, fir'd by thirst of fame,

Or urg'd by wrongs, to Troy's destruction came!

To count them all demands a thousand tongues,

A throat of brass and adamantine lungs.

Now, virgin goddesses, immortal nine!

That round Olympus' heavenly summit shine,

Who see through heaven and earth, and hell profound,

And all things know, and all things can resound!

Relate what armies sought the Trojan land,

What nations follow'd, and what chiefs command;

(For doubtful fame distracts mankind below,

And nothing can we tell, and nothing know,)

Without your aid, to count th' unnumber'd train,

A thousand mouths, a thousand tongues, were vain.

Book v. _v_. 1.

But Pallas now Tydides' soul inspires,

Fills with her force, and warms with all her fires;

Above the Greeks his deathless fame to raise,

And crown her hero with distinguish'd praise.

High on his helm celestial lightnings play,

His beamy shield emits a living ray;

Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies.

Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies.

But Pallas now Tydides' soul inspires,

Fills with her _rage_, and warms with all her fires;

force,

O'er all the Greeks decrees his fame to raise,

Above the Greeks her _warrior's_ fame to raise,

his deathless

And crown her hero with _immortal_ praise:

distinguish'd

_Bright from_ his beamy _crest_ the lightnings play,

High on helm

From his broad buckler flash'd the living ray;

High on his helm celestial lightnings play,

His beamy shield emits a living ray.

The goddess with her breath the flame supplies,

Bright as the star whose fires in autumn rise;

Her breath divine thick streaming flames supplies,

Bright as the star that fires th' autumnal skies:

Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies,

Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies.

When first he rears his radiant orb to sight,

And, bath'd in ocean, shoots a keener light.

Such glories Pallas on the chief bestow'd,

Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow'd;

Onward she drives him, furious to engage,

Where the fight burns, and where the thickest rage.

When fresh he rears his radiant orb to sight,

And gilds old ocean with a blaze of light,

Bright as the star that fires th' autumnal skies;

Fresh from the deep, and gilds the seas and skies;

Such glories Pallas on her chief bestow'd,

Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flow'd;

Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow'd;

Onward she drives him _headlong_ to engage,

furious

Where the _war bleeds_, and where the _fiercest_ rage,

fight burns, thickest

The sons of Dares first the combat sought,

A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault;

In Vulcan's fane the father's days were led,

The sons to toils of glorious battle bred.

There liv'd a Trojan--Dares was his name,

The priest of Vulcan, rich, yet void of blame;

The sons of Dares first the combat sought,

A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault.

_Conclusion of Book_ viii. _v_. 687.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,

O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,

When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,

And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene,

Around her throne the vivid planets roll,

And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole;

O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,

And tip with silver every mountain's head;

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,

A flood of glory bursts from all the skies;

The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,

Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,

And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays;

The long reflections of the distant fires

Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,

And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field.

Pull fifty guards each flaming pile attend,

Whose umber'd arms by fits thick flashes send;

Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn,

And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.

As when in stillness of the silent night,

As when the moon, in all her lustre bright;

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,

O'er heav'n's _clear_ azure _sheds_ her _silver_ light;

pure spreads sacred

As still in air the trembling lustre stood,

And o'er its golden border shoots a flood;

When _no loose gale_ disturbs the deep serene,

not a breath

And _no dim_ cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;

not a

Around her silver throne the planets glow,

And stars unnumber'd trembling beams bestow:

Around her throne the vivid planets roll,

And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole;

Clear gleams of light o'er the dark trees are seen,

o'er the dark trees a yellow sheds,

O'er the dark trees a yellower _green_ they shed,

gleam

verdure

And tip with silver all the _mountain_ heads

forest

And tip with silver every mountain's head.

The valleys open, and the forests rise,

The vales appear, the rocks in prospect rise,

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise.

All nature stands reveal'd before our eyes;

A flood of glory bursts from all the skies.

The conscious shepherd, joyful at the sight,

Eyes the blue vault, and numbers every light.

The conscious _swains rejoicing at the_ sight,

shepherds gazing with delight,

Eye the blue vault, and bless the _vivid_ light,

glorious

useful

So many flames before _the navy_ blaze,

proud Ilion

And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays;

Wide o'er the fields to Troy extend the gleams,

And tip the distant spires with fainter beams;

The long reflections of the distant fires

Gild the high walls, and tremble on the spires;

Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires;

A thousand fires at distant stations bright,

Gild the dark prospect, and dispel the night.

Of these specimens every man who has cultivated poetry, or who delights

to trace the mind from the rudeness of its first conceptions to the

elegance of its last, will naturally desire a greater number; but most

other readers are already tired, and I am not writing only to poets and

philosophers.

The Iliad was published volume by volume, as the translation proceeded:

the four first books appeared in 1715. The expectation of this work was

undoubtedly high, and every man who had connected his name with

criticism, or poetry, was desirous of such intelligence as might enable

him to talk upon the popular topick. Halifax, who, by having been first

a poet, and then a patron of poetry, had acquired the right of being a

judge, was willing to hear some books while they were yet unpublished.

Of this rehearsal Pope afterwards gave the following account[122]:

"The famous lord Halifax was rather a pretender to taste, than really

possessed of it. When I had finished the two or three first books of my

translation of the Iliad, that lord desired to have the pleasure of

hearing them read at his house. Addison, Congreve, and Garth, were there

at the reading. In four or five places, lord Halifax stopped me very

civilly, and with a speech each time of much the same kind, 'I beg your

pardon, Mr. Pope; but there is something in that passage that does not

quite please me. Be so good as to mark the place, and consider it a

little at your leisure. I'm sure you can give it a little turn.' I

returned from lord Halifax's with Dr. Garth, in his chariot: and, as we

were going along, was saying to the doctor, that my lord had laid me

under a great deal of difficulty by such loose and general observations;

that I had been thinking over the passages almost ever since, and could

not guess what it was that offended his lordship in either of them.

Garth laughed heartily at my embarrassment; said, I had not been long

enough acquainted with lord Halifax, to know his way yet; that I need

not puzzle myself about looking those places over and over when I got

home. 'All you need do,' says he, 'is to leave them just as they are;

call on lord Halifax two or three months hence, thank him for his kind

observations on those passages, and then read them to him as altered. I

have known him much longer than you have, and will be answerable for the

event.' I followed his advice; waited on lord Halifax some time after;

said, I hoped he would find his objections to those passages removed;

read them to him exactly as they were at first; and his lordship was

extremely pleased with them, and cried out, 'Aye, now they are perfectly

right: nothing can be better[123].'"

It is seldom that the great or the wise suspect that they are despised

or cheated. Halifax, thinking this a lucky opportunity of securing

immortality, made some advances of favour and some overtures of

advantage to Pope, which he seems to have received with sullen coldness.

All our knowledge of this transaction is derived from a single letter,

Dec. 1,1714, in which Pope says, "I am obliged to you, both for the

favours you have done me, and those you intend me. I distrust neither

your will nor your memory, when it is to do good; and if I ever become

troublesome or solicitous, it must not be out of expectation, but out

of gratitude. Your lordship may cause me to live agreeably in the town,

or contentedly in the country, which is really all the difference I set

between an easy fortune and a small one. It is, indeed, a high strain of

generosity in you to think of making me easy all my life, only because I

have been so happy as to divert you some few hours; but, if I may have

leave to add, it is because you think me no enemy to my native country,

there will appear a better reason; for I must of consequence be very

much, as I sincerely am, yours, &c."

These voluntary offers, and this faint acceptance, ended without effect.

The patron was not accustomed to such frigid gratitude: and the poet fed

his own pride with the dignity of independence. They probably were

suspicious of each other. Pope would not dedicate till he saw at what

rate his praise was valued; he would be "troublesome out of gratitude,

not expectation." Halifax thought himself entitled to confidence; and

would give nothing, unless he knew what he should receive. Their

commerce had its beginning in hope of praise on one side, and of money

on the other, and ended because Pope was less eager of money than

Halifax of praise. It is not likely that Halifax had any personal

benevolence to Pope; it is evident that Pope looked on Halifax with

scorn and hatred[124].

The reputation of this great work failed of gaining him a patron; but it

deprived him of a friend. Addison and he were now at the head of poetry

and criticism; and both in such a state of elevation, that, like the two

rivals in the Roman state, one could no longer bear an equal, nor the

other a superiour. Of the gradual abatement of kindness between friends,

the beginning is often scarcely discernible by themselves, and the

process is continued by petty provocations, and incivilities sometimes

peevishly returned, and sometimes contemptuously neglected, which would

escape all attention but that of pride, and drop from any memory but

that of resentment. That the quarrel of these two wits should be

minutely deduced, is not to be expected from a writer to whom, as Homer

says, "nothing but rumour has reached, and who has no personal

knowledge."

Pope doubtless approached Addison, when the reputation of their wit

first brought them together, with the respect due to a man whose

abilities were acknowledged, and who, having attained that eminence to

which he was himself aspiring, had in his hands the distribution of

literary fame. He paid court with sufficient diligence by his prologue

to Cato, by his abuse of Dennis, and with praise yet more direct, by his

poem on the Dialogues on Medals, of which the immediate publication was

then intended. In all this there was no hypocrisy; for he confessed that

he found in Addison something more pleasing than in any other man.

It may be supposed, that as Pope saw himself favoured by the world, and

more frequently compared his own powers with those of others, his

confidence increased, and his submission lessened; and that Addison felt

no delight from the advances of a young wit, who might soon contend with

him for the highest place. Every great man, of whatever kind be his

greatness, has among his friends those who officiously or insidiously

quicken his attention to offences, heighten his disgust, and stimulate

his resentment. Of such adherents Addison doubtless had many; and Pope

was now too high to be without them.

From the emission and reception of the proposals for the Iliad, the

kindness of Addison seems to have abated. Jervas, the painter, once

pleased himself, Aug. 20, 1714, with imagining that he had reestablished

their friendship; and wrote to Pope that Addison once suspected him of

too close a confederacy with Swift, but was now satisfied with his

conduct. To this Pope answered, a week after, that his engagements to

Swift were such as his services in regard to the subscription demanded,

and that the tories never put him under the necessity of asking leave to

be grateful. "But," says he, "as Mr. Addison must be the judge in what

regards himself, and has seemed to be no just one to me, so I must own

to you I expect nothing but civility from him." In the same letter he

mentions Philips, as having been busy to kindle animosity between them;

but in a letter to Addison, he expresses some consciousness of

behaviour, inattentively deficient in respect.

Of Swift's industry in promoting the subscription there remains the

testimony of Kennet, no friend to either him or Pope.

"Nov. 2, 1713, Dr. Swift came into the coffee-house, and had a bow from

every body but me, who, I confess, could not but despise him. When I

came to the ante-chamber to wait, before prayers, Dr. Swift was the

principal man of talk and business, and acted as master of requests.

Then he instructed a young nobleman, that the _best poet in England_ was

Mr. Pope, a papist, who had begun a translation of Homer into English

verse, for which _he must have them all subscribe_; for, says he, the

author _shall not_ begin to print till _I have_ a thousand guineas for

him."

About this time it is likely that Steele, who was, with all his

political fury, good-natured and officious, procured an interview

between these angry rivals, which ended in aggravated malevolence. On

this occasion, if the reports be true, Pope made his complaint with

frankness and spirit, as a man undeservedly neglected or opposed; and

Addison affected a contemptuous unconcern, and, in a calm even voice,

reproached Pope with his vanity, and, telling him of the improvements

which his early works had received from his own remarks and those of

Steele, said, that he, being now engaged in publick business, had no

longer any care for his poetical reputation, nor had any other desire,

with regard to Pope, than that he should not, by too much arrogance,

alienate the publick.

To this Pope is said to have replied with great keenness and severity,

upbraiding Addison with perpetual dependance, and with the abuse of

those qualifications which he had obtained at the publick cost, and

charging him with mean endeavours to obstruct the progress of rising

merit. The contest rose so high, that they parted at last without any

interchange of civility.

The first volume of Homer was, 1715, in time published; and a rival

version of the first Iliad, for rivals the time of their appearance

inevitably made them, was immediately printed, with the name of Tickell.

It was soon perceived that, among the followers of Addison, Tickell had

the preference, and the criticks and poets divided into factions. "I,"

says Pope, "have the town, that is, the mob, on my side; but it is not

uncommon for the smaller party to supply by industry what it wants in

numbers. I appeal to the people as my rightful judges, and while they

are not inclined to condemn me, shall not fear the highfliers at

Button's." This opposition he immediately imputed to Addison, and

complained of it in terms sufficiently resentful to Craggs, their common

friend.

When Addison's opinion was asked, he declared the versions to be both

good, but Tickell's the best that had ever been written; and sometimes

said, that they were both good, but that Tickell had more of Homer.

Pope was now sufficiently irritated; his reputation and his interest

were at hazard. He once intended to print together the four versions of

Dryden, Maynwaring, Pope, and Tickell, that they might be readily

compared, and fairly estimated. This design seems to have been defeated

by the refusal of Tonson, who was the proprietor of the other three

versions.

Pope intended, at another time, a rigorous criticism of Tickell's

translation, and had marked a copy, which I have seen, in all places

that appeared defective. But, while he was thus meditating defence or

revenge, his adversary sunk before him without a blow; the voice of the

publick was not long divided, and the preference was universally given

to Pope's performance.

He was convinced, by adding one circumstance to another, that the other

translation was the work of Addison himself; but, if he knew it in

Addison's lifetime, it does not appear that he told it. He left his

illustrious antagonist to be punished by what has been considered as

the most painful of all reflections, the remembrance of a crime

perpetrated in vain.

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

"Philips seemed to have been encouraged to abuse me in coffee-houses,

and conversations: and Gildon wrote a thing about Wycherley, in which he

had abused both me and my relations very grossly. Lord Warwick himself

told me one day, that it was in vain for me to endeavour to be well with

Mr. Addison; that his jealous temper would never admit of a settled

friendship between us; and, to convince me of what he had said, assured

me, that Addison had encouraged Gildon to publish those scandals, and

had given him ten guineas after they were published. The next day, while

I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a letter to Mr. Addison, to

let him know that I was not unacquainted with this behaviour of his;

that if I was to speak severely of him in return for it, it should be

not in such a dirty way; that I should rather tell him, himself, fairly

of his faults, and allow his good qualities; and, that it should be

something in the following manner: I then adjoined the first sketch of

what has since been called my satire on Addison. Mr. Addison used me

very civilly ever after[126]."

The verses on Addison, when they were sent to Atterbury, were considered

by him as the most excellent of Pope's performances; and the writer was

advised, since he knew where his strength lay, not to suffer it to

remain unemployed.

This year, 1715, being, by the subscription, enabled to live more by

choice, having persuaded his father to sell their estate at Binfield, he

purchased, I think, only for his life, that house at Twickenham, to

which his residence afterwards procured so much celebration, and

removed thither with his father and mother.

Here he planted the vines and the quincunx which his verses mention;

and, being under the necessity of making a subterraneous passage to a

garden on the other side of the road, he adorned it with fossile bodies,

and dignified it with the title of a grotto, a place of silence and

retreat, from which he endeavoured to persuade his friends and himself

that cares and passions could be excluded.

A grotto is not often the wish or pleasure of an Englishman, who has

more frequent need to solicit than exclude the sun; but Pope's

excavation was requisite as an entrance to his garden, and, as some men

try to be proud of their defects, he extracted an ornament from an

inconvenience, and vanity produced a grotto where necessity enforced a

passage. It may be frequently remarked of the studious and speculative,

that they are proud of trifles, and that their amusements seem frivolous

and childish; whether it be that men, conscious of great reputation,

think themselves above the reach of censure, and safe in the admission

of negligent indulgences, or that mankind expect from elevated genius an

uniformity of greatness, and watch its degradation with malicious

wonder; like him who, having followed with his eye an eagle into the

clouds, should lament that she ever descended to a perch.

While the volumes of his Homer were annually published, he collected his

former works, 1717, into one quarto volume, to which he prefixed a

preface, written with great sprightliness and elegance, which was

afterwards reprinted, with some passages subjoined that he at first

omitted; other marginal additions of the same kind he made in the later

editions of his poems. Waller remarks, that poets lose half their

praise, because the reader knows not what they have blotted. Pope's

voracity of fame taught him the art of obtaining the accumulated honour,

both of what he had published, and of what he had suppressed.

In this year his father died suddenly, in his seventy-fifth year, having

passed twenty-nine years in privacy. He is not known but by the

character which his son has given him. If the money with which he

retired was all gotten by himself, he had traded very successfully in,

times when sudden riches were rarely attainable.

The publication of the Iliad was at last completed in 1720. The

splendour and success of this work raised Pope many enemies, that

endeavoured to depreciate his abilities. Burnet, who was afterwards a

judge of no mean reputation, censured him in a piece called Homerides,

before it was published. Ducket, likewise, endeavoured to make him

ridiculous. Dennis was the perpetual persecutor of all his studies. But,

whoever his criticks were, their writings are lost; and the names which

are preserved are preserved in the Dunciad.

In this disastrous year, 1720, of national infatuation, when more riches

than Peru can boast were expected from the South-sea, when the contagion

of avarice tainted every mind, and even poets panted after wealth, Pope

was seized with the universal passion, and ventured some of his money.

The stock rose in its price; and for awhile he thought himself the lord

of thousands. But this dream of happiness did not last long; and he

seems to have waked soon enough to get clear with the loss only of what

he once thought himself to have won, and perhaps not wholly of that.

Next year he published some select poems of his friend Dr. Parnell, with

a very elegant dedication to the earl of Oxford; who, after all his

struggles and dangers, then lived in retirement, still under the frown

of a victorious faction, who could take no pleasure in hearing his

praise.

He gave the same year, 1721, an edition of Shakespeare. His name was now

of so much authority, that Tonson thought himself entitled, by annexing

it, to demand a subscription of six guineas for Shakespeare's plays, in

six quarto volumes; nor did his expectation much deceive him; for, of

seven hundred and fifty which he printed, he dispersed a great number at

the price proposed. The reputation of that edition, indeed, sunk

afterwards so low, that one hundred and forty copies were sold at

sixteen shillings each.

On this undertaking, to which Pope was induced by a reward of two

hundred and seventeen pounds twelve shillings, he seems never to have

reflected afterwards without vexation; for Theobald, a man of heavy

diligence, with very slender powers, first, in a book called Shakespeare

Restored, and then in a formal edition, detected his deficiencies with

all the insolence of victory; and as he was now high enough to be feared

and hated, Theobald had from others all the help that could be supplied,

by the desire of humbling a haughty character.

From this time Pope became an enemy to editors, collators, commentators,

and verbal criticks; and hoped to persuade the world, that he miscarried

in this undertaking, only by having a mind too great for such minute

employment.

Pope in his edition undoubtedly did many things wrong, and left many

things undone; but let him not be defrauded of his due praise. He was

the first that knew, at least the first that told, by what helps the

text might be improved. If he inspected the early editions negligently,

he taught others to be more accurate. In his preface, he expanded, with

great skill and elegance, the character which had been given of

Shakespeare by Dryden; and he drew the publick attention upon his works,

which, though often mentioned, had been little read.

Soon after the appearance of the Iliad, resolving not to let the general

kindness cool, he published proposals for a translation of the Odyssey,

in five volumes, for five guineas. He was willing, however, now to have

associates in his labour, being either weary with toiling upon another's

thoughts, or having heard, as Ruffhead relates, that Fenton and Broome

had already begun the work, and liking better to have them confederates

than rivals.

In the patent, instead of saying that he had "translated" the Odyssey,

as he had said of the Iliad, he says, that he had "undertaken" a

translation; and in the proposals, the subscription is said to be not

solely for his own use, but for that of "two of his friends, who have

assisted him in this work."

In 1723, while he was engaged in this new version, he appeared before

the lords at the memorable trial of bishop Atterbury, with whom he had

lived in great familiarity, and frequent correspondence. Atterbury had

honestly recommended to him the study of the popish controversy, in hope

of his conversion; to which Pope answered in a manner that cannot much

recommend his principles, or his judgment[127]. In questions and

projects of learning they agreed better. He was called at the trial to

give an account of Atterbury's domestick life and private employment,

that it might appear how little time he had left for plots. Pope had but

few words to utter, and in those few he made several blunders.

His letters to Atterbury express the utmost esteem, tenderness, and

gratitude; "perhaps," says he, "it is not only in this world that I may

have cause to remember the bishop of Rochester." At their last interview

in the Tower, Atterbury presented him with a bible[128].

Of the Odyssey, Pope translated only twelve books; the rest were the

work of Broome and Fenton: the notes were written wholly by Broome, who

was not over-liberally rewarded. The publick was carefully kept ignorant

of the several shares; and an account was subjoined at the conclusion,

which is now known not to be true. The first copy of Pope's books, with

those of Fenton, are to be seen in the Museum. The parts of Pope are

less interlined than the Iliad; and the latter books of the Iliad less

than the former. He grew dexterous by practice, and every sheet enabled

him to write the next with more facility. The books of Fenton have very

few alterations by the hand of Pope. Those of Broome have not been

found; but Pope complained, as it is reported, that he had much trouble

in correcting them.

His contract with Lintot was the same as for the Iliad, except that only

one hundred pounds were to be paid him for each volume. The number of

subscribers was five hundred and seventy-four, and of copies eight

hundred and nineteen; so that his profit, when he had paid his

assistants, was still very considerable. The work was finished in 1725;

and from that time he resolved to make no more translations.

The sale did not answer Lintot's expectation; and he then pretended to

discover something of fraud in Pope, and commenced or threatened a suit

in Chancery.

On the English Odyssey a criticism was published by Spence, at that time

prelector of poetry at Oxford; a man whose learning was not very great,

and whose mind was not very powerful. His criticism, however, was

commonly just; what he thought, he thought rightly; and his remarks were

recommended by his coolness and candour. In him Pope had the first

experience of a critick without malevolence, who thought it as much his

duty to display beauties as expose faults; who censured with respect,

and praised with alacrity.

With this criticism Pope was so little offended, that he sought the

acquaintance of the writer, who lived with him, from that time, in great

familiarity, attended him in his last hours, and compiled memorials of

his conversation. The regard of Pope recommended him to the great and

powerful; and he obtained very valuable preferments in the church.

Not long after, Pope was returning home, from a visit, in a friend's

coach, which, in passing a bridge, was overturned into the water; the

windows were closed, and being unable to force them open, he was in

danger of immediate death, when the postillion snatched him out by

breaking the glass, of which the fragments cut two of his fingers in

such a manner, that he lost their use.

Voltaire, who was then in England, sent him a letter of consolation. He

had been entertained by Pope at his table, where he talked with so much

grossness, that Mrs. Pope was driven from the room. Pope discovered, by

a trick, that he was a spy for the court, and never considered him as a

man worthy of confidence.

He soon afterwards, 1727, joined with Swift, who was then in England, to

publish three volumes of Miscellanies, in which, amongst other things,

he inserted the Memoirs of a Parish Clerk, in ridicule of Burnet's

importance in his own history, and a Debate upon Black and White Horses,

written in all the formalities of a legal process by the assistance, as

is said, of Mr. Fortescue, afterwards master of the Rolls. Before these

Miscellanies is a preface signed by Swift and Pope, but apparently

written by Pope; in which he makes a ridiculous and romantick complaint

of the robberies committed upon authors by the clandestine seizure and

sale of their papers. He tells, in tragick strains, how "the cabinets of

the sick and the closets of the dead have been broke open and

ransacked;" as if those violences were often committed for papers of

uncertain and accidental value, which are rarely provoked by real

treasures; as if epigrams and essays were in danger, where gold and

diamonds are safe. A cat hunted for his musk is, according to Pope's

account, but the emblem of a wit winded by booksellers.

His complaint, however, received some attestation; for, the same year,

the letters written by him, to Mr. Cromwell, in his youth, were sold by

Mrs. Thomas to Curll, who printed them.

In these Miscellanies was first published the Art of Sinking in Poetry,

which, by such a train of consequences as usually passes in literary

quarrels, gave, in a short time, according to Pope's account, occasion

to the Dunciad.

In the following year, 1728, he began to put Atterbury's advice in

practice; and showed his satirical powers by publishing the Dunciad, one

of his greatest and most elaborate performances, in which he endeavoured

to sink into contempt all the writers by whom he had been attacked, and

some others whom he thought unable to defend themselves.

At the head of the _dunces_ he placed poor Theobald, whom he accused of

ingratitude; but whose real crime was supposed to be that of having

revised Shakespeare more happily than himself. This satire had the

effect which he intended, by blasting the characters which it touched.

Ralph[129], who, unnecessarily interposing in the quarrel, got a place

in a subsequent edition, complained that, for a time, he was in danger

of starving, as the booksellers had no longer any confidence in his

capacity.

The prevalence of this poem was gradual and slow; the plan, if not

wholly new, was little understood by common readers. Many of the

allusions required illustration; the names were often expressed only by

the initial and final letters, and, if they had been printed at length,

were such as few had known or recollected. The subject itself had

nothing generally interesting, for whom did it concern to know that one

or another scribbler was a dunce? If, therefore, it had been possible

for those who were attacked to conceal their pain and their resentment,

the Dunciad might have made its way very slowly in the world.

This, however, was not to be expected: every man is of importance to

himself, and, therefore, in his own opinion, to others; and, supposing

the world already acquainted with all his pleasures and his pains, is,

perhaps, the first to publish injuries or misfortunes, which had never

been known unless related by himself, and at which those that hear them

will only laugh; for no man sympathizes with the sorrows of vanity.

The history of the Dunciad is very minutely related by Pope himself, in

a dedication which he wrote to lord Middlesex in the name of Savage.

"I will relate the war of the _dunces_, (for so it has been commonly

called,) which began in the year 1727, and ended in 1730."

"When Dr. Swift and Mr. Pope thought it proper, for reasons specified

in the preface to their Miscellanies, to publish such little pieces of

theirs as had casually got abroad, there was added to them the treatise

of the Bathos, or the Art of Sinking in Poetry. It happened that, in one

chapter of this piece, the several species of bad poets were ranged in

classes, to which were prefixed almost all the letters of the alphabet;

(the greatest part of them at random;) but such was the number of poets

eminent in that art, that some one or other took every letter to

himself: all fell into so violent a fury, that, for half a year or more,

the common newspapers (in most of which they had some property, as being

hired writers) were filled with the most abusive falsehoods and

scurrilities they could possibly devise; a liberty no way to be wondered

at in those people, and in those papers, that, for many years, during

the uncontrouled license of the press, had aspersed almost all the great

characters of the age, and this with impunity, their own persons and

names being utterly secret and obscure.

"This gave Mr. Pope the thought that he had now some opportunity of

doing good, by detecting and dragging into light these common enemies of

mankind; since to invalidate this universal slander, it sufficed to show

what contemptible men were the authors of it. He was not without hopes

that, by manifesting the dulness of those who had only malice to

recommend them, either the booksellers would not find their account in

employing them, or the men themselves, when discovered, want courage to

proceed in so unlawful an occupation. This it was that gave birth to the

Dunciad; and he thought it an happiness, that, by the late flood of

slander on himself, he had acquired such a peculiar right over their

names as was necessary to this design.

"On the 12th of March, 1729, at St. James's, that poem was presented to

the king and queen (who had before been pleased to read it) by the right

honourable sir Robert Walpole; and, some days after, the whole

impression was taken and dispersed by several noblemen, and persons of

the first distinction.

"It is, certainly, a true observation, that no people are so impatient

of censure as those who are the greatest slanderers, which was

wonderfully exemplified on this occasion. On the day the book was first

vended, a crowd of authors besieged the shop; entreaties, advices,

threats of law and battery, nay, cries of treason, were all employed to

hinder the coming out of the Dunciad; on the other side, the booksellers

and hawkers made as great efforts to procure it. What could a few poor

authors do against so great a majority as the publick? There was no

stopping a torrent with a finger; so out it came.

"Many ludicrous circumstances attended it. The _dunces_ (for by this

name they were called) held weekly clubs, to consult of hostilities

against the author; one wrote a letter to a great minister, assuring him

Mr. Pope was the greatest enemy the government had; and another bought

his image in clay, to execute him in effigy; with which sad sort of

satisfaction the gentlemen were a little comforted.

"Some false editions of the book having an owl in their frontispiece,

the true one, to distinguish it, fixed in its stead an ass laden with

authors. Then another surreptitious one being printed with the same ass,

the new edition in octavo returned, for distinction, to the owl again.

Hence arose a great contest of booksellers against booksellers, and

advertisements against advertisements; some recommending the edition of

the owl, and others the edition of the ass; by which names they came to

be distinguished, to the great honour also of the gentlemen of the

Dunciad."

Pope appears, by this narrative, to have contemplated his victory over

the _dunces_ with great exultation; and such was his delight in the

tumult which he had raised, that for awhile his natural sensibility was

suspended, and he read reproaches and invectives without emotion,

considering them only as the necessary effects of that pain which he

rejoiced in having given.

It cannot, however, be concealed that, by his own confession, he was the

aggressor; for nobody believes that the letters in the Bathos were

placed at random; and it may be discovered that, when he thinks himself

concealed, he indulges the common vanity of common men, and triumphs in

those distinctions which he had affected to despise. He is proud that

his book was presented to the king and queen by the right honourable sir

Robert Walpole; he is proud that they had read it before; he is proud

that the edition was taken off by the nobility and persons of the first

distinction.

The edition of which he speaks was, I believe, that which, by telling in

the text the names, and in the notes the characters, of those whom he

had satirized, was made intelligible and diverting. The criticks had now

declared their approbation of the plan, and the common reader began to

like it without fear; those who were strangers to petty literature, and,

therefore, unable to decipher initials and blanks, had now names and

persons brought within their view; and delighted in the visible effect

of those shafts of malice, which they had hitherto contemplated, as shot

into the air.

Dennis, upon the fresh provocation now given him, renewed the enmity

which had, for a time, been appeased by mutual civilities; and published

remarks, which he had till then suppressed, upon the Rape of the Lock.

Many more grumbled in secret, or vented their resentment in the

newspapers by epigrams or invectives.

Ducket, indeed, being mentioned as loving Burriet with "pious passion,"

pretended that his moral character was injured, and, for some time,

declared his resolution to take vengeance with a cudgel. But Pope

appeased him, by changing "pious passion" to "cordial friendship;" and

by a note, in which he vehemently disclaims the malignity of meaning

imputed to the first expression.

Aaron Hill, who was represented as diving for the prize, expostulated

with Pope in a manner so much superiour to all mean solicitation, that

Pope was reduced to sneak and shuffle sometimes to deny, and sometimes

to apologize; he first endeavours to wound, and is then afraid to own

that he meant a blow.

The Dunciad, in the complete edition, is addressed to Dr. Swift: of the

notes, part were written by Dr. Arbuthnot; and an apologetical letter

was prefixed, signed by Cleland, but supposed to have been written by

Pope.

After this general war upon dulness, he seems to have indulged himself

awhile in tranquillity; but his subsequent productions prove that he was

not idle. He published, 1731, a poem on Taste, in which he very

particularly and severely criticises the house, the furniture, the

gardens, and the entertainments, of Timon, a man of great wealth and

little taste. By Timon he was universally supposed, and by the earl of

Burlington, to whom the poem was addressed, was privately said, to mean

the duke of Chandos; a man, perhaps, too much delighted with pomp and

show, but of a temper kind and beneficent, and who had, consequently,

the voice of the publick in his favour.

A violent outcry was, therefore, raised against the ingratitude and

treachery of Pope, who was said to have been indebted to the patronage

of Chandos for a present of a thousand pounds, and who gained the

opportunity of insulting him by the kindness of his invitation.

The receipt of the thousand pounds Pope publickly denied; but from the

reproach which the attack on a character so amiable brought upon him, he

tried all means of escaping. The name of Cleland was again employed in

an apology, by which no man was satisfied; and he was at last reduced to

shelter his temerity behind dissimulation, and endeavour to make that

disbelieved which he never had confidence openly to deny. He wrote an

exculpatory letter to the duke, which was answered with great

magnanimity, as by a man who accepted his excuse without believing his

professions. He said, that to have ridiculed his taste, or his

buildings, had been an indifferent action in another man; but that in

Pope, after the reciprocal kindness that had been exchanged between

them, it had been less easily excused.

Pope, in one of his letters, complaining of the treatment which his poem

had found, "owns that such criticks can intimidate him, nay, almost

persuade him to write no more, which is a compliment this age

deserves." The man who threatens the world is always ridiculous; for the

world can easily go on without him, and, in a short time, will cease to

miss him. I have heard of an idiot, who used to revenge his vexatious by

lying all night upon the bridge. "There is nothing," says Juvenal, "that

a man will not believe in his own favour." Pope had been flattered till

he thought himself one of the moving powers in the system of life. When

he talked of laying down his pen, those who sat round him entreated and

implored; and self-love did not suffer him to suspect that they went

away and laughed.

The following year deprived him of Gay, a man whom he had known early,

and whom he seemed to love with more tenderness than any other of his

literary friends. Pope was now forty-four years old; an age at which the

mind begins less easily to admit new confidence, and the will to grow

less flexible; and when, therefore, the departure of an old friend is

very acutely felt.

In the next year he lost his mother, not by an unexpected death, for she

had lasted to the age of ninety-three; but she did not die unlamented.

The filial piety of Pope was in the highest degree amiable and

exemplary; his parents had the happiness of living till he was at the

summit of poetical reputation, till he was at ease in his fortune, and

without a rival in his fame, and found no diminution of his respect or

tenderness. Whatever was his pride, to them he was obedient; and

whatever was his irritability, to them he was gentle. Life has, among

its soothing and quiet comforts, few things better to give than such a

son.

One of the passages of Pope's life, which seems to deserve some inquiry,

was a publication of letters between him and many of his friends, which

falling into the hands of Curll, a rapacious bookseller of no good fame,

were by him printed and sold. This volume containing some letters from

noblemen, Pope incited a prosecution against him in the house of lords

for a breach of privilege, and attended himself to stimulate the

resentment of his friends. Curll appeared at the bar, and, knowing

himself in no great danger, spoke of Pope with very little reverence.

"He has," said Curll, "a knack at versifying, but in prose I think

myself a match for him." When the orders of the house were examined,

none of them appeared to have been infringed; Curll went away

triumphant, and Pope was left to seek some other remedy.

Curll's account was, that one evening a man in a clergy-man's gown, but

with a lawyer's band, brought and offered to sale a number of printed

volumes, which he found to be Pope's Epistolary Correspondence; that he

asked no name, and was told none, but gave the price demanded, and

thought himself authorised to use his purchase to his own advantage.

That Curll gave a true account of the transaction it is reasonable to

believe, because no falsehood was ever detected[130] and when, some

years afterwards, I mentioned it to Lintot, the son of Bernard, he

declared his opinion to be, that Pope knew better than any body else how

Curll obtained the copies, because another parcel was at the same time

sent to himself, for which no price had ever been demanded, as he made

known his resolution not to pay a porter, and consequently not to deal

with a nameless agent.

Such care had been taken to make them publick, that they were sent at

once to two booksellers; to Curll, who was likely to seize them as a

prey; and to Lintot, who might be expected to give Pope information of

the seeming injury. Lintot, I believe, did nothing; and Curll did what

was expected. That to make them publick was the only purpose, may be

reasonably supposed, because the numbers offered to sale by the private

messengers showed that hope of gain could not have been the motive of

the impression.

It seems that Pope, being desirous of printing his letters, and not

knowing how to do, without imputation of vanity, what has in this

country been done very rarely, contrived an appearance of compulsion;

that, when he could complain that his letters were surreptitiously

published, he might decently and defensively publish them himself.

Pope's private correspondence, thus promulgated, filled the nation with

praises of his candour, tenderness, and benevolence, the purity of his

purposes, and the fidelity of his friendship. There were some letters

which a very good or a very wise man would wish suppressed; but, as they

had been already exposed, it was impracticable now to retract them.

From the perusal of those letters, Mr. Allen first conceived the desire

of knowing him; and with so much zeal did he cultivate the friendship

which he had newly formed, that, when Pope told his purpose of

vindicating his own property by a genuine edition, he offered to pay the

cost.

This, however, Pope did not accept; but, in time, solicited a

subscription for a quarto volume, which appeared, 1737, I believe, with

sufficient profit. In the preface he tells, that his letters were

reposited in a friend's library, said to be the earl of Oxford's, and

that the copy thence stolen was sent to the press. The story was

doubtless received with differe at degrees of credit. It may be

suspected that the preface to the Miscellanies was written to prepare

the publick for such an incident; and to strengthen this opinion, James

Worsdale, a painter, who was employed in clandestine negotiations, but

whose veracity was very doubtful, declared that he was the messenger who

carried, by Pope's direction, the books to Curll.

When they were thus published and avowed, as they had relation to recent

facts, and persons either then living or not yet forgotten, they may be

supposed to have found readers; but as the facts were minute, and the

characters, being either private or literary, were little known, or

little regarded, they awakened no popular kindness or resentment; the

book never became much the subject of conversation; some read it as

contemporary history, and some, perhaps, as a model of epistolary

language; but those who read it did not talk of it. Not much, therefore,

was added by it to fame or envy; nor do I remember that it produced

either publick praise or publick censure.

It had, however, in some degree, the recommendation of novelty. Our

language had few letters, except those of statesmen. Howel, indeed,

about a century ago, published his letters, which are commended by

Morhoff, and which alone, of his hundred volumes, continue his memory.

Loveday's letters were printed only once; those of Herbert and Suckling

are hardly known. Mrs. Phillips's (Orinda's) are equally neglected. And

those of Walsh seem written as exercises, and were never sent to any

living mistress or friend. Pope's epistolary excellence had an open

field; he had no English rival, living or dead.

Pope is seen in this collection as connected with the other contemporary

wits, and certainly suffers no disgrace in the comparison; but it must

be remembered, that he had the power of favouring himself; he might have

originally had publication in his mind, and have written with care, or

have afterwards selected those which he had most happily conceived, or

most diligently laboured; and I know not whether there does not appear

something more studied and artificial[131] in his productions than the

rest except one long letter by Bolingbroke, composed with all the skill

and industry of a professed author. It is, indeed, not easy to

distinguish affectation from habit; he that has once studiously formed a

style, rarely writes afterwards with complete ease. Pope may be said to

write always with his reputation in his head; Swift, perhaps, like a man

who remembered he was writing to Pope; but Arbuthnot, like one who lets

thoughts drop from his pen as they rise into his mind.

Before these letters appeared, he published the first part of what he

persuaded himself to think a system of ethicks, under the title of an

Essay on Man; which, if his letter to Swift, of Sept. 14, 1725, be

rightly explained by the commentator, had been eight years under his

consideration, and of which he seems to have desired the success with

great solicitude. He had now many open, and, doubtless, many secret

enemies. The _dunces_ were yet smarting with the war; and the

superiority which he publickly arrogated, disposed the world to wish his

humiliation.

All this he knew, and against all this he provided. His own name, and

that of his friend to whom the work is inscribed, were in the first

editions carefully suppressed; and the poem, being of a new kind, was

ascribed to one or another, as favour determined, or conjecture

wandered; it was given, says Warburton, to every man, except him only

who could write it. Those who like only when they like the author, and

who are under the dominion of a name, condemned it; and those admired it

who are willing to scatter praise at random, which, while it is

unappropriated, excites no envy. Those friends of Pope, that were

trusted with the secret, went about lavishing honours on the new-born

poet, and hinting that Pope was never so much in danger from any former

rival.

To those authors whom he had personally offended, and to those whose

opinion the world considered as decisive, and whom he suspected of envy

or malevolence, he sent his essay as a present before publication, that

they might defeat their own enmity by praises, which they could not

afterwards decently retract.

With these precautions, in 1733, was published the first part of the

Essay on Man. There had been, for some time, a report that Pope was busy

upon a system of morality; but this design was not discovered in the new

poem, which had a form and a title with which its readers were

unacquainted. Its reception was not uniform; some thought it a very

imperfect piece, though not without good lines. While the author was

unknown, some, as will always happen, favoured him as an adventurer, and

some censured him as an intruder; but all thought him above neglect;

the sale increased, and editions were multiplied[132]

The subsequent editions of the first epistle exhibited two memorable

corrections. At first, the poet and his friend,

Expatiate freely o'er this scene of man,

A mighty maze _of walks without a plan_.

For which he wrote afterwards,

A mighty maze, _but not without a plan_:

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

maze.

The other alteration was of these lines:

And spite of pride, _and in thy reason's spite_,

One truth is clear, whatever is, is right;

but having afterwards discovered, or been shown, that the "truth" which

subsisted "in spite of reason" could not be very "clear," he

substituted,

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

To such oversights will the most vigorous mind be liable, when it is

employed at once upon argument and poetry.

The second and third epistles were published; and Pope was, I believe,

more and more suspected of writing them; at last, in 1734, he avowed the

fourth, and claimed the honour of a moral poet.

In the conclusion it is sufficiently acknowledged, that the doctrine of

the Essay on Man was received from Bolingbroke, who is said to have

ridiculed Pope, among those who enjoyed his confidence, as having

adopted and advanced principles of which he did not perceive the

consequence, and as blindly propagating opinions contrary to his own.

That those communications had been consolidated into a scheme regularly

drawn, and delivered to Pope, from whom it returned only transformed

from prose to verse, has been reported, but can hardly be true. The

essay plainly appears the fabrick of a poet: what Bolingbroke supplied

could be only the first principles; the order, illustration, and

embellishments, must all be Pope's.

These principles it is not my business to clear from obscurity,

dogmatism, or falsehood; but they were not immediately examined;

philosophy and poetry have not often the same readers; and the essay

abounded in splendid amplifications, and sparkling sentences, which were

read and admired with no great attention to their ultimate purpose; its

flowers caught the eye, which did not see what the gay foliage

concealed, and, for a time, flourished in the sunshine of universal

approbation. So little was any evil tendency discovered, that, as

innocence is unsuspicious, many read it for a manual of piety.

Its reputation soon invited a translator. It was first turned into

French prose, and afterwards, by Resnel, into verse. Both translations

fell into the hands of Crousaz, who first, when he had the version in

prose, wrote a general censure, and afterwards reprinted Resnel's

version, with particular remarks upon every paragraph.

Crousaz was a professor of Switzerland, eminent for his treatise of

logick, and his Examen de Pyrrhonisme; and, however little known or

regarded here, was no mean antagonist. His mind was one of those in

which philosophy and piety are happily united. He was accustomed to

argument and disquisition, and, perhaps, was grown too desirous of

detecting faults; but his intentions were always right, his opinions

were solid, and his religion pure.

His incessant vigilance for the promotion of piety disposed him to look

with distrust upon all metaphysical systems of theology, and all schemes

of virtue and happiness purely rational; and, therefore, it was not long

before he was persuaded that the positions of Pope, as they terminated,

for the most part, in natural religion, were intended to draw mankind

away from revelation, and to represent the whole course of things as a

necessary concatenation of indissoluble fatality; and it is undeniable,

that in many passages a religious eye may easily discover expressions

not very favourable to morals, or to liberty.