transcriber's note: superscript characters are preceded by a caret (^). the augustan reprint society [james bramston] the man of taste (1733) _introduction by_ f. p. lock publication number 171 william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles 1975 general editors william e. conway, william andrews clark memorial library george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles david s. rodes, university of california, los angeles advisory editors richard c. boys, university of michigan james l. clifford, columbia university ralph cohen, university of virginia vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university earl miner, princeton university samuel h. monk, university of minnesota everett t. moore, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, william andrews clark memorial library james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles robert vosper, william andrews clark memorial library corresponding secretary beverly j. onley, william andrews clark memorial library introduction for what has virro painted, built, and planted? only to show, how many tastes he wanted. what brought sir visto's ill got wealth to waste? some daemon whisper'd, "visto! have a taste." (pope, epistle to burlington) the idea of "taste" and the ideal of the "man of taste" have fallen considerably in critical esteem since the eighteenth century. when f. r. leavis calls andrew lang "a scholar and a man of taste, with a feeling for language and a desire to write poetry,"[1] it is clear that for leavis these attributes disqualify lang from being taken seriously as a poet. but for the age of pope, "taste" was a key term in its aesthetic thinking; the meaning and application of the term was a lively issue which engaged most of the ablest minds of the period. addison prefaced his series of spectator papers on the "pleasures of the imagination" with a ground-clearing essay on "taste" (no. 409). in this classic account of the term, addison defines "taste" as "that faculty of the soul, which discerns the beauties of an author with pleasure, and the imperfections with dislike." addison's "taste" is an innate proclivity towards certain kinds of aesthetic experience that has been consciously cultivated in the approved direction. it is not enough to value and enjoy the right authors; they must be valued and enjoyed for the right reasons. when he holds up to ridicule the man who assured him that "the greatest pleasure he took in reading virgil, was in examining aeneas his voyage by the map," addison clearly expects his readers to agree that such a singular taste was in fact no taste at all. his account implies not only a standard of "taste," but also general agreement, at least among "men of taste," about what the standard was. it is this circularity that makes it essential to assume some innate faculty of "taste." but addison's prescription for the cultivation of taste was a laborious one, involving prolonged reading and study. the wealthy, and especially the newly wealthy, were tempted to confuse the correct appreciation of the objects of taste with the mere possession of them; so that, as with pope's timon in the _epistle to burlington_ (1731), owning a library became a substitute for reading books. this false taste for ostentation--especially in buildings--is a frequent target of contemporary satire. the social importance of "taste" as an index of wealth was reinforced by current philosophical thinking that gave "taste" a moral dimension too. in his _characteristicks_ (1711), shaftesbury postulated an innate moral sense, just as addison did an innate aesthetic sense. shaftesbury draws this analogy between the moral and the aesthetic: the case is the same here [in the mental or moral subjects], as in the ordinary bodys, or common subjects of sense. the shapes, motions, colours, and proportions of these being presented to our eye; there necessarily results a beauty or deformity, according to the different measure, arrangement and disposition of their several parts. so in _behaviour_ and _actions_, when presented to our understanding, there must be found, of necessity, an apparent difference, according to the regularity or irregularity of the subjects.[2] the correct training of this capacity would enable men to make the right choices in both moral and aesthetic matters. this analogy is also the basis of francis hutcheson's _essay on the nature and conduct of the passions and affections_ (1728). it is against the philosophical background of the writings of addison, shaftesbury, and hutcheson that the satire on "taste" of pope, bramston, and others must be seen. but by the time pope wrote his _epistle to burlington_, addison's "faculty of the soul" had been somewhat debased as a critical term, and the decline of "taste" was a common topic. "nothing is so common as the affectation of, nor any thing so seldom found as taste" was the complaint of the _weekly register_ in 1731, deploring "the degeneracy of _taste_ since mr. _addison's_ time."[3] the publication of pope's _epistle to burlington_ in december 1731 was a literary event of some importance, especially since it was his first poem since the _dunciad variorum_ of 1729. the _epistle_ gave "taste" a renewed currency as a vogue word. "of taste" is found only on the half-title of the first edition. but, significantly changed to "of false taste" for the second edition, this designation found its way onto the title-page of the third edition, and became the poem's popular title (it is so described on the advertisement leaf of bramston's _the man of taste_). several attacks on pope and his poem were published in the following year or so. _a miscellany on taste_ (1732) reprinted pope's _epistle_ with combative critical notes. pope himself was attacked, as "mr. alexander taste," in an anonymous pamphlet _mr. taste the poetical fop_ (1732), reissued in 1733 as _the man of taste_, apparently borrowing the title of bramston's poem.[4] bramston's _the man of taste_ (1733) is an early example of the more positive reaction to pope's _epistle_, joining him rather than attempting to beat him. bramston's poem in its turn occasioned an anonymous _the woman of taste_ (1733), and suggested some details for the character of lord apemode in james miller's comedy _the man of taste_ (1735). pope himself borrowed an idea from it (see p. 14, 11. 5-6) for a passage in the _dunciad_ (the allusion to free-masons and f.r.s.; iv, 567-71). the cluster of works provoked by pope's _epistle_ is evidence of the topicality of "taste" at the time bramston wrote his poem, and it is his _man of taste_ that retains most interest today. the later history of "taste" in eighteenth-century aesthetics and satire can only briefly be glanced at here. important philosophical discussions are hume's essay "of the standard of taste" (in four dissertations, 1757), burke's _philosophical enquiry into the origin of our ideas of the sublime and beautiful_ (1757; a "discourse concerning taste" was prefaced to the second edition, 1759), and alexander gerard's _essay on taste_ (1759). foote's farce _taste_ (1752) exposed the sham taste for the antique. there are numerous satiric portraits of the "man of taste": mr. sterling in _the clandestine marriage_ (1766) is a good example clearly in the tradition of pope's timon, as is general tilney in _northanger abbey_ (1818, but written much earlier). by the time of jane austen, of course, "taste" had developed away from the addisonian rules, and indeed the whole tenor of the aesthetics of the imagination had changed. what had happened can be suggested by juxtaposing two significant statements about "taste" as metaphor. in his _spectator_ essay (no. 409) addison speaks of "a very great conformity between that mental taste, which is the subject of this paper, and that sensitive taste which gives us a relish of every different flavour that affects the palate." but in the preface to _lyrical ballads_ (1802), wordsworth deprecates those "who will converse with us as gravely about a _taste_ for poetry, as they express it, as if it were a thing indifferent as a taste for rope-dancing, or frontiniac or sherry."[5] but the breakdown of the metaphor of "taste" is too large a subject to be explored here. * * * * * james bramston (?1694-1743) was educated at westminster school and at christ church, oxford, where he took his b.a. in 1717 and his m.a. in 1720. he took orders, and was for a time a military chaplain. in 1724 he obtained the living of lurgashall, and in 1739 those of harting and westhampnett.[6] he published (all anonymously) only three poems in english: 1. _the art of politicks, in imitation of horace's art of poetry._ london: lawton gilliver, 1729. 2. _the man of taste. occasion'd by an epistle of mr. pope's on that subject._ london: lawton gilliver, 1733. 3. _the crooked six-pence. with a learned preface found among some papers bearing date the same year in which paradise lost was published by the late dr. bently._ london: robert dodsley, 1743. bramston also wrote latin verses, and at least two unpublished poems survive; but his reputation rests on _the art of politicks_ and _the man of taste_. both poems are of interest to the political and cultural historian, but from a literary point of view _the man of taste_ is probably the better poem. this is largely because of bramston's success in creating the persona of a self-consciously affected man of taste, who, however, exposes himself more than he intends. joseph warton mistook this effect for a failure of technique when he called bramston "guilty of the indecorum and absurdity of making his hero laugh at himself and his own follies."[7] the poem is deliberately the "confessions" of a self-styled man of taste. it begins in a casual, cynical tone, but as the speaker is gradually seduced by his own rhetoric (especially when he imagines himself a nobleman) he strikes an almost rhapsodic note, so that he is revealed as the victim, not the exploiter, of "taste." both in his targets and his techniques, bramston is a disciple of pope. sometimes there is a conscious recollection of the master: i squal'd in distichs, and in triplets wept. (p. 6) elsewhere the imitation is less happy: sure wretched _wren_ was taught by bungling _jones_, to murder mortar, and disfigure stones! (p. 10) here the stylistic habit of antithesis works against the meaning instead of reinforcing it. but there are many good things in the poem; bramston's treatment of the idea of the stage as a "school of morality," for example, is clever and amusing. his hero derives his "hereditary taste" from being "tragi-comically got" by a player-poet and an orange-woman (p. 6). this gives point to his later claim: _oxford_ and _cambridge_ are not worth one farthing, compar'd to _haymarket_, and _convent-garden_: quit those, ye british youth, and follow these, turn players all, and take your squires degrees. (p. 18) there are also a number of verbal successes, such as: nor barb'rous birch e'er brush'd my brawny bum. (p. 6) here insistent alliteration and strong rhythm are combined to excellent onomatopoeic effect. another couplet: tho' _blackmore's_ works my soul with raptures fill, with notes by _bently_ they'd be better still. (p. 7) shows considerable appreciation of the art of sinking; the second line especially is fine bathos. the poem as a whole provides an interesting portrait of contemporary fashionable "taste" that supplements, at a lower social level, pope's portraits of such magnates of tastelessness as timon. bramston's man of taste is an odd amalgam of the singular and the trite. he begins by professing to despise laws, and ends by attempting to enact his own. in drawing a character whose tastes are at one moment shamelessly perverse, at another servilely imitative, and in depicting a wide range of "tastes," bramston has developed significantly the idea that he took from the _epistle to burlington_, which is largely concerned with false taste in building. this is not to deny that most of the victims of bramston's satire are somewhere pope's too. at times one even begins to suspect that bramston's knowledge of london derives as much from the _dunciad variorum_ as from first-hand experience of the city. there is certainly a strong traditional element in some of his themes. the ironic praise of sir cloudesley shovell's tomb, for example (p. 12), was probably suggested by the _spectator_ (no. 26) rather than a visit to westminster abbey; the tomb had offended addison because it portrayed the admiral in an alien character. but the traditional is combined with the topical. if sir cloudesley's tomb had been a butt for twenty years, sir balaam is an allusion to pope's _epistle to bathurst_, only published in february, 1733, the month before the _man of taste_. further evidence that bramston was making additions to the poem as late as february 1733 (the poem was published on 8 march) are the lines: not so my mind, unsatisfied with hints, knows more than _budgel_ writes, or _roberts_ prints. (p. 10) these lines hit at a new readers' digest, _the bee: or, universal weekly pamphlet. containing something to hit every man's taste and principles_, which was edited by budgell and published by roberts. the first number came out in february 1733. there is a similar mixture of past and current with the musical satire (p. 13). handel's _esther_ and the novelty of oratorio were as recent as 1732; heidegger's ugliness ("prince _phyz_!") was proverbial, and his renaming of the masquerade a decade old. this mixture is confusing, but certainly intentional, since it would have made the _man of taste_ more ridiculous to a contemporary audience. there is also a vertical mixture of the tastes of different levels of society; the writer in the _weekly register_ for february 1731, already quoted above, makes this distinction: "the gaming-table, and the royal diversion at _newmarket_, are the ambition of the majority; and the rest prefer _senesino_ to _shakespear_, as the highest proof of modern politeness."[8] bramston's man of taste is a concertina-brow, enjoying senesino, gaming, and newmarket (pp. 13, 15, 17). the usefulness of notes for a full understanding of bramston's satire was recognized as early as 1733, when a few were added to faulkner's dublin reprint. faulkner's notes are remarkable for their xenophobic bias, for apart from those on mrs. oldfield ("_ophelia_," p. 9), they mostly call attention to evils of continental origin: pasaran's recommendation of suicide (p. 9); heidegger's role as corrupting entertainer (p. 13); the imposter count d'ughi (the "_di'mond count_," p. 16); and misaubin (p. 17), "famous for curing the venereal disorders." these men were italian, swiss, italian, and french respectively. this xenophobia is a remarkably constant feature of eighteenth-century satire on "taste." _the man of taste_ (together with _the art of politicks_) was included in dodsley's _collection_; in the 1782 edition, notes (unsigned, but by isaac reed) were added, identifying many allusions which no longer passed current. these are often helpful, but sometimes miss the point--as they do with the budgell-roberts joke, discussed above. but although notes are useful for a complete understanding of all bramston's satiric points, a familiarity with the world of pope and his victims removes most of the difficulties for a modern reader. only occasionally does bramston sound a more personal note, as in the list of doctors (p. 17), where he includes two of his contemporaries at christ church; and even here, arbuthnot is a sufficient signpost. bramston is a minor poet, but there is no need to apologize for _the man of taste_. it is a lively and amusing poem in its own right, and its association with pope and its place in the corpus of eighteenth-century satire on "taste" raise its claim to the attention of students of the period. university of queensland brisbane notes to the introduction 1. _new bearings in english poetry_ (1932; new ed., london: chatto & windus, 1950), p. 11. 2. treatise iv: "an inquiry concerning virtue, or merit," book i, part ii, section 3, in _characteristicks of men, manners, opinions, times_ (london, 1711), ii, 28-29. 3. reprinted in the _gentleman's magazine_, 1 (1731), 55-56. 4. these attacks are described in j. v. guerinot, _pamphlet attacks on alexander pope_ 1711-1744 (new york: new york univ. press, 1969), pp. 204-21. 5. _literary criticism of william wordsworth_, ed. paul m. zall (lincoln: univ. of nebraska press, 1966), p. 50. 6. i owe these details (which correct the _dnb_ account) to mr. michael hunter of worcester college, oxford. 7. in his edition of pope's _works_ (london, 1797), v, 285 (note on _the dunciad_, iv, 570). 8. _gentleman's magazine_, i (1731), 55-56. a note on the text _the man of taste_ was published on 8 march 1733 by lawton gilliver in a handsome folio format. a second folio edition (although not so called) was published later in the same month; this was followed within the year by octavo editions in london[1] and dublin. using the evidence of advertisements in the two folios and contemporary newspapers, w. b. todd argues for the priority of the edition he calls "a,"[2] reversing the order previously suggested by iolo a. williams on internal evidence.[3] the textual variants are slight and are confined to accidentals, except that on p. 5, line 9, "a" reads "strife still persists" and "b" has "strife still subsists." a copy of todd's edition "a" is reproduced here. [1] although the imprint on the title page reads "london," this edition was probably printed in edinburgh. for a reassessment of the number and order of editions of _the man of taste_, see d. f. foxon, _english verse_ 1701-1750 (cambridge: cambridge univ. press, forthcoming 1975), i, 78 (b396-401). [2] _the library_, 5th series, viii (1953), 186-87. todd here summarizes the evidence about publication. [3] _points in eighteenth-century verse_ (london: constable, 1934), pp. 67-69. bibliographical note the facsimile of bramston's _the man of taste_ (1733) is reproduced by permission from a copy (shelf mark: *fpr3627/e663b/copy 2) in the william andrews clark memorial library. the total type-page (p. 7) measures 243 ã� 144 mm. the man of taste. occasion'd by an epistle _of mr._ pope'_s_ on that subject. _by the author of the_ art of politicks. _london_: printed by _j. wright_, for lawton gilliver at _homer's head_ against _st. dunstan's church_ in _fleet street_, 1733. price 1 _s._ where may be had the _art of politicks_, in imitation of _horace_'s art of poetry. price 1 _s._ the man of taste. whoe'er he be that to a _taste_ aspires, let him read this, and be what he desires. in men and manners vers'd from life i write, not what was once but what is now polite. those who of courtly _france_ have made the tour, can scarce our _english_ awkwardness endure. but honest men who never were abroad, like _england_ only, and its _taste_ applaud. strife still persists, which yields the better _goã»t_; books or the world, the many or the few. true _taste_ to me is by this touchstone known, that's always best that's nearest to my own. to shew that my pretensions are not vain, my father was a play'r in _drury-lane_. pears and pistachio-nuts my mother sold, he a dramatick-poet, she a scold. his tragick muse could countesses affright, her wit in boxes was my lord's delight. no mercenary _priest_ e'er join'd their hands, uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands. _laws_ my pindarick parents matter'd not, so i was tragi-comically got. my infant tears a sort of measure kept, i squal'd in distichs, and in triplets wept. no youth did in i education waste, happy in an _hereditary taste_. writing ne'er cramp'd the sinews of my thumb, nor barb'rous birch e'er brush'd my brawny bum. my guts ne'er suffer'd from a college-cook, my name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book. _grammar_ in vain the sons of _priscian_ teach, good parts are better than _eight parts of speech_: since these declin'd those undeclin'd they call, i thank my stars, that i declin'd 'em all. to _greek_ or _latin tongues_ without pretence, i trust to mother wit, and father sense. _nature_'s my guide, all sciences i scorn, pains i abhor, i was a _poet born_. yet is my _goã»t_ for criticism such, i've got some _french_, and know a little _dutch_. huge commentators grace my learned shelves, notes upon books out-do the books themselves. criticks indeed are valuable men, but hyper-criticks are as good agen. tho' _blackmore_'s works my soul with raptures fill, with notes by _bently_ they'd be better still. the _boghouse-miscellany_'s well design'd, to ease the body, and improve the mind. _swift_'s whims and jokes for my resentment call, for he displeases me, that pleases all. verse without rhyme i never could endure, uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure. to him as nature, when he ceas'd to see, _milton_'s an _universal blank_ to me. confirm'd and settled by the nations voice, rhyme is the poet's pride, and peoples choice. always upheld by national support, of market, university, and court: _thompson_, write blank; but know that for that reason, these lines shall live, when thine are out of season. rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays, as _london_ ladies owe their shape to stays. had _cibber_'s self the _careless husband_ wrote, he for the laurel ne'er had had my vote: but for his epilogues and other plays, he thoroughly deserves the _modern bays_. it pleases me, that _pope_ unlaurell'd goes, while _cibber_ wears the bays for playhouse prose. so _britain_'s monarch once uncover'd fate, while _bradshaw_ bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat. long live old _curl!_ he ne'er to publish fears, the speeches, verses, and last wills of peers. how oft has he a publick spirit shewn, and pleas'd our ears regardless of his own? but to give merit due, though _curl_'s the same? are not his brother-booksellers the same? can statutes keep the _british_ press in awe, while that sells best, that's most against the law? _lives_ of dead _play'rs_ my leisure hours beguile, and _sessions-papers_ tragedize my stile. 'tis charming reading in _ophelia_'s life, so oft a mother, and not once a wife: she could with just propriety behave, alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave: her lot how oft have envious harlots wept, by prebends bury'd and by generals kept. t'improve in morals _mandevil_ i read, and _tyndal_'s scruples are my settled creed. i travell'd early, and i soon saw through religion all, e'er i was twenty-two. shame, pain, or poverty shall i endure, when ropes or opium can my ease procure? when money's gone, and i no debts can pay, self-murder is an honourable way. as _pasaran_ directs i'd end my life, and kill myself, my daughter, and my wife. burn but that _bible_ which the parson quotes, and men of spirit all shall cut their throats. but not to writings i confine my pen, i have a taste for buildings, musick, men. young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast, with superficial smatterings at most. not so my mind, unsatisfied with hints, knows more than _budgel_ writes, or _roberts_ prints. i know the town, all houses i have seen, from _high-park_ corner down to _bednal-green_. sure wretched _wren_ was taught by bungling _jones_, to murder mortar, and disfigure stones! who in _whitehall_ can symmetry discern? i reckon _convent-garden_ church a _barn_. nor hate i less thy vile cathedral, _paul_! the choir's too big, the cupola's too small: substantial walls and heavy roofs i like, 'tis _vanbrug_'s structures that my fancy strike: such noble ruins ev'ry pile wou'd make, i wish they'd tumble for the prospect's sake. to lofty _chelsea_ or to _greenwich_ dome, soldiers and sailors all are welcom'd home. her poor to palaces _britannia_ brings, st. _james_'s hospital may serve for kings. building so happily i understand, that for one house i'd mortgage all my land. _dorick_, _ionick_, shall not there be found, but it shall cost me threescore thousand pound. from out my honest workmen, i'll select a _bricklay'r_, and proclaim him architect; first bid him build me a stupendous dome, which _having finish'd_, we set out for _rome_; take a weeks view of _venice_ and the _brent_, stare round, see nothing, and come home content. i'll have my _villa_ too, a sweet abode, its situation shall be _london_ road: _pots_ o'er the door i'll place like cits balconies, which[1] _bently_ calls the _gardens of adonis_. i'll have my gardens in the fashion too, for what is beautiful that is not new? fair four-legg'd temples, theatres that vye, with all the angles of a _christmas_-pye. does it not merit the beholder's praise, what's high to sink? and what is low to raise? slopes shall ascend where once a green-house stood, and in my horse-pond i will plant a wood. let misers dread the hoarded gold to waste, expence and alteration shew a _taste_. in curious paintings i'm exceeding nice, and know their several beauties by their _price_. _auctions_ and _sales_ i constantly attend, but chuse my pictures by a _skilful friend_. originals and copies much the same, the picture's value is the _painter's name_. my taste in sculpture from my choice is seen, i buy no statues that are not obscene. in spite of _addison_ and ancient _rome_, sir _cloudesly shovel_'s is my fav'rite tomb. how oft have i with admiration stood, to view some city-magistrate in wood? i gaze with pleasure on a lord may'r's head, cast with propriety in gilded lead. oh could i view through _london_ as i pass, some broad sir _balaam_ in _corinthian_ brass; high on a pedestal, ye freemen, place his magisterial paunch and griping face; _letter'd and gilt_, let him adorn _cheapside_, and grant the _tradesman_, what a _king_'s deny'd. old coins and medals i collect, 'tis true, sir _andrew_ has 'em, and i'll have 'em too. but among friends if i the truth might speak, i like the modern, and despise th' antique. tho' in the draw'rs of my japan _bureau_, to lady _gripeall_ i the _cã¦sars_ shew, 'tis equal to her ladyship or me, a copper _otho_, or a _scotch baubee_. without _italian_, or without an ear, to _bononcini_'s musick i adhere: musick has charms to sooth a savage beast, and therefore proper at a sheriff's feast. my soul has oft a secret pleasure found, in the harmonious bagpipe's lofty sound. bagpipes for men, shrill _german-flutes_ for boys, i'm _english_ born, and love a grumbling noise. the stage should yield the solemn organ's note, and scripture tremble in the eunuch's throat. let _senesino_ sing, what _david_ writ, and _hallelujahs_ charm the pious pit. eager in throngs the town to _hester_ came, and _oratorio_ was a lucky name. thou, _heeideggre!_ the _english_ taste has found, and rul'st the mob of quality with sound. in _lent_, if masquerades displease the town, call 'em _ridotto_'s, and they still go down: go on, prince _phyz_! to please the british nation, call thy next _masquerade_ a _convocation_. bears, lyons, wolves, and elephants i breed, and _philosophical transactions_ read. next lodge i'll be _free-mason_, nothing less, unless i happen to be _f.r.s._ i have a _palate_, and (as yet) _two ears_, fit company for _porters_, or for _peers_. of ev'ry useful knowledge i've a share, but my top talent is a bill of fare. sir loins and rumps of beef offend my eyes, pleas'd with frogs fricasseed, and coxcomb-pies. dishes i chuse though little, yet genteel, _snails_ the first course, and _peepers_ crown the meal. pigs heads with hair on, much my fancy please, i love young colly-flow'rs if stew'd in cheese, and give ten guineas for a pint of peas. no tatling servants to my table come, my grace is _silence_, and my waiter _dumb_. queer country-puts extol queen _bess_'s reign, and of lost hospitality complain. say thou that do'st thy father's table praise, was there _mahogena_ in former days? oh! could a british barony be sold! i would bright honour buy with dazling gold. could i the _privilege_ of _peer_ procure, the rich i'd bully, and oppress the poor. to _give_ is wrong, but it is wronger still, on any terms to _pay_ a tradesman's bill. i'd make the insolent mechanicks stay, and keep my ready money all for _play_. i'd try if any pleasure could be found, in _tossing-up_ for twenty thousand pound. had i whole counties, i to _white_'s would go, and set lands, woods, and rivers, at a throw. but should i meet with an unlucky run, and at a throw be gloriously undone; my _debts of honour_ i'd discharge the first, let all my _lawful creditors_ be curst: my _title_ would preserve me from arrest, and seising _hired horses_ is a jest. i'd walk the mornings with an _oaken stick_, with gloves and hat, like my own _footman, dick_. a footman i wou'd be, in outward show, in sense, and education, _truly so_. as for my _head_, it should ambiguous wear _at once_ a periwig, _and_ its own hair. my hair i'd powder in the women's way, and _dress_, and _talk of dressing_, more than they. i'll please the maids of honour, if i can; without black-velvet-britches, what is man? i will my skill in _button-holes_ display, and brag how oft i shift me ev'ry day. shall i wear cloaths, in _awkward england_ made? and sweat in cloth, to help the _woollen trade_? in _french_ embroid'ry and in _flanders_ lace i'll spend the income of a treasurer's place. _deard_'s bill for baubles shall to thousands mount, and i'd out-di'mond ev'n the _di'mond count_. i would convince the world by taudry cloa's, that _belles_ are less effeminate than beaux, and doctor _lamb_ should pare my lordship's toes. to boon companions i my time would give, with players, pimps, and parasites i'd live. i would with _jockeys_ from _newmarket_ dine, and to _rough-riders_ give my choicest wine. i would caress some _stableman_ of note, and imitate his language, and his _coat_. my ev'nings all i would with _sharpers_ spend, and make the _thief-catcher_ my bosom friend. in _fig_ the prize-fighter by day delight, and sup with _colly cibber_ ev'ry night. should i perchance be fashionably ill, i'd send for _misaubin_, and take his pill. i should abhor, though in the utmost need, _arbuthnot_, _hollins_, _wigan_, _lee_, or _mead_: but if i found that i grew worse and worse, i'd turn off _misaubin_ and take a nurse. how oft, when eminent physicians fail, do good old womens remedies prevail? when beauty's gone, and _chloe_'s struck with years, eyes she can couch, or she can syringe ears. of graduates i dislike the learned rout, and chuse a _female doctor_ for the gout. thus would i live, with no dull _pedants_ curs'd, sure, of all blockheads, _scholars_ are the worst. back to your _universitys_, ye fools, and dangle arguments on strings in schools: those schools which _universitys_ they call, 'twere well for _england_ were there none at all. with ease that loss the nation might sustain, supply'd by _goodman's fields_ and _drury-lane_. _oxford_ and _cambridge_ are not worth one farthing, compar'd to _haymarket_, and _convent-garden_: quit those, ye british youth, and follow these, turn players all, and take your 'squires degrees. boast not your incomes now, as heretofore, ye book-learn'd seats! the theatres have more: ye stiff-rump'd heads of colleges be dumb, a singing eunuch gets a larger sum. have some of you three hundred by the year, _booth_, _rich_, and _cibber_, twice three thousand clear. should _oxford_ to her sister _cambridge_ join a year's _rack-rent_, and _arbitrary fine_: thence not one winter's charge would be defray'd, for playhouse, opera, ball, and masquerade. glad i congratulate the judging age, the players are the world, the world the stage. i am a politician too, and hate of any party, ministers of state: i'm for an _act_, that he, who sev'n whole years has serv'd his _king_ and _country_, lose his ears. thus from my birth i'm qualified you find, to give the laws of _taste_ to humane kind. mine are the gallant schemes of politesse, for books, and buildings, politicks, and dress. this is _true taste_, and whoso likes it not, is blockhead, coxcomb, puppy, fool, and sot. [1] bently's milton, book 9. ver. 439. _books printed for_ lawton gilliver _at_ homer'_s_ _head over-against st._ dunitan's _church in_ fleetstreet. of _false taste_. an epistle to the earl of _burlington_. by mr. pope. _the use of riches_, an epistle to the right honourable _allen_ lord _bathurst_. by the same author. the first satire of the second book of _horace_, imitated in a dialogue between _alexander pope_, esq; on the one part, and his learned council on the other. the _dunciad_: a new edition with some additional epigrams. _a collection of pieces_ in prose and verse; occasioned by the dunciad. dedicated to the earl of _middlesex_, by _richard savage_, esq; _an essay on satyre_; particularly the dunciad. by _walter hart_, a. m. _harlequin-horace_: or, the art of modern poetry. two _epistles_ to mr. _pope_, concerning the authors of the age. by dr. _young_. _imperium pelagi_: a naval lyrick in imitation of _pindar_. _athelwold_: a tragedy. by _aaron hill_, esq; an _epistle_ from a young gentleman at _rome_ to mr. _pope_. the progress of love, 8^o _stowe_: the gardens of lord _cobham_, 8^o the works of the right honourable the lord _lansdowne_. m. hieronimi vidã¦ opera omnia poetica, quibus nunc primum adjiciuntur dialogi de rei-publicã¦ dignitate ex recensione. r. russel, a. m. 2 toms 12^o [greek: anakpe'ontos tã�i'ou me'lã�]: anacreontis teii carmina acurate edita cum notis perpetuis & versione latina numeris elegiacis paraphrastice expressa. accedunt ejusdem, ut perhibentur, fragmenta; & poetriã¦ sapphus quã¦ supersunt. william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles the augustan reprint society publications in print the augustan reprint society publications in print 1948-1949 16. henry nevil payne, _the fatal jealousie_ (1673). 18. "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. 10 (1719), and aaron hill, preface to _the creation_ (1720). 1949-1950 19. susanna centlivre, _the busie body_ (1709). 20. lewis theobald, _preface to the works of shakespeare_ (1734). 22. samuel johnson, _the vanity of human wishes_ (1749), and two _rambler_ papers (1750). 23. john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ (1681). 1951-1952 26. charles macklin, _the man of the world_ (1792). 31. thomas gray, _an elegy wrote in a country churchyard_ (1751), and _the eton college manuscript_. 1952-1953 41. bernard mandeville, _a letter to dion_ (1732). 1964-1965 110. john tutchin, _selected poems_ (1685-1700). 111. _political justice_ (1736). 113. t. r., _an essay concerning critical and curious learning_ (1698). 1965-1966 115. daniel defoe and others, _accounts of the apparition of mrs. veal_ (1705, 1706, 1720, 1722). 116. charles macklin, _the convent garden theatre_ (1752). 117. sir roger l'estrange, _citt and bumpkin_ (1680). 118. henry more, _enthusiasmus triumphatus_ (1662). 120. bernard mandeville, _aesop dress'd or a collection of fables_ (1740). 1966-1967 124. _the female wits_ (1704). 1968-1969 133. john courtenay, _a poetical review of the literary and moral character of the late samuel johnson_ (1786). 134. john downes, _roscius anglicanus_ (1708). 135. john hill, _hypochondriasis, a practical treatise_ (1766). 136. thomas sheridan, _a discourse being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language_ (1759). 137. arthur murphy, _the englishman from paris_ (1756). 1969-1970 138. [catherine trotter] _olinda's adventures_ (1718). 139. john ogilvie, _an essay on the lyric poetry of the ancients_ (1762). 140. _a learned dissertation on dumpling_ (1726) and _pudding and dumpling burnt to pot or a compleat key to the dissertation on dumpling_ (1727). 141. sir roger l'estrange, selections from _the observator_ (1681-1687). 142. anthony collins, _a discourse concerning ridicule and irony in writing_ (1729). 143. _a letter from a clergyman to his friend, with an account of the travels of captain lemuel gulliver_ (1726). 144. _the art of architecture, a poem_ (1742). 1970-1971 145-146. thomas shelton, _a tutor to tachygraphy, or short-writing_ (1642) and _tachygraphy_ (1647). 147-148. _deformities of dr. samuel johnson_ (1782). 149. _poeta de tristibus: or the poet's complaint_ (1682). 150. gerard langbaine, _momus triumphans: or the plagiaries of the english stage_ (1687). 1971-1972 151-152. evan lloyd, _the methodist. a poem_ (1766). 153. _are these things so?_ (1740), and _the great man's answer to are these things so?_ (1740). 154. arbuthnotiana: _the story of the st. alb-ns ghost_ (1712), and _a catalogue of dr. arbuthnot's library_ (1779). 155-156. a selection of emblems from herman hugo's _pia desideria_ (1624), with english adaptations by francis quarles and edmund arwaker. 1972-1973 157. william mountfort, _the life and death of doctor faustus_ (1697). 158. colley cibber, _a letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope_ (1742). 159. [catherine clive], _the case of mrs. clive_ (1744). 160. [thomas tryon], _a discourse ... of phrensie, madness or distraction_ from _a treatise of dreams and visions_ [1689]. 161. robert blair, _the grave. a poem_ (1743). 162. [bernard mandeville], _a modest defence of publick stews_ (1724). 1973-1974 163. [william rider], _an historical and critical account of the lives and writings of the living authors of great britain_ (1762). 164. thomas edwards, _the sonnets of thomas edwards_ (1765, 1780). 165. hildebrand jacob, _of the sister arts; an essay_ (1734). 166. _poems on the reign of william iii_ [1690, 1696, 1699, 1702]. 167. kane o'hara, _midas: an english burletta_ (1766). 168. [daniel defoe], _a short narrative history of the life and actions of his grace john, d. of marlborough_ (1711). * * * * * publications of the first fifteen years of the society (numbers 1-90) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $16.00 per unit, from kraus reprint company, 16 east 46th street, new york, n.y. 10017. publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of $5.00 for individuals and $8.00 for institutions per year. prices of single issues may be obtained upon request. subsequent publications may be checked in the annual prospectus. _make check or money order payable to_ the regents of the university of california _and send to_ the william andrews clark memorial library 2520 cimarron street, los angeles, california 90018 [transcriber's note: apparent printer's errors retained.] the augustan reprint society are these things so? 1740 the great man's answer to are these things so? (1740) _introduction by_ ian gordon publication number 153 william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles 1972 general editors william e. conway, william andrews clark memorial library george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles david s. rodes, university of california, los angeles advisory editors richard c. boys, university of michigan james l. clifford, columbia university ralph cohen, university of virginia vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university earl miner, university of california, los angeles samuel h. monk, university of minnesota everett t. moore, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, william andrews clark memorial library james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles robert vosper, william andrews clark memorial library curt a. zimansky, state university of iowa corresponding secretary edna c. davis, william andrews clark memorial library editorial assistant jean t. shebanek, william andrews clark memorial library introduction the two pamphlets reproduced here belong to the fierce heightening in the pamphlet campaign against robert walpole that took place at the end of 1740. they represent only two efforts within a brief but furious encounter that gave rise to the publication of no fewer than nine separate poems. on thursday, 23 october 1740, thomas cooper, "one of the most prolific printers and publishers of the pamphlet literature of the eighteenth century,"[1] published a savage denunciation of walpole called _are these things so?_[2] this pamphlet, which took the fictional form of an open letter from alexander pope, "an englishman in his grotto," to robert walpole, "a great man at court," set off a round of verse writing among the party hacks of the day that vividly illustrates the close relationship between literature and politics in the first half of the eighteenth century. within the space of two months eight further pamphlets directly related to this pamphlet and to walpole's position as first minister were published. such a spate of literary activity is only remarkable, however, when compared with other ages. while it is inconceivable that the publication of any poem in our own day, even by a major writer, should arouse such a response, it is reasonably typical of the first half of the eighteenth century that the publication of an occasional poem by a minor, indeed anonymous, writer should do so. on saturday, 8 november, two weeks after the opening blast, cooper delivered a second volley, an equally fierce (although largely repetitive) denunciation of walpole entitled _yes, they are:_.[3] a week later still, on saturday, 15 november, the first pro-government riposte, called _what of that!_, was published,[4] followed three days later, on 18 november, by a second reply, _the weather-menders: a proper answer to are these things so?_[5] the second edition of _what of that!_ was published on the following saturday, 22 november,[6] and a third pro-walpole poem entitled _they are not_, was also published at about this time.[7] at the end of november, or early in december, a reply to all three of these defences of walpole appeared carrying the title, _have at you all_.[8] on tuesday, 2 december, the pro-walpole forces returned to the attack again with a poem entitled _what things?_[9] this was followed on saturday, 6 december, by the second edition, "corrected, with the addition of twenty lines omitted in the former impressions" of _are these things so?_,[10] and on thursday, 18 december, by yet another anti-walpole poem, _the great man's answer_[11] purporting to be "by the author of _are these things so?_." but the pro-walpole forces were still not silenced and two days later on saturday, 20 december, published _a supplement to are these things so?_,[12] an attack on the patriot opponents of the ministry. a month later still, on friday, 23 january 1741,[13] the third edition of _they are not_ was published. hereafter this particular controversy seemed to burn itself out, although an anonymous poem entitled _the art of poetry_, published on 17 march 1741, contains a long attack on _are these things so?_. this confused battle is most easily summarized by saying that four separate pamphlets (not counting second and third editions) were published which attacked walpole, and five which defended him. the poems attacking walpole are far more poetically versatile than those defending him and it is the two most interesting of these attacks that are reproduced here. taken together, this series of nine pamphlets forms a separate battle within that much larger and continuing war waged by lord bolingbroke and the various supporters of the patriot opposition against sir robert walpole and the defenders of his whig ministry. from the first publication of _the craftsman_ on 5 december 1726 to the final resignation of the "great man" on 11 february 1742 it is probably true to say that no english politician has ever been so continuously and so virulently attacked by so eminent an assemblage of literary persons. gay, swift, pope, arbuthnot, chesterfield, lyttleton, thomson, fielding, and johnson each entered the fray at various stages. the fact that walpole rode out these attacks for so long is more of a comment on the disorganized nature of the opposition politically and on the astute manoeuvring of walpole himself, than on the ineffectiveness of the attacks. during the protracted span of this campaign there were only two periods during which the supporters of the patriot cause had any real chance of toppling walpole. the first came in 1733 when sustained opposition forced walpole to drop his proposed excise scheme, while the second occurred five years later in 1738 and sprang from a new deterioration in anglo-spanish relations. although walpole did not finally resign until 11 february 1742 his fall from power was a direct result of this deterioration. his position in the house of commons, and in the country at large, was never as assured in the last four years of his "reign" as it had been in the first seventeen. the pamphlets reproduced here deal with walpole's declining reputation and especially with his handling of spanish policy. the causes of the english differences with spain go back to 1713 and the treaty of utrecht in which the south sea company had been granted, amongst other privileges, the right to send one trading vessel a year to the spanish possessions.[14] this right had been grossly abused by english merchants eager to make large profits and a great number of english trading ships annually smuggled goods to spanish america. the spanish governors were only too pleased to accept such contraband trade for by it they avoided payment of duties to the king of spain. in order to defend themselves against this illegal traffic the spanish authorities established a fleet of _guarda-costas_ to intercept, search, and, if necessary, punish the english ships. the _guarda-costas_ did this with great effect and, on occasion, with considerable cruelty. the most notorious example concerned the capture, near jamaica in 1731, of captain robert jenkins' ship, the _rebecca_, and the ensuing removal of one of jenkins' ears. it was with jenkins' presentation of this ear, which "wrapt up in cotton, he always carried about him,"[15] before the house of commons seven years later in march 1738 that anglo-spanish differences came to a head. the patriots demanded war and revenge: walpole, however, was committed to a policy of peace. accordingly, he spent the rest of the year trying to patch things up and the ill-fated convention of pardo concluded on 14 january 1739 was the result. the convention involved compromise on both sides. england claimed that spain owed her £343,277 by way of reparation for damages done to english vessels, and spain claimed that england owed her £180,000 by way of arrears on duties due to the king of spain. this left a balance of £163,277 and england agreed to accept £95,000 as a total discharge in return for payment within four months.[16] on 1 february walpole laid this convention before parliament, and, despite vociferous opposition, it was eventually ratified on 9 march by a vote of 244 to 214. as a result of this ratification a considerable section of the opposition, under the leadership of sir william wyndham, immediately seceded from parliament. feelings had never been higher. on 15 may, one day after the payment had fallen due, benjamin keene, the british minister in madrid, was officially informed that the £95,000 would only be paid if admiral haddock removed his fleet from the mediterranean. england had no intention of recalling haddock, for both gibraltar and minorca would then remain defenceless, and spain clearly had no real intention of paying the money. from this point on war became inevitable and on 19 october 1739 the declaration was made "and was received by all ranks and distinctions of men with a degree of enthusiasm and joy, which announced the general frenzy of the nation."[17] it was on hearing the church bells pealing at the news that walpole made his famous remark: "they now ring the bells, but they will soon wring their hands."[18] one month later, on 22 november, admiral vernon captured porto bello, the port in which the _guarda-costas_ had been fitted out. the news of this victory did not arrive in england until nearly four months later on 13 march 1740, but it brought with it great public excitement and jubilation. thus by the end of 1740 the revenge on the spanish had begun. those who had demanded war seemed justified and walpole had been discredited. this is the political background against which these pamphlets are set. * * * * * both pamphlets have been attributed to james miller, but the evidence for such attribution is cumulative rather than definitive.[19] _are these things so?_ has been far more frequently attributed to miller than _the great man's answer_. the earliest attribution is found in d. e. baker's _biographia dramatica_ which, although it was not published till 1812, was originally compiled by baker sometime before 1764.[20] robert watt also lists _are these things so?_ as miller's work in his _bibliotheca britannica_, edinburgh, 1824.[21] the entries under miller in the _cbel_ and _dnb_ both accept these attributions as does the _british museum catalogue_. the evidence for attributing _the great man's answer_ to miller is far more slender and rests largely on the publisher's claim on the title page, which may well have been made for the sake of promotion, that it is "by the author of _are these things so?_". james miller, 1706-1744, is better known as a comic dramatist than as a poet. he was the son of a clergyman from upcerne in dorset, and was educated at wadham college, oxford, where he wrote a comedy, _the humours of oxford_, which was successfully performed at drury lane in january 1730. on leaving oxford he had been expected by his relations to go into business, but "not being able to endure the servile drudgery it demanded," he took holy orders and continued to write plays "to increase his finances."[22] from 1730 until his death in 1744 he wrote ten plays, several of which were performed with considerable success.[23] but it is as a poet that we are primarily interested in miller. he was the author of several occasional poems of which his _harlequin horace, or the art of modern poetry_, 1731, was the best known. this poem, yet another imitation of horace's _ars poetica_ is an attack on john rich, the manager of lincoln's inn fields and covent-garden. the poem is ironically full of perverse modern advice on how to write poetry. miller adopts the persona of a modern grub street poet who scorns the classical values. consequently pope, who insists on standards of excellence, is seen by the persona as the great enemy of modern poets. at the same time it is quite clear that for miller himself pope is the greatest of poets. the poem includes an attack on walpole (ll. 209-216), and perhaps it was this that led the agents of the ministry to make him the large offer referred to in the biography of miller found in cibber's _lives_. but, as the anonymous writer of this life goes on to point out, miller "had virtue sufficient to withstand the temptation, though his circumstances at that time were far from being easy."[24] a second verse satire in the manner of horace, _seasonable reproof_, 1735, has also been attributed to miller. the poem is a general satire on britain's "state of reprobation," and only makes a passing glance at walpole. london has been so forsaken by people all rushing to the italian opera that by _excisemen_, it might now be taken, and great sir _bob_ ride through, and save his bacon (ll. 6-7). but more significant in our context is that, as maynard mack has shown, the author creates a speaker "who by his careful echoings of the _epistle to dr. arbuthnot_ seems to labor to be mistaken for pope."[25] if miller was the author of both _seasonable reproof_ and _are these things so?_ his fascination with the persona of the poet in his grotto emerges as no sudden whim of wit, but as a continuing concern with the symbolic significance of pope's actual life. furthermore, the poet who attacked walpole so violently in october 1740 emerges as no upstart patriot cashing in on walpole's current unpopularity, but as a consistent and courageous opponent of walpole since at least 1731. * * * * * in _are these things so?_ pope is imagined to be speaking throughout, although he in turn imagines what walpole might say at various points. the poem is full of allusions and references intended to support the pretense that pope is speaking. in line eight the speaker says his luxury is "lolling in my peaceful grot"; in lines fifteen and sixteen he echoes pope's famous claim in _to fortescue_ that he is "to virtue only and her friends, a friend,"[26] when he says: close shut my cottage-gate, where none pretends to lift the latch but virtue and her friends; and in lines seventeen and eighteen he shows that he knew walpole had once visited pope at twickenham.[27] these allusions to pope's actual life have been carefully chosen by the author in order to give dramatic credibility to his chosen spokesman rather than to persuade the reader that pope was the real author. the impersonation of pope is meant to be transparent: the poet is demonstrating his versatility at imitating pope and has considerable fun in doing so. the only evidence that could be brought in to support an interpretation that stressed the author's serious intent to make pope seem the real author concerns a dublin reprint of the poem that actually carried pope's name as author on the title page. but it is extremely unlikely that the true author had anything to do with this since the dublin publisher did not even bother to incorporate the corrections and additions that the poet had made to the second edition. to point out that the device of creating a spokesman is meant to be seen through is not the same thing, however, as saying that the author could afford to admit his authorship. there were good reasons why the author of a poem that was primarily an attack on the first minister, and who was himself probably without any great influence or reputation, should need to hide the fact of his authorship. for such a person the choice of pope as spokesman could hardly have been more appropriate.[28] in may and july 1738 pope had published his devastating attacks on the state of the country known as _the epilogue to the satires_. on 31 january 1739 paul whitehead published his attack on the artificialities and disguises of walpole's ministry and the court favourites in a poem (which boswell refers to as "brilliant and pointed"[29]) called _manners: a satire_. at this point the government decided that it was time they attempted to stop, or at least stem, these attacks. they were not keen to confront pope himself, but whitehead presented a less formidable opponent.[30] consequently, in february 1739, he and his publisher robert dodsley were summoned before the bar of the house of lords to account for the attacks on named individuals in _manners_. on monday, 12 february, the poem "was voted scandalous, etc. by the lords, and the author and publisher ordered into custody, where mr. dodsley, the publisher, was a week; but mr. paul whitehead, the author, absconds."[31] whitehead anticipated this summons when he wrote in the poem: _pope_ writes unhurt--but know, 'tis different quite to beard the lion, and to crush the mite. safe may he dash the statesman in each line, those dread his satire, who dare punish mine (p. 15). pope was then the ideal spokesman for our author's purposes: the mite must dress up as the lion. it was admittedly almost two years since whitehead's original summons, but the incident was well enough remembered to spur a gossip columnist writing in _the daily gazetteer_ on 11 november 1740 to suggest that whitehead was the author of _are these things so?_ whitehead, too, evidently felt the danger of the situation for he deemed it necessary to publish a denial four days later.[32] in choosing pope for his spokesman the author of _are these things so?_ showed a full awareness of the political realities. he also showed a detailed familiarity with pope's life and work. there is nothing, however, to indicate that such knowledge was reciprocal, or even to indicate that pope knew of the poem's existence. the only evidence that pope knew anything about miller's work, if indeed miller was the author, comes in a letter pope wrote to caryll on 6 february 1731 in which he praises _harlequin horace_ although he does not seem to know the author's name.[33] _are these things so?_ opens with pope challenging walpole to explain why britain has fallen as low as she has and why france and spain have been allowed "to limit out her sea." walpole is then imagined defending his measures, especially the excise scheme, the convention of pardo, placement and the secret service. in the second half of the poem the satirist repeats the charges and invites walpole to turn his eyes inward and imagine that he dies guilty. pope then begs walpole to resign and, failing that, begs the king to intervene. the poem closes in a positive way by turning from walpole and listing other persons (all members of the opposition) that george ii might appoint to a new ministry. in the first edition (23 october) these persons were given fictitious names. the second edition (6 december) not only substituted their real names but also added twenty lines at the end which included cobham and argyle in the list of worthies. it is this edition, which carries an advertisement explaining these changes, that we have reproduced here. finally it seems helpful to append a few notes to help identify some of the allusions. in line 63 (p. 4) the "one more noble than the rest" is presumably henry st. john, viscount bolingbroke who was stripped of his title by act of attainder in 1725. in line 73 (p. 5) the "brave and honest _adm'ral_" is vernon who captured porto bello on 22 november 1739. the "_sturdy beggars_" mentioned in line 100 (p. 6), was the appelation used by walpole in referring to the mob outside the door of parliament on 14 march 1733, and was taken up by the opposition as pertaining to all the merchants and individuals opposed to the excise.[34] in line 129 (p. 8) the "c--n----n" is the convention of pardo described earlier in this introduction. in line 139 (p. 8) the "brother" referred to is horatio walpole who was a frequent ambassador abroad for robert walpole's government. in line 218 (p. 12) "he whose _fame_ to both the poles is known" is george ii. the persons named at the end of the poem as possible replacements for walpole are all persons who were at one time members of the whig party but who had joined the opposition because of their dislike for walpole. john carteret, earl granville (ll. 231-236, p. 13, and referred to as camillus in the first edition), had a long struggle with walpole for control of the whig party and joined the opposition whigs after he returned from the lord lieutenancy of ireland in 1730. it was carteret who was to move the unsuccessful resolution on 13 february 1741, requesting the king to remove walpole from his "presence and counsels for ever." william pulteney, earl of bath (ll. 237-242, p. 13, and referred to as demosthenes in the first edition) was also an early ally of walpole's who later broke with him to form the patriot party. he became one of the editors of _the craftsman_. philip stanhope, earl of chesterfield (ll. 243-245, p. 13, and referred to as atticus in the first edition) was also a lifelong whig who joined carteret in leading the opposition to walpole in the lords. hugh hume, lord polwarth and earl of marchmont (ll. 246-257, p. 14, and referred to as "that fam'd _caledonian youth_" in the first edition), had been a persistent and relentless opponent of walpole in the commons, but on the death of his father in february 1740 had acceded to the earldom of marchmont and been unable to get elected as a representative peer. although twenty years younger than pope (he was only 32 in 1740) he became a close friend and was appointed an executor of his will. pope refers to his friendship in his _verses on a grotto_: "and the bright flame was shot thro' marchmont's soul."[35] sir richard temple, viscount cobham (ll. 258-261, p. 14), was also a staunch whig who broke with walpole and joined the patriots. he, too, was an intimate friend of pope's who addressed the first moral essay to him and praised his famous gardens at stowe in the fourth. john campbell, duke of argyle (ll. 262-265, pp. 14-15) was a distinguished soldier who joined the opposition during the discussion of spanish affairs. both pope and thomson had celebrated his eloquence, and ll. 262-263 here are a direct recollection of lines 86-87 in pope's _epilogue to the satires: dialogue ii_: argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield, and shake alike the senate and the field. with the exception of carteret each of the persons named at the end of the poem was either an acquaintance or a close friend of pope's. we have here one last example of the remarkable degree to which the author of this pamphlet had assimilated the true facts of pope's life into his fictional re-creation. * * * * * according to the title page, _the great man's answer_ is by the same author as _are these things so?_. once again the setting is pope's grotto, but this time the poet engages walpole in a direct dialogue. the poem begins with the poet being disturbed in his retreat by someone "thundering at the gate." it is walpole who has come to answer the questions asked in _are these things so?_. he maintains that britain has not fallen as low as pope claims and that the honour of the fleet is still intact. he defends his handling of parliament, his fiscal policies, his appointment of placemen and pensioners, his attitude to commerce, and the self-aggrandisement involved in many of his contracts. these defences, which only bring out a severer irony in pope, lead up to walpole's version of his own epitaph in contrast to that given him in _are these things so?_. where pope had stressed his role as the grave-digger of british liberty, walpole sees himself as the healer of factions. finally he falls back on his ultimate weapon of bribery. but his offers of money, pension, place, title, and honour are turned down by the poet with increasing scorn, and the poem ends with appropriate focus on pope' incorruptibility. the following notes are offered to help with the topical allusions.[36] the poem opens with pope directing his servant, john serle (l. 7, p. 1), to see who is thundering at his gate. this is a playful allusion to the famous opening of _an epistle to dr. arbuthnot_ where serle had been urged to an exactly opposite course of action. the "_gazetteer_ abuse" scornfully mentioned by pope (l. 37, p. 3) is a reference to _the daily gazetteer_, a pro-government newspaper which ran from 30 june 1735-20 june 1745. the incomplete words, "se--s" (l. 66, p. 4) and "p------ts!" (l. 79, p. 5) refer to senates and parliaments respectively. walpole's claim (l. 89, p. 5) that "_gin_ would then be drank without control" refers to the government's gin act of 1736, which placed an excise of five shillings a gallon on gin. his later claim that there would be "no _license_ on the _press_, or on the _stage_" (l. 98, p. 6) refers to the stage licensing act of 1737, which placed the theatre under the control of the lord chamberlain. for pope's ironic application of the epithet "sturdy" (l. 164, p. 9) to the london merchants see the notes to _are these things so?_. pope's mention of "_angria_" (l. 204, p. 11) is a comparison of walpole to a mahrattan pirate chief of the early part of the century. walpole's introduction to his own epitaph, "they _best_ can speak it, who will _feel_ it most" (l. 223, p. 12) is an allusion to pope's _eloisa to abelard_ (l. 366): "he best can paint 'em who shall feel 'em most." university of western ontario london, ontario, canada notes to the introduction [1] h. r. plomer, _a dictionary of the printers and booksellers who were at work in england. 1726-1775_ (oxford, 1932), p. 61. [2] _the london daily post and general advertiser_, 23 october 1740. "this day is published. are these things so? the previous question from an englishman in his grotto, to a great man at court." [3] _the london daily post and general advertiser_, 8 november 1740. "this day is published. yes, they are: being an answer to are these things so?" [4] _the daily gazetteer_, 15 november 1740. "this day is published. what of that! occasioned by a pamphlet intituled are these things so? and its answer, yes, they are:" [5] _the london daily post and general advertiser_, 17 november 1740. "tomorrow will be published. the weather-menders. a proper answer to are these things so? by mr. spiltimber." [6] _the daily gazetteer_, 22 november 1740. "this evening will be published; the second edition of what of that!" [7] i have been unable to find an advertisement for this pamphlet, but it must have been published at the end of november or very early in december since _have at you all_ (see following footnote) lists it as one of the pamphlets it is replying to. [8] _the london magazine_, december 1740. the monthly catalogue. item 13. "have at you all. by the author of yes they are." this listing can only be taken as giving a terminal date. the pamphlet may well have been published in late november. _are these things so?_, for example, is listed in the monthly catalogue for november. [9] _the london daily post and general advertiser_, 1 december 1740. "tomorrow, at noon, will be published. what things? or, an impartial inquiry what things are so, and what things are not so. occasion'd by two late poems, the one entitled are these things so? and the other entitled yes, they are." [10] _the daily post_, 6 december 1740. "this day is published. (the second edition, corrected; with the addition of twenty lines omitted in the former impressions) are these things so? the previous question from an englishman in his grotto to a great man at court." [11] _the daily post_, 18 december 1740. "this day is published. the great man's answer. in a dialogue between his honour and the englishman in his grotto. by the author of are these things so?" [12] _the london daily post and general advertiser_, 20 december 1740. "this day is published. a supplement to a late excellent poem, entitled are these things so?" [13] _the daily post_, 23 january 1741. "this day is published. the third edition. they are not." [14] at the same time the south sea company agreed to pay a duty of 25% on all profits to the king of spain. it was the question of the payment of this duty for illegal trips that became the basis of spain's later claim for reparation. these details are taken from william coxe, _memoirs of the life and administration of sir robert walpole, earl of orford_, 3 vols. (london, 1798), i, 589. [15] coxe, i, 579. [16] these figures are taken from h.w.v. temperley, "chapter ii, the age of walpole and the pelhams," _the cambridge modern history_, ed. a. w. ward, g. w. prothero, and stanley leathes (cambridge, 1909), vi, 66. [17] coxe, i, 617. [18] coxe, i, 618 _n_. [19] i have been unable to do any more to settle the authorship and have had to be content here with presenting the evidence. [20] d. e. baker, i. reed, and s. jones, _biographia dramatica_, 3 vols. (london, 1812), i, ii, 512-515. [21] robert watt, _bibliotheca britannica_, 4 vols. (edinburgh, 1824), ii, 670. [22] most of the details in this brief biography, including these quotations, are taken from "the life of the revd. mr. james millar," _the lives of the poets of great-britain and ireland_, by mr. theophilus cibber, and other hands (london, 1753), v, 332-334. [23] one of these, _the man of taste_, 1735, has sometimes been mistakenly confused with a pamphlet written three years earlier, _mr. taste, the poetical fop_, which viciously attacked pope. see james t. hillhouse, "the man of taste," _mln_, xliii (1928), 174-176. there is no evidence that miller ever attacked pope and, indeed, his political and literary sympathies put him strongly on pope's side. [24] cibber, p. 333. [25] maynard mack, _the garden and the city_ (toronto, 1969), p. 190. mack is the first critic to pay any attention to these pamphlets and this reprint is largely offered to supplement his illuminating and suggestive book. [26] a. pope, _the first satire of the second book of horace imitated_ (london, 1733), l. 121. it is perhaps interesting to note that according to j. v. guerinot, _pamphlet attacks on alexander pope 1711-1744_ (london, 1969), p. xlviii, "no other line more infuriated the dunces, it was for them pope's ultimate hypocrisy." [27] walpole visited pope sometime in the summer of 1725. see pope's letter to fortescue, 23 september 1725. _the correspondence of alexander pope_, ed. g. sherburn (oxford, 1956), ii, 323. [28] for a full account of the ways in which pope's actual retired life in his twickenham villa, garden, and grotto became, in the 1730's, emblematic of the ideal of cultivated virtue, see maynard mack, _the garden and the city_, especially chapter vi. according to mack, pope becomes "spiritual patron of the poetical opposition to walpole" (p. 190). [29] james boswell, _life of johnson_, ed. r. w. chapman (oxford, 1953), p. 91. [30] this assumption is based on johnson's comment in his life of pope that "the whole process was probably intended rather to intimidate pope than to punish whitehead." s. johnson, _lives of the english poets_, ed. g. birkbeck hill (oxford, 1905), iii, 181. [31] _the gentleman's magazine_, ix, 104. [32] _the london daily post and general advertiser_, saturday, 15 november 1740. "whereas it has been generally reported that i am the author of a poem, lately publish'd, entitled are these things so? i think it necessary to assure the public, that the said report is without any foundation, being entirely a stranger both to that piece and the author of it. p. whitehead." [33] "there is just now come out another imitation of the same original [_ars poetica_], _harlequin horace_, which has a good deal of humour." sherburn, iii, 173. [34] see _fog's weekly journal_, 14 april 1733. [35] for an account of the publication of these verses see mack, p. 70, _n_. 1. [36] it should be noted that the pamphlet is full of typographical errors. lines 104-106, p. 6, should be prefixed by "g.m.," since walpole must be the speaker, as should the last two lines in the poem, lines 251-252, p. 13. page ten mistakenly carries the number twelve at the top of the page. bibliographical note the facsimiles of _are these things so?_ (1740; the second edition, corrected; 163.n.57) and of _the great man's answer_ (1740; 11630.h.50) are reproduced from copies in the british museum by kind permission of the trustees. are these things so? the previous question, from an englishman in his grotto, to a great man at court. _lusisti satis, edisti satis, atque_[a] _bibisti_, tempus abire tibi----horat. the second edition corrected: with the addition of twenty lines omitted in the former impressions. _london:_ printed for t. cooper, at the _globe_ in _paternoster-row_. mdccxl. [a] some great and erudite criticks, instead of _bibisti_, read bribisti in this place. which of the two is the most applicable, our querist does not pretend to determine. [illustration: decoration] are these things so? the second edition. with great additions and corrections. [illustration: decoration] (price one shilling.) advertisement. the first publication of the following poem having been entrusted to the care of the printer, it came, thro' either his ignorance or timorousness, extremely mutilated, and incorrect from the press. the twenty last lines were left out, which made the conclusion very abrupt, and in a great measure destroy'd the intention, as well as unity, of the whole piece. the characters of some great personages were entirely omitted, and fictitious names placed to others, instead of the real ones inserted by the author, who was always of opinion, that deserved praise, as well as just satire, should disdain a mask. as to the pointing, it was false in almost every line, and there were many words either mis-plac'd or mis-spell'd in almost every page. notwithstanding its appearing under these many disadvantages, the public were pleas'd to shew their approbation of it in general, and to give it such a generous and uncommon reception, that a large number were obliged to be printed off, to supply the present demand, before there was leisure to restore or correct any thing. the following edition was at length undertaken by the author himself, and is entirely agreeable to the manuscript which he at first put into the hands of the printer. [illustration: decoration] are these things so? the previous question, from an englishman in his grotto, to a great man at court. dead to the world's each scene of pomp or care, wrapp'd up in apathy to all that's there; my sole _ambition_ o'er myself to reign, my _avarice_ to make each hour a gain; my _scorn_--the threats or favours of a crown, a prince's whisper, or a tyrant's frown; my _pride_--forgetting and to be forgot; my _lux'ry_--lolling in my peaceful grot. all rancour, party, pique, expung'd my mind, free or to _laugh_ at, or _lament_ mankind; here my calm hours i with the wise employ, and the great _greek_, or _roman_ sage enjoy; or, gayly bent, the mirth-fraught page peruse, or, pensive, keep a _fast-day_ with the muse. close shut my cottage-gate, where none pretends to lift the latch, but virtue and her friends; tho' pardon me--a word, sir, in your ear, once, _long ago_, i think i saw you here. yet to the world, all hermit as i live, from all its vain regards a fugitive; still in my breast my _country_ claims a part, and love of _britain_ clings about my heart: then tell me, sir, for you, 'tis said, best know, is she, as fame reports her, _fall'n so low_? is _she_, who for so many ages rode _unquestion'd_ monarch of the _water-flood_; whose freighted barks were hail'd in ev'ry zone, and made each _india's_ envy'd wealth her own; protected still by such a guardian force, that were they e'er molested in their course, sure _vengeance_ on th' aggressor straight was pour'd, unless _seven-fold_ was for the wrong restor'd? is she now sunk to such _low degree_, that _gaul_ or _spain_ must _limit_ out her _sea_? that she must ask _what winds_ her sails shall fill, and steer by _bounty_ who once steer'd _at will_? whilst the vast _navies_ rais'd for her support, _nod_ on the _main_, or _rot_ before the _port_; with hands _ty'd up_ vain _menaces_ retail, or try by meek _perswasion_ to prevail? and is there--_what!_--so many _millions_ gone, so _many_,--heavens! yet nothing, _nothing_ done? do then her pow'rs this drowsy sabbath keep? is there no trump will rouse 'em from their sleep? are they, quite lost to empire and renown, bemus'd at home, or sunk in _foreign down_? or, is it true, what fame pretends to say, that you, sir, are the _author_ of to-day? that you're the fatal cause of _britain_'s shame, the _spend-thrift_ of her freedom and her fame? that _albion_'s sons are, by your arts, become the _dupes_ of foreigners, and _slaves_ of home; that her fam'd s--te, on whose sage debate, and _free_ resolves, depended _europe_'s fate, now meanly on your nod _dependent_ sit, and _yea_ or _no_ but just as you think fit; nay, that the _chiefs_ of even _levi's tribe_, bow down to you, the _converts_ of a _bribe_? whilst our trim _warriors_, deaf to honour's call, now wage no war but in the senate-hall; there wait your _generalissimo_ command, to fight _your_ battles 'gainst the patriot band? and that should one more noble than the rest, disdain to truckle to your high behest, speak what he thinks, and freely plead the cause of _britain's_ commerce, liberty, and laws; exert his pow'r to check corruption's swing, and serve, at _once_, his country and his king, his _dang'rous_ virtues are discarded straight, as sure as they are vertues of your hate; stripp'd of all honour, dignity, and rule, to cloath some _kindred_ oaf, or _titled_ tool. or should a brave and honest _adm'ral_ dare to make one conquest tho' in time of war, without _your leave_ to risk a vig'rous blow, and shew what _britons_, if they _might_, could do, whilst ev'ry raptur'd voice resounds his praise, and grateful hands triumphal columns raise, your venal scribes are order'd all they can to _lessen_ and _prophane_ the _godlike man_. that thus the _fountain_ of _britannia's_ health, _source_ of her grandeur, liberty, and wealth, polluted by your _all-corrupting_ hand, with rank infection deluges the land; parent at once of _want_ and _luxury_, of open rapine and dark treachery; the knaves _elixir_, and the just man's _bane_, _food_ to the _locust_, _mildew_ to the _swain_; pouring on those who once in _goshen_ dwelt; more deadly plagues than _ægypt_ ever felt, and _worse_ than _israel's heaviest_ task inflicts tho' _gone_ our _straw_ yet claiming _double bricks_ whilst _commerce_ flies before th' oppressive weight, and seeks in _gaul_ a more indulgent fate; where, shame to _britain_! the fair stranger guest is hail'd with raptures, and her _wrongs_ redress'd. "what then?" i'm told you say, "we nothing lose, "if they've our commerce we've their wooden shoes; "and since our _merchants_ are so _fancy_ grown, "'tis time to pull _sturdy beggars_ down; "they mutiny'd for _war_, and _war_ they have, "but _such a one_ that soon a _peace_ they'll crave; "_peace_ shall be theirs, but _such a peace_, that then "they'll curse their prayers and wish for war again; "thus pois'ning to 'em what they ask as best, "i'll ruin 'em by _granting_ their request. are these things so? or is it fiction all? a _sland'rous picture_ drawn in soot and gall? offspring of disappointment or disgrace, of those who _want_ or who have _lost_ a _place_? if so, why lives the scandal? up for shame, confront your foes, and vindicate your fame; for, trust me sir, to wink at such offence, rather proclaims a _fear_ than _innocence_; "no one is guilty 'till he's guilty prou'd--- come then, be this wild clamour strait remov'd; in _conscious justice_ cloath'd assert your right, shake off this load of obloquy and spite, like _samuel_ dauntless cry, _lo here i am_! "witness against me if i'm ought to blame. "before the lord and his anointed say "whose _rights_ or _honours_ have i ta'en away? "whom, speak, have i _defrauded_ or _oppress_'d, "or ever pilfer'd _forage_ from whose beast? "of what vile _contract_ was i e'er the scribe, "or of whose hands have i receiv'd a _bribe_? "what _scheme_ did ever i at home propose "but whence some _nameless_ profit would have rose? "or what _c--n----n_ e're devise abroad "but such as _britain_'s se--e did applaud? "what of my _country_'s money e'er bestow'd "except in _secret service_ for her good? "or what _incumbrance_ on her _commerce_ laid, "but for th' increase of _our_ revenues made? "in my dear country's service now _grown gray_ "_spotless_ i've walk'd before you to this day "my thoughts laid out my precious time all spent "in the hard _slavery_ of _government_; "my brother too the _fruitless_ bondage shares, "and all your _peace_ is owing to his cares, "girding his loins he travels far and near "and brings home some _rare treaty_ ev'ry year. "you have my sons too with you who bow down "beneath the weighty service of the crown; "my cousins and their cousins too--hard fate! "are _loaded_ with the offices of state; "and not _one soul_ of all my kindred's free "from _sharing_ in the public drudgery: "why then these shafts of calumny you throw, "this groundless _odium_ cast on all i do? "speak out with freedom what you have to say, "aside all _influence_, _pow'r_, and _skreen_ i lay, } "and put my conduct on the proof to-day. } this sir, if you dare stand the inquest, do, and then if you've but _samuel_'s _answer_ too, if all this heavy charge is void of ground, and by the _publick voice_ you're _guiltless_ found, resume your power, with terrors arm'd go forth, and blast the villains that traduc'd your worth; who basely durst your righteous course arraign, and soil the glory's of great _brunswick_'s reign. but if you _know_ your cause is not the _best_ know that you have defrauded and oppress'd, that you have ta'en and giv'n many a bribe, and of a _wicked contract_ been the scribe. that you _have_ pilfer'd _forage_ from the beast, and with the _publick wealth_ your _own_ encreas'd; that a dire _scheme_ you laid t' _excise_ the land, and to a vile c--v----n set your hand; that you've _monopoliz'd_ each post and place, to aggrandize your self and _mushroom_ race, that all your kindred--brother, sons, and cousins, have _titles_ and _employments_ by the _dozens_; and for as many _sidesmen_ as are wanted, _new places_ are contriv'd, _new pensions_ granted. if you are travell'd in these _crooked_ ways with a long train of black _et cetera's_; whilst the _whole nation_ loaths your very name, and babes and sucklings your _dispraise_ proclaim; turn your eyes inward, on yourself reflect, think what you _are_, then what you're to _expect_: pass a few years the _sisters_ cut your thread, and rank you in the number of the dead; but of what _dead_? not those whose memory, bloom with sweet savour through posterity. those deathless worthies, who, as good as great, or rais'd a fall'n, or prop'd a sinking state; or in the breach of desolation stood, and for their country's welfare pledg'd their blood. no! with the _curs'd_ your tomb shall foremost stand, the gaveston's and wolsey's of the land. your epitaph--_in this foul grave lies he_, _who dug the grave of_ british _liberty_. since then your glass has but few hours to run, quit quit the reins before we're quite undone. why should you torture out your dregs of life, in publick tumult, infamy and strife? to the last gasp maintain a baneful power only to see your country die before? if not for _us_--for your _own_ family, and as you've made 'em _great_, pray leave 'em _free_. but if there's nothing that can bribe your will, from this perverse propensity to ill; if to the grave you are on mischeif bent. by growth in crimes too harden'd to repent. if, whilst _perhaps_ you may, you _won't retreat_, resolv'd the nations _ruin_ to compleat, on _britain_'s downfall to erect a name, and trust to an _immortal guilt_ for fame, may'nt the _just vengeance_ of an injur'd land, thus greatly urg'd, exert a glorious _stand_? drive not the _brave_ and _wretched_ to despair, for though of freedom, wealth and power left bare, the plunder'd still have _tongues_--and they may rear, their loud complaints to reach their _sovereign's_ ear, lay, with one voice, their _wrongs_ before the _throne_, whilst he whose _fame_ to both the poles is known, all europe's arbiter, all asia's theme, affrick's delight, america's supreme; he who does still express his royal care, his loving subjects injuries to repair; to their _addresses_ graciously attends, and above all their _liberty_ defends, who is as wise as pious, mild as great, and whose sole business is to nurse the state; _may_ judge their cause and, greatly rous'd, command, the _staff_ of _power_ from thy _polluted_ hand, and to some _abler head_ and _better heart_, his long _dishonour'd stewardship_ impart. perhaps to thee! great _carteret_, who can'st boast. talents quite equal to the arduous post; a keen discernment; strong, yet bridled thought, one natures dow'r, one by just learning taught: calm fortitude, unwarp'd integrity, and flame divine to keep thy country free. or to thy conduct, _pultney_! whose just zeal, is still exerted for the publick weal; whose boundless knowledge and distinguish'd sense, flow in full tides of rapid eloquence; and to the native treasures of whose mind, we see form'd worth, and wide experience join'd. with these the darling _chesterfield_ may sit an _able_ partner--if his _rebel wit_ } can to such _pains_ and _penalties_ submit. } and that fam'd _caledonian youth_, whose morn propitious skies, and noon-tide rays adorn, who rose so _early_ in his country's cause, shone, though so young, _so bright_, that our applause was lock'd in wonder--gazing senates hung on the divine enchantment of his tongue; hark with what force he pleads in our defence! how just he speaks an injur'd people's sense! _half_ lost to _britain_ now, he chides his fate, for stealing him, _by titles_, from the state; whilst we, lov'd _polwarth_! with thy titles _more_, as might such virtues to the state restore. then too the noble _cobham_, first of men! may leave his garden for the camp again; call'd, like old rome's dictator from the plough, to plant once more the laurel on his brow. and brave _argile_, who's form'd alike to wield the rhet'rick of the senate and the field, so tun'd whose eloquence, whose breast so mann'd, none can the _speaker_ or the _chief_ withstand. yet feign methink's i'd hope that you were clear from this _high charge_ that eccho's in my ear; trust that some demon envious of my rest with visionary wrongs distracts my breast, or that this blazon of enormous crimes springs from the wanton licence of the times. therefore i put this _question_ to your heart,--- speak, culprit--_are you guilty_? nay, don't start, this is a question all have right to ask, to answer it with _honour_ is your task; that, if you dare unbosom, i expect, till when, _i'm yours, sir, with all_ due _respect_. _finis_ [illustration: decoration] the great man's answer to are these things so? [illustration: decoration] (price one shilling.) the great man's answer to are these things so? in a dialogue brtween his honour and the englishman in his grotto. _qui capit_--- by the author of _are these things so?_ _london:_ printed for t. cooper, at the _globe_ in _paternoster-row_. mdccxl. [illustration: decoration] the great man's answer to are these things so? _e.m._ hail blest _elizium_! sweet, secure retreat; quiet and contemplation's sacred seat! here may my life's last lamp in freedom burn, nor live to light my country to her urn: die 'ere that huge _leviathan_ of state shall swallow all.--who thunders at my gate! see _john_--but hah! what tempest shakes my cell? whence these big drops that ooze from ev'ry shell? from this obdurate rock whence flow those tears? sure some _ill power_'s at hand--soft! it appears. _e. m._ what's that approaches, _john_? _j._ why sir, 'tis he. _e. m._ what he? _j._ why he himself, sir; the _great_ he. _e. m._ enough. _g. m._ your slave, sir. _e. m._ no sir, i'm _your slave_, or soon shall be.--how then must i behave? must i fall prostrate at your feet? or how- i've heard the _dean_, but never saw him _bow_. _g. m._ hoh! hoh! you make me laugh. _e. m._ so _nero_ play'd, whilst _rome_ was by his flames in ashes laid. _g. m._ well, solemn sir, i'm come, if you think fit, to solve your question. _e. m._ bless me! pray, sir, sit. _g. m._ the door! _e. m._ no matter, sir, my door won't shut: stay here, _john_; we've no _secrets_. _g. m._ surly put! how restiff still! but i have _what_ will win him before we part, or else the devil's in him. _e. m._ i wait your pleasure, sir. _g. m._ why _fame_, you say, reports that i'm the author of to-day: i am--but not the day that you describe, black with imagin'd ills--your patriot tribe, those growling, restless, factious malecontents, who blast all schemes, and rail at all events; whom ministers, nor kings, nor gods can please; whose rage my ruin only can appease; that motley crew, the scum of ev'ry sect, who'd fain destroy, because they can't direct; wits, common-council-men, and brutes in fur, knights of the shire, and of the post.--_e. m._ this, sir, is _gazetteer_ abuse. _g. m._ these miscreants dire apply the torch themselves, then cry out fire; in rhime, in prose, in prints, and in debate, they falsly represent the nation's state. go forth, and see if _britain_'s fall'n _so low_; fly to her coasts, and mark the glorious _show_: see fleets how gallant! see _marines_ how _stout_! } that wait but till the _wind shall turn about_. } _e. m._ what a whole _twelvemonth_! _g. m._ pray sir, hear me out. } see all their sails unfurl'd, their streamers play; you'd think old _neptune_'s self kept holiday: these shall protect our commerce, scour the main, the honour of the _british_ flag maintain; pour the avenging thunder on the foe, } and--_e. m._ mighty well; but when are they to go? } _g. m._ when? psha! why look'ee, sir, that _time_ will show. } next view the martial guardians of the land: lo! her gay warriors redden all the strand: _cockade_ behind _cockade_, each entrance keep, whilst in their sheaths ten thousand falchions _sleep_. _e. m._ but, sir, 'tis urg'd that these are needless quite, kept only for review, and not for fight: that fleets are _britain_'s safety--_g. m._ stupid elves! why these, sir, are to _save you_ from _yourselves_: ye're prone, ye're prone to murmur and rebel, and when mild methods fail, we must compel: besides, consider sir, _th' election_'s near- _e. m._--o, sir, i'm answer'd--now the _case_ is _clear_. _g. m._ ay,--i shall answer all the rest as well. _e. m._ i doubt it not. _g. m._ on _se--s_ next you fell: fie! that was paw--_se--s_ are _sacred_ things, and _no more_ capable of _ill_ than--_kings_. _e. m._ 'tis granted. _g. m._ yet at them your gall is spit; you're told they _yea_ and _no_ as i think fit; and that if some brave _one_ rebellious prov'd, from his lord's banquet he was strait remov'd; cast into utter darkness, like the guest, who was not in a _wedding garment_ dress'd. well, what of that? should not the _blind_ be led? should not so vast a _body_ have a _head_? and if _one finger's gangreen'd_, sure 'tis best to lop it off 'ere it infect the rest. _free_ p----ts! mere stuff--what would be done? let loose, five hundred diff'rent ways they'd run; they'd cavil, jarr, dispute, o'return, project, and the great bus'ness of _supply_ neglect; on _grievances_, not _ways_ and _means_ would go; nor one round _vote of credit_ e're bestow: the _sinking fund_ would _strangely_ be apply'd, and _secret service money_ quite denied: whilst _soap_ and _candles_ we _untax_'d should rue, and _salt_ itself would lose it's _savour_ too: ev'n _gin_ would then be drank without controul, and the poor _civil list_ be ne're _lick'd whole_. down go all _pensioners_, all _placemen_ down. those lov'd and trusty servants of the crown, who're always ready at their chief's command, would have no _vote_ to save the _sinking_ land: ev'n _levy_'s bench might lose it's sacred _weight_, remov'd, o _sad translation_! from the state. then pen's like yours would _freely_ vent their rage, no _license_ on the _press_, or on the _stage_; whilst loyal _gazetteer_'s, tho' ne're so witty, no more might chasten the rebellious _city_: no more sage _freeman_ trumpet out my fame, nor _unstamp'd farthing-posts_ my worth proclaim. _e. m._ indeed--such dire _calamities_ attend! o worse, sir, worse--heav'n knows where it might end. perhaps _ourself_ and our dear _brother_ too, no longer might our country's business do- _e. m._ that, sir, you've done already--rather, then, _your_ business would be done. _g. m._ ungrateful men! we that have serv'd you at such vast expence, } and gone thro' thick and thin. _e. m._ there's no defence, } would serve your purpose--hence, then, good sirs, hence; } fly, for the evil days at hand, pray fly- _g. m._ what leave my country to be _lost_?--not i; the danger's yet but in imagination, i hope one _seven years more_ to _save_ the nation. in vain you patriot oafs pronounce my fall, like the great laureat, _s'blood i'll stand you all_. what tho' you've made the _people_ loath my name, i live not on such slender food as fame; and yet that _people_'s _mine_--my will obey, } implicit bow beneath my sovereign sway, } whilst these my _messengers_ prepare my way; } these all your slanders will at sight refute, they're sterling evidence which none dispute. for these, content, or to be damn'd or sav'd- _e. m._--nay if they will, why let 'em be enslav'd: if they will barter all that's good and great, for present pelf, nor mind their future state; if none thy baleful influence will withstand, go forth, _corruption_, lord it o'er the land; if they are thine for better and for worse, on them and on their children light the curse. _g. m._ _corruption_, sir!--pray use a milder term; 'tis only a memento to be _firm_; the times are greatly alter'd--years ago, a man would blush the world his _price_ should know: scruple to own his _voice_ was to be bought; and meanly minded what the million thought; our age more _prudent_, and _sincere_ is grown, the hire they _wisely_ take, they _bravely_ own; laugh at the fool, who let's his _conscience_ stand, to barr his passage to the promis'd land; or, sway'd by prejudice, or puny pride, thinks _right_ and _int'rest_ of a different side. _e. m._ _o nation_ lost to honour and to shame! so, then, corruption now has chang'd its name: and what was once a paultry _bribe_, to day is gently stil'd an _honourable_ pay. blessings on that great genius who has wrought this strange conversion--who has bravely bought our liberty from virtue--pray go on. _g. m._ of commerce next you talk--pretend 'tis gone, to _foreign_ climes--_amen_, for what i care, perdition on the merchants--they must dare! to thwart my purpose--i detest them--_e. m._ how! _g. m._ yes--and i think i'm _even_ with 'em now. they would not be _convention'd_, nor _excis'd_, but they shall feel the scourge themselves advis'd; they shall be swingingly _bewarr'd_, i'll swear; and since they'd not my _little finger_ bear, my _loins_ shall press 'em 'till they guilty plead, and sue for mercy at my feet. _e. m._ indeed! _g. m._ aye, trust me, shall they----_e. m._ but don't tell 'em so; } for they're a stubborn _sturdy_ gang you know, } _g. m._ o! they'll be _supple_ when their cash runs low. their _purse_, which makes them proud and insolent, a trav'ling with their commerce shall be sent- _e. m._ take care they don't send _you_ a trav'ling first; _g. m._ no, sir, i dare 'em now to do their worst. _seven sessions_ more i am at least secure- _e. m._ nay then you'll crush 'em quite?--but are you sure, there is a _spirit_, sir? _g. m._ what spirit pray? a _spirit_ that the _treasury_ can't lay. _e. m._ i'm answer'd sir,--_g. m._ next, friend, one word about those spiteful innuendoes you throw out, that squint at _contracts_, _forage_, and what not, 'tis _more_ than time that those things were forgot. you should not link the _present_ with the _past_- _e. m._ yes when they make one _glorious whole_ at last; when, tho' _times differ_, _actions_ still _agree_, and what men _were_ they _are_--what they _will_ be, we safely may pronounce--_g. m._ well, sir, but why on my dear family and friends this cry? suppose they've places, wealth, and titles too, _merit_ like ours should surely have its _due_. that _squaemish_ steward's of all fools the worst, that lays not up for his _own houshold_ first; nor takes a _proper_ care of those _staunch_ friends, by whose _good services_ he gains his ends. besides, who'd drudge the _mill-horse_ of the state; curst by the vulgar, envy'd by the great; in one fastidious round of hurry live, and join, in toil, the _matin_ with the _eve_; be hourly plagu'd 'bout pensions, strings, translations, or, worse! that _damn'd affair_ of _foreign_ nations. make _war_ and _treaties_ with alternate pain: first sweat to build, then to pull down again. who'd cringe at _levees_, or in _closets_--oh! stoop to the _rough_ remonstrance of the _toe_? did not some genius whisper, "that's the road "to opulence, and honours bless'd abode; "thus you may aggrandize yourself, and race; "_pension_ this _knight_, or give that _peer_ a _place_." _e. m._ so _angria_, sir, as justly might declare, he _plunder'd_ only to _enrich_ his _heir_; nor longer would his _piracies_ pursue, than 'till he had _provided_ for his _crew_. _g. m._ your servant, sir, i think you're pretty _free_-} _e. m._ why truth is truth, sir, and will out, you see; } _g. m._ yes, s'death! but _couple angria_ with _me_! _e. m._ i'll say no more on't--_g. m._ no you've said _enough_; and what you next advise, is canting stuff. _turn my eyes inward_! not quite so devout; they've task sufficient to look sharp _without_: and should the fatal sisters cut my thread some _score years_ hence--i trouble not my head } _where_ i'm entomb'd, or number'd with _what_ dead; } i want no _grave-stone_ to promulge my _fame_, nor trust to _breathless marble_ for a _name_, britannia's self a _monument_ shall stand of the _bless'd dowry_ i bequeath my land: her sons shall hourly my _dear conduct_ boast; they _best_ can speak it, who will _feel_ it most. but if some grateful verse _must_ grace my urn, attend ye _gazeteers_--be this the turn- _weep_, britons, _weep_--_beneath this stone lies he, who set your isle from dire divisions free, } and made your various factions all agree_. } _e. m._ that's right, _g. m._ you'd have me quit too--no, i'll still drive on, and make you happy '_gainst your will_. as for your _may_ and _may_, sir,--_may be not_, can my _vast services_ be _there_ forgot? as for those _lauded successors_ you name, if once in pow'r, they'd act the very _same._ _e. m._ that's cobweb sophistry--did they not fill the noblest posts? and had they not, pray, _still_, but that they greatly scorn'd to _league_ with those, who were at once their king's and country's foes? _g. m._ well, sir, as there is nothing i can say will with your starch'd unbending temper weigh; my last _best_ answer i'll in _writing_ leave; pray mark it--_e. m._ how! may i my eyes believe? _g. m._ you may--i thought i should convince you, _e. m._ yes, that fame for once spoke truth--and as for _this_- _g. m._ furies! my _thousand bank_, sir, _e. m._ thus i tear, go, blend, _corruption_, with _corrupting_ air. _g. m._ amazing frenzie! well, if this won't do, what think you of a _pension_? _e. m._ as of _you_. _g. m._ a _place_--_e. m._ be gone, _g. m._ a _title_--_e. m._ is a _lie_ when ill conferr'd _g. m._ a _ribband_--_e. m._ i defie farewell then fool--if you'll accept of _neither_, you and your _country_ may be _damn'd_ together. _finis_ william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles * * * * * the augustan reprint society publications in print the augustan reprint society publications in print * * * * * =1948-1949= 16. henry nevil payne, _the fatal jealousie_ (1673). 17. nicholas rowe, _some account of the life of mr. william shakespear_ (1709). 18. anonymous, "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. 10 (1719), and aaron hill, preface to _the creation_ (1720). =1949-1950= 19. susanna centlivre, _the busie body_ (1709). 20. lewis theobald, _preface to the works of shakespeare_ (1734). 22. samuel johnson, _the vanity of human wishes_ (1749), and two _rambler_ papers (1750). 23. john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ (1681). =1951-1952= 26. charles macklin, _the man of the world_ (1792). 31. thomas gray, _an elegy wrote in a country churchyard_ (1751), and _the eton college manuscript_. =1952-1953= 41. bernard mandeville, _a letter to dion_ (1732). =1962-1963= 98. selected hymns taken out of mr. herbert's _temple_ ... (1697). =1964-1965= 109. sir william temple, _an essay upon the original and nature of government_ (1680). 110. john tutchin, _selected poems_ (1685-1700). 111. anonymous, _political justice_ (1736). 112. robert dodsley, _an essay on fable_ (1764). 113. t. r., _an essay concerning critical and curious learning_ (1698). 114. _two poems against pope_: leonard welsted, _one epistle to mr. a. pope_ (1730), and anonymous, _the blatant beast_ (1742). =1965-1966= 115. daniel defoe and others, _accounts of the apparition of mrs. veal_. 116. charles macklin, _the covent garden theatre_ (1752). 117. sir roger l'estrange, _citt and bumpkin_ (1680). 118. henry more, _enthusiasmus triumphatus_ (1662). 119. thomas traherne, _meditations on the six days of the creation_ (1717). 120. bernard mandeville, _aesop dress'd or a collection of fables_ (1740). =1966-1967= 123. edmond malone, _cursory observations on the poems attributed to mr. thomas rowley_ (1782). 124. anonymous, _the female wits_ (1704). 125. anonymous, _the scribleriad_ (1742). lord hervey, _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_ (1742). =1967-1968= 129. lawrence echard, prefaces to _terence's comedies_ (1694) and _plautus's comedies_ (1694). 130. henry more, _democritus platonissans_ (1646). 132. walter harte, _an essay on satire, particularly on the dunciad_ (1730). =1968-1969= 133. john courtenay, _a poetical review of the literary and moral character of the late samuel johnson_ (1786). 134. john downes, _roscius anglicanus_ (1708). 135. sir john hill, _hypochondriasis, a practical treatise_ (1766). 136. thomas sheridan, _discourse ... being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language_ (1759). 137. arthur murphy, _the englishman from paris_ (1736). =1969-1970= 138. [catherine trotter], _olinda's adventures_ (1718). 139. john ogilvie, _an essay on the lyric poetry of the ancients_ (1762). 140. _a learned dissertation on dumpling_ (1726) and _pudding burnt to pot or a compleat key to the dissertation on dumpling_ (1727). 141. selections from sir roger l'estrange's _observator_ (1681-1687). 142. anthony collins, _a discourse concerning ridicule and irony in writing_ (1729). 143. _a letter from a clergyman to his friend, with an account of the travels of captain lemuel gulliver_ (1726). 144. _the art of architecture, a poem. in imitation of horace's art of poetry_ (1742). =1970-1971= 145-146. thomas shelton, _a tutor to tachygraphy, or short-writing_ (1642) and _tachygraphy_ (1647). 147-148. _deformities of dr. samuel johnson_ (1782). 149. _poeta de tristibus: or, the poet's complaint_ (1682). 150. gerard langbaine, _momus triumphans: or, the plagiaries of the english stage_ (1687). publications of the first fifteen years of the society (numbers 1-90) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $16.00 per unit, from the kraus reprint company, 16 east 46th street, new york, n.y. 10017. publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of $5.00 for individuals and $8.00 for institutions per year. prices of single issues may be obtained upon request. subsequent publications may be checked in the annual prospectus. * * * * * the augustan reprint society william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles 2520 cimarron street (at west adams), los angeles, california 90018 * * * * * _make check or money order payable to_ the regents of the university of california the augustan reprint society the scribleriad (anonymous) (1742) lord hervey the difference between verbal and practical virtue (1742) _introduction by_ a. j. sambrook publication number 125 william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles 1967 general editors george robert guffey, _university of california, los angeles_ earl miner, _university of california, los angeles_ maximillian e. novak, _university of california, los angeles_ robert vosper, _william andrews clark memorial library_ advisory editors richard c. boys, _university of michigan_ james l. clifford, _columbia university_ ralph cohen, _university of california, los angeles_ vinton a. dearing, _university of california, los angeles_ arthur friedman, _university of chicago_ louis a. landa, _princeton university_ samuel h. monk, _university of minnesota_ everett t. moore, _university of california, los angeles_ lawrence clark powell, _william andrews clark memorial library_ james sutherland, _university college, london_ h. t. swedenberg, jr., _university of california, los angeles_ corresponding secretary edna c. davis, _william andrews clark memorial library_ introduction though they are never particularly edifying, literary quarrels may at times be educative. always savage, attacks on pope reached their lowest depths of scurrility in 1742, when, in addition to the usual prose and doggerel verse pamphlets, engravings were being circulated portraying pope in a brothel--this on the basis of the story told in the notorious _letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope_, dated 7 july 1742.[1] the augustan reprint society has already reissued three of the anonymous grub street attacks made upon pope in this busy year,[2] but the present volume is intended to complete the picture of the battle-lines by reprinting a verse attack launched from the court--by hervey presenting himself as cibber's ally--and a verse defence that comes, in point of artistry, clearly from or near grub street itself. lord hervey's verses, _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_, were published between 21 and 24 august 1742, less than a week after the same author's prose pamphlet (_a letter to mr. c--b--r, on his letter to mr. p----._) which had compared the art of pope and cibber to cibber's advantage, and had roundly concluded that pope was "_a second-rate poet_, a _bad companion_, a _dangerous acquaintance_, an _inveterate, implacable enemy_, _nobody's friend_, a _noxious member of society_, and _a thorough bad man_." in the course of the prose pamphlet hervey had suggested that there was a certain incongruity between pope's true character and his assumed _persona_ of the "virtuous man," and this incongruity forms the main subject of his verse attack. here hervey finds examples of "the difference between verbal and practical virtue" in the lives of horace, seneca, and sallust, before turning to lampoon pope crossly and ineptly. the attack on horace is well conceived for hervey's purpose and calculated to damage pope who was in so many eyes, including his own, the modern heir of that ancient poet, but the straight abuse directed against pope's person is sad stuff. such lines as those on the "yelping mungril" (p. 6) serve only to show how squarely the "well-bred spaniels" taunt in the _epistle to dr. arbuthnot_ had hit its target. hervey's poem carried a prefatory letter headed "mr. c--b--er to mr. p.," making out that cibber had a hand in writing the poem itself. coming so soon after hervey's _letter to cibber_, which had carried the markedly intimate subscription "with the greatest gratitude and truth, most affectionately yours," this prefatory letter to the poem further emphasized hervey's firm and deliberate alliance with cibber. evidently it was the strangeness of this alliance between the two opponents of pope that struck the fancy of that unidentified "scriblerus" whose "epistle to the dunces," _the scribleriad_, was published between 30 september and 2 october 1742. when hervey was "affectionately yours" to cibber, the two stood shoulder to shoulder so temptingly open to a single volley that the author of _the scribleriad_ could fairly claim, as pope had claimed in the appendix to _the dunciad variorum_ of 1729, that "the _poem was not made for these authors, but these authors for the poem_." hervey appears as "narcissus," the nickname pope had used for him in _the new dunciad_. a "late vice-chamberlain" (because he had been dismissed from that post in july 1742) still gorged with the fulsome dedication of conyers middleton's _life of cicero_ (1741), he is shown (pp. 11-13) rousing cibber. cibber's situation, reclining on the lap of dulness where he is found by hervey, is taken from _the new dunciad_, while his general satanic role parallels theobald's in _the dunciad variorum_. this may reflect common knowledge that pope was at work on revisions that would raise cibber to the dunces' throne, but the belief that cibber was king of the dunces had been widespread from the date of his appointment as poet laureate.[3] _the scribleriad_ follows the general run of satires against cibber--attacking his senile infatuation for peg woffington, his violently demagogic and chauvinistic _nonjuror_ (first acted in 1717 but still drawing an audience in 1741), his laureate odes and his frank commercialization of art. although the writer of _the scribleriad_ was obviously prompted by the example of _the dunciad_ and borrows many details from pope, his poem has very little of that mock-epic quality its title might lead a reader to expect. there are slight traces of parody of virgil when, on page 16, cibber appears as aeneas (the character he was soon to assume in _the dunciad in four books_) and the epicene hervey is portrayed as a rejuvenated sybil guiding the hero through a hell of duncery. there are hints of _paradise lost_ too, when cibber, satan-like, undertakes his mission (p. 17) and the dunces, belial-like, agree "they're better in a cursed state,/than to be totally annihilate" (p. 5). but "scriblerus'" use of virgil and milton, unlike pope's, does not import some graver meaning into his poem; it provides him with neither a framework of moral symbols nor a continuous narrative thread. the action is slight and its setting vague. sometimes we are in a brothel, crowded with bullies, punks, lords, draymen and linkboys, and managed by cibber (pp. 11-12) or by dulness (p. 10). this setting, together with the claim that cibber's own muse is a prostitute (p. 8), serves as a retort to the tom-tit in the brothel story in cibber's _letter to pope_ and to emphasize the element of literary prostitution in the activities of cibber and his like. at other times the setting is a regular dunces' club (pp. 9, 16) of the type chronicled in the pages of _the grub street journal_. towards the end of the poem it is an assembly room (p. 19) presided over by the goddess of puffs (a happy development of that more commonplace mythical figure "fame," dulness' handmaiden in _the new dunciad_) who sets a test for the dunces and judges their performance. only in this concluding episode can this rather shapeless poem (which certainly is neither the mock epic nor the epistle that its title-page promises) be assigned to any regular literary "kind." this "kind" is that favorite of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, the "sessions poem."[4] "scriblerus'" account of the sessions of the dunces is more allusive and particularized than the rest of the poem and consequently calls for somewhat more detailed comment. the chief cases at the sessions embrace the pamphlet battle of summer 1742 and theatrical rivalry in the 1741-42 london season. cibber's contribution to the paper-war, the _letter to pope_ (written according to cibber "at the desire of several persons of quality"), is introduced at page 17 and consigned on page 19 to william lewis its printer. hervey stalks in "under virtue's name" in a "borrow'd shape" (p. 24), an allusion to the suggestion in the prefatory epistle to _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_ that the poem was cibber's work. (the "horse him" on 25 of _the scribleriad_ refers to cibber's adaptation of shakespeare's _richard iii._) other pamphlets issued in august 1742 are mentioned on page 24--_sawney and colley_,[5] which "scriblerus" calls "cloddy's dialogue," and _a blast upon bays_.[6] turning to the theatre, "scriblerus" attacks all three major companies of the 1741-42 london season. he first introduces the two patented theatres, drury lane and covent garden, as rivals only in that debased dramatic form the pantomime. "the angry _quack_" (p. 25) is john weaver, dancing master at drury lane and author of _anatomical and mechanical lectures upon dancing_ (1721), who claimed for himself[7] the credit of having originated pantomime upon the english stage. weaver's _orpheus and eurydice_ at drury lane (1718) was hardly noticed, whereas john rich had more recently bestowed "an orpheus on the town" (p. 25) to very different effect. rich's _orpheus and eurydice: with the metamorphoses of harlequin_ had opened on 12 february 1740 at covent garden, where he was manager. with rich himself as harlequin, it was a wild success that season--remaining a regular and highly popular afterpiece through the 1741-42 season and later. what _the scribleriad_ tells us of "_ambivius turpio_, the stage 'squire" (p. 26) suggests that he is to be identified with charles fleetwood, esq.,[8] the wealthy, inexperienced amateur who managed drury lane (this even though the original ambivius turpio was an actor, while fleetwood, apparently, was not). all managers were frequently involved in disputes over actors' pay, but fleetwood's were the most notorious. it was the drury lane company that included "the contending pollys" (p. 27)--mrs. cibber and mrs. clive who had bitterly quarrelled in 1736 over who should play that role in _the beggar's opera_. fleetwood, like rich, gave a play for the benefit of shakespeare's monument in westminster abbey.[9] what little that fleetwood knew of management he might well have learned from his one-time under-manager theophilus cibber, the "young ptolomy" (p. 27) who, of course, had derived his knowledge from his "great sire alone." the third theatre attacked in _the scribleriad_ is goodman's fields. its manager, henry giffard, had no patent, but contrived to evade the licensing act by the subterfuge of charging admission to a concert in two parts and then offering, "gratis" in the interval, a regular full-length play and afterpiece. the "city wrath" (p. 26) arose from the fact that the theatre was inside the city boundaries and was thought to encourage vice; indeed, sir john barnard and his fellow aldermen managed to prevent it opening for the 1742-43 season and thereafter. allusions in the poem are to the theatre's highly successful 1741-42 season when garrick sprang to fame as cibber's richard iii and also played tate's king lear. on page 26 "scriblerus" sneers at garrick's small stature,[10] and refers to the impropriety of including the figure of cato in the décor at goodman's fields. targets outside the three theatrical companies are chosen from among the obvious ones already attacked by pope. mrs. haywood, who in 1742 had turned publisher under the sign of "fame," is shown (p. 21) appropriately enough as the first dunce to recognize the goddess of puffs. "the chief of the translating bards" (p. 23) is the aged and industrious ozell, and his fellows include theobald and thomas cooke (p. 24).[11] the satire extends to touch the administration and the city, with references to britain's hitherto inactive part in the war of the austrian succession (p. 9) and to the manner in which stock-jobbers used false war news to aid their financial speculations (p. 4). it alludes to the "grand debate" (p. 8) of the committee set up in march 1742 to consider charges of corruption against the deposed walpole (created lord orford in february), which by the end of the summer had fizzled out, doubtless because so many members of the new government, including the numerous "peers new-made" (p. 9), had shared walpole's peculations and wished to cover their tracks. when it hits at the king for his patronage of cibber (p. 13), at the queen for her ridiculous merlin's cave and waxworks in richmond gardens (p. 16),[12] and at the _daily gazeteer_ which, until walpole's fall, had been expensively subsidized from the government secret service fund and had numbered among its journalists such highly placed statesmen as walpole's brother horatio--then, _the scribleriad_ suggests, there is a general conspiracy between high ranks and low to encourage dulness. the hervey-cibber alliance is merely the most recent manifestation of this conspiracy. although it so obviously arises immediately out of the pamphlet battle of summer 1742, _the scribleriad_ manages to range more widely in its satire than the anti-pope lampoons it replies to. further, it contrives to bring in pope himself without degrading him to the level of his antagonists. this is done by mounting him on pegasus and likening the dunces to curs (pp. 13-14), or comparing him to the sun whose warmth hatches out maggots (pp. 6, 29): how many, who have reams of paper spoil'd, have often sleepless nights obscurely toil'd, and buried in their eggs, like silkworms, lay 'till his warm satire shew'd them life and day? here then, my sons, is all your living hope, to be immortal scriblers, rail at pope. the image, the attitude and the phrasing alike are borrowed from pope, for _the scribleriad_ is highly derivative throughout. only two or three times does "scriblerus" improve at all upon the many hints he steals from pope. i have already mentioned the goddess puffs, but other happy touches are to be found in a spirited travesty (pp. 16-17) of the opening lines from ovid's _metamorphoses_, book xiii:[13] the chiefs were sate, the scriblers waited round * * * * * when he, the master of the seven-fold face, rose gleaming thro' his own _corinthian_ brass. pope had written in _the dunciad variorum_, "the heroes sit; the vulgar form a ring" (ii, 352), but one of the most memorable phrases in _the dunciad in four books_ of 1743--the ingeniously insolent "sev'nfold face" (i, 244)--may well have been borrowed from _the scribleriad_. "corinthian brass" is good also, economically combining as it does a hit against cibber's effrontery and a hint of his sexual irregularities. such strokes of wit are rare; _the scribleriad_ is the work of a writer who in skill is far closer to grub street than to pope, but it may serve as "a voice from the crowd" to remind us that pope had his humbler literary supporters. the university southampton notes to the introduction 1. the engravings are numbered 2571-2573 in f. g. stephens, _catalogue of prints and drawings in the british museum, division 1--satires_ (london, 1877), vol. iii, part i. for lists of pamphlets attacking, and in some cases defending, pope in 1742, see r. w. rogers, _the major satires of alexander pope_ (urbana, 1955), pp. 150, 151 and c. d. peavy, "the pope-cibber controversy: a bibliography," in _restoration and eighteenth century theatre research_, iii (1964), 53, 54. for accounts of the pope-cibber quarrel see r. h. barker, _mr. cibber of drury lane_ (new york, 1939), pp. 204-220, and n. ault, _new light on pope_ (london, 1949), pp. 298-324. 2. _sawney and colley_ and _blast upon blast_ in number 83 (1960), and _the blatant beast_ in number 114 (1965). 3. e.g., in _the new session of the poets_ (_the universal spectator_, 6 feb. 1731) the goddess dulness calls a session and awards the crown to cibber. 4. see hugh macdonald, "introduction," _a journal from parnassus_ (london, 1937) and a. l. williams, "literary backgrounds to book four of the _dunciad_," _pmla_, lxviii (1953), 806-813. 5. see note 2 above. 6. an anti-cibber work in prose. it is doubtful that "scriblerus," who thought this work did more harm than good to pope's cause, would have endorsed the british museum catalogue's attribution of it to pope himself. 7. in _the history of the mimes and pantomimes_ (1728). 8. some account of fleetwood may be found in r. w. buss, _charles fleetwood, holder of the drury lane theatre patent_ (privately printed, 1915). there are hostile contemporary accounts of fleetwood in henry carey's epistle _of stage tyrants_ [(1735) reprinted in _the poems of henry carey_, ed. f. t. wood (1930)], in charlotte charke's _the art of management_ (1735), and in _a narrative of the life of mrs. charlotte charke, youngest daughter of colley cibber, written by herself_ (1735). 9. _julius caesar_, on 28 april 1738. rich offered _hamlet_ on 10 april 1739. 10. a lady once asked foote, "pray, sir, are your puppets to be as large as life?" "oh dear, madam, no: not much above the size of garrick." see william cooke, _memoirs of samuel foote_ (1805), ii, 58. 11. theobald never published his long promised translation of aeschylus; but, by bracketing it with cooke's musical farce from terence, _the eunuch_, which _was_ performed (drury lane, 17 may 1737), "scriblerus" seems to imply that he did complete it. 12. the immediate target of this shaft was the waxwork show kept by mrs. salmon near st. dunstan's church in fleet street, but the original "merlin's cave" built for queen caroline in 1735 remained a standing jest into the 1740's. 13. "consedere duces et vulgi stante corona surgit ad hos clipei dominus septemplicis" (_met._, xiii, 1-2). dryden translates: the chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the field: to these the master of the seven-fold shield upstarted fierce. bibliographical note the text of this edition of _the scribleriad_ is reproduced from a copy in the library of st. david's college, lampeter, and that of _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_ from a copy in the british museum. the scribleriad. being an epistle to the dunces, on renewing their attack upon mr. _pope_, under their leader the _laureat_. by scriblerus. _no author ever spares a brother; wits are_ game cocks _to one another._ gay. _london_: printed for w. webb, near st. _paul_'s. 1742. [price six-pence.] the scribleriad. an epistle the wits are jarring, and the witlings strive, to keep the _dying_ quarrel still _alive_; so shallow gamesters, tho' they nothing get, all blind the _dupe_, and aid the _sly deceit_. attend, ye scriblers! to your leader's call, good sense condemn, and pointed satire maul; ye dunces too! for ye not differ more than _bluff_ and _wittol_, or than _bawd_ and _whore_: high on the pedestal of rank and state, mounts rich _sir dunce_, and seems to ape the great; whilst low beneath the wretched scribler lies, and his inscription unrewarded eyes; equal are they, whom _blund'ring measures_ raise, and bards who sasly censure, as they praise; the _statesman_, well examin'd, will appear but counterpart of his dear _gazetteer_: tho' one in his gilt chariot proudly rolls, or heads in _d----g-room_ his brother tools- and th' other labours hard whate'er he says, shining in coffee-house with doubtful phrase; still restless in all stations, pleas'd with none; for ever climbing, yet for ever down: oft have we seen, that _noblemen_ have wrote, and _authors_ sometimes, strutting in _lac'd coat_; but widely then from nature's ends they err, and play the farce quite out of character. as well may pious jobbers of the alley pretend the _flying_ troops of _france_ to rally. to proper spheres, my friends! yourselves confine! when colley writes, a _dunce_ may praise each line; whether _my lord at length_, he views the plan, or sculks beneath a _certain gentleman_; but if that lord the _pen_ or _press_ invade, rouse, rouse, ye tribe! he'll undermine your trade, tho' not one brilliant thought should hurt the whole, and ev'ry verse be bad, or lame, or stole, still, like a _mad dog_, hunt th' usurper dead, } tho' he _for fame_, ye scribble to _be fed_; } he stands condemn'd, who robs ye of your _bread_. } but if a genius rise, whose pointed wit corrects your morals, and all tastes shall fit, claim then the privilege to be his foes, ye cannot shine, but when ye worth oppose. when ye _deny_ him _fame_, ye _fix_ your _own_, and to be satirized, is to be known. some hold, they're better in a cursed state, than to be totally annihilate; thrice happy then, ye deathless, duncely train! the subjects of the higher dunciad's strain. how many, who have reams of paper spoil'd, have often sleepless nights obscurely toil'd, and buried in their eggs, like silkworms, lay 'till his warm satire shew'd them life and day? here then, my sons, is all your living hope, to be immortal scriblers, rail at pope. snatch'd from oblivion, there the _dunces_ soar, tibbald their monarch dubb'd, can ask no more, nor less shall ye----now colley gives the word, rouse up! and crowd into the next record, or, lost to memory, no other page can possibly retrieve ye half an age; and now the glad occasion aptly calls, to _break_ more _printers_, and to _spread_ more _stalls_; to save your _names_ from _lethe_, tho' your books are doom'd the prize of _fruiterers_ and _cooks_. the streams of _helicon_ once clearly flow'd, and heav'n in their resplendent bosom shew'd, whilst verdant groves the sacred mountain spread; then _pegasus_ on balms and myrtles fed: now blighted _thistles_ only crown the top, which herds of young _poetic asses_ crop; and, choak'd with common sew'rs, like _fleet-ditch_ flood, its sable waters writhe along the mud; nor murm'ring wake, nor seem they quite asleep, whilst _wits_, like _water-rats_, around them creep. if any shou'd attempt to cleanse your streams, or wake ye from your kind lethargic dreams, assert your right, and render vain their toil; yours is the filth, then join and guard your soil! and lest ye're diffident to aid the cause, not wholly yet broke loose from reason's laws, view the strange wonders of the present times, let empires sleep, but hear the fate of rhimes. let pope lull all his _dunces_ with a yawn, wrapt in their robes of _p--ple_ or of _l--wn_, whilst he shall leave one tatter'd _muse_ awake; that _muse_ his own and others rest shall break. a prostitute, her charms their vigour lose, now colley keeps her, and she sups on prose; but free and common, hack'd about the town, each of ye claim her! for she's all your own. with him, unmov'd by salary or sack, she d----ns his impotence of _brain_ and _back_; that thus in age he strains at wit's embrace, and follows w--ff--n from place to place; but tho' _cold prose_ to him she'll only give, ye, my pert sons! who with more ardour strive, may raise the bastard issue of a verse, to wear the wither'd _bays_, or deck his _hearse_. now for six months had o----d shook the state with _grand removals_, and _a grand debate_: _dunce_ elbow'd _dunce_, each foremost wou'd advance, but backward fell, as in old _bayes_'s dance: when _dulness_ spread her pow'rful yawn around, "and sense and shame, and right and wrong were drown'd, _enquiry_ ceas'd, and, touch'd by magic wand, ev'n _opposition's_ self was at a stand; on well-oil'd hinges creaks the prison gate, and _pains and penalties_ will come too late. 'twas night's high noon at _p--is_ and the _h--ge_, and _politics_ had died, but for poor _p--gue_; for why, "the goddess bade britannia sleep, "and pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep." and now the _scriblers_, motionless and mute, sit down to count their gains by the dispute, to see on which side victory hath run; } like _mackbeth's witches_, when the mischief's done, } they tell ye, that the battle's _lost_ and _won_: } contriving whom to _greet_, or whom _disgrace_, as _gazettes_ speak them _in_ or _out_ of _place_; for _panegyrics_ drein their tilted wit on peers _new-made_, against the house shall sit, or saucily appear before their betters in _sage advice_, or on an _old member's letters_: thus fate, they waiting the approaching yawn, wishing for sleep till the next _sessions' dawn_, when the kind goddess did her jaws unclose, she snor'd aloud, and strait a vapour rose, unwholsome as the damps a collier meets too often in his subterraneous pits; for _dulness_ taints all round her where she breathes, as witness, colley, thy dry blighted wreaths: nor cou'd the upward gasp disperse the steam, but from below disturb'd her _consort's_ dream; yet from her downy lap he started not, but mutter'd something thus--as loose of thought; "he hurts not me--my cæsar--satire--dull, "why all the world knows i've been long--a f--l; "but now--i'll do't--yae--ough"--so said, he drops, salutes his queen's effulgence, and thus stops. the throne where _dulness_ sate, maintaining right, resembled much some monarch's of the night, where gloomy myrmidons and punks resort, and snore on benches round his ample court. both there and here, as in the busy world, lords, draymen, linkboys, in confusion hurl'd; beneath the monarch, fond to be employ'd, narcissus lay with _too much_ tully cloy'd; as gluttons gorg'd at city feasts too soon, oft get their naps before the rest lye down; their heaving stomachs turn'd at something tart, when others doze, oft make them wildly start: so he--"why, what a pax! who'd be a l--d, "if worth and merit only praise afford? "i can't be prais'd as _poet_, _wit_, or _p----r_, "but that dem'd _twick'nam_ bard my parts will jeer; "if i can't write myself, here's colley shall; "i've often heard him swear--he'll stand _'em all_: "if he refuse me, i have still another, "i'll _hammer_ him conjointly with my b----r; "but sure the _laureat harp_ must tune a strain, "new mended by a late _v----e c--mb--n_; "for he, to give his due unto the _devil_, "was always to us folks of fashion civil." resolv'd at once, he tweaks the monarch's nose, the monarch snor'd--new streams from _dulness_ rose. close to his ear he lays his dimpled cheek, and in soft accents speaks, or seem'd to speak, "dear _laureate_, rouse, the enemy's at hand, "another dunciad travels round the land, "whence all the sole proprietors of trash, "thy friends and mine, most justly fear the lash. vain are his efforts--yet again he tries, "thy _odes_!--oh save thy _odes_!--dear _laureat_ rise; "if not for _odes_--yet for _love's riddle_ wake- "nor that?--thy _careless husband_'s then at stake. all wou'd not do--his soft distress preferr'd, nor the great mother, nor the _laureat_ heard; for on her lap so _daintily_ he lay, his senses, breath'd into her, stole away; all aims at a recovery were vain, till she vouchsaf'd to breathe them back again. "one gentle imprecation more and then, "he cries, farewel the _laureat_ and his _pen_: "thy country calls, if thou resign'st thy sense, "yet rouse to be a man of consequence. "who calls thee _dunce_, abuses too thy k--g, "whose praises, by thy place, thou'rt bound to sing; "o! grant me aid, assume the pleasing task, "in thy _nonjuror_'s fav'rite name i ask. thrice groan'd the _ompha_, and in thunder spoke, the blast his sense return'd, and slumber broke; _nonjure!_ that word alone unbinds the charms, for _party_-dulness always sounds to _arms_; upstarts the sire--"mistake me not, he cries, "whoever says i was asleep------he lies; "you know, my l--d, how i my wits exert, "how always pleasing, and how always pert; "i know your grief, before the cause is told; "then here my pen in readiness i hold. "since by desire i enter thus the lists, "i vow revenge--know, colley ne'er desists: "then i'll pursue him with my latest breath, "nor drop _this pen_ 'till quite _benum'd_ with _death_. high on the muses _pegasus_ dan p--pe mounts _full of spirit_, nor vouchsafes to stoop, but hears the murmurs of the dull upborn, low empty curses, or vain stingless scorn; one dash strikes all the mean revilers down, as sure as jove should swear by acheron: whether his _person_ be their standing jest, or his _religion_ suits their libels best; whether the _author_ forms his crude designs, as the _deserted bookseller_ repines, who, after all his _boasts_, is tumbled by, and looks at d----ley with an evil eye; or if their standing topics, _spleen_ and _spite_, _a jesuit_,----an _atheist_,----_jacobite_. in all their hard-strain'd labours, squeez'd by bits, mark well the triumph of these wou'd-be wits; like _village curs_, kick'd backward by the _steed_, their _noise_ and _yelping_ their _destruction_ breed; or if the rider _smacks_ them with his _whip_, 'tis more _t' unbend the lash_, than make them _skip_: yet still they rise and at it----goddess hail! who o'er thy suns spread'st such a thick'ning veil, that sense of pain, as well as shame, is lost, and you _reward_ those best, who _blunder_ most; for where are honours, places, gifts bestow'd, but where thy influence is most avow'd? rest, while more modern miracles i sing, of _minor dunces_ that from thee first spring; but all who recreants thy pow'r disclaim, and, laureat-like, to _pertness_ change thy name; and ye, her sons, who've nothing else to do, wait, if you please, the----vision thro': you, who in manuscript your works retale, and tag with rhimes the latter ends of ale, but vow th' ungrateful age shall never see, in print, how wond'rous wise and smart ye be; or you, whose muse has run you out of breath, or rode you like a night-mare hagg'd to death; attend and learn from _dulness'_ sleeping shade, another goddess rises to your aid. pleas'd with the vow, the glad submissive p--r, thence leads the monarch to a nobler chair; for why shou'd he at _dulness'_ footstool wait, who knows so well to entertain with prate; some _g--rt--r'd dupes_ no nobler titles boast, than to have been the objects of his _roast_; for which they fill his groupe, his praises have, and shine like salmon'_s dolls_ in merlin'_s cave_. the young narcissus, whom (wou'd you believe, the _cornhill_ priest, who never cou'd deceive) had robb'd the _sibil_ of whate'er was sage, or _good_, or _wise_, except her _gums_ and _age_, was the old woman, tho' in youth renew'd, who led æneas when he _h--ll_ review'd; wrapt in the steam that spread from _dulness'_ jaws, from her posterior's, perch'd, pert c----r draws, conveys him to the club--the club despair, till they the snuff-box smell, and see the chair. then all the _dunciad_ d----n, and, grown elate, prick up their ears, and bray, "_to the debate!_ "the chiefs were sate, the scriblers waited round "the board with bottles, and with glasses crown'd, "when he, the master of the seven-fold face, "rose" gleaming thro' his own _corinthian_ brass, and thus--my l--s, we once again are met, nor sense hath robb'd us of a vot'ry yet; pleas'd, i the present danger undertake, and gladly suffer, for my country's sake; for i a prompt alacrity agnize to be esteem'd or witty, smart or wise. this present war then with the pope be mine; but one thing beg, i, bending to your shrine, due preference of honour, time and place, and _your desires_ my title page to grace, he said and bow'd--a whisper trill'd the air much as when c--mp--n wou'd have been l--d m--r. however, each assents, then forth he drew an oglio letter ready cook'd for _view_; _taste_ it had none; for, having long lain by, 'twas lost like camphire that doth quickly fly; but, as it never was in print before, 'twas new, they all believe, for colley swore. when one, as deputy for all the rest, thus, in due form, their advocate addrest. _great laureat_, thou whose yearly tuneful notes deafen the court from chappel-royal throats, oft has this enemy to our repose wak'd us from slumbers where we quiet doze, reeking with malice, and of satire full, he neither lets us sin in quiet, or be dull: you too, with us, have his attacks withstood, have answer'd not, or wou'd not, if you cou'd; and to receive his insults, in your _life_, you offer'd him release from all your strife: so once did cu--l, but he accepted not, as if ye both contemptible he thought; but sure this last affront must give you pain; can you your usual temper now retain? if this not rouse you, all our hopes we'll quit, and sue out bankruptcy against your wit: therefore, as _monarch_ of the _scribling crew_, } this is a debt to both our int'rests due, } for us he _d--ns_ at once, in _lashing_ you. } let l--is then the happy offspring rear, tis safe, if once committed to his care. he yields to their intreaties, and then smil'd, the goddess spread her vapour round more mild, and strait a form appear'd, like _ancient fame_, } her wings, her trumpet, and her robe the same, } each rous'd at once, and thought he grasp'd the dame; } but found 'twas all a cloud or empty space; no substance, tho' the out-line they cou'd trace. and, thus disturb'd, a strange unsav'ry fume diffus'd itself around th' assembly room: the scent each mad'ning brain did instant strike, all star'd, and thought it fame, it look'd so like; colley at once disclaim'd her--"for, says he, "i even _bread and cheese_ prefer to _thee_; "the smiles of monarchs may no comfort bring; "but then the _sack's_ a wholsome pleasing thing: "had i won thee, i might have scap'd a sneer, "and lost the _twice one hundred pounds a year_. "then pray, dear madam, if you please, be gone; "come you a spy to make our counsels known?" when thus the fantom----"ye're my children all; "thee, colley, i my eldest darling call; "mistake not, i usurp no borrow'd name, "and hate, as much as you, the sound of fame; "tho' i a shadow on her steps attend, "when she appears, my empire's at an end: "your stern antagonist draws _dulness_ right, "daughter of chaos, and _eternal night_; "wits boast their pallas sprung from brain of jove; "we too had our original above, "and claim the heraldry of god-like race, "part of the cloud ixion did embrace; "whence form'd in aid of _dulness_ and her train, "i oft her sinking works in air sustain; "and when they otherwise wou'd fall downright, "i waft them upwards to a second flight: "so when the new-made honours were confer'd "on all your earthly recantation herd, "the deities of air, in mirth and sport, "made me a goddess, and allow'd a court; "long ye have known me--i o'er puffs preside, "but ne'er, till now, appear'd in so much pride. the whole assembly to her presence press, } all own her, but, their ignorance, confess, } was wholly owing to th' inverted dress: } but both her hands _eliza_ first uprear'd, insisting only she the pow'r rever'd: oh make my shop, she cries, thy fav'rite shrine; you must, you shall, i have you on my sign: all scold, and indignation bent each brow, none wou'd the other's privilege allow; when lo, a youth of most distinguish'd grace (well known for pressing first in ev'ry place, whether he heads the _orders_ in the _pit_, or doth at _b----n_'s judge of boxing sit) conspicuous mounts, and thus, in formal speech, begins----"statesmen and morals i impeach, "write satires, and deny them for my own "in advertisements, that i may be known; "grant me thy aid, great goddess, but once more; "not for myself alone i thee implore, "but for this _saint_, who breathing now her last, "wou'd fain retrieve disreputation past. "if gold you ask, long-hoarded bags shall fly"- the goddess smil'd, and puff'd it to the sky. "children, says she, distinction should be made "to _scriblers_, who are thus above the trade; "for ye, who equal in all prospects are, "to gain our favour, we a _test_ prepare. "he that has oft'nest most disguis'd the truth, "and render'd sense and reason quite uncouth; "who learning hath, by artifice abus'd, "and by false glasses vulgar eyes amus'd; "who seldom in his real shape was seen, "for ever different to what h' hath been; "him for our royal consort we select: "begin--and pertness all your aims direct; "and still to urge ye on to further hope, "these trophies wait the man who lashes pope. "the wings from one of mercury's new suits; "these grac'd his _cap_, and these adorn'd his _boots_; "but who shall mention _merit_, or presume "to talk of _wit_, him we forbid the room." then first a sage, of rev'rend hoary years, the chief of the translating bards appears; and thus, in their behalf--o pow'rful maid! "daily and nightly we invoke thy aid; "in pamphlets, numberless, have fully shown, "nor language _dead_ or _live_ to sawney's known; "yet, spite of all the methods we can try, "the silly _world_ will yet his homer buy: "but next we think"--the goddess stopt them short! "all ye have done, but makes the _learned_ sport; "to rail and call his homer wretched stuff; "to censure and condemn, is well enough; "but here's the curse on't, ye're such silly elves "to shew the _diff'rence_ ye _translate_ yourselves, "or t----ld else had, not five years and more, "hawk'd æschylus about from door to door. "terence's eunuch the same fate partook, "murder'd by merciless and mangling c----k. "but cease we this, the recent matter try, "all who the present pidling quarrel ply, "stand forth"----in party-colour'd vest cloddy appear'd, his _dialogue_ addrest, and swore he'd study'd swift with so much pains, he thought, at last, he'd gain'd his very strains: the piece perus'd, this answer she return'd, "obscenity, when dull, is always scorn'd; "and who _puffs_ this, will, to his sorrow, find "'tis but a _f--t_ will _stink_ to all _mankind_." blast claim'd the prize, and said, he did deride the poet, by appearing on his side; the goddess sent her maid to kick him down, but e'er she rais'd her foot, the wretch was gone. next, in a borrow'd shape, by clytus worn, in fierce theatric battles hackt and torn, a wight stalkt in, and, under virtue's name, on horace, salust, seneca and pope cry'd shame; _false english!_ baul'd he loud--the goddess heard, and to the school-boys his address preferr'd. he disappear'd, nor know we if he's found, but _horse him, horse him_, dy'd in distant sound. and now of ev'ry sort came rushing in, _scriblers_ and _puffers_, with a horrid din; all who in various occupations strive to keep their sev'ral mist'ries alive, from _statesmen_, who, for coronets resign'd, to the _dutch kettle_, and the window-blind; but far above the rest, each rival stage the favour of the goddess wou'd engage; the angry _quack_ his nostrums all forsakes, and, in revenge, his gallipots he breaks, 'cause _r--ch_ bestows an orpheus on the town, when _he_ had, long before, run mad with one: then paper wars, and long-ear'd quarrels rise, and each the goddess sues for fresh supplies. in spite of city wrath and aldermen, a _concert_ takes the dregs of _drury-lane_: in pompous stanzas they their genius raise, and sound, in ev'ry paper, their own praise, from _rome_ and death old surly cato tear, to see the modern _liliputian_ lear, _greece_ is outdone, and learned _athens_ yields to the politer stage of _g------n's-f--ds_. _ambivius turpia_, the stage 'squire appear'd, the nurse, who ev'ry modern terence rear'd; a meagre shade, quite uninform'd and wild, yet still he flatter'd, smooth'd, and still he smil'd: ne'er, but when frighten'd, cou'd he be sincere, and ne'er ap'd _honesty_, but 'twas thro' _fear_; revil'd, exploded on a rival stage, to dull the sting the libellers engage; if double pay is given them on his own, he smil'd consent, and turns them on the town. then thus--great pow'r! thy darling child behold, i've courted thee with _orders_ and with _gold_, this scheme let the contending pollys tell, this ev'ry _inns o' court_ man knows full well. but mark, dear goddess, this my master-piece, thus i revive the arts of _rome_ and _greece_; for shakespear's monument i gave a play, } and stopp'd the starving actors hard-got pay, } yet bore i all the _praise_ and _puff_ away. } _beasts_ graze the _plain_, the _fishes_ skim the _sea_, _cars_ are for _peers_, _streets_ for _mechanics_ free; thy empire, goddess, still hath been my care, my _life_'s a _puff_, my _deeds_, like _words_, are _air_. he spake, to grasp the prize his fingers stretch, as feeble reeds spent swimmers strive to catch; but finds himself pusht instantly away, and by young ptolomy is kept at bay. give him the prize, o goddess, if thou durst, a _wretch_ beneath his lowest puppets curst. the claim he makes is owing to my parts; i taught him _management_, and all its arts, from my great sire alone deriv'd, to me he gave it yet a living legacy: in what theatric region are unknown our _puffs_ in ev'ry bill, in ev'ry paper shown? and where his short ones fail'd, i, better skill'd, the groaning page with long epistles fill'd: if falsehood claims it, end the vain dispute; 'tis mine, avaunt, ye _puffers_, and be mute; all _grubstreet_ tells----at this conundrum rose, and thus--fond youth, no more thy gifts expose; tho' the foundation of this art is lies, yet truth is sometimes proper for disguise: he who is always false, is ne'er believ'd, who's always _honest_, is sometimes _deceiv'd_; the prize we'll yield, prove it upon record, that _he_ or _you_ e'er spoke but one _true word_. dismist--the fantoms hover round the place, and shew their crimes in mirrors to their face? each on the other gazing, ghastly stood, and wou'd have _blush'd_, or hid them, _if they cou'd_. then thus the goddess--"cease all further strife, "colley, thy hand! i'm thine alone for life; "thine be the prize, an emblem of thy _wit_, "which tho' not so, yet some will take for it: "but 'tis not long, ev'n me thou must forsake; "my last, my best, advice then friendly take, "dear scriblers, all adventurers in _wit_, "who scorn the field of fell debate to quit, "howe'er he lash ye, still the war pursue, "your _ignorance_ brings all his _wit_ to view; "the insects hov'ring in the breezy air "shew th' approaching vernal season near; "the _maggot_ that in sun-beams basking lies, "tho' the _heat_ scorch him, by that _heat_ he flies." she spake, and then, unseen, unheard retir'd, born in a breath, she with a sigh expir'd. _finis._ (_just publish'd, price 6d._) the political padlock, and the english key. a fable. translated from the _italian_ of father m----r _s----ini_, who is now under confinement for the same in _naples_, by order of don _carlos_. with explanatory notes. _i grant all_ courses _are in vain, unless we can_ get in _again: the only way that's left us now, but all the difficulty's_ how? the difference between verbal and practical virtue. _dicendi virtus, nisi ei, qui dicit, ea, de quibus dicit, percepta sint, extare non potest._ cic. with a prefatory epistle from mr. _c--b--r_ to mr. _p._ _sic ulciscar genera singula, quemadmodum à quibus sum provocatus._ cic. post redit. ad quir. _london_: printed for j. roberts, near the _oxford-arms_ in _warwick-lane_. mdccxlii. mr. _c--b--r_ to mr. _p._ have at you again, sir. i gave you fair warning that i would have the last word; and by ---(i will not swear in print) you shall find me no lyar. i own, i am greatly elate on the laurels the town has bestow'd upon me for my victory over you in my prose combat; and, encouraged by that triumph, i now resolve to fight you on your own dunghil of poetry, and with your own jingling weapons of rhyme and metre. i confess i have had some help; but what then? since the greatest princes are rather proud than asham'd of allies and auxiliaries when they make war in the field, why should i decline such assistance when i make war in the press? and since you thought most unrighteously and unjustly to fall upon me and crush me, only because you imagin'd your self strong and me weak, as _france_ fell upon the queen of _hungary_; if i like her (_si parva licet componere magnis_) by first striking a bold and desperate stroke myself with a little success, have encouraged such a friend to me, as _england_ has been to her, to espouse my cause, and turn all the weight of the war upon you, till you wish you had never begun it; with what reasonable and equitable pleasure may i not pursue my blow till i make you repent, by laying you on your back, the ungrateful returns you have made me for saving you from destruction when you laid yourself on your belly. i am, sir, not your humble, but your devoted servant; for i will follow you as long as i live; and as _terence_ says in the _eunuch_, _ego pol te pro istis dictis & factis, scelus, ulciscar, ut ne impune in nos illus eris_. the difference between verbal and practical virtue exemplify'd, in some eminent instances both ancient and modern. what awkard judgments must they make of men, who think their hearts are pictur'd by their pen; that _this_ observes the rules which _that_ approves, and what one praises, that the other loves. few authors tread the paths they recommend, or when they shew the road, pursue the end: few give examples, whilst they give advice, or tho' they scourge the vicious, shun the vice; but lash the times as swimmers do the tide, and kick and cuff the stream on which they ride. his tuneful lyre when polish'd _horace_ strung, [a]and all the sweets of calm retirement sung, in practice still his courtly conduct show'd his joy was luxury, and power his god; [b]with great _mæcenas_ meanly proud to dine, [c]and fond to load _augustus_ flatter'd shrine; [d]and whilst he rail'd at _menas_ ill-got sway, [e]his numerous train that choak'd the _appian_ way, his talents still to perfidy apply'd, three times a friend and foe to either side. _horace_ forgot, or hop'd his readers would, [f]his safety on the same foundation stood. that he who once had own'd his country's cause, now kiss'd the feet that trampled on her laws: that till the havock of _philippi_'s field, where right to force, by fate was taught to yield, he follow'd _brutus_, and then hail'd the sword, which gave mankind, whom _brutus_ freed, a lord: nor to the guilt of a deserter's name, } like _menas_ great (tho' with dishonest fame) } added the glory, tho' he shar'd the shame. } for whilst with fleets and armies _menas_ warr'd, courage his leader, policy his guard, poor _horace_ only follow'd with a verse that fate the freedman balanc'd, to rehearse; singing the victor for whom _menas_ fought, and following triumph which the other brought. [g]thus graver _seneca_, in canting strains, talk'd of fair virtue's charms and vice's stains, and said the happy were the chaste and poor; } whilst plunder'd provinces supply'd his store, } and _rome_'s imperial mistress was his whore. } but tho' he rail'd at flattery's dangerous smile, a _claudius_, and a _nero_, all the while, with every vice that reigns in youth or age, } the gilding of his venal pen engage, } and fill the slavish fable of each page. } see _sallust_ too, whose energy divine lashes a vicious age in ev'ry line: with horror painting the flagitious times, the profligate, profuse, rapacious crimes, that reign'd in the degenerate sons of _rome_, and made them first deserve, then caus'd their doom; with all the merit of his virtuous pen, leagu'd with the worst of these corrupted men; the day in riot and excess to waste, the night in taverns and in brothels past: [h]and when the _censors_, by their high controll, struck him, indignant, from the _senate_'s roll, from justice he appeal'd to _cæsar_'s sword, [i]and by law exil'd, was by force restor'd. [k]what follow'd let _numidia_'s sons declare, harrass'd in peace with ills surpassing war; each purse by peculate and rapine drain'd, each house by murder and adult'ries stain'd: till _africk_ slaves, gall'd by the chains of _rome_, wish'd their own tyrants as a milder doom. if then we turn our eyes from words to fact, comparing how men write, with how they act, how many authors of this contrast kind in ev'ry age, and ev'ry clime we find. thus scribbling _p----_ who _peter_ never spares, feeds on extortious interest from young heirs: and whilst he made old _s--lkerk_'s bows his sport, dawb'd minor courtiers, of a minor court. if _sallust_, _horace_, _seneca_, and _he_ thus in their morals then so well agree; by what ingredient is the difference known? } the difference only in their wit is shown, } for all their cant and falshood is his own. } he rails at lies, and yet for half a crown, coins and disperses lies thro' all the town: of his own crimes the innocent accuses, and those who clubb'd to make him eat, abuses. but whilst such features in his works we trace, and gifts like these his happy genius grace; let none his haggard face, or mountain back, the object of mistaken satire make; faults which the best of men, by nature curs'd, may chance to share in common with the worst. in vengeance for his insults on mankind, } let those who blame, some truer blemish find, } and lash that worse deformity, his mind. } like prudent foes attack some weaker part, and make the war upon his head or heart. prove his late works dishonest as they're dull; } that try'd by moral or poetic rule, } the verdict must be either knave or fool. } [l]whilst his false _english_, and false facts combin'd, betray the double darkness of his mind; [m]that mind so suited to its vile abode, the temple so adapted to the god, it seems the counterpart by heav'n design'd a symbol and a warning to mankind: as at some door we find hung out a sign, type of the monster to be found within. from his own words this scoundrel let 'em prove unjust in hate, incapable of love; for all the taste he ever has of joy, } is like some yelping mungril to annoy } and teaze that passenger he can't destroy. } to cast a shadow o'er the spotless fame, or dye the cheek of innocence with shame; to swell the breast of modesty with care, or force from beauty's eye a secret tear; and, not by decency or honour sway'd, libel the living, and asperse the dead: prone where he ne'er receiv'd to give offence, but most averse to merit and to sense; base to his foe, but baser to his friend, lying to blame, and sneering to commend: defaming those whom all but he must love, and praising those whom none but he approve. then let him boast that honourable crime, of making those who fear not god, fear him; when the great honour of that boast is such that hornets and mad dogs may boast as much. such is th' injustice of his daily theme, and such the lust that breaks his nightly dream; that vestal fire of undecaying hate, which time's cold tide itself can ne'er abate, but like _domitian_, with a murd'rous will, rather than nothing, flies he likes to kill. and in his closet stabs some obscure name, [n]brought by this hangman first to light and shame. such now his works to all the world are known, who undeceiv'd, their former error own; whilst not one man who likes his rhyming art, allows him genius, or defends his heart: but thus from triumph snatch'd, and giv'n to shame lash'd _into_ penitence, and _out_ of fame. since all mankind these certain truths allow, and speak so freely what so well they know; no wonder doom'd such treatment to receive, that he _can_ feel, and that he _can't_ forgive. were i dispos'd to curse the man i hate, such would i wish his miserable fate. thus striving to inflict, to meet disgrace, and wasted to the ghost of what he was; and like all ghosts which men of sense despise, only the dread of folly's coward eyes. thus would i have him despicably live, himself, his friends, and credit to survive, into contempt from reputation hurl'd, his own detractor thro' a scoffing world. _finis._ footnotes: [a] beatus ille qui procul negotiis, &c. epod. 2. cum magnis vixisse invita fatebirur usque invidia. _sat. 1. lib. 2._ [b] nunc quia mæcenas tibi sum convictor. _sat. 6. lib. 1._ ----tu pulses omne quod obstat ad mæcenatem memori si mente recurras. hoc juvat, & melli est; ne mentiar. _sat. 6. lib. 2._ [c] all his works are full of examples of flattery to _augustus_. [d] epod. 4. _mænas_ was a freedman of _pompey_ the younger; and he deserted from him to _augustus_, then back from _augustus_ to _pompey_, and then from _pompey_ to _augustus_ again. this is in all the histories. _appian. dion._ [e] et appiam mannis terit. _epod. 4._ [f] o sæpe mecum tempus in ultimum deducte, bruto militiæ duce.--- tecum philippos & celerem fugam sensi, relictâ non bene parmulâ cum fracta virtus, & minaces turpe solum tetigere mento. hor. _ode. 7. b. 2._ [g] in his seneca reus factus est multorum scelerum, sed præsertim quod cum agrippinâ rem haberet, nec enim in hâc re solum, sed in plerisque aliis contra facere visus est quam philosophabatur. quum enim tyrannidem improbaret, tyranni præceptor erat: quumque insultaret iis qui cum principibus versarentur, ipse à palatio non discedebat. assentatores detestabatur, quum ipse reginas coleret & libertos, ac laudationes quorundam componeret. reprehendebat divites is, cujus facultates erant ter millies sestertium: quique luxum aliorum damnabat quingentes tripodas habuit de ligno cedrino, pedibus eburneis, similes & pares inter se, in quibus coenabat. ex quibus omnibus ea quæ sunt his consentanea, quæque ipse libidinose fecit, facile intelligi possunt. nuptias enim cum nobilissimâ atque illustrissimâ foeminâ contraxit. delectabatur exoletis, idque neronem facere docuerat etsi antea tanta fuerat in morum severitate ut ab eo peteret, ne se oscularetur, neve una secum coenandi causa discumberet. vid. _dion. excerpta per xiphilinum, lib. 61._ [h] collegæ tamen, multos nobilium, atque inter eos crispum etiam sallustium, eum, qui historiam conscripsit, senatu ejicienti non repugnavit. dion. _lib. 40._ [i] ab his sallustius (qui ut senatoriam dignitatem recupararet tum prætor factus erat) propemodum occisus. dion. _lib. 42._ [k] numidas quoque in suam potestarem cæsar accepit, iisque sallustium præfecit. sallustius & pecuniæ captæ & compilatæ provinciæ accusatus, summam infamiam reportavit, quod quum ejusmodi libros composuisset, in quibus multis acerbisque verbis eos, qui ex provinciis quæstum facerent, notasset, nequaquam suis scriptis in agendo sterisset. itaque etsi à cæsare absolutus fuit, tamen suis ipsius verbis proprium crimen abunde quasi in tabulâ propositum divulgavit. dion. _l. 43._ [l] see at least a hundred and fifty places in his late works. [m] in quo deformitas corporis cum turpitudine cerrabat ingenii; adco ut animus eius dignissimo domicilio inclusus videretur. vel. pat. _l. 2. b. 69._ [n] see the dunciad. the augustan reprint society william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles publications in print 1948-1949 15. john oldmixon, _reflections on dr. swift's letter to harley_ (1712), and arthur mainwaring, _the british academy_ (1712). 16. henry nevil payne, _the fatal jealousie_ (1673). 17. nicholas rowe, _some account of the life of mr. william shakespear_ (1709). 18. anonymous, "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. 10 (1719), and aaron hill, preface to _the creation_ (1720). 1949-1950 19. susanna centlivre, _the busie body_ (1709). 20. lewis theobald, _preface to the works of shakespeare_ (1734). 22. samuel johnson, _the vanity of human wishes_ (1749), and two _rambler_ papers (1750). 23. john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ (1681). 1950-1951 26. charles macklin, _the man of the world_ (1792). 1951-1952 31. thomas gray, _an elegy wrote in a country churchyard_ (1751), and _the eton college manuscript_. 1952-1953 41. bernard mandeville, _a letter to dion_ (1732). 1958-1959 77-78. david hartley, _various conjectures on the perception, motion, and generation of ideas_ (1746). 1959-1960 79. william herbert, third earl of pembroke, _poems_ (1660). 81. two burlesques of lord chesterfield's letters: _the graces_ (1774), and _the fine gentleman's etiquette_ (1776). 1960-1961 85-86. _essays on the theatre from eighteenth-century periodicals._ 1961-1962 93. john norris, _cursory reflections upon a book call'd, an essay concerning human understanding_ (1690). 94. an. collins, _divine songs and meditacions_ (1653). 96. _ballads and songs loyal to the hanoverian succession_ (1703-1761). 1962-1963 97. myles davies, [selections from] _athenae britannicae_ (1716-1719). 98. _select hymns taken out of mr. herbert's temple_ (1697). 99. thomas augustine arne, _artaxerxes_ (1761). 100. simon patrick, _a brief account of the new sect of latitude-men_ (1662). 101-102. richard hurd, _letters on chivalry and romance_ (1762). 1963-1964 103. samuel richardson, _clarissa_: preface, hints of prefaces, and postscript. 104. thomas d'urfey, _wonders in the sun; or, the kingdom of the birds_ (1706). 105. bernard mandeville, _an enquiry into the causes of the frequent executions at tyburn_ (1725). 106. daniel defoe, _a brief history of the poor palatine refugees_ (1709). 107-108. john oldmixon, _an essay on criticism_ (1728). 1964-1965 109. sir william temple, _an essay upon the original and nature of government_ (1680). 110. john tutchin, _selected poems_ (1685-1700). 111. anonymous, _political justice_ (1736). 112. robert dodsley, _an essay on fable_ (1764). 113. t. r., _an essay concerning critical and curious learning_ (1698). 114. _two poems against pope_: leonard welsted, _one epistle to mr. a. pope_ (1730), and anonymous, _the blatant beast_ (1740). 1965-1966 115. daniel defoe and others, _accounts of the apparition of mrs. veal_. 116. charles macklin, _the covent garden theatre_ (1752). 117. sir roger l'estrange, _citt and bumpkin_ (1680). 118. henry more, _enthusiasmus triumphatus_ (1662). 119. thomas traherne, _meditations on the six days of the creation_ (1717). 120. bernard mandeville, _aesop dress'd or a collection of fables_ (1704). william andrews clark memorial library: university of california, los angeles the augustan reprint society _general editors_: george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles; earl miner, university of california, los angeles; maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles; robert vosper, william andrews clark memorial library _corresponding secretary_: mrs. edna c. davis, william andrews clark memorial library the society's purpose is to publish reprints (usually facsimile reproductions) of rare seventeenth and eighteenth century works. all income of the society is devoted to defraying costs of publication and mailing. correspondence concerning subscriptions in the united states and canada should be addressed to the william andrews clark memorial library, 2520 cimarron st., los angeles, california. correspondence concerning editorial matters may be addressed to any of the general editors. manuscripts of introductions should conform to the recommendations of the _mla style sheet_. the membership fee is $5.00 a year for subscribers in the united states and canada and 30/-for subscribers in great britain and europe. british and european subscribers should address b. h. blackwell, broad street, oxford, england. copies of back issues in print may be obtained from the corresponding secretary. publications for 1966-1967 henry headley, _poems_ (1786). introduction by patricia meyer spacks. james macpherson, _fragments of ancient poetry_ (1760). introduction by john j. dunn. edmond malone, _cursory observations on the poems attributed to thomas rowley_ (1782). introduction by james m. kuist. anonymous, _the female wits_ (1704). introduction by lucyle hook. anonymous, _scribleriad_ (1742). lord hervey, _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_ (1742). introduction by a. j. sambrook. _le lutrin: an heroick poem, written originally in french by monsieur boileau: made english by n. o._ (1682). introduction by richard morton. _announcements_: the society announces a series of special publications beginning with a reprint of john ogilby, _the fables of aesop paraphras'd in verse_ (1668), with an introduction by earl miner. ogilby's book is commonly thought one of the finest examples of seventeenth-century bookmaking and is illustrated with eighty-one plates. the next in this series will be john gay's _fables_ (1728), with an introduction by vinton a. dearing. publication is assisted by funds from the chancellor of the university of california, los angeles. price to members of the society, $2.50 for the first copy and $3.25 for additional copies. price to non-members, $4.00. seven back numbers of augustan reprints which have been listed as out-of-print now are available in limited supply: 15, 19, 41, 77-78, 79, 81. price per copy, $0.90 each; $1.80 for the double-issue 77-78. the augustan reprint society william andrews clark memorial library 2520 cimarron street at west adams boulevard, los angeles, california 90018 make check or money order payable to the regents of the university of california. to h. t. swedenberg, junior _founder_, _protector_, _friend_ _he that delights to_ plant _and_ set, _makes_ after-ages _in his_ debt. where could they find another formed so fit, to poise, with solid sense, a sprightly wit? were these both wanting, as they both abound, where could so firm integrity be found? the verse and emblem are from george wither, _a collection of emblems, ancient and modern_ (london, 1635), illustration xxxv, page 35. the lines of poetry (123-126) are from "to my honoured kinsman john driden," in john dryden, _the works of john dryden_, ed. sir walter scott, rev. and corr. george saintsbury (edinburgh: william patterson, 1885), xi, 78. the augustan reprint society colley cibber a letter from mr. _cibber_ to mr. _pope_ (1742) _introduction by_ helene koon publication number 158 william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles 1973 general editors william e. conway, william andrews clark memorial library george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles david s. rodes, university of california, los angeles advisory editors richard c. boys, university of michigan james l. clifford, columbia university ralph cohen, university of virginia vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university earl miner, princeton university samuel h. monk, university of minnesota everett t. moore, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, william andrews clark memorial library james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles robert vosper, william andrews clark memorial library curt a. zimansky, state university of iowa corresponding secretary edna c. davis, william andrews clark memorial library editorial assistant jean t. shebanek, william andrews clark memorial library typography by wm. m. cheney introduction in the twentieth century, colley cibber's name has become synonymous with "fool." pope's _dunciad_, the culmination of their long quarrel, has done its work well, and cibber, now too often regarded merely as a pretentious dunce, has been relegated to an undeserved obscurity. the history of this feud is replete with inconsistencies.[1] the image cibber presents of himself as a charming, good-natured, thick-skinned featherbrain is as true as pope's of himself as a patient, humorous, objective moralist. each picture is somewhat manipulated by its creator. the reasons behind the manipulation are less matters of outright untruth than of complex personalities disclosing only what they regard as pertinent. cibber, the actor, always tries to charm his audience; pope, the satirist, proffers those aspects best suited to his moral purpose. although the fact of their differences is evident in pope's writings after 1730, explanations of the cause, continuation and climax tend to be muddled. the cause generally cited is cibber's story in the letter concerning _three hours after marriage_ and _the rehearsal_. this is not only a one-sided version, it is not even strongly substantiated. as norman ault pointed out, it was not reported in any of the periodicals at a time when such incidents were seized upon by journalists hungry for gossip.[2] the only confirmation aside from cibber is montagu bacon's letter to his cousin james montagu, which gives a slightly less vivacious account: 'i don't know whether you heard, before you went out of town, that _the rehearsal_ was revived ... and cibber interlarded it with several things in ridicule of the last play, upon which pope went up to him and told him he was a rascal, and if he were able he would cane him; that his friend gay was a proper fellow, and if he went on in his sauciness he might expect such a reception from him. the next night gay came accordingly, and, treating him as pope had done the night before, cibber very fairly gave him a fillip on the nose, which made them both roar. the guards came and parted them, and carried away gay, and so ended this poetical scuffle.'[3] a more likely cause is the second story in the _letter_, the visit to the bawdy house. if, as ault goes on to suggest, there is even a shadow of truth in it, pope's attitude, as well as his reluctance to reveal its cause, is understandable. the question then becomes: why did he continually provoke cibber, knowing the latter had such a story at hand? this, however, might not be so illogical as it appears. pope's work in the thirties abounds in sneers at the actor, but none of them is equal in scale to the full attack launched against theobald. in comparison with the 1735 portraits of atticus and sporus, the comments on cibber are minor barbs that could be ignored by a man whose reputation was secure in its own right. cibber evidently believed he was in such a position, for he offered no defense before 1740, and took no offensive action before 1742. the "wicked wasp of twickenham" is supposed to have meditated long and fiendishly before bursting forth against his enemies, yet the _dunciad_ of 1728 reveals no evidence of long fermentation. the choice of theobald as king of the dunces obviously derives from _shakespeare restored; or a specimen of the many errors as well committed as unamended by mr. pope, in his late edition of that poet_ (1726). theobald's remarks on pope's slipshod editing of shakespeare are not couched in diplomatic terms, and would be especially galling if warburton's note is true: during two whole years while mr. pope was preparing his edition of shakespear, he publish'd advertisements, requesting assistance, and promising satisfaction to any who could contribute to its greater perfection. but this restorer, who was at that time solliciting favours of him by letters, did wholly conceal his design, till after its publication: (which he was since not asham'd to own, in a _daily journal_, of nov. 26, 1728.)[4] pedantic, unimaginative and presumptuous, theobald was the logical choice for a dunce king in 1728. dennis, ducket, burnet, gildon _et cie._, had assailed him for years, and the prompt responses by scriblerus merely increased their fury. pope bore as many undeserved blows as cibber, and he was no model of patience; the intense hostilities waged against him in the twenties were ample cause for an epic answer.[5] pope claimed he attacked only those who had attacked him. it seems strange that, among the inimical host who had indulged in verbal violence, he should have revised his satire against the one man who had not contributed to the paper war, and who had, in his _apology_, made humble acknowledgment of pope's gifts: "how terrible a weapon is satyr in the hands of a great genius?" cibber asks, remarking on pope's acid portrait of addison, and adds: but the pain which the acrimony of those verses gave me is, in some measure, allay'd in finding that this inimitable writer, as he advances in years, has since had candour enough to celebrate the same person for his visible merit. happy genius! whose verse, like the eye of beauty, can heal the deepest wounds with the least glance of favour.[6] even stranger is that with such eminent and vocal enemies as lord hervey and lady mary wortley montagu, he should have been concerned with a seventy-year-old semi-retired player who was too ineffectual, it would appear, to be a proper target for his great satire, and whose words in print could never have been a real threat. the words "in print" are important, especially with reference to cibber. as far as direct attack in the form of broadsides, pamphlets and the like, cibber is clearly innocent; however, like many actors, he was an expert improvisator of stage dialogue, and this in itself is a reason to believe that his side of the feud was kept up from the theater platform. a more potent and public method of ridicule would be difficult to devise. stage warfare was as prevalent as paper warfare, as cibber's mockery of _three hours after marriage_ suggests, and as the prologues and epilogues amply demonstrate. _the non-juror_ (1719) with its anti-catholic remarks and its jesuit villain played by cibber himself, has several barbs directed at pope.[7] if pope's wounds had been festering since 1715, he had a perfect opportunity to avenge them in the _dunciad variorum_ of 1729. when gay's _polly_ was suppressed that year, cibber was accused of being responsible (though it was never proved),[8] since he had first refused _the beggar's opera_, and then failed miserably to imitate its success with his own _love in a riddle_. he was at this time more widely known than theobald, and had been a favorite target for anti-hanoverians since _the non-juror_.[9] it is very odd that pope should have ignored this chance, particularly when so many of his dunces are playwrights, only to take it up fourteen years later under much less favorable circumstances--when he himself was mortally ill and cibber out of the public eye--unless something else had provoked him. one view is that the laureateship triggered the alteration, but while it is true that cibber was one of the worst versifiers ever to wear the bays, that honor had been conferred in 1730, thirteen years before the last _dunciad_. the flood of burlesque odes that followed each of cibber's birth-day and new-year efforts had ebbed by the mid-thirties, and in 1743 the laureate was a stale joke. the _apology_'s praise of pope did not benefit cibber; years before the _epistle to dr. arbuthnot_ had stated: a fool quite angry is quite innocent; alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent (108-109). and the minor slap on the wrist was misquoted by pope, as the _letter_ points out. the exchange is interesting, for it is an indication that the man behind the actor's mask might have been less thick-skinned than he liked to seem, that he was genuinely hurt by pope's shafts. cibber did not mind being portrayed as a fool. that, after all was the character he had created as sir novelty fashion in _love's last shift_ (1696), and which he continued to play in public throughout his life. but a charge of immorality did bother him, for he was anxious to be considered a moral man. apparently he was--his enemies charged him with gambling, highhandedness and plagiarism, but his life seems to have been surprisingly free of the kind of scandal that plagued most theatrical personalities. his plays embody the materialistic middle-class values which he champions in his later prose writings, and of all pope's arrows, "and has not colley still his lord and whore?"[10] seems to have struck deepest. it may be significant that the bawdy house story follows close upon cibber's plaintive remonstrance against this line. as long as cibber was in his own territory, he could answer pope orally, but when he at last decided to reply in print, he was at a distinct disadvantage. the actor has a notorious disregard for the written word; his own experience on stage tells him that what is being said has less impact than the manner in which it is delivered. cibber's lack of concern for language had been well publicized. his comment that anne oldfield "out-did her usual out-doing"[11] was never allowed to rest, and fielding rarely missed an opportunity to use cibber's "paraphonalia" against him; that the most merciless parody of his odes could scarcely sink to the depths of the originals, did not deter the efforts of the parodists.[12] he was not entirely insensible of his weaknesses. the second edition of _the provoked husband_ was silently changed to "out-did her usual excellence," and the spelling of paraphernalia corrected. dr. johnson's testimony supports this view of cibber's seriousness: his friends gave out that he _intended_ his birth-day odes should be bad: but that was not the case, sir; for he kept them many months by him, and a few years before he died he shewed me one of them, with great solicitude to render it as perfect as might be, and i made some corrections, to which he was not very willing to submit.[13] his unwillingness to take johnson's advice might be more than mere egotism, if the ode was the same one mentioned elsewhere in the _life_, "i remember when he brought me one of his odes to have my opinion of it, i could not bear such nonsense, and would not let him read it to the end; so little respect had i for _that great man_! (laughing.)."[14] the laureateship marked only one of several changes in cibber's life. in 1730, the triumvirate of actor-managers and their leading lady, a quartet which had supported drury lane through its most prosperous years, was broken by the death of anne oldfield; wilks followed in 1732, and booth, too ill to perform for two years, in 1733. cibber's royal appointment meant a sure annual income of £100 (plus a butt of sack worth £26), his children were grown, and he could afford some freedom from the demands of the theater at last. he continued to act, but with lessening frequency, until 1746, when as cardinal pandulph in his own _papal tyranny in the reign of king john_, he played the last role of a career spanning more than half a century. by 1740, he was far enough removed from the theater to have a slightly different perspective on language. the _apology_ betrays a concern for his reputation beyond the immediate audience, and the need to leave a written record other than his plays. cibber had written prefaces and dedications, but from this point on, he was to pursue his nondramatic writing with _the egoist; or, colley upon cibber being his own picture retouch'd, to so plain a likeness, that no one, now, would have the face to own it, but himself_ (1743); _the lady's lecture, a theatrical dialogue, between sir charles easy and his marriageable daughter. being an attempt to engage obedience by filial liberty, and to given the maiden conduct of virtue, chearfulness_ (1748); and _the character and conduct of cicero_ (1749), which davies defends: a player daring to write upon a known subject without a college permission, was a shocking offense; and yet dr. middleton, to whom the conduct of cicero was addressed, spoke of it with respect; and mr. hooke, the writer of the best roman history in our language, has quoted cibber's arguments in this [his?] pamphlet against the murderers of julius caesar, and speaks of them, not only with honour, but insists upon them as cogent and unanswerable.[15] cibber seems to have become more and more aware of the written word as a powerful legacy, and pope's attacks began to hold a menace they had not had during the years of lighthearted stage warfare. on 20 march 1742, the _new dunciad_ struck him with enough force to cause him to reply with this open _letter_ of 7 july, which attracted a great deal of attention.[16] four engravings and at least six pamphlets, all focusing on the bawdy house story, were shortly in circulation. whether or not the story is true, or whether it was even believed, is immaterial. its importance lies in that it allowed pope's enemies to have at him in the most devastating way. the _letter_ may well have been as painful as jonathan richardson, jr. claimed when he told dr. johnson that he attended his father, the painter, on a visit to twickenham when one of cibber's pamphlets had just come into pope's hands. 'these things are my diversion,' said pope. they sat by him while he read it, and saw his features writhing with anguish. after the visitors had taken their leave, young richardson said to his father that he 'hoped to be preserved from such diversion as had been that day the lot of pope.'[17] if so, the other attacks must have been shattering, since they lacked even the surface good humor of cibber's _letter_. pope, at any rate, was concerned enough to tell spence: the story published by cibber, as to the main point, is an absolute lie. i do remember that i was invited by lord warwick to pass an evening with him. he carried me and cibber in his coach to a bawdy-house. there was a woman there, but i had nothing to do with her of the kind that cibber mentions, to the best of my memory--and i had so few things of that kind ever on my hands that i could scarce have forgot it, especially so circumstanced as he pretends.[18] an answer to the _letter_ was demanded, and it was not long in coming. in august/september, pope wrote his friend hugh bethel concerning a copy of the _new dunciad_ he had sent him: that poem has not done me, or my quiet, the least harm; only it provokd cibber to write a very foolish & impudent letter, which i have no cause to be sorry for, & perhaps next winter i shall be thought to be glad of: but i lay in my claim to you, to testify for me, that if he should chance to die before a new & improved edition of the dunciad comes out, i have already, actually written (before, & not after his death) all i shall ever say about him.[19] a cibber-baiting campaign was undertaken by the poet's friends, and the actor responded with _the egoist_, in which he defended himself, as in his _apology_, by freely admitting his flaws with infuriating complacency. then a false leaf of the last _dunciad_ came into his hands (though certainly not directly from pope), and he published a second, very brief, letter which indicated some stress. pope knew, and at least tacitly approved, of these tactics, for in february of 1743, he wrote lord marchmont: i won't publish the fourth _dunciad_ as 'tis newset till michaelmas, that we may have time to play cibber all the while.... he will be stuck, like the man in the almanac, not deep, but all over. he won't know which way to turn himself to. exhausted at the first stroke, and reduced to passion and calling names, so that he won't be able to write more, and won't be able to bear living without writing.[20] copyright difficulties not mentioned by pope prevented the michaelmas publication date, but on 29 october 1743, the final _dunciad_ appeared with its new hero, for all the world to see. cibber kept his promise to "have the last word." _another letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope_ followed the publication of this _dunciad_, stating his grievances with somewhat less humor, a number of scatological references, and an accusation against warburton for instigating the change. included was a twenty-page aside on the offending bishop, revealing a startlingly thorough knowledge of his writings. this was the end. cibber's friends were eager for him to keep up his side of the battle, but he, having had his say, resumed his good-humor and refused to speak out again. it has been suggested that pope may have planned the change in hero earlier, and aimed the _new dunciad_ with the express purpose of goading cibber into just such a reply as the _letter_. this is, of course, possible, but it cannot be more than speculation; the final _dunciad_ does show evidence of hasty revision. pope was severely ill when his last variation on the dunce theme appeared, and the seven months of life remaining to him were clearly not enough to permit him to polish it to the level of perfection customary in his work. but, as warburton once noted, quality and posterity have awarded pope the final say: quoth cibber to pope, tho' in verse you foreclose, i'll have the last word; for by g--, i'll write prose. poor colly, thy reas'ning is none of the strongest, for know, the last word is the word that lasts longest.[21] cibber's words have not been reprinted since the eighteenth century, and his reputation has become so distorted it is sometimes difficult to find the man who, for so many years, amused and delighted london audiences. yet, if one looks closely, under the froth and foppery, some of the charm and perception of the man still shines through. and, of more importance to the world of literature, it seems fairly clear that, whatever the original offense, the _dunciad_ as we know it today was a direct result of this _letter_. california state college san bernardino notes to the introduction [1] not even the winner of the contest has been beyond dispute. 150 years afterward, robert w. lowe, "supplementary chapter to colley cibber's apology" in his edition of _an apology for the life of colley cibber, comedian, and late patentee of the theatre-royal_ (london: j. c. nimmo, 1889), ii, 270, remarks on cibber's later years: "his [cibber's] state of mind was probably the more 'chearful and contented' because of his unquestionable success in his tilt with the formidable author of 'the dunciad;' a success none the less certain at the time, that the enduring fame of pope has caused cibber's triumph over him to be lost sight of now." [2] norman ault, _new light on pope_ (london: methuen, 1949), pp. 298-307. [3] george paston [emily morse symmonds], _mr. pope his life and times_ (london: hutchinson & co., 1909), i, 197. [4] alexander pope, _works_, ed. william warburton (london: j. and p. knapton, 1751), v, 86 (book i, line 108). griffith 643. this is a note to the variations on lines 108ff: "but chief in bays's monster-breeding breast" and the wording is slightly altered from the earlier note quoted in the twickenham edition, v, 75, _dunciad_ (a), book i, line 106n. [5] j. v. guerinot, _pamphlet attacks on alexander pope 1711-1744_ (new york: new york university press, 1969), lists 15 pamphlets between 1724 and the publication of the first _dunciad_, but he does not include the frequent newspaper comments. [6] cibber, i, 38-39. [7] william h. peterson, "pope and cibber's _the non-juror_" mln, lxx (may, 1955), 332-335. three instances are given: 1. maria, the coquette, quotes _the rape of the lock_ with great relish. the praise is in the wrong mouth. 2. maria speaks slightingly of her english version of homer. pope's last volume had just come out. 3. dr. wolf refers to "eloisa and abelard" in his second attempt to seduce lady woodvil. the argument is twisted out of context. these elements, combined with the strong anti-catholic sentiment, would certainly point attention toward pope, and, in any case, were not calculated to please him. [8] see r. h. barker, _mr. cibber of drury lane_ (new york: columbia university press, 1939), p. 151. [9] cibber's supposition that pope wrote the _clue to the non-juror_ has subsequently been established as correct. see ault, pp. 303-313. [10] _epistle to arbuthnot_, 97. it should be noted here that cibber misquotes the line, a failing habitual to him. the anonymous pamphlet, _a blast upon bays; or, a new lick at the laureat_, which appeared shortly after the letter, points out rather severely the difference in meaning between cibber's "too" and pope's "still", maintaining a mistress twenty years after the events, _a blast_ is as heated in defense of pope as it is in attack against cibber, but it offers no evidence; aside from pope's original line, it is the only charge of this kind among contemporary attacks. [11] colley cibber, _the provoked husband_ (london, 1728), preface. [12] two examples from the birth-day odes will give some idea of the cibberian quality: her fleets, that now the seas command, were late upon her forests growing; her wholesome stores, for every band, as late within her fields were sowing. (1741) behold! in clouds of fire serene, the royal hero heads his pow'rs: alike to fame, with raptures seen, his younger hope, the eaglet soars. fortune, to grace her fav'rite son, stamps on his bleeding form renown. (1743) [13] james boswell, _life of johnson_, ed. george birkbeck hill, rev. l. f. powell (oxford: clarendon press, 1934), i, 402. [14] boswell, ii, 92-93. [15] thomas davies, _memoirs of the life of david garrick, esq._ (london, 1780), ii, 202. [16] in the twickenham edition of _the dunciad_ (london: methuen, 2nd ed. rev., 1953, pp. xxxiii-xxxiv and (b) 341), james sutherland refers to line 20 ("soft on her lap her laureat son reclines") and holds that cibber's answer may have been less a protest than a warning. in _the new dunciad_ (1742), however, the footnote to this line expands the satire, quotes from the _apology_ and is a sharper attack than the line itself. [17] paston, i, 687. [18] joseph spence, _observations, anecdotes and characters of books and men_, ed. james m. osborn (oxford: clarendon press, 1966), i, 110 (no. 251). [19] alexander pope, correspondence, ed. george sherburn (oxford: oxford university press, 1956), iv, 415. [20] spence, i, 148-149 (no. 331). [21] pope, _works_, v. 89 (book i, line 109n). this verse appears in the twickenham edition, v, 276, as a note to _dunciad_ (b) book i, line 104. bibliographical note the facsimile of _a letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope_ (1742) is reproduced by permission from a copy of the first edition (shelf mark: 114527) in _the huntington library, san marino, california_. the total type-page (p. 47) measures 165 x 85 mm. a letter from mr. _cibber_, to mr. _pope_. price one shilling. a letter from mr. _cibber_, to mr. _pope_, inquiring into the motives that might induce him in his satyrical works, to be so frequently fond of mr. cibber's name. _out of thy own mouth will i judge thee._ pref. to the _dunciad_. _london_, printed: and sold by w. lewis in _russel-street, covent-garden_. m dcc xlii. price 1s. a letter to mr. _pope_, &c. _sir_, as you have for several years past (particularly in your poetical works) mentioned my name, without my desiring it; give me leave, at last, to make my due compliments to _yours_ in prose, which i should not choose to do, but that i am really driven to it (as the puff in the play-bills says) _at the desire of several persons of quality_. if i have lain so long stoically silent, or unmindful of your satyrical favours, it was not so much for want of a proper reply, as that i thought they never needed a publick one: for all people of sense would know, what truth or falshood there was in what you have said of me, without my wisely pointing it out to them. nor did i choose to follow your example of being so much a self-tormentor, as to be concern'd at whatever opinion of me any publish'd invective might infuse into people unknown to me: even the malicious, though they may like the libel, don't always believe it. but since the publication of your last new _dunciad_ (where you still seem to enjoy your so often repeated glory of being bright upon my dulness) my friends now insist, that it will be thought dulness indeed, or a plain confession of my being a bankrupt in wit, if i don't immediately answer those bills of discredit you have drawn upon me: for, say they, your dealing with him, like a gentleman, in your _apology for your own life_, &c. you see, has had no sensible effect upon him, as appears by the wrong-headed reply his notes upon the new _dunciad_ have made to it: for though, in that _apology_ you seem to have offer'd him a friendly release of all damages, yet as it is plain he scorns to accept it, by his still holding you at defiance with fresh abuses, you have an indisputable right to resume that discharge, and may now, as justly as ever, call him to account for his many bygone years of defamation. but pray, gentlemen, said i, if, as you seem to believe, his defamation has more of malice than truth in it, does he not blacken himself by it? why then should i give myself the trouble to prove, what you, and the world are already convinc'd of? and since after near twenty years having been libell'd by our daily-paper scriblers, i never was so hurt, as to give them one single answer, why would you have me seem to be more sore now, than at any other time? as to those dull fellows, they granted my silence was right; yet they could not but think mr. _pope_ was too eminent an author to justify my equal contempt of him; and that a disgrace, from such a pen, might stick upon me to posterity: in fine, that though i could not be rouz'd from my indifference, in regard to myself, yet for the particular amusement of my acquaintance, they desired i would enter the lists with you; notwithstanding i am under the disadvantage of having only the blunt and weak weapon of prose, to oppose you, or defend myself, against the sharpness of verse, and that in the hand of so redoubted an author as mr. _pope_. their spiriting me up to this unequal engagement, i doubt is but an ill compliment to my skill, or my discretion; or, at best, seems but to put me upon a level with a famous boxer at the _bear-garden_, called _rugged and tough_, who would stand being drubb'd for hours together, 'till wearying out his antagonist by the repeated labour of laying him on, and by keeping his own wind (like the _roman_ combatant of old, who conquer'd by seeming to fly) honest _rugged_ sometimes came off victorious. all i can promise therefore, since i am stript for the combat, is, that i will so far imitate this iron-headed hero (as the _turks_ called the late king of _sweden_) as always to keep my temper, as he did his wind, and that while i have life, or am able to set pen to paper, i will now, sir, have the last word with you: for let the odds of your wit be never so great, or its pen dipt in whatever venom it may, while i am conscious you can say nothing truly of me, that ought to put an honest man to the blush, what, in god's name, can i have to fear from you? as to the reputation of my attempts, in poetry, that has taken its ply long ago, and can now no more be lessened by your coldest contempt, than it can be raised by your warmest commendation, were you inclin'd to give it any: every man's work must and will always speak _for_, or _against_ itself, whilst it has a remaining reader in the world. all i shall say then as to that point, is, that i wrote more to be fed, than be famous, and since my writings still give me a dinner, do you rhyme me out of my stomach if you can. and i own myself so contented a dunce, that i would not have even your merited fame in poetry, if it were to be attended with half the fretful solicitude you seem to have lain under to maintain it; of which the laborious rout you make about it, in those loads of prose rubbish, wherewith you have almost smother'd your _dunciad_, is so sore a proof: and though i grant it a better poem of its kind, than ever was writ; yet when i read it, with those vain-glorious encumbrances of notes, and remarks, upon almost every line of it, i find myself in the uneasy condition i was once in at an opera, where sitting with a silent desire to hear a favourite air, by a famous performer, a coxcombly connoisseur, at my elbow, was so fond of shewing his own taste, that by his continual remarks, and prating in praise of every grace and cadence, my attention and pleasure in the song was quite lost and confounded. it is almost amazing, that you, who have writ with such masterly spirit, upon the _ruling passion_, should be so blind a slave to your own, as not to have seen, how far a low avarice of praise might prejudice, or debase that valuable character, which your works, without your own commendatory notes upon them, might have maintained. _laus propria sordet_, is a line we learn in our infancy. how applicable to your self then is what you say of another person, _viz._ _whose ruling passion is the lust of praise; born, with whate'er could win it from the wise, women and fools must like him, or he dies._ epist. to ld. _cobham_ vers. 183. how easily now can you see the folly in another, which you yourself are so fond of? why, sir, the very jealousy of fame, which (in the best cruel verses that ever fell from your pen) you have with so much asperity reproved in _addison_ (_atticus_ i mean) falls still short of yours, for though you impute it to him as a crime, that he could--- _bear, like the_ turk, _no brother near the throne._ vers. 190 of the same epist. yet you, like outragious _nero_, are for whipping and branding every poor dunce in your dominions, that had the stupid insolence not to like you, or your musick! if this is not a greater tyranny than that of your _atticus_, at least you must allow it more ridiculous: for what have you gain'd by it? a mighty matter! a victory over a parcel of poor wretches, that were not able to hurt or resist you, so weak, it was almost cowardice to conquer them; or if they actually _did_ hurt you, how much weaker have you shewn yourself in so openly owning it? besides, your conduct seems hardly reconcileable to your own opinion: for after you have lash'd them (in your epistle to dr. _arburthnot_, ver. 84.) you excuse the cruelty of it in the following line. ------_take it for a rule, no creature smarts so little as a fool._ now if this be true, to what purpose did you correct them? for wise men, without your taking such pains to tell them, knew what they were before. and that publick-spirited pretence of your only chastising them, _in terrorem_ to others of the same malicious disposition, i doubt is but too thin a disguise of the many restless hours they have given you. if your revenge upon them was necessary, we must own you have amply enjoy'd it: but to make that revenge the chief motive of writing your _dunciad_, seems to me a weakness, that an author of your abilities should rather have chosen to conceal. a man might as well triumph for his having kill'd so many silly flies that offended him. could you have let them alone, by this time, poor souls, they had been all peaceably buried in oblivion! but the very lines, you have so sharply pointed to destroy them, will now remain but so many of their epitaphs, to transmit their names to posterity: which probably too they may think a more eligible fate than that of being totally forgotten. hear what an author of great merit, though of less anxiety for fame, says upon this weakness, _fame is a bubble, the reserv'd enjoy, who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy._ y-univers. passion. in a word, you seem in your _dunciad_, to have been angry at the rain for wetting you, why then would you go into it? you could not but know, that an author, when he publishes a work, exposes himself to all weathers. he then that cannot bear the worst, should stay at home, and not write at all. but sir--that _cibber_ ever murmured at your fame, or endeavoured to blast it, or that he was not always, to the best of his judgment, as warm an admirer of your writings as any of your nearest friends could be, is what you cannot, by any one fact or instance, disprove. how comes it then, that in your works you have so often treated him as a dunce or an enemy? did he at all intrench upon your sovereignty in verse, because he had now and then written a comedy that succeeded? or could not you bear, that any kind of poetry, but that, to which you chiefly pretended, should meet with applause? or was it, that he had an equal reputation for acting his own characters as for writing them, or that with such inferior talents he was admitted to as good company as you, with your superior, could get into; or what other offensive merit had he, that has so often made him the object of your contempt or envy? it could not be, sure, simple ill-nature, that incited you, because in the preface to your _dunciad_ you declare that you have----- "in this poem attacked no man living, who had not before printed, or published some scandal against you." how comes it, i say, that you have so often fallen foul upon _cibber_ then, against whom you have no complaint, nor whose name is so much as mentioned in the printed list you have given us of all those high offenders, you so imperiously have proscribed and punish'd. under this class at least, you acquit him of having ever provoked you? but in your notes, to this preface (that is, in your notes upon notes) from this general declaration, you make an exception,--"of two, or three persons only, whose dulness or scurrility all mankind agreed, to have justly intitled them to a place in the _dunciad_." here then, or no where, you ground your pretence of taking me into it! now let us enquire into the justness of this pretence, and whether dulness in one author gives another any right to abuse him for it? no sure! dulness can be no vice or crime, or is at worst but a misfortune, and you ought no more to censure or revile him for it, than for his being blind or lame; the cruelty or injustice will be evidently equal either way. but if you please i will wave this part of my argument, and for once take no advantage of it; but will suppose dulness to be actually criminal, and then will leave it to your own conscience, to declare, whether you really think i am generally so guilty of it, as to deserve the name of the dull fellow you make of me. now if the reader will call upon my conscience to speak to the question, i do from my heart solemnly declare, that i don't believe you _do_ think so of me. this i grant may be vanity in me to say: but if what i believe is true, what a slovenly conscience do you shew your face with? now, sir, as for my scurrility, when ever a proof can be produced, that i have been guilty of it to you, or any one man living, i will shamefully unsay all i have said, and confess i have deserv'd the various names you have call'd me. having therefore said enough to clear my self of any ill-will or enmity to mr. _pope_, i should be glad he were able equally to acquit himself to me, that i might not suppose the satyrical arrows he has shot at me, to have flown from that malignity of mind, which the talking world is so apt to accuse him of. in the mean while, it may be worth the trouble to weigh the truth, or validity of the wit he has bestow'd upon me, that it may appear, which of us is the worse man for it; he, for his unprovoked endeavour to vilify and expose me, or--i, for my having or having not deserv'd it. i could wish it might be observed then, by those who have read the works of mr. _pope_, that the contemptuous things he there says of me, are generally bare positive assertions, without his any sort of evidence to ground them upon: why then, till the truth of them is better prov'd, should they stand for any more, than so many _gratis dictums_? but i hope i have given him fairer play, in what i have said of him, and which i intend to give him, in what i shall farther say of him; that is, by saying nothing to his disadvantage that has not a known fact to support it. this will bring our cause to a fair issue; and no impartial reader, then, can be at a loss on which side equity should incline him to give judgment. but as in this dispute i shall be oblig'd, sometimes to be _witness_, as well as _accuser_, i am bound, in conscience, not to conceal any fact, that may possibly mitigate, or excuse the resentful manner, in which mr. _pope_ has publickly treated me. now i am afraid, that i once as publickly offended him, before a thousand spectators; to the many of them, therefore, who might be witnesses of the fact, i submit, as to the most competent judges, how far it ought, or ought not, to have provoked him. the play of the _rehearsal_, which had lain some few years dormant, being by his present majesty (then prince of _wales_) commanded to be revived, the part of _bays_ fell to my share. to this character there had always been allow'd such ludicrous liberties of observation, upon any thing new, or remarkable, in the state of the stage, as mr. _bays_ might think proper to take. much about this time, then, _the three hours after marriage_ had been acted without success; when mr. _bays_, as usual, had a fling at it, which, in itself, was no jest, unless the audience would please to make it one: but however, flat as it was, mr. _pope_ was mortally sore upon it. this was the offence. in this play, two coxcombs, being in love with a learned virtuoso's wife, to get unsuspected access to her, ingeniously send themselves, as two presented rarities, to the husband, the one curiously swath'd up like an _egyptian_ mummy, and the other slily cover'd in the paste-board skin of a crocodile: upon which poetical expedient, i, mr. _bays_, when the two kings of _brentford_ came from the clouds into the throne again, instead of what my part directed me to say, made use of these words, viz. "now, sir, this revolution, i had some thoughts of introducing, by a quite different contrivance; but my design taking air, some of your sharp wits, i found, had made use of it before me; otherwise i intended to have stolen one of them in, in the shape of a _mummy_, and t'other, in that of a _crocodile_." upon which, i doubt, the audience by the roar of their applause shew'd their proportionable contempt of the play they belong'd to. but why am i answerable for that? i did not lead them, by any reflection of my own, into that contempt: surely to have used the bare word _mummy_, and _crocodile_, was neither unjust, or unmannerly; where then was the crime of simply saying there had been two such things in a former play? but this, it seems, was so heinously taken by mr. _pope_, that, in the swelling of his heart, after the play was over, he came behind the scenes, with his lips pale and his voice trembling, to call me to account for the insult: and accordingly fell upon me with all the foul language, that a wit out of his senses could be capable of------how durst i have the impudence to treat any gentleman in that manner? _&c. &c. &c._ now let the reader judge by this concern, who was the true mother of the child! when he was almost choked with the foam of his passion, i was enough recover'd from my amazement to make him (as near as i can remember) this reply, _viz._ "mr. _pope_----you are so particular a man, that i must be asham'd to return your language as i ought to do: but since you have attacked me in so monstrous a manner; this you may depend upon, that as long as the play continues to be acted, i will never fail to repeat the same words over and over again." now, as he accordingly found i kept my word, for several days following, i am afraid he has since thought, that his pen was a sharper weapon than his tongue to trust his revenge with. and however just cause this may be for his so doing, it is, at least, the only cause my conscience can charge me with. now, as i might have concealed this fact, if my conscience would have suffered me, may we not suppose, mr. _pope_ would certainly have mention'd it in his _dunciad_, had he thought it could have been of service to him? but as he seems, notwithstanding, to have taken offence from it, how well does this soreness of temper agree with what he elsewhere says of himself? _but touch me, and no minister so sore._ 1 sat. 2 b. of hor. ver. 76. since then, even his admirers allow, that spleen has a great share in his composition, and as thirst of revenge, in full possession of a conscious power to execute it, is a temptation, which we see the depravity of human nature is so little able to resist, why then should we wonder, that a man so easily hurt, as mr. _pope_ seems to be, should be so frequently delighted in his inflicting those pains upon others, which he feels he is not himself able to bear? this is the only way i can account for his having sometimes carried his satyrical strokes farther, than, i doubt, a true and laudable satyrist would have thought justifiable. but it is now time to open, what on my own part i have to charge him with. in turning over his works of the smaller edition, the eldest date i find, in print, of my being out of his favour, is from an odd objection he makes to a, then, new play of mine, _the non-juror_. in one of his letters to mr. _jervas_, p. 85. he writes thus--- "your acquaintance, on this side the water, are under terrible apprehensions, from your long stay in _ireland_, that you may grow too polite for them; for we think (since the great success of _such a play as the non-juror_) that politeness is gone over the water, _&c._ (by the way, was not his wit a little stiff and weary, when he strained so hard to bring in this costive reflection upon the _non-juror_? dear soul! what terrible apprehensions it gave him!) and some few lines after he cries out--- "poor poetry! the little that's left of thee, longs to cross the seas---modestly meaning, i suppose, he had a mind to have gone over himself! if he had gone, and had carried with him those polite pieces, _the what d'ye call it_, and _the three hours after marriage_ (both which he had a hand in) how effectually had those elaborate examples of the true genius given, to the _dublin_ theatre, the glory of dramatick poetry restor'd? but _drury-lane_ was not so favourable to him; for there alas! (where the last of them was unfortunately acted) he had so sore a rap o' the fingers, that he never more took up his pen for the stage. but this is not fair, you will say: my shewing mr. _pope_'s want of skill in comedy, is no excuse for the want of it in myself; which his satyr sometimes charges me with: at least, it must be owned, it is not an easy thing to hit by his missing it. and indeed i have had some doubt, as there is no personal reflection in it, whether i ought to have mention'd his objection to _the non-juror_ at all; but as the particularity of it may let one a good deal into the sentiments of mr. _pope_, i could not refrain from bestowing some farther notes upon it. well then! upon the great success of this enormous play, _the non-juror_, poor mr. _pope_ laments the decay of poetry; though the impoliteness of the piece is his only insinuated objection against it. how nice are the nostrils of this delicate critick! this indeed is a scent, that those wide-mouth'd hounds the daily-paper criticks could never hit off! though they pursued it with the imputation of every offence that could run down a play: yet impoliteness at least they oversaw. no! they did not disguise their real dislike, as the prudent mr. _pope_ did; they all fairly spoke out, and in full cry open'd against it, only for its so audaciously exposing the sacred character of a lurking, treason-hatching jesuit, and for inhumanly ridiculing the conscientious cause of an honest deluded jacobite gentleman. now may we not as well say to mr. pope, _hinc illæ lachrymæ_! here was his real disgust to the play! for if impoliteness could have so offended him, he would never have bestowed such encomiums upon the _beggars opera_, which whatever beauties it might boast, politeness certainly was not one of its most striking features. no, no! if the play had not so impudently fallen upon the poor enemies of the government, mr. _pope_, possibly, might have been less an enemy to the play: but he has a charitable heart, and cannot bear to see his friends derided in their distress: therefore you may have observed, whenever the government censures a man of consequence for any extraordinary disaffection to it; then is mr. _pope_'s time generously to brighten and lift him up with virtues, which never had been so conspicuous in him before. now though he may be led into all this, by his thinking it a religious duty; yet those who are of a different religion may sure be equally excused, if they should notwithstanding look upon him as their enemy. but to my purpose. whatever might be his real objections to it, mr. _pope_ is, at least, so just to the play, as to own it had great success, though it grieved him to see it; perhaps too he would have been more grieved, had he then known, that his late majesty, when i had the honour to kiss his hand, upon my presenting my dedication of it, was graciously pleased, out of his royal bounty, to order me two hundred pounds for it. yes, sir! 'tis true--such was the depravity of the time, you will say, and so enormous was the reward of _such a play as the non-juror_! this brings to my memory (what i cannot help smiling at) the bountiful banter, you at this time endeavoured to put upon me. this was the fact i had, not long before, been a subscriber to your _homer_: and now, to make up our poetical accounts, as you call'd it, you sent me a note, with four guineas inclosed, for four tickets, for the author's day of _such a play as the non-juror_. so unexpected a favour made me conclude, there must be something at the bottom of it, which an indifferent eye might have overlooked: however i sent you the tickets with a written acknowledgment; for i was willing you should think the kind appearance had passed upon me; though every gentleman i told it to laugh'd at my credulity, wondering i should not see, you had plainly done this, in scorn of my subscription to your _homer_. which, to say the truth, i never had the least doubt of, but did not think myself so far obliged to gratify your pride, as to shew any sign of my feeling the hurt you intended me. though, as this was in the infancy of your disinclination to me, i confess, i might have been better pleased, would your temper have suffered me to have been upon better terms with you: but so it is! of such insensible stuff am i made, that i have been rated by my friends, for not being surprized, or grieved at disappointments. this i only offer as an early instance of our different dispositions. my subscription had no disguise, i thought it due to the merit of mr. _pope_: but that his bounty to me rose from the same motive, i am afraid would be vanity in me to suppose. there is another whimsical fact relating to this play, which common fame, just after the run of it, charged to mr. _pope_: had i his sagacity in detecting concealed authors, or his laborious curiosity to know them, i do not doubt but i might bring my fact to a proof upon him; but let my suspicion speak for itself. at this time then there came out a pamphlet (the title i have forgot) but the given name of the author was _barnevelt_, which every body believed to be fictitious. the purport of this odd piece of wit was to prove, that _the non-juror_ in its design, its characters, and almost every scene of it, was a closely couched jacobite libel against the government: and, in troth, the charge was in some places so shrewdly maintained, that i almost liked the jest myself; at least, it was so much above the spirit, and invention of the daily-paper satyrists, that all the sensible readers i met with, without hesitation gave it to mr. _pope_. and what afterwards left me no doubt of it was, that he published the same charge against his own _rape of the lock_, proving even the design of that too, by the same sort of merry innuendos, to have been as audacious a libel, as the other pamphlet had made _the non-juror_. in a word, there is so much similitude of stile, and thought, in these two pieces, that it is scarce possible to give them to different authors. 'tis true, at first sight, there appears no great motive for mr. _pope_ to have written either of them, more than to exercise the wantonness of his fancy: but some people thought, he might have farther views in this frolick. he might hope, that the honest vulgar would take literally, his making a libel of _the non-juror_, and from thence have a good chance of his turning the stream of their favour against it. as for his playing the same game with his _rape of the lock_, that he was, at least, sure could do him no harm; but on the contrary he might hope, that such a ludicrous self-accusation might soften, or wipe off any severe imputation that had lain upon other parts of his writings, which had not been thought equally innocent of a real disaffection. this way of owning guilt in a wrong place, is a common artifice to hide it in a right one. now though every reader is not obliged to take all i have said for evidence in this case; yet there may be others, that are not obliged to refuse it. let it therefore avail no more, than in reality it ought to do. since, as you say, in one of your letters to mr. _addison_, "_to be uncensured and to be obscure is the same thing_;" i hope then to appear in a better light, by quoting some of your farther flirts at _the non-juror_. in your correspondence with mr. _digby_ p. 150. complaining of people's insensibility to good writing, you say (with your usual sneer upon the same play) "the stage is the only place we seem alive at: there indeed we stare, and roar, and clap hands for king _george_ and the government. this could be meant of no play, but _the non-juror_, because no other had made the enemies of the king and government so ridiculous; and therefore, it seems, you think the town as ridiculous to roar and clap at it. but, sir, as so many of the government's friends were willing to excuse its faults for the honesty of its intention; so, if you were not of that number, i do not wonder you had so strong a reason to dislike it. in the same letter too, this wicked play runs so much in your head, that in the favourable character you there give of the lady _scudamore_, you make it a particular merit in her, that she had not then even _seen_ cibber_'s play of the_ non-juror. i presume, at least, she had heard mr. _pope_'s opinion of it, and then indeed the lady might be in the right. i suppose by this time you will say, i have tir'd your patience; but i do assure you i have not said so much upon this head, merely to commemorate the applauses of _the non-juror_, as to shew the world one of your best reasons for having so often publish'd your contempt of the author. and yet, methinks, the good-nature which you so frequently labour to have thought a part of your character, might have inclin'd you to a little more mercy for an old acquaintance: nay, in your epistle to dr. _arbuthnot_, ver. 373, you are so good as to say, you have been so humble as to _drink with cibber_. sure then, such humility might at least have given the devil his due: for, black as i am, i have still some merit to you, in the profess'd pleasure i always took in your writings? but alas! if the friendship between yourself and mr. _addison_, (which with such mutual warmth you have profess'd in your publish'd letters) could not protect him from that insatiable rage of satyr that so often runs away with you, how could so frivolous a fellow as i am (whose friendship you never cared for) hope to escape it? however, i still comfort myself in one advantage i have over you, that of never having deserved your being my enemy. you see, sir, with what passive submission i have hitherto complained to you: but now give me leave to speak an honest truth, without caring how far it may displease you. if i thought, then, that your ill-nature were half as hurtful to me, as i believe it is to yourself, i am not sure i could be half so easy under it. i am told, there is a serpent in some of the _indies_, that never stings a man without leaving its own life in the wound: i have forgot the name of it, and therefore cannot give it you. or if this be too hard upon you, permit me at least to say, your spleen is sometimes like that of the little angry bee, which, in doing less mischief than the serpent, yet (as _virgil_ says) meets with the same fate.----_animasque in vulnere ponunt._ why then may i not wish you would be advis'd by a fact which actually happen'd at the _tower_ guard? an honest lusty grenadier, while a little creeping creature of an ensign, for some trifling fault, was impotently laying him on with his cane, quietly folded his arms across, and shaking his head, only reply'd to this valiant officer, "have a care, dear captain! don't strike so hard! upon my soul you will hurt yourself!" now, sir, give me leave to open your _dunciad_, that we may see what work your wit has made with my name there. when the goddess of _dulness_ is shewing her works to her chosen son, she closes the variety with letting him see, _ver._ 235. _how, with less reading than makes felons 'scape less human genius than god gives an ape, small thanks to_ france, _and none to_ rome, _or_ greece, _a patch'd, vamp'd, future, old, reviv'd, new piece, 'twixt_ plautus, fletcher, congreve _and_ corneille, _can make a_ cibber, johnson, _or_ ozell. and pray, sir, why my name, under this scurvy picture? i flatter myself, that if you had not put it there, no body else would have thought it like me, nor can i easily believe that you yourself do: but perhaps you imagin'd it would be a laughing ornament to your verse, and had a mind to divert other peoples spleen with it, as well as your own. now let me hold up my head a little, and then we shall see how far the features hit me! if indeed i had never produc'd any plays, but those i alter'd of other authors, your reflexion then might have had something nearer an excuse for it: but yet, if many of those plays have liv'd the longer for my meddling with them, the sting of your satyr only wounds the air, or at best debases it to impotent railing. for you know very well that _richard the third_, _the fop's fortune_, _the double gallant_, and some others, that had been dead to the stage out of all memory, have since been in a constant course of acting above these thirty or forty years. nor did even _dryden_ think it any diminution of his fame to take the same liberty with _the tempest_, and the _troilus and cressida_ of _shakespear_; and tho' his skill might be superior to mine, yet while my success has been equal to his, why then will you have me so ill-favouredly like the dunce you have drawn for me? or do those alter'd plays at all take from the merit of those more successful pieces, which were entirely my own? is a tailor, that can make a new coat well, the worse workman, because he can mend an old one? when a man is abus'd, he has a right to speak even laudable truths of himself, to confront his slanderer. let me therefore add, that my first comedy of _the fool in fashion_ was as much (though not so valuable) an original, as any one work mr. _pope_ himself has produc'd. it is now forty-seven years since its first appearance upon the stage, where it has kept its station, to this very day, without ever lying one winter dormant. and what part of this play, sir, can you charge with a theft either from any _french_ author, from _plautus_, _fletcher_, _congreve_, or _corneille_? nine years after this i brought on _the careless husband_, with still greater success; and was that too _a patch'd, vamp'd, future, old, reviv'd, new piece?_ let the many living spectators of these plays then judge between us, whether the above verses, you have so unmercifully besmear'd me with, were fit to come from the _honest heart_ of a satyrist, who would be thought, like you, the upright censor of mankind. indeed, indeed, sir, this libel was below you! how could you be so wanting to yourself as not to consider, that satyr, without truth, tho' flowing in the finest numbers, recoils upon its author, and must, at other times, render him suspected of prejudice, even where he may be just; as frauds, in religion, make more atheists than converts? and the bad heart, mr. _pope_, that points an injury with verse, makes it the more unpardonable, as it is not the result of sudden passion, but of an indulg'd and slowly meditating ill-nature; and i am afraid yours, in this article, is so palpable, that i am almost asham'd to have made it so serious a reply. what a merry mixt mortal has nature made you? that can thus debase that strength and excellence of genius she has endow'd you with, to the lowest human weakness, that of offering unprovok'd injuries; nay, at the hazard of your being ridiculous too, as you must be, when the venom you spit falls short of your aim! for i shall never believe your verses have done me the harm you intended, or lost me one friend, or added a single soul to the number of my enemies, though so many thousands that know me, may have read them. how then could your blind impatience in your _dunciad_ thunder out such poetical _anathemas_ on your own enemies, for doing you no worse injuries than what you think it no crime in yourself to offer to another? in your remarks upon the above verses, your wit, unwilling to have done with me, throws out an ironical sneer at my attempts in tragedy: let us see how far it disgraces me. after your quoting the following paragraph from _jacob's lives of the dramatick poets_, viz. "mr. _colley cibber_, an author, and an actor, of a good share of wit and uncommon vivacity, which are much improv'd by the conversation he enjoys, which is of the best," _&c._ then say you, "mr. _jacob_ omitted to remark, that he is particularly admirable in tragedy." ay, sir, and your remark has omitted too, that (with all his commendations) i can't dance upon the rope, or make a saddle, nor play upon the organ.--augh! my dear, dear mr. _pope_! how could a man of your stinging capacity let so tame, so low a reflexion escape him? why this hardly rises above the pretty malice of miss _molly_--_ay, ay, you may think my sister as handsome as you please, but if you were to see her legs--i know what i know_! and so, with all these imperfections upon me, the triumph of your observation amounts to this: that tho' you should allow, by what _jacob_ says of me, that i am good for something, yet you notwithstanding have cunningly discover'd, that i am not good for _every thing_. well, sir, and am not i very well off, if you have nothing worse to say of me? but if i have made so many crowded theatres laugh, and in the right place too, for above forty years together, am i to make up the number of your dunces, because i have not the equal talent of making them cry too? make it your own case: is what you have excell'd in at all the worse, for your having so dismally dabbled (as i before observ'd) in the farce of _three hours after marriage_? _non omnia possumus omnes_, is an allow'd excuse for the insufficiencies of all mankind; and if, as you see, you too must sometimes be forc'd to take shelter under it, as well as myself, what mighty reason will the world have to laugh at my weakness in tragedy, more than at yours in comedy? or, to make us both still easier in the matter, if you will say, you are not asham'd of your weakness, i will promise you not to be asham'd of mine. or if you don't like this advice, let me give you some from the wiser _spanish_ proverb, which says, _that a man should never throw stones, that has glass windows in his head_. upon the whole, your languid ill-will in this remark, makes so sickly a figure, that one would think it were quite exhausted; for it must run low indeed, when you are reduc'd to impute the want of an excellence, as a shame to me. but in _ver._ 261, your whole barrel of spleen seems not to have a drop more in it, though you have tilted it to the highest: for there you are forc'd to tell a downright fib, and hang me up in a light where no body ever saw me: as for example, speaking of the absurdity of theatrical pantomimes, you say _when lo! to dark encounter in mid air new wizards rise: here_ booth, _and_ cibber _there:_ booth, _in his cloudy tabernacle shrin'd, on grinning dragons_ cibber _mounts the wind._ if you, figuratively, mean by this, that i was an encourager of those fooleries, you are mistaken; for it is not true: if you intend it literally, that i was dunce enough to mount a machine, there is as little truth in that too: but if you meant it only as a pleasant abuse, you have done it with infinite drollery indeed! beside, the name of _cibber_, you know, always implies satyr in the sound, and never fails to keep the flatness or modesty of a verse in countenance. some pages after, indeed, in pretty near the same light, you seem to have a little negative kindness for me, _ver._ 287, where you make poor _settle_, lamenting his own fate, say, _but lo! in me, what authors have to brag on, reduc'd at last to hiss, in my own dragon, avert it, heav'n, that thou, or_ cibber _e'er should wag two serpent-tails in_ smithfield _fair._ if this does not imply, that you think me fit for little else, it is only another barren verse with my name in it: if it does mean so; why----i wish you may never be toss'd in a blanket, and so the kindness is even on both sides. but again you are at me, _ver._ 320, speaking of the king of dunces reign, you have these lines: _beneath whose reign,_ eusden _shall wear the bays,_ cibber _preside lord-chancellor of plays._ this i presume you offer as one of the heavy enormities of the stage-government, when i had a share in it. but as you have not given an instance in which this enormity appear'd, how is it possible (unless i had your talent of self-commendation) to bring any proofs in my favour? i must therefore submit it to publick judgment how full your reflexion hits, or is wide of me, and can only say to it in the mean time,--_valeat quantum valere potest_. in your remark upon the same lines you say, "_eusden_ no sooner died, but his place of laureat was supply'd by _cibber_, in the year 1730, on which was made the following epigram." (may i not believe by yourself?) _in merry_ old england, _it once was a rule, the king had his poet, and also his fool. but now we're so frugal, i'd have you to know it, that_ cibber _can serve both for fool and for poet._ ay, marry sir! here you souse me with a witness! this is a triumph indeed! i can hardly help laughing at this myself; for, _se non e vero, ben trovato_! a good jest is a good thing, let it fall upon who it will: i dare say _cibber_ would never have complain'd of mr. _pope_, ----_si sic_ ----_omnia dixisset_----- juv. if he had never said any worse of him. but hold, master _cibber_! why may not you as well turn this pleasant epigram into an involuntary compliment? for a king's fool was no body's fool but his master's, and had not his name for nothing; as for example, _those fools of old, if fame says true, were chiefly chosen for their wit; why then, call'd fools? because, like you dear_ pope, _too bold in shewing it._ and so, if i am the king's fool; now, sir, pray whose fool are you? 'tis pity, methinks, you should be out of employment: for, if a satyrical intrepidity, or, as you somewhere call it, a _high courage of wit_, is the fairest pretence to be the _king's fool_, i don't know a wit in the world so fit to fill up the post as yourself. thus, sir, i have endeavour'd to shake off all the dirt in your _dunciad_, unless of here and there some little spots of your ill-will, that were not worth tiring the reader's patience with my notice of them. but i have some more foul way to trot through still, in your epistles and satyrs, _&c._ now whether i shall come home the filthy fellow, or the clean contrary man to what you make me, i will venture to leave to your own _conscience_, though i dare not make the same trust to your _wit_: for that you have often _spoke_ worse (merely to shew your wit) than you could possibly _think_ of me, almost all your readers, that observe your good-nature _will easily_ believe. however, to shew i am not blind to your merit, i own your epistle to dr. _arbuthnot_ (though i there find myself contemptibly spoken of) gives me more delight in the whole, than any one poem of the kind i ever read. the only prejudice or wrong bias of judgment, i am afraid i may be guilty of is, when i cannot help thinking, that your wit is more remarkably bare and barren, whenever it would fall foul upon _cibber_, than upon any other person or occasion whatsoever: i therefore could wish the reader may have sometimes considered those passages, that if i do you injustice, he may as justly condemn me for it. in this epistle ver. 59. of your folio edition, you seem to bless yourself, that you are not my friend! no wonder then, you rail at me! but let us see upon what occasion you own this felicity. speaking of an impertinent author, who teized you to recommend his _virgin tragedy_ to the stage, you at last happily got rid of him with this excuse--- _there (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,_ cibber _and i, are luckily no friends._ if you chose not to be mine, sir, it does not follow, that it was equally my choice not to be yours: but perhaps you thought me your enemy, because you were conscious you had injur'd me, and therefore were resolv'd never to forgive _me_, because i had it in my power to forgive _you_: for, as _dryden_ says, _forgiveness, to the injur'd does belong; but they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong._ this, sir, is the only natural excuse, i can form, for your being my enemy. as to your blunt assertion of my certain prejudice to any thing, that had your recommendation to the stage, which your above lines would insinuate; i gave you a late instance in _the miller of mansfield_, that your manner of treating me had in no sort any influence upon my judgment. for you may remember, sometime before that piece was acted, i accidentally met you, in a visit to the late general _dormer_, who, though he might be your good friend, was not for that reason the less a friend to me: there you join'd with that gentleman, in asking my advice and assistance in that author's behalf; which as i had read the piece, though i had then never seen the man, i gave, in such manner, as i thought might best serve him: and if i don't over-rate my recommendation, i believe its way to the stage was made the more easy by it. this fact, then, does in no kind make good your insinuation, that my enmity to you would not suffer me to like any thing that you liked; which though you call your good fortune in verse, yet in prose, you see, it happens not to be true. but i am glad to find, in your smaller edition, that your conscience has since given this line some correction; for there you have taken off a little of its edge; it there runs only thus--- the play'rs _and i, are luckily no friends._ this is so uncommon an instance, of your checking your temper and taking a little shame to yourself, that i could not in justice omit my notice of it. i am of opinion too, that the indecency of the next verse, you spill upon me, would admit of an equal correction. in excusing the freedom of your satyr, you urge that it galls no body, because nobody minds it enough to be mended by it. this is your plea--- _whom have i hurt! has poet yet, or peer, lost the arched eye-brow, or_ parnassian _sneer? and has not_ colley _too his lord, and whore?_ &c. if i thought the christian name of _colley_ could belong to any other man than myself, i would insist upon my right of not supposing you meant this last line to me; because it is equally applicable to five thousand other people: but as your good-will to me is a little too well known, to pass it as imaginable that you could intend it for any one else, i am afraid i must abide it. well then! _colley has his lord and whore!_ now suppose, sir, upon the same occasion, that _colley_ as happily inspired as mr. _pope_, had turned the same verse upon _him_, and with only the name changed had made it run thus- _and has not_ sawney _too his lord and whore?_ would not the satyr have been equally just? or would any sober reader have seen more in the line, than a wide mouthful of ill-manners? or would my professing myself a satyrist give me a title to wipe my foul pen upon the face of every man i did not like? or would my impudence be less impudence in verse than in prose? or in private company? what ought i to expect less, than that you would knock me down for it? unless the happy weakness of my person might be my protection? why then may i not insist that _colley_ or _sawney_ in the verse would make no difference in the satyr! now let us examine how far there would be truth in it on either side. as to the first part of the charge, the _lord_; why--we have both had him, and sometimes the _same_ lord; but as there is neither vice nor folly in keeping our betters company; the wit or satyr of the verse! can only point at my lord for keeping such _ordinary_ company. well, but if so! then _why_ so, good mr. _pope_? if either of us could be _good_ company, our being professed poets, i hope would be no objection to my lord's sometimes making one with us? and though i don't pretend to write like you, yet all the requisites to make a good companion are not confined to poetry! no, sir, even a man's inoffensive follies and blunders may sometimes have their merits at the best table; and in those, i am sure, you won't pretend to vie with me: why then may not my lord be as much in the right, in his sometimes choosing _colley_ to laugh at, as at other times in his picking up _sawney_, whom he can only admire? thus far, then, i hope we are upon a par; for the lord, you see, will fit either of us. as to the latter charge, the _whore_, there indeed, i doubt you will have the better of me; for i must own, that i believe i know more of _your_ whoring than you do of _mine_; because i don't recollect that ever i made you the least confidence of _my_ amours, though i have been very near an eye-witness of _yours_----by the way, gentle reader, don't you think, to say only, _a man has his whore_, without some particular circumstances to aggravate the vice, is the flattest piece of satyr that ever fell from the formidable pen of mr. _pope_? because (_defendit numerus_) take the first ten thousand men you meet, and i believe, you would be no loser, if you betted ten to one that every single sinner of them, one with another, had been guilty of the same frailty. but as mr. _pope_ has so particularly picked me out of the number to make an example of: why may i not take the same liberty, and even single him out for another to keep me in countenance? he must excuse me, then, if in what i am going to relate, i am reduced to make bold with a little private conversation: but as he has shewn no mercy to _colley_, why should so unprovok'd an aggressor expect any for himself? and if truth hurts him, i can't help it. he may remember, then (or if he won't i will) when _button_'s coffee-house was in vogue, and so long ago, as when he had not translated above two or three books of _homer_; there was a late young nobleman (as much his _lord_ as mine) who had a good deal of wicked humour, and who, though he was fond of having wits in his company, was not so restrained by his conscience, but that he lov'd to laugh at any merry mischief he could do them: this noble wag, i say, in his usual _gayetè de coeur_, with another gentleman still in being, one evening slily seduced the celebrated mr. _pope_ as a wit, and myself as a laugher, to a certain house of carnal recreation, near the _hay-market_; where his lordship's frolick propos'd was to slip his little _homer_, as he call'd him, at a girl of the game, that he might see what sort of figure a man of his size, sobriety, and vigour (in verse) would make, when the frail fit of love had got into him; in which he so far succeeded, that the smirking damsel, who serv'd us with tea, happen'd to have charms sufficient to tempt the little-tiny manhood of mr. _pope_ into the next room with her: at which you may imagine, his lordship was in as much joy, at what might happen within, as our small friend could probably be in possession of it: but i (forgive me all ye mortified mortals whom his fell satyr has since fallen upon) observing he had staid as long as without hazard of his health he might, i, _prick'd to it by foolish honesty and love,_ as _shakespear_ says, without ceremony, threw open the door upon him, where i found this little hasty hero, like a terrible _tom tit_, pertly perching upon the mount of love! but such was my surprize, that i fairly laid hold of his heels, and actually drew him down safe and sound from his danger. my lord, who staid tittering without, in hopes the sweet mischief he came for would have been compleated, upon my giving an account of the action within, began to curse, and call me an hundred silly puppies, for my impertinently spoiling the sport; to which with great gravity i reply'd; pray, my lord, consider what i have done was, in regard to the honour of our nation! for would you have had so glorious a work as that of making _homer_ speak elegant _english_, cut short by laying up our little gentleman of a malady, which his thin body might never have been cured of? no, my lord! _homer_ would have been too serious a sacrifice to our evening merriment. now as his _homer_ has since been so happily compleated, who can say, that the world may not have been obliged to the kindly care of _colley_ that so great a work ever came to perfection? and now again, gentle reader, let it be judged, whether the _lord_ and the _whore_ above-mention'd might not, with equal justice, have been apply'd to sober _sawney_ the satyrist, as to _colley_ the criminal? though i confess recrimination to be but a poor defence for one's own faults; yet when the guilty are accusers, it seems but just, to make use of any truth, that may invalidate their evidence: i therefore hope, whatever the serious reader may think amiss in this story, will be excused, by my being so hardly driven to tell it. i could wish too, it might be observed, that whatever faults i find with the morals of mr. _pope_, i charge none to his poetical capacity, but chiefly to his _ruling passion_, which is so much his master, that we must allow, his inimitable verse is generally warmest, where his too fond indulgence of that passion inspires it. how much brighter still might that genius shine, could it be equally inspired by good-nature! now though i may have less reason to complain of his severity, than many others, who may have less deserv'd it: yet by his crowding me into so many of his satyrs, it is plain his ill-will is oftner at work upon _cibber_, than upon any mortal he has had a mind to make a dunce, or a devil of: and as there are about half a score remaining verses, where _cibber_ still fills up the numbers, and which i have not yet produced, i think it will pretty near make good my observation: most of them, 'tis true, are so slight marks of his disfavour, that i can charge them with little more, than a mere idle liberty with my name; i shall therefore leave the greater part of them without farther observation to make the most of their meaning. some few of them however (perhaps from my want of judgment) seem so ambiguous, as to want a little explanation. in his first epistle of the second book of _horace_, ver. 86, speaking of the uncertainty of the publick judgment upon dramatick authors, after naming the best, he concludes his list of them thus: _but for the passions,_ southern _sure, and_ rowe. _these, only these support the crouded stage, from eldest_ heywood _down to_ cibber_'s age_. here he positively excludes _cibber_ from any share in supporting the stage as an author; and yet, in the lines immediately following, he seems to allow it him, by something so like a commendation, that if it be one, it is at the same time a contradiction to _cibber_'s being the dunce, which the _dunciad_ has made of him. but i appeal to the verses; here they are--_ver._ 87. _all this may be; the peoples voice is odd, it is, and it is not the voice of god. to_ gammer gurton _if it give the bays, and yet deny_ the careless husband _praise._ now if _the careless husband_ deserv'd praise, and had it, must it not (without comparing it with the works of the above-cited authors) have had its share in supporting the stage? which mr. _pope_ might as well have allow'd it to have had, as to have given it the commendation he seems to do: i say (_seems_) because is saying (_if_) the people deny'd it praise, seems to imply they _had_ deny'd it; or if they had _not_ deny'd it, (which is true) then his censure upon the people is false. upon the whole, the meaning of these verses stands in so confus'd a light, that i confess i don't clearly discern it. 'tis true, the late general _dormer_ intimated to me, that he believ'd mr. _pope_ intended them as a compliment to _the careless husband_; but if it be a compliment, i rather believe it was a compliment to that gentleman's good-nature, who told me a little before this epistle was publish'd, that he had been making interest for a little mercy to his friend _colley_ in it. but this, it seems, was all he could get for him: however, had his wit stopt here, and said no more of me, for that gentleman's sake, i might have thank'd him: but whatever restraint he might be under then, after this gentleman's decease we shall see he had none upon him: for now out comes a new _dunciad_, where, in the first twenty lines he takes a fresh _lick at the laureat_; as fidlers and prize-fighters always give us a flourish before they come to the tune or the battle in earnest. come then, let us see what your mighty mountain is in labour of? oh! here we have it! _new dun. ver._ 20. dulness mounts the throne, _&c._ and--- _soft in her lap her laureat son reclines._ hah! fast asleep it seems! no, that's a little too strong. _pert_ and _dull_ at least you might have allow'd me; but as seldom asleep as any fool.----sure your own eyes could not be open, when so lame and solemn a conceit came from you: what, am i only to be dull, and dull still, and again, and for ever? but this, i suppose, is one of your _decies repetita placebit_'s. for, in other words, you have really said this of me ten times before--no, it must be written in a dream, and according to _dryden_'s description of dead midnight too, where, among other strong images, he gives us this- _even lust and_ envy _sleep._ now, sir, had not _your_ envy been as fast as a fat alderman in sermon-time, you would certainly have thrown out something more spirited than so trite a repetition could come up to. but it is the nature of malevolence, it seems, when it gets a spiteful saying by the end, not to be tired of it so soon as its hearers are.----well, and what then? you will say; it lets the world see at least, that you are resolv'd to write _about me_, and _about me_, to the last. in fine, mr. _pope_, this yawning wit would make one think you had got into the laureat's place, and were taking a nap yourself. but, perhaps, there may be a concealed brightness in this verse, which your notes may more plainly illustrate: let us see then what your fictitious friend and flatterer _scriblerus_ says to it. why, first he mangles a paragraph which he quotes from my _apology_ for my own life, _chap._ 2. and then makes his particular use of it. but as i have my uses to make of it as well as himself, i shall beg leave to give it the reader without his castrations. he begins it thus, "when i find my name in the satyrical works of this poet," _&c._ but i say,--- "when i, therefore, find my name, _at length_, in the satyrical works _of our most celebrated living author_"---now, sir, i must beg your pardon, but i cannot think it was your meer modesty that left out the title i have given you, because you have so often suffer'd your friend _scriblerus_ (that is yourself) in your notes to make you compliments of a much higher nature. but, perhaps, you were unwilling to let the reader observe, that though you had so often befoul'd my name in your satyrs, i could still give you the language due to a gentleman, which, perhaps, at the same time too, might have put him in mind of the poor and pitiful return you have made to it. but to go on with our paragraph----he again continues it thus--- "i never look upon it as any malice meant to me, but profit to himself"---but where is my parenthesis, mr. _filch_? if you are asham'd of it, i have no reason to be so, and therefore the reader shall have it: my sentence then runs thus--- "i never look upon those lines as malice meant to me (for he knows i never provok'd it) _&c._ these last words indeed might have star'd you too full in the face, not to have put your conscience out of countenance. but a wit of your intrepidity, i see, is above that vulgar weakness. after this sneaking omission, you have still the same scruple against some other lines in the text to come: but as you serve _your_ purposes by leaving them out, you must give me leave to serve _mine_ by supplying them. i shall therefore give the reader the rest entire, and only mark what you don't choose should be known in _italicks_, viz. "_one of his points must be to have many readers_: he considers, that my face and name are more known than _those of_ many _thousands of more consequence_ in the kingdom, that, therefore, _right or wrong_, a lick at the laureat will always be a sure bait, _ad captandum vulgus_, to catch him little readers: _and that to gratify the unlearned, by now and then interspersing those merry sacrifices of an old acquaintance to their taste, in a piece of quite right poetical craft_." now, sir, is there any thing in this paragraph (which you have so maim'd and sneer'd at) that, taken all together, could merit the injurious reception you have given it? ought i, for this, to have had the stale affront of _dull_, and _impudent_, repeated upon me? or could it have lessen'd the honour of your understanding, to have taken this quiet resentment of your frequent ill usage in good part? or had it not rather been a mark of your justice and generosity, not to have pursued me with fresh instances of your ill-will upon it? or, on the contrary, could you be so weak as to envy me the patience i was master of, and therefore could not bear to be, in any light, upon amicable terms with me? i hope your temper is not so unhappy as to be offended, or in pain, when your insults are return'd with civilities? or so vainly uncharitable as to value yourself for laughing at my folly, in supposing you never had any real malicious intention against me? no, you could not, sure, believe, the world would take it for granted, that _every_ low, vile thing you had said of me, was evidently _true_? how then can you hold me in such derision, for finding your freedom with my name, a better excuse than you yourself are able to give, or are willing to accept of? or, admitting, that my deceived opinion of your goodness was so much real simplicity and ignorance, was not even that, at least, pardonable? might it not have been taken in a more favourable sense by any man of the least candour or humanity? but--i am afraid, mr. _pope_, the severely different returns you have made to it, are indications of a heart i want a name for. upon the whole, while you are capable of giving such a trifling turn to my patience, i see but very little hopes of my ever removing your prejudice: for in your notes upon the above paragraph (to which i refer the reader) you treat me more like a rejected flatterer, than a critick: but, i hope, you now find that i have at least taken off that imputation, by my using no reserve in shewing the world from what you have said of _me_, what i think of _you_. had not therefore this last usage of me been so particular, i scarce believe the importunity of my friends, or the inclination i have to gratify them, would have prevailed with me to have taken this publick notice of whatever names you had formerly call'd me. i have but one article more of your high-spirited wit to examine, and then i shall close our account. in _ver._ 524 of the same poem, you have this expression, _viz._ cibberian _forehead_-----by which i find you modestly mean _cibber_'s impudence; and, by the place it stands in, you offer it as a sample of the _strongest_ impudence.----sir, your humble servant----but pray, sir, in your epistle to dr. _arbuthnot_, (where, by the way, in your ample description of a great poet, you slily hook in a whole hat-full of virtues to your own character) have not you this particular line among them? _viz._ _and thought a_ lye, _in verse or prose the same._ now, sir, if you can get all your readers to believe me as impudent as you make me, your verse, with the lye in it, may have a good chance to be thought true: if _not_, the lye in your verse will never get out of it. this, i confess, is only arguing with the same confidence that you sometimes write; that is, we both flatly affirm, and equally expect to be believ'd. but here, indeed, your talent has something the better of me; for any accusation, in smooth verse, will always sound well, though it is not tied down to have a tittle of truth in it; when the strongest defence in poor humble prose, not having that harmonious advantage, takes no body by the ear: and yet every one must allow this may be very hard upon an innocent man: for suppose, in prose now, i were as confidently to insist, that you were an _honest, good-natur'd, inoffensive creature_, would my barely saying so be any proof of it? no, sure! why then might it not be suppos'd an equal truth, that both our assertions were equally false? _yours_, when you call me _impudent_; _mine_, when i call you _modest_, &c. if, indeed, you could say, that with a remarkable shyness, i had avoided any places of publick resort, or that i had there met with coldness, reproof, insult, or any of the usual rebuffs that impudence is liable to, or had been reduced to retire from that part of the world i had impudently offended, your _cibberian forehead_ then might have been as just and as sore a brand as the hangman could have apply'd to me. but as i am not yet under that misfortune, and while the general benevolence of my superiors still suffers me to stand my ground, or occasionally to sit down with them, i hope it will be thought that rather the _papal_, than the _cibberian_ forehead, ought to be out of countenance. but it is time to have done with you. in your advertisement to your first satyr of your second book of _horace_, you have this just observation. _to a true satyrist, nothing is so odious, as a libeller._ now, that you are often an admirable satyrist, no man of true taste can deny: but, that you are always a _true_ (that is a _just_) one, is a question not yet decided in your favour. i shall not take upon me to prove the injuries of your pen, which many candid readers, in the behalf of others, complain of: but if the gross things you have said of so inconsiderable a man as myself, have exceeded the limited province of a _true_ satyrist, they are sufficient to have forfeited your claim to that title. for if a man, from his being admitted the best poet, imagines himself so much lifted above the world, that he has a right to run a muck, and make sport with the characters of all ranks of people, to soil and begrime every face that is obnoxious to his ungovernable spleen or envy: can so vain, so inconsiderate, so elated an insolence, amongst all the follies he has lash'd, and laugh'd at, find a subject fitter for satyr than himself? how many other different good qualities ought such a temper to have in balance of this one bad one, this abuse of his genius, by so injurious a pride and self-sufficiency? and though it must be granted, that a true genius never grows in a barren soil, and therefore implies, that great parts and knowledge only could have produced it; yet it must be allow'd too, that the fairest fruits of the mind may lose a great deal of their naturally delicious taste, when blighted by ill-nature. how strict a guard then ought the _true_ satyrist to set upon his private passions! how clear a head! a heart how candid, how impartial, how incapable of injustice! what integrity of life, what general benevolence, what exemplary virtues ought that happy man to be master of, who, from such ample merit, raises himself to an office of that trust and dignity, as that of our universal censor? a man so qualified, indeed, might be a truly publick benefit, such a one, and only such a one, might have an uncontested right--- --------_to point the pen, brand the bold front of shameless, guilty men; dash the proud gamester, in his gilded car, bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star._ but should another (though of equal genius) whose mind were either sour'd by ill-nature, personal prejudice, or the lust of railing, usurp that province to the abuse of it. not all his pompous power of verse could shield him from as odious a censure, as such, his guilty pen could throw upon the innocent, or undeserving to be slander'd. what then must be the consequence? why naturally this: that such an indulgence of his passions, so let loose upon the world, would, at last, reduce him to fly from it! for sure the avoidance, the slights, the scouling eyes of every mixt company he might fall into, would be a mortification no vain-glorious man would stand, that had a retreat from it. here then, let us suppose him an involuntary philosopher, affecting to be----_nunquam minus solus, quam cùm solus_----never in better company than when alone: but as you have well observed in your essay--- _not always_ actions _shew the man- not therefore humble he, who seeks retreat, guilt guides his steps, and makes him shun the great._ (i beg your pardon, i have made a mistake; your verse says _pride_ guides his steps, _&c._ which, indeed, makes the antithesis to _humble_ much stronger, and more to your purpose; but it will serve mine as it is, so the error is scarce worth a correction.) but to return to our satyrical exile,----whom though we have supposed to be oftner alone, than an inoffensive man need wish to be; yet we must imagine that the fame of his wit would sometimes bring him company: for wits, like handsome women, though they wish one another at the devil, are my dear, and my dear! whenever they meet: nay some men are so fond of wit, that they would mix with the devil himself if they could laugh with him: if therefore any of this careless cast came to kill an hour with him, how would his smiling verse gloss over the curse of his confinement, and with a flowing animated vanity commemorate the peculiar honours they had paid him? but alas! would his high heart be contented, in his having the choice of his acquaintance so limited? how many for their friends, others for themselves, and some too in the dread of being the future objects of his spleen, would he feel had undesired the knowledge or the sight of him! but what's all this to you, mr. _pope_? for, as _shakespear_ says, _let the gall'd horse wince, our withers are unwrung_! but however, if it be not too late, it can do you no harm to look about you: for if this is not as yet your condition, i remember many years ago, to have seen you, though in a less degree, in a scrape, that then did not look, as if you would be long out of another. when you used to pass your hours at _button_'s, you were even there remarkable for your satyrical itch of provocation; scarce was there a gentleman of any pretension to wit, whom your unguarded temper had not fallen upon, in some biting epigram; among which you once caught a pastoral tartar, whose resentment, that your punishment might be proportion'd to the smart of your poetry, had stuck up a birchen rod in the room, to be ready, whenever you might come within reach of it; and at this rate you writ and rallied, and writ on, till you rhym'd yourself quite out of the coffee-house. but if solitude pleases you, who shall say you are not in the right to enjoy it? perhaps too, by this time you may be upon a par with mankind, and care as little for their company as they do for yours: though i rather hope you have chosen to be so shut up, in order to make yourself a better man. if you succeed in _that_, you will indeed be, what no body else, in haste will be, a better poet, than you _are_. and so, sir, i am, just as much as you believe me to be, _your humble servant_, colley cibber. _july_ the 7th 1742. william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles the augustan reprint society publications in print the augustan reprint society publications in print 1948-1949 16. henry nevil payne, _the fatal jealousie_ (1673). 17. nicholas rowe, _some account of the life of mr. william shakespear_ (1709). 18. anonymous, "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. 10 (1719), and aaron hill, preface to _the creation_ (1720). 1949-1950 19. susanna centlivre, _the busie body_ (1709). 20. lewis theobald, _preface to the works of shakespeare_ (1734). 22. samuel johnson, _the vanity of human wishes_ (1749), and two _rambler_ papers (1750). 23. john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ (1681). 1951-1952 26. charles macklin, _the man of the world_ (1792). 31. thomas gray, _an elegy wrote in a country churchyard_ (1751), and _the eton college manuscript_. 1952-1953 41. bernard mandeville, _a letter to dion_ (1732). 1962-1963 98. selected hymns taken out of mr. herbert's _temple ..._ (1697). 1964-1965 109. sir william temple, _an essay upon the original and nature of government_ (1680). 110. john tutchin, _selected poems_ (1685-1700). 111. anonymous, _political justice_ (1736). 112. robert dodsley, _an essay on fable_ (1764). 113. t. r., _an essay concerning critical and curious learning_ (1698). 114. two poems against pope: leonard welsted, _one epistle to mr. a. pope_ (1730), and anonymous, _the blatant beast_ (1742). 1965-1966 115. daniel defoe and others, _accounts of the apparition of mrs. veal_. 116. charles macklin, _the covent garden theatre_ (1752). 117. sir roger l'estrange, _citt and bumpkin_ (1680). 118. henry more, _enthusiasmus triumphatus_ (1662). 119. thomas traherne, _meditations on the six days of the creation_ (1717). 120. bernard mandeville, _aesop dress'd or a collection of fables_ (1740). 1966-1967 123. edmond malone, _cursory observations on the poems attributed to mr. thomas rowley_ (1782). 124. anonymous, _the female wits_ (1704). 125. anonymous, _the scribleriad_ (1742). lord hervey, _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_ (1742). 1967-1968 129. lawrence echard, _prefaces to terence's comedies_ (1694) and _plautus's comedies_ (1694). 1968-1969 133. john courtenay, _a poetical review of the literary and moral character of the late samuel johnson_ (1786). 134. john downes, _roscius anglicanus_ (1708). 135. sir john hill, _hypochondriasis, a practical treatise_ (1766). 136. thomas sheridan, _discourse ... being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language_ (1759). 137. arthur murphy, _the englishman from paris_ (1736). 1969-1970 138. [catherine trotter], _olinda's adventures_ (1718). 139. john ogilvie, _an essay on the lyric poetry of the ancients_ (1762). 140. _a learned dissertation on dumpling_ (1726) and _pudding burnt to pot or a compleat key to the dissertation on dumpling_ (1727). 141. selections from sir roger l'estrange's _observator_ (1681-1687). 142. anthony collins, _a discourse concerning ridicule and irony in writing_ (1729). 143. _a letter from a clergyman to his friend, with an account of the travels of captain lemuel gulliver_ (1726). 144. _the art of architecture, a poem. in imitation of horace's art of poetry_ (1742). 1970-1971 145-146. thomas shelton, _a tutor to tachygraphy, or short-writing_ (1642) and _tachygraphy_ (1647). 147-148. _deformities of dr. samuel johnson_ (1782). 149. _poeta de tristibus: or the poet's complaint_ (1682). 150. gerard langbaine. _momus triumphans: or the plagiaries of the english stage_ (1687). 1971-1972 151-152. evan lloyd, _the methodist._ a poem (1766). 153. _are these things so?_ (1740), and _the great man's answer to are these things so?_ (1740). 154. arbuthnotiana: _the story of the st. albans ghost_ (1712), and _a catalogue of dr. arbuthnot's library_ (1779). 155-156. a selection of emblems from herman hugo's _pia desideria_ (1624), with english adaptations by francis quarles and edmund arwaker. the augustan reprint society william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles 2520 cimarron street (at west adams), los angeles, california 90018 publications of the first fifteen years of the society (numbers 1-90) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $16.00 per unit, from the kraus reprint company, 16 east 46th street, new york, n. y. 10017. publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of $5.00 for individuals and $8.00 for institutions per year. prices of single issues may be obtained upon request. subsequent publications may be checked in the annual prospectus. _make check or money order payable to_ the regents of the university of california transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the following misprints have been corrected: "geniunely" corrected to "genuinely" (page iv) "copywright" corrected to "copyright" (page viii) "severly" corrected to "severely" (page ix) images generously made available by the internet archive.) pope: his descent and family connections. facts and conjectures. by joseph hunter. ancestry, whose grace chalks successors their way, shakespeare. london: john russell smith, 36, soho square. m.dccc.lvii. london: f. pickton, printer, perry's place, 29, oxford street. the following tract is an enlargement of the principal portion of an account which i propose to give of pope, in _poets and verse writers, from chaucer to pope: new facts in their history_--should the public curiosity respecting them call for the publication of what i have collected and written. october 26, 1857. pope: his descent and family connections. two persons of noble birth, who thought themselves insulted in the "imitation of the first of the second book of the satires of horace," retorted upon the poet with a severity not wholly undeserved. unlike pope, who had dismissed them both in a line or two, they composed their attacks very elaborately, seeking out everything that could offend him,--defects for which he must be held responsible, and those for which no man can justly be so held. one of these latter points was, want of _birth_. the lines, whilst none thy crabbed numbers can endure, hard as thy heart, and _as thy birth obscure_, are attributed to the lady mary wortley montague; but johnson assigns them to lord hervey,[1] who attacked pope in another poem, in which he makes it a charge that he was a hatter's son, and insults him on the score of the meanness of his family. these allusions to his origin seem to have galled the poet more than anything else that was said of him. he was then living in what is called high society, and it was of some importance to him not to be thought meanly bred. three courses were open to him. he might have assumed to pass over the charge as unworthy his notice: he might have claimed it as a merit to have surpassed his ancestors, and risen to distinction by his own genius, "out of himself drawing his web;" or he might deny the charge altogether. he adopted the last of these courses, and in this he acted wisely and honestly. when a defence against such a charge is undertaken, there is an advantage in the difficulty of defining that really undefinable quality called _birth_. there is an _absolute_, and a _relative_, want of it. a rich mercantile family may be a good family when compared with persons of the same class who have been less successful than they; a family owning a good estate in the country is a good family amongst the neighbours; a race of persons eminent in any of the professions may be called a good family. but place these by the side of the ancient aristocracy of the country, who have maintained this position for centuries, and what are they? and let persons even of acknowledged antiquity and elevation be brought into the company of kings and emperors, or even of the great families of the continent, and they lose something of their lustre:- a deputy shines bright as doth a king until a king be by. undoubtedly, pope could not in this respect compare himself with the pierrepoints and the herveys; and _to them_ his birth would necessarily appear obscure, if they thought at all about it, and chose to take the unkinder view. but pope knew that what was _relatively_ true might be _absolutely_ untrue. he therefore took the first opportunity of claiming publicly what in his opinion belonged to him. in the _epistle to dr. arbuthnot_, which was written early in 1733, he speaks of his birth thus:- of _gentle blood_ (part shed in honour's cause, while yet in britain honour had applause) _each parent_ sprung-then follows his touching notice of his father, and of his mother (who was then living, in her ninety-third year), not the less genuine for being written in imitation of horace. they are handed down for ever as people of unspotted names, and venerable long, if there be force in virtue or in song. to these lines this note is appended:--"mr. pope's father was of a gentleman's family in oxfordshire, the head of which was the earl of downe, whose sole heiress married the earl of lindsey. his mother was the daughter of william turner, esq., of york: she had three brothers, one of whom was killed, another died, in the service of king charles; the eldest following his fortunes, and becoming a general officer in spain, left her what estate remained after the sequestrations and forfeitures of her family." in his more formal reply to his noble assailant, he says that his father was a younger brother,--"that he was no mechanic (neither a hatter, nor, which might please your lordship yet better, a cobler), but in truth of a very honourable family, and my mother of an ancient one." it happened that while this subject was fresh in the public mind, and within a very few weeks after he had finished his _epistle to dr. arbuthnot_, the death of his mother occurred. this gave him a fair occasion of publicly asserting his claim to a good position in respect of birth. accordingly, the following notice, which appeared in the _gentleman's magazine_ for june 1733, we cannot doubt came from himself:--"_june 8._ died mrs. editha pope, aged 93, the last survivor of the children of william turner, of york, esq., who, by thomasine newton, his wife, had fourteen daughters and three sons, two of which died in the king's service in the civil wars, and the eldest retired into spain, where he died a general officer." pope had now said all that he proposed to make public; and accordingly we find nothing more concerning his descent in the _memoirs of the life and writings of alexander pope, esquire_, published by william ayre in 1745, the year after the poet's death. he might, or might not, have been acquainted with the letter to curl with the signature p. t., in which a person professing to be well acquainted with pope's family, undertakes to inform curl respecting them. this letter has, strangely, been attributed to some actual friend of pope, and even to the poet himself writing thus anonymously to curl, with whom he was at the time in open war. who p. t. specifically was, has, perhaps, not been discovered; but that he was a person with whom curl had unfair dealings respecting the collection of pope's letters, will be seen in mr. ayre's _memoirs_, p. 300. the information in this letter has been generally received by later writers on the life of pope, as worthy of the same acceptation which is yielded to the poet's avowed statements respecting his family; and, undoubtedly, it proceeds from some one who was acquainted with facts in the history of the family a little beyond those which the poet himself had divulged. to those facts it adds the following:--that pope's father had an elder brother who studied and died at oxford: that the father was himself a posthumous child: that he was put to a merchant in flanders, and acquired a moderate estate by merchandise, which he quitted at the revolution, and retired to windsor forest, where he purchased a small estate: that he married one of the seventeen children of william turner, esq., formerly of burfit hall, in yorkshire: and that two of his wife's brothers were killed in the civil wars. the last clause shows the carelessness with which this letter was written. it is evidently copied from what mr. pope had himself written; but then mr. pope's account of the matter is, that one brother was slain, and the other died, in the service of king charles the first. to what mr. pope had said of his maternal grandfather, the writer of this letter adds, that he was of burfit hall in yorkshire. "burfit" is the country people's pronunciation of birthwaite, an old seat of the yorkshire baronet family of burdet. i would not say that he may not have been a temporary inhabitant of this house, but it can have been but a short tenancy by mr. turner, whose far more proper designation was that which pope had given him, "of york," where he for the most part resided. the seventeen children is but a repetition of what pope had himself told us, and which is supported by better evidence than the testimony of this anonymous writer. that he acquired a fortune by merchandise is doubtless true, though, probably, but a small one; but when he says that the elder pope had been put to a merchant in flanders, this is at variance with what we are told by a relation of the family (of whom immediately), that it was to lisbon that he was sent for the purpose, and that there it was that he became a roman catholic. that he was a posthumous child is peculiar to this communication. i think i shall show it to be a little uncertain, supposing that his age at the time of his death is truly stated on his monument: of the brother studying and dying at oxford, also peculiar to the letter, i have seen nothing to support or to disprove. this will be sufficient to show that there can be no good reason to attribute this letter to pope himself, or to any person who had received information from him to be given to the world in this form; and, secondly, that in the points where this communication is at all at variance with what mr. pope had himself sanctioned, or professes to carry our information beyond what he had told us, its testimony is to be received, if at all, with great caution. we may, therefore, be said to receive very little more on this subject from the poet's contemporaries than what he himself on the one side, and his enemies on the other, chose to communicate. it is quite insufficient for forming a right judgment on the question. there is very little fact, no proof, and no detail. if the point was worth raising at all, it was worth settling: besides that, the curiosity of later times craves more than this, when intent on studying the lives of england's greatest worthies. dr. johnson is content to dismiss the subject thus:--"this, and this only, is told by pope, who is more willing, as i have heard it observed, to show what his father was not, than what he was." but johnson lived in a century when there was little desire of minute and exact information respecting even the most eminent of our countrymen; and in writing of pope as of milton, he has certainly kept himself free from the temptation which besets all biographers, of becoming enamoured of those of whom they write. the spirit of research, however, was not entirely dormant even in that century. editors and biographers did look around for anything that would easily present itself: nor can what they observed be said to have been wholly unimportant, for they brought to light one piece of evidence which deserves to be received with the same confidence which the testimony of pope himself receives at our hands. this comes from a certain mr. potenger, who called himself a cousin of pope. he gave the information to dr. bolton, who was dean of carlisle, who communicated it to dr. joseph warton, from whom we receive it. his information was to this effect:--that the poet's grandfather was a clergyman in hampshire: that the poet's father was the younger of two sons, and was sent to lisbon to be placed in a mercantile house: that there he left the church of england and became a roman catholic: that he knew nothing of the "fine pedigree" which his cousin pope set up, and that as to a descent from the earls of downe, he was confident no such descent could be proved, for if it had been so, he must have heard of it from a maiden aunt, who stood in the same degree of relationship to pope and to himself, who was a great genealogist, excessively fond of talking of her family, and who most certainly, therefore, would have spoken of this descent if it were so. this is the substance of mr. potenger's valuable information, as it has been received and incorporated by roscoe and others of the late writers on the life of pope. mr. potenger, however, in one respect does some injustice to the poet's memory. mr. pope nowhere says that he descended of an earl of downe, but only that he was of the same family as that from which the earl of downe sprang; which is quite a different thing, and probably true. my own researches have done something to enable me to extend the very limited information we possess on this subject: not much, perhaps, it will be thought, but it will be sound as far as it goes, and will be presented in the simple guise of truth, with no intention of unduly magnifying or unfairly weakening the claim set up by the poet himself. he having made the claim to be "of gentle blood," beside the interest which belongs to the question as part of the poet's history, his truthfulness and honour may be said to be involved in it, points of even more importance than his wonderful moral sagacity, and the unrivalled felicity of his numbers. i treat of the two families apart. i. the popes. alexander pope, the poet's father, if he was seventy-four or seventy-five at the time of his death in 1717, may be presumed to have been born in 1641 or 1642. he was a younger son, and is said by p. t. to have been a posthumous child, and that while his elder brother, who inherited the larger share of the family property, was sent to oxford, where he died, he was brought up to commerce. it has never been shown by whom this arrangement was made, for before his birth, his father (of whom afterwards), according to the letter to curl, was dead: and if not dead, he died when his son was quite an infant. all accounts agree that he was sent abroad to complete his mercantile education--an expensive course, which of itself shows that he was of no very mean stock, and that, though the younger son of a widow, his relatives had the means of giving him a fair start in life. there are, as we have seen, two opposing accounts from persons who professed to know the facts respecting the place to which he was sent, one stating it to be flanders, the other, with more of probability, lisbon, with the additional information, that at lisbon he joined the roman catholic church, or that there, at least, was laid the foundation of the change in his religious profession. from that time there is a blank in his history till his thirty-fifth year, 1677, when he was living in broad street, london, where many of the principal merchants of the time resided or carried on their business. this we learn from a 12mo volume, printed for samuel lee in that year, entitled _a collection of the names of the merchants living in and about the city of london_. books of this kind are of some rarity, being by most persons thought worthless and are destroyed, when superseded by others of a later date. i have a copy which has survived the general wreck, and has been long in my possession. i copy from it the names of three popes who occur in the list:- james pope, abchurch lane. alexander pope, broad street. joseph pope, redriff. there can be no reasonable doubt that alexander is the poet's father; and it is worth observation that this is a list of "merchants" properly so called--persons engaged in the higher walks of commerce. the number of the names is about 1770. hence we must infer that the poet's father was not, at that time at least, pursuing any low or mean occupation, but one in which in those days it was not unusual to place the younger sons of gentry, and sometimes even of the nobility of the land. he was then, or very soon after, married, not to the mother of his celebrated son, but to a former wife, whose name was magdalen, but whose surname is at present unknown. this is a recent discovery of some one whose curiosity has led him to consult the register of st. benet fink, the parish in which part of broad street is situated, where this entry was found:--"1679, august 12. bur. magdalen, wife of alexander pope." she left him one child, a daughter named magdalen, afterwards mrs. racket, whose sons were the poet's heirs. the next event (after another period marked by no incidents with which we are acquainted) is his marriage with edith turner, his second wife. this may be presumed to have taken place in 1686 or 1687, the only child, the poet, having been born in may or june, 1688. authorities differ respecting the day, and also the place, one naming lombard street, another cheapside. the father had, therefore, changed his residence, but was still living among the trading aristocracy, and we have no reason to believe that he had receded from his original position of a london merchant. he acquired some additional property, perhaps considerable, with his wife edith. she seems to have been the favourite of her brother, the "general officer in spain," whatever that phrase may denote,--for pope says, she inherited from him what remained of the fortunes of the family, and it must have been from him that the elder alexander pope acquired the valuable interest he possessed in the manor of ruston, near scarborough. they were both of mature age at their marriage. fixing the time in 1686, he would be, according to his monumental inscription, forty-five, and she forty-four. this change in his position had doubtless something to do with his retirement from business very soon after the revolution,--perhaps as much as his disgust at the political change which had taken place, or his love of retirement, the motives usually assigned for the step he took. he did not immediately establish himself in his retreat at binfield, for mr. roscoe in his life of the poet informs us, that he lived for a while at kensington. no long interval, however, appears to have elapsed between his final departure from london, and his settlement on a small estate which he bought at binfield, which is on windsor forest, two or three miles from the town of wokingham. commerce has its vicissitudes, and the poet's father may have had sensible proof of this obvious fact. but there is no evidence, as far as we yet know, that he was ever "unfortunate" in his commercial career. that he did not attain to great wealth, like many of his contemporaries, is certain; but neither did he, like some others of a more adventurous disposition, sink into despondency. when one of pope's enemies taunted him with being the son of a person who had been a bankrupt, he calls it a "pitiful untruth," and this at a time when there were many persons living who must have known if it had been so, and many others who would have been glad to propagate the libel. hearne, who disliked pope, inserted in his private note-book, for future use if necessary, that his father was "a sort of broken merchant." the truth probably is, that he saved something in his business, and added to it by his marriage; and it is certain that he was able to live for many years an easy disengaged life, and at his death to leave his son â£300 or â£400 a year. he made his will on february 9, 1710. i take a few notes of it from mr. carruthers's recent publication. he gives to his wife edith the furniture of her chamber, her rings and jewels, and â£20: to his son-in-law charles racket and his daughter magdalen his wife, â£5 each, for mourning: all else, including rent-charge out of the manor of ruston, in yorkshire, together with lands at binfield, and at winsham, in surrey, to his son alexander pope, whom he makes executor. he died in 1717, and the will was proved on the 8th of november in that year. so far i have had little to do but to repeat what has been previously told by others. but now we come to the question, who was the poet's grandfather, the merchant's father? this question, hitherto unresolved, i propose to answer. when thomas warton, in the appendix to the life of sir thomas pope, the founder of trinity college, oxford, and also the founder of the family of pope, earls of downe, with whom pope claimed kindred, enters on the consideration of this question, he admits the probability that such a relationship existed, but professes his utter inability to ascend beyond the father, in pursuit of the poet's ancestors. the attempt to do so has been made by others, who have brought far less of antiquarianism into literary history than warton. mr. carruthers can find no trace of him. and it may be stated generally, that no one has (publicly at least) made any approach to the determination of the question. yet this was plainly the first step to be taken in any investigation of the poet's claim to be of "gentle blood." literary biography owes much to the wartons--more than the present writers in this department seem disposed to acknowledge; and it is to a warton, not thomas, but his brother, dr. joseph warton, that we owe the hint upon which i have proceeded, and, as i believe, settled the question for ever. dr. warton, we have seen, in his _essay on the genius and writings of pope_, 1780, vol. ii., informs us, that he learned from dr. bolton, dean of carlisle, that he had heard from a mr. potenger, a cousin of pope, that pope's grandfather was _a clergyman of the church of england living in hampshire_. this has been accepted by mr. roscoe, and others who have written on the life of pope since 1780; but, though attempts have been made, no one has hitherto succeeded in establishing the truth of mr. potenger's statement, by singling him out from amongst the hampshire clergy of his time, and showing his position. in looking over the list of beneficed clergymen in the county of hants, in the period within which he lived, presented to us by the book of compositions for first fruits, i find _only one person of the name of pope_, and his name was alexander. this of itself would be sufficient to support mr. potenger's account; and to set before us the person for whom search has before been unsuccessfully made. then as to his residence and position in the church, we find in these books of compositions:-1. on the 31st of january, 1631, alexander pope compounded for the first fruits of the rectory of thruxton, in the county of hants. 2. on november 23, 1633, he compounded for the first fruits of the prebend of middleton. 3. and on may 23, 1639, for the first fruits of the prebend of ichen-abbots. as he held thruxton till his death, he must be considered in the light of a clergyman possessed of good preferment, in fact, as belonging to the superior class of the clergy in the diocese of winchester. thruxton is a rectory in the neighbourhood of andover; and ichen-abbots is in bountesborough hundred, a few miles north of winchester. why this living and middleton are called prebends, the only livings in the county so designated, we shall know better when the labours of some sufficient topographer have been directed upon hampshire. the next step was to ascertain whether anything respecting himself or his family could be found at thruxton; and in this inquiry i received the most obliging attention from the officiating minister, who examined the church and went through the register to see whether any memorial existed of persons of the name of pope. the result was less satisfactory than i had hoped: for it appears that there is no memorial of him in the church, and the register supplies us with no information touching himself or family, except the following entry amongst the burials:-"1645. february 21.--alexander pope, minister of thruxton, was buried." this, however, is of value. it shows us that he held not his living long, about fourteen years; that he probably died in middle life; and that his son alexander, the merchant, could have been no more than a very young child when he lost his parent. it does not show us that he was actually a posthumous child; but then there is a possibility that the inscription on his monument, which is expressed in too general terms, may not be strictly correct in setting forth his age at the time of his death. however, the difference is not great between his being literally a posthumous child, and an infant of two or three years old when he lost his father. but it may be asked, since pope must have known perfectly well the name and highly respectable position in life of his grandfather, why he did not come boldly forward and claim to be descended of a clergyman born in the reign of elizabeth, and dying in the prime of life, when occupying so good a position? it would have been a more sufficient answer to the taunt of obscure birth, and have shown to the world his descent, if not from a great, yet from a cultivated, ancestry. it is, perhaps, idle to attempt to divine the cause, but it is no unreasonable conjecture that here his religious, or rather ecclesiastical, opinions came into play, and that he, a roman catholic, would not regard with the same satisfaction as others would, a descent from a protestant clergyman, _a married priest_, nor would be over solicitous that others should know, on his authority, that his father was the offspring of such an unhallowed union--that is, as he would esteem it. but what if it should turn out that this clergyman was not only a protestant minister possessed of considerable preferment, but that he also belonged to that section of the church of england which was the most remote from the church of rome, and which held it in especial abhorrence? that he was either the son-in-law or the grandson of one who is always placed in the first rank of the puritan ministers of the reign of elizabeth, the noted and long-lived john dodd, of fawsley, in northamptonshire? i shall first state a few well-established matters of fact, and then the probable inferences to be drawn from them. i refer, first, to the will of robert barcroft, of corpus christi college, oxford, d.d., made on the 29th of april, 1627. he gives "to his godson, john wilkins, zanchi's works, so many as i have, to be delivered to his father-in-law, mr. alexander pope, for his use." wilkins was then a boy; and wood informs us (_ath. oxon._ ii. 105) that he was the son of a walter wilkins, a goldsmith of oxford, and that his mother was one of the daughters of dodd of fawsley, where wilkins was born. further, that wilkins was uterine brother to dr. walter pope, who, in his _life of bishop seth ward_, speaks of this relationship. wilkins was the bishop of chester of that name, and one of the founders of the royal society. wood appears not to have known, any more than his informant aubrey, that alexander was the name of pope, the father-in-law (which here means stepfather) of wilkins; and neither has dr. walter pope, aubrey, or anthony wood, told us anything about him. the question is, was _this_ alexander pope, of dr. barcroft's will, the alexander pope who died rector of thruxton? was he the father of the rector, or was there, in 1627, two alexander popes, both clergymen connected with oxford, but not nearly connected with each other? a little further light, which possibly the records of the university of oxford might supply, may enable some one to dispose of these questions. all i at present venture to say is, that the probabilities seem to incline in favour of the supposition that the alexander pope who was instituted to the rectory of thruxton in 1631, is the alexander pope named in dr. barcroft's will in 1627, and consequently the alexander pope who married the widow of walter wilkins. but then i should propose a further conjecture (in questions such as these we must allow conjectures, and bear to hear of probabilities), that there was a second marriage of the rector of thruxton, of which the poet's father was the issue, and that dr. walter pope, the poet and miscellaneous writer, was the offspring of the first marriage. yet i state this dubiously; and, considering how much we know of dr. walter pope and of bishop wilkins, find it difficult to reconcile the want of any trace of family connection between them and the poet, with the supposition that dr. walter pope was half-brother to the london merchant. perhaps, after all, there were two alexanders connected with oxford, and dr. walter pope, the child of the one, father or uncle of the hampshire clergyman. it is to be regretted that more has not been preserved of what mr. potenger could have told of the popes, from recollections of the conversations of the maiden aunt, who must have been sister to the rector of thruxton; and as she stood, as he informs us, in the same degree of relationship to pope and to himself, it would follow that the father or mother of mr. potenger was issue of another sister or brother of the rector of thruxton. this affords hints as to the course which further inquiry should take; but i cannot pass by the indication which this fact affords of the respectability of the poet's paternal ancestry: the potengers of hampshire and dorsetshire being descendants of dr. john potenger, the celebrated headmaster of the winchester college school, whose son john potenger, born in 1647, was comptroller of the pipe.[2] there were certain peculiarities which remove dodd from the position of one of the crowd of puritan divines: a certain cheerfulness, hilarity, and also good practical common sense; and certainly his descendant, dr. walter pope, an ingenious man and no mean poet, is not to be charged with over much of the severity and strictness of the puritan life. the later pope, however, would not be over forward to reveal his connection with either dodd or dr. walter; else, if he really did descend from one of the many daughters of the rector of fawsley, he might have claimed to himself a descent which, on fair evidence, can be traced to the very depths of the antiquity of english families, the puritan divine being well known to be of the very ancient family of dodd of shockledge, in cheshire. a long account of him is given by dr. samuel clarke. we are now prepared to enter upon the question of pope's descent from a younger son of the family, which was ennobled by the irish title of earl of downe. this was all which he claimed for himself; and i should be unwilling to think him so foolish and disingenuous as to make this assertion without some good grounds; though possibly, if he or his father had collected evidence, they might not have been able to show how specifically they did so descend, with the precision now required by the college of arms. but probabilities are strongly in favour of the assertion. the title of earl of downe did not free the family of pope from the obscurity in which it had lived till one member of it had become greatly enriched by aiding in the measures which established the reformation in england. it will be at once perceived, by any one who may look into what is shown respecting them, that sir thomas pope had no grace of ancestry to boast of. his father, whose will we have, is the first of the family of whom anything is known, and the will shows that he was a man of small possessions, living at deddington, in oxfordshire. not that he was quite of the lowest class, as he desires to be buried within the walls of deddington church: in fact, he appears to have belonged to the rank of superior yeomanry, families who placed daughters in monasteries and sons in the church, or sent them to make their fortune in the cities. he made no pretension to the distinction even of a gentleman's coat-armour; for sir thomas pope, when he had acquired wealth, took a grant from barker in 1535. warton has traced his course with some assiduity; but we may compare with what he says the evidence of a person who had good means of knowing sir thomas pope's circumstances. "he was the son of a poor and mean man in deddington, in oxfordshire, within four miles of banbury, and over against somerton, and was born there; was brought up, when a boy, as a scribe and clerk by mr. john croke, one of the six clerks when wolsey was chancellor, and so lived with mr. croke till after the suppression. the lord audley made a motion to mr. croke to help him to some ready and expert clerk, to employ in the king's service about the suppression business; and mr. croke preferred thomas pope unto him, being then his household servant in livery, which was the first step of all his following good fortunes. this mr. croke was my wife's great-grandfather; and i have heard her grandfather, sir john croke, often say, that at his christening, thomas pope, then his father's man, carried the bason; and sir thomas pope, by his will, gave this sir john croke some of his best raiment as a token of his love unto the house and family." previously to the time when sir thomas pope made the acquisitions, the greater part of which he disposed of so nobly in the foundation of his college at oxford, his family made no marriages with the higher gentry. in short, there is nothing to interfere with the probability of the rector of thruxton being of a branch of the family, nor anything in it which the downe family could look upon as degrading. we must not suffer the glare of the coronet to mislead us: we are speaking of times before the popes were ennobled. the earls of downe were one of the many families who rose into distinction out of the spoils of the ancient church; but the rank given to them, and the wealth they possessed, to say nothing of any personal merit, would be a reasonable defence for pope to fall back upon under the circumstances. the earldom, we may observe, had long been extinct. the first earl was the son of john pope of wroxton, who was brother of sir thomas (who left no issue). the dignity was created by charles i. in 1628, not till then. the first peer was succeeded by his grandson, the second earl, who died at oxford in 1660. this is the earl of whom pope speaks, whose daughter and heir married the earl of lindsey. the third earl was uncle to the second, and in his son, who died in 1668, the title was lost, having existed for forty years only. we have pope's direct testimony that his ancestors were of oxfordshire, and we find them about oxford in the time of elizabeth. i think i have said sufficient to show that his claim to a distant kindred with the popes of wroxton, raised _per saltum_ from the rank of yeomen, is affected with no improbability on the score of disproportion of rank. the surname of pope is not uncommon, but chiefly found in the southern counties. no other family of that name, i believe, is ever stated to have claimed consanguinity with the founder of trinity college and the family of the earls of downe. we proceed now to speak of the poet's maternal descent. ii. the turners. of gentle blood, part shed in honour's cause,- _each_ parent sprung. in the note on this passage, pope expresses a kind of preference for his descent on the mother's side, calling the turners an ancient family, which means that they possessed hereditary wealth through many generations. families of really ancient gentry, which, like _birth_, is but a relative term, are generally found recorded in the visitation books of the heralds for the counties in which they dwelt. whatever antiquity may be claimed for this family, who resided in the county of york, it is certain that no pedigree of them was recorded at any of the visitations of that county, of which three were held during the time of the turners' residence, viz., in 1585, 1612, and 1665; in which last year, too, the large list of "disclaimers" does not contain them. the only assistance we derive from the labours of the heralds is this. in a manuscript lately added to the british museum (additional, no. 12,482) a list of persons whom, in 1665, the heralds summoned to appear, or intended to do so, contains the name of "mr. turner, of the parish of st. john del pike, york," who is unquestionably the poet's grandfather. this indifference to the advantage of making a public record of many facts, interesting at least to their posterity, is not peculiar to this family, but deposes rather unfavourably to the taste and judgment of the persons in whom the representation of a family at such a time vested. it manifests also some want of a disposition to co-operate in an important public institution, unhappily now fallen into desuetude. there can be no question that the heralds of old time did sometimes record matter, even then of early date, which will not bear the test of comparison with contemporary evidence; but of the generations then existing, or but just passed away, they may be taken as worthy witnesses. and fortunate are those families who have a few generations recorded in the heralds' books. they are saved thereby a vast amount of research into miscellaneous papers, which, after much labour and expense, may yield data sufficient for the construction of a genealogical system, without security against error. the difficulty of recovering lost portions of family history is far greater than is imagined by those who have never made the attempt. in the case before us, it could not be easy to ascend beyond the reign of queen elizabeth, the period, emphatically, when the really ancient gentry of the kingdom were either pushed from their pedestals, or obliged to admit new men to share with them the honour and influence which belong to the possession of broad lands and powerful family alliances. in the forty-fifth year of elizabeth, february 10, 1603, within a few weeks of the close of her reign, a grant was made by the crown to lancelot turner, of the manor of towthorpe, in the county of york. he was then residing at towthorpe, for on the 12th of december, in that year, 1603, it was certified by william bainbrigg and r. aldborough, that "lancelot turner, of towthropp, gentleman, in the wapentake of bulmer," was for the most part of the year preceding the taxation of the subsidy, and ever since, residing at towthropp with his family, and is there assessed on goods estimated at â£8. this certificate is valuable, inasmuch as it enables us to decide which of the two towthorpes in the county of york is the one to which pope's ancestry in his mother's line is to be traced: towthorpe, in the wapentake of buckrose, in the east riding; or towthorpe, in the wapentake of bulmer, in the north riding. the turners' towthorpe is a few miles to the north-east of york, near to huntingdon, once the abode of wilfrid holme, who left the curious metrical account of the pilgrimage of grace; and its vicinity to york brought it within reach of the civilization of the northern counties, of which that city was the chief seat. it is just possible, though hardly probable, that we may ascend a generation above this lancelot; for, on january 20, 1626, the will of robert turner, of towthroppe, was proved in the court of the archbishop of york: its date does not appear. he desires to be buried in the churchyard at huntingdon. he gives to his son anthony the two younger oxen, with certain husbandry utensils; to his son richard the red whie, which came from stockton; and to his grandchild, william turner, the little brown whie. he makes his wife and his younger son executors. there is no mention of lancelot, who was, however, dead; but the grandson william may be he whom we shall soon meet, as the nephew of lancelot, and the father of edith. in all probability this robert was an inferior member of the same family, a small agriculturist, lancelot being the great man of the family, whose connection with the popes is quite in proof. he is described as of the city of york, in some documents of the reign of king james. on the 10th of october, 5 james i., 1607, robert harrison, lord mayor of york, certifies that lancelot turner, of the city of york, gentleman, was residing there, and assessed on â£10, goods. a like certificate was granted on the 6th of april, in the 8th of james, 1610, signed by henry hall, lord mayor, and william robinson, alderman. the wapentake of bulmer is, as respects minute and accurate information, part of the _terra incognita_ of yorkshire. any tolerable account of the manor of towthorpe would have shown us something at least of the history of the family who possessed it, and we might reasonably have expected to find some account of the means by which this lancelot turner gained the fortune with which he made this and other purchases, and appeared in the rank and position in which we see him by the light afforded by his last will, for we can hardly believe that all he had, came to him by descent. perhaps as probable a conjecture as is likely to be made is, that he was connected with the council of the north, or a successful practitioner in that court. but we go at once to his will, which is dated december 23, 1619. he describes himself lancelot turner, of towthorpe, in the county of york, gentleman. he was then in his last sickness, for the will and a codicil were proved on the 17th of january, 1620, and administration was granted to the executor named therein, on the 20th. he sets out, in the laudable practice of the time, with a profession of faith, and then proceeds to dispose of his temporal estate. he gives, first of all, to his sister, margaret stephenson, an annuity of â£30, to issue out of his lordship of towthorpe, and also the use (interest) of â£100, which, on her death, is to go to his niece, elisabeth huggeson, wife of nicholas huggeson. then, to william turner, son of his brother philip turner, he leaves all the manor of towthorpe, and lands there; and also a rent-charge of â£70 a year, which he has issuing out of the manor of ruston. he gives â£200 to his nephew, thomas martin, an apprentice in london, on condition that he release whatever claim he may have to the testator's house in leeds; and he gives â£30 to margaret moor, sister of the said thomas, and wife of william moor, of beverley; and â£10 to john hustler, son of his sister elizabeth hustler. we come now to an interesting bequest:--to thomasine newton, daughter of christopher newton, late of kilburn, gentleman, an annuity of â£50 for life, issuing out of the manor of towthorpe, with the household stuff at kilburn, of which her mother is to have the use during her widowhood, also a livery-cupboard, and a chair, plate, and the green bed. it appears later in the will, that the plate given to her consisted of seven silver bowls, six gilt spoons, one round white salt, and a three-corner trencher salt, and silver porringer to each, and a silver beer-bowl. to his nephew, john stephenson, he gives all his books, "_except my song-books, which i give to thomasine newton_." he gives forty shillings to mr. william nevil, and to his "good and worthy friend sir william alford, a little clock, with a bell and a larum, which i carry about me, and one of my best horses." to the poor of towthorpe forty shillings. to the poor prisoners in the castle of york, â£3. to the poor prisoners in the kidcote, on ousebridge, in york, forty shillings. "to the poor of the parish where i am buried, â£5." to his servant, catherine wetwang, â£50, which is partly due to her. to isabel fawcet, daughter of mrs. kay, wife of mr. thomas kay, of york, merchant, â£10. to robert siddal, of york, gentleman, forty shillings. he makes his nephew, willam turner, the sole executor, who is to have two years to collect his debts. his friend sir william ingram, doctor of the civil laws, to be supervisor, and to determine all questions that may arise about the interpretation of his will. little more than a fortnight after, namely, on monday next after twelfth day, 1620, he revoked nuncupatively the gift of the clock to sir william alford, saying, "he forgets his old friends," and gives it to his nephew william turner. to this were witnesses thomasine newton, henry dent, and alice atkinson, who depose that william turner reminded him that there had been much kindness between him and sir william. this was a few days before his death. in this codicil he is described of york, so that it was probably made there. this is evidently the will of a wealthy and considerable person, without children himself, but, having made a fair provision for his sister, establishing his nephew and heir male, william turner, in the possession of the bulk of his fortune, as intent to maintain the respectability of the family and name. the particular regard he had for thomasine newton, is best accounted for by supposing that her mother was a sister of the testator; but it is also pretty evident that it was at that time contemplated that she should become the wife of the nephew william, which she did not long after the death of the uncle. she was the mother of the seventeen children of william turner, of whom edith, the mother of pope, was one. the bequest to her of the song-books is remarkable, as indicating that she manifested thus early something of the poetical temperament, if anything more than music-books is meant. sir william alford was owner of the site of the monastery of meaux, in holderness. sir william ingram was of the family seated at temple-newsome; and mr. william nevil, an intimate friend of the turners, in his will, made in 1641, names a number of persons of distinction. but of this will a more particular account must be given, as showing in what rank of society the parents of edith moved, and with how much reason the poet might claim for her that she was, in point of _birth_, equal to the lady (mary lepell), whom his adversary, lord hervey, had made choice of to be the mother of his children. april 10, 1641, william nevil, of the city of york, esquire, makes his will. to be buried in the church of st. helen. to mrs. elizabeth stanhope, the eldest daughter of dr. stanhope, bishop hall's works. "to my funeral expenses, â£80; to mr. william turner, my godson, â£20; and to william turner, his son, my godson, â£10; to mrs. turner, his wife, â£5, and to the rest of his children â£5, to be divided amongst them." to his cousin thomas bourchier, â£20; to catherine penrose the book of monuments, and to her sister elizabeth penrose the great bible, and â£10 to each. he leaves plate to lady osborne and dame mary ingram, wife of sir arthur. to mr. white, st. bernard's works, and "what i have of st. augustine." to sir john bourchier's eldest daughter the great gilt salt, and to the second sister a black silk gown. he had been we see the godfather in two generations of the turners. the will of lancelot turner gives us the name of the father of william turner, to whom we must now proceed. it was philip, but beyond the name i have not discovered anything respecting him. of christopher newton, the father of thomasine, i can only conjecture that he was the christopher, son of miles newton, of thorpe in claro wapentake (by jane his wife, daughter of ambrose beckwith, of stillingflete), who was aged one year and three months at the visitation of 1585. supposing this christopher to be thomasine's father, which can hardly be doubted, she would be allied, through the beckwiths, with several of the higher yorkshire gentry. william turner, son of philip, and nephew and principal heir of lancelot, is styled by his grandson the poet, "esquire." i cannot find that he was ever styled more than "gentleman" in his lifetime, and certainly he does not claim to be more in his last will. he appears to have been young, at least unmarried, in 1620, when, by the death of his uncle, he became lord of the manor of towthorpe, and possessed of the rent-charge on the manor of ruston, and of other considerable property. his birth may be fixed with considerable probability in the year 1600 or 1601, and it could not well be later than 1621 that he took to wife thomasine newton, his uncle's favourite, for one son of that marriage was killed in the civil wars, and another died in the king's service, that is, we may assume, between 1642 and 1648. it does not appear that william turner was brought up to any profession, or engaged in any gainful employment. the first notice we have of him, after the date of his marriage, is only gathered inferentially from the history of his children, viz., from the record of the baptisms of four of them, including edith, in the parish register of worsborough, in the years 1641-2-3, and 1645. where he had been living up to this period, from the time of his succeeding to the family estate, is unknown to me; it might have been at towthorpe, or at york; but the determination of this point is not beyond the power of a laborious search, which might bring with it the discovery of some particulars concerning his position and character. one thing is certain, that his wife was producing him almost yearly a son or a daughter, as the four children whom we have mentioned were among the latest born of his very numerous family, fourteen daughters and three sons. worsborough is a village in the southern part of yorkshire, on the road from sheffield to barnsley, as the turnpike roads formerly were. it is seated near the stream of the dove, which flows along a dale called worsborough dale, where were several homesteads, inhabited by families of the lesser gentry, some of whom could trace themselves from remote ancestors living in the same vicinity. the inhabitants have long been accustomed to point out one particular house, in which they say the mother of pope was born. it is called marrow house; but, whatever may be the evidence for the claim of this particular mansion, there cannot be a doubt that the poet's grandfather was for some years a parishioner of worsborough, where we find these entries in the register of baptisms:- 1641, nov. 20. martha, daughter of mr. william turner. 1642, june 18. edith, daughter of mr. william turner. 1643, sept. 1. margaret, daughter of mr. william turner. 1645, nov. 25. jane, daughter of mr. william turner. thenceforward we lose the benefit of the testimony of the register. it will be observed that this was while the civil wars were at their height, in which two of the sons died, being on the king's side: not that this affords us any hint or presumption respecting the circumstances which brought mr. turner to worsborough. whoever may have been the p. t. who communicated to curl the particulars before given of the history of the poet's father and maternal grandfather, they contain, few as they are, one specific statement which tallies with his residence in this part of the county, far from the districts where his estates lay. he was, says p. t., of "burfit hall," in yorkshire. this can be no other place than birthwaite hall, at no great distance from worsborough, but in the parish of darton. it was the seat of the family of burdet of birthwaite--not that of the late sir francis burdett--though francis was a favourite name with these yorkshire baronets. at the period with which we are concerned, this yorkshire family were in great straits, and birthwaite, in 1643, became the property of an heir of only a year and a half old. furthermore, their affairs were placed very much in the hands of their relative, mr. rockley, of rockley, which is in worsborough; and in the absence of any positive evidence, without any choice but to fall back upon conjecture, or be silent, i would suggest that mr. turner's residence in these parts of the west riding, might arise out of some connection with the affairs of the rockleys and burdets. rockley, like turner, had two younger sons in the service of king charles i.[3] at both these houses mr. turner would be only a tenant. at what time he returned to york has not been ascertained. the next thing we know of him is that he was living there, in the parish of st. john del pike, at the time of the heralds' visitation in 1665. next that he made his will, describing himself "william turner, senior, of the city of york, gentleman." and, lastly, that in 1671, he, or his son william, was living in the parish of st. john del pike, in a house with seven hearths, one of the best houses in the parish. here, as is usually the case in inquiries of this nature, we gain our best information respecting him from his will, which is of considerable extent. it is dated sept. 4, 1665. he was then "grown weak and infirm," but still of sound and disposing mind and memory, "humbly imploring almighty god to bless and prosper these my intentions and bequests." he gives his soul to god, hoping to be saved through the merits of jesus christ his saviour, and his body to be interred with such decency and solemnity as his executors shall approve. he then gives all interest in his messuages in gotheram gate, york, to his trusty friends thomas thompson, of york, notary public, and thomas tomlinson, of the same city, grocer, to suffer his dear and loving wife, thomasine turner, to take the issues as long as she continues his widow and unmarried ("it being her desire to have no further interest in them than so long as she continues my widow"), and after her death to convey them to his seven daughters:--alice mawhood the wife of richard mawhood, elizabeth, mary, martha, edith, margaret, and jane turner, equally amongst them. he then gives his manor of ruston, with its appurtenances in ruston, wickham, and marton, and a rent-charge out of the said manor, lands, and tithes, of â£70, to his wife, so long as she continues his widow, and afterwards to his only son, william turner, his heirs and assigns, subject nevertheless to the charge heretofore made to my son-in-law samuel cooper and christian his wife and their heirs, and to the further charge that he shall, within a year after he comes into possession, pay the sums hereafter mentioned, namely, to his loving daughter, thomasine turner, â£50, in full of her filial part; to martha, john, and william haitfield, my grandchildren, â£50 amongst them; and to his wife â£40, which is to be given by her among her seven daughters first named in his will. he gives to the said seven daughters all his money, plate, linen, woollen, pewter, brass, household stuff, goods, chattels, and personal estate, of what kind soever (saving his wife's wearing apparel, rings, and jewels), equally amongst them, for the better augmentation of their portions; desiring and entreating his said wife's great care for their advancement, "considering my kindness and love to her by this my will." he further gives to his son-in-law cooper and his wife, and to his daughter thomasine turner, each twenty shillings, for rings, to wear for his sake. he makes his wife executrix, and desires thompson and tomlinson to assist her, to each of whom he gives a ring. the witnesses were r. etherington, james tennant, and edward topham. this will tends to confirm pope's representation that two of his mother's brothers died in early life. towthorpe, we see, is not mentioned; probably it had passed from the family: but, on the other hand, there seems to have been some addition made to what lancelot the uncle had possessed at ruston. this ruston (for there are two rustons as well as two towthorpes in yorkshire) is near scarborough, and brompton, the ancient seat of the cayley family, as this will plainly shows, by mentioning as appurtenances, wickham and marton, in the same neighbourhood. we have already seen that an interest was possessed here, in 1710, by alexander pope, the london merchant, and his son, who seem to have intended to sell it to the vanden bempd family.[4] it was a valuable property; but we cannot but perceive, when we compare this will with that of lancelot turner, that the prosperity of the family had meanwhile declined. pope speaks rather magniloquently of the cause of the decline, telling us that "his mother inherited what estate remained after the sequestrations and forfeitures of her family." we are bound to accept this statement; but, in the printed list of compounders, the name of this mr. turner does not appear, and i have seen no evidence of any sequestration. in comparing the wills of lancelot and william, we must not forget that lancelot's was made at the close of a life passed without children, and william's after he had portioned some of his fourteen daughters, and had others still remaining in his house. these children of his grandfather were the only relatives of pope in the preceding generation with whom he appears to have kept up much acquaintance; and after he became distinguished in the world, no particular intimacy existed between him and them. we must except, however, his mother, for whom he entertained the highest respect and affection; and who, he says, had lived with him from the time of his birth, to her death at the age of ninety-three. she survived, as we may easily believe, all her brothers and sisters; and of these it now remains to give such an account as the few memorials of them which have fallen under my notice enable me. they are in no respect interesting except as they are connected with the life of pope, whom it is no exaggeration to designate one of the greatest names among englishmen, standing, in his own department, with chaucer, spenser, shakespeare, milton, and dryden,--men of whom, and whose connections, men now desire to know all that can be known. of the two turners, who died in the service of king charles i., we have no account even of their names. the other son, named william, left england to serve in the spanish army, which was also the course taken by one of the young rockleys of worsborough, his "coetanean," and probably his friend. he rose in that service to be what pope calls "a general officer"; which distinction, if it gave him rank like that of a general in the english service, was one that, in such a controversy, pope was undoubtedly entitled to put forward as an honour to the family. i lament that more has not been discovered concerning him, and more particularly that we have not even that slender piece of autobiography, his will. we know, however, that he retained to the time of his death some portion of the family property, and left it to his sister, edith pope, perhaps then the sole survivor. of the fourteen daughters, it would seem that some may have died in infancy or in very early life. the general used to speak of his _ten_ sisters, and to compare them with the five wise and five foolish virgins, that is, five roman catholics, and five of the english protestant church; but which, in his opinion, were the wise, and which the foolish, does not appear in the family tradition preserved by john charles brooke, somerset herald, who was descended of one of them. to place them in the exact order of seniority is out of our power, though a more thorough search in the yorkshire parish registers might enable us to do so. all we can pretend to is to place them in an order approximate to the truth; and i need not apprise the reader that where we have to deal with so large a family, there must be a long interval between the elder and the younger. at the birth of pope, in 1688, his mother was forty-six, and some of his aunts must have been sixty, or thereabouts. christiana is named in her father's will as the wife of samuel cooper. she may be presumed to have been one of the elder daughters, her husband having been born in 1609. he was the famous miniature-painter of the name, and was also noted for his skill in music. his father was a professed musician, as we are informed by aubrey, in his _natural history of wiltshire_. his science may possibly have introduced him to the family of thomasine turner, to whom, as we have seen, some song-books were bequeathed by her uncle. walpole knew of cooper's marriage, and tells us that he lived long in france and holland; also, that he died in london, on may 5, 1672, at the age of sixty-three, and was buried in st. pancras church. all this may be true; but when he says--"i have a drawing of pope's father as he lay dead in his bed, by his brother-in-law, cooper, which had belonged to mr. pope," he must be mistaken, as pope's father outlived cooper many years. more probably it was of pope's grandfather, and cooper's father-in-law, william turner. walpole further informs us that the widow of cooper received a pension from the court of france, for whom her husband painted several pieces on a larger scale than he usually adopted. mrs. cooper survived her husband many years. we are indebted to mr. carruthers for notes of her will, which was made on the 16th of may, 1693, and proved on the 28th of august following. she desires to be decently buried in the church of st. pancras, as near to her dear husband as may be. she leaves legacies to her sisters, elizabeth turner, alice mawhood, and mary turner; also to her sisters mace (not marc, as printed by mr. carruthers) and jane smith. to her sister pope she leaves her mother's picture,--(what has become of this?)--a broad piece of gold to her brothers mace, calvert, pope, and smith; to her nephew and godson, alexander pope (then five years old), a china dish with a silver foot, and instruments which had been used by her husband in his art; and, after the death of her sister, elizabeth turner, all her books, pictures, and medals. she makes her nephew, samuel mawhood, citizen and fishmonger, her sole executor. it appears that there is or was a monument in the church of st. pancras to the memory of the coopers, with arms of cooper impaling those usually assigned to the name of turner. mrs. cooper was one of the five roman catholics. it seems probable, though walpole does not state it, that cooper was originally a musician by profession, as his father was, who is better known by his italianized name coporario. thomasine, named in her father's will, seems to have left the paternal mansion early; for i find a thomasine turner living at the west end of turnmill street in 1645, when she was assessed one shilling towards the support of sir thomas fairfax's army. in 1642, a receipt had been given to the same person for three shillings assessed upon her for the tenements she holds of thomas stokes, gentleman, in the parish of clerkenwell, for the subsidy of â£400,000; and in another receipt for a very small sum to the same subsidy. it is incidentally noticed on this receipt, that thomas stokes was a papist. it is hardly likely that there should be two thomasine turners, unmarried, living at the same time. she seems never to have married, and subscribes her maiden name as a witness to mr. cooper's will. i place her among the five roman catholic sisters. alice is mentioned in her father's will as the wife of richard mawhood. she was one of the elder children, as she was eighty-eight at the time of her death, january 15, 1713/4, and consequently born in 1625. her husband resided at ardsley, where he had a good estate, which place being near to worsborough, we are at no loss to account for the connection thus formed, and may refer it to the period when the family were living at marrow house, especially as we find that the eldest son, william mawhood, who succeeded them at ardsley, was born in 1647, being seventy-eight at the time of his death in 1725; many persons descend from him. but, beside the eldest son, there were eight other children, of whom samuel, a woollen-draper on snow hill, was mrs. cooper's executor. one only of these children was a daughter, who lived to the age of eighty-four, dying in 1736, the widow of thomas brooke of doncaster. there was another connection of the mawhoods with the family of brooke of yorkshire, william brooke of dodworth having married alice, daughter of william mawhood, an alderman of doncaster (grandson of richard mawhood and alice turner) by margaret mawhood his wife, daughter of william, the eldest son of richard and alice. a son of that marriage was john charles brooke, the somerset herald, a most laborious inquirer into points of genealogy, who has left a large account of his relations, the mawhoods, from which more might be extracted were i not, perhaps, too sensible how wearisome genealogical details are to many readers. his inquiries about his ancestors the turners were less successful. he knew the relationship to pope, but substitutes for william turner of york, his contemporary, william turner of bilham, near doncaster, a person of the same rank, but of a totally different family. mrs. mawhood may be considered to have remained a protestant. another daughter, who must have been among those early born of this prolific bed, seems to have died before her father, who names in his will, martha, john, and william haitfield, as his grandchildren. edith, baptized in 1642, is spoken of in her father's will by her maiden name,--in her sister, mrs. cooper's will, in 1693, as then the wife of pope the elder. she died in 1733, the last survivor of the family. jane, baptized in 1645, married ---smith. both were living when mrs. cooper made her will in 1693. elizabeth, is named in her father's will, 1665, and her sister cooper's will, 1693, as unmarried. martha, baptized 1641, and named in her father's will. either she or (less probably) her sister margaret was the wife of ---calvert, who was living in 1693, according to mrs. cooper's will. j. c. brooke says that she was maintained in her old age by her nephew, captain charles mawhood, who resided at alkley, near doncaster. she was a roman catholic. margaret, baptized 1643. she (or martha) married a clergyman named mace. there were several clergymen of that rare name living at york and in the northern part of derbyshire. she is named in her father's will, and, with her husband, in her sister cooper's. ten daughters have now been presented before us; but brooke, who professes to write from the information of the elders of the family, speaks of two others, viz., mrs. tomlinson, whom we may suppose to have married in the family of tomlinson of york, one of the supervisors of turner's will; and mrs. corbet, who he says was one of the five roman catholics. she was, i conceive, the mrs. corbet on whom pope wrote what pleased dr. johnson most of all his epitaphs. one of the unmarried daughters, thomasine, elizabeth, or mary, must have been the deformed sister who lived with mrs. pope, and who taught her son to read, according to the popular accounts of the poet. we have thus accounted for twelve of the fourteen daughters. the remaining two we may well believe died in infancy or early youth. whatever excellent qualities edith may have possessed, it would seem that her literary education was not much superior to that of other young ladies of her time, and inferior to that of many. this is proved by a letter of hers, the only one i believe that is known, printed in the _additions to the works of alexander pope, esq._, 1776, vol. ii. p. 96.[5] the people of york seem not to have been without a due sense of the honour done to their city in having had the mother of so great a man residing among them in her youth. in some verses addressed to lady irwin, a daughter of the earl of carlisle, these lines occur:- york lent us pope by th' mother's side: but from th' paternal, this our pride gives castle howard: say which here illumines most the natal sphere. * * * * * on the whole, then, it will appear that pope descended of a _clerical_ family, the members of it being much connected with the university of oxford; but that at present we can trace him only to a person of his own name, who was rector of thruxton and prebendary (if the incumbents are so called) of middleton and ichen-abbots, in the diocese of winchester: that these, being rather conspicuous pieces of preferment, place him in the higher rank of the clergy of his time, and seem to be but the beginning of the offices he would have held in the church, had he not died in rather early life, and had not the changes at that time imminent, stopped him in his course:--that, though we cannot ascend beyond him on evidence that would bear a close examination, there is strong presumptive evidence that he was either identical or nearly connected with an alexander pope of oxford, the friend of dr. barcroft, and the son-in-law of the famous john dodd of fawsley, and the father of dr. walter pope, the gresham professor, the poet, and the miscellaneous writer, who was half-brother of dr. john wilkins, the bishop of chester, who married a sister of the protector cromwell:--that there is no reason to believe, on account of disparity of rank, that he was not of the same stock as the popes, earls of downe, but, on the contrary, that nothing can be more probable than that the family tradition was correct, which delivered thus much and no more:--that his oxfordshire ancestors did spring, as the earl of downe did, from people of small account living at deddington, near banbury. and that, on his mother's side, he sprang from persons who had possessed land of their own at towthorpe, in the north riding of yorkshire, from perhaps an early period, but who, from the time of elizabeth were lords of the manor:--that one of them who died in the reign of james i. was an opulent person, and intimate with some of the principal families in the county:--that he left the greater part of his possessions to his nephew, william turner, the poet's grandfather:--that in his hands the family estate did not receive any material additions, and perhaps rather decayed:--that he had the charge of not fewer than seventeen children, nearly all of whom grew to man and woman's estate:--that of the sons, two died during the civil wars, in which one of them was slain, and the other went abroad and served in the spanish army, and at his death gave property, not very inconsiderable remains of the family estate, to edith pope, his favourite sister. and that, this being the case, there is nothing of exaggeration or of boasting, when the poet has to meet the charge of being of obscure birth, in asserting that he sprang "of gentle blood." london; f. pickton, printer, perry's place, 29, oxford street. _by the same author._ critical and historical tracts.--i. agincourt; ii. collections concerning the founders of new plymouth; iii. milton; iv. the ballad hero, robin hood. 12mo. 1849 to 1852. published by j. russell smith. "who wrote cavendish's life of wolsey?" 4to. 1814. hallamshire.--the history and topography of the town and parish of sheffield; with historical and descriptive notices of the parishes of hansworth, treeton, whiston, and ecclesfield. folio. 1819. golden sentences.--a manual for the use of all who desire to live virtuously and religiously. 8vo. 1827. the life of sir thomas more.--by his great-grandson cresacre more; with a large biographical preface, notes, and other illustrations. 8vo. 1828. south yorkshire.--the history and topography of the deanery of doncaster, in the diocese and county of york. folio, 2 vols. 1828 and 1831. the hallamshire glossary. 12mo. 1829. the diary and correspondence of ralph thoresby, f.r.s., author of the "topography of leeds." (1677-1724.) from the original autographs. 8vo. 4 vols. 1830. english monastic libraries.--i. a catalogue of the library of the priory of bretton in yorkshire; ii. notices of the libraries belonging to other religious houses. 4to. 1831. the life of thomas gent, printer, of york; from his own autograph. 8vo. 1832. an historical defence of the trustees of lady hewley's foundations, and of the claims upon them of the presbyterian ministry of england. 8vo. 1834. a true account of the alienation and recovery of the estates of the offleys of norton, in 1754. 12mo. 1841. a letter to patrick fraser tytler, esq., on the evidence lately given by him before the select committee of the house of commons, on a plan of publication applicable to the national records. 8vo. 1837. three catalogues: describing the contents of the red book of the exchequer, of the dodsworth manuscripts in the bodleian library, and of the manuscripts in the library of the honourable society of lincoln's inn. 8vo. 1838. a disquisition on the scene, origin, date, &c. of shakespeare's tempest; in a letter to benjamin heywood bright, esq. 8vo. 1839. the rise of the old dissent: exemplified in the life of oliver heywood, one of the founders of the presbyterian congregations in the county of york, 1630-1702. 8vo. 1842. new illustrations of the life, studies, and writings of shakespeare, supplementary to all the editions. 2 vols. 8vo. 1845. the connection of bath with the literature and science of england. 12mo, 1827; and enlarged, 1853. ecclesiastical documents: viz., i. a brief history of the bishoprick of somerset, from its foundation to the year 1174; ii. charters from the library of dr. cox macro. 4to. 1840. the diary of dr. thomas cartwright, bishop of chester, 1686 and 1687. 4to. 1843. collections concerning the church or congregation of protestant separatists at scrooby, in north nottinghamshire, in the time of james i.: the founders of new plymouth, the parent colony of new england. 8vo. 1854. under the direction of the commissioners on the public records. magnus rotulus pipã�, de anno tricesimo primo regni henrici primi (ut videtur) quem plurimi hactenus laudarunt pro rotulo quinti anni stephani regis. 8vo. 1833. an introduction to the "valor ecclesiasticus of king henry viii." 8vo. 1834. rotuli selecti ad res anglicas et hibernicas spectantes. 8vo. 1834. fines sive pedes finium, sive finales concordiã¦ in curia domini regis. 8vo. 1835. pope: additional facts concerning his maternal ancestry. by robert davies, f.s.a., in a letter to mr. hunter, author of the tract entitled "pope: his descent and family connections." it is one of the most pleasing offices of the genealogist to trace the descent and to show the alliances of genius. hunter's _south yorkshire_, vol. ii. p. 297. london: john russell smith, 36, soho square. m.dccc.lviii. "let any one bethink him how impressive the smallest historical fact may become, as contrasted with the grandest fictitious event;--what an incalculable force lies for us in this consideration;--the thing which i here hold imaged in my mind did actually occur; was, in very truth, an element in the system of the all whereof i too form part; had therefore, and has, through all time, an authentic being; is not a dream, but a reality!"--carlyle's _essays_, vol. iii. p. 43. pope. my dear sir, in that section of the interesting and valuable tract you have recently given to the world, which treats of the maternal ancestry of pope, you suggest the possibility of "ascending a generation above" lancelot turner, the uncle of william turner, the poet's maternal grandfather. having had the good fortune to discover this higher step in the genealogy of the turners, and to obtain some additional information respecting several members of the family, i beg to be permitted to communicate to you, in this form, the facts which have come to my knowledge. the descent of the maternal ancestors of the illustrious poet may be traced to a source whence many families among the present aristocracy of yorkshire have originally sprung,--the trade or commerce of the city of york. at york, in the reign of king henry viii., robert turner carried on the business of a wax-chandler, which, before the reformation, when this commodity in various forms was profusely and constantly used in the celebration of religious services, was a lucrative and important occupation. had he not been a person in good circumstances, and belonging to the higher class of tradesmen, he would scarcely have brought up his son to one of the learned professions. in the year 1553, "edward turner, skryvener," son of robert turner, wax-chandler, being entitled by patrimony to be admitted to the city franchise, was duly enrolled upon the register of york freemen. this edward turner was the father of lancelot turner; and what you have hazarded as a probable conjecture with regard to the son,[6] is quite true as regards the father: he was connected with the council of the north; and there can be no doubt that great part of the property he possessed at the time of his death had been acquired by the influence and emoluments which arose from his official connection with that court. we have decisive evidence of his having been one of the officials of the council of the north in a circumstance which is recorded upon the minutes of the proceedings of the corporation of york. being a freeman of the city, edward turner was liable to serve municipal offices; and it may be regarded as a proof of the estimation in which he was held by his fellow-citizens, that they thought him a proper person to sustain the dignity and responsibility of the office of sheriff of the city. in october, 1562, he received an intimation from the corporate body, that they intended to elect him to be one of their sheriffs for the ensuing year. when this was made known to the lord president and council of the north, mr. secretary eymis "went in all haste" to the common hall where the corporation were assembled, and told them that "edward turner was a clerk to the council, and they must not make him sheriff." the citizens did not deem it expedient to act in opposition to the wishes of the council thus peremptorily expressed. they abandoned their design of electing mr. turner sheriff, and he was never afterwards called upon to bear that or any other office in the corporation.[7] it was of more importance to him to retain the favour of the council, than to accept a municipal appointment which was attended with no profit, and might have interfered with the due discharge of his official or professional duties. the mr. secretary eymis who is here spoken of, was thomas eymis, esq., one of the chief functionaries of the great court of york for nearly thirty years. a gentleman by birth, and, doubtless, a lawyer by profession, he was first constituted a member of the council of the north, and appointed to the important office of its secretary, by the commission under which the earl of shrewsbury was made lord president in the 4th year of king edward vi. after the accession of queen elizabeth, under the commission which appointed the earl of rutland lord president, and under the subsequent commissions issued in that reign, he continued to hold the office of secretary, and was also keeper of the queen's signet. from the alarm shown by mr. secretary eymis when he heard that the efficiency of edward turner's services as clerk to the council was in danger of being impaired by his advancement to civic honours, it seems probable that the appointment he held was that of one of the clerks of the seal,[8] the duties of which would be more immediately under mr. eymis's superintendence. it is obvious, however, that the office, whatever name it bore, was of great respectability, and placed the holder of it upon a footing of friendly intercourse with numerous persons of family and distinction, members of or connected with the council, who at that period constituted the highest class of society in york. edward turner's place of residence was in the centre of the city. the house in which he lived and died, stood in that part of the parish of saint helen stonegate, which was then called stayngate, but is now known as saint helen's square. this and an adjoining mansion occupied by lady beckwith (the widow of sir leonard beckwith, knight, one of the council of the north), and several other houses situate in the adjacent streets, were his property. some of them he had most probably inherited from his father. in the year 1562, when the corporation of york contemplated making him sheriff, edward turner was a married man, and the father of a family. the earliest register book of the parish of saint helen stonegate, which commences in the year 1568, records the baptism of two of his younger children: "lucy turner, daughter of edward turner, gentleman," was baptized on the 24th of february, 1569, and a son, named edward, on the 12th of august, 1570. another son, named martin, of whom he speaks in his will as his youngest son, must have been born a very short time before the death of his mother, an event which is thus entered in the same register:--"mistris turner, wife of edward turner, gentleman, buried 13th june, 1571." i have found no clue whatever to the discovery of the name of this lady, or of any other particulars relating to her. a few months after the usual period of mourning had passed, the widowed husband took unto himself a second wife. on the 22nd of september, 1572, "mr. edward turner and mrs. jane fale" were married at the church of the parish of saint michael le belfrey, in york. mrs. jane fale was the widow of mr. thomas fale, who for more than twenty years was town-clerk of york, and died in the month of march, 1571. in the year 1573, mr. turner purchased of william wentworth, of killingwicke, a plot of ground near to his own residence, which had been the churchyard of the demolished church of saint wilfred.[9] of thirty householders of the parish of saint helen stonegate, who, in the year 1574, were assessed to the relief of the poor, edward turner paid the highest rate. the amount, when compared with modern experience, seems ridiculously small: it was no more than fourpence. but this was in the very infancy of poor-rates, and, with one or two exceptions, the aldermen of the city were the only persons who contributed so large a sum as sixpence. a few years later, mr. turner had to lament the loss of his early friend and patron, mr. secretary eymis. he died on the 19th of august, 1578; and in his last will we find a token, although it be but a slight one, of his regard for the person who had so long shared his official labours. during his long tenure of the influential and lucrative office of secretary to the court at york, mr. eymis had accumulated great wealth. he appears to have participated largely in the distribution by the crown of the ecclesiastical property in yorkshire which was confiscated at the reformation. his estate at heslington, near york, where he built for his own residence a stately mansion, consisted chiefly of lands which had belonged to the hospital of saint leonard and the priory of saint andrew, two of the religious houses at york. he had possessed himself of the estates belonging to a collegiate foundation at lowthorpe in the east riding. he was lessee under the church of york of the prebend of bugthorpe in the same riding, and owner of the manors of bugthorpe and other adjacent places; and he had obtained a grant from the crown of the tithes of clifton, near york, which belonged to the rectory of saint olave in marygate. he must have been remarkable for the state and splendour of his domestic establishment, having a house in the minster close at york, and another in the savoy at london; and two country houses, one at bugthorpe, and the other at heslington.[10] the last will of mr. eymis was executed on the first day of the year in which he died. in this document the name of edward turner occurs twice: first, in his disposal of a house and close of land, without monk bar, york, which he states that he had purchased of "edward turner, gentilman"; and secondly, in a bequest of which i must speak more at length. the testator gives a life interest in nearly the whole of his estates to his wife elizabeth; but he does this by means of numerous separate devises, intailing the various parts of his property, after her death, upon his nephews, thomas eymis, william eymis, richard eymis, john eymis, william thynne, and sir john thynne, knight,[11] varying the order of succession, and introducing into some of the limitations the names of the younger sons of his nephew, sir john thynne, and his brother-in-law, sir henry neville, knight, and of two or three other persons, of whom edward turner is one. the tithes of clifton, which the testator states that he held for a term of years by a grant from the queen, he gives, after the death of his wife, to five of his nephews for their lives successively; and if they all die before the expiration of such term of years, he bequeaths the same tithes to "edward turner, gentilman, and his assigns, during the residue of the years then to come, if he live so long;" and if not, then "to my friend robert man, gentilman," in a similar manner, with the ultimate bequest to "henry pulleyne, my servant." the will was proved at york, on the 20th of march, 1578-9, by the testator's widow, elizabeth eymis, the residuary legatee and sole executor.[12] mr. edward turner did not long survive his patron and superior in office, mr. secretary eymis. he died in the month of december, 1580, and was buried in the church of the parish of saint helen stonegate, of which he had been for many years one of the principal inhabitants. a few weeks before his death he executed his last will. it is dated the 27th of november, 1580, and was proved by lancelot turner, the eldest son and one of the executors, on the 31st of january, 1581. after the usual pious introduction, the testator, who describes himself "edward turner, of the cittie of yorke," without any addition, gives to his wife, jane, for her life, all such lands, &c., as she had already set forth for her jointure. he then proceeds to make the following disposition of his real estate:-"to lancelot turner, my son, all my lands in possession and reversion, except a tenement and garthinge in stanegate, to him and his heirs males; with remainder to phillippe turner, my son, and his heirs males; with remainder to thomas turner, my son, and his heirs males; with remainder to martyn turner, my son, and his heirs males; with remainder to my own right heirs." the following bequests show that the testator's personalty was of a costly description:-"to my son, lancelot turner, my dolphyn of gold; to my wife, all such gold rings and gold tablets as she hath in possession; to phillipp turner, my son, my ring hoop of gold; to thomas turner, a ring of gold, with a graven death's head in it, weighing about 40_s._; to martyn turner, a gold ring, with a death's head of stone in it; to margaret willowbie, a round gold ring of 12_s._ price, which lieth in my study amongst other my rings; to elizabeth martyn, a gold ring in a purse, in my far study; to katherine turner, a ring of an angel weight; to margaret willowbie, 100 marks in consideration of such reckoning as is between her and me; to elizabeth martin, â£10 over and beside â£6. 13_s._ 4_d._ which i owe of the 100 marks that i promised to her husband for her marriage goods; to katherine turner, â£30 over and besides her child's portion; to johan willowbie, 40_s._, and to anne, elizabeth, and thomas willowbie, 20_s._ each; to my wife, the tithes of corn and hay at bishopthorpe during her life; to martyn turner, my youngest son, twenty marks yearly, out of the annuity of â£20 granted unto me from william chamberlayne, esq., and leonard his son,[13] for his bringing up at the university, and i commit him to the tuition of my wife, to be ruled and ordered by her, who i trust will be his good mother, and see all his things ordered for his most benefit; to my son, lancelot, my years in the tithe of braken-on-the-wold, by grant from the queen's majesty; to thomas turner, the tenement and garthing in stanegate; to my son, philip turner, my years in my lands in clifton which i have by grant from the queen, and my right in the howe close without walmgate bar; to my well-beloved cousin, mr. henry maye, the moiety of my leasehold lands in kexbie township, for that he in truth did disburse the one half of the money for the obtaining of the leases--the other moiety i give to my children, edward, martyn, and katherine turner; to my daughter, margaret willowbie, my years in a close in scoreby, paying out of it to my sister, alice hall, widow, 40_s._ yearly; to lancelot martin, my son-in-law, a gold ring of the value of 40_s._ i will that all the 'waynescott, sealings, portalles, binkes, cundetts for conveying of water,' &c. in my now dwelling-house, and within the house of the lady beckwith, be heirlooms. to my wife, a stoke of corn which i estimate to be twenty quarters of barley; â£30 from one hunter, for the fine or gressam of a tenement and lands of my said wife in tockwith; and a grey ambling nag which she useth to ride upon, and calleth her own nag, which i esteem at the value of â£4. to the right worshipful and my singular good mistress, mrs. eymis,[14] one old ryal; to my good friend mr. thomas sandes, my cousin henry maye, and his wife, an old angel each; to my cousin thomas jackson, and my niece jane crosethwaite, each a french crown; to each of the children of my late brother-in-law, john hall, 5_s._; to edmund fale and his wife, 5_s._ each; to mrs. maltus, an english crown; to mrs. wood, of kilnwick, a gold ring, or two old angels; to agnes walker, of saint nicholas, 3_s._ 4_d._ the residue to my wife, and lancelot turner, margaret willowbie, and elizabeth martin, my children, whom i make executors; my very good friend, mr. thomas wood of kilnwicke,[15] robert man, thomas blenkharne, john stephenson, and thomas smithson, supervisors." it does not appear that the testator's wife, who survived him, had borne him any children. by the aid of his will the issue of his previous marriage may be placed in the following order:- 1. lancelot, the eldest son. for copious information respecting him, we are indebted to your researches. 2. philip, the grandfather of edith pope. 3. thomas. in the year 1580, "thomas turner, goldsmith, son of edward turner, gentleman," was admitted to the city franchise. 4. margaret, married, in her father's lifetime, to a person of the name of willowbie. after his death she married john stephenson,[16] one of the supervisors of her father's will. 5. elizabeth, married to lancelot martin at the church of saint helen stonegate, on the 17th of july, 1580. thomas martin, the london apprentice, to whom lancelot turner gives a legacy of â£200, was their son. it appears from the will of lancelot turner, that she was afterwards the wife of a person named hustler. 6. katharine, a minor at the time of her father's death. she afterwards married thomas blenkarne, another of the supervisors of his will. 7. lucy, baptized 24th of february, 1569. as she is not named in her father's will, she most probably died young. 8. edward, baptized 12th of august, 1570. 9. martin, the youngest child, about nine years old when his father died. mrs. jane turner lived several years after she became the widow of edward turner. her last will is dated the 11th of december, 1588. the bequests it contains, are very numerous, and i will mention only such of them as seem to be pertinent to our present inquiry. "to my god-daughter, jane newton, the wife of miles newton,[17] gentleman, one angel." jane newton was one of the daughters of ambrose beckwith of stillingfleet, the brother of sir leonard beckwith, whose widow, lady beckwith, was the neighbour and tenant of edward turner. you have shown us that thomasine newton, edith pope's mother, was the grand-daughter of miles newton and jane beckwith.[18] "to my son-in-law, martin turner," 5_s._, and a tablet of gold which was his father's. "to phillip turner and edward turner, my sons-in-law," 20_s._ each. "to my daughters-in-law, elizabeth martin, wife of lancelot martin, and katherine blenkarne, wife of thomas blenkarne," gold rings. "to john stephenson, my son-in-law, and margaret stephenson, my daughter-in-law," small legacies; and "to my sister, alice hall, an angel and my black gown furred with cunny." among the other legatees are the following persons of distinction, then resident in york and the neighbourhood:-mr. henry slingsby, afterwards sir henry slingsby, knight, vice-president of the council of the north; and mrs. frances slingsby his wife, daughter of william vavasour of weston, esq., by elizabeth, sister and coheir of roger beckwith, esq., eldest son and heir of sir leonard beckwith. mrs. jane wood, widow of thomas wood of kilnwick percy gentleman (of whom i have previously spoken), and mr. barney wood, their son. mrs. hilliard, wife of william hilliard, esq., recorder of york, afterwards sir wm. hilliard, knt. mr. john jenkins (whose son was afterwards sir henry jenkins, knight), and his wife, and margaret, their daughter. mrs. darley, the wife of mr. john darley of york.[19] lady beckwith, and her son-in-law and daughter, mr. george harvie,[20] and mrs. frances, his wife. the testatrix appointed john darley and william allen,[21] draper, executors, and mr. william bushell and mr. william hilliard, supervisors of her will, which was proved at york on the 30th november, 1589. she was buried on the 9th of september preceding, in the church of saint michael le belfrey; it being her testamentary wish to be interred near to her first husband. i now pass to the third generation of the turners; and i will speak first of philip turner, who was the second son of edward turner, and the direct ancestor of the great poet. in the year 1586, philip turner was admitted to the franchise of the city of york, as the son of edward turner, gentleman. in the register of freemen he is called a merchant, implying that he was a member of the chartered company of merchant adventurers, which was then constituted of the highest class of york citizens. on the 18th of january, 1590, at the church of saint helen stonegate, "phillippe turner and edeth gylminge was maryed." this lady was the mother of william turner, in remembrance of whom he gave to his daughter edith her pretty saxon christian-name, and it cannot be uninteresting to inquire a little about the family to which she belonged. the name of gylminge is of rare occurrence in our local annals. in mr. drake's volume it appears only once; but i believe that the "william gylmyn" whom the historian[22] places at the head of a list of the freeholders of york who were present at the election of two representatives in parliament on oct. 28, 1584, was the father of edith gylminge who married philip turner, as he unquestionably was of christian gylminge, who, at the same parish church, on april 9, 1599, became the first wife of george ellis, esq., afterwards sir george ellis, knight, a member of the council of the north. william gylminge was a vintner,--in modern phrase, a wine-merchant. in the sixteenth century the vintners were among the most opulent of the york tradesmen, no person being permitted to sell wine without having an annual license from the lord mayor and aldermen. in the year 1583, william gylminge was one of the eleven persons to whom this privilege was exclusively granted. henry maye, whom edward turner names in his will as his cousin, and who was an alderman, and lord mayor in 1586, was another of these eleven vintners. william gylminge died in the year 1591. in his will, dated jan. 28, 1590-1, he mentions his son james, and his daughters joan and christian. the name of his daughter edith does not appear; and i can only account for the omission, by supposing that she had received her child's portion twelve months before, when she became the wife of philip turner. robert gylminge, a merchant and goldsmith at york, was the brother of william gylminge. he died in the year 1580; and from his will[23] it may be inferred that he was engaged in large commercial transactions, as he gives to his wife and children all his goods "on this side the sea, or beyond the seas." soon after the marriage of philip turner to edith gylminge, i find him living in the parish of all saints pavement in york, a part of the city which was then inhabited by many of its principal merchants. in this parish he continued to reside several years, and became the father of a numerous family. the baptismal register contains these entries:- 1592, oct. 3.--lancelot, son of philip turner. 1593, nov. 3.--frances, daughter of philip turner. 1594, feb. 26.--martha, daughter of philip turner. 1796, april 14.--katherine, daughter of philip turner. 1597, june 7.--william, son of philip turner. 1598, oct. 9.--philip, son of philip turner. 1603, dec. 4.--john, son of philip turner. in the spring of 1604, that dreadful scourge, the "pestilence of the plague," which, in the preceding year, had almost desolated the metropolis, made its appearance at york, and continued to rage with unabated violence in every part of the city for several months.[24] edith, the wife of philip turner, and three of his children, were victims of this fatal visitation. the mother died first: the register of all saints pavement records her burial on july 9, 1604. the death of her daughters, martha and katherine, quickly followed. both were buried on the 23rd of the same month. john, her infant son, did not long survive his mother; he was buried on the 19th of december. after this period i have not met with the slightest trace of philip turner, or of any of his surviving children, except william, who, we now discover, was not his first-born son. from the christian-name given to philip's eldest boy, it is pretty certain that he was the godson of his uncle lancelot, and had he lived to the age of maturity would have been preferred to his younger brother. we must conclude, therefore, that his early death made way for william to become the oldest surviving son of his father, and the heir presumptive of his uncle, who, as we learn from your pages,[25] having no children of his own, ultimately by his will established this nephew in the possession of the bulk of his fortune. it was but a short time previous to the occurrence of the calamity which deprived philip turner of his wife and three of his children, that lancelot turner became the owner of towthorpe. an acute critic,[26] who has taken great interest in all matters connected with the genealogy of pope, suggests, as "more than probable, that lancelot turner himself acquired the property which enabled him to make the purchase of the manor of towthorpe." but the fact seems to be, that he had obtained the means of making that purchase by converting into money part of the property bequeathed to him by his father, in the sale of which he had prevailed upon his brother philip to join. prior to the year 1602,[27] they had sold to robert watterhouse, esq., the ancient churchyard of saint wilfred, and the buildings that stood upon it; and in january, 1604, "lancelot turner and philip turner of york gentlemen, sons of edward turner late of york gentleman, deceased," conveyed to john smith and john sharpe, two york tradesmen, all the remaining property which had belonged to their father, situate in the parish of saint helen stonegate, consisting of nine dwelling-houses which stood in the several streets of stanegate, ald-conyng-strete, blake-street, and davygate. about this time lancelot turner was making purchases of copyhold cottages and land at towthorpe; and from his having sold his paternal property in york, to enable him to become the lord of the manor of towthorpe, and from his manifest desire to enlarge the borders of his domain there, it might be reasonably inferred that he had some ancestral attachment to that place. there can be no doubt that a family of the same name, who were small landed proprietors, had long been settled there. the baptism of john, son of the robert turner, of towthorpe, of whose will you give some account,[28] is entered in the parochial register of huntington, on jan. 11, 1600-1. robert, the testator, was buried at huntington on sept. 30, 1626. in april, 1642, richard turner, doubtless the son and executor of robert, surrendered copyhold land at strensall, the manor to which towthorpe is appendant, to william turner, doubtless his son, and the grandchild to whom robert bequeaths "the little brown whie." nothing can be more probable than that robert of york, the father of edward and the grandfather of lancelot, sprang from this respectable if not opulent family of turner of towthorpe, and, according to a practice very common in those days, had been transplanted from the country to be brought up to a trade in the town. i have now to bring to your notice a remarkable circumstance which occurred in the earlier part of the life of lancelot turner. you need not be reminded of the bitter persecution of nonconformists that prevailed in the northern counties whilst the court of york was under the presidency of the earl of huntingdon; and the strict watchfulness which the civil authorities were specially required by the government to exercise over all persons suspected of any attachment to popery. at the commencement of the year 1594, the magistrates of york were called upon by the lord president and council of the north, acting in obedience to instructions received from the privy council, to make diligent inquiry as to the number of gentlemen resident within their jurisdiction who were sending, or had sent, their children abroad under colour of learning languages. in the answer which the lord mayor and aldermen returned to the communication from the lord president, they certified that martin turner, son of edward turner of york gentleman deceased, went over the seas about three years before--that he was then at venice at the university, and learning of languages there--and that he was relieved and maintained by one lancelot turner of york gentleman, his brother.[29] the curious facts thus disclosed appear to me to admit of only one explanation. we discover that in the year 1591, about twelve months after the death of mrs. jane turner, his father's widow, lancelot turner took the extraordinary step of sending his brother, a youth of nineteen, into italy. we have seen the desire of the father, as shown by the testamentary provision he made for his son martin, whom he probably designed for one of the liberal professions, that this his youngest boy should be brought up at the university. his solemn injunction to his widow, that she should be "a good mother to the boy and see all things ordered for his most benefit," was, no doubt, piously fulfilled. we cannot imagine, that when edward turner, an officer of the council of the north, spoke of the university, he had the most remote idea of his son being brought up at a popish college. yet we find that lancelot turner, the moment he became the youth's natural guardian, sent him abroad, and placed him at the university of venice, which was then notorious for being the very centre and hotbed of jesuitism.[30] the conclusion seems inevitable, that lancelot turner was himself a roman catholic, and adopted the most effectual method of having his brother martin educated and established in the same faith. nevertheless, we have some evidence that at a later period he outwardly conformed to the religion of the state. one of the important facts you have brought to light concerning him is, that the royal grant of towthorpe was made to him just before the queen's death. had he then been an avowed roman catholic, or even suspected of recusancy, he would scarcely have obtained such a grant from the government of elizabeth. the documents you refer to, showing his residence at york after the accession of james i., testify that he then stood well with the municipal authorities. i may add, by way of corroboration, that in january, 1612, when the royal treasury was empty, and the ministers of james resorted to the expedient of raising money for the necessities of the state, by sending privy seals into the country, lancelot turner was one of "twenty able commoners" of york, whom the lord president and the lord mayor, upon private conference, selected as persons of sufficient ability to lend money to the crown upon that security. the touching incident recorded in the nuncupative codicil made by lancelot turner in his dying moments,[31] shows the close personal friendship which must have subsisted between him and sir william alford; and this gives plausibility to a conjecture, that their families were connected by some tie of relationship: possibly the first wife of edward turner was an alford. the christian name of lancelot, which edward turner bestowed upon his eldest son, and which was afterwards given to his eldest grandson, had been a favourite name with the alfords. the first occupier of meaux abbey, after the dissolution of monasteries, was lancelot alford, esq., who died in 1562, and was succeeded by his nephew, sir lancelot alford, who obtained a grant of the site of the monastery in 1586, and was knighted by king james i., at york, in 1603.[32] he was the father of sir william alford, lancelot turner's friend. but another and perhaps the more probable conjecture is, that the intimacy between these two persons had arisen from a community of feeling upon the all-important subject of religious faith; for there can be little doubt that sir william alford was a roman catholic. in a petition presented by the house of commons to king charles the first, in the year 1626, numerous persons are named, holding places of trust and authority, whom the petitioners accuse of being either popish recusants, or justly suspected of being such. they do not scruple to charge the lord president of the north himself[33] with being ill affected in religion; and, among other instances, they allege--first, that in the preceding year, the lord president being certified of divers spanish ships-of-war upon the coast of scarborough, his lordship went thither, and took with him the lord dunbar, sir thomas metham, and sir william alford, and lay at the house of lord eure,[34] whom he knew to be a convict recusant, and did, notwithstanding, refuse to disarm him, although he had received letters from the privy council to that effect; and secondly, that he gave order to lord dunbar, sir thomas metham, and sir william alford, to view the forts and munition at kingston-upon-hull, who made one kerton, a convict recusant, and suspected to be a priest, their clerk in that service.[35] it is well known that lord dunbar and sir thomas metham were roman catholics. had sir william alford not been of the same religious persuasion, he would scarcely have acted as their colleague on these occasions. the estrangement of which lancelot turner complained, when he revoked his gift of the clock to his "good and worthy friend," may possibly have been occasioned by sir william's dislike of that outward conformity to protestantism, which lancelot had found it convenient to assume in his latter days. like other country gentlemen, lancelot turner had a town-house for his occasional residence, as well as his manor-house of towthorpe. you show us that in december, 1619, when he executed his last will he is described of towthorpe; but you think that the codicil, which is dated a few days before his death, was probably made at york.[36] there is no doubt that in his last illness he was residing in goodramgate, in the house which his nephew afterwards occupied. part of the street called goodramgate is in the parish of saint john del pike, which was then, as it is now, united to the parish of the holy trinity goodramgate; and i find in the register-book of the united parishes, an entry of the burial of "mr. lancelot turner" on jan. 16, 1620. upon the death of his uncle, william turner made towthorpe[37] his principal perhaps his only place of abode, and exactly two years after that event, viz., on jan. 14, 1621-2, his marriage to thomasine newton was solemnized at the little church of the parish of huntington, in which the township of towthorpe is situate. the extreme youth of the lady was most probably the cause of the postponement of the marriage (which, as you observe, had evidently been contemplated by the uncle) until the expiration of two years after his death. at that time she could not have been more than fifteen years old. her father, christopher newton, was not of age in 1604, when his father, miles newton, died;[38] and it is pretty certain that he was not then married. in what creed either of the parents of edith pope was educated, we have no means of ascertaining, but we may reasonably suppose that their religious faith would take its colour from that which was professed by him of whom they were the adopted children. if the roman catholic tendency were less manifest in them, we see it abundantly developed in their numerous offspring, of whom a considerable proportion, we are told, were avowedly members of the ancient church. the origin of that particular regard which lancelot turner had for thomasine newton remains inexplicable. his having "household stuff at kilburn," which he bequeathed to her by his will, would indicate that he had occasionally resided at the house of her parents at that place. the will of either of them might have thrown some light upon these points; but such documents, if they exist, have hitherto eluded our researches. about thirteen months after the marriage of william turner and thomasine newton, their first child was born. "christian turner,[39] daughter of william turner of towthorpe gentleman," was baptized at huntington on feb. 19, 1622-23. the second child was a son. on march 30, 1624, "george turner, son of william turner of towthorpe gentleman," was baptized at huntington. this was doubtless one of the youths whose "gentle blood was shed in honour's cause." about two years afterwards, the second daughter was born--alice, of whom you speak as the wife of richard mawhood,[40] was baptized at huntington on the 23rd of march, 1625-6. after this time the parochial register of huntington ceases to yield any information relating to william turner or his family. in the same year in which he was married, william turner made a purchase, with what specific object it is now in vain to inquire, of a house in stonegate, york. in the deed (dated nov. 5, 1622) by which the property was conveyed to him he is described "william turner of towthropp in the county of york gentleman." whatever may have been his motive for purchasing a house in york, he did not long retain the ownership of it. by a deed dated june 5, 1626, "william turner of towthropp gentleman, and thomasine his wife," transferred all their interest in the property to william scott of york merchant, and john lasinbye of huntington yeoman. it maybe surmised that scott and lasinbye were not purchasers, but merely trustees for effecting some charitable or other purpose not strictly legal, which had soon afterwards been brought into litigation or dispute. on june 3, 1630, william turner, who was then at york, joined with william scott and john lasinbye in an absolute conveyance of the property to robert hemsworth and thomas hoyle, aldermen, and several other persons, also members of the corporation of york. this conveyance is stated to have been made in performance of a decree of the court of chancery, dated feb. 20 preceding, in accordance with an act of parliament passed in the 43rd year of queen elizabeth, intituled "an act to redress the misemployment of lands and tenements theretofore given to charitable uses." of this transaction i will not venture to offer any further explanation. a chasm of ten years now occurs in my chronology. i do not again meet with the name of william turner until the year 1640, when he was once more a resident in york, most probably occupying the same house in goodramgate in which his uncle lancelot lived and died. the register of the united parishes of saint john del pike and holy trinity goodramgate, contains entries of the baptism of "judith, the daughter of mr. william turner," on july 16, 1640, and of the burial of the same child on aug. 3 in the same year. the removal of the family from york must have taken place soon afterwards. for an account of the circumstances attending their residence in the west riding, i need only refer to your valuable tract.[41] i am unable to give any assistance towards dispelling the obscurity in which that period of the history of william turner is involved, that extends from the month of june, 1626, when he is described "of towthrope," until the birth of his daughter judith at york in the summer of 1640. it is clear that he was at york in june, 1630; but i have met with nothing to show where he passed the preceding four years or the following ten years. during these fourteen years his wife presented him with two sons and seven daughters; but i have failed to discover the entry of the baptism of any of these children, either at york or at huntington. neither have i succeeded in my attempts to ascertain at what time, or under what circumstances, william turner disposed of the manor of towthorpe. john george smyth, esq. of heath, near wakefield, m.p. for the city of york, is the present owner of the estate, which was purchased, in the early part of the last century, by one of his ancestors, from sir charles dalston, bart., to whom it had descended from his grandfather, sir william dalston, the first baronet of that name. the dalstons were a cumberland family, and sir william had most probably acquired the towthorpe estate by his marriage with anne bolles, the eldest daughter and coheir of that singular person, lady bolles of heath hall, the baronetess, whose curious history is narrated in your interesting "antiquarian notices of lupset, the heath, and sharlston." you state that william turner was living in the parish of saint john del pike at the time of the heralds' visitation in 1665, and was one of the persons whom they summoned to appear.[42] the visits of the heralds at york took place in the months of august and september in that year; and perhaps you would not have imputed blame to him for having neglected that opportunity of recording his genealogy, had you been aware that he was then in his last illness, awaiting a more solemn summons. he died within a month after the date of his will, and was buried in the church of the holy trinity goodramgate, on oct. 3, 1665. had the heralds made their visitation at york a few months sooner, we should doubtless have possessed their testimony, that the turners were entitled to take rank among the gentry of york. but it will now, perhaps, be admitted that no such testimony is requisite. it has been shown by unimpeachable evidence that edward turner, the great-grandfather of edith pope, was the son of a substantial citizen of york, who flourished in the reign of king henry vii.; that, having advanced a step higher in the social scale, he maintained during great part of the reign of queen elizabeth the rank of a gentleman, and associated upon a footing of equality with the best of the inhabitants of a city which was then "the glory of the north"; that, in addition to the property he inherited in the city, he acquired lands of considerable value in the county, and these he transmitted to his descendants; that his eldest son, lancelot turner, by means of his paternal fortune, was enabled, at the commencement of the seventeenth century, to purchase the manor and estate of towthorpe, and thus attain the _status_ of a country gentleman; and in that position, dying childless, was succeeded by his nephew, william turner, who "made choice of, to be the mother of his children,"[43] of whom edith pope was one, a lady who was not only herself of good family, but was (as you have remarked[44]) allied with several of the higher yorkshire gentry. that genealogical critic must indeed be fastidious, who would deny the poet's right to assert that his mother was of _gentle blood_ and of an _ancient family_. the baptismal register of william turner, by which his birth is placed only two or three years earlier than the date you have conjecturally assigned for that event, shows that he was in his sixty-ninth year when he died. his wife survived him nearly sixteen years. "mrs. turner, widow," was buried in the church of the holy trinity goodramgate, on sept. 11, 1681. administration of the goods of "thomasine turner of york," who died intestate, was granted by the archbishop's court to her daughter mary turner, spinster, on dec. 2, 1681. from the circumstance of mary being the sole administratrix it may be inferred that the only surviving son, william turner, was then absent from york, and that mary was the oldest of the unmarried daughters who had remained at home.[45] but there is no reason to suppose that she had remained there alone. we may presume that edith was one of her companions, and took part in administering to the comforts of their mother's last hours--in assisting to "rock the cradle of reposing age." assuming it to have been soon after the restoration that william turner returned to york, his daughter edith was then just entering into womanhood, so that for nearly twenty years of the bloom of her life she was domesticated with her family within the walls of our venerable city. their residence stood under the very shadow of the towers of our cathedral, the parish of saint john del pike being usually regarded as forming part of the minster-close. the neighbourhood in which they lived was crowded with the stately mansions of the dignitaries of the church, the higher officers of the ecclesiastical courts, and many of the wealthy families of the county. we cannot doubt that the turners moved in the best society of which the city could at that period boast; not so brilliant and dignified as when it shone with the splendour of the vice-regal court of the lords presidents of the north; but still aristocratic, refined, and intellectual,--a society in which edith turner might receive that training which fitted her to hold converse in after-life with bolingbroke, and congreve, and swift. when, upon the death of mrs. turner, the daughters who had remained under the maternal roof at york had to seek a home with their married sisters in other parts of the kingdom, it was edith's lot to remove to london, where she became the wife of alexander pope, and the mother of the poet, whose name you justly designate "one of the greatest among englishmen." * * * * * it now only remains for me to offer to you my cordial thanks for the valuable information and suggestions with which you have favoured me in the progress of my investigation; and to assure you that i shall feel highly gratified if the additional facts i have brought to light satisfactorily blend with or prove to be in any measure illustrative of those contained in your more important narrative. * * * * * i must not conclude without gratefully acknowledging the kindness of my york friends,[46] who have, with the utmost readiness and liberality, given me free access to the records and documents which form many of my authorities. i am, my dear sir, with much respect, most faithfully yours, robert davies. the mount, york, _april, 1858_. london: f. pickton, printer, perry's place, 29, oxford street. footnotes: [1] johnson is probably in the wrong. they are printed as lady mary's in the collection entitled _the poetical works of the right honourable lady m--y w--y m--e_. dublin: 12mo, 1768, p. 26. it is rather remarkable that we should find in private documents two ladies whom pope had made the subject of his severest satire, both manifesting curiosity about the contents of his will. lady hervey (mary lepell) writes on the 20th july, 1744, respecting one clause in it; but she writes darkly, and the editor of her letters has not cleared away the obscurity. lady mary's curiosity is expressed in letters perhaps not so well known; at least i copy from the originals. they are addressed to her intimate friend the countess of oxford.--"_avignon, aug. 10, 1744._--i hear that pope is dead, but suppose it is a mistake, since your ladyship has never mentioned it. if it is so, i have some small curiosity for the disposition of his affairs, and to whom he has left the enjoyment of his pretty house at twict'nam, which was in his power to dispose of for only one year after his decease." again:--"_avignon, oct. 15._--i am surprised lord burlington is unmentioned in pope's will. on the whole, it appears to me more reasonable and less vain than i expected from him." it was from lady oxford that she had received a copy of the will. in another letter (not of this series) lady mary speaks of having converted an old ruined windmill on the heights of avignon into a belvedere, from which she says there was commanded the finest land prospect she had ever seen; then recollecting what were perhaps the happiest months of her life (for her happiness is to be counted by months, not years), she adds, "except wharncliffe." this "belvedere" must have been on the hill on which still stand the cathedral and the pope's palace, now barracks. the prospect, though magnificent, does not naturally recal the forests and moors of wharncliffe. no traces of the "belvedere" are discoverable. [2] see _private memoirs of john potenger, esquire_, edited by his descendant, c. w. bingham, m.a. 12mo. 1841. the editor confines himself very much to the one member of the family to whom the memoirs relate; and we have no notice of any connection with the name of pope, or of any collateral branches of the potengers. the mr. potenger, the friend of the dean of carlisle, is reasonably supposed to be mr. richard potenger, who was elected three times member for reading--1727, 1734, and again in 1735, when he was re-elected, having accepted a welsh judgeship. beatson informs us that on november 28, 1739, a new writ was ordered on his death. [3] see, for the rockleys and burdets, the _history of the deanery of doncaster_, vol. ii. pp. 285 and 376. [4] i infer this from the following letter of pope's, possibly the only letter of dry business written by him which has been preserved, printed in the book entitled _additions to the works of alexander pope, esq._, 2 vols. 8vo, 1776, vol. ii. p. 30:--"to john vanden bempden, esq., present. thursday. sir,--upon what you told me when i was last to wait on you, i deferred treating further for the rent-charge till you could be more certain what sum you could conveniently raise in present towards the purchase. if there were only three of [_q._ or] four hundred pounds wanting, we would take your bond; for, as to a mortgage on the rent-charge, my father is not qualified to take it, for by an act of parliament he cannot buy land, though he may sell. however, if you desire to make the purchase soon, i believe i have a friend who will lend you the â£1000, on the same security you offer us. if you have any scruple, you'll please to tell it me fairly; but, if this purchase be convenient to you, we shall think of treating with no other, and be ready upon your answer; since i think what i here propose, entirely accommodates all the difficulty you seem to be at. i am, sir, your very humble servant, a. pope." i conclude this relates to ruston, the vanden bempd's being then accumulating the estate now enjoyed by their descendant, sir john vanden bempd johnstone, baronet, whose beautiful seat is at hackness, near to ruston. [5] the collection of these pieces is usually attributed to steevens. but i am in possession of a copy which belonged to a person who claims to be the editor. it is handsomely bound, and has this note in his own handwriting on a fly-leaf of the first volume:--"these collections were made by me from the london museum, &c., and the preface written by me, w. c." lowndes gives this account of the book, "culled, says mr. park, by baldwin, from the communications by mr. steevens in the _st. james's chronicle_, and put forth with a preface by william cooke, esq." there is an account of cooke in the _biographia dramatica_, 8vo. 1812. p. 147. [6] "perhaps as probable a conjecture as is likely to be made is, that he was connected with the council of the north, or a successful practitioner in that court."--_pope tract_, p. 29. [7] another person of the same name was sheriff of york in 1571. [8] among the numerous officers of whom the court consisted were two called clerks of the seal.--torre's _mss._ [9] the mansion in the street now called lendal (formerly aldconyngstrete), which was built by dr. wintringham, an eminent physician, in the early part of the last century, and is now appropriated to the use of the judges at the assizes, stands upon part of the ancient churchyard of saint wilfred, which in the sixteenth century was the property of edward turner. [10] in his houses at york and heslington the rooms were hung with costly tapestry, and the buffets laden with gold and silver plate. he states in his will, that his plate weighed 759 oz. the heslington mansion, a short distance from york, was standing nearly as mr. eymis left it, until a few years ago, when it was almost wholly rebuilt by the late owner, yarburgh yarburgh, esq. the principal front still remains without much alteration, and presents an admirable example of the sumptuous style of domestic architecture that prevailed in the reign of queen elizabeth. [11] the testator was the son of thomas eymis, esq., of church stretton, in shropshire, by joyce or jocosa, sole daughter and heir of humphrey gatacre, of gatacre, in the same county, esquire of the body to king henry vi. the testator's only sister, margaret eymis, married thomas thynne, esq., and was the mother of william thynne, and sir john thynne, knight. she appears ultimately to have become the heir of both her father and her brothers, and thus to have carried all the wealth of the eymis's and gatacres into the family of thynne. from sir john thynne, the nephew of mr. eymis, who built the magnificent mansion of longleat, in wiltshire, the marquesses of bath are lineally descended. [12] on a plain tomb in york minster was once this epitaph:-+ "here lyeth the body of thomas eymis, esquier, one of her majesty's counsell established in the north parties, and secretary and keeper of her highness signett appointed for the said counsell, who married elizabeth, one of the daughters of sir edward nevill, knight, and departed out of this life to the mercy of god the xixth day of august, an. dom. 1578."--_eboracum_, p. 496. [13] these chamberlaynes were a younger branch of the ancient oxfordshire family of that name. it appears from the pedigree they recorded at the heralds' visitation in 1584, that the william chamberlayne named in edward turner's will was the first who settled at thoralby, in yorkshire. it is very probable that he, or his son leonard chamberlayne, was in some way or other connected with the council of the north, which might account for the circumstance of their having granted an annuity to edward turner. thoralby hall is in the parish of bugthorpe, of which mr. secretary eymis was the proprietor. francis chamberlayne, esq., the eldest son of sir leonard chamberlayne, knight (as he is styled in the pedigree), by his first wife, the daughter of sir william middleton, knight, of stockeld, near wetherby, was living at thoralby in 1584. sir leonard's second wife was katherine, daughter of roger cholmeley, esq., of brandsby, a sister of lady beckwith, the tenant of edward turner. [14] few persons who have visited our noble minster will have failed to notice, affixed to the south side of one of the massive piers which support the central tower, a monumental brass engraved with the portraiture of a prim old lady in the starched ruff and pinched-up coif of the days of queen elizabeth. the inscription beneath it informs us that this is the effigy of elizabeth eymis, widow, late the wife of thomas eymis, esq., deceased, who was one of the gentlewomen of the queen's privy chamber, and daughter of sir edward nevill, knight, one of the privy chamber to king henry the eighth. mrs. eymis, "the singular good mistress" of edward turner, did not long survive him. in her last will, which is dated the 31st of january, 1584-5, she desired, if she died at york or heslington, to be buried in the minster of york, nigh her late husband; and she ordered her executors to provide a stone of marble to be set upon a platt, with superscription of her descent, and also the arms of her late husband and her own, graven thereupon. had her injunctions been implicitly obeyed by her executors, her monument would have shared the fate of that of her husband, and of numberless others which have long since disappeared from the nave and aisles of york minster. her epitaph, being written in brass instead of marble, has escaped the wear and tear of nearly three centuries. it is not irrelevant to my subject to introduce here a few of the bequests contained in her will. to "my good lord of huntingdon" she gives "one portingue of gould"; to "my good ladie his wife," her best silver tankard, double gilt; to her brother, sir henry nevill, knight, she gives her great goblet of silver with a cover, and to her brother, edward nevill, esq., her "jewell of gould with the unicorne horne in the same, maid licke a shippe, and a gilt canne of sylver"; to her sister "frogmorton, my best tuftafitie gowne"; to her very good friend, mr. pailer, "a tankard of silver, parcel gilt"; to alice hall, "one morning gown" and 20_s._; and to her god-daughter, elizabeth darley, one silver spoon. the residuary legatees and executors are robert man, and francis nevill, the son of edward nevill. witnesses--william payler, anne payler, thomas wanton, alice darley, john stevenson, katherine blenkarne. we have here one or two facts showing the intimacy that subsisted between the families of edward turner and mrs. eymis. alice hall, one of her legatees, was the widowed sister of edward turner; robert man, her executor, was one of the supervisors of edward turner's will; katherine blenkarne, one of the witnesses of mrs. eymis's will, was a daughter of edward turner; john stevenson, another witness, was most probably the person of that name who married margaret willowbie, another daughter of edward turner. mrs. eymis had reason to be proud of her descent. her father, sir edward nevill, a younger brother of george nevill, lord abergavenny, was a distinguished ornament of the court of henry viii. in its palmiest days. he was one of "the noble troop of strangers" who formed the royal masquing party when the king visited wolsey, and first saw anne boleyn. a few years after that event, he incurred the displeasure of the suspicious henry, and was brought to the scaffold upon a charge of being implicated in the pretended conspiracy of cardinal pole and his brothers. [15] a monumental brass to the memory of the testator's "very good friend, mr. thomas wood," is still preserved in the church of kilnwick percy, near pocklington, in the east riding of yorkshire, where he was buried in the month of october, 1584. the inscription has not, i believe, been printed:- "thomas wood gentilman, who in warfare hath be, he fought in scotland, in royall armyes thre, lyeth now buried, in this grave hereunder. of bulloign when it was english, clerk comptroller; of the ward court, sixe and twenty yeres together depute receyvor; of yorkshire once eschetor; clerke of the statut, in london noble cytye; collector of selby, with tenne pound yerely ffe. for thought wordes or deeds which to god or man were yll, of bothe he askt forgyveness with glad hart and will. he buylt th'owse hereby, and this churche brought in good case: god grant his wyfe and sonnes to passe a godly race.--amen." in the seventeenth century, mary wood, the grand-daughter of this thomas wood, and the niece and heiress of his eldest son, barney wood, married sir edmund anderson, baronet, and carried the estate of kilnwick percy into that family, by whom it was long enjoyed. kilnwick percy is now the beautiful seat and domain of admiral the honourable arthur duncombe, m.p. the rev. m. a. lawton, vicar of kilnwick percy, has obligingly favoured me with a copy of the above inscription. [16] john stephenson was the owner of a "capital messuage" in coney-street, york, which was occupied by himself and ralph rokeby, esq., one of the secretaries of the council of the north, and which was at one time distinguished by the sign of the bear, and afterwards of the golden lion. in 1614, margaret stephenson and her son, john stephenson (the nephew to whom lancelot turner bequeathed all his books, except his song-books), sold the messuage to thomas kaye, who established there an hotel which he called the george inn, a name it retains to this day. [17] miles newton was the name of the town-clerk of york who died in 1550, and was succeeded in that office by thomas fale, the first husband of the testatrix. he was very probably the same person who is named in the newton pedigree of 1585 as the grandfather of the miles newton who married jane beckwith. [18] _pope tract_, p. 32. [19] mr. john darley, of york, and of kilnhurst in the west riding, was a younger son of william darley, esq., of buttercrambe, near york. his wife was alice, daughter of christopher mountfort, esq., of kilnhurst. mr. john darley bought the manor of kilnhurst of his wife's brother, lancelot mountfort, esq. _vide_ hunter's _south yorkshire_, vol. ii. p. 49. mr. darley's town residence was in coney-street, and it is very probable that he was officially connected with the council of the north. his daughter, elizabeth, the god-daughter of mrs. eymis, married, for her second and third husbands, sir edmund sheffield and sir william sheffield, sons of the earl of mulgrave, who was made lord president of the north upon the accession of james i. [20] george hervey of merks in the county of essex, esq., married frances, one of the daughters of sir leonard beckwith. [21] william allen married jane beckwith, sister of sir leonard beckwith. he was an alderman of york, and lord mayor in 1572. [22] _eboracum_, p. 358. [23] the will of robert gylminge is dated april 20, 1571. "i bequeath my soule to almightie god and to all the celestial company of heaven." he makes his wife, nicholas his son, mary, agnes, meriall, and jane, his daughters, his executors; and his brother william gylminge, and william alleyne, draper, supervisors. proved june 25, 1580. [24] mr. drake states, that in the year 1604, the number of persons who died of the plague in york, was 3512. _eboracum_, p. 121. the parish of all saints pavement lost more than one-third of its population. [25] _pope tract_, p. 31. [26] see _athenã¦um_, nov. 21, 1857. [27] in his will dated 8th dec. 1595, thomas buskell of york, esquire, speaks of his "house wherein i do now dwell, which i purchased of lancelot turner of york gentleman." [28] _pope tract_, p. 28. [29] corporation archives. [30] it appears that during the latter part of the reign of queen elizabeth, many of the roman catholics of york and the neighbourhood chose the city of venice for their place of refuge. in the year 1581, a person named richard collinge or cowling, and his brother thomas, the sons of ralph cowling, a york tradesman, who was a popish recusant, were sent over sea, and ultimately richard collinge found his way into italy. several years afterwards he returned to this country, and, apparently whilst he was visiting his friends and relatives in yorkshire, corresponded with a person abroad, whom he addresses thus:--_al molto magnifico signori il signore giulio piccioli, a venezia_. one of his letters to this person, supposed to have been written in the year 1599, which was intercepted by the government of elizabeth, and is now preserved in the state-paper office, contains the names of several persons connected with york and yorkshire. the most remarkable passage relates to the arch-conspirator guye fawkes, who must have been sojourning at venice at that time. "i entreat your favour and friendship for my cousin-germane mr. guydo fawkes, who serveth sir william, as i understand he is in great want, and your worde in his behalfe may stande him in greate steede. --he hath lefte a prettie livinge here in this countrie, which his mother, being married to an unthrifty husband, since his departure i think hath wasted awaye, yet she and the rest of our friendes are in good health." the writer's relationship to fawkes was most probably through the harringtons, of whom he also speaks:--"let him tell my cousin martin harrington that i was at his brother henry's house at the mounte, but he was not then at home; he and his wife were all well, and have many pretty children." by "the mounte" is meant mount st. john, near thirsk, where a branch of the family of harrington was then resident, one of whom, william harrington, a seminary priest, was executed at tyburn, feb. 18, 1594. _chaloner_, part i. p. 304. mrs. ellin fawkes, the grandmother of guye, was a harrington. by her will in 1570, she bequeaths a gold ring to william harrington, her brother martin's son. collinge names several other persons then at venice to whom he is commissioned by their relatives in england to send messages; some of whom, one cannot doubt, had emigrated from that part of the kingdom to which he himself belonged. he makes special mention of d. worthington, "whose brother hath sent a letter unto him;" and of d. kellison, who he wishes to know that "his brother valentine is in good health." dr. worthington, one of the translators of the douay bible, and dr. kellison, were successively presidents of the english college at douay. the letter, which is without date, is subscribed "yours in christe, richarde collinge." i am indebted to my friend mr. john bruce, v.p.s.a., for acquainting me with the existence of this document, which mr. lemon, of the state-paper office, very obligingly allowed me to peruse. guye fawkes was not the only native of york who was implicated in the gunpowder plot. edward oldcorne the jesuit, who assumed the name of hall, and was the companion of father garnett at hendlip and in the tower, was the son of john oldcorne, a bricklayer at york. he was sent abroad about the year 1584, and was first placed at the college of douay whilst it was stationed at rheims. he was afterwards at rome, where the general of the jesuits admitted him into their society. _chaloner_, part ii. p. 485. he was executed at worcester, april 7, 1606, as a partaker in the gunpowder plot conspiracy. _jardine_, p. 210. a name in collinge's letter, partly obliterated, seems meant for oldcorne, and renders it probable that he was then one of the english residents at venice. we may be sure that when lancelot turner despatched his youthful brother to venice, he knew that he was not consigning him wholly into the hands of strangers. in the list of the romish priests and jesuits resident in and about london in 1624, the name of turner occurs once.--morgan's _phoenix britannicus_, p. 437. [31] "on monday next after twelfth day, 1620, he revoked nuncupatively the gift of the clock to sir william alford, saying, 'he forgets his old friends,' and gives it to his nephew, william turner. to this were witnesses, thomasine newton, henry dent, and alice atkinson, who depose that william turner reminded him that there had been much kindness between him and sir william. this was a few days before his death."--_pope tract_, p. 30. [32] _collectanea top. et gen._, vol. iv. p. 178. [33] emanuel lord scrope, afterwards earl of sunderland. [34] at malton. [35] _parl. hist._, vol. vii. p. 286. [36] _pope tract_, p. 31. [37] at a court held by the lords of the manor of strensall, in april, 1622, william turner was called as a copyholder of towthorpe; and again in april, 1624. towthorpe is an insignificant and very secluded village, about four miles north of york, a little off the high road from thence to sheriff-hutton. nothing is now left of the old manor-house; but near to the spot where it may be supposed to have stood, a not uninteresting object still remains, to carry the mind back to the days when lancelot turner and his nephew william were the proprietors. this is a sort of pleasance upon a small scale--a quadrangular plot of ground, about fifty yards square, surrounded by a rather broad moat, and thickly planted with fruit-trees arranged with some approach to symmetry--two or three of the outer rows being nut or filbert trees, the rest apple, pear, and plum. the nut-trees are obviously of great age, their stems being strangely contorted, and having attained a thickness seldom seen in this part of the country. the other trees have a less aged appearance; and probably a temple or summer-house may have formerly been placed upon the centre of the little island. a building of this kind, with its accompanying moat, was a favourite ornament in the quaint pleasure-grounds of the elizabethan mansion. the moat would doubtless form a useful _piscaria_, especially valuable to persons to whom fish was, at certain seasons, an indispensable article of diet. at present, instead of seeing carp and tench, as in former days, quietly gliding through its waters, on approaching the island our ears were greeted with the harsh croaking of innumerable frogs and toads, the sole inhabitants of the moat. whilst viewing this now solitary memorial of the past, it was impossible to avoid giving a little license to the imagination, and peopling the tiny pleasance with the forms of william turner and thomasine newton in the happy hours of their courtship and early married life, which were spent at towthorpe,--she musing over one of the song-books of their uncle lancelot, which were so significantly reserved by his will for her especial use. what a contrast is the dull and uninteresting and most unpicturesque plain of the ancient forest of galtres, in which the countryhouse of edith pope's parents stood, to the glorious vale of the thames, where her illustrious son solaced himself with his trim garden, his grotto, and his quincunx! [38] miles newton, of thorpe, in the county of york, gentleman, made his will on may 18, 1604. he desires to be buried in the church of rippon. he gives to his eldest son richard the bedstead which was his grandfather thomas collins's. to his son christopher, a bedstead which was his (the testator's) father's. he names his wife, jane newton; his son, henry, and his daughters, katherine, johanna, rebecca (to whom he gives the better of the cushions which was her grandmother beckwith's), dorothy, and elizabeth. he makes his children, richard newton and christopher newton, executors; and his brother leonard beckwith, and george mallory, supervisors. proved at york, by richard newton only, april 8, 1605. richard was the testator's son by his first wife, eleanor, daughter of thomas collins. christopher and henry were the sons of his second wife, jane beckwith. according to the pedigree of the newtons, recorded at the visitation of 1585, the grandmother of miles newton, was one of the distinguished family of roos, of ingmanthorpe. [39] afterwards the wife of samuel cooper. your supposition that she was one of the elder daughters, is thus shown to be correct.--_pope tract_, p. 40. [40] _pope tract_, p. 42. [41] _pope tract_, pp. 34, 35. [42] _pope tract_, p. 26. [43] vide _pope's letter to a noble lord_. [44] _pope tract_, p. 32. [45] the two daughters who became mrs. mace and mrs. tomlinson, most probably formed their matrimonial engagements at york during their mother's widowhood. these are the names of highly respectable york families. the tomlinsons belonged to the trade aristocracy of the city. the rev. henry mace was sub-chanter of york minster from 1661 to 1680; thomas mace, the author of that curious book, _musick's monument_, published in 1676, was his brother. there cannot be any reasonable doubt that the clergyman named mace, who married one of the daughters of william turner, either martha or margaret, was the rev. charles mace, one of the sons of henry mace, the sub-chanter, who had himself a son baptized by the name of charles, at the collegiate chapel of the sub-chanter and vicars choral, near goodramgate, in york, on oct. 29, 1682. christiana cooper, in her will made in 1693, mentions her nephew charles mace, although she does not give us the christian-name of his mother. _athenã¦um_, july 18, 1857. of the death of the rev. charles mace the father, thomas gent, the old york printer, in his _history of hull_, tells an affecting story. it was, he says, about the year 1711, when the rev. charles mace, sen., departed this life. "he died in the pulpit; for as he was preaching in york castle to the condemned prisoners who were to be executed the day following, one of them was so hardened as openly to interrupt and even defy him in that part of his discourse that hinted at his crime. which unparalleled audacity so deeply pierced the tender minister to the heart (whose melting oratory was pathetically employed in moving the unhappy wretches to repent of their crying sins, whereby to obtain divine mercy), that he instantly fainted away, dropped down, and departed this life, to the great sorrow of all those persons who were witnesses of his holy life and innocent conversation." _annales regioduni hullini_, by thomas gent; 1735, p. 194. charles mace, the son, was also a clergyman, and was chosen vicar of the holy trinity church at hull, dec. 3, 1716. [46] the rev. canon hey, vicar of st. helen stonegate; the rev. thomas myers, vicar of holy trinity goodramgate; the rev. b. e. metcalfe, vicar of huntington; the rev. james raine, jun., m.a.; william hudson, esq., and joseph buckle, esq., registrars of the court of probate at york; william richardson, esq., lord of the manor of strensall; and henry richardson, esq., my worthy successor in the office of town clerk of york. [transcriber's note: greek words in this text have been transliterated and placed between +marks+. a complete list of changes follows the text.] english men of letters edited by john morley pope alexander pope by leslie stephen london: macmillan and co. 1880. _the right of translation and reproduction is reserved._ fifth thousand. prefatory note. the life and writings of pope have been discussed in a literature more voluminous than that which exists in the case of almost any other english man of letters. no biographer, however, has produced a definitive or exhaustive work. it seems therefore desirable to indicate the main authorities upon which such a biographer would have to rely, and which have been consulted for the purpose of the following necessarily brief and imperfect sketch. the first life of pope was a catchpenny book, by william ayre, published in 1745, and remarkable chiefly as giving the first version of some demonstrably erroneous statements, unfortunately adopted by later writers. in 1751, warburton, as pope's literary executor, published the authoritative edition of the poet's works, with notes containing some biographical matter. in 1769 appeared a life by owen ruffhead, who wrote under warburton's inspiration. this is a dull and meagre performance, and much of it is devoted to an attack--partly written by warburton himself--upon the criticisms advanced in the first volume of joseph warton's essay on pope. warton's first volume was published in 1756; and it seems that the dread of warburton's wrath counted for something in the delay of the second volume, which did not appear till 1782. the essay contains a good many anecdotes of interest. warton's edition of pope--the notes in which are chiefly drawn from the essay--was published in 1797. the life by johnson appeared in 1781; it is admirable in many ways; but johnson had taken the least possible trouble in ascertaining facts. both warton and johnson had before them the manuscript collections of joseph spence, who had known pope personally during the last twenty years of his life, and wanted nothing but literary ability to have become an efficient boswell. spence's anecdotes, which were not published till 1820, give the best obtainable information upon many points, especially in regard to pope's childhood. this ends the list of biographers who were in any sense contemporary with pope. their statements must be checked and supplemented by the poet's own letters, and innumerable references to him in the literature of the time. in 1806 appeared the edition of pope by bowles, with a life prefixed. bowles expressed an unfavourable opinion of many points in pope's character, and some remarks by campbell, in his specimens of english poets, led to a controversy (1819-1826) in which bowles defended his views against campbell, byron, roscoe, and others, and which incidentally cleared up some disputed questions. roscoe, the author of the life of leo x., published his edition of pope in 1824. a life is contained in the first volume, but it is a feeble performance; and the notes, many of them directed against bowles, are of little value. a more complete biography was published by r. carruthers (with an edition of the works), in 1854. the second, and much improved, edition appeared in 1857, and is still the most convenient life of pope, though mr. carruthers was not fully acquainted with the last results of some recent investigations, which have thrown a new light upon the poet's career. the writer who took the lead in these inquiries was the late mr. dilke. mr. dilke published the results of his investigations (which were partly guided by the discovery of a previously unpublished correspondence between pope and his friend caryll), in the _athenæum_ and _notes and queries_, at various intervals, from 1854 to 1860. his contributions to the subject have been collated in the first volume of the _papers of a critic_, edited by his grandson, the present sir charles w. dilke, in 1875. meanwhile mr. croker had been making an extensive collection of materials for an exhaustive edition of pope's works, in which he was to be assisted by mr. peter cunningham. after croker's death these materials were submitted by mr. murray to mr. whitwell elwin, whose own researches have greatly extended our knowledge, and who had also the advantage of mr. dilke's advice. mr. elwin began, in 1871, the publication of the long-promised edition. it was to have occupied ten volumes--five of poems and five of correspondence, the latter of which was to include a very large proportion of previously unpublished matter. unfortunately for all students of english literature, only two volumes of poetry and three of correspondence have appeared. the notes and prefaces, however, contain a vast amount of information, which clears up many previously disputed points in the poet's career; and it is to be hoped that the materials collected for the remaining volumes will not be ultimately lost. it is easy to dispute some of mr. elwin's critical opinions, but it would be impossible to speak too highly of the value of his investigations of facts. without a study of his work, no adequate knowledge of pope is attainable. the ideal biographer of pope, if he ever appears, must be endowed with the qualities of an acute critic and a patient antiquarian; and it would take years of labour to work out all the minute problems connected with the subject. all that i can profess to have done is to have given a short summary of the obvious facts, and of the main conclusions established by the evidence given at length in the writings of mr. dilke and mr. elwin. i have added such criticisms as seemed desirable in a work of this kind, and i must beg pardon by anticipation if i have fallen into inaccuracies in relating a story so full of pitfalls for the unwary. l. s. contents. chapter i. page early years 1 chapter ii. first period of pope's literary career 21 chapter iii. pope's homer 61 chapter iv. pope at twickenham 81 chapter v. the war with the dunces 111 chapter vi. correspondence 137 chapter vii. the essay on man 159 chapter viii. epistles and satires 181 chapter ix. the end 206 pope. chapter i. early years. the father of alexander pope was a london merchant, a devout catholic, and not improbably a convert to catholicism. his mother was one of seventeen children of william turner, of york; one of her sisters was the wife of cooper, the well-known portrait-painter. mrs. cooper was the poet's godmother; she died when he was five years old, leaving to her sister, mrs. pope, a "grinding-stone and muller," and their mother's "picture in limning;" and to her nephew, the little alexander, all her "books, pictures, and medals set in gold or otherwise." in after-life the poet made some progress in acquiring the art of painting; and the bequest suggests the possibility that the precocious child had already given some indications of artistic taste. affectionate eyes were certainly on the watch for any symptoms of developing talent. pope was born on may 21st, 1688--the _annus mirabilis_ which introduced a new political era in england, and was fatal to the hopes of ardent catholics. about the same time, partly, perhaps, in consequence of the catastrophe, pope's father retired from business, and settled at binfield--a village two miles from wokingham and nine from windsor. it is near bracknell, one of shelley's brief perching places, and in such a region as poets might love, if poetic praises of rustic seclusion are to be taken seriously. to the east were the "forests and green retreats" of windsor, and the wild heaths of bagshot, chobham and aldershot stretched for miles to the south. some twelve miles off in that direction, one may remark, lay moor park, where the sturdy pedestrian, swift, was living with sir w. temple during great part of pope's childhood; but it does not appear that his walks ever took him to pope's neighbourhood, nor did he see, till some years later, the lad with whom he was to form one of the most famous of literary friendships. the little household was presumably a very quiet one, and remained fixed at binfield for twenty-seven years, till the son had grown to manhood and celebrity. from the earliest period he seems to have been a domestic idol. he was not an only child, for he had a half-sister by his father's side, who must have been considerably older than himself, as her mother died nine years before the poet's birth. but he was the only child of his mother, and his parents concentrated upon him an affection which he returned with touching ardour and persistence. they were both forty-six in the year of his birth. he inherited headaches from his mother, and a crooked figure from his father. a nurse who shared their care, lived with him for many years, and was buried by him, with an affectionate epitaph, in 1725. the family tradition represents him as a sweet-tempered child, and says that he was called the "little nightingale," from the beauty of his voice. as the sickly, solitary, and precocious infant of elderly parents, we may guess that he was not a little spoilt, if only in the technical sense. the religion of the family made their seclusion from the world the more rigid, and by consequence must have strengthened their mutual adhesiveness. catholics were then harassed by a legislation which would be condemned by any modern standard as intolerably tyrannical. whatever apology may be urged for the legislators on the score of contemporary prejudices or special circumstances, their best excuse is that their laws were rather intended to satisfy constituents, and to supply a potential means of defence, than to be carried into actual execution. it does not appear that the popes had to fear any active molestation in the quiet observance of their religious duties. yet a catholic was not only a member of a hated minority, regarded by the rest of his countrymen as representing the evil principle in politics and religion, but was rigorously excluded from a public career, and from every position of honour or authority. in times of excitement the severer laws might be put in force. the public exercise of the catholic religion was forbidden, and to be a catholic was to be predisposed to the various jacobite intrigues which still had many chances in their favour. when the pretender was expected in 1744, a proclamation, to which pope thought it decent to pay obedience, forbade the appearance of catholics within ten miles of london; and in 1730 we find him making interest on behalf of a nephew, who had been prevented from becoming an attorney because the judges were rigidly enforcing the oaths of supremacy and allegiance. catholics had to pay double taxes and were prohibited from acquiring real property. the elder pope, according to a certainly inaccurate story, had a conscientious objection to investing his money in the funds of a protestant government, and, therefore, having converted his capital into coin, put it in a strong-box, and took it out as he wanted it. the old merchant was not quite so helpless, for we know that he had investments in the french _rentes_, besides other sources of income; but the story probably reflects the fact that his religious disqualifications hampered even his financial position. pope's character was affected in many ways by the fact of his belonging to a sect thus harassed and restrained. persecution, like bodily infirmity, has an ambiguous influence. if it sometimes generates in its victims a heroic hatred of oppression, it sometimes predisposes them to the use of the weapons of intrigue and falsehood, by which the weak evade the tyranny of the strong. if under that discipline pope learnt to love toleration, he was not untouched by the more demoralizing influences of a life passed in an atmosphere of incessant plotting and evasion. a more direct consequence was his exclusion from the ordinary schools. the spirit of the rickety lad might have been broken by the rough training of eton or westminster in those days; as, on the other hand, he might have profited by acquiring a livelier perception of the meaning of that virtue of fair-play, the appreciation of which is held to be a set-off against the brutalizing influences of our system of public education. as it was, pope was condemned to a desultory education. he picked up some rudiments of learning from the family priest; he was sent to a school at twyford, where he is said to have got into trouble for writing a lampoon upon his master; he went for a short time to another in london, where he gave a more creditable if less characteristic proof of his poetical precocity. like other lads of genius, he put together a kind of play--a combination, it seems, of the speeches in ogilby's iliad--and got it acted by his schoolfellows. these brief snatches of schooling, however, counted for little. pope settled at home at the early age of twelve, and plunged into the delights of miscellaneous reading with the ardour of precocious talent. he read so eagerly that his feeble constitution threatened to break down, and when about seventeen, he despaired of recovery, and wrote a farewell to his friends. one of them, an abbé southcote, applied for advice to the celebrated dr. radcliffe, who judiciously prescribed idleness and exercise. pope soon recovered, and, it is pleasant to add, showed his gratitude long afterwards by obtaining for southcote, through sir robert walpole, a desirable piece of french preferment. self-guided studies have their advantages, as pope himself observed, but they do not lead a youth through the dry places of literature, or stimulate him to severe intellectual training. pope seems to have made some hasty raids into philosophy and theology; he dipped into locke, and found him "insipid;" he went through a collection of the controversial literature of the reign of james ii., which seems to have constituted the paternal library, and was alternately protestant and catholic, according to the last book which he had read. but it was upon poetry and pure literature that he flung himself with a genuine appetite. he learnt languages to get at the story, unless a translation offered an easier path, and followed wherever fancy led "like a boy gathering flowers in the fields and woods." it is needless to say that he never became a scholar in the strict sense of the term. voltaire declared that he could hardly read or speak a word of french; and his knowledge of greek would have satisfied bentley as little as his french satisfied voltaire. yet he must have been fairly conversant with the best known french literature of the time, and he could probably stumble through homer with the help of a crib and a guess at the general meaning. he says himself that at this early period, he went through all the best critics; all the french, english and latin poems of any name; "homer and some of the greater greek poets in the original," and tasso and ariosto in translations. pope at any rate acquired a wide knowledge of english poetry. waller, spenser, and dryden were, he says, his great favourites in the order named, till he was twelve. like so many other poets, he took infinite delight in the _faery queen_; but dryden, the great poetical luminary of his own day, naturally exercised a predominant influence upon his mind. he declared that he had learnt versification wholly from dryden's works, and always mentioned his name with reverence. many scattered remarks reported by spence, and the still more conclusive evidence of frequent appropriation, show him to have been familiar with the poetry of the preceding century, and with much that had gone out of fashion in his time, to a degree in which he was probably excelled by none of his successors, with the exception of gray. like gray he contemplated at one time the history of english poetry which was in some sense executed by warton. it is characteristic, too, that he early showed a critical spirit. from a boy, he says, he could distinguish between sweetness and softness of numbers, dryden exemplifying softness and waller sweetness; and the remark, whatever its value, shows that he had been analysing his impressions and reflecting upon the technical secrets of his art. such study naturally suggests the trembling aspiration, "i, too, am a poet." pope adopts with apparent sincerity the ovidian phrase, as yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame i lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. his father corrected his early performances and when not satisfied, sent him back with the phrase, "these are not good rhymes." he translated any passages that struck him in his reading, excited by the examples of ogilby's homer and sandys' ovid. his boyish ambition prompted him before he was fifteen to attempt an epic poem; the subject was alcander, prince of rhodes, driven from his home by deucalion, father of minos; and the work was modestly intended to emulate in different passages the beauties of milton, cowley, spenser, statius, homer, virgil, ovid, and claudian. four books of this poem survived for a long time, for pope had a more than parental fondness for all the children of his brain, and always had an eye to possible reproduction. scraps from this early epic were worked into the essay on criticism and the dunciad. this couplet, for example, from the last work comes straight, we are told, from alcander,- as man's mæanders to the vital spring roll all their tides, then back their circles bring. another couplet, preserved by spence, will give a sufficient taste of its quality:- shields, helms, and swords all jangle as they hang, and sound formidinous with angry clang. after this we shall hardly censure atterbury for approving (perhaps suggesting) its destruction in later years. pope long meditated another epic, relating the foundation of the english government by brutus of troy, with a superabundant display of didactic morality and religion. happily this dreary conception, though it occupied much thought, never came to the birth. the time soon came when these tentative flights were to be superseded by more serious efforts. pope's ambition was directed into the same channel by his innate propensities and by the accidents of his position. no man ever displayed a more exclusive devotion to literature, or was more tremblingly sensitive to the charm of literary glory. his zeal was never distracted by any rival emotion. almost from his cradle to his grave his eye was fixed unremittingly upon the sole purpose of his life. the whole energies of his mind were absorbed in the struggle to place his name as high as possible in that temple of fame, which he painted after chaucer in one of his early poems. external conditions pointed to letters as the sole path to eminence, but it was precisely the path for which he had admirable qualifications. the sickly son of the popish tradesman was cut off from the bar, the senate, and the church. physically contemptible, politically ostracized, and in a humble social position, he could yet win this dazzling prize and force his way with his pen to the highest pinnacle of contemporary fame. without adventitious favour and in spite of many bitter antipathies, he was to become the acknowledged head of english literature, and the welcome companion of all the most eminent men of his time. though he could not foresee his career from the start, he worked as vigorously as if the goal had already been in sight; and each successive victory in the field of letters was realized the more keenly from his sense of the disadvantages in face of which it had been won. in tracing his rapid ascent, we shall certainly find reason to doubt his proud assertion,- that, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways, but it is impossible for any lover of literature to grudge admiration to this singular triumph of pure intellect over external disadvantages, and the still more depressing influences of incessant physical suffering. pope had indeed certain special advantages which he was not slow in turning to account. in one respect even his religion helped him to emerge into fame. there was naturally a certain free-masonry amongst the catholics allied by fellow-feeling under the general antipathy. the relations between pope and his co-religionists exercised a material influence upon his later life. within a few miles of binfield lived the blounts of mapledurham, a fine old elizabethan mansion on the banks of the thames, near reading, which had been held by a royalist blount in the civil war against a parliamentary assault. it was a more interesting circumstance to pope that mr. lister blount, the then representative of the family, had two fair daughters, teresa and martha, of about the poet's age. another of pope's catholic acquaintances was john caryll, of west grinstead in sussex, nephew of a caryll who had been the representative of james ii. at the court of rome, and who, following his master into exile, received the honours of a titular peerage and held office in the melancholy court of the pretender. in such circles pope might have been expected to imbibe a jacobite and catholic horror of whigs and freethinkers. in fact, however, he belonged from his youth to the followers of gallio, and seems to have paid to religious duties just as much attention as would satisfy his parents. his mind was really given to literature; and he found his earliest patron in his immediate neighbourhood. this was sir w. trumbull, who had retired to his native village of easthampstead in 1697, after being ambassador at the porte under james ii., and secretary of state under william iii. sir william made acquaintance with the popes, praised the father's artichokes, and was delighted with the precocious son. the old diplomatist and the young poet soon became fast friends, took constant rides together, and talked over classic and modern poetry. pope made trumbull acquainted with milton's juvenile poems, and trumbull encouraged pope to follow in milton's steps. he gave, it seems, the first suggestion to pope that he should translate homer; and he exhorted his young friend to preserve his health by flying from tavern company--_tanquam ex incendio_. another early patron was william walsh, a worcestershire country gentleman of fortune and fashion, who condescended to dabble in poetry after the manner of waller, and to write remonstrances upon celia's cruelty, verses to his mistress against marriage, epigrams, and pastoral eclogues. he was better known, however, as a critic, and had been declared by dryden to be, without flattery, the best in the nation. pope received from him one piece of advice which has become famous. we had had great poets--so said the "knowing walsh," as pope calls him--"but never one great poet that was correct;" and he accordingly recommended pope to make correctness his great aim. the advice doubtless impressed the young man as the echo of his own convictions. walsh died (1708), before the effect of his suggestion had become fully perceptible. the acquaintance with walsh was due to wycherley, who had submitted pope's pastorals to his recognized critical authority. pope's intercourse with wycherley and another early friend, henry cromwell, had a more important bearing upon his early career. he kept up a correspondence with each of these friends, whilst he was still passing through his probationary period; and the letters published long afterwards under singular circumstances to be hereafter related, give the fullest revelation of his character and position at this time. both wycherley and cromwell were known to the englefields of whiteknights, near reading, a catholic family, in which pope first made the acquaintance of martha blount, whose mother was a daughter of the old mr. englefield of the day. it was possibly, therefore, through this connexion that pope owed his first introduction to the literary circles of london. pope, already thirsting for literary fame, was delighted to form a connexion which must have been far from satisfactory to his indulgent parents, if they understood the character of his new associates. henry cromwell, a remote cousin of the protector, is known to other than minute investigators of contemporary literature by nothing except his friendship with pope. he was nearly thirty years older than pope, and though heir to an estate in the country, was at this time a gay, though rather elderly, man about town. vague intimations are preserved of his personal appearance. gay calls him "honest hatless cromwell with red breeches;" and johnson could learn about him the single fact that he used to ride a-hunting in a tie-wig. the interpretation of these outward signs may not be very obvious to modern readers; but it is plain from other indications that he was one of the frequenters of coffee-houses, aimed at being something of a rake and a wit, was on speaking terms with dryden, and familiar with the smaller celebrities of literature, a regular attendant at theatres, a friend of actresses, and able to present himself in fashionable circles and devote complimentary verses to the reigning beauties at the bath. when he studied the _spectator_ he might recognize some of his features reflected in the portrait of will honeycomb. pope was proud enough for the moment at being taken by the hand by this elderly buck, though, as pope himself rose in the literary scale and could estimate literary reputations more accurately, he became, it would seem, a little ashamed of his early enthusiasm, and, at any rate, the friendship dropped. the letters which passed between the pair during four or five years down to the end of 1711, show pope in his earliest manhood. they are characteristic of that period of development in which a youth of literary genius takes literary fame in the most desperately serious sense. pope is evidently putting his best foot forward, and never for a moment forgets that he is a young author writing to a recognized critic--except, indeed, when he takes the airs of an experienced rake. we might speak of the absurd affectation displayed in the letters, were it not that such affectation is the most genuine nature in a clever boy. unluckily it became so ingrained in pope as to survive his youthful follies. pope complacently indulges in elaborate paradoxes and epigrams of the conventional epistolary style; he is painfully anxious to be alternately sparkling and playful; his head must be full of literature; he indulges in an elaborate criticism of statius, and points out what a sudden fall that author makes at one place from extravagant bombast; he communicates the latest efforts of his muse, and tries, one regrets to say, to get more credit for precocity and originality than fairly belongs to him; he accidentally alludes to his dog that he may bring in a translation from the odyssey, quote plutarch, and introduce an anecdote which he has heard from trumbull about charles i.; he elaborately discusses cromwell's classical translations, adduces authorities, ventures to censure mr. rowe's amplifications of lucan, and, in this respect, thinks that breboeuf, the famous french translator, is equally a sinner, and writes a long letter as to the proper use of the cæsura and the hiatus in english verse. there are signs that the mutual criticisms became a little trying to the tempers of the correspondents. pope seems to be inclined to ridicule cromwell's pedantry, and when he affects satisfaction at learning that cromwell has detected him in appropriating a rondeau from voiture, we feel that the tension is becoming serious. probably he found out that cromwell was not only a bit of a prig, but a person not likely to reflect much glory upon his friends, and the correspondence came to an end, when pope found a better market for his wares. pope speaks more than once in these letters of his country retirement, where he could enjoy the company of the muses, but where, on the other hand, he was forced to be grave and godly, instead of drunk and scandalous as he could be in town. the jolly hunting and drinking squires round binfield thought him, he says, a well-disposed person, but unluckily disqualified for their rough modes of enjoyment by his sickly health. with them he has not been able to make one latin quotation, but has learnt a song of tom durfey's, the sole representative of literature, it appears, at the "toping-tables" of these thick-witted fox-hunters. pope naturally longed for the more refined or at least more fashionable indulgences of london life. beside the literary affectation, he sometimes adopts the more offensive affectation--unfortunately not peculiar to any period--of the youth who wishes to pass himself off as deep in the knowledge of the world. pope, as may be here said once for all, could be at times grossly indecent; and in these letters there are passages offensive upon this score, though the offence is far graver when the same tendency appears, as it sometimes does, in his letters to women. there is no proof that pope was ever licentious in practice. he was probably more temperate than most of his companions, and could be accused of fewer lapses from strict morality than, for example, the excellent but thoughtless steele. for this there was the very good reason that his "little, tender, crazy carcass," as wycherley calls it, was utterly unfit for such excesses as his companions could practice with comparative impunity. he was bound under heavy penalties to be through life a valetudinarian, and such doses of wine as the respectable addison used regularly to absorb, would have brought speedy punishment. pope's loose talk probably meant little enough in the way of actual vice, though, as i have already said, trumbull saw reasons for friendly warning. but some of his writings are stained by pruriency and downright obscenity; whilst the same fault may be connected with a painful absence of that chivalrous feeling towards women which redeems steele's errors of conduct in our estimate of his character. pope always takes a low, sometimes a brutal view of the relation between the sexes. enough, however, has been said upon this point. if pope erred, he was certainly unfortunate in the objects of his youthful hero-worship. cromwell seems to have been but a pedantic hanger-on of literary circles. his other great friend, wycherley, had stronger claims upon his respect, but certainly was not likely to raise his standard of delicacy. wycherley was a relic of a past literary epoch. he was nearly fifty years older than pope. his last play, the _plain dealer_, had been produced in 1677, eleven years before pope's birth. the _plain dealer_ and the _country wife_, his chief performances, are conspicuous amongst the comedies of the restoration dramatists for sheer brutality. during pope's boyhood he was an elderly rake about town, having squandered his intellectual as well as his pecuniary resources, but still scribbling bad verses and maxims on the model of rochefoucauld. pope had a very excusable, perhaps we may say creditable, enthusiasm for the acknowledged representatives of literary glory. before he was twelve years old he had persuaded some one to take him to will's, that he might have a sight of the venerable dryden; and in the first published letter[1] to wycherley he refers to this brief glimpse, and warmly thanks wycherley for some conversation about the elder poet. and thus, when he came to know wycherley, he was enraptured with the honour. he followed the great man about, as he tells us, like a dog; and, doubtless, received with profound respect the anecdotes of literary life which fell from the old gentleman's lips. soon a correspondence began, in which pope adopts a less jaunty air than that of his letters to cromwell, but which is conducted on both sides in the laboured complimentary style which was not unnatural in the days when congreve's comedy was taken to represent the conversation of fashionable life. presently, however, the letters began to turn upon an obviously dangerous topic. pope was only seventeen when it occurred to his friend to turn him to account as a literary assistant. the lad had already shown considerable powers of versification, and was soon employing them in the revision of some of the numerous compositions which amused wycherley's leisure. it would have required, one might have thought, less than wycherley's experience to foresee the natural end of such an alliance. pope, in fact, set to work with great vigour in his favourite occupation of correcting. he hacked and hewed right and left; omitted, compressed, rearranged, and occasionally inserted additions of his own devising. wycherley's memory had been enfeebled by illness, and now played him strange tricks. he was in the habit of reading himself to sleep with montaigne, rochefoucauld, and racine. next morning he would, with entire unconsciousness, write down as his own the thoughts of his author, or repeat almost word for word some previous composition of his own. to remove such repetitions thoroughly would require a very free application of the knife, and pope would not be slow to discover that he was wasting talents fit for original work in botching and tinkering a mass of rubbish. any man of ripe years would have predicted the obvious consequences; and, according to the ordinary story, those consequences followed. pope became more plain-speaking, and at last almost insulting in his language. wycherley ended by demanding the return of his manuscripts, in a letter showing his annoyance under a veil of civility; and pope sent them back with a smart reply, recommending wycherley to adopt a previous suggestion and turn his poetry into maxims after the manner of rochefoucauld. the "old scribbler," says johnson, "was angry to see his pages defaced, and felt more pain from the criticism than content from the amendment of his faults." the story is told at length, and with his usual brilliance, by macaulay, and has hitherto passed muster with all pope's biographers; and, indeed, it is so natural a story, and is so far confirmed by other statements of pope, that it seems a pity to spoil it. and yet it must be at least modified, for we have already reached one of those perplexities which force a biographer of pope to be constantly looking to his footsteps. so numerous are the contradictions which surround almost every incident of the poet's career, that one is constantly in danger of stumbling into some pitfall, or bound to cross it in gingerly fashion on the stepping-stone of a cautious "perhaps." the letters which are the authority for this story have undergone a manipulation from pope himself, under circumstances to be hereafter noticed; and recent researches have shown that a very false colouring has been put upon this as upon other passages. the nature of this strange perversion is a curious illustration of pope's absorbing vanity. pope, in fact, was evidently ashamed of the attitude which he had not unnaturally adopted to his correspondent. the first man of letters of his day could not bear to reveal the full degree in which he had fawned upon the decayed dramatist, whose inferiority to himself was now plainly recognized. he altered the whole tone of the correspondence by omission, and still worse by addition. he did not publish a letter in which wycherley gently remonstrates with his young admirer for excessive adulation; he omitted from his own letters the phrase which had provoked the remonstrance; and, with more daring falsification, he manufactured an imaginary letter to wycherley out of a letter really addressed to his friend caryll. in this letter pope had himself addressed to caryll a remonstrance similar to that which he had received from wycherley. when published as a letter to wycherley, it gives the impression that pope, at the age of seventeen, was already rejecting excessive compliments addressed to him by his experienced friend. by these audacious perversions of the truth, pope is enabled to heighten his youthful independence, and to represent himself as already exhibiting a graceful superiority to the reception or the offering of incense; whilst he thus precisely inverts the relation which really existed between himself and his correspondent. the letters, again, when read with a due attention to dates, shows that wycherley's proneness to take offence has at least been exaggerated. pope's services to wycherley were rendered on two separate occasions. the first set of poems were corrected during 1706 and 1707, and wycherley, in speaking of this revision, far from showing symptoms of annoyance, speaks with gratitude of pope's kindness, and returns the expressions of goodwill which accompanied his criticisms. both these expressions, and wycherley's acknowledgment of them, were omitted in pope's publication. more than two years elapsed, when (in april, 1710) wycherley submitted a new set of manuscripts to pope's unflinching severity; and it is from the letters which passed in regard to this last batch that the general impression as to the nature of the quarrel has been derived. but these letters, again, have been mutilated, and so mutilated as to increase the apparent tartness of the mutual retorts; and it must therefore remain doubtful how far the coolness which ensued was really due to the cause assigned. pope, writing at the time to cromwell, expresses his vexation at the difference, and professes himself unable to account for it, though he thinks that his corrections may have been the cause of the rupture. an alternative rumour,[2] it seems, accused pope of having written some satirical verses upon his friend. to discover the rights and wrongs of the quarrel is now impossible, though, unfortunately, one thing is clear, namely, that pope was guilty of grossly sacrificing truth in the interests of his own vanity. we may, indeed, assume, without much risk of error, that pope had become too conscious of his own importance to find pleasure or pride in doctoring another man's verses. it must remain uncertain how far he showed this resentment to wycherley openly, or gratified it by some covert means; and how far, again, he succeeded in calming wycherley's susceptibility by his compliments, or aroused his wrath by more or less contemptuous treatment of his verses. a year after the quarrel, cromwell reported that wycherley had again been speaking in friendly terms of pope, and pope expressed his pleasure with eagerness. he must, he said, be more agreeable to himself when agreeable to wycherley, as the earth was brighter when the sun was less overcast. wycherley, it may be remarked, took pope's advice by turning some of his verses into prose maxims; and they seem to have been at last upon more or less friendly terms. the final scene of wycherley's questionable career, some four years later, is given by pope in a letter to his friend, edward blount. the old man, he says, joined the sacraments of marriage and extreme unction. by one he supposed himself to gain some advantage of his soul; by the other, he had the pleasure of saddling his hated heir and nephew with the jointure of his widow. when dying, he begged his wife to grant him a last request, and, upon her consent, explained it to be that she would never again marry an old man. sickness, says pope in comment, often destroys wit and wisdom, but has seldom the power to remove humour. wycherley's joke, replies a critic, is contemptible; and yet one feels that the death scene, with this strange mixture of cynicism, spite, and superstition, half redeemed by imperturbable good temper, would not be unworthy of a place in wycherley's own school of comedy. one could wish that pope had shown a little more perception of the tragic side of such a conclusion. pope was still almost a boy when he broke with wycherley; but he was already beginning to attract attention, and within a surprisingly short time he was becoming known as one of the first writers of the day. i must now turn to the poems by which this reputation was gained, and the incidents connected with their publication. in pope's life, almost more than in that of any other poet, the history of the author is the history of the man. footnotes: [1] the letter is, unluckily, of doubtful authenticity; but it represents pope's probable sentiments. [2] see elwin's pope, vol. i., cxxxv. chapter ii. first period of pope's literary career. pope's rupture with wycherley took place in the summer of 1710, when pope, therefore, was just twenty-two. he was at this time only known as the contributor of some small poems to a miscellany. three years afterwards (1713) he was receiving such patronage in his great undertaking, the translation of homer, as to prove conclusively that he was regarded by the leaders of literature as a poet of very high promise; and two years later (1715) the appearance of the first volume of his translation entitled him to rank as the first poet of the day. so rapid a rise to fame has had few parallels, and was certainly not approached until byron woke and found himself famous at twenty-four. pope was eager for the praise of remarkable precocity, and was weak and insincere enough to alter the dates of some of his writings in order to strengthen his claim. yet, even when we accept the corrected accounts of recent enquirers, there is no doubt that he gave proofs at a very early age of an extraordinary command of the resources of his art. it is still more evident that his merits were promptly and frankly recognized by his contemporaries. great men and distinguished authors held out friendly hands to him; and he never had to undergo, even for a brief period, the dreary ordeal of neglect through which men of loftier but less popular genius, have been so often compelled to pass. and yet it unfortunately happened that, even in this early time, when success followed success, and the young man's irritable nerves might well have been soothed by the general chorus of admiration he excited and returned bitter antipathies, some of which lasted through his life. pope's works belong to three distinct periods. the translation of homer was the great work of the middle period of his life. in his later years he wrote the moral and satirical poems by which he is now best known. the earlier period, with which i have now to deal, was one of experimental excursions into various fields of poetry, with varying success and rather uncertain aim. pope had already, as we have seen, gone through the process of "filling his basket." he had written the epic poem which happily found its way into the flames. he had translated many passages that struck his fancy in the classics, especially considerable fragments of ovid and statius. following dryden, he had turned some of chaucer into modern english; and, adopting a fashion which had not as yet quite died of inanition, he had composed certain pastorals in the manner of theocritus and virgil. these early productions had been written under the eye of trumbull; they had been handed about in manuscript; wycherley, as already noticed, had shown them to walsh, himself an offender of the same class. granville, afterwards lord lansdowne, another small poet, read them, and professed to see in pope another virgil; whilst congreve, garth, somers, halifax, and other men of weight, condescended to read, admire, and criticize. old tonson, who had published for dryden, wrote a polite note to pope, then only seventeen, saying that he had seen one of the pastorals in the hands of congreve and walsh, "which was extremely fine," and requesting the honour of printing it. three years afterwards it accordingly appeared in tonson's miscellany, a kind of annual, of which the first numbers had been edited by dryden. such miscellanies more or less discharged the function of a modern magazine. the plan, said pope to wycherley, is very useful to the poets, "who, like other thieves, escape by getting into a crowd." the volume contained contributions from buckingham, garth, and howe; it closed with pope's pastorals, and opened with another set of pastorals by ambrose philips--a combination which, as we shall see, led to one of pope's first quarrels. the pastorals have been seriously criticized; but they are, in truth, mere school-boy exercises; they represent nothing more than so many experiments in versification. the pastoral form had doubtless been used in earlier hands to embody true poetic feeling; but in pope's time it had become hopelessly threadbare. the fine gentlemen in wigs and laced coats amused themselves by writing about nymphs and "conscious swains," by way of asserting their claims to elegance of taste. pope, as a boy, took the matter seriously, and always retained a natural fondness for a juvenile performance upon which he had expended great labour, and which was the chief proof of his extreme precocity. he invites attention to his own merits, and claims especially the virtue of propriety. he does not, he tells us, like some other people, make his roses and daffodils bloom in the same season, and cause his nightingales to sing in november; and he takes particular credit for having remembered that there were no wolves in england, and having accordingly excised a passage in which alexis prophesied that those animals would grow milder as they listened to the strains of his favourite nymph. when a man has got so far as to bring to england all the pagan deities, and rival shepherds contending for bowls and lambs in alternate strophes, these niceties seem a little out of place. after swallowing such a camel of an anachronism as is contained in the following lines, it is ridiculous to pride oneself upon straining at a gnat:-inspire me, says strephon, inspire me, phoebus, in my delia's praise with waller's strains or granville's moving lays. a milkwhite bull shall at your altars stand, that threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand. granville would certainly not have felt more surprised at meeting a wolf, than at seeing a milk-white bull sacrificed to phoebus on the banks of the thames. it would be a more serious complaint that pope, who can thus admit anachronisms as daring as any of those which provoked johnson in lycidas, shows none of that exquisite feeling for rural scenery which is one of the superlative charms of milton's early poems. though country-bred, he talks about country sights and sounds as if he had been brought up at christ's hospital, and read of them only in virgil. but, in truth, it is absurd to dwell upon such points. the sole point worth notice in the pastorals is the general sweetness of the versification. many corrections show how carefully pope had elaborated these early lines, and by what patient toil he was acquiring the peculiar qualities of style in which he was to become pre-eminent. we may agree with johnson that pope performing upon a pastoral pipe is rather a ludicrous person, but for mere practice even nonsense verses have been found useful. the young gentleman was soon to give a far more characteristic specimen of his peculiar powers. poets, according to the ordinary rule, should begin by exuberant fancy, and learn to prune and refine as the reasoning faculties develop. but pope was from the first a conscious and deliberate artist. he had read the fashionable critics of his time, and had accepted their canons as an embodiment of irrefragable reason. his head was full of maxims, some of which strike us as palpable truisms, and others as typical specimens of wooden pedantry. dryden had set the example of looking upon the french critics as authoritative lawgivers in poetry. boileau's art of poetry was carefully studied, as bits of it were judiciously appropriated by pope. another authority was the great bossu, who wrote in 1675 a treatise on epic poetry; and the modern reader may best judge of the doctrines characteristic of the school, by the naive pedantry with which addison, the typical man of taste of his time, invokes the authority of bossu and aristotle, in his exposition of paradise lost.[3] english writers were treading in the steps of boileau and horace. roscommon selected for a poem the lively topic of "translated verse," and sheffield had written with dryden an essay upon satire, and afterwards a more elaborate essay upon poetry. to these masterpieces, said addison, another masterpiece was now added by pope's essay upon criticism. not only did addison applaud, but later critics have spoken of their wonder at the penetration, learning, and taste exhibited by so young a man. the essay was carefully finished. written apparently in 1709, it was published in 1711. this was as short a time, said pope to spence, as he ever let anything of his lie by him; he no doubt employed it, according to his custom, in correcting and revising, and he had prepared himself by carefully digesting the whole in prose. it is, however, written without any elaborate logical plan, though it is quite sufficiently coherent for its purpose. the maxims on which pope chiefly dwells are, for the most part, the obvious rules which have been the common property of all generations of critics. one would scarcely ask for originality in such a case, any more than one would desire a writer on ethics to invent new laws of morality. "we require neither pope nor aristotle to tell us that critics should not be pert nor prejudiced; that fancy should be regulated by judgment; that apparent facility comes by long training; that the sound should have some conformity to the meaning; that genius is often envied; and that dulness is frequently beyond the reach of reproof. "we might even guess, without the authority of pope, backed by bacon, that there are some beauties which cannot be taught by method, but must be reached "by a kind of felicity." it is not the less interesting to notice pope's skill in polishing these rather rusty sayings into the appearance of novelty. in a familiar line pope gives us the view which he would himself apply in such cases. true wit is nature to advantage dress'd, what oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd. the only fair question, in short, is whether pope has managed to give a lasting form to some of the floating commonplaces which have more or less suggested themselves to every writer. if we apply this test, we must admit that if the essay upon criticism does not show deep thought, it shows singular skill in putting old truths. pope undeniably succeeded in hitting off many phrases of marked felicity. he already showed the power, in which he was probably unequalled, of coining aphorisms out of commonplace. few people read the essay now, but everybody is aware that "fools rush in where angels fear to tread," and has heard the warning- a little learning is a dangerous thing, drink deep, or taste not the pierian spring-maxims which may not commend themselves as strictly accurate to a scientific reasoner, but which have as much truth as one can demand from an epigram. and besides many sayings which share in some degree their merit, there are occasional passages which rise, at least, to the height of graceful rhetoric if they are scarcely to be called poetical. one simile was long famous, and was called by johnson the best in the language. it is that in which the sanguine youth, overwhelmed by a growing perception of the boundlessness of possible attainments, is compared to the traveller crossing the mountains, and seeing- hills peep o'er hills and alps on alps arise. the poor simile is pretty well forgotten, but is really a good specimen of pope's brilliant declamation. the essay, however, is not uniformly polished. between the happier passages we have to cross stretches of flat prose twisted into rhyme; pope seems to have intentionally pitched his style at a prosaic level as fitter for didactic purposes; but besides this we here and there come upon phrases which are not only elliptical and slovenly, but defy all grammatical construction. this was a blemish to which pope was always strangely liable. it was perhaps due in part to over-correction, when the context was forgotten and the subject had lost its freshness. critics, again, have remarked upon the poverty of the rhymes, and observed that he makes ten rhymes to "wit" and twelve to "sense." the frequent recurrence of the words is the more awkward because they are curiously ambiguous. "wit" was beginning to receive its modern meaning; but pope uses it vaguely as sometimes equivalent to intelligence in general, sometimes to the poetic faculty, and sometimes to the erratic fancy, which the true poet restrains by sense. pope would have been still more puzzled if asked to define precisely what he meant by the antithesis between nature and art. they are somehow opposed, yet art turns out to be only "nature methodized." we have indeed a clue for our guidance; to study nature, we are told, is the same thing as to study homer, and homer should be read day and night, with virgil for a comment and aristotle for an expositor. nature, good sense, homer, virgil, and the stagyrite all, it seems, come to much the same thing. it would be very easy to pick holes in this very loose theory. but it is better to try to understand the point of view indicated; for, in truth, pope is really stating the assumptions which guided his whole career. no one will accept his position at the present time; but any one who is incapable of, at least, a provisional sympathy, may as well throw pope aside at once, and with pope most contemporary literature. the dominant figure in pope's day was the wit. the wit--taken personally--was the man who represented what we now describe by culture or the spirit of the age. bright clear common sense was for once having its own way, and tyrannizing over the faculties from which it too often suffers violence. the favoured faculty never doubted its own qualification for supremacy in every department. in metaphysics it was triumphing with hobbes and locke over the remnants of scholasticism; under tillotson, it was expelling mystery from religion; and in art it was declaring war against the extravagant, the romantic, the mystic, and the gothic,--a word then used as a simple term of abuse. wit and sense are but different avatars of the same spirit; wit was the form in which it showed itself in coffee-houses, and sense that in which it appeared in the pulpit or parliament. when walsh told pope to be correct, he was virtually advising him to carry the same spirit into poetry. the classicism of the time was the natural corollary; for the classical models were the historical symbols of the movement which pope represented. he states his view very tersely in the essay. classical culture had been overwhelmed by the barbarians, and the monks "finished what the goths began." letters revived when the study of classical models again gave an impulse and supplied a guidance. at length erasmus, that great injured name, the glory of the priesthood and their shame, stemm'd the wild torrent of a barbarous age, and drove these holy vandals off the stage. the classicalism of pope's time was no doubt very different from that of the period of erasmus; but in his view it differed only because the contemporaries of dryden had more thoroughly dispersed the mists of the barbarism which still obscured the shakspearean age, and from which even milton or cowley had not completely escaped. dryden and boileau and the french critics, with their interpreters roscommon, sheffield, and walsh, who found rules in aristotle, and drew their precedents from homer, were at last stating the pure canons of unadulterated sense. to this school, wit and sense, and nature, and the classics, all meant pretty much the same. that was pronounced to be unnatural which was too silly, or too far-fetched, or too exalted, to approve itself to the good sense of a wit; and the very incarnation and eternal type of good sense and nature was to be found in the classics. the test of thorough polish and refinement was the power of ornamenting a speech with an appropriate phrase from horace or virgil, or prefixing a greek motto to an essay in the _spectator_. if it was necessary to give to any utterance an air of philosophical authority, a reference to longinus or aristotle was the natural device. perhaps the acquaintance with classics might not be very profound; but the classics supplied at least a convenient symbol for the spirit which had triumphed against gothic barbarism and scholastic pedantry. even the priggish wits of that day were capable of being bored by didactic poetry, and especially by such didactic poetry as resolved itself too easily into a string of maxims, not more poetical in substance than the immortal "'tis a sin to steal a pin." the essay--published anonymously--did not make any rapid success till pope sent round copies to well-known critics. addison's praise and dennis's abuse helped, as we shall presently see, to give it notoriety. pope, however, returned from criticism to poetry, and his next performance was in some degree a fresh, but far less puerile, performance upon the pastoral pipe.[4] nothing could be more natural than for the young poet to take for a text the forest in which he lived. dull as the natives might be, their dwelling-place was historical, and there was an excellent precedent for such a performance. pope, as we have seen, was familiar with milton's juvenile poems; but such works as the allegro and penseroso were too full of the genuine country spirit to suit his probable audience. wycherley, whom he frequently invited to come to binfield, would undoubtedly have found milton a bore. but sir john denham, a thoroughly masculine, if not, as pope calls him, a majestic poet, was a guide whom the wycherleys would respect. his _cooper's hill_ (in 1642) was the first example of what johnson calls local poetry--poetry, that is, devoted to the celebration of a particular place; and, moreover, it was one of the early models of the rhythm which became triumphant in the hands of dryden. one couplet is still familiar:- though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full. the poem has some vigorous descriptive touches, but is in the main a forcible expression of the moral and political reflections which would be approved by the admirers of good sense in poetry. pope's _windsor forest_, which appeared in the beginning of 1713, is closely and avowedly modelled upon this original. there is still a considerable infusion of the puerile classicism of the pastorals, which contrasts awkwardly with denham's strength, and a silly episode about the nymph lodona changed into the river loddon by diana, to save her from the pursuit of pan. but the style is animated, and the descriptions, though seldom original, show pope's frequent felicity of language. wordsworth, indeed, was pleased to say that pope had here introduced almost the only "new images of internal nature" to be found between milton and thomson. probably the good wordsworth was wishing to do a little bit of excessive candour. pope will not introduce his scenery without a turn suited to the taste of the town:- here waving groves a chequer'd scene display, and part admit and part exclude the day; as some coy nymph her lover's fond address, nor quite indulges nor can quite repress. he has some well turned lines upon the sports of the forest, though they are clearly not the lines of a sportsman. they betray something of the sensitive lad's shrinking from the rough squires whose only literature consisted of durfey's songs, and who would have heartily laughed at his sympathy for a dying pheasant. i may observe in passing that pope always showed the true poet's tenderness for the lower animals, and disgust at bloodshed. he loved his dog, and said that he would have inscribed over his grave, "o rare bounce," but for the appearance of ridiculing "rare ben jonson." he spoke with horror of a contemporary dissector of live dogs, and the pleasantest of his papers in the _guardian_ is a warm remonstrance against cruelty to animals. he "dares not" attack hunting, he says--and, indeed, such an attack requires some courage even at the present day--but he evidently has no sympathy with huntsmen, and has to borrow his description from statius, which was hardly the way to get the true local colour. _windsor forest_, however, like _cooper's hill_, speedily diverges into historical and political reflections. the barbarity of the old forest laws, the poets denham and cowley and surrey, who had sung on the banks of the thames, and the heroes who made windsor illustrious, suggest obvious thoughts, put into verses often brilliant, though sometimes affected, varied by a compliment to trumbull and an excessive eulogy of granville, to whom the poem is inscribed. the whole is skilfully adapted to the time by a brilliant eulogy upon the peace which was concluded just as the poem was published. the whig poet tickell, soon to be pope's rival, was celebrating the same "lofty theme" on his "artless reed," and introducing a pretty little compliment to pope. to readers who have lost the taste for poetry of this class one poem may seem about as good as the other; but pope's superiority is plain enough to a reader who will condescend to distinguish. his verses are an excellent specimen of his declamatory style--polished, epigrammatic, and well expressed; and, though keeping far below the regions of true poetry, preserving just that level which would commend them to the literary statesmen and the politicians at will's and button's. perhaps some advocate of free trade might try upon a modern audience the lines in which pope expresses his aspiration in a footnote that london may one day become a "free port." there is at least not one antiquated or obscure phrase in the whole. here are half-a-dozen lines:- the time shall come, when, free as seas and wind, unbounded thames shall flow for all mankind, whole nations enter with each swelling tide, and seas but join the regions they divide; earth's distant ends our glory shall behold, and the new world launch forth to seek the old. in the next few years pope found other themes for the display of his declamatory powers. of the _temple of fame_ (1715), a frigid imitation of chaucer, i need only say that it is one of pope's least successful performances; but i must notice more fully two rhetorical poems which appeared in 1717. these were the _elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady_ and the _eloisa to abelard_. both poems, and especially the last, have received the warmest praises from pope's critics, and even from critics who were most opposed to his school. they are, in fact, his chief performances of the sentimental kind. written in his youth, and yet when his powers of versification had reached their fullest maturity, they represent an element generally absent from his poetry. pope was at the period in which, if ever, a poet should sing of love, and in which we expect the richest glow and fervour of youthful imagination. pope was neither a burns, nor a byron, nor a keats; but here, if anywhere, we should find those qualities in which he has most affinity to the poets of passion or of sensuous emotion, not soured by experience or purified by reflection. the motives of the two poems were skilfully chosen. pope--as has already appeared to some extent--was rarely original in his designs; he liked to have the outlines at last drawn for him, to be filled with his own colouring. the _eloisa to abelard_ was founded upon a translation from the french, published in 1714 by hughes (author of the _siege of damascus_), which is itself a manipulated translation from the famous latin originals. pope, it appears, kept very closely to the words of the english translation, and in some places has done little more than versify the prose, though, of course, it is compressed, rearranged, and modified. the _unfortunate lady_ has been the cause of a good deal of controversy. pope's elegy implies, vaguely enough, that she had been cruelly treated by her guardians, and had committed suicide in some foreign country. the verses, as commentators decided, showed such genuine feeling, that the story narrated in them must have been authentic, and one of his own correspondents (caryll) begged him for an explanation of the facts. pope gave no answer, but left a posthumous note to an edition of his letters calculated, perhaps intended, to mystify future inquirers. the lady, a mrs. weston, to whom the note pointed, did not die till 1724, and could therefore not have committed suicide in 1717. the mystification was childish enough, though if pope had committed no worse crime of the kind, one would not consider him to be a very grievous offender. the inquiries of mr. dilke, who cleared up this puzzle, show that there were in fact two ladies, mrs. weston and a mrs. cope, known to pope about this time, both of whom suffered under some domestic persecution. pope seems to have taken up their cause with energy, and sent money to mrs. cope when, at a later period, she was dying abroad in great distress. his zeal seems to have been sincere and generous, and it is possible enough that the elegy was a reflection of his feelings, though it suggested an imaginary state of facts. if this be so, the reference to the lady in his posthumous note contained some relation to the truth, though if taken too literally it would be misleading. the poems themselves are, beyond all doubt, impressive compositions. they are vivid and admirably worked. "here," says johnson of the _eloisa to abelard_, the most important of the two, "is particularly observable the _curiosa felicitas_, a fruitful soil and careful cultivation. here is no crudeness of sense, nor asperity of language." so far there can be no dispute. the style has the highest degree of technical perfection, and it is generally added that the poems are as pathetic as they are exquisitely written. bowles, no hearty lover of pope, declared the eloisa to be "infinitely superior to everything of the kind, ancient or modern." the tears shed, says hazlitt of the same poem, "are drops gushing from the heart; the words are burning sighs breathed from the soul of love." and de quincey ends an eloquent criticism by declaring that the "lyrical tumult of the changes, the hope, the tears, the rapture, the penitence, the despair, place the reader in tumultuous sympathy with the poor distracted nun." the pathos of the _unfortunate lady_ has been almost equally praised, and i may quote from it a famous passage which mackintosh repeated with emotion to repel a charge of coldness brought against pope:- by foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, by foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, by foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, by strangers honour'd and by strangers mourn'd! what though no friends in sable weeds appear, grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, and bear about the mockery of woe to midnight dances and the public show? what though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? what though no sacred earth allow thee room, nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd, and the green turf lie lightly on thy breast; there shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, there the first roses of the year shall blow; while angels with their silver wings o'ershade the ground, now sacred by thy reliques made. the more elaborate poetry of the _eloisa_ is equally polished throughout, and too much praise cannot easily be bestowed upon the skill with which the romantic scenery of the convent is indicated in the background, and the force with which pope has given the revulsions of feeling of his unfortunate heroine from earthly to heavenly love, and from keen remorse to renewed gusts of overpowering passion. all this may be said, and without opposing high critical authority. and yet, i must also say, whether with or without authority, that i, at least, can read the poems without the least "disposition to cry," and that a single pathetic touch of cowper or wordsworth strikes incomparably deeper. and if i seek for a reason, it seems to be simply that pope never crosses the undefinable, but yet ineffaceable, line which separates true poetry from rhetoric. the eloisa ends rather flatly by one of pope's characteristic aphorisms. "he best can paint them (the woes, that is, of eloisa) who shall feel them most;" and it is characteristic, by the way, that even in these his most impassioned verses, the lines which one remembers are of the same epigrammatic stamp, e.g.: a heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'tis all thou art and all the proud shall be! i mourn the lover, not lament the fault. how happy is the blameless vestal's lot, the world forgetting, by the world forgot. the worker in moral aphorisms cannot forget himself even in the full swing of his fervid declamation. i have no doubt that pope so far exemplified his own doctrine that he truly felt whilst he was writing. his feelings make him eloquent, but they do not enable him to "snatch a grace beyond the reach of art," to blind us for a moment to the presence of the consummate workman, judiciously blending his colours, heightening his effects, and skilfully managing his transitions or consciously introducing an abrupt outburst of a new mood. the smoothness of the verses imposes monotony even upon the varying passions which are supposed to struggle in eloisa's breast. it is not merely our knowledge that pope is speaking dramatically which prevents us from receiving the same kind of impressions as we receive from poetry--such, for example, as some of cowper's minor pieces--into which we know that a man is really putting his whole heart. the comparison would not be fair, for in such cases we are moved by knowledge of external facts as well as by the poetic power. but it is simply that pope always resembles an orator whose gestures are studied, and who thinks while he is speaking of the fall of his robes and the attitude of his hands. he is throughout academical; and though knowing with admirable nicety how grief should be represented, and what have been the expedients of his best predecessors, he misses the one essential touch of spontaneous impulse. one other blemish is perhaps more fatal to the popularity of the eloisa. there is a taint of something unwholesome and effeminate. pope, it is true, is only following the language of the original in the most offensive passages; but we see too plainly that he has dwelt too fondly upon those passages, and worked them up with especial care. we need not be prudish in our judgment of impassioned poetry; but when the passion has this false ring, the ethical coincides with the æsthetic objection. i have mentioned these poems here, because they seem to be the development of the rhetorical vein which appeared in the earlier work. but i have passed over another work which has sometimes been regarded as his masterpiece. a lord petre had offended a miss fermor by stealing a lock of her hair. she thought that he showed more gallantry than courtesy, and some unpleasant feeling resulted between the families. pope's friend, caryll, thought that it might be appeased if the young poet would turn the whole affair into friendly ridicule. nobody, it might well be supposed, had a more dexterous touch; and a brilliant trifle from his hands, just fitted for the atmosphere of drawing-rooms, would be a convenient peace-offering, and was the very thing in which he might be expected to succeed. pope accordingly set to work at a dainty little mock-heroic, in which he describes, in playful mockery of the conventional style, the fatal coffee-drinking at hampton, in which the too daring peer appropriated the lock. the poem received the praise which it well deserved; for certainly the young poet had executed his task to a nicety. no more brilliant, sparkling, vivacious trifle, is to be found in our literature than the _rape of the lock_, even in this early form. pope received permission from the lady to publish it in lintot's miscellany in 1712, and a wider circle admired it, though it seems that the lady and her family began to think that young mr. pope was making rather too free with her name. pope meanwhile, animated by his success, hit upon a singularly happy conception, by which he thought that the poem might be rendered more important. the solid critics of those days were much occupied with the machinery of epic poems; the machinery being composed of the gods and goddesses who, from the days of homer, had attended to the fortunes of heroes. he had hit upon a curious french book, the _comte de gabalis_, which professes to reveal the mysteries of the rosicrucians, and it occurred to him that the elemental sylphs and gnomes would serve his purpose admirably. he spoke of his new device to addison, who administered--and there is not the slightest reason for doubting his perfect sincerity and good meaning--a little dose of cold water. the poem, as it stood, was a "delicious little thing"--_merum sal_--and it would be a pity to alter it. pope, however, adhered to his plan, made a splendid success, and thought that addison must have been prompted by some mean motive. the _rape of the lock_ appeared in its new form, with sylphs and gnomes, and an ingenious account of a game at cards and other improvements, in 1714. pope declared, and critics have agreed, that he never showed more skill than in the remodelling of this poem; and it has ever since held a kind of recognised supremacy amongst the productions of the drawing-room muse. the reader must remember that the so-called heroic style of pope's period is now hopelessly effete. no human being would care about machinery and the rules of bossu, or read without utter weariness the mechanical imitations of homer and virgil which were occasionally attempted by the blackmores and other less ponderous versifiers. the shadow grows dim with the substance. the burlesque loses its point when we care nothing for the original; and, so far, pope's bit of filigree-work, as hazlitt calls it, has become tarnished. the very mention of beaux and belles suggests the kind of feeling with which we disinter fragments of old-world finery from the depths of an ancient cabinet, and even the wit is apt to sound wearisome. and further, it must be allowed to some hostile critics that pope has a worse defect. the poem is, in effect, a satire upon feminine frivolity. it continues the strain of mockery against hoops and patches and their wearers, which supplied addison and his colleagues with the materials of so many _spectators_. i think that even in addison there is something which rather jars upon us. his persiflage is full of humour and kindliness, but underlying it there is a tone of superiority to women which is sometimes offensive. it is taken for granted that a woman is a fool, or at least should be flattered if any man condescends to talk sense to her. with pope this tone becomes harsher, and the merciless satirist begins to show himself. in truth, pope can be inimitably pungent, but he can never be simply playful. addison was too condescending with his pretty pupils; but under pope's courtesy there lurks contempt, and his smile has a disagreeable likeness to a sneer. if addison's manner sometimes suggests the blandness of a don who classes women with the inferior beings unworthy of the latin grammar, pope suggests the brilliant wit whose contempt has a keener edge from his resentment against fine ladies blinded to his genius by his personal deformity. even in his dedication, pope, with unconscious impertinence, insults his heroine for her presumable ignorance of his critical jargon. his smart epigrams want but a slight change of tone to become satire. it is the same writer who begins an essay on women's characters by telling a woman that her sex is a compound of matter too soft a lasting mask to bear; and best distinguished by black, brown, or fair, and communicates to her the pleasant truth that every woman is at heart a rake. women, in short, are all frivolous beings, whose one genuine interest is in love-making. the same sentiment is really implied in the more playful lines in the _rape of the lock_. the sylphs are warned by omens that some misfortune impends; but they don't know what. whether the nymph shall break diana's law, or some frail china jar receive a flaw; or stain her honour or her new brocade, forget her prayers or miss a masquerade; or lose her heart or necklace at a ball, or whether heaven has doom'd that shock must fall. we can understand that miss fermor would feel such raillery to be equivocal. it may be added, that an equal want of delicacy is implied in the mock-heroic battle at the end, where the ladies are gifted with an excess of screaming power:- 'restore the lock!' she cries, and all around 'restore the lock,' the vaulted roofs rebound- not fierce othello in so loud a strain roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain. these faults, though far from trifling, are yet felt only as blemishes in the admirable beauty and brilliance of the poem. the successive scenes are given with so firm and clear a touch--there is such a sense of form, the language is such a dexterous elevation of the ordinary social twaddle into the mock-heroic, that it is impossible not to recognize a consummate artistic power. the dazzling display of true wit and fancy blinds us for the time to the want of that real tenderness and humour, which would have softened some harsh passages, and given a more enduring charm to the poetry. it has, in short, the merit that belongs to any work of art which expresses in the most finished form the sentiment characteristic of a given social phase; one deficient in many of the most ennobling influences, but yet one in which the arts of converse represent a very high development of shrewd sense refined into vivid wit. and we may, i think, admit that there is some foundation for the genealogy that traces pope's ariel back to his more elevated ancestor in the _tempest_. the later ariel, indeed, is regarded as the soul of a coquette, and is almost an allegory of the spirit of poetic fancy in slavery to polished society. gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain while clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain. pope's ariel is a parody of the ethereal being into whom shakspeare had refined the ancient fairy; but it is a parody which still preserves a sense of the delicate and graceful. the ancient race which appeared for the last time in this travesty of the fashion of queen anne, still showed some touch of its ancient beauty. since that time no fairy has appeared without being hopelessly childish or affected. let us now turn from the poems to the author's personal career during the same period. in the remarkable autobiographic poem called the _epistle to arbuthnot_, pope speaks of his early patrons and friends, and adds- soft were my numbers; who could take offence when pure description held the place of sense? like gentle fanny's was my flow'ry theme, a painted mistress or a purling stream. yet then did gildon draw his venal quill- i wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. yet then did dennis rave in furious fret; i never answer'd,--i was not in debt. pope's view of his own career suggests the curious problem: how it came to pass that so harmless a man should be the butt of so many hostilities? how could any man be angry with a writer of gentle pastorals and versified love-letters? the answer of pope was, that this was the normal state of things. "the life of a wit," he says, in the preface to his works, "is a warfare upon earth;" and the warfare results from the hatred of men of genius natural to the dull. had any one else made such a statement, pope would have seen its resemblance to the complaint of the one reasonable juryman overpowered by eleven obstinate fellows. but we may admit that an intensely sensitive nature is a bad qualification for a public career. a man who ventures into the throng of competitors without a skin will be tortured by every touch, and suffer the more if he turns to retaliate. pope's first literary performances had not been so harmless as he suggests. amongst the minor men of letters of the day was the surly john dennis. he was some thirty years pope's senior; a writer of dreary tragedies which had gained a certain success by their whiggish tendencies, and of ponderous disquisitions upon critical questions, not much cruder in substance though heavier in form than many utterances of addison or steele. he could, however, snarl out some shrewd things when provoked, and was known to the most famous wits of the day. he had corresponded with dryden, congreve, and wycherley, and published some of their letters. pope, it seems, had been introduced to him by cromwell, but they had met only two or three times. when pope had become ashamed of following wycherley about like a dog, he would soon find out that a dennis did not deserve the homage of a rising genius. possibly dennis had said something of pope's pastorals, and pope had probably been a witness, perhaps more than a mere witness, to some passage of arms in which dennis lost his temper. in mere youthful impertinence he introduced an offensive touch in the _essay upon criticism_. it would be well, he said, if critics could advise authors freely,- but appius reddens at each word you speak, and stares, tremendous, with a threatening eye, like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. the name appius referred to dennis's tragedy of _appius and virginia_, a piece now recollected solely by the fact that poor dennis had invented some new thunder for the performance; and by his piteous complaint against the actors for afterwards "stealing his thunder," had started a proverbial expression. pope's reference stung dennis to the quick. he replied by a savage pamphlet, pulling pope's essay to pieces, and hitting some real blots, but diverging into the coarsest personal abuse. not content with saying in his preface that he was attacked with the utmost falsehood and calumny by a little affected hypocrite, who had nothing in his mouth but truth, candour, and good-nature, he reviled pope for his personal defects; insinuated that he was a hunch-backed toad; declared that he was the very shape of the bow of the god of love; that he might be thankful that he was born a modern, for had he been born of greek parents his life would have been no longer than that of one of his poems, namely, half a day; and that his outward form, however like a monkey's, could not deviate more from the average of humanity than his mind. these amenities gave pope his first taste of good savage slashing abuse. the revenge was out of all proportion to the offence. pope, at first, seemed to take the assault judiciously. he kept silence, and simply marked some of the faults exposed by dennis for alteration. but the wound rankled, and when an opportunity presently offered itself, pope struck savagely at his enemy. to show how this came to pass, i must rise from poor old dennis to a more exalted literary sphere. the literary world, in which dryden had recently been, and pope was soon to be, the most conspicuous figure, was for the present under the mild dictatorship of addison. we know addison as one of the most kindly and delicate of humourists, and we can perceive the gentleness which made him one of the most charming of companions in a small society. his sense of the ludicrous saved him from the disagreeable ostentation of powers which were never applied to express bitterness of feeling or to edge angry satire. the reserve of his sensitive nature made access difficult, but he was so transparently modest and unassuming that his shyness was not, as is too often the case, mistaken for pride. it is easy to understand the posthumous affection which macaulay has so eloquently expressed, and the contemporary popularity which, according to swift, would have made people unwilling to refuse him had he asked to be king. and yet i think that one cannot read addison's praises without a certain recalcitration, like that which one feels in the case of the model boy who wins all the prizes, including that for good conduct. it is hard to feel very enthusiastic about a virtue whose dictates coincide so precisely with the demands of decorum, and which leads by so easy a path to reputation and success. popularity is more often significant of the tact which makes a man avoid giving offence, than of the warm impulses of a generous nature. a good man who mixes with the world ought to be hated, if not to hate. but whatever we may say against his excessive goodness, addison deserved and received universal esteem, which in some cases became enthusiastic. foremost amongst his admirers was the warm-hearted, reckless, impetuous steele, the typical irishman; and amongst other members of his little senate--as pope called it--were ambrose philips and tickell, young men of letters and sound whig politics, and more or less competitors of pope in literature. when pope was first becoming known in london the whigs were out of power; addison and his friends were generally to be found at button's coffee-house in the afternoon, and were represented to the society of the time by the _spectator_, which began in march, 1711, and appeared daily to the end of 1712. naturally, the young pope would be anxious to approach this famous clique, though his connexions lay in the first instance amongst the jacobite and catholic families. steele, too, would be glad to welcome so promising a contributor to the _spectator_ and its successor the _guardian_. pope, we may therefore believe, was heartily delighted when, some months after dennis's attack, a notice of his _essay upon criticism_ appeared in the _spectator_, december 20, 1711. the reviewer censured some attacks upon contemporaries--a reference obviously to the lines upon dennis--which the author had admitted into his "very fine poem;" but there were compliments enough to overbalance this slight reproof. pope wrote a letter of acknowledgment to steele, overflowing with the sincerest gratitude of a young poet on his first recognition by a high authority. steele, in reply, disclaimed the article, and promised to introduce pope to its real author, the great addison himself. it does not seem that the acquaintance thus opened with the addisonians ripened very rapidly, or led to any considerable results. pope, indeed, is said to have written some _spectators_. he certainly sent to steele his _messiah_, a sacred eclogue in imitation of virgil's _pollio_. it appeared on may 14th, 1712, and is one of pope's dexterous pieces of workmanship, in which phrases from isaiah are so strung together as to form a good imitation of the famous poem, which was once supposed to entitle virgil to some place among the inspired heralds of christianity. pope sent another letter or two to steele, which look very much like intended contributions to the _spectator_, and a short letter about hadrian's verses to his soul, which appeared in november, 1712. when, in 1713, the _guardian_ succeeded the _spectator_, pope was one of steele's contributors, and a paper by him upon dedications appeared as the fourth number. he soon gave a more remarkable proof of his friendly relations with addison. it is probable that no first performance of a play upon the english stage ever excited so much interest as that of addison's _cato_. it was not only the work of the first man of letters of the day, but it had, or was taken to have, a certain political significance. "the time was come," says johnson, "when those who affected to think liberty in danger affected likewise to think that a stage-play might preserve it." addison, after exhibiting more than the usual display of reluctance, prepared his play for representation, and it was undoubtedly taken to be in some sense a whig manifesto. it was therefore remarkable that he should have applied to pope for a prologue, though pope's connexions were entirely of the anti-whiggish kind, and a passage in _windsor forest_, his last new poem (it appeared in march 1713), indicated pretty plainly a refusal to accept the whig shibboleths. in the _forest_ he was enthusiastic for the peace, and sneered at the revolution. pope afterwards declared that addison had disavowed all party intentions at the time, and he accused him of insincerity for afterwards taking credit (in a poetical dedication of _cato_) for the services rendered by his play to the cause of liberty. pope's assertion is worthless in any case where he could exalt his own character for consistency at another man's expense, but it is true that both parties were inclined to equivocate. it is, indeed, difficult to understand how, if any "stage-play could preserve liberty," such a play as _cato_ should do the work. the polished declamation is made up of the platitudes common to whigs and tories; and bolingbroke gave the one to his own party when he presented fifty guineas to _cato_'s representative for defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator. the whigs, said pope, design a second present when they can contrive as good a saying. bolingbroke was, of course, aiming at marlborough, and his interpretation was intrinsically as plausible as any that could have been devised by his antagonists. each side could adopt _cato_ as easily as rival sects can quote the bible; and it seems possible that addison may have suggested to pope that nothing in _cato_ could really offend his principles. addison, as pope also tells us, thought the prologue ambiguous, and altered "britons, _arise_!" to "britons, _attend_!" lest the phrase should be thought to hint at a new revolution. addison advised pope about this time not to be content with the applause of "half the nation," and perhaps regarded him as one who, by the fact of his external position with regard to parties, would be a more appropriate sponsor for the play. whatever the intrinsic significance of _cato_, circumstances gave it a political colour; and pope, in a lively description of the first triumphant night to his friend caryll, says, that as author of the successful and very spirited prologue, he was clapped into a whig, sorely against his will, at every two lines. shortly before he had spoken in the warmest terms to the same correspondent of the admirable moral tendency of the work; and perhaps he had not realized the full party significance till he became conscious of the impression produced upon the audience. not long afterwards (letter of june 12, 1713), we find him complaining that his connexion with steele and the _guardian_ was giving offence to some honest jacobites. had they known the nature of the connexion, they need hardly have grudged steele his contributor. his next proceedings possibly suggested the piece of advice which addison gave to lady m. w. montagu: "leave pope as soon as you can; he will certainly play you some devilish trick else." his first trick was calculated to vex an editor's soul. ambrose philips, as i have said, had published certain pastorals in the same volume with pope's. philips, though he seems to have been less rewarded than most of his companions, was certainly accepted as an attached member of addison's "little senate;" and that body was not more free than other mutual admiration societies from the desire to impose its own prejudices upon the public. when philips's _distressed mother_, a close imitation of racine's _andromaque_, was preparing for the stage, the spectator was taken by will honeycomb to a rehearsal (_spectator_, january 31, 1712), and sir roger de coverley himself attended one of the performances (_ib._, march 25) and was profoundly affected by its pathos. the last paper was of course by addison, and is a real triumph of art as a most delicate application of humour to the slightly unworthy purpose of puffing a friend and disciple. addison had again praised philips's pastorals in the _spectator_ (october 30, 1712), and amongst the early numbers of the _guardian_ were a short series of papers upon pastoral poetry, in which the fortunate ambrose was again held up as a model, whilst no notice was taken of pope's rival performance. pope, one may believe, had a contempt for philips, whose pastoral inanities, whether better or worse than his own, had not the excuse of being youthful productions. philips has bequeathed to our language the phrase "namby-pamby," imposed upon him by henry carey (author of _sally in our alley_, and the clever farce _chrononhotonthologos_), and years after this he wrote a poem to miss pulteney in the nursery, beginning,- "dimply damsel, sweetly smiling," which may sufficiently interpret the meaning of his nickname. pope's irritable vanity was vexed at the liberal praises bestowed on such a rival, and he revenged himself by an artifice more ingenious than scrupulous. he sent an anonymous article to steele for the _guardian_. it is a professed continuation of the previous papers on pastorals, and is ostensibly intended to remove the appearance of partiality arising from the omission of pope's name. in the first paragraphs the design is sufficiently concealed to mislead an unwary reader into the belief that philips is preferred to pope; but the irony soon becomes transparent, and philips's antiquated affectation is contrasted with the polish of pope, who is said even to "deviate into downright poetry." steele, it is said, was so far mystified as to ask pope's permission to publish the criticism. pope generously permitted, and accordingly steele printed what he must soon have discovered to be a shrewd attack upon his old friend and ally. some writers have found a difficulty in understanding how steele could have so blundered. one might, perhaps, whisper in confidence to the discreet, that even editors are mortal, and that steele was conceivably capable of the enormity of reading papers carelessly. philips was furious, and hung up a birch in button's coffee-house, declaring that he would apply it to his tormentor should he ever show his nose in the room. as philips was celebrated for skill with the sword, the mode of vengeance was certainly unmanly, and stung the soul of his adversary, always morbidly sensitive to all attacks, and especially to attacks upon his person. the hatred thus kindled was never quenched, and breathes in some of pope's bitterest lines. if not a "devilish trick," this little performance was enough to make pope's relations to the addison set decidedly unpleasant. addison is said (but the story is very improbable) to have enjoyed the joke. if so, a vexatious incident must have changed his view of pope's pleasantries, though pope professedly appeared as his defender. poor old thersites-dennis published, during the summer, a very bitter attack upon addison's _cato_. he said afterwards--though, considering the relations of the men, some misunderstanding is probable--that pope had indirectly instigated this attack through the bookseller, lintot. if so, pope must have deliberately contrived the trap for the unlucky dennis; and, at any rate, he fell upon dennis as soon as the trap was sprung. though dennis was a hot-headed whig, he had quarrelled with addison and steele, and was probably jealous, as the author of tragedies intended, like _cato_, to propagate whig principles, perhaps to turn whig prejudices to account. he writes with the bitterness of a disappointed and unlucky man, but he makes some very fair points against his enemy. pope's retaliation took the form of an anonymous "narrative of the frenzy of john dennis."[5] it is written in that style of coarse personal satire of which swift was a master, but for which pope was very ill fitted. all his neatness of style seems to desert him when he tries this tone, and nothing is left but a brutal explosion of contemptuous hatred. dennis is described in his garret, pouring forth insane ravings prompted by his disgust at the success of _cato_; but not a word is said in reply to dennis' criticisms. it was plain enough that the author, whoever he might be, was more anxious to satisfy a grudge against dennis than to defend dennis's victim. it is not much of a compliment to addison to say that he had enough good feeling to scorn such a mode of retaliation, and perspicuity enough to see that it would be little to his credit. accordingly, in his majestic way, he caused steele to write a note to lintot (august 4, 1713), disavowing all complicity, and saying that if even he noticed mr. dennis's criticisms, it should be in such a way as to give mr. dennis no cause of complaint. he added that he had refused to see the pamphlet when it was offered for his inspection, and had expressed his disapproval of such a mode of attack. nothing could be more becoming; and it does not appear that addison knew, when writing this note, that pope was the author of the anonymous assault. if, as the biographers say, addison's action was not kindly to pope, it was bare justice to poor dennis. pope undoubtedly must have been bitterly vexed at the implied rebuff, and not the less because it was perfectly just. he seems always to have regarded men of dennis's type as outside the pale of humanity. their abuse stung him as keenly as if they had been entitled to speak with authority, and yet he retorted it as though they were not entitled to common decency. he would, to all appearance, have regarded an appeal for mercy to a grub-street author much as dandie dinmont regarded brown's tenderness to a "brock"--as a proof of incredible imbecility, or, rather, of want of proper antipathy to vermin. dennis, like philips, was inscribed on the long list of his hatreds; and was pursued almost to the end of his unfortunate life. pope, it is true, took great credit to himself for helping his miserable enemy when dying in distress, and wrote a prologue to a play acted for his benefit. yet even this prologue is a sneer, and one is glad to think that dennis was past understanding it. we hardly know whether to pity or to condemn the unfortunate poet, whose unworthy hatreds made him suffer far worse torments than those which he could inflict upon their objects. by this time we may suppose that pope must have been regarded with anything but favour in the addison circle; and, in fact, he was passing into the opposite camp, and forming a friendship with swift and swift's patrons. no open rupture followed with addison for the present; but a quarrel was approaching which is, perhaps, the most celebrated in our literary history. unfortunately, the more closely we look, the more difficult it becomes to give any definite account of it. the statements upon which accounts have been based have been chiefly those of pope himself; and these involve inconsistencies and demonstrably inaccurate statements. pope was anxious in later life to show that he had enjoyed the friendship of a man so generally beloved, and was equally anxious to show that he had behaved generously and been treated with injustice and, indeed, with downright treachery. and yet, after reading the various statements made by the original authorities, one begins to doubt whether there was any real quarrel at all; or rather, if one may say so, whether it was not a quarrel upon one side. it is, indeed, plain that a coolness had sprung up between pope and addison. considering pope's offences against the senate, his ridicule of philips, his imposition of that ridicule upon steele, and his indefensible use of addison's fame as a stalking-horse in the attack upon dennis, it is not surprising that he should have been kept at arm's length. if the rod suspended by philips at button's be authentic (as seems probable), the talk about pope, in the shadow of such an ornament, is easily imaginable. some attempts seem to have been made at a reconciliation. jervas, pope's teacher in painting--a bad artist, but a kindly man--tells pope on august 20, 1714, of a conversation with addison. it would have been worth while, he says, for pope to have been hidden behind a wainscot or a half-length picture to have heard it. addison expressed a wish for friendly relations, was glad that pope had not been "carried too far among the enemy" by swift, and hoped to be of use to him at court--for queen anne died on august 1st; the wheel had turned; and the whigs were once more the distributors of patronage. pope's answer to jervas is in the dignified tone; he attributes addison's coolness to the ill offices of philips, and is ready to be on friendly terms whenever addison recognizes his true character and independence of party. another letter follows, as addressed by pope to addison himself; but here alas! if not in the preceding letters, we are upon doubtful ground. in fact, it is impossible to doubt that the letter has been manipulated after pope's fashion, if not actually fabricated. it is so dignified as to be insulting. it is like a box on the ear administered by a pedagogue to a repentant but not quite pardoned pupil. pope has heard (from jervas, it is implied) of addison's profession; he is glad to hope that the effect of some "late malevolences" is disappearing; he will not believe (that is, he is strongly inclined to believe) that the author of _cato_ could mean one thing and say another; he will show addison his first two books of homer as a proof of this confidence, and hopes that it will not be abused; he challenges addison to point out the ill nature in the _essay upon criticism_; and winds up by making an utterly irrelevant charge (as a proof, he says, of his own sincerity) of plagiarism against one of addison's _spectators_. had such a letter been actually sent as it now stands, addison's good nature could scarcely have held out. as it is, we can only assume that during 1714 pope was on such terms with the clique at button's, that a quarrel would be a natural result. according to the ordinary account the occasion presented itself in the next year. a translation of the first iliad by tickell appeared (in june, 1715) simultaneously with pope's first volume. pope had no right to complain. no man could be supposed to have a monopoly in the translation of homer. tickell had the same right to try his hand as pope; and pope fully understood this himself. he described to spence a conversation in which addison told him of tickell's intended work. pope replied that tickell was perfectly justified. addison having looked over tickell's translation of the first book, said that he would prefer not to see pope's, as it might suggest double dealing; but consented to read pope's second book, and praised it warmly. in all this, by pope's own showing, addison seems to have been scrupulously fair; and if he and the little senate preferred tickell's work on its first appearance, they had a full right to their opinion, and pope triumphed easily enough to pardon them. "he was meditating a criticism upon tickell," says johnson, "when his adversary sank before him without a blow." pope's performance was universally preferred, and even tickell himself yielded by anticipation. he said, in a short preface, that he had abandoned a plan of translating the whole iliad on finding that a much abler hand had undertaken the work, and that he only published this specimen to bespeak favour for a translation of the odyssey. it was, say pope's apologists, an awkward circumstance that tickell should publish at the same time as pope, and that is about all that they can say. it was, we may reply in stephenson's phrase, very awkward--for tickell. in all this, in fact, it seems impossible for any reasonable man to discover anything of which pope had the slightest ground of complaint; but his amazingly irritable nature was not to be calmed by reason. the bare fact that a translation of homer appeared contemporaneously with his own, and that it came from one of addison's court, made him furious. he brooded over it, suspected some dark conspiracy against his fame, and gradually mistook his morbid fancies for solid inference. he thought that tickell had been put up by addison as his rival, and gradually worked himself into the further belief that addison himself had actually written the translation which passed under tickell's name. it does not appear, so far as i know, when or how this suspicion became current. some time after addison's death, in 1719, a quarrel took place between tickell, his literary executor, and steele. tickell seemed to insinuate that steele had not sufficiently acknowledged his obligations to addison, and steele, in an angry retort, called tickell the "reputed translator" of the first iliad, and challenged him to translate another book successfully. the innuendo shows that steele, who certainly had some means of knowing, was willing to suppose that tickell had been helped by addison. the manuscript of tickell's work, which has been preserved, is said to prove this to be an error, and in any case there is no real ground for supposing that addison did anything more than he admittedly told pope, that is, read tickell's manuscript and suggest corrections. to argue seriously about other so-called proofs, would be waste of time. they prove nothing except pope's extreme anxiety to justify his wild hypothesis of a dark conspiracy. pope was jealous, spiteful, and credulous. he was driven to fury by tickell's publication, which had the appearance of a competition. but angry as he was, he could find no real cause of complaint, except by imagining a fictitious conspiracy; and this complaint was never publicly uttered till long after addison's death. addison knew, no doubt, of pope's wrath, but probably cared little for it, except to keep himself clear of so dangerous a companion. he seems to have remained on terms of civility with his antagonist, and no one would have been more surprised than he to hear of the quarrel, upon which so much controversy has been expended. the whole affair, so far as addison's character is concerned, thus appears to be a gigantic mare's nest. there is no proof, or even the slightest presumption, that addison or addison's friends ever injured pope, though it is clear that they did not love him. it would have been marvellous if they had. pope's suspicions are a proof that in this case he was almost subject to the illusion characteristic of actual insanity. the belief that a man is persecuted by hidden conspirators is one of the common symptoms in such cases; and pope would seem to have been almost in the initial stage of mental disease. his madness, indeed, was not such as would lead us to call him morally irresponsible, nor was it the kind of madness which is to be found in a good many people who well deserve criminal prosecution; but it was a state of mind so morbid as to justify some compassion for the unhappy offender. one result besides the illustration of pope's character remains to be noticed. according to pope's assertion it was a communication from lord warwick which led him to write his celebrated copy of verses upon addison. warwick (afterwards addison's stepson) accused addison of paying gildon for a gross libel upon pope. pope wrote to addison, he says, the next day. he said in this letter that he knew of addison's behaviour--and that, unwilling to take a revenge of the same kind, he would rather tell addison fairly of his faults in plain words. if he had to take such a step, it would be in some such way as followed, and he subjoined the first sketch of the famous lines. addison, says pope, used him very civilly ever afterwards. indeed, if the account be true, addison showed his christian spirit by paying a compliment in one of his _freeholders_ (may 17th, 1716) to pope's homer. macaulay, taking the story for granted, praises addison's magnanimity, which, i must confess, i should be hardly christian enough to admire. it was however asserted at the time that pope had not written the verses which have made the quarrel memorable till after addison's death. they were not published till 1723, and are not mentioned by any independent authority till 1722, though pope afterwards appealed to burlington as a witness to their earlier composition. the fact seems to be confirmed by the evidence of lady m. w. montagu, but it does not follow that addison ever saw the verses. he knew that pope disliked him; but he probably did not suspect the extent of the hostility. pope himself appears not to have devised the worst part of the story--that of addison having used tickell's name--till some years later. addison was sufficiently magnanimous in praising his spiteful little antagonist as it was; he little knew how deeply that antagonist would seek to injure his reputation. and here, before passing to the work which afforded the main pretext of the quarrel, it may be well to quote once more the celebrated satire. it may be remarked that its excellence is due in part to the fact that, for once, pope does not lose his temper. his attack is qualified and really sharpened by an admission of addison's excellence. it is therefore a real masterpiece of satire, not a simple lampoon. that it is an exaggeration is undeniable, and yet its very keenness gives a presumption that it is not altogether without foundation. peace to all such! but were there one whose fires true genius kindles and fair fame inspires; blest with each talent and each art to please, and born to write, converse, and live with ease; should such a man, too fond to rule alone, bear, like the turk, no brother near the throne: view him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, and hate for arts that caused himself to rise; damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, and without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; willing to wound and yet afraid to strike, just hint a fault and hesitate dislike; alike reserved to praise or to commend, a timorous foe and a suspicious friend; dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieged, and so obliging that he ne'er obliged; like cato, give his little senate laws, and sit attentive to his own applause: while wits and templars every sentence raise, and wonder with a foolish face of praise; who would not laugh if such a man there be? who would not weep, if atticus were he? footnotes: [3] any poet who followed bossu's rules, said voltaire, might be certain that no one would read him; happily it was impossible to follow them. [4] there is the usual contradiction as to the date of composition of _windsor forest_. part seems to have been written early (pope says 1704), and part certainly not before 1712. [5] mr. dilke, it is perhaps right to say, has given some reasons for doubting pope's authorship of this squib; but the authenticity seems to be established, and mr. dilke himself hesitates. chapter iii. pope's homer. pope's uneasy relations with the wits at button's were no obstacle to his success elsewhere. swift, now at the height of his power, was pleased by his _windsor forest_, recommended it to stella, and soon made the author's acquaintance. the first letter in their long correspondence is a laboured but fairly successful piece of pleasantry from pope, upon swift's having offered twenty guineas to the young papist to change his religion. it is dated december 8, 1713. in the preceding month bishop kennet saw swift in all his glory, and wrote an often quoted description of the scene. swift was bustling about in the royal antechamber, swelling with conscious importance, distributing advice, promising patronage, whispering to ministers, and filling the whole room with his presence. he finally "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!'" swift introduced pope to some of the leaders of the ministry, and he was soon acquainted with oxford, bolingbroke, atterbury, and many other men of high position. pope was not disinclined to pride himself upon his familiarity with the great, though boasting at the same time of his independence. in truth, the morbid vanity which was his cardinal weakness seems to have partaken sufficiently of the nature of genuine self-respect to preserve him from any unworthy concessions. if he flattered, it was as one who expected to be repaid in kind; and though his position was calculated to turn the head of a youth of five-and-twenty, he took his place as a right without humiliating his own dignity. whether from principle or prudence, he judiciously kept himself free from identification with either party, and both sides took a pride in supporting the great literary undertaking which he had now announced. when pope first circulated his proposals for translating homer, oxford and bolingbroke were fellow-ministers, and swift was their most effective organ in the press. at the time at which his first volume appeared, bolingbroke was in exile, oxford under impeachment, and swift had retired, savagely and sullenly, to his deanery. yet, through all the intervening political tempest, the subscription list grew and flourished. the pecuniary result was splendid. no author had ever made anything approaching the sum which pope received, and very few authors, even in the present age of gold, would despise such payment. the details of the magnificent bargain have been handed down, and give the pecuniary measure of pope's reputation. the iliad was to be published in six volumes. for each volume lintot was to pay 200_l._; and, besides this, he was to supply pope gratuitously with the copies for his subscribers. the subscribers paid a guinea a volume, and as 575 subscribers took 654 copies, pope received altogether 5320_l._ 4_s._ at the regular price, whilst some royal and distinguished subscribers paid larger sums. by the publication of the odyssey pope seems to have made about 3500_l._ more,[6] after paying his assistants. the result was, therefore, a total profit at least approaching 9000_l._ the last volume of the odyssey did not appear till 1726, and the payments were thus spread over eleven years. pope, however, saved enough to be more than comfortable. in the south sea excitement he ventured to speculate, but though for a time he fancied himself to have made a large sum, he seems to have retired rather a loser than a gainer. but he could say with perfect truth that, "thanks to homer," he "could live and thrive, indebted to no prince or peer alive." the money success is, however, of less interest to us than the literary. pope put his best work into the translation of the iliad. his responsibility, he said, weighed upon him terribly on starting. he used to dream of being on a long journey, uncertain which way to go, and doubting whether he would ever get to the end. gradually he fell into the habit of translating thirty or forty verses before getting up, and then "piddling with it" for the rest of the morning; and the regular performance of his task made it tolerable. he used, he said at another time, to take advantage of the "first heat," then correct by the original and other translations; and finally to "give it a reading for the versification only." the statement must be partly modified by the suggestion that the translations were probably consulted before the original. pope's ignorance of greek--an awkward qualification for a translator of homer--is undeniable. gilbert wakefield, who was, i believe, a fair scholar and certainly a great admirer of pope, declares his conviction to be, after a more careful examination of the homer than any one is now likely to give, that pope "collected the general purport of every passage from some of his predecessors--dryden" (who only translated the first iliad), "dacier, chapman, or ogilby." he thinks that pope would have been puzzled to catch at once the meaning even of the latin translation, and points out proofs of his ignorance of both languages and of "ignominious and puerile mistakes." it is hard to understand at the present day the audacity which could lead a man so ill qualified in point of classical acquirements to undertake such a task. and yet pope undoubtedly achieved, in some true sense, an astonishing success. he succeeded commercially; for lintot, after supplying the subscription copies gratuitously, and so losing the cream of the probable purchasers, made a fortune by the remaining sale. he succeeded in the judgment both of the critics and of the public of the next generation. johnson calls the homer "the noblest version of poetry the world has ever seen." gray declared that no other translation would ever equal it, and gibbon that it had every merit except that of faithfulness to the original. this merit of fidelity, indeed, was scarcely claimed by any one. bentley's phrase--"a pretty poem, mr. pope, but you must not call it homer"--expresses the uniform view taken from the first by all who could read both. its fame, however, survived into the present century. byron speaks--and speaks, i think, with genuine feeling--of the rapture with which he first read pope as a boy, and says that no one will ever lay him down except for the original. indeed, the testimonies of opponents are as significant as those of admirers. johnson remarks that the homer "may be said to have tuned the english tongue," and that no writer since its appearance has wanted melody. coleridge virtually admits the fact, though drawing a different conclusion, when he says that the translation of homer has been one of the main sources of that "pseudo-poetic diction" which he and wordsworth were struggling to put out of credit. cowper, the earliest representative of the same movement, tried to supplant pope's homer by his own, and his attempt proved at least the position held in general estimation by his rival. if, in fact, pope's homer was a recognized model for near a century, we may dislike the style, but we must admit the power implied in a performance which thus became the accepted standard of style for the best part of a century. how, then, should we estimate the merits of this remarkable work? i give my own opinion upon the subject with diffidence, for it has been discussed by eminently qualified critics. the conditions of a satisfactory translation of homer have been amply canvassed, and many experiments have been made by accomplished poets who have what pope certainly had not--a close acquaintance with the original, and a fine appreciation of its superlative beauties. from the point of view now generally adopted, the task even of criticism requires this double qualification. not only can no man translate homer, but no man can even criticize a translation of homer without being at once a poet and a fine classical scholar. so far as this is true, i can only apologize for speaking at all, and should be content to refer my readers to such able guides as mr. matthew arnold and the late professor conington. and yet i think that something remains to be said which has a bearing upon pope, however little it may concern homer. we--if "we" means modern writers of some classical culture--can claim to appreciate homer far better than the contemporaries of pope. but our appreciation involves a clear recognition of the vast difference between ourselves and the ancient greeks. we see the homeric poems in their true perspective through the dim vista of shadowy centuries. we regard them as the growth of a long past stage in the historical evolution; implying a different social order--a different ideal of life--an archaic conception of the world and its forces, only to be reconstructed for the imagination by help of long training and serious study. the multiplicity of the laws imposed upon the translator is the consequence of this perception. they amount to saying that a man must manage to project himself into a distant period, and saturate his mind with the corresponding modes of life. if the feat is possible at all, it requires a great and conscious effort, and the attainment of a state of mind which can only be preserved by constant attention. the translator has to wear a mask which is always in danger of being rudely shattered. such an intellectual feat is likely to produce what, in the most obvious sense, one would call highly artificial work. modern classicism must be fine-spun, and smell rather of the hothouse than the open air. undoubtedly some exquisite literary achievements have been accomplished in this spirit; but they are, after all, calculated for the small circle of cultivated minds, and many of their merits can be appreciated only by professors qualified by special training. most frequently we can hope for pretty playthings, or, at best, for skilful restorations which show learning and taste far more distinctly than a glowing imagination. but even if an original poet can breathe some spirit into classical poems, the poor translator, with the dread of philologists and antiquarians in the back-ground, is so fettered that free movement becomes almost impossible. no one, i should venture to prophesy, will really succeed in such work unless he frankly accepts the impossibility of reproducing the original, and aims only at an equivalent for some of its aspects. the perception of this change will enable us to realize pope's mode of approaching the problem. the condemnatory epithet most frequently applied to him is "artificial;" and yet, as i have just said, a modern translator is surely more artificial, so far as he is attempting a more radical transformation of his own thoughts into the forms of a past epoch. but we can easily see in what sense pope's work fairly deserves the name. the poets of an older period frankly adopted the classical mythology without any apparent sense of incongruity. they mix heathen deities with christian saints, and the ancient heroes adopt the manners of chivalrous romance without the slightest difficulty. the freedom was still granted to the writers of the renaissance. milton makes phoebus and st. peter discourse in successive stanzas, as if they belonged to the same pantheon. for poetical purposes the old gods are simply canonized as christian saints, as, in a more theological frame of mind, they are regarded as devils. in the reign of common sense this was no longer possible. the incongruity was recognized and condemned. the gods were vanishing under the clearer light, as modern thought began more consciously to assert its independence. yet the unreality of the old mythology is not felt to be any objection to their use as conventional symbols. homer's gods, says pope in his preface, are still the gods of poetry. their vitality was nearly extinct; but they were regarded as convenient personifications of abstract qualities, machines for epic poetry, or figures to be used in allegory. in the absence of a true historical perception, the same view was attributed to homer. homer, as pope admits, did not invent the gods; but he was the "first who brought them into a system of machinery for poetry," and showed his fertile imagination by clothing the properties of the elements, and the virtues and vices in forms and persons. and thus pope does not feel that he is diverging from the spirit of the old mythology when he regards the gods, not as the spontaneous growth of the primitive imagination, but as deliberate contrivances intended to convey moral truth in allegorical fables, and probably devised by sages for the good of the vulgar. the old gods, then, were made into stiff mechanical figures, as dreary as justice with her scales, or fame blowing a trumpet on a monument. they belonged to that family of dismal personifications which it was customary to mark with the help of capital letters. certainly they are a dismal and frigid set of beings, though they still lead a shivering existence on the tops of public monuments, and hold an occasional wreath over the head of a british grenadier. to identify the homeric gods with these wearisome constructions was to have a more serious disqualification for fully entering into homer's spirit than even an imperfect acquaintance with greek, and pope is greatly exercised in his mind by their eating and drinking and fighting, and uncompromising anthropomorphism. he apologizes for his author, and tries to excuse him for unwilling compliance with popular prejudices. the homeric theology he urges was still substantially sound, and homer had always a distinct moral and political purpose. the iliad, for example, was meant to show the wickedness of quarrelling, and the evil results of an insatiable thirst for glory, though shallow persons have thought that homer only thought to please. the artificial diction about which so much has been said is the natural vehicle of this treatment. the set of phrases and the peculiar mould into which his sentences were cast, was already the accepted type for poetry which aimed at dignity. he was following dryden as his own performance became the law for the next generation. the style in which a woman is called a nymph--and women generally are "the fair"--in which shepherds are conscious swains, and a poet invokes the muses and strikes a lyre, and breathes on a reed, and a nightingale singing becomes philomel "pouring her throat," represents a fashion as worn out as hoops and wigs. by the time of wordsworth it was a mere survival--a dead form remaining after its true function had entirely vanished. the proposal to return to the language of common life was the natural revolt of one who desired poetry to be above all things the genuine expression of real emotion. yet it is, i think, impossible to maintain that the diction of poetry should be simply that of common life. the true principle would rather seem to be that any style becomes bad when it dies; when it is used merely as a tradition, and not as the best mode of producing the desired impression; and when, therefore, it represents a rule imposed from without, and is not an expression of the spontaneous working of minds in which the corresponding impulse is thoroughly incarnated. in such a case, no doubt, the diction becomes a burden, and a man is apt to fancy himself a poet because he is the slave of the external form instead of using it as the most familiar instrument. by wordsworth's time the pope style was thus effete; what ought to be the dress of thought had become the rigid armour into which thought was forcibly compressed, and a revolt was inevitable. we may agree, too, that his peculiar style was in a sense artificial, even in the days of pope. it had come into existence during the reign of the restoration wits, under the influence of foreign models, not as the spontaneous outgrowth of a gradual development, and had therefore something mechanical and conscious, even when it flourished most vigorously. it came in with the periwigs, to which it is so often compared, and, like the artificial headgear, was an attempt to give a dignified or full-dress appearance to the average prosaic human being. having this innate weakness of pomposity and exaggeration, it naturally expired, and became altogether ridiculous, with the generation to which it belonged. as the wit or man of the world had at bottom a very inadequate conception of epic poetry, he became inevitably strained and contorted when he tried to give himself the airs of a poet. after making all such deductions, it would still seem that the bare fact that he was working in a generally accepted style gave pope a very definite advantage. he spoke more or less in a falsetto, but he could at once strike a key intelligible to his audience. an earlier poet would simply annex homer's gods and fix them with a mediæval framework. a more modern poet tries to find some style which will correspond to the homeric as closely as possible, and feels that he is making an experiment beset with all manner of difficulties. pope needed no more to bother himself about such matters than about grammatical or philological refinements. he found a ready-made style which was assumed to be correct; he had to write in regular rhymed couplets, as neatly rhymed and tersely expressed as might be; and the diction was equally settled. he was to keep to homer for the substance, but he could throw in any little ornaments to suit the taste of his readers; and if they found out a want of scrupulous fidelity, he might freely say that he did not aim at such details. working, therefore, upon the given data, he could enjoy a considerable amount of freedom, and throw his whole energy into the task of forcible expression without feeling himself trammelled at every step. the result would certainly not be homer, but it might be a fine epic poem as epic poetry was understood in the days of anne and george i.--a hybrid genus, at the best, something without enough constitutional vigour to be valuable when really original, but not without a merit of its own when modelled upon the lines laid down in the great archetype. when we look at pope's iliad upon this understanding, we cannot fail, i think, to admit that it has merits which makes its great success intelligible. if we read it as a purely english poem, the sustained vivacity and emphasis of the style give it a decisive superiority over its rivals. it has become the fashion to quote chapman since the noble sonnet in which keats, in testifying to the power of the elizabethan translator, testifies rather to his own exquisite perception. chapman was a poet worthy of our great poetic period, and pope himself testifies to the "daring fiery spirit" which animates his translation, and says that it is not unlike what homer himself might have written in his youth--surely not a grudging praise. but though this is true, i will venture to assert that chapman also sins, not merely by his love of quaintness, but by constantly indulging in sheer doggerel. if his lines do not stagnate, they foam and fret like a mountain brook, instead of flowing continuously and majestically like a great river. he surpasses pope chiefly, as it seems to me, where pope's conventional verbiage smothers and conceals some vivid image from nature. pope, of course, was a thorough man of forms, and when he has to speak of sea or sky or mountain generally draws upon the current coin of poetic phraseology, which has lost all sharpness of impression in its long circulation. here, for example, is pope's version of a simile in the fourth book:- as when the winds, ascending by degrees first move the whitening surface of the seas, the billows float in order to the shore, the waves behind roll on the waves before, till with the growing storm the deeps arise, foam o'er the rocks, and thunder to the skies. each phrase is either wrong or escapes from error by vagueness, and one would swear that pope had never seen the sea. chapman says,- and as when with the west wind flaws, the sea thrusts up her waves one after other, thick and high, upon the groaning shores, first in herself loud, but opposed with banks and rocks she roars, and all her back in bristles set, spits every way her foam. this is both clumsy and introduces the quaint and unauthorized image of a pig, but it is unmistakably vivid. pope is equally troubled when he has to deal with homer's downright vernacular. he sometimes ventures apologetically to give the original word. he allows achilles to speak pretty vigorously to agamemnon in the first book:- o monster! mix'd of insolence and fear, thou dog in forehead, but in heart a deer! chapman translates the phrase more fully, but adds a characteristic quibble:- thou ever steep'd in wine, dog's face, with heart but of a hart. tickell manages the imputation of drink, but has to slur over the dog and the deer:- valiant with wine and furious from the bowl, thou fierce-look'd talker, with a coward soul. elsewhere pope hesitates in the use of such plain speaking. he allows teucer to call hector a dog, but apologizes in a note. "this is literal from the greek," he says, "and i have ventured it;" though he quotes milton's "dogs of hell" to back himself with a precedent. but he cannot quite stand homer's downright comparison of ajax to an ass, and speaks of him in gingerly fashion as- the slow beast with heavy strength endued. pope himself thinks the passage "inimitably just and beautiful;" but on the whole, he says, "a translator owes so much to the taste of the age in which he lives as not to make too great a compliment to the former [age]; and this induced me to omit the mention of the word _ass_ in the translation." boileau and longinus, he tells us, would approve the omission of mean and vulgar words. "ass" is the vilest word imaginable in english or latin, but of dignity enough in greek and hebrew to be employed "on the most magnificent occasions." the homeric phrase is thus often muffled and deadened by pope's verbiage. dignity of a kind is gained at the cost of energy. if such changes admit of some apology as an attempt to preserve what is undoubtedly a homeric characteristic, we must admit that the "dignity" is often false; it rests upon mere mouthing instead of simplicity and directness, and suggests that pope might have approved the famous emendation "he died in indigent circumstances," for "he died poor." the same weakness is perhaps more annoying when it leads to sins of commission. pope never scruples to amend homer by little epigrammatic amplifications, which are characteristic of the contemporary rhetoric. a single illustration of a fault sufficiently notorious will be sufficient. when nestor, in the eleventh book, rouses diomed at night, pope naturally smoothes down the testy remark of the sleepy warrior; but he tries to improve nestor's directions. nestor tells diomed, in most direct terms, that the need is great, and that he must go at once and rouse ajax. in pope's translation we have- each single greek in this conclusive strife stands on the sharpest edge of death or life; yet if my years thy kind regard engage, employ thy youth as i employ my age; succeed to these my cares, and rouse the rest; he serves me most, who serves his country best. the false air of epigram which pope gives to the fourth line is characteristic; and the concluding tag, which is quite unauthorized, reminds us irresistibly of one of the rhymes which an actor always spouted to the audience by way of winding up an act in the contemporary drama. such embroidery is profusely applied by pope wherever he thinks that homer, like diomed, is slumbering too deeply. and, of course, that is not the way in which nestor roused diomed or homer keeps his readers awake. such faults have been so fully exposed that we need not dwell upon them further. they come to this, that pope was really a wit of the days of queen anne, and saw only that aspect of homer which was visible to his kind. the poetic mood was not for him a fine frenzy--for good sense must condemn all frenzy--but a deliberate elevation of the bard by high-heeled shoes and a full-bottomed wig. seas and mountains, being invisible from button's, could only be described by worn phrases from the latin grammar. even his narrative must be full of epigrams to avoid the one deadly sin of dulness, and his language must be decorous even at the price of being sometimes emasculated. but accept these conditions, and much still remains. after all, a wit was still a human being, and much more nearly related to us than an ancient greek. pope's style, when he is at his best, has the merit of being thoroughly alive; there are no dead masses of useless verbiage; every excrescence has been carefully pruned away; slovenly paraphrases and indistinct slurrings over of the meaning have disappeared. he corrected carefully and scrupulously, as his own statement implies, not with a view of transferring as large a portion as possible of his author's meaning to his own verses, but in order to make the versification as smooth and the sense as transparent as possible. we have the pleasure which we receive from really polished oratory; every point is made to tell; if the emphasis is too often pointed by some showy antithesis, we are at least never uncertain as to the meaning; and if the versification is often monotonous, it is articulate and easily caught at first sight. these are the essential merits of good declamation, and it is in the true declamatory passages that pope is at his best. the speeches of his heroes are often admirable, full of spirit, well balanced and skilfully arranged pieces of rhetoric--not a mere inorganic series of observations. undoubtedly the warriors are a little too epigrammatic and too consciously didactic; and we feel almost scandalized when they take to downright blows, as though walpole and st. john were interrupting a debate in the house of commons by fisticuffs. they would be better in the senate than the field. but the brilliant rhetoric implies also a sense of dignity which is not mere artificial mouthing. pope, as it seems to me, rises to a level of sustained eloquence when he has to act as interpreter for the direct expression of broad magnanimous sentiment. classical critics may explain by what shades of feeling the aristocratic grandeur of soul of an english noble differed from the analogous quality in heroic greece, and find the difference reflected in the "grand style" of pope as compared with that of homer. but pope could at least assume with admirable readiness the lofty air of superiority to personal fears and patriotic devotion to a great cause, which is common to the type in every age. his tendency to didactic platitudes is at least out of place in such cases, and his dread of vulgarity and quaintness, with his genuine feeling for breadth of effect, frequently enables him to be really dignified and impressive. it will perhaps be sufficient illustration of these qualities if i conclude these remarks by giving his translation of hector's speech to polydamas in the twelfth book, with its famous +eis oiônos aristos amynesthai peri patrês+. to him then hector with disdain return'd; (fierce as he spoke, his eyes with fury burn'd)- are these the faithful counsels of thy tongue? thy will is partial, not thy reason wrong; or if the purpose of thy heart thou sent, sure heaven resumes the little sense it lent- what coward counsels would thy madness move against the word, the will reveal'd of jove? the leading sign, the irrevocable nod and happy thunders of the favouring god? these shall i slight? and guide my wavering mind by wand'ring birds that flit with every wind? ye vagrants of the sky! your wings extend or where the suns arise or where descend; to right or left, unheeded take your way, while i the dictates of high heaven obey. without a sigh his sword the brave man draws, and asks no omen but his country's cause. but why should'st thou suspect the war's success? none fears it more, as none promotes it less. tho' all our ships amid yon ships expire, trust thy own cowardice to escape the fire. troy and her sons may find a general grave, but thou canst live, for thou canst be a slave. yet should the fears that wary mind suggests spread their cold poison through our soldiers' breasts, my javelin can revenge so base a part, and free the soul that quivers in thy heart. the six volumes of the iliad were published during the years 1715-1720, and were closed by a dedication to congreve, who, as an eminent man of letters, not too closely connected with either whigs or tories, was the most appropriate recipient of such a compliment. pope was enriched by his success, and no doubt wearied by his labours. but his restless intellect would never leave him to indulge in prolonged repose, and, though not avaricious, he was not more averse than other men to increasing his fortune. he soon undertook two sufficiently laborious works. the first was an edition of shakspeare, for which he only received 217_l._ 10_s._, and which seems to have been regarded as a failure. it led, like his other publications, to a quarrel to be hereafter mentioned, but need not detain us at present. it appeared in 1725, when he was already deep in another project. the success of the iliad naturally suggested an attempt upon the odyssey. pope, however, was tired of translating, and he arranged for assistance. he took into alliance a couple of cambridge men, who were small poets capable of fairly adopting his versification. one of them was william broome, a clergyman who held several livings and married a rich widow. unfortunately his independence did not restrain him from writing poetry, for which want of means would have been the only sufficient excuse. he was a man of some classical attainments, and had helped pope in compiling notes to the iliad from eustathius, an author whom pope would have been scarcely able to read without such assistance. elijah fenton, his other assistant, was a cambridge man who had sacrificed his claims of preferment by becoming a non-juror, and picked up a living partly by writing and chiefly by acting as tutor to lord orrery, and afterwards in the family of trumball's widow. pope, who introduced him to lady trumball, had also introduced him to craggs, who, when secretary of state, felt his want of a decent education, and wished to be polished by some competent person. he seems to have been a kindly, idle, honourable man, who died, says pope, of indolence, and more immediately, it appears, of the gout. the alliance thus formed was rather a delicate one, and was embittered by some of pope's usual trickery. in issuing his proposals he spoke in ambiguous terms of two friends who were to render him some undefined assistance, and did not claim to be the translator, but to have undertaken the translation. the assistants, in fact, did half the work, broome translating eight, and fenton four, out of the twenty-four books. pope was unwilling to acknowledge the full amount of their contributions; he persuaded broome--a weak, good-natured man--to set his hand to a postscript to the odyssey, in which only three books are given to broome himself, and only two to fenton. when pope was attacked for passing off other people's verses as his own, he boldly appealed to this statement to prove that he had only received broome's help in three books, and at the same time stated the whole amount which he had paid for the eight, as though it had been paid for the three. when broome, in spite of his subservience, became a little restive under this treatment, pope indirectly admitted the truth by claiming only twelve books in an advertisement to his works, and in a note to the _dunciad_, but did not explicitly retract the other statement. broome could not effectively rebuke his fellow-sinner. he had, in fact, conspired with pope to attract the public by the use of the most popular name, and could not even claim his own afterwards. he had, indeed, talked too much, according to pope; and the poet's morality is oddly illustrated in a letter, in which he complains of broome's indiscretion for letting out the secret; and explains that, as the facts are so far known, it would now be "unjust and dishonourable" to continue the concealment. it would be impossible to accept more frankly the theory that lying is wrong when it is found out. meanwhile pope's conduct to his victims or accomplices was not over-generous. he made over 3500_l._ after paying broome 500_l._ (including 100_l._ for notes) and fenton 200_l._, that is, 50_l._ a book. the rate of pay was as high as the work was worth, and as much as it would fetch in the open market. the large sum was entirely due to pope's reputation, though obtained, so far as the true authorship was concealed, upon something like false pretences. still, we could have wished that he had been a little more liberal with his share of the plunder. a coolness ensued between the principal and his partners in consequence of these questionable dealings. fenton seems never to have been reconciled to pope, though they did not openly quarrel and pope wrote a laudatory epitaph for him on his death in 1730. broome--a weaker man--though insulted by pope in the _dunciad_ and the miscellanies, accepted a reconciliation, for which pope seems to have been eager, perhaps feeling some touch of remorse for the injuries which he had inflicted. the shares of the three colleagues in the odyssey are not to be easily distinguished by internal evidence. on trying the experiment by a cursory reading i confess (though a critic does not willingly admit his fallibility) that i took some of broome's work for pope's, and, though closer study or an acuter perception might discriminate more accurately, i do not think that the distinction would be easy. this may be taken to confirm the common theory that pope's versification was a mere mechanical trick. without admitting this, it must be admitted that the external characteristics of his manner were easily caught; and that it was not hard for a clever versifier to produce something closely resembling his inferior work, especially when following the same original. but it may be added that pope's odyssey was really inferior to the iliad, both because his declamatory style is more out of place in its romantic narrative, and because he was weary and languid, and glad to turn his fame to account without more labour than necessary. the odyssey, i may say, in conclusion, led to one incidental advantage. it was criticized by spence, a mild and cultivated scholar, who was professor of poetry at oxford. his observations, according to johnson, were candid, though not indicative of a powerful mind. pope, he adds, had in spence, the first experience of a critic "who censured with respect and praised with alacrity." pope made spence's acquaintance, recommended him to patrons, and was repaid by warm admiration. footnotes: [6] see elwin's pope, correspondence, vol. iii. p. 129. chapter iv. pope at twickenham. when pope finished his translation of the iliad, he was congratulated by his friend gay in a pleasant copy of verses marked by the usual _bonhomie_ of the fat kindly man. gay supposes himself to be welcoming his friend on the return from his long expedition. did i not see thee when thou first sett'st sail, to seek adventures fair in homer's land? did i not see thy sinking spirits fail, and wish thy bark had never left the strand? even in mid ocean often didst thou quail, and oft lift up thy holy eye and hand, praying to virgin dear and saintly choir back to the port to bring thy bark entire. and now the bark is sailing up the thames, with bells ringing, bonfires blazing, and "bones and cleavers" clashing. so splendid a show suggests lord mayor's day, but in fact it is only the crowd of pope's friends come to welcome him on his successful achievement; and a long catalogue follows, in which each is indicated by some appropriate epithet. the list includes some doubtful sympathizers, such as gildon, who comes "hearing thou hast riches," and even dennis, who in fact continued to growl out criticisms against the triumphant poet. steele, too, and tickell,- whose skiff (in partnership they say) set forth for greece but founder'd on the way, would not applaud very cordially. addison, their common hero, was beyond the reach of satire or praise. parnell, who had contributed a life of homer, died in 1718; and rowe and garth, sound whigs, but friends and often boon companions of the little papist, had followed. swift was breathing "boeotian air" in his deanery, and st. john was "confined to foreign climates" for very sufficient reasons. any such roll-call of friends must show melancholy gaps, and sometimes the gaps are more significant than the names. yet pope could boast of a numerous body of men, many of them of high distinction, who were ready to give him a warm welcome. there were, indeed, few eminent persons of the time, either in the political or literary worlds, with whom this sensitive and restless little invalid did not come into contact, hostile or friendly, at some part of his career. his friendships were keen and his hostilities more than proportionally bitter. we see his fragile figure, glancing rapidly from one hospitable circle to another, but always standing a little apart; now paying court to some conspicuous wit, or philosopher, or statesman, or beauty; now taking deadly offence for some utterly inexplicable reason; writhing with agony under clumsy blows which a robuster nature would have met with contemptuous laughter; racking his wits to contrive exquisite compliments, and suddenly exploding in sheer billingsgate; making a mountain of every mole-hill in his pilgrimage; always preoccupied with his last literary project, and yet finding time for innumerable intrigues; for carrying out schemes of vengeance for wounded vanity, and for introducing himself into every quarrel that was going on around him. in all his multifarious schemes and occupations he found it convenient to cover himself by elaborate mystifications, and was as anxious (it would seem) to deceive posterity as to impose upon contemporaries; and hence it is as difficult clearly to disentangle the twisted threads of his complex history as to give an intelligible picture of the result of the investigation. the publication of the iliad, however, marks a kind of central point in his history. pope has reached independence, and become the acknowledged head of the literary world; and it will be convenient here to take a brief survey of his position, before following out two or three different series of events, which can scarcely be given in chronological order. pope, when he first came to town and followed wycherley about like a dog, had tried to assume the airs of a rake. the same tone is adopted in many of his earlier letters. at binfield he became demure, correct, and respectful to the religious scruples of his parents. in his visits to london and bath he is little better than one of the wicked. in a copy of verses (not too decent) written in 1715, as a "farewell to london," he gives us to understand that he has been hearing the chimes at midnight, and knows where the bona-robas dwell. he is forced to leave his jovial friends and his worrying publishers "for homer (damn him!) calls." he is, so he assures us, still idle, with a busy air deep whimsies to contrive; the gayest valetudinaire, most thinking rake alive. and he takes a sad leave of london pleasures. luxurious lobster nights, farewell, for sober, studious days! and burlington's delicious meal for salads, tarts, and pease. writing from bath a little earlier, to teresa and martha blount, he employs the same jaunty strain. "every one," he says, "values mr. pope, but every one for a different reason. one for his adherence to the catholic faith, another for his neglect of popish superstition; one for his good behaviour, another for his whimsicalities; mr. titcomb for his pretty atheistical jests; mr. caryll for his moral and christian sentences; mrs. teresa for his reflections on mrs. patty; mrs. patty for his reflections on mrs. teresa." he is an "agreeable rattle;" the accomplished rake, drinking with the wits, though above boozing with the squire, and capable of alleging his drunkenness as an excuse for writing very questionable letters to ladies. pope was too sickly and too serious to indulge long in such youthful fopperies. he had no fund of high spirits to draw upon, and his playfulness was too near deadly earnest for the comedy of common life. he had too much intellect to be a mere fribble, and had not the strong animal passions of the thorough debauchee. age came upon him rapidly, and he had sown his wild oats, such as they were, while still a young man. meanwhile his reputation and his circle of acquaintances were rapidly spreading, and in spite of all his disqualifications for the coarser forms of conviviality, he took the keenest possible interest in the life that went on around him. a satirist may not be a pleasant companion, but he must frequent society; he must be on the watch for his natural prey; he must describe the gossip of the day, for it is the raw material from which he spins his finished fabric. pope, as his writings show, was an eager recipient of all current rumours, whether they affected his aristocratic friends or the humble denizens of grub street. fully to elucidate his poems, a commentator requires to have at his finger's ends the whole _chronique scandaleuse_ of the day. with such tastes, it was natural that, as the subscriptions for his homer began to pour in, he should be anxious to move nearer the great social centre. london itself might be too exciting for his health and too destructive of literary leisure. accordingly, in 1716, the little property at binfield was sold, and the pope family moved to mawson's new buildings, on the bank of the river at chiswick, and "under the wing of my lord burlington." he seems to have been a little ashamed of the residence; the name of it is certainly neither aristocratic nor poetical. two years later, on the death of his father, he moved up the river to the villa at twickenham, which has always been associated with his name, and was his home for the last twenty-five years of his life. there he had the advantage of being just on the boundary of the great world. he was within easy reach of hampton court, richmond, and kew; places which, during pope's residence, were frequently glorified by the presence of george ii. and his heir and natural enemy, frederick, prince of wales. pope, indeed, did not enjoy the honour of any personal interview with royalty. george is said to have called him a very honest man after reading his dunciad; but pope's references to his sovereign were not complimentary. there was a report, referred to by swift, that pope had purposely avoided a visit from queen caroline. he was on very friendly terms with mrs. howard--afterwards lady suffolk--the powerless mistress, who was intimate with two of his chief friends, bathurst and peterborough, and who settled at marble villa, in twickenham. pope and bathurst helped to lay out her grounds, and she stayed there to become a friendly neighbour of horace walpole, who, unluckily for lovers of gossip, did not become a twickenhamite until three years after pope's death. pope was naturally more allied with the prince of wales, who occasionally visited him, and became intimate with the band of patriots and enthusiasts who saw in the heir to the throne the coming "patriot king." bolingbroke, too, the great inspirer of the opposition, and pope's most revered friend, was for ten years at dawley, within an easy drive. london was easily accessible by road and by the river which bounded his lawn. his waterman appears to have been one of the regular members of his household. there he had every opportunity for the indulgence of his favourite tastes. the villa was on one of the loveliest reaches of the thames, not yet polluted by the encroachments of london. the house itself was destroyed in the beginning of this century; and the garden (if we may trust horace walpole) had been previously spoilt. this garden, says walpole, was a little bit of ground of five acres, enclosed by three lanes. "pope had twisted and twirled and rhymed and harmonized this, till it appeared two or three sweet little lawns, opening and opening beyond one another, and the whole surrounded with impenetrable woods." these, it appears, were hacked and hewed into mere desolation by the next proprietor. pope was, indeed, an ardent lover of the rising art of landscape gardening; he was familiar with bridgeman and kent, the great authorities of the time, and his example and precepts helped to promote the development of a less formal style. his theories are partly indicated in the description of timon's villa. his gardens next your admiration call on every side you look, behold the wall! no pleasing intricacies intervene, no artful wildness to perplex the scene; grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, and half the platform just reflects the other. pope's taste, indeed, tolerated various old-fashioned excrescences which we profess to despise. he admired mock classical temples and obelisks erected judiciously at the ends of vistas. his most famous piece of handiwork, the grotto at twickenham, still remains, and is in fact a short tunnel under the high road to connect his grounds with the lawn which slopes to the river. he describes in a letter to one of his friends, his "temple wholly comprised of shells in the rustic manner," and his famous grotto so provided with mirrors that when the doors are shut it becomes a camera obscura, reflecting hills, river, and boats, and when lighted up glitters with rays reflected from bits of looking-glass in angular form. his friends pleased him by sending pieces of spar from the mines of cornwall and derbyshire, petrifactions, marble, coral, crystals, and humming-birds' nests. it was in fact a gorgeous example of the kind of architecture with which the cit delighted to adorn his country box. the hobby, whether in good taste or not, gave pope never-ceasing amusement; and he wrote some characteristic verses in its praise. in his grotto, as he declares in another place, he could sit in peace with his friends, undisturbed by the distant din of the world. there my retreat the best companions grace, chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place; there st. john mingles with my friendly bowl the feast of reason and the flow of soul; and he whose lightning pierced the iberian lines now forms my quincunx and now ranks my vines, or tames the genius of the stubborn plain almost as quickly as he conquer'd spain. the grotto, one would fear, was better fitted for frogs than for philosophers capable of rheumatic twinges. but deducting what we please from such utterances on the score of affectation, the picture of pope amusing himself with his grotto and his plantations, directing old john searle, his gardener, and conversing with the friends whom he compliments so gracefully, is, perhaps, the pleasantest in his history. he was far too restless and too keenly interested in society and literature to resign himself permanently to any such retreat. pope's constitutional irritability kept him constantly on the wing. though little interested in politics, he liked to be on the edge of any political commotion. he appeared in london on the death of queen caroline, in 1737; and bathurst remarked that "he was as sure to be there in a bustle as a porpoise in a storm." "our friend pope," said jervas not long before, "is off and on, here and there, everywhere and nowhere, _à son ordinaire_, and, therefore as well as we can hope for a carcase so crazy." the twickenham villa, though nominally dedicated to repose, became of course a centre of attraction for the interviewers of the day. the opening lines of the prologue to the satires give a vivacious description of the crowds of authors who rushed to "twitnam," to obtain his patronage or countenance, in a day when editors were not the natural scapegoats of such aspirants. what walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? they pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; by land, by water, they renew the charge; they stop the chariot and they board the barge: no place is sacred, not the church is free, e'en sunday shines no sabbath-day to me. and even at an earlier period he occasionally retreated from the bustle to find time for his homer. lord harcourt, the chancellor in the last years of queen anne, allowed him to take up his residence in his old house of stanton harcourt, in oxfordshire. he inscribed on a pane of glass in an upper room, "in the year 1718 alexander pope finished here the fifth volume of homer." in his earlier days he was often rambling about on horseback. a letter from jervas gives the plan of one such jaunt (in 1715) with arbuthnot and disney for companions. arbuthnot is to be commander-in-chief, and allows only a shirt and a cravat to be carried in each traveller's pocket. they are to make a moderate journey each day, and stay at the houses of various friends, ending ultimately at bath. another letter of about the same date describes a ride to oxford, in which pope is overtaken by his publisher, lintot, who lets him into various secrets of the trade, and proposes that pope should turn an ode of horace whilst sitting under the trees to rest. "lord, if you pleased, what a clever miscellany might you make at leisure hours!" exclaims the man of business; and though pope laughed at the advice, we might fancy that he took it to heart. he always had bits of verse on the anvil, ready to be hammered and polished at any moment. but even pope could not be always writing, and the mere mention of these rambles suggests pleasant lounging through old-world country lanes of the quiet century. we think of the road-side life seen by parson adams or humphry clinker, and of which mr. borrow caught the last glimpse when dwelling in the tents of the romany. in later days pope had to put his "crazy carcase" into a carriage, and occasionally came in for less pleasant experiences. whilst driving home one night from dawley, in bolingbroke's carriage and six, he was upset in a stream. he escaped drowning, though the water was "up to the knots of his periwig," but he was so cut by the broken glass that he nearly lost the use of his right hand. on another occasion spence was delighted by the sudden appearance of the poet at oxford, "dreadfully fatigued;" he had good-naturedly lent his own chariot to a lady who had been hurt in an upset, and had walked three miles to oxford on a sultry day. a man of such brilliant wit, familiar with so many social circles, should have been a charming companion. it must, however, be admitted that the accounts which have come down to us do not confirm such preconceived impressions. like his great rival, addison, though for other reasons, he was generally disappointing in society. pope, as may be guessed from spence's reports, had a large fund of interesting literary talk, such as youthful aspirants to fame would be delighted to receive with reverence; he had the reputation for telling anecdotes skilfully, and we may suppose that when he felt at ease, with a respectful and safe companion, he could do himself justice. but he must have been very trying to his hosts. he could seldom lay aside his self-consciousness sufficiently to write an easy letter; and the same fault probably spoilt his conversation. swift complains of him as a silent and inattentive companion. he went to sleep at his own table, says johnson, when the prince of wales was talking poetry to him--certainly a severe trial. he would, we may guess, be silent till he had something to say worthy of the great pope, and would then doubt whether it was not wise to treasure it up for preservation in a couplet. his sister declared that she had never seen him laugh heartily; and spence, who records the saying, is surprised, because pope was said to have been very lively in his youth; but admits that in later years he never went beyond a "particular easy smile." a hearty laugh would have sounded strangely from the touchy, moody, intriguing little man, who could "hardly drink tea without a stratagem." his sensitiveness, indeed, appearing by his often weeping when he read moving passages; but we can hardly imagine him as ever capable of genial self-abandonment. his unsocial habits, indeed, were a natural consequence of ill-health. he never seems to have been thoroughly well for many days together. he implied no more than the truth when he speaks of his muse as helping him through that "long disease, his life." writing to bathurst in 1728, he says that he does not expect to enjoy any health for four days together; and, not long after, bathurst remonstrates with him for his carelessness, asking him whether it is not enough to have the headache for four days in the week and be sick for the other three. it is no small proof of intellectual energy that he managed to do so much thorough work under such disadvantages, and his letters show less of the invalid's querulous spirit than we might well have pardoned. johnson gives a painful account of his physical defects, on the authority of an old servant of lord oxford, who frequently saw him in his later years. he was so weak as to be unable to rise to dress himself without help. he was so sensitive to cold that he had to wear a kind of fur doublet under a coarse linen shirt; one of his sides was contracted, and he could scarcely stand upright till he was laced into a boddice made of stiff canvas; his legs were so slender that he had to wear three pairs of stockings, which he was unable to draw on and off without help. his seat had to be raised to bring him to a level with common tables. in one of his papers in the _guardian_ he describes himself apparently as dick distich: "a lively little creature, with long legs and arms; a spider[7] is no ill emblem of him; he has been taken at a distance for a small windmill." his face, says johnson, was "not displeasing," and the portraits are eminently characteristic. the thin, drawn features wear the expression of habitual pain, but are brightened up by the vivid and penetrating eye, which seems to be the characteristic poetical beauty. it was after all a gallant spirit which got so much work out of this crazy carcase, and kept it going, spite of all its feebleness, for fifty-six years. the servant whom johnson quotes, said that she was called from her bed four times in one night, "in the dreadful winter of forty," to supply him with paper, lest he should lose a thought. his constitution was already breaking down, but the intellect was still striving to save every moment allowed to him. his friends laughed at his habit of scribbling upon odd bits of paper. "paper-sparing" pope is the epithet bestowed upon him by swift, and a great part of the iliad is written upon the backs of letters. the habit seems to have been regarded as illustrative of his economical habits; but it was also natural to a man who was on the watch to turn every fragment of time to account. if anything was to be finished, he must snatch at the brief intervals allowed by his many infirmities. naturally, he fell into many of the self-indulgent and troublesome ways of the valetudinarian. he was constantly wanting coffee, which seems to have soothed his headaches; and for this and his other wants he used to wear out the servants in his friends' houses, by "frequent and frivolous errands." yet he was apparently a kind master. his servants lived with him till they became friends, and he took care to pay so well the unfortunate servant whose sleep was broken by his calls, that she said that she would want no wages in a family where she had to wait upon mr. pope. another form of self-indulgence was more injurious to himself. he pampered his appetite with highly seasoned dishes, and liked to receive delicacies from his friends. his death was imputed by some of his friends, says johnson, to "a silver saucepan in which it was his delight to eat potted lampreys." he would always get up for dinner, in spite of headache, when told that this delicacy was provided. yet, as johnson also observes, the excesses cannot have been very great, as they did not sooner cut short so fragile an existence. "two bites and a sup more than your stint," says swift, "will cost you more than others pay for a regular debauch." at home, indeed, he appears to have been generally abstemious. probably the habits of his parents' little household were very simple; and pope, like swift, knew the value of independence well enough to be systematically economical. swift, indeed, had a more generous heart, and a lordly indifference to making money by his writings, which pope, who owed his fortune chiefly to his homer, did not attempt to rival. swift alludes in his letters to an anecdote, which we may hope does not represent his habitual practice. pope, it appears, was entertaining a couple of friends, and when four glasses had been consumed from a pint, retired, saying, "gentlemen i leave you to your wine." i tell that story to everybody, says swift, "in commendation of mr. pope's abstemiousness;" but he tells it, one may guess, with something of a rueful countenance. at times, however, it seems that pope could give a "splendid dinner," and show no want of the "skill and elegance which such performances require." pope, in fact, seems to have shown a combination of qualities which is not uncommon, though sometimes called inconsistent. he valued money, as a man values it who has been poor and feels it essential to his comfort to be fairly beyond the reach of want, and was accordingly pretty sharp at making a bargain with a publisher or in arranging terms with a collaborator. but he could also be liberal on occasion. johnson says that his whole income amounted to about 800_l._ a year, out of which he professed himself able to assign 100_l._ to charity; and though the figures are doubtful, and all pope's statements about his own proceedings liable to suspicion, he appears to have been often generous in helping the distressed with money, as well as with advice or recommendations to his powerful friends. pope, by his infirmities and his talents, belonged to the dependent class of mankind. he was in no sense capable of standing firmly upon his own legs. he had a longing, sometimes pathetic and sometimes humiliating, for the applause of his fellows and the sympathy of friends. with feelings so morbidly sensitive, and with such a lamentable incapacity for straightforward openness in any relation of life, he was naturally a dangerous companion. he might be brooding over some fancied injury or neglect, and meditating revenge, when he appeared to be on good terms; when really desiring to do a service to a friend, he might adopt some tortuous means for obtaining his ends, which would convert the service into an injury; and, if he had once become alienated, the past friendship would be remembered by him as involving a kind of humiliation, and therefore supplying additional keenness to his resentment. and yet it is plain that throughout life he was always anxious to lean upon some stronger nature; to have a sturdy supporter whom he was too apt to turn into an accomplice; or at least to have some good-natured, easy-going companion, in whose society he might find repose for his tortured nerves. and therefore, though the story of his friendships is unfortunately intertwined with the story of bitter quarrels and indefensible acts of treachery, it also reveals a touching desire for the kind of consolation which would be most valuable to one so accessible to the pettiest stings of his enemies. he had many warm friends, moreover, who, by good fortune or the exercise of unusual prudence, never excited his wrath, and whom he repaid by genuine affection. some of these friendships have become famous, and will be best noticed in connexion with passages in his future career. it will be sufficient if i here notice a few names, in order to show that a complete picture of pope's life, if it could now be produced, would include many figures of which we only catch occasional glimpses. pope, as i have said, though most closely connected with the tories and jacobites, disclaimed any close party connexion, and had some relations with the whigs. some courtesies even passed between him and the great sir robert walpole, whose interest in literature was a vanishing quantity, and whose bitterest enemies were pope's greatest friends. walpole, however, as we have seen, asked for preferment for pope's old friend, and pope repaid him with more than one compliment. thus, in the epilogue to the satires, he says,- seen him i have, but in his happier hour of social pleasure, ill exchanged for power. seen him, encumber'd with the venal tribe, smile without art and win without a bribe. another whig statesman for whom pope seems to have entertained an especially warm regard was james craggs, addison's successor as secretary of state, who died whilst under suspicion of peculation in the south sea business (1721). the whig connexion might have been turned to account. craggs during his brief tenure of office offered pope a pension of 300_l._ a year (from the secret service money), which pope declined, whilst saying that, if in want of money, he would apply to craggs as a friend. a negotiation of the same kind took place with halifax, who aimed at the glory of being the great literary patron. it seems that he was anxious to have the homer dedicated to him, and pope, being unwilling to gratify him, or, as johnson says, being less eager for money than halifax for praise, sent a cool answer, and the negotiation passed off. pope afterwards revenged himself for this offence by his bitter satire on _bufo_ in the prologue to his satires, though he had not the courage to admit its obvious application. pope deserves the credit of preserving his independence. he would not stoop low enough to take a pension at the price virtually demanded by the party in power. he was not, however, inaccessible to aristocratic blandishments, and was proud to be the valued and petted guest in many great houses. through swift he had become acquainted with oxford, the colleague of bolingbroke, and was a frequent and intimate guest of the second earl, from whose servant johnson derived the curious information as to his habits. harcourt, oxford's chancellor, lent him a house whilst translating homer. sheffield, the duke of buckingham, had been an early patron, and after the duke's death, pope, at the request of his eccentric duchess, the illegitimate daughter of james ii., edited some of his works and got into trouble for some jacobite phrases contained in them. his most familiar friend among the opposition magnates was lord bathurst, a man of uncommon vivacity and good-humour. he was born four years before pope, and died more than thirty years later at the age of ninety-one. one of the finest passages in burke's american speeches turns upon the vast changes which had taken place during bathurst's lifetime. he lived to see his son chancellor. two years before his death the son left the father's dinner-table with some remark upon the advantage of regular habits. "now the old gentleman's gone," said the lively youth of eighty-nine to the remaining guests, "let's crack the other bottle." bathurst delighted in planting, and pope in giving him advice, and in discussing the opening of vistas and erection of temples, and the poet was apt to be vexed when his advice was not taken. another friend, even more restless and comet-like in his appearances, was the famous peterborough, the man who had seen more kings and postilions than any one in europe; of whom walsh injudiciously remarked that he had too much wit to be entrusted with the command of an army; and whose victories soon after the unlucky remark had been made, were so brilliant as to resemble strategical epigrams. pope seems to have been dazzled by the amazing vivacity of the man, and has left a curious description of his last days. pope found him on the eve of the voyage in which he died, sick of an agonizing disease, crying out for pain at night, fainting away twice in the morning, lying like a dead man for a time, and in the intervals of pain giving a dinner to ten people, laughing, talking, declaiming against the corruption of the times, giving directions to his workmen, and insisting upon going to sea in a yacht without preparations for landing anywhere in particular. pope seems to have been specially attracted by such men, with intellects as restless as his own, but with infinitely more vitality to stand the consequent wear and tear. we should be better pleased if we could restore a vivid image of the inner circle upon which his happiness most intimately depended. in one relation of life pope's conduct was not only blameless, but thoroughly loveable. he was, it is plain, the best of sons. even here, it is true, he is a little too consciously virtuous. yet when he speaks of his father and mother there are tears in his voice, and it is impossible not to recognize genuine warmth of heart. me let the tender office long engage to rock the cradle of reposing age, with lenient arts extend a mother's breath, make languor smile, and soothe the bed of death, explore the thought, explain the asking eye, and keep awhile one parent from the sky![8] such verses are a spring in the desert, a gush of the true feeling, which contrasts with the strained and factitious sentiment in his earlier rhetoric, and almost forces us to love the writer. could pope have preserved that higher mood, he would have held our affections as he often delights our intellect. unluckily we can catch but few glimpses of pope's family life; of the old mother and father and the affectionate nurse, who lived with him till 1721, and died during a dangerous illness of his mother's. the father, of whom we hear little after his early criticism of the son's bad "rhymes," died in 1717, and a brief note to martha blount gives pope's feeling as fully as many pages: "my poor father died last night. believe, since i don't forget you this moment, i never shall." the mother survived till 1733, tenderly watched by pope, who would never be long absent from her, and whose references to her are uniformly tender and beautiful. one or two of her letters are preserved. "my deare,--a letter from your sister just now is come and gone, mr. mennock and charls rackitt, to take his leve of us; but being nothing in it, doe not send it.... your sister is very well, but your brother is not. there's mr. blunt of maypell durom is dead, the same day that mr. inglefield died. my servis to mrs. blounts, and all that ask of me. i hope to here from you, and that you are well, which is my dalye prayers; this with my blessing." the old lady had peculiar views of orthography, and pope, it is said, gave her the pleasure of copying out some of his homer, though the necessary corrections gave him and the printers more trouble than would be saved by such an amanuensis. three days after her death he wrote to richardson, the painter. "i thank god," he says, "her death was as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, nor even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an expression of tranquillity, nay, almost of pleasure, that it is even enviable to behold it. it would afford the finest image of a saint expired that ever painter drew, and it would be the greatest obligation which ever that obliging art could ever bestow upon a friend, if you would come and sketch it for me. i am sure if there be no very prevalent obstacle, you will leave any common business to do this, and i shall hope to see you this evening as late as you will, or to-morrow morning as early, before this winter flower is faded." swift's comment, on hearing the news, gives the only consolation which pope could have felt. "she died in extreme old age," he writes, "without pain, under the care of the most dutiful son i have ever known or heard of, which is a felicity not happening to one in a million." and with her death, its most touching and ennobling influence faded from pope's life. there is no particular merit in loving a mother, but few biographies give a more striking proof that the loving discharge of a common duty may give a charm to a whole character. it is melancholy to add that we often have to appeal to this part of his story, to assure ourselves that pope was really deserving of some affection. the part of pope's history which naturally follows brings us again to the region of unsolved mysteries. the one prescription which a spiritual physician would have suggested in pope's case would have been the love of a good and sensible woman. a nature so capable of tender feeling and so essentially dependent upon others, might have been at once soothed and supported by a happy domestic life; though it must be admitted that it would have required no common qualifications in a wife to calm so irritable and jealous a spirit. pope was unfortunate in his surroundings. the bachelor society of that day, not only the society of the wycherleys and cromwells, but the more virtuous society of addison and his friends, was certainly not remarkable for any exalted tone about women. bolingbroke, peterborough, and bathurst, pope's most admired friends, were all more or less flagrantly licentious; and swift's mysterious story shows that if he could love a woman, his love might be as dangerous as hatred. in such a school, pope, eminently malleable to the opinions of his companions, was not likely to acquire a high standard of sentiment. his personal defects were equally against him. his frame was not adapted for the robust gallantry of the time. he wanted a nurse rather than a wife; and if his infirmities might excite pity, pity is akin to contempt as well as to love. the poor little invalid, brutally abused for his deformity by such men as dennis and his friends, was stung beyond all self-control by their coarse laughter, and by the consciousness that it only echoed, in a more brutal shape, the judgment of the fine ladies of the time. his language about women, sometimes expressing coarse contempt and sometimes rising to ferocity, is the reaction of his morbid sensibility under such real and imagined scorn. such feelings must be remembered in speaking briefly of two love affairs, if they are such, which profoundly affected his happiness. lady mary wortley montagu is amongst the most conspicuous figures of the time. she had been made a toast at the kitcat club at the age of eight, and she translated epictetus (from the latin) before she was twenty. she wrote verses, some of them amazingly coarse, though decidedly clever, and had married mr. edward wortley montagu in defiance of her father's will, though even in this, her most romantic proceeding, there are curious indications of a respect for prudential considerations. her husband was a friend of addison's, and a whig; and she accompanied him on an embassy to constantinople in 1716-17, where she wrote the excellent letters published after her death, and whence she imported the practice of inoculation in spite of much opposition. a distinguished leader of society, she was also a woman of shrewd intellect and masculine character. in 1739 she left her husband, though no quarrel preceded or followed the separation, and settled for many years in italy. her letters are characteristic of the keen woman of the world, with an underlying vein of nobler feeling, perverted by harsh experience into a prevailing cynicism. pope had made her acquaintance before she left england. he wrote poems to her and corrected her verses till she cruelly refused his services, on the painfully plausible ground that he would claim all the good for himself and leave all the bad for her. they corresponded during her first absence abroad. the common sense is all on the lady's side, whilst pope puts on his most elaborate manners and addresses her in the strained compliments of old-fashioned gallantry. he acts the lover, though it is obviously mere acting, and his language is stained by indelicacies, which could scarcely offend lady mary, if we may judge her by her own poetical attempts. the most characteristic of pope's letters related to an incident at stanton harcourt. two rustic lovers were surprised by a thunderstorm in a field near the house; they were struck by lightning, and found lying dead in each other's arms. here was an admirable chance for pope, who was staying in the house with his friend gay. he wrote off a beautiful letter to lady mary,[9] descriptive of the event--a true prose pastoral in the strephon and chloe style. he got lord harcourt to erect a monument over the common grave of the lovers, and composed a couple of epitaphs, which he submitted to lady mary's opinion. she replied by a cruel dose of common sense, and a doggrel epitaph, which turned his fine phrases into merciless ridicule. if the lovers had been spared, she suggests, the first year might probably have seen a beaten wife and a deceived husband, cursing their marriage chain. now they are happy in their doom, for pope has writ upon their tomb. on lady mary's return the intimacy was continued. she took a house at twickenham. he got kneller to paint her portrait, and wrote letters expressive of humble adoration. but the tone which did well enough when the pair were separated by the whole breadth of europe, was less suitable when they were in the same parish. after a time the intimacy faded and changed into mutual antipathy. the specific cause of the quarrel, if cause there was, has not been clearly revealed. one account, said to come from lady mary, is at least not intrinsically[10] improbable. according to this story, the unfortunate poet forgot for a moment that he was a contemptible cripple, and forgot also the existence of mr. edward wortley montagu, and a passionate declaration of love drew from the lady an "immoderate fit of laughter." ever afterwards, it is added, he was her implacable enemy. doubtless, if the story be true, lady mary acted like a sensible woman of the world, and pope was silly as well as immoral. and yet one cannot refuse some pity to the unfortunate wretch, thus roughly jerked back into the consciousness that a fine lady might make a pretty plaything of him, but could not seriously regard him with anything but scorn. whatever the precise facts, a breach of some sort might have been anticipated. a game of gallantry in which the natural parts are inverted, and the gentleman acts the sentimentalist to the lady's performance of the shrewd cynic, is likely to have awkward results. pope brooded over his resentment, and years afterwards took a revenge only too characteristic. the first of his imitations of horace appeared in 1733. it contained a couplet, too gross for quotation, making the most outrageous imputation upon the character of "sappho." now, the accusation itself had no relation whatever either to facts or even (as i suppose) to any existing scandal. it was simply throwing filth at random. thus, when lady mary took it to herself, and applied to pope through peterborough for an explanation, pope could make a defence verbally impregnable. there was no reason why lady mary should fancy that such a cap fitted; and it was far more appropriate, as he added, to other women notorious for immorality as well as authorship. in fact, however, there can be no doubt that pope intended his abuse to reach its mark. sappho was an obvious name for the most famous of poetic ladies. pope himself, in one of his last letters to her, says that fragments of her writing would please him like fragments of sappho's; and their mediator, peterborough, writes of her under the same name in some complimentary and once well-known verses to mrs. howard. pope had himself alluded to her as sappho in some verses addressed (about 1722) to another lady, judith cowper, afterwards mrs. madan, who was for a time the object of some of his artificial gallantry. the only thing that can be said is that his abuse was a sheer piece of billingsgate, too devoid of plausibility to be more than an expression of virulent hatred. he was like a dirty boy who throws mud from an ambush, and declares that he did not see the victim bespattered.[11] a bitter and humiliating quarrel followed. lord hervey, who had been described as "lord fanny," in the same satire, joined with his friend, lady mary, in writing lampoons upon pope. the best known was a copy of verses, chiefly, if not exclusively by lady mary, in which pope is brutally taunted with the personal deformities of his "wretched little carcass," which, it seems, are the only cause of his being "unwhipt, unblanketed, unkicked." one verse seems to have stung him more deeply, which says that his "crabbed numbers" are hard as his heart and as his birth obscure. to this and other assaults pope replied by a long letter, suppressed, however, for the time, which, as johnson says, exhibits to later readers "nothing but tedious malignity," and is, in fact, a careful raking together of everything likely to give pain to his victim. it was not published till 1751, when both pope and hervey were dead. in his later writings he made references to sappho, which fixed the name upon her, and amongst other pleasant insinuations, speaks of a weakness which she shared with dr. johnson,--an inadequate appreciation of clean linen. more malignant accusations are implied both in his acknowledged and anonymous writings. the most ferocious of all his assaults, however, is the character of sporus, that is lord hervey, in the epistle to arbuthnot, where he seems to be actually screaming with malignant fury. he returns the taunts as to effeminacy, and calls his adversary a "mere white curd of asses' milk,"--an innocent drink, which he was himself in the habit of consuming. we turn gladly from these miserable hostilities, disgraceful to all concerned. were any excuse available for pope, it would be in the brutality of taunts, coming not only from rough dwellers in grub street, but from the most polished representatives of the highest classes, upon personal defects, which the most ungenerous assailant might surely have spared. but it must also be granted that pope was neither the last to give provocation, nor at all inclined to refrain from the use of poisoned weapons. the other connexion of which i have spoken has also its mystery,--like everything else in pope's career. pope had been early acquainted with teresa and martha blount. teresa was born in the same year as pope, and martha two years later.[12] they were daughters of lister blount, of mapledurham, and after his death, in 1710, and the marriage of their only brother, in 1711, they lived with their mother in london, and passed much of the summer near twickenham. they seem to have been lively young women, who had been educated at paris. teresa was the most religious, and the greatest lover of london society. i have already quoted a passage or two from the early letters addressed to the two sisters. it has also to be said that he was guilty of writing to them stuff which it is inconceivable that any decent man should have communicated to a modest woman. they do not seem to have taken offence. he professes himself the slave of both alternately or together. "even from my infancy," he says (in 1714) "i have been in love with one or other of you week by week, and my journey to bath fell out in the 376th week of the reign of my sovereign lady sylvia. at the present writing hereof, it is the 389th week of the reign of your most serene majesty, in whose service i was listed some weeks before i beheld your sister." he had suggested to lady mary that the concluding lines of eloisa contained a delicate compliment to her; and he characteristically made a similar insinuation to martha blount about the same passage. pope was decidedly an economist even of his compliments. some later letters are in less artificial language, and there is a really touching and natural letter to teresa in regard to an illness of her sister's. after a time, we find that some difficulty has arisen. he feels that his presence gives pain; when he comes he either makes her (apparently teresa) uneasy, or he sees her unkind. teresa, it would seem, is jealous and disapproves of his attentions to martha. in the midst of this we find that in 1717 pope settled an annuity upon teresa of 40_l._ a year for six years, on condition of her not being married during that time. the fact has suggested various speculations, but was, perhaps, only a part of some family arrangement, made convenient by the diminished fortunes of the ladies. whatever the history, pope gradually became attached to martha, and simultaneously came to regard teresa with antipathy. martha, in fact, became by degrees almost a member of his household. his correspondents take for granted that she is his regular companion. he writes of her to gay, in 1730, as "a friend--a woman friend, god help me!--with whom i have spent three or four hours a day these fifteen years." in his last years, when he was most dependent upon kindness, he seems to have expected that she should be invited to any house which he was himself to visit. such a close connexion naturally caused some scandal. in 1725, he defends himself against "villanous lying tales" of this kind to his old friend caryll, with whom the blounts were connected. at the same time he is making bitter complaints of teresa. he accused her afterwards (1729) of having an intrigue with a married man, of "striking, pinching, and abusing her mother to the utmost shamefulness." the mother, he thinks, is too meek to resent this tyranny, and martha, as it appears, refuses to believe the reports against her sister. pope audaciously suggests that it would be a good thing if the mother could be induced to retire to a convent, and is anxious to persuade martha to leave so painful a home. the same complaints reappear in many letters, but the position remained unaltered. it is impossible to say with any certainty what may have been the real facts. pope's mania for suspicion deprives his suggestions of the slightest value. the only inference to be drawn is, that he drew closer to martha blount as years went by; and was anxious that she should become independent of her family. this naturally led to mutual dislike and suspicion, but nobody can now say whether teresa pinched her mother, nor what would have been her account of martha's relations to pope. johnson repeats a story that martha neglected pope "with shameful unkindness," in his later years. it is clearly exaggerated or quite unfounded. at any rate, the poor sickly man, in his premature and childless old age, looked up to her with fond affection, and left to her nearly the whole of his fortune. his biographers have indulged in discussions--surely superfluous--as to the morality of the connexion. there is no question of seduction, or of tampering with the affections of an innocent woman. pope was but too clearly disqualified from acting the part of lothario. there was not in his case any vanessa to give a tragic turn to the connexion, which, otherwise, resembled swift's connexion with stella. miss blount, from all that appears, was quite capable of taking care of herself, and had she wished for marriage, need only have intimated her commands to her lover. it is probable enough that the relations between them led to very unpleasant scenes in her family; but she did not suffer otherwise in accepting pope's attentions. the probability seems to be that the friendship had become imperceptibly closer, and that what began as an idle affectation of gallantry was slowly changed into a devoted attachment, but not until pope's health was so broken that marriage would then, if not always, have appeared to be a mockery. poets have a bad reputation as husbands. strong passions and keen sensibilities may easily disqualify a man for domestic tranquillity, and prompt a revolt against rules essential to social welfare. pope, like other poets from shakspeare to shelley, was unfortunate in his love affairs; but his ill-fortune took a characteristic shape. he was not carried away, like byron and burns, by overpowering passions. rather the emotional power which lay in his nature was prevented from displaying itself by his physical infirmities, and his strange trickiness and morbid irritability. a man who could not make tea without a stratagem, could hardly be a downright lover. we may imagine that he would at once make advances and retract them; that he would be intolerably touchy and suspicious; that every coolness would be interpreted as a deliberate insult, and that the slightest hint would be enough to set his jealousy in a flame. a woman would feel that, whatever his genius and his genuine kindliness, one thing was impossible with him--that is, a real confidence in his sincerity; and, therefore, on the whole, it may, perhaps, be reckoned as a piece of good fortune for the most wayward and excitable of sane mankind, that if he never fully gained the most essential condition of all human happiness, he yet formed a deep and lasting attachment to a woman who, more or less, returned his feeling. in a life so full of bitterness, so harassed by physical pain, one is glad to think, even whilst admitting that the suffering was in great part foolish self-torture, and in part inflicted as a retribution for injuries to others, that some glow of feminine kindliness might enlighten the dreary stages of his progress through life. the years left to him after the death of his mother were few and evil, and it would be hard to grudge him such consolation as he could receive from the glances of patty blount's blue eyes--the eyes which, on walpole's testimony, were the last remains of her beauty. footnotes: [7] the same comparison is made by cibber in a rather unsavoury passage. [8] it is curious to compare these verses with the original copy contained in a letter to aaron hill. the comparison shows how skilfully pope polished his most successful passages. [9] pope, after his quarrel, wanted to sink his previous intimacy with lady mary, and printed this letter as addressed by gay to fortescue, adding one to the innumerable mystifications of his correspondence. mr. moy thomas doubts also whether lady mary's answer was really sent at the assigned date. the contrast of sentiment is equally characteristic in any case. [10] mr. moy thomas, in his edition of lady mary's letters, considers this story to be merely an echo of old scandal, and makes a different conjecture as to the immediate cause of quarrel. his conjecture seems very improbable to me; but the declaration story is clearly of very doubtful authenticity. [11] another couplet in the second book of the dunciad about "hapless monsieur" and "lady maries," was also applied at the time to lady m. w. montagu: and pope in a later note affects to deny, thus really pointing the allusion. but the obvious meaning of the whole passage is that "duchesses and lady maries" might be personated by abandoned women, which would certainly be unpleasant for them, but does not imply any imputation upon their character. if lady mary was really the author of a "pop upon pope"--a story of pope's supposed whipping in the vein of his own attack upon dennis, she already considered him as the author of some scandal. the line in the dunciad was taken to allude to a story about a m. rémond which has been fully cleared up. [12] the statements as to the date of the acquaintance are contradictory. martha told spence that she first knew pope as a "very little girl," but added that it was after the publication of the essay on criticism, when she was twenty-one; and at another time, that it was after he had begun the iliad, which was later than part of the published correspondence. chapter v. the war with the dunces. in the dunciad, published soon after the odyssey, pope laments ten years spent as a commentator and translator. he was not without compensation. the drudgery--for the latter part of his task must have been felt as drudgery--once over, he found himself in a thoroughly independent position, still on the right side of forty, and able to devote his talents to any task which might please him. the task which he actually chose was not calculated to promote his happiness. we must look back to an earlier period to explain its history. during the last years of queen anne, pope had belonged to a "little senate" in which swift was the chief figure. though swift did not exercise either so gentle or so imperial a sway as addison, the cohesion between the more independent members of this rival clique was strong and lasting. they amused themselves by projecting the scriblerus club, a body which never had, it would seem, any definite organization, but was held to exist for the prosecution of a design never fully executed. martinus scriblerus was the name of an imaginary pedant--a precursor and relative of dr. dryasdust--whose memoirs and works were to form a satire upon stupidity in the guise of learning. the various members of the club were to share in the compilation; and if such joint-stock undertakings were practicable in literature, it would be difficult to collect a more brilliant set of contributors. after swift--the terrible humourist of whom we can hardly think without a mixture of horror and compassion--the chief members were atterbury, arbuthnot, gay, parnell, and pope himself. parnell, an amiable man, died in 1717, leaving works which were edited by pope in 1722. atterbury, a potential wolsey or laud born in an uncongenial period, was a man of fine literary taste--a warm admirer of milton (though he did exhort pope to put samson agonistes into civilised costume--one of the most unlucky suggestions ever made by mortal man), a judicious critic of pope himself, and one who had already given proofs of his capacity in literary warfare by his share in the famous controversy with bentley. though no one now doubts the measureless superiority of bentley, the clique of swift and pope still cherished the belief that the wit of atterbury and his allies had triumphed over the ponderous learning of the pedant. arbuthnot, whom swift had introduced to pope as a man who could do everything but walk, was an amiable and accomplished physician. he was a strong tory and high churchman, and retired for a time to france upon the death of anne and the overthrow of his party. he returned, however, to england, resumed his practice, and won pope's warmest gratitude by his skill and care. he was a man of learning, and had employed it in an attack upon woodward's geological speculations, as already savouring of heterodoxy. he possessed also a vein of genuine humour, resembling that of swift, though it has rather lost its savour, perhaps, because it was not salted by the dean's misanthropic bitterness. if his good humour weakened his wit, it gained him the affections of his friends, and was never soured by the sufferings of his later years. finally, john gay, though fat, lazy, and wanting in manliness of spirit, had an illimitable flow of good-tempered banter; and if he could not supply the learning of arbuthnot, he could give what was more valuable, touches of fresh natural simplicity, which still explain the liking of his friends. gay, as johnson says, was the general favourite of the wits, though a playfellow rather than a partner, and treated with more fondness than respect. pope seems to have loved him better than any one, and was probably soothed by his easy-going, unsuspicious temper. they were of the same age; and gay, who had been apprenticed to a linendraper, managed to gain notice by his poetical talents, and was taken up by various great people. pope said of him that he wanted independence of spirit, which is indeed obvious enough. he would have been a fitting inmate of thomson's castle of indolence. he was one of those people who consider that providence is bound to put food into their mouths without giving them any trouble; and, as sometimes happens, his draft upon the general system of things was honoured. he was made comfortable by various patrons; the duchess of queensberry petted him in his later years, and the duke kept his money for him. his friends chose to make a grievance of the neglect of government to add to his comfort by a good place; they encouraged him to refuse the only place offered as not sufficiently dignified; and he even became something of a martyr when his _polly_, a sequel to the _beggars' opera_, was prohibited by the lord chamberlain, and a good subscription made him ample amends. pope has immortalized the complaint by lamenting the fate of "neglected genius" in the epistle to arbuthnot, and declaring that the "sole return" of all gay's "blameless life" was my verse and queensberry weeping o'er thy urn. pope's alliance with gay had various results. gay continued the war with ambrose philips by writing burlesque pastorals, of which johnson truly says that they show "the effect of reality and truth, even when the intention was to show them grovelling and degraded." they may still be glanced at with pleasure. soon after the publication of the mock pastorals, the two friends, in company with arbuthnot, had made an adventure more in the spirit of the scriblerus club. a farce called _three hours after marriage_ was produced and damned in 1717. it was intended (amongst other things) to satirize pope's old enemy dennis, called "sir tremendous," as an embodiment of pedantic criticism, and arbuthnot's old antagonist woodward. a taste for fossils, mummies, or antiquities, was at that time regarded as a fair butt for unsparing ridicule; but the three great wits managed their assault so clumsily as to become ridiculous themselves; and pope, as we shall presently see, smarted as usual under failure. after swift's retirement to ireland, and during pope's absorption in homer, the scriblerus club languished. some fragments, however, of the great design were executed by the four chief members, and the dormant project was revived, after pope had finished his homer, on occasion of the last two visits of swift to england. he passed six months in england from march to august, 1726, and had brought with him the ms. of gulliver's travels, the greatest satire produced by the scriblerians. he passed a great part of his time at twickenham, and in rambling with pope or gay about the country. those who do not know how often the encounter of brilliant wits tends to neutralize rather than stimulate their activity, may wish to have been present at a dinner which took place at twickenham on july 6th, 1726, when the party was made up of pope, the most finished poet of the day; swift, the deepest humourist; bolingbroke, the most brilliant politician; congreve, the wittiest writer of comedy; and gay, the author of the most successful burlesque. the envious may console themselves by thinking that pope very likely went to sleep, that swift was deaf and overbearing, that congreve and bolingbroke were painfully witty, and gay frightened into silence. when in 1727 swift again visited england, and stayed at twickenham, the clouds were gathering. the scene is set before us in some of swift's verses:- pope has the talent well to speak, but not to reach the ear; his loudest voice is low and weak, the deaf too deaf to hear. awhile they on each other look, then different studies choose; the dean sits plodding o'er a book, pope walks and courts the muse. "two sick friends," says swift in a letter written after his return to ireland, "never did well together." it is plain that their infirmities had been mutually trying, and on the last day of august swift suddenly withdrew from twickenham, in spite of pope's entreaties. he had heard of the last illness of stella, which was finally to crush his happiness. unable to endure the company of friends, he went to london in very bad health, and thence, after a short stay, to ireland, leaving behind him a letter which, says pope, "affected me so much that it made me like a girl." it was a gloomy parting, and the last. the stern dean retired to die "like a poisoned rat in a hole," after long years of bitterness, and finally of slow intellectual decay. he always retained perfect confidence in his friend's affection. poor pope, as he says in the verses on his own death,- will grieve a month, and gay a week, and arbuthnot a day; and they were the only friends to whom he attributes sincere sorrow. meanwhile two volumes of miscellanies, the joint work of the four wits, appeared in june, 1727, and a third in march, 1728. a fourth, hastily got up, was published in 1732. they do not appear to have been successful. the copyright of the three volumes was sold for 225_l._, of which arbuthnot and gay received each 50_l._, whilst the remainder was shared between pope and swift; and swift seems to have given his part, according to his custom, to the widow of a respectable dublin bookseller. pope's correspondence with the publisher shows that he was entrusted with the financial details, and arranged them with the sharpness of a practised man of business. the whole collection was made up in great part of old scraps, and savoured of bookmaking, though pope speaks complacently of the joint volumes, in which he says to swift, "we look like friends, side by side, serious and merry by turns, conversing interchangeably, and walking down, hand in hand, to posterity." of the various fragments contributed by pope, there is only one which need be mentioned here--the treatise on bathos in the third volume, in which he was helped by arbuthnot. he told swift privately that he had "entirely methodized and in a manner written it all," though, he afterwards chose to denounce the very same statement as a lie when the treatise brought him into trouble. it is the most amusing of his prose writings, consisting essentially of a collection of absurdities from various authors, with some apparently invented for the occasion, such as the familiar ye gods, annihilate but space and time, and make two lovers happy! and ending with the ingenious receipt to make an epic poem. most of the passages ridiculed--and, it must be said, very deservedly--were selected from some of the various writers to whom, for one reason or another, he owed a grudge. ambrose philips and dennis, his old enemies, and theobald, who had criticised his edition of shakespeare, supply several illustrations. blackmore had spoken very strongly of the immorality of the wits in some prose essays; swift's tale of a tub, and a parody of the first psalm, anonymously circulated, but known to be pope's, had been severely condemned; and pope took a cutting revenge by plentiful citations from blackmore's most ludicrous bombast; and even broome, his colleague in homer, came in for a passing stroke, for broome and pope were now at enmity. finally, pope fired a general volley into the whole crowd of bad authors by grouping them under the head of various animals--tortoises, parrots, frogs, and so forth--and adding under each head the initials of the persons described. he had the audacity to declare that the initials were selected at random. if so, a marvellous coincidence made nearly every pair of letters correspond to the name and surname of some contemporary poetaster. the classification was rather vague, but seems to have given special offence. meanwhile pope was planning a more elaborate campaign against his adversaries. he now appeared for the first time as a formal satirist, and the dunciad, in which he came forward as the champion of wit, taken in its broad sense, against its natural antithesis, dulness, is in some respect his masterpiece. it is addressed to swift, who probably assisted at some of its early stages. o thou, exclaims the poet,- o thou, whatever title please thine ear, dean, drapier, bickerstaff, or gulliver! whether thou choose cervantes' serious air, or laugh and shake in rabelais's easy chair,-and we feel that swift is present in spirit throughout the composition. "the great fault of the dunciad," says warton, an intelligent and certainly not an over-severe critic, "is the excessive vehemence of the satire. it has been compared," he adds, "to the geysers propelling a vast column of boiling water by the force of subterranean fire;" and he speaks of some one who after reading a book of the dunciad, always soothes himself by a canto of the faery queen. certainly a greater contrast could not easily be suggested; and yet, i think, that the remark requires at least modification. the dunciad, indeed, is beyond all question full of coarse abuse. the second book, in particular, illustrates that strange delight in the physically disgusting which johnson notices as characteristic of pope and his master, swift. in the letter prefixed to the dunciad, pope tries to justify his abuse of his enemies by the example of boileau, whom he appears to have considered as his great prototype. but boileau would have been revolted by the brutal images which pope does not hesitate to introduce; and it is a curious phenomenon that the poet who is pre-eminently the representative of polished society should openly take such pleasure in unmixed filth. polish is sometimes very thin. it has been suggested that swift, who was with pope during the composition, may have been directly responsible for some of these brutalities. at any rate, as i have said, pope has here been working in the swift spirit, and this gives, i think, the keynote of his dunciad. the geyser comparison is so far misleading that pope is not in his most spiteful mood. there is not that infusion of personal venom which appears so strongly in the character of sporus and similar passages. in reading them we feel that the poet is writhing under some bitter mortification, and trying with concentrated malice to sting his adversary in the tenderest places. we hear a tortured victim screaming out the shrillest taunts at his tormentor. the abuse in the dunciad is by comparison broad and even jovial. the tone at which pope is aiming is that suggested by the "laughing and shaking in rabelais' easy chair." it is meant to be a boisterous guffaw from capacious lungs, an enormous explosion of superlative contempt for the mob of stupid thickskinned scribblers. they are to be overwhelmed with gigantic cachinnations, ducked in the dirtiest of drains, rolled over and over with rough horseplay, pelted with the least savoury of rotten eggs, not skilfully anatomized or pierced with dexterously directed needles. pope has really stood by too long, watching their tiresome antics and receiving their taunts, and he must once for all speak out and give them a lesson. out with it dunciad! let the secret pass, that secret to each fool--that he's an ass! that is his account of his feelings in the prologue to the satires, and he answers the probable remonstrance. you think this cruel? take it for a rule, no creature smarts so little as a fool. to reconcile us to such laughter, it should have a more genial tone than pope could find in his nature. we ought to feel, and we certainly do not feel, that after the joke has been fired off there should be some possibility of reconciliation, or, at least, we should find some recognition of the fact that the victims are not to be hated simply because they were not such clever fellows as pope. there is something cruel in pope's laughter, as in swift's. the missiles are not mere filth, but are weighted with hard materials that bruise and mangle. he professes that his enemies were the first aggressors, a plea which can be only true in part; and he defends himself, feebly enough, against the obvious charge that he has ridiculed men for being obscure, poor, and stupid--faults not to be amended by satire, nor rightfully provocative of enmity. in fact, pope knows in his better moments that a man is not necessarily wicked because he sleeps on a bulk, or writes verses in a garret; but he also knows that to mention those facts will give his enemies pain, and he cannot refrain from the use of so handy a weapon. such faults make one half ashamed of confessing to reading the dunciad with pleasure; and yet it is frequently written with such force and freedom that we half pardon the cruel little persecutor, and admire the vigour with which he throws down the gauntlet to the natural enemies of genius. the dunciad is modelled upon the mac flecknoe, in which dryden celebrates the appointment of elkanah shadwell to succeed flecknoe as monarch of the realms of dulness, and describes the coronation ceremonies. pope imitates many passages, and adopts the general design. though he does not equal the vigour of some of dryden's lines, and wages war in a more ungenerous spirit, the dunciad has a wider scope than its original, and shows pope's command of his weapons in occasional felicitous phrases, in the vigour of the versification, and in the general sense of form and clear presentation of the scene imagined. for a successor to the great empire of dulness he chose (in the original form of the poem) the unlucky theobald, a writer to whom the merit is attributed of having first illustrated shakspeare by a study of the contemporary literature. in doing this he had fallen foul of pope, who could claim no such merit for his own editorial work, and pope therefore regarded him as a grovelling antiquarian. as such, he was a fit pretender enough to the throne once occupied by settle. the dunciad begins by a spirited description of the goddess brooding in her cell upon the eve of a lord mayor's day, when the proud scene was o'er, but lived in settle's numbers one day more. the predestined hero is meanwhile musing in his gothic library, and addresses a solemn invocation to dulness, who accepts his sacrifice--a pile of his own works--transports him to her temple, and declares him to be the legitimate successor to the former rulers of her kingdom. the second book describes the games held in honour of the new ruler. some of them are, as a frank critic observes, "beastly;" but a brief report of the least objectionable may serve as a specimen of the whole performance. dulness, with her court descends to where fleet ditch with disemboguing streams rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to thames, the king of dykes than whom no sluice of mud with deeper sable blots the silver flood.- here strip, my children, here at once leap in; here prove who best can dash through thick and thin, and who the most in love of dirt excel. and, certainly by the poet's account, they all love it as well as their betters. the competitors in this contest are drawn from the unfortunates immersed in what warburton calls "the common sink of all such writers (as ralph)--a political newspaper." they were all hateful, partly because they were on the side of walpole, and therefore, by pope's logic, unprincipled hirelings, and more, because in that cause, as others, they had assaulted pope and his friend. there is oldmixon, a hack writer employed in compilations, who accused atterbury of falsifying clarendon, and was accused of himself falsifying historical documents in the interests of whiggism; and smedley, an irish clergyman, a special enemy of swift's, who had just printed a collection of assaults upon the miscellanies called gulliveriana; and concanen, another irishman, an ally of theobald's, and (it may be noted) of warburton's, who attacked the _bathos_, and received--of course, for the worst services--an appointment in jamaica; and arnall, one of walpole's most favoured journalists, who was said to have received for himself or others near 11,000_l._ in four years. each dives in a way supposed to be characteristic, oldmixon with the pathetic exclamation, and am i now threescore? ah, why, ye gods, should two and two make four? concanen, "a cold, long-winded native of the deep," dives perseveringly, but without causing a ripple in the stream: not so bold arnall--with a weight of skull furious he dives, precipitately dull, and ultimately emerges to claim the prize, "with half the bottom on his head." but smedley, who has been given up for lost, comes up, shaking the horrors of his sable brows, and relates how he has been sucked in by the mud-nymphs, and how they have shown him a branch of styx which here pours into the thames, and diffuses its soporific vapours over the temple and its purlieus. he is solemnly welcomed by milbourn (a reverend antagonist of dryden), who tells him to "receive these robes which once were mine," dulness is sacred in a sound divine. the games are concluded in the second book; and in the third the hero, sleeping in the temple of dulness, meets in a vision the ghost of settle, who reveals to him the future of his empire; tells how dulness is to overspread the world, and revive the triumphs of goths and monks; how the hated dennis, and gildon, and others, are to overwhelm scorners, and set up at court, and preside over arts and sciences, though a fit of temporary sanity causes him to give a warning to the deists- but learn ye dunces! not to scorn your god-and how posterity is to witness the decay of the stage, under a deluge of silly farce, opera, and sensation dramas; how bad architects are to deface the works of wren and inigo jones; whilst the universities and public schools are to be given up to games and idleness, and the birch is to be abolished. fragments of the prediction have not been entirely falsified, though the last couplet intimates a hope. enough! enough! the raptured monarch cries, and through the ivory gate the vision flies. the dunciad was thus a declaration of war against the whole tribe of scribblers; and, like other such declarations, it brought more consequences than pope foresaw. it introduced pope to a very dangerous line of conduct. swift had written to pope in 1725: "take care that the bad poets do not outwit you, as they have served the good ones in every age, whom they have provoked to transmit their names to posterity;" and the dunciad has been generally censured from swift's point of view. satire, it is said, is wasted upon such insignificant persons. to this pope might have replied, with some plausibility, that the interest of satire must always depend upon its internal qualities, not upon our independent knowledge of its object. though gildon and arnall are forgotten, the type "dunce" is eternal. the warfare, however, was demoralizing in another sense. whatever may have been the injustice of pope's attacks upon individuals, the moral standard of the grub street population was far from exalted. the poor scribbler had too many temptations to sell himself, and to evade the occasional severity of the laws of libel by humiliating contrivances. moreover, the uncertainty of the law of copyright encouraged the lower class of booksellers to undertake all kinds of piratical enterprises, and to trade in various ways upon the fame of well-known authors, by attributing trash to them, or purloining and publishing what the authors would have suppressed. dublin was to london what new york is now, and successful books were at once reproduced in ireland. thus the lower strata of the literary class frequently practised with impunity all manner of more or less discreditable trickery, and pope, with his morbid propensity for mystification, was only too apt a pupil in such arts. though the tone of his public utterances was always of the loftiest, he was like a civilised commander who, in carrying on a war with savages, finds it convenient to adopt the practices which he professes to disapprove. the whole publication of the dunciad was surrounded with tricks, intended partly to evade possible consequences, and partly to excite public interest or to cause amusement at the expense of the bewildered victims. part of the plot was concerted with swift, who, however, does not appear to have been quite in the secret. the complete poem was intended to appear with an elaborate mock commentary by scriblerus, explaining some of the allusions, and with "proeme, prolegomena, testimonia scriptorum, index auctorum, and notæ variorum." in the first instance, however, it appeared in a mangled form without this burlesque apparatus or the lines to swift. four editions were issued in this form in 1728, and with a mock notice from the publisher, expressing a hope that the author would be provoked to give a more perfect edition. this, accordingly, appeared in 1729. pope seems to have been partly led to this device by a principle which he avowed to warburton. when he had anything specially sharp to say he kept it for a second edition, where, it would, he thought, pass with less offence. but he may also have been under the impression that all the mystery of apparently spurious editions would excite public curiosity. he adopted other devices for avoiding unpleasant consequences. it was possible that his victims might appeal to the law. in order to throw dust in their eyes, two editions appeared in dublin and london, the dublin edition professing to be a reprint from a london edition, whilst the london edition professed in the same way to be the reprint of a dublin edition. to oppose another obstacle to prosecutors, he assigned the dunciad to three noblemen--lords bathurst, burlington, and oxford--who transferred their right to pope's publisher. pope would be sheltered behind these responsible persons, and an aggrieved person might be slower to attack persons of high position and property. by yet another device pope applied for an injunction in chancery to suppress a piratical london edition; but ensured the failure of his application by not supplying the necessary proofs of property. this trick, repeated, as we shall see, on another occasion, was intended either to shirk responsibility or to increase the notoriety of the book. a further mystification was equally characteristic. to the dunciad in its enlarged form is prefixed a letter, really written by pope himself, but praising his morality and genius, and justifying his satire in terms which would have been absurd in pope's own mouth. he therefore induced a major cleland, a retired officer of some position, to put his name to the letter, which it is possible that he may have partly written. the device was transparent, and only brought ridicule upon its author. finally, pope published an account of the publication in the name of savage, known by johnson's biography, who seems to have been a humble ally of the great man--at once a convenient source of information and a tool for carrying on this underground warfare. pope afterwards incorporated this statement--which was meant to prove, by some palpable falsehoods, that the dunces had not been the aggressors--in his own notes, without savage's name. this labyrinth of unworthy devices was more or less visible to pope's antagonists. it might in some degree be excusable as a huge practical joke, absurdly elaborate for the purpose, but it led pope into some slippery ways, where no such excuse is available. pope, says johnson, contemplated his victory over the dunces with great exultation. through his mouthpiece, savage, he described the scene on the day of publication; how a crowd of authors besieged the shop and threatened him with violence; how the booksellers and hawkers struggled with small success for copies; how the dunces formed clubs to devise measures of retaliation; how one wrote to ministers to denounce pope as a traitor, and another brought an image in clay to execute him in effigy; and how successive editions, genuine and spurious, followed each other, distinguished by an owl or an ass on the frontispiece, and provoking infinite controversy amongst rival vendors. it is unpleasant to have ugly names hurled at one by the first writer of the day; but the abuse was for the most part too general to be libellous. nor would there be any great interest now in exactly distributing the blame between pope and his enemies. a word or two may be said of one of the most conspicuous quarrels. aaron hill was a fussy and ambitious person, full of literary and other schemes; devising a plan for extracting oil from beech-nuts, and writing a pindaric ode on the occasion; felling forests in the highlands to provide timber for the navy; and, as might be inferred, spending instead of making a fortune. he was a stage-manager, translated voltaire's merope, wrote words for handel's first composition in england, wrote unsuccessful plays, a quantity of unreadable poetry, and corresponded with most of the literary celebrities. pope put his initials, a. h., under the head of "flying fishes," in the bathos, as authors who now and then rise upon their fins and fly, but soon drop again to the profound. in the dunciad, he reappeared amongst the divers. then * * tried, but hardly snatch'd from sight instant buoys up and rises into light: he bears no token of the sable streams, and mounts far off amongst the swans of thames. a note applied the lines to hill, with whom he had had a former misunderstanding. hill replied to these assaults by a ponderous satire in verse upon "tuneful alexis;" it had, however, some tolerable lines at the opening, imitated from pope's own verses upon addison, and attributing to him the same jealousy of merit in others. hill soon afterwards wrote a civil note to pope, complaining of the passage in the dunciad. pope might have relied upon the really satisfactory answer that the lines were, on the whole, complimentary; indeed, more complimentary than true. but with his natural propensity for lying, he resorted to his old devices. in answer to this and a subsequent letter, in which hill retorted with unanswerable force, pope went on to declare that he was not the author of the notes, that the extracts had been chosen at random, that he would "use his influence with the editors of the dunciad to get the note altered"; and, finally, by an ingenious evasion, pointed out that the blank in the dunciad required to be filled up by a dissyllable. this, in the form of the lines as quoted above, is quite true, but in the first edition of the dunciad the first verse had been h-tried the next, but hardly snatch'd from sight. hill did not detect this specimen of what pope somewhere calls "pretty genteel equivocation." he was reconciled to pope, and taught the poor poet by experience that his friendship was worse than his enmity. he wrote him letters of criticism; he forced poor pope to negotiate for him with managers and to bring distinguished friends to the performances of his dreary plays; nay, to read through, or to say that he had read through, one of them in manuscript four times, and make corrections mixed with elaborate eulogy. no doubt pope came to regard a letter from hill with terror, though hill compared him to horace and juvenal, and hoped that he would live till the virtues which his spirit would propagate became as general as the esteem of his genius. in short, hill, who was a florid flatterer, is so complimentary that we are not surprised to find him telling richardson, after pope's death, that the poet's popularity was due to a certain "bladdery swell of management." "but," he concludes, "rest his memory in in peace! it will very rarely be disturbed by that time he himself is ashes." the war raged for some time. dennis, smedley, moore-smythe, welsted, and others, retorted by various pamphlets, the names of which were published by pope in an appendix to future editions of the "dunciad," by way of proving that his own blows had told. lady mary was credited, perhaps unjustly, with an abusive performance called a "pop upon pope," relating how pope had been soundly whipped by a couple of his victims--of course a pure fiction. some such vengeance, however, was seriously threatened. as pope was dining one day at lord bathurst's, the servant brought in the agreeable message that a young man was waiting for mr. pope in the lane outside, and that the young man's name was dennis. he was the son of the critic, and prepared to avenge his father's wrongs; but bathurst persuaded him to retire, without the glory of thrashing a cripple. reports of such possibilities were circulated, and pope thought it prudent to walk out with his big danish dog bounce, and a pair of pistols. spence tried to persuade the little man not to go out alone, but pope declared that he would not go a step out of his way for such villains, and that it was better to die than to live in fear of them. he continued, indeed, to give fresh provocation. a weekly paper, called the grub-street journal, was started in january, 1730, and continued to appear till the end of 1737. it included a continuous series of epigrams and abuse, in the scriblerian vein, and aimed against the heroes of the dunciad, amongst whom poor james moore-smythe seems to have had the largest share of abuse. it was impossible, however, for pope, busied as he was in literature and society, and constantly out of health, to be the efficient editor of such a performance; but though he denied having any concern in it, it is equally out of the question that any one really unconnected with pope should have taken up the huge burden of his quarrels in this fashion. though he concealed, and on occasions denied his connexion, he no doubt inspired the editors and contributed articles to its pages, especially during its early years. it is a singular fact--or rather, it would have been singular, had pope been a man of less abnormal character--that he should have devoted so much energy to this paltry subterranean warfare against the objects of his complex antipathies. pope was so anxious for concealment, that he kept his secret even from his friendly legal adviser fortescue; and fortescue innocently requested pope to get up evidence to support a charge of libel against his own organ. the evidence which pope collected--in defence of a quack-doctor, ward--was not, as we may suppose, very valuable. two volumes of the grub-street journal were printed in 1737, and a fragment or two was admitted by pope into his works. it is said, in the preface to the collected pieces, that the journal was killed by the growing popularity of the gentleman's magazine, which is accused of living by plunder. but in truth the reader will infer that, if the selection includes the best pieces, the journal may well have died from congenital weakness. the dunciad was yet to go through a transformation, and to lead to a new quarrel; and though this happened at a much later period, it will be most convenient to complete the story here. pope had formed an alliance with warburton, of which i shall presently have to speak; and it was under warburton's influence that he resolved to add a fourth book to the dunciad. this supplement seems to have been really made up of fragments provided for another scheme. the essay on man--to be presently mentioned--was to be followed by a kind of poetical essay upon the nature and limits of the human understanding, and a satire upon the misapplication of the serious faculties.[13] it was a design manifestly beyond the author's powers; and even the fragment which is turned into the fourth book of the dunciad takes him plainly out of his depth. he was no philosopher, and therefore an incompetent assailant of the abuses of philosophy. the fourth book consists chiefly of ridicule upon pedagogues who teach words instead of things; upon the unlucky "virtuosos" who care for old medals, plants, and butterflies--pursuits which afforded an unceasing supply of ridicule to the essayists of the time; a denunciation of the corruption of modern youth, who learn nothing but new forms of vice in the grand tour; and a fresh assault upon toland, tindal, and other freethinkers of the day. there were some passages marked by pope's usual dexterity, but the whole is awkwardly constructed, and has no very intelligible connexion with the first part. it was highly admired at the time, and, amongst others, by gray. he specially praises a passage which has often been quoted as representing pope's highest achievement in his art. at the conclusion the goddess dulness yawns, and a blight falls upon art, science, and philosophy. i quote the lines, which pope himself could not repeat without emotion, and which have received the highest eulogies from johnson and thackeray. in vain, in vain--the all-composing hour resistless falls; the muse obeys the power- she comes! she comes! the sable throne behold of night primeval and of chaos old! before her fancy's gilded clouds decay, and all its varying rainbows die away. wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, the meteor drops, and in a flash expires, as one by one, at dread medea's strain, the sickening stars fade off the ethereal plain; as argus' eyes by hermes' wand oppress'd closed one by one to everlasting rest; thus at her felt approach, and secret might, art after art goes out, and all is night. see skulking truth to her old cavern fled, mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head! philosophy, that lean'd on heaven before, shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. physic of metaphysic begs defence, and metaphysic calls for aid on sense! see mystery to mathematics fly! in vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave and die. religion blushing veils her sacred fires and unawares morality expires. nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! lo! thy dread empire, chaos! is restored; light dies before thy uncreating word; thy hand, great anarch, lets the curtain fall and universal darkness buries all. the most conspicuous figure in this new dunciad (published march, 1742), is bentley--taken as the representative of a pedant rampant. bentley is, i think, the only man of real genius of whom pope has spoken in terms implying gross misappreciation. with all his faults, pope was a really fine judge of literature, and has made fewer blunders than such men as addison, gray, and johnson, infinitely superior to him in generosity of feeling towards the living. he could even appreciate bentley, and had written, in his copy of bentley's milton, "_pulchre, bene, recte_," against some of the happier emendations in the great critic's most unsuccessful performance. the assault in the dunciad is not the less unsparing and ignorantly contemptuous of scholarship. the explanation is easy. bentley, who had spoken contemptuously of pope's homer, said of pope, "the portentous cub never forgives." but this was not all. bentley had provoked enemies by his intense pugnacity almost as freely as pope by his sneaking malice. swift and atterbury, objects of pope's friendly admiration, had been his antagonists, and pope would naturally accept their view of his merits. and, moreover, pope's great ally of this period had a dislike of his own to bentley. bentley had said of warburton that he was a man of monstrous appetite and bad digestion. the remark hit warburton's most obvious weakness. warburton, with his imperfect scholarship, and vast masses of badly assimilated learning, was jealous of the reputation of the thoroughly trained and accurate critic. it was the dislike of a charlatan for the excellence which he endeavoured to simulate. bolingbroke, it may be added, was equally contemptuous in his language about men of learning, and for much the same reason. he depreciated what he could not rival. pope, always under the influence of some stronger companions, naturally adopted their shallow prejudices, and recklessly abused a writer who should have been recognized as amongst the most effective combatants against dulness. bentley died a few months after the publication of the dunciad. but pope found a living antagonist, who succeeded in giving him pain enough to gratify the vilified dunces. this was colley cibber--most lively and mercurial of actors--author of some successful plays, with too little stuff in them for permanence, and of an apology for his own life, which is still exceedingly amusing as well as useful for the history of the stage. he was now approaching seventy, though he was to survive pope for thirteen years, and as good-tempered a specimen of the lively, if not too particular, old man of the world as could well have been found. pope owed him a grudge. cibber, in playing the _rehearsal_, had introduced some ridicule of the unlucky _three hours after marriage_. pope, he says, came behind the scenes foaming and choking with fury, and forbidding cibber ever to repeat the insult. cibber laughed at him, said that he would repeat it as long as the _rehearsal_ was performed, and kept his word. pope took his revenge by many incidental hits at cibber, and cibber made a good-humoured reference to this abuse in the apology. hereupon pope, in the new dunciad, described him as reclining on the lap of the goddess, and added various personalities in the notes. cibber straightway published a letter to pope, the more cutting because still in perfect good-humour, and told the story about the original quarrel. he added an irritating anecdote in order to provoke the poet still further. it described pope as introduced by cibber and lord warwick to very bad company. the story was one which could only be told by a graceless old representative of the old school of comedy, but it hit its mark. the two richardsons once found pope reading one of cibber's pamphlets. he said, "these things are my diversion;" but they saw his features writhing with anguish, and young richardson, as they went home, observed to his father that he hoped to be preserved from such diversions as pope had enjoyed. the poet resolved to avenge himself, and he did it to the lasting injury of his poem. he dethroned theobald, who, as a plodding antiquarian, was an excellent exponent of dulness, and installed cibber in his place, who might be a representative of folly, but was as little of a dullard as pope himself. the consequent alterations make the hero of the poem a thoroughly incongruous figure, and greatly injure the general design. the poem appeared in this form in 1743, with a ponderous prefatory discourse by ricardus aristarchus, contributed by the faithful warburton, and illustrating his ponderous vein of elephantine pleasantry. pope was nearing the grave, and many of his victims had gone before him. it was a melancholy employment for an invalid, breaking down visibly month by month; and one might fancy that the eminent christian divine might have used his influence to better purpose than in fanning the dying flame, and adding the strokes of his bludgeon to the keen stabs of pope's stiletto. in the fourteen years which had elapsed since the first dunciad, pope had found less unworthy employment for his pen; but, before dealing with the works produced at this time, which include some of his highest achievements, i must tell a story which is in some ways a natural supplement to the war with the dunces. in describing pope's entangled history, it seems most convenient to follow each separate line of discharge of his multifarious energy, rather than to adhere to chronological order. footnotes: [13] see pope to swift, march 25, 1736. chapter vi.[14] correspondence. i have now to describe one of the most singular series of transactions to be found in the annals of literature. a complete knowledge of their various details has only been obtained by recent researches. i cannot follow within my limits of space all the ins and outs of the complicated labyrinth of more than diplomatic trickery which those researches have revealed, though i hope to render the main facts sufficiently intelligible. it is painful to track the strange deceptions of a man of genius as a detective unravels the misdeeds of an accomplished swindler; but without telling the story at some length, it is impossible to give a faithful exhibition of pope's character. in the year 1726, when pope had just finished his labours upon homer, curll published the juvenile letters to cromwell. there was no mystery about this transaction. curll was the chief of all piratical booksellers, and versed in every dirty trick of the grub-street trade. he is described in that mad book, amory's _john buncle_, as tall, thin, ungainly, white-faced, with light grey goggle eyes, purblind, splay-footed, and "baker-kneed." according to the same queer authority, who professes to have lodged in curll's house, he was drunk, as often as he could drink for nothing, and intimate in every london haunt of vice. "his translators lay three in a bed at the pewter platter inn in holborn," and helped to compile his indecent, piratical, and catchpenny productions. he had lost his ears for some obscene publication; but amory adds, "to his glory," that he died "as great a penitent as ever expired." he had one strong point as an antagonist. having no character to lose, he could reveal his own practices without a blush, if the revelation injured others. pope had already come into collision with this awkward antagonist. in 1716 curll threatened to publish the town eclogues, burlesques upon ambrose philips, written by lady mary, with the help of pope and perhaps gay. pope, with lintot, had a meeting with curll in the hopes of suppressing a publication calculated to injure his friends. the party had some wine, and curll on going home was very sick. he declared--and there are reasons for believing his story--that pope had given him an emetic, by way of coarse practical joke. pope, at any rate, took advantage of the accident to write a couple of squibs upon curll, recording the bookseller's ravings under the action of the drug, as he had described the ravings of dennis provoked by cato. curll had his revenge afterwards; but meanwhile he wanted no extraneous motive to induce him to publish the cromwell letters. cromwell had given the letters to a mistress, who fell into distress and sold them to curll for ten guineas. the correspondence was received with some favour, and suggested to pope a new mode of gratifying his vanity. an occasion soon offered itself. theobald, the hero of the dunciad, edited in 1728 the posthumous works of wycherley. pope extracted from this circumstance a far-fetched excuse for publishing the wycherley correspondence. he said that it was due to wycherley's memory to prove, by the publication of their correspondence, that the posthumous publication of the works was opposed to their author's wishes. as a matter of fact the letters have no tendency to prove anything of the kind, or rather, they support the opposite theory; but poor pope was always a hand-to-mouth liar, and took the first pretext that offered, without caring for consistency or confirmation. his next step was to write to his friend, lord oxford, son of queen anne's minister. oxford was a weak, good-natured man. by cultivating a variety of expensive tastes, without the knowledge to guide them, he managed to run through a splendid fortune and die in embarrassment. his famous library was one of his special hobbies. pope now applied to him to allow the wycherley letters to be deposited in the library, and further requested that the fact of their being in this quasi-public place might be mentioned in the preface as a guarantee of their authenticity. oxford consented, and pope quietly took a further step without authority. he told oxford that he had decided to make his publishers say that copies of the letters had been obtained from lord oxford. he told the same story to swift, speaking of the "connivance" of his noble friend, and adding that, though he did not himself "much approve" of the publication, he was not ashamed of it. he thus ingeniously intimated that the correspondence, which he had himself carefully prepared and sent to press, had been printed without his consent by the officious zeal of oxford and the booksellers. the book (which was called the second volume of wycherley's works) has entirely disappeared. it was advertised at the time, but not a single copy is known to exist. one cause of this disappearance now appears to be that it had no sale at first, and that pope preserved the sheets for use in a more elaborate device which followed. oxford probably objected to the misuse of his name, as the fiction which made him responsible was afterwards dropped. pope found, or thought that he had found, on the next occasion, a more convenient cat's-paw. curll, it could not be doubted, would snatch at any chance of publishing more correspondence; and, as pope was anxious to have his letters stolen and curll was ready to steal, the one thing necessary was a convenient go-between, who could be disowned or altogether concealed. pope went systematically to work. he began by writing to his friends, begging them to return his letters. after curll's piracy, he declared, he could not feel himself safe, and should be unhappy till he had the letters in his own custody. letters were sent in, though in some cases with reluctance; and caryll, in particular, who had the largest number, privately took copies before returning them (a measure which ultimately secured the detection of many of pope's manoeuvres). this, however, was unknown to pope. he had the letters copied out; after (according to his own stating) burning three-fourths of them, and (as we are now aware) carefully editing the remainder, he had the copy deposited in lord oxford's library. his object was, as he said, partly to have documents ready in case of the revival of scandals, and partly to preserve the memory of his friendships. the next point was to get these letters stolen. for this purpose he created a man of straw, a mysterious "p. t.," who could be personated on occasion by some of the underlings employed in the underground transactions connected with the dunciad and the grub-street journal. p. t. began by writing to curll in 1733, and offering to sell him a collection of pope's letters. the negotiation went off for a time, because p. t. insisted upon curll's first committing himself by publishing an advertisement, declaring himself to be already in possession of the originals. curll was too wary to commit himself to such a statement, which would have made him responsible for the theft; or, perhaps, have justified pope in publishing the originals in self-defence. the matter slept till march 1735, when curll wrote to pope proposing a cessation of hostilities, and as a proof of goodwill sending him the old p. t. advertisement. this step fell in so happily with pope's designs that it has been suggested that curll was prompted in some indirect manner by one of pope's agents. pope, at any rate, turned it to account. he at once published an insulting advertisement. curll (he said in this manifesto) had pretended to have had the offer from p. t. of a large collection of pope's letters; pope knew nothing of p. t., believed the letters to be forgeries, and would take no more trouble in the matter. whilst curll was presumably smarting under this summary slap on the face, the insidious p. t. stepped in once more. p. t. now said that he was in possession of the printed sheets of the correspondence, and the negotiation went on swimmingly. curll put out the required advertisement; a "short, squat" man, in a clergyman's gown and with barrister's bands, calling himself smythe, came to his house at night as p. t.'s agent, and showed him some printed sheets and original letters; the bargain was struck; 240 copies of the book were delivered, and it was published on may 12th. so far the plot had succeeded. pope had printed his own correspondence, and had tricked curll into publishing the book piratically, whilst the public was quite prepared to believe that curll had performed a new piratical feat. pope, however, was now bound to shriek as loudly as he could at the outrage under which he was suffering. he should have been prepared also to answer an obvious question. every one would naturally inquire how curll had procured the letters, which by pope's own account were safely deposited in lord oxford's library. without, as it would seem, properly weighing the difficulty of meeting this demand, pope called out loudly for vengeance. when the dunciad appeared, he had applied (as i have said) for an injunction in chancery, and had at the same time secured the failure of his application. the same device was tried in a still more imposing fashion. the house of lords had recently decided that it was a breach of privilege to publish a peer's letters without his consent. pope availed himself of this rule to fire the most sounding of blank shots across the path of the piratical curll. he was as anxious to allow the publication, as to demand its suppression in the most emphatic manner. accordingly he got his friend, lord ilay, to call the attention of the peers to curll's advertisement, which was so worded as to imply that there were in the book letters from, as well as to, peers. pope himself attended the house "to stimulate the resentment of his friends." the book was at once seized by a messenger, and curll ordered to attend the next day. but on examination it immediately turned out that it contained no letters from peers, and the whole farce would have ended at once but for a further trick. lord ilay said that a certain letter to jervas contained a reflection upon lord burlington. now the letter was found in a first batch of fifty copies sent to curll, and which had been sold before the appearance of the lords' messenger. but the letter had been suppressed in a second batch of 190 copies, which the messenger was just in time to seize. pope had of course foreseen and prepared this result. the whole proceeding in the lords was thus rendered abortive. the books were restored to curll, and the sale continued. but the device meanwhile had recoiled upon its author; the very danger against which he should have guarded himself had now occurred. how were the letters procured? not till curll was coming up for examination does it seem to have occurred to pope that the lords would inevitably ask the awkward question. he then saw that curll's answer might lead to a discovery. he wrote a letter to curll (in smythe's name) intended to meet the difficulty. he entreated curll to take the whole of the responsibility of procuring the letters upon himself, and by way of inducement held out hopes of another volume of correspondence. in a second note he tried to throw curll off the scent of another significant little fact. the sheets (as i have mentioned) were partly made up from the volume of wycherley correspondence;[15] this would give a clue to further inquiries; p. t. therefore allowed smythe to say (ostensibly to show his confidence in curll) that he (p. t.) had been employed in getting up the former volume, and had had some additional sheets struck off for himself, to which he had added letters subsequently obtained. the letter was a signal blunder. curll saw at once that it put the game in his hands. he was not going to tell lies to please the slippery p. t., or the short squat lawyer-clergyman. he had begun to see through the whole manoeuvre. he went straight off to the lords' committee, told the whole story, and produced as a voucher the letters in which p. t. begged for secrecy. curll's word was good for little by itself, but his story hung together and the letter confirmed it. and if, as now seemed clear, curll was speaking the truth, the question remained, who was p. t., and how did he get the letters? the answer, as pope must have felt, was only too clear. but curll now took the offensive. in reply to another letter from smythe, complaining of his evidence, he went roundly to work; he said that he should at once publish all the correspondence. p. t. had prudently asked for the return of his letters; but curll had kept copies, and was prepared to swear to their fidelity. accordingly he soon advertised what was called the _initial correspondence_. pope was now caught in his own trap. he had tried to avert suspicion by publicly offering a reward to smythe and p. t., if they would "discover the whole affair." the letters, as he admitted, must have been procured either from his own library or from lord oxford's. the correspondence to be published by curll would help to identify the mysterious appropriators, and whatever excuses could be made ought now to be forthcoming. pope adopted a singular plan. it was announced that the clergyman concerned with p. t. and curll had "discovered the whole transaction." a narrative was forthwith published to anticipate curll and to clear up the mystery. if good for anything, it should have given, or helped to give, the key to the great puzzle--the mode of obtaining the letters. there was nothing else for smythe or p. t. to "discover." readers must have been strangely disappointed on finding not a single word to throw light upon this subject, and merely a long account of the negotiations between curll and p. t. the narrative might serve to distract attention from the main point, which it clearly did nothing to elucidate. but curll now stated his own case. he reprinted the narrative with some pungent notes; he gave in full some letters omitted by p. t., and he added a story which was most unpleasantly significant. p. t. had spoken, as i have said, of his connexion with the wycherley volume. the object of this statement was to get rid of an awkward bit of evidence. but curll now announced, on the authority of gilliver, the publisher of the volume, that pope had himself bought up the remaining sheets. the inference was clear. unless the story could be contradicted, and it never was, pope was himself the thief. the sheets common to the two volumes had been traced to his possession. nor was there a word in the p. t. narrative to diminish the force of these presumptions. indeed it was curiously inconsistent, for it vaguely accused curll of stealing the letters himself, whilst in the same breath it told how he had bought them from p. t. in fact, p. t. was beginning to resolve himself into thin air, like the phantom in the dunciad. as he vanished, it required no great acuteness to distinguish behind him the features of his ingenious creator. it was already believed at the time that the whole affair was an elaborate contrivance of pope's, and subsequent revelations have demonstrated the truth of the hypothesis. even the go-between, smythe, was identified as one james worsdale, a painter, actor, and author, of the bohemian variety. though curll had fairly won the game, and pope's intrigue was even at the time sufficiently exposed, it seems to have given less scandal than might have been expected. probably it was suspected only in literary circles, and perhaps it might be thought that, silly as was the elaborate device, the disreputable curll was fair game for his natural enemy. indeed, such is the irony of fate, pope won credit with simple people. the effect of the publication, as johnson tells us, was to fill the nation with praises of the admirable moral qualities revealed in pope's letters. amongst the admirers was ralph allen, who had made a large fortune by farming the cross-posts. his princely benevolence and sterling worth were universally admitted, and have been immortalized by the best contemporary judge of character. he was the original of fielding's allworthy. like that excellent person, he seems to have had the common weakness of good men in taking others too easily at their own valuation. pope imposed upon him just as blifil imposed upon his representative. he was so much pleased with the correspondence, that he sought pope's acquaintance, and offered to publish a genuine edition at his own expense. an authoritative edition appeared accordingly in 1737. pope preferred to publish by subscription, which does not seem to have filled very rapidly, though the work ultimately made a fair profit. pope's underhand manoeuvres were abundantly illustrated in the history of this new edition. it is impossible to give the details; but i may briefly state that he was responsible for a nominally spurious edition which appeared directly after, and was simply a reproduction of curll's publication. although he complained of the garbling and interpolations supposed to have been due to the wicked curll or the phantom p. t., and although he omitted in his avowed edition certain letters which had given offence, he nevertheless substantially reproduced in it curll's version of the letters. as this differs from the originals which have been preserved, pope thus gave an additional proof that he was really responsible for curll's supposed garbling. this evidence was adduced with conclusive force by bowles in a later controversy, and would be enough by itself to convict pope of the imputed deception. finally, it may be added that pope's delay in producing his own edition is explained by the fact that it contained many falsifications of his correspondence with caryll, and that he delayed the acknowledgment of the genuine character of the letters until caryll's death removed the danger of detection. the whole of this elaborate machinery was devised in order that pope might avoid the ridicule of publishing his own correspondence. there had been few examples of a similar publication of private letters; and pope's volume, according to johnson, did not attract very much attention. this is, perhaps, hardly consistent with johnson's other assertion that it filled the nation with praises of his virtue. in any case it stimulated his appetite for such praises, and led him to a fresh intrigue, more successful and also more disgraceful. the device originally adopted in publishing the dunciad apparently suggested part of the new plot. the letters hitherto published did not include the most interesting correspondence in which pope had been engaged. he had been in the habit of writing to swift since their first acquaintance, and bolingbroke had occasionally joined him. these letters, which connected pope with two of his most famous contemporaries, would be far more interesting than the letters to cromwell or wycherley, or even than the letters addressed to addison and steele, which were mere stilted fabrications. how could they be got before the world, and in such a way as to conceal his own complicity? pope had told swift (in 1730) that he had kept some of the letters in a volume for his own secret satisfaction; and swift had preserved all pope's letters along with those of other distinguished men. here was an attractive booty for such parties as the unprincipled curll! in 1735 curll had committed his wicked piracy, and pope pressed swift to return his letters, in order to "secure him against that rascal printer." the entreaties were often renewed, but swift for some reason turned his deaf ear to the suggestion. he promised, indeed (sept. 3, 1735), that the letters should be burnt--a most effectual security against republication, but one not at all to pope's taste. pope then admitted that, having been forced to publish some of his other letters, he should like to make use of some of those to swift, as none would be more honourable to him. nay, he says, he meant to erect such a minute monument of their friendship as would put to shame all ancient memorials of the same kind.[16] this avowal of his intention to publish did not conciliate swift. curll next published in 1736 a couple of letters to swift, and pope took advantage of this publication (perhaps he had indirectly supplied curll with copies) to urge upon swift the insecurity of the letters in his keeping. swift ignored the request, and his letters about this time began to show that his memory was failing and his intellect growing weak. pope now applied to their common friend lord orrery. orrery was the dull member of a family eminent for its talents. his father had left a valuable library to christ church, ostensibly because the son was not capable of profiting by books, though a less creditable reason has been assigned.[17] the son, eager to wipe off the imputation, specially affected the society of wits, and was elaborately polite both to swift and pope. pope now got orrery to intercede with swift, urging that the letters were no longer safe in the custody of a failing old man. orrery succeeded, and brought the letters in a sealed packet to pope in the summer of 1737. swift, it must be added, had an impression that there was a gap of six years in the collection; he became confused as to what had or had not been sent, and had a vague belief in a "great collection" of letters "placed in some very safe hand."[18] pope, being thus in possession of the whole correspondence, proceeded to perform a manoeuvre resembling those already employed in the case of the dunciad and of the p. t. letters. he printed the correspondence clandestinely. he then sent the printed volume to swift, accompanied by an anonymous letter. this letter purported to come from some persons who, from admiration of swift's private and public virtues, had resolved to preserve letters so creditable to him, and had accordingly put them in type. they suggested that the volume would be suppressed if it fell into the hands of bolingbroke and pope (a most audacious suggestion!), and intimated that swift should himself publish it. no other copy, they said, was in existence. poor swift fell at once into the trap. he ought, of course, to have consulted pope or bolingbroke, and would probably have done so had his mind been sound. seeing, however, a volume already printed, he might naturally suppose that, in spite of the anonymous assurance, it was already too late to stop the publication. at any rate, he at once sent it to his publisher, faulkner, and desired him to bring it out at once. swift was in that most melancholy state in which a man's friends perceive him to be incompetent to manage his affairs, and are yet not able to use actual restraint. mrs. whiteway, the sensible and affectionate cousin who took care of him at this time, did her best to protest against the publication, but in vain. swift insisted. so far pope's device was successful. the printed letters had been placed in the hands of his bookseller by swift himself, and publication was apparently secured. but pope had still the same problem as in the previous case. though he had talked of erecting a monument to swift and himself, he was anxious that the monument should apparently be erected by some one else. his vanity could only be satisfied by the appearance that the publication was forced upon him. he had, therefore, to dissociate himself from the publication by some protest at once emphatic and ineffectual; and, consequently, to explain the means by which the letters had been surreptitiously obtained. the first aim was unexpectedly difficult. faulkner turned out to be an honest bookseller. instead of sharing curll's rapacity, he consented, at mrs. whiteway's request, to wait until pope had an opportunity of expressing his wishes. pope, if he consented, could no longer complain; if he dissented, faulkner would suppress the letters. in this dilemma, pope first wrote to faulkner to refuse permission, and at the same time took care that his letter should be delayed for a month. he hoped that faulkner would lose patience, and publish. but faulkner, with provoking civility, stopped the press as soon as he heard of pope's objection. pope hereupon discovered that the letters were certain to be published, as they were already printed, and doubtless by some mysterious "confederacy of people" in london. all he could wish was to revise them before appearance. meanwhile he begged lord orrery to inspect the book, and say what he thought of it. "guess in what a situation i must be," exclaimed this sincere and modest person, "not to be able to see what all the world is to read as mine!" orrery was quite as provoking as faulkner. he got the book from faulkner, read it, and instead of begging pope not to deprive the world of so delightful a treat, said with dull integrity, that he thought the collection "unworthy to be published." orrery, however, was innocent enough to accept pope's suggestion, that letters which had once got into such hands would certainly come out sooner or later. after some more haggling, pope ultimately decided to take this ground. he would, he said, have nothing to do with the letters; they would come out in any case; their appearance would please the dean, and he (pope) would stand clear of all responsibility. he tried, indeed, to get faulkner to prefix a statement tending to fix the whole transaction upon swift; but the bookseller declined, and the letters ultimately came out with a simple statement that they were a reprint. pope had thus virtually sanctioned the publication. he was not the less emphatic in complaining of it to his friends. to orrery, who knew the facts, he represented the printed copy sent to swift as a proof that the letters were beyond his power; and to others, such as his friend allen, he kept silence as to this copy altogether; and gave them to understand that poor swift--or some member of swift's family--was the prime mover in the business. his mystification had, as before, driven him into perplexities upon which he had never calculated. in fact, it was still more difficult here than in the previous case to account for the original misappropriation of the letters. who could the thief have been? orrery, as we have seen, had himself taken a packet of letters to pope, which would be of course the letters from pope to swift. the packet being sealed, orrery did not know the contents, and pope asserted that he had burnt it almost as soon as received. it was, however, true that swift had been in the habit of showing the originals to his friends, and some might possibly have been stolen or copied by designing people. but this would not account for the publication of swift's letters to pope, which had never been out of pope's possession. as he had certainly been in possession of the other letters, it was easiest, even for himself, to suppose that some of his own servants were the guilty persons; his own honour being, of course, beyond question. to meet these difficulties, pope made great use of some stray phrases dropped by swift in the decline of his memory, and set up a story of his having himself returned some letters to swift, of which important fact all traces had disappeared. one characteristic device will be a sufficient specimen. swift wrote that a great collection of "_my_ letters to _you_" is somewhere "in a safe hand." he meant, of course, "a collection of _your_ letters to _me_"--the only letters of which he could know anything. observing the slip of the pen, he altered the phrase by writing the correct words above the line. it now stood- "your me my letters to you." pope laid great stress upon this, interpreting it to mean that the "great collection" included letters from each correspondent to the other--the fact being that swift had only the letters from pope to himself. the omission of an erasure (whether by swift or pope) caused the whole meaning to be altered. as the great difficulty was to explain the publication of swift's letters to pope, this change supplied a very important link in the evidence. it implied that swift had been at some time in possession of the letters in question, and had trusted them to some one supposed to be safe. the whole paragraph, meanwhile, appears, from the unimpeachable evidence of mrs. whiteway, to have involved one of the illusions of memory, for which he (swift) apologizes in the letter from which this is extracted. by insisting upon this passage, and upon certain other letters dexterously confounded with those published, pope succeeded in raising dust enough to blind lord orrery's not very piercing intelligence. the inference which he desired to suggest was that some persons in swift's family had obtained possession of the letters. mrs. whiteway, indeed, met the suggestion so clearly, and gave such good reasons for assigning twickenham as the probable centre of the plot, that she must have suspected the truth. pope did not venture to assail her publicly, though he continued to talk of treachery or evil influence. to accuse innocent people of a crime which you know yourself to have committed is bad enough. it is, perhaps, even baser to lay a trap for a friend, and reproach him for falling into it. swift had denied the publication of the letters, and pope would have had some grounds of complaint had he not been aware of the failure of swift's mind, and had he not been himself the tempter. his position, however, forced him to blame his friend. it was a necessary part of his case to impute at least a breach of confidence to his victim. he therefore took the attitude--it must, one hopes, have cost him a blush--of one who is seriously aggrieved, but who is generously anxious to shield a friend in consideration of his known infirmity. he is forced, in sorrow, to admit that swift has erred, but he will not allow himself to be annoyed. the most humiliating words ever written by a man not utterly vile, must have been those which pope set down in a letter to nugent, after giving his own version of the case: "i think i can make no reflections upon this strange incident but what are truly melancholy, and humble the pride of human nature. that the greatest of geniuses, though prudence may have been the companion of wit (which is very rare) for their whole lives past, may have nothing left them but their vanity. no decay of body is half so miserable." the most audacious hypocrite of fiction pales beside this. pope, condescending to the meanest complication of lies to justify a paltry vanity, taking advantage of his old friend's dotage to trick him into complicity, then giving a false account of his error, and finally moralizing, with all the airs of philosophic charity, and taking credit for his generosity, is altogether a picture to set fiction at defiance. i must add a remark not so edifying. pope went down to his grave soon afterwards, without exciting suspicion except among two or three people intimately concerned. a whisper of doubt was soon hushed. even the biographers who were on the track of his former deception did not suspect this similar iniquity. the last of them, mr. carruthers, writing in 1857, observes upon the pain given to pope by the treachery of swift--a treachery of course palliated by swift's failure of mind. at last mr. dilke discovered the truth, which has been placed beyond doubt by the still later discovery of the letters to orrery. the moral is, apparently, that it is better to cheat a respectable man than a rogue; for the respectable tacitly form a society for mutual support of character, whilst the open rogue will be only too glad to show that you are even such an one as himself. it was not probable that letters thus published should be printed with scrupulous accuracy. pope, indeed, can scarcely have attempted to conceal the fact that they had been a good deal altered. and so long as the letters were regarded merely as literary compositions, the practice was at least pardonable. but pope went further; and the full extent of his audacious changes was not seen until mr. dilke became possessed of the caryll correspondence. on comparing the copies preserved by caryll with the letters published by pope, it became evident that pope had regarded these letters as so much raw material, which he might carve into shape at pleasure, and with such alterations of date and address as might be convenient, to the confusion of all biographers and editors ignorant of his peculiar method of editing. the details of these very disgraceful falsifications have been fully described by mr. elwin,[19] but i turn gladly from this lamentable narrative to say something of the literary value of the correspondence. every critic has made the obvious remark that pope's letters are artificial and self-conscious. pope claimed the opposite merit. "it is many years," he says to swift in ---4, "since i wrote as a wit." he smiles to think "how curll would be bit were our epistles to fall into his hands, and how gloriously they would fall short of every ingenious reader's anticipations." warburton adds in a note that pope used to "value himself upon this particular." it is indeed true that pope had dropped the boyish affectation of his letters to wycherley and cromwell. but such a statement in the mouth of a man who plotted to secure curll's publication of his letters, with devices elaborate enough to make the reputation of an unscrupulous diplomatist, is of course only one more example of the superlative degree of affectation, the affectation of being unaffected. we should be indeed disappointed were we to expect in pope's letters what we find in the best specimens of the art: the charm which belongs to a simple outpouring of friendly feeling in private intercourse; the sweet playfulness of cowper, or the grave humour of gray, or even the sparkle and brilliance of walpole's admirable letters. though walpole had an eye to posterity, and has his own mode of affectation, he is for the moment intent on amusing, and is free from the most annoying blemish in pope's writing, the resolution to appear always in full dress, and to mount as often as possible upon the stilts of moral self-approbation. all this is obvious to the hasty reader; and yet i must confess my own conviction that there is scarcely a more interesting volume in the language than that which contains the correspondence of swift, bolingbroke, and pope. to enjoy it, indeed, we must not expect to be in sympathy with the writers. rather we must adopt the mental attitude of spectators of a scene of high comedy--the comedy which is dashed with satire and has a tragical side to it. we are behind the scenes in vanity fair, and listening to the talk of three of its most famous performers, doubting whether they most deceive each other or the public or themselves. the secret is an open one for us, now that the illusion which perplexed contemporaries has worn itself threadbare. the most impressive letters are undoubtedly those of swift--the stern sad humourist, frowning upon the world which has rejected him, and covering his wrath with an affectation, not of fine sentiment, but of misanthropy. a soured man prefers to turn his worst side outwards. there are phrases in his letters which brand themselves upon the memory like those of no other man; and we are softened into pity as the strong mind is seen gradually sinking into decay. the two other sharers in the colloquy are in effective contrast. we see through bolingbroke's magnificent self-deceit; the flowing manners of the statesman who, though the game is lost, is longing for a favourable turn of the card, but still affects to solace himself with philosophy, and wraps himself in dignified reflections upon the blessings of retirement, contrast with swift's downright avowal of indignant scorn for himself and mankind. and yet we have a sense of the man's amazing cleverness, and regret that he has no chance of trying one more fall with his antagonists in the open arena. pope's affectation is perhaps the most transparent and the most gratuitous. his career had been pre-eminently successful; his talents had found their natural outlet; and he had only to be what he apparently persuaded himself that he was, to be happy in spite of illness. he is constantly flourishing his admirable moral sense in our faces, dilating upon his simplicity, modesty, fidelity to his friends, indifference to the charms of fame, till we are almost convinced that he has imposed upon himself. by some strange piece of legerdemain he must surely have succeeded in regarding even his deliberate artifices, with the astonishing masses of hypocritical falsehoods which they entailed, as in some way legitimate weapons against a world full of piratical curlls and deep laid plots. and, indeed, with all his delinquencies, and with all his affectations, there are moments in which we forget to preserve the correct tone of moral indignation. every now and then genuine feeling seems to come to the surface. for a time the superincumbent masses of hypocrisy vanish. in speaking of his mother or his pursuits he forgets to wear his mask. he feels a genuine enthusiasm about his friends; he believes with almost pathetic earnestness in the amazing talents of bolingbroke, and the patriotic devotion of the younger men who are rising up to overthrow the corruptions of walpole; he takes the affectation of his friends as seriously as a simple-minded man who has never fairly realized the possibility of deliberate hypocrisy; and he utters sentiments about human life and its objects which, if a little tainted with commonplace, have yet a certain ring of sincerity and, as we may believe, were really sincere for the time. at such moments we seem to see the man behind the veil--the really loveable nature which could know as well as simulate feeling. and, indeed, it is this quality which makes pope endurable. he was--if we must speak bluntly--a liar and a hypocrite; but the foundation of his character was not selfish or grovelling. on the contrary, no man could be more warmly affectionate or more exquisitely sensitive to many noble emotions. the misfortune was that his constitutional infirmities, acted upon by unfavourable conditions, developed his craving for applause and his fear of censure, till certain morbid tendencies in him assumed proportions which, compared to the same weaknesses in ordinary mankind, are as the growth of plants in a tropical forest to their stunted representatives in the north. footnotes: [14] the evidence by which the statements in this chapter are supported is fully set forth in mr. elwin's edition of pope's works, vol. i., and in the notes to the orrery correspondence in the third volume of letters. [15] this is proved by a note referring to "the present edition of the posthumous works of mr. wycherley," which, by an oversight, was allowed to remain in the curll volume. [16] these expressions come from two letters of pope to lord orrery in march, 1737, and may not accurately reproduce his statements to swift; but they probably represent approximately what he had said. [17] it is said that the son objected to allow his wife to meet his father's mistress. [18] see elwin's edition of pope's correspondence, iii., 399, note. [19] pope's works, vol. i. p. cxxi. chapter vii. the essay on man. it is a relief to turn from this miserable record of pope's petty or malicious deceptions to the history of his legitimate career. i go back to the period when he was still in full power. having finished the dunciad, he was soon employed on a more ambitious task. pope resembled one of the inferior bodies of the solar system, whose orbit is dependent upon that of some more massive planet; and having been a satellite of swift, he was now swept into the train of the more imposing bolingbroke. he had been originally introduced to bolingbroke by swift, but had probably seen little of the brilliant minister who, in the first years of their acquaintance, had too many occupations to give much time to the rising poet. bolingbroke, however, had been suffering a long eclipse, whilst pope was gathering fresh splendour. in his exile, bolingbroke, though never really weaned from political ambition, had amused himself with superficial philosophical studies. in political life it was his special glory to extemporize statesmanship without sacrificing pleasure. he could be at once the most reckless of rakes and the leading spirit in the cabinet or the house of commons. he seems to have thought that philosophical eminence was obtainable in the same offhand fashion, and that a brilliant style would justify a man in laying down the law to metaphysicians as well as to diplomatists and politicians. his philosophical writings are equally superficial and arrogant, though they show here and there the practised debater's power of making a good point against his antagonist without really grasping the real problems at issue. bolingbroke received a pardon in 1723, and returned to england, crossing atterbury, who had just been convicted of treasonable practices. in 1725 bolingbroke settled at dawley, near uxbridge, and for the next ten years he was alternately amusing himself in playing the retired philosopher, and endeavouring, with more serious purpose, to animate the opposition to walpole. pope, who was his frequent guest, sympathized with his schemes, and was completely dazzled by his eminence. he spoke of him with bated breath, as a being almost superior to humanity. "it looks," said pope once, "as if that great man had been placed here by mistake. when the comet appeared a month or two ago," he added, "i sometimes fancied that it might be come to carry him home, as a coach comes to one's door for other visitors." of all the graceful compliments in pope's poetry, none are more ardent or more obviously sincere than those addressed to this "guide, philosopher, and friend." he delighted to bask in the sunshine of the great man's presence. writing to swift in 1728, he (pope) says that he is holding the pen "for my lord bolingbroke," who is reading your letter between two haycocks, with his attention occasionally distracted by a threatening shower. bolingbroke is acting the temperate recluse, having nothing for dinner but mutton-broth, beans and bacon, and a barndoor fowl. whilst his lordship is running after a cart, pope snatches a moment to tell how the day before this noble farmer had engaged a painter for 200_l._ to give the correct agricultural air to his country hall by ornamenting it with trophies of spades, rakes, and prongs. pope saw that the zeal for retirement was not free from affectation, but he sat at the teacher's feet with profound belief in the value of the lessons which flowed from his lips. the connexion was to bear remarkable fruit. under the direction of bolingbroke, pope resolved to compose a great philosophical poem. "does pope talk to you," says bolingbroke to swift in 1731, "of the noble work which, at my instigation, he has begun in such a manner that he must be convinced by this time i judged better of his talents than he did?" and bolingbroke proceeds to describe the essay on man, of which it seems that three (out of four) epistles were now finished. the first of these epistles appeared in 1733. pope, being apparently nervous on his first appearance as a philosopher, withheld his name. the other parts followed in the course of 1733 and 1734, and the authorship was soon avowed. the essay on man is pope's most ambitious performance, and the one by which he was best known beyond his own country. it has been frequently translated, it was imitated both in france and germany, and provoked a controversy, not like others in pope's history of the purely personal kind. the essay on man professes to be a theodicy. pope, with an echo of the miltonic phrase, proposes to vindicate the ways of god to man. he is thus attempting the greatest task to which poet or philosopher can devote himself--the exhibition of an organic and harmonious view of the universe. in a time when men's minds are dominated by a definite religious creed, the poet may hope to achieve success in such an undertaking without departing from his legitimate method. his vision pierces to the world hidden from our senses, and realizes in the transitory present a scene in the slow development of a divine drama. to make us share his vision is to give his justification of providence. when milton told the story of the war in heaven and the fall of man, he gave implicitly his theory of the true relations of man to his creator, but the abstract doctrine was clothed in the flesh and blood of a concrete mythology. in pope's day the traditional belief had lost its hold upon men's minds too completely to be used for imaginative purposes. the story of adam and eve would itself require to be justified or to be rationalized into thin allegory. nothing was left possessed of any vitality but a bare skeleton of abstract theology, dependent upon argument instead of tradition, and which might use or might dispense with a christian phraseology. its deity was not a historical personage, but the name of a metaphysical conception. for a revelation was substituted a demonstration. to vindicate providence meant no longer to stimulate imagination by pure and sublime rendering of accepted truths, but to solve certain philosophical problems, and especially the grand difficulty of reconciling the existence of evil with divine omnipotence and benevolence. pope might conceivably have written a really great poem on these terms, though deprived of the concrete imagery of a dante or a milton. if he had fairly grasped some definite conception of the universe, whether pantheistic or atheistic, optimist or pessimist, proclaiming a solution of the mystery, or declaring all solutions to be impossible, he might have given forcible expression to the corresponding emotions. he might have uttered the melancholy resignation and the confident hope incited in different minds by a contemplation of the mysterious world. he might again conceivably have written an interesting work, though it would hardly have been a poem--if he had versified the arguments by which a coherent theory might be supported. unluckily, he was quite unqualified for either undertaking, and, at the same time, he more or less aimed at both. anything like sustained reasoning was beyond his reach. pope felt and thought by shocks and electric flashes. he could only obtain a continuous effect when working clearly upon lines already provided for him, or simulate one by fitting together fragments struck out at intervals. the defect was aggravated or caused by the physical infirmities which put sustained intellectual labour out of the question. the laborious and patient meditation which brings a converging series of arguments to bear upon a single point, was to him as impossible as the power of devising an elaborate strategical combination to a dashing prince rupert. the reasonings in the essay are confused, contradictory, and often childish. he was equally far from having assimilated any definite system of thought. brought up as a catholic, he had gradually swung into vague deistic belief. but he had never studied any philosophy or theology whatever, and he accepts in perfect unconsciousness fragments of the most heterogeneous systems. swift, in verses from which i have already quoted, describes his method of composition, which is characteristic of pope's habits of work. now backs of letters, though design'd for those who more will need 'em, are fill'd with hints and interlined, himself can scarcely read 'em. each atom by some other struck all turns and motions tries; till in a lump together stuck behold a poem rise! it was strange enough that any poem should arise by such means; but it would have been miraculous if a poem so constructed had been at once a demonstration and an exposition of a harmonious philosophical system. the confession which he made to warburton will be a sufficient indication of his qualifications as a student. he says (in 1739) that he never in his life read a line of leibnitz, nor knew, till he found it in a confutation of his essay, that there was such a term as pre-established harmony. that is almost as if a modern reconciler of faith and science were to say that he had never read a line of mr. darwin, or heard of such a phrase as the struggle for existence. it was to pronounce himself absolutely disqualified to speak as a philosopher. how, then, could pope obtain even an appearance of success? the problem should puzzle no one at the present day. every smart essayist knows how to settle the most abstruse metaphysical puzzles after studies limited to the pages of a monthly magazine; and pope was much in the state of mind of such extemporizing philosophers. he had dipped into the books which everybody read; locke's essay, and shaftesbury's characteristics, and wollaston's religion of nature, and clarke on the attributes, and archbishop king on the origin of evil, had probably amused his spare moments. they were all, we may suppose, in bolingbroke's library; and if that passing shower commemorated in pope's letter drove them back to the house, bolingbroke might discourse from the page which happened to be open, and pope would try to versify it on the back of an envelope.[20] nor must we forget, like some of his commentators, that after all pope was an exceedingly clever man. his rapidly perceptive mind was fully qualified to imbibe the crude versions of philosophic theories which float upon the surface of ordinary talk, and are not always so inferior to their prototypes in philosophic qualities, as philosophers would have us believe. he could by snatches seize with admirable quickness the general spirit of a doctrine, though unable to sustain himself at a high intellectual level for any length of time. he was ready with abundance of poetical illustrations, not, perhaps, very closely adapted to the logic, but capable of being elaborated into effective passages; and, finally, pope had always a certain number of more or less appropriate commonplaces or renderings into verse of some passages which had struck him in pascal, or rochefoucauld, or bacon, all of them favourite authors, and which could be wrought into the structure at a slight cost of coherence. by such means he could put together a poem, which was certainly not an organic whole, but which might contain many striking sayings and passages of great rhetorical effect. the logical framework was, we may guess, supplied mainly by bolingbroke. bathurst told warton that bolingbroke had given pope the essay in prose, and that pope had only turned it into verse; and mallet--a friend of both--is said to have seen the very manuscript from which pope worked. johnson, on hearing this from boswell, remarked that it must be an overstatement. pope might have had from bolingbroke the "philosophical stamina" of the essay, but he must, at least, have contributed the "poetical imagery," and have had more independent power than the story implied. it is, indeed, impossible accurately to fix the relations of the teacher and his disciple. pope acknowledged in the strongest possible terms his dependence upon bolingbroke, and bolingbroke claims with equal distinctness the position of instigator and inspirer. his more elaborate philosophical works are in the form of letters to pope, and profess to be a redaction of the conversations which they had had together. these were not written till after the essay on man; but a series of fragments appear to represent what he actually set down for pope's guidance. they are professedly addressed to pope. "i write," he says (fragment 65), "to you and for you, and you would think yourself little obliged to me if i took the pains of explaining in prose what you would not think it necessary to explain in verse,"--that is, the free-will puzzle. the manuscripts seen by mallet may probably have been a commonplace book in which bolingbroke had set down some of these fragments, by way of instructing pope, and preparing for his own more systematic work. no reader of the fragments can, i think, doubt as to the immediate source of pope's inspiration. most of the ideas expressed were the common property of many contemporary writers, but pope accepts the particular modification presented by bolingbroke.[21] pope's manipulation of these materials causes much of the essay on man to resemble (as mr. pattison puts it) an exquisite mosaic work. a detailed examination of his mode of transmutation would be a curious study in the technical secrets of literary execution. a specimen or two will sufficiently indicate the general character of pope's method of constructing his essay. the forty-third fragment of bolingbroke is virtually a prose version of much of pope's poetry. a few phrases will exhibit the relation:- through worlds unnumber'd though the god be known, 'tis ours to _trace him only in our own_. he who through vast immensity can pierce, see worlds on worlds _compose one universe_, observe how _system into system runs_, what other planets circle other suns, what varied being peoples every star, may tell why heaven has made us what we are. but of this frame the bearings and _the ties_, the strong _connexions_, nice _dependencies_, _gradations_ just, has thy pervading soul looked through, or can a part contain the whole? "the universe," i quote only a few phrases from bolingbroke, "is an immense aggregate of systems. every one of these, _if we may judge by our own_, contains several, and every one of these again, _if we may judge by our own_, is made up of a multitude of different modes of being, animated and inanimated, thinking and unthinking ... but all concurring in one common system.... just so it is with respect to the various systems and _systems of systems that compose the universe_. as distant as they are, and as different as we may imagine them to be, they are all _tied_ together by relations and _connexions_, _gradations_, and _dependencies_." the verbal coincidence is here as marked as the coincidence in argument. warton refers to an eloquent passage in shaftesbury, which contains a similar thought; but one can hardly doubt that bolingbroke was in this case the immediate source. a quaint passage a little farther on, in which pope represents man as complaining because he has not "the strength of bulls or the fur of bears," may be traced with equal plausibility to shaftesbury or to sir thomas browne; but i have not noticed it in bolingbroke. one more passage will be sufficient. pope asks whether we are to demand the suspension of laws of nature whenever they might produce a mischievous result? is etna to cease an eruption to spare a sage, or should "new motions be impressed upon sea and air" for the advantage of blameless bethel? when the loose mountain trembles from on high shall gravitation cease, if you go by? or some old temple, nodding to its fall, for chartres' head reserve the hanging-wall? chartres is pope's typical villain. this is a terse version, with concrete cases, of bolingbroke's vaguer generalities. "the laws of gravitation," he says, "must sometimes be suspended (if special providence be admitted), and sometimes their effect must be precipitated. the tottering edifice must be kept miraculously from falling, whilst innocent men lived in it or passed under it, and the fall of it must be as miraculously determined to crush the guilty inhabitant or passenger." here, again, we have the alternative of wollaston, who uses a similar illustration, and in one phrase comes nearer to pope. he speaks of "new motions being impressed upon the atmosphere." we may suppose that the two friends had been dipping into wollaston together. elsewhere pope seems to have stolen for himself. in the beginning of the second epistle, pope, in describing man as "the glory, jest, and riddle of the world," is simply versifying pascal; and a little farther on, when he speaks of reason as the wind and passion as the gale on life's vast ocean, he is adapting his comparison from locke's treatise on government. if all such cases were adduced, we should have nearly picked the argumentative part of the essay to pieces; but bolingbroke supplies throughout the most characteristic element. the fragments cohere by external cement, not by an internal unity of thought; and pope too often descends to the level of mere satire, or indulges in a quaint conceit or palpable sophistry. yet it would be very unjust to ignore the high qualities which are to be found in this incongruous whole. the style is often admirable. when pope is at his best every word tells. his precision and firmness of touch enables him to get the greatest possible meaning into a narrow compass. he uses only one epithet, but it is the right one, and never boggles and patches or, in his own phrase, "blunders round about a meaning." warton gives, as a specimen of this power, the lines:- but errs not nature from this gracious end, from burning suns when livid deaths descend, when earthquakes swallow or when tempests sweep towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? and mr. pattison reinforces the criticism by quoting voltaire's feeble imitation:- quand des vents du midi les funestes haleines de semence de mort ont inondé nos plaines, direz-vous que jamais le ciel en son courroux ne laissa la santé séjourner parmi nous? it is true that in the effort to be compressed, pope has here and there cut to the quick and suppressed essential parts of speech, till the lines can only be construed by our independent knowledge of their meaning. the famous line- man never is but always to be blest, is an example of defective construction, though his language is often tortured by more elliptical phrases.[22] this power of charging lines with great fulness of meaning enables pope to soar for brief periods into genuine and impressive poetry. whatever his philosophical weakness and his moral obliquity, he is often moved by genuine emotion. he has a vein of generous sympathy for human sufferings and of righteous indignation against bigots, and if he only half understands his own optimism, that "whatever is is right," the vision, rather poetical than philosophical, of a harmonious universe lifts him at times into a region loftier than that of frigid and pedantic platitude. the most popular passages were certain purple patches, not arising very spontaneously or with much relevance, but also showing something more than the practised rhetorician. the "poor indian" in one of the most highly-polished paragraphs- who thinks, admitted to that equal sky, his faithful dog shall bear him company, intrudes rather at the expense of logic, and is a decidedly conventional person. but this passage has a certain glow of fine humanity and is touched with real pathos. a further passage or two may sufficiently indicate his higher qualities. in the end of the third epistle pope is discussing the origin of government and the state of nature, and discussing them in such a way as to show conclusively that he does not in the least understand the theories in question or their application. his state of nature is a sham reproduction of the golden age of poets, made to do duty in a scientific speculation. a flimsy hypothesis learnt from bolingbroke is not improved when overlaid with pope's conventional ornamentation. the imaginary history proceeds to relate the growth of superstition, which destroys the primeval innocence; but why or when does not very clearly appear; yet, though the general theory is incoherent, he catches a distinct view of one aspect of the question and expresses a tolerably trite view of the question with singular terseness. who, he asks,- first taught souls enslaved and realms undone, the enormous faith of many made for one? he replies,- force first made conquest and that conquest law; till superstition taught the tyrant awe, then shared the tyranny, then lent it aid, and gods of conquerors, slaves of subjects made; she, 'mid the lightning's blaze and thunder's sound, when rock'd the mountains and when groan'd the ground- she taught the weak to trust, the proud to pray to power unseen and mightier far than they; she from the rending earth and bursting skies saw gods descend and fiends infernal rise; there fix'd the dreadful, there the blest abodes; fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods; gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust; such as the souls of cowards might conceive, and, framed like tyrants, tyrants would believe. if the test of poetry were the power of expressing a theory more closely and pointedly than prose, such writing would take a very high place. some popular philosophers would make a sounding chapter out of those sixteen lines. the essay on man brought pope into difficulties. the central thesis, "whatever is is right," might be understood in various senses, and in some sense it would be accepted by every theist. but, in bolingbroke's teaching, it received a heterodox application, and in pope's imperfect version of bolingbroke the taint was not removed. the logical outcome of the rationalistic theory of the time was some form of pantheism, and the tendency is still more marked in a poetical statement, where it was difficult to state the refined distinctions by which the conclusion is averted. when theology is regarded as demonstrable by reason, the need of a revelation ceases to be obvious. the optimistic view which sees the proof of divine order in the vast harmony of the whole visible world, throws into the background the darker side of the universe reflected in the theological doctrines of human corruption, and the consequent need of a future judgment in separation of good from evil. i need not inquire whether any optimistic theory is really tenable; but the popular version of the creed involved the attempt to ignore the evils under which all creation groans, and produced in different minds the powerful retort of butler's analogy, and the biting sarcasm of voltaire's candide. pope, accepting the doctrine without any perception of these difficulties, unintentionally fell into sheer pantheism. he was not yielding to the logical instinct which carries out a theory to its legitimate development; but obeying the imaginative impulse which cannot stop to listen to the usual qualifications and safeguards of the orthodox reasoner. the best passages in the essay are those in which he is frankly pantheistic, and is swept, like shaftesbury, into enthusiastic assertion of the universal harmony of things. all are but parts of one stupendous whole, whose body nature is, and god the soul; that changed thro' all and yet in all the same, great in the earth as in the ethereal frame; warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, spreads undivided, operates unspent; breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, as full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; as full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, as the rapt seraph that adores and burns; to him, no high, no low, no great, no small, he fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. in spite of some awkward phrases (hair and heart is a vile antithesis!), the passage is eloquent but can hardly be called orthodox. and it was still worse when pope undertook to show that even evil passions and vices were part of the harmony; that "a borgia and a cataline" were as much a part of the divine order as a plague or an earthquake, and that self-love and lust were essential to social welfare. pope's own religious position is characteristic and easily definable. if it is not quite defensible on the strictest principles of plain speaking, it is also certain that we could not condemn him without condemning many of the best and most catholic-spirited of men. the dogmatic system in which he had presumably been educated had softened under the influence of the cultivated thought of the day. pope, as the member of a persecuted sect, had learnt to share that righteous hatred of bigotry which is the honourable characteristic of his best contemporaries. he considered the persecuting spirit of his own church to be its worst fault.[23] in the early essay on criticism he offended some of his own sect by a vigorous denunciation of the doctrine which promotes persecution by limiting salvation to a particular creed. his charitable conviction that a divine element is to be found in all creeds, from that of the "poor indian" upwards, animates the highest passages in his works. but though he sympathizes with a generous toleration, and the specific dogmas of his creed sat very loosely on his mind, he did not consider that an open secession was necessary or even honourable. he called himself a true catholic, though rather as respectfully sympathizing with the spirit of fénelon than as holding to any dogmatic system. the most dignified letter that he ever wrote was in answer to a suggestion from atterbury (1717), that he might change his religion upon the death of his father. pope replies that his worldly interests would be promoted by such a step; and, in fact, it cannot be doubted that pope might have had a share in the good things then obtainable by successful writers, if he had qualified by taking the oaths. but he adds, that such a change would hurt his mother's feelings, and that he was more certain of his duty to promote her happiness than of any speculative tenet whatever. he was sure that he could mean as well in the religion he now professed as in any other; and that being so, he thought that a change even to an equally good religion could not be justified. a similar statement appears in a letter to swift, in 1729. "i am of the religion of erasmus, a catholic. so i live, so shall i die, and hope one day to meet you, bishop atterbury, the younger craggs, dr. garth, dean berkeley, and mr. hutchison in that place to which god of his infinite mercy bring us and everybody." to these protestants he would doubtless have joined the freethinking bolingbroke. at a later period he told warburton, in less elevated language, that the change of his creed would bring him many enemies and do no good to any one. pope could feel nobly and act honourably when his morbid vanity did not expose him to some temptation; and i think that in this matter his attitude was in every way creditable. he showed, indeed, the prejudice entertained by many of the rationalist divines for the freethinkers who were a little more outspoken than himself. the deist whose creed was varnished with christian phrases, was often bitter against the deist who rejected the varnish; and pope put toland and tindal into the dunciad as scandalous assailants of all religion. from his point of view it was as wicked to attack any creed as to regard any creed as exclusively true; and certainly pope was not disposed to join any party which was hated and maligned by the mass of the respectable world. for it must be remembered that, in spite of much that has been said to the contrary, and in spite of the true tendency of much so-called orthodoxy, the profession of open dissent from christian doctrine was then regarded with extreme disapproval. it might be a fashion, as butler and others declare, to talk infidelity in cultivated circles; but a public promulgation of unbelief was condemned as criminal, and worthy only of the grub-street faction. pope, therefore, was terribly shocked when he found himself accused of heterodoxy. his poem was at once translated, and, we are told, spread rapidly in france, where voltaire and many inferior writers were introducing the contagion of english freethinking. a solid swiss pastor and professor of philosophy, jean pierre crousaz (1663-1750), undertook the task of refutation, and published an examination of pope's philosophy in 1737 and 1738. a serious examination of this bundle of half-digested opinions was in itself absurd. some years afterwards (1751) pope came under a more powerful critic. the berlin academy of sciences offered a prize for a similar essay, and lessing published a short tract called _pope ein metaphysiker_! if any one cares to see a demonstration that pope did not understand the system of leibnitz, and that the bubble blown by a great philosopher has more apparent cohesion than that of a half-read poet, he may find a sufficient statement of the case in lessing. but lessing sensibly protests from the start against the intrusion of such a work into serious discussion; and that is the only ground which is worth taking in the matter. the most remarkable result of the essay on man, it may be parenthetically noticed, was its effect upon voltaire. in 1751 voltaire wrote a poem on natural law, which is a comparatively feeble application of pope's principles. it is addressed to frederick instead of bolingbroke, and contains a warm eulogy of pope's philosophy. but a few years later the earthquake at lisbon suggested certain doubts to voltaire as to the completeness of the optimist theory; and, in some of the most impressive verses of the century, he issued an energetic protest against the platitudes applied by pope and his followers to deaden our sense of the miseries under which the race suffers. verbally, indeed, voltaire still makes his bow to the optimist theory, and the two poems appeared together in 1756; but his noble outcry against the empty and complacent deductions which it covers, led to his famous controversy with rousseau. the history of this conflict falls beyond my subject, and i must be content with this brief reference, which proves, amongst other things, the interest created by pope's advocacy of the most characteristic doctrines of his time on the minds of the greatest leaders of the revolutionary movement. meanwhile, however, crousaz was translated into english, and pope was terribly alarmed. his "guide, philosopher, and friend" had returned to the continent (in 1735), disgusted with his political failure, but was again in england from june, 1738, to may, 1739. we know not what comfort he may have given to his unlucky disciple, but an unexpected champion suddenly arose. william warburton (born 1698) was gradually pushing his way to success. he had been an attorney's clerk, and had not received a university education; but his multifarious reading was making him conspicuous, helped by great energy, and by a quality which gave some plausibility to the title bestowed on him by mallet, "the most impudent man living." in his humble days he had been intimate with pope's enemies, concanen and theobald, and had spoken scornfully of pope, saying, amongst other things, that he "borrowed for want of genius," as addison borrowed from modesty and milton from pride. in 1736 he had published his first important work, the alliance between church and state, and in 1738 followed the first instalment of his principal performance, the divine legation. during the following years he was the most conspicuous theologian of the day, dreaded and hated by his opponents, whom he unsparingly bullied, and dominating a small clique of abject admirers. he is said to have condemned the essay on man when it first appeared. he called it a collection of the worst passages of the worst authors, and declared that it taught rank atheism. the appearance of crousaz's book suddenly induced him to make a complete change of front. he declared that pope spoke "truth uniformly throughout," and complimented him on his strong and delicate reasoning. it is idle to seek motives for this proceeding. warburton loved paradoxes, and delighted in brandishing them in the most offensive terms. he enjoyed the exercise of his own ingenuity, and therefore his ponderous writings, though amusing by their audacity and width of reading, are absolutely valueless for their ostensible purpose. the exposition of pope (the first part of which appeared in december, 1738) is one of his most tiresome performances; nor need any human being at the present day study the painful wire-drawings and sophistries by which he tries to give logical cohesion and orthodox intention to the essay on man. if warburton was simply practising his dialectical skill, the result was a failure. but if he had an eye to certain lower ends, his success surpassed his expectations. pope was in ecstasies. he fell upon warburton's neck--or rather at his feet--and overwhelmed him with professions of gratitude. he invited him to twickenham; met him with compliments which astonished a bystander, and wrote to him in terms of surprising humility. "you understand me," he exclaims in his first letter, "as well as i do myself; but you express me much better than i could express myself." for the rest of his life pope adopted the same tone. he sheltered himself behind this burly defender, and could never praise him enough. he declared mr. warburton to be the greatest general critic he ever knew, and was glad to instal him in the position of champion in ordinary. warburton was consulted about new editions; annotated pope's poems; stood sponsor to the last dunciad, and was assured by his admiring friend that the comment would prolong the life of the poetry. pope left all his copyrights to this friend, whilst his mss. were given to bolingbroke. when the university of oxford proposed to confer an honorary degree upon pope, he declined to receive the compliment, because the proposal to confer a smaller honour upon warburton had been at the same time thrown out by the university. in fact, pope looked up to warburton with a reverence almost equal to that which he felt for bolingbroke. if such admiration for such an idol was rather humiliating, we must remember that pope was unable to detect the charlatan in the pretentious but really vigorous writer; and we may perhaps admit that there is something pathetic in pope's constant eagerness to be supported by some sturdier arm. we find the same tendency throughout his life. the weak and morbidly sensitive nature may be forgiven if its dependence leads to excessive veneration. warburton derived advantages from the connexion, the prospect of which, we may hope, was not the motive of his first advocacy. to be recognized by the most eminent man of letters of the day was to receive a kind of certificate of excellence, valuable to a man who had not the regular university hall-mark. more definite results followed. pope introduced warburton to allen, and to murray, afterwards lord mansfield. through murray he was appointed preacher at lincoln's inn, and from allen he derived greater benefits--the hand of his niece and heiress, and an introduction to pitt, which gained for him the bishopric of gloucester. pope's allegiance to bolingbroke was not weakened by this new alliance. he sought to bring the two together, when bolingbroke again visited england in 1743. the only result was an angry explosion, as, indeed, might have been foreseen; for bolingbroke was not likely to be well-disposed to the clever parson whose dexterous sleight-of-hand had transferred pope to the orthodox camp; nor was it natural that warburton, the most combative and insulting of controversialists, should talk on friendly terms to one of his natural antagonists--an antagonist, moreover, who was not likely to have bishoprics in his gift. the quarrel, as we shall see, broke out fiercely over pope's grave. footnotes: [20] "no letter with an envelope could give him more delight," says swift. [21] it would be out of place to discuss this in detail; but i may say that pope's crude theory of the state of nature, his psychology as to reason and instinct, and self-love, and his doctrine of the scale of beings, all seem to have the specific bolingbroke stamp. [22] perhaps the most curious example, too long for quotation, is a passage near the end of the last epistle, in which he sums up his moral system by a series of predicates for which it is impossible to find any subject. one couplet runs-never elated whilst one man's depress'd, never dejected whilst another's blest. it is impressive, but it is quite impossible to discover by the rules of grammatical construction who is to be never elated and depressed. [23] spence, p. 364. chapter viii. epistles and satires. pope had tried a considerable number of poetical experiments when the dunciad appeared, but he had not yet discovered in what direction his talents could be most efficiently exerted. bystanders are sometimes acuter in detecting a man's true forte than the performer himself. in 1722 atterbury had seen pope's lines upon addison, and reported that no piece of his writing was ever so much sought after. "since you now know," he added, "in what direction your strength lies, i hope you will not suffer that talent to be unemployed." atterbury seems to have been rather fond of giving advice to pope, and puts on a decidedly pedagogic air when writing to him. the present suggestion was more likely to fall on willing ears than another made shortly before their final separation. atterbury then presented pope with a bible, and recommended him to study its pages. if pope had taken to heart some of st. paul's exhortations to christian charity, he would scarcely have published his lines upon addison, and english literature would have lost some of its most brilliant pages. satire of the kind represented by those lines was so obviously adapted to pope's peculiar talent, that we rather wonder at his having taken to it seriously at a comparatively late period, and even then having drifted into it by accident rather than by deliberate adoption. he had aimed, as has been said, at being a philosophic and didactic poet. the essay on man formed part of a much larger plan, of which two or three fragmentary sketches are given by spence.[24] bolingbroke and pope wrote to swift in november, 1729, about a scheme then in course of execution. bolingbroke declares that pope is now exerting what was eminently and peculiarly his talents, above all writers, living or dead, without excepting horace; whilst pope explained that this was a "system of ethics in the horatian way." the language seems to apply best to the poems afterwards called the ethic epistles, though, at this time, pope, perhaps, had not a very clear plan in his head, and was working at different parts simultaneously. the essay on man, his most distinct scheme, was to form the opening book of his poem. three others were to treat of knowledge and its limits, of government--ecclesiastical and civil--and of morality. the last book itself involved an elaborate plan. there were to be three epistles about each cardinal virtue--one, for example, upon avarice; another on the contrary extreme of prodigality; and a third, upon the judicious mean of a moderate use of riches. pope told spence that he had dropped the plan chiefly because his third book would have provoked every church on the face of the earth, and he did not care for always being in boiling water. the scheme, however, was far too wide and too systematic for pope's powers. his spasmodic energy enabled him only to fill up corners of the canvas, and from what he did, it is sufficiently evident that his classification would have been incoherent and his philosophy unequal to the task. part of his work was used for the fourth book of the dunciad, and the remainder corresponds to what are now called the ethic epistles. these, as they now stand, include five poems. one of these has no real connexion with the others. it is a poem addressed to addison, "occasioned by his dialogue on medals," written (according to pope) in 1715, and first published in tickell's edition of addison's works in 1721. the epistle to burlington on taste was afterwards called the use of riches, and appended to another with the same title, thus filling a place in the ethical scheme, though devoted to a very subsidiary branch of the subject. it appeared in 1731. the epistle "of the use of riches" appeared in 1732, that of the knowledge and characters of men in 1733, and that of the characters of women in 1735. the last three are all that would seem to belong to the wider treatise contemplated; but pope composed so much in fragments that it is difficult to say what bits he might have originally intended for any given purpose. another distraction seems to have done more than his fear of boiling water to arrest the progress of the elaborate plan. bolingbroke coming one day into his room, took up a horace, and observed that the first satire of the second book would suit pope's style. pope translated it in a morning or two, and sent it to press almost immediately (1733). the poem had a brilliant success. it contained, amongst other things, the couplet which provoked his war with lady mary and lord hervey. this, again, led to his putting together the epistle to arbuthnot, which includes the bitter attack upon hervey, as part of a general _apologia pro vita sua_. it was afterwards called the prologue to the satires. of his other imitations of horace, one appeared in 1734 (the second satire of the second book), and four more (the first and sixth epistles of the first book and the first and second of the second book) in 1738. finally, in 1737, he published two dialogues, first called "1738" and afterwards "the epilogue to the satires," which are in the same vein as the epistle to arbuthnot. these epistles and imitations of horace, with the so-called prologue and epilogue, took up the greatest part of pope's energy during the years in which his intellect was at its best, and show his finest technical qualities. the essay on man was on hand during the early part of this period, the epistles and satires representing a ramification from the same inquiry. but the essay shows the weak side of pope, whilst his most remarkable qualities are best represented by these subsidiary writings. the reason will be sufficiently apparent after a brief examination, which will also give occasion for saying what still remains to be said in regard to pope as a literary artist. the weakness already conspicuous in the essay on man mars the effect of the ethic epistles. his work tends to be rather an aggregation than an organic whole. he was (if i may borrow a phrase from the philologists) an agglutinative writer, and composed by sticking together independent fragments. his mode of composition was natural to a mind incapable of sustained and continuous thought. in the epistles, he professes to be working on a plan. the first expounds his favourite theory (also treated in the essay) of a "ruling passion." each man has such a passion, if only you can find it, which explains the apparent inconsistency of his conduct. this theory, which has exposed him to a charge of fatalism (especially from people who did not very well know what fatalism means), is sufficiently striking for his purpose; but it rather turns up at intervals than really binds the epistle into a whole. but the arrangement of his portrait gallery is really unsystematic; the affectation of system is rather in the way. the most striking characters in the essay on women were inserted (whenever composed) some time after its first appearance, and the construction is too loose to make any interruption of the argument perceptible. the poems contain some of pope's most brilliant bits, but we can scarcely remember them as a whole. the characters of wharton and villiers, of atossa, of the man of ross, and sir balaam, stand out as brilliant passages which would do almost as well in any other setting. in the imitations of horace he is, of course, guided by lines already laid down for him; and he has shown admirable skill in translating the substance as well as the words of his author by the nearest equivalents. this peculiar mode of imitation had been tried by other writers, but in pope's hands it succeeded beyond all precedent. there is so much congeniality between horace and pope, and the social orders of which they were the spokesmen, that he can represent his original without giving us any sense of constraint. yet even here he sometimes obscures the thread of connexion, and we feel more or less clearly that the order of thought is not that which would have spontaneously arisen in his own mind. so, for example, in the imitation of horace's first epistle of the first book, the references to the stoical and epicurean morals imply a connexion of ideas to which nothing corresponds in pope's reproduction. horace is describing a genuine experience, while pope is only putting together a string of commonplaces. the most interesting part of these imitations are those in which pope takes advantage of the suggestions in horace to be thoroughly autobiographical. he manages to run his own experience and feelings into the moulds provided for him by his predecessor. one of the happiest passages is that in which he turns the serious panegyric on augustus into a bitter irony against the other augustus, whose name was george, and who, according to lord hervey, was so contrasted with his prototype, that whereas personal courage was the one weak point of the emperor, it was the one strong point of the english king. as soon as pope has a chance of expressing his personal antipathies or (to do him bare justice) his personal attachments, his lines begin to glow. when he is trying to preach, to be ethical and philosophical, he is apt to fall into mouthing and to lose his place; but when he can forget his stilts, or point his morality by some concrete and personal instance, every word is alive. and it is this which makes the epilogues, and more especially the prologue to the satires, his most impressive performances. the unity which is very ill-supplied by some ostensible philosophical thesis, or even by the leading strings of horace, is given by his own intense interest in himself. the best way of learning to enjoy pope is to get by heart the epistle to arbuthnot. that epistle is, as i have said, his apologia. in its some 400 lines, he has managed to compress more of his feelings and thoughts than would fill an ordinary autobiography. it is true that the epistle requires a commentator. it wants some familiarity with the events of pope's life, and many lines convey only a part of their meaning unless we are familiar not only with the events, but with the characters of the persons mentioned. passages over which we pass carelessly at the first reading then come out with wonderful freshness, and single phrases throw a sudden light upon hidden depths of feeling. it is also true, unluckily, that parts of it must be read by the rule of contraries. they tell us not what pope really was, but what he wished others to think him, and what he probably endeavoured to persuade himself that he was. how far he succeeded in imposing upon himself is indeed a very curious question which can never be fully answered. there is the strangest mixture of honesty and hypocrisy. let me, he says, live my own and die so too- (to live and die is all i have to do) maintain a poet's dignity and ease, and see what friends and read what books i please! well, he was independent in his fashion, and we can at least believe that he so far believed in himself. but when he goes on to say that he "can sleep without a poem in his head, nor know if dennis be alive or dead," we remember his calling up the maid four times a night in the dreadful winter of 1740 to save a thought, and the features writhing in anguish as he read a hostile pamphlet. presently he informs us that "he thinks a lie in prose or verse the same"--only too much the same! and that "if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways." alas! for the manliness. and yet again when he speaks of his parents, unspotted names and venerable long if there be force in virtue or in song, can we doubt that he is speaking from the heart? we should perhaps like to forget that the really exquisite and touching lines in which he speaks of his mother had been so carefully elaborated. me let the tender office long engage to rock the cradle of declining age, with lenient acts extend a mother's breath, make languor smile and smooth the bed of death, explore the thought, explain the asking eye, and keep awhile one parent from the sky! if there are more tender and exquisitely expressed lines in the language, i know not where to find them; and yet again i should be glad not to be reminded by a cruel commentator that poor mrs. pope had been dead for two years when they were published, and that even this touching effusion has therefore a taint of dramatic affectation. to me, i confess, it seems most probable, though at first sight incredible, that these utterances were thoroughly sincere for the moment. i fancy that under pope's elaborate masks of hypocrisy and mystification there was a heart always abnormally sensitive. unfortunately it was as capable of bitter resentment as of warm affection, and was always liable to be misled by the suggestions of his strangely irritable vanity. and this seems to me to give the true key to pope's poetical as well as to his personal characteristics. to explain either, we must remember that he was a man of impulses; at one instant a mere incarnate thrill of gratitude or generosity, and in the next of spite or jealousy. a spasm of wounded vanity would make him for the time as mean and selfish as other men are made by a frenzy of bodily fear. he would instinctively snatch at a lie even when a moment's reflection would have shown that the plain truth would be more convenient, and therefore he had to accumulate lie upon lie, each intended to patch up some previous blunder. though nominally the poet of reason, he was the very antithesis of the man who is reasonable in the highest sense: who is truthful in word and deed because his conduct is regulated by harmonious and invariable principles. pope was governed by the instantaneous feeling. his emotion came in sudden jets and gushes, instead of a continuous stream. the same peculiarity deprives his poetry of continuous harmony or profound unity of conception. his lively sense of form and proportion enables him indeed to fill up a simple framework (generally of borrowed design) with an eye to general effect, as in the rape of the lock or the first dunciad. but even there his flight is short; and when a poem should be governed by the evolution of some profound principle or complex mood of sentiment, he becomes incoherent and perplexed. but on the other hand he can perceive admirably all that can be seen at a glance from a single point of view. though he could not be continuous, he could return again and again to the same point; he could polish, correct, eliminate superfluities, and compress his meaning more and more closely, till he has constructed short passages of imperishable excellence. this microscopic attention to fragments sometimes injures the connexion, and often involves a mutilation of construction. he corrects and prunes too closely. he could, he says, in reference to the essay on man, put things more briefly in verse than in prose; one reason being that he could take liberties of this kind not permitted in prose writing. but the injury is compensated by the singular terseness and vivacity of his best style. scarcely any one, as is often remarked, has left so large a proportion of quotable phrases,[25] and, indeed, to the present he survives chiefly by the current coinage of that kind which bears his image and superscription. this familiar remark may help us to solve the old problem whether pope was, or rather in what sense he was, a poet. much of his work may be fairly described as rhymed prose, differing from prose not in substance or tone of feeling, but only in the form of expression. every poet has an invisible audience, as an orator has a visible one, who deserve a great part of the merit of his works. some men may write for the religious or philosophic recluse, and therefore utter the emotions which come to ordinary mortals in the rare moments when the music of the spheres, generally drowned by the din of the commonplace world, becomes audible to their dull senses. pope, on the other hand, writes for the wits who never listen to such strains, and moreover writes for their ordinary moods. he aims at giving us the refined and doubly distilled essence of the conversation of the statesmen and courtiers of his time. the standard of good writing always implicitly present to his mind is the fitness of his poetry to pass muster when shown by gay to his duchess, or read after dinner to a party composed of swift, bolingbroke, and congreve. that imaginary audience is always looking over his shoulder, applauding a good hit, chuckling over allusions to the last bit of scandal, and ridiculing any extravagance tending to romance or sentimentalism. the limitations imposed by such a condition are obvious. as men of taste, pope's friends would make their bow to the recognized authorities. they would praise _paradise lost_, but a new milton would be as much out of place with them as the real milton at the court of charles ii. they would really prefer to have his verses tagged by dryden, or the samson polished by pope. they would have ridiculed wordsworth's mysticism or shelley's idealism, as they laughed at the religious "enthusiasm" of law or wesley, or the metaphysical subtleties of berkeley and hume. they preferred the philosophy of the essay on man, which might be appropriated by a common-sense preacher, or the rhetoric of _eloisa and abelard_, bits of which might be used to excellent effect (as indeed pope himself used the peroration) by a fine gentleman addressing his gallantry to a contemporary sappho. it is only too easy to expose their shallowness, and therefore to overlook what was genuine in their feelings. after all, pope's eminent friends were no mere tailor's blocks for the display of laced coats. swift and bolingbroke were not enthusiasts nor philosophers, but certainly they were no fools. they liked in the first place thorough polish. they could appreciate a perfectly turned phrase, an epigram which concentrated into a couplet a volume of quick observations, a smart saying from rochefoucauld or la bruyère, which gave an edge to worldly wisdom; a really brilliant utterance of one of those maxims, half true and not over profound, but still presenting one aspect of life as they saw it, which have since grown rather threadbare. this sort of moralizing, which is the staple of pope's epistles upon the ruling passion or upon avarice, strikes us now as unpleasantly obvious. we have got beyond it and want some more refined analysis and more complex psychology. take, for example, pope's epistle to bathurst, which was in hand for two years, and is just 400 lines in length. the simplicity of the remarks is almost comic. nobody wants to be told now that bribery is facilitated by modern system of credit. blest paper-credit! last and best supply that lends corruption lighter wings to fly! this triteness blinds us to the singular felicity with which the observations have been verified, a felicity which makes many of the phrases still proverbial. the mark is so plain that we do scant justice to the accuracy and precision with which it is hit. yet when we notice how every epithet tells, and how perfectly the writer does what he tries to do, we may understand why pope extorted contemporary admiration. we may, for example, read once more the familiar passage about buckingham. the picture, such as it is, could not be drawn more strikingly with fewer lines. in the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, the floors of plaister and the walls of dung, on once a flock-bed but repair'd with straw, with tape-ty'd curtains never meant to draw, the george and garter dangling from that bed, where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, great villiers lies! alas, how changed from him, that life of pleasure and that soul of whim! gallant and gay in cliveden's proud alcove, the bower of wanton shrewsbury and love; as great as gay, at council in a ring of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. no wit to flatter left of all his store! no fool to laugh at, which he valued more. thus, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, and fame, the lord of useless thousands ends. it is as graphic as a page of dickens, and has the advantage of being less grotesque, if the sentiment is equally obvious. when pope has made his hit, he does not blur the effect by trying to repeat it. in these epistles, it must be owned that the sentiment is not only obvious but prosaic. the moral maxims are delivered like advice offered by one sensible man to another, not with the impassioned fervour of a prophet. nor can pope often rise to that level at which alone satire is transmuted into the higher class of poetry. to accomplish that feat, if, indeed, it be possible, the poet must not simply ridicule the fantastic tricks of poor mortals, but show how they appear to the angels who weep over them. the petty figures must be projected against a background of the infinite, and we must feel the relations of our tiny eddies of life to the oceanic currents of human history. pope can never rise above the crowd. he is looking at his equals, not contemplating them from the height which reveals their insignificance. the element, which may fairly be called poetical, is derived from an inferior source; but sometimes has passion enough in it to lift him above mere prose. in one of his most animated passages, pope relates his desire to- brand the bold front of shameless guilty men, dash the proud gamester in his gilded car, bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star. for the moment he takes himself seriously; and, indeed, he seems to have persuaded both himself and his friends that he was really a great defender of virtue. arbuthnot begged him, almost with his dying breath, to continue his "noble disdain and abhorrence of vice," and, with a due regard to his own safety, to try rather to reform than chastise; and pope accepts the office ostentatiously. his provocation is "the strong antipathy of good to bad," and he exclaims,- yes! i am proud--i must be proud to see men not afraid of god, afraid of me. safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone. if the sentiment provokes a slight incredulity, it is yet worth while to understand its real meaning; and the explanation is not very far to seek. pope's best writing, i have said, is the essence of conversation. it has the quick movement, the boldness and brilliance, which we suppose to be the attributes of the best talk. of course the apparent facility is due to conscientious labour. in the prologue and epilogue and the best parts of the imitations of horace, he shows such consummate mastery of his peculiar style, that we forget the monotonous metre. the opening passage, for example, of the prologue is written apparently with the perfect freedom of real dialogue; in fact, it is of course far more pointed and compressed than any dialogue could ever be. the dramatic vivacity with which the whole scene is given, shows that he could use metre as the most skilful performer could command a musical instrument. pope, indeed, shows in the essay on criticism, that his view about the uniformity of sound and sense were crude enough; they are analogous to the tricks by which a musician might decently imitate the cries of animals or the murmurs of a crowd; and his art excludes any attempt at rivalling the melody of the great poets who aim at producing a harmony quite independent of the direct meaning of their words. i am only speaking of the felicity with which he can move in metre, without the slightest appearance of restraint, so as to give a kind of idealized representation of the tone of animated verbal intercourse. whatever comes within this province he can produce with admirable fidelity. now in such talks as we imagine with swift and bolingbroke, we may be quite sure that there would be some very forcible denunciation of corruption--corruption being of course regarded as due to the diabolical agency of walpole. during his later years, pope became a friend of all the opposition clique, which was undermining the power of the great minister. in his last letters to swift, pope speaks of the new circle of promising patriots who were rising round him, and from whom he entertained hopes of the regeneration of this corrupt country. sentiments of this kind were the staple talk of the circles in which he moved; and all the young men of promise believed, or persuaded themselves to fancy, that a political millennium would follow the downfall of walpole. pope, susceptible as always to the influences of his social surroundings, took in all this, and delighted in figuring himself as the prophet of the new era and the denouncer of wickedness in high places. he sees "old england's genius" dragged in the dust, hears the black trumpet of vice proclaiming that "not to be corrupted is the shame," and declares that he will draw the last pen for freedom, and use his "sacred weapon" in truth's defence. to imagine pope at his best, we must place ourselves in twickenham on some fine day, when the long disease has relaxed its grasp for a moment; when he has taken a turn through his garden, and comforted his poor frame with potted lampreys and a glass or two from his frugal pint. suppose two or three friends to be sitting with him, the stately bolingbroke or the mercurial bathurst, with one of the patriotic hopes of mankind, marchmont or lyttelton, to stimulate his ardour, and the amiable spence, or mrs. patty blount to listen reverentially to his morality. let the conversation kindle into vivacity, and host and guests fall into a friendly rivalry, whetting each other's wits by lively repartee, and airing the little fragments of worldly wisdom which pass muster for profound observation at court; for a time they talk platitudes, though striking out now and then brilliant flashes, as from the collision of polished rapiers; they diverge, perhaps, into literature, and pope shines in discussing the secrets of the art to which his whole life has been devoted with untiring fidelity. suddenly the mention of some noted name provokes a startling outburst of personal invective from pope; his friends judiciously divert the current of wrath into a new channel, and he becomes for the moment a generous patriot declaiming against the growth of luxury; the mention of some sympathizing friend brings out a compliment, so exquisitely turned, as to be a permanent title of honour, conferred by genius instead of power; or the thought of his parents makes his voice tremble, and his eyes shine with pathetic softness; and you forgive the occasional affectation which you can never quite forget, or even the occasional grossness or harshness of sentiment which contrasts so strongly with the superficial polish. a genuine report of even the best conversation would be intolerably prosy and unimaginative. but imagine the very pith and essence of such talk brought to a focus, concentrated into the smallest possible space with the infinite dexterity of a thoroughly trained hand, and you have the kind of writing in which pope is unrivalled; polished prose with occasional gleams of genuine poetry--the epistle to arbuthnot and the epilogue to the satires. one point remains to be briefly noticed. the virtue on which pope prided himself was correctness; and i have interpreted this to mean the quality which is gained by incessant labour, guided by quick feeling, and always under the strict supervision of common sense. the next literary revolution led to a depreciation of this quality. warton (like macaulay long afterwards) argued that in a higher sense, the elizabethan poets were really as correct as pope. their poetry embodied a higher and more complex law, though it neglected the narrow cut-and-dried precepts recognized in the queen anne period. the new school came to express too undiscriminating a contempt for the whole theory and practice of pope and his followers. pope, said cowper, and a thousand critics have echoed his words,- made poetry a mere mechanic art and every warbler had his tune by heart. without discussing the wider question, i may here briefly remark that this judgment, taken absolutely, gives a very false impression of pope's artistic quality. pope is undoubtedly monotonous. except in one or two lyrics, such as the ode on st. cecilia's day, which must be reckoned amongst his utter failures, he invariably employed the same metre. the discontinuity of his style, and the strict rules which he adopted, tend to disintegrate his poems. they are a series of brilliant passages, often of brilliant couplets, stuck together in a conglomerate; and as the inferior connecting matter decays, the interstices open and allow the whole to fall into ruin. to read a series of such couplets, each complete in itself, and each so constructed as to allow of a very small variety of form, is naturally to receive an impression of monotony. pope's antitheses fall into a few common forms, which are repeated over and over again, and seem copy to each other. and, in a sense, such work can be very easily imitated. a very inferior artist can obtain most of his efforts, and all the external qualities of his style. one ten-syllabled rhyming couplet, with the whole sense strictly confined within its limits, and allowing only of such variety as follows from changing the pauses, is undoubtedly very much like another. and accordingly one may read in any collection of british poets innumerable pages of versification which--if you do not look too close--are exactly like pope. all poets who have any marked style are more or less imitable; in the present age of revivals, a clever versifier is capable of adopting the manners of his leading contemporaries, or that of any poet from spenser to shelley or keats. the quantity of work scarcely distinguishable from that of the worst passages in mr. tennyson, mr. browning, and mr. swinburne, seems to be limited only by the supply of stationery at the disposal of practised performers. that which makes the imitations of pope prominent is partly the extent of his sovereignty; the vast number of writers who confined themselves exclusively to his style; and partly the fact that what is easily imitable in him is so conspicuous an element of the whole. the rigid framework which he adopted is easily definable with mathematical precision. the difference between the best work of pope and the ordinary work of his followers is confined within narrow limits, and not easily perceived at a glance. the difference between blank verse in the hands of its few masters and in the hands of a third-rate imitator strikes the ear in every line. far more is left to the individual idiosyncrasy. but it does not at all follow, and in fact it is quite untrue that the distinction which turns on an apparently insignificant element is therefore unimportant. the value of all good work ultimately depends on touches so fine as to elude the sight. and the proof is that although pope was so constantly imitated, no later and contemporary writer succeeded in approaching his excellence. young, of the _night thoughts_, was an extraordinarily clever writer and talker, even if he did not (as one of his hearers asserts) eclipse voltaire by the brilliance of his conversation. young's satires show abundance of wit, and one may not be able to say at a glance in what they are inferior to pope. yet they have hopelessly perished, whilst pope's work remains classical. of all the crowd of eighteenth-century writers in pope's manner, only two made an approach to him worth notice. johnson's _vanity of human wishes_ surpasses pope in general sense of power, and goldsmith's two poems in the same style have phrases of a higher order than pope's. but even these poems have not made so deep a mark. in the last generation, gifford's _baviad and mæviad_, and byron's _english bards and scotch reviewers_, were clever reproductions of the manner; but gifford is already unreadable, and byron is pale beside his original; and, therefore, making full allowance for pope's monotony, and the tiresome prominence of certain mechanical effects, we must, i think, admit that he has after all succeeded in doing with unsurpassable excellence what innumerable rivals have failed to do as well. the explanation is--if the phrase explains anything--that he was a man of genius, or that he brought to a task, not of the highest class, a keenness of sensibility, a conscientious desire to do his very best, and a capacity for taking pains with his work, which enabled him to be as indisputably the first in his own peculiar line, as our greatest men have been in far more lofty undertakings. the man who could not publish pastorals without getting into quarrels, was hardly likely to become a professed satirist without giving offence. besides numerous stabs administered to old enemies, pope opened some fresh animosities by passages in these poems. some pointed ridicule was aimed at montagu, earl of halifax, in the prologue; for there can be no doubt that halifax[26] was pointed out in the character of bufo. pope told a story in later days of an introduction to halifax, the great patron of the early years of the century, who wished to hear him read his homer. after the reading halifax suggested that one passage should be improved. pope retired rather puzzled by his vague remarks, but, by garth's advice, returned some time afterwards, and read the same passage without alteration. "ay, now mr. pope," said halifax, "they are perfectly right; nothing can be better!" this little incident perhaps suggested to pope that halifax was a humbug, and there seems, as already noticed, to have been some difficulty about the desired dedication of the iliad. though halifax had been dead for twenty years when the prologue appeared, pope may have been in the right in satirizing the pompous would-be patron, from whom he had received nothing, and whose pretences he had seen through. but the bitterness of the attack is disagreeable when we add that pope paid halifax high compliments in the preface to the iliad, and boasted of his friendship, shortly after the satire, in the epilogue to the satires. a more disagreeable affair at the moment was the description, in the epistle on taste, of canons, the splendid seat of the duke of chandos. chandos, being still alive, resented the attack, and pope had not the courage to avow his meaning, which might in that case have been justifiable. he declared to burlington (to whom the epistle was addressed), and to chandos, that he had not intended canons, and tried to make peace by saying in another epistle that "gracious chandos is beloved at sight." this exculpation, says johnson, was received by the duke "with great magnanimity, as by a man who accepted his excuse, without believing his professions." nobody, in fact, believed, and even warburton let out the secret by a comic oversight. pope had prophesied in his poem that another age would see the destruction of "timon's villa," when laughing ceres would reassume the land. had he lived three years longer, said warburton in a note, pope would have seen his prophecy fulfilled, namely, by the destruction of canons. the note was corrected, but the admission that canons belonged to timon had been made. to such accusations pope had a general answer. he described the type, not the individual. the fault was with the public, who chose to fit the cap. his friend remonstrates in the epilogue against his personal satire. "come on, then, satire, general, unconfined," exclaims the poet, spread thy broad wing and souse on all the kind * * * * * ye reverend atheists. (friend) scandal! name them! who? (pope) why, that's the thing you bade me not to do. who starved a sister, who forswore a debt, i never named; the town's inquiring yet. the pois'ning dame-(f.) you mean-(p.) i don't. (f.) you do. (p.) see, now, i keep the secret, and not you! it must in fact be admitted that from the purely artistic point of view, pope is right. prosaic commentators are always asking, who is meant by a poet, as though a poem were a legal document. it may be interesting, for various purposes, to know who was in the writer's mind, or what fact suggested the general picture. but we have no right to look outside the poem itself, or to infer anything not within the four corners of the statement. it matters not for such purposes whether there was, or was not, any real person corresponding to sir balaam, to whom his wife said, when he was enriched by cornish wreckers, "live like yourself," when lo! two puddings smoked upon the board, in place of the previous one on sabbath days. nor does it even matter whether atticus meant addison, or sappho lady mary. the satire is equally good, whether its objects are mere names or realities. but the moral question is quite distinct. in that case we must ask whether pope used words calculated or intended to fix an imputation upon particular people. whether he did it in prose or verse, the offence was the same. in many cases he gives real names, and in many others gives unmistakable indications, which must have fixed his satire to particular people. if he had written addison for atticus (as he did at first), or lady mary for sappho, or halifax for bufo, the insinuation could not have been clearer. his attempt to evade his responsibility was a mere equivocation--a device which he seems to have preferred to direct lying. the character of bufo might be equally suitable to others; but no reasonable man could doubt that every one would fix it upon halifax. in some cases--possibly in that of chandos--he may have thought that his language was too general to apply, and occasionally it seems that he sometimes tried to evade consequences by adding some inconsistent characteristic to his portraits. i say this, because i am here forced to notice the worst of all the imputations upon pope's character. the epistle on the characters of women now includes the famous lines on atossa, which did not appear till after pope's death.[27] they were (in 1746) at once applied to the famous sarah, duchess of marlborough; and a story immediately became current that the duchess had paid pope 1000_l._ to suppress them, but that he preserved them, with a view to their ultimate publication. this story was repeated by warton and by walpole; it has been accepted by mr. carruthers, who suggests, by way of palliation, that pope was desirous at the time of providing for martha blount, and probably took the sum in order to buy an annuity for her. now, if the story were proved, it must be admitted that it would reveal a baseness in pope which would be worthy only of the lowest and most venal literary marauders. no more disgraceful imputation could have been made upon curll, or curll's miserable dependents. a man who could so prostitute his talents must have been utterly vile. pope has sins enough to answer for; but his other meannesses were either sacrifices to his morbid vanity, or (like his offence against swift, or his lies to aaron hill and chandos) collateral results of spasmodic attempts to escape from humiliation. in money-matters he seems to have been generally independent. he refused gifts from his rich friends, and confuted the rather similar calumny that he had received 500_l._ from the duke of chandos. if the account rested upon mere contemporary scandal, we might reject it on the ground of its inconsistency with his known character, and its likeness to other fabrications of his enemies. there is, however, further evidence. it is such evidence as would, at most, justify a verdict of "not proven" in a court of justice. but the critic is not bound by legal rules, and has to say what is the most probable solution, without fear or favour. i cannot here go into the minute details. this much, however, may be taken as established. pope was printing a new edition of his works at the time of his death. he had just distributed to his friends some copies of the ethic epistles, and in those copies the atossa appeared. bolingbroke, to whom pope had left his unpublished papers, discovered it, and immediately identified it with the duchess, who (it must be noticed) was still alive. he wrote to marchmont, one of pope's executors, that there could be "no excuse for pope's design of publishing it after the favour you and i know." this is further explained by a note added in pencil by marchmont's executor, "1000_l._;" and the son of this executor, who published the marchmont papers, says that this was the favour received by pope from the duchess. this, however, is far from proving a direct bribe. it is, in fact, hardly conceivable that the duchess and pope should have made such a bargain in direct black and white, and equally inconceivable that two men like bolingbroke and marchmont should have been privy to such a transaction, and spoken of it in such terms. bolingbroke thinks that the favour received laid pope under an obligation, but evidently does not think that it implied a contract. mr. dilke has further pointed out that there are many touches in the character which distinctly apply to the duchess of buckingham, with whom pope had certainly quarrelled, and which will not apply to the duchess of marlborough, who had undoubtedly made friends with him during the last years of his life. walpole again tells a story, partly confirmed by warton, that pope had shown the character to each duchess (warton says only to marlborough), saying that it was meant for the other. the duchess of buckingham, he says, believed him; the other had more sense and paid him 1000_l._ to suppress it. walpole is no trustworthy authority; but the coincidence implies at least that such a story was soon current. the most probable solution must conform to these data. pope's atossa was a portrait which would fit either lady, though it would be naturally applied to the most famous. it seems certain also that pope had received some favours (possibly the 1000_l._ on some occasion unknown) from the duchess of marlborough, which was felt by his friends to make any attack upon her unjustifiable. we can scarcely believe that there should have been a direct compact of the kind described. if pope had been a person of duly sensitive conscience he would have suppressed his work. but to suppress anything that he had written, and especially a passage so carefully laboured, was always agony to him. he preferred, as we may perhaps conjecture, to settle in his own mind that it would fit the duchess of buckingham, and possibly introduced some of the touches to which mr. dilke refers. he thought it sufficiently disguised to be willing to publish it whilst the person with whom it was naturally identified was still alive. had she complained, he would have relied upon those touches, and have equivocated as he equivocated to hill and chandos. he always seems to have fancied that he could conceal himself by very thin disguises. but he ought to have known, and perhaps did know, that it would be immediately applied to the person who had conferred an obligation. from that guilt no hypothesis can relieve him; but it is certainly not proved, and seems, on the whole, improbable that he was so base as the concessions of his biographers would indicate. footnotes: [24] spence, pp. 16, 48, 137, 315. [25] to take an obviously uncertain test, i find that in bartlett's dictionary of familiar quotations, shakspeare fills 70 pages; milton, 23; pope, 18; wordsworth, 16; and byron, 15. the rest are nowhere. [26] roscoe's attempt at a denial was conclusively answered by bowles in one of his pamphlets. [27] on this subject mr. dilke's _papers of a critic_. chapter ix. the end. the last satires were published in 1738. six years of life still remained to pope; his intellectual powers were still vigorous, and his pleasure in their exercise had not ceased. the only fruit, however, of his labours during this period was the fourth book of the dunciad. he spent much time upon bringing out new editions of his works, and upon the various intrigues connected with the swift correspondence. but his health was beginning to fail. the ricketty framework was giving way, and failing to answer the demands of the fretful and excitable brain. in the spring of 1744 the poet was visibly breaking up; he suffered from dropsical asthma, and seems to have made matters worse by putting himself in the hands of a notorious quack--a dr. thomson. the end was evidently near as he completed his fifty-sixth year. friends, old and new, were often in attendance. above all, bolingbroke, the venerated friend of thirty years' standing; patty blount, the woman whom he loved best; and the excellent spence, who preserved some of the last words of the dying man. the scene, as he saw it, was pathetic; perhaps it is not less pathetic to us, for whom it has another side as of grim tragic humour. three weeks before his death pope was sending off copies of the ethic epistles--apparently with the atossa lines--to his friends. "here i am, like socrates," he said, "dispensing my morality amongst my friends just as i am dying." spence watched him as anxiously as his disciples watched socrates. he was still sensible to kindness. whenever miss blount came in, the failing spirits rallied for a moment. he was always saying something kindly of his friends, "as if his humanity had outlasted his understanding." bolingbroke, when spence made the remark, said that he had never known a man with so tender a heart for his own friends or for mankind. "i have known him," he added, "these thirty years, and value myself more for that man's love than--" and his voice was lost in tears. at moments pope could still be playful. "here i am, dying of a hundred good symptoms," he replied to some flattering report, but his mind was beginning to wander. he complained of seeing things as through a curtain. "what's that?" he said, pointing to the air, and then, with a smile of great pleasure, added softly, "'twas a vision." his religious sentiments still edified his hearers. "i am so certain," he said, "of the soul's being immortal, that i seem to feel it within me, as it were by intuition;" and early one morning he rose from bed and tried to begin an essay upon immortality, apparently in a state of semi-delirium. on his last day he sacrificed, as chesterfield rather cynically observes, his cock to æsculapius. hooke, a zealous catholic friend, asked him whether he would not send for a priest. "i do not suppose that it is essential," said pope, "but it will look right, and i heartily thank you for putting me in mind of it." a priest was brought, and pope received the last sacraments with great fervour and resignation. next day, on may 30th, 1744, he died so peacefully that his friends could not determine the exact moment of death. it was a soft and touching end; and yet we must once more look at the other side. warburton and bolingbroke both appear to have been at the side of the dying man, and before very long they were to be quarrelling over his grave. pope's will showed at once that his quarrels were hardly to end with his death. he had quarrelled, though the quarrel had been made up, with the generous allen, for some cause not ascertainable, except that it arose from the mutual displeasure of mrs. allen and miss blount. it is pleasant to notice that, in the course of the quarrel, pope mentioned warburton, in a letter to miss blount, as a sneaking parson; but warburton was not aware of the flash of sarcasm. pope, as johnson puts it, "polluted his will with female resentment." he left a legacy of 150_l._ to allen, being, as he added, the amount received from his friend--for himself or for charitable purposes; and requested allen, if he should refuse the legacy for himself, to pay it to the bath hospital. allen adopted this suggestion, saying quietly that pope had always been a bad accountant, and would have come nearer the truth if he had added a cypher to the figures. another fact came to light, which produced a fiercer outburst. pope, it was found, had printed a whole edition (1500 copies) of the _patriot king_, bolingbroke's most polished work. the motive could have been nothing but a desire to preserve to posterity what pope considered to be a monument worthy of the highest genius, and was so far complimentary to bolingbroke. bolingbroke, however, considered it as an act of gross treachery. pope had received the work on condition of keeping it strictly private, and showing it to only a few friends. moreover, he had corrected it, arranged it, and altered or omitted passages according to his own taste, which naturally did not suit the author's. in 1749 bolingbroke gave a copy to mallet for publication, and prefixed an angry statement to expose the breach of trust of "a man on whom the author thought he could entirely depend." warburton rushed to the defence of pope and the demolition of bolingbroke. a savage controversy followed, which survives only in the title of one of bolingbroke's pamphlets, a familiar epistle to the most impudent man living--a transparent paraphrase for warburton. pope's behaviour is too much of a piece with previous underhand transactions, but scarcely deserves further condemnation. a single touch remains. pope was buried, by his own directions, in a vault in twickenham church, near the monument erected to his parents. it contained a simple inscription ending with the words "_parentibus bene merentibus filius fecit._" to this, as he directed in his will, was to be added simply "_et sibi_." this was done; but seventeen years afterwards the clumsy warburton erected in the same church another monument to pope himself, with this stupid inscription. _poeta loquitur._ _for one who would not lie buried in westminster abbey._ heroes and kings, your distance keep! in peace let one poor poet sleep who never flatter'd folks like you; let horace blush and virgil too. most of us can tell from experience how grievously our posthumous ceremonials often jar upon the tenderest feelings of survivors. pope's valued friends seem to have done their best to surround the last scene of his life with painful associations; and pope, alas! was an unconscious accomplice. to us of a later generation it is impossible to close this strange history without a singular mixture of feelings. admiration for the extraordinary literary talents, respect for the energy which, under all disadvantages of health and position, turned these talents to the best account; love of the real tender-heartedness which formed the basis of the man's character; pity for the many sufferings to which his morbid sensitiveness exposed him; contempt for the meannesses into which he was hurried; ridicule for the insatiable vanity which prompted his most degrading subterfuges; horror for the bitter animosities which must have tortured the man who cherished them even more than his victims--are suggested simultaneously by the name of pope. as we look at him in one or other aspect, each feeling may come uppermost in turn. the most abiding sentiment--when we think of him as a literary phenomenon--is admiration for the exquisite skill which enabled him to discharge a function, not of the highest kind, with a perfection rare in any department of literature. it is more difficult to say what will be the final element in our feeling about the man. let us hope that it may be the pity which, after a certain lapse of years, we may be excused for conceding to the victim of moral as well as physical diseases. the end. london: gilbert and rivington, printers, st. john's square. _now publishing, in crown 8vo, price 2s. 6d. each._ english men of letters edited by john morley. johnson. by leslie stephen. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "the new series opens well with mr. leslie stephen's sketch of dr. johnson. it could hardly have been done better, and it will convey to the readers for whom it is intended a juster estimate of johnson than either of the two essays of lord macaulay."--pall mall gazette. scott. by r. h. hutton. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "we could not wish for a more suggestive introduction to scott and his poems and novels."--examiner. gibbon. by j. c. morison. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "as a clear, thoughtful, and attractive record of the life and works of the greatest among the world's historians, it deserves the highest praise."--examiner. shelley. by j. a. symonds. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "the lovers of this great poet are to be congratulated at having at their command so fresh, clear, and intelligent a presentment of the subject, written by a man of adequate and wide culture."--athenæum. hume. by professor huxley, f.r.s. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "it may fairly be said that no one now living could have expounded hume with more sympathy or with equal perspicuity."--athenæum. goldsmith. by william black. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "mr. black brings a fine sympathy and taste to bear in his criticism of goldsmith's writings, as well as his sketch of the incidents of his life."--athenæum. defoe. by w. minto. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "mr. minto's book is careful and accurate in all that is stated, and faithful in all that it suggests. it will repay reading more than once."--athenæum. burns. by principal shairp. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "it is impossible to desire fairer criticism than principal shairp's on burns' poetry.... none of the series has given a truer estimate either of character or of genius than this volume."--spectator. spenser. by the very rev. the dean of st. paul's. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "dr. church is master of his subject, and writes always with good taste."--academy. thackeray. by anthony trollope. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "mr. trollope's sketch is excellently adapted to fulfil the purpose of the series in which it appears."--athenæum. burke. by john morley. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "it is no disparagement to the literary studies already published in this admirable series, to say that none of them have surpassed, while few have equalled, this volume on burke."--british quarterly review. milton. by mark pattison. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "the writer knows the times and the man, and of both he has written with singular force and discrimination."--spectator. hawthorne. by henry james. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "probably no one living could have done so good a book on hawthorne."--saturday review. southey. by professor dowden. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "a truly scholarly and delightful monograph."--examiner. bunyan. by james a. froude. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "he has given us a real study of bunyan's life and character, and at the same time a real study of his books."--athenæum. chaucer. by professor a. w. ward. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ "an enjoyable and excellent little book; far away the best connected account of chaucer and his works to be found in english."--academy. cowper. by goldwin smith. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ pope. by leslie stephen. crown 8vo, 2_s._ 6_d._ in preparation. wordsworth. by f. w. h. myers. swift. by john morley. byron. by professor nichol. adam smith. by leonard h. courtney. bentley. by professor r. c. jebb. landor. by professor sidney colvin. _others will follow._ macmillan & co., london. macmillan's globe library. _price 3s. 6d. per volume, in cloth. also kept in a variety of calf and morocco bindings, at moderate prices._ _the saturday review says: "the globe editions are admirable for their scholarly editing, their typographical excellence, their compendious form, and their cheapness." the british quarterly review says: "in compendiousness, elegance, and scholarliness the globe editions of messrs. macmillan surpass any popular series of our classics hitherto given to the public. as near an approach to miniature perfection as has ever been made._" shakespeare's complete works. edited by w. g. clark, m.a., and w. aldis wright, m.a., editors of the "cambridge shakespeare." with glossary, pp. 1075. _the athenæum says this edition is "a marvel of beauty, cheapness, and compactness.... for the busy man, above all for the working student, this is the best of all existing shakespeares."_ spenser's complete works. edited from the original editions and manuscripts, by r. morris, with a memoir by j. w. hales, m.a. with glossary. pp. lv., 736. "_worthy--and higher praise it needs not--of the beautiful 'globe series.'_"--daily news. sir walter scott's poetical works. edited, with a biographical and critical memoir, by francis turner palgrave, and copious notes. pp. xliii., 559. "_we can almost sympathize with a middle-aged grumbler, who, after reading mr. palgrave's memoir and introduction, should exclaim, 'why was there not such an edition of scott when i was a school-boy?'_"--guardian. complete works of robert burns. edited from the best printed and manuscript authorities, with glossarial index, notes, and a biographical memoir by alexander smith. pp. lxii., 636. "_admirable in all respects._"--spectator. robinson crusoe. edited after the original editions, with a biographical introduction by henry kingsley. pp. xxxi., 607. "_a most excellent and in every way desirable edition._"--court circular. goldsmith's miscellaneous work. edited, with biographical introduction, by professor masson. pp. lx., 695. "_such an admirable compendium of the facts of goldsmith's life, and so careful and minute a delineation of the mixed traits of his peculiar character as to be a very model of a literary biography in little._"--scotsman. pope's poetical works. edited, with notes, and introductory memoir by a. w. ward, m.a., professor of history in owens college, manchester. pp. lii., 508. _the literary churchman remarks: "the editor's own notes and introductory memoir are excellent, the memoir alone would be cheap and well worth buying at the price of the whole volume._" dryden's poetical works. edited, with a memoir, revised text, and notes, by w. d. christie, m.a., of trinity college, cambridge. pp. lxxxvii., 662. "_an admirable edition, the result of great research and of a careful revision of the text._"--pall mall gazette. cowper's poetical works. edited, with notes and biographical introduction, by william benham, vicar of margate. pp. lxxiii., 536. "_mr. benham's edition of cowper is one of permanent value._"-saturday review. morte d'arthur.--sir thomas malory's book of king arthur and of his noble knights of the round table. the original edition of caxton, revised for modern use. with an introduction by sir edward strachey, bart. pp. xxxvii., 509. "_it is with perfect confidence that we recommend this edition of the old romance to every class of readers._"--pall mall gazette. the works of virgil. rendered into english prose, with introductions, notes, running analysis, and an index. by james lonsdale, m.a., and samuel lee, m.a. pp. 228. "_a more complete edition of virgil in english it is scarcely possible to conceive than the scholarly work before us._"--globe. the works of horace. rendered into english prose, with introductions, running analysis, notes, and index. by james lonsdale, m.a., and samuel lee, m.a. _the standard says, "to classical and non-classical readers it will be invaluable._" milton's poetical works.--edited, with introductions, by professor masson. "_in every way an admirable book._"--pall mall gazette. macmillan & co., london. transcriber's notes: variant spellings of william shakspeare's name have been standardized in the text, but not in the advertisements at the end of the book. the following words use an oe ligature in the original: boeotian breboeuf manoeuvre manoeuvres phoebus the following corrections have been made to the text: page 6: like so many other poets, he took[original has comma] infinite delight in page 14: his companions could practice[original has practise] with comparative impunity page 17: we have already[original has aleady] reached page 25: refine as the reasoning faculties develop[original has develope] page 50: addison gave to lady m. w. montagu[original has montague] page 51: _ib._, march[original has comma] 25 page 54: when dying in distress[original has distres] page 55: addison recognizes[original has recognises] his true character page 66: philologists and antiquarians in the background[original has back-ground] page 73: he allows teucer to call hector a dog, but apologizes[original has apologises] in a note. page 84: for his neglect of popish superstition[original has supersition] page 86: he was familiar[original has familar] with bridgeman and kent page 125: what the authors would have suppressed[original has suppresed] page 125: he was like a civilised[original has civilized] commander page 126: either to shirk responsibility[original has reponsibility] page 127: and how successive[original has sucessive] editions page 135: installed cibber in[original has in in] his place page 146: was simply a reproduction of[original has comma] curll's publication page 156: ---4[original has 3 spaces preceding the numeral] page 166: manuscripts seen by mallet may probably[original has probable] have been a commonplace book page 169: but errs not nature from this gracious end,[original is missing comma] page 175: more outspoken than himself[original has himseif] page 192: and fame, the lord of useless thousands ends.[original is missing period] page 193: brand the bold front of shameless guilty men,[comma missing in original] page 198: any collection of british poets innumerable pages of versification[original has verification] page 199: by the brilliance of his conversation.[original has comma] footnote 19: pope's works, vol. i. p.[period missing in original] cxxi. advertising at end of the book: hume. by professor[original has pofessor] huxley burns' [original has burn's] poetry southey. by professor[original has pofessor] dowden. de quincey's writings. the "confessions of an english opium eater," and "suspiria de profundis," form the first volume of this series of mr. de quincey's writings. a third volume will shortly be issued, containing some of his most interesting papers contributed to the english magazines. biographical essays. by thomas de quincey, author of "confessions of an english opium-eater," etc. etc. shakspeare. [endnote: 1] william shakspeare, the protagonist on the great arena of modern poetry, and the glory of the human intellect, was born at stratford-upon-avon, in the county of warwick, in the year 1564, and upon some day, not precisely ascertained, in the month of april. it is certain that he was baptized on the 25th; and from that fact, combined with some shadow of a tradition, malone has inferred that he was born on the 23d. there is doubtless, on the one hand, no absolute necessity deducible from law or custom, as either operated in those times, which obliges us to adopt such a conclusion; for children might be baptized, and were baptized, at various distances from their birth: yet, on the other hand, the 23d is as likely to have been the day as any other; and more likely than any earlier day, upon two arguments. first, because there was probably a tradition floating in the seventeenth century, that shakspeare died upon his birthday: now it is beyond a doubt that he died upon the 23d of april. secondly, because it is a reasonable presumption, that no parents, living in a simple community, tenderly alive to the pieties of household duty, and in an age still clinging reverentially to the ceremonial ordinances of religion, would much delay the adoption of their child into the great family of christ. considering the extreme frailty of an infant's life during its two earliest years, to delay would often be to disinherit the child of its christian privileges; privileges not the less eloquent to the feelings from being profoundly mysterious, and, in the english church, forced not only upon the attention, but even upon the eye of the most thoughtless. according to the discipline of the english church, the unbaptized are buried with "maimed rites," shorn of their obsequies, and sternly denied that "sweet and solemn farewell," by which otherwise the church expresses her final charity with all men; and not only so, but they are even _locally_ separated and sequestrated. ground the most hallowed, and populous with christian burials of households, "that died in peace with one another. father, sister, son, and brother," opens to receive the vilest malefactor; by which the church symbolically expresses her maternal willingness to gather back into her fold those even of her flock who have strayed from her by the most memorable aberrations; and yet, with all this indulgence, she banishes to unhallowed ground the innocent bodies of the unbaptized. to them and to suicides she turns a face of wrath. with this gloomy fact offered to the very external senses, it is difficult to suppose that any parents would risk their own reproaches, by putting the fulfilment of so grave a duty on the hazard of a convulsion fit. the case of royal children is different; their baptisms, it is true, were often delayed for weeks but the household chaplains of the palace were always at hand, night and day, to baptize them in the very agonies of death. [endnote: 3] we must presume, therefore, that william shakspeare was born on some day very little anterior to that of his baptism; and the more so because the season of the year was lovely and genial, the 23d of april in 1564, corresponding in fact with what we now call the 3d of may, so that, whether the child was to be carried abroad, or the clergyman to be summoned, no hindrance would arise from the weather. one only argument has sometimes struck us for supposing that the 22d might be the day, and not the 23d; which is, that shakspeare's sole granddaughter, lady barnard, was married on the 22d of april, 1626, ten years exactly from the poet's death; and the reason for choosing this day _might_ have had a reference to her illustrious grandfather's birthday, which, there is good reason for thinking, would be celebrated as a festival in the family for generations. still this choice _may_ have been an accident, or governed merely by reason of convenience. and, on the whole, it is as well perhaps to acquiesce in the old belief, that shakspeare was born and died on the 23d of april. we cannot do wrong if we drink to his memory on both 22d and 23d. on a first review of the circumstances, we have reason to feel no little perplexity in finding the materials for a life of this transcendent writer so meagre and so few; and amongst them the larger part of doubtful authority. all the energy of curiosity directed upon this subject, through a period of one hundred and fifty years, (for so long it is since betterton the actor began to make researches,) has availed us little or nothing. neither the local traditions of his provincial birthplace, though sharing with london through half a century the honor of his familiar presence, nor the recollections of that brilliant literary circle with whom he lived in the metropolis, have yielded much more than such an outline of his history, as is oftentimes to be gathered from the penurious records of a grave-stone. that he lived, and that he died, and that he was "a little lower than the angels;"--these make up pretty nearly the amount of our undisputed report. it may be doubted, indeed, whether at this day we arc as accurately acquainted with the life of shakspeare as with that of chaucer, though divided from each other by an interval of two centuries, and (what should have been more effectual towards oblivion) by the wars of the two roses. and yet the traditional memory of a rural and a sylvan region, such as warwickshire at that time was, is usually exact as well as tenacious; and, with respect to shakspeare in particular, we may presume it to have been full and circumstantial through the generation succeeding to his own, not only from the curiosity, and perhaps something of a scandalous interest, which would pursue the motions of one living so large a part of his life at a distance from his wife, but also from the final reverence and honor which would settle upon the memory of a poet so predominently successful; of one who, in a space of five and twenty years, after running a bright career in the capital city of his native land, and challenging notice from the throne, had retired with an ample fortune, created by his personal efforts, and by labors purely intellectual. how are we to account, then, for that deluge, as if from lethe, which has swept away so entirely the traditional memorials of one so illustrious? such is the fatality of error which overclouds every question connected with shakspeare, that two of his principal critics, steevens and malone, have endeavored to solve the difficulty by cutting it with a falsehood. they deny in effect that he _was_ illustrious in the century succeeding to his own, however much he has since become so. we shall first produce their statements in their own words, and we shall then briefly review them. steevens delivers _his_ opinion in the following terms: "how little shakspeare was once read, may be understood from tate, who, in his dedication to the altered play of king lear, speaks of the original as an obscure piece, recommended to his notice by a friend; and the author of the tatler, having occasion to quote a few lines out of macbeth, was content to receive them from davenant's alteration of that celebrated drama, in which almost every original beauty is either awkwardly disguised or arbitrarily omitted." another critic, who cites this passage from steevens, pursues the hypothesis as follows: "in fifty years after his death, dryden mentions that he was then become _a little obsolete_. in the beginning of the last century, lord shaftesbury complains of his _rude unpolished style, and his antiquated phrase and wit_. it is certain that, for nearly a hundred years after his death, partly owing to the immediate revolution and rebellion, and partly to the licentious taste encouraged in charles ii's time, and perhaps partly to the incorrect state of his works, he was almost entirely neglected." this critic then goes on to quote with approbation the opinion of malone,--"that if he had been read, admired, studied, and imitated, in the same degree as he is now, the enthusiasm of some one or other of his admirers in the last age would have induced him to make some inquiries concerning the history of his theatrical career, and the anecdotes of his private life." after which this enlightened writer re-affirms and clenches the judgment he has quoted, by saying,--"his admirers, however, _if he had admirers in that age_, possessed no portion of such enthusiasm." it may, perhaps, be an instructive lesson to young readers, if we now show them, by a short sifting of these confident dogmatists, how easy it is for a careless or a half-read man to circulate the most absolute falsehoods under the semblance of truth; falsehoods which impose upon himself as much as they do upon others. we believe that not one word or illustration is uttered in the sentences cited from these three critics, which is not _virtually_ in the very teeth of the truth. to begin with mr. nahum tate. this poor grub of literature, if he did really speak of lear as "an _obscure_ piece, recommended to his notice by a friend," of which we must be allowed to doubt, was then uttering a conscious falsehood. it happens that lear was one of the few shakspearian dramas which had kept the stage unaltered. but it is easy to see a mercenary motive in such an artifice as this. mr. nahum tate is not of a class of whom it can be safe to say that they are "well known:" they and their desperate tricks are essentially obscure, and good reason he has to exult in the felicity of such obscurity; for else this same vilest of travesties, mr. nahum's lear, would consecrate his name to everlasting scorn. for himself, he belonged to the age of dryden rather than of pope: he "flourished," if we can use such a phrase of one who was always withering, about the era of the revolution; and his lear, we believe, was arranged in the year 1682. but the family to which he belongs is abundantly recorded in the dunciad, and his own name will be found amongst its catalogues of heroes. with respect to _the author of the tatler_, a very different explanation is requisite. steevens means the reader to understand addison; but it does not follow that the particular paper in question was from his pen. nothing, however, could be more natural than to quote from the common form of the play as then in possession of the stage. it was _there_, beyond a doubt, that a fine gentleman living upon town, and not professing any deep scholastic knowledge of literature, (a light in which we are always to regard the writers of the spectator, guardian, &c.,) would be likely to have learned anything he quoted from macbeth. this we say generally of the writers in those periodical papers; but, with reference to addison in particular, it is time to correct the popular notion of his literary character, or at least to mark it by severer lines of distinction. it is already pretty well known, that addison had no very intimate acquaintance with the literature of his own country. it is known, also, that he did not think such an acquaintance any ways essential to the character of an elegant scholar and _litterateur_. quite enough he found it, and more than enough for the time he had to spare, if he could maintain a tolerable familiarity with the foremost latin poets, and a very slender one indeed with the grecian. _how_ slender, we can see in his "travels." of modern authors, none as yet had been published with notes, commentaries, or critical collations of the text; and, accordingly, addison looked upon all of them, except those few who professed themselves followers in the retinue and equipage of the ancients, as creatures of a lower race. boileau, as a mere imitator and propagator of horace, he read, and probably little else amongst the french classics. hence it arose that he took upon himself to speak sneeringly of tasso. to this, which was a bold act for his timid mind, he was emboldened by the countenance of boileau. of the elder italian authors, such as ariosto, and, _a fortiori_, dante, be knew absolutely nothing. passing to our own literature, it is certain that addison was profoundly ignorant of chaucer and of spenser. milton only,--and why? simply because he was a brilliant scholar, and stands like a bridge between the christian literature and the pagan,--addison had read and esteemed. there was also in the very constitution of milton's mind, in the majestic regularity and planetary solemnity of its _epic_ movements, something which he could understand and appreciate. as to the meteoric and incalculable eccentricities of the _dramatic_ mind, as it displayed itself in the heroic age of our drama, amongst the titans of 1590-1630, they confounded and overwhelmed him. in particular, with regard to shakspeare, we shall now proclaim a discovery which we made some twenty years ago. we, like others, from seeing frequent references to shakspeare in the spectator, had acquiesced in the common belief, that although addison was no doubt profoundly unlearned in shakspeare's language, and thoroughly unable to do him justice, (and this we might well assume, since his great rival pope, who had expressly studied shakspeare, was, after all, so memorably deficient in the appropriate knowledge,)--yet, that of course he had a vague popular knowledge of the mighty poet's cardinal dramas. accident only led us into a discovery of our mistake. twice or thrice we had observed, that if shakspeare were quoted, that paper turned out not to be addison's; and at length, by express examination, we ascertained the curious fact, that addison has never in one instance quoted or made any reference to shakspeare. but was this, as steevens most disingenuously pretends, to be taken as an exponent of the public feeling towards shakspeare? was addison's neglect representative of a general neglect? if so, whence came rowe's edition, pope's, theobald's, sir thomas hanmer's, bishop warburton's, all upon the heels of one another? with such facts staring him in the face, how shameless must be that critic who could, in support of such a thesis, refer to " _the author of the tatler_" contemporary with all these editors. the truth is, addison was well aware of shakspeare's hold on the popular mind; too well aware of it. the feeble constitution of the poetic faculty, as existing in himself, forbade his sympathizing with shakspeare; the proportions were too colossal for his delicate vision; and yet, as one who sought popularity himself, he durst not shock what perhaps he viewed as a national prejudice. those who have happened, like ourselves, to see the effect of passionate music and "deep-inwoven harmonics" upon the feeling of an idiot, we may conceive what we mean. such music does not utterly revolt the idiot; on the contrary, it has a strange but a horrid fascination for him; it alarms, irritates, disturbs, makes him profoundly unhappy; and chiefly by unlocking imperfect glimpses of thoughts and slumbering instincts, which it is for his peace to have entirely obscured, because for him they can be revealed only partially, and with the sad effect of throwing a baleful gleam upon his blighted condition. do we mean, then, to compare addison with an idiot? not generally, by any means. nobody can more sincerely admire him where he was a man of real genius, viz., in his delineations of character and manners, or in the exquisite delicacies of his humor. but assuredly addison, as a poet, was amongst the sons of the feeble; and between the authors of cato and of king lear there was a gulf never to be bridged over. [endnote: 4] but dryden, we are told, pronounced shakspeare already in his day _"a little obsolete."_ here now we have wilful, deliberate falsehood. _obsolete_, in dryden's meaning, does not imply that he was so with regard to his popularity, (the question then at issue,) but with regard to his diction and choice of words. to cite dryden as a witness for any purpose against shakspeare,--dryden, who of all men had the most ransacked wit and exhausted language in celebrating the supremacy of shakspeare's genius, does indeed require as much shamelessness in feeling as mendacity in principle. but then lord shaftesbury, who may be taken as half way between dryden and pope, (dryden died in 1700, pope was then twelve years old, and lord s. wrote chiefly, we believe, between 1700 and 1710,) "complains," it seems, "of his rude unpolished style, and his antiquated phrase and wit." what if he does? let the whole truth be told, and then we shall see how much stress is to be laid upon such a judgment. the second lord shaftesbury, the author of the characteristics, was the grandson of that famous political agitator, the chancellor shaftesbury, who passed his whole life in storms of his own creation. the second lord shaftesbury was a man of crazy constitution, querulous from ill health, and had received an eccentric education from his eccentric grandfather. he was practised daily in _talking_ latin, to which afterwards he added a competent study of the greek; and finally he became unusually learned for his rank, but the most absolute and undistinguishing pedant that perhaps literature has to show. he sneers continually at the regular built academic pedant; but he himself, though no academic, was essentially the very impersonation of pedantry. no thought however beautiful, no image however magnificent, could conciliate his praise as long as it was clothed in english; but present him with the most trivial common-places in greek, and he unaffectedly fancied them divine; mistaking the pleasurable sense of his own power in a difficult and rare accomplishment for some peculiar force or beauty in the passage. such was the outline of his literary taste. and was it upon shakspeare only, or upon him chiefly, that he lavished his pedantry? far from it. he attacked milton with no less fervor; he attacked dryden with a thousand times more. jeremy taylor he quoted only to ridicule; and even locke, the confidential friend of his grandfather, he never alludes to without a sneer. as to shakspeare, so far from lord shaftesbury's censures arguing his deficient reputation, the very fact of his noticing him at all proves his enormous popularity; for upon system he noticed those only who ruled the public taste. the insipidity of his objections to shakspeare may be judged from this, that he comments in a spirit of absolute puerility upon the name _desdemona_, as though intentionally formed from the greek word for _superstition_. in fact, he had evidently read little beyond the list of names in shakspeare; yet there is proof enough that the irresistible beauty of what little he _had_ read was too much for all his pedantry, and startled him exceedingly; for ever afterwards he speaks of shakspeare as one who, with a little aid from grecian sources, really had something great and promising about him. as to modern authors, neither this lord shaftesbury nor addison read any thing for the latter years of their lives but bayle's dictionary. and most of the little scintillations of erudition, which may be found in the notes to the characteristics, and in the essays of addison, are derived, almost without exception, and uniformly without acknowledgment, from bayle. [endnote: 5] finally, with regard to the sweeping assertion, that "for nearly a hundred years after his death shakspeare was almost entirely neglected," we shall meet this scandalous falsehood, by a rapid view of his fortunes during the century in question. the tradition has always been, that shakspeare was honored by the especial notice of queen elizabeth, as well as by that of james i. at one time we were disposed to question the truth of this tradition; but that was for want of having read attentively the lines of ben jonson to the memory of shakspeare, those generous lines which have so absurdly been taxed with faint praise. jonson could make no mistake on this point; he, as one of shakspeare's familiar companions, must have witnessed at the very time, and accompanied with friendly sympathy, every motion of royal favor towards shakspeare. now he, in words which leave no room for doubt, exclaims, "sweet swan of avon, what a sight it were to see thee in our waters yet appear; and make those flights upon the banks of thames, _that so did take eliza and our james."_ these princes, then, _were_ taken, were fascinated, with some of shakspeare's dramas. in elizabeth the approbation would probably be sincere. in james we can readily suppose it to have been assumed; for he was a pedant in a different sense from lord shaftesbury; not from undervaluing modern poetry, but from caring little or nothing for any poetry, although he wrote about its mechanic rules. still the royal _imprimatur_ would be influential and serviceable no less when offered hypocritically than in full sincerity. next let us consider, at the very moment of shakspeare's death, who were the leaders of the british youth, the _principes juventutis_, in the two fields, equally important to a great poet's fame, of rank and of genius. the prince of wales and john milton; the first being then about sixteen years old, the other about eight. now these two great powers, as we may call them, these presiding stars over all that was english in thought and action, were both impassioned admirers of shakspeare. each of them counts for many thousands. the prince of wales [endnote: 6] had learned to appreciate shakspeare, not originally from reading him, but from witnessing the court representations of his plays at whitehall. afterwards we know that he made shakspeare his closet companion, for he was reproached with doing so by milton. and we know also, from the just criticism pronounced upon the character and diction of caliban by one of charles's confidential counsellors, lord falkland, that the king's admiration of shakspeare had impressed a determination upon the court reading. as to milton, by double prejudices, puritanical and classical, his mind had been preoccupied against the full impressions of shakspeare. and we know that there is such a thing as keeping the sympathies of love and admiration in a dormant state, or state of abeyance; an effort of self-conquest realized in more cases than one by the ancient fathers, both greek and latin, with regard to the profane classics. intellectually they admired, and would not belie their admiration; but they did not give their hearts cordially, they did not abandon themselves to their natural impulses. they averted their eyes and weaned their attention from the dazzling object. such, probably, was milton's state of feeling towards shakspeare after 1642, when the theatres were suppressed, and the fanatical fervor in its noontide heat. yet even then he did not belie his reverence intellectually for shakspeare; and in his younger days we know that he had spoken more enthusiastically of shakspeare, than he ever did again of any uninspired author. not only did he address a sonnet to his memory, in which he declares that kings would wish to die, if by dying they could obtain such a monument in the hearts of men; but he also speaks of him in his _il penseroso_, as the tutelary genius of the english stage. in this transmission of the torch (greek: lampadophoria) dryden succeeds to milton; he was born nearly thirty years later; about thirty years they were contemporaries; and by thirty years, or nearly, dryden survived his great leader. dryden, in fact, lived out the seventeenth century. and we have now arrived within nine years of the era, when the critical editions started in hot succession to one another. the names we have mentioned were the great influential names of the century. but of inferior homage there was no end. how came betterton the actor, how came davenant, how came rowe, or pope, by their intense (if not always sound) admiration for shakspeare, unless they had found it fuming upwards like incense to the pagan deities in ancient times, from altars erected at every turning upon all the paths of men? but it is objected that inferior dramatists were sometimes preferred to shakspeare; and again, that vile travesties of shakspeare were preferred to the authentic dramas. as to the first argument, let it be remembered, that if the saints of the chapel are always in the same honor, because _there_ men are simply discharging a duty, which once due will be due for ever; the saints of the theatre, on the other hand, must bend to the local genius, and to the very reasons for having a theatre at all. men go thither for amusement. this is the paramount purpose, and even acknowledged merit or absolute superiority must give way to it. does a man at paris expect to see moliere reproduced in proportion to his admitted precedency in the french drama? on the contrary, that very precedency argues such a familiarization with his works, that those who are in quest of relaxation will reasonably prefer any recent drama to that which, having lost all its novelty, has lost much of its excitement. we speak of ordinary minds; but in cases of _public_ entertainments, deriving part of their power from scenery and stage pomp, novelty is for all minds an essential condition of attraction. moreover, in some departments of the comic, beaumont and fletcher, when writing in combination, really had a freedom and breadth of manner which excels the comedy of shakspeare. as to the altered shakspeare as taking precedency of the genuine shakspeare, no argument can be so frivolous. the public were never allowed a choice; the great majority of an audience even now cannot be expected to carry the real shakspeare in their mind, so as to pursue a comparison between that and the alteration. their comparisons must be exclusively amongst what they have opportunities of seeing; that is, between the various pieces presented to them by the managers of theatres. further than this, it is impossible for them to extend their office of judging and collating; and the degenerate taste which substituted the caprices of davenant, the rants of dryden, or the filth of tate, for the jewellery of shakspeare, cannot with any justice be charged upon the public, not one in a thousand of whom was furnished with any means of comparing, but exclusively upon those (viz., theatrical managers,) who had the very amplest. yet even in excuse for _them_ much may be said. the very length of some plays compelled them to make alterations. the best of shakspeare's dramas, king lear, is the least fitted for representation; and, even for the vilest alteration, it ought in candor to be considered that possession is nine points of the law. he who would not have introduced, was often obliged to retain. finally, it is urged, that the small number of editions through which shakspeare passed in the seventeenth century, furnishes a separate argument, and a conclusive one against his popularity. we answer, that, considering the bulk of his plays collectively, the editions were _not_ few. compared with any known case, the copies sold of shakspeare were quite as many as could be expected under the circumstances. ten or fifteen times as much consideration went to the purchase of one great folio like shakspeare, as would attend the purchase of a little volume like waller or donne. without reviews, or newspapers, or advertisements, to diffuse the knowledge of books, the progress of literature was necessarily slow, and its expansion narrow. but this is a topic which has always been treated unfairly, not with regard to shakspeare only, but to milton, as well as many others. the truth is, we have not facts enough to guide us; for the number of editions often tells nothing accurately as to the number of copies. with respect to shakspeare it is certain, that, had his masterpieces been gathered into small volumes, shakspeare would have had a most extensive sale. as it was, there can be no doubt, that from his own generation, throughout the seventeenth century, and until the eighteenth began to accommodate, not any greater popularity in _him_, but a greater taste for reading in the public, his fame never ceased to be viewed as a national trophy of honor; and the most illustrious men of the seventeenth century were no whit less fervent in their admiration than those of the eighteenth and the nineteenth, either as respected its strength and sincerity, or as respected its open profession. [endnote: 7] it is therefore a false notion, that the general sympathy with the merits of shakspeare ever beat with a languid or intermitting pulse. undoubtedly, in times when the functions of critical journals and of newspapers were not at hand to diffuse or to strengthen the impressions which emanated from the capital, all opinions must have travelled slowly into the provinces. but even then, whilst the perfect organs of communication were wanting, indirect substitutes were supplied by the necessities of the times, or by the instincts of political zeal. two channels especially lay open between the great central organ of the national mind, and the remotest provinces. parliaments were occasionally summoned, (for the judges' circuits were too brief to produce much effect,) and during their longest suspensions, the nobility, with large retinues, continually resorted to the court. but an intercourse more constant and more comprehensive was maintained through the agency of the two universities. already, in the time of james i., the growing importance of the gentry, and the consequent birth of a new interest in political questions, had begun to express itself at oxford, and still more so at cambridge. academic persons stationed themselves as sentinels at london, for the purpose of watching the court and the course of public affairs. these persons wrote letters, like those of the celebrated joseph mede, which we find in ellis's historical collections, reporting to their fellow-collegians all the novelties of public life as they arose, or personally carried down such reports, and thus conducted the general feelings at the centre into lesser centres, from which again they were diffused into the ten thousand parishes of england; for, (with a very few exceptions in favor of poor benefices, welch or cumbrian,) every parish priest must unavoidably have spent his three years at one or other of the english universities. and by this mode of diffusion it is, that we can explain the strength with which shakspeare's thoughts and diction impressed themselves from a very early period upon the national literature, and even more generally upon the national thinking and conversation.[endnote: 8] the question, therefore, revolves upon us in threefold difficulty--how, having stepped thus prematurely into this inheritance of fame, leaping, as it were, thus abruptly into the favor alike of princes and the enemies of princes, had it become possible that in his native place, (honored still more in the final testimonies of his preference when founding a family mansion,) such a man's history, and the personal recollections which cling so affectionately to the great intellectual potentates who have recommended themselves by gracious manners, could so soon and so utterly have been obliterated? malone, with childish irreflection, ascribes the loss of such memorials to the want of enthusiasm in his admirers. local researches into private history had not then commenced. such a taste, often petty enough in its management, was the growth of after ages. else how came spenser's life and fortunes to be so utterly overwhelmed in oblivion? no poet of a high order could be more popular. the answer we believe to be this: twenty-six years after shakspeare's death commenced the great parliamentary war. this it was, and the local feuds arising to divide family from family, brother from brother, upon which we must charge the extinction of traditions and memorials, doubtless abundant up to that era. the parliamentary contest, it will be said, did not last above three years; the king's standard having been first raised at nottingham in august, 1642, and the battle of naseby (which terminated the open warfare) having been fought in june, 1645. or even if we extend its duration to the surrender of the last garrison, that war terminated in the spring of 1646. and the brief explosions of insurrection or of scottish invasion, which occurred on subsequent occasions, were all locally confined, and none came near to warwickshire, except the battle of worcester, more than five years after. this is true; but a short war will do much to efface recent and merely personal memorials. and the following circumstances of the war were even more important than the general fact. first of all, the very mansion founded by shakspeare became the military headquarters for the queen in 1644, when marching from the eastern coast of england to join the king in oxford; and one such special visitation would be likely to do more serious mischief in the way of extinction, than many years of general warfare. secondly, as a fact, perhaps, equally important, birmingham, the chief town of warwickshire, and the adjacent district, the seat of our hardware manufactures, was the very focus of disaffection towards the royal cause. not only, therefore, would this whole region suffer more from internal and spontaneous agitation, but it would be the more frequently traversed vindictively from without, and harassed by flying parties from oxford, or others of the king's garrisons. thirdly, even apart from the political aspects of warwickshire, this county happens to be the central one of england, as regards the roads between the north and south; and birmingham has long been the great central axis, [endnote: 9] in which all the radii from the four angles of england proper meet and intersect. mere accident, therefore, of local position, much more when united with that avowed inveteracy of malignant feeling, which was bitter enough to rouse a re-action of bitterness in the mind of lord clarendon, would go far to account for the wreck of many memorials relating to shakspeare, as well as for the subversion of that quiet and security for humble life, in which the traditional memory finds its best _nidus_. thus we obtain one solution, and perhaps the main one, of the otherwise mysterious oblivion which had swept away all traces of the mighty poet, by the time when those quiet days revolved upon england, in which again the solitary agent of learned research might roam in security from house to house, gleaning those personal remembrances which, even in the fury of civil strife, might long have lingered by the chimney corner. but the fierce furnace of war had probably, by its _local_ ravages, scorched this field of natural tradition, and thinned the gleaner's inheritance by three parts out of four. this, we repeat, may be one part of the solution to this difficult problem. and if another is still demanded, possibly it may be found in the fact, hostile to the perfect consecration of shakspeare's memory, that after all he was a player. many a coarse-minded country gentleman, or village pastor, who would have held his town glorified by the distinction of having sent forth a great judge or an eminent bishop, might disdain to cherish the personal recollections which surrounded one whom custom regarded as little above a mountebank, and the illiberal law as a vagabond. the same degrading appreciation attached both to the actor in plays and to their author. the contemptuous appellation of "play-book," served as readily to degrade the mighty volume which contained lear and hamlet, as that of "play-actor," or "player-man," has always served with the illiberal or the fanatical to dishonor the persons of roscius or of garrick, of talma or of siddons. nobody, indeed, was better aware of this than the noble-minded shakspeare; and feelingly he has breathed forth in his sonnets this conscious oppression under which he lay of public opinion, unfavorable by a double title to his own pretensions; for, being both dramatic author and dramatic performer, he found himself heir to a twofold opprobrium, and at an era of english society when the weight of that opprobrium was heaviest. in reality, there was at this period a collision of forces acting in opposite directions upon the estimation of the stage and scenical art, and therefore of all the ministers in its equipage. puritanism frowned upon these pursuits, as ruinous to public morals; on the other hand, loyalty could not but tolerate what was patronized by the sovereign; and it happened that elizabeth, james, and charles i., were _all_ alike lovers and promoters of theatrical amusements, which were indeed more indispensable to the relief of court ceremony, and the monotony of aulic pomp, than in any other region of life. this royal support, and the consciousness that any brilliant success in these arts implied an unusual share of natural endowments, did something in mitigation of a scorn which must else have been intolerable to all generous natures. but whatever prejudice might thus operate against the perfect sanctity of shakspeare's posthumous reputation, it is certain that the splendor of his worldly success must have done much to obliterate that effect; his admirable colloquial talents a good deal, and his gracious affability still more. the wonder, therefore, will still remain, that betterton, in less than a century from his death, should have been able to glean so little. and for the solution of this wonder, we must throw ourselves chiefly upon the explanations we have made as to the parliamentary war, and the local ravages of its progress in the very district, of the very town, and the very house. if further arguments are still wanted to explain this mysterious abolition, we may refer the reader to the following succession of disastrous events, by which it should seem that a perfect malice of misfortune pursued the vestiges of the mighty poet's steps. in 1613, the globe theatre, with which he had been so long connected, was burned to the ground. soon afterwards a great fire occurred in stratford; and next, (without counting upon the fire of london, just fifty years after his death, which, however, would consume many an important record from periods far more remote,) the house of ben jonson, in which probably, as mr. campbell suggests, might be parts of his correspondence, was also burned. finally, there was an old tradition that lady barnard, the sole grand-daughter of shakspeare, had carried off many of his papers from stratford, and these papers have never since been traced. in many of the elder lives it has been asserted, that john shakspeare, the father of the poet, was a butcher, and in others that he was a woolstapler. it is now settled beyond dispute that he was a glover. this was his professed occupation in stratford, though it is certain that, with this leading trade, from which he took his denomination, he combined some collateral pursuits; and it is possible enough that, as openings offered, he may have meddled with many. in that age, and in a provincial town, nothing like the exquisite subdivision of labor was attempted which we now see realized in the great cities of christendom. and one trade is often found to play into another with so much reciprocal advantage, that even in our own days we do not much wonder at an enterprising man, in country places, who combines several in his own person. accordingly, john shakspeare is known to have united with his town calling the rural and miscellaneous occupations of a farmer. meantime his avowed business stood upon a very different footing from the same trade as it is exercised in modern times. gloves were in that age an article of dress more costly by much, and more elaborately decorated, than in our own. they were a customary present from some cities to the judges of assize, and to other official persons; a custom of ancient standing, and in some places, we believe, still subsisting; and in such cases it is reasonable to suppose, that the gloves must originally have been more valuable than the trivial modern article of the same name. so also, perhaps, in their origin, of the gloves given at funerals. in reality, whenever the simplicity of an age makes it difficult to renew the parts of a wardrobe, except in capital towns of difficult access, prudence suggests that such wares should be manufactured of more durable materials; and, being so, they become obviously susceptible of more lavish ornament. but it will not follow, from this essential difference in the gloves of shakspeare's age, that the glover's occupation was more lucrative. doubtless he sold more costly gloves, and upon each pair had a larger profit, but for that very reason he sold fewer. two or three gentlemen "of worship" in the neighborhood might occasionally require a pair of gloves, but it is very doubtful whether any inhabitant of stratford would ever call for so mere a luxury. the practical result, at all events, of john shakspeare's various pursuits, does not appear permanently to have met the demands of his establishment, and in his maturer years there are indications still surviving that he was under a cloud of embarrassment. he certainly lost at one time his social position in the town of stratford; but there is a strong presumption, in _our_ construction of the case, that he finally retrieved it; and for this retrieval of a station, which he had forfeited by personal misfortunes or neglect, he was altogether indebted to the filial piety of his immortal son. meantime the earlier years of the elder shakspeare wore the aspect of rising prosperity, however unsound might be the basis on which it rested. there can be little doubt that william shakspeare, from his birth up to his tenth or perhaps his eleventh year, lived in careless plenty, and saw nothing in his father's house but that style of liberal house-keeping, which has ever distinguished the upper yeomanry and the rural gentry of england. probable enough it is, that the resources for meeting this liberality were not strictly commensurate with the family income, but were sometimes allowed to entrench, by means of loans or mortgages, upon capital funds. the stress upon the family finances was perhaps at times severe; and that it was borne at all, must be imputed to the large and even splendid portion which john shakspeare received with his wife. this lady, for such she really was in an eminent sense, by birth as well as by connections, bore the beautiful name of mary arden, a name derived from the ancient forest district [endnote: 10] of the country; and doubtless she merits a more elaborate notice than our slender materials will furnish. to have been _the mother of shakspeare, _--how august a title to the reverence of infinite generations, and of centuries beyond the vision of prophecy. a plausible hypothesis has been started in modern times, that the facial structure, and that the intellectual conformation, may be deduced more frequently from the corresponding characteristics in the mother than in the father. it is certain that no very great man has ever existed, but that his greatness has been rehearsed and predicted in one or other of his parents. and it cannot be denied, that in the most eminent men, where we have had the means of pursuing the investigation, the mother has more frequently been repeated and reproduced than the father. we have known cases where the mother has furnished all the intellect, and the father all the moral sensibility; upon which assumption, the wonder ceases that _cicero,_ lord chesterfield, and other brilliant men, who took the utmost pains with their sons, should have failed so conspicuously; for possibly the mothers had been women of excessive and even exemplary stupidity. in the case of shakspeare, each parent, if we had any means of recovering their characteristics, could not fail to furnish a study of the most profound interest; and with regard to his mother in particular, if the modern hypothesis be true, and if we are indeed to deduce from her the stupendous intellect of her son, in that case she must have been a benefactress to her husband's family, beyond the promises of fairy land or the dreams of romance; for it is certain that to her chiefly this family was also indebted for their worldly comfort. mary arden was the youngest daughter and the heiress of robert arden, of wilmecote, esq., in the county of warwick. the family of arden was even then of great antiquity. about one century and a quarter before the birth of william shakspeare, a person bearing the same name as his maternal grandfather had been returned by the commissioners in their list of the warwickshire gentry; he was there styled robert arden, esq., of bromich. this was in 1433, or the 12th year of henry vi. in henry vii.'s reign, the ardens received a grant of lands from the crown; and in 1568, four years after the birth of william shakspeare, edward arden, of the same family, was sheriff of the county. mary arden was, therefore, a young lady of excellent descent and connections, and an heiress of considerable wealth. she brought to her husband, as her marriage portion, the landed estate of asbies, which, upon any just valuation, must be considered as a handsome dowry for a woman of her station. as this point has been contested, and as it goes a great way towards determining the exact social position of the poet's parents, let us be excused for sifting it a little more narrowly than might else seem warranted by the proportions of our present life. every question which it can be reasonable to raise at all, it must be reasonable to treat with at least so much of minute research, as may justify the conclusions which it is made to support. the estate of asbies contained fifty acres of arable land, six of meadow, and a right of commonage. what may we assume to have been the value of its fee-simple? malone, who allows the total fortune of mary arden to have been 110l 13s 4d., is sure that the value of asbies could not have been more than one hundred pounds. but why? because, says he, the "average" rent of land at that time was no more than three shillings per acre. this we deny; but upon that assumption, the total yearly rent of fifty-six acres would be exactly eight guineas. [endnote: 11] and therefore, in assigning the value of asbies at one hundred pounds, it appears that malone must have estimated the land at no more than twelve years' purchase, which would carry the value to 100l. 16s. "even at this estimate," as the latest annotator [endnote: 12] on this subject _justly_ observes, "mary arden's portion was a larger one than was usually given to a landed gentleman's daughter." but this writer objects to malone's principle of valuation. "we find," says he, "that john shakspeare also farmed the meadow of tugton, containing sixteen acres, at the rate of eleven shillings per acre. now what proof has mr. malone adduced, that the acres of asbies were not as valuable as those of tugton? and if they were so, the former estate must have been worth between three and four hundred pounds." in the main drift of his objections we concur with mr. campbell. but as they are liable to some criticism, let us clear the ground of all plausible cavils, and then see what will be the result. malone, had he been alive, would probably have answered, that tugton was a farm specially privileged by nature; and that if any man contended for so unusual a rent as eleven shillings an acre for land not known to him, the _onus probandi_ would lie upon _him_. be it so; eleven shillings is certainly above the ordinary level of rent, but three shillings is below it. we contend, that for tolerably good land, situated advantageously, that is, with a ready access to good markets and good fairs, such as those of coventry, birmingham, gloucester, worcester, shrewsbury,. &c., one noble might be assumed as the annual rent; and that in such situations twenty years' purchase was not a valuation, even in elizabeth's reign, very unusual. let us, however, assume the rent at only five shillings, and land at sixteen years' purchase. upon this basis, the rent would be 14l, and the value of the fee simple 224l. now, if it were required to equate that sum with its present value, a very operose [endnote: 13] calculation might be requisite. but contenting ourselves with the gross method of making such equations between 1560 and the current century, that is, multiplying by five, we shall find the capital value of the estate to be eleven hundred and twenty pounds, whilst the annual rent would be exactly seventy. but if the estate had been sold, and the purchase-money lent upon mortgage, (the only safe mode of investing money at that time,) the annual interest would have reached 28l, equal to 140l of modern money; for mortgages in elizabeth's age readily produced ten per cent. a woman who should bring at this day an annual income of 140l to a provincial tradesman, living in a sort of _rus in urbe_, according to the simple fashions of rustic life, would assuredly be considered as an excellent match. and there can be little doubt that mary arden's dowry it was which, for some ten or a dozen years succeeding to his marriage, raised her husband to so much social consideration in stratford. in 1550 john shakspeare is supposed to have first settled in stratford, having migrated from some other part of warwickshire. in 1557 he married mary arden; in 1565, the year subsequent to the birth of his son william, his third child, he was elected one of the aldermen; and in the year 1568 he became first magistrate of the town, by the title of high bailiff. this year we may assume to have been that in which the prosperity of this family reached its zenith; for in this year it was, over and above the presumptions furnished by his civic honors, that he obtained a grant of arms from clarencieux of the heralds' college. on this occasion he declared himself worth five hundred pounds derived from his ancestors. and we really cannot understand the right by which critics, living nearly three centuries from his time, undertake to know his affairs better than himself, and to tax him with either inaccuracy or falsehood. no man would be at leisure to court heraldic honors, when he knew himself to be embarrassed, or apprehended that he soon might be so. a man whose anxieties had been fixed at all upon his daily livelihood would, by this chase after the armorial honors of heraldry, have made himself a butt for ridicule, such as no fortitude could enable him to sustain. in 1568, therefore, when his son william would be moving through his fifth year, john shakspeare, (now honored by the designation of _master_,) would be found at times in the society of the neighboring gentry. ten years in advance of this period he was already in difficulties. but there is no proof that these difficulties had then reached a point of degradation, or of memorable distress. the sole positive indications of his decaying condition are, that in 1578 he received an exemption from the small weekly assessment levied upon the aldermen of stratford for the relief of the poor; and that in the following year, 1579, he is found enrolled amongst the defaulters in the payment of taxes. the latter fact undoubtedly goes to prove that, like every man who is falling back in the world, he was occasionally in arrears. paying taxes is not like the honors awarded or the processions regulated by clarencieux; no man is ambitious of precedency there; and if a laggard pace in that duty is to be received as evidence of pauperism, nine tenths of the english people might occasionally be classed as paupers. with respect to his liberation from the weekly assessment, that may bear a construction different from the one which it has received. this payment, which could never have been regarded as a burthen, not amounting to five pounds annually of our present money, may have been held up as an exponent of wealth and consideration; and john shakspeare may have been required to resign it as an honorable distinction, not suitable to the circumstances of an embarrassed man. finally, the fact of his being indebted to robert sadler, a baker, in the sum of five pounds, and his being under the necessity of bringing a friend as security for the payment, proves nothing at all. there is not a town in europe, in which opulent men cannot be found that are backward in the payment of their debts. and the probability is, that master sadler acted like most people who, when they suppose a man to be going down in the world, feel their respect for him sensibly decaying, and think it wise to trample him under foot, provided only in that act of trampling they can squeeze out of him their own individual debt. like that terrific chorus in spohr's oratorio of st. paul, _" stone him to death "_ is the cry of the selfish and the illiberal amongst creditors, alike towards the just and the unjust amongst debtors. it was the wise and beautiful prayer of agar, "give me neither poverty nor riches;" and, doubtless, for quiet, for peace, and the _latentis semita vita_, that is the happiest dispensation. but, perhaps, with a view to a school of discipline and of moral fortitude, it might be a more salutary prayer, "give me riches _and_ poverty, and afterwards neither." for the transitional state between riches and poverty will teach a lesson both as to the baseness and the goodness of human nature, and will impress that lesson with a searching force, such as no borrowed experience ever can approach. most probable it is that shakspeare drew some of his powerful scenes in the timon of athens, those which exhibit the vileness of ingratitude and the impassioned frenzy of misanthropy, from his personal recollections connected with the case of his own father. possibly, though a cloud of two hundred and seventy years now veils it, this very master sadler, who was so urgent for his five pounds, and who so little apprehended that he should be called over the coals for it in the encyclopaedia britannica, may have compensate for the portrait of that lucullus who says of timon: "alas, good lord! a noble gentleman 'tis, if he would not keep so good a house. many a time and often i have dined with him, and told him on't; and come again to supper to him, of purpose to have him spend less; and yet he would embrace no counsel, take no warning by my coming. every man has his fault, and honesty is his; i have told him on't, but i could never get him from it." for certain years, perhaps, john shakspeare moved on in darkness and sorrow: "his familiars from his buried fortunes slunk all away; left their false vows with him, like empty purses pick'd; and his poor self, a dedicated beggar to the air, with his disease of all-shunn'd poverty, walk'd, like contempt, alone." we, however, at this day, are chiefly interested in the case as it bears upon the education and youthful happiness of the poet. now if we suppose that from 1568, the high noon of the family prosperity, to 1578, the first year of their mature embarrassments, one half the interval was passed in stationary sunshine, and the latter half in the gradual twilight of declension, it will follow that the young william had completed his tenth year before he heard the first signals of distress; and for so long a period his education would probably be conducted on as liberal a scale as the resources of stratford would allow. through this earliest section of his life he would undoubtedly rank as a gentleman's son, possibly as the leader of his class, in stratford. but what rank he held through the next ten years, or, more generally, what was the standing in society of shakspeare until he had created a new station for himself by his own exertions in the metropolis, is a question yet unsettled, but which has been debated as keenly as if it had some great dependencies. upon this we shall observe, that could we by possibility be called to settle beforehand what rank were best for favoring the development of intellectual powers, the question might wear a face of deep practical importance; but when the question is simply as to a matter of fact, what _was_ the rank held by a man whose intellectual development has long ago been completed, this becomes a mere question of curiosity. the tree has fallen; it is confessedly the noblest of all the forest; and we must therefore conclude that the soil in which it flourished was either the best possible, or, if not so, that any thing bad in its properties had been disarmed and neutralized by the vital forces of the plant, or by the benignity of nature. if any future shakspeare were likely to arise, it might be a problem of great interest to agitate, whether the condition of a poor man or of a gentleman were best fitted to nurse and stimulate his faculties. but for the actual shakspeare, since what he was he was, and since nothing greater can be imagined, it is now become a matter of little moment whether his course lay for fifteen or twenty years through the humilities of absolute poverty, or through the chequered paths of gentry lying in the shade. whatever _was_, must, in this case at least, have been the best, since it terminated in producing shakspeare: and thus far we must all be optimists. yet still, it will be urged, the curiosity is not illiberal which would seek to ascertain the precise career through which shakspeare ran. this we readily concede; and we are anxious ourselves to contribute any thing in our power to the settlement of a point so obscure. what we have wished to protest against, is the spirit of partisanship in which this question has too generally been discussed. for, whilst some with a foolish affectation of plebeian sympathies overwhelm us with the insipid commonplaces about birth and ancient descent, as honors containing nothing meritorious, and rush eagerly into an ostentatious exhibition of all the circumstances which favor the notion of a humble station and humble connections; others, with equal forgetfulness of true dignity, plead with the intemperance and partiality of a legal advocate for the pretensions of shakspeare to the hereditary rank of gentleman. both parties violate the majesty of the subject. when we are seeking for the sources of the euphrates or the st. lawrence, we look for no proportions to the mighty volume of waters in that particular summit amongst the chain of mountains which embosoms its earliest fountains, nor are we shocked at the obscurity of these fountains. pursuing the career of mahommed, or of any man who has memorably impressed his own mind or agency upon the revolutions of mankind, we feel solicitude about the circumstances which might surround his cradle to be altogether unseasonable and impertinent. whether he were born in a hovel or a palace, whether he passed his infancy in squalid poverty, or hedged around by the glittering spears of bodyguards, as mere questions of fact may be interesting; but, in the light of either accessories or counteragencies to the native majesty of the subject, are trivial and below all philosophic valuation. so with regard to the creator of lear and hamlet, of othello and macbeth; to him from whose golden urns the nations beyond the far atlantic, the multitude of the isles, and the generations unborn in australian climes, even to the realms of the rising sun (the greek: anatolai haedlioio,) must in every age draw perennial streams of intellectual life, we feel that the little accidents of birth and social condition are so unspeakably below the grandeur of the theme, are so irrelevant and disproportioned to the real interest at issue, so incommensurable with any of its relations, that a biographer of shakspeare at once denounces himself as below his subject if he can entertain such a question as seriously affecting the glory of the poet. in some legends of saints, we find that they were born with a lambent circle or golden aureola about their heads. this angelic coronet shed light alike upon the chambers of a cottage or a palace, upon the gloomy limits of a dungeon, or the vast expansion of a cathedral; but the cottage, the palace, the dungeon, the cathedral, were all equally incapable of adding one ray of color or one pencil of light to the supernatural halo. having, therefore, thus pointedly guarded ourselves from misconstruction, and consenting to entertain the question as one in which we, the worshippers of shakspeare, have an interest of curiosity, but in which he, the object of our worship, has no interest of glory, we proceed to state what appears to us the result of the scanty facts surviving when collated with each other. by his mother's side, shakspeare was an authentic gentleman. by his father's he would have stood in a more dubious position; but the effect of municipal honors to raise and illustrate an equivocal rank, has always been acknowledged under the popular tendencies of our english political system. from the sort of lead, therefore, which john shakspeare took at one time amongst his fellow-townsmen, and from his rank of first magistrate, we may presume that, about the year 1568, he had placed himself at the head of the stratford community. afterwards he continued for some years to descend from this altitude; and the question is, at what point this gradual degradation may be supposed to have settled. now we shall avow it as our opinion, that the composition of society in stratford was such that, even had the shakspeare family maintained their superiority, the main body of their daily associates must still have been found amongst persons below the rank of gentry. the poet must inevitably have mixed chiefly with mechanics and humble tradesmen, for such people composed perhaps the total community. but had there even been a gentry in stratford, since they would have marked the distinctions of their rank chiefly by greater reserve of manners, it is probable that, after all, shakspeare, with his enormity of delight in exhibitions of human nature, would have mostly cultivated that class of society in which the feelings are more elementary and simple, in which the thoughts speak a plainer language, and in which the restraints of factitious or conventional decorum are exchanged for the restraints of mere sexual decency. it is a noticeable fact to all who have looked upon human life with an eye of strict attention, that the abstract image of womanhood, in. its loveliness, its delicacy, and its modesty, nowhere makes itself more impressive or more advantageously felt than in the humblest cottages, because it is there brought into immediate juxtaposition with the grossness of manners, and the careless license of language incident to the fathers and brothers of the house. and this is more especially true in a nation of unaffected sexual gallantry, [endnote: 14] such as the english and the gothic races in general; since, under the immunity which their women enjoy from all servile labors of a coarse or out-of-doors order, by as much lower as they descend in the scale of rank, by so much more do they benefit under the force of contrast with the men of their own level. a young man of that class, however noble in appearance, is somewhat degraded in the eyes of women, by the necessity which his indigence imposes of working under a master; but a beautiful young woman, in the very poorest family, unless she enters upon a life of domestic servitude, (in which case her labors are light, suited to her sex, and withdrawn from the public eye,) so long in fact as she stays under her father's roof, is as perfectly her own mistress and _sui juris_ as the daughter of an earl. this personal dignity, brought into stronger relief by the mercenary employments of her male connections, and the feminine gentleness of her voice and manners, exhibited under the same advantages of contrast, oftentimes combine to make a young cottage beauty as fascinating an object as any woman of any station. hence we may in part account for the great event of shakspeare's early manhood, his premature marriage. it has always been known, or at least traditionally received for a fact, that shakspeare had married whilst yet a boy, and that his wife was unaccountably older than himself. in the very earliest biographical sketch of the poet, compiled by rowe, from materials collected by betterton the actor, it was stated, (and that statement is now ascertained to have been correct,) that he had married anne hathaway, "the daughter of a substantial yeoman." further than this nothing was known. but in september, 1836, was published a very remarkable document, which gives the assurance of law to the time and fact of this event, yet still, unless collated with another record, does nothing to lessen the mystery which had previously surrounded its circumstances. this document consists of two parts; the first, and principal, according to the logic of the case, though second according to the arrangement, being a _license_ for the marriage of william shakspeare with anne hathaway, under the condition "of _once_ asking of the bannes of matrimony," that is, in effect, dispensing with two out of the three customary askings; the second or subordinate part of the document being a _bond_ entered into by two sureties, viz.: fulke sandells and john rychardson, both described as _agricolae_ or yeomen, and both marksmen, (that is, incapable of writing, and therefore subscribing by means of _marks,_) for the payment of forty pounds sterling, in the event of shakspeare, yet a minor, and incapable of binding himself, failing to fulfil the conditions of the license. in the bond, drawn up in latin, there is no mention of shakspeare's name; but in the license, which is altogether english, _his_ name, of course, stands foremost; and as it may gratify the reader to see the very words and orthography of the original, we here extract the _operative_ part of this document, prefacing only, that the license is attached by way of explanation to the bond. "the condition of this obligation is suche, that if hereafter there shall not appere any lawfull lett or impediment, by reason of any precontract, &c., but that willm. shagspere, one thone ptie," [on the one party,] "and anne hathwey of stratford, in the diocess of worcester, maiden, may lawfully solemnize matrimony together; and in the same afterwards remaine and continew like man and wiffe. and, moreover, if the said willm. shagspere do not proceed to solemnization of mariadg with the said anne hathwey, without the consent of hir frinds;--then the said obligation" [viz., to pay forty pounds]" to be voyd and of none effect, or els to stand & abide in full force and vertue." what are we to think of this document? trepidation and anxiety are written upon its face. the parties are not to be married by a special license; not even by an ordinary license; in that case no proclamation of banns, no public asking at all, would have been requisite. economical scruples are consulted; and yet the regular movement of the marriage "through the bell-ropes" [endnote: 15] is disturbed. economy, which retards the marriage, is here evidently in collision with some opposite principle which precipitates it. how is all this to be explained? much light is afforded by the date when illustrated by another document. the bond bears date on the 28th day of november, in the 25th year of our lady the queen, that is, in 1582. now the baptism of shakspeare's eldest child, susanna, is registered on the 26th of may in the year following. suppose, therefore, that his marriage was solemnized on the 1st day of december; it was barely possible that it could be earlier, considering that the sureties, drinking, perhaps, at worcester throughout the 28th of november, would require the 29th, in so dreary a season, for their return to stratford; after which some preparation might be requisite to the bride, since the marriage was _not_ celebrated at stratford. next suppose the birth of miss susanna to have occurred, like her father's, two days before her baptism, viz., on the 24th of may. from december the 1st to may the 24th, both days inclusively, are one hundred and seventy-five days; which, divided by seven, gives precisely twenty-five weeks, that is to say, six months short by one week. oh, fie, miss susanna, you came rather before you were wanted. mr. campbell's comment upon the affair is, that "_if_ this was the case, "viz., if the baptism were really solemnized on the 26th of may," the poet's first child would _appear_ to have been born only six months and eleven days after the bond was entered into. "and he then concludes that, on this assumption," miss susanna shakspeare came into the world a little prematurely." but this is to doubt where there never was any ground for doubting; the baptism was _certainly_ on the 26th of may; and, in the next place, the calculation of six months and eleven days is sustained by substituting lunar months for calendar, and then only by supposing the marriage to have been celebrated on the very day of subscribing the bond in worcester, and the baptism to have been coincident with the birth; of which suppositions the latter is improbable, and the former, considering the situation of worcester, impossible. strange it is, that, whilst all biographers have worked with so much zeal upon the most barren dates or most baseless traditions in the great poet's life, realizing in a manner the chimeras of laputa, and endeavoring "to extract sunbeams from cucumbers," such a story with regard to such an event, no fiction of village scandal, but involved in legal documents, a story so significant and so eloquent to the intelligent, should formerly have been dismissed without notice of any kind, and even now, after the discovery of 1836, with nothing beyond a slight conjectural insinuation. for our parts, we should have been the last amongst the biographers to unearth any forgotten scandal, or, after so vast a lapse of time, and when the grave had shut out all but charitable thoughts, to point any moral censures at a simple case of natural frailty, youthful precipitancy of passion, of all trespasses the most venial, where the final intentions are honorable. but in this case there seems to have been something more in motion than passion or the ardor of youth. "i like not," says parson evans, (alluding to falstaff in masquerade,) "i like not when a woman has a great peard; i spy a great peard under her muffler." neither do we like the spectacle of a mature young woman, five years past her majority, wearing the semblance of having been led astray by a boy who had still two years and a half to run of his minority. shakspeare himself, looking back on this part of his youthful history from his maturest years, breathes forth pathetic counsels against the errors into which his own inexperience had been insnared. the disparity of years between himself and his wife he notices in a beautiful scene of the twelfth night. the duke orsino, observing the sensibility which the pretended cesario had betrayed on hearing some touching old snatches of a love strain, swears that his beardless page must have felt the passion of love, which the other admits. upon this the dialogue proceeds thus: duke. what kind of woman is't? viola. of your complexion. duke. she is not worth thee then. what years? viola. i' faith, about your years, my lord. duke. too old, by heaven. _let still the woman take an elder than herself: so wears she to him, so sways she level in her husband's heart._ for, boy, however we do praise ourselves, our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, than women's are. viola. i think it well, my lord. duke. _then let thy love be younger than thyself, or thy affection cannot hold the bent;_ for women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. these counsels were uttered nearly twenty years after the event in his own life, to which they probably look back; for this play is supposed to have been written in shakspeare's thirty-eighth year. and we may read an earnestness in pressing the point as to the _inverted_ disparity of years, which indicates pretty clearly an appeal to the lessons of his personal experience. but his other indiscretion, in having yielded so far to passion and opportunity as to crop by prelibation, and before they were hallowed, those flowers of paradise which belonged to his marriage day; this he adverts to with even more solemnity of sorrow, and with more pointed energy of moral reproof, in the very last drama which is supposed to have proceeded from his pen, and therefore with the force and sanctity of testamentary counsel. the tempest is all but ascertained to have been composed in 1611, that is, about five years before the poet's death; and indeed could not have been composed much earlier; for the very incident which suggested the basis of the plot, and of the local scene, viz., the shipwreck of sir george somers on the bermudas, (which were in consequence denominated the somers' islands,) did not occur until the year 1609. in the opening of the fourth act, prospero formally betrothes his daughter to ferdinand; and in doing so he pays the prince a well-merited compliment of having "worthily purchas'd" this rich jewel, by the patience with which, for her sake, he had supported harsh usage, and other painful circumstances of his trial. but, he adds solemnly, "if thou dost break her virgin knot before all sanctimonious ceremonies may with full and holy rite be minister'd;" in that case what would follow? "no sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall, to make this contract grow; _but barren hate, sour-ey'd disdain and discord, shall bestrew the union of your bed with weeds so loathly that you shall hate it both._ therefore take heed, as hymen's lamps shall light you." the young prince assures him in reply, that no strength of opportunity, concurring with the uttermost temptation, not "the murkiest den, the most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion our worser genius can----," should ever prevail to lay asleep his jealousy of self-control, so as to take any advantage of miranda's innocence. and he adds an argument for this abstinence, by way of reminding prospero, that not honor only, but even prudential care of his own happiness, is interested in the observance of his promise. any unhallowed anticipation would, as he insinuates, "take away the edge of that day's celebration, when i shall think, or phoebus' steeds are founder'd, or night kept chain'd below;" that is, when even the winged hours would seem to move too slowly. even thus prospero is not quite satisfied. during his subsequent dialogue with ariel, we are to suppose that ferdinand, in conversing apart with miranda, betrays more impassioned ardor than the wise magician altogether approves. the prince's caresses have not been unobserved; and thus prospero renews his warning: "look thou be true: do not give dalliance too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw to the fire i' the blood: be more abstemious, or else--good night your vow." the royal lover reassures him of his loyalty to his engagements; and again the wise father, so honorably jealous for his daughter, professes himself satisfied with the prince's pledges. now in all these emphatic warnings, uttering the language "of that sad wisdom folly leaves behind," who can avoid reading, as in subtle hieroglyphics, the secret record of shakspeare's own nuptial disappointments? we, indeed, that is, universal posterity through every age, have reason to rejoice in these disappointments; for to them, past all doubt, we are indebted for shakspeare's subsequent migration to london, and his public occupation, which, giving him a deep pecuniary interest in the productions of his pen, such as no other literary application of his powers could have approached in that day, were eventually the means of drawing forth those divine works which have survived their author for our everlasting benefit. our own reading and deciphering of the whole case is as follows. the shakspeares were a handsome family, both father and sons. this we assume upon the following grounds: first, on the presumption arising out of john shakspeare's having won the favor of a young heiress higher in rank than himself; secondly, on the presumption involved in the fact of three amongst his four sons having gone upon the stage, to which the most obvious (and perhaps in those days a _sine qua non_) recommendation would be a good person and a pleasing countenance; thirdly, on the direct evidence of aubrey, who assures us that william shakspeare was a handsome and a well-shaped man; fourthly, on the implicit evidence of the stratford monument, which exhibits a man of good figure and noble countenance; fifthly, on the confirmation of this evidence by the chandos portrait, which exhibits noble features, illustrated by the utmost sweetness of expression; sixthly, on the selection of theatrical parts, which it is known that shakspeare personated, most of them being such as required some dignity of form, viz., kings, the athletic (though aged) follower of an athletic young man, and supernatural beings. on these grounds, direct or circumstantial, we believe ourselves warranted in assuming that william shakspeare was a handsome and even noble looking boy. miss anne hathaway had herself probably some personal attractions; and, if an indigent girl, who looked for no pecuniary advantages, would probably have been early sought in marriage. but as the daughter of "a substantial yeoman," who would expect some fortune in his daughter's suitors, she had, to speak coarsely, a little outlived her market. time she had none to lose. william shakspeare pleased her eye; and the gentleness of his nature made him an apt subject for female blandishments, possibly for female arts. without imputing, however, to this anne hathaway any thing so hateful as a settled plot for insnaring him, it was easy enough for a mature woman, armed with such inevitable advantages of experience and of self-possession, to draw onward a blushing novice; and, without directly creating opportunities, to place him in the way of turning to account such as naturally offered. young boys are generally flattered by the condescending notice of grown-up women; and perhaps shakspeare's own lines upon a similar situation, to a young boy adorned with the same natural gifts as himself, may give us the key to the result: "gentle thou art, and therefore to be won; beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd; and, when a woman woos, what woman's son will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd?" once, indeed, entangled in such a pursuit, any person of manly feelings would be sensible that he had no retreat; _that_ would be--to insult a woman, grievously to wound her sexual pride, and to insure her lasting scorn and hatred. these were consequences which the gentle-minded shakspeare could not face. he pursued his good fortunes, half perhaps in heedlessness, half in desperation, until he was roused by the clamorous displeasure of her family upon first discovering the situation of their kinswoman. for such a situation there could be but one atonement, and that was hurried forward by both parties; whilst, out of delicacy towards the bride, the wedding was not celebrated in stratford, (where the register contains no notice of such an event); nor, as malone imagined, in weston-upon-avon, that being in the diocese of gloucester; but in some parish, as yet undiscovered, in the diocese of worcester. but now arose a serious question as to the future maintenance of the young people. john shakspeare was depressed in his circumstances, and he had other children besides william, viz., three sons and a daughter. the elder lives have represented him as burdened with ten; but this was an error, arising out of the confusion between john shakspeare the glover, and john shakspeare a shoemaker. this error has been thus far of use, that, by exposing the fact of two john shakspeares (not kinsmen) residing in stratford-upon-avon, it has satisfactorily proved the name to be amongst those which are locally indigenous to warwickshire. meantime it is now ascertained that john shakspeare the glover had only eight children, viz., four daughters and four sons. the order of their succession was this: joan, margaret, william, gilbert, a second joan, anne, richard, and edmund. three of the daughters, viz., the two eldest of the family, joan and margaret, together with anne, died in childhood. all the rest attained mature ages, and of these william was the eldest. this might give him some advantage in his father's regard; but in a question of pecuniary provision precedency amongst the children of an insolvent is nearly nominal. for the present john shakspeare could do little for his son; and, under these circumstances, perhaps the father of anne hathaway would come forward to assist the new-married couple. this condition of dependency would furnish matter for painful feelings and irritating words. the youthful husband, whose mind would be expanding as rapidly as the leaves and blossoms of spring-time in polar latitudes, would soon come to appreciate the sort of wiles by which he had been caught. the female mind is quick, and almost gifted with the power of witchcraft, to decipher what is passing in the thoughts of familiar companions. silent and forbearing as william shakspeare might be, anne, his staid wife, would read his secret reproaches; ill would she dissemble her wrath, and the less so from the consciousness of having deserved them. it is no uncommon case for women to feel anger in connection with one subject, and to express it in connection with another; which other, perhaps, (except as a serviceable mask,) would have been a matter of indifference to their feelings. anne would, therefore, reply to those inevitable reproaches which her own sense must presume to be lurking in her husband's heart, by others equally stinging, on his inability to support his family, and on his obligations to her father's purse. shakspeare, we may be sure, would be ruminating every hour on the means of his deliverance from so painful a dependency; and at length, after four years' conjugal discord, he would resolve upon that plan of solitary emigration to the metropolis, which, at the same time that it released him from the humiliation of domestic feuds, succeeded so splendidly for his worldly prosperity, and with a train of consequences so vast for all future ages. such, we are persuaded, was the real course of shakspeare's transition from school-boy pursuits to his public career. and upon the known temperament of shakspeare, his genial disposition to enjoy life without disturbing his enjoyment by fretting anxieties, we build the conclusion, that had his friends furnished him with ampler funds, and had his marriage been well assorted or happy, we--the world of posterity--should have lost the whole benefit and delight which we have since reaped from his matchless faculties. the motives which drove him _from_ stratford are clear enough; but what motives determined his course _to_ london, and especially to the stage, still remains to be explained. stratford-upon-avon, lying in the high road from london through oxford to birmingham, (or more generally to the north,) had been continually visited by some of the best comedians during shakspeare's childhood. one or two of the most respectable metropolitan actors were natives of stratford. these would be well known to the elder shakspeare. but, apart from that accident, it is notorious that mere legal necessity and usage would compel all companies of actors, upon coming into any town, to seek, in the first place, from the chief magistrate, a license for opening a theatre, and next, over and above this public sanction, to seek his personal favor and patronage. as an alderman, therefore, but still more whilst clothed with the official powers of chief magistrate, the poet's father would have opportunities of doing essential services to many persons connected with the london stage. the conversation of comedians acquainted with books, fresh from the keen and sparkling circles of the metropolis, and filled with racy anecdotes of the court, as well as of public life generally, could not but have been fascinating, by comparison with the stagnant society of stratford. hospitalities on a liberal scale would be offered to these men. not impossibly this fact might be one principal key to those dilapidations which the family estate had suffered. these actors, on _their_ part, would retain a grateful sense of the kindness they had received, and would seek to repay it to john shakspeare, now that he was depressed in his fortunes, as opportunities might offer. his eldest son, growing up a handsome young man, and beyond all doubt from his earliest days of most splendid colloquial powers, (for assuredly of _him_ it may be taken for granted), "nec licuit populis parvum te, nile, videre," would be often reproached in a friendly way for burying himself in a country life. these overtures, prompted alike by gratitude to the father, and a real selfish interest in the talents of the son, would at length take a definite shape; and, upon, some clear understanding as to the terms of such an arrangement, william shakspeare would at length, (about 1586, according to the received account, that is, in the fifth year of his married life, and the twenty-third or twenty-fourth of his age,) unaccompanied by wife or children, translate himself to london. later than 1586 it could not well be; for already in 1589 it has been recently ascertained that he held a share in the property of a leading theatre. we must here stop to notice, and the reader will allow us to notice with summary indignation, the slanderous and idle tale which represents shakspeare as having fled to london in the character of a criminal, from the persecutions of sir thomas lucy of charlecot. this tale has long been propagated under two separate impulses. chiefly, perhaps, under the vulgar love of pointed and glaring contrasts; the splendor of the man was in this instance brought into a sort of epigrammatic antithesis with the humility of his fortunes; secondly, under a baser impulse, the malicious pleasure of seeing a great man degraded. accordingly, as in the case of milton, [endnote: 16] it has been affirmed that shakspeare had suffered corporal chastisement, in fact, (we abhor to utter such words,) that he had been judicially whipped. now, first of all, let us mark the inconsistency of this tale. the poet was whipped, that is, he was punished most disproportionately, and yet he fled to avoid punishment. next, we are informed that his offence was deer-stealing, and from the park of sir thomas lucy. and it has been well ascertained that sir thomas had no deer, and had no park. moreover, deer-stealing was regarded by our ancestors exactly as poaching is regarded by us. deer ran wild in all the great forests; and no offence was looked upon as so venial, none so compatible with a noble robin-hood style of character, as this very trespass upon what were regarded as _ferae naturae_, and not at all as domestic property. but had it been otherwise, a trespass was not punishable with whipping; nor had sir thomas lucy the power to irritate a whole community like stratford-upon-avon, by branding with permanent disgrace a young man so closely connected with three at least of the best families in the neighborhood. besides, had shakspeare suffered any dishonor of that kind, the scandal would infallibly have pursued him at his very heels to london; and in that case greene, who has left on record, in a posthumous work of 1592, his malicious feelings towards shakspeare, could not have failed to notice it. for, be it remembered, that a judicial flagellation contains a twofold ignominy. flagellation is ignominious in its own nature, even though unjustly inflicted, and by a ruffian; secondly, any judicial punishment is ignominous, even though not wearing a shade of personal degradation. now a judicial flagellation includes both features of dishonor. and is it to be imagined that an enemy, searching with the diligence of malice for matter against shakspeare, should have failed, six years after the event, to hear of that very memorable disgrace which had exiled him from stratford, and was the very occasion of his first resorting to london; or that a leading company of players in the metropolis, _one of whom_, and a chief one, _was his own townsman_, should cheerfully adopt into their society, as an honored partner, a young man yet flagrant from the lash of the executioner or the beadle? this tale is fabulous, and rotten to its core; yet even this does less dishonor to shakspeare's memory than the sequel attached to it. a sort of scurrilous rondeau, consisting of nine lines, so loathsome in its brutal stupidity, and so vulgar in its expression, that we shall not pollute our pages by transcribing it, has been imputed to shakspeare ever since the days of the credulous rowe. the total point of this idiot's drivel consists in calling sir thomas "an asse;" and well it justifies the poet's own remark, "let there be gall enough in thy ink, no matter though thou write with a goose pen." our own belief is, that these lines were a production of charles ii.'s reign, and applied to a sir thomas lucy, not very far removed, if at all, from the age of him who first picked up the pecious filth. the phrase "parliament _member_" we believe to be quite unknown in the colloquial use of queen elizabeth's reign. but, that we may rid ourselves once and for ever of this outrageous calumny upon shakspeare's memory, we shall pursue the story to its final stage. even malone has been thoughtless enough to accredit this closing chapter, which contains, in fact, such a superfetation of folly as the annals of human dullness do not exceed. let us recapitulate the points of the story. a baronet, who has no deer and no park, is supposed to persecute a poet for stealing these aerial deer out of this aerial park, both lying in _nephelococcygia_. the poet sleeps upon this wrong for eighteen years; but at length, hearing that his persecutor is dead and buried, he conceives bloody thoughts of revenge. and this revenge he purposes to execute by picking a hole in his dead enemy's coat-of-arms. is this coat-of-arms, then, sir thomas lucy's? why, no; malone admits that it is not. for the poet, suddenly recollecting that this ridicule would settle upon the son of his enemy, selects another coat-of-arms, with which his dead enemy never had any connection, and he spends his thunder and lighting upon this irrelevant object; and, after all, the ridicule itself lies in a welchman's mispronouncing one single heraldic term--a welchman who mispronounces all words. the last act of the poet's malice recalls to us a sort of jest-book story of an irishman, the vulgarity of which the reader will pardon in consideration of its relevancy. the irishman having lost a pair of silk stockings, mentions to a friend that he has taken steps for recovering them by an advertisement, offering a reward to the finder. his friend objects that the costs of advertising, and the reward, would eat out the full value of the silk stockings. but to this the irishman replies, with a knowing air, that he is not so green as to have overlooked _that_; and that, to keep down the reward, he had advertised the stockings as worsted. not at all less flagrant is the bull ascribed to shakspeare, when he is made to punish a dead man by personalities meant for his exclusive ear, through his coat-of-arms, but at the same time, with the express purpose of blunting and defeating the edge of his own scurrility, is made to substitute for the real arms some others which had no more relation to the dead enemy than they had to the poet himself. this is the very sublime of folly, beyond which human dotage cannot advance. it is painful, indeed, and dishonorable to human nature, that whenever men of vulgar habits and of poor education wish to impress us with a feeling of respect for a man's talents, they are sure to cite, by way of evidence, some gross instance of malignity. power, in their minds, is best illustrated by malice or by the infliction of pain. to this unwelcome fact we have some evidence in the wretched tale which we have just dismissed; and there is another of the same description to be found in all lives of shakspeare, which we will expose to the contempt of the reader whilst we are in this field of discussion, that we may not afterwards have to resume so disgusting a subject. this poet, who was a model of gracious benignity in his manners, and of whom, amidst our general ignorance, thus much is perfectly established, that the term _gentle_ was almost as generally and by prescriptive right associated with his name as the affix of _venerable_ with bede, or _judicious_ with hooker, is alleged to have insulted a friend by an imaginary epitaph beginning "_ten in the hundred_" and supposing him to be damned, yet without wit enough (which surely the stratford bellman could have furnished) for devising any, even fanciful, reason for such a supposition; upon which the comment of some foolish critic is," the _sharpness of the satire_ is said to have stung the man so much that he never forgave it. "we have heard of the sting in the tail atoning for the brainless head; but in this doggerel the tail is surely as stingless as the head is brainless. for, 1st, _ten in the hundred_ could be no reproach in shakspeare's time, any more than to call a man _three-and-a-half-per-cent_. in this present year, 1838; except, indeed, amongst those foolish persons who built their morality upon the jewish ceremonial law. shakspeare himself took ten per cent. _2dly_, it happens that john combe, so far from being the object of the poet's scurrility, or viewing the poet as an object of implacable resentment, was a stratford friend; that one of his family was affectionately remembered in shakspeare's will by the bequest of his sword; and that john combe himself recorded his perfect charity with shakspeare by leaving him a legacy of 5l sterling. and in this lies the key to the whole story. for, _3dly_, the four lines were written and printed before shakspeare was born. the name combe is a common one; and some stupid fellow, who had seen the name in shakspeare's will, and happened also to have seen the lines in a collection of epigrams, chose to connect the cases by attributing an identity to the two john combes, though at war with chronology. finally, there is another specimen of doggerel attributed to shakspeare, which is not equally unworthy of him, because not equally malignant, but otherwise equally below his intellect, no less than his scholarship; we mean the inscription on his grave-stone. this, as a sort of _siste viator_ appeal to future sextons, is worthy of the grave-digger or the parish-clerk, who was probably its author. or it may have been an antique formula, like the vulgar record of ownership in books- "anthony timothy dolthead's hook, god give him grace therein to look." thus far the matter is of little importance; and it might have been supposed that malignity itself could hardly have imputed such trash to shakspeare. but when we find, even in this short compass, scarcely wider than the posy of a ring, room found for traducing the poet's memory, it becomes important to say, that the leading sentiment, the horror expressed at any disturbance offered to his bones, is not one to which shakspeare could have attached the slightest weight; far less could have outraged the sanctities of place and subject, by affixing to any sentiment whatever (and, according to the fiction of the case, his farewell sentiment) the sanction of a curse. filial veneration and piety towards the memory of this great man, have led us into a digression that might have been unseasonable in any cause less weighty than one, having for its object to deliver his honored name from a load of the most brutal malignity. never more, we hope and venture to believe, will any thoughtless biographer impute to shakspeare the asinine doggerel with which the uncritical blundering of his earliest biographer has caused his name to be dishonored. we now resume the thread of our biography. the stream of history is centuries in working itself clear of any calumny with which it has once been polluted. most readers will be aware of an old story, according to which shakspeare gained his livelihood for some time after coming to london by holding the horses of those who rode to the play. this legend is as idle as any one of those which we have just exposed. no custom ever existed of riding on horseback to the play. gentlemen, who rode valuable horses, would assuredly not expose them systematically to the injury of standing exposed to cold for two or even four hours; and persons of inferior rank would not ride on horseback in the town. besides, had such a custom ever existed, stables (or sheds at least) would soon have arisen to meet the public wants; and in some of the dramatic sketches of the day, which noticed every fashion as it arose, this would not have been overlooked. the story is traced originally to sir william davenant. betterton the actor, who professed to have received it from him, passed it onwards to rowe, he to pope, pope to bishop newton, the editor of milton, and newton to dr. johnson. this pedigree of the fable, however, adds nothing to its credit, and multiplies the chances of some mistake. another fable, not much less absurd, represents shakspeare as having from the very first been borne upon the establishment of the theatre, and so far contradicts the other fable, but originally in the very humble character of _call-boy_ or deputy prompter, whose business it was to summon each performer according to his order of coming upon the stage. this story, however, quite as much as the other, is irreconcileable with the discovery recently made by mr. collier, that in 1589 shakspeare was a shareholder in the important property of a principal london theatre. it seems destined that all the undoubted facts of shakspeare's life should come to us through the channel of legal documents, which are better evidence even than imperial medals; whilst, on the other hand, all the fabulous anecdotes, not having an attorney's seal to them, seem to have been the fictions of the wonder maker. the plain presumption from the record of shakspeare's situation in 1589, coupled with the fact that his first arrival in london was possibly not until 1587, but according to the earliest account not before 1586, a space of time which leaves but little room for any remarkable changes of situation, seems to be, that, either in requital of services done to the players by the poet's family, or in consideration of money advanced by his father-in-law, or on account of shakspeare's personal accomplishments as an actor, and as an adapter of dramatic works to the stage; for one of these reasons, or for all of them united, william shakspeare, about the 23d year of his age, was adopted into the partnership of a respectable histrionic company, possessing a first-rate theatre in the metropolis. if 1586 were the year in which he came up to london, it seems probable enough that his immediate motive to that step was the increasing distress of his father; for in that year john shakspeare resigned the office of alderman. there is, however, a bare possibility that shakspeare might have gone to london about the time when he completed his twenty-first year, that is, in the spring of 1585, but not earlier. nearly two years after the birth of his eldest daughter susanna, his wife lay in for a second and a _last_ time; but she then brought her husband twins, a son and a daughter. these children were baptized in february of the year 1585; so that shakspeare's whole family of three children were born and baptized two months before he completed his majority. the twins were baptized by the names of hamnet and judith, those being the names of two amongst their sponsors, viz., mr. sadler and his wife. hamnet, which is a remarkable name in itself, becomes still more so from its resemblance to the immortal name of hamlet [endnote: 17] the dane; it was, however, the real baptismal name of mr. sadler, a friend of shakspeare's, about fourteen years older than himself. shakspeare's son must then have been most interesting to his heart, both as a twin child and as his only boy. he died in 1596, when he was about eleven years old. both daughters survived their father; both married; both left issue, and thus gave a chance for continuing the succession from the great poet. but all the four grandchildren died without offspring. of shakspeare personally, at least of shakspeare the man, as distinguished from the author, there remains little more to record. already in 1592, greene, in his posthumous groat's-worth of wit, had expressed the earliest vocation of shakspeare in the following sentence: "there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers; in his own conceit the only _shakscene_ in a country!" this alludes to shakspeare's office of recasting, and even recomposing, dramatic works, so as to fit them for representation; and master greene, it is probable, had suffered in his self-estimation, or in his purse, by the alterations in some piece of his own, which the duty of shakspeare to the general interests of the theatre had obliged him to make. in 1591 it has been supposed that shakspeare wrote his first drama, the two gentlemen of verona; the least characteristically marked of all his plays, and, with the exception of love's labors lost, the least interesting. from this year, 1591 to that of 1611, are just twenty years, within which space lie the whole dramatic creations of shakspeare, averaging nearly one for every six months. in 1611 was written the tempest, which is supposed to have been the last of all shakspeare's works. even on that account, as mr. campbell feelingly observes, it has "a sort of sacredness;" and it is a most remarkable fact, and one calculated to make a man superstitious, that in this play the great enchanter prospero, in whom," _as if conscious_, "says mr. campbell," _that this would be his last work_, the poet has been _inspired to typify himself as_ a wise, potent, and _benevolent magician_" of whom, indeed, as of shakspeare himself, it may be said, that "within that circle" (the circle of his own art)" none durst tread but he, "solemnly and for ever renounces his mysterious functions, symbolically breaks his enchanter's wand, and declares that he will bury his books, his science, and his secrets, "deeper than did ever plummet sound." nay, it is even ominous, that in this play, and from the voice of prospero, issues that magnificent prophecy of the total destruction which should one day swallow up "the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea all which it inherit." and this prophecy is followed immediately by a most profound ejaculation, gathering into one pathetic abstraction the total philosophy of life: "we are such stuff as dreams are made of; and our little life is rounded by a sleep;" that is, in effect, our life is a little tract of feverish vigils, surrounded and islanded by a shoreless ocean of sleep--sleep before birth, sleep after death. these remarkable passages were probably not undesigned; but if we suppose them to have been thrown off without conscious notice of their tendencies, then, according to the superstition of the ancient grecians, they would have been regarded as prefiguring words, prompted by the secret genius that accompanies every man, such as insure along with them their own accomplishment. with or without intention, however, it is believed that shakspeare wrote nothing more after this exquisite romantic drama. with respect to the remainder of his personal history, dr. drake and others have supposed, that during the twenty years from 1591 to 1611, he visited stratford often, and latterly once a year. in 1589 he had possessed some share in a theatre; in 1596 he had a considerable share. through lord southampton, as a surviving friend of lord essex, who was viewed as the martyr to his scottish politics, there can be no doubt that shakspeare had acquired the favor of james i.; and accordingly, on the 29th of may, 1603, about two months after the king's accession to the throne of england, a patent was granted to the company of players who possessed the globe theatre; in which patent shakspeare's name stands second. this patent raised the company to the rank of his majesty's servants, whereas previously they are supposed to have been simply the servants of the lord chamberlain. perhaps it was in grateful acknowledgment of this royal favor that shakspeare afterwards, in 1606, paid that sublime compliment to the house of stuart, which is involved in the vision shown to macbeth. this vision is managed with exquisite skill. it was impossible to display the whole series of princes from macbeth to james i.; but he beholds the posterity of banquo, one "gold-bound brow" succeeding to another, until he comes to an eighth apparition of a scottish king, "who bears a glass which shows him many more; and some he sees who twofold balls and treble sceptres carry;" thus bringing down without tedium the long succession to the very person of james i., by the symbolic image of the two crowns united on one head. about the beginning of the century shakspeare had become rich enough to purchase the best house in stratford, called _the great house_, which name he altered to _new place_; and in 1602 he bought one hundred and seven acres adjacent to this house for a sum (320l) corresponding to about 1500 guineas of modern money. malone thinks that he purchased the house as early as 1597; and it is certain that about that time he was able to assist his father in obtaining a renewed grant of arms from the herald's college, and therefore, of course, to re-establish his father's fortunes. ten years of well-directed industry, viz., from 1591 to 1601, and the prosperity of the theatre in which he was a proprietor, had raised him to affluence; and after another ten years, improved with the same success, he was able to retire with an income of 300l, or (according to the customary computations) in modern money of 1500l, per annum. shakspeare was in fact the first man of letters, pope the second, and sir walter scott the third, who, in great britain, has ever realized a large fortune by literature; or in christendom, if we except voltaire, and two dubious cases in italy. the four or five latter years of his life shakspeare passed in dignified ease, in profound meditation, we may be sure, and in universal respect, at his native town of stratford; and there he died, on the 23d of april, 1616. [endnote: 18] his daughter susanna had been married on the 5th of june of the year 1607, to dr. john hall, [endnote: 19] a physician in stratford. the doctor died in november, 1635, aged sixty; his wife, at the age of sixty-six, on july 11, 1640. they had one child, a daughter, named elizabeth, born in 1608, married april 22, 1626, to thomas nashe, esq., left a widow in 1647, and subsequently remarried to sir john barnard; but this lady barnard, the sole grand-daughter of the poet, had no children by either marriage. the other daughter, judith, on february 10, 1616, (about ten weeks before her father's death,) married mr. thomas quincy of stratford, by whom she had three sons, shakspeare, richard, and thomas. judith was about thirty-one years old at the time of her marriage; and living just forty-six years afterwards, she died in february, 1662, at the age of seventy-seven. her three sons died without issue; and thus, in the direct lineal descent, it is certain that no representative has survived of this transcendent poet, the most august amongst created intellects. after this review of shakspeare's life, it becomes our duty to take a summary survey of his works, of his intellectual powers, and of his station in literature, a station which is now irrevocably settled, not so much (which happens in other cases) by a vast overbalance of favorable suffrages, as by acclamation; not so much by the _voices_ of those who admire him up to the verge of idolatry, as by the _acts_ of those who everywhere seek for his works among the primal necessities of life, demand them, and crave them as they do their daily bread; not so much by eulogy openly proclaiming itself, as by the silent homage recorded in the endless multiplication of what he has bequeathed us; not so much by his own compatriots, who, with regard to almost every other author, [endnote: 20] compose the total amount of his _effective_ audience, as by the unanimous "all hail!" of intellectual christendom; finally, not by the hasty partisanship of his own generation, nor by the biassed judgment of an age trained in the same modes of feeling and of thinking with himself,--but by the solemn award of generation succeeding to generation, of one age correcting the obliquities or peculiarities of another; by the verdict of two hundred and thirty years, which have now elapsed since the very _latest_ of his creations, or of two hundred and forty-seven years if we date from the earliest; a verdict which has been continually revived and re-opened, probed, searched, vexed, by criticism in every spirit, from the most genial and intelligent, down to the most malignant and scurrilously hostile which feeble heads and great ignorance could suggest when cooperating with impure hearts and narrow sensibilities; a verdict, in short, sustained and countersigned by a longer series of writers, many of them eminent for wit or learning, than were ever before congregated upon any inquest relating to any author, be he who he might, ancient [endnote: 21] or modern, pagan or christian. it was a most witty saying with respect to a piratical and knavish publisher, who made a trade of insulting the memories of deceased authors by forged writings, that he was "among the new terrors of death." but in the gravest sense it may be affirmed of shakspeare, that he is among the modern luxuries of life; that life, in fact, is a new thing, and one more to be coveted, since shakspeare has extended the domains of human consciousness, and pushed its dark frontiers into regions not so much as dimly descried or even suspected before his time, far less illuminated (as now they are) by beauty and tropical luxuriance of life. for instance,--a single instance, indeed one which in itself is a world of new revelation, --the possible beauty of the female character had not been seen as in a dream before shakspeare called into perfect life the radiant shapes of desdemona, of imogene, of hermione, of perdita, of ophelia, of miranda, and many others. the una of spenser, earlier by ten or fifteen years than most of these, was an idealized portrait of female innocence and virgin purity, but too shadowy and unreal for a dramatic reality. and as to the grecian classics, let not the reader imagine for an instant that any prototype in this field of shakspearian power can be looked for there. the _antigone_ and the _electra_ of the tragic poets are the two leading female characters that classical antiquity offers to our respect, but assuredly not to our impassioned love, as disciplined and exalted in the school of shakspeare. they challenge our admiration, severe, and even stern, as impersonations of filial duty, cleaving to the steps of a desolate and afflicted old man; or of sisterly affection, maintaining the rights of a brother under circumstances of peril, of desertion, and consequently of perfect self-reliance. iphigenia, again, though not dramatically coming before us in her own person, but according to the beautiful report of a spectator, presents us with a fine statuesque model of heroic fortitude, and of one whose young heart, even in the very agonies of her cruel immolation, refused to forget, by a single indecorous gesture, or so much as a moment's neglect of her own princely descent, and that she herself was "a lady in the land." these are fine marble groups, but they are not the warm breathing realities of shakspeare; there is "no speculation" in their cold marble eyes; the breath of life is not in their nostrils; the fine pulses of womanly sensibilities are not throbbing in their bosoms. and besides this immeasurable difference between the cold moony reflexes of life, as exhibited by the power of grecian art, and the true sunny life of shakspeare, it must he observed that the antigones, &c. of the antique put forward but one single trait of character, like the aloe with its single blossom. this solitary feature is presented to us as an abstraction, and as an insulated quality; whereas in shakspeare all is presented in the _concrete_; that is to say, not brought forward in relief, as by some effort of an anatomical artist; but embodied and imbedded, so to speak, as by the force of a creative nature, in the complex system of a human life; a life in which all the elements move and play simultaneously, and with something more than mere simultaneity or co-existence, acting and re-acting each upon the other, nay, even acting by each other and through each other. in shakspeare's characters is felt for ever a real _organic_ life, where each is for the whole and in the whole, and where the whole is for each and in each. they only are real incarnations. the greek poets could not exhibit any approximations to _female_ character, without violating the truth of grecian life, and shocking the feelings of the audience. the drama with the greeks, as with us, though much less than with us, was a picture of human life; and that which could not occur in life could not wisely be exhibited on the stage. now, in ancient greece, women were secluded from the society of men. the conventual sequestration of the hareem, or female apartment [endnote: 22] of the house, and the mahommedan consecration of its threshold against the ingress of males, had been transplanted from asia into greece thousands of years perhaps before either convents or mahommed existed. thus barred from all open social intercourse, women could not develop or express any character by word or action. even to _have_ a character, violated, to a grecian mind, the ideal portrait of feminine excellence; whence, perhaps, partly the too generic, too little individualized, style of grecian beauty. but prominently to _express_ a character was impossible under the common tenor of grecian life, unless when high tragical catastrophes transcended the decorums of that tenor, or for a brief interval raised the curtain which veiled it. hence the subordinate part which women play upon the greek stage in all but some half dozen cases. in the paramount tragedy on that stage, the model tragedy, the (_oedipus tyrannus_ of sophocles), there is virtually no woman at all; for jocasta is a party to the story merely as the dead laius or the self-murdered sphinx was a party, viz., by her contributions to the fatalities of the event, not by anything she does or says spontaneously. in fact, the greek poet, if a wise poet, could not address himself genially to a task in which he must begin by shocking the sensibilities of his countrymen. and hence followed, not only the dearth of female characters in the grecian drama, but also a second result still more favorable to the sense of a new power evolved by shakspeare. whenever the common law of grecian life did give way, it was, as we have observed, to the suspending force of some great convulsion or tragical catastrophe. this for a moment (like an earthquake in a nunnery) would set at liberty even the timid, fluttering grecian women, those doves of the dove-cot, and would call some of them into action. but which? precisely those of energetic and masculine minds; the timid and feminine would but shrink the more from public gaze and from tumult. thus it happened, that such female characters as _were_ exhibited in greece, could not but be the harsh and the severe. if a gentle ismene appeared for a moment in contest with some energetic sister antigone, (and chiefly, perhaps, by way of drawing out the fiercer character of that sister,) she was soon dismissed as unfit for scenical effect. so that not only were female characters few, but, moreover, of these few the majority were but repetitions of masculine qualities in female persons. female agency being seldom summoned on the stage, except when it had received a sort of special dispensation from its sexual character, by some terrific convulsions of the house or the city, naturally it assumed the style of action suited to these circumstances. and hence it arose, that not woman as she differed from man, but woman as she resembled man--woman, in short, seen under circumstances so dreadful as to abolish the effect of sexual distinction, was the woman of the greek tragedy. [endnote: 23] and hence generally arose for shakspeare the wider field, and the more astonishing by its perfect novelty, when he first introduced female characters, not as mere varieties or echoes of masculine characters, a medea or clytemnestra, or a vindictive hecuba, the mere tigress of the tragic tiger, but female characters that had the appropriate beauty of female nature; woman no longer grand, terrific, and repulsive, but woman "after her kind"--the other hemisphere of the dramatic world; woman, running through the vast gamut of womanly loveliness; woman, as emancipated, exalted, ennobled, under a new law of christian morality; woman, the sister and coequal of man, no longer his slave, his prisoner, and sometimes his rebel." it is a far cry to loch awe; "and from the athenian stage to the stage of shakspeare, it may be said, is a prodigious interval. true; but prodigious as it is, there is really nothing between them. the roman stage, at least the tragic stage, as is well known, was put out, as by an extinguisher, by the cruel amphitheatre, just as a candle is made pale and ridiculous by daylight. those who were fresh from the real murders of the bloody amphitheatre regarded with contempt the mimic murders of the stage. stimulation too coarse and too intense had its usual effect in making the sensibilities callous. christian emperors arose at length, who abolished the amphitheatre in its bloodier features. but by that time the genius of the tragic muse had long slept the sleep of death. and that muse had no resurrection until the age of shakspeare. so that, notwithstanding a gulf of nineteen centuries and upwards separates shakspeare from euripides, the last of the surviving greek tragedians, the one is still the nearest successor of the other, just as connaught and the islands in clew bay are next neighbors to america, although three thousand watery columns, each of a cubic mile in dimensions, divide them from each other. a second reason, which lends an emphasis of novelty and effective power to shakspeare's female world, is a peculiar fact of contrast which exists between that and his corresponding world of men. let us explain. the purpose and the intention of the grecian stage was not primarily to develop human _character_, whether in men or in women: human _fates_ were its object; great tragic situations under the mighty control of a vast cloudy destiny, dimly descried at intervals, and brooding over human life by mysterious agencies, and for mysterious ends. man, no longer the representative of an august _will_, man the passion-puppet of fate, could not with any effect display what we call a character, which is a distinction between man and man, emanating originally from the will, and expressing its determinations, moving under the large variety of human impulses. the will is the central pivot of character; and this was obliterated, thwarted, cancelled, by the dark fatalism which brooded over the grecian stage. that explanation will sufficiently clear up the reason why marked or complex variety of character was slighted by the great principles of the greek tragedy. and every scholar who has studied that grand drama of greece with feeling,--that drama, so magnificent, so regal, so stately,--and who has thoughtfully investigated its principles, and its difference from the english drama, will acknowledge that powerful and elaborate character, character, for instance, that could employ the fiftieth part of that profound analysis which has been applied to hamlet, to falstaff, to lear, to othello, and applied by mrs. jamieson so admirably to the full development of the shakspearian heroines, would have been as much wasted, nay, would have been defeated, and interrupted the blind agencies of fate, just in the same way as it would injure the shadowy grandeur of a ghost to individualize it too much. milton's angels are slightly touched, superficially touched, with differences of character; but they are such differences, so simple and general, as are just sufficient to rescue them from the reproach applied to virgil's "_fortemque gyan, forlemque cloanthem;_" just sufficient to make them knowable apart. pliny speaks of painters who painted in one or two colors; and, as respects the angelic characters, milton does so; he is _monochromatic_. so, and for reasons resting upon the same ultimate philosophy, were the mighty architects of the greek tragedy. they also were monochromatic; they also, as to the characters of their persons, painted in one color. and so far there might have been the same novelty in shakspeare's men as in his women. there _might_ have been; but the reason why there is _not_, must be sought in the fact, that history, the muse of history, had there even been no such muse as melpomene, would have forced us into an acquaintance with human character. history, as the representative of actual life, of real man, gives us powerful delineations of character in its chief agents, that is, in men; and therefore it is that shakspeare, the absolute creator of female character, was but the mightiest of all painters with regard to male character. take a single instance. the antony of shakspeare, immortal for its execution, is found, after all, as regards the primary conception, in history. shakspeare's delineation is but the expansion of the germ already preexisting, by way of scattered fragments, in cicero's philippics, in cicero's letters, in appian, &c. but cleopatra, equally fine, is a pure creation of art. the situation and the scenic circumstances belong to history, but the character belongs to shakspeare. in the great world, therefore, of woman, as the interpreter of the shifting phases and the lunar varieties of that mighty changeable planet, that lovely satellite of man, shakspeare stands not the first only, not the original only, but is yet the sole authentic oracle of truth. woman, therefore, the beauty of the female mind, _this_ is one great field of his power. the supernatural world, the world of apparitions, _that_ is another. for reasons which it would be easy to give, reasons emanating from the gross mythology of the ancients, no grecian, [endnote: 24] no roman, could have conceived a ghost. that shadowy conception, the protesting apparition, the awful projection of the human conscience, belongs to the christian mind. and in all christendom, who, let us ask, who, who but shakspeare has found the power for effectually working this mysterious mode of being? in summoning back to earth "the majesty of buried denmark," how like an awful necromancer does shakspeare appear! all the pomps and grandeurs which religion, which the grave, which the popular superstition had gathered about the subject of apparitions, are here converted to his purpose, and bend to one awful effect. the wormy grave brought into antagonism with the scenting of the early dawn; the trumpet of resurrection suggested, and again as an antagonist idea to the crowing of the cock, (a bird ennobled in the christian mythus by the part he is made to play at the crucifixion;) its starting "as a guilty thing" placed in opposition to its majestic expression of offended dignity when struck at by the partisans of the sentinels; its awful allusions to the secrets of its prison-house; its ubiquity, contrasted with its local presence; its aerial substance, yet clothed in palpable armor; the heart-shaking solemnity of its language, and the appropriate scenery of its haunt, viz., the ramparts of a capital fortress, with no witnesses but a few gentlemen mounting guard at the dead of night,--what a mist, what a _mirage_ of vapor, is here accumulated, through which the dreadful being in the centre looms upon us in far larger proportions, than could have happened had it been insulated and left naked of this circumstantial pomp! in the _tempest_, again, what new modes of life, preternatural, yet far as the poles from the spiritualities of religion! ariel in antithesis to caliban! what is most ethereal to what is most animal! a phantom of air, an abstraction of the dawn and of vesper sun-lights, a bodiless sylph on the one hand; on the other a gross carnal monster, like the miltonic asmodai, "the fleshliest incubus" among the fiends, and yet so far ennobled into interest by his intellectual power, and by the grandeur of misanthropy! [endnote: 25] in the _midsummer-night's dream_, again, we have the old traditional fairy, a lovely mode of preternatural life, remodified by shakspeare's eternal talisman. oberon and titania remind us at first glance of ariel. they approach, but how far they recede. they are like--"like, but, oh, how different!" and in no other exhibition of this dreamy population of the moonlight forests and forest-lawns, are the circumstantial proprieties of fairy life so exquisitely imagined, sustained, or expressed. the dialogue between oberon and titania is, of itself, and taken separately from its connection, one of the most delightful poetic scenes that literature affords. the witches in macbeth are another variety of supernatural life, in which shakspeare's power to enchant and to disenchant are alike portentous. the circumstances of the blasted heath, the army at a distance, the withered attire of the mysterious hags, and the choral litanies of their fiendish sabbath, are as finely imagined in their kind as those which herald and which surround the ghost in hamlet. there we see the _positive_ of shakspeare's superior power. but now turn and look to the _negative_. at a time when the trials of witches, the royal book on demonology, and popular superstition (all so far useful, as they prepared a basis of undoubting faith for the poet's serious use of such agencies) had degraded and polluted the ideas of these mysterious beings by many mean associations, shakspeare does not fear to employ them in high tragedy, (a tragedy moreover which, though not the very greatest of his efforts as an intellectual whole, nor as a struggle of passion, is _among_ the greatest in any view, and positively _the_ greatest for scenical grandeur, and in that respect makes the nearest approach of all english tragedies to the grecian model;) he does not fear to introduce, for the same appalling effect as that for which aeschylus introduced the eumenides, a triad of old women, concerning whom an english wit has remarked this grotesque peculiarity in the popular creed of that day,--that although potent over winds and storms, in league with powers of darkness, they yet stood in awe of the constable,--yet relying on his own supreme power to disenchant as well as to enchant, to create and to uncreate, he mixes these women and their dark machineries with the power of armies, with the agencies of kings, and the fortunes of martial kingdoms. such was the sovereignty of this poet, so mighty its compass! a third fund of shakspeare's peculiar power lies in his teeming fertility of fine thoughts and sentiments. from his works alone might be gathered a golden bead-roll of thoughts the deepest, subtilest, most pathetic, and yet most catholic and universally intelligible; the most characteristic, also, and appropriate to the particular person, the situation, and the case, yet, at the same time, applicable to the circumstances of every human being, under all the accidents of life, and all vicissitudes of fortune. but this subject offers so vast a field of observation, it being so eminently the prerogative of shakspeare to have thought more finely and more extensively than all other poets combined, that we cannot wrong the dignity of such a theme by doing more, in our narrow limits, than simply noticing it as one of the emblazonries upon shakspeare's shield. fourthly, we shall indicate (and, as in the last case, _barely_ indicate, without attempting in so vast a field to offer any inadequate illustrations) one mode of shakspeare's dramatic excellence, which hitherto has not attracted any special or separate notice. we allude to the forms of life, and natural human passion, as apparent in the structure of his dialogue. among the many defects and infirmities of the french and of the italian drama, indeed, we may say of the greek, the dialogue proceeds always by independent speeches, replying indeed to each other, but never modified in its several openings by the momentary effect of its several terminal forms immediately preceding. now, in shakspeare, who first set an example of that most important innovation, in all his impassioned dialogues, each reply or rejoinder seems the mere rebound of the previous speech. every form of natural interruption, breaking through the restraints of ceremony under the impulses of tempestuous passion; every form of hasty interrogative, ardent reiteration when a question has been evaded; every form of scornful repetition of the hostile words; every impatient continuation of the hostile statement; in short, all modes and formulae by which anger, hurry, fretfulness, scorn, impatience, or excitement under any movement whatever, can disturb or modify or dislocate the formal bookish style of commencement, --these are as rife in shakspeare's dialogue as in life itself; and how much vivacity, how profound a verisimilitude, they add to the scenic effect as an imitation of human passion and real life, we need not say. a volume might be written illustrating the vast varieties of shakspeare's art and power in this one field of improvement; another volume might be dedicated to the exposure of the lifeless and unnatural result from the opposite practice in the foreign stages of france and italy. and we may truly say, that were shakspeare distinguished from them by this single feature of nature and propriety, he would on that account alone have merited a great immortality. the dramatic works of shakspeare generally acknowledged to be genuine consist of thirty-five pieces. the following is the chronological order in which they are supposed to have been written, according to mr. malone, as given in his second edition of shakspeare, and by mr. george chalmers in his supplemental apology for the believers in the shakspeare papers: chalmers. malone. 1. the comedy of errors, 1591 1592 2. love's labors lost, 1592 1594 3. romeo and juliet, 1592 1596 4. henry vi., the first part, 1593 1589 5. henry vi., the second part, 1595 1591 6. henry vl, the third part, 1595 1591 7. the two gentlemen of verona, 1595 1591 8. richard iii., 1596 1593 9. richard ii, 1596 1593 10. the merry wives of windsor, 1596 1601 11. henry iv., the first part, 1597 1597 12. henry iv., the second part, 1597 1599 13. henry v., 1597 1599 14. the merchant of venice, 1597 1594 15. hamlet, 1598 1600 16. king john, 1598 1596 17. a midsummer-night's dream, 1598 1594 18. the taming of the shrew, 1599 1596 19. all's well that ends well, 1599 1606 20. much ado about nothing, 1599 1600 21. as you like it, 1602 1599 22. troilus and cressida, 1610 1602 23. timon of athens, 1611 1610 24. the winter's tale, 1601 1611 25. measure for measure, 1604 1603 26. king lear, 1605 1605 27. cymbeline, 1606 1609 28. macbeth, 1606 1606 29. julius caesar, 1607 1607 30. antony and cleopatra, 1608 1608 31. coriolanus, 1619 1610 32. the tempest, 1613 1611 33. the twelfth night, 1613 1607 34. henry viii., 1613 1603 35. othello, 1614 1604 pericles and titus andronicus, although inserted in all the late editions of shakspeare's plays, are omitted in the above list, both by malone and chalmers, as not being shakspeare's. the first edition of the works was published in 1623, in a folio volume, entitled mr. william shakspeare's comedies, histories, and tragedies. the second edition was published in 1632, the third in 1664, and the fourth in 1685, all in folio; but the edition of 1623 is considered the most authentic. rowe published an edition in seven vols. 8vo, in 1709. editions were published by pope, in six vols. 4to, in 1725; by warburton, in eight vols. 8vo, in 1747; by dr. johnson, in eight vols. 8vo, in 1765; by stevens, in four vols. 8vo, in 1766; by malone, in ten vols. 8vo, in 1789; by alexander chalmers, in nine vols. 8vo, in 1811; by johnson and stevens, revised by isaac reed, in twenty-one vols. 8vo, in 1813; and the plays and poems, with notes by malone, were edited by james boswell, and published in twenty-one vols. 8vo, in 1821. besides these, numerous editions have been published from time to time. notes. note 1. mr. campbell, the latest editor of shakspeare's dramatic works, observes that "the poet's name has been variously written shax-peare, shackspeare, shakspeare, and shakspere;" to which varieties might be added shagspere, from the worcester marriage license, published in 1836. but the fact is, that by combining with all the differences in spelling the first syllable, all those in spelling the second, more than twenty-five distinct varieties of the name may be expanded, (like an algebraic series,) for the choice of the curious in mis-spelling. above all things, those varieties which arise from the intercalation of the middle _e, _(that is, the _e_ immediately before the final syllable _spear,_) can never be overlooked by those who remember, at the opening of the dunciad, the note upon this very question about the orthography of shakspeare's name, as also upon the other great question about the title of the immortal satire, whether it ought not to have been the dunceiade, seeing that dunce, its great author and progenitor, cannot possibly dispense with the letter _e._ meantime we must remark, that the first three of mr. campbell's variations are mere caprices of the press; as is shagspere; or, more probably, this last euphonious variety arose out of the gross clownish pronunciation of the two hiccuping _"marksmen"_ who rode over to worcester for the license; and one cannot forbear laughing at the bishop's secretary for having been so misled by two varlets, professedly incapable of signing their own names. the same drunken villains had cut down the bride's name _hathaway_ into _hathwey._ finally, to treat the matter with seriousness, sir frederick madden has shown, in his recent letter to the society of antiquaries, that the poet himself in all probability _wrote_ the name uniformly _shakspere._ orthography, both of proper names, of appellatives, and of words universally, was very unsettled up to a period long subsequent to that of shakspeare. still it must usually have happened that names written variously and laxly by others, would be written uniformly by the owners; especially by those owners who had occasion to sign their names frequently, and by literary people, whose attention was often, as well as consciously, directed to the proprieties of spelling. _shakspeare_ is now too familiar to the eye for any alteration to be attempted; but it is pretty certain that sir frederick madden is right in stating the poet's own signature to have been uniformly _shakspere._ it is so written twice in the course of his will, and it is so written on a blank leaf of florio's english translation of montaigne's essays; a book recently discovered, and sold, on account of its autograph, for a hundred guineas. note 2. but, as a proof that, even in the case of royal christenings, it was not thought pious to "tempt god," as it were, by delay, edward vi., the only son of henry viii., was born on the 12th day of october in the year 1537. and there was a delay on account of the sponsors, since the birth was not in london. yet how little that delay was made, may be seen by this fact: the birth took place in the dead of the night, the day was friday; and yet, in spite of all delay, the christening was most pompously celebrated on the succeeding monday. and prince arthur, the elder brother of henry viii., was christened on the very next sunday succeeding to his birth, notwithstanding an inevitable delay, occasioned by the distance of lord oxford, his godfather, and the excessive rains, which prevented the earl being reached by couriers, or himself reaching winchester, without extraordinary exertions. note 3. a great modern poet refers to this very case of music entering "the mouldy chambers of the dull idiot's brain;" but in support of what seems to us a baseless hypothesis. note 4. probably addison's fear of the national feeling was a good deal strengthened by his awe of milton and of dryden, both of whom had expressed a homage towards shakspeare which language cannot transcend. amongst his political friends also were many intense admirers of shakspeare. note 5. he who is weak enough to kick and spurn his own native literature, even if it were done with more knowledge than is shown by lord shaftesbury, will usually be kicked and spurned in his turn; and accordingly it has been often remarked, that the characteristics are unjustly neglected in our days. for lord shaftesbury, with all his pedantry, was a man of great talents. leibnitz had the sagacity to see this through the mists of a translation. note 6. perhaps the most bitter political enemy of charles i. will have the candor to allow that, for a prince of those times, he was truly and eminently accomplished. his knowledge of the arts was considerable; and, as a patron of art, he stands foremost amongst all british sovereigns to this hour. he said truly of himself, and wisely as to the principle, that he understood english law as well as a gentleman ought to understand it; meaning that an attorney's minute knowledge of forms and technical niceties was illiberal. speaking of him as an author, we must remember that the _eikon basilike_ is still unappropriated; that question is still open. but supposing the king's claim negatived, still, in his controversy with henderson, in his negotiations at the isle of wight and elsewhere, he discovered a power of argument, a learning, and a strength of memory, which are truly admirable; whilst the whole of his accomplishments are recommended by a modesty and a humility as rare as they are unaffected. note 7. the necessity of compression obliges us to omit many arguments and references by which we could demonstrate the fact, that shakspeare's reputation was always in a progressive state; allowing only for the interruption of about seventeen years, which this poet, in common with all others, sustained, not so much from the state of war, (which did not fully occupy four of those years,) as from the triumph of a gloomy fanaticism. deduct the twenty-three years of the seventeenth century, which had elapsed before the first folio appeared, to this space add seventeen years of fanatical madness, during fourteen of which _all_ dramatic entertainments were suppressed, the remainder is sixty years. and surely the sale of four editions of a vast folio in that space of time was an expression of an abiding interest. _no other poet, except spenser, continued to sell throughout the century_. besides, in arguing the case of a _dramatic_ poet, we must bear in mind, that although readers of learned books might be diffused over the face of the land, the readers of poetry would be chiefly concentred in the metropolis; and such persons would have no need to buy what they heard at the theatres. but then comes the question, whether shakspeare kept possession of the theatres. and we are really humiliated by the gross want of sense which has been shown, by malone chiefly, but also by many others, in discussing this question. from the restoration to 1682, says malone, no more than four plays of shakspeare's were performed by a principal company in london. "such was the lamentable taste of those times, that the plays of fletcher, jonson, and shirley, were much oftener exhibited than those of our author." what cant is this! if that taste were "lamentable," what are we to think of our own times, when plays a thousand times below those of fletcher, or even of shirley, continually displace shakspeare? shakspeare would himself have exulted in finding that he gave way only to dramatists so excellent. and, as we have before observed, both then and now, it is the very familiarity with shakspeare, which often banishes him from audiences honestly in quest of relaxation and amusement. novelty is the very soul of such relaxation; but in our closets, when we are _not_ unbending, when our minds are in a state of tension from intellectual cravings, then it is that we resort to shakspeare; and oftentimes those who honor him most, like ourselves, are the most impatient of seeing his divine scenes disfigured by unequal representation, (good, perhaps, in a single personation, bad in all the rest;) or to hear his divine thoughts mangled in the recitation; or, (which is worst of all,) to hear them dishonored and defeated by imperfect apprehension in the audience, or by defective sympathy. meantime, if one theatre played only four of shakspeare's dramas, another played at least seven. but the grossest folly of malone is, in fancying the numerous alterations so many insults to shakspeare, whereas they expressed as much homage to his memory as if the unaltered dramas had been retained. the substance _was_ retained. the changes were merely concessions to the changing views of scenical propriety; sometimes, no doubt, made with a simple view to the revolution effected by davenant at the restoration, in bringing _scenes_(in the painter's sense) upon the stage; sometimes also with a view to the altered fashions of the audience during the suspensions of the action, or perhaps to the introduction of _after-pieces,_ by which, of course, the time was abridged for the main performance. a volume might be written upon this subject. meantime let us never be told, that a poet was losing, or had lost his ground, who found in his lowest depression, amongst his almost idolatrous supporters, a great king distracted by civil wars, a mighty republican poet distracted by puritanical fanaticism, the greatest successor by far of that great poet, a papist and a bigoted royalist, and finally, the leading actor of the century, who gave and reflected the ruling impulses of his age. note 8. one of the profoundest tests by which we can measure the congeniality of an author with the national genius and temper, is the degree in which his thoughts or his phrases interweave themselves with our daily conversation, and pass into the currency of the language. _few french authors, if any, have imparted one phrase to the colloquial idiom;_ with respect to shakspeare, a large dictionary might be made of such phrases as "win golden opinions," "in my mind's eye," "patience on a monument," "o'erstep the modesty of nature," "more honor'd in the breach than in the observance," "palmy state," "my poverty and not my will consents, "and so forth, without end. this reinforcement of the general language, by aids from the mintage of shakspeare, had already commenced in the seventeenth century. note 9. in fact, by way of representing to himself the system or scheme of the english roads, the reader has only to imagine one great letter x, or a st. andrew's cross, laid down from north to south, and decussating at birmingham. even coventry, which makes a slight variation for one or two roads, and so far disturbs this decussation, by shifting it eastwards, is still in warwickshire. note 10. and probably so called by some remote ancestor who had emigrated from the forest of ardennes, in the netherlands, and _now_ for ever memorable to english ears from its proximity to waterloo. note 11. let not the reader impute to us the gross anachronism of making an estimate for shakspeare's days in a coin which did not exist until a century, within a couple of years, after shakspeare's birth, and did not settle to the value of twenty-one shillings until a century after his death. the nerve of such an anachronism would lie in putting the estimate into a mouth of that age. and this is precisely the blunder into which the foolish forger of vortigern, &c., has fallen. he does not indeed directly mention guineas; but indirectly and virtually he does, by repeatedly giving us accounts imputed to shakspearian contemporaries, in which the sum total amounts to 5l 5s.; or to 26l 5s.; or, again, to 17l 17s. 6d. a man is careful to subscribe 14l 14s. and so forth. but how could such amounts have arisen unless under a secret reference to guineas, which were not in existence until charles ii.'s reign; and, moreover, to guineas at their final settlement by law into twenty-one shillings each, which did not take place until george i. 's reign. note 12. thomas campbell, the poet, in his eloquent remarks on the life and writings of william shakspeare, prefixed to a popular edition of the poet's dramatic works. london, 1838. note 13. after all the assistance given to such equations between different times or different places by sir george shuckborough's tables, and other similar investigations, it is still a very difficult problem, complex, and, after all, merely tentative in the results, to assign the true value in such cases; not only for the obvious reason, that the powers of money have varied in different directions with regard to different objects, and in different degrees where the direction has on the whole continued the same, but because the very objects to be taken into computation are so indeterminate, and vary so much, not only as regards century and century, kingdom and kingdom, but also, even in the same century and the same kingdom, as regards rank and rank. that which is a mere necessary to one, is a luxurious superfluity to another. and, in order to ascertain these differences, it is an indispensable qualification to have studied the habits and customs of the several classes concerned, together with the variations of those habits and customs. note 14. never was the _esse quain videri_ in any point more strongly discriminated than in this very point of gallantry to the female sex, as between england and france. in france, the verbal homage to woman is so excessive as to betray its real purpose, viz. that it is a mask for secret contempt. in england, little is said; but, in the mean time, we allow our sovereign ruler to be a woman; which in france is impossible. even that fact is of some importance, but less so than what follows. in every country whatsoever, if any principle has a deep root in the moral feelings of the people, we may rely upon its showing itself, by a thousand evidences amongst the very lowest ranks, and in their daily intercourse, and their _undress_ manners. now in england there is, and always has been, a manly feeling, most widely diffused, of unwillingness to see labors of a coarse order, or requiring muscular exertions, thrown upon women. pauperism, amongst other evil effects, has sometimes locally disturbed this predominating sentiment of englishmen; but never at any time with such depth as to kill the root of the old hereditary manliness. sometimes at this day a gentleman, either from carelessness, or from overruling force of convenience, or from real defect of gallantry, will allow a female servant to carry his portmanteau for him; though, after all, that spectacle is a rare one. and everywhere women of all ages engage in the pleasant, nay elegant, labors of the hay field; but in great britain women are never suffered to mow, which is a most athletic and exhausting labor, nor to load a cart, nor to drive a plough or hold it. in france, on the other hand, before the revolution, (at which period the pseudo-homage, the lip-honor, was far more ostentatiously professed towards the female sex than at present,) a frenchman of credit, and vouching for his statement by the whole weight of his name and personal responsibility, (m simond, now an american citizen,) records the following abominable scene as one of no uncommon occurrence. a woman was in some provinces yoked side by side with an ass to the plough or the harrow; and m. simond protests that it excited no horror to see the driver distributing his lashes impartially between the woman and her brute yoke-fellow. so much for the wordy pomps of french gallantry. in england, we trust, and we believe, that any man, caught in such a situation, and in such an abuse of his power, (supposing the case, otherwise a possible one,) would be killed on the spot. note 15. amongst people of humble rank in england, who only were ever asked in church, until the new-fangled systems of marriage came up within the last ten or fifteen years, during the currency of the three sundays on which the banns were proclaimed by the clergyman from the reading desk, the young couple elect were said jocosely to le "hanging in the bell-ropes;" alluding perhaps to the joyous peal contingent on the final completion of the marriage. note 16. in a little memoir of milton, which the author of this article drew up some years ago for a public society, and which is printed in an abridged shape, he took occasion to remark, that dr. johnson, who was meanly anxious to revive this slander against milton, as well as some others, had supposed milton himself to have this flagellation in his mind, and indirectly to confess it, in one of his latin poems, where, speaking of cambridge, and declaring that he has no longer any pleasure in the thoughts of revisiting that university, he says, "nee duri libet usque minas preferre magislri, coeteraque ingenio non subeunda meo." this last line the malicious critic would translate--"and other things insufferable to a man of my temper." but, as we then observed, _ingenium_ is properly expressive of the _intellectual _ constitution, whilst it is the _moral_ constitution that suffers degradation from personal chastisement--the sense of honor, of personal dignity, of justice, &c. _indoles_ is the proper term for this latter idea; and in using the word _ingenium,_ there cannot be a doubt that milton alluded to the dry scholastic disputations, which were shocking and odious to his fine poetical genius. if, therefore, the vile story is still to be kept up in order to dishonor a great man, at any rate let it not in future be pretended that any countenance to such a slander can be drawn from the confessions of the poet himself. note 17. and singular enough it is, as well as interesting, that shakspeare had so entirely superseded to his own ear and memory the name hamnet by the dramatic name of hamlet, that in writing his will, he actually mis-spells the name of his friend sadler, and calls him hamlet. his son, however, who should have familiarized the true name to his ear, had then been dead for twenty years. note 18. "i have heard that mr. shakspeare was a natural wit, without any art at all. hee frequented the plays all his younger time, but in his elder days lived at stanford, and supplied the stage with two plays every year, and for it had an allowance so large, that he spent at the rate of 1,000 guineas a-year, as i have heard. shakespeare, dray ton, arid ben jonson, had a merie meeting, and it seems drank too hard, for shakespear died of a feavour there contracted" (diary of the rev john ward, a m vicar of stratford upon avon, extending from 1648 to 1679, p 183 lond. 1839, 8vo) note 19. it is naturally to be supposed that dr hall would attend the sick bed of his father in law, and the discovery of this gentleman's medical diary promised some gratification to our curiosity as to the cause of shakspeare's death. unfortunately, it does not commence until the year 1617. note 20. an exception ought perhaps to be made for sir walter scott and for cervantes, but with regard to all other writers, dante, suppose, or anosto amongst italians, camoens amongst those of portugal, schiller amongst germans, however ably they may have been naturalized in foreign languages, as all of those here mentioned (excepting only anosto) have in one part of their works been most powerfully naturalized in english, it still remains true, (and the very sale of the books is proof sufficient,) that an alien author never does take root in the general sympathies out of his own country, he takes his station in libraries, he is lead by the man of learned leisure, he is known and valued by the refined and the elegant, but he is not (what shakspeare is for germany and america) in any proper sense a _popular_ favorite. note 21. it will occur to many readers, that perhaps homer may furnish the sole exception to this sweeping assertion. any _but_ homer is clearly and ludicrously below the level of the competition, but even homer "with his tail on," (as the scottish highlanders say of then chieftains when belted by their ceremonial retinues,) musters nothing like the force which _already_ follows shakspeare, and be it remembered, that homer sleeps and has long slept as a subject of criticism or commentary, while in germany as well as england, and _now even in france_, the gathering of wits to the vast equipage of shakspeare is advancing in an accelerated ratio. there is, in fact, a great delusion current upon this subject. innumerable references to homer, and brief critical remarks on this or that pretension of homer, this or that scene, this or that passage, lie scattered over literature ancient and modern; but the express works dedicated to the separate service of homer are, after all, not many. in greek we have only the large commentary of eustathius, and the scholia of didymus, &c.; in french little or nothing before the prose translation of the seventeenth century, which pope esteemed "elegant, "and the skirmishings of madame dacier, la motte, &c.; in english, besides the various translations and their prefaces, (which, by the way, began as early as 1555,) nothing of much importance until the elaborate preface of pope to the iliad, and his elaborate postscript to the odyssey--nothing certainly before that, and very little indeed since that, except wood's essay on the life and genius of homer. on the other hand, of the books written in illustration or investigation of shakspeare, a very considerable library might be formed in england, and another in germany. note 22. apartment is here used, as the reader will observe, in its true and continental acceptation, as a division or _compartment_ of a house including many rooms; a suite of chambers, but a suite which is partitioned off, (as in palaces,) not a single chamber; a sense so commonly and so erroneously given to this word in england. note 23. and hence, by parity of reason, under the opposite circumstances, under the circumstances which, instead of abolishing, most emphatically drew forth the sexual distinctions, viz., in the _comic_ aspects of social intercourse, the reason that we see no women on the greek stage; the greek comedy, unless when it affects the extravagant fun of farce, rejects women. note 24. it may be thought, however, by some readers, that aeschylus, in his fine phantom of darius, has approached the english ghost. as a foreign ghost, we would wish (and we are sure that our excellent readers would wish) to show every courtesy and attention to this apparition of darius. it has the advantage of being royal, an advantage which it shares with the ghost of the royal dane. yet how different, how removed by a total world, from that or any of shakspeare's ghosts! take that of banquo, for instance. how shadowy, how unreal, yet how real! darius is a mere state ghost--a diplomatic ghost. but banquo--he exists only for macbeth; the guests do not see him, yet how solemn, how real, how heart--searching he is. note 25. caliban has not yet been thoroughly fathomed. for all shakspeare's great creations are like works of nature, subjects of unexhaustible study. it was this character of whom charles i. and some of his ministers expressed such fervent admiration; and, among other circumstances, most justly they admired the new language almost with which he is endowed, for the purpose of expressing his fiendish and yet carnal thoughts of hatred to his master. caliban is evidently not meant for scorn, but for abomination mixed with fear and partial respect. he is purposely brought into contrast with the drunken trinculo and stephano, with an advantageous result. he is much more intellectual than either, uses a more elevated language, not disfigured by vulgarisms, and is not liable to the low passion for plunder as they are. he is mortal, doubtless, as his "dam" (for shakspeare will not call her mother) sycorax. but he inherits from her such qualities of power as a witch could be supposed to bequeath. he trembles indeed before prospero; but that is, as we are to understand, through the moral superiority of prospero in christian wisdom; for when he finds himself in the presence of dissolute and unprincipled men, he rises at once into the dignity of intellectual power. pope. alexander lexander pope, the most brilliant of all wits who have at any period applied themselves to the poetic treatment of human manners, to the selecting from the play of human character what is picturesque, or the arresting what is fugitive, was born in the city of london on the 21st day of may, in the memorable year 1688; about six months, therefore, before the landing of the prince of orange, and the opening of that great revolution which gave the final ratification to all previous revolutions of that tempestuous century. by the "city" of london the reader is to understand us as speaking with technical accuracy of that district, which lies within the ancient walls and the jurisdiction of the lord mayor. the parents of pope, there is good reason to think, were of "gentle blood," which is the expression of the poet himself when describing them in verse. his mother was so undoubtedly; and her illustrious son, in speaking of her to lord harvey, at a time when any exaggeration was open to an easy refutation, and writing in a spirit most likely to provoke it, does not scruple to say, with a tone of dignified haughtiness not unbecoming the situation of a filial champion on behalf of an insulted mother, that by birth and descent she was not below that young lady, (one of the two beautiful miss lepels,) whom his lordship had selected from all the choir of court beauties as the future mother of his children. of pope's extraction and immediate lineage for a space of two generations we know enough. beyond that we know little. of this little a part is dubious; and what we are disposed to receive as _not_ dubious, rests chiefly on his own authority. in the prologue to his satires, having occasion to notice the lampooners of the times, who had represented his father as "a mechanic, a hatter, a farmer, nay a bankrupt," he feels himself called upon to state the truth about his parents; and naturally much more so at a time when the low scurrilities of these obscure libellers had been adopted, accredited, and diffused by persons so distinguished in all points of personal accomplishment and rank as lady mary wortley montagu and lord harvey: _"hard as thy heart"_ was one of the lines in their joint pasquinade, _" hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure."_ accordingly he makes the following formal statement: "mr. pope's father was of a gentleman's family in oxfordshire, the head of which was the earl of downe. his mother was the daughter of william turner, esq., of york. she had three brothers, one of whom was killed; another died in the service of king charles [meaning charles i.]; the eldest, following his fortunes, and becoming a general officer in spain, left _her_ what estate remained after the sequestrations and forfeitures of her family." the sequestrations here spoken of were those inflicted by the commissioners for the parliament; and usually they levied a fifth, or even two fifths, according to the apparent delinquency of the parties. but in such cases two great differences arose in the treatment of the royalists; first, that the report was colored according to the interest which a man possessed, or other private means for biassing the commissioners; secondly, that often, when money could not be raised on mortgage to meet the sequestration, it became necessary to sell a family estate suddenly, and. therefore in those times at great loss; so that a nominal fifth might be depressed by favor to a tenth, or raised by the necessity of selling to a half. and hence might arise the small dowry of mrs. pope, notwithstanding the family estate in yorkshire had centred in her person. but, by the way, we see from the fact of the eldest brother having sought service in spain, that mrs. pope was a papist; not, like her husband, by conversion, but by hereditary faith. this account, as publicly thrown out in the way of challenge by pope, was, however, sneered at by a certain mr. pottinger of those days, who, together with his absurd name, has been safely transmitted to posterity in connection with this single feat of having contradicted alexander pope. we read in a diary published by the microcosm," _met a large hat, with a man under it_. "and so, here, we cannot so properly say that mr. pottinger brings down the contradiction to our times, as that the contradiction brings down mr. pottinger." cousin pope, "said pottinger," had made himself out a fine pedigree, but he wondered where he got it. "and he then goes on to plead in abatement of pope's pretensions," that an old maiden aunt, equally related," (that is, standing in the same relation to himself and to the poet,) "a great genealogist, who was always talking of her family, never mentioned this circumstance." and again we are told, from another quarter, that the earl of guildford, after express investigation of this matter, "was sure that," amongst the descendants of the earls of downe, "there was none of the name of pope." how it was that lord guildford came to have any connection with the affair, is not stated by the biographers of pope; but we have ascertained that, by marriage with a female descendant from the earls of downe, he had come into possession of their english estates. finally, though it is rather for the honor of the earls of downe than of pope to make out the connection, we must observe that lord guildford's testimony, _if ever given at all_, is simply negative; he had found no proofs of the connection, but he had not found any proofs to destroy it; whilst, on the other hand, it ought to be mentioned, though unaccountably overlooked by all previous biographers, that one of pope's anonymous enemies, who hated him personally, but was apparently master of his family history, and too honorable to belie his own convictions, expressly affirms of his own authority, and without reference to any claim put forward by pope, that he was descended from a junior branch of the downe family. which testimony has a double value; first, as corroborating the probability of pope's statement viewed in the light of a fact; and, secondly, as corroborating that same statement viewed in the light of a current story, true or false, and not as a disingenuous fiction put forward by pope to confute lord harvey. it is probable to us, that the popes, who had been originally transplanted from england to ireland, had in the person of some cadet been re-transplanted to england; and that having in that way been disconnected from all personal recognition, and all local memorials of the capital house, by this sort of _postliminium_, the junior branch had ceased to cherish the honor of a descent which was now divided from all direct advantage. at all events, the researches of pope's biographers have not been able to trace him farther back in the paternal line than to his grandfather; and he (which is odd enough, considering the popery of his descendants) was a clergyman of the established church in hampshire. this grandfather had two sons. of the eldest nothing is recorded beyond the three facts, that he went to oxford, that he died there, and that he spent the family estate. [endnote: 2] the younger son, whose name was alexander, had been sent when young, in some commercial character, to lisbon; [endnote: 3] and there it was, in that centre of bigotry, that he became a sincere and most disinterested catholic. he returned to england; married a catholic young widow; and became the father of a second alexander pope, _ultra sauromatas notus et antipodes._ by his own account to spence, pope learned "very early to read;" and writing he taught himself "by copying, from printed books;" all which seems to argue, that, as an only child, with an indolent father and a most indulgent mother, he was not molested with much schooling in his infancy. only one adventure is recorded of his childhood, viz., that he was attacked by a cow, thrown down, and wounded in the throat. pope escaped this disagreeable kind of vaccination without serious injury, and was not farther tormented by cows or schoolmasters until he was about eight years old, when the family priest, that is, we presume, the confessor of his parents, taught him, agreeably to the jesuit system, the rudiments of greek and latin concurrently. this priest was named banister; and his name is frequently employed, together with other fictitious names, by way of signature to the notes in the dunciad, an artifice which was adopted for the sake of giving a characteristic variety to the notes, according to the tone required for the illustration of the text. from his tuition pope was at length dismissed to a catholic school at twyford, near winchester. the selection of a school in this neighborhood, though certainly the choice of a catholic family was much limited, points apparently to the old hampshire connection of his father. here an incident occurred which most powerfully illustrates the original and constitutional determination to satire of this irritable poet. he knew himself so accurately, that in after times, half by way of boast, half of confession, he says, "but touch me, and no minister so sore: whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time slides into verse and hitches in a rhyme, sacred to ridicule his whole life long, and the sad burthen of some merry song." already, it seems, in childhood he had the same irresistible instinct, victorious over the strongest sense of personal danger. he wrote a bitter satire upon the presiding pedagogue, was brutally punished for this youthful indiscretion, and indignantly removed by his parents from the school. mr. roscoe speaks of pope's personal experience as necessarily unfavorable to public schools; but in reality he knew nothing of public schools. all the establishments for papists were narrow, and suited to their political depression; and his parents were too sincerely anxious for their son's religious principles to risk the contagion of protestant association by sending him elsewhere. from the scene [endnote: 4] of his disgrace and illiberal punishment, he passed, according to the received accounts, under the tuition of several other masters in rapid succession. but it is the less necessary to trouble the reader with their names, as pope himself assures us, that he learned nothing from any of them. to banister he had been indebted for such trivial elements of a schoolboy's learning as he possessed at all, excepting those which he had taught himself. and upon himself it was, and his own admirable faculties, that he was now finally thrown for the rest of his education, at an age so immature that many boys are then first entering their academic career. pope is supposed to have been scarcely twelve years old when he assumed the office of self-tuition, and bade farewell for ever to schools and tutors. such a phenomenon is at any rate striking. it is the more so, under the circumstances which attended the plan, and under the results which justified its execution. it seems, as regards the plan, hardly less strange that prudent parents should have acquiesced in a scheme of so much peril to his intellectual interests, than that the son, as regards the execution, should have justified their confidence by his final success. more especially this confidence surprises us in the father. a doating mother might shut her eyes to all remote evils in the present gratification to her affections; but pope's father was a man of sense and principle; he must have weighed the risks besetting a boy left to his own intellectual guidance; and to these risks he would allow the more weight from his own conscious defect of scholarship and inability to guide or even to accompany his son's studies. he could neither direct the proper choice of studies; nor in any one study taken separately could he suggest the proper choice of books. the case we apprehend to have been this. alexander pope, the elder, was a man of philosophical desires and unambitious character. quiet and seclusion and innocence of life,--these were what he affected for himself; and that which had been found available for his own happiness, he might reasonably wish for his son. the two hinges upon which his plans may be supposed to have turned, were, first, the political degradation of his sect; and, secondly, the fact that his son was an only child. had he been a protestant, or had he, though a papist, been burthened with a large family of children, he would doubtless have pursued a different course. but to him, and, as he sincerely hoped, to his son, the strife after civil honors was sternly barred. apostasy only could lay it open. and, as the sentiments of honor and duty in this point fell in with the vices of his temperament, high principle concurring with his constitutional love of ease, we need not wonder that he should early retire from commerce with a very moderate competence, or that he should suppose the same fortune sufficient for one who was to stand in the same position. this son was from his birth deformed. that made it probable that he might not marry. if he should, and happened to have children, a small family would find an adequate provision in the patrimonial funds; and a large one at the worst could only throw him upon the same commercial exertions to which he had been obliged himself. the roman catholics, indeed, were just then situated as our modern quakers are. law to the one, as conscience to the other, closed all modes of active employment except that of commercial industry. either his son, therefore, would be a rustic recluse, or, like himself, he would be a merchant. with such prospects, what need of an elaborate education? and where was such an education to be sought? at the petty establishments of the suffering catholics, the instruction, as he had found experimentally, was poor. at the great national establishments his son would be a degraded person; one who was permanently repelled from every arena of honor, and sometimes, as in cases of public danger, was banished from the capital, deprived of his house, left defenceless against common ruffians, and rendered liable to the control of every village magistrate. to one in these circumstances solitude was the wisest position, and the best qualification, for that was an education that would furnish aids to solitary thought. no need for brilliant accomplishments to him who must never display them; forensic arts, pulpit erudition, senatorial eloquence, academical accomplishments--these would be lost to one against whom the courts, the pulpit, the senate, the universities, were closed. nay, by possibility worse than lost; they might prove so many snares or positive bribes to apostasy. plain english, therefore, and the high thinking of his compatriot authors, might prove the best provision for the mind of an english papist destined to seclusion. such are the considerations under which we read and interpret the conduct of pope's parents; and they lead us to regard as wise and conscientious a scheme which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been pitiably foolish. and be it remembered, that to these considerations, derived exclusively from the civil circumstances of the family, were superadded others derived from the astonishing prematurity of the individual. that boy who could write at twelve years of age the beautiful and touching stanzas on solitude, might well be trusted with the superintendence of his own studies. and the stripling of sixteen, who could so far transcend in good sense the accomplished statesmen or men of the world with whom he afterwards corresponded, might challenge confidence for such a choice of books as would best promote the development of his own faculties. in reality, one so finely endowed as alexander pope, could not easily lose his way in the most extensive or ill-digested library. and though he tells atterbury, that at one time he abused his opportunities by reading controversial divinity, we may be sure that his own native activities, and the elasticity of his mind, would speedily recoil into a just equilibrium of study, under wider and happier opportunities. reading, indeed, for a person like pope, is rather valuable as a means of exciting his own energies, and of feeding his own sensibilities, than for any direct acquisitions of knowledge, or for any trains of systematic research. all men are destined to devour much rubbish between the cradle and the grave; and doubtless the man who is wisest in the choice of his books, will have read many a page before he dies that a thoughtful review would pronounce worthless. this is the fate of all men. but the reading of pope, as a general result or measure of his judicious choice, is best justified in his writings. they show him well furnished with whatsoever he wanted for matter or for embellishment, for argument or illustration, for example and model, or for direct and explicit imitation. possibly, as we have already suggested, within the range of english literature pope might have found all that he wanted. but variety the widest has its uses; and, for the extension of his influence with the polished classes amongst whom he lived, he did wisely to add other languages; and a question has thus arisen with regard to the extent of pope's attainments as a self-taught linguist. a man, or even a boy, of great originality, may happen to succeed best, in working his own native mines of thought, by his unassisted energies. here it is granted that a tutor, a guide, or even a companion, may be dispensed with, and even beneficially. but in the case of foreign languages, in attaining this machinery of literature, though anomalies even here do arise, and men there are, like joseph scaliger, who form their own dictionaries and grammars in the mere process of reading an unknown language, by far the major part of students will lose their time by rejecting the aid of tutors. as there has been much difference of opinion with regard to pope's skill in languages, we shall briefly collate and bring into one focus the stray notices. as to the french, voltaire, who knew pope personally, declared that he "could hardly _read_ it, and spoke not one syllable of the language." but perhaps voltaire might dislike pope? on the contrary, he was acquainted with his works, and admired them to the very level of their merits. speaking of him _after death_ to frederick of prussia, he prefers him to horace and boileau, asserting that, by comparison with _them_, "pope _approfondit_ ce qu'ils ont _effleura_. d'un esprit plus hardi, d'un pas plus assure, il porta le flambeau dans l'abeme de l'otre; et l'homme _avec lui seul_ apprit a se connoetre. l'art quelquefois frivole, et quelquefois divine, l'art des vers est dans pope utile au genre humain." this is not a wise account of pope, for it does not abstract the characteristic feature of his power; but it is a very kind one. and of course voltaire could not have meant any unkindness in denying his knowledge of french. but he was certainly wrong. pope, in _his_ presence, would decline to speak or to read a language of which the pronunciation was confessedly beyond him. or, if he did, the impression left would be still worse. in fact, no man ever will pronounce or talk a language which he does not use, for some part of every day, in the real intercourse of life. but that pope read french of an ordinary cast with fluency enough, is evident from the extensive use which he made of madame dacier's labors on the iliad, and still more of la valterie's prose translation of the iliad. already in the year 1718, and long before his personal knowledge of voltaire, pope had shown his accurate acquaintance with some voluminous french authors, in a way which, we suspect, was equally surprising and offensive to his noble correspondent. the duke of buckingham [endnote: 5] had addressed to pope a letter, containing some account of the controversy about homer, which had then been recently carried on in france between la motte and madame dacier. this account was delivered with an air of teaching, which was very little in harmony with its excessive shallowness. pope, who sustained the part of pupil in this interlude, replied in a manner that exhibited a knowledge of the parties concerned in the controversy much superior to that of the duke. in particular, he characterized the excellent notes upon horace of m. dacier, the husband, in very just terms, as distinguished from those of his conceited and half-learned wife; and the whole reply of pope seems very much as though he had been playing off a mystification on his grace. undoubtedly the pompous duke felt that he had caught a tartar. now m. dacier's horace, which, with the text, fills nine volumes, pope could not have read _except_ in french; for they are not even yet translated into english. besides, pope read critically the french translations of his own essay on man, essay on criticism, rape of the lock, &c. he spoke of them as a critic; and it was at no time a fault of pope's to make false pretensions. all readers of pope's satires must also recollect numerous proofs, that he had read boileau with so much feeling of his peculiar merit, that he has appropriated and naturalized in english some of his best passages. voltaire was, therefore, certainly wrong. of italian literature, meantime, pope knew little or nothing; and simply because he knew nothing of the language. tasso, indeed, he admired; and, which is singular, more than ariosto. but we believe that he had read him only in english; and it is certain that he could not take up an italian author, either in prose or verse, for the unaffected amusement of his leisure. greek, we all know has been denied to pope, ever since he translated homer, and chiefly in consequence of that translation. this seems at first sight unfair, because criticism has not succeeded in fixing upon pope any errors of ignorance. his deviations from homer were uniformly the result of imperfect sympathy with the naked simplicity of the antique, and therefore wilful deviations, not (like those of his more pretending competitors, addison and tickell) pure blunders of misapprehension. but yet it is not inconsistent with this concession to pope's merits, that we must avow our belief in his thorough ignorance of greek when he first commenced his task. and to us it seems astonishing that nobody should have adverted to that fact as a sufficient solution, and in fact the only plausible solution, of pope's excessive depression of spirits in the earliest stage of his labors. this depression, after he had once pledged himself to his subscribers for the fulfilment of his task, arose from, and could have arisen from nothing else than, his conscious ignorance of greek in connection with the solemn responsibilities he had assumed in the face of a great nation. nay, even countries as presumptuously disdainful of tramontane literature as italy took an interest in this memorable undertaking. bishop berkeley found salvini reading it at florence; and madame dacier even, who read little but greek, and certainly no english until then, condescended to study it. pope's dejection, therefore, or rather agitation (for it impressed by sympathy a tumultuous character upon his dreams, which lasted for years after the cause had ceased to operate) was perfectly natural under the explanation we have given, but not otherwise. and how did he surmount this unhappy self-distrust? paradoxical as it may sound, we will venture to say, that, with the innumerable aids for interpreting homer which even then existed, a man sufficiently acquainted with latin might make a translation even critically exact. this pope was not long in discovering. other alleviations of his labor concurred, and in a ratio daily increasing. the same formulae were continually recurring, such as, _"but him answering, thus addressed the swift-footed achilles;"_ or, _"but him sternly beholding, thus spoke agamemnon the king of men."_ then, again, universally the homeric greek, from many causes, is easy; and especially from these two: 1 _st_, the simplicity of the thought, which never gathers into those perplexed knots of rhetorical condensation, which we find in the dramatic poets of a higher civilization. 2 _dly_, from the constant hounds set to the expansion of the thought by the form of the metre; an advantage of verse which makes the poets so much easier to a beginner in the german language than the illimitable weavers of prose. the line or the stanza reins up the poet tightly to his theme, and will not suffer him to expatiate. gradually, therefore, pope came to read the homeric greek, but never accurately; nor did he ever read eustathius without aid from latin. as to any knowledge of the attic greek, of the greek of the dramatists, the greek of plato, the greek of demosthenes, pope neither had it nor affected to have it. indeed it was no foible of pope's, as we will repeat, to make claims which he had not, or even to dwell ostentatiously upon those which he had. and with respect to greek in particular, there is a manuscript letter in existence from pope to a mr. bridges at falham, which, speaking of the original homer, distinctly records the knowledge which he had of his own "imperfectness in the language." chapman, a most spirited translator of homer, probably had no very critical skill in greek; and hobbes was, beyond all question, as poor a grecian as he was a doggerel translator; yet in this letter pope professes his willing submission to the "authority" of chapman and hobbes, as superior to his own. finally, in _latin_ pope was a "considerable proficient," even by the cautious testimony of dr. johnson; and in this language only the doctor was an accomplished critic. if pope had really the proficiency here ascribed to him, he must have had it already in his boyish years; for the translation from statius, which is the principal monument of his skill, was executed _before_ he was fourteen. we have taken the trouble to throw a hasty glance over it; and whilst we readily admit the extraordinary talent which it shows, as do all the juvenile essays of pope, we cannot allow that it argues any accurate skill in latin. the word malea, as we have seen noticed by some editor, he makes malea; which in itself, as the name was not of common occurrence, would not have been an error worth noticing; but, taken in connection with the certainty that pope had the original line before him- "arripit ex templo maleae de valle resurgens," when not merely the scanning theoretically, but the whole rhythm is practically, to the most obtuse ear, would be annihilated by pope's false quantity, is a blunder which serves to show his utter ignorance of prosody. but, even as a version of the sense, with every allowance for a poet's license of compression and expansion, pope's translation is defective, and argues an occasional inability to construe the text. for instance, at the council summoned by jupiter, it is said that he at his first entrance seats himself upon his starry throne, but not so the inferior gods; "nec protinus ausi coelicolae, veniam donee pater ipse sedendi tranquilla jubet esse manu." in which passage there is a slight obscurity, from the ellipsis of the word _sedere_, or _sese locare_; but the meaning is evidently that the other gods did not presume to sit down _protinus_, that is, in immediate succession to jupiter, and interpreting his example as a tacit license to do so, until, by a gentle wave of his hand, the supreme father signifies his express permission to take their seats. but pope, manifestly unable to extract any sense from the passage, translates thus: "at jove's assent the deities around in solemn slate the consistory _crown'd_;" where at once the whole picturesque solemnity of the celestial ritual melts into the vaguest generalities. again, at v. 178, _ruptaeque vices_ is translated," _and all the ties of nature broke_; "but by vices is indicated the alternate reign of the two brothers, as ratified by mutual oaths, and subsequently violated by eteocles. other mistakes might be cited, which seem to prove that pope, like most self-taught linguists, was a very imperfect one. [endnote: 6] pope, in short, never rose to such a point in classical literature as to read either greek or latin authors without effort, and for his private amusement. the result, therefore, of pope's self-tuition appears to us, considered in the light of an attempt to acquire certain accomplishments of knowledge, a most complete failure. as a linguist, he read no language with ease; none with pleasure to himself; and none with so much accuracy as could have carried him through the most popular author with a general independence on interpreters. but, considered with a view to his particular faculties and slumbering originality of power, which required perhaps the stimulation of accident to arouse them effectually, we are very much disposed to think that the very failure of his education as an artificial training was a great advantage finally for inclining his mind to throw itself, by way of indemnification, upon its native powers. had he attained, as with better tuition he would have attained, distinguished excellence as a scholar, or as a student of science, the chances are many that he would have settled down into such studies as thousands could pursue not less successfully than he; whilst as it was, the very dissatisfaction which he could not but feel with his slender attainments, must have given him a strong motive for cultivating those impulses of original power which he felt continually stirring within him, and which were vivified into trials of competition as often as any distinguished excellence was introduced to his knowledge. pope's father, at the time of his birth, lived in lombard street; [endnote: 7] a street still familiar to the public eye, from its adjacency to some of the chief metropolitan establishments, and to the english ear possessing a degree of historical importance; first, as the residence of those lombards, or milanese, who affiliated our infant commerce to the matron splendors of the adriatic and the mediterranean; next, as the central resort of thrme jewellers, or "goldsmiths," as they were styled, who performed all the functions of modern bankers from the period of the parliamentary war to the rise of the bank of england, that is, for six years after the birth of pope; and, lastly, as the seat, until lately, of that vast post office, through which, for so long a period, has passed the correspondence of all nations and languages, upon a scale unknown to any other country. in this street alexander pope the elder had a house, and a warehouse, we presume, annexed, in which he conducted the wholesale business of a linen merchant. as soon as he had made a moderate fortune he retired from business, first to kensington, and afterwards to binfield, in windsor forest. the period of this migration is not assigned by any writer. it is probable that a prudent man would not adopt it with any prospect of having more children. but this chance might be considered as already extinguished at the birth of pope; for though his father had then only attained his forty-fourth year, mrs. pope had completed her forty-eighth. it is probable, from the interval of seven days which is said to have elapsed between pope's punishment and his removal from the school, that his parents were then living at such a distance from him as to prevent his ready communication with them, else we may be sure that mrs. pope would have flown on the wings of love and wrath to the rescue of her darling. supposing, therefore, as we _do_ suppose, that mr. bromley's school in london was the scene of his disgrace, it would appear on this argument that his parents were then living in windsor forest. and this hypothesis falls in with another anecdote in pope's life, which we know partly upon his own authority. he tells wycherley that he had seen dryden, and barely seen him. _virgilium vidi tantum_. this is presumed to have been in will's coffee-house, whither any person in search of dryden would of course resort; and it must have been before pope was twelve years old, for dryden died in 1700. now there is a letter of sir charles wogan's, stating that he first took pope to will's; and his words are, "from our forest." consequently, at that period, when he had not completed his twelfth year, pope was already living in the forest. from this period, and so long as the genial spirits of youth lasted, pope's life must have been one dream of pleasure. he tells lord harvey that his mother did not spoil him; but that was no doubt because there was no room for wilfulness or waywardness on either side, when all was one placid scene of parental obedience and gentle filial authority. we feel persuaded that, if not in words, in spirit and inclination, they would, in any notes they might have occasion to write, subscribe themselves "your dutiful parents." and of what consequence in whose hands were the reins which were never needed? every reader must be pleased to know that these idolizing parents lived to see their son at the very summit of his public elevation; even his father lived two years and a half after the publication of his homer had commenced, and when his fortune was made; and his mother lived for nearly eighteen years more. what a felicity for her, how rare and how perfect, to find that he, who to her maternal eyes was naturally the most perfect of human beings, and the idol of her heart, had already been the idol of the nation before he had completed his youth. she had also another blessing not always commanded by the most devoted love; many sons there are who think it essential to manliness that they should treat their mother's doating anxiety with levity, or even ridicule. but pope, who was the model of a good son, never swerved in words, manners, or conduct, from the most respectful tenderness, or intermitted the piety of his attentions. and so far did he carry this regard for his mother's comfort, that, well knowing how she lived upon his presence or by his image, he denied himself for many years all excursions which could not be fully accomplished within the revolution of a week. and to this cause, combined with the excessive length of his mother's life, must be ascribed the fact that pope never went abroad; not to italy with thomson or with berkeley, or any of his diplomatic friends; not to ireland, where his presence would have been hailed as a national honor; not even to france, on a visit to his admiring and admired friend lord bolingbroke. for as to the fear of sea-sickness, _that_ did not arise until a late period of his life; and at any period would not have operated to prevent his crossing from dover to calais. it is possible that, in his earlier and more sanguine years, all the perfection of his filial love may not have availed to prevent him from now and then breathing a secret murmur at confinement so constant. but it is certain that, long before he passed the meridian of his life, pope had come to view this confinement with far other thoughts. experience had then taught him, that to no man is the privilege granted of possessing more than one or two friends who are such in extremity. by that time he had come to view his mother's death with fear and anguish. she, he knew by many a sign, would have been happy to lay down her life for his sake; but for others, even those who were the most friendly and the most constant in their attentions, he felt but too certainly that his death, or his heavy affliction, might cost them a few sighs, but would not materially disturb their peace of mind. "it is but in a very narrow circle," says he, in a confidential letter, "that friendship walks in this world, and i care not to tread out of it more than i needs must; knowing well it is but to two or three, (if quite so many,) that any man's welfare or memory can be of consequence." after such acknowledgments, we are not surprised to find him writing thus of his mother, and his fearful struggles to fight off the shock of his mother's death, at a time when it was rapidly approaching. after having said of a friend's death, "the subject is beyond writing upon, beyond cure or ease by reason or reflection, beyond all but one thought, that it is the will of god," he goes on thus, "so will the death of my mother be, which now i tremble at, now resign to, now bring close to me, now set farther off; every day alters, turns me about, confuses my whole frame of mind." there is no pleasure, he adds, which the world can give "equivalent to countervail either the death of one i have so long lived with, or of one i have so long lived for." how will he comfort himself after her death? "i have nothing left but to turn my thoughts to one comfort, the last we usually think of, though the only one we should in wisdom depend upon. i sit in her room, and she is always present before me but when i sleep. i wonder i am so well. i have shed many tears; but now i weep at nothing." a man, therefore, happier than pope in his domestic relations cannot easily have lived. it is true these relations were circumscribed; had they been wider, they could not have been so happy. but pope was equally fortunate in his social relations. what, indeed, most of all surprises us, is the courteous, flattering, and even brilliant reception which pope found from his earliest boyhood amongst the most accomplished men of the world. wits, courtiers, statesmen, grandees the most dignified, and men of fashion the most brilliant, all alike treated him not only with pointed kindness, but with a respect that seemed to acknowledge him as their intellectual superior. without rank, high birth, fortune, without even a literary name, and in defiance of a deformed person, pope, whilst yet only sixteen years of age, was caressed, and even honored; and all this with no one recommendation but simply the knowledge of his dedication to letters, and the premature expectations which he raised of future excellence. sir william trumbull, a veteran statesman, who had held the highest stations, both diplomatic and ministerial, made him his daily companion. wycherley, the old _roue_ of the town, a second-rate wit, but not the less jealous on that account, showed the utmost deference to one whom, as a man of fashion, he must have regarded with contempt, and between whom and himself there were nearly "fifty good years of fair and foul weather." cromwell, [endnote: 8] a fox-hunting country gentleman, but uniting with that character the pretensions of a wit, and affecting also the reputation of a rake, cultivated his regard with zeal and conscious inferiority. nay, which never in any other instance happened to the most fortunate poet, his very inaugural essays in verse were treated, not as prelusive efforts of auspicious promise, but as finished works of art, entitled to take their station amongst the literature of the land; and in the most worthless of all his poems, walsh, an established authority, and whom dryden pronounced the ablest critic of the age, found proofs of equality with virgil. the literary correspondence with these gentlemen is interesting, as a model of what once passed for fine letter-writing. every nerve was strained to outdo each other in carving all thoughts into a fillagree work of rhetoric; and the amoebaean contest was like that between two village cocks from neighboring farms endeavoring to overcrow each other. to us, in this age of purer and more masculine taste, the whole scene takes the ludicrous air of old and young fops dancing a minuet with each other, practising the most elaborate grimaces, sinkings and risings the most awful, bows the most overshadowing, until plain walking, running, or the motions of natural dancing, are thought too insipid for endurance. in this instance the taste had perhaps really been borrowed from france, though often enough we impute to france what is the native growth of all minds placed in similar circumstances. madame de sevigne's letters were really models of grace. but balzac, whose letters, however, are not without interest, had in some measure formed himself upon the truly magnificent rhetoric of pliny and seneca. pope and his correspondents, meantime, degraded the dignity of rhetoric, by applying it to trivial commonplaces of compliment; whereas seneca applied it to the grandest themes which life or contemplation can supply. lady mary wortley montagu, on first coming amongst the wits of the day, naturally adopted their style. she found this sort of _euphuism_ established; and it was not for a very young woman to oppose it. but her masculine understanding and powerful good sense, shaken free, besides, from all local follies by travels and extensive commerce with the world, first threw off these glittering chains of affectation. dean swift, by the very constitution of his mind, plain, sinewy, nervous, and courting only the strength that allies itself with homeliness, was always indisposed to this mode of correspondence. and, finally, pope himself, as his earlier friends died off, and his own understanding acquired strength, laid it aside altogether. one reason doubtless was, that he found it too fatiguing; since in this way of letter-writing he was put to as much expense of wit in amusing an individual correspondent, as would for an equal extent have sufficed to delight the whole world. a funambulist may harass his muscles and risk his neck on the tight-rope, but hardly to entertain his own family. pope, however, had another reason for declining this showy system of fencing; and strange it is that he had not discovered this reason from the very first. as life advanced, it happened unavoidably that real business advanced; the careless condition of youth prompted no topics, or at least prescribed none, but such as were agreeable to the taste, and allowed of an ornamental coloring. but when downright business occurred, exchequer bills to be sold, meetings to be arranged, negotiations confided, difficulties to be explained, here and there by possibility a jest or two might be scattered, a witty allusion thrown in, or a sentiment interwoven; but for the main body of the case, it neither could receive any ornamental treatment, nor if, by any effort of ingenuity, it _had_, could it look otherwise than silly and unreasonable: "ornari les a ipsa negat, contenta doceri." pope's idleness, therefore, on the one hand, concurring with good sense and the necessities of business on the other, drove him to quit his gay rhetoric in letter-writing. but there are passages surviving in his correspondence which indicate, that, after all, had leisure and the coarse perplexities of life permitted it, he still looked with partiality upon his youthful style, and cherished it as a first love. but in this harsh world, as the course of true love, so that of rhetoric, never did run smooth; and thus it happened that, with a lingering farewell, he felt himself forced to bid it adieu. strange that any man should think his own sincere and confidential overflowings of thought and feeling upon books, men, and public affairs, less valuable in a literary view than the legerdemain of throwing up bubbles into the air for the sake of watching their prismatic hues, like an indian juggler with his cups and balls. we of this age, who have formed our notions of epistolary excellence from the chastity of gray's, the brilliancy of lady mary wortley montagu's during her later life, and the mingled good sense and fine feeling of cowper's, value only those letters of pope which he himself thought of inferior value. and even with regard to these, we may say that there is a great mistake made; the best of those later letters between pope and swift, &c., are not in themselves at all superior to the letters of sensible and accomplished women, such as leave every town in the island by every post. their chief interest is a derivative one; we are pleased with any letter, good or bad, which relates to men of such eminent talent; and sometimes the subjects discussed have a separate interest for themselves. but as to the quality of the discussion, apart from the person discussing and the thing discussed, so trivial is the value of these letters in a large proportion, that we cannot but wonder at the preposterous value which was set upon them by the writers. [endnote: 9] pope especially ought not to have his ethereal works loaded by the mass of trivial prose which is usually attached to them. this correspondence, meantime, with the wits of the time, though one mode by which, in the absence of reviews, the reputation of an author was spread, did not perhaps serve the interests of pope so effectually as the poems which in this way he circulated in those classes of english society whose favor he chiefly courted. one of his friends, the truly kind and accomplished sir william trumbull, served him in that way, and perhaps in another eventually even more important. the library of pope's father was composed exclusively of polemical divinity, a proof, by the way, that he was not a blind convert to the roman catholic faith; or, if he was so originally, had reviewed the grounds of it, and adhered to it after strenuous study. in this dearth of books at his own home, and until he was able to influence his father in buying more extensively, pope had benefited by the loans of his friends; amongst whom it is probable that sir william, as one of the best scholars of the whole, might assist him most. he certainly offered him the most touching compliment, as it was also the wisest and most paternal counsel, when he besought him, as one _goddess-born_, to quit the convivial society of deep-drinkers: "heu, fuge nate dea, teque his, ait, eripe malis." with these aids from friends of rank, and his way thus laid open to public favor, in the year 1709 pope first came forward upon the stage of literature. the same year which terminated his legal minority introduced him to the public. _miscellanies_ in those days were almost periodical repositories of fugitive verse. tonson happened at this time to be publishing one of some extent, the sixth volume of which offered a sort of ambush to the young aspirant of windsor forest, from which he might watch the public feeling. the volume was opened by mr. ambrose philips, in the character of pastoral poet; and in the same character, but stationed at the end of the volume, and thus covered by his bucolic leader, as a soldier to the rear by the file in advance, appeared pope; so that he might win a little public notice, without too much seeming to challenge it. this half-clandestine emersion upon the stage of authorship, and his furtive position, are both mentioned by pope as accidents, but as accidents in which he rejoiced, and not improbably accidents which tonson had arranged with a view to his satisfaction. it must appear strange that pope at twenty-one should choose to come forward for the first time with a work composed at sixteen. a difference of five years at that stage of life is of more effect than of twenty at a later; and his own expanding judgment could hardly fail to inform him, that his pastorals were by far the worst of his works. in reality, let us not deny, that had pope never written any thing else, his name would not have been known as a name even of promise, but would probably have been redeemed from oblivion by some satirist or writer of a dunciad. were a man to meet with such a nondescript monster as the following, viz.," _love out of mount mlna by whirlwind_"he would suppose himself reading the racing calendar. yet this hybrid creature is one of the many zoological monsters to whom the pastorals introduce us: "i know thee. love! on foreign mountains born. wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed. thou wert from aetna's burning entrails torn. got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born." but the very names "damon" and "strephon," "phillis" and "delia," are rank with childishness. arcadian life is, at the best, a feeble conception, and rests upon the false principle of crowding together all the luscious sweets of rural life, undignified by the danger which attends pastoral life in our climate, and unrelieved by shades, either moral or physical. and the arcadia of pope's age was the spurious arcadia of the opera theatre, and, what is worse, of the french opera. the hostilities which followed between these rival wooers of the pastoral muse are well known. pope, irritated at what he conceived the partiality shown to philips in the guardian, pursued the review ironically; and, whilst affecting to load his antagonist with praises, draws into pointed relief some of his most flagrant faults. the result, however, we cannot believe. that all the wits, except addison, were duped by the irony, is quite impossible. could any man of sense mistake for praise the remark, that philips had imitated "_every_ line of strada; "that he had introduced wolves into england, and proved himself the first of gardeners by making his flowers "blow all in the same season." or, suppose those passages unnoticed, could the broad sneer escape him, where pope taxes the other writer (viz., himself) with having deviated" into downright poetry; "or the outrageous ridicule of philip's style, as setting up for the ideal type of the pastoral style, the quotation from gay, beginning, "rager, go vetch tha kee, or else tha zun will quite bego before ch' 'avs half a don!" philips is said to have resented this treatment by threats of personal chastisement to pope, and even hanging up a rod at button's coffee-house. we may be certain that philips never disgraced himself by such ignoble conduct. if the public indeed were universally duped by the paper, what motive had philips for resentment? or, in any case, what plea had he for attacking pope, who had not come forward as the author of the essay? but, from pope's confidential account of the matter, we know that philips saw him daily, and never offered him "any indecorum;" though, for some cause or other, pope pursued philips with virulence through life. in the year 1711, pope published his essay on criticism, which some people have very unreasonably fancied his best performance; and in the same year his rape of the lock, the most exquisite monument of playful fancy that universal literature offers. it wanted, however, as yet, the principle of its vitality, in wanting the machinery of sylphs and gnomes, with which addition it was first published in 1714. in the year 1712, pope appeared again before the public as the author of the temple of fame, and the elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady. much speculation has arisen on the question concerning the name of this lady, and the more interesting question concerning the nature of the persecutions and misfortunes which she suffered. pope appears purposely to decline answering the questions of his friends upon that point; at least the questions have reached us, and the answers have not. joseph warton supposed himself to have ascertained four facts about her: that her name was wainsbury; that she was deformed in person; that she retired into a convent from some circumstances connected with an attachment to a young man of inferior rank; and that she killed herself, not by a sword, as the poet insinuates, but by a halter. as to the latter statement, it may very possibly be true; such a change would be a very slight exercise of the poet's privileges. as to the rest, there are scarcely grounds enough for an opinion. pope certainly speaks of her under the name of mrs. (_i. e._ miss) w--, which at least argues a poetical exaggeration in describing her as a being "that once had _titles_, honor, wealth, and fame;" and he may as much have exaggerated her pretensions to beauty. it is indeed noticeable, that he speaks simply of her _decent_ limbs, which, in any english use of the word, does not imply much enthusiasm of praise. she appears to have been the niece of a lady a--; and mr. craggs, afterwards secretary of state, wrote to lady a--on her behalf, and otherwise took an interest in her fate. as to her being a relative of the duke of buckingham's, that rests upon a mere conjectural interpretation applied to a letter of that nobleman's. but all things about this unhappy lady are as yet enveloped in mystery. and not the least part of the mystery is a letter of pope's to a mr. c--, bearing date 1732, that is, just twenty years after the publication of the poem, in which pope, in a manly tone, justifies himself for his estrangement, and presses against his unknown correspondent the very blame which he had applied generally to the kinsman of the poor victim in 1712. now, unless there is some mistake in the date, how are we to explain this gentleman's long lethargy, and his sudden sensibility to pope's anathema, with which the world had resounded for twenty years? pope had now established his reputation with the public as the legitimate successor and heir to the poetical supremacy of dryden. his rape of the lock was unrivalled in ancient or modern literature, and the time had now arrived when, instead of seeking to extend his fame, he might count upon a pretty general support in applying what he had already established to the promotion of his own interest. accordingly, in the autumn of 1713, he formed a final resolution of undertaking a new translation of the iliad. it must be observed, that already in 1709, concurrently with his pastorals, he had published specimens of such a translation; and these had been communicated to his friends some time before. in particular, sir william trumbull, on the 9th of april, 1708, urged upon pope a complete translation of both iliad and odyssey. defective skill in the greek language, exaggeration of the difficulties, and the timidity of a writer as yet unknown, and not quite twenty years old, restrained pope for five years and more. what he had practised as a sort of _bravura_, for a single effort of display, he recoiled from as a daily task to be pursued through much toil, and a considerable section of his life. however, he dallied with the purpose, starting difficulties in the temper of one who wishes to hear them undervalued; until at length sir richard steele determined him to the undertaking, a fact overlooked by the biographers, but which is ascertained by ayre's account of that interview between pope and addison, probably in 1716, which sealed the rupture between them. in the autumn of 1713, he made his design known amongst his friends. accordingly, on the 21st of october, we have lord lansdown's letter, expressing his great pleasure at the communication; on the 26th, we have addison's letter encouraging him to the task; and in november of the same year occurs the amusing scene so graphically described by bishop kennet, when dean swift presided in the conversation, and, amongst other indications of his conscious authority, "instructed a young nobleman, that the best poet in england was mr. pope, 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 until i have a thousand guineas for him_." if this were the extent of what swift anticipated from the work, he fell miserably below the result. but, perhaps, he spoke only of a cautionary _arrha_ or earnest. as this was unquestionably the greatest literary labor, as to profit, ever executed, not excepting the most lucrative of sir walter scott's, if due allowance be made for the altered value of money, and if we consider the odyssey as forming part of the labor, it may be right to state the particulars of pope's contract with lintot. the number of subscribers to the iliad was 575, and the number of copies subscribed for was 654. the work was to be printed in six quarto volumes; and the subscription was a guinea a volume. consequently by the subscription pope obtained six times 654 guineas, or 4218l. 6s., (for the guinea then passed for 21s. 6d.); and for the copyright of each volume lintot offered 200l, consequently 1200l for the whole six; so that from the iliad the profit exactly amounted to 5310l. 16s. of the odyssey, 574 copies were subscribed for. it was to be printed in five quarto volumes, and the subscription was a guinea a volume. consequently by the subscription pope obtained five times 574 guineas, or 3085l. 5s.; and for the copyright lintot offered 600l. the total sum received, therefore, by pope, on account of the odyssey, was 3685l. 5s. but in this instance he had two coadjutors, broome and fenton; between them they translated twelve books, leaving twelve to pope. the notes also were compiled by broome; but the postscript to the notes was written by pope. fenton received 300l, broome 500l. such at least is warton's account, and more probable than that of ruffhead, who not only varies the proportions, but increases the whole sum given to the assistants by 100l. thus far we had followed the guidance of mere probabilities, as they lie upon the face of the transaction. but we have since detected a written statement of pope's, unaccountably overlooked by the biographers, and serving of itself to show how negligently they have read the works of their illustrious subject. the statement is entitled to the fullest attention and confidence, not being a hasty or casual notice of the transaction, but pointedly shaped to meet a calumnious rumor against pope in his character of paymaster; as if he who had found so much liberality from publishers in his own person, were niggardly or unjust as soon as he assumed those relations to others. broome, it was alleged, had expressed himself dissatisfied with pope's remuneration. perhaps he had. for he would be likely to frame his estimate for his own services from the scale of pope's reputed gains; and those gains would, at any rate, be enormously exaggerated, as uniformly happens where there is a basis of the marvellous to begin with. and, secondly, it would be natural enough to assume the previous result from the iliad as a fair standard for computation; but in this, as we know, all parties found themselves disappointed, and broome had the less right to murmur at this, since the arrangement with himself as chief journeyman in the job was one main cause of the disappointment. there was also another reason why broome should be less satisfied than fenton. verse for verse, any one thousand lines of a translation so purely mechanical might stand against any other thousand; and so far the equation of claims was easy. a book-keeper, with a pen behind his ear, and cocker's golden rule open before him, could do full justice to mr. broome _as a poet_ every saturday night. but broome had a separate account current for pure prose against pope. one he had in conjunction with fenton for verses delivered on the premises at so much per hundred, on which there could be no demur, except as to the allowance for tare and tret as a discount in favor of pope. but the prose account, the account for notes, requiring very various degrees of reading and research, allowed of no such easy equation. there it was, we conceive, that broome's discontent arose. pope, however, declares, that he had given him 500l, thus confirming the proportions of warton against ruffhead, (that is, in effect, warburton,) and some other advantages which were not in money, nor deductions at all from his own money profits, but which may have been worth so much money to broome, as to give some colorable truth to ruffhead's allegation of an additional 100l. in direct money, it remains certain that fenton had three, and broome five hundred pounds. it follows, therefore, that for the iliad and odyssey jointly he received a sum of 8996l. 1s., and paid for assistance 800l, which leaves to himself a clear sum of 8196l. 1s. and, in fact, his profits ought to be calculated without deduction, since it was his own choice, from indolence, to purchase assistance. the iliad was commenced about october, 1713. in the summer of the following year he was so far advanced as to begin making arrangements with lintot for the printing; and the first two books, in manuscript, were put into the hands of lord halifax. in june, 1715, between the 10th and 28th, the subscribers received their copies of the first volume; and in july lintot began to publish that volume generally. some readers will inquire, who paid for the printing and paper, &c.? all this expense fell upon lintot, for whom pope was superfluously anxious. the sagacious bookseller understood what he was about; and, when a pirated edition was published in holland, he counteracted the injury by printing a cheap edition, of which 7500 copies were sold in a few weeks; an extraordinary proof of the extended interest in literature. the second, third, and fourth volumes of the iliad, each containing, like the first, four books, were published successively in 1716, 1717, 1718; and in 1720, pope completed the work by publishing the fifth volume, containing five books, and the sixth, containing the last three, with the requisite supplementary apparatus. the odyssey was commenced in 1723, (not 1722, as mr. roscoe virtually asserts at p. 259,) and the publication of it was finished in 1725. the sale, however, was much inferior to that of the iliad; for which more reasons than one might be assigned. but there can be no doubt that pope himself depreciated the work, by his undignified arrangements for working by subordinate hands. such a process may answer in sculpture, because there a quantity of rough-hewing occurs, which can no more be improved by committing it to a phidias, than a common shop-bill could be improved in its arithmetic by sir isaac newton. but in literature such arrangements are degrading; and, above all, in a work which was but too much exposed already to the presumption of being a mere effort of mechanic skill, or (as curll said to the house of lords)" _a knack_; "it was deliberately helping forward that idea to let off parts of the labor. only think of milton letting off by contract to the lowest offer, and to be delivered by such a day, (for which good security to be found,) six books of paradise lost. it is true, the great dramatic authors were often _collaborateurs_, but their case was essentially different. the loss, however, fell not upon pope, but upon lintot, who, on this occasion, was out of temper, and talked rather broadly of prosecution. but that was out of the question. pope had acted indiscreetly, but nothing could be alleged against his honor; for he had expressly warned the public, that he did not, as in the other case, profess _to translate_, but _to undertake [endnote: 10] a translation_ of the odyssey. lintot, however, was no loser absolutely, though he might be so in relation to his expectations; on the contrary, he grew rich, bought land, and became sheriff of the county in which his estates lay. we have pursued the homeric labors uninterruptedly from their commencement in 1713, till their final termination in 1725, a period of twelve years or nearly; because this was the task to which pope owed the dignity, if not the comforts, of his life, since it was this which enabled him to decline a pension from all administrations, and even from his friend craggs, the secretary, to decline the express offer of 300l per annum. indeed pope is always proud to own his obligations to homer. in the interval, however, between the iliad and the odyssey, pope listened to proposals made by jacob tonson, that he should revise an edition of shakspeare. for this, which was in fact the first attempt at establishing the text of the mighty poet, pope obtained but little money, and still less reputation. he received, according to tradition, only 217l. 12s. for his trouble of collation, which must have been considerable, and some other trifling editorial labor. and the opinion of all judges, from the first so unfavorable as to have depreciated the money-value of the book enormously, perhaps from a prepossession of the public mind against the fitness of pope for executing the dull labors of revision, has ever since pronounced this work the very worst edition in existence. for the edition we have little to plead; but for the editor it is but just to make three apologies. in the _first_ place, he wrote a brilliant preface, which, although (like other works of the same class) too much occupied in displaying his own ability, and too often, for the sake of an effective antithesis, doing deep injustice to shakspeare, yet undoubtedly, as a whole, extended his fame, by giving the sanction and countersign of a great wit to the national admiration. _secondly_, as dr. johnson admits, pope's failure pointed out the right road to his successors. _thirdly_, even in this failure it is but fair to say, that in a graduated scale of merit, as distributed amongst the long succession of editors through that century, pope holds a rank proportionable to his age. for the year 1720, he is no otherwise below theobald, hanmer, capell, warburton, or even johnson, than as they are successively below each other, and all of them as to accuracy below steevens, as he again was below malone and read. the gains from shakspeare would hardly counterbalance the loss which pope sustained this year from the south sea bubble. one thing, by the way, is still unaccountably neglected by writers on this question. how it was that the great mississippi bubble, during the orleans regency in paris, should have happened to coincide with that of london. if this were accident, how marvellous that the same insanity should possess the two great capitals of christendom in the same year? if, again, it were not accident, but due to some common cause, why is not that cause explained? pope to his nearest friends never stated the amount of his loss. the biographers report that at one time his stock was worth from twenty to thirty thousand pounds. but that is quite impossible. it is true, that as the stock rose at one time a thousand per cent., this would not imply on pope's part an original purchase beyond twenty-five hundred pounds or thereabouts. but pope has furnished an argument against _that, _ which we shall improve. he quotes, more than once, as applicable to his own case, the old proverbial riddle of hesiod, _--------------, the half is more than the whole_. what did he mean by that? we understand it thus: that between the selling and buying, the variations had been such as to sink his shares to one half of the price they had once reached, but, even at that depreciation, to leave him richer on selling out than he had been at first. but the half of 25,000 would be a far larger sum than pope could have ventured to risk upon a fund confessedly liable to daily fluctuation. 3000 english pounds would be the utmost he could risk; in which case the half of 25,000 pounds would have left him so very much richer, that he would have proclaimed his good fortune as an evidence of his skill and prudence. yet, on the contrary, he wished his friends to understand at times that he had lost. but his friends forgot to ask one important question: was the word _loss_ to be understood in relation to the imaginary and nominal wealth which he once possessed, or in relation to the absolute sum invested in the south sea fund? the truth is, pope practised on this, as on other occasions, a little finessing, which is the chief foible in his character. his object was, that, according to circumstances, he might vindicate his own freedom from the common mania, in case his enemies should take that handle for attacking him; or might have it in his power to plead poverty, and to account for it, in case he should ever accept that pension which had been so often tendered but never sternly rejected. in 1723 pope lost one of his dearest friends, bishop atterbury, by banishment; a sentence most justly incurred, and mercifully mitigated by the hostile whig government. on the bishop's trial a circumstance occurred to pope which flagrantly corroborated his own belief in his natural disqualification for public life. he was summoned as an evidence on his friend's behalf. he had but a dozen words to say, simply explaining the general tenor of his lordship's behavior at bromley, and yet, under this trivial task, though supported by the enthusiasm of his friendship, he broke down. lord bolingbroke, returning from exile, met the bishop at the sea-side; upon which it was wittily remarked that they were "exchanged." lord bolingbroke supplied to pope the place, or perhaps more than supplied the place, of the friend he had lost; for bolingbroke was a free-thinker, and so far more entertaining to pope, even whilst partially dissenting, than atterbury, whose clerical profession laid him under restraints of decorum, and latterly, there is reason to think, of conscience. in 1725, on closing the odyssey, pope announces his intention to swift of quitting the labors of a translator, and thenceforwards applying himself to original composition. this resolution led to the essay on man, which appeared soon afterwards; and, with the exception of two labors, which occupied pope in the interval between 1726 and 1729, the rest of his life may properly be described as dedicated to the further extension of that essay. the two works which he interposed were a collection of the fugitive papers, whether prose or verse, which he and dean swift had scattered amongst their friends at different periods of life. the avowed motive for this publication, and, in fact, the secret motive, as disclosed in pope's confidential letters, was to make it impossible thenceforwards for piratical publishers like curll. both pope and swift dreaded the malice of curll in case they should die before him. it was one of curll's regular artifices to publish a heap of trash on the death of any eminent man, under the title of his remains; and in allusion to that practice, it was that arbuthnot most wittily called curll "one of the new terrors of death." by publishing _all_, pope would have disarmed curll beforehand; and that was in fact the purpose; and that plea only could be offered by two grave authors, one forty, the other sixty years old, for reprinting _jeux d'esprit_ that never had any other apology than the youth of their authors. yet, strange to say, after all, some were omitted; and the omission of one opened the door to curll as well as that of a score. let curll have once inserted the narrow end of the wedge, he would soon have driven it home. this miscellany, however, in three volumes, (published in 1727, but afterwards increased by a fourth in 1732,) though in itself a trifling work, had one vast consequence. it drew after it swarms of libels and lampoons, levelled almost exclusively at pope, although the cipher of the joint authors stood entwined upon the title-page. these libels in _their_ turn produced a second reaction; and, by stimulating pope to effectual anger, eventually drew forth, for the everlasting admiration of posterity, the very greatest of pope's works; a monument of satirical power the greatest which man has produced, not excepting the macfleckno of dryden, namely, the immortal dunciad. in october of the year 1727, this poem, in its original form, was completed. many editions, not spurious altogether, nor surreptitious, but with some connivance, not yet explained, from pope, were printed in dublin and in london. but the first quarto and acknowledged edition was published in london early in "1728-9," as the editors choose to write it, that is, (without perplexing the reader,) in 1729. on march 12 of which year it was presented by the prime minister, sir robert walpole, to the king and queen at st. james's. like a hornet, who is said to leave his sting in the wound, and afterwards to languish away, pope felt so greatly exhausted by the efforts connected with the dunciad, (which are far greater, in fact, than all his homeric labors put together,) that he prepared his friends to expect for the future only an indolent companion and a hermit. events rapidly succeeded which tended to strengthen the impression he had conceived of his own decay, and certainly to increase his disgust with the world. in 1732 died his friend atterbury; and on december the 7th of the same year gay, the most unpretending of all the wits whom he knew, and the one with whom he had at one time been domesticated, expired, after an illness of three days, which dr. arbuthnot declares to have been "the most precipitate" he ever knew. but in fact gay had long been decaying, from the ignoble vice of too much and too luxurious eating. six months after this loss, which greatly affected pope, came the last deadly wound which this life could inflict, in the death of his mother. she had for some time been in her dotage, and recognized no face but that of her son, so that her death was not unexpected; but that circumstance did not soften the blow of separation to pope. she died on the 7th of june, 1733, being then ninety-three years old. three days after, writing to richardson the painter, for the purpose of urging him to come down and take her portrait before the coffin was closed, he says, "i thank god, her death was as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, nor even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an expression of tranquillity," that "it would afford the finest image of a saint expired that ever painting drew. adieu, may you die as happily." the funeral took place on the 11th; pope then quitted the house, unable to support the silence of her chamber, and did not return for months, nor in fact ever reconciled himself to the sight of her vacant apartment. swift also he had virtually lost for ever. in april, 1727, this unhappy man had visited pope for the last time. during this visit occurred the death of george i. great expectations arose from that event amongst the tories, in which, of course,' swift shared. it was reckoned upon as a thing of course that walpole would be dismissed. but this bright gleam of hope proved as treacherous as all before; and the anguish of this final disappointment perhaps it was which brought on a violent attack of swift's constitutional malady. on the last of august he quitted pope's house abruptly, concealed himself in london, and finally quitted it, as stealthily as he had before quitted twickenham, for ireland, never more to return. he left a most affectionate letter for pope; but his affliction, and his gloomy anticipations of insanity, were too oppressive to allow of his seeking a personal interview. pope might now describe himself pretty nearly as _ultimus suorum_; and if he would have friends in future, he must seek them, as he complains bitterly, almost amongst strangers and another generation. this sense of desolation may account for the acrimony which too much disfigures his writings henceforward. between 1732 and 1740, he was chiefly engaged in satires, which uniformly speak a high moral tone in the midst of personal invective; or in poems directly philosophical, which almost as uniformly speak the bitter tone of satire in the midst of dispassionate ethics. his essay on man was but one link in a general course which he had projected of moral philosophy, here and there pursuing his themes into the fields of metaphysics, but no farther in either field of morals or metaphysics than he could make compatible with a poetical treatment. these works, however, naturally entangled him in feuds of various complexions with people of very various pretensions; and to admirers of pope so fervent as we profess ourselves, it is painful to acknowledge that the dignity of his latter years, and the becoming tranquillity of increasing age, are sadly disturbed by the petulance and the tone of irritation which, alike to those in the wrong and in the right, inevitably besiege all personal disputes. he was agitated, besides, by a piratical publication of his correspondence. this emanated of course from the den of curll, the universal robber and "_blatant beast_" of those days; and, besides the injury offered to his feelings by exposing some youthful sallies which he wished to have suppressed, it drew upon him a far more disgraceful imputation, most assuredly unfounded, but accredited by dr. johnson, and consequently in full currency to this day, of having acted collusively with curll, or at least through curll, for the publication of what he wished the world to see, but could not else have devised any decent pretext for exhibiting. the disturbance of his mind on this occasion led to a circular request, dispersed amongst his friends, that they would return his letters. all complied except swift. he only delayed, and in fact shuffled. but it is easy to read in his evasions, and pope, in spite of his vexation, read the same tale, viz., that, in consequence of his recurring attacks and increasing misery, he was himself the victim of artifices amongst those who surrounded him. what pope apprehended happened. the letters were all published in dublin and in london, the originals being then only returned when they had done their work of exposure. such a tenor of life, so constantly fretted by petty wrongs, or by leaden insults, to which only the celebrity of their object lent force or wings, allowed little opportunity to pope for recalling his powers from angry themes, and converging them upon others of more catholic philosophy. to the last he continued to conceal vipers beneath his flowers; or rather, speaking proportionately to the case, he continued to sheath amongst the gleaming but innocuous lightnings of his departing splendors, the thunderbolts which blasted for ever. his last appearance was his greatest. in 1742 he published the fourth book of the dunciad; to which it has with much reason been objected, that it stands in no obvious relation to the other three, but which, taken as a separate whole, is by far the most brilliant and the weightiest of his works. pope was aware of the _hiatus_ between this last book and the rest, on which account he sometimes called it the greater dunciad; and it would have been easy for him, with a shallow warburtonian ingenuity, to invent links that might have satisfied a mere _verbal_ sense of connection. but he disdained this puerile expedient. the fact was, and could not be disguised from any penetrating eye, that the poem was not a pursuit of the former subjects; it had arisen spontaneously at various times, by looking at the same general theme of dulness (which, in pope's sense, includes all aberrations of the intellect, nay, even any defective equilibrium amongst the faculties) under a different angle of observation, and from a different centre. in this closing book, not only bad authors, as in the other three, but all abuses of science or antiquarian knowledge, or connoisseurship in the arts, are attacked. virtuosi, medalists, butterfly-hunters, florists, erring metaphysicians, &c., are all pierced through and through as with the shafts of apollo. but the imperfect plan of the work as to its internal economy, no less than its exterior relations, is evident in many places; and in particular the whole catastrophe of the poem, if it can be so called, is linked to the rest by a most insufficient incident. to give a closing grandeur to his work, pope had conceived the idea of representing the earth as lying universally under the incubation of one mighty spirit of dulness; a sort of millennium, as we may call it, for ignorance, error, and stupidity. this would take leave of the reader with effect; but how was it to be introduced? at what era? under what exciting cause? as to the eras, pope could not settle that; unless it were a _future_ era, the description of it could not be delivered as a prophecy; and, not being prophetic, it would want much of its grandeur. yet, _as_ a part of futurity, how is it connected with our present times? do they and their pursuits lead to it as a possibility, or as a contingency upon certain habits which we have it in our power to eradicate, (in which case this vision of dulness has a _practical_ warning,) or is it a mere necessity, one amongst the many changes attached to the cycles of human destiny, or which chance brings round with the revolutions of its wheel? all this pope could not determine; but the exciting cause he has determined, and it is preposterously below the effect. the goddess of dulness yawns; and her yawn, which, after all, should rather express the fact and state of universal dulness than its cause, produces a change over all nations tantamount to a long eclipse. meantime, with all its defects of plan, the poem, as to execution, is superior to all which pope has done; the composition is much superior to that of the essay on man, and more profoundly poetic. the parodies drawn from milton, as also in the former books, have a beauty and effect which cannot be expressed; and, if a young lady wished to cull for her album a passage from all pope's writings, which, without a trace of irritation or acrimony, should yet present an exquisite gem of independent beauty, she could not find another passage equal to the little story of the florist and the butterfly-hunter. they plead their cause separately before the throne of dulness; the florist telling how he had reared a superb carnation, which, in honor of the queen, he called caroline, when his enemy, pursuing a butterfly which settled on the carnation, in securing his own object, had destroyed that of the plaintiff. the defendant replies with equal beauty; and it may certainly be affirmed, that, for brilliancy of coloring and the art of poetical narration, the tale is not surpassed by any in the language. this was the last effort of pope worthy of separate notice. he was now decaying rapidly, and sensible of his own decay. his complaint was a dropsy of the chest, and he knew it to be incurable. under these circumstances, his behavior was admirably philosophical. he employed himself in revising and burnishing all his later works, as those upon which he wisely relied for his reputation with future generations. in this task he was assisted by dr. warburton, a new literary friend, who had introduced himself to the favorable notice of pope about four years before, by a defence of the essay on man, which crousaz had attacked, but in general indirectly and ineffectually, by attacking it through the blunders of a very faulty translation. this poem, however, still labors, to religious readers, under two capital defects. if man, according to pope, is now so admirably placed in the universal system of things, that evil only could result from any change, then it seems to follow, either that a fall of man is inadmissible; or at least, that, by placing him in his true centre, it had been a blessing universally. the other objection lies in this, that if all is right already, and in this earthly station, then one argument for a future state, as the scene in which evil is to be redressed, seems weakened or undermined. as the weakness of pope increased, his nearest friends, lord bolingbroke, and a few others, gathered around him. the last scenes were passed almost with ease and tranquillity. he dined in company two days before he died: and on the very day preceding his death he took an airing on blackheath. a few mornings before he died, he was found very early in his library writing on the immortality of the soul. this was an effort of delirium; and he suffered otherwise from this affection of the brain, and from inability to think in his closing hours. but his humanity and goodness, it was remarked, had survived his intellectual faculties. he died on the 30th of may, 1744; and so quietly, that the attendants could not distinguish the exact moment of his dissolution. we had prepared an account of pope's quarrels, in which we had shown that, generally, he was not the aggressor; and often was atrociously ill used before he retorted. this service to pope's memory we had judged important, because it is upon these quarrels chiefly that the erroneous opinion has built itself of pope's fretfulness and irritability. and this unamiable feature of his nature, together with a proneness to petty manoeuvring, are the main foibles that malice has been able to charge upon pope's moral character. yet, with no better foundation for their malignity than these doubtful propensities, of which the first perhaps was a constitutional defect, a defect of his temperament rather than his will, and the second has been much exaggerated, many writers have taken upon themselves to treat pope as a man, if not absolutely unprincipled and without moral sensibility, yet as mean, little-minded, indirect, splenetic, vindictive, and morose. now the difference between ourselves and these writers is fundamental. they fancy that in pope's character a basis of ignoble qualities was here and there slightly relieved by a few shining spots; we, on the contrary, believe that in pope lay a disposition radically noble and generous, clouded and overshadowed by superficial foibles, or, to adopt the distinction of shakspeare, they see nothing but "dust a little gilt," and we "gold a little dusted." a very rapid glance we will throw over the general outline of his character. as a friend, it is noticed emphatically by martha blount and other contemporaries, who must have had the best means of judging, that no man was so warm-hearted, or so much sacrificed himself for others, as pope; and in fact many of his quarrels grew out of this trait in his character. for once that he levelled his spear in his own quarrel, at least twice he did so on behalf of his insulted parents or his friends. pope was also noticeable for the duration of his friendships; [endnote: 11] some dropped him,--but he never any throughout his life. and let it be remembered, that amongst pope's friends were the men of most eminent talents in those days; so that envy at least, or jealousy of rival power, was assuredly no foible of his. in that respect how different from addison, whose petty manoeuvring against pope proceeded entirely from malignant jealousy. that addison was more in the wrong even than has generally been supposed, and pope more thoroughly innocent as well as more generous, we have the means at a proper opportunity of showing decisively. as a son, we need not insist on pope's preeminent goodness. dean swift, who had lived for months together at twickenham, declares that he had not only never witnessed, but had never heard of anything like it. as a christian, pope appears in a truly estimable light. he found himself a roman catholic by accident of birth; so was his mother; but his father was so upon personal conviction and conversion, yet not without extensive study of the questions at issue. it would have laid open the road to preferment, and preferment was otherwise abundantly before him, if pope would have gone over to the protestant faith. and in his conscience he found no obstacle to that change; he was a philosophical christian, intolerant of nothing but intolerance, a bigot only against bigots. but he remained true to his baptismal profession, partly on a general principle of honor in adhering to a distressed and dishonored party, but chiefly out of reverence and affection to his mother. in his relation to women, pope was amiable and gentlemanly; and accordingly was the object of affectionate regard and admiration to many of the most accomplished in that sex. this we mention especially because we would wish to express our full assent to the manly scorn with which mr. roscoe repels the libellous insinuations against pope and miss martha blount. a more innocent connection we do not believe ever existed. as an author, warburton has recorded that no man ever displayed more candor or more docility to criticisms offered in a friendly spirit. finally, we sum up all in saying, that pope retained to the last a true and diffusive benignity; that this was the quality which survived all others, notwithstanding the bitter trial which his benignity must have stood through life, and the excitement to a spiteful reaction of feeling which was continually pressed upon him by the scorn and insult which his deformity drew upon him from the unworthy. but the moral character of pope is of secondary interest. we are concerned with it only as connected with his great intellectual power. there are three errors which seem current upon this subject. _first_, that pope drew his impulses from french literature; _secondly_, that he was a poet of inferior rank; _thirdly_, that his merit lies in superior "correctness." with respect to the first notion, it has prevailed by turns in every literature. one stage of society, in every nation, brings men of impassioned minds to the contemplation of manners, and of the social affections of man as exhibited in manners. with this propensity cooperates, no doubt, some degree of despondency when looking at the great models of the literature who have usually preoccupied the grander passions, and displayed their movements in the earlier periods of literature. now it happens that the french, from an extraordinary defect in the higher qualities of passion, have attracted the notice of foreign nations chiefly to that field of their literature, in which the taste and the unimpassioned understanding preside. but in all nations such literature is a natural growth of the mind, and would arise equally if the french literature had never existed. the wits of queen anne's reign, or even of charles ii.'s, were not french by their taste or their imitation. butler and dryden were surely not french; and of milton we need not speak; as little was pope french, either by his institution or by his models. boileau he certainly admired too much; and, for the sake of a poor parallelism with a passage about greece in horace, he has falsified history in the most ludicrous manner, without a shadow of countenance from facts, in order to make out that we, like the romans, received laws of taste from those whom we had conquered. but these are insulated cases and accidents, not to insist on his known and most profound admiration, often expressed, for both chaucer, and shakspeare, and milton. secondly, that pope is to be classed as an inferior poet, has arisen purely from a confusion between the departments of poetry which he cultivated and the merit of his culture. the first place must undoubtedly be given for ever,--it cannot be refused,--to the impassioned movements of the tragic, and to the majestic movements of the epic muse. we cannot alter the relations of things out of favor to an individual. but in his own department, whether higher or lower, that man is supreme who has not yet been surpassed; and such a man is pope. as to the final notion, first started by walsh, and propagated by warton, it is the most absurd of all the three; it is not from superior correctness that pope is esteemed more correct, but because the compass and sweep of his performances lies more within the range of ordinary judgments. many questions that have been raised upon milton or shakspeare, questions relating to so subtile a subject as the flux and reflux of human passion, lie far above the region of ordinary capacities; and the indeterminateness or even carelessness of the judgment is transferred by a common confusion to its objects. but waiving this, let us ask, what is meant by "correctness?" correctness in what? in developing the thought? in connecting it, or effecting the transitions? in the use of words? in the grammar? in the metre? under every one of these limitations of the idea, we maintain that pope is _not_ distinguished by correctness; nay, that, as compared with shakspeare, he is eminently incorrect. produce us from any drama of shakspeare one of those leading passages that all men have by heart, and show us any eminent defect in the very sinews of the thought. it is impossible; defects there may be, but they will always be found irrelevant to the main central thought, or to its expression. now turn to pope; the first striking passage which offers itself to our memory, is the famous character of addison, ending thus: "who would not laugh, if such a man there be, who but must weep if atticus were he?" why must we laugh? because we find a grotesque assembly of noble and ignoble qualities. very well; but why then must we weep? because this assemblage is found actually existing in an eminent man of genius. well, that is a good reason for weeping; we weep for the degradation of human nature. but then revolves the question, why must we laugh? because, if the belonging to a man of genius were a sufficient reason for weeping, so much we know from the very first. the very first line says, "peace to all such. but were there one whose fires _true genius kindles_ and fair fame inspires." thus falls to the ground the whole antithesis of this famous character. we are to change our mood from laughter to tears upon a sudden discovery that the character belonged to a man of genius; and this we had already known from the beginning. match us this prodigious oversight in shakspeare. again, take the essay on criticism. it is a collection of independent maxims, tied together into a fasciculus by the printer, but having no natural order or logical dependency; generally so vague as to mean nothing. like the general rules of justice, &c., in ethics, to which every man assents; but when the question comes about any practical case, _is_ it just? the opinions fly asunder far as the poles. and, what is remarkable, many of the rules are violated by no man so often as by pope, and by pope nowhere so often as in this very poem. as a single instance, he proscribes monosyllabic lines; and in no english poem of any pretensions are there so many lines of that class as in this. we have counted above a score, and the last line of all is monosyllabic. not, therefore, for superior correctness, but for qualities the very same as belong to his most distinguished brethren, is pope to be considered a great poet; for impassioned thinking, powerful description, pathetic reflection, brilliant narration. his characteristic difference is simply that he carried these powers into a different field, and moved chiefly amongst the social paths of men, and viewed their characters as operating through their manners. and our obligations to him arise chiefly on this ground, that having already, in the persons of earlier poets, carried off the palm in all the grander trials of intellectual strength, for the majesty of the epopee and the impassioned vehemence of the tragic drama, to pope we owe it that we can now claim an equal preeminence in the sportive and aerial graces of the mock heroic and satiric muse; that in the dunciad we possess a peculiar form of satire, in which (according to a plan unattempted by any other nation) we see alternately her festive smile and her gloomiest scowl; that the grave good sense of the nation has here found its brightest mirror; and, finally, that through pope the cycle of our poetry is perfected and made orbicular, that from that day we might claim the laurel equally, whether for dignity or grace. notes. note 1. dr. johnson, however, and joseph warton, for reasons not stated, have placed his birth on the 22d. to this statement, as opposed to that which comes from the personal friends of pope, little attention is due. ruffhead and spence, upon such questions, must always be of higher authority than johnson and warton, and _a fortiori_ than bowles. but it ought not to be concealed, though hitherto unnoticed by any person, that some doubt after all remains whether any of the biographers is right. an anonymous writer, contemporary with pope, and evidently familiar with his personal history, declares that he was born on the 8th of june; and he connects it with an event that, having a public and a partisan interest, (the birth of that prince of wales, who was known twenty-seven years afterwards as the pretender,) would serve to check his own recollections, and give them a collateral voucher. it is true he wrote for an ill-natured purpose; but no purpose whatever could have been promoted by falsifying this particular date. what is still more noticeable, however, pope himself puts a most emphatic negative upon all these statements. in a pathetic letter to a friend, when his attention could not have been wandering, for he is expressly insisting upon a sentiment which will find an echo in many a human heart, viz., that a birthday, though from habit usually celebrated as a festal day, too often is secretly a memorial of disappointment, and an anniversary of sorrowful meaning, he speaks of the very day on which he is then writing as his own birthday; and indeed what else could give any propriety to the passage? now the date of this letter is january 1, 1733. surely pope knew his own birthday better than those who have adopted a random rumor without investigation. but, whilst we are upon this subject, we must caution the readers of pope against too much reliance upon the chronological accuracy of his editors. _all_ are scandalously careless; and generally they are faithless. many allusions are left unnoticed, which a very little research would have illustrated; many facts are omitted, even yet recoverable, which are essential to the just appreciation of pope's satirical blows; and dates are constantly misstated. mr. roscoe is the most careful of pope's editors; but even he is often wrong. for instance, he has taken the trouble to write a note upon pope's humorous report to lord burlington of his oxford journey on horseback with lintot; and this note involves a sheer impossibility. the letter is undated, except as to the month; and mr. roscoe directs the reader to supply 1714 as the true date, which is a gross anachronism. for a ludicrous anecdote is there put into lintot's mouth, representing some angry critic, who had been turning over pope's homer, with frequent _pshaws_, as having been propitiated, by mr. lintot's dinner, into a gentler feeling towards pope, and, finally, by the mere effect of good cheer, without an effort on the publisher's part, as coming to a confession, that what he ate and what he had been reading were equally excellent. but in the year 1714, _no part_ of pope's homer was printed; june, 1715, was the month in which even the subscribers first received the four earliest books of the iliad; and the public generally not until july. this we notice by way of specimen; in itself, or as an error of mere negligence, it would be of little importance; but it is a case to which mr. roscoe has expressly applied his own conjectural skill, and solicited the attention of his reader. we may judge, therefore, of his accuracy in other cases which he did not think worthy of examination. there is another instance, presenting itself in every page, of ignorance concurring with laziness, on the part of all pope's editors, and with the effect not so properly of misleading as of perplexing the general reader. until lord macclesfield's bill for altering the style in the very middle of the eighteenth century, six years, therefore, after the death of pope, there was a custom, arising from the collision between the civil and ecclesiastical year, of dating the whole period that lies between december 31st and march 25th, (both days _exclusively,_) as belonging indifferently to the past or the current year. this peculiarity had nothing to do with the old and new style, but was, we believe, redressed by the same act of parliament. now in pope's time it was absolutely necessary that a man should use this double date, because else he was liable to be seriously misunderstood. for instance, it was then always said that charles i had suffered on the 30th of january 1648/9, and why? because, had the historian fixed the date to what it really was, 1649, in that case all those (a very numerous class) who supposed the year 1649 to commence on ladyday, or march 25, would have understood him to mean that this event happened in what we _now_ call 1650, for not until 1650 was there any january which _they_ would have acknowledged as belonging to 1649, since _they_ added to the year 1648 all the days from january 1 to march 24. on the other hand, if he had said simply that charles suffered in 1648, he would have been truly understood by the class we have just mentioned; but by another class, who began the year from the 1st of january, he would have been understood to mean what we _now_ mean by the year 1648. there would have been a sheer difference, not of one, as the reader might think at first sight, but of _two_ entire years in the chronology of the two parties; which difference, and all possibility of doubt, is met and remedied by the fractional date 1648/1649 for that date says in effect it was 1648 to you who do not open the new year till ladyday; it was 1649 to you who open it from january 1. thus much to explain the real sense of the case, and it follows from this explanation, that no part of the year ever _can_ have the fractional or double date except the interval from january 1 to march 24 inclusively. and hence arises a practical inference, viz, that the very same reason, and no other, which formerly enjoined the use of the compound or fractional date, viz, the prevention of a capital ambiguity or dilemma, now enjoins its omission. for in our day, when the double opening of the year is abolished, what sense is there in perplexing a reader by using a fraction which offers him a choice without directing him how to choose? in fact, it is the _denominator_ of the fraction, if one may so style the lower figure, which expresses to a modern eye the true year. yet the editors of pope, as well as many other writers, have confused their readers by this double date; and why? simply because they were confused themselves. (period omitted in original; but there is a double space following, suggesting one should have been there) many errors in literature of large extent have arisen from this confusion. thus it was said properly enough in the contemporary accounts, for instance, in lord monmouth's memoirs that queen elizabeth died on the last day of the year 1602, for she died on the 24th of march, and by a careful writer this event would have been dated as march 24, 1602/1603. but many writers, misled by the phrase above cited, have asserted that james i. was proclaimed on the 1st of january, 1603. heber, bishop of calcutta, again, has ruined the entire chronology of the life of jeremy taylor, and unconsciously vitiated the facts, by not understanding this fractional date. mr roscoe even too often leaves his readers to collect the true year as they can. thus, e. g. at p. 509, of his life, he quotes from pope's letter to warburton, in great vexation for the surreptitious publication of his letters in ireland, under date of february 4, 174-0/1. but why not have printed it intelligibly as 1741? incidents there are in most men's lives, which are susceptible of a totally different moral value, according as the are dated in one year or another that might be a kind and honorable liberality in 1740, which would be a fraud upon creditors in 1741. exile to a distance of ten miles from london in january, 1744 might argue, that a man was a turbulent citizen, and suspected of treason, whilst the same exile in january, 1745, would simply argue that, as a papist, he had been included amongst his whole body in a general measure of precaution to meet the public dangers of that year. this explanation we have thought it right to make both for its extensive application to all editions of pope, and on account of the serious blunders which have arisen from the case when ill understood, and because, in a work upon education, written jointly by messrs lant carpenter and shephard though generally men of ability and learning, this whole point is erroneously explained. note 2. it is apparently with allusion to this part of his history, which he would often have heard from the lips of his own father, that pope glances at his uncle's memory somewhat disrespectfully in his prose letter to lord harvey. note 3. some accounts, however, say to flanders, in which case, perhaps, antwerp or brussels would have the honor of his conversion. note 4. this however was not twyford, according to an anonymous pamphleteer of the times but a catholic seminary in devonshire street that is, in the bloomsbury district of london, and the same author asserts, that the scene of his disgrace as indeed seems probable beforehand, was not the first but the last of his arenas as a schoolboy which indeed was first, and which last, is very unimportant; but with a view to another point, which is not without interest, namely, as to the motive of pope for so bitter a lampoon as we must suppose it to have been, as well as with regard to the topics which he used to season it, this anonymous letter throws the only light which has been offered; and strange it is, that no biographer of pope should have hunted upon the traces indicated by him. any solution of pope's virulence, and of the master's bitter retaliation, even _as_ a solution, is so far entitled to attention; apart from which the mere straightforwardness of this man's story, and its minute circumstantiality, weigh greatly in its favor. to our thinking, he unfolds the whole affair in the simple explanation, nowhere else to be found, that the master of the school, the mean avenger of a childish insult by a bestial punishment, was a mr. bromley, one of james ii.'s popish apostates; whilst the particular statements which he makes with respect to himself and the young duke of norfolk of 1700, as two schoolfellows of pope at that time and place, together with his voluntary promise to come forward in person, and verify his account if it should happen to be challenged,--are all, we repeat, so many presumptions in favor of his veracity. "mr. alexander pope," says he, "before he had been four months at this school, or was able to construe tully's offices, employed his muse in satirizing his master. it was a libel of at least one hundred verses, which (a fellow-student having given information of it) was found in his pocket; and the young satirist was soundly whipped, and kept a prisoner to his room for seven days; whereupon his father fetched him away, and i have been told he never went to school more." this bromley, it has been ascertained, was the son of a country gentleman in worcestershire, and must have had considerable prospects at one time, since it appears that he had been a gentleman-commoner at christ's church, oxford. there is an error in the punctuation of the letter we have just quoted, which affects the sense in a way very important to the question before us. bromley is described as "one of king james's converts in oxford, some years _after_ that prince's abdication;" but, if this were really so, he must have been a conscientious convert. the latter clause should be connected with what follows:" _some years after that prince's abdication he kept a little seminary_; "that is, when his mercenary views in quitting his religion were effectually defeated, when the boyne had sealed his despair, he humbled himself into a petty schoolmaster. these facts are interesting, because they suggest at once the motive for the merciless punishment inflicted upon pope. his own father was a papist like bromley, but a sincere and honest papist, who had borne double taxes, legal stigmas, and public hatred for conscience' sake. his contempt was habitually pointed at those who tampered with religion for interested purposes. his son inherited these upright feelings. and we may easily guess what would be the bitter sting of any satire he would write on bromley. such a topic was too true to be forgiven, and too keenly barbed by bromley's conscience. by the way, this writer, like ourselves, reads in this juvenile adventure a prefiguration of pope's satirical destiny. note 5. that is, sheffield, and, legally speaking, of buckingham _shire_. for he would not take the title of buckingham, under a fear that there was lurking somewhere or other a claim to that title amongst the connections of the villiers family. he was a pompous grandee, who lived in uneasy splendor, and, as a writer, most extravagantly overrated; accordingly, he is now forgotten. such was his vanity, and his ridiculous mania for allying himself with royalty, that he first of all had the presumption to court the princess (afterwards queen) anne. being rejected, he then offered himself to the illegitimate daughter of james ii., by the daughter of sir charles sedley. she was as ostentatious as himself, and accepted him. note 6. meantime, the felicities of this translation are at times perfectly astonishing; and it would be scarcely possible to express more nervously or amply the words, --"_jurisque secundi_ _ambitus impatiens_, et summo dulcius unum stare loco,"---than this child of fourteen has done in the following couplet, which, most judiciously, by reversing the two clauses, gains the power of fusing them into connection. "and impotent desire to reign alone, _that scorns the dull reversion of a throne_." but the passage for which beyond all others we must make room, is a series of eight lines, corresponding to six in the original; and this for two reasons: first, because dr. joseph warton has deliberately asserted, that in our whole literature, "we have scarcely eight more beautiful lines than these;" and though few readers will subscribe to so sweeping a judgment, yet certainly these must be wonderful lines for a boy, which could challenge such commendation from an experienced _polyhistor_ of infinite reading. secondly, because the lines contain a night-scene. now it must be well known to many readers, that the famous night scene in the iliad, so familiar to every schoolboy, has been made the subject, for the last thirty years, of severe, and, in many respects, of just criticisms. this description will therefore have a double interest by comparison, whilst, whatever may be thought of either taken separately for itself, considered as a translation, this which we now quote is as true to statius as the other is undoubtedly faithless to homer "_jamque per emeriti surgens confima phoebi titanis, late mundo subvecta silenti rorifera gelidum tenuaverat aera biga jam pecudes volucresque tacent. jam somnus avaris inserpit curis, pronusque per aera nutat, grata laboratae referens oblivia vitae_" theb i 336-341. "'twas now the time when phoebus yields to night, and rising cynthia sheds her silver light, wide o'er the world in solemn pomp she drew her airy chariot hung with pearly dew all birds and beasts he hush'd. sleep steals away the wild desires of men and toils of day, and brings, descending through the silent air, a sweet forgetfulness of human care." note 7. one writer of that age says, in cheapside, but probably this difference arose from contemplating lombard street as a prolongation of cheapside. note 8. dr johnson said, that all he could discover about mr cromwell, was the fact of his going a hunting in a tie wig, but gay has added another fact to dr johnson's, by calling him "honest _hatless_ cromwell with red breeches" this epithet has puzzled the commentators, but its import is obvious enough cromwell, as we learn from more than one person, was anxious to be considered a fine gentleman, and devoted to women. now it was long the custom in that age for such persons, when walking with ladies, to carry their hats in their hand. louis xv. used to ride by the side of madame de pompadour hat in hand. note 9. it is strange indeed to find, not only that pope had so frequently kept rough copies of his own letters, and that he thought so well of them as to repeat the same letter to different persons, as in the case of the two lovers killed by lightning, or even to two sisters, martha and therese blount (who were sure to communicate their letters,) but that even swift had retained copies of _his. _ note 10. the word _undertake_ had not yet lost the meaning of shakspeare's age, in which it was understood to describe those cases where, the labor being of a miscellaneous kind, some person in chief offered to overlook and conduct the whole, whether with or without personal labor. the modern _undertaker,_ limited to the care of funerals, was then but one of numerous cases to which the term was applied. note 11. we may illustrate this feature in the behavior of pope to savage. when all else forsook him, when all beside pleaded the insults of savage for withdrawing their subscriptions, pope sent his in advance. and when savage had insulted _him_ also, arrogantly commanding him never "to presume to interfere or meddle in his affairs," dignity and self-respect made pope obedient to these orders, except when there was an occasion of serving savage. on his second visit to bristol (when he returned from glamorganshire,) savage had been thrown into the jail of the city. one person only interested himself for this hopeless profligate, and was causing an inquiry to be made about his debts at the time savage died. so much dr. johnson admits; but he _forgets_ to mention the name of this long suffering friend. it was pope. meantime, let us not be supposed to believe the lying legend of savage; he was doubtless no son of lady macclesfield's, but an impostor, who would not be sent to the tread-mill. charles lamb. it sounds paradoxical, but is not so in a bad sense, to say, that in every literature of large compass some authors will be found to rest much of the interest which surrounds them on their essential _non_-popularity. they are good for the very reason that they are not in conformity to the current taste. they interest because to the world they are _not_ interesting. they attract by means of their repulsion. not as though it could separately furnish a reason for loving a book, that the majority of men had found it repulsive. _prima facie_, it must suggest some presumption _against_ a book, that it has failed to gain public attention. to have roused hostility indeed, to have kindled a feud against its own principles or its temper, may happen to be a good sign. _that_ argues power. hatred may be promising. the deepest revolutions of mind sometimes begin in hatred. but simply to have left a reader unimpressed, is in itself a neutral result, from which the inference is doubtful. yet even _that_, even simple failure to impress, may happen at times to be a result from positive powers in a writer, from special originalities, such as rarely reflect themselves in the mirror of the ordinary understanding. it seems little to be perceived, how much the great scriptural [endnote: 1] idea of the _worldly_ and the _unworldly_ is found to emerge in literature as well as in life. in reality the very same combinations of moral qualities, infinitely varied, which compose the harsh physiognomy of what we call worldliness in the living groups of life, must unavoidably present themselves in books. a library divides into sections of worldly and unworldly, even as a crowd of men divides into that same majority and minority. the world has an instinct for recognizing its own; and recoils from certain qualities when exemplified in books, with the same disgust or defective sympathy as would have governed it in real life. from qualities for instance of childlike simplicity, of shy profundity, or of inspired self-communion, the world does and must turn away its face towards grosser, bolder, more determined, or more intelligible expressions of character and intellect; and not otherwise in literature, nor at all less in literature, than it does in the realities of life. charles lamb, if any ever _was_ is amongst the class here contemplated; he, if any ever _has_, ranks amongst writers whose works are destined to be forever unpopular, and yet forever interesting; interesting, moreover, by means of those very qualities which guarantee their non-popularity. the same qualities which will be found forbidding to the worldly and the thoughtless, which will be found insipid to many even amongst robust and powerful minds, are exactly those which will continue to command a select audience in every generation. the prose essays, under the signature of _elia_, form the most delightful section amongst lamb's works. they traverse a peculiar field of observation, sequestered from general interest; and they are composed in a spirit too delicate and unobtrusive to catch the ear of the noisy crowd, clamoring for strong sensations. but this retiring delicacy itself, the pensiveness chequered by gleams of the fanciful, and the humor that is touched with cross-lights of pathos, together with the picturesque quaintness of the objects casually described, whether men, or things, or usages, and, in the rear of all this, the constant recurrence to ancient recollections and to decaying forms of household life, as things retiring before the tumult of new and revolutionary generations; these traits in combination communicate to the papers a grace and strength of originality which nothing in any literature approaches, whether for degree or kind of excellence, except the most felicitous papers of addison, such as those on sir roger de coverly, and some others in the same vein of composition. they resemble addison's papers also in the diction, which is natural and idiomatic, even to carelessness. they are equally faithful to the truth of nature; and in this only they differ remarkably--that the sketches of elia reflect the stamp and impress of the writer's own character, whereas in all those of addison the personal peculiarities of the delineator (though known to the reader from the beginning through the account of the club) are nearly quiescent. now and then they are recalled into a momentary notice, but they do not act, or at all modify his pictures of sir roger or will wimble. _they_ are slightly and amiably eccentric; but the spectator him-self, in describing them, takes the station of an ordinary observer. everywhere, indeed, in the writings of lamb, and not merely in his _elia_, the character of the writer cooperates in an under current to the effect of the thing written. to understand in the fullest sense either the gaiety or the tenderness of a particular passage, you must have some insight into the peculiar bias of the writer's mind, whether native and original, or impressed gradually by the accidents of situation; whether simply developed out of predispositions by the action of life, or violently scorched into the constitution by some fierce fever of calamity. there is in modern literature a whole class of writers, though not a large one, standing within the same category; some marked originality of character in the writer become a coefficient with what he says to a common result; you must sympathize with this _personality_ in the author before you can appreciate the most significant parts of his views. in most books the writer figures as a mere abstraction, without sex or age or local station, whom the reader banishes from his thoughts. what is written seems to proceed from a blank intellect, not from a man clothed with fleshly peculiarities and differences. these peculiarities and differences neither do, nor (generally speaking)_could_ intermingle with the texture of the thoughts so as to modify their force or their direction. in such books, and they form the vast majority, there is nothing to be found or to be looked for beyond the direct objective. (_sit venia verbo_!) but, in a small section of books, the objective in the thought becomes confluent with the subjective in the thinker--the two forces unite for a joint product; and fully to enjoy that product, or fully to apprehend either element, both must be known. it is singular, and worth inquiring into, for the reason that the greek and roman literature had no such books. timon of athens, or diogenes, one may conceive qualified for this mode of authorship, had journalism existed to rouse them in those days; their "articles" would no doubt have been fearfully caustic. but, as _they_ failed to produce anything, and lucian in an after age is scarcely characteristic enough for the purpose, perhaps we may pronounce rabelais and montaigne the earliest of writers in the class described. in the century following _theirs_, came sir thomas brown, and immediately after _him_ la fontaine. then came swift, sterne, with others less distinguished; in germany, hippel, the friend of kant, harmann, the obscure; and the greatest of the whole body--john paul fr. richter. in _him_, from the strength and determinateness of his nature as well as from the great extent of his writing, the philosophy of this interaction between the author as a human agency and his theme as an intellectual reagency, might best be studied. from _him_ might be derived the largest number of cases, illustrating boldly this absorption of the universal into the concrete--of the pure intellect into the human nature of the author. but nowhere could illustrations be found more interesting--shy, delicate, evanescent--shy as lightning, delicate and evanescent as the colored pencillings on a frosty night from the northern lights, than in the better parts of lamb. to appreciate lamb, therefore, it is requisite that his character and temperament should be understood in their coyest and most wayward features. a capital defect it would be if these could not be gathered silently from lamb's works themselves. it would be a fatal mode of dependency upon an alien and separable accident if they needed an external commentary. but they do _not_. the syllables lurk up and down the writings of lamb which decipher his eccentric nature. his character lies there dispersed in anagram; and to any attentive reader the regathering and restoration of the total word from its scattered parts is inevitable without an effort. still it is always a satisfaction in knowing a result, to know also its _why_ and _how_; and in so far as every character is likely to be modified by the particular experience, sad or joyous, through which the life has travelled, it is a good contribution towards the knowledge of that resulting character as a whole to have a sketch of that particular experience. what trials did it impose? what energies did it task? what temptations did it unfold? these calls upon the moral powers, which in music so stormy, many a life is doomed to hear, how were they faced? the character in a capital degree moulds oftentimes the life, but the life _always_ in a subordinate degree moulds the character. and the character being in this case of lamb so much of a key to the writings, it becomes important that the life should be traced, however briefly, as a key to the character. that is _one_ reason for detaining the reader with some slight record of lamb's career. such a record by preference and of right belongs to a case where the intellectual display, which is the sole ground of any public interest at all in the man, has been intensely modified by the _humanities_ and moral _personalities_ distinguishing the subject. we read a physiology, and need no information as to the life and conversation of its author; a meditative poem becomes far better understood by the light of such information; but a work of genial and at the same time eccentric sentiment, wandering upon untrodden paths, is barely intelligible without it. there is a good reason for arresting judgment on the writer, that the court may receive evidence on the life of the man. but there is another reason, and, in any other place, a better; which reason lies in the extraordinary value of the life considered separately for itself. logically, it is not allowable to say that _here;_ and, considering the principal purpose of this paper, any possible _independent_ value of the life must rank as a better reason for reporting it. since, in a case where the original object is professedly to estimate the writings of a man, whatever promises to further that object must, merely by that tendency, have, in relation to that place, a momentary advantage which it would lose if valued upon a more abstract scale. liberated from this casual office of throwing light upon a book--raised to its grander station of a solemn deposition to the moral capacities of man in conflict with calamity--viewed as a return made into the chanceries of heaven--upon an issue directed from that court to try the amount of power lodged in a poor desolate pair of human creatures for facing the very anarchy of storms--this obscure life of the two lambs, brother and sister, (for the two lives were one life,) rises into a grandeur that is not paralleled once in a generation. rich, indeed, in moral instruction was the life of charles lamb; and perhaps in one chief result it offers to the thoughtful observer a lesson of consolation that is awful, and of hope that ought to be immortal, viz., in the record which it furnishes, that by meekness of submission, and by earnest conflict with evil, in the spirit of cheerfulness, it is possible ultimately to disarm or to blunt the very heaviest of curses--even the curse of lunacy. had it been whispered, in hours of infancy, to lamb, by the angel who stood by his cradle--"thou, and the sister that walks by ten years before thee, shall be through life, each to each, the solitary fountain of comfort; and except it be from this fountain of mutual love, except it be as brother and sister, ye shall not taste the cup of peace on earth!"--here, if there was sorrow in reversion, there was also consolation. but what funeral swamps would have instantly ingulfed this consolation, had some meddling fiend prolonged the revelation, and, holding up the curtain from the sad future a little longer, had said scornfully--"peace on earth! peace for you two, charles and mary lamb! what peace is possible under the curse which even now is gathering against your heads? is there peace on earth for the lunatic--peace for the parenticide--peace for the girl that, without warning, and without time granted for a penitential cry to heaven, sends her mother to the last audit?" and then, without treachery, speaking bare truth, this prophet of woe might have added--"thou also, thyself, charles lamb, thou in thy proper person, shalt enter the skirts of this dreadful hail-storm; even thou shalt taste the secrets of lunacy, and enter as a captive its house of bondage; whilst over thy sister the accursed scorpion shall hang suspended through life, like death hanging over the beds of hospitals, striking at times, but more often threatening to strike; or withdrawing its instant menaces only to lay bare her mind more bitterly to the persecutions of a haunted memory!" considering the nature of the calamity, in the first place; considering, in the second place, its life-long duration; and, in the last place, considering the quality of the resistance by which it was met, and under what circumstances of humble resources in money or friends--we have come to the deliberate judgment, that the whole range of history scarcely presents a more affecting spectacle of perpetual sorrow, humiliation, or conflict, and that was supported to the end, (that is, through forty years,) with more resignation, or with more absolute victory. charles lamb was born in february of the year 1775. his immediate descent was humble; for his father, though on one particular occasion civilly described as a "scrivener," was in reality a domestic servant to mr. salt--a bencher (and therefore a barrister of some standing) in the inner temple. john lamb the father belonged by birth to lincoln; from which city, being transferred to london whilst yet a boy, he entered the service of mr. salt without delay; and apparently from this period throughout his life continued in this good man's household to support the honorable relation of a roman client to his _patronus_, much more than that of a mercenary servant to a transient and capricious master. the terms on which he seems to live with the family of the lambs, argue a kindness and a liberality of nature on both sides. john lamb recommended himself as an attendant by the versatility of his accomplishments; and mr. salt, being a widower without children, which means in effect an old bachelor, naturally valued that encyclopaedic range of dexterity which made his house independent of external aid for every mode of service. to kill one's own mutton is but an operose way of arriving at a dinner, and often a more costly way; whereas to combine one's own carpenter, locksmith, hair-dresser, groom, &c., all in one man's person,--to have a robinson crusoe, up to all emergencies of life, always in waiting, --is a luxury of the highest class for one who values his ease. a consultation is held more freely with a man familiar to one's eye, and more profitably with a man aware of one's peculiar habits. and another advantage from such an arrangement is, that one gets any little alteration or repair executed on the spot. to hear is to obey, and by an inversion of pope's rule- "one always _is_, and never _to be_, blest." people of one sole accomplishment, like the _homo unius libri, _ are usually within that narrow circle disagreeably perfect, and therefore apt to be arrogant. people who can do all things, usually do every one of them ill; and living in a constant effort to deny this too palpable fact, they become irritably vain. but mr. lamb the elder seems to have been bent on perfection. he did all things; he did them all well; and yet was neither gloomily arrogant, nor testily vain. and being conscious apparently that all mechanic excellencies tend to illiberal results, unless counteracted by perpetual sacrifices to the muses, he went so far as to cultivate poetry; he even printed his poems, and were we possessed of a copy, (which we are _not_, nor probably is the vatican,) it would give us pleasure at this point to digress for a moment, and to cut them up, purely on considerations of respect to the author's memory. it is hardly to be supposed that they did not really merit castigation; and we should best show the sincerity of our respect for mr. lamb, senior, in all those cases where we _could_ conscientiously profess respect by an unlimited application of the knout in the cases where we could _not_. the whole family of the lambs seem to have won from mr. salt the consideration which is granted to humble friends; and from acquaintances nearer to their own standing, to have won a tenderness of esteem such as is granted to decayed gentry. yet naturally, the social rank of the parents, as people still living, must have operated disadvantageously for the children. it is hard, even for the practised philosopher, to distinguish aristocratic graces of manner, and capacities of delicate feeling, in people whose very hearth and dress bear witness to the servile humility of their station. yet such distinctions as wild gifts of nature, timidly and half-unconsciously asserted themselves in the unpretending lambs. already in _their_ favor there existed a silent privilege analogous to the famous one of lord kinsale. he, by special grant from the crown, is allowed, when standing before the king, to forget that he is not himself a king; the bearer of that peerage, through all generations, has the privilege of wearing his hat in the royal presence. by a general though tacit concession of the same nature, the rising generation of the lambs, john and charles, the two sons, and mary lamb, the only daughter, were permitted to forget that their grandmother had been a housekeeper for sixty years, and that their father had worn a livery. charles lamb, individually, was so entirely humble, and so careless of social distinctions, that he has taken pleasure in recurring to these very facts in the family records amongst the most genial of his elia recollections. he only continued to remember, without shame, and with a peculiar tenderness, these badges of plebeian rank, when everybody else, amongst the few survivors that could have known of their existence, had long dismissed them from their thoughts. probably, through mr. salt's interest, charles lamb, in the autumn of 1782, when he wanted something more than four months of completing his eighth year, received a presentation to the magnificent school of christ's hospital. the late dr. arnold, when contrasting the school of his own boyish experience, winchester, with rugby, the school confided to his management, found nothing so much to regret in the circumstances of the latter as its forlorn condition with respect to historical traditions. wherever these were wanting, and supposing the school of sufficient magnitude, it occurred to dr. arnold that something of a compensatory effect for impressing the imagination might be obtained by connecting the school with the nation through the link of annual prizes issuing from the exchequer. an official basis of national patronage might prove a substitute for an antiquarian or ancestral basis. happily for the great educational foundations of london, none of them is in the naked condition of rugby. westminster, st. paul's, merchant tailors', the charter-house, &c., are all crowned with historical recollections; and christ's hospital, besides the original honors of its foundation, so fitted to a consecrated place in a youthful imagination--an asylum for boy-students, provided by a boy-king--innocent, religious, prematurely wise, and prematurely called away from earth--has also a mode of perpetual connection with the state. it enjoys, therefore, _both_ of dr. arnold's advantages. indeed, all the great foundation schools of london, bearing in their very codes of organization the impress of a double function--viz., the conservation of sound learning and of pure religion--wear something of a monastic or cloisteral character in their aspect and usages, which is peculiarly impressive, and even pathetic, amidst the uproars of a capital the most colossal and tumultuous upon earth. here lamb remained until his fifteenth year, which year threw him on the world, and brought him alongside the golden dawn of the french revolution. here he learned a little elementary greek, and of latin more than a little; for the latin notes to mr. cary (of dante celebrity) though brief, are sufficient to reveal a true sense of what is graceful and idiomatic in latinity. _we_ say this, who have studied that subject more than most men. it is not that lamb would have found it an easy task to compose a long paper in latin--nobody _can,_ find it easy to do what he has no motive for habitually practising; but a single sentence of latin wearing the secret countersign of the "sweet roman hand," ascertains sufficiently that, in reading latin classics, a man feels and comprehends their peculiar force or beauty. that is enough. it is requisite to a man's expansion of mind that he should make acquaintance with a literature so radically differing from all modern literatures as is the latin. it is _not_ requisite that he should practise latin composition. here, therefore, lamb obtained in sufficient perfection one priceless accomplishment, which even singly throws a graceful air of liberality over all the rest of a man's attainments: having rarely any pecuniary value, it challenges the more attention to its intellectual value. here also lamb commenced the friendships of his life; and, of all which he formed, he lost none. here it was, as the consummation and crown of his advantages from the time-honored hospital, that he came to know "poor s. t. c." [greek text: ton thaumasiotaton.] until 1796, it is probable that he lost sight of coleridge, who was then occupied with cambridge, having been transferred thither as a "grecian" from the house of christ church. that year, 1796, was a year of change and fearful calamity for charles lamb. on that year revolved the wheels of his after-life. during the three years succeeding to his school days, he had held a clerkship in the south sea house. in 1795, he was transferred to the india house. as a junior clerk, he could not receive more than a slender salary; but even this was important to the support of his parents and sister. they lived together in lodgings near holborn; and in the spring of 1796, miss lamb, (having previously shown signs of lunacy at intervals,) in a sudden paroxysm of her disease, seized a knife from the dinner table, and stabbed her mother, who died upon the spot. a coroner's inquest easily ascertained the nature of a case which was transparent in all its circumstances, and never for a moment indecisive as regarded the medical symptoms. the poor young lady was transferred to the establishment for lunatics at hoxton. she soon recovered, we believe; but her relapses were as sudden as her recoveries, and she continued through life to revisit, for periods of uncertain seclusion, this house of woe. this calamity of his fireside, followed soon after by the death of his father, who had for some time been in a state of imbecility, determined the future destiny of lamb. apprehending, with the perfect grief of perfect love, that his sister's fate was sealed for life--viewing her as his own greatest benefactress, which she really _had_ been through her advantage by ten years of age--yielding with impassioned readiness to the depth of his fraternal affection, what at any rate he would have yielded to the sanctities of duty as interpreted by his own conscience--he resolved forever to resign all thoughts of marriage with a young lady whom he loved, forever to abandon all ambitious prospects that might have tempted him into uncertainties, humbly to content himself with the _certainties_ of his indian clerkship, to dedicate himself for the future to the care of his desolate and prostrate sister, and to leave the rest to god. these sacrifices he made in no hurry or tumult, but deliberately, and in religious tranquillity. these sacrifices were accepted in heaven--and even on this earth they _had_ their reward. she, for whom he gave up all, in turn gave up all for _him_. she devoted herself to his comfort. many times she returned to the lunatic establishment, but many times she was restored to illuminate the household hearth for _him_; and of the happiness which for forty years and more he had, no hour seemed true that was not derived from her. hence forwards, therefore, until he was emancipated by the noble generosity of the east india directors, lamb's time, for nine-and-twenty years, was given to the india house. "_o fortunati nimium, sua si bona narint,_" is applicable to more people than "_agricolae_." clerks of the india house are as blind to their own advantages as the blindest of ploughmen. lamb was summoned, it is true, through the larger and more genial section of his life, to the drudgery of a copying clerk--making confidential entries into mighty folios, on the subject of calicoes and muslins. by this means, whether he would or not, he became gradually the author of a great "serial" work, in a frightful number of volumes, on as dry a department of literature as the children of the great desert could have suggested. nobody, he must have felt, was ever likely to study this great work of his, not even dr. dryasdust. he had written in vain, which is not pleasant to know. there would be no second edition called for by a discerning public in leadenhall street; not a chance of that. and consequently the _opera omnia_ of lamb, drawn up in a hideous battalion, at the cost of labor so enormous, would be known only to certain families of spiders in one generation, and of rats in the next. such a labor of sysyphus,--the rolling up a ponderous stone to the summit of a hill only that it might roll back again by the gravitation of its own dulness,--seems a bad employment for a man of genius in his meridian energies. and yet, perhaps not. perhaps the collective wisdom of europe could not have devised for lamb a more favorable condition of toil than this very india house clerkship. his works (his leadenhall street works) were certainly not read; popular they _could_ not be, for they were not read by anybody; but then, to balance _that,_ they were not reviewed. his folios were of that order, which (in cowper's words) "not even critics criticise." is _that_ nothing? is it no happiness to escape the hands of scoundrel reviewers? many of us escape being _read;_ the worshipful reviewer does not find time to read a line of us; but we do not for that reason escape being criticised, "shown up," and martyred. the list of _errata_ again, committed by lamb, was probably of a magnitude to alarm any possible compositor; and yet these _errata_ will never be known to mankind. they are dead and buried. they have been cut off prematurely; and for any effect upon their generation, might as well never have existed. then the returns, in a pecuniary sense, from these folios--how important were _they!_ it is not common, certainly, to write folios; but neither is it common to draw a steady income of from 300 _l._ to 400 _l._ per annum from volumes of any size. this will be admitted; but would it not have been better to draw the income without the toil? doubtless it would always be more agreeable to have the rose without the thorn. but in the case before us, taken with all its circumstances, we deny that the toil is truly typified as a thorn; so far from being a thorn in lamb's daily life, on the contrary, it was a second rose ingrafted upon the original rose of the income, that he had to earn it by a moderate but continued exertion. holidays, in a national establishment so great as the india house, and in our too fervid period, naturally could not be frequent; yet all great english corporations are gracious masters, and indulgences of this nature could be obtained on a special application. not to count upon these accidents of favor, we find that the regular toil of those in lamb's situation, began at ten in the morning and ended as the clock struck four in the afternoon. six hours composed the daily contribution of labor, that is precisely one fourth part of the total day. only that, as sunday was exempted, the rigorous expression of the quota was one fourth of six-sevenths, which makes sixty twenty-eighths and not six twenty-fourths of the total time. less toil than this would hardly have availed to deepen the sense of value in that large part of the time still remaining disposable. had there been any resumption whatever of labor in the evening, though but for half an hour, that one encroachment upon the broad continuous area of the eighteen free hours would have killed the tranquillity of the whole day, by _sowing_ it (so to speak) with intermitting anxieties--anxieties that, like tides, would still be rising and falling. whereas now, at the early hour of four, when daylight is yet lingering in the air, even at the dead of winter, in the latitude of london, and when the _enjoying_ section of the day is barely commencing, everything is left which a man would care to retain. a mere dilettante or amateur student, having no mercenary interest concerned, would, upon a refinement of luxury--would, upon choice, give up so much time to study, were it only to sharpen the value of what remained for pleasure. and thus the only difference between the scheme of the india house distributing his time for lamb, and the scheme of a wise voluptuary distributing his time for himself, lay, not in the _amount_ of time deducted from enjoyment, but in the particular mode of appropriating that deduction. an _intellectual_ appropriation of the time, though casually fatiguing, must have pleasures of its own; pleasures denied to a task so mechanic and so monotonous as that of reiterating endless records of sales or consignments not _essentially_ varying from each other. true; it is pleasanter to pursue an intellectual study than to make entries in a ledger. but even an intellectual toil is toil; few people can support it for more than six hours in a day. and the only question, therefore, after all, is, at what period of the day a man would prefer taking this pleasure of study. now, upon that point, as regards the case of lamb, there is no opening for doubt. he, amongst his _popular fallacies_, admirably illustrates the necessity of evening and artificial lights to the prosperity of studies. after exposing, with the perfection of fun, the savage unsociality of those elder ancestors who lived (if life it was) before lamp-light was invented, showing that "jokes came in with candles," since "what repartees could have passed" when people were "grumbling at one another in the dark," and "when you must have felt about for a smile, and handled a neighbor's cheek to be sure that he understood it?"--he goes on to say," this accounts for the seriousness of the elder poetry, "viz., because they had no candle-light. even eating he objects to as a very imperfect thing in the dark; you are not convinced that a dish tastes as it should do by the promise of its name, if you dine in the twilight without candles. seeing is believing." the senses absolutely give and take reciprocally. "the sight guarantees the taste. for instance," can you tell pork from veal in the dark, or distinguish sherries from pure malaga? "to all enjoyments whatsoever candles are indispensable as an adjunct; but, as to _reading_," there is, "says lamb," absolutely no such thing but by a candle. we have tried the affectation of a book at noon-day in gardens, but it was labor thrown away. it is a mockery, all that is reported of the influential phoebus. no true poem ever owed its birth to the sun's light. the mild internal light, that reveals the fine shapings of poetry, like fires on the domestic hearth, goes out in the sunshine. milton's morning hymn in paradise, we would hold a good wager, was penned at midnight; and taylor's rich description of a sunrise smells decidedly of the taper. "this view of evening and candle-light as involved in literature may seem no more than a pleasant extravaganza; and no doubt it is in the nature of such gayeties to travel a little into exaggeration, but substantially it is certain that lamb's feelings pointed habitually in the direction here indicated. his literary studies, whether taking the color of tasks or diversions, courted the aid of evening, which, by means of physical weariness, produces a more luxurious state of repose than belong to the labor hours of day, and courted the aid of lamp-light, which, as lord bacon remarked, gives a gorgeousness to human pomps and pleasures, such as would be vainly sought from the homeliness of day-light. the hours, therefore, which were withdrawn from his own control by the india house, happened to be exactly that part of the day which lamb least valued, and could least have turned to account. the account given of lamb's friends, of those whom he endeavored to love because he admired them, or to esteem intellectually because he loved them personally, is too much colored for general acquiescence by sergeant talfourd's own early prepossessions. it is natural that an intellectual man like the sergeant, personally made known in youth to people, whom from childhood he had regarded as powers in the ideal world, and in some instances as representing the eternities of human speculation, since their names had perhaps dawned upon his mind in concurrence with the very earliest suggestion of topics which they had treated, should overrate their intrinsic grandeur. hazlitt accordingly is styled "the great thinker." but had he been such potentially, there was an absolute bar to his achievement of that station in act and consummation. no man _can_ be a great thinker in our days upon large and elaborate questions without being also a great student. to think profoundly, it is indispensable that a man should have read down to his own starting point, and have read as a collating student to the particular stage at which he himself takes up the subject. at this moment, for instance, how could geology be treated otherwise than childishly by one who should rely upon the encyclopaedias of 1800? or comparative physiology by the most ingenious of men unacquainted with marshall hall, and with the apocalyptic glimpses of secrets unfolding under the hands of professor owen? in such a condition of undisciplined thinking, the ablest man thinks to no purpose. he lingers upon parts of the inquiry that have lost the importance which once they had, under imperfect charts of the subject; he wastes his strength upon problems that have become obsolete; he loses his way in paths that are not in the line of direction upon which the improved speculation is moving; or he gives narrow conjectural solutions of difficulties that have long since received sure and comprehensive ones. it is as if a man should in these days attempt to colonize, and yet, through inertia or through ignorance, should leave behind him all modern resources of chemistry, of chemical agriculture, or of steam-power. hazlitt had read nothing. unacquainted with grecian philosophy, with scholastic philosophy, and with the recomposition of these philosophies in the looms of germany during the last sixty and odd years, trusting merely to the unrestrained instincts of keen mother-wit--whence should hazlitt have had the materials for great thinking? it is through the collation of many abortive voyages to polar regions that a man gains his first chance of entering the polar basin, or of running ahead on the true line of approach to it. the very reason for hazlitt's defect in eloquence as a lecturer, is sufficient also as a reason why he could not have been a comprehensive thinker. "he was not eloquent," says the sergeant, "in the true sense of the term." but why? because it seems "his thoughts were too weighty to be moved along by the shallow stream of feeling which an evening's excitement can rouse,"--an explanation which leaves us in doubt whether hazlitt forfeited his chance of eloquence by accommodating himself to this evening's excitement, or by gloomily resisting it. our own explanation is different, hazlitt was not eloquent, because he was discontinuous. no man can he eloquent whose thoughts are abrupt, insulated, capricious, and (to borrow an impressive word from coleridge) non-sequacious. eloquence resides not in separate or fractional ideas, but in the relations of manifold ideas, and in the mode of their evolution from each other. it is not indeed enough that the ideas should be many, and their relations coherent; the main condition lies in the key of the evolution, in the _law_ of the succession. the elements are nothing without the atmosphere that moulds, and the dynamic forces that combine. now hazlitt's brilliancy is seen chiefly in separate splinterings of phrase or image which throw upon the eye a vitreous scintillation for a moment, but spread no deep suffusions of color, and distribute no masses of mighty shadow. a flash, a solitary flash, and all is gone. rhetoric, according to its quality, stands in many degrees of relation to the permanencies of truth; and all rhetoric, like all flesh, is partly unreal, and the glory of both is fleeting. even the mighty rhetoric of sir thomas brown, or jeremy taylor, to whom only it has been granted to open the trumpet-stop on that great organ of passion, oftentimes leaves behind it the sense of sadness which belongs to beautiful apparitions starting out of darkness upon the morbid eye, only to be reclaimed by darkness in the instant of their birth, or which belongs to pageantries in the clouds. but if all rhetoric is a mode of pyrotechny, and all pyrotechnics are by necessity fugacious, yet even in these frail pomps, there are many degrees of frailty. some fireworks require an hour's duration for the expansion of their glory; others, as if formed from fulminating powder, expire in the very act of birth. precisely on that scale of duration and of power stand the glitterings of rhetoric that are not worked into the texture, but washed on from the outside. hazlitt's thoughts were of the same fractured and discontinuous order as his illustrative images--seldom or never self-diffusive; and _that_ is a sufficient argument that he had never cultivated philosophic thinking. not, however, to conceal any part of the truth, we are bound to acknowledge that lamb thought otherwise on this point, manifesting what seemed to us an extravagant admiration of hazlitt, and perhaps even in part for that very glitter which we are denouncing--at least he did so in a conversation with ourselves. but, on the other hand, as this conversation travelled a little into the tone of a disputation, and _our_ frost on this point might seem to justify some undue fervor by way of balance, it is very possible that lamb did not speak his absolute and most dispassionate judgment. and yet again, if he _did_, may we, with all reverence for lamb's exquisite genius, have permission to say--that his own constitution of intellect sinned by this very habit of discontinuity. it was a habit of mind not unlikely to be cherished by his habits of life. amongst these habits was the excess of his social kindness. he scorned so much to deny his company and his redundant hospitality to any man who manifested a wish for either by calling upon him, that he almost seemed to think it a criminality in himself if, by accident, he really _was_ from home on your visit, rather than by possibility a negligence in you, that had not forewarned him of your intention. all his life, from this and other causes, he must have read in the spirit of one liable to sudden interruption; like a dragoon, in fact, reading with one foot in the stirrup, when expecting momentarily a summons to mount for action. in such situations, reading by snatches, and by intervals of precarious leisure, people form the habit of seeking and unduly valuing condensations of the meaning, where in reality the truth suffers by this short-hand exhibition, or else they demand too vivid illustrations of the meaning. lord chesterfield himself, so brilliant a man by nature, already therefore making a morbid estimate of brilliancy, and so hurried throughout his life as a public man, read under this double coercion for craving instantaneous effects. at one period, his only time for reading was in the morning, whilst under the hands of his hair-dresser; compelled to take the hastiest of flying shots at his author, naturally he demanded a very conspicuous mark to fire at. but the author could not, in so brief a space, be always sure to crowd any very prominent objects on the eye, unless by being audaciously oracular and peremptory as regarded the sentiment, or flashy in excess as regarded its expression. "come now, my friend," was lord chesterfield's morning adjuration to his author;" come now, cut it short--don't prose--don't hum and haw. "the author had doubtless no ambition to enter his name on the honorable and ancient roll of gentlemen prosers; probably he conceived himself not at all tainted with the asthmatic infirmity of humming and hawing; but, as to "cutting it short," how could he be sure of meeting his lordship's expectations in that point, unless by dismissing the limitations that might be requisite to fit the idea for use, or the adjuncts that might be requisite to integrate its truth, or the final consequences that might involve some deep _arriere pensee_, which, coming last in the succession, might oftentimes be calculated to lie deepest on the mind. to be lawfully and usefully brilliant after this rapid fashion, a man must come forward as a refresher of old truths, where _his_ suppressions are supplied by the reader's memory; not as an expounder of new truths, where oftentimes a dislocated fraction of the true is more dangerous than the false itself. to read therefore habitually, by hurried instalments, has this bad tendency--that it is likely to found a taste for modes of composition too artificially irritating, and to disturb the equilibrium of the judgment in relation to the colorings of style. lamb, however, whose constitution of mind was even ideally sound in reference to the natural, the simple, the genuine, might seem of all men least liable to a taint in this direction. and undoubtedly he _was_ so, as regarded those modes of beauty which nature had specially qualified him for apprehending. else, and in relation to other modes of beauty, where his sense of the true, and of its distinction from the spurious, had been an acquired sense, it is impossible for us to hide from ourselves--that not through habits only, not through stress of injurious accidents only, but by original structure and temperament of mind, lamb had a bias towards those very defects on which rested the startling characteristics of style which we have been noticing. he himself, we fear, not bribed by indulgent feelings to another, not moved by friendship, but by native tendency, shrank from the continuous, from the sustained, from the elaborate. the elaborate, indeed, without which much truth and beauty must perish in germ, was by name the object of his invectives. the instances are many, in his own beautiful essays, where he literally collapses, literally sinks away from openings suddenly offering themselves to flights of pathos or solemnity in direct prosecution of his own theme. on any such summons, where an ascending impulse, and an untired pinion were required, he _refuses_ himself (to use military language) invariably. the least observing reader of _elia_ cannot have failed to notice that the most felicitous passages always accomplish their circuit in a few sentences. the gyration within which his sentiment wheels, no matter of what kind it may be, is always the shortest possible. it does not prolong itself, and it does not repeat itself. but in fact, other features in lamb's mind would have argued this feature by analogy, had we by accident been left unaware of it directly. it is not by chance, or without a deep ground in his nature, _common_ to all his qualities, both affirmative and negative, that lamb had an insensibility to music more absolute than can have been often shared by any human creature, or perhaps than was ever before acknowledged so candidly. the sense of music,--as a pleasurable sense, or as any sense at all other than of certain unmeaning and impertinent differences in respect to high and low, sharp or flat, --was utterly obliterated as with a sponge by nature herself from lamb's organization. it was a corollary, from the same large _substratum_ in his nature, that lamb had no sense of the rhythmical in prose composition. rhythmus, or pomp of cadence, or sonorous ascent of clauses, in the structure of sentences, were effects of art as much thrown away upon him as the voice of the charmer upon the deaf adder. we ourselves, occupying the very station of polar opposition to that of lamb, being as morbidly, perhaps, in the one excess as he in the other, naturally detected this omission in lamb's nature at an early stage of our acquaintance. not the fabled regulus, with his eyelids torn away, and his uncurtained eye-balls exposed to the noon-tide glare of a carthaginian sun, could have shrieked with more anguish of recoil from torture than we from certain sentences and periods in which lamb perceived no fault at all. _pomp_, in our apprehension, was an idea of two categories; the pompous might be spurious, but it might also be genuine. it is well to love the simple--_we_ love it; nor is there any opposition at all between _that_ and the very glory of pomp. but, as we once put the case to lamb, if, as a musician, as the leader of a mighty orchestra, you had this theme offered to you--"belshazzar the king gave a great feast to a thousand of his lords"--or this," and on a certain day, marcus cicero stood up, and in a set speech rendered solemn thanks to caius caesar for quintus ligarius pardoned, and for marcus marcellus restored "--surely no man would deny that, in such a case, simplicity, though in a passive sense not lawfully absent, must stand aside as totally insufficient for the positive part. simplicity might guide, even here, but could not furnish the power; a rudder it might be, but not an oar or a sail. this, lamb was ready to allow; as an intellectual _quiddity_, he recognized pomp in the character of a privileged thing; he was obliged to do so; for take away from great ceremonial festivals, such as the solemn rendering of thanks, the celebration of national anniversaries, the commemoration of public benefactors, &c., the element of pomp, and you take away their very meaning and life; but, whilst allowing a place for it in the rubric of the logician, it is certain that, _sensuously_, lamb would not have sympathized with it, nor have _felt_ its justification in any concrete instance. we find a difficulty in pursuing this subject, without greatly exceeding our limits. we pause, therefore, and add only this one suggestion as partly explanatory of the case. lamb had the dramatic intellect and taste, perhaps in perfection; of the epic, he had none at all. here, as happens sometimes to men of genius preternaturally endowed in one direction, he might be considered as almost starved. a favorite of nature, so eminent in some directions, by what right could he complain that her bounties were not indiscriminate? from this defect in his nature it arose, that, except by culture and by reflection, lamb had no genial appreciation of milton. the solemn planetary wheelings of the paradise lost were not to his taste. what he _did_ comprehend, were the motions like those of lightning, the fierce angular coruscations of that wild agency which comes forward so vividly in the sudden _peripetteia_, in the revolutionary catastrophe, and in the tumultuous conflicts, through persons or through situations, of the tragic drama. there is another vice in mr. hazlitt's mode of composition, viz., the habit of trite quotation, too common to have challenged much notice, were it not for these reasons: 1st, that sergeant talfourd speaks of it in equivocal terms, as a fault perhaps, but as a "felicitous" fault, "trailing after it a line of golden associations;" 2dly, because the practice involves a dishonesty. on occasion of no. 1, we must profess our belief that a more ample explanation from the sergeant would have left him in substantial harmony with ourselves. we cannot conceive the author of ion, and the friend of wordsworth, seriously to countenance that paralytic "mouth-diarrhoea," (to borrow a phrase of coleridge's)--that _fluxe de bouche_(to borrow an earlier phrase of archbishop huet's) which places the reader at the mercy of a man's tritest remembrances from his most school-boy reading. to have the verbal memory infested with tags of verse and "cues" of rhyme is in itself an infirmity as vulgar and as morbid as the stableboy's habit of whistling slang airs upon the mere mechanical excitement of a bar or two whistled by some other blockhead in some other stable. the very stage has grown weary of ridiculing a folly, that having been long since expelled from decent society has taken refuge amongst the most imbecile of authors. was mr. hazlitt then of that class? no; he was a man of great talents, and of capacity for greater things than he ever attempted, though without any pretensions of the philosophic kind ascribed to him by the sergeant. meantime the reason for resisting the example and practice of hazlitt lies in this--that essentially it is at war with sincerity, the foundation of all good writing, to express one's own thoughts by another man's words. this dilemma arises. the thought is, or it is not, worthy of that emphasis which belongs to a metrical expression of it. if it is _not_, then we shall be guilty of a mere folly in pushing into strong relief that which confessedly cannot support it. if it _is_, then how incredible that a thought strongly conceived, and bearing about it the impress of one's own individuality, should naturally, and without dissimulation or falsehood, bend to another man's expression of it! simply to back one's own view by a similar view derived from another, may be useful; a quotation that repeats one's own sentiment, but in a varied form, has the grace which belongs to the _idem in alio_, the same radical idea expressed with a difference--similarity in dissimilarity; but to throw one's own thoughts, matter, and form, through alien organs so absolutely as to make another man one's interpreter for evil and good, is either to confess a singular laxity of thinking that can so flexibly adapt itself to any casual form of words, or else to confess that sort of carelessness about the expression which draws its real origin from a sense of indifference about the things to be expressed. utterly at war this distressing practice is with all simplicity and earnestness of writing; it argues a state of indolent ease inconsistent with the pressure and coercion of strong fermenting thoughts, before we can be at leisure for idle or chance quotations. but lastly, in reference to no. 2, we must add that the practice is signally dishonest. it "trails after it a line of golden associations." yes, and the burglar, who leaves an army-tailor's after a midnight visit, trails after him perhaps a long roll of gold bullion epaulettes which may look pretty by lamplight. but _that_, in the present condition of moral philosophy amongst the police, is accounted robbery; and to benefit too much by quotations is little less. at this moment we have in our eye a work, at one time not without celebrity, which is one continued _cento_ of splendid passages from other people. the natural effect from so much fine writing is, that the reader rises with the impression of having been engaged upon a most eloquent work. meantime the whole is a series of mosaics; a tessellation made up from borrowed fragments: and first, when the reader's attention is expressly directed upon the fact, he becomes aware that the nominal author has contributed nothing more to the book than a few passages of transition or brief clauses of connection. in the year 1796, the main incident occurring of any importance for english literature was the publication by southey of an epic poem. this poem, the _joan of arc_, was the earliest work of much pretension amongst all that southey wrote; and by many degrees it was the worst. in the four great narrative poems of his later years, there is a combination of two striking qualities, viz., a peculiar command over the _visually_ splendid, connected with a deep-toned grandeur of moral pathos. especially we find this union in the _thalaba_ and the _roderick_; but in the _joan of arc_ we miss it. what splendor there is for the fancy and the eye belongs chiefly to the vision, contributed by coleridge, and this was subsequently withdrawn. the fault lay in southey's political relations at that era; his sympathy with the french revolution in its earlier stages had been boundless; in all respects it was a noble sympathy, fading only as the gorgeous coloring faded from the emblazonries of that awful event, drooping only when the promises of that golden dawn sickened under stationary eclipse. in 1796, southey was yet under the tyranny of his own earliest fascination: in _his_ eyes the revolution had suffered a momentary blight from refluxes of panic; but blight of some kind is incident to every harvest on which human hopes are suspended. bad auguries were also ascending from the unchaining of martial instincts. but that the revolution, having ploughed its way through unparalleled storms, was preparing to face other storms, did but quicken the apprehensiveness of his love--did but quicken the duty of giving utterance to this love. hence came the rapid composition of the poem, which cost less time in writing than in printing. hence, also, came the choice of his heroine. what he needed in his central character was, a heart with a capacity for the wrath of hebrew prophets applied to ancient abuses, and for evangelic pity applied to the sufferings of nations. this heart, with this double capacity--where should he seek it? a french heart it must be, or how should it follow with its sympathies a french movement? _there_ lay southey's reason for adopting the maid of orleans as the depositary of hopes and aspirations on behalf of france as fervid as his own. in choosing this heroine, so inadequately known at that time, southey testified at least his own nobility of feeling; [endnote: 3] but in executing his choice, he and his friends overlooked two faults fatal to his purpose. one was this: sympathy with the french revolution meant sympathy with the opening prospects of man--meant sympathy with the pariah of every clime--with all that suffered social wrong, or saddened in hopeless bondage. that was the movement at work in the french revolution. but the movement of joanne d'arc took a different direction. in her day also, it is true, the human heart had yearned after the same vast enfranchisement for the children of labor as afterwards worked in the great vision of the french revolution. in her days also, and shortly before them, the human hand had sought by bloody acts to realize this dream of the heart. and in her childhood, joanna had not been insensible to these premature motions upon a path too bloody and too dark to be safe. but this view of human misery had been utterly absorbed to _her_ by the special misery then desolating france. the lilies of france had been trampled under foot by the conquering stranger. within fifty years, in three pitched battles that resounded to the ends of the earth, the chivalry of france had been exterminated. her oriflamme had been dragged through the dust. the eldest son of baptism had been prostrated. the daughter of france had been surrendered on coercion as a bride to her english conqueror. the child of that marriage, so ignominious to the land, was king of france by the consent of christendom; that child's uncle domineered as regent of france; and that child's armies were in military possession of the land. but were they undisputed masters? no; and there precisely lay the sorrow of the time. under a perfect conquest there would have been repose; whereas the presence of the english armies did but furnish a plea, masking itself in patriotism, for gatherings everywhere of lawless marauders; of soldiers that had deserted their banners; and of robbers by profession. this was the woe of france more even than the military dishonor. that dishonor had been palliated from the first by the genealogical pretensions of the english royal family to the french throne, and these pretensions were strengthened in the person of the present claimant. but the military desolation of france, this it was that woke the faith of joanna in her own heavenly mission of deliverance. it was the attitude of her prostrate country, crying night and day for purification from blood, and not from feudal oppression, that swallowed up the thoughts of the impassioned girl. but _that_ was not the cry that uttered itself afterwards in the french revolution. in joanna's days, the first step towards rest for france was by expulsion of the foreigner. independence of a foreign yoke, liberation as between people and people, was the one ransom to be paid for french honor and peace. _that_ debt settled, there might come a time for thinking of civil liberties. but this time was not within the prospects of the poor shepherdess the field--the area of her sympathies never coincided with that of the revolutionary period. it followed therefore, that southey _could_ not have raided joanna (with her condition of feeling) by any management, into the interpreter of his own. that was the first error in his poem, and it was irremediable. the second was--and strangely enough this also escaped notice--that the heroine of southey is made to close her career precisely at the point when its grandeur commences. she believed herself to have a mission for the deliverance of france; and the great instrument which she was authorized to use towards this end, was the king, charles vii. him she was to crown. with this coronation, her triumph, in the plain historical sense, ended. and _there_ ends southey's poem. but exactly at this point, the grander stage of her mission commences, viz., the ransom which she, a solitary girl, paid in her own person for the national deliverance. the grander half of the story was thus sacrificed, as being irrelevant to southey's political object; and yet, after all, the half which he retained did not at all symbolize that object. it is singular, indeed, to find a long poem, on an ancient subject, adapting itself hieroglyphically to a modern purpose; 2dly, to find it failing of this purpose; and 3dly, if it had not failed, so planned that it could have succeeded only by a sacrifice of all that was grandest in the theme. to these capital oversights, southey, coleridge, and lamb, were all joint parties; the two first as concerned in the composition, the last as a frank though friendly reviewer of it in his private correspondence with coleridge. it is, however, some palliation of these oversights, and a very singular fact in itself, that neither from english authorities nor from french, though the two nations were equally brought into close connection with the career of that extraordinary girl, could any adequate view be obtained of her character and acts. the official records of her trial, apart from which nothing can be depended upon, were first in the course of publication from the paris press during the currency of last year. first in 1847, about four hundred and sixteen years after her ashes had been dispersed to the winds, could it be seen distinctly, through the clouds of fierce partisanships and national prejudices, what had been the frenzy of the persecution against her, and the utter desolation of her position; what had been the grandeur of her conscientious resistance. anxious that our readers should see lamb from as many angles as possible, we have obtained from an old friend of his a memorial--slight, but such as the circumstances allowed--of an evening spent with charles and mary lamb, in the winter of 1821-22. the record is of the most unambitious character; it pretends to nothing, as the reader will see, not so much as to a pun, which it really required some singularity of luck to have missed from charles lamb, who often continued to fire puns, as minute guns, all through the evening. but the more unpretending this record is, the more appropriate it becomes by that very fact to the memory of _him_ who, amongst all authors, was the humblest and least pretending. we have often thought that the famous epitaph written for his grave by piron, the cynical author of _la metromanie_, might have come from lamb, were it not for one objection; lamb's benign heart would have recoiled from a sarcasm, however effective, inscribed upon a grave-stone; or from a jest, however playful, that tended to a vindictive sneer amongst his own farewell words. we once translated this piron epitaph into a kind of rambling drayton couplet; and the only point needing explanation is, that, from the accident of scientific men, fellows of the royal society being usually very solemn men, with an extra chance, therefore, for being dull men in conversation, naturally it arose that some wit amongst our great-grandfathers translated f. r. s. into a short-hand expression for a fellow remarkably stupid; to which version of the three letters our english epitaph alludes. the french original of piron is this: "ci git piron; qui ne fut rien; pas meme acadamicien." the bitter arrow of the second line was feathered to hit the french acadamie, who had declined to elect him a member. our translation is this: "here lies piron; who was--nothing; or, if _that_ could be, was less: how!--nothing? yes, nothing; not so much as f. r. s." but now to our friend's memorandum: october 6, 1848. my dear x.--you ask me for some memorial, however trivial, of any dinner party, supper party, water party, no matter what, that i can circumstantially recall to recollection, by any features whatever, puns or repartees, wisdom or wit, connecting it with charles lamb. i grieve to say that my meetings of any sort with lamb were few, though spread through a score of years. that sounds odd for one that loved lamb so entirely, and so much venerated his character. but the reason was, that i so seldom visited london, and lamb so seldom quitted it. somewhere about 1810 and 1812 i must have met lamb repeatedly at the _courier office_ in the strand; that is, at coleridge's, to whom, as an intimate friend, mr. stuart (a proprietor of the paper) gave up for a time the use of some rooms in the office. thither, in the london season, (may especially and june,) resorted lamb, godwin, sir h. davy, and, once or twice, wordsworth, who visited sir george beaumont's leicestershire residence of coleorton early in the spring, and then travelled up to grosvenor square with sir george and lady beaumont; _spectatum veniens, veniens spectetur ut ipse_. but in these miscellaneous gatherings, lamb said little, except when an opening arose for a pun. and how effectual that sort of small shot was from _him_, i need not say to anybody who remembers his infirmity of stammering, and his dexterous management of it for purposes of light and shade. he was often able to train the roll of stammers into settling upon the words immediately preceding the effective one; by which means the key-note of the jest or sarcasm, benefiting by the sudden liberation of his embargoed voice, was delivered with the force of a pistol shot. that stammer was worth an annuity to him as an ally of his wit. firing under cover of that advantage, he did triple execution; for, in the first place, the distressing sympathy of the hearers with _his_ distress of utterance won for him unavoidably the silence of deep attention; and then, whilst he had us all hoaxed into this attitude of mute suspense by an appearance of distress that he perhaps did not really feel, down came a plunging shot into the very thick of us, with ten times the effect it would else have had. if his stammering, however, often did him true "yeoman's service," sometimes it led him into scrapes. coleridge told me of a ludicrous embarrassment which it caused him at hastings. lamb had been medically advised to a course of sea-bathing; and accordingly at the door of his bathing machine, whilst he stood shivering with cold, two stout fellows laid hold of him, one at each shoulder, like heraldic supporters; they waited for the word of command from their principal, who began the following oration to them: "hear me, men! take notice of this--i am to be dipped." what more he would have said is unknown to land or sea or bathing machines; for having reached the word dipped, he commenced such a rolling fire of di--di--di--di, that when at length he descended _a plomb_ upon the full word _dipped_, the two men, rather tired of the long suspense, became satisfied that they had reached what lawyers call the "operative" clause of the sentence; and both exclaiming at once, "oh yes, sir, we're quite aware of _that_," down they plunged him into the sea. on emerging, lamb sobbed so much from the cold, that he found no voice suitable to his indignation; from necessity he seemed tranquil; and again addressing the men, who stood respectfully listening, he began thus: "men! is it possible to obtain your attention?" "oh surely, sir, by all means." "then listen: once more i tell you, i am to be di--di--di--"--and then, with a burst of indignation," dipped, i tell you,"--"oh decidedly, sir," rejoined the men, "decidedly," and down the stammerer went for the second time. petrified with cold and wrath, once more lamb made a feeble attempt at explanation--" grant me pa--pa--patience; is it mum--um--murder you me--me--mean? again and a--ga--ga--gain, i tell you, i'm to be di--di--di--dipped," now speaking furiously, with the voice of an injured man. "oh yes, sir," the men replied, "we know that, we fully understood it," and for the third time down went lamb into the sea." oh limbs of satan!" he said, on coming up for the third time, "it's now too late; i tell you that i am--no, that i _was_--to be di--di--di--dipped only _once_." since the rencontres with lamb at coleridge's, i had met him once or twice at literary dinner parties. one of these occurred at the house of messrs. taylor & hessey, the publishers. i myself was suffering too much from illness at the time to take any pleasure in what passed, or to notice it with any vigilance of attention. lamb, i remember, as usual, was full of gayety; and as usual he rose too rapidly to the zenith of his gayety; for he shot upwards like a rocket, and, as usual, people said he was "tipsy." to me lamb never seemed intoxicated, but at most arborily elevated. he never talked nonsense, which is a great point gained; nor polemically, which is a greater; for it is a dreadful thing to find a drunken man bent upon converting oneself; nor sentimentally, which is greatest of all. you can stand a man's fraternizing with you; or if he swears an eternal friendship, only once in an hour, you do not think of calling the police; but once in every three minutes is too much (period omitted here in original, but there is a double space following for a new sentence) lamb did none of these things; he was always rational, quiet, and gentlemanly in his habits. nothing memorable, i am sure, passed upon this occasion, which was in november of 1821; and yet the dinner was memorable by means of one fact not discovered until many years later. amongst the company, all literary men, sate a murderer, and a murderer of a freezing class; cool, calculating, wholesale in his operations, and moving all along under the advantages of unsuspecting domestic confidence and domestic opportunities. this was mr. wainwright, who was subsequently brought to trial, but not for any of his murders, and transported for life. the story has been told both by sergeant talfourd, in the second volume of these "final memoirs," and previously by sir edward b. lytton. both have been much blamed for the use made of this extraordinary case; but we know not why. in itself it is a most remarkable case for more reasons than one. it is remarkable for the appalling revelation which it makes of power spread through the hands of people not liable to suspicion, for purposes the most dreadful. it is remarkable also by the contrast which existed in this case between the murderer's appearance and the terrific purposes with which he was always dallying. he was a contributor to a journal in which i also had written several papers. this formed a shadowy link between us; and, ill as i was, i looked more attentively at _him_ than at anybody else. yet there were several men of wit and genius present, amongst whom lamb (as i have said) and thomas hood, hamilton reynolds, and allan cunningham. but _them_ i already knew, whereas mr. w. i now saw for the first time and the last. what interested me about _him_ was this, the papers which had been pointed out to me as his, (signed _janus weathercock, vinklooms_, &c.) were written in a spirit of coxcombry that did not so much disgust as amuse. the writer could not conceal the ostentatious pleasure which he took in the luxurious fittings-up of his rooms, in the fancied splendor of his _bijouterie_, &c. yet it was easy for a man of any experience to read two facts in all this idle _etalage_; one being, that his finery was but of a second-rate order; the other, that he was a parvenu, not at home even amongst his second-rate splendor. so far there was nothing to distinguish mr. w--'s papers from the papers of other triflers. but in this point there was, viz., that in his judgments upon the great italian masters of painting, da vinci, titian, &c., there seemed a tone of sincerity and of native sensibility, as in one who spoke from himself, and was not merely a copier from books. this it was that interested me; as also his reviews of the chief italian engravers, morghen, volpato, &c.; not for the manner, which overflowed with levities and impertinence, but for the substance of his judgments in those cases where i happened to have had an opportunity of judging for myself. here arose also a claim upon lamb's attention; for lamb and his sister had a deep feeling for what was excellent in painting. accordingly lamb paid him a great deal of attention, and continued to speak of him for years with an interest that seemed disproportioned to his pretensions. this might be owing in part to an indirect compliment paid to miss lamb in one of w--'s papers; else his appearance would rather have repelled lamb; it was commonplace, and better suited to express the dandyism which overspread the surface of his manner, than the unaffected sensibility which apparently lay in his nature. dandy or not, however, this man, on account of the schism in his papers, so much amiable puppyism on one side, so much deep feeling on the other, (feeling, applied to some of the grandest objects that earth has to show,) did really move a trifle of interest in me, on a day when i hated the face of man and woman. yet again, if i had known this man for the murderer that even then he was, what sudden loss of interest, what sudden growth of another interest, would have changed the face of that party! trivial creature, that didst carry thy dreadful eye kindling with perpetual treasons! dreadful creature, that didst carry thy trivial eye, mantling with eternal levity, over the sleeping surfaces of confiding household life--oh, what a revolution for man wouldst thou have accomplished had thy deep wickedness prospered! what _was_ that wickedness? in a few words i will say. at this time (october, 1848) the whole british island is appalled by a new chapter in the history of poisoning. locusta in ancient rome, madame brinvilliers in paris, were people of original genius: not in any new artifice of toxicology, not in the mere management of poisons, was the audacity of their genius displayed. no; but in profiting by domestic openings for murder, unsuspected through their very atrocity. such an opening was made some years ago by those who saw the possibility of founding purses for parents upon the murder of their children. this was done upon a larger scale than had been suspected, and upon a plausible pretence. to bury a corpse is costly; but of a hundred children only a few, in the ordinary course of mortality, will die within a given time. five shillings a-piece will produce 25l annually, and _that_ will bury a considerable number. on this principle arose infant burial societies. for a few shillings annually, a parent could secure a funeral for every child. if the child died, a few guineas fell due to the parent, and the funeral was accomplished without cost of _his_. but on this arose the suggestion--why not execute an insurance of this nature twenty times over? one single insurance pays for the funeral--the other nineteen are so much clear gain, a _lucro ponatur_, for the parents. yes; but on the supposition that the child died! twenty are no better than one, unless they are gathered into the garner. now, if the child died naturally, all was right; but how, if the child did _not_ die? why, clearly this, --the child that _can_ die, and won't die, may be made to die. there are many ways of doing that; and it is shocking to know, that, according to recent discoveries, poison is comparatively a very merciful mode of murder. six years ago a dreadful communication was made to the public by a medical man, viz., that three thousand children were annually burned to death under circumstances showing too clearly that they had been left by their mothers with the means and the temptations to set themselves on fire in her absence. but more shocking, because more lingering, are the deaths by artificial appliances of wet, cold, hunger, bad diet, and disturbed sleep, to the frail constitutions of children. by that machinery it is, and not by poison, that the majority qualify themselves for claiming the funeral allowances. here, however, there occur to any man, on reflection, two eventual restraints on the extension of this domestic curse:--1st, as there is no pretext for wanting more than one funeral on account of one child, any insurances beyond one are in themselves a ground of suspicion. now, if any plan were devised for securing the _publication_ of such insurances, the suspicions would travel as fast as the grounds for them. 2dly, it occurs, that eventually the evil checks itself, since a society established on the ordinary rates of mortality would be ruined when a murderous stimulation was applied to that rate too extensively. still it is certain that, for a season, this atrocity _has_ prospered in manufacturing districts for some years, and more recently, as judicial investigations have shown, in one agricultural district of essex. now, mr. w--'s scheme of murder was, in its outline, the very same, but not applied to the narrow purpose of obtaining burials from a public fund he persuaded, for instance, two beautiful young ladies, visitors in his family, to insure their lives for a short period of two years. this insurance was repeated in several different offices, until a sum of 18,000 pounds had been secured in the event of their deaths within the two years. mr. w--took care that they _should_ die, and very suddenly, within that period; and then, having previously secured from his victims an assignment to himself of this claim, he endeavored to make this assignment available. but the offices, which had vainly endeavored to extract from the young ladies any satisfactory account of the reasons for this limited insurance, had their suspicions at last strongly roused. one office had recently experienced a case of the same nature, in which also the young lady had been poisoned by the man in whose behalf she had effected the insurance; all the offices declined to pay; actions at law arose; in the course of the investigation which followed, mr. w--'s character was fully exposed. finally, in the midst of the embarrassments which ensued, he committed forgery, and was transported. from this mr. w--, some few days afterwards, i received an invitation to a dinner party, expressed in terms that were obligingly earnest. he mentioned the names of his principal guests, and amongst them rested most upon those of lamb and sir david wilkie. from an accident i was unable to attend, and greatly regretted it. sir david one might rarely happen to see, except at a crowded party. but as regarded lamb, i was sure to see him or to hear of him again in some way or other within a short time. this opportunity, in fact, offered itself within a month through the kindness of the lambs themselves. they had heard of my being in solitary lodgings, and insisted on my coming to dine with them, which more than once i did in the winter of 1821-22. the mere reception by the lambs was so full of goodness and hospitable feeling, that it kindled animation in the most cheerless or torpid of invalids. i cannot imagine that any _memorabilia_ occurred during the visit; but i will use the time that would else be lost upon the settling of that point, in putting down any triviality that occurs to my recollection. both lamb and myself had a furious love for nonsense, headlong nonsense. excepting professor wilson, i have known nobody who had the same passion to the same extent. and things of that nature better illustrate the _realities_ of lamb's social life than the gravities, which weighing so sadly on his solitary hours he sought to banish from his moments of relaxation. there were no strangers; charles lamb, his sister, and myself made up the party. even this was done in kindness. they knew that i should have been oppressed by an effort such as must be made in the society of strangers; and they placed me by their own fireside, where i could say as little or as much as i pleased. we dined about five o'clock, and it was one of the hospitalities inevitable to the lambs, that any game which they might receive from rural friends in the course of the week, was reserved for the day of a friend's dining with them. in regard to wine, lamb and myself had the same habit--perhaps it rose to the dignity of a principle--viz., to take a great deal _during_ dinner--none _after_ it. consequently, as miss lamb (who drank only water) retired almost with the dinner itself, nothing remained for men of our principles, the rigor of which we had illustrated by taking rather too much of old port before the cloth was drawn, except talking; amoebaean colloquy, or, in dr. johnson's phrase, a dialogue of "brisk reciprocation." but this was impossible; over lamb, at this period of his life, there passed regularly, after taking wine, a brief eclipse of sleep. it descended upon him as softly as a shadow. in a gross person, laden with superfluous flesh, and sleeping heavily, this would have been disagreeable; but in lamb, thin even to meagreness, spare and wiry as an arab of the desert, or as thomas aquinas, wasted by scholastic vigils, the affection of sleep seemed rather a network of aerial gossamer than of earthly cobweb--more like a golden haze falling upon him gently from the heavens than a cloud exhaling upwards from the flesh. motionless in his chair as a bust, breathing so gently as scarcely to seem certainly alive, he presented the image of repose midway between life and death, like the repose of sculpture; and to one who knew his history a repose affectingly contrasting with the calamities and internal storms of his life. i have heard more persons than i can now distinctly recall, observe of lamb when sleeping, that his countenance in that state assumed an expression almost seraphic, from its intellectual beauty of outline, its childlike simplicity, and its benignity. it could not be called a transfiguration that sleep had worked in his face; for the features wore essentially the same expression when waking; but sleep spiritualized that expression, exalted it, and also harmonized it. much of the change lay in that last process. the eyes it was that disturbed the unity of effect in lamb's waking face. they gave a restlessness to the character of his intellect, shifting, like northern lights, through every mode of combination with fantastic playfulness, and sometimes by fiery gleams obliterating for the moment that pure light of benignity which was the predominant reading on his features. some people have supposed that lamb had jewish blood in his veins, which seemed to account for his gleaming eyes. it might be so; but this notion found little countenance in lamb's own way of treating the gloomy medieval traditions propagated throughout europe about the jews, and their secret enmity to christian races. lamb, indeed, might not be more serious than shakspeare is supposed to have been in his shylock; yet he spoke at times as from a station of wilful bigotry, and seemed (whether laughingly or not) to sympathize with the barbarous christian superstitions upon the pretended bloody practices of the jews, and of the early jewish physicians. being himself a lincoln man, he treated sir hugh [endnote: 4] of lincoln, the young child that suffered death by secret assassination in the jewish quarter rather than suppress his daily anthems to the virgin, as a true historical personage on the rolls of martyrdom; careless that this fable, like that of the apprentice murdered out of jealousy by his master, the architect, had destroyed its own authority by ubiquitous diffusion. all over europe the same legend of the murdered apprentice and the martyred child reappears under different names--so that in effect the verification of the tale is none at all, because it is unanimous; is too narrow, because it is too impossibly broad. lamb, however, though it was often hard to say whether he were not secretly laughing, swore to the truth of all these old fables, and treated the liberalities of the present generation on such points as mere fantastic and effeminate affectations, which, no doubt, they often are as regards the sincerity of those who profess them. the bigotry, which it pleased his fancy to assume, he used like a sword against the jew, as the official weapon of the christian, upon the same principle that a capulet would have drawn upon a montague, without conceiving it any duty of _his_ to rip up the grounds of so ancient a quarrel; it was a feud handed down to him by his ancestors, and it was _their_ business to see that originally it had been an honest feud. i cannot yet believe that lamb, if seriously aware of any family interconnection with jewish blood, would, even in jest, have held that one-sided language. more probable it is, that the fiery eye recorded not any alliance with jewish blood, but that disastrous alliance with insanity which tainted his own life, and laid desolate his sister's. on awakening from his brief slumber, lamb sat for some time in profound silence, and then, with the most startling rapidity, sang out--"diddle, diddle, dumpkins;" not looking at me, but as if soliloquizing. for five minutes he relapsed into the same deep silence; from which again he started up into the same abrupt utterance of--"diddle, diddle, dumpkins." i could not help laughing aloud at the extreme energy of this sudden communication, contrasted with the deep silence that went before and followed. lamb smilingly begged to know what i was laughing at, and with a look of as much surprise as if it were i that had done something unaccountable, and not himself. i told him (as was the truth) that there had suddenly occurred to me the possibility of my being in some future period or other called on to give an account of this very evening before some literary committee. the committee might say to me--(supposing the case that i outlived him)--"you dined with mr. lamb in january, 1822; now, can you remember any remark or memorable observation which that celebrated man made before or after dinner?" i as _respondent_. "oh yes, i can." _com_. "what was it?" _resp_. "diddle, diddle, dumpkins." _com_. "and was this his only observation? did mr. lamb not strengthen this remark by some other of the same nature?" _resp_. "yes, he did." _com_. "and what was it?" _resp_. "diddle, diddle, dumpkins." _com_. "what is your secret opinion of dumpkins?" _com_. "do you conceive dumpkins to have been a thing or a person?" _resp_. "i conceive dumpkins to have been a person, having the rights of a person." _com_. "capable, for instance, of suing and being sued?" _resp_. "yes, capable of both; though i have reason to think there would have been very little use in suing dumpkins." _com_. "how so? are the committee to understand that you, the respondent, in your own case, have found it a vain speculation, countenanced only by visionary lawyers, to sue dumpkins?" _resp_. "no; i never lost a shilling by dumpkins, the reason for which may be that dumpkins never owed me a shilling; but from his _pronomen_ of 'diddle,' i apprehend that he was too well acquainted with joint-stock companies!" _com_. "and your opinion is, that he may have diddled mr. lamb?" _resp_. "i conceive it to be not unlikely." _com_. "and, perhaps, from mr. lamb's pathetic reiteration of his name, 'diddle, diddle,' you would be disposed to infer that dumpkins had practised his diddling talents upon mr. l. more than once?" _resp_. "i think it probable." lamb laughed, and brightened up; tea was announced; miss lamb returned. the cloud had passed away from lamb's spirits, and again he realized the pleasure of evening, which, in _his_ apprehension, was so essential to the pleasure of literature. on the table lay a copy of wordsworth, in two volumes; it was the edition of longman, printed about the time of waterloo. wordsworth was held in little consideration, i believe, amongst the house of longman; at any rate, _their_ editions of his works were got up in the most slovenly manner. in particular, the table of contents was drawn up like a short-hand bill of parcels. by accident the book lay open at a part of this table, where the sonnet beginning- "alas! what boots the long laborious quest"-had been entered with mercantile speed, as- "alas! what boots,"---"yes," said lamb, reading this entry in a dolorous tone of voice, "he may well say _that_. i paid hoby three guineas for a pair that tore like blotting paper, when i was leaping a ditch to escape a farmer that pursued me with a pitch-fork for trespassing. but why should w. wear boots in westmoreland? pray, advise him to patronize shoes." the mercurialities of lamb were infinite, and always uttered in a spirit of absolute recklessness for the quality or the prosperity of the sally. it seemed to liberate his spirits from some burthen of blackest melancholy which oppressed it, when he had thrown off a jest: he would not stop one instant to improve it; nor did he care the value of a straw whether it were good enough to be remembered, or so mediocre as to extort high moral indignation from a collector who refused to receive into his collection of jests and puns any that were not felicitously good or revoltingly bad. after tea, lamb read to me a number of beautiful compositions, which he had himself taken the trouble to copy out into a blank paper folio from unsuccessful authors. neglected people in every class won the sympathy of lamb. one of the poems, i remember, was a very beautiful sonnet from a volume recently published by lord thurlow--which, and lamb's just remarks upon it, i could almost repeat _verbatim_ at this moment, nearly twenty-seven years later, if your limits would allow me. but these, you tell me, allow of no such thing; at the utmost they allow only twelve lines more. now all the world knows that the sonnet itself would require fourteen lines; but take fourteen from twelve, and there remains very little, i fear; besides which, i am afraid two of my twelve are already exhausted. this forces me to interrupt my account of lamb's reading, by reporting the very accident that _did_ interrupt it in fact; since that no less characteristically expressed lamb's peculiar spirit of kindness, (always quickening itself towards the ill-used or the down-trodden,) than it had previously expressed itself in his choice of obscure readings. two ladies came in, one of whom at least had sunk in the scale of worldly consideration. they were ladies who would not have found much recreation in literary discussions; elderly, and habitually depressed. on _their_ account, lamb proposed whist, and in that kind effort to amuse them, which naturally drew forth some momentary gayeties from himself, but not of a kind to impress themselves on the recollection, the evening terminated. we have left ourselves no room for a special examination of lamb's writings, some of which were failures, and some were so memorably beautiful as to be unique in their class. the character of lamb it is, and the life-struggle of lamb, that must fix the attention of many, even amongst those wanting in sensibility to his intellectual merits. this character and this struggle, as we have already observed, impress many traces of themselves upon lamb's writings. even in that view, therefore, they have a ministerial value; but separately, for themselves, they have an independent value of the highest order. upon this point we gladly adopt the eloquent words of sergeant talfourd:-"the sweetness of lamb's character, breathed through his writings, was felt even by strangers; but its heroic aspect was unguessed even by many of his friends. let them now consider it, and ask if the annals of self-sacrifice can show anything in human action and endurance more lovely than its self-devotion exhibits? it was not merely that he saw, through the ensanguined cloud of misfortune which had fallen upon his family, the unstained excellence of his sister, whose madness had caused it; that he was ready to take her to his own home with reverential affection, and cherish her through life; and he gave up, for _her_ sake, all meaner and more selfish love, and all the hopes which youth blends with the passion which disturbs and ennobles it; not even that he did all this cheerfully, without pluming himself upon his brotherly nobleness as a virtue, or seeking to repay himself (as some uneasy martyrs do) by small instalments of long repining; but that he carried the spirit of the hour in which he first knew and took his course to his last. so far from thinking that his sacrifice of youth and love to his sister gave him a license to follow his own caprice at the expense of her feelings, even in the lightest matters, he always wrote and spoke of her as his wiser self, his generous benefactress, of whose protecting care he was scarcely worthy." it must be remembered, also, which the sergeant does not overlook, that lamb's efforts for the becoming support of his sister lasted through a period of forty years. twelve years before his death, the munificence of the india house, by granting him a liberal retiring allowance, had placed his own support under shelter from accidents of any kind. but this died with himself; and he could not venture to suppose that, in the event of his own death, the india house would grant to his sister the same allowance as by custom is granted to a wife. this they did; but not venturing to calculate upon such nobility of patronage, lamb had applied himself through life to the saving of a provision for his sister under any accident to himself. and this he did with a persevering prudence, so little known in the literary class, amongst a continued tenor of generosities, often so princely as to be scarcely known in any class. was this man, so memorably good by life-long sacrifice of himself, in any profound sense a christian? the impression is, that he was _not_. we, from private communications with him, can undertake to say that, according to his knowledge and opportunities for the study of christianity, he _was_. what has injured lamb on this point is, that his early opinions (which, however, from the first were united with the deepest piety) are read by the inattentive, as if they had been the opinions of his mature days; secondly, that he had few religious persons amongst his friends, which made him reserved in the expression of his own views; thirdly, that in any case where he altered opinions for the better, the credit of the improvement is assigned to coleridge. lamb, for example, beginning life as a unitarian, in not many years became a trinitarian. coleridge passed through the same changes in the same order; and, here, at least, lamb is supposed simply to have obeyed the influence, confessedly great, of coleridge. this, on our own knowledge of lamb's views, we pronounce to be an error. and the following extracts from lamb's letters will show, not only that he was religiously disposed on impulses self-derived, but that, so far from obeying the bias of coleridge, he ventured, on this one subject, firmly as regarded the matter, though humbly as regarded the manner, affectionately to reprove coleridge. in a letter to coleridge, written in 1797, the year after his first great affliction, he says: "coleridge, i have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance; not one christian; not one but undervalues christianity. singly, what am i to do? wesley--[have you read his life?]--was not he an elevated character? wesley has said religion was not a solitary thing. alas! it is necessarily so with me, or next to solitary. 'tis true you write to me; but correspondence by letter and personal intimacy are widely different. do, do write to me; and do some good to my mind--already how much 'warped and relaxed' by the world!" in a letter written about three months previously, he had not scrupled to blame coleridge at some length for audacities of religious speculation, which seemed to him at war with the simplicities of pure religion. he says: "do continue to write to me. i read your letters with my sister, and they give us both abundance of delight. especially they please us two when you talk in a religious strain. not but we are offended occasionally with a certain freedom of expression, a certain air of mysticism, more consonant to the conceits of pagan philosophy than consistent with the humility of genuine piety." then, after some instances of what he blames, he says: "be not angry with me, coleridge. i wish not to cavil; i know i cannot instruct you; i only wish to remind you of that humility which best becometh the christian character. god, in the new testament, our best guide, is represented to us in the kind, condescending, amiable, familiar light of a parent; and, in my poor mind, 'tis best for us so to consider him as our heavenly father, and our best friend, without indulging too bold conceptions of his character." about a month later, he says: "few but laugh at me for reading my testament. they talk a language i understand not; i conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to _them_." we see by this last quotation _where_ it was that lamb originally sought for consolation. we personally can vouch that, at a maturer period, when he was approaching his fiftieth year, no change had affected his opinions upon that point; and, on the other hand, that no changes had occurred in his needs for consolation, we see, alas! in the records of his life. whither, indeed, could he fly for comfort, if not to his bible? and to whom was the bible an indispensable resource, if not to lamb? we do not undertake to say, that in his knowledge of christianity he was everywhere profound or consistent, but he was always earnest in his aspirations after its spiritualities, and had an apprehensive sense of its power. charles lamb is gone; his life was a continued struggle in the service of love the purest, and within a sphere visited by little of contemporary applause. even his intellectual displays won but a narrow sympathy at any time, and in his earlier period were saluted with positive derision and contumely on the few occasions when they were not oppressed by entire neglect. but slowly all things right themselves. all merit, which is founded in truth, and is strong enough, reaches by sweet exhalations in the end a higher sensory; reaches higher organs of discernment, lodged in a selecter audience. but the original obtuseness or vulgarity of feeling that thwarted lamb's just estimation in life, will continue to thwart its popular diffusion. there are even some that continue to regard him with the old hostility. and we, therefore, standing by the side of lamb's grave, seemed to hear, on one side, (but in abated tones, ) strains of the ancient malice--"this man, that thought himself to be somebody, is dead--is buried--is forgotten!" and, on the other side, seemed to hear ascending, as with the solemnity of an anthem--"this man, that thought himself to be nobody, is dead--is buried; his life has been searched; and his memory is hallowed forever!" notes. note 1. "_scriptural_" we call it, because this element of thought, so indispensable to a profound philosophy of morals, is not simply _more_ used in scripture than elsewhere, but is so exclusively significant or intelligible amidst the correlative ideas of scripture, as to be absolutely insusceptible of translation into classical greek or classical latin. it is disgraceful that more reflection has not been directed to the vast causes and consequences of so pregnant a truth. note 2. "_poor s t. c._"-the affecting expression by which coleridge indicates himself in the few lines written during his last illness for an inscription upon his grave, lines ill constructed in point of diction and compression, but otherwise speaking from the depths of his heart. note 3. it is right to remind the reader of this, for a reason applying forcibly to the present moment michelet has taxed englishmen with yielding to national animosities in the case of joan, having no plea whatever for that insinuation but the single one drawn from shakspeare's henry vi. to this the answer is, first, that shakspeare's share in that trilogy is not nicely ascertained secondly, that m michelet forgot (or, which is far worse, _not_ forgetting it, he dissembled) the fact, that in undertaking a series of dramas upon the basis avowedly of national chronicles, and for the very purpose of profiting by old traditionary recollections connected with ancestral glories, it was mere lunacy to recast the circumstances at the bidding of antiquarian research, so as entirely to disturb these glories. besides that, to shakspeare's age no such spirit of research had blossomed. writing for the stage, a man would have risked lapidation by uttering a whisper in that direction. and, even if not, what sense could there have been in openly running counter to the very motive that had originally prompted that particular class of chronicle plays? thirdly, if one englishman had, in a memorable situation, adopted the popular view of joan's conduct, (_popular_ as much in france as in england;) on the other hand, fifty years before m. michelet was writing this flagrant injustice, another englishman (viz., southey) had, in an epic poem, reversed this mis-judgment, and invested the shepherd girl with a glory nowhere else accorded to her, unless indeed by schiller. fourthly, we are not entitled to view as an _attack_ upon joanna, what, in the worst construction, is but an unexamining adoption of the contemporary historical accounts. a poet or a dramatist is not responsible for the accuracy of chronicles. but what _is_ an attack upon joan, being briefly the foulest and obscenest attempt ever made to stifle the grandeur of a great human struggle, viz., the french burlesque poem of _la pucelle_--what memorable man was it that wrote _that_? was he a frenchman, or was he not? that m. michelet should _pretend_ to have forgotten this vilest of pasquinades, is more shocking to the general sense of justice than any special untruth as to shakspeare _can_ be to the particular nationality of an englishman. note 4. the story which furnishes a basis to the fine ballad in percy's reliques, and to the canterbury tale of chaucer's lady abbess. goethe john wolfgang von goethe, a man of commanding influence in the literature of modern germany throughout the latter half of his long life, and possessing two separate claims upon our notice; one in right of his own unquestionable talents; and another much stronger, though less direct, arising out of his position, and the extravagant partisanship put forward on his behalf for the last forty years. the literary body in all countries, and for reasons which rest upon a sounder basis than that of private jealousies, have always been disposed to a republican simplicity in all that regards the assumption of rank and personal pretensions. _valeat quantum valere potest_, is the form of license to every man's ambition, coupled with its caution. let his influence and authority be commensurate with his attested value; and, because no man in the present infinity of human speculation, and the present multiformity of human power, can hope for more than a very limited superiority, there is an end at once to all _absolute_ dictatorship. the dictatorship in any case could be only _relative_, and in relation to a single department of art or knowledge; and this for a reason stronger even than that already noticed, viz., the vast extent of the field on which the intellect is now summoned to employ itself. that objection, as it applies only to the _degree_ of the difficulty, might be met by a corresponding degree of mental energy; such a thing may be supposed, at least. but another difficulty there is, of a profounder character, which cannot be so easily parried. those who have reflected at all upon the fine arts, know that power of one kind is often inconsistent, positively incompatible, with power of another kind. for example, the _dramatic_ mind is incompatible with the _epic_. and though we should consent to suppose that some intellect might arise endowed upon a scale of such angelic comprehensiveness, as to vibrate equally and indifferently towards either pole, still it is next to impossible, in the exercise and culture of the two powers, but some bias must arise which would give that advantage to the one over the other which the right arm has over the left. but the supposition, the very case put, is baseless, and countenanced by no precedent. yet, under this previous difficulty, and with regard to a literature convulsed, if any ever was, by an almost total anarchy, it is a fact notorious to all who take an interest in germany and its concerns, that goethe did in one way or other, through the length and breadth of that vast country, establish a supremacy of influence wholly unexampled; a supremacy indeed perilous in a less honorable man, to those whom he might chance to hate, and with regard to himself thus far unfortunate, that it conferred upon every work proceeding from his pen a sort of papal indulgence, an immunity from criticism, or even from the appeals of good sense, such as it is not wholesome that any man should enjoy. yet we repeat that german literature was and is in a condition of total anarchy. with this solitary exception, no name, even in the most narrow section of knowledge or of power, has ever been able in that country to challenge unconditional reverence; whereas, with us and in france, name the science, name the art, and we will name the dominant professor; a difference which partly arises out of the fact that england and france are governed in their opinions by two or three capital cities, whilst germany looks for its leadership to as many cities as there are _residenzen_ and universities. for instance, the little territory with which goethe was connected presented no less than two such public lights; weimar, the _residenz_ or privileged abode of the grand duke, and jena, the university founded by that house. partly, however, this difference may be due to the greater restlessness, and to the greater energy as respects mere speculation, of the german mind. but no matter whence arising, or how interpreted, the fact is what we have described; absolute confusion, the "anarch old" of milton, is the one deity whose sceptre is there paramount; and yet _there_ it was, in that very realm of chaos, that goethe built his throne. that he must have looked with trepidation and perplexity upon his wild empire and its "dark foundations," may be supposed. the tenure was uncertain to _him_ as regarded its duration; to us it is equally uncertain, and in fact mysterious, as regards its origin. meantime the mere fact, contrasted with the general tendencies of the german literary world, is sufficient to justify a notice, somewhat circumstantial, of the man in whose favor, whether naturally by force of genius, or by accident concurring with intrigue, so unexampled a result was effected. goethe was born at noonday on the 28th of august, 1749, in his father's house at frankfort on the maine. the circumstances of his birth were thus far remarkable, that, unless goethe's vanity deceived him, they led to a happy revolution hitherto retarded by female delicacy falsely directed. from some error of the midwife who attended his mother, the infant goethe appeared to be still-born. sons there were as yet none from this marriage; everybody was therefore interested in the child's life; and the panic which arose in consequence, having survived its immediate occasion, was improved into a public resolution, (for which no doubt society stood ready at that moment,) to found some course of public instruction from this time forward for those who undertook professionally the critical duties of accoucheur. we have noticed the house in which goethe was born, as well as the city. both were remarkable, and fitted to leave lasting impressions upon a young person of sensibility. as to the city, its antiquity is not merely venerable, but almost mysterious; towers were at that time to be found in the mouldering lines of its earliest defences, which belonged to the age of charlemagne, or one still earlier; battlements adapted to a mode of warfare anterior even to that of feudalism or romance. the customs, usages, and local privileges of frankfort, and the rural districts adjacent, were of a corresponding character. festivals were annually celebrated at a short distance from the walls, which had descended from a dateless antiquity. every thing which met the eye spoke the language of elder ages; whilst the river on which the place was seated, its great fair, which still held the rank of the greatest in christendom, and its connection with the throne of caesar and his inauguration, by giving to frankfort an interest and a public character in the eyes of all germany, had the effect of countersigning, as it were, by state authority, the importance which she otherwise challenged to her ancestral distinctions. fit house for such a city, and in due keeping with the general scenery, was that of goethe's father. it had in fact been composed out of two contiguous houses; that accident had made it spacious and rambling in its plan; whilst a further irregularity had grown out of the original difference in point of level between the corresponding stories of the two houses, making it necessary to connect the rooms of the same _suite_ by short flights of steps. some of these features were no doubt removed by the recast of the house under the name of "repairs," (to evade a city bye-law, ) afterwards executed by his father; but such was the house of goethe's infancy, and in all other circumstances of style and furnishing equally antique. the spirit of society in frankfort, without a court, a university, or a learned body of any extent, or a resident nobility in its neighborhood, could not be expected to display any very high standard of polish. yet, on the other hand, as an independent city, governed by its own separate laws and tribunals, (that privilege of _autonomy_ so dearly valued by ancient greece,) and possessing besides a resident corps of jurisprudents and of agents in various ranks for managing the interests of the german emperor and other princes, frankfort had the means within herself of giving a liberal tone to the pursuits of her superior citizens, and of cooperating in no inconsiderable degree with the general movement of the times, political or intellectual. the memoirs of goethe himself, and in particular the picture there given of his own family, as well as other contemporary glimpses of german domestic society in those days, are sufficient to show that much knowledge, much true cultivation of mind, much sound refinement of taste, were then distributed through the middle classes of german society; meaning by that very indeterminate expression those classes which for frankfort composed the aristocracy, viz., all who had daily leisure, and regular funds for employing it to advantage. it is not necessary to add, because that is a fact applicable to all stages of society, that frankfort presented many and various specimens of original talent, moving upon all directions of human speculation. yet, with this general allowance made for the capacities of the place, it is too evident that, for the most part, they lay inert and undeveloped. in many respects frankfort resembled an english cathedral city, according to the standard of such places seventy years ago, not, that is to say, like carlisle in this day, where a considerable manufacture exists, but like chester as it is yet. the chapter of a cathedral, the resident ecclesiastics attached to the duties of so large an establishment, men always well educated, and generally having families, compose the original _nucleus_, around which soon gathers all that part of the local gentry who, for any purpose, whether of education for their children, or of social enjoyment for themselves, seek the advantages of a town. hither resort all the timid old ladies who wish for conversation, or other forms of social amusement; hither resort the valetudinarians, male or female, by way of commanding superior medical advice at a cost not absolutely ruinous to themselves; and multitudes besides, with narrow incomes, to whom these quiet retreats are so many cities of refuge. such, in one view, they really are; and yet in another they have a vicious constitution. cathedral cities in england, imperial cities without manufactures in germany, are all in an improgressive condition. the public employments of every class in such places continue the same from generation to generation. the amount of superior families oscillates rather than changes; that is, it fluctuates within fixed limits; and, for all inferior families, being composed either of shopkeepers or of menial servants, they are determined by the number, or, which, on a large average, is the same, by the pecuniary power, of their employers. hence it arises, that room is made for one man, in whatever line of dependence, only by the death of another; and the constant increments of the population are carried off into other cities. not less is the difference of such cities as regards the standard of manners. how striking is the soft and urbane tone of the lower orders in a cathedral city, or in a watering place dependent upon ladies, contrasted with the bold, often insolent, demeanor of a self-dependent artisan or mutinous mechanic of manchester and glasgow. children, however, are interested in the state of society around them, chiefly as it affects their parents. those of goethe were respectable, and perhaps tolerably representative of the general condition in their own rank. an english authoress of great talent, in her _characteristics of goethe_, has too much countenanced the notion that he owed his intellectual advantages exclusively to his mother. of this there is no proof. his mother wins more esteem from the reader of this day, because she was a cheerful woman, of serene temper, brought into advantageous comparison with a husband much older than herself, whom circumstances had rendered moody, fitful, sometimes capricious, and confessedly obstinate in that degree which pope has taught us to think connected with inveterate error: "stiff in opinion, always in the wrong," unhappily presents an association too often actually occurring in nature, to leave much chance for error in presuming either quality from the other. and, in fact, goethe's father was so uniformly obstinate in pressing his own views upon all who belonged to him, whenever he did come forward in an attitude of activity, that his family had much reason to be thankful for the rarity of such displays. fortunately for them, his indolence neutralized his obstinacy. and the worst shape in which his troublesome temper showed itself, was in what concerned the religious reading of the family. once begun, the worst book as well as the best, the longest no less than the shortest, was to be steadfastly read through to the last word of the last volume; no excess of yawning availed to obtain a reprieve, not, adds his son, though he were himself the leader of the yawners. as an illustration, he mentions bowyer's _history of the popes_; which awful series of records, the catacombs, as it were, in the palace of history, were actually traversed from one end to the other of the endless suite by the unfortunate house of goethe. allowing, however, for the father's unamiableness in this one point, upon all intellectual ground both parents seem to have met very much upon a level. two illustrations may suffice, one of which occurred during the infancy of goethe. the science of education was at that time making its first rude motions towards an ampler development; and, amongst other reforms then floating in the general mind, was one for eradicating the childish fear of ghosts, &c. the young goethes, as it happened, slept not in separate beds only, but in separate rooms; and not unfrequently the poor children, under the stinging terrors of their lonely situation, stole away from their "forms," to speak in the hunter's phrase, and sought to rejoin each other. but in these attempts they were liable to surprises from the enemy; papa and mamma were both on the alert, and often intercepted the young deserter by a cross march or an ambuscade; in which cases each had a separate policy for enforcing obedience. the father, upon his general system of "perseverance," compelled the fugitive back to his quarters, and, in effect, exhorted him to persist in being frightened out of his wits. to his wife's gentle heart that course appeared cruel, and she reclaimed the delinquent by bribes; the peaches which her garden walls produced being the fund from which she chiefly drew her supplies for this branch of the secret service. what were her winter bribes, when the long nights would seem to lie heaviest on the exchequer, is not said. speaking seriously, no man of sense can suppose that a course of suffering from terrors the most awful, under whatever influence supported, whether under the naked force of compulsion, or of _that_ connected with bribes, could have any final effect in mitigating the passion of awe, connected, by our very dreams, with the shadowy and the invisible, or in tranquillizing the infantine imagination. a second illustration involves a great moral event in the history of goethe, as it was, in fact, the first occasion of his receiving impressions at war with his religious creed. piety is so beautiful an ornament of the youthful mind, doubt or distrust so unnatural a growth from confiding innocence, that an infant freethinker is heard of not so much with disgust as with perplexity. a sense of the ludicrous is apt to intermingle; and we lose our natural horror of the result in wonder at its origin. yet in this instance there is no room for doubt; the fact and the occasion are both on record; there can be no question about the date; and, finally, the accuser is no other than the accused. goethe's own pen it is which proclaims, that already, in the early part of his seventh year, his reliance upon god as a moral governor had suffered a violent shock, was shaken, if not undermined. on the 1st of november, 1755, occurred the great earthquake at lisbon. upon a double account, this event occupied the thoughts of all europe for an unusual term of time; both as an expression upon a larger scale than usual of the mysterious physical agency concerned in earthquakes, and also for the awful human tragedy [endnote: 5] of this no picture can ever hope to rival that hasty one sketched in the letter of the chaplain to the lisbon factory. the plague of athens as painted by thucydides or lucretius, nay even the fabulous plague of london by de foe, contain no scenes or situations equal in effect to some in this plain historic statement. nay, it would perhaps be difficult to produce a passage from ezekiel, from aeschylus, or from shakspeare, which would so profoundly startle the sense of sublimity as one or two of his incidents, which attended either the earthquake itself, or its immediate sequel in the sudden irruption of the tagus. sixty thousand persons, victims to the dark power in its first or its second _avatar_, attested the titanic scale upon which it worked. here it was that the shallow piety of the germans found a stumbling-block. those who have read any circumstantial history of the physical signs which preceded this earthquake, are aware that in england and northern germany many singular phenomena were observed, more or less manifestly connected with the same dark agency which terminated at lisbon, and running before this final catastrophe at times so accurately varying with the distances, as to furnish something like a scale for measuring the velocity with which it moved. these german phenomena, circulated rapidly over all germany by the journals of every class, had seemed to give to the germans a nearer and more domestic interest in the great event, than belonged to them merely in their universal character of humanity. it is also well known to observers of national characteristics, that amongst the germans the household charities, the _pieties of the hearth_, as they may be called, exist, if not really in greater strength, yet with much less of the usual balances or restraints. a german father, for example, is like the grandfather of other nations; and thus a piety, which in its own nature scarcely seems liable to excess, takes, in its external aspect, too often an air of effeminate imbecility. these two considerations are necessary to explain the intensity with which this lisbon tragedy laid hold of the german mind, and chiefly under the one single aspect of its _undistinguishing_ fury. women, children, old men--these, doubtless, had been largely involved in the perishing sixty thousand; and that reflection, it would seem from goethe's account, had so far embittered the sympathy of the germans with their distant portuguese brethren, that, in the frankfort discussions, sullen murmurs had gradually ripened into bold impeachments of providence. there can be no gloomier form of infidelity than that which questions the moral attributes of the great being, in whose hands are the final destinies of us all. such, however, was the form of goethe's earliest scepticism, such its origin; caught up from the very echoes which rang through the streets of frankfort when the subject occupied all men's minds. and such, for anything that appears, continued to be its form thenceforwards to the close of his life, if speculations so crude could be said to have any form at all. many are the analogies, some close ones, between england and germany with regard to the circle of changes they have run through, political or social, for a century back. the challenges are frequent to a comparison; and sometimes the result would be to the advantage of germany, more often to ours. but in religious philosophy, which in reality is the true _popular_ philosophy, how vast is the superiority on the side of this country. not a shopkeeper or mechanic, we may venture to say, but would have felt this obvious truth, that surely the lisbon earthquake yielded no fresh lesson, no peculiar moral, beyond what belonged to every man's experience in every age. a passage in the new testament about the fall of the tower of siloam, and the just construction of that event, had already anticipated the difficulty, if such it could be thought. not to mention, that calamities upon the same scale in the earliest age of christianity, the fall of the amphitheatre at fidenae, or the destruction of pompeii, had presented the same problem at the lisbon earthquake. nay, it is presented daily in the humblest individual case, where wrong is triumphant over right, or innocence confounded with guilt in one common disaster. and that the parents of goethe should have authorized his error, if only by their silence, argues a degree of ignorance in them, which could not have co-existed with much superior knowledge in the public mind. goethe, in his memoirs, (book vi.,) commends his father for the zeal with which he superintended the education of his children. but apparently it was a zeal without knowledge. many things were taught imperfectly, but all casually, and as chance suggested them. italian was studied a little, because the elder goethe had made an italian tour, and had collected some italian books, and engravings by italian masters. hebrew was studied a little, because goethe the son had a fancy for it, partly with a view to theology, and partly because there was a jewish quarter, gloomy and sequestrated, in the city of frankfort. french offered itself no doubt on many suggestions, but originally on occasion of a french theatre, supported by the staff of the french army when quartered in the same city. latin was gathered in a random way from a daily sense of its necessity. english upon the temptation of a stranger's advertisement, promising upon moderate terms to teach that language in four weeks; a proof, by the way, that the system of bold innovations in the art of tuition had already commenced. riding and fencing were also attempted under masters apparently not very highly qualified, and in the same desultory style of application. dancing was taught to his family, strange as it may seem, by mr. goethe himself. there is good reason to believe that not one of all these accomplishments was possessed by goethe, when ready to visit the university, in a degree which made it practically of any use to him. drawing and music were pursued confessedly as amusements; and it would be difficult to mention any attainment whatsoever which goethe had carried to a point of excellence in the years which he spent under his father's care, unless it were his mastery over the common artifices of metre and the common topics of rhetoric, which fitted him for writing what are called occasional poems and _impromptus_. this talent he possessed in a remarkable degree, and at an early age; but he owed its cultivation entirely to himself. in a city so orderly as frankfort, and in a station privileged from all the common hardships of poverty, it can hardly be expected that many incidents should arise, of much separate importance in themselves, to break the monotony of life; and the mind of goethe was not contemplative enough to create a value for common occurrences through any peculiar impressions which he had derived from them. in the years 1763 and 1764, when he must have been from fourteen to fifteen years old, goethe witnessed the inauguration and coronation of a king of the romans, a solemn spectacle connected by prescription with the city of frankfort. he describes it circumstantially, but with very little feeling, in his memoirs. probably the prevailing sentiment, on looking back at least to this transitory splendor of dress, processions, and ceremonial forms, was one of cynical contempt. but this he could not express, as a person closely connected with a german court, without giving much and various offence. it is with some timidity even that he hazards a criticism upon single parts of the costume adopted by some of the actors in that gorgeous scene. white silk stockings, and pumps of the common form, he objects to as out of harmony with the antique and heraldic aspects of the general costume, and ventures to suggest either boots or sandals as an improvement. had goethe felt himself at liberty from all restraints of private consideration in composing these memoirs, can it be doubted that he would have taken his retrospect of this frankfort inauguration from a different station; from the station of that stern revolution which, within his own time, and partly under his own eyes, had shattered the whole imperial system of thrones, in whose equipage this gay pageant made so principal a figure, had humbled caesar himself to the dust, and left him an emperor without an empire? we at least, for our parts, could not read without some emotion one little incident of these gorgeous scenes recorded by goethe, namely, that when the emperor, on rejoining his wife for a few moments, held up to her notice his own hands and arms arrayed in the antique habiliments of charlemagne, maria theresa--she whose children where summoned to so sad a share in the coming changes--gave way to sudden bursts of loud laughter, audible to the whole populace below her. that laugh on surveying the departing pomps of charlemagne, must, in any contemplative ear, have rung with a sound of deep significance, and with something of the same effect which belongs to a figure of death introduced by a painter, as mixing in the festal dances of a bridal assembly. these pageants of 1763-64 occupy a considerable space in goethe's memoirs, and with some _logical_ propriety at least, in consideration of their being exclusively attached to frankfort, and connected by manifold links of person and office with the privileged character of the city. perhaps he might feel a sort of narrow local patriotism in recalling these scenes to public notice by description, at a time when they had been irretrievably extinguished as realities. but, after making every allowance for their local value to a frankfort family, and for their memorable splendor, we may venture to suppose that by far the most impressive remembrances which had gathered about the boyhood of goethe, were those which pointed to frederick of prussia. this singular man, so imbecile as a pretender to philosophy and new lights, so truly heroic under misfortunes, was the first german who created a german interest, and gave a transient unity to the german name, under all its multiplied divisions. were it only for this conquest of difficulties so peculiar, he would deserve his german designation of fred. the unique, (_fritz der einzige_.) he had been partially tried and known previously; but it was the seven years' war which made him the popular idol. this began in 1756; and to frankfort, in a very peculiar way, that war brought dissensions and heart-burnings in its train. the imperial connections of the city with many public and private interests, pledged it to the anti-prussian cause. it happened also that the truly german character of the reigning imperial family, the domestic habits of the empress and her young daughters, and other circumstances, were of a nature to endear the ties of policy; self-interest and affection pointed in the same direction. and yet were all these considerations allowed to melt away before the brilliant qualities of one man, and the romantic enthusiasm kindled by his victories. frankfort was divided within herself; the young and the generous were all dedicated to frederick. a smaller party, more cautious and prudent, were for the imperialists. families were divided upon this question against families, and often against themselves; feuds, begun in private, issued often into public violence; and, according to goethe's own illustration, the streets were vexed by daily brawls, as hot and as personal as of old between the capulets and montagues. these dissensions, however, were pursued with not much personal risk to any of the goethes, until a french army passed the rhine as allies of the imperialists. one corps of this force took up their quarters in frankfort; and the comte thorane, who held a high appointment on the staff, settled himself for a long period of time in the spacious mansion of goethe's father. this officer, whom his place made responsible for the discipline of the army in relation to the citizens, was naturally by temper disposed to moderation and forbearance. he was indeed a favorable specimen of french military officers under the old system; well bred, not arrogant, well informed, and a friend of the fine arts. for painting, in particular, he professed great regard and some knowledge. the goethes were able to forward his views amongst german artists; whilst, on the other hand, they were pleased to have thus an opportunity of directing his patronage towards some of their own needy connections. in this exchange of good offices, the two parties were for some time able to maintain a fair appearance of reciprocal good-will. this on the comte's side, if not particularly warm, was probably sincere; but in goethe the father it was a masque for inveterate dislike. a natural ground of this existed in the original relations between them. under whatever disguise or pretext, the frenchman was in fact a military intruder. he occupied the best suite of rooms in the house, used the furniture as his own; and, though upon private motives he abstained from doing all the injury which his situation authorized, (so as in particular to have spread his fine military maps upon the floor, rather than disfigure the decorated walls by nails,) still he claimed credit, if not services of requital, for all such instances of forbearance. here were grievances enough; but, in addition to these, the comte's official appointments drew upon him a weight of daily business, which kept the house in a continual uproar. farewell to the quiet of a literary amateur, and the orderliness of a german household. finally, the comte was a frenchman. these were too many assaults upon one man's patience. it will be readily understood, therefore, how it happened, that, whilst goethe's gentle minded mother, with her flock of children, continued to be on the best terms with comte thorane, the master of the house kept moodily aloof, and retreated from all intercourse. goethe, in his own memoir, enters into large details upon this subject; and from him we shall borrow the _denouement_ of the tale. a crisis had for some time been lowering over the french affairs in frankfort; things seemed ripening for a battle; and at last it came. flight, siege, bombardment, possibly a storm, all danced before the eyes of the terrified citizens. fortunately, however, the battle took place at the distance of four or five miles from frankfort. monsieur le comte was absent, of course, on the field of battle. his unwilling host thought that on such an occasion he also might go out in quality of spectator; and with this purpose he connected another, worthy of a parson adams. it is his son who tells the story, whose filial duty was not proof against his sense of the ludicrous. the old gentleman's hatred of the french had by this time brought him over to his son's admiration of the prussian hero. not doubting for an instant that victory would follow that standard, he resolved on this day to offer in person his congratulations to the prussian army, whom he already viewed as his liberator from a domestic nuisance. so purposing, he made his way cautiously to the suburbs; from the suburbs, still listening at each advance, he went forward to the country; totally forgetting, as his son insists, that, however completely beaten, the french army must still occupy some situation or other between himself and his german deliverer. coming, however, at length to a heath, he found some of those marauders usually to be met with in the rear of armies, prowling about, and at intervals amusing themselves with shooting at a mark. for want of a better, it seemed not improbable that a large german head might answer their purpose. certain signs admonished him of this, and the old gentleman crept back to frankfort. not many hours after came back also the comte, by no means creeping, however; on the contrary, crowing with all his might for a victory which he averred himself to have won. there had in fact been an affair, but on no very great scale, and with no distinguished results. some prisoners, however, he brought, together with some wounded; and naturally he expected all well disposed persons to make their compliments of congratulation upon this triumph. of this duty poor mrs. goethe and her children cheerfully acquitted themselves that same night; and monsieur le comte was so well pleased with the sound opinions of the little goethes, that he sent them in return a collection of sweetmeats and fruits. all promised to go well; intentions, after all, are not acts; and there certainly is not, nor ever was, any treason in taking a morning's walk. but, as ill luck would have it, just as mr. goethe was passing the comte's door, out came the comte in person, purely by accident, as we are told; but we suspect that the surly old german, either under his morning hopes or his evening disappointments, had talked with more frankness than prudence. "good evening to you, herr goethe," said the comte; "you are come, i see, to pay your tribute of congratulation. somewhat of the latest, to be sure; but no matter." "by no means," replied the german;" by no means; _mit nichten_. heartily i wished, the whole day long, that you and your cursed gang might all go to the devil together. "here was plain speaking, at least. the comte thorane could no longer complain of dissimulation. his first movement was to order an arrest; and the official interpreter of the french army took to himself the whole credit that he did not carry it into effect. goethe takes the trouble to report a dialogue, of length and dulness absolutely incredible, between this interpreter and the comte. no such dialogue, we may be assured, ever took place. goethe may, however, be right in supposing that, amongst a foreign soldiery, irritated by the pointed contrasts between the frankfort treatment of their own wounded, and of their prisoners who happened to be in the same circumstances, and under a military council not held to any rigorous responsibility, his father might have found no very favorable consideration of his case. it is well, therefore, that after some struggle the comte's better nature triumphed. he suffered mrs. goethe's merits to outweigh her husband's delinquency; countermanded the order for arrest, and, during the remainder of their connection, kept at such a distance from his moody host as was equally desirable for both. fortunately that remainder was not very long. comte thorane was soon displaced; and the whole army was soon afterwards withdrawn from frankfort. in his fifteenth year goethe was entangled in some connection with young people of inferior rank, amongst whom was margaret, a young girl about two years older than himself, and the object of his first love. the whole affair, as told by goethe, is somewhat mysterious. what might be the final views of the elder parties it is difficult to say; but goethe assures us that they used his services only in writing an occasional epithalamium, the pecuniary acknowledgment for which was spent jovially in a general banquet. the magistrates, however, interfered, and endeavored to extort a confession from goethe. he, as the son of a respectable family, was to be pardoned; the others to be punished. no confession, however, could be extorted; and for his own part he declares that, beyond the offence of forming a clandestine connection, he had nothing to confess. the affair terminated, as regarded himself, in a severe illness. of the others we hear no more. the next event of importance in goethe's life was his removal to college. his own wishes pointed to goettingen, but his father preferred leipsic. thither accordingly he went, but he carried his obedience no farther. declining the study of jurisprudence, he attached himself to general literature. subsequently he removed to the university of strasburg; but in neither place could it be said that he pursued any regular course of study. his health suffered at times during this period of his life; at first from an affection of the chest, caused by an accident on his first journey to leipsic; the carriage had stuck fast in the muddy roads, and goethe exerted himself too much in assisting to extricate the wheels. a second illness connected with the digestive organs brought him into considerable danger. after his return to frankfort, goethe commenced his career as an author. in 1773, and the following year, he made his maiden essay in _goetz of berlichingen_, a drama, (the translation of which, remarkably enough, was destined to be the literary _coup d'essai_ of sir walter scott,) and in the far-famed _werther_. the first of these was pirated; and in consequence the author found some difficulty in paying for the paper of the genuine edition, which part of the expense, by his contract with the publisher, fell upon himself. the general and early popularity of the second work is well known. yet, except in so far as it might spread his name abroad, it cannot be supposed to have had much influence in attracting that potent patronage which now began to determine the course of his future life. so much we collect from the account which goethe himself has left us of this affair in its earliest stages. "i was sitting alone in my room," says he, "at my father's house in frankfort, when a gentleman entered, whom at first i took for frederick jacobi, but soon discovered by the dubious light to be a stranger. he had a military air; and announcing himself by the name of von knebel, gave me to understand in a short explanation, that being in the prussian service, he had connected himself, during a long residence at berlin and potsdam, with the literati of those places; but that at present he held the appointment from the court of weimar of travelling tutor to the prince constantine. this i heard with pleasure; for many of our friends had brought us the most interesting accounts from weimar, in particular that the duchess amelia, mother of the young grand duke and his brother, summoned to her assistance in educating her sons the most distinguished men in germany; and that the university of jena cooperated powerfully in all her liberal plans. i was aware also that wieland was in high favor; and that the german mercury (a literary journal of eminence) was itself highly creditable to the city of jena, from which it issued. a beautiful and well-conducted theatre had besides, as i knew, been lately established at weimar. this, it was true, had been destroyed; but that event, under common circumstances so likely to be fatal as respected the present, had served only to call forth the general expression of confidence in the young prince as a restorer and upholder of all great interests, and true to his purposes under any calamity." thinking thus, and thus prepossessed in favor of weimar, it was natural that goethe should be eager to see the prince. nothing was easier. it happened that he and his brother constantine were at this moment in frankfort, and von knebel willingly offered to present goethe. no sooner said than done; they repaired to the hotel, where they found the illustrious travellers, with count goertz, the tutor of the elder. upon this occasion an accident, rather than any previous reputation of goethe, was probably the determining occasion which led to his favor with the future sovereign of weimar. a new book lay upon the table; that none of the strangers had read it, goethe inferred from observing that the leaves were as yet uncut. it was a work of moser, (_patriotische phantasien_;) and, being political rather than literary in its topics, it presented to goethe, previously acquainted with its outline, an opportunity for conversing with the prince upon subjects nearest to his heart, and of showing that he was not himself a mere studious recluse. the opportunity was not lost; the prince and his tutor were much interested, and perhaps a little surprised. such subjects have the further advantage, according to goethe's own illustration, that, like the arabian thousand and one nights, as conducted by sultana scheherezade, "never ending, still beginning," they rarely come to any absolute close, but so interweave one into another, as still to leave behind a large arrear of interest in order to pursue the conversation, goethe was invited to meet them soon after at mentz. he kept the appointment punctually; made himself even more agreeable; and finally received a formal invitation to enter the service of this excellent prince, who was now beginning to collect around him all those persons who have since made weimar so distinguished a name in connection with the german literature. with some opposition from his father, who held up the rupture between voltaire and frederick of prussia as a precedent applying to all possible connections of princes and literati, goethe accepted the invitation; and hence forwards, for upwards of fifty-five years, his fortunes were bound up with those of the ducal house of weimar. the noble part which that house played in the great modern drama of german politics is well known, and would have been better known had its power been greater. but the moral value of its sacrifices and its risks is not the less. had greater potentates shown equal firmness, germany would not have been laid at the feet of napoleon. in 1806 the grand duke was aware of the peril which awaited the allies of prussia; but neither his heart nor his conscience would allow of his deserting a friend in whose army he held a principal command. the decisive battle took place in his own territory, and not far from his own palace and city of weimar. personally he was with the prussian army; but his excellent consort stayed in the palace to encourage her subjects, and as far as possible to conciliate the enemy by her presence. the fortune of that great day, the 14th of october, 1806, was decided early; and the awful event was announced by a hot retreat and a murderous pursuit through the streets of the town. in the evening napoleon arrived in person; and now came the trying moment. "the duchess," says an englishman well acquainted with weimar and its court, "placed herself on the top of the staircase to greet him with the formality of a courtly reception. napoleon started when he beheld her, _qui etes vous_? he exclaimed with characteristic abruptness. _je suis la duchesse de weimar. je vous plains_, he retorted fiercely, j'ecraserai votre mari; he then added, 'i shall dine in my apartment,' and rushed by her. the night was spent on the part of the soldiery in all the horrid excesses of rapine. in the morning the duchess sent to inquire concerning the health of his majesty the emperor, and to solicit an audience. he, who had now benefited by his dreams, or by his reflections, returned a gracious answer, and invited himself to breakfast with her in her apartment." in the conversation which ensued, napoleon asked her if her husband were mad, upon which she justified the duke by appealing to his own magnanimity, asking in her turn if his majesty would have approved of his deserting the king of prussia at the moment when he was attacked by so potent a monarch as himself. the rest of the conversation was in the same spirit, uniting with a sufficient concession to the circumstances of the moment a dignified vindication of a high-minded policy. napoleon was deeply impressed with respect for her, and loudly expressed it. for her sake, indeed, he even affected to pardon her husband, thus making a merit with her of the necessity which he felt, from other motives, for showing forbearance towards a family so nearly allied to that of st. petersburg. in 1813 the grand duke was found at his post in that great gathering of the nations which took place on the stupendous fields of leipsic, and was complimented by the allied sovereigns as one of the most faithful amongst the faithful to the great cause, yet undecided, of national independence. with respect to goethe, as a councillor so near the duke's person, it may be supposed that his presence was never wanting where it promised to be useful. in the earlier campaigns of the duke, goethe was his companion; but in the final contest with napoleon be was unequal to the fatigues of such a post. in all the functions of peace, however, he continued to be a useful servant to the last, though long released from all official duties. each had indeed most honorably earned the gratitude of the other. goethe had surrendered the flower of his years and the best energies of his mind to the service of his serene master. on the other hand, that master had to him been at once his augustus and his maecenas; such is his own expression. under him he had founded a family, raised an estate, obtained titles and decorations from various courts; and in the very vigor of his life he had been allowed to retire, with all the honors of long service, to the sanctuary of his own study, and to the cultivation of his leisure, as the very highest mode in which he could further the public interest. the life of goethe was so quiet and so uniform after the year 1775, when he may first be said to have entered into active life, by taking service with the duke of weimar, that a biographer will find hardly any event to notice, except two journeys to italy, and one campaign in 1792, until he draws near the close of his long career. it cannot interest an english reader to see the dates of his successive appointments. it is enough to know that they soon raised him to as high a station as was consistent with literary leisure; and that he had from the beginning enjoyed the unlimited confidence of his sovereign. nothing remained, in fact, for the subject to desire which the prince had not previously volunteered. in 1825, they were able to look back upon a course of uninterrupted friendship, maintained through good and evil fortunes, unexampled in their agitation and interest for fifty years. the duke commemorated this remarkable event by a jubilee, and by a medal in honor of goethe. full of years and honor, this eminent man might now begin to think of his departure. however, his serenity continued unbroken nearly for two years more, when his illustrious patron died. that shock was the first which put his fortitude to trial. in 1830 others followed; the duchess, who had won so much admiration from napoleon, died; then followed his own son; and there remained little now to connect his wishes with the earth. the family of his patron he had lived to see flourishing in his descendants to the fourth generation. his own grandchildren were prosperous and happy. his intellectual labors were now accomplished. all that remained to wish for was a gentle dismission. this he found in the spring of 1832. after a six days' illness, which caused him no apparent suffering, on the morning of the 22d of march he breathed away as if into a gentle sleep, surrounded by his daughter-in-law and her children. never was a death more in harmony with the life it closed; both had the same character of deep and absolute serenity. such is the outline of goethe's life, traced through its principal events. but as these events, after all, borrow their interest mainly from the consideration allowed to goethe as an author, and as a model in the german literature,--_that_ being the centre about which all secondary feelings of interest in the man must finally revolve,--it thus becomes a duty to throw a glance over his principal works. dismissing his songs, to which has been ascribed by some critics a very high value for their variety and their lyrical enthusiasm; dismissing also a large body of short miscellaneous poems, suited to the occasional circumstances in which they arose; we may throw the capital works of goethe into two classes, philosophic novels, and dramas. the novels, which we call _philosophic_ by way of expressing their main characteristic in being written to serve a preconceived purpose, or to embody some peculiar views of life, or some aspects of philosophic truth, are three, viz., the _werther's leiden_; secondly, the _wilhelm meister_; and, lastly, the _wahloer-wand-schaften_. the first two exist in english translations; and though the _werther_ had the disadvantage of coming to us through a french version, already, perhaps, somewhat colored and distorted to meet the parisian standards of sentiment, yet, as respects goethe and his reputation amongst us, this wrong has been redressed, or compensated at least, by the good fortune of his _wilhelm meister_, in falling into the hands of a translator whose original genius qualified him for sympathizing even to excess with any real merits in that work. this novel is in its own nature and purpose sufficiently obscure; and the commentaries which have been written upon it by the hurnboldts, schlegels, &c., make the enigma still more enigmatical. we shall not venture abroad upon an ocean of discussion so truly dark, and at the same time so illimitable. whether it be qualified to excite any deep and _sincere_ feeling of one kind or another in the german mind,--in a mind trained under german discipline,--this we will consent to waive as a question not immediately interesting to ourselves. enough that it has not gained, and will not gain, any attention in this country; and this not only because it is thoroughly deficient in all points of attraction to readers formed upon our english literature, but because in some capital circumstances it is absolutely repulsive. we do not wish to offend the admirers of goethe; but the simplicity of truth will not allow us to conceal, that in various points of description or illustration, and sometimes in the very outline of the story, the _wilhelm meister_ is at open war, not with decorum and good taste merely, but with moral purity and the dignity of human nature. as a novelist, goethe and his reputation are problems, and likely to continue such, to the countrymen of mrs. inchbald, miss harriet lee, miss edgeworth, and sir walter scott. to the dramatic works of goethe we are disposed to pay more homage; but neither in the absolute amount of our homage at all professing to approach his public admirers, nor to distribute the proportions of this homage amongst his several performances according to the graduations of _their_ scale. the _iphigenie_ is built upon the old subject of iphigenia in tauris, as treated by euripides and other grecian dramatists; and, if we are to believe a schlegel, it is in beauty and effect a mere echo or reverberation from the finest strains of the old grecian music. that it is somewhat nearer to the greek model than a play after the fashion of racine, we grant. setting aside such faithful transcripts from the antique as the samson agonistes, we might consent to view goethe as that one amongst the moderns who had made the closest approximation to the greek stage. _proximus_, we might say, with quintilian, but with him we must add," _sed lango intervallo_; "and if in the second rank, yet nearer to the third than to the first. two other dramas, the _clavigo_ and the _egmont_, fall below the _iphigenie_ by the very character of their pretensions; the first as too openly renouncing the grandeurs of the ideal; the second as confessedly violating the historic truth of character, without temptation to do so, and without any consequent indemnification. the _tasso_ has been supposed to realize an italian beauty of genial warmth and of sunny repose; but from the common defect of german criticism--the absence of all sufficient illustrations--it is as difficult to understand the true nature and constituents of the supposed italian standard set up for the regulation of our judgments, as it is to measure the degree of approach made to that standard in this particular work. _eugenie_ is celebrated for the artificial burnish of the style, but otherwise has been little relished. it has the beauty of marble sculpture, say the critics of goethe, but also the coldness. we are not often disposed to quarrel with these critics as _below_ the truth in their praises; in this instance we are. the _eugenie_ is a fragment, or (as goethe himself called it in conversation) a _torso_, being only the first drama in a trilogy or series of three dramas, each having a separate plot, whilst all are parts of a more general and comprehensive plan. it may be charged with languor in the movement of the action, and with excess of illustration. thus, _e. g_. the grief of the prince for the supposed death of his daughter, is the monotonous topic which occupies one entire act. but the situations, though not those of _scenical_ distress, are so far from being unexciting, that, on the contrary, they are too powerfully afflicting. the lustre of all these performances, however, is eclipsed by the unrivalled celebrity amongst german critics of the _faust_. upon this it is better to say nothing than too little. how trifling an advance has been made towards clearing the ground for any sane criticism, may be understood from this fact, that as yet no two people have agreed about the meaning of any separate scene, or about the drift of the whole. neither is this explained by saying, that until lately the _faust_ was a fragment; for no additional light has dawned upon the main question since the publication of the latter part. one work there is of goethe's which falls into neither of the classes here noticed; we mean the _hermann and dorothea_, a narrative poem, in hexameter verse. this appears to have given more pleasure to readers not critical, than any other work of its author; and it is remarkable that it traverses humbler ground, as respects both its subject, its characters, and its scenery. from this, and other indications of the same kind, we are disposed to infer that goethe mistook his destination; that his aspiring nature misled him; and that his success would have been greater had he confined himself to the _real_ in domestic life, without raising his eyes to the _ideal_. we must also mention, that goethe threw out some novel speculations in physical science, and particularly in physiology, in the doctrine of colors, and in comparative anatomy, which have divided the opinions of critics even more than any of those questions which have arisen upon points more directly connected with his avowed character of poet. it now remains to say a few words by way of summing up his pretensions as a man, and his intellectual power in the age to which he belonged. his rank and value as a moral being are so plain as to be legible to him who runs. everybody must feel that his temperament and constitutional tendency was of that happy quality, the animal so nicely balanced with the intellectual, that with any ordinary measure of prosperity he could not be otherwise than a good man. he speaks himself of his own "virtue," _sans phrase_; and we tax him with no vanity in doing so. as a young man even at the universities, which at that time were barbarously sensual in germany, he was (for so much we collect from his own memoirs) eminently capable of self-restraint. he preserves a tone of gravity, of sincerity, of respect for female dignity, which we never find associated with the levity and recklessness of vice. we feel throughout, the presence of one who, in respecting others, respects himself; and the cheerfulness of the presiding tone persuades us at once that the narrator is in a healthy moral condition, fears no ill, and is conscious of having meditated none. yet at the same time we cannot disguise from ourselves, that the moral temperament of goethe was one which demanded prosperity. had he been called to face great afflictions, singular temptations, or a billowy and agitated course of life, our belief is that his nature would have been found unequal to the strife; he would have repeated the mixed and moody character of his father. sunny prosperity was essential to his nature; his virtues were adapted to that condition. and happily that was his fate. he had no personal misfortunes; his path was joyous in this life; and even the reflex sorrow from the calamities of his friends did not press too heavily on his sympathies; none of these were in excess either as to degree or duration. in this estimate of goethe as a moral being, few people will differ with us, unless it were the religious bigot. and to him we must concede thus much, that goethe was not that religious creature which by nature he was intended to become. this is to be regretted. goethe was naturally pious, and reverential towards higher natures; and it was in the mere levity or wantonness of youthful power, partly also through that early false bias growing out of the lisbon earthquake, that he falsified his original destination. do we mean, then, that a childish error could permanently master his understanding? not so; _that_ would have been corrected with his growing strength. but having once arisen, it must for a long time have moulded his feelings; _until_ corrected, it must have impressed a corresponding false bias upon his practical way of viewing things; and that sort of false bias, once established, might long survive a mere error of the understanding. one thing is undeniable,--goethe had so far corrupted and clouded his natural mind, that he did not look up to god, or the system of things beyond the grave, with the interest of reverence and awe, but with the interest of curiosity. goethe, however, in a moral estimate, will be viewed pretty uniformly. but goethe intellectually, goethe as a power acting upon the age in which he lived, that is another question. let us put a case; suppose that goethe's death had occurred fifty years ago, that is, in the year 1785, what would have been the general impression? would europe have felt a shock? would europe have been sensible even of the event? not at all; it would have been obscurely noticed in the newspapers of germany, as the death of a novelist who had produced some effect about ten years before. in 1832, it was announced by the post-horns of all europe as the death of him who had written the _wilhelm meister_, the _iphigenie_, and the _faust_, and who had been enthroned by some of his admirers on the same seat with homer and shakspeare, as composing what they termed the _trinity of men of genius_. and yet it is a fact, that, in the opinion of some amongst the acknowledged leaders of our own literature for the last twenty-five years, the _werther_ was superior to all which followed it, and for mere power was the paramount work of goethe. for ourselves, we must acknowledge our assent upon the whole to this verdict; and at the same time we will avow our belief that the reputation of goethe must decline for the next generation or two, until it reaches its just level. three causes, we are persuaded, have concurred to push it so far beyond the proportion of real and genuine interest attached to his works, for in germany his works are little read, and in this country not at all. _first_, his extraordinary age; for the last twenty years goethe had been the patriarch of the german literature. _secondly_, the splendor of his official rank at the court of weimar; he was the minister and private friend of the patriot sovereign amongst the princes of germany. _thirdly_, the quantity of enigmatical and unintelligible writing which he has designedly thrown into his latter works, by way of keeping up a system of discussion and strife upon his own meaning amongst the critics of his country. these disputes, had his meaning been of any value in his own eyes, he would naturally have settled by a few authoritative words from himself; but it was his policy to keep alive the feud in a case where it was of importance, that his name should continue to agitate the world, but of none at all that he should be rightly interpreted. schiller. john christopher frederick von schiller, was born at marbach, a small town in the duchy of wurtemberg, on the 10th day of november, 1759. it will aid the reader in synchronizing the periods of this great man's life with the corresponding events throughout christendom, if we direct his attention to the fact, that schiller's birth nearly coincided in point of time with that of robert burns, and that it preceded that of napoleon by about ten years. the position of schiller is remarkable. in the land of his birth, by those who undervalue him the most, he is ranked as the second name in german literature; everywhere else he is ranked as the first. for us, who are aliens to germany, schiller is the representative of the german intellect in its highest form; and to him, at all events, whether first or second, it is certainly due, that the german intellect has become a known power, and a power of growing magnitude, for the great commonwealth of christendom. luther and kepler, potent intellects as they were, did not make themselves known as germans. the revolutionary vigor of the one, the starry lustre of the other, blended with the convulsions of reformation, or with the aurora of ascending science, in too kindly and genial a tone to call off the attention from the work which they performed, from the service which they promoted, to the circumstances of their personal position. their country, their birth, their abode, even their separate existence, was merged in the mighty cause to which they lent their cooperation. and thus at the beginning of the sixteenth century, thus at the beginning of the seventeenth, did the titan sons of germany defeat their own private pretensions by the very grandeur of their merits. their interest as patriots was lost and confounded in their paramount interest as cosmopolites. what they did for man and for human dignity eclipsed what they had designed for germany. after them there was a long interlunar period of darkness for the land of the rhine and the danube. the german energy, too spasmodically excited, suffered a collapse. throughout the whole of the seventeenth century, but one vigorous mind arose for permanent effects in literature. this was opitz, a poet who deserves even yet to be read with attention, but who is no more worthy to be classed as the dryden, whom his too partial countrymen have styled him, than the germany of the thirty years' war of taking rank by the side of civilized and cultured england during the cromwellian era, or klopstock of sitting on the same throne with milton. leibnitz was the one sole potentate in the fields of intellect whom the germany of this country produced; and he, like luther and kepler, impresses us rather as a european than as a german mind, partly perhaps from his having pursued his self-development in foreign lands, partly from his large circle of foreign connections, but most of all from his having written chiefly in french or in latin. passing onwards to the eighteenth century, we find, through its earlier half, an absolute wilderness, unreclaimed and without promise of natural vegetation, as the barren arena on which the few insipid writers of germany paraded. the torpor of academic dulness domineered over the length and breadth of the land. and as these academic bodies were universally found harnessed in the equipage of petty courts, it followed that the lethargies of pedantic dulness were uniformly deepened by the lethargies of aulic and ceremonial dulness; so that, if the reader represents to himself the very abstract of birthday odes, sycophantish dedications, and court sermons, he will have some adequate idea of the sterility and the mechanical formality which at that era spread the sleep of death over german literature. literature, the very word literature, points the laughter of scorn to what passed under that name during the period of gottsched. that such a man indeed as this gottsched, equal at the best to the composition of a latin grammar or a school arithmetic, should for a moment have presided over the german muses, stands out as in itself a brief and significant memorial, too certain for contradiction, and yet almost too gross for belief, of the apoplectic sleep under which the mind of central europe at that era lay oppressed. the rust of disuse had corroded the very principles of activity. and, as if the double night of academic dulness, combined with the dulness of court inanities, had not been sufficient for the stifling of all native energies, the feebleness of french models (and of these moreover naturalized through still feebler imitations) had become the law and standard for all attempts at original composition. the darkness of night, it is usually said, grows deeper as it approaches the dawn; and the very enormity of that prostration under which the german intellect at this time groaned, was the most certain pledge to any observing eye of that intense reaction soon to stir and kindle among the smouldering activities of this spell-bound people. this re-action, however, was not abrupt and theatrical. it moved through slow stages and by equable gradations. it might be said to commence from the middle of the eighteenth century, that is, about nine years before the birth of schiller; but a progress of forty years had not carried it so far towards its meridian altitude, as that the sympathetic shock from the french revolution was by one fraction more rude and shattering than the public torpor still demanded. there is a memorable correspondency throughout all members of protestant christendom in whatsoever relates to literature and intellectual advance. however imperfect the organization which binds them together, it was sufficient even in these elder times to transmit reciprocally from one to every other, so much of that illumination which could be gathered into books, that no christian state could be much in advance of another, supposing that popery opposed no barriers to free communication, unless only in those points which depended upon local gifts of nature, upon the genius of a particular people, or upon the excellence of its institutions. these advantages were incommunicable, let the freedom of intercourse have been what it might. england could not send off by posts or by heralds her iron and coals; she could not send the indomitable energy of her population; she could not send the absolute security of property; she could not send the good faith of her parliaments. these were gifts indigenous to herself, either through the temperament of her people, or through the original endowments of her soil. but her condition of moral sentiment, her high-toned civic elevation, her atmosphere of political feeling and popular boldness; much of these she could and did transmit, by the radiation of the press, to the very extremities of the german empire. not only were our books translated, but it is notorious to those acquainted with german novels, or other pictures of german society, that as early as the seven years' war, (1756-1763,) in fact, from the very era when cave and dr. johnson first made the parliamentary debates accessible to the english themselves, most of the german journals repeated, and sent forward as by telegraph, these senatorial displays to every village throughout germany. from the polar latitudes to the mediterranean, from the mouths of the rhine to the euxine, there was no other exhibition of free deliberative eloquence in any popular assembly. and the _luise_ of voss alone, a metrical idyl not less valued for its truth of portraiture than our own vicar of wakefield, will show, that the most sequestered clergyman of a rural parish did not think his breakfast equipage complete without the latest report from the great senate that sat in london. hence we need not be astonished that german and english literature were found by the french revolution in pretty nearly the same condition of semi-vigilance and imperfect animation. that mighty event reached us both, reached us all, we may say, (speaking of protestant states,) at the same moment, by the same tremendous galvanism. the snake, the intellectual snake, that lay in ambush among all nations, roused itself, sloughed itself, renewed its youth, in all of them at the same period. a new world opened upon us all; new revolutions of thought arose; new and nobler activities were born; "and other palms were won." but by and through schiller it was, as its main organ, that this great revolutionary impulse expressed itself. already, as we have said, not less than forty years before the earthquake by which france exploded and projected the scoria of her huge crater over all christian lands, a stirring had commenced among the dry bones of intellectual germany; and symptoms arose that the breath of life would soon disturb, by nobler agitations than by petty personal quarrels, the deathlike repose even of the german universities. precisely in those bodies, however, it was, in those as connected with tyrannical governments, each academic body being shackled to its own petty centre of local despotism, that the old spells remained unlinked; and to them, equally remarkable as firm trustees of truth, and as obstinate depositories of darkness or of superannuated prejudice, we must ascribe the slowness of the german movement on the path of reascent. meantime the earliest torch-bearer to the murky literature of this great land, this crystallization of political states, was bodmer. this man had no demoniac genius, such as the service required; but he had some taste, and, what was better, he had some sensibility. he lived among the alps; and his reading lay among the alpine sublimities of milton and shakspeare. through his very eyes he imbibed a daily scorn of gottsched and his monstrous compound of german coarseness with french sensual levity. he could not look at his native alps, but he saw in them, and their austere grandeurs or their dread realities, a spiritual reproach to the hollowness and falsehood of that dull imposture which gottsched offered by way of substitute for nature. he was taught by the alps to crave for something nobler and deeper. bodmer, though far below such a function, rose by favor of circumstances into an apostle or missionary of truth for germany. he translated passages of english literature. he inoculated with his own sympathies the more fervent mind of the youthful klopstock, who visited him in switzerland. and it soon became evident that germany was not dead, but sleeping; and once again, legibly for any eye, the pulses of life began to play freely through the vast organization of central europe. klopstock, however, though a fervid, a religious, and for that reason an anti-gallican mind, was himself an abortion. such at least is our own opinion of this poet. he was the child and creature of enthusiasm, but of enthusiasm not allied with a masculine intellect, or any organ for that capacious vision and meditative range which his subjects demanded. he vas essentially thoughtless, betrays everywhere a most effeminate quality of sensibility, and is the sport of that pseudo-enthusiasm and baseless rapture which we see so often allied with the excitement of strong liquors. in taste, or the sense of proportions and congruencies, or the harmonious adaptations, he is perhaps the most defective writer extant. but if no patriarch of german literature, in the sense of having shaped the moulds in which it was to flow, in the sense of having disciplined its taste or excited its rivalship by classical models of excellence, or raised a finished standard of style, perhaps we must concede that, on a minor scale, klopstock did something of that service in every one of these departments. his works were at least miltonic in their choice of subjects, if ludicrously non-miltonic in their treatment of those subjects. and, whether due to him or not, it is undeniable that in his time the mother-tongue of germany revived from the most absolute degradation on record, to its ancient purity. in the time of gottsched, the authors of germany wrote a macaronic jargon, in which french and latin made up a considerable proportion of every sentence: nay, it happened often that foreign words were inflected with german forms; and the whole result was such as to remind the reader of the medical examination in the _malade imaginaire_ of moliere, "quid poetea est a faire? saignare baignare ensuita purgare," &c. now is it reasonable to ascribe some share in the restoration of good to klopstock, both because his own writings exhibit nothing of this most abject euphuism, (a euphuism expressing itself not in fantastic refinements on the staple of the language, but altogether in rejecting it for foreign words and idioms,) and because he wrote expressly on the subject of style and composition? wieland, meantime, if not enjoying so intense an acceptation as klopstock, had a more extensive one; and it is in vain to deny him the praise of a festive, brilliant, and most versatile wit. the schlegels showed the haughty malignity of their ungenerous natures, in depreciating wieland, at a time when old age had laid a freezing hand upon the energy which he would once have put forth in defending himself. he was the voltaire of germany, and very much more than the voltaire; for his romantic and legendary poems are above the level of voltaire. but, on the other hand, he was a voltaire in sensual impurity. to work, to carry on a plot, to affect his readers by voluptuous impressions,--these were the unworthy aims of wieland; and though a good-natured critic would not refuse to make some allowance for a youthful poet's aberrations in this respect, yet the indulgence cannot extend itself to mature years. an old man corrupting his readers, attempting to corrupt them, or relying for his effect upon corruptions already effected, in the purity of their affections, is a hideous object; and that must be a precarious influence indeed which depends for its durability upon the licentiousness of men. wieland, therefore, except in parts, will not last as a national idol; but such he was nevertheless for a time. burger wrote too little of any expansive compass to give the measure of his powers, or to found national impression; lichtenberg, though a very sagacious observer, never rose into what can be called a power, he did not modify his age; yet these were both men of extraordinary talent, and burger a man of undoubted genius. on the other hand, lessing was merely a man of talent, but of talent in the highest degree adapted to popularity. his very defects, and the shallowness of his philosophy, promoted his popularity; and by comparison with the french critics on the dramatic or scenical proprieties he is ever profound. his plummet, if not suited to the soundless depths of shakspeare, was able ten times over to fathom the little rivulets of parisian philosophy. this he did effectually, and thus unconsciously levelled the paths for shakspeare, and for that supreme dominion which he has since held over the german stage, by crushing with his sarcastic shrewdness the pretensions of all who stood in the way. at that time, and even yet, the functions of a literary man were very important in germany; the popular mind and the popular instinct pointed one way, those of the little courts another. multitudes of little german states (many of which were absorbed since 1816 by the process of _mediatizing_) made it their ambition to play at keeping mimic armies in their pay, and to ape the greater military sovereigns, by encouraging french literature only, and the french language at their courts. it was this latter propensity which had generated the anomalous macaronic dialect, of which we have already spoken as a characteristic circumstance in the social features of literary germany during the first half of the eighteenth century. nowhere else, within the records of human follies, do we find a corresponding case, in which the government and the patrician orders in the state, taking for granted, and absolutely postulating the utter worthlessness for intellectual aims of those in and by whom they maintained their own grandeur and independence, undisguisedly and even professedly sought to ally themselves with a foreign literature, foreign literati, and a foreign language. in this unexampled display of scorn for native resources, and the consequent collision between the two principles of action, all depended upon the people themselves. for a time the wicked and most profligate contempt of the local governments for that native merit which it was their duty to evoke and to cherish, naturally enough produced its own justification. like jews or slaves, whom all the world have agreed to hold contemptible, the german literati found it hard to make head against so obstinate a prejudgment; and too often they became all that they were presumed to be. _sint maecenates, non deerunt, flacce, marones._ and the converse too often holds good--that when all who should have smiled scowl upon a man, he turns out the abject thing they have predicted. where frenchified fredericks sit upon german thrones, it should not surprise us to see a crop of gottscheds arise as the best fruitage of the land. but when there is any latent nobility in the popular mind, such scorn, by its very extremity, will call forth its own counteraction. it was perhaps good for germany that a prince so eminent in one aspect as _fritz der einziger,_[footnote: _" freddy the unique;"_ which is the name by which the prussians expressed their admiration of the martial and indomitable, though somewhat fantastic, king.] should put on record so emphatically his intense conviction, that no good thing could arise out of germany. this creed was expressed by the quality of the french minds which he attracted to his court. the very refuse and dregs of the parisian coteries satisfied his hunger for french garbage; the very offal of their shambles met the demand of his palate; even a maupertuis, so long as he could produce a french baptismal certificate, was good enough to manufacture into the president of a berlin academy. such scorn challenged a reaction: the contest lay between the thrones of germany and the popular intellect, and the final result was inevitable. once aware that they were insulted, once enlightened to the full consciousness of the scorn which trampled on them as intellectual and predestined helots, even the mild-tempered germans became fierce, and now began to aspire, not merely under the ordinary instincts of personal ambition, but with a vindictive feeling, and as conscious agents of retribution. it became a pleasure with the german author, that the very same works which elevated himself, wreaked his nation upon their princes, and poured retorted scorn upon their most ungenerous and unparental sovereigns. already, in the reign of the martial frederick, the men who put most weight of authority into his contempt of germans, --euler, the matchless euler, lambert, and immanuel kant,--had vindicated the preeminence of german mathematics. already, in 1755, had the same immanuel kant, whilst yet a probationer for the chair of logic in a prussian university, sketched the outline of that philosophy which has secured the admiration, though not the assent of all men known and proved to have understood it, of all men able to state its doctrines in terms admissible by its disciples. already, and even previously, had haller, who wrote in german, placed himself at the head of the current physiology. and in the fields of science or of philosophy, the victory was already decided for the german intellect in competition with the french. but the fields of literature were still comparatively barren. klopstock was at least an anomaly; lessing did not present himself in the impassioned walks of literature; herder was viewed too much in the exclusive and professional light of a clergyman; and, with the exception of john paul bichter, a man of most original genius, but quite unfitted for general popularity, no commanding mind arose in germany with powers for levying homage from foreign nations, until the appearance, as a great scenical poet, of frederick schiller. the father of this great poet was caspar schiller, an officer in the military service of the duke of wurtemberg. he had previously served as a surgeon in the bavarian army; but on his final return to his native country of wurtemberg, and to the service of his native prince, he laid aside his medical character for ever, and obtained a commission as ensign and adjutant. in 1763, the peace of paris threw him out of his military employment, with the nominal rank of captain. but, having conciliated the duke's favor, he was still borne on the books of the ducal establishment; and, as a planner of ornamental gardens, or in some other civil capacity, he continued to serve his serene highness for the rest of his life. the parents of schiller were both pious, upright persons, with that loyal fidelity to duty, and that humble simplicity of demeanor towards their superiors, which is so often found among the unpretending natives of germany. it is probable, however, that schiller owed to his mother exclusively the preternatural endowments of his intellect. she was of humble origin, the daughter of a baker, and not so fortunate as to have received much education. but she was apparently rich in gifts of the heart and the understanding. she read poetry with delight; and through the profound filial love with which she had inspired her son, she found it easy to communicate her own literary tastes. her husband was not illiterate, and had in mature life so laudably applied himself to the improvement of his own defective knowledge, that at length he thought himself capable of appearing before the public as an author. his book related simply to the subjects of his professional experience as a horticulturist, and was entitled _die baumzurht im grossen_(on the management of forests.) some merit we must suppose it to have had, since the public called for a second edition of it long after his own death, and even after that of his illustrious son. and although he was a plain man, of no pretensions, and possibly even of slow faculties, he has left behind him a prayer, in which there is one petition of sublime and pathetic piety, worthy to be remembered by the side of agar's wise prayer against the almost equal temptations of poverty and riches. at the birth of his son, he had been reflecting with sorrowful anxiety, not unmingled with self-reproach, on his own many disqualifications for conducting the education of the child. but at length, reading in his own manifold imperfections but so many reiterations of the necessity that he should rely upon god's bounty, converting his very defects into so many arguments of hope and confidence in heaven, he prayed thus: "oh god, that knowest my poverty in good gifts for my son's inheritance, graciously permit that, even as the want of bread became to thy son's hunger-stricken flock in the wilderness the pledge of overflowing abundance, so likewise my darkness may, in its sad extremity, carry with it the measure of thy unfathomable light; and because i, thy worm, cannot give to my son the least of blessings, do thou give the greatest; because in my hands there is not any thing, do thou from thine pour out all things; and that temple of a new-born spirit, which i cannot adorn even with earthly ornaments of dust and ashes, do thou irradiate with the celestial adornment of thy presence, and finally with that peace that passeth all understanding." reared at the feet of parents so pious and affectionate, schiller would doubtless pass a happy childhood; and probably to this utter tranquillity of his earlier years, to his seclusion from all that could create pain, or even anxiety, we must ascribe the unusual dearth of anecdotes from this period of his life; a dearth which has tempted some of his biographers into improving and embellishing some puerile stories, which a man of sense will inevitably reject as too trivial for his gravity or too fantastical for his faith. that nation is happy, according to a common adage, which furnishes little business to the historian; for such a vacuity in facts argues a condition of perfect peace and silent prosperity. that childhood is happy, or may generally be presumed such, which has furnished few records of external experience, little that has appeared in doing or in suffering to the eyes of companions; for the child who has been made happy by early thoughtfulness, and by infantine struggles with the great ideas of his origin and his destination, (ideas which settle with a deep, dove-like brooding upon the mind of childhood, more than of mature life, vexed with inroads from the noisy world,) will not manifest the workings of his spirit by much of external activity. the _fallentis semita vitae_, that path of noiseless life, which eludes and deceives the conscious notice both of its subject and of all around him, opens equally to the man and to the child; and the happiest of all childhoods will have been that of which the happiness has survived and expressed itself, not in distinct records, but in deep affection, in abiding love, and the hauntings of meditative power. such a childhood, in the bosom of maternal tenderness, was probably passed by schiller; and his first awaking to the world of strife and perplexity happened in his fourteenth year. up to that period his life had been vagrant, agreeably to the shifting necessities of the ducal service, and his education desultory and domestic. but in the year 1773 he was solemnly entered as a member of a new academical institution, founded by the reigning duke, and recently translated to his little capital of stuttgard. this change took place at the special request of the duke, who, under the mask of patronage, took upon himself the severe control of the whole simple family. the parents were probably both too humble and dutiful in spirit towards one whom they regarded in the double light of sovereign lord and of personal benefactor, ever to murmur at the ducal behests, far less to resist them. the duke was for them an earthly providence; and they resigned themselves, together with their child, to the disposal of him who dispensed their earthly blessings, not less meekly than of him whose vicegerent they presumed him to be. in such a frame of mind, requests are but another name for commands; and thus it happened that a second change arose upon the first, even more determinately fatal to the young schiller's happiness. hitherto he had cherished a day-dream pointing to the pastoral office in some rural district, as that which would harmonize best with his intellectual purposes, with his love of quiet, and by means of its preparatory requirements, best also with his own peculiar choice of studies. but this scheme he now found himself compelled to sacrifice; and the two evils which fell upon him concurrently in his new situation were, first, the formal military discipline and monotonous routine of duty; secondly, the uncongenial direction of the studies, which were shaped entirely to the attainment of legal knowledge, and the narrow service of the local tribunals. so illiberal and so exclusive a system of education was revolting to the expansive mind of schiller; and the military bondage under which this system was enforced, shocked the aspiring nobility of his moral nature, not less than the technical narrowness of the studies shocked his understanding. in point of expense the whole establishment cost nothing at all to those parents who were privileged servants of the duke: in this number were the parents of schiller, and that single consideration weighed too powerfully upon his filial piety to allow of his openly murmuring at his lot; while on _their_ part the parents were equally shy of encouraging a disgust which too obviously tended to defeat the promises of ducal favor. this system of monotonous confinement was therefore carried to its completion, and the murmurs of the young schiller were either dutifully suppressed, or found vent only in secret letters to a friend. in one point only schiller was able to improve his condition; jointly with the juristic department, was another for training young aspirants to the medical profession. to this, as promising a more enlarged scheme of study, schiller by permission transferred himself in 1775. but whatever relief he might find in the nature of his new studies, he found none at all in the system of personal discipline which prevailed. under the oppression of this detested system, and by pure reaction against its wearing persecutions, we learn from schiller himself, that in his nineteenth year he undertook the earliest of his surviving plays, the robbers, beyond doubt the most tempestuous, the most volcanic, we might say, of all juvenile creations anywhere recorded. he himself calls it "a monster," and a monster it is; but a monster which has never failed to convulse the heart of young readers with the temperament of intellectual enthusiasm and sensibility. true it is, and nobody was more aware of that fact than schiller himself in after years, the characters of the three moors, father and sons, are mere impossibilities; and some readers, in whom the judicious acquaintance with human life in its realities has outrun the sensibilities, are so much shocked by these hypernatural phenomena, that they are incapable of enjoying the terrific sublimities which on that basis of the visionary do really exist. a poet, perhaps schiller might have alleged, is entitled to assume hypothetically so much in the previous positions or circumstances of his agents as is requisite to the basis from which he starts. it is undeniable that shakspeare and others have availed themselves of this principle, and with memorable success. shakspeare, for instance, _postulates_ his witches, his caliban, his ariel: grant, he virtually says, such modes of spiritual existence or of spiritual relations as a possibility; do not expect me to demonstrate this, and upon that single concession i will rear a superstructure that shall be self-consistent; every thing shall be _internally_ coherent and reconciled, whatever be its _external_ relations as to our human experience. but this species of assumption, on the largest scale, is more within the limits of credibility and plausible verisimilitude when applied to modes of existence, which, after all, are in such total darkness to us, (the limits of the possible being so undefined and shadowy as to what can or cannot exist,) than the very slightest liberties taken with human character, or with those principles of action, motives, and feelings, upon which men would move under given circumstances, or with the modes of action which in common prudence they would be likely to adopt. the truth is, that, as a coherent work of art, the robbers is indefensible; but, however monstrous it may be pronounced, it possesses a power to agitate and convulse, which will always obliterate its great faults to the young, and to all whose judgment is not too much developed. and the best apology for schiller is found in his own words, in recording the circumstances and causes under which this anomalous production arose. "to escape," says he, "from the formalities of a discipline which was odious to my heart, i sought a retreat in the world of ideas and shadowy possibilities, while as yet i knew nothing at all of that human world from which i was harshly secluded by iron bars. of men, the actual men in this world below, i knew absolutely nothing at the time when i composed my robbers. four hundred human beings, it is true, were my fellow-prisoners in this abode; but they were mere tautologies and reiterations of the self-same mechanic creature, and like so many plaster casts from the same original statue. thus situated, of necessity i failed. in making the attempt, my chisel brought out a monster, of which [and that was fortunate] the world had no type or resemblance to show." meantime this demoniac drama produced very opposite results to schiller's reputation. among the young men of germany it was received with an enthusiasm absolutely unparalleled, though it is perfectly untrue that it excited some persons of rank and splendid expectations (as a current fable asserted) to imitate charles moor in becoming robbers. on the other hand, the play was of too powerful a cast not in any case to have alarmed his serenity the duke of wurtemberg; for it argued a most revolutionary mind, and the utmost audacity of self-will. but besides this general ground of censure, there arose a special one, in a quarter so remote, that this one fact may serve to evidence the extent as well as intensity of the impression made. the territory of the grisons had been called by spiegelberg, one of the robbers, "the thief's athens." upon this the magistrates of that country presented a complaint to the duke; and his highness having cited schiller to his presence, and severely reprimanded him, issued a decree that this dangerous young student should henceforth confine himself to his medical studies. the persecution which followed exhibits such extraordinary exertions of despotism, even for that land of irresponsible power, that we must presume the duke to have relied more upon the hold which he had upon schiller through his affection for parents so absolutely dependent on his highness's power, than upon any laws, good or bad, which he could have pleaded as his warrant. germany, however, thought otherwise of the new tragedy than the serene critic of wurtemburg: it was performed with vast applause at the neighboring city of mannheim; and thither, under a most excusable interest in his own play, the young poet clandestinely went. on his return he was placed under arrest. and soon afterwards, being now thoroughly disgusted, and, with some reason, alarmed by the tyranny of the duke, schiller finally eloped to mannheim, availing himself of the confusion created in stuttgard by the visit of a foreign prince. at mannheim he lived in the house of dalberg, a man of some rank and of sounding titles, but in mannheim known chiefly as the literary manager (or what is called director) of the theatre. this connection aided in determining the subsequent direction of schiller's talents; and his fiesco, his intrigue and love, his don carlos, and his maria stuart, followed within a short period of years. none of these are so far free from the faults of the robbers as to merit a separate notice; for with less power, they are almost equally licentious. finally, however, he brought out his wallenstein, an immortal drama, and, beyond all competition, the nearest in point of excellence to the dramas of shakspeare. the position of the characters of max piccolomini and the princess thekla is the finest instance of what, in a critical sense, is called _relief,_ that literature offers. young, innocent, unfortunate, among a camp of ambitious, guilty, and blood-stained men, they offer a depth and solemnity of impression which is equally required by way of contrast and of final repose. from mannheim, where he had a transient love affair with laura dalberg, the daughter of his friend the director, schiller removed to jena, the celebrated university in the territory of weimar. the grand duke of that german florence was at this time gathering around him the most eminent of the german intellects; and he was eager to enroll schiller in the body of his professors. in 1799 schiller received the chair of civil history; and not long after he married miss lengefeld, with whom he had been for some time acquainted. in 1803 he was ennobled; that is, he was raised to the rank of gentleman, and entitled to attach the prefix of _von_ to his name. his income was now sufficient for domestic comfort and respectable independence; while in the society of goethe, herder, and other eminent wits, he found even more relaxation for his intellect, than his intellect, so fervent and so self-sustained, could require. meantime the health of schiller was gradually undermined: his lungs had been long subject to attacks of disease; and the warning indications which constantly arose of some deep-seated organic injuries in his pulmonary system ought to have put him on his guard for some years before his death. of all men, however, it is remarkable that schiller was the most criminally negligent of his health; remarkable, we say, because for a period of four years schiller had applied himself seriously to the study of medicine. the strong coffee, and the wine, which he drank, may not have been so injurious as his biographers suppose; but his habit of sitting up through the night, and defrauding his wasted frame of all natural and restorative sleep, had something in it of that guilt which belongs to suicide. on the 9th of may, 1805, his complaint reached its crisis. early in the morning he became delirious; at noon his delirium abated; and at four in the afternoon he fell into a gentle unagitated sleep, from which he soon awoke. conscious that he now stood on the very edge of the grave, he calmly and fervently took a last farewell of his friends. at six in the evening he fell again into sleep, from which, however, he again awoke once more to utter the memorable declaration, "that many things were growing plain and clear to his understanding." after this the cloud of sleep again settled upon him; a sleep which soon changed into the cloud of death. this event produced a profound impression throughout germany. the theatres were closed at weimar, and the funeral was conducted with public honors. the position in point of time, and the peculiar services of schiller to the german literature, we have already stated: it remains to add, that in person he was tall, and of a strong bony structure, but not muscular, and strikingly lean. his forehead was lofty, his nose aquiline, and his mouth almost of grecian beauty. with other good points about his face, and with auburn hair, it may be presumed that his whole appearance was pleasing and impressive, while in latter years the character of sadness and contemplative sensibility deepened the impression of his countenance. we have said enough of his intellectual merit, which places him in our judgment at the head of the trans-rhenish literature. but we add in concluding, that frederick von schiller was something more than a great author; he was also in an eminent sense a great man; and his works are not more worthy of being studied for their singular force and originality, than his moral character from its nobility and aspiring grandeur. handbooks of english literature. edited by professor hales. _crown 8vo, 5s. net each._ the age of alfred (664-1154). by f. j. snell, m.a. the age of chaucer (1346-1400). by f. j. snell, m.a. with an introduction by professor hales. _3rd edition, revised._ the age of transition (1400-1580). by f. j. snell, m.a. 2 vols. vol. i. the poets. vol. ii. the dramatists and prose writers. with an introduction by professor hales. _3rd edition._ the age of shakespeare (1579-1631). by thomas seccombe and j. w. allen. with an introduction by professor hales. 2 vols. vol. i. poetry and prose. vol. ii. the drama. _8th edition, revised._ the age of milton (1632-1660). by the rev. j. h. b. masterman, m.a. with introduction, etc., by j. bass mullinger, m.a. _8th edition, revised._ the age of dryden (1660-1700). by r. garnett, c.b., ll.d. _8th edition._ the age of pope (1700-1748). by john dennis. _11th edition._ the age of johnson (1748-1798). by thomas seccombe. _7th edition, revised._ the age of wordsworth (1698-1832) by professor c. h. herford, litt.d. _12th edition._ the age of tennyson (1830-1870). by professor hugh walker. _9th edition._ london: g. bell and sons, ltd. handbooks of english literature edited by professor hales the age of pope london: g. bell and sons ltd. portugal street, kingsway, w.c. cambridge: deighton, bell & co. new york: harcourt brace & co. bombay: a. h. wheeler & co. the age of pope (1700-1744) by john dennis author of "studies in english literature" etc. _eleventh edition_ [illustration] london g. bell and sons, ltd. 1921 first published, 1894. reprinted, 1896, 1899, 1901, 1906, 1908, 1909, 1913, 1917, 1918, 1921. preface. the _age of pope_ is designed to form one of a series of handbooks, edited by professor hales, which it is hoped will be of service to students who love literature for its own sake, instead of regarding it merely as a branch of knowledge required by examiners. the period covered by this volume, which has had the great advantage of professor hales's personal care and revision, may be described roughly as lying between 1700, the year in which dryden died, and 1744, the date of pope's death. i believe that no work of the class will be of real value which gives what may be called literary statistics, and has nothing more to offer. historical facts and figures have their uses, and are, indeed, indispensable; but it is possible to gain the most accurate knowledge of a literary period and to be totally unimpressed by the influences which a love of literature inspires. the first object of a guide is to give accurate information; his second and larger object is to direct the reader's steps through a country exhaustless in variety and interest. if once a passion be awakened for the study of our noble literature the student will learn to reject what is meretricious, and will turn instinctively to what is worthiest. in the pursuit he may leave his guide far behind him; but none the less will he be grateful to the pioneer who started him on his travels. if the _age of pope_ proves of help in this way the wishes of the writer will be satisfied. it has been my endeavour in all cases to acknowledge the debt i owe to the authors who have made this period their study; but it is possible that a familiar acquaintance with their writings may have led me occasionally to mistake the matter thus assimilated for original criticism. if, therefore--to quote the phrase of pope's enemy and my namesake--i have sometimes borrowed another man's 'thunder,' the fault of having 'made a sinner of my memory' may prove the reader's gain, and will, i hope, be forgiven. j. d. hampstead, _august, 1894_. contents. page introduction 1 part i. the poets. chap. i. alexander pope 27 ii. matthew prior--john gay--edward young--robert blair--james thomson 65 iii. sir samuel garth--ambrose philips--john philips--nicholas rowe--aaron hill--thomas parnell--thomas tickell--william somerville--john dyer--william shenstone--mark akenside--david mallet--scottish song-writers 96 part ii. the prose writers. iv. joseph addison--sir richard steele 125 v. jonathan swift--john arbuthnot 151 vi. daniel defoe--john dennis--colley cibber--lady mary wortley montagu--earl of chesterfield--lord lyttelton--joseph spence 180 vii. francis atterbury--lord shaftesbury--bernard de mandeville--lord bolingbroke--george berkeley--william law--joseph butler--william warburton 207 index of minor poets and prose writers 242 chronological table 249 alphabetical list of writers 253 index 255 the age of pope. introduction. i. the death of john dryden, on the first of may, 1700, closed a period of no small significance in the history of english literature. his faults were many, both as a man and as a poet, but he belongs to the race of the giants, and the impress of greatness is stamped upon his works. no student of dryden can fail to mark the force and sweep of an intellect impatient of restraint. his 'long-resounding march' reminds us of a turbulent river that overflows its banks, and if order and perfection of art are sometimes wanting in his verse, there is never the lack of power. unfortunately many of the best years of his life were devoted to a craft in which he was working against the grain. his dramas, with one or two noble exceptions, are comparative failures, and in them he too often 'profaned the god-given strength, and marred the lofty line.' in two prominent respects his influence on his successors is of no slight significance. as a satirist pope acknowledged the master he was unable to excel, and so did many of the eighteenth century versemen, who appear to have looked upon satire as the beginning and the end of poetry. moreover dryden may be regarded, without much exaggeration, as the father of modern prose. nothing can be more lucid than his style, which is at once bright and strong, idiomatic and direct. he knows precisely what he has to say, and says it in the simplest words. it is the form and not the substance of dryden's prose to which attention is drawn here. there is a splendour of imagery, a largeness of thought, and a grasp of language in the prose of hooker, of jeremy taylor, and of milton which is beyond the reach of dryden, but he has the merit of using a simple form of english free from prolonged periods and classical constructions, and fitted therefore for common use. the wealthy baggage of the prose elizabethans and their immediate successors was too cumbersome for ordinary travel; dryden's riches are less massive, but they can be easily carried, and are always ready for service. in these respects he is the literary herald of a century which, in the earlier half at least, is remarkable in the use it makes of our mother tongue for the exercise of common sense. the revolution of 1688 produced a change in english politics scarcely more remarkable than the change that took place a little later in english literature and is to be seen in the poets and wits who are known familiarly as the queen anne men. it will be obvious to the most superficial student that the gulf which separates the literary period, closing with the death of milton in 1674, from the first half of the eighteenth century, is infinitely wider than that which divides us from the splendid band of poets and prose writers who made the first twenty years of the present century so famous. there is, for example, scarcely more than fifty years between the publication of herrick's _hesperides_ and of addison's _campaign_, between the _holy living_ of taylor and the _tatler_ of steele, and less than fifty years between _samson agonistes_, which bishop atterbury asked pope to polish, and the poems of prior. yet in that short space not only is the form of verse changed but also the spirit. speaking broadly, and allowing for exceptions, the literary merits of the queen anne time are due to invention, fancy, and wit, to a genius for satire exhibited in verse and prose, to a regard for correctness of form and to the sensitive avoidance of extremes. the poets of the period are for the most part without enthusiasm, without passion, and without the 'fine madness' which, as drayton says, should possess a poet's brain. wit takes precedence of imagination, nature is concealed by artifice, and the delight afforded by these writers is not due to imaginative sensibility. not even in the consummate genius of pope is there aught of the magical charm which fascinates us in a wordsworth and a keats, in a coleridge and a shelley. the prose of the age, masterly though it be, stands also on a comparatively low level. there is much in it to attract, but little to inspire. the difference between the elizabethan and jacobean authors, and the authors of the queen anne period cannot be accounted for by any single cause. the student will observe that while the inspiration is less, the technical skill is greater. there are passages in addison which no seventeenth century author could have written; there are couplets in pope beyond the reach of cowley, and that even dryden could not rival. in these respects the eighteenth century was indebted to the growing influence of french literature, to which the taste of charles ii. had in some degree contributed. one notable expression of this taste may be seen in the tragedies in rhyme that were for a time in vogue, of which the plots were borrowed from french romances. these colossal fictions, stupendous in length and heroic in style, delighted the young english ladies of the seventeenth century, and were not out of favour in the eighteenth, for pope gave a copy of the _grand cyrus_ to martha blount. the return, as in addison's _cato_, to the classical unities, so faithfully preserved in the french drama, was another indication of an influence from which our literature has never been wholly free. that importations so alien to the spirit of english poetry should tend to the degeneration of the national drama was inevitable. for a time, however, the study of french models, both in the drama and in other departments of literature, may have been productive of benefit. frenchmen knew before we did, how to say what they wanted to say in a lucid style. dryden, who was open to every kind of influence, bad as well as good, caught a little of their fine tact and consummate workmanship without lessening his own originality; so also did pope, who, if he was considerably indebted to boileau, infinitely excelled him. that, in m. taine's judgment, would have been no great difficulty. 'in boileau,' he writes, 'there are, as a rule, two kinds of verse, as was said by a man of wit (m. guillaume guizot); most of which seem to be those of a sharp school-boy in the third class; the rest those of a good school-boy in the upper division.' and mr. swinburne, who holds a similar opinion of the famous french critic's merit, observes, that while pope is the finest, boileau is 'the dullest craftsman of their age and school.'[1] with the author of the _lutrin_ addison, unlike pope, was personally acquainted. boileau praised his latin verses, and although his range was limited, like that of all critics lacking imagination, addison, then a comparatively youthful scholar, was no doubt flattered by his compliments and learnt some lessons in his school. prior, who acquired a mastery of the language, was also sensitive to french influence, and shows how it affected him by irony and satire. it would be difficult to estimate with any measure of accuracy the effect of french literature on the queen anne authors. there is no question that they were considerably attracted by it, but its sway was, i think, never strong enough to produce mere imitative art. while the most illustrious of these men acknowledged some measure of fealty to our 'sweet enemy france,' they were not enslaved by her, and french literature was but one of several influences which affected the literary character of the age. if englishmen owed a debt to france the obligation was reciprocal. voltaire affords a prominent illustration of the power wielded by our literature. he imitated addison, he imitated, or caught suggestions from swift, he borrowed largely from vanbrugh, and although, in his judgment of english authors, he made many critical blunders, they were due to a want of taste rather than to a want of knowledge. a striking contrast will be seen between the position of literary men in the reign of queen anne and under her hanoverian successors. literature was not thriving in the healthiest of ways in the earlier period, but from the commercial point of view it was singularly prosperous. through its means men like addison and prior rose to some of the highest offices in the service of their country. tickell became under-secretary of state. steele held three or four official posts, and if he did not prosper like some men of less mark, had no one but himself to blame. rowe, the author of the _fair penitent_, was for three years of anne's reign under-secretary, and john hughes, the friend of addison, who is poet enough to have had his story told by johnson, had 'a situation of great profit' as secretary to the commissions of the peace. prizes of greater or less value fell to some men whose abilities were not more than respectable, but under walpole and the monarch whom he served literature was disregarded, and the minister was content to make use of hireling writers for whatever dirty work he required; spending in this way, it is said, £50,000 in ten years. it was far better in the long run for men of letters to be free from the servility of patronage, but there was a wearisome time, as johnson and goldsmith knew to their cost, during which authors lost their freedom in another way, and became the slaves of the booksellers. it is pleasant to observe that the last noteworthy act of patronage in the century was one that did honour to the patron without lessening the dignity and independence of the recipient. literature owes much to the noblest of political philosophers for discovering and fostering the genius of one of the most original of english poets, and every reader of crabbe will do honour to the generous friendship of edmund burke. ii. the lowest stage in our national history was reached in the restoration period. the idealists, who had aimed at marks it was not given to man to reach, were superseded by men with no ideal, whether in politics or religion. the extreme rigidity in morals enjoined by state authority in cromwell's days, when theological pedantry discovered sin in what had hitherto been regarded as innocent, led, among the unsaintly mass of the people, to a hypocrisy even more corrupting than open vice, and the advent of the most publicly dissolute of english kings opened the floodgates of iniquity. the unbridled vice of the time is displayed in the restoration dramatists, in the grammont memoirs, in the diary of pepys, and also in that of the admirable john evelyn, 'faithful among the faithless.' charles ii. was considered good-natured because his manners, unlike those of his father, were sociable, and unrestrained by court etiquette. londoners liked a monarch who fed ducks in st. james's park before breakfast; but an easy temper did not prevent the king from sanctioning the most unjust and cruel laws, and it allowed him to sell dunkirk and basely to accept a pension from france. the corruption of the age pervaded politics as well as society, and the self-sacrificing spirit which is the salt of a nation's life seemed for the time extinct among public men. when dutch men-of-war appeared at the nore the confusion was great, but there were few resources and few signs of energy in the men to whom the people looked for guidance. a man conversant with affairs expressed to pepys his opinion that nothing could be done with 'a lazy prince, no council, no money, no reputation at home or abroad,' and pepys also gives the damning statement which is in harmony with all we know of the king, that he 'took ten times more care and pains in making friends between my lady castlemaine and mrs. stewart, when they have fallen out, than ever he did to save his kingdom.' there was nothing in the brief reign of james, a reign for ever made infamous by the atrocious cruelty of jeffreys, that calls for comment here, but the revolution, despite the undoubted advantages it brought with it, among which must be mentioned the abolition of the censorship of the press, brought also an element of discord and of political degradation. the change was a good one for the country, but it caused a large number of influential men to renounce on oath opinions which they secretly held, and it led, as every reader of history knows, to an unparalleled amount of double-dealing on the part of statesmen, which began with the accession of william and mary and did not end until the last hopes of the jacobites were defeated in 1746. the loss of principle among statesmen, and the bitterness of faction, which seemed to increase in proportion as the patriotic spirit declined, had a baleful influence on the latter days of the seventeenth century and on the entire period covered by the age of pope. the low tone of the age is to be seen in the almost universal corruption which prevailed, in the scandalous tergiversation of bolingbroke, and in the contempt for political principle openly avowed by walpole, who, as mr. lecky observes, 'was altogether incapable of appreciating as an element of political calculation the force which moral sentiments exercise upon mankind.'[2] the enthusiasm and strong passions of the first half of the seventeenth century, which had been crushed by the restoration, were exchanged for a state of apathy that led to self-seeking in politics and to scepticism in religion. there was a strong profession of morality in words, but in conduct the most open immorality prevailed. virtue was commended in the bulk of the churches, while christianity, which gives a new life and aim to virtue, was practically ignored, and the principles of the deists, whose opinions occupied much attention at the time, were scarcely more alien to the christian revelation than the views often advocated in the national pulpits. the religion of christ seems to have been regarded as little more than a useful kind of cement which held society together. the good sense advocated so constantly by pope in poetry was also considered the principal requisite in the pulpit, and the careful avoidance of religious emotion in the earlier years of the century led to the fervid and too often ill-regulated enthusiasm that prevailed in the days of whitefield and wesley. at the same time there appears to have been no lack of religious controversy. 'the church in danger' was a strong cry then, as it is still. the enormous excitement caused in 1709 by sacheverell's sermon in st. paul's cathedral advocating passive obedience, denouncing toleration, and aspersing the revolution settlement, forms a striking chapter in the reign of queen anne. extraordinary interest was also felt in the bangorian controversy raised by bishop hoadly, who, in a sermon preached before the king (1717), took a latitudinarian view of episcopal authority, and objected to the entire system of the high church party. queen caroline, whose keen intellect was allied to a coarseness which makes her a representative of the age, was considerably attracted by theological discussion. she obtained a bishopric for berkeley, recommended walpole to read butler's _analogy_, which was at one time her daily companion at the breakfast-table, and made the preferment of its author one of her last requests to the king. she liked well to reason with dr. samuel clarke, 'of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,' and wished to make him archbishop of canterbury, but was told that he was not sufficiently orthodox. theology was not disregarded under the first and second georges; it was only religion that had fallen into disrepute. the law itself was calculated to excite contempt for the most solemn of religious services. 'i was early,' swift writes to stella, 'with the secretary (bolingbroke), but he was gone to his devotions and to receive the sacrament. several rakes did the same. it was not for piety, but for employment, according to act of parliament.' a glance at some additional features in the social condition of the age will enable us to understand better the character of its literature. iii. it is a platitude to say that authors are as much affected as other men by the atmosphere which they breathe. now and then a consummate man of genius seems to stand so much above his age as for all high purposes of art to be untouched by it. like milton as a poet, though not as a prose writer, his 'soul is like a star and dwells apart;' but in general, imaginative writers, are intensely affected by the society from which they draw many of their intellectual resources. in the so-called 'augustan age'[3] this influence would have been felt more strongly than in ours, since the range of men of letters was generally restricted to what was called the town. they wrote for the critics in the coffee-houses, for the noblemen from whom they expected patronage, and for the political party they were pledged to support. england during the first half of the eighteenth century was in many respects uncivilized. london was at that time separated from the country by roads that were often impassable and always dangerous. travellers had to protect themselves as they best could from the attacks of highwaymen, who infested every thoroughfare leading from the metropolis, while the narrow area of the city was guarded by watchmen scarcely better fitted for its protection than dogberry and verges. readers of the _spectator_ will remember how when sir roger de coverley went to the play, his servants 'provided themselves with good oaken plants' to protect their master from the mohocks, a set of dissolute young men, who, for sheer amusement, inflicted the most terrible punishments on their victims. swift tells stella how he came home early from his walk in the park to avoid 'a race of rakes that play the devil about this town every night, and slit people's noses,' and he adds, as if party were at the root of every mischief in the country, that they were all whigs. 'who has not trembled at the mohock's name?' is gay's exclamation in his _trivia_; and in that curious poem he also warns the citizens not to venture across lincoln's inn fields in the evening. colley cibber's brazen-faced daughter, mrs. charke, in the _narrative_ of her life, describes also with sufficient precision the dangers of london after dark. the infliction of personal injury was not confined to the desperadoes of the streets. men of letters were in danger of chastisement from the poets or politicians whom they criticised or vilified. de foe often mentions attempts upon his person. pope, too, was threatened with a rod by ambrose philips, which was hung up for his chastisement in button's coffee-house; and at a later period, when his satires had stirred up a nest of hornets, the poet was in the habit of carrying pistols, and taking a large dog for his companion when walking out at twickenham. weddings within the liberties of the fleet by sham clergymen, or clergymen confined for debt, were the source of numberless evils. every kind of deception was practised, and the victims once in the clutches of their reverend captors had to pay heavily for the illegal ceremony. ladies were trepanned into matrimony, and smollett in his _history_ observes, that the fleet parsons encouraged every kind of villainy. it is astonishing that so great an evil in the heart of london should have been allowed to exist so long, and it was not until the marriage act of lord hardwicke in 1753, which required the publication of banns, that the fleet marriages ceased. on the day before the act came into operation three hundred marriages are said to have taken place.[4] marriages of a more lawful kind were generally conducted on business principles. young women were expected to accept the husband selected for them by their parents or guardians, and the main object considered was to gain a good settlement. it was for this that mary granville, who is better known as mrs. delany, was sacrificed at seventeen to a gouty old man of sixty, and when he died she was expected to marry again with the same object in view. mrs. delany detested, with good cause, the commercial estimate of matrimony. writing, in 1739, to lady throckmorton, she says, 'miss campbell is to be married to-morrow to my lord bruce. her father can give her no fortune; she is very pretty, modest, well-behaved, and just eighteen, has two thousand a year jointure, and four hundred pin-money; _they say_ he is cross, covetous, and threescore years old, and this unsuitable match is the _admiration of the old and the envy of the young_! for my part i _pity her_, for if she has any notion of social pleasures that arise from true esteem and sensible conversation, how miserable must she be.'[5] girls dowered with beauty or with fortune were not always suffered to marry in this humdrum fashion. abduction was by no means an imaginary peril. mrs. delany tells the story of a lady in ireland, from whom she received the relation, who was entrapped in her uncle's house, carried off by four men in masks, and treated in the most brutal manner. and in 1711 the duke of newcastle, having become acquainted with a design for carrying off his daughter by force, was compelled to ask for a guard of dragoons. duelling, against which steele, de foe, and fielding inveighed with courage and good sense, was a danger to which every gentleman was liable who wore a sword. bullies were ready to provoke a quarrel, the slightest cause of offence was magnified into an affair of honour, and the lives of several of the most distinguished men of the century were imperilled in this way. 'a gentleman,' lord chesterfield writes, 'is every man who, with a tolerable suit of clothes, a sword by his side, and a watch and snuffbox in his pockets, asserts himself to be a gentleman, swears with energy that he will be treated as such, and that he will cut the throat of any man who presumes to say the contrary.' the foolish and evil custom died out slowly in this kingdom. even a great moralist like dr. johnson had something to say in its defence, and sir walter scott, who might well have laughed to scorn any imputation of cowardice, was prepared to accept a challenge in his old age for a statement he had made in his _life of napoleon_. ladies had a different but equally doubtful mode of asserting their gentility. on one occasion the duchess of marlborough called on a lawyer without leaving her name. 'i could not make out who she was,' said the clerk afterwards, 'but she swore so dreadfully that she must be a lady of quality.' there was a fashion which our wits followed at this time that was not of english growth, namely, the tone of gallantry in which they addressed ladies, no matter whether single or married. their compliments seemed like downright love-making, and that frequently of a coarse kind, but such expressions meant nothing, and were understood to be a mere exercise of skill. pope used them in writing to judith cowper, whom he professes to worship as much as any female saint in heaven; and in much ampler measure when addressing lady mary wortley montagu, but neither lady would have taken this amatory politeness seriously. thus he writes after an evening spent in lady mary's society: 'books have lost their effect upon me; and i was convinced since i saw you, that there is something more powerful than philosophy, and since i heard you, that there is one alive wiser than all the sages.' he tells her that he hates all other women for her sake; that none but her guardian angels can have her more constantly in mind; and that the sun has more reason to be proud of raising her spirits 'than of raising all the plants and ripening all the minerals in the earth.' he will fly to her in italy at the least notice and 'from thence,' he adds, 'how far you might draw me and i might run after you, i no more know than the spouse in the song of solomon.' this was the foible of an age in which women were addressed as though they were totally devoid of understanding; and pope, as might have been expected, carried the folly to excess. against another french custom addison protests in the _spectator_, namely, that of women of rank receiving gentlemen visitors in their bedrooms. he objects also to other foreign habits introduced by 'travelled ladies,' and fears that the peace, however much to be desired, may cause the importation of a number of french fopperies. but the proneness to follow the lead of france in matters of fashion is a folly not confined to the belles and beaux of the last century. if a chivalric regard for women be an indication of high civilization, that sign is but faintly visible in the reigns of anne and of the first georges. sir richard steele paid a noble tribute to lady elizabeth hastings when he said that to know her was a liberal education, but his contemporaries usually treat women as pretty triflers, better fitted to amuse men than to elevate them. young takes this view in his _satires_: 'ladies supreme among amusements reign; by nature born to soothe and entertain. their prudence in a share of folly lies; why will they be so weak as to be wise?' and chesterfield, writing to his son, treats women with similar contempt.... 'a man of sense,' he says, 'only trifles with them, plays with them, humours and flatters them as he does with a sprightly, forward child; but he neither consults them about, nor trusts them with, serious matters, though he often makes them believe that he does both, which is the thing in the world that they are proud of.... no flattery is either too high or too low for them. they will greedily swallow the highest and gratefully accept of the lowest.' nearly twenty years passed, and then chesterfield wrote in the same contemptuous way of women in a letter to his godson, a 'dear little boy' of ten. 'in company every woman is every man's superior, and must be addressed with respect, nay, more, with flattery, and you need not fear making it too strong ... it will be greedily swallowed.' even addison, while trying to instruct the 'fair sex' as he likes to call them, apparently regarded its members as an inferior order of beings. he delights to dwell upon their foibles, on their dress, and on the thousand little artifices practised by the flirt and the coquette. here is the view the queen anne moralist takes of the 'female world' he was so eager to improve: 'i have often thought there has not been sufficient pains in finding out proper employments and diversions for the fair ones. their amusements seem contrived for them, rather as they are women, than as they are reasonable creatures; and are more adapted to the sex than to the species. the toilet is their great scene of business, and the right adjustment of their hair the principal employment of their lives. the sorting of a suit of ribands is considered a very good morning's work; and if they make an excursion to a mercer's or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue makes them unfit for anything else all the day after. their more serious occupations are sewing and embroidery, and their greatest drudgery the preparations of jellies and sweetmeats. this i say is the state of ordinary women; though i know there are multitudes of those that move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and virtue, that join all the beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and respect as well as of love into their male beholders.' the qualification made at the end of this description does not greatly lessen the significance of the earlier portion, which is addison's picture, as he is careful to tell us of 'ordinary women.' much must be allowed for the exaggeration of a humourist, but the frivolity of women is a theme upon which addison harps continually. indeed, were it not for this weakness in the 'feminine world' half his vocation as a moralist in the _spectator_ would be gone, and if the general estimate in his essays of the women with whom he was acquainted be to any extent a correct one, the derogatory language used by men of letters, and especially by swift, prior, pope, and chesterfield may be almost forgiven. it was the aim of addison and steele to represent, and in some degree to caricature, the follies of fashionable life in the town. that life had also its vices, which, if less unblushingly displayed than under the 'merry monarch,' were visible enough. 'in the eighteenth century,' says victor hugo, in his epigrammatic way, 'the wife bolts out her husband. she shuts herself up in eden with satan. adam is left outside.' drunkenness was a habit familiar to the fine gentlemen of the town and to men occupying the highest position in the state. harley went more than once into the queen's presence in a half-intoxicated condition; carteret when secretary of state, if horace walpole may be credited, was never sober; bolingbroke, who practised every vice, is said to have been a 'four-bottle man;' and swift found it perilous to dine with ministers on account of the wine which circulated at their tables. 'prince eugene,' he writes, 'dines with the secretary to-day with about seven or eight general officers or foreign ministers. they will be all drunk i am sure.' pope's frail body could not tolerate excess, and he is said to have hastened his end by good living. his friend fenton 'died of a great chair and two bottles of port a day.' parnell, who seems to have been in many respects a man of high character, is said to have shortened his life by intemperance; and gay, who was cossetted like a favourite lapdog by the duke and duchess of queensberry, died from indolence and good living. it may be questioned whether there is a single wit of the age who did not love port too well, like addison and fenton, or suffer from 'carnivoracity' like arbuthnot. every section of english society was infected with the 'devil drunkenness,' and the passion for gin created by the encouragement of home distilleries produced a state of crime, misery, and disease in london and in the country which excited public attention. 'small as is the place,' writes mr. lecky, 'which this fact occupies in english history, it was probably, if we consider all the consequences that have flowed from it, the most momentous in that of the eighteenth century--incomparably more so than any event in the purely political or military annals of the country.'[6] the cruelty of the age is seen in a contempt for the feelings of others, in the brutal punishments inflicted, in the amusements then popular, and in a general contempt for human suffering. public executions were so frequent that they were disregarded; and criminals of any note, like dr. dodd, were exhibited in their cells for the gaolers' benefit prior to execution; mad people in bedlam, chained in their cells, also formed one of the sights of london. as late as 1735 men were pressed to death who refused to plead on a capital charge; and women were publicly flogged, and were also burnt at the stake by a law that was not repealed until 1794. of the heads on temple bar, daily exposed to johnson's eyes in his beloved fleet street, we are reminded by an apposite quotation of goldsmith; and samuel rogers, the banker-poet, who died as recently as 1855, remembered having seen one there in his childhood. the public exhibition of offenders in the pillory was not calculated to refine the manners of the people. it afforded a cruel entertainment to the mob, who may be said to have baited these poor victims as they were accustomed to bait bulls and bears. every kind of offensive missile was thrown at them, and sometimes the strokes proved deadly. men who could thus torture a human being were not likely to abstain from cruelty to the lower animals. the poets indeed protested then, as poets had done before, and always have done since, against the unmanly treatment of the dumb fellow-creatures committed to our care, but their voices were little heeded, and even the prince of wales visited hockley-in-the-hole, in disguise, to witness the torturing of bulls. 'the gladiatorian and other sanguinary sports,' says the author of the _characteristics_, 'which we allow our people, discover sufficiently our national taste. and the baitings and slaughters of so many sorts of creatures, tame as well as wild, for diversion merely, may witness the extraordinary inclination we have for amphitheatrical spectacles.'[7] the majesty of the law was maintained by disembowelling traitors, by cutting off the ears, or branding the cheeks of political offenders, and by the penalties inflicted on roman catholics, and on protestant dissenters. men who deemed themselves honourable gained power through bribery and intrigue. it was through a king's mistress and a heavy bribe that bolingbroke was enabled to return from exile; chesterfield intrigued against newcastle with the duchess of yarmouth; and clergymen eager for promotion had no scruple in paying court to women who had lost their virtue. never, unless perhaps during the civil war, was the spirit of party more rampant in the country. patriotism was a virtue more talked about than felt, and in the cause of faction private characters were assailed and libels circulated through the press. addison, who did more than any other writer to humanize his age, saw the evil of the time and struck a blow at it with his inimitable humour. the _spectator_ discovers, on his journey to sir roger de coverley's house, that the knight's toryism grew with the miles that separated him from london: 'in all our journey from london to his house we did not so much as bait at a whig inn; or if by chance the coachman stopped at a wrong place, one of sir roger's servants would ride up to his master full speed, and whisper to him that the master of the house was against such an one in the last election. this often betrayed us into hard beds and bad cheer; for we were not so inquisitive about the inn as the innkeeper; and provided our landlord's principles were sound did not take any notice of the staleness of his provisions. this i found still the more inconvenient, because the better the host was, the worse generally were his accommodations; the fellow knowing very well that those who were his friends would take up with coarse diet and hard lodging. for these reasons, all the while i was upon the road, i dreaded entering into an house of anyone that sir roger had applauded for an honest man.'[8] against the party zeal of female politicians addison indulges frequently in humorous sallies. he assures them that it gives an ill-natured cast to the eye, and flushes the cheeks worse than brandy. party rage, he says, is a male vice, and is altogether repugnant 'to the softness, the modesty, and those other endearing qualities which are natural to the fair sex.' 'when i have seen a pretty mouth uttering calumnies and invectives, what would i not have given to have stopt it? how have i been troubled to see some of the finest features in the world grow pale and tremble with party rage. camilla is one of the greatest beauties in the british nation, and yet values herself more upon being the virago of one party than upon being the toast of both. the dear creature about a week ago encountered the fierce and beautiful penthesilea across a tea-table; but in the height of her anger, as her hand chanced to shake with the earnestness of the dispute, she scalded her fingers, and spilt a dish of tea upon her petticoat. had not this accident broke off the debate, nobody knows where it would have ended.' the coffee-houses in which men aired their wit and discussed the news of the day were wholly dominated by party. 'a whig,' says de foe, 'will no more go to the cocoa tree or ozinda's than a tory will be seen at the coffee-house of st. james's.' swift declared that the whig and tory animosity infected even the dogs and cats. it was inevitable that it should also infect literature. books were seldom judged on their merits, the praise or blame being generally awarded according to the political principles of their authors. an impartial literary journal did not exist in the days when addison 'gave his little senate laws' at button's, and perhaps it does not exist now, but if critical injustice be done in our day it is rarely owing to political causes. one of the most prominent vices of the time was gambling, which was largely encouraged by the public lotteries, and practised by all classes of the people. this evil was exhibited on a national scale by the establishment of the south sea company, which exploded in 1720, after creating a madness for speculation never known before or since. even men who like sir robert walpole kept their heads, and saw that the bubble would soon burst, invested in stock. pope had his share in the speculation, and might, had he 'realized' in time, have been the 'lord of thousands;' in the end, however, he was a gainer, though not to a large extent. his friend gay was less fortunate. he won £20,000, kept the stock too long and was reduced to beggary. the south sea bubble and the mississippi scheme of law which burst in the same year and ruined tens of thousands of french families, afford illustrations on a gigantic scale of the prevailing passion for speculation and for gambling. 'the duke of devonshire lost an estate at a game of basset. the fine intellect of chesterfield was thoroughly enslaved by the vice. at bath, which was then the centre of english fashion, it reigned supreme; and the physicians even recommended it to their patients as a form of distraction. in the green-rooms of the theatres, as mrs. bellamy assures us, thousands were often lost and won in a single night. among fashionable ladies the passion was quite as strong as among men, and the professor of whist and quadrille became a regular attendant at their levees. miss pelham, the daughter of the prime minister, was one of the most notorious gamblers of her time, and lady cowper speaks in her _diary_ of sittings at court, of which the lowest stake was 200 guineas. the public lotteries contributed very powerfully to diffuse the taste for gambling among all classes.'[9] one of the most powerful exponents of the dark side of the century is hogarth, who makes some of its worst features live before our eyes. so also do the novels of richardson, fielding, and smollett. differing as their works do in character, they have the common merit of presenting in indelible lines a picture of the time in its social aspects. it may have been, as stuart mill asserts, an age of strong men, but it was an age of coarse vices, an age wanting in the refinements and graces of life; an age of cruel punishments, cruel sports, and of a political corruption extending through all the departments of the state. but it would be a narrow view of the age to dwell wholly on its gloomier features, which are always the easiest to detect. if the period under consideration had prominent vices, it had also distinguished merits. under queen anne and her immediate successors, home-keeping englishmen had more space to breathe in than they have now, and trade was not demoralized by excessive competition. no attempt was made to separate class from class, and population was not large enough to make the battle of life almost hopeless in the lowest section of the community. if there was less refinement than among ourselves, there was far less of nervous susceptibility, and the country was free from the half-educated class of men and women who know enough to make them dissatisfied, without attaining to the larger knowledge which yields wisdom and content. to say that the age was better than our own would be to deny a thousand signs of material and intellectual progress, but it had fewer dangers to contend with, and if there was far less of wealth in the country the people were probably more satisfied with their lot.[10] to glance at the century as a whole does not fall within my province, but i may be permitted to observe that in the course of it science and invention made rapid strides; that under the inspiring sway of handel the power of music was felt as it was never felt before; that in the latter half of the period the novel, destined to be one of the noblest fruits of our imaginative literature, attained a robust life in the hands of richardson, fielding, and smollett; and that, with reynolds and gainsborough, with romney and wilson, a glorious school of landscape and portrait painters arose, which is still the pride of england. it will be remembered, too, that many of the great charitable institutions which make our own age illustrious, had their birth in the last. the military genius of england was displayed in marlborough and in clive, her mercy in john howard, her spirit of enterprise in cook, her self-sacrifice in wesley and whitefield, her statesmanship in walpole, in chatham, and in william pitt. in oratory as everyone knows, the eighteenth century was surpassingly great, and never before or since has the country produced a political philosopher of the calibre of burke. what england reaped in literature during the period of which pope has been selected as the most striking figure, it will be my endeavour to show in the course of these pages. footnotes: [1] m. sainte-beuve, the greatest of french critics, frankly acknowledges his indebtedness to boileau, whom he styles louis the fourteenth's 'contrôleur général du parnasse.' 's'il m'est permis de parler pour moi-même,' he writes, 'boileau est un des hommes qui m'ont le plus occupé depuis que je fais de la critique, et avec qui j'ai le plus vécu en idée.'--_causeries du lundi_, tome sixième, p. 495. [2] lecky's _england_, vol. i. p. 373. [3] the epithet is used in the preface to the first edition of waller's _posthumous poems_, which mr. gosse believes was written by atterbury, and he considers that this is the original occurrence of the phrase.--_from shakespeare to pope_, p. 248. [4] messrs. besant and rice's novel, _the chaplain of the fleet_, gives a vivid picture of the life led in the fleet, and also of the period. [5] _life and correspondence of mrs. delany_, vol. ii. p. 55. [6] lecky's _england_, vol. i. p. 479. [7] shaftesbury's _characteristics_, vol. i. p. 270. [8] _spectator_, no. 126. [9] lecky's _england_, vol. i. p. 522. [10] according to hallam the thirty years which followed the treaty of utrecht 'was the most prosperous season that england had ever experienced.'--_const. hist._ ii. 464. part i. the poets. chapter i. alexander pope. it is not unreasonable to call the period we are considering 'the age of pope.' he is the representative poet of his century. its literary merits and defects are alike conspicuous in his verse, and he stands immeasurably above the numerous versifiers who may be said to belong to his school. savage landor has observed that there is no such thing as a school of poetry, and this is true in the sense that the essence of this divine art cannot be transmitted, but the form of the art may be, and pope's style of workmanship made it readily imitable by accomplished craftsmen. although he affected to call poetry an idle trade he devoted his whole life to its pursuit, and there are few instances in literature in which genius and unwearied labour have been so successfully united. it is to pope's credit, that, with everything against him in the race of life, he attained the goal for which he started in his youth. the means he employed to reach it were frequently perverse and discreditable, but the courage with which he overcame the obstacles in his path commands our admiration. [sidenote: alexander pope (1688-1744).] alexander pope was born in london on may 21st, 1688. he was the only son of his father, a merchant or tradesman, and a roman catholic at a time when the members of that church were proscribed by law. the boy was a cripple from his birth, and suffered from great bodily weakness both in youth and manhood. looking back upon his life in after years he called it a 'long disease.' the elder pope seems to have retired from business soon after his son's birth, and at binfield, nine miles from windsor, twenty-seven years of the poet's life were spent. as a 'papist' pope was excluded from the universities and from every public career, but even under happier circumstances his health would have condemned him to a secluded life. he gained some instruction from the family priest, and also went for a short time to school, but for the most part he was self-educated, and studied so severely that at seventeen his life was probably saved by the sound advice of dr. radcliffe to read less and to ride on horseback every day. the rhyming faculty was very early developed, and to use his own phrase he 'lisped in numbers.' as a boy he felt the magic of spenser, whose enchanting sweetness and boundless wealth of imagination have been now for three hundred years a joy to every lover of poetry. something, too, he learned from waller and from sandys, both of whom, but especially the former, had been of service in giving smoothness to the iambic distich, in which all of pope's best poems are written. dryden, however, whom when a little boy he saw at will's coffee-house--'_virgilium tantum vidi_' records the memorable day--was the poet whose influence he felt most powerfully. like gray several years later, he declared that he learnt versification wholly from his works. from 'knowing walsh,' the best critic in the nation in dryden's opinion, the youthful pope received much friendly counsel; and he had another wise friend in sir william trumbull, formerly secretary of state, who recognized his genius, and gave him as warm a friendship as an old man can offer to a young one. the dissolute restoration dramatist, wycherley, was also his temporary companion. the old man, if pope's story be true, asked him to correct his poems, which are indeed beyond correction, as the youthful critic appears to have hinted, and the two parted company. the _pastorals_, written, according to pope's assertion, at the age of sixteen, were published in 1709, and won an amount of praise incomprehensible in the present day. mr. leslie stephen has happily appraised their value in calling them 'mere school-boy exercises.' not thus, however, were they regarded by the poet, or by the critics of his age, yet neither he nor they could have divined the rapid progress of his fame, and that in about six years' time he would be regarded as the greatest of living poets. the _essay on criticism_, written, it appears, in 1709, was published two years later, and received the highest honour a poem could then have. it was praised by addison in the _spectator_ as 'a very fine poem,' and 'a masterpiece in its kind.' the 'kind,' suggested by the _ars poetica_ of horace, and the _art poétique_ of boileau--translated with dryden's help by sir william soame--suited the current taste for criticism and argument in rhyme, which had led roscommon to write an _essay on translated verse_, and sheffield an _essay on poetry_. the _essay on criticism_ is a marvellous production for a young man who had scarcely passed his maturity when it was published. to have written lines and couplets that live still in the language and are on everyone's lips is an achievement of which any poet might be proud, and there are at least twenty such lines or couplets in the poem. in 1713 _windsor forest_ appeared. through the most susceptible years of life the poet had lived in the country, but nature and pope were not destined to become friends; he looked at her 'through the spectacles of books' and his description of natural objects is invariably of the conventional type. although never a resident in london he was unable in the exercise of his art to breathe any atmosphere save that of the town, and might have said, in the words of lessing to his friend kleist, 'when you go to the country i go to the coffee-house.'[11] the use, or as it would be more correct to say the abuse, of classical mythology in the description of rural scenes had the sanction of great names, and pope was not likely to reject what spenser and milton had sanctioned. gods and goddesses therefore play a conspicuous part in his description of the forest. the following lines afford a fair illustration of the style throughout, and the sole merit of the poem is the smoothness of versification in which pope excelled. 'not proud olympus yields a nobler sight, though gods assembled grace his towering height, than what more humble mountains offer here, when in their blessings all those gods appear. see pan with flocks, with fruits pomona crowned, here blushing flora paints th' enamelled ground, here ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, and nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand; rich industry sits smiling on the plains, and peace and plenty tell a stuart reigns. pope, who was never known to laugh, was a great wit, but his sense of humour was small, and the descent from these deities to queen anne savours not a little of bathos. in 1712 pope had published _the rape of the lock_, which addison justly praised as 'a delicious little thing.' at the same time he advised the poet not to attempt improving it, which he proposed to do, and pope most unreasonably attributed this advice to jealousy. in 1714 the delightful poem appeared in its present form with the machinery of sylphs and gnomes adopted from the mysteries of the rosicrucians. pope styles it an heroi-comical poem, and judged in the light of a burlesque it is conceived and executed with an art that is beyond praise. lord petre, a roman catholic peer, had cut off a lock of miss arabella fermor's hair, much to the indignation of her family and possibly of the young lady also. pope wrote the poem to remove the discord caused by the fatal shears, but its publication, and two or three offensive allusions it contained, only served to add to miss fermor's annoyance. 'the celebrated lady herself,' the poet wrote, 'is offended, and which is stranger, not at herself but me. is not this enough to make a writer never be tender of another's character or fame?' but pope, whose praise of women is too often a libel upon them, was not as tender as he ought to have been of the lady's reputation. the offence felt by the heroine of the poem is now unheeded; the dainty art exhibited is a permanent delight, and our language can boast no more perfect specimen of the poetical burlesque than the _rape of the lock_. the machinery of the sylphs is managed with perfect skill, and nothing can be more admirable than the charge delivered by ariel to the sylphs to guard belinda from an apprehended but unknown danger. the concluding lines shall be quoted: 'whatever spirit, careless of his charge, his post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, or wedged, whole ages, in a bodkin's eye; gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, while clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; or alum styptics, with contracting power, shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower; or, as ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel the giddy motion of the whirling mill, in fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, and tremble at the sea that froths below!' another striking portion of the poem is the description of the spanish game of ombre, imitated from vida's _scacchia ludus_. 'vida's poem,' says mr. elwin, 'is a triumph of ingenuity, when the intricacy of chess is considered, and the difficulty of expressing the moves in a dead language. yet the original is eclipsed by pope's more consummate copy.'[12] many famous passages illustrative of pope's art might be extracted from this poem, but it will suffice to give the portrait of belinda: 'on her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, which jews might kiss and infidels adore; her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, quick as her eyes and as unfixed as those; favours to none, to all she smiles extends, oft she rejects, but never once offends. bright as the sun her eyes the gazers strike, and, like the sun, they shine on all alike. yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: if to her share some female errors fall, look on her face and you'll forget them all.' the _temple of fame_, a liberal paraphrase of chaucer's _house of fame_, followed in 1715, and despite the praise of steele, who declared that it had a thousand beauties, and of dr. johnson, who observes that every part is splendid, must be pronounced one of pope's least attractive pieces. two poems of the emotional and sentimental class, _eloisa to abelard_ and the _elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady_ (1717), are more worthy of attention. nowhere, probably, in the language are finer specimens to be met with of rhetorical pathos, but poets like burns, cowper, wordsworth, and tennyson can touch the heart more deeply by a phrase or couplet than pope is able to do by his elaborate representations of passion. the reader is not likely to be affected by the following response of eloisa to an invitation from the spirit world: 'i come, i come! prepare your roseate bowers, celestial palms and ever-blooming flowers. thither, where sinners may have rest, i go, where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow; thou, abelard! the last sad office pay, and smooth my passage to the realms of day; see my lips tremble and my eye-balls roll, suck my last breath and catch my flying soul! ah no--in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, the hallowed taper trembling in thy hand, present the cross before my lifted eye, teach me at once and learn of me to die.' the music or the fervour of the poem delighted porson, famous for his greek and his potations, and whether drunk or sober he would recite, or rather sing it, from the beginning to the end. the felicity of the versification is incontestable, but at the same time artifice is more visible than nature throughout the epistle, and this is true also of _the elegy_, a composition in which pope's method of treating mournful topics is excellently displayed. the opening lines are suggested by ben jonson's _elegy on the marchioness of winchester_, a lady whose death was also lamented by milton. these we shall not quote, but take in preference a passage which is perhaps as graceful an expression of poetical rhetoric as can be found in pope's verse. 'by foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, by foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, by foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, by strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned! what though no friends in sable weeds appear, grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, and bear about the mockery of woe, to midnight dances and the public show? what though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, nor polished marble emulate thy face? what though no sacred earth allow thee room, nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb? yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest, and the green turf lie lightly on thy breast; there shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, there the first roses of the year shall blow; while angels with their silver wings o'ershade the ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.' for some years pope had been brooding over and slowly labouring at a task which was destined to add greatly to his fame and also to his fortune. in 1708 his early friend, sir william trumbull, had advised him to translate the _iliad_, and five years later the poet, following the custom of the age, invited subscriptions to the work, which was to appear in six volumes at the price of six guineas. about this time swift, who by the aid of his powerful pen was assisting harley and st. john to rule the country, made pope's acquaintance, and ultimately became perhaps the most faithful of his friends. swift, who was able to help everybody but himself, zealously promoted the poet's scheme, and was heard to say at the coffee-houses that 'the best poet in england mr. pope a papist' had begun a translation of homer which he should not print till he had a thousand guineas for him. he was not satisfied with this service, but introduced the poet to st. john, atterbury, and harley. the first volume of pope's _homer_ appeared in 1715, and in the same year addison's friend tickell published his version of the first book of the _iliad_. pope affected to believe that this was done at addison's instigation. already, as we have said, there had been a misunderstanding between the two famous wits, and pope, whose irritable temperament led him into many quarrels and created a host of enemies, ceased from this time to regard addison as a friend. probably neither of them can be exempted from blame, and we can well believe that addison, whose supremacy had formerly been uncontested, could not without some jealousy 'bear a brother near the throne,' but the chief interest of the estrangement to the literary student is the famous satire written at a later date, in which addison appears under the character of atticus.[13] it is necessary to add here that the whole story of the quarrel comes to us from pope, who is never to be trusted, either in prose or verse, when he wishes to excuse himself at the expense of a rival. pope had no cause for discontent at his position; not even the strife of parties stood in the way of his _homer_, which was praised alike by whig and tory, and brought the translator a fortune. it has been calculated that the entire version of the _iliad_ and _odyssey_, the payments for which covered eleven years, yielded pope a clear profit of about £9,000, and it is said to have made at the same time the fortune of his publisher. pope, i believe, was the first poet who, without the aid of patronage or of the stage, was able to live in comfort from the sale of his works. he knew how to value money, but fame was dearer to him than wealth, and of both he had now enough to satisfy his ambition. posterity has not endorsed the general verdict of his contemporaries on his famous translation. he had to encounter indeed some severe comments, and richard bentley, the greatest classical scholar then living, must have vexed the sensitive poet when he told him that his version was a pretty poem but he must not call it homer. by this criticism, however, as matthew arnold has observed, the work is judged in spite of all its power and attractiveness. pope wants homer's simplicity and directness, and his artifices of style are utterly alien to the homeric spirit. dr. johnson quotes the judgment of critics who say that pope's _homer_ 'exhibits no resemblance of the original and characteristic manner of the father of poetry, as it wants his awful simplicity, his artless grandeur, his unaffected majesty,' and observes that this cannot be totally denied. he argues, however, that even in virgil's time the demand for elegance had been so much increased that mere nature could be endured no longer, that every age improves in elegance, that if some ovidian graces are, alas! not to be found in the english _iliad_ 'to have added can be no great crime if nothing be taken away.' johnson was not aware that to add 'poetical elegances' to the words and thoughts of a great poet is to destroy much of the beauty of his verse and many of its most striking characteristics. as well might he say that the beauty of a lovely woman can be enhanced by a profusion of trinkets, or that a greek statue would be more worthy of admiration if it were elegantly dressed. dr. johnson says, with perfect truth, that pope wrote for his own age, and it may be added that he exhibits extraordinary art in ministering to the taste of the age; yet it is hardly too much to affirm that in the exercise of his craft as a translator he is continually false to nature and therefore false to homer. on the other hand his _iliad_ if read as a story runs so smoothly, that the reader, and especially the young reader, is carried through the narrative without any sense of fatigue. it is not a little praise to say that it is a poem which every school-boy will read with pleasure, and in which every critical reader who is content to surrender his judgment for awhile, will find pleasure also. mr. courthope in his elaborate and masterly _life of pope_, which gives the coping stone to an exhaustive edition of the poet's works, praises a fine passage from the _iliad_, which in his judgment attains perhaps the highest level of which the heroic couplet is capable, and 'i do not believe,' he adds, 'that any englishman of taste and imagination can read the lines without feeling that if pope had produced nothing but his translation of homer, he would be entitled to the praise of a great original poet.' pope's editor could not perhaps have selected a better illustration of his best manner than this speech of sarpedon to glaucus, which is parodied in the _rape of the lock_. the concluding lines shall be quoted. 'could all our care elude the gloomy grave, which claims no less the fearful than the brave, for lust of fame i should not vainly dare in fighting fields, nor urge the soul to war, but since, alas! ignoble age must come, disease, and death's inexorable doom; the life which others pay let us bestow, and give to fame what we to nature owe; brave though we fall, and honoured if we live, or let us glory gain, or glory give.' we may add that neither its false glitter nor pope's inability--shared in great measure with every translator--to catch the spirit of the original, can conceal the sustained power of this brilliant work. its merit is the more wonderful since the poet's knowledge of greek was extremely meagre, and he is said to have been constantly indebted to earlier translations. gibbon said that his _homer_ had every merit except that of faithfulness to the original; and pope, could he have heard it, might well have been satisfied with the verdict of gray, a great scholar as well as a great poet, that no other version would ever equal his. all that has been hitherto said with regard to pope and homer relates to his version of the _iliad_. on that he expended his best powers, and on that it is evident he bestowed infinite pains. the _odyssey_, one of the most beautiful stories in the world, appears to have been taken up with a weary pen, and in putting it into english he sought the assistance of broome and fenton, two minor poets and cambridge scholars. they translated twelve books out of the twenty-four, and so skilfully did they catch pope's style that it is almost impossible to discern any difference between his work and theirs. the literary partnership led to one of pope's discreditable manoeuvres, in which, strange to say, he was assisted by broome, whom he induced to set his name to a falsehood. pope as we have said, translated twelve books, while eight were allotted to broome and four to fenton. yet he led broome, unknown to his colleague, to ascribe only three books to himself and two to fenton, and at the same time the poet, who confessed that he could 'equivocate pretty genteely,' stated the amount he had paid for broome's eight books as if it had been paid for three. the story is disgraceful both to pope and broome, and why the latter should have practised such a deception is unaccountable. he was a beneficed clergyman and a man of wealth, so that he could not have lied for money even if pope had been willing to bribe him. fenton was indignant, as he well might be, but he was too lazy or too good-natured to expose the fraud. broome had his deserts later on, but pope, who ridiculed him in the _dunciad_, and in his _treatise on the bathos_, was the last man in the world entitled to render them. the partnership in poetry which produced the _odyssey_ was not a great literary success, and most readers will prefer the version of cowper, whose blank verse, though out of harmony with the rapid movement of the _iliad_ is not unfitted for the quieter beauties of the _odyssey_. in 1721, prior to the publication of his version, the poet had agreed to edit an edition of shakespeare, a task as difficult as any which a man of letters can undertake. pope was not qualified to achieve it. he was comparatively ignorant of elizabethan literature, the dry labours of an editor were not to his taste, and he lacked true sympathy with the genius of the poet. failure was therefore inevitable, and theobald, who has some solid merits as a commentator, found it easy to discern and to expose the errors of pope. for doing so he was afterwards 'hitched' into the _dunciad_, and made in the first instance its hero. the "shakespeare" was published in 1725 in six volumes quarto. 'its chief claim,' mr. courthope writes, 'to interest at the present day, is that it forms the immediate starting-point for the long succession of pope's satires.... the vexation caused to the poet by the undoubted justice of many of theobald's strictures procured for the latter the unwelcome honour of being recognized as the king of the dunces, and coupled with bentley's disparaging mention of the translation of the _iliad_ provoked the many contemptuous allusions to verbal criticism in pope's later satires.'[14] a striking peculiarity of pope's art may be mentioned here. he was able only to play on one instrument, the heroic couplet. when he attempted any other form of verse the result, if not total failure, was mediocrity. it was a daring act of pope to suggest by his _ode on st. cecilia's day_, a comparison with the _alexander's feast_ of dryden. the performance is perfunctory rather than spontaneous, and the few lyrical efforts he attempted in addition, show no ear for music. the voice of song with which even the minor poets of the elizabethan age were gifted was silent in england, though not in scotland, during the first half of the eighteenth century, or if a faint note is occasionally heard, as in the lyrics of gay, it is without the grace and joyous freedom of the earlier singers. not that the lyrical form was wanting; many minor versifiers, like hughes, sheffield, granville, and somerville, wrote what they called songs, but unfortunately without an ear for singing. in this short summary and criticism of a poet's literary life it would be out of place to insert many biographical details, were it not that, in the case of pope, the student who knows little or nothing of the man will fail to understand his poetry. a distinguished critic has said that the more we know of pope's age the better shall we understand pope. with equal truth it may be said that a familiarity with the poet's personal character is essential to an adequate appreciation of his genius. his friendships, his enmities, his mode of life at twickenham, the entangled tale of his correspondence, his intrigues in the pursuit of fame, his constitutional infirmities, the personal character of his satires, these are a few of the prominent topics with which a student of the poet must make himself conversant. it may be well, therefore, to give the history in brief outline, and we have now reached the crisis in his fortunes which will conveniently enable us to do so. in 1716 pope's family had removed from binfield to chiswick. a year later he lost his father, to whose memory he has left a filial tribute, and shortly afterwards he bought the small estate of five acres at twickenham with which his name is so intimately associated. before reaching the age of thirty pope was regarded as the first of living poets. his income more than sufficed for all his wants. at twickenham the great in intellect, and the great by birth, met around his table; he was welcomed by the highest society in the land, and although proud of his intimacy with the nobility, 'unplaced, unpensioned,' he was 'no man's heir or slave,' and jealously preserved his independence. 'pope,' says johnson, 'never set genius to sale, he never flattered those whom he did not love, or praised those whom he did not esteem,' and he was, we may add, in this respect a striking contrast to dryden, who lavished his flatteries wholesale. with a mother to whom he was tenderly attached, with troops of friends, with an undisputed supremacy in the world of letters, and with a vocation that was the joy of his heart,--if possessions like these can confer happiness, pope should have been a happy man. but his 'crazy carcass,' as the painter jervas called it, was united to the most suspicious and irritable of temperaments, and the fine wine of his poetry was rarely free from bitterness in the cup. pope could be a warm friend, but was not always a faithful one, and even women whose friendship he had enjoyed suffered from the venom of his satire. he was not a man to rise above his age, and it would be charitable to ascribe a portion of his grossness to it. voltaire is said by his loose talk to have driven pope's good old mother from the table at twickenham; walpole's language not only in his home at houghton, but at court, was insufferably coarse; and pope wrote to ladies in language that must have disgusted modest women even in his free-speaking day. his foul lines on lady mary wortley montagu, to whom he had formerly written in a most ridiculous strain of gallantry, and to whom he is said to have made love,[15] cannot easily be characterized in moderate language. lady mary had little delicacy herself, but the poet, who thought himself a gentleman, had no excuse for abusing her. excuses indeed are not easily to be offered for pope's moral defalcations. his life was a series of petty intrigues, trickeries, and deceptions. he could not, it has been said,--the conceit is borrowed from young's _satires_--'take his tea without a stratagem,' and knew how to utter the loftiest sentiments while acting the most contemptible of parts. the long and intricate deceptions which he practised to secure the publication of his letters, while so manipulating them as to enhance his credit, were suspected to some extent in his own age, and have been painfully laid bare in ours. it is an amazing story, which may be read at large in mr. dilke's _papers of a critic_, or in the elaborate narrative of mr. elwin in the first volume of his edition of _pope_. it will be there seen how the poet compiled fictitious letters, suppressed passages, altered dates, manufactured letters out of other letters, and secretly enabled the infamous bookseller curll to publish his correspondence surreptitiously in order that he might have the excuse for printing it himself in a more carefully prepared form. the worst feature of the miserable story is the poet's conduct with regard to swift, his oldest and most faithful friend. on this subject the writer may be allowed to quote what he has said elsewhere. 'years before, swift, who cared little for literary reputation, and never resorted to any artifice to promote it, had suspected pope of a desire to make literary capital out of their correspondence, and the poet had excused himself according to his wonted fashion. after the publication by curll, he begged swift to return him his letters lest they should fall into the bookseller's hands. the dean replied, no doubt to pope's infinite chagrin, that they were safe in his keeping, as he had given strict orders in his will that his executors should burn every letter he might leave behind him. afterwards he promised that pope should eventually have them but declined giving them up during his lifetime. hereupon pope changed his tactics and begged that he might have the letters to print. the publication by curll of two letters (probably another _ruse_ of pope's) formed an additional ground for urging his request. all his efforts were unavailing until he obtained the assistance of lord orrery, to whom swift was at length induced to deliver up the letters. there was a hiatus in the correspondence and pope took advantage of this and of a blunder made by swift, whose memory at the time was not to be trusted, to hint, what he dared not directly assert, that the bulk of the collection remained with the dean, and that swift's own letters had been returned to him. we have now irresistible proof that the dublin edition of the letters was taken from an impression sent from england and sent by pope. nor was this all. the poet acted with still greater meanness, for he had the audacity to deplore the sad vanity of swift in permitting the publication of his correspondence, and to declare that "no decay of body is half so miserable."'[16] that he had many fine qualities in spite of the littlenesses which mar his character one would be loath to doubt. among his nobler traits was an ardent passion for literature, a courage which enabled him to face innumerable obstacles--'pope,' says mr. swinburne, 'was as bold as a lion'--and a constant devotion to his parents, especially to his mother, who lived to a great age. there are no sincerer words in his letters than those which relate to mrs. pope. 'it is my mother only,' he once wrote, regretting his inability to leave home, 'that robs me of half the pleasure of my life, and that gives me the greatest at the same time,' and the lines expressing his affection for her are familiar to most readers. truly does johnson say that 'life has among its soothing and quiet comforts few things better to give than such a son.' among his lady friends the dearest was martha blount, the younger of two beautiful sisters, of whom gay sang as 'the fair-haired martha and teresa brown.' they came of an old roman catholic family residing at mapledurham, and were little more than girls when pope first knew them. with the elder sister he quarrelled, but martha was faithful to him for life, and when he was dying it is said that her coming in 'gave a new turn of spirits or a temporary strength to him.' swift, as we have said, was one of the warmest of pope's friends, and his letters to the poet are by far the most attractive portion of the published correspondence. he visited him at twickenham more than once, and on one occasion spent some months under his roof. bolingbroke, his 'guide, philosopher, and friend,' who for a time lived near to him at dawley, was a frequent guest, so also, in the days of their intimacy, was lady mary, who had a house at twickenham. thomson the poet, too, lived not far off, and was visited by his brother bard, whom thomson's barber describes as 'a strange, ill-formed, little figure of a man,' but he adds, 'i have heard him and quin and patterson[17] talk so together that i could have listened to them for ever.' arbuthnot, one of the finest wits and best men of his time, who, as swift said, could do everything but walk, was also a faithful friend of pope; so was gay, and so was bishop atterbury, who, as the poet said, first taught him to think "as becomes a reasonable creature." james craggs, who had been formerly secretary of state, and was on the warmest terms of intimacy with the poet, resided for some time near his friend in order to enjoy the pleasure of his society. when in office he proposed to pay him a pension of £300 a year out of the secret service money, but pope declined the offer. statesmen and men of active pursuits cultivated the society of the poetical recluse, and pope, whose compliments are monuments more enduring than marble, has recorded their visits to twickenham: 'there, my retreat the best companions grace, chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place, there st. john mingles with my friendly bowl, the feast of reason and the flow of soul, and he whose lightning pierced the iberian lines[18] now forms my quincunx and now ranks my vines.' among pope's associates was the 'blameless bethel,' '---who always speaks his thought, and always thinks the very thing he ought,' and berkeley who had 'every virtue under heaven,' and lord bathurst who was unspoiled by wealth and joined 'with splendour, charity; with plenty, health;' and 'humble allen' who 'did good by stealth and blushed to find it fame;' and many another friend who lives in his verse and is secure of the immortality a poet can confer. the five volumes which contain the letters between pope and his friends exhibit an interesting picture of the times and of the writers. the poet's own letters, as may be supposed from the thought he bestowed on them, are full of artifice, and composed with the most elaborate care. every sentence is elaborately turned, and the ease and naturalness which give a charm to the letters of cowper and of southey are not to be found in pope. his epistles are weighted with compliments and with professions of the most exalted morality. 'he laboured them,' says horace walpole, 'as much as the _essay on man_, and as they were written to everybody they do not look as if they had been written to anybody.' pope said once, what he did not mean, that he could not write agreeable letters. this was true; his letters are, as charles fox said, 'very bad,' but some of pope's friends write admirably, and if there is much that can be skipped without loss in the correspondence, there is much which no student of the period can afford to neglect. 'there has accumulated,' says mark pattison, 'round pope's poems a mass of biographical anecdote such as surrounds the writings of no other english author,' and not a little knowledge of this kind is to be gleaned from his correspondence. in the years spent at twickenham pope produced his most characteristic work. it is as a satirist that he, with one exception, excels all english poets, and pope's careful workmanship often makes his satirical touches more attractive than dryden's. 'to attack vices in the abstract,' he said to arbuthnot, 'without touching persons, may be safe fighting indeed, but it is fighting with shadows;' and pope, under the plea of a detestation of vice, generally betrayed his contempt or hatred of the men whom he assailed. no doubt the critics and grub street hacks of the day gave him provocation. pope, however, was frequently the first to take the field, and so eager was he to meet his foes that it would seem as if he enjoyed the conflict. yet there were times when he felt acutely the assaults made upon him. 'these things are my diversion,' he once said, with a ghastly smile, and it was observed that he writhed in agony like a man undergoing an operation. the attacks made with these paper bullets, not only on the side of grub street but on his own, show very vividly the coarseness of london society. courtesy was disregarded by men who claimed to be wits and scholars. pope held, perhaps, a higher place in literature in his own day than lord tennyson has held in ours, for the best beloved of laureates had noble rivals and friends who came near to him in fame, while pope, until the publication of thomson's _seasons_, in 1730, stood alone in poetical reputation. yet he was reviled in the language of billingsgate, and had no scruple in using that language himself. late in life pope collected the libels made upon him and bound them in four volumes, but he omitted to mention the provocation which gave rise to many of them. eusden, colley cibber, dennis, theobald, blackmore, smyth, and lord hervey are among the prominent criminals placed in pope's pillory, and the student of the age may find an idle entertainment in tracking the poet's thorny course, while he gives an unenviable notoriety to names of which the larger number were 'born to be forgot.' in 1725 swift had written to pope advising him not to immortalize the names of bad poets by putting them in his verse, and pope replied to this advice by saying, 'i am much the happier for finding (a better thing than our wits) our judgments jump in the notion that all scribblers should be passed by in silence.' how entirely his inclination got the better of his judgment was seen three years later in the _dunciad_. the first three books of this famous satire were published in 1728. it is generally regarded as pope's masterpiece, but the accuracy of such an estimate is doubtful. so heavily weighted is the poem with notes, prefaces, and introductions that the text appears to be smothered by them. it was pope's aim to mystify his readers, and in this he has succeeded, for the mystifications of the poem even confound the commentators. the personalities of the satire excited a keen interest, and much amusement to readers who were not included in pope's black list of dunces. at the same time it roused a number of authors to fury, as it well might. his satire is often unjust, and he includes among the dunces men wholly undeserving of the name, who had had the misfortune to offend him. to place a great scholar like bentley, an eloquent and earnest preacher like whitefield, and a man of genius like defoe among the dunces was to stultify himself, and if pope in his spite against theobald found some justification for giving the commentator pre-eminence for dulness in three books of the _dunciad_, his anger got the better of his wit when in book iv. he dethroned theobald to exalt colley cibber. for cibber, with a thousand faults, so far from being dull had a buoyancy of heart and a sprightliness of intellect wholly out of harmony with the character he is made to assume. that he might have some excuse for his dashing assaults in the _dunciad_, pope had published in the third volume of the _miscellanies_, of which he and swift, arbuthnot and gay were the joint authors, an _essay on bathos_ in which several writers of the day were sneered at. the assault provoked the counter-attack for which pope was looking, and he then produced the satire which was already prepared for the press. in its publication the poet, as usual, made use of trickery and deception. at first he issued an imperfect edition with initial letters instead of names, but on seeing his way to act more openly, the poem appeared in a large edition with names and notes. 'in order to lessen the danger of prosecution for libel,' mr. courthope writes, 'he prevailed on three peers, with whom he was on the most intimate terms, the good-natured lord bathurst, the easy-going earl of oxford, and the magnificent earl of burlington, to act as his nominal publishers; and it was through them that copies of the enlarged edition were at first distributed, the booksellers not being allowed to sell any in their shops. the king and queen were each presented with a copy by the hands of sir r. walpole. in this manner, as the report quickly spread that the poem was the property of rich and powerful noblemen, there was a natural disinclination on the part of the dunces to take legal proceedings, and the prestige of the _dunciad_ being thus fairly established, the booksellers were allowed to proceed with the sale in regular course.'[19] the _dunciad_ owes its merit to the literary felicities with which its pages abound. the theme is a mean one. pope, from his social eminence at twickenham, looks with scorn on the authors who write for bread, and with malignity on the authors whom he regarded as his enemies. there is, for the most part, little elevation in his method of treatment, and we can almost fancy that we see a cruel joy in the poet's face as he impales the victims of his wrath. some portions of the _dunciad_ are tainted with the imagery which, to quote the strong phrase of mr. churton collins, often makes swift as offensive as a polecat,[20] and there is no part of it which can be read with unmixed pleasure, if we except the noble lines which conclude the satire. those lines may be almost said to redeem the faults of the poem, and they prove incontestably, if such proof be needed, pope's claim to a place among the poets. 'in vain, in vain,--the all-composing hour resistless falls; the muse obeys the power. she comes! she comes! the sable throne behold, of night primæval and of chaos old! before her fancy's gilded clouds decay, and all its varying rainbows die away. wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, the meteor drops, and in a flash expires, as one by one at dread medea's strain, the sickening stars fade off the etherial plain; as argus' eyes by hermes' wand opprest, closed one by one to everlasting rest; thus at her felt approach and secret might, art after art goes out, and all is night. see skulking truth to her old cavern fled, mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head! philosophy that leaned on heaven before, shrinks to her second cause, and is no more; physic of metaphysic begs defence, and metaphysic calls for aid on sense! see mystery to mathematics fly! in vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. religion blushing veils her sacred fires, and unawares morality expires. nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! lo! thy dread empire, chaos! is restored; light dies before thy uncreating word; thy hand, great anarch! lets the curtain fall; and universal darkness buries all.' the publication of the _dunciad_ showed pope where his main strength as a poet lay. that the writers he had attacked, in many instances without provocation, should resent the ungrateful notoriety conferred upon them was inevitable. in self-defence, and to add to the provocation already given, he started a paper called the _grub street journal_, which existed for eight years--pope, who had no scruple in 'hazarding a lie,' denying all the time that he had any connection with it. his next work of significance, _the essay on man_, a professedly philosophical poem by an author who knew little of philosophy, was published in four epistles, in 1733-4. bolingbroke's brilliant, versatile, and shallow intellect had strongly impressed swift, and had also fascinated pope. it has been commonly supposed that the _essay_ owes its existence to his suggestion and guidance. the poet believed in his philosophy, and had the loftiest estimate of his genius. in the last and perhaps finest passage of the poem he calls bolingbroke the 'master of the poet and the song,' and draws a picture of the ambitious statesman as beautiful as it is false. in mark pattison's introduction to _the essay on man_,[21] which every student of pope will read, he objects to the notion that the poet took the scheme of his work from bolingbroke, observing that both derived their views from a common source. 'everywhere, in the pulpit, in the coffee-houses, in every pamphlet, argument on the origin of evil, on the goodness of god, and the constitution of the world was rife. into the prevailing topic of polite conversation bolingbroke, who returned from exile in 1723, was drawn by the bent of his native genius. pope followed the example and impulse of his friend's more powerful mind. thus much there was of special suggestion. but the arguments or topics of the poem are to be traced to books in much vogue at the time; to shaftesbury's _characteristics_ (1711), king on the _origin of evil_ (1702), and particularly to leibnitz, _essais de théodicée_ (1710).' in admitting that pope followed the impulse of a more powerful mind, mr. pattison asserts as much perhaps as can be known with certainty as to bolingbroke's influence, but it is reasonable to believe that the close intercourse of the two men did immensely sway the more impressionable, and, so far as philosophy is concerned, the more ignorant of the two. mr. pattison also overlooks the fact that pope confessed to warburton that he had never read a line of leibnitz in his life. that the poet acknowledges his large debt to bolingbroke, and that bolingbroke confesses it was due, is all that can be declared with certainty. that which makes the _essay_ worthy the reading is the fruit, not of the argument but of the poetry, and for that pope trusted to his own genius. his attempt to 'vindicate the ways of god to man' is confused and contradictory, and no modern reader, perplexed with the mystery of existence, is likely to gain aid from pope. nominally a roman catholic, and in reality a deist, apart from poetry he does not seem to have had strong convictions on any subject, and was content to be swayed by the opinions current in society. in undertaking to write an ethical work like the _essay_ his ambition was greater than his strength, yet if pope's philosophy does not 'find' us, to use coleridge's phrase, it did appeal to a large number of minds in his own day, and had not lost its popularity at a later period. the poem has been frequently translated into french, into italian, and into german; it was pronounced by voltaire to be the most useful and sublime didactic poem ever written in any language; it was admired by kant and quoted in his lectures; and it received high praise from the scotch philosopher, dugald stewart. the charm of poetical expression is lost or nearly lost in translations, and while the sense may be retained the aroma of the verse is gone. the popularity of the _essay_ abroad is therefore not easily to be accounted for, unless we accept the theory that the shallow creed on which it is based suited an age less earnest than our own.[22] pope has no strong convictions in this poem, but he has many moods. on one page he is a pantheist, on another he says what he probably did not mean, that god inspires men to do evil, and on a third that 'all our knowledge is ourselves to know.' nowhere in the argument does pope seem to have a firm standing, and de quincey is not far wrong in saying that it is 'the realization of anarchy.' read the poem for its poetical merits and you will forget its defects. pope was a superficial teacher, but direct teaching is not the end of poetry. _the essay on man_ is not a poem which can be read and re-read with ever-growing delight, but there are passages in it of as fine an order as any that he has composed on more familiar subjects. pope was, as sir william hamilton said, a curious reader, and the ideas versified in the poem may be traced to a variety of sources. students who wish to follow this track will find all the help they need in mr. pattison's instructive notes, and in the comments attached to the poem in elwin and courthope's edition. in his introduction mr. pattison observes that 'the subject of the _essay on man_ is not, considered in itself, one unfit for poetry. had pope had a genius for philosophy there was no reason why he should not have selected a philosophical subject. didactic poetry is a mistake if not a contradiction in terms. but poetry is not necessarily didactic because its subject is philosophical.' it is always difficult to define the themes suitable for poetry. many theories have been formed as to the scope of the art, and poets have been amply instructed by critics as to what they ought to do, and what they should avoid doing. the theories may appear sound, the arguments convincing, until a great poet arises and knocks them on the head. in a sense every poet of the highest order is also a philosopher and a prophet who sees into 'the life of things.' whether a philosophical subject can be fitly represented in the imaginative light of poetry is a matter for discussion rather than for decision. in the case of pope, however, it will be evident to all studious readers that he was incapable of the continuous thought needed for the argument of the _essay_. 'anything like sustained reasoning,' says mr. leslie stephen,' was beyond his reach. pope felt and thought by shocks and electric flashes.... the defect was aggravated or caused by the physical infirmities which put sustained intellectual labour out of the question.'[23] crousaz, a swiss pastor and professor, who appears to have competed with berkeley for a prize and won it, attacked pope's _essay_ for its want of orthodoxy, and his work was translated into english. the poet became alarmed, but had the good fortune to find a champion in warburton, who for the rest of his life did pope much service, not always of a reputable kind. we shall have more to say of him later on, and it will suffice to observe here that warburton, who through pope's friendship obtained a good wife, a fortune, and a bishopric, was not a man of high character. his sole object was to advance in life, and he succeeded. the _moral essays_ as they are called, and the _imitations from horace_ are the final and crowning efforts of the poet's genius. they contain his finest workmanship as a satirist, and will be read, i think, with more pleasure than the _dunciad_, despite mr. ruskin's judgment of that poem as 'the most absolutely chiselled and monumental work "exacted" in our country.'[24] it is impossible to concur in this estimate. the imagery of the poem serves only to disgust, and the spiteful attacks made in it on forgotten men want the largeness of purpose that lifts satire above what is of temporary interest, making it a lesson for all time. pope's venom, and the personal animosities which give the sharpest sting, and in some instances a zest, to his verse, are also amply displayed in the _moral essays_ and in the _imitations_, but the scope is wider in these poems, and the subjects allow of more versatile treatment. they should be read with the help of notes, a help generally needed for satirical poetry, but it should be remembered always that editorial judgments are to be received with discretion and not servilely followed. there is perhaps no danger more carefully to be shunned by the student of literature than the habit of resting satisfied with opinions at second-hand. better a wrong estimate formed after due reading and thought, than a right estimate gleaned from critics, without any thought at all. according to warburton, who is as tricky as pope himself when it suits his purpose to be so, the _essay on man_ was intended to form four books, in which, as part of the general design, the _moral essays_ would have been included, as well as book iv. of the _dunciad_, but to have welded these _essays_, which were published separately, into one continuous poem would neither have suited pope's genius nor the character of the poems; and how the last book of the _dunciad_ could have been included in such an _olla podrida_ it is difficult to conceive. the poet was fond of projects, and this, happily for his readers, remained one. the dates of the four _essays_, which are really epistles, and appeared in folio pamphlets, run over several years, but were afterwards re-arranged by pope. that to lord burlington, _of the use of riches_ (epistle iv.), was published in 1731, under the title, _of false taste_; that to lord bathurst, _of the use of riches_ (epistle iii), in 1732; the epistle to lord cobham (epistle i.), _of the knowledge and characters of men_, bears the date of 1733; and that to a lady (epistle ii.), _of the characters of women_, in 1735. pope wrote other epistles, some at a much earlier period of his career, which follow the _moral essays_ but are not connected with them. of these one is addressed to addison, two are to martha blount, for whom the second of the _moral essays_ was written; one to the painter jervas, originally printed in 1717; while another, a few lines only in length, was addressed to craggs when secretary of state. space will not allow of examining each of the _essays_ minutely, but there are portions of them which call for comment. the first _moral essay_, _of the knowledge and characters of men_, in which pope enlarges on his theory of a ruling passion, affords a significant example of his incapacity for sustaining an argument, since warburton, to use his own words, entirely changed and reversed the order and disposition of the several parts to make the composition more coherent. that he has succeeded is doubtful, that he should have ventured upon such a task shows where pope's weakness lay as a philosophical poet. it is the least interesting of the _essays_, but is not without lines that none but pope could have written. _the characters of women_, the subject of the second _essay_, was not one which the satirist could treat with justice. he saw little in the sex save their foibles, and the lines with which it opens show the spirit that animates the poem: 'nothing so true as what you once let fall; "most women have no character at all," matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, and best distinguished by black, brown, or fair.' the satire contains one of pope's offensive allusions to lady mary, and the celebrated portrait drawn from two notable women, the duchess of buckingham and sarah, duchess of marlborough, from the latter of whom the poet, at one time, despite his unquestionable love of independence, received £1,000. the story, like many another in the career of pope, is wrapt in mystery. pope took great pains with the epistle _of the use of riches_. it was altered from the original conception by the advice of warburton, who cared more for the argument of a poem than for its poetry. the thought and purpose of the _essay_ are defective, notwithstanding warburton's effort to clear them, but these defects are of slight moment when compared with the brilliant passages with which the poem is studded. among them is the famous description of the duke of buckingham's death-bed which should be compared with dryden's equally famous lines on the same nobleman's character. 'in the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, the floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, on once a flock-heel, but repaired with straw, with tape-tied curtains never meant to draw, the george and garter dangling from that bed where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, great villiers lies--alas! how changed from him, that life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! gallant and gay, in cliveden's proud alcove, the bower of wanton shrewsbury and love; or just as gay at council, in a ring of mimic statesmen and their merry king. no wit to flatter left of all his store! no fool to laugh at, which he valued more. there, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, and fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.' there is also a covert attack in this epistle upon the moneyed interest represented by walpole, and on the political corruption which he sanctioned and promoted. yet pope knew how to praise the great whig statesman for his social qualities: 'seen him i have, but in his happier hour of social pleasure, ill exchanged for power; seen him uncumbered with the venal tribe, smile without art and win without a bribe.' epistle iv. pursues the same subject as the third, and deals mainly with false taste in the expenditure of wealth, and with the necessity of following 'sense, of every art the soul.' in this poem there is the far-famed description of timon's villa, and by timon pope was accused of representing the duke of chandos, whose estate at canons he is supposed to have held in scorn after having been, as he acknowledges, 'distinguished' by its master. that would not have deterred pope from producing a brilliant picture, and his equivocations did but serve to increase suspicion. probably he found it convenient to use some features of what he may have seen at canons while composing a general sketch with no special application. the _moral essays_, it may be added, are not especially moral, but they are full of fine things, and form a portion of pope's verse second only to the _imitations from horace_. these _imitations_ are introduced by the prologue addressed to dr. arbuthnot, a poem of more than common brilliancy, and also more than commonly venomous. nowhere, perhaps, is there in pope's works so powerful and bitter an attack as the twenty-five lines in the prologue devoted to the vivisection of lord hervey, which we are forced to admire while feeling their malevolence; nowhere is there a more consummate piece of satire than the twenty-two lines that contain the poet's masterpiece, the character of atticus; and nowhere, i may add, are there lines more personally interesting. portions of the poem were written long before the date of publication, and this is pope's excuse, a rather lame one perhaps, for printing the character of atticus and the lines on his mother after the death of addison and of mrs. pope. 'when i had a fever one winter in town,' pope said to his friend spence, 'that confined me to my room for some days, lord bolingbroke came to see me, happened to take up a horace that lay on the table, and in turning it over dipt on the first satire of the second book. he observed how well that would hit my case if i were to imitate it in english. after he was gone i read it over, translated it in a morning or two, and sent it to press in a week or fortnight after. and this was the occasion of my imitating some other of the satires and epistles afterwards.' bolingbroke did his friend a better service in giving this advice than he had done with regard to the _essay on man_; and the six _imitations_, with the prologue and epilogue, which are among the latest fruits of pope's genius as a satirist, are also the ripest. warburton, writing of the _imitations of horace_, says: 'whoever expects a paraphrase of horace or a faithful copy of his genius or his manner of writing in these _imitations_ will be much disappointed. our author uses the roman poet for little more than his canvas; and if the old design or colouring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he employs his own without scruple or ceremony.' this is true. pope makes use of horace when it suits his convenience, but never follows him servilely, and quits him altogether when his design carries him another way. it was inevitable that he should exercise this freedom, since, as johnson has pointed out, there will always be an irreconcilable dissimilitude between roman images and english manners. moreover, the aim of the two poets was different, pope's main object being to express personal enmities and to give an exalted notion of his own virtue. in the opening lines of his first satire pope follows horace pretty closely. both poets complain that some persons think them too severe, and others too complaisant; both take the advice of a lawyer, horace of c. trebatius testa, who gives him the pithiest replies; and pope of fortescue. both complain that they cannot sleep, the prescription of a wife and cowslip wine being given by the english adviser, while testa advises horace to swim thrice across the tiber and moisten his lips with wine. throughout the rest of the satire pope takes only casual glances at the roman original, and if in the second satire the english poet follows horace in the first few verses in recommending frugality, and in the advice to keep the middle state, and neither to lean on this side or on that, the resemblance between the poets is seldom striking, and the spirit which animates them is different,--horace being classical, and therefore open to the apprehension of all educated readers, while pope is in a sense provincial, and, as i have already said with reference to the _dunciad_, cannot be fully enjoyed or even understood without some knowledge of the time and of the men whom he lashes in his satire. the sixth epistle of the first book of horace, which pope attempts to imitate, is, as mr. courthope observes, 'incapable of imitation. its humour, no less than its philosophy, belongs entirely to the pagan world.' in a general sense it is also true that horace's style, whether of language or of thought, will not bear transplanting. indeed, whatever is most characteristic and most exquisite in a poet's work is precisely the portion which cannot be clothed in a foreign dress. 'life,' said pope, 'when the first heats are over is all down hill,' and with him the downward progress began at a time when most men are still standing on the summit. never was there a more fiery spirit in so weak a body. he suffered frequently from headaches, which he relieved by inhaling the steam of coffee. unfortunately he pampered his appetite and paid a heavy penalty for doing so. every change of weather affected him; and at the time when most people indulge in company, he tells swift that he hid himself in bed. although he sneers at lord hervey for taking asses' milk he tried that remedy himself, and he frequently needed medical aid. in his early days he was strong enough to ride on horseback, but in later life his weakness was so great that he was in constant need of help. m. taine, whose criticism of pope needs to be read with caution, indulges in an exaggerated description of his bodily condition, observing that when arrived at maturity he appeared no longer capable of existing, and styling him 'a nervous abortion.' the poet's condition was sad enough as told by dr. johnson, without amplifying it as m. taine has done. 'one side was contracted. his legs were so slender that he enlarged their bulk with three pairs of stockings, which were drawn on and off by the maid; for he was not able to dress or undress himself, and neither went to bed nor rose without help. his weakness made it very difficult for him to be clean.' after this forlorn description of the poet's state it is a little grotesque to read that his dress of ceremony was black, with a tie-wig and a little sword. a distorted body often holds a generous and untainted soul. this was not the case with pope, and the sympathy he stood in so large a need of himself, was seldom given to others. in the spring of 1744 it became evident that the end was approaching. three weeks before his death he distributed the _moral epistles_ among his friends, saying: 'here i am, like socrates, dispensing my morality amongst my friends just as i am dying.' he died peacefully on may 30th, 1744, and was buried in twickenham church near the monument erected to his parents. pope's standing among his country's poets has been the source of much controversy. there have been critics who deny to him the name of a poet, while others place him in the first rank. in his own century there was comparatively little difference of opinion with regard to his merits. chesterfield gave him the warmest praise; swift, addison, and warburton ranked him with the peers of song; johnson, whose discriminative criticism reaches perhaps its highest level in his _life of pope_, in reply to the question which had been asked, even in his day, whether pope was a poet? asks in return, 'if pope be not a poet, where is poetry to be found?' and adds that 'to circumscribe poetry by a definition will only show the narrowness of the definer, though a definition which shall exclude pope will not readily be made.' joseph warton, too, johnson's contemporary and friend, while preferring the romantic school to the classical, allows that in that species of poetry wherein pope excelled he is superior to all mankind. in our century bowles, whose edition of his works provoked prolonged discussion, in which campbell, byron, and the _quarterly review_ took part, places pope above dryden. byron, with more enthusiasm than judgment, regarded him as the greatest name in our poetry; scott, with generous appreciation of a genius so alien to his own, called him a 'true deacon of the craft,' and at one time proposed editing his works, a task projected also by mr. ruskin, who, putting shakespeare aside as rather the world's than ours, holds pope 'to be the most perfect representative we have since chaucer of the true english mind.' 'matched on his own ground,' says mr. swinburne, 'he never has been nor can be.' and mr. lowell in the same strain observes that 'in his own province he still stands unapproachably alone.' what then is pope's ground? what is this province of which he is the sole ruler? to a considerable extent the question has been answered in these pages, but it may be well to sum up with more definiteness what has been already stated. in poetry pope takes a first place in the second order of poets. the deficiencies which forbid his entrance into the first rank are obvious. he cannot sing, he has no ear for the subtlest melodies of verse, he is not a creative poet, and has few of the spirit-stirring thoughts which the noblest poets scatter through their pages with apparent unconsciousness. there are no depths in pope and there are no heights; he has neither eye for the beauties of nature, nor ear for her harmonies, and a primrose was no more to him than it was to peter bell. these are defects indeed, but nothing is more unfair says a great french critic than to judge notable minds solely by their defects, and in spite of them pope's position is so unassailable that the critic must take a contracted view of the poet's art who questions his right to the title. his merits are of a kind not likely to be affected by time; a lively fancy, a power of satire almost unrivalled, and a skill in using words so consummate that there is no poet, excepting shakespeare, who has left his mark upon the language so strongly. the loss to us if pope's verse were to become extinct cannot readily be measured. he has said in the best words what we all know and feel, but cannot express, and has made that classical which in weaker hands would be commonplace. his sensibility to the claims of his art is exquisite, the adaptation of his style to his subject shows the hand of a master, and if these are not the highest gifts of a poet, they are gifts to which none but a poet can lay claim. footnotes: [11] some qualification may be made to these statements. pope took pleasure in landscape gardening on the english plan, as opposed to the formality of the french and dutch systems, and the design of the prince of wales's garden is said to have been copied from the poet's at twickenham. [12] elwin and courthope's _pope_, vol. ii. p. 160. [13] see the epistle to dr. arbuthnot. [14] elwin and courthope's _pope_, vol. v., p. 195. [15] 'lady mary,' says byron, 'was greatly to blame in that quarrel for having encouraged pope.... she should have remembered her own line, '"he comes too near who comes to be denied."' [16] _studies in english literature_, p. 47.--_stanford._ [17] quin (1693-1766) was the famous actor, and patterson was thomson's deputy in the surveyor-generalship of the leeward isles, and ultimately his successor. [18] the earl of peterborough, the meteor-like brilliancy of whose actions forms one of the most striking chapters in the history of his time. [19] _life of pope_, p. 216. [20] 'pope and swift,' says dr. johnson, 'had an unnatural delight in ideas physically impure, such as every other tongue utters with unwillingness, and of which every ear shrinks from the mention.' [21] clarendon press, oxford. [22] no doubt many distinguished foreigners who appreciated the beauty of the poem had read it in the original. [23] stephen's _pope_, p. 163. [24] _lectures on art_, p. 70, oxford. chapter ii. prior, gay, young, blair, thomson. [sidenote: matthew prior (1664-1721).] the ease with which the queen anne wits obtained office and rose to posts of high trust through the pleasant art of verse-making, is conspicuous in the career of prior. his parents are unknown, the place of his birth is somewhat doubtful, although he is claimed by wimborne-minster, in dorsetshire, and the first trustworthy facts recorded of his early career are that he was a westminster scholar when the famous dr. busby, whose discipline was physical as well as mental, presided over the school. his father died, and his mother being no longer able to pay the school fees, prior was placed with an uncle who kept the rhenish wine tavern in westminster. his seat was in the bar, and there the earl of dorset (1637-1705-6), a small poet, but a generous patron of poets, found the youth reading horace, and, pleased with his 'parts,' sent him back to westminster, whence he went up to cambridge as a scholar at st. john's, the college destined a century later to receive one of the greatest of english poets. charles montague, afterwards earl of halifax (1661-1715), the son of a younger son of a nobleman, was also a westminster scholar. he entered trinity college in 1679, and like prior appears to have owed his good fortune to the rhymer's craft. 'at thirty,' writes lord macaulay, 'he would gladly have given all his chances in life for a comfortable vicarage and a chaplain's scarf. at thirty-seven he was first lord of the treasury, chancellor of the exchequer, and a regent of the kingdom.' the literary history of the queen anne age has many associations with his name. he proved a liberal patron of the wits, and of pope among them, by subscribing largely to his _homer_; but the poet's memory was stronger for imaginary injuries than for real benefits, and because halifax had patronized tickell, he figures in the prologue to the satires as 'full-blown bufo, puffed by every quill.' prior and montague began their rhyming career early, and a partnership production, entitled the _hind and panther, transversed to the story of the country mouse and the city mouse_ (1687), a parody of dryden's famous poem published in the same year, brought both authors into notice. at the age of twenty-six prior, who had previously obtained a fellowship, was appointed secretary to the embassy at the hague. after that he rose steadily to eminence, became secretary of state in ireland, and was finally appointed ambassador at the french court. high office brings its troubles, and in those days was not without its perils. in 1711 prior was sent secretly to paris to negotiate a peace, for which, when the whigs came again into power, he was imprisoned and expected to lose his head. while in prison, where he remained for two years (1715-1717), the poet wrote _alma_, a humorous and speculative poem on the relations of the soul and body, and when released published his _poems_ by subscription in a noble folio, said to be the largest-sized volume in the whole range of english poetry. he gained 4,000 guineas by the publication, and with that sum and an estate purchased for him by lord harley, prior was able to live in comfort. he died in september, 1721, in his fifty-eighth year, and was buried in westminster abbey, under a monument for which he had had the vanity to pay five hundred pounds. the peculiar merit of prior is better understood in our day than it was in his own. we read his poems solely for the sake of the 'lighter pieces,' which johnson despised. the poet thought _solomon_ his best work, but no one who toils through the three books which form that poem is likely to agree with this estimate. dulness pervades the work like an atmosphere, but it had its admirers in the last century, and among them was john wesley, who, in reply to johnson's complaint of its tediousness, said he should as soon think of calling the second or sixth æneid tedious. in the preface to the poem prior declares that he "had rather be thought a good englishman than the best poet or greatest scholar that ever wrote," a passage which does more honour to the poet than any in the text. a far more popular piece was _henry and emma_, which even so fine a judge of poetry as cowper called 'inimitable.' tastes change, let us hope for the better, and possibly none but the greatest poets remain unaffected by time. assuredly prior does not, and _henry and emma_ affords a striking illustration of the contrast between the poetical spirit of prior's age and that which influences ours. the poem is founded on the fine ballad of the _nut-browne maide_. the story, as originally told, is homely and quaint, written without apparent effort and told in 360 lines. prior requires considerably more than twice that number, and his maid and her lover, instead of using the simple language befitting the theme, employ the conventional machinery of the age, and bring jove and mars, cupid and venus upon the scene, with allusions to marlborough's victories and to 'anna's wondrous reign.' _alma_, a poem written in hudibrastic verse, which shows that prior had in a measure caught the vein of butler, has some couplets familiar in quotations. he won, too, not a little contemporary reputation for his tales in verse, which are singularly coarse; but an age that tolerated mrs. manley and read the plays and novels of aphra behn was not likely to object to the grossness of prior. dr. johnson would not admit that his poems were unfit for a lady's table, and wesley, who appears to have been strangely oblivious to prior's moral delinquencies, observes that his tales are the best told of any in the english tongue. cowper praised him for his 'charming ease,' and this gift enabled him to write some of the most delightful occasional verses produced in the century. there is nothing more exquisite of its kind than his address, _to a child of quality_, written when the child was five years old and the poet forty, and one is not surprised to learn that prior was admired by thomas moore, who more than once caught his note. a reader familiar with moore and ignorant of prior would without hesitation attribute the following stanzas, from the _answer to chloe jealous_, to the irish poet: 'the god of us versemen (you know, child), the sun, how after his journeys he sets up his rest; if at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, at night he declines on his thetis's breast. 'so when i am wearied with wandering all day, to thee, my delight, in the evening i come; no matter what beauties i saw in my way; they were but my visits, but thou art my home. 'then finish, dear cloe, this pastoral war, and let us, like horace and lydia, agree; for thou art a girl as much brighter than her as he was a poet sublimer than me.' "the grammatical lapse in these last two lines," says mr. austin dobson, "perhaps calls for correction, but many readers will probably agree with moore (_diary_, november, 1818), 'that it is far prettier as it is.' 'nothing,' he says truly, 'can be more gracefully light and gallant than this little poem.'" it was fancy and not imagination which conceived the following lines, but how charming is the fancy! the poem, which is given in a slightly abridged form, is addressed 'to a lady: she refusing to continue a dispute with me, and leaving me in the argument. 'in the dispute whate'er i said, my heart was by my tongue belied; and in my looks you might have read how much i argued on your side. 'you, far from danger as from fear, might have sustained an open fight; for seldom your opinions err; your eyes are always in the right. 'alas! not hoping to subdue, i only to the fight aspired; to keep the beauteous foe in view was all the glory i desired. 'but she, howe'er of victory sure, contemns the wreath too long delayed; and, armed with more immediate power, calls cruel silence to her aid. 'deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: she drops her arms, to gain the field; secures her conquest by her flight; and triumphs, when she seems to yield. 'so when the parthian turned his steed, and from the hostile camp withdrew; with cruel skill the backward reed he sent; and as he fled, he slew.' wit and a ready command of verse are the characteristics of prior's poetry. both of these gifts are to be seen in his lively _english ballad on the taking of namur by the king of great britain_, in which he travesties boileau's _ode sur la prise de namur_. as an epigrammatist he reaped his advantage from a study of martial, and in this department of verse prior is often successful. if brevity be a prominent merit in an epigram, he sometimes excels his master, as, for example, in this stanza: 'to john i owed great obligation; but john unhappily thought fit to publish it to all the nation; sure john and i are more than quit.'[25] this is half the length of the original latin, and what it loses in elegance it gains in point. it may be hoped that the next quotation is a libel on bishop atterbury; if so, the lines have every merit but truth. the epigram is on the funeral of the duke of buckingham, who died in 1721. 'i have no hopes,' the duke he says, and dies; 'in sure and certain hopes,' the prelate cries: of these two learned peers, i prithee say, man, who is the lying knave, the priest or layman? the duke he stands an infidel confest; 'he's our dear brother,' quoth the lordly priest. the duke, though knave, still 'brother dear,' he cries; and who can say the reverend prelate lies? prior, it may be observed here, could say pointed things in prose as well as in verse, and nothing can be happier than his reply to the frenchman's inquiry whether the king of england had anything to show in his palace equal to the paintings at versailles illustrating the victories of louis xiv: 'the monuments of my master's actions,' said the poet, 'are to be seen everywhere except in his own house.' it is always interesting to link poet with poet, and in relation to prior many readers will recall the pathetic incident related of sir walter scott when the wonderful intellect which had entranced the world was giving indications of decay. lockhart relates how, as they were travelling together, a quotation from prior led scott to make another, slightly altered for the occasion, and he adds: 'this seemed to put him into the train of prior, and he repeated several striking passages both of the _alma_ and the _solomon_. he was still at this when we reached a longish hill, and he got out to walk a little. as we climbed the ascent, he leaning heavily on my shoulder, we were met by a couple of beggars, who were, or professed to be, old soldiers both of egypt and the peninsula. one of them wanted a leg, which circumstance alone would have opened scott's purse-strings, though, _ex facie_, a sad old blackguard; but the fellow had recognized his person as it happened, and in asking an alms bade god bless him fervently by his name. the mendicants went on their way, and we stood breathing on the knoll. sir walter followed them with his eye, and planting his stick firmly on the sod, repeated, without break or hesitation prior's verses to the historian mezeray. that he applied them to himself was touchingly obvious, and therefore i must quote them. '"whate'er thy countrymen have done, by law and wit, by sword and gun, in thee is faithfully recited; and all the living world that view thy work, give thee the praises due, at once instructed and delighted. '"yet for the fame of all these deeds, what beggar in the _invalides_, with lameness broke, with blindness smitten, wished ever decently to die, to have been either mezeray, or any monarch he has written? '"it strange, dear author, yet it true is, that down from pharamond to louis all covet life, yet call it pain: all feel the ill, yet shun the cure; can sense this paradox endure? resolve me cambray[26] or fontaine. '"the man in graver tragic known (though his best part long since was done), still on the stage desires to tarry; and he who played the harlequin, after the jest still loads the scene, unwilling to retire, though weary."' [sidenote: john gay (1685-1732).] gay, who enjoyed an unbroken friendship with the brotherhood of wits, and was treated by them like a spoilt child, was born at barnstaple in 1685, and left an orphan at the age of ten. he was educated at the free grammar school in the town, and was afterwards, to his discontent, apprenticed to a mercer in london. he escaped from this uncongenial employment to be dependent on an uncle, and thus early exhibited his life-long disposition to rely upon others for support. 'providence,' swift writes, 'never designed gay to be above two-and-twenty by his thoughtlessness and gullibility. he has as little foresight of age, sickness, poverty, or loss of admirers as a girl of fifteen.' his weakness, it has been said, appealed to swift's strength, and swift, pope, and arbuthnot were gay's most faithful friends. they found something in him to laugh at and to love. ladies, too, treated him with the kind of friendliness which has a touch of commiseration. in 1714 gay was appointed secretary to lord clarendon, a post which he owed to swift, but the death of queen anne in that year brought the whigs into office, and destroyed the poet's prospects. prior to this he had been secretary to the imperious duchess of monmouth. he was now left without money or employment, and owed much to the generosity of pope. it was gay's lot 'in suing long to bide,' to be always hoping, and nearly always disappointed. 'he seems,' says his latest biographer, 'to have begun his career under the impression that it was somebody's duty to provide for him in the world, and this impression clung to him through nearly the whole of a lifetime.'[27] ten years before his death he was eagerly looking to others for support. writing to swift, he says: 'i lodge at present in burlington house, and have received many civilities from many great men, but very few real benefits. they wonder at each other for not providing for me, and i wonder at them all.' gay's first poem of any mark was _the shepherd's week_ (1714), six burlesque pastorals, a subject proposed to him by pope, who was then smarting from the praise philips had received in _the guardian_. but if pope meant gay to poke his fun at philips in _the shepherd's week_, he must have been disappointed, for the poems were accepted as genuine bucolics, and although humorously absurd, are, to say the least, more true to rustic life than the pastorals either of philips or of pope. _the shepherd's week_ was followed by _trivia_ (1715), a piece suggested by swift's _city shower_. it is one of gay's most notable productions, not as a poem, but as a vivid description of the streets of london nearly two hundred years ago. the great reputation he obtained as the author of _the fables_ (1727), and still more of _the beggar's opera_ (1728), the idea of which was suggested to gay by swift, survived him for some years. _the fables_ were written for and dedicated to the youthful duke of cumberland, who is asked to "accept the moral lay, and in these tales mankind survey." there is skill and ingenuity in the poems, but higher merit they cannot boast, and young readers are likely to prefer the illustrations which generally accompany _the fables_ to the letterpress. many of gay's allusions are beyond the apprehension of the young, and have a political flavour. _the beggar's opera_ was intended as a burlesque of the italian opera, which had been long the laughing-stock of men of letters, and as the play was thought to have political significance, and the character of macheath to be a portrait of walpole, it was received with enthusiasm, and acted in london for about sixty nights. so popular did the opera become, that ladies carried about the songs on their fans. eight years before, gay had published his poems by subscription, and in those happy days for versemen had gained £1,000 by the venture. he put the money into south sea stock, and lost it all. for _the beggar's opera_ he received about £800. it was followed by _polly_, a play of the same coarse character, which, for political reasons, was not allowed to be acted. the result was that it had a large sale, and put money in gay's purse. ten thousand five hundred copies are said to have been printed in one year, and the £1,200 realized by the sale were very wisely retained for the poet's use by the duke of queensberry, under whose roof he had at length found a warm nest. to the student gay is chiefly interesting as the only noteworthy poet of the period, south of the tweed, gifted with a lyrical capacity. two or three of his songs and ballads, and especially _black-eyed susan_, have a charm beyond the reach of the mechanical versifier. but the art of song is at a low level even in the hands of gay. the lyric which the elizabethan and jacobean poets loved so well, and of which the present century has produced specimens to be matched only by shakespeare, may be said to have been lost to english poetry for the first half of the last century, since neither prior's verse, delightful though it be, nor the songs of gay, have enough of the poetical element to form exceptions to this statement. in his _tales_ he follows prior in grossness, while inferior to him in art. like the greater number of the queen anne poets, gay flatters with a free hand. in an epistle addressed to lintot, the bookseller, he declares that anacreon lives once more in sheffield, and waller in granville, that buckingham's verse will last to distant time; while ovid sings again in addison, and 'homer's _iliad_ shines in his _campaign_.' one of the liveliest and most graceful of gay's poems is addressed to pope 'on his having finished his translation of homer's _iliad_.' it is called _a welcome from greece_, and describes the friends who assembled to greet the poet on his return to england. three stanzas from the epistle shall be quoted: 'oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay! the sky re-echoes with new shouts of joy; by all this show, i ween 'tis lord mayor's day; i hear the voice of trumpet and hautboy- no, now i see them near.--oh, these are they who come in crowds to welcome thee from troy. hail to the bard, whom long as lost we mourned from siege, from battle, and from storm returned! 'what lady's that to whom he gently bends? who knows not her? ah! those are wortley's eyes: how art thou honoured, numbered with her friends! for she distinguishes the good and wise. the sweet-tongued murray near her side attends; now to my heart the glance of howard flies; now hervey, fair of face, i mark full well, with thee youth's youngest daughter, sweet lepell. 'i see two lovely sisters hand in hand, the fair-haired martha and teresa brown; madge bellenden, the tallest of the land; and smiling mary, soft and fair as down. yonder i see the cheerful duchess stand, for friendship, zeal, and blithesome humours known; whence that loud shout in such a hearty strain? why, all the hamiltons are in her train!' gay's love of good living was known to all his friends. 'as the french philosopher,' congreve wrote, 'used to prove his existence by _cogito ergo sum_, the greatest proof of gay's existence is _edit ergo est_.' for a long time his health compelled him to give up wine, and he tells swift that he had also left off verse-making, 'for i really think that man must be a bold writer who trusts to wit without it.' he was dispirited, he told swift not long before his death, for want of a pursuit, and found 'indolence and idleness the most tiresome things in the world.' gay died in 1732 at the duke of queensberry's house, and pope grieved that one of his nearest and longest ties was broken. he was interred, to quote arbuthnot's words, 'as a peer of the realm,' in westminster abbey. the superficial character of the poet may be seen in his couplet transcribed upon the monument: 'life is a jest, and all things show it; i thought so once, and now i know it.' [sidenote: edward young (1684-1765).] gay's moderate gift of song was withheld from the famous author of the _night thoughts_. yet young was vain enough to think that he possessed it, and wrote a patriotic ode called _ocean_, preceded by an elaborate essay on lyric poetry. he also produced _imperium pelagi_ (1729), _a naval lyric written in imitation of pindar's spirit_. the lyric, which was travestied by fielding in his _tom thumb_,[28] reads like a burlesque, and badly treated though pindar was by the versemen of the last century, there is perhaps not one of them who mocks him more outrageously than young. he says that this ode is an original, and no critic is likely to dispute the assertion. young was born in 1684 at upham, near winchester, his father, who was afterwards dean of sarum, being at that time the rector of the village. edward was placed upon the foundation at winchester college, and remained there until he was eighteen. he was then sent up to new college, and afterwards removed to corpus. at the age of twenty-seven he was nominated to a law fellowship at all souls, and took his degree of b.c.l. and his doctor's degree some years later. characteristically enough he began his poetical career by _an epistle to lord lansdowne_ (1712), who is praised for his heavenly numbers, and is said to have been born "to make the muse immortal." his next poem of any consequence, _the last day_, written in heroic couplets, and filling three books, is correct, or fairly so, in versification, and execrable in taste. young, it may be supposed, wished to produce a sense of solemnity in the treatment of his theme, and he does so by lamenting that the very land 'where the stuarts filled an awful throne' will in that day be forgotten. the want of taste which so often deforms young's verse is also seen in the imagery he employs to illustrate the fear which even good men may have on appearing before that 'dread tribunal.' 'thus the chaste bridegroom, when the priest draws nigh, beholds his blessing with a trembling eye; feels doubtful passions throb in every vein, and in his cheeks are mingled joy and pain, lest still some intervening chance should rise, leap forth at once, and snatch the golden prize, inflame his woe, by bringing it so late, and stab him in the crisis of his fate.' his next poem, _the force of religion, or vanquished love_, was suggested by the execution of lady jane grey and lord guildford, a subject chosen for a tragedy by john banks (1694), by rowe in 1715, and treated with considerable dramatic power in our own day by ross neil. in young's hands this fine theme becomes a rhetorical exercise without poetry and without pathos. a few lines will suffice to show the style of the poem. jane and dudley, it must be premised, are imprisoned in a gloomy hall: 'what can they do? they fix their mournful eyes- then guildford, thus abruptly: "i despise an empire lost; i fling away the crown; numbers have laid that bright delusion down; but where's the charles, or dioclesian, where, could quit the blooming, wedded, weeping fair? oh! to dwell ever on thy lip! to stand in full possession of thy snowy hand! and thro' the unclouded crystal of thine eye the heavenly treasures of thy mind to spy! till rapture reason happily destroys, and my soul wanders through immortal joys! give me the world, and ask me, where's my bliss? i clasp thee to my breast and answer, this."' verse of this quality, which might be amply quoted, is of interest to the student of literature, since in young's day it passed current for poetry. but in accepting his claims as a poet the faith of the age must have been often strained. walpole, who despised the whole tribe of poets, and cared nothing for literature, had by some strange chance awarded to young a pension of £200 a-year, whereupon in a piece called _the instalment_, addressed to sir robert, britain is called upon to behold 'his azure ribbon and his radiant star,' and the poet's breast 'glows with grateful fire' as he exclaims: 'the streams of royal bounty turned by thee refresh the dry domains of poesy. my fortune shows, when arts are walpole's care, what slender worth forbids us to despair: be this thy partial smile from censure free, 'twas meant for merit, though it fell on me.' following in the steps of george sandys, but with inferior power, and in a less racy diction, young performed the vain task of paraphrasing part of the book of job, one of the noblest poems the world possesses, and translated in our authorized version in language not to be surpassed for dignity and simplicity. in 1719 his _busiris_ was performed. _the revenge_, a better known tragedy, written on the french model, followed in 1721, and kept the stage for some time. seven years later _the brothers_, his third and last tragedy, was in rehearsal, but the poet, who had lately taken holy orders, withdrew it at the last moment. these tragedies, which are full of sound and fury, are destitute of tragic power. _the revenge_, in which zanga acts the part of an iago, has some forcible scenes, and so, despite much rant and fustian, has _busiris_. plenty of blood is shed, of course, and the heroines of the plays die by their own hands. tragedy is supposed to exercise an elevating influence, but to counteract this happy result, _busiris_ and _the revenge_ are followed by indecent epilogues, in which the speakers jest at the feelings which the plays may have excited. for _the brothers_ young wrote his own epilogue. it is decent and dull. his genius was better fitted for satire than for the drama, and _the universal passion_, which consists of seven satires published in a collected form in 1728, brought him reputation and money. the poet crabbe was never more surprised in his life than when john murray (the famous 'my murray' of byron) gave him £3,000 for the copyright of his poems; young received the same sum for work immeasurably inferior in value, and in a less legitimate way. two thousand pounds, it is stated, was a gift from the duke of grafton, who said it was the best bargain he ever made, as the satires were worth £4,000. young, it will be seen, preceded pope as a satirist. he is more generous and humane, and has none of the venomous attacks on living persons by which pope added piquancy to his verse. but he is a careless writer, and for the most part lacks the exquisite precision, the subtle wit, the rhythmical felicity, which make the couplets of pope so memorable. _the dunciad_, the _moral essays_, and the _imitations_ are read by all lovers of literature, but _the universal passion_ is forgotten. of the six satires, the two on women are the most spirited, and may be compared with pope's on the same subject. the different foibles, and faults worse than foibles of the women of that day are exhibited with a satirist's licence, and occasionally with a pope-like terseness. take the following, for example: 'there is no woman where there's no reserve, and 'tis on plenty your poor lovers starve.' 'few to good breeding make a just pretence; good breeding is the blossom of good sense.' 'a shameless woman is the worst of men.' 'naked in nothing should a woman be, but veil her very wit with modesty.' it was not until he was nearly fifty that young, disappointed of the preferment he sought, took holy orders, and in 1730 accepted the college living of welwyn, in herts, which he held till his death. in the following year the poet married lady elizabeth lee, a daughter of the earl of lichfield, a union that lasted ten years. one son was the offspring of this marriage. lady elizabeth had a daughter by a former marriage, who was married to mr. temple, a son of lord palmerston, and shortly before her own death she lost both daughter and son-in-law, who, there can be little doubt, are the philander and narcissa of the _night thoughts_, the earlier books of which were published in 1742. this once celebrated poem, written in his old age, is the one effort of young's genius that has enjoyed a great popularity. it suited well an age which, while far from moral, delighted in moral treatises and in didactic verse. in the _night thoughts_ young remembers that he is a clergyman, and puts on his gown and bands. he puts on also his singing robes, and shows the reader what none of his earlier poems prove, that he is in the presence of a poet. the _night thoughts_ is remarkable in its finest passages for a strong, but sombre imagination, and for a command of his instrument that puts young at times nearly on a level with the greatest masters of blank verse. on this height, however, he does not stay long. he is rich in great thoughts, but they do not fall unconsciously, as it were, while the poet pursues his argument. they are aphorisms uttered generally in single lines which are apt to break the continuity of the poem and to injure the harmony of its versification. the theme of life, death, and immortality is not a narrow one, and affords ample space for imaginative treatment. young's treatment of it is too often declamatory; he drops the poet in the rhetorician and the wit. there is much of the false sublime in the poem, and much that reveals the hollow character of the writer. the first book is the finest, sparkling with felicitous expressions and rising frequently to true poetry. the poetical quality of that book, however, is lessened by the author's passion for antithesis. the merit of the following passage, for example, is not due to poetical inspiration: 'how poor, how rich, how abject, how august, how complicate, how wonderful is man! how passing wonder he, who made him such! who centered in our make such strange extremes from different natures, marvellously mixed, connexion exquisite of distant worlds! distinguished link in being's endless chain! midway from nothing to the deity; a beam etherial, sullied, and absorbt! though sullied and dishonoured still divine! dim miniature of greatness absolute! an heir of glory! a frail child of dust! helpless immortal! insect infinite! a worm! a god!--i tremble at myself, and in myself am lost. at home a stranger, thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, and wondering at her own: how reason reels! o what a miracle to man is man! triumphantly distressed! what joy! what dread! alternately transported and alarmed! what can preserve my life? or what destroy? an angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave: legions of angels can't confine me there.' the opening of the ninth and last book will give a more favourable illustration of young's style: 'as when a traveller, a long day past in painful search of what he cannot find, at night's approach, content with the next cot, there ruminates awhile, his labour lost; then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, and chants his sonnet to deceive the time, till the due season calls him to repose; thus i, long-travelled in the ways of men, and dancing with the rest the giddy maze where disappointment smiles at hope's career; warned by the languor of life's evening ray, at length have housed me in an humble shed, where, future wandering banished from my thought, and waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest, i chase the moments with a serious song. song soothes our pains, and age has pains to soothe.' while moralizing on man's mortality young is seldom a cheerful monitor, he dwells with too great persistence on the incidents of death and of bodily corruption, too little on life with which we have more to do than with death. thus with a strange perversion he exclaims: 'this is the desart, this the solitude, how populous, how vital, is the grave! this is creation's melancholy vault, the vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom, the land of apparitions, empty shades! all, all on earth is shadow, all beyond is substance; the reverse is folly's creed.' and harping on the same theme in the ninth book, says: 'what is the world itself? thy world--a grave. where is the dust that has not been alive? the spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors; from human mould we reap our daily bread; the globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, and is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. o'er devastation we blind revels keep; whole buried towns support the dancer's heel.' [sidenote: robert blair (1699-1746).] on laying down the _night thoughts_ the student may be advised to read blair's _grave_, a poem in less than 800 lines of blank verse, composed in a fresher and more rigorous style than the far larger work of young, and rather moulded, as mr. saintsbury has observed, 'upon dramatic than upon purely poetical models.' _the grave_, which was written before the publication of the _night thoughts_,[29] abounds with poetical felicities, and is pregnant with suggestions that seize the imagination, and appeal alike to the intellect and the heart. the brevity of the piece is in its favour; there is not a line that flags. 'tell us, ye dead! will none of you, in pity to those you left behind, disclose the secret? oh! that some courteous ghost would blab it out,- what 'tis you are and we must shortly be. i've heard that souls departed have sometimes forewarned men of their death. 'twas kindly done to knock and give the alarm. but what means this stinted charity? 'tis but lame kindness that does its work by halves. why might you not tell us what 'tis to die? do the strict laws of your society forbid your speaking upon a point so nice?--i'll ask no more: sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine enlightens but yourselves. well, 'tis no matter; a very little time will clear up all, and make us learn'd as you are, and as close.' blair, who was a scotch clergyman, wrote also an _elegy in memory of william law_, a professor of moral philosophy in edinburgh, whose daughter he married. he writes in a masculine and homely style. his imagery is often more powerful than pleasing, but some of his similes win attention by their beauty. for example: "look how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears stand thick as dewdrops on the bells of flowers." among the victims claimed by the grave is 'the long demurring maid, whose lonely unappropriated sweets smiled, like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff, not to be come at by the willing hand.' and the death of a good man is pictured in this musical couplet: 'night dews fall not more gently to the ground nor weary worn out winds expire so soft.' cowper, referring to the poets of his century, said that every warbler had pope's tune by heart. but if they had the tune by heart, many of them did not make it a vehicle for their verse, and among these are poets of the weight and worth of thomson and young, of gray and collins. poets of a minor order, too, such as somerville, armstrong, glover, shenstone, akenside, and john dyer, either did not use the heroic distich which pope crowned with such honour, or used it in their least significant poems. [sidenote: james thomson (1700-1748).] thomson's influence, though less visible than pope's, was probably as great. it was felt by the poets who loved nature, and had no turn for satire. to pass to him from prior, gay, and young is to leave the town for the country. english poetry owes much to the author of _the seasons_, who was the first among the poets of his century to bring men back to 'nature, the vicar of the almighty lord.' he could not, indeed, shake off altogether the fetters of the conventional diction current in his day, and his style is often turgid and verbose. but thomson had, to use a phrase of his own, 'a fine flame of imagination,' and when brought face to face with nature he has the inspiration of a poet who discerns the lessons which nature is ready to teach. james thomson was born at ednam, on the banks of the tweed, on september 11th, 1700, but his father removed to jedburgh shortly afterwards, and there the future poet gained his first impression of rural scenes. he began to rhyme in boyhood, but, unlike most young poets, had the good sense to make an annual bonfire of his youthful effusions. at the early age of fifteen he was sent to the university at edinburgh, his father, who was a presbyterian minister, wishing that his son should follow the same vocation. but thomson was not destined to 'wag his head in a pulpit.' he had a friend at this time in david mallet, a minor poet of more prudence than principle, and when mallet had the good fortune to gain a tutorship in london, his companion also started for the metropolis in search of money and fame. it was a desperate venture, and the young poet's difficulties were increased by the loss of his letters of introduction. scotchmen however have always countrymen willing to help them, and thomson whose pedigree on the mother's side connected him with the famous house of home, found temporary employment as tutor to a child of lord binning who belonged by marriage to the same family. afterwards he resided with millan, a bookseller at charing cross, and then having finished _winter_ (1726), on which he had been at work for some time, he sold it to the publisher for three guineas. before long it was read and warmly praised by aaron hill, then a man of mark in the world of letters. sir spencer compton, the speaker, to whom the poem was dedicated, gave the poet twenty guineas for the compliment; rundle, the bishop of derry, and several ladies of rank cheered him with their praise, and thomson's success was assured. it was the age of patrons, and he practised without shame and without discrimination the art of flattery. each book of _the seasons_ had a dedication, and the honour was one for which some kind of payment was expected. _summer_ appeared in 1727 and _spring_ in the year following. in 1729 the appearance of _britannia_ showed the popularity of the poet and of his theme, for three editions were sold. it is a distinctly party poem, and contains an attack upon walpole--whom he had previously praised as the 'most illustrious of patriots'--for submitting to indignities from spain. the british lion roars loudly in it, but there is more of fustian in the piece than of true patriotism. 'how dares,' the poet exclaims, 'the proud iberian rouse to wrath the masters of the main:' 'who told him that the big incumbent war would not ere this have rolled his trembling ports in smoky ruin? and his guilty stores, won by the ravage of a butchered world, yet unatoned, sunk in the swallowing deep, or led the glittering prize into the thames?' in february, 1729-30, thomson's tragedy of _sophonisba_, a subject previously chosen by marston (1606), and by lee (1676), was acted at drury lane. the play was dedicated to the queen, and on the opening night the house was crowded, but the success of the piece was slight. thomson's genius was not dramatic, and while his characters declaim, they do not act. his next play, _agamemnon_ (1738), was not lost for want of labour or of friends. pope appeared in the theatre on the first night, and was greeted with applause. the prince and princess of wales were present on another occasion, but the play did not live long. his third attempt, _edward and eleanora_, was prohibited by the lord chamberlain, since it was supposed to praise the prince of wales at the expense of the court. in 1740 the _masque of alfred_, by thomson and mallet, was performed. _tancred and sigismunda_ followed in 1745, and this tragedy, in which garrick played the leading part, had at the time a considerable measure of success. the plot is more interesting than that of _sophonisba_, and the characters are more life-like. despite its effusive sentiment, garrick's splendid acting would, no doubt, make the tragedy effective on the stage, but it does not add to the literary reputation of the poet. _coriolanus_, thomson's last drama, was not performed upon the stage until the year after his death. voltaire, who had met thomson and liked him--the liking, indeed, seemed to be universal--praised his tragedies for being 'elegantly writ.' 'it may be,' he says, 'that his heroes are neither moving nor busy enough, but taking him all in all, methinks he has the highest claim to the greatest esteem.' the value of voltaire's criticism of an english dramatist is best appreciated by remembering his ignorant judgment of shakespeare. thomson's laurels were gained in another field of poetry. on the production of _autumn_ in 1730, _the seasons_ in its complete form was published by subscription in quarto. the four books, as we have already said, appeared at different times, _winter_ being the first in order and _autumn_ the latest. the hymn with which the poem concludes may be compared, and will not greatly suffer in the comparison, with adam's morning hymn in the fifth book of _paradise lost_, and with coleridge's _hymn in the valley of chamouni_. like them it is raised, to use the poet's own words, to an 'almighty father.' a brief extract shall be given: 'his praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; and let me catch it as i muse along. ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound; ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze along the vale; and thou, majestic main, a secret world of wonders in thyself, sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, in mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him; breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, as home he goes beneath the joyous moon. * * * * * great source of day! best image here below of thy creator, ever pouring wide, from world to world, the vital ocean round, on nature write with every beam his praise. the thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world; while cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks retain the sound: the broad responsive low, ye valleys, raise; for the great shepherd reigns, and his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.' swift complains that the _seasons_, being all descriptive, nothing is doing, a defect inseparable from the subject. but the work has a poet's best gift--imagination--and a poet's instinct for apprehending the charm of what is minute in nature, as well as of what is grand. thomson has been called the naturalist's poet, and hartley coleridge observes that he is 'a perfect reservoir of natural images.' in his account of what he had learnt only by report he depends sometimes on the ignorant traditions of the country people; but in describing what he observes with the bodily eye, and with the eye of the mind, he is faithful to what he sees, and to what he perceives. no dutch painter can be more exact and accurate than thomson in the delineation of familiar scenes, and of animal life. in illustration of this gift, which cowper shares with him, a scene, not to be surpassed for truthfulness of description, shall be quoted from _winter_: 'through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, at first thin-wavering; till at last the flakes fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day with a continual flow. the cherished fields put on their winter robe of purest white. 'tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts along the mazy current. low the woods bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun, faint from the west, emits his evening ray, earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill, is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide the works of man. drooping, the labourer-ox stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands the fruit of all his toil. the fowls of heaven, tamed by the cruel season, crowd around the winnowing store, and claim the little boon which providence assigns them. one alone, the redbreast, sacred to the household gods, wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky, in joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves his shivering mates, and pays to trusted man his annual visit. half afraid, he first against the window beats; then brisk, alights on the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor, eyes all the smiling family askance, and pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is- till more familiar grown, the table-crumbs attract his slender feet. the foodless wilds pour forth their brown inhabitants. the hare, though timorous of heart and hard beset by death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, and more unpitying men, the garden seeks urged on by fearless want. the bleating kind eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth, with looks of dumb despair; then, sad-dispersed dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow.' thomson loves also to paint the landscape on a broad scale, and though his diction is sometimes too florid, he generally satisfies the imagination, as, for instance, in the splendid description in _summer_ of a sand-storm in the desert. 'breathed hot from all the boundless furnace of the sky, and the wide, glittering waste of burning sand, a suffocating wind the pilgrim smites with instant death. patient of thirst and toil, son of the desert! even the camel feels, shot through his withered heart, the fiery blast. or from the black-red ether, bursting broad, sallies the sudden whirlwind. straight the sands, commoved around, in gathering eddies play; nearer and nearer still they darkening come; till with the general all-involving storm swept up, the whole continuous wilds arise; and by their noonday fount dejected thrown, or sunk at night in sad disastrous sleep, beneath descending hills, the caravan is buried deep. in cairo's crowded streets the impatient merchant, wondering, waits in vain, and mecca saddens at the long delay.' the _seasons_ was at one time, and for many years the most popular volume of poetry in the country. it was to be found in every cottage, and passages from the poem were familiar to every school-boy. the appreciation of the work was more affectionate than critical, and thomson's faults were sometimes mistaken for beauties; but the popularity of the _seasons_ was a healthy sign, and the poem, a forerunner of cowper's _task_, brought into vigorous life, feelings and sympathies that had been long dormant. pope, who is twice mentioned in the poem, took a great interest in its progress through the press. thomson consulted him frequently, and accepted many of his suggestions, while apparently retaining at all times an independent judgment. to the familiar episode of 'the lovely young lavinia' the following graceful passage is said, but on very doubtful authority to have been added by pope.[30] the first line, given for the sake of the context, is from thomson's pen: 'thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, recluse amid the close-embowering woods; as in the hollow breast of apennine, beneath the shelter of encircling hills, a myrtle rises, far from human eye, and breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; so flourished, blooming and unseen by all, the sweet lavinia; till, at length, compelled by strong necessity's supreme command with smiling patience in her looks she went to glean palemon's fields.' thomson had now gained the highest mark of his fame, and, like pope, had won it in a few years. nearly two years of foreign travel followed, the poet having obtained the post of governor to a son of the solicitor-general. the fruit of this tour was a long poem in blank verse on _liberty_, which probably gave him infinite labour, but his ascent upon this occasion of what he calls 'the barren, but delightful mountain of parnassus,' was labour lost. it is enough to say of _liberty_, that it contains more than three thousand lines of unreadable blank verse. sinecures were the rewards of genius in thomson's day, and he was made secretary of briefs in the court of chancery. he took a cottage at richmond, within an easy walk of pope, and the two poets met often and lived amicably. thomson did not enjoy his official fortune long, for his patron died, and though he might have kept his post had he applied to the lord chancellor, in whose gift it was, he appears to have been too lazy to do so. his friend lyttelton in this emergency introduced him to the prince of wales, who, on learning that his affairs 'were in a more poetical posture than formerly,' gave him a pension of £100 a year. there was no certainty in a gift of this nature, and in about ten years it was withdrawn. _the castle of indolence_ (1748) was the latest labour of thomson's life, and in the judgment of many critics takes precedence of _the seasons_ in poetical merit. this verdict may be questioned, but the poem, written in the spenserian stanza, has a soothing beauty and an enchanting felicity of expression which show the poet's genius in a new light. it is unlike any poetry of that age, and when compared with _the seasons_, the verse, as wordsworth justly says, 'is more harmonious and the diction more pure.' all the imagery of the poem is adopted to the vague and sleepy action of the characters represented in it. it is a veritable poet's dream, which carries the reader in its earliest stanzas into 'a pleasing land of drowsy-head:' 'in lowly dale, fast by a river's side, with woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, a most enchanting wizard did abide, than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. it was, i ween, a lovely spot of ground; and there a season atween june and may half prankt with spring, with summer half embrowned, a listless climate made, where, sooth to say, no living wight could work, ne carèd even for play.' there are verbal inspirations in a great poet which satisfy the ear, capture the imagination, and live in the memory for ever. milton's pages are studded with them like stars; gray has a few, wordsworth many, and keats some not to be surpassed for witchery. of such poetically suggestive lines thomson has his share, and although it seems unfair to remove them from their context, the excision may be made in a few cases, since they show not only that a new poet had appeared in an age of prose, but a poet of a new order, whose inspiration was felt by his successors. how poetically imaginative is thomson's imagery of the 'meek-eyed morn, mother of dews;' of 'ships dim discovered dropping from the clouds;' of 'autumn nodding o'er the yellow plain;' of the summer wind 'sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn;' and of the hebrid-isles 'placed far amid the melancholy main,' a line which may have suggested the lovelier verse of wordsworth descriptive of the cuckoo: 'breaking the silence of the seas among the farthest hebrides.' thomson did not live long after the publication of _the castle of indolence_. a cold caught upon the river led to a fever, which ended fatally on august 27th, 1748. he had for some years been in love with a miss young, the 'amanda' of his very feeble love lyrics, and her marriage is said to have hastened his death. men, however, do not die for love at the mature age of forty-nine, and as thomson was 'more fat than bard beseems,' and was not always temperate in his habits, constitutional causes are more likely to have led to the poet's death than amanda's cruelty. dr. johnson says somewhere that the further authors keep apart from each other the better, and the literary squabbles of the last century afforded him good ground for the remark. it is to thomson's credit that, like goldsmith twenty-six years later, he died, leaving behind him many friends and not a single enemy. his fame rests upon two poems, _the seasons_ and _the castle of indolence_, and on a song which has gained a national reputation. apart from _rule britannia_, which appeared originally in the _masque of alfred_ and is spirited rather than poetical, his attempts to write lyrical poetry resulted in failure; but from his own niche in the temple of fame time is not likely to dislodge thomson. footnotes: [25] see _martialis epigrammata_, book v. lii. [26] fénelon was archbishop of cambray. [27] _the poetical works of gay_, edited, with life and notes, by john underhill, 2 vols. [28] 'i'll swim through seas; i'll ride upon the clouds; i'll dig the earth; i'll blow out every fire; i'll rave; i'll rant; i'll rise; i'll rush; i'll war; fierce as the man whom smiling dolphins bore from the prosaic to poetic shore. i'll tear the scoundrel into twenty pieces.' 'the reader,' fielding adds in a note, 'may see all the beauties of this speech in a late ode called a _naval lyric_.' [29] written but not published. the earlier books of the _night thoughts_ appeared in 1742, the _grave_ in 1743, but in a letter dated feb. 25th, 1741-2, blair in transmitting the ms. of the poem to a friend states that the greater portion of it was composed several years before his ordination ten years previously. southey states that blair's _grave_ is the only poem he could call to mind composed in imitation of the _night thoughts_, but the style as well as the date contradicts this judgment. [30] the tradition is founded on a volume in the british museum containing ms. corrections supposed to be in pope's handwriting. it is now, however, the opinion of experts that the writing is not pope's. if he be the author, it is the only example of blank verse which we have from his pen. chapter iii. minor poets. sir samuel garth--ambrose philips--john philips--nicholas rowe--aaron hill--thomas parnell--thomas tickell--william somerville--john dyer--william shenstone--mark akenside--david mallet--scottish song-writers. [sidenote: sir samuel garth (1660-1717-18).] in pope's day even the medical profession was influenced by party feeling, and samuel garth became known as the most famous whig physician, but his friendships were not confined to one side, and he appears to have been universally beloved. garth came of a yorkshire family, and was born in 1660. he was admitted a fellow of the college of physicians in 1693, gained a large practice, and is said to have been very benevolent to the poor. the _dispensary_ (1699) is a satire called forth by the opposition of the society of apothecaries, to an edict of the college, and is a mock-heroic poem, which the quarrel made so effective at the time that it passed through several editions. the merit of achieving what the satirist intended may therefore be granted to the _dispensary_. few modern readers, however, will appreciate the welcome it received, and it is ludicrous to read in anderson's edition of the poet that the poem 'is only inferior in humour, discrimination of character, and poetical ardour to the _rape of the lock_.' it would be far more accurate to say that the _dispensary_ has not a single merit in common with that poem, and but slight merit of any kind. the following passage upon death is the most vigorous, and is interesting as having supplied cowper with a line in the poem on his mother's picture:[31] ''tis to the vulgar death too harsh appears, the ill we feel is only in our fears; to die is landing on some silent shore where billows never break, nor tempests roar; ere well we feel th' friendly stroke 'tis o'er. the wise through thought th' insults of death defy, the fools through blest insensibility. 'tis what the guilty fear, the pious crave; sought by the wretch and vanquished by the brave. it eases lovers, sets the captive free, and though a tyrant, offers liberty.' addison in defending garth in the _whig-examiner_ from the criticisms of prior in the _examiner_, the organ of the tory party, says he does not question but the author 'who has endeavoured to prove that he who wrote the _dispensary_ was no poet, will very suddenly undertake to show that he who gained the battle of _blenheim_ is no general.' the comparison was an unfortunate one. marlborough's military reputation has grown brighter with time, garth's fame as a poet has long ago ceased to exist. a literary although not a poetical interest is associated with the name of "well-natured garth," who, as pope acknowledges, was one of his earliest friends; like arbuthnot, he lived among the wits, and as a member of the famous kit-cat club he wrote verses upon the whig beauties toasted by its members. his name is linked with dryden's as well as with that of his illustrious successor. it will be remembered how, on the death of dryden, the poet's body lay in state in the college of physicians, and how, before the great procession started for westminster abbey, sir samuel, who was then president, delivered a latin oration. garth died in january, 1717-18, and, according to pope, was a good christian without knowing it. addison, however, who visited garth in his last illness, told dr. berkeley that he rejected christianity on the assurance of his friend halley that its doctrines were incomprehensible, and the religion itself an imposture. according to another report which comes through pope, he actually 'died a papist.' [sidenote: ambrose philips (1671-1749).] ambrose philips, who belonged, like tickell, to addison's 'little senate,' was born in 1671, and educated at st. john's, cambridge. his _pastorals_ were published in tonson's _miscellany_ (1709), and the same volume contained the _pastorals_ of pope. log-rolling was understood in those days, and philips's verses received warm praise in more than one number of the _guardian_, the writer in one place declaring that there have been only four masters of the art in above two thousand years: 'theocritus, who left his dominions to virgil; virgil, who left his to his son spenser; and spenser, who was succeeded by his eldest born, philips.' pope's _pastorals_ were not mentioned, and in revenge he devised the consummate artifice of sending an anonymous paper to the _guardian_, in which, while appearing to praise philips, he exalted himself. steele took the bait, and considering that the essay depreciated pope would not publish it without his permission, which was of course readily granted. 'from that time,' says johnson, 'pope and philips lived in a perpetual reciprocation of malevolence.' philips's tragedy, _the distrest mother_ (1712), a translation, or nearly so, of racine's _andromaque_, was puffed in the _spectator_. it is the play to which sir roger de coverley was taken by his friends, and the representation supplied the good knight with an opportunity for much humorous comment. 'when sir roger saw andromache's obstinate refusal to her lover's importunities, he whispered me in the ear that he was sure she would never have him; to which he added with a more than ordinary vehemence, "you cannot imagine, sir, what it is to have to do with a widow." upon pyrrhus his threatening afterwards to leave her, the knight shook his head, and muttered to himself, "ay, do if you can." this part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination that at the close of the third act, as i was thinking of something else, he whispered in my ear, "these widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. but pray," says he, "you that are a critic, is this play according to your dramatic rules, as you call them? should your people in tragedy always talk to be understood? why, there is not a single sentence in this play that i do not know the meaning of."'[32] addison also inserted and praised in the _spectator_ philips's translations from sappho (nos. 223, 229). his odes to babes and children earned for him the _sobriquet_ of 'namby pamby,' 'a term which has been incorporated into the english language to designate mawkish sentiment. namby was the infantine pronunciation of ambrose, and pamby was formed by the first letter of philips's surname and that reduplication of sound which is natural to lisping children.'[33] between simplicity and absurdity the line is a narrow one, and philips stepped over it when he wrote to a child in the nursery- 'dimply damsel, sweetly smiling, all caressing, none beguiling; bud of beauty, fairly blowing, every charm to nature owing.' the longest of his baby songs is addressed to the hon. miss carteret, in which he pictures the child's progress to womanhood, and anticipates her future loveliness and maiden reign: 'then the taper-moulded waist with a span of ribbon braced; and the swell of either breast, and the wide high-vaulted chest; and the neck so white and round, little neck with brilliants bound; and the store of charms which shine above, in lineaments divine, crowded in a narrow space to complete the desperate face; these alluring powers, and more, shall enamoured youths adore; these and more in courtly lays many an aching heart shall praise.' the inventory of the maiden's physical charms which follows includes veiny temples, sloping shoulders, a hazely lucid eye, and cheek of health; but in the category the only allusion to the attractions of intellect and heart is in a couplet foretelling her 'gentleness of mind, gentle from a gentle kind.' that philips translated _the persian tales_ is indelibly recorded by pope: 'the bard whom pilfered pastorals renown, who turns a persian tale for half-a-crown, just writes to make his barrenness appear, and strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year.' but even pope could award praise to philips. in a letter to henry cromwell, in 1710, he observes that he was capable of writing very nobly, 'as i guess by a small copy of his, published in the _tatler_, on the danish winter;' and two years later he says to his friend caryll: 'mr. philips has two lines which seem to me what the french call very _picturesque_, that i cannot omit to you: 'all hid in snow in bright confusion lie, and with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye!' the lines, not quite accurately quoted by pope, are from an epistle, addressed to lord dorset from copenhagen, which contains a few striking couplets, two of which may be transcribed before bidding adieu to ambrose philips: 'the vast leviathan wants room to play, and spout his waters in the face of day. the starving wolves along the main sea prowl, and to the moon in icy valleys howl.' [sidenote: john philips (1676-1708).] ambrose philips must not be confounded with his namesake john, the author of a clever burlesque of milton, called _the splendid shilling_ (1705); of _blenheim_ (1705), a poem which he was urged to write by the tories in opposition to addison's _campaign_; and of a poem upon _cider_ (1706), in 'miltonian verse,' which seems to have afforded several suggestions to pope in his _windsor forest_. it is said to display a considerable knowledge of the subject, and in that its principal merit consists. from _the splendid shilling_ a brief extract may be given: 'so pass my days. but when nocturnal shades this world envelop, and th' inclement air persuades men to repel benumbing frosts with pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk of loving friend delights; distressed, forlorn, amidst the horrors of the tedious night, darkling i sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts my anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, or desperate lady near a purling stream, or lover pendent on a willow tree. meanwhile i labour with eternal drought and restless wish, and rave; my parched throat finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose. but if a slumber haply does invade my weary limbs, my fancy still awake, thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream tipples imaginary pots of ale in vain; awake i find the settled thirst still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.' 'philips,' says the poet campbell, 'had the merit of studying and admiring milton, but he never could imitate him without ludicrous effect, either in jest or earnest. his _splendid shilling_ is the earliest and one of the best of our parodies; but _blenheim_ is as completely a burlesque upon milton as _the splendid shilling_, though it was written and read with gravity, ... yet such are the fluctuations of taste that contemporary criticism bowed with solemn admiration over his miltonic cadences.' [sidenote: nicholas rowe (1673-1718).] nicholas rowe had the honour, if it was one in those days, of being made laureate on the accession of george i. his odes, epistles, and songs are without merit, but he gained reputation as the translator of lucan's _pharsalia_, of which sir arthur gorges had produced a version in 1614, and his plays entitle him to a place, though not a high one, in our dramatic literature. rowe edited an edition of shakespeare, and should have known his author, yet in a prologue he declares that he could not draw women--an amazing assertion echoed by collins, who praises fletcher for his knowledge of the 'female mind,' and adds that 'stronger shakespeare felt for man alone.' the chronological list of rowe's dramas runs as follows: _the ambitious step-mother_ (1700); _tamerlane_ (1702); _the fair penitent_ (1703); _ulysses_ (1705); _the royal convert_ (1707); the _tragedy of jane shore_ (1714); and the _tragedy of lady jane grey_ (1715). measured by his contemporary dramatists he is a distinguished playwright. his characters do not live, but he could invent effective scenes, though in some cases the poet's taste may be questioned. for many years _tamerlane_ was acted at drury lane on the anniversary of king william's landing in england, and under the names of tamerlane and bajazet the king is belauded at the expense of louis xiv. _the fair penitent_, a piece even more successful upon the stage, will still please the reader, though he may question the high eulogium of johnson, that "scarcely any work of any poet is at once so interesting by the fable, and so delightful by the language." rowe has not the tragic power which can express passion without rant, and pathos without extravagance. in _the fair penitent_ calista gives utterance to her feelings by piling up expletives. thus, when her husband attacks the lover who has ruined her, she exclaims, 'destruction! fury! sorrow! shame! and death!' and, on another occasion, she cries out, 'madness! confusion!' words which give a sense of the ludicrous rather than of the tragic; and so also does calista's last utterance when, addressing altamont, she says: 'had i but early known thy wondrous worth, thou excellent young man we had been happier both--now 'tis too late!' rowe may be regarded as the principal representative of tragedy in the 'age of pope,' but his respectable work shows a fatal degeneration from the 'gorgeous tragedy' of the elizabethans. [sidenote: aaron hill (1684-1749).] aaron hill, unlike rowe, was not distinguished as a dramatist, and succeeded only in two or three adaptations from the french. his claims as a poet are also insignificant. he was born in london in 1684, with expectations that were not destined to be realized, but fortune was not unkind to him. his uncle, lord paget, ambassador at constantinople, gave the youth a warm welcome, supplied him with a tutor, and sent him to travel in the east. on lord paget's return to england, hill accompanied him, and together they are said to have visited a great part of europe. some time later hill went abroad again, and was absent two or three years. for awhile--it could not have been long--he was secretary to the earl of peterborough, and at the age of twenty-six, his good star being still in the ascendant, he married a young lady 'of great merit and beauty, with whom he had a very handsome fortune.' hill was then appointed manager of drury lane, and he wrote a number of plays, the very names of which are now forgotten. few men indeed so well known in his own day have sunk into such insignificance in ours. he wrote eight books of a long and unfinished epic called _gideon_, which i suppose no one in the present century has had the hardihood to read; like young he wrote a poem on _the judgment day_, a theme attempted also, shortly before his death, by john philips, and that, after his kind, he produced a pindaric ode goes without saying. a long poem called _the northern star_, a panegyric on peter the great, is said to have passed through several editions. the poem does not prove hill to be a poet, but it shows his command of the heroic couplet. the style of the poem, which is an indiscriminate panegyric, may be judged from the following lines: 'transcendent prince! how happy must thou be! what can'st thou look upon unblessed by thee? what inward peace must that calm bosom know, whence conscious virtue does so strongly flow! * * * * * such are the kings who make god's image shine, nor blush to dare assert their right divine! no earth-born bias warps their climbing will, no pride their power, no avarice whets their skill. they poise each hope which bids the wise obey, and shed broad blessings from their widening sway; to raise the afflicted, stretch the healing hand, drive crushed oppression from each rescued land, bold in alternate right, or sheath or draw the sword of conquest, or the sword of law; spare what resists not, what opposes bend, and govern cool, what they with warmth defend.' hill has the merit of having turned the tables upon pope, who had put him into the treatise on the _bathos_, and then into the _dunciad_, where, however, the lines have more of compliment than censure, since he is made to mount 'far off among the swans of thames.' irritated by a note in the _dunciad_, hill replied in a long poem entitled _the progress of wit, a caveat_, which opens with the following pointed lines: 'tuneful alexis, on the thames' fair side, the ladies' plaything, and the muses' pride; with merit popular, with wit polite, easy though vain, and elegant though light; desiring, and deserving others' praise, poorly accepts a fame he ne'er repays; unborn to cherish, sneakingly approves, and wants the soul to spread the worth he loves.' in a letter to hill pope complained of these lines, and had the hypocrisy to say that he never thought any great matters of his poetical capacity, but prided himself on the superiority of his moral life. hill returned a masterly and incisive reproof to this ridiculous statement, in the course of which he says: 'i am sorry to hear you say you never thought any great matters of your poetry. it is in my opinion the characteristic you are to hope your distinction from. to be honest is the duty of every plain man. nor, since the soul of poetry is sentiment, can a great poet want morality. but your honesty you possess in common with a million who will never be remembered; whereas your poetry is a peculiar, that will make it impossible that you should be forgotten.' he adds that if pope had not been in the spleen when he wrote, he would have remembered that humility is a moral virtue; and how, asks the writer, can you know that your moral life is above that of most of the wits 'since you tell me in the same letter that many of their names were unknown to you?' aaron hill, though he could write a sensible letter, was not a wise man. he was 'everything by turns and nothing long.' poetry was but one of his accomplishments, and we are told that he cultivated it 'as a relaxation from the study of history, criticism, geography, physic, commerce, agriculture, war, law, chemistry, and natural philosophy, to which he devoted the greatest part of his time.' as a poet hill has the facility in composition exhibited by so many of his contemporaries, and he has occasionally a pretty turn of fancy. his last labour was the successful adaptation of voltaire's _merope_ to the english stage (1749); sixteen years before he had adapted _zara_ with equal success. [sidenote: thomas parnell (1679-1718).] among the minor poets of the period an honourable place must be given to parnell, who possessed the soul of a poet, but gave limited expression to it, for it was only during the later years of a short life that he discovered where his genius lay. the friend of pope, arbuthnot, and swift, his biography has been written by johnson, and more discursively by his countryman goldsmith. thomas parnell was born in dublin, 1679, entered trinity college at the early age of thirteen, and in 1700 obtained the degree of master of arts. having taken orders he gained preferment in the church, became, in 1706, archdeacon of clogher, and through the recommendation of swift obtained also a good living. parnell was fond of society, and was accustomed as often as possible to join the wits in london. he was a member of the scriblerus club, wrote for the _spectator_, preached eloquent sermons, and had the ambition of a poet. but the loss of his wife preyed upon his mind, and he is said, though i believe chiefly on pope's authority, to have given way to intemperance. he died suddenly at chester at the age of thirty-nine in 1718. parnell was one of the poets whose fortunes swift did his best to promote. writing in 1712, he says, 'i gave lord bolingbroke a poem of parnell's. i made parnell insert some compliments in it to his lordship. he is extremely pleased with it, and read some parts of it to-day to lord treasurer, who liked it as much. and indeed he outdoes all our poets here a bar's length.' and a month later he writes, 'lord bolingbroke likes parnell mightily, and it is pleasant to see that one who hardly passed for anything in ireland, makes his way here with a little friendly forwarding.' _the hermit_, the _hymn to contentment_, an _allegory on man_, and a _night piece on death_, give parnell his title to a place among the poets. _the rise of woman_, and _health, an eclogue_, have also much merit, and were praised by pope (but this was to their author) as 'two of the most beautiful things he ever read.' the story of _the hermit_, written originally in spanish, is given in _howell's letters_ (1645-1655), and is admirably told by parnell, but much that he wrote, including a series of long poems on scripture characters, is poetically worthless. his poems, published five years after his death, were edited by pope, who wisely suppressed some pieces unworthy of the poet. then, as now, literary scavengers were at work. in 1758 the suppressed poems were published, and called forth the comment from gray, 'parnell is the dunghill of irish grub street.' to parnell pope was indebted for the _essay on homer_ prefixed to the translation, with which he does not seem to have been well pleased. he complained of the stiffness of the style, and said it had cost him more pains in the correcting than the writing of it would have done. if parnell's prose has the defect of stiffness, his lines glide with a smoothness that must have satisfied the ear of pope. the higher harmonies of verse were unknown to him, but ease is not without a charm, and in illustration of parnell's gift the final lines of _a night piece on death_ shall be quoted: 'when men my scythe and darts supply, how great a king of fears am i! they view me like the last of things, they make and then they draw my stings. fools! if you less provoked your fears, no more my spectre form appears. death's but a path that must be trod, if man would ever pass to god; a port of calms, a state to ease from the rough rage of swelling seas. why then thy flowing sable stoles, deep pendent cypress, mourning poles, loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, long palls, drawn hearses, covered steeds, and plumes of black that as they tread, nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead? nor can the parted body know, nor wants the soul these forms of woe; as men who long in prison dwell, with lamps that glimmer round the cell, whene'er their suffering years are run, spring forth to greet the glittering sun; such joy, though far transcending sense, have pious souls at parting hence. on earth and in the body placed, a few and evil years they waste; but when their chains are cast aside, see the glad scene unfolding wide, clap the glad wing, and tower away, and mingle with the blaze of day.' [sidenote: thomas tickell (1686-1740).] tickell wished to be remembered as the friend of addison, and with addison his name is indissolubly associated. the poem dedicated to the essayist's memory is perhaps over-praised by macaulay when he says that it would do honour to the greatest name in our literature, but it proved incontestibly that tickell, as a poet, was superior to the master whom he so loved and honoured. his reputation hangs upon this elegy, which fox pronounced perfect.[34] the _prospect of peace_, which passed through several editions, had at one time a considerable reputation, not assuredly for its poetry, but because it appealed to the spirit of the time the style of the poem may be judged from these lines:- 'accept, great anne, the tears their memory draws, who nobly perished in their sovereign's cause; for thou in pity bidd'st the war give o'er, mourn'st thy slain heroes, nor wilt venture more. vast price of blood on each victorious day! (but europe's freedom doth that price repay.) lamented triumphs! when one breath must tell that marlborough conquered and that dormer fell.' his _colin and lucy_ called forth high praise from goldsmith as one of the best ballads in our language, and gray terms it the prettiest ballad in the world. three stanzas from this once famous poem shall be quoted:- '"i hear a voice you cannot hear, which says i must not stay; i see a hand you cannot see, which beckons me away. by a false heart and broken vows, in early youth i die; was i to blame because his bride was thrice as rich as i? '"ah, colin, give not her thy vows, vows due to me alone; nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, nor think him all thy own. to-morrow in the church to wed, impatient, both prepare! but know, fond maid, and know, false man, that lucy will be there! '"then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, this bridegroom blithe to meet, he in his wedding trim so gay, i in my winding-sheet." she spoke, she died; her corse was borne the bridegroom blithe to meet, he in his wedding trim so gay, she in her winding-sheet.' there is some fancy but no imagination in the machinery of tickell's long poem on _kensington gardens_, a title which recalls matthew arnold's exquisite stanzas. but the pathetic beauty of arnold's lines belongs to a world of poetry wholly unlike that in which even the best of the queen anne poets lived and moved. tickell's translation of the first book of the _iliad_ led to the quarrel already mentioned in the account of pope. he wrote, also, a rather lengthy poem on oxford, in which there is some absurd criticism of insignificant poetasters, and, as a matter of course, an extravagant eulogium of addison. the few facts recorded of tickell's life may be summed up in a paragraph. he was born in 1686 at bridekirk, in cumberland, and entered queen's college, oxford, in 1701. in 1708 he obtained his m.a. degree, and two years later was chosen fellow. for sixteen years tickell held his fellowship, but resigned it on his marriage in 1726. in a poem addressed to the lady before marriage, he asks whether 'by thousands sought, clotilda, canst thou free thy crowd of captives and descend to me?' praise which in those days would be regarded as fulsome secured the friendship and patronage of addison, who employed him in public affairs, and when he became secretary of state made tickell under-secretary. to him addison left the charge of editing his works, which were published by subscription, and appeared in four quarto volumes in 1721. in 1725 he was made secretary to the lord justices of ireland, 'a place of great honour,' which he held until his death in 1740. the praise of wordsworth, a poet always chary of expressing approbation, has been bestowed upon tickell. 'i think him,' he said, 'one of the very best writers of occasional verses.' [sidenote: william somerville (1692-1742).] tickell had written some lines on hunting, which he published as a fragment. his contemporary somerville, selecting the same subject, wrote _the chase_ (1735), a poem in blank verse. he was born at edston, in warwickshire, and was said, dr. johnson writes, 'to be of the first family in his county.' he was educated at winchester and oxford, and had the tastes of a scholar as well as of a country gentleman, which, among other accomplishments, included that of hard drinking. we know little about him, and what we do know is deplorable, for his friend shenstone writes that he was plagued and threatened by low wretches, and 'forced to drink himself into pains of the body in order to get rid of the pains of the mind.' he died in 1742, the owner of a good estate, which, owing to a contempt for economy, he was never able to enjoy. 'i loved him for nothing so much,' said shenstone, 'as for his flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication of money.' in _the chase_ somerville had the advantage of knowing his subject, but knowledge is not poetry, and the interest of the poem is not due to its poetical qualities. he deserves some credit for his skill in handling a variety of metres as well as blank verse, in which his principal poem is written. in an address _to mr. addison_, the couplet, 'when panting virtue her last efforts made, you brought your clio to the virgin's aid,' is praised by johnson as one of those happy strokes which are seldom attained. in the same poem shakespeare and addison are brought together in a way that is far from happy: 'in heaven he sings; on earth your muse supplies th' important loss, and heals our weeping eyes, correctly great, she melts each flinty heart with equal genius, but superior art.' praise can be too strong even for a poet's digestion, and somerville, who writes a great deal more nonsense in the same strain, should have remembered that he was not addressing a fool. if the poetical adulation of the time is to be excused, it must be on the ground that a poet had to live by patronage and not by the public. in a pecuniary point of view his subservience to men in high position was often successful. an almost universal custom, it was not regarded as degrading; but the poet must have been peculiarly constituted who was not degraded by it. [sidenote: john dyer (1698(?)-1758).] in the last century any subject was deemed suitable for poetry, and the welsh poet, john dyer, who was born about 1698, found in his later life poetical materials in _the fleece_ (1757), a poem in four books of blank verse. his genius for descriptive poetry and his passionate and intelligent delight in natural objects are seen more pleasantly in _grongar hill_ (published in the same year as thomson's _winter_), a poem not without grammatical inaccuracies, one of which deforms the first couplet, but full of poetical feeling. in an ease of composition which runs into laxity he reminds us occasionally of george wither. his chief merit is, that while independent of thomson, he was inspired by the same love, and wrote with the same aim. dyer is not content with bare description, but likes to moralize on the landscape he surveys. thus, when looking on a ruined tower, the poet exclaims: 'yet time has seen, that lifts the low, and level lays the lofty brow, has seen this broken pile compleat, big with the vanity of state; but transient is the smile of fate! a little rule, a little sway, a sunbeam in a winter's day,' is all the proud and mighty have between the cradle and the grave.' dyer who is best seen in the octosyllabic metre, chose it also for _the country walk_, a poem in which, notwithstanding an occasional lapse into the conventional diction of the period, the rural pictures are drawn from life. he takes the reader into the farm-yard and fields as he writes: 'i am resolved this charming day in the open field to stray, and have no roof above my head but that whereon the gods do tread. before the yellow barn i see a beautiful variety of strutting cocks, advancing stout, and flirting empty chaff about; hens, ducks, and geese, and all their brood, and turkeys gobbling for their food; while rustics thrash the wealthy floor, and tempt all to crowd the door. * * * * * and now into the fields i go, where thousand flaming flowers glow, and every neighbouring hedge i greet with honey-suckles smelling sweet; now o'er the daisy meads i stray and meet with, as i pace my way, sweetly shining on the eye a rivulet gliding smoothly by, which shows with what an easy tide the moments of the happy glide.' _an epistle to a friend in town_, records his satisfaction with the country retirement in which his days are passed. in a rather awkward stanza he says that he is more than content, and is indeed charmed with everything, and the lines close with the moralizing that was dear to dyer's heart: 'alas! what a folly that wealth and domain we heap up in sin and in sorrow! immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain! is not life to be over to-morrow? then glide on my moments, the few that i have, smooth-shaded and quiet and even; while gently the body descends to the grave, and the spirit arises to heaven.' dyer was an artist as well as a poet, and visited italy, which suggested a poem in blank verse, _the ruins of rome_ (1740). after his return to england he entered into holy orders, took a wife, who is said to have been a descendant of shakespeare, and settled at calthorp in leicestershire, which he afterwards exchanged for a living in lincolnshire. there is much to like in dyer, and he has had the good fortune to win the applause of two great poets. gray says, in a letter to horace walpole, that he had 'more of poetry in his imagination than almost any of our number,' and wordsworth in a sonnet, _to the poet, john dyer_, writes: 'though hasty fame hath many a chaplet culled for worthless brows, while in the pensive shade of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, a grateful few, shall love thy modest lay, long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray o'er naked snowdon's wide aerial waste; long as the thrush shall pipe on grongar hill!' [sidenote: william shenstone (1714-1764).] 'the true rustic style,' charles lamb writes, 'i think is to be found in shenstone,' and he calls his _schoolmistress_ the 'prettiest of poems.' william shenstone was born in 1714 at the leasowes in hales-owen, a spot upon which he afterwards expended his skill as a landscape gardener. in 1732 he went up to pembroke college, oxford, and remained there for some years without taking a degree. those years appear to have been devoted to poetry. in 1737 shenstone published a small volume anonymously. this was followed by the _judgment of hercules_ (1741), and by the _schoolmistress_ (1742). in 1745 he undertook the management of his estate, and began, to quote dr. johnson's quaint description, 'to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters; which he did with such judgment and such fancy, as made his little domain the envy of the great and the admiration of the skilful; a place to be visited by travellers and copied by designers.' on this estate, with its lakes and cascades, its urns and poetical inscriptions, its hanging woods, and 'wild shaggy precipice,' shenstone appears to have spent all his fortune. he led the life of a dilettante, and died unmarried at the age of fifty. his elegies and songs are dead, and whatever vitality remains in his verse will be found in the _pastoral ballad_ and the _schoolmistress_. the ballad written in anapæstic verse has an arcadian grace, against which even johnson's robust intellect was not proof. for the following lines he says, 'if any mind denies its sympathy it has no acquaintance with love or nature': 'when forced the fair nymph to forego, what anguish i felt in my heart! yet i thought--but it might not be so- 'twas with pain that she saw me depart. she gazed as i slowly withdrew, my path i could hardly discern; so sweetly she bade me adieu, i thought that she bade me return. the _schoolmistress_, written in imitation of spenser, has the merits of simplicity and homely humour. the village dame is a life-like character, and the urchins whom she is supposed to teach, and does sometimes teach by chastisement, are cunningly portrayed. from the verses _written at an inn in henley_ three stanzas may be quoted. the last will be already known to readers familiar with their boswell: 'i fly from pomp, i fly from plate, i fly from falsehood's specious grin! freedom i love, and form i hate, and choose my lodgings at an inn. 'here, waiter! take my sordid ore, which lacqueys else might hope to win; it buys what courts have not in store, it buys me freedom at an inn! 'whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, where'er his stages may have been, may sigh to think he still has found the warmest welcome at an inn.' unhappily this final verse, which johnson is said to have repeated 'with great emotion,' has lost its application. the modern traveller, instead of being warmly welcomed at an inn, loses his identity and becomes a number. [sidenote: mark akenside (1721-1770).] akenside, who was born at newcastle, 1721, received his education in edinburgh, where he was sent to prepare for the ministry among the dissenters. he, however, changed his mind, became a medical student, and finally, though much disliked for his manners, gained reputation as a physician in london. he is stated to have been excessively stiff and formal, and a frigid stiffness marks the _pleasures of imagination_ (1744), a remarkable work considering the writer's age, since it is without the faults of youth. the poem is founded on addison's _essays_ on the subject in the _spectator_, and the poet also owes a considerable debt to shaftesbury. akenside's blank verse has the merits of dignity and strength. but the work is as cold as the author's manners were said to be, and in spite of what may be called poetical power, as distinct from a high order of inspiration, the poem leaves the reader unmoved. pope, who saw it in ms., said that akenside was 'no everyday writer,' which is a just criticism. the _pleasures of imagination_ has the merits of careful workmanship and of some originality, but the interest which it at one time excited is not likely to be revived. in 1757 akenside re-wrote the poem, and i believe that no critic, with the exception of hazlitt, regards the second attempt as an improvement on the first. his skill in the use of classical imagery is seen to advantage in the _hymn to the naiads_ (1746), and he deserves praise, too, for his inscriptions, which are distinguished for conciseness and vigour of style. the poet, it may be added, wrote a great number of odes that lack all, or nearly all, the qualities which should distinguish lyrical poetry. not a spark of the divine fire warms or illuminates these reputable verses, but the author states that his chief aim was to be correct, and in that he has succeeded. [sidenote: david mallet (1700-1765).] david mallet, a friend or acquaintance of thomson, was contemptible as a man and comparatively insignificant as a poet. he did a large amount of dirty work, and appears to have made a good income by it. the base character of the man was known to bolingbroke, of whose basest purpose he made him the instrument (see c. vii.). mallet's ballad of _william and margaret_ (1724) is known to many readers, and so is the inferior ballad _edwin and emma_, which was written many years afterwards. in 1728 he published _the excursion_, a poem not sufficiently significant to prevent wordsworth from selecting the same title. in mallet's poem on _verbal criticism_ (1733), johnson states that he paid court to pope, and was rewarded by a travelling tutorship gained through the poet's influence. in 1731 his tragedy, _eurydice_, was acted at drury lane. he joined thomson, as we have said elsewhere, in the composition of the masque of _alfred_, and 'almost wholly changed' the piece after thomson's death. _amyntor and theodora_, a long poem in blank verse, appeared in 1747; _britannia_, a masque, in 1753, and _elvira_, a tragedy, in 1763. mallet, who was without qualifications for the task, wrote a life of lord bacon. he is said to have obtained a pension for inflaming the mind of the public against admiral byng, and thereby hastening his execution. in anderson's edition of the poets, mallet's biography is related with more fulness than by dr. johnson, and, after frankly recording acts which fully justify macaulay's statement that mallet's character was infamous, the writer adds, 'his integrity in business and in life is unimpeached.' scottish song-writers. when the poets of england were writing satires, moral essays, and elaborate didactic treatises, the poets of scotland were singing, in bird-like notes, songs of humour and of love. it is remarkable that the scotch, the shrewdest, hardest, and most business-like people in these islands, should be so richly endowed with a gift shared and enjoyed by rich and poor alike. the most exquisite of english lyrics fall, where culture is wanting, on regardless ears; the songs of ramsay and of burns, of lady anne lindsay and jane elliot, of hogg and lady nairne, of tannahill and macneil, are household words in scotland to gentle and simple. a few of the choicest songs of scotland are due to ladies of rank, but the larger number have sprung from 'the huts where poor men lie.' ramsay was a barber and wig-maker; burns, as all the world knows, followed the plough; tannahill was a weaver; hogg a shepherd; and robert nicoll the son of a small farmer, 'ruined out of house and hold.' [sidenote: allan ramsay (1686-1758).] allan ramsay was, born at leadhills, in lanarkshire, in 1686, and was therefore pope's senior by two years. he has been called 'the restorer of scottish poetry,' and by his compilation of _the evergreen_ (1724), and of _the tea-table miscellany_, published in the same year, he gathered up the wealth of song scattered through the country. _the miscellany_ extended to four volumes, and before the poet's death had reached twelve editions. an undying interest belongs to both anthologies. _the evergreen_ was the first poetry walter scott perused, and in a marginal note on his copy of _the tea-table miscellany_ he writes: 'this book belonged to my grandfather, robert scott, and out of it i was taught _hardiknute_ by heart before i could read the ballad myself. it was the first poem i ever learnt, the last i shall ever forget.' the ballad scott loved so well, i may say in passing, was written as a whole or in part by lady wardlaw (1677-1727),[35] and belongs therefore either to our period or to the later years of the seventeenth century. in 1725 ramsay published _the gentle shepherd_, a pastoral that puts to shame the numerous semi-classical and mythological poems which appeared under that name in england. it is essentially a rural poem, in which the action and language harmonize with what we know, or think we know, of country manners and life. there is neither striking invention in the plot nor much individuality in the characters, but there is poetical harmony throughout, many pretty rustic scenes, and sufficient interest to carry the reader pleasantly over the ground. _the gentle shepherd_ is the work of a poet, and gives a higher impression of ramsay's power than his songs alone would warrant. his lyrical pieces, though not wholly without the lilt and charm such verse exacts, are perhaps mainly of service in showing the immeasurable superiority of burns. ramsay was a successful poet, and not too much of a poet to be also a successful man of business. he exchanged wig-making for bookselling, kept a shop in the high street of edinburgh, and finally retired to a villa which he had built for himself on the castle hill. a good-humoured, care-defying man, he enjoyed life in an easy way, and was not disposed to repine when his road lay down the hill. in an epistle to a friend he writes: 'and now in years and sense grown auld, in ease i like my limbs to fauld, debts i abhor, and plan to be from shackling trade and dangers free; that i may, loosed frae care and strife, with calmness view the edge of life; and when a full ripe age shall crave, slide easily into my grave.' among the scottish song-writers of the period may be mentioned robert crawford (1695?-1732), whose love verses, written in a conventional strain, are not without music; lord binning (1696-1732), the author of a pretty song called _ungrateful nanny_; and william hamilton of bangour (1704-1754), who wrote the well-known _braes of yarrow_. the most charming of scottish lyrics belong, however, to a later period of the century than the age of pope. * * * * * the student who reads the minor poets who figured, in some cases with much applause, during the years of pope's ascendency, will be struck by the almost total absence from their works of creative power. these rhymers wrote for the age, and illustrate it, but they did not write for all time, and a small volume would suffice to hold all their verse which is of permanent value. too often they imagined that by the composition of flowing couplets they proved their title to rank with inspired poets. they confounded the art of verse-making with the divine art of poetry, and were not aware that the substance of their work is prose. now and then the digger in this mine will discover a small nugget of gold, but for the most part the interest called forth by the poets mentioned in the present chapter, is more historical than poetical, and the reader in passing to the great prose writers of the age will be conscious of gain rather than of loss. footnotes: [31] cowper's line, 'where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' is not an improvement upon garth's. tempests, it has been justly said, do not beat. [32] the _spectator_, no. 335. [33] elwin and courthope's _pope_, vol. vii., p. 62. [34] edward young tried his skill on the same theme in a poetical epistle to tickell, but his lines are leaden and his praise absurd. addison's glory was so great, he says, as a statesman and a patriot, that 'it borders on disgrace to say he sung the best of human race.' [35] to lady wardlaw dr. robert chambers attributed twenty-five ballads, and among them several of the finest we possess, which are regarded as ancient by every other authority. if the assumption were proved, this lady would hold a distinguished and unique position among the poets of the pope period, but there is absolutely no ground for the theory so zealously advocated by chambers. part ii. the prose writers chapter iv. joseph addison--sir richard steele. as essayists, the writings of addison and of steele are familiar to all readers of eighteenth-century literature. their work in other departments may be neglected without much loss; but the student who disregards the _tatler_, the _spectator_, the _guardian_, and some of the essay-volumes which follow in their wake, will be blind to one of the most significant literary features of the period. the alliance between addison and steele was so intimate, that to judge of one apart from the other, would be fair to neither. it may be well, therefore, after giving the leading facts in the lives of the two friends, to bring them together again while considering the work they accomplished in their literary partnership. one point, i think, will come out clearly in this examination, namely, that while steele might, under very inferior conditions, have produced the _tatler_ and _spectator_ without addison, it is highly improbable that addison, as an essayist, would have existed without steele. [sidenote: joseph addison (1672-1719).] addison lives on the reputation of his prose works, but he thought that he was a poet, and was regarded as a poet by his contemporaries. it was by verse that he won his earliest reputation, and it was on his pegasus that he rose to be secretary of state. he was born on may 1st, 1672, at milston, in wiltshire, a parish of which his father was the rector, and was educated at the charterhouse, where he contracted his memorable friendship with steele. thence, in 1687, at the boyish age of fifteen, he went up to queen's college, oxford, and in a few months, thanks to his latin verses, gained a scholarship at magdalen, of which college ten years later he became a fellow. while at oxford he acquired, after the fashion of the day, what johnson calls 'the trade of a courtier.' his latin poem on the _peace of ryswick_ was dedicated to montague, and two years later a pension of £300 a year, gained through somers and montague, enabled him to travel, in order that by gaining a knowledge of french and italian, he might be fitted for the diplomatic service. some time after his return to england he published his _remarks on several parts of italy_ (1705), and dedicated the volume to swift, 'the most agreeable companion, the truest friend, and the greatest genius of his age.' addison's patrons had now lost their power, and he was left to his own exertions. his difficulties did not last long. in 1704 the battle of blenheim called forth several weak efforts from the poetasters, and as the government required verse more worthy of the occasion, the chancellor of the exchequer, on the recommendation of montague, now earl of halifax, applied to addison, who, in answer to the appeal, published _the campaign_, in 1705. the poem contains the well-known similitude of the angel, and also an apt allusion to the great storm that had lately destroyed fleets and devastated the country. 'so when an angel by divine command with rising tempests shakes a guilty land, such as of late o'er pale britannia past, calm and serene he drives the furious blast; and, pleased the almighty's orders to perform, rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.' _the campaign_, which has no other passage worth quoting, proved a happy hit, and was of such service to the ministry, that addison found the way to fame and fortune. he was appointed commissioner of appeals, and not long after under secretary of state. in 1707 he accompanied his friend and patron, halifax, on a mission to hanover, and two years later he was appointed chief secretary to the lord-lieutenant of ireland. in dublin he gained golden opinions. 'i am convinced,' swift writes, 'that whatever government come over, you will find all marks of kindness from any parliament here with respect to your employment; the tories contending with the whigs which should speak best of you. in short, if you will come over again when you are at leisure, we will raise an army and make you king of ireland.' when the whig ministry fell in 1710, and addison lost his appointment, he must have gained a fortune, for he was able to purchase an estate for £10,000. in the early years of the century the italian opera, which had been brought into england in the reign of william and mary, excited the mirth and opposition of the wits. lord chesterfield, who called it 'too absurd and extravagant to mention,' said, 'whenever i go to the opera i leave my sense and reason at the door with my half-guinea, and deliver myself up to my eyes and ears.' steele, gay, and pope ridiculed the new-fangled entertainment, and colley cibber, too, pointed his jest at these 'poetical drams, these gin-shops of the stage that intoxicate its auditors, and dishonour their understanding with a levity for which i want a name.' addison, who has some lively papers on the subject in the _spectator_, undertook to give a faithful account of the progress of the italian opera on the english stage, 'for there is no question,' he writes, 'but our great grandchildren will be very curious to know why their forefathers used to sit together like an audience of foreigners in their own country; and to hear whole plays acted before them in a tongue which they did not understand.' before writing thus in the _spectator_, addison, in order to oppose the italian opera, by what he regarded as a more rational pastime, produced his english opera of _rosamond_, which was acted in 1706, and proved a failure on the stage. the music is said to have been bad, and the poetry is the work of a writer destitute of lyrical genius. lord macaulay, who finds a merit in almost everything produced by addison, praises 'the smoothness with which the verses glide, and the elasticity with which they bound,' and considers that if he 'had left heroic couplets to pope, and blank verse to rowe, and had employed himself in writing airy and spirited songs, his reputation as a poet would have stood far higher than it now does.' the gliding movement of the verse may be admitted; but lyric poetry demands the higher qualities of music and imaginative treatment, and addison's 'smoothness,' so far from being a poetical gift, is a mechanical acquisition. in 1713 his _cato_, with its stately rhetoric and cold dignity, received a very different reception. the prologue, written by pope, is in admirable accordance with the spirit of the play. addison's purpose is to exhibit a great man struggling with adversity, and pope writes: 'he bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, and calls forth roman drops from british eyes; virtue confessed in human shape he draws, what plato thought, and god-like cato was: no common object to your sight displays, but what with pleasure heaven itself surveys; a brave man struggling in the storms of fate, and greatly falling with a falling state! while cato gives his little senate laws, what bosom beats not in his country's cause?' addison has proved that he could draw a life-like character in his representation of sir roger de coverley, but the _dramatis personæ_, who act a part, or are supposed to act one, in _cato_, are mere dummies, made to express fine sentiments. there is no flesh and blood in them, and owing to the dramatist's regard for unity of place, the play is full of absurdities. yet _cato_ was received with immense applause. it was regarded from a political aspect, and both whig and tory strove to turn the drama to party account. 'the numerous and violent claps of the whig party,' pope writes, 'on the one side of the theatre, were echoed back by the tories on the other; while the author sweated behind the scenes with concern to find their applause proceeding more from the hand than the head.' in another letter he says: 'the town is so fond of it, that the orange wenches and fruit women in the parks offer the books at the side of the coaches, and the prologue and epilogue are cried about the streets by the common hawkers.' it would be interesting to ascertain what there was in the state of public affairs in the spring of 1713, which created this enthusiasm. swift, writing to stella, alludes to a rehearsal of the play, but makes no criticism upon it; and berkeley, who was in london at the time, and had a seat in addison's box on the first night, is also silent about it. in a letter written, as it happens, by bolingbroke, on the day that _cato_ was produced, he indicates the signs of the time, as they appeared to a tory statesman: 'the prospect before us,' he writes, 'is dark and melancholy. what will happen no man is able to foretell.' it was this sense of doubt and insecurity in the nation that gave significance to trifles. the political atmosphere was charged with electricity. the tories, though in office, were far from feeling themselves secure, and both harley and bolingbroke were in correspondence with the pretender. atterbury, who was heart and soul with him, had just been made a bishop, protestant ascendancy was in danger, the security of the country seemed to hang on the frail life of the queen, and the strong party spirit of the time was easily fanned into a flame. we cannot now place ourselves in the position of the spectators whose passions gave such popularity to _cato_. its mild platitudes and rhetorical periods, its coldness and sobriety, seem ill fitted to arouse the fervour of playgoers, but addison, whose good luck rarely failed him, was especially fortunate in the moment chosen for the representation of the play. had _cato_ exhibited genius of the highest order, it could not have been more successful. cibber writes that it was acted in london five times a week for a month to constantly crowded houses, and when the tragedy was acted at oxford, 'our house,' he says, 'was in a manner invested, and entrance demanded by twelve o'clock at noon, and before one it was not wide enough for many who came too late for places.'[36] _cato_ had the good fortune to run in london for thirty-five nights, and gained also some reputation on the continent. it is formed on the french model, and addison was therefore praised by voltaire as 'the first english writer who composed a regular tragedy.' he added that _cato_ was 'a masterpiece.' if so, it is one of the masterpieces that has long ceased to be read. little could its author have surmised that his tragedy, received with universal praise, had but a brief life to live, while the essays which he had already contributed to the _tatler_ and _spectator_ would make his name familiar to future generations. addison's poetry may now be regarded as extinct, and most of the poems he wrote are probably unknown to the present generation of readers even by name. his latin verses are pronounced excellent by all competent critics, but when a man writes verses in a dead language he does so generally to show his scholarship, and not to express his inspiration. latin verse is, as m. taine says, a faded flower. now and then, indeed, a poem has been written with merits apart from its latinity--witness the _epitaphium damonis_ of milton--but addison, who lacked poetic fire in his native language, was not likely to find it in a dead tongue. his english poems are generally dull, and sometimes, as in his earliest poem, the _account of the greatest english poets_ (1694), the tameness of the verse is matched by the ignorance of the criticism. the student will observe how differently the theme is treated by a true poet like drayton in his _epistle to reynolds_; or, like ben jonson, in the many allusions that he makes to his country's poets. compare, too, addison's _letter from italy_ (1701) with the lovely lines on a like theme in goldsmith's _traveller_, and the contrast between a verseman and a poet is at once apparent. addison, it may be added, is remembered for his hymns, which may be found in most selections of sacred verse, and deserve a place in the best of them. as the forerunner of isaac watts (1674-1748) and of charles wesley (1708-1788), he struck upon what at that time might, in our country, be almost called a new department of literature; and it is remarkable that an age which so dreaded enthusiasm should have originated verse which gives utterance to the most emotional form of spiritual aspiration. as hymn-writers, englishmen were more than a century behind the best sacred poets of germany. luther had taught the german people the power of hymnody, but it was during the thirty years' war (1618-1648), and after its conclusion, that the spirit of devotion found full expression in religious verse. just before the engagement at leipzic, gustavus adolphus wrote his well-known battle hymn, and the peace was celebrated in a noble hymn by martin rinkart. he was followed by a succession of sacred singers whose devout utterances influenced and in some degree inspired the wesleys. "a verse may find him whom a sermon flies," says george herbert, and the enormous power wielded by methodism owes a large portion of its strength to song. amidst much in their writings that is questionable in taste and weak in expression, both watts and charles wesley have written hymns which prove their incontestible right to a place among the poets, and the influence they have exerted over the english-speaking race is beyond the power of the literary historian to estimate. the external divisions of the christian church are numerous; its unity is to be seen in the hymn book. 'men whose theological views contrast most strongly,' says mr. abbey in his essay on _the english sacred poetry of the eighteenth century_, 'meet on common ground when they express in verse the deeper aspirations of the heart and the voice of christian praise.' in 1714, on the death of the queen, addison was once more in office, and held his old position of irish secretary. in the following year he defended the whig government and whig principles in the _freeholder_, a paper published twice weekly. in it he gives no niggard praise to the government of george i., and to the king himself, for his 'civil virtues,' and for his martial achievements. addison's praise disagrees, it need scarcely be said, with the more minute and veracious description of the king given by thackeray, but a party politician in those days could scarcely be a faithful chronicler. he could see what he wished to see, but found it necessary to shut his eyes when the prospect became unpleasant. george was a heartless libertine, but addison observes with great satisfaction that the women most eminent for virtue and good sense are in his interest. 'it would be no small misfortune,' he says, 'to a sovereign, though he had all the male part of the nation on his side, if he did not find himself king of the most beautiful half of his subjects. ladies are always of great use to the party they espouse, and never fail to win over numbers to it. lovers, according to sir william petty's computation, make at least the third part of the sensible men of the british nation, and it has been an uncontroverted maxim in all ages, that though a husband is sometimes a stubborn sort of a creature, a lover is always at the devotion of his mistress. by this means it lies in the power of every fine woman to secure at least half-a-dozen able-bodied men to his majesty's service. the female world are likewise indispensably necessary in the best causes to manage the controversial part of them, in which no man of tolerable breeding is ever able to refute them. arguments out of a pretty mouth are unanswerable.' the essayist thinks it fortunate for the whigs 'that their very enemies acknowledge the finest women of great britain to be of that party;' and in an amusing but rather absurd way he discourses to maids, wives, and widows on the advantages of adhering to the hanoverian government. it is characteristic of addison that a political paper like the _freeholder_ should be flavoured with the humour and badinage he found so effective in the _spectator_. to the ladies he appeals again and again, but not to their reason. he gives them mirth instead of argument, and thinks it more likely to prevail with the 'fair sex.' the _freeholder_ has several papers worthy of the author in his best moods, the best of them, perhaps, being the 'tory fox-hunter,' with which, to quote johnson's words, 'bigotry itself must be delighted.' in the year which gave birth to the _freeholder_, _the drummer_, a comedy, was acted at drury lane, and ran three nights. the play was not acknowledged by addison, neither was it printed in tickell's edition of his works; but steele, who published an edition of the play, with a dedication to congreve, never doubted, and there is no reason to doubt, that addison was the author. 'the piece,' mr. courthope writes, 'is like _cato_, a standing proof of addison's deficiency in dramatic genius. the plot is poor and trivial, nor does the dialogue, though it shows in many passages traces of its author's peculiar vein of humour, make amends by its brilliancy for the tameness of the dramatic situation.'[37] after the _freeholder_ addison wrote nothing of importance, unless we except the essay published after his death _on the evidences of christianity_. of this essay it will suffice to quote the judgment of his most distinguished eulogist. after observing that the treatise shows the narrow limits of addison's classical knowledge, lord macaulay adds: 'it is melancholy to see how helplessly he gropes his way from blunder to blunder. he assigns as grounds for his religious belief stories as absurd as that of the cock lane ghost, and forgeries as rank as ireland's vortigern; puts faith in the lie about the thundering legion; is convinced that tiberius moved the senate to admit jesus among the gods, and pronounces the letter of agbarus, king of edessa, to be a record of great authority. nor were these errors the effects of superstition, for to superstition addison was by no means prone. the truth is, that he was writing about what he did not understand.' in 1716, after having been made one of the commissioners for trades and colonies, he married the countess dowager of warwick, with whom he had been acquainted for some years. the marriage, according to the doubtful authority of pope, was not a happy one, and is said to have driven addison to the consolations of the tavern. he did not need them long. in 1717 sunderland became prime minister, and made addison a secretary of state, an appointment which he resigned eleven months afterwards; and in 1719 he died at holland house at the age of forty-seven, leaving one daughter as the memorial of the union. he lies, as is fitting, in the great abbey of which he has written so beautifully. tickell's noble tribute to his friend's memory belongs to the undying poetry which neither age nor fresher forms of verse can render obsolete. it must suffice to quote here a few lines from a poem which, despite some conventional expressions common to the time, is worthy of its theme throughout: 'if pensive to the rural shades i rove, his shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; 'twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song; there patient showed us the wise course to steer, a candid censor, and a friend severe; there taught us how to live; and (oh! too high the price for knowledge) taught us how to die.' there are few men of literary eminence in the eighteenth century of whom we know so little as of addison. his own _spectator_, who never opened his lips but in his club, is scarcely more silent than the essayist's biographers, so trifling are the details they have to record beyond the bare facts of his official and literary career. steele knew him better, and, in spite of an unhappy estrangement at the last, probably loved him more than anyone else, and had he written his story, as he once proposed doing, the narrative might have been charming; but, alas for steele's resolutions! that addison was a shy man we know--lord chesterfield said he was the most timid man he ever knew--and it speaks well for his resolution and strength of purpose that he should have risen notwithstanding this timidity to so high a position in public affairs. his want of oratorical power was a drawback to his efficiency, and sir james macintosh was probably right in saying that addison as dean of st. patrick's, and swift as secretary of state, would have been a happy stroke of fortune, putting each into the place most fitted for him. the essayist's reserve, while it closed his lips in general society, did not prevent him from being one of the most fascinating of companions in the freedom of conversation with a few intimate friends. swift, steele, and even pope, testify to addison's irresistible charm in the select society that he loved. young said he could chain the attention of every hearer, and lady mary montagu declared that he was the best company in the world. [sidenote: richard steele (1672-1729).] richard steele was born in dublin, 1672, of english parents, and educated at the charterhouse, where, as we have said, addison was at the same time a pupil. in 1690 he matriculated at christ church, oxford, addison being then demy at magdalen. steele left college without taking a degree, and entered the army as a cadet. after a time he obtained the rank of captain in lord lucas's fusiliers, and wrote his treatise, _the christian hero_ (1701), with the design, he says, 'principally to fix upon his own mind a strong impression of virtue and religion in opposition to a stronger propensity towards unwarrantable pleasure.' steele was an honest lover of the things most worthy of love, but his frailty too often proved stronger than his virtue, and the purpose of _the christian hero_ was not answered. jeremy collier's _short view of the immorality and profanity of the english stage_, published in 1698, had made, as it well might, a powerful impression, and steele, who was always ready to inculcate morality on other people, wrote four comedies with a moral purpose. _the funeral; or grief à-la-mode_ was acted with success at drury lane in 1701, and when published passed through several editions. _the lying lover_ followed two years later, and was, in the comfortable judgment of the author, 'damned for its piety.' this was followed, in 1705, by _the tender husband_, a play suggested by the _sicilien_ of molière, as _the lying lover_ had been founded on the _menteur_ of corneille. many years later steele's last play, _the conscious lovers_ (1722), completed his performances as a dramatist. it was dedicated to the king, who is said to have sent the author £500. the modern reader will find little worthy of attention in the dramas of steele. his sense of humour enlivens some of the scenes, and is, perhaps, chiefly visible in _the funeral_; but for the most part dulness is in the ascendant, and the sentiment is frequently mawkish. _the conscious lovers_, said parson adams, contains 'some things almost solemn enough for a sermon.' this may be true, but we do not desire a sermon in a play, and steele, who is always a lively essayist, loses his liveliness in writing for the stage. it has been observed by mr. ward that, taking a hint from colley cibber, he 'became the real founder of that sentimental comedy which exercised so pernicious an influence upon the progress of our dramatic literature.' 'it would be unjust,' he adds, 'to hold him responsible for the feebleness of successors who were altogether deficient in the comic power which he undoubtedly even as a dramatist exhibits; but in so far as their aberrations were the result of his example, he must be held to have contributed, though with the best of motives, to the decline of the english drama.'[38] one of the prominent offenders who followed in steele's wake was george lillo (1693-1739), whose highly moral tragedies, written for the edification of playgoers, have the kind of tragic interest which is called forth by any commonplace tale of crime and misery. in lillo's two most important dramas, _george barnwell_ (1731), a play founded on the old ballad, and _the fatal curiosity_ (1736), there is a total absence of the elevation in character and language which gives dignity to tragedy. his plays are like tales of guilt arranged and amplified from the newgate calendar. the author wrote with a good purpose, and the public appreciated his work, but it is not dramatic art, and has no pretension to the name of literature. throughout his life steele was at war with fortune. his hopefulness was inexhaustible, but he learnt no lessons from experience, and escaped from one slough to fall into another. he was as unthrifty as goldsmith, whom in many respects he resembles, and his warm, impulsive nature was allied to a combativeness and jealousy which sometimes led him to quarrel with his best friends. of his passion for the somewhat exacting lady whom he married,[39] and of the 400 and odd notelets addressed by the lover-husband to his 'dear, dearest prue,' and 'absolute governess,' it is enough to say here, that the story told offhand in his own words, shows how lovable the man was in spite of the faults which he never attempted to conceal. only about a week before the marriage the lady had fair warning of one probable drawback to her happiness as a wife.[40] on the morning of august 30th, 1707, steele advised his 'fair one' to look up to that heaven which had made her so sweet a companion, and in the evening of that day he wrote: 'dear lovely mrs. scurlock, 'i have been in very good company, where your health, under the character of _the woman i loved best_, has been often drunk, so that i may say i am dead drunk for your sake, which is more than i _die for you_. 'rich. steele.' after marriage steele's extravagance and impecuniosity must have proved a severe trial to prue. at times he would live in considerable style, and berkeley, who writes, in 1713, of dining with him frequently at his house in bloomsbury square, praises his table, servants, and coach as 'very genteel.' at other times the family were without common necessaries, and on one occasion there was not 'an inch of candle, a pound of coal, or a bit of meat in the house.' on the 12th april, 1709, steele issued the first number of the _tatler_, its supposed author being the isaac bickerstaff, whose name, thanks to swift, had been 'rendered famous through all parts of europe.' the essays appeared every tuesday, thursday, and saturday, for the convenience of the post, and at the outset contained political news, which steele, by his government appointment of gazetteer, was enabled to supply. after awhile, however, much to the advantage of the _tatler_, this news was dropped. the articles are dated from white's chocolate-house, from will's coffee-house, from the grecian, and from the st. james's. it is probable that the column in defoe's _review_, containing _advice from the scandal club_, suggested his 'lucubrations' to steele. if so, it does not detract from his originality of treatment, for defoe's town gossip is poor stuff. addison, who knew nothing of the project beforehand, came, ere long, to his friend's assistance; but it was not until about eighty numbers had appeared, that he became a frequent contributor, and before that time steele had made his mark. when the essays were afterwards reprinted in four volumes, steele, who was never wanting in gratitude, generously acknowledged the help he had received. 'i fared,' he says, 'like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbour to his aid. i was undone by my auxiliary. when i had once called him in, i could not subsist without dependence on him.' the _tatler_ still supplies delightful entertainment, and in the almost total absence of amusing and wholesome reading in steele's time, must have proved a welcome companion. readers who are inundated by what is called 'light literature' can with difficulty imagine the dearth suffered in pope's day, when the interminable romances of calprenède, of mdlle. de scuderi and her brother, and of madame la fayette, were the liveliest books considered fit for a modest woman to read. a novel, however, in ten volumes, like the _grand cyrus_ or _clélie_, had one advantage over the cheap fictions of our time, its interest was not soon exhausted. the _tatler_ has claims upon the student's attention, apart from the entertainment it affords. steele, who lived from hand to mouth, and wrote, as he lived, on the impulse of the moment, had unwittingly begun a work destined to form an epoch in english literature. the _essay_, as we now understand the word, dates from the _lucubrations of isaac bickerstaff_, and steele and addison, who may boast a numerous progeny, have in charles lamb the noblest of their sons. on the 2nd january, 1711, steele wrote the final number of the _tatler_, partly on the plea that the essays would suffice to make four volumes, and partly because he was known to be the author, and could not, as mr. steele, attack vices with the freedom of mr. bickerstaff. addison, who had done so much to assist steele in his first venture, was as ignorant of his intention to close the work as he was of its initiation. two months later _the spectator_ appeared, and this time the friends worked in concert. it proved a brilliantly successful partnership. the second number, in which the characters of the club are introduced, was written by steele, and to him we owe the first sketch of the immortal sir roger de coverley: 'when he is in town he lives in soho square. it is said he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse, beautiful widow of the next county to him. before his disappointment, sir roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped with my lord rochester and sir george etheridge, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked bully dawson in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. but being ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a half; and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards. he continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he tells us has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it.... he is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty, keeps a good house both in town and country; a great lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved than esteemed. his tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company. when he comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way upstairs to a visit. i must not omit that sir roger is a justice of the quorum; that he fills the chair at a quarter-session with great abilities; and three months ago gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the game act.' in their daily issue, as well as afterwards in volumes, the essays had an extensive sale. they were to be found on every breakfast-table, and so popular did they prove, that when the imposition of a halfpenny tax destroyed a number of periodicals, steele found it safe to double the price of the _spectator_. the vivacity and humour of the paper were visible from the beginning. 'mr. steele,' swift wrote, 'seems to have gathered new life, and to have a new fund of wit.' of 555 papers, addison wrote 274 and steele 236, while the remaining forty-five were the work of occasional contributors. in the full tide of its success, and without any assigned reason, the _spectator_ was brought to a conclusion in december, 1712, and in the following spring steele started the _guardian_, which might have been as fortunate as its predecessor, had not the editor's zeal tempted him to diverge to politics. he had also a disagreement with his publisher, and the _guardian_ was allowed but a short life of 175 numbers. of these about fifty were due to addison, and upwards of eighty to steele. steele's political ardour was irrepressible, and a paper in the _guardian_ (no. 128), demanding the abolition of dunkirk, called forth a pamphlet from swift, in which the weaknesses of his former friend are sneered at and denounced with enough of truthfulness to enhance their malice. after allowing that steele has humour, and is no disagreeable companion 'after the first bottle,' swift adds, 'being the most imprudent man alive, he never follows the advice of his friends, but is wholly at the mercy of fools and knaves, or hurried away by his own caprice, by which he has committed more absurdities in economy, friendship, love, duty, good manners, politics, religion, and writing than ever fell to one man's share.' a little later, in anticipation of the queen's death, steele published _the crisis_ (1714), a political pamphlet, which led to his expulsion from the house of commons. it was answered by one of the most masterly of swift's pamphlets, _the public spirit of the whigs_, in which it is suggested that steele might be superior to other writers on the whig side 'provided he would a little regard the propriety and disposition of his words, consult the grammatical part, and get some information in the subject he intends to handle.' the reader is chiefly concerned with steele as an essayist, and it is unnecessary to follow his career in the house of commons and out of it. yet there is one anecdote too characteristic to be omitted in the briefest notice of his life. lady charlotte finch had been attacked in the _examiner_ 'for knotting in st. james's chapel during divine service, in the immediate presence both of god and her majesty, who were affronted together.' steele denounced the calumny in the _guardian_. upon taking his seat as member for stockbridge, he was attacked by the tories on account of _the crisis_, which they deemed an inflammatory libel, and defended himself in a speech which occupied three hours. when he left the house, lord finch, who, like steele, was a new member, rose to make his maiden speech in defence of the man who had defended his sister; a nervous feeling caused him to hesitate, and he sat down, exclaiming, 'it is strange i cannot speak for this man, though i could readily fight for him.' the house cheered these generous words, and lord finch rising again, made an able speech. the effort was a vain one, and steele lost his seat. a few months later, after the death of queen anne, he entered the house again as member for boroughbridge, and having been placed in the commission of peace for middlesex, on presenting an address from the county, he received the honour of knighthood. meanwhile he had not renounced his vocation of essayist. the _guardian_ was followed by the _englishman_ (1713), the _englishman_ by the _lover_ (1714), and the _lover_ by the _reader_ (1714), a journal strongly political in character. of this only nine numbers were issued. then came _town talk_, the _tea table_, _chit-chat_, and the _theatre_. sir richard appears to have been always in a hurry to break new ground, a foible not confined to literature. he was continually starting new projects, and never doubted, in spite of numberless failures, that his latest effort to make a fortune would be successful. notwithstanding his appointments as manager of drury lane and as a commissioner in scotland to inquire into the estates of traitors, steele's money difficulties did not lessen as he advanced in life; worse still, he had the misfortune to quarrel with his oldest and dearest friend. for this he and addison were alike to blame, and addison dying a few months later, there was no time for reconciliation. in 1718 steele had lost his wife, and some years afterwards his only remaining son. ultimately, broken in health and fortune, sir richard retired to carmarthen, and there, in 1729, he died. 'i was told,' says victor, 'he retained his cheerful sweetness of temper to the last; and would often be carried out in a summer's evening, when the country lads and lasses were assembled at their rural sports, and with his pencil give an order on his agent, the mercer, for a new gown to the best dancer.'[41] all literature worthy of the name is the expression of the writer's life, of his aspirations, and of his ultimate aims; and since man is a moral being, it cannot be severed from morality. to point a moral, if it be within the scope of imaginative art, is subordinate to its main purpose. to delight by stimulating the imagination, to give a new beauty to existence by widening the realm of thought,--these are some of the noblest purposes of literature; and while men and women of creative genius are among our wisest teachers, the wisdom we gain from them comes to us without direct enforcement. in the last century, however, authors of good character, and authors who had no character to boast of, were equally impressed with the necessity of adorning their pages with moral maxims, and if this moral was not inserted in the body of the work, it was inevitable that it should be tacked on to the end of it like a tail to a kite. steele in his artless way had a moral end in view, though his method of reaching it was not always wise or even discreet. addison had his moral also. it pervades everything he wrote, but so artfully does he make use of it, that the reader is not unpleasantly conscious of a purpose. his allegories belong to an obsolete form of literature, but one of them at least _the vision of mirza_, may be still read with pleasure. his saturday essays, which are nearly always serious in character, are the sermons of a layman, expressed in the most lucid style and in the purest english. his tales, like his allegories, have lost much of their flavour, but the humorous essays, in which he depicts the manners of the time, as well as the numbers devoted to the spectator club and to addison's beloved sir roger, have a perennial charm. there is a felicity in the essayist's touch which is beyond imitation, although a reader might give, as johnson suggested, days and nights to the study. the style is the man, and to write as addison wrote it would be necessary to reach his moral and intellectual level, to see with his shrewd but kindly eyes, and to have his fine sense of humour. his faults, too, must be shared by his imitator--the somewhat too delicate refinement of a nature that never yields to impulse--the feminine sensitiveness that is allied to jealousy. addison, in the judgment of his admirers, comes very near to perfection, and that is an irritating quality in a fellow mortal. it is, if it be not paradoxical to say so, the defect of his essays. there is nothing definite to find fault with in them, but we feel that strength is wanting. the clear and silent stream is a beautiful object, but after awhile it becomes monotonous, and we long for the swift and impetuous movement of a mountain torrent. it would be a thankless task, however, to dwell insistently on the deficiencies of a writer who has done so much for literature, and so much, too, for what is better than literature. we may wish that he had more warmth in him, somewhat more of energy and passion, yet such merits would be scarcely consonant with the graceful charm which gives to the prose writings of addison an unrivalled position in pope's age, and, it might be added, in the eighteenth century, were it not for the priceless literary gift bestowed upon oliver goldsmith. steele's fame as a writer has been overshadowed by the more exquisite genius of addison, and his reputation has suffered partly from his own frailties and partly from the contemptuous way in which he has been treated by the panegyrists and critics of addison. pity is closely allied to contempt, and sir richard has come to be regarded as a scapegrace whose chief honour in life was the friendship of the accomplished essayist. yet it was steele who created the form of literature in which addison earned his laurels, and without which he would in the present day be utterly forgotten. steele was the discoverer of a new country, and if addison took possession of its fairest portion, it was after his friend had pointed out the path and made the way easy. it would be very unjust, however, to treat of steele solely as a pioneer. his own work, though less perfect than that of addison, a consummate master of composition, is rich in variety and spirit, in pathos and in knowledge of the world. steele is often careless, but he is never dull, and writes with a glow of enthusiasm that excites the reader's sympathy. truly does mr. dobson say that while addison's essays are faultless in their art and beyond the range of his friend's more impulsive nature, 'for words which the heart finds when the head is seeking; for phrases glowing with the white heat of a generous emotion; for sentences which throb and tingle with manly pity or courageous indignation, we must go to the essays of steele.'[42] sir richard's pathetic touches and artless turns of expression come from the heart. he is the most natural of writers, but does not seem to be aware that nature, in order to be converted into good literature, needs a little clothing. his essays have often a looseness or negligence of aim unpardonable in a man who can write so well. a conspicuous illustration of this defect may be seen in no. 181 of the _tatler_, one of the most beautiful pieces from steele's pen. 'the first sense of sorrow,' he writes, 'i ever knew was upon the death of my father, at which time i was not quite five years of age; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. i remember i went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it. i had my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin and calling "papa," for, i know not how, i had some slight idea that he was locked up there. my mother catched me in her arms, and transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embraces; and told me in a flood of tears, "papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again." she was a very beautiful woman of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport, which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, that before i was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since.' later on in the essay, and still looking back on the past, steele recalls the untimely death of the first object his eyes ever beheld with love, and then abruptly dismissing his regrets he carelessly finishes the paper with this characteristic passage: 'a large train of disasters were coming on to my memory when my servant knocked at my closet door, and interrupted me with a letter, attended with a hamper of wine of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on thursday next at garraway's coffee-house. upon the receipt of it i sent for three of my friends. we are so intimate that we can be company in whatever state of mind we meet, and can entertain each other without expecting always to rejoice. the wine we found to be generous and warming, but with such a heat as moved us rather to be cheerful than frolicsome. it revived the spirits, without firing the blood. we commended it until two of the clock this morning, and having to-day met a little before dinner, we found that though we drank two bottles a man, we had much more reason to recollect than forget what had passed the night before.' steele, to quote johnson's phrase, was 'the most agreeable rake that ever trod the rounds of indulgence,' but he had many a fine quality that does not harmonize with the character of a rake; and although he hurt himself by his follies, he did his best to help others by his genial wisdom. if he did not sufficiently regard his own interests, his thoughts, as addison said, 'teemed with projects for his country's good.' savage landor, with an impulse of somewhat extravagant eulogy, exclaimed, 'what a good critic steele was! i doubt if he has ever been surpassed.' this is one of the sayings that will not bear examination. steele had doubtless the fine perception of what is noble in art and literature, which some men possess instinctively. he felt what was good, but does not appear either to have reached or strengthened his conclusions by any process of study. as an essayist steele is careless, rapid, emotional, and disposed to be on the best terms with himself and with his readers. he makes them sure that if they could have met him in his rollicking mood at will's coffee-house, he would have treated them all round, even if, like goldsmith, he had been forced to borrow the money to do it. but he was not always in this reckless humour. his heart was expansive in its sympathies and tender as a woman's; his mind was open to all kindly influences, and his essays have in them the rich blood and vivid utterances of a man who has 'warmed both hands before the fire of life.' between steele's _guardian_ (1713) and the _rambler_ of johnson (1750), a period of thirty-seven years, a swarm of periodicals testify to the fame of steele and addison. the reader curious on the subject will find in dr. drake's essays a minute account of the numerous essayists who flourished, or who made an effort to live, between the close of the eighth volume of the _spectator_ and the beginning of the present century. of these a few have still a place on our shelves, but for the most part they enjoyed a butterfly existence, and serve but to prove the immeasurable superiority of the writers who created the english essay. footnotes: [36] cibber's _apology_, p. 386. [37] courthope's _addison_, p. 150. [38] _english dramatic literature_, vol. ii., p. 603. [39] 'it is a strange thing,' he writes, 'that you will not behave yourself with the obedience people of worse features do, but that i must be always giving you an account of every trifle and minute of my time.' [40] steele had been previously married to mrs. stretch, a widow, who possessed an estate in the west indies; but the lady did not long survive the marriage. [41] victor's _original letters, dramatic pieces, and poems_, vol. i., p. 330. [42] _selections from steele_, by austin dobson. introduction, p. xxx. clarendon press. chapter v. jonathan swift--john arbuthnot. the booksellers who employed the most famous man of letters then living (1777), to write the _lives of the poets_, selected the authors whose biographies were to accompany the poems they proposed to publish. they did not know the difference between versemakers and poets; but they probably did know what authors of the rhyming tribe were likely to prove the most popular. dr. johnson, who was then in his sixty-ninth year, was willing to write the _lives_ to order. he added, indeed, three or four names to the list which had been given him; but he made no protest, and contented himself, as he told boswell, in saying that a man was a dunce when he thought that he was one. among the biographies included by johnson in the _lives_, appears the illustrious name of swift. he was far indeed from being a dunce; but just as certainly he was not a poet, unless the title be given to him by courtesy. on the other hand, swift ranks among the most distinguished prose writers of his time--many critics consider him the greatest--and he therefore finds his natural place in the prose section of this volume. [sidenote: jonathan swift (1667-1745).] swift's life is an extraordinary psychological study, but it will suffice to state here the bare outline of his career. he was a posthumous child, and born in dublin of english parents, november 30th, 1667. when a year old he was kidnapped by his nurse out of pure affection, and carried off to whitehaven, where she remained with the child for three years. at the age of six the boy was sent to kilkenny school, and there he had william congreve (1670-1729), the future dramatist, for a schoolfellow. neither at school nor at trinity college, dublin, which he entered as a boy of fifteen, did swift distinguish himself, and he left the university in disgrace. at the revolution he found a refuge with his mother at leicester, and she, through a family relationship, obtained a position for her boy in the house of sir william temple (1628-1698), who was accounted a great man in his own day, and was famous alike for statecraft and literature. by many readers he will be best remembered as the husband of the charming dorothy osborne, whose innocently sweet love-letters have not lost their freshness in the lapse of two centuries. there was a degree of servitude in swift's position of secretary, which galled his proud spirit. but temple, so far from treating him unkindly, introduced him to the king, and employed him in 'affairs of great importance.' in 1694 he left temple, went to dublin, took holy orders, and lived as prebend of kilroot on £100 a year. in 1696 he resigned the office and returned to moor park, where he remained until sir william temple's death, in 1699. there he studied hard, ran up a steep hill daily for exercise, and cultivated the acquaintance of esther johnson, the 'stella' destined to take a strange part in swift's history, then a mere girl, and a companion of temple's sister, who lived with him after his wife's death. swift began his literary career by writing pindaric odes, one of which led dryden to say, and the prediction was amply verified, 'cousin swift, you will never be a poet.' probably no man of genius ever wrote worse poetry than is to be found in these portentous efforts. here is one fair illustration of his flights as an ode writer, and the reader will not ask for more: 'were i to form a regular thought of fame, which is perhaps, as hard to imagine right as to paint echo to the sight, i would not draw the idea from an empty name; because, alas! when we all die, careless and ignorant posterity, although they praise the learning and the wit, and though the title seems to show the name and man by whom the book was writ, yet how shall they be brought to know whether that very name was he, or you, or i? less should i daub it o'er with transitory praise, and water-colours of these days: these days! where e'en th' extravagance of poetry is at a loss for figures to express men's folly, whimsies, and inconstancy, and by a faint description makes them less. then tell us what is fame, where shall we search for it? look where exalted virtue and religion sit, enthroned with heavenly wit! look where you see the greatest scorn of learned vanity! (and then how much a nothing is mankind! whose reason is weighed down by popular air. who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death, and hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath, which yet whoe'er examines right will find to be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) and when you find out these, believe true fame is there, far above all reward, yet to which all is due; and this, ye great unknown! is only known in you.' it is remarkable that at the very time swift was perpetrating these lyrical atrocities, he was at work on the _tale of a tub_, which is generally regarded as the most masterly effort of his genius. a critic has said that swift's poetry 'lacks one quality only--imagination,' but verse without imagination is like a body without a soul, like a house without windows, like a landscape-painting without atmosphere, and no license of language will allow us to call swift a poet. enough that he became a master of rhyme, and used it with extraordinary facility. dr. johnson's estimate of swift's powers in this respect is a just one: 'in the poetical works of dr. swift there is not much upon which the critic can exercise his powers. they are often humorous, almost always light, and have the qualities which recommend such compositions, ease and gaiety. they are, for the most part, what their author intended. the diction is correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. there seldom occurs a hard-laboured expression, or a redundant epithet; all his verses exemplify his own definition of a good style; they consist of proper words in proper places.' the merits with which swift's verse is credited are, therefore, not poetical merits, unless we accept what schlegel calls the miserable doctrine of boileau, that the essence of poetry consists in diction and versification. the great bulk of swift's verse is suggested by the incidents of the hour. no subject is too trivial for his pen; but the poems which are addressed to stella, and others which, like _cadenus and vanessa_, and _on the death of dr. swift_, have a personal interest, are by far the most attractive. we see the best side of swift when he addresses stella, whether in verse or prose. the birthday rhymes he delighted to write in her praise have the mark of sincerity, and there is true feeling in the lines which describe her as a ministering angel in his sickness: 'when on my sickly couch i lay, impatient both of night and day, lamenting in unmanly strains, called every power to ease my pains; then stella ran to my relief with cheerful face and inward grief; and though by heaven's severe decree she suffers hourly more than me, no cruel master could require from slaves employed for daily hire, what stella, by her friendship warmed, with vigour and delight performed; my sinking spirits now supplies with cordials in her hands and eyes, now with a soft and silent tread unheard she moves about my bed. i see her taste each nauseous draught and so obligingly am caught, i bless the hand from whence they came, nor dare distort my face for shame.' the poem in which swift imagines what will take place upon his death, is full of satiric humour, combined with that vein of bitterness that is never long absent from his writings. his humour is always allied to sadness; his mirth often sounds like a cry of misery. in this poem he pictures his gradual decay, and how his special friends, anticipating the end, will show their tenderness by adding largely to his years: 'he's older than he would be reckoned, and well remembers charles the second. he hardly drinks a pint of wine, and that i doubt is no good sign. his stomach too begins to fail, last year we thought him strong and hale, but now he's quite another thing, i wish he may hold out till spring.' no enemy can match a friend, swift adds, in portending a great misfortune: 'he'd rather choose that i should die than his prediction prove a lie, no one foretells i shall recover, but all agree to give me over.' so he dies, and the first question asked is, 'what has he left and who's his heir?' and when these questions are answered, the dean is blamed for his bequests. the news spreads to london and is told at court: 'kind lady suffolk, in the spleen, runs laughing up to tell the queen. the queen so gracious, mild, and good, cries, "is he gone? 'tis time he should."' but the loss of the dean will cause a brief regret to his most intimate friends: 'poor pope will grieve a month; and gay a week; and arbuthnot a day. st. john himself will scarce forbear to bite his pen and drop a tear. the rest will give a shrug, and cry, "i'm sorry--but we all must die."' why grieve, indeed, at the death of friends, since no loss is more easy to supply, and in a year the dean will be forgotten, and his wit be out of date. 'some country squire to lintot goes, inquires for "swift in verse and prose." says lintot, "i have heard the name; he died a year ago." "the same." he searches all the shop in vain. "sir, you may find them in duck lane, i sent them with a load of books last monday to the pastrycook's. to fancy they could live a year! i find you're but a stranger here. the dean was famous in his time, and had a kind of knack at rhyme. his way of writing now is past, the town has got a better taste."' enough has been transcribed to show swift's art in this poem, which is of considerable, but not of wearisome length. perhaps ten or twelve pieces, in addition to those already mentioned, will repay the student's attention. one of the worthiest is a _rhapsody on poetry_. _baucis and philemon_, too, is a lively piece that pleased goldsmith, and will please every reader. it was much altered from the original draught at addison's suggestion; but the alterations are not improvements.[43] _the city shower_ is a piece of dutch painting, reminding us of crabbe. _mrs. harris's petition_ is an admirable bit of fooling; _mary the cook-maid's letter_, is in its way inimitable; and so, too, is the amusing talk of 'my lady's waiting-woman' in _the grand question debated_. it is difficult, unhappily, to pursue one's way through swift's poems, without being repelled again and again by the filth in which it pleases him to wade. _the beast's confession_, which has been reprinted in the _selections from swift_ (clarendon press), is not obscene, like _the lady's dressing-room_, _strephon and chloe_, and other poems of the class; but it has the inhumanity which deforms the description of the houyhnhnms. strange to say, in private life swift appears to have been not only moral in conduct, but refined in conversation, and he is even said to have rebuked stella on one occasion for a slightly coarse remark. his imagination was diseased, and he was himself always apprehensive of the calamity under which he became at last 'a driveller and a show.' 'i shall be like that tree,' he said once to the poet young, 'i shall die at the top.' it has been already said that _the tale of a tub_ was written at moor park. it appeared in 1704, and although published anonymously and never owned, the book effectually stood in the way of swift's high preferment in the church. queen anne declined, and not without reason, to make its author a bishop. it is a satire of amazing power, written by a man who takes, as swift took throughout life, a misanthropical view of human nature, and who agrees with the cynical judgment of carlyle, that men are mostly fools. swift, however, did not consider fools useless, but observes that they 'are as necessary for a good writer as pen, ink, and paper.' never was volume written which betrayed in larger characters the opinions and disposition of its author. swift was consistent in defending the national church as a political institution; but in the _tale of a tub_ he does so with weapons an atheist might use if he possessed the skill. the author maintains that in his ridicule of the church of rome and of protestant dissenters, he is only displaying the abuses which deform the christian church; but no defence can be urged for his wild and irreverent method of turning subjects into ridicule which by a vast number of people are regarded as sacred. in judging of swift's satire from a moral standing-point, one test, as mr. leslie stephen observes, may be supposed to guide our decision. 'imagine the _tale of a tub_ to be read by bishop butler and by voltaire, who called swift a _rabelais perfectionné_. can anyone doubt that the believer would be scandalized, and the scoffer find himself in a thoroughly congenial element? would not any believer shrink from the use of such weapons, even though directed against his enemies?'[44] although the wit poured out with such profusion in the _tale of a tub_, in so far as it offends the moral sense, fails to give pleasure, the reader is astonished, as swift in later life was himself, at the genius displayed in this allegory, the argument of which may be told in a few words. a man is supposed to have three sons by one wife, and all at a birth. on his deathbed he leaves to each of them a new coat, which he says will grow with their growth, and last as long as they live. in his will he leaves directions, saying how the coats are to be used, and warning them against neglecting his instructions. for some years all goes well, the will is studied and followed, and the brothers, peter (the church of rome), martin (the church of england), and jack (the calvinist), live in unity. how by degrees they misinterpret their father's will, how peter begins by adding topknots to his coat, and afterwards grows so scandalous that his brothers resolve to leave him, and then fall out between themselves, is told with abundant wit. a great part of the volume consists of digressions written in swift's most vigorous style, and with the cynical humour in which he has no competitor. it is always interesting to observe the influence of a work of genius on other minds, and in connection with the _tale of a tub_ a story told of his boyhood by william cobbett is worth recording: 'i was trudging through richmond,' he writes, 'in my blue smock-frock, and my red garters tied under my knees, when, staring about me, my eyes fell upon a little book in a bookseller's window, on the outside of which was written, "_tale of a tub_, price threepence." the title was so odd that my curiosity was excited.... it was something so new to my mind that though i could not at all understand some of it, it delighted me beyond description; and it produced what i have always considered a sort of birth of intellect. i read on till it was dark, without any thought of supper or bed.' cobbett adds, that having read till he could see no longer, he put the volume in his pocket, and 'tumbled down' by the side of a haystack, 'where i slept till the birds in kew gardens awakened me in the morning; when off i started to kew, reading my little book.' one of the greatest masters of prose in the language has also recorded the impression made upon him by this wonderful book. at the age of eighty-three landor wrote: 'i am reading once more the work i have read oftener than any other prose work in our language.... what a writer! not the most imaginative or the most simple, not bacon or goldsmith had the power of saying more forcibly or completely whatever he meant to say.' 'simplicity,' said swift, 'is the best and truest ornament of most things in human life;' and landor, commenting on swift's style, observes that 'he never attempted to round his sentences by redundant words, aware that from the simplest and the fewest arise the secret springs of genuine harmony.' the volume containing the _tale of a tub_ had also within its covers the _battle of the books_, which was suggested by a controversy that originated in france, and had been carried on by sir w. temple in england, as to the relative merits of the ancients and the moderns. out of this, too, arose a discussion by some _savants_, with richard bentley (1662-1742), the greatest scholar of the age, at their head, with regard to the genuineness of the _epistles of phalaris_, a subject discussed in macaulay's essay on temple in his usually brilliant style. swift, in the _battle of the books_ sides with temple and with charles boyle, the nominal editor of the _epistles_, who, in the famous _reply to bentley_, fought behind the shield of atterbury. in a combat, which takes place in the homeric style, the enemies of the ancients, bentley and wotton, are slain by one lance upon the field. the mighty deed was achieved by boyle. 'as when a slender cook has trussed a brace of woodcocks, he with iron skewer pierces the tender sides of both, their legs and wings close pinioned to their ribs, so was this pair of friends transfixed, till down they fell joined in their lives, joined in their deaths; so closely joined, that charon would mistake them both for one, and waft them over styx for half his fare.' the humour of the piece is delightful, and it matters not a whit for the enjoyment of it, that the wrong heroes gain the victory. in 1708 swift produced several pamphlets or tracts, and in one of them, the _argument against abolishing christianity_, he found ample scope for the irony of which he was so consummate a master. 'great wits,' he writes, 'love to be free with the highest objects; and if they cannot be allowed a god to revile or renounce, they will speak evil of dignities, abuse the government, and reflect upon the ministry; which i am sure few will deny to be of much more pernicious consequence;' and he observes, in concluding the argument: 'whatever some may think of the great advantages to trade by this favourite scheme, i do very much apprehend that in six months' time the bank and east india stock may fall at least one _per cent._ and since that is fifty times more than ever the wisdom of our age thought fit to venture for the preservation of christianity, there is no reason we should be at so great a loss merely for the sake of destroying it.' an amusing piece which appeared also at this time from swift's pen, is of literary interest. under the name of isaac bickerstaff he predicted the death, upon a certain day, of partridge, a notorious astrologer and almanac maker. when the day arrived his decease was announced, and he was afterwards decently buried by swift, despite a loud protest from the poor man that he was not only alive, but well and hearty. the town took up the joke, all the wits joined in it, and steele, who started the _tatler_ in the following year (1709), found it of advantage to assume the name of bickerstaff, which these squibs had made so popular. swift loved practical jokes, and sometimes yielded to a license that bordered on buffoonery. he was now in london, charged with a mission from the irish church, and hoping for church preferment himself. with the latter object in view he published the _sentiments of a church of england man_ (1708). two years later, vexed at heart at being unable to gain for the irish clergy privileges enjoyed by their english brethren, and foiled, too, in his ambition, swift forsook the whig party, which he had never loved, and going over to the tories, fought their battle for some years with so masterly a pen, as to become a great power in the country. some time before his return to london in 1710, a weekly tory paper had been started by bolingbroke and prior called _the examiner_, and in opposition to it, upon september 14th in that year, addison produced the _whig examiner_ which lived a brief life of five numbers and died on the 8th of october. three weeks later, on the 2nd november, after thirteen numbers of the _examiner_ had been published, swift took up the pen, and from that date to june 14th, 1711, every paper was from his hand. never before had a political journal exercised such power. in his change of party swift was sincere in purpose, but unscrupulous in his methods of pursuing it, and to gain his ends told lies with a vigour that has rarely been surpassed. he is never delicate in his treatment of opponents, and when finer weapons would be useless, strikes with a sledge hammer. that such a writer, a master of every method most effective in controversy, should have been valued by the statesmen of the day is not surprising. when he forsook the whig camp there was no opponent to pit against him, for neither addison with his delicate humour, nor steele with his brightness and versatility, could grapple with an enemy like this. swift's arrogance in these days of his power was that of a despot. he was doing great things for ministers, and took care that they should know it. he was proud of his self-assertion, proud of being rude. great men, and great ladies too, who wished for his acquaintance, had to make the first advances. he caused lady burlington to burst into tears by rudely ordering her to sing. 'she should sing or he would make her.' 'i was at court and church to-day,' he tells stella, 'i generally am acquainted with about thirty in the drawing-room, and am so proud i make all the lords come up to me.' on one occasion he sent the lord treasurer into the house of commons to call out the principal secretary of state in order to say that he would not dine with him if he intended to dine late. he relates, too, how he warned st. john not to appear cold to him, for he would not be treated like a school-boy, and if he heard or saw anything to his disadvantage to let him know in plain words, and not to put him in pain by the change of his behaviour, for it was what he would hardly bear from a crowned head. 'if we let these great ministers pretend too much,' he says, 'there will be no governing them.' and in a letter to pope he makes the following confession: 'all my endeavours from a boy to distinguish myself were only for want of a great title and fortune that i might be treated like a lord ... whether right or wrong it is no great matter; and so the reputation of great learning does the work of a blue ribbon, and of a coach and six horses.' it would be out of place in this volume to dwell on swift's feats as a political writer; for us the most interesting fact connected with the years 1710-14 is that during that eventful period of swift's life, in which he was hobnobbing with ministers of state and doing them infinite service by his pen, he was writing at odd moments his inimitable _journal to stella_, and gaining the love which ended so tragically, of hester vanhomrigh. this strange chapter in swift's life is closely bound up with his literary history, and must therefore be briefly noticed. at moor park swift, who was more than twenty years her senior, had seen esther johnson growing up into womanhood. he had been to her as a master, a position he always liked to assume towards women.[45] when he settled in ireland it was arranged that esther and her companion, mrs. dingley, should also live there. her preceptor, in his regard for propriety, appears never to have seen esther apart from the useful dingley, and his letters are apparently addressed to both of them, but esther knew, as we know, that all the tenderness and affectionate humour they contain was meant for her alone. swift never writes as a lover, but the kind of love he gave to 'stella' sufficed to bind her to him for life. if there were moments when she wished to escape from his power, the wish was hopeless. having once submitted to his fascination, she was held by it to the end. hester vanhomrigh, who was about ten years younger than stella, felt the same spell, and having a far less restrained nature than miss johnson, gave free expression to the passion which devoured her. between his two admirers, for such they were, swift had a difficult course to steer. to stella he was linked by strong ties of companionship, and to her, according to some authorities, he was secretly married. whether this were the case or not she had the larger claims upon him, and if one of the twain had to be sacrificed, vanessa must be the victim. in _cadenus and vanessa_ (1713) a poem which every student of swift will read, the author strove to achieve an impossibility. his aim was to ignore the lover and to assume the character of a master to an intelligent and favourite pupil, or of a father to a daughter. his dignity and age, he says, forbade the thought of warmer feelings. 'but friendship in its greatest height, a constant rational delight, on virtue's basis fixed to last when love's allurements long are past, which gently warms but cannot burn, he gladly offers in return; his want of passion will redeem with gratitude, respect, esteem; with that devotion we bestow when goddesses appear below.' and this was swift's method of dealing with a woman who confessed the 'inexpressible passion' she had for him, and that his 'dear image' was always before her eyes. 'sometimes,' she wrote, 'you strike me with that prodigious awe, i tremble with fear; at other times a charming compassion shines through your countenance which moves my soul.' swift had acted far more than indiscreetly in encouraging a friendship with vanessa, and when she followed him to dublin, in the neighbourhood of which she had some property, he knew not how to escape from the snare his own folly had laid. to stella he had given 'friendship and esteem,' but, as he is careful to add, 'ne'er admitted love a guest;' the same cold gift was offered to vanessa, but in vain. according to a report, the authority of which is doubtful, miss vanhomrigh wrote to stella, in 1723, asking if she was swift's wife. she replied that she was, and sent the letter she had received to swift. in a towering passion he rode to vanessa's house, threw the letter on the table, and left again without saying a word. the blow was fatal, and vanessa died soon afterwards, revoking her will in swift's favour and leaving to him the legacy of remorse. having told in outline this episode in swift's story, i return to the _journal to stella_, which dates from september 2nd, 1710, to june 6th, 1713. little did swift imagine that the chit-chat he was writing every day for esther johnson's sake would be read and enjoyed by thousands who care little or nothing for the party questions upon which the strenuous efforts of his intellect were expended. the early years of the eighteenth century contain nothing more delightful than this _journal_. its gossip, its nonsense, its freshness and ease of style, the tenderness concealed, or half-revealed, in its 'little language,' and the illustrations it supplies incidentally of the manners of the court and town, these are some of the charms that make us turn again and again to its pages with ever-increasing pleasure. we enjoy swift's egotism and trivialities, as we enjoy the egotism of pepys or montaigne, and can imagine the eagerness with which the _letters_ were read by the lovely woman whose destiny it was to receive everything from swift save the love which has its consummation in marriage. the style of the _journal_ is not that of an author composing, but of a companion talking; and it is all the more interesting since it reveals swift's character under a pleasanter aspect than any of his formal writings. we see in it what a warm heart he had for the friends whom he had once learnt to love, and with what zeal he exerted himself in assisting brother-authors, while receiving little beyond empty praise from ministers himself. in the winter of 1713-14 swift joined the scriblerus club, an association of such wits as pope, parnell, arbuthnot, and gay, and it was about this time that his friendship with pope began. the members proposed writing a satire between them, and when swift was exiled to dublin as dean of st. patrick's, he pursued indirectly the suggestion of the scriblerus wits by writing _gulliver's travels_ (1726), a book that has made his name known throughout europe, and in all the lands where english literature is read. although swift did not hesitate to make use of hints and descriptions which he had met with in the course of his reading, this is one of the most original works of fiction ever written, and one of the wittiest. yet like almost everything that swift wrote, it is deformed by grossness of expression, and in the latter portion by a malignant contempt for human nature which betrays a diseased imagination. the stories of the lilliputians and brobdingnags, purified from coarse allusions, are the delight of children; but the description of the houyhnhnms and yahoos excites disgust and indignation. he said that his object in writing the satire was to vex the world, and he has succeeded. 'it cannot be denied,' says sir walter scott, one of the sanest and healthiest of imaginative writers, 'that even a moral purpose will not justify the nakedness with which swift has sketched this horrible outline of mankind degraded to a bestial state; since a moralist ought to hold with the romans that crimes of atrocity should be exposed when punished, but those of flagitious impurity concealed. in point of probability, too--for there are degrees of probability, proper even to the wildest fiction--the fourth part of _gulliver_ is inferior to the three others.... the mind rejects, as utterly impossible, the supposition of a nation of horses, placed in houses which they could not build, fed with corn which they could neither sow, reap, nor save, possessing cows which they could not milk, depositing that milk in vessels which they could not make, and, in short, performing a hundred purposes of rational and social life for which their external structure altogether unfits them.'[46] neither morality, nor a regard for probability are so outraged in the story of the lilliputians and brobdingnags. having once accepted swift's assumption of the existence of little people not six inches high, and of a country in which the inhabitants 'appeared as tall as an ordinary spire-steeple,' the exactness and verisimilitude of the narrative, with its minute geographical details, make it appear so reasonable that a young reader may feel inclined to resent the criticism of an irish bishop who said that 'the book was full of improbable lies, and for his part he hardly believed a word of it.' it is curious to note that swift, who made a strange vow in early life 'not to be fond of children, or let them come near me hardly,' should have done more to delight them than any author of his century, with the exception, perhaps, of defoe. gay and pope wrote a joint letter to swift on the appearance of the _travels_, pretending that they did not know the author, and advising him to get the book if it had not yet reached ireland. 'from the highest to the lowest,' they declare, 'it is universally read, from the cabinet council to the nursery.... it has passed lords and commons _nemine contradicente_, and the whole town, men, women, and children, are quite full of it.' a book which attained in the author's lifetime a wellnigh unprecedented popularity should have yielded him a large profit. what it did yield we do not know, but in a letter dated 1735, in which, perhaps, he alludes to the _travels_, swift says, 'i never got a farthing for anything i writ, except once, about eight years ago, and that by mr. pope's prudent management for me.' the injustice done to ireland in the last century, as short-sighted as it was cruel, is described at large in the second volume of mr. lecky's _history_. swift, who hated ireland, felt a righteous indignation at the misgovernment which threatened the country with ruin, and some of his most powerful phillipics were secretly written in her defence. in 1720 he issued a pamphlet urging the irish to use only irish manufactures: 'i heard the late archbishop of tuam,' he writes, 'mention a pleasant observation of somebody's, that ireland would never be happy till a law were made for burning everything that came from england, except their people and their coals. i must confess, that as to the former, i should not be sorry if they would stay at home; and for the latter, i hope, in a little time we shall have no occasion for them "non tanti mitra est, non tanti judicis ostrum--" but i should rejoice to see a staylace from england be thought scandalous, and become a topic for censure at visits and tea-tables.' the pamphlet is a forcible attack on the oppression under which ireland laboured, and the government answered it by prosecuting the printer. nine times the jury were sent back by the chief justice before they consented to bring in a 'special verdict,' and ultimately the prosecution was dropped. two years later the english government granted a patent to a man of the name of wood to issue a new copper coinage for ireland to an extravagant amount, out of which, in return for bribes to the duchess of kendal, it was supposed that the speculator would make a considerable profit at ireland's expense. the country was aroused, and swift, by the issue of the _drapier's letters_, purporting to come from a dublin draper, roused the passions of the people to a white heat. it was known perfectly well from whom the _letters_ came, but no one would betray swift, and when the printer was thrown into prison the jury refused to convict. the battle was fought with vigour, swift conquered, and the patent was withdrawn. a brief passage from the fourth and final letter 'to the whole people of ireland' shall be quoted. it will be seen that the writer is not afraid of plain speaking. after saying that the king cannot compel the subject to take any money except it be sterling gold or silver, he adds: 'now here you may see that the vile accusation of wood and his accomplices, charging us with disputing the king's prerogative by refusing his brass, can have no place--because compelling the subject to take any coin which is not sterling is no part of the king's prerogative, and i am very confident, if it were so, we should be the last of his people to dispute it, as well from that inviolable loyalty we have always paid to his majesty, as from the treatment we might in such a case justly expect from some, who seem to think we have neither common sense nor common senses. but, god be thanked, the best of them are only our fellow-subjects, and not our masters. one great merit i am sure we have which those of english birth can have no pretence to--that our ancestors reduced this kingdom to the obedience of england; for which we have been rewarded with a worse climate--the privilege of being governed by laws to which we do not consent--a ruined trade--a house of peers without jurisdiction--almost an incapacity for all employments--and the dread of wood's halfpence. but we are so far from disputing the king's prerogative in coining, that we own he has power to give a patent to any man for setting his royal image and superscription upon whatever materials he pleases, and liberty to the patentee to offer them in any country from england to japan; only attended with one small limitation--that nobody alive is obliged to take them.' with much humour, in the last paragraph of the letter, swift undertakes to show that walpole is against wood's project 'by this one invincible argument, that he has the universal opinion of being a wise man, an able minister, and in all his proceedings pursuing the true interest of the king his master; and that as his integrity is above all corruption, so is his fortune above all temptation.' swift's arguments in the _drapier's letters_ are sophistical, his statements grossly exaggerated, and his advice sometimes shameless, as, for instance, in recommending what is now but too well known as 'boycotting.' the end, however, was gained, and the dean was treated with the honours of a conqueror. on his return from england in 1726, a guard of honour conducted him through the streets, and the city bells sounded a joyful peal. wherever he went he was received with something like royal honours, and when walpole talked of arresting him, he was told that 10,000 soldiers would be needed to make the attempt successful. the dean's hatred of oppression and injustice had its limits. he defended the test act, and assailed all dissenters with ungovernable fury. it was his aim to exclude them from every kind of power. in 1729, with a passion outwardly calm and in a moderate style, which makes his amazing satire the more appalling, swift published _a modest proposal for preventing the children of poor people in ireland from being a burden to their parents or country and for making them beneficial to the public_. a more hideous piece of irony was never written; it is the fruit of an indignation that tore his heart. the _proposal_ is, that considering the great misery of ireland, young children should be used for food. 'i grant,' he says,'this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children. 'a very worthy person, he says, considers that young lads and maidens over twelve would supply the want of venison, but 'it is not improbable that some scrupulous people might be apt to censure such a practice (although, indeed, very unjustly), as a little bordering upon cruelty; which i confess has always been with me the strongest objection against any project, how well soever intended.' the business-like way in which the argument is conducted throughout, adds greatly to its force. swift has written nothing so terrible as this satire, and nothing that surpasses it in power. the dean was fretting away his life when he wrote this pamphlet. two years before he had paid his last visit to the country where, as he said in a letter to gay, he had made his friendships and left his desires. on the death of george i. he visited england, vainly hoping to gain some preferment there through the aid of mrs. howard, the mistress of george ii., and returned to 'wretched dublin,' to lose the woman he had loved so well and treated so strangely, and to 'die in a rage like a poisoned rat in a hole.' after stella's death, in 1728, swift's burden of misanthropy was never destined to be lightened. his rage and gloom increased as the years moved on, and in penning his lines of savage invective against the irish house of commons, the dean had a fit and wrote no more verse. here is a specimen of his _sæva indignatio_: 'could i from the building's top hear the rattling thunder drop, while the devil upon the roof (if the devil be thunder-proof) should with poker fiery red crack the stones and melt the lead; drive them down on every skull, while the den of thieves is full; quite destroy that harpies' nest, how might then our isle be blest!' it should be observed at the same time that even in his declining days, when his heart was heavy with bitterness, swift indulged in practical jokes and in the most trivial pursuits. _vive la bagatelle_ was his cry, but it was the cry of a man who had as deep a contempt for the wiser pursuits of life as for its frivolities. of the mirth that is the natural outcome of a cheerful nature, the dean knew nothing. his hilarity was but a vain attempt to escape from despair. in 1740 he writes of being very miserable, extremely deaf, and full of pain. sometimes he gave way to furious bursts of temper, and for several years before the end came, he fell into a state resembling idiocy. swift died on october 19th, 1745, leaving his money to a hospital for lunatics, 'and showed by one satiric touch no nation needed it so much.' a brilliant writer, who has undertaken to prove the 'glaring injustice' of the popular estimate of swift, and by his forcible epithets has strengthened the grounds on which that estimate is built, observes that swift's 'philosophy of life is ignoble, base, and false,' that 'his impious mockery extends even to the deity,' and that 'a large portion of his works exhibit, and in intense activity, all the worst attributes of our nature--revenge, spite, malignity, uncleanness.'[47] this harsh judgment is essentially a true one; but swift's was a many-sided character. he was a misanthrope, with deep, though very limited affections, a man frugal to eccentricity, with a benevolence at once active and extensive. his powerful intellect compels our admiration, if not our sympathy. his irony, his genius for satire and humour, his argumentative skill, his language, which is never wanting in strength, and is as clear as the most pellucid of mountain streams--these gifts are of so rare an order, that swift's place in the literary history of his age must be always one of high eminence. doubtless, as a master of style, he has been sometimes over-praised. if we regard the writer's end, it must be admitted that his language is admirably fitted for that end. what more then, it may be asked, can be needed? the reply is, that in composition, as in other things, there are different orders of excellence. the kind, although perfect, may be a low kind, and swift's style wants the 'sweetness and light,' to quote a phrase of his own, which distinguish our greatest prose writers. it lacks also the elevation which inspires, and the persuasiveness that convinces while it charms. with infinitely more vigour than addison, swift, apart from his _letters_, has none of addison's attractiveness. no style, perhaps, is better fitted to exhibit scorn and contempt; but its author cannot express, because he does not possess, the sense of beauty. unlike pope, swift was a man of affairs rather than of letters. he wrote neither for literary fame nor for money. his ambition was to be a ruler of men, and in imperious will he was strong enough to make a second strafford. 'when people ask me,' said lord carteret, 'how i governed ireland, i say that i pleased dr. swift, "_quæsitam meritis sume superbiam_."' as a political pamphleteer he succeeded, because he was savagely in earnest, and had the special genius of a combatant. if argument was against him he used satire; if satire failed he tried invective; his armoury was full of weapons, and there was not one of them he could not wield. he loved power, and exercised it on the ministers who needed the services of his pen. and, as we have already said, he dispensed his favours like a king! swift's commanding genius gives even to his most trivial productions a measure of vitality. the student of our eighteenth century literature is arrested by the man and his works, and to treat either him or them with indifference would be to neglect a significant chapter in the history of the time. [sidenote: john arbuthnot (1667-1735).] john arbuthnot, one of the most prominent of the queen anne wits, and the warm friend of swift and pope, was born at arbuthnot, near montrose, in 1667. he studied medicine at aberdeen, and having taken his doctor's degree at st. andrews, came, after the wont of ambitious scotchmen, to seek his fortune in london, where in 1700 he published an _essay on the usefulness of mathematical learning_, and having won high reputation as a man of science, was elected a fellow of the royal society. a few years later he was made physician extraordinary to queen anne; and it was not long before he had as high a repute among men of letters as with men of science. he suffered frequently from illness; but no pain, it has been said, could extinguish his gaiety of mind. in the last century hampstead was a favourite resort of invalids. arbuthnot had sent gay there on one occasion, and thither in 1734 he went himself, so ill that he 'could neither sleep, breathe, eat, nor move.' contrary to his expectation he regained a little strength, and lived until the following spring. 'pope and i were with him,' lord chesterfield wrote, 'the evening before he died, when he suffered racking pains.... he took leave of us with tenderness, without weakness, and told us that he died not only with the comfort, but even the devout assurance of a christian.' there is not one of pope's circle who holds a more enviable position than arbuthnot. in strength of intellect and readiness of wit swift only was his equal, and in classical learning he was swift's superior. like othello, arbuthnot was of a free and open nature, and his friends clung to him with an affection that was almost womanly. he had the fine impulses of goldsmith combined with the manliness and practical sagacity of dr. johnson, and johnson recognized in this celebrated physician a kindred spirit. 'i think dr. arbuthnot,' he said, 'the first man among the wits of the age. he was the most universal genius, being an excellent physician, a man of deep learning, and a man of much humour.' his genius and generous qualities were amply acknowledged by his contemporaries, pope calls arbuthnot 'as good a doctor as any man for one that is ill, and a better doctor for one that is well;' swift said he had every virtue which could make a man amiable; berkeley wrote of him as a great philosopher who was reckoned the first mathematician of the age and had the character 'of uncommon virtue and probity,' and chesterfield, who declared that his knowledge and 'almost inexhaustible imagination' were at every one's service, added that 'charity, benevolence, and a love of mankind appeared unaffectedly in all he said and did.' strange to say we know little of arbuthnot but what is to be gleaned from the correspondence of his friends, and it is only of late years that an attempt has been made to write the doctor's biography, and to collect his works.[48] to edit these works satisfactorily is a difficult and a doubtful task--several of arbuthnot's writings having been produced in connection with swift, pope, and gay. so indifferent was he to literary fame, that his children are said to have made kites of papers in which he had jotted down hints that would have furnished good matter for folios. his most famous work is _the history of john bull_ (1713), which macaulay considered the most humorous political satire in the language. it was designed to help the tory party at the expense of the duke of marlborough, whose genius as a military leader was probably equal to that of wellington, while he fell far below the 'great duke' in the virtues which form a noble character. the irony and dry humour of the satire remind one of swift, and, like arbuthnot's _art of political lying_, is so much in swift's vein throughout that m. taine may be excused for attributing both of these pieces to the dean of st. patrick's. the _history of john bull_ is not fitted to attain lasting popularity. it will be read from curiosity and for information; but the keen excitement, the amusement, and the irritation caused by a brilliant satire of living men and passing events can be but vaguely imagined by readers whose interest in the statecraft of the age is historical and not personal. arbuthnot, like swift, belonged to the tory camp, and both did their utmost to depreciate the great general who never knew defeat, and to promote the designs of harley. when arbuthnot produced his satire, all the town laughed at the representation of marlborough as an old smooth-tongued attorney who loved money, and was said by his neighbours to be hen-pecked, 'which was impossible by such a mild-spirited woman as his wife was.' that an 'honest plain-dealing fellow' like john bull the clothier, should be deceived by such wily men of business as lewis baboon of france, and lord strutt of spain, and also that other tradesmen should be willing to join john and nic frog, the linen-draper of holland, in the lawsuit, provided that bull and frog, or bull alone, would bear the law charges, is made to appear likely enough; and scott says truly that 'it was scarce possible so effectually to dim the lustre of marlborough's splendid achievements as by parodying them under the history of a suit conducted by a wily attorney who made every advantage gained over the defendant a reason for protracting law procedure, and enhancing the expense of his client.' in this long lawsuit everybody is represented as gaining something except _john bull_, whose ready money, book debts, bonds, and mortgages go into the lawyer's pockets. whether the nickname of _john bull_ originated with arbuthnot or was merely adopted by him is not known. arbuthnot was an active member of the scriblerus club, and wrote the larger portion of the _memoirs of martin scriblerus_ (1741), the design of which was, as pope said, to ridicule false tastes in learning, in the character of a man 'that had dipped into every art and science, but injudiciously in each.' dr. johnson says of this work that no man can be wiser, better, or merrier for remembering it. perhaps he is right; but the _memoirs_ contain some humorous points which, if they do not create merriment, may yield some slight amusement. the pedant's endeavours to make a philosopher of his child are sufficiently ludicrous. he is delighted to find that the infant has the wart of cicero and the very neck of alexander, and hopes that he may come to stammer like demosthenes, 'and in time arrive at many other defects of famous men.' as the boy grows up his father invents for him a geographical suit of clothes, and stamps his gingerbread with the letters of the greek alphabet, which proved so successful a mode of teaching the language, that on the very first day the child 'ate as far as iota.' he also taught him as a diversion 'an odd and secret manner of stealing, according to the custom of the lacedemonians, wherein he succeeded so well that he practised it till the day of his death.' martin studies logic, philosophy, and medicine, and discovers that the seat of the soul is not confined to one place in all persons, but resides in the stomach of epicures, in the brain of philosophers, in the fingers of fiddlers, and in the toes of rope-dancers. his discoveries, it may be added, are made 'without the trivial help of experiments or observations.' footnotes: [43] _life of jonathan swift_, by john forster, vol. i., pp. 164-174. mr. forster did not live to produce more than one volume of a work to which for many years he had given 'much labour and time.' [44] _english men of letters--jonathan swift_, by leslie stephen, p. 43. [45] mrs. pendarves writes (1733) 'the day before we came out of town we dined at doctor delany's, and met the usual company. the dean of st. patrick's was there _in very good humour_, he calls himself "_my master_," and corrects me when i speak bad english or do not pronounce my words distinctly. i wish he lived in england, i should not only have a great deal of entertainment from him, but improvement.'--_life and correspondence of mrs delany_, vol. i., p. 407. [46] _life of swift_, p. 299. [47] _jonathan swift, a biographical and critical study_, by j. churton collins, p. 267. [48] see _the life and works of dr. arbuthnot_, by george a. aitken. oxford, clarendon press. chapter vi. daniel defoe--john dennis--colley cibber--lady mary wortley montagu--earl of chesterfield--lord lyttelton--joseph spence. [sidenote: daniel defoe (1661-1731).] the most voluminous writer of his century is popularly remembered as the author of one book, published in old age. everybody has read _robinson crusoe_, and knows the name of its author; but few readers outside the narrow circle of literary students are aware of defoe's exhaustless labours as a politician, social reformer, projector, pamphleteer, and novelist. it would be well for the author's reputation if we knew less about him than we do. there was a time when he was regarded as a noble sufferer in the cause of civil and religious liberty. his faults were credited to his age while his virtues were supposed to place him on an eminence far above the time-servers who despised him. he has been praised as a man courageously living for great aims, who was maligned by the malice of party, and to whose memory scant justice has been done. 'no one,' says henry kingsley, 'could come up to the standard of his absolute precision,' and his 'inexorable honesty alienated everyone.' these words were written in 1868. four years previously, however, the discovery of six letters in the state paper office, in defoe's own hand, had entirely destroyed his character for inexorable honesty, and the researches of his latest and most exhaustive biographer,[49] who regards his hero's vices as virtues, do but serve to give greater prominence to the baseness of his conduct. defoe, by his own confession, was for many years in the pay of the government for secret services, taking shares in tory papers and supervising them as editor, in order to defeat the aims of the party to which he professed to be allied, and of the proprietors with whom he was in partnership. thus in 1718, he writes as a plea that his labours should be remembered: 'i am, sir, for this service, posted among papists, jacobites, and enraged high tories--a generation who i profess my very soul abhors; i am obliged to hear traitorous expressions and outrageous words against his majesty's person and government, and his most faithful servants, and smile at it all as if i approved it; i am obliged to take all the scandalous and indeed villainous papers that come, and keep them by me as if i would gather materials from them to put them into the _news_; nay, i often venture to let things pass which are a little shocking that i may not render myself suspected. thus i bow in the house of _rimmon_, and must humbly recommend myself to his lordship's protection, or i may be undone the sooner, by how much the more faithfully i execute the commands i am under.' it would not be fair to judge defoe altogether by the moral standard of our own day, but the part he played as a servant and spy of the government would have been an act of baseness in any age, and of this he seems to have been conscious. daniel foe, who about 1703 assumed the prefix of de, for no assignable reason, was the son of a butcher and nonconformist in cripplegate, who had the youth educated for the ministry. daniel, however, preferred a more exciting occupation, and took part in the unfortunate expedition of the duke of monmouth. escaping from that peril he began business as a hose factor in cornhill, and carried it on until he failed about the year 1692. already he had learnt to use the pen, and a loyal pamphlet secured for him a public appointment which lasted for some years. he was also connected with a brick manufactory at tilbury. meanwhile he wrote for the press, and showed himself the possessor of a clear and masculine style, which could be 'understanded of the people.' in 1698 defoe published his _essay on projects_, 'which perhaps,' benjamin franklin says, 'gave me a turn of thinking that had an influence on some of the principal future events of my life.' one of the most interesting projects in the book is the proposal to form an academy on the french model. in 1712 swift wrote a pamphlet (the only piece he published with his name) entitled _a proposal for correcting, improving, and ascertaining the english tongue_, in which he suggests the foundation of an academy under the protection of the queen and her ministers. the idea it will be seen had been anticipated fifteen years before. 'the peculiar study of the academy of france,' defoe writes, 'has been to refine and correct their own language, which they have done to that happy degree that we see it now spoken in all the courts of christendom as the language allowed to be most universal. i had the honour once to be a member of a small society who seemed to offer at this noble design in england; but the greatness of the work and the modesty of the gentlemen concerned prevailed with them to desist from an enterprise which appeared too great for private hands to undertake. we want indeed a richelieu to commence such a work, for i am persuaded were there such a genius in our kingdom to lead the way, there would not want capacities who could carry on the work to a glory equal to all that has gone before them. the english tongue is a subject not at all less worthy the labours of such a society than the french, and capable of a much greater perfection. the learned among the french will own that the comprehensiveness of expression is a glory in which the english tongue not only equals, but excels its neighbours.... it is a great pity that a subject so noble should not have some as noble to attempt it; and for a method what greater can be set before us than the academy of paris, which, to give the french their due, stands foremost among all the great attempts in the learned part of the world.' defoe also projected a royal military academy, and an academy for women which should have only one entrance and a large moat round it. with these precautions, spies, he observes, would be unnecessary, since, in his opinion, 'there needs no other care to prevent intriguing than to keep the men effectually away.' he had the eastern notion of guarding women from danger by preventing the access to it, yet he could write: 'a woman of sense and manners is the finest and most delicate part of god's creation; the glory of her maker, and the great instance of his singular regard to man, his darling creature, to whom he gave the best gift either god could bestow or man receive. and it is the sordidest piece of folly and ingratitude in the world to withhold from the sex the due lustre which the advantages of education gives to the natural beauty of their minds. a woman well bred and well taught, furnished with the additional accomplishments of knowledge and behaviour, is a creature without comparison; her society is the emblem of sublime enjoyments; her person is angelic and her conversation heavenly.... she is every way suitable to the sublimest wish, and the man that has such a one to his portion has nothing to do but to rejoice in her and be thankful.' in verse defoe published the _true born englishman_ (1701), in defence of king william and his dutch followers: 'william's the name that's spoke by every tongue, william's the darling subject of my song; listen, ye virgins, to the charming sound, and in eternal dances hand it round. your early offerings to this altar bring, make him at once a lover and a king.' the nonsense deepens as the rhyme goes on. for william every tender vow is to be made, he is to be the first thought in the morning, and his name will act as a charm, affrighting the infernal powers and guarding from the terror of the night. the poem proved very popular, and defoe writes that had he been able to enjoy the profit of his own labour he would have gained above £1,000. he printed nine editions at the price of one shilling a copy, but meanwhile twelve surreptitious editions were published and sold for a few pence, a fraud for which he says he had no remedy but patience. throughout his busy life of authorship he was indeed continually victimized by pirates. while in verse defoe extolled the king as if he were a demi-god, he did william good service by his pamphlets, and was in some degree admitted into his confidence. up to the king's death in 1702 his course appears to have been straightforward; after the accession of anne he acted a less honourable part. no fault can be found with his design that year in writing _the shortest way with the dissenters_, a piece of irony unsurpassed in that age until the publication of swift's _modest proposal_, twenty-seven years later. the satire was at first accepted as a serious argument. the dissenters were alarmed, and the most bigoted of high churchmen delighted. then, defoe's aim being discovered, both parties joined in the cry for vengeance. he was condemned to stand for three days in the pillory, and was afterwards imprisoned in newgate. to the 'hieroglyphic state machine, contrived to punish fancy in,' the undaunted man addressed a hymn which was hawked about the streets, and the mob instead of pelting him with offensive missiles, covered him with flowers. 'earless on high stood unabashed defoe,' says pope. he was unabashed, but he was not earless. in newgate he remained until 1704, when he was released by harley. in prison he wrote a minutely circumstantial account of the great storm commemorated in addison's _campaign_. how much of defoe's narrative is truth and how much invention it is impossible to say. the fact that he solemnly vouches for the accuracy of his statements inclines one to believe that they are not to be trusted, for this was always defoe's _rôle_ as a writer of fiction. his first and most deliberate effort is to impose upon his readers, and in this art he is without a rival. while in newgate he began his _review_, a political journal of great ability. the first number was published in february, 1704, and it existed, though not in its original form, for more than nine years. 'when it is remembered that no other pen was ever employed than that of defoe, upon a work appearing at such frequent intervals, extending over more than nine years, and embracing, in more than five thousand printed pages, essays on almost every branch of human knowledge, the achievement must be pronounced a great one, even if he had written nothing else. if we add that between the dates of the first and last numbers of the _review_ he wrote and published no less than eighty other distinct works, containing 4,727 pages, and perhaps more not now known, the fertility of his genius must appear as astonishing as the greatness of his capacity for labour.'[50] defoe was permitted to leave his prison upon condition that he should act in the secret service of the government, and his work was that of an hireling writer unburdened by principle. when harley was ejected he made himself useful to godolphin; when godolphin was dismissed he went back to harley, and 'the spirit of the _review_ changed abruptly.' a more useful man for the work he had undertaken could not be found. his dexterity, his boldness, his knowledge of men and of affairs, his readiness as a writer, and it must be added his unscrupulousness, fitted him admirably for services which had to be done in secret. much that he did openly was deserving of high praise. he was tolerant in an intolerant age, he did his best to forward the union of england and scotland, his patriotic spirit was not feigned, his words are often weighty with wisdom, and it has been truly said, that 'his powerful advocacy was enlisted in favour of almost every practicable scheme of social improvement that came to the front in his time.'[51] with equal truth the writer adds that defoe was 'a wonderful mixture of knave and patriot.' the knavery is seen to some extent in his method of workmanship as a man of letters. in _a true relation of the apparition of one mrs. veal[52] the next day after her death to one mrs. bargrave at canterbury, 8th september, 1705_ (1706) defoe's art of mystification is skilfully practised. 'this relation,' he says in the preface, 'is matter of fact, and attended with such circumstances as may induce any reasonable man to believe it. it was sent by a gentleman, a justice of peace at maidstone, in kent, and a very intelligent person, to his friend in london as it is here worded; which discourse is here attested by a very sober and understanding gentleman, who had it from his kinswoman who lives in canterbury, within a few doors of the house in which the within-named mrs. bargrave lives ... and who positively assured him that the whole matter as it is related and laid down is really true, and what she herself had in the same words, as near as may be, from mrs. bargrave's own mouth.' in addition to this circumstantial statement, the veritable appearance of the ghostly lady is confirmed by the fact that she wore a scoured silk gown, newly made up, which, as mrs. bargrave told a friend, she felt and commended. 'then mrs. watson cried out, "you have seen her indeed, for none knew but mrs. veal and myself that the gown was scoured."' the ghost came chiefly for the purpose of recommending drelincourt's volume, _a christian's defence against the fear of death_, then in its third edition. the fourth edition contained mrs. bargrave's story. 'i am unable to say,' mr. lee writes, 'when defoe's "apparition" became a necessary appendage to the book; but think, that since the eleventh edition, to the present time, drelincourt has never been published without it.' when in 1719, at the age of fifty-nine, he produced his first and greatest work of fiction, _robinson crusoe_, he aimed by the constant reiteration of commonplace details to give a matter-of-fact aspect to the narrative, and in most of his later novels, with the exception of _colonel jack_ (1722), which he allows to be in part a 'moral romance,' defoe boldly maintains that his relations are in every respect true to biography and to history. to make this more probable he overloads his pages with a number of business-like statements, and with affairs so insignificant and sordid that only his genius can save the narrative from being wearisome. to inculcate morality he carries his readers into the worst dens of vice--his heroes being pickpockets, pirates, and convicts, and his heroines depraved women of the lowest order. the interest felt in _captain singleton_ (1720), in _moll flanders_ (1722), in _colonel jack_ (1722), and in _roxana_ (1724), is to be found in the minute record of their shameless adventures, their miseries and vices. when the characters reform, defoe's occupation is gone. the atmosphere the reader is forced to breathe in these tales is indeed so oppressive that he will be glad to escape from it into the pure and exhilarating air of a shakespeare or a scott. a critic has asserted that as models of fictitious narrative these tales are supreme, but it is impossible to agree with this judgment. the highest imaginative art is not deceptive art. the fact that lord chatham thought the _memoirs of a cavalier_[53] (1720) a true history, is not to the credit of the work as fiction. as well, it has been said, might you claim the highest genius for the painter, whose fruit and flowers were so deceptively painted as to tempt birds to peck at the canvas. whatever interest the reader feels in defoe's 'secondary novels,' of which _roxana_ is the most powerful, is due to scenes which disgust as much as they impress. the vividness with which they are depicted is undeniable, but one does not desire to inspect filth with a microscope. happily _robinson crusoe_, on which the author's fame rests, is a thoroughly healthy book that still holds its place as the best, or one of the best, volumes ever written for boys. there is genius as well as extraordinary skill in the way this admirable story is told, but it is not among the fictions which are read with as much pleasure in old age as in youth. defoe's amazing gift of invention does not compensate for the want of a creative and elevating imagination. _the history of the plague in london_ (1722) stands next to _robinson crusoe_ in literary merit. had defoe been a witness, as he pretends to have been, of the scenes which he describes, the record could not be more vivid. it professes to have been 'written by a citizen who continued all the while in london,' and 'lived without aldgate church and whitechapel bars, on the left hand or north side of the street.' in this case, as in others, the circumstantial character of the narrative led readers to regard it as a true history, and dr. mead, in his _discourse on the plague_ (1744), quotes the book as an authority. highly characteristic of defoe's style, and of his art as a moralist is the _religious courtship_, also published in 1722. it is the fictitious history of a family told partly in dialogue, and so written as to attract the reader in spite of repetitions and of reflections as praiseworthy as they are commonplace. it appeals to a class whose attention would not be won by fine literature, and has not appealed in vain, for the book, after passing through a large number of editions, has not yet lost its popularity. morally the work is unobjectionable, though not a little narrow, and it is strange that it should have appeared about the same time as a story so offensively coarse as _moll flanders_. the most veracious book written by defoe is _a tour through the whole island of great britain, by a gentleman_, 1724, in three volumes. the full title of the work is too long to quote, but it may be observed that the promises it holds out under five headings are satisfactorily fulfilled. the _tour_ bears the marks of having been written with great care and from personal observation throughout. defoe states that before publishing the book he had made seventeen large circuits or separate journeys, and three general tours through the whole island. it contains curious information as to the state of england and scotland one hundred and seventy years ago, and readers interested in our social progress and the industrial life of the country will find much to interest them in the traveller's shrewd observations and careful details. the love of mountain and lake scenery felt by gray more than forty years later was a passion unknown to defoe and to most of his contemporaries. in the _tour_ westmoreland is described as the wildest, most barbarous and frightful country of any which the author had passed over. he observes that it is 'of no advantage to represent horror,' and the impassable hills with their snow-covered tops 'seemed,' he says, 'to tell us all the pleasant part of england was at an end.' the _tour_ exhibits defoe's literary gift of expressing what he has to say in the clearest language. a homely style which fulfils its purpose has a merit deserving of recognition. for steady work upon the road the sober hackney is of more service than the race-horse. defoe was a husband and father and a man of affairs, yet, like his own crusoe, he lived a lonely life, and in 1731, owing to some strange circumstance of which there is no record, died a lonely death at a lodging-house at moorfields. he has been called the father of the english novel, and deserves the title, although on a slighter scale steele and addison preceded him as writers of fiction. as a novelist he is without refinement, without ideality, without passion; he looks at life from a low level, but in the narrow territory of which he is master--the art of realistic invention--his power of insight is incontestible. defoe adopted a method dear in our day to some of the least worthy of french novelists, who while aiming to copy nature debase her. for nature must be interpreted by art, since only thus can we obtain a likeness that shall be both beautiful and true. defoe, nevertheless, has contributed one book of lasting value to the literature of his country, and such a gift, in the eyes of the literary chronicler, hides a multitude of faults. [sidenote: john dennis (1657-1733-4).] john dennis was born in london and educated at harrow and caius college, cambridge. his relations with pope give him a more prominent position among men of letters than he would otherwise deserve, and mark with unpleasing distinctness the coarse methods of literary warfare adopted in pope's day. the poet began the attack in his _essay on criticism_. dennis had written a tragedy called _appius and virginia_, and pope, who had a grudge against him for not admiring his _pastorals_, showed his spite in the following lines: 'but appius reddens at each word you speak, and stares tremendous, with a threatening eye, like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry.' it was perilous in pope to allude to the personal defects of an antagonist, and dennis attacked him coarsely in return as a 'young, squab, short gentleman, an eternal writer of amorous pastoral madrigals, and the very bow of the god of love.' 'he has reason,' he adds, 'to thank the good gods that he was born a modern; for had he been born of grecian parents, and his father by consequence had by law the absolute disposal of him, his life had been no longer than one of his poems--the life of half a day.' dennis's pamphlet on the _essay_ caused pope some pain when he heard of it, 'but it was quite over,' he told spence, 'as soon as i came to look into his book and found he was in such a passion.' the critic, however, was a thorn in pope's flesh for many a year, and the poet showed his irritation by assaulting him in prose and verse. dennis was equally ready, although not equally capable of returning the poet's blows, and when free from the impotence of anger, made several shrewd critical thrusts which his antagonist felt keenly. dennis aspired to be a poet and dramatist. he wrote a bombastic poem in blank verse called _the monument_, sacred to the immortal memory of 'the good, the great, the god-like, william iii.'; a poem, also in blank verse, and still more 'tremendous,' to quote his favourite word, on the _battle of blenheim_, in which he frequently invokes his soul to say and sing a thousand things far beyond his soul's reach--and a poem equally laboured and grandiloquent, on the battle of ramillies, in which there are passages that read like a burlesque of milton. dennis observes in his _grounds of criticism in poetry_ (1704) that 'poetry unless it pleases, nay, and pleases to a height, is the most contemptible thing in the world.' this is just criticism, but the writer did not recognize that his own verse was contemptible. in this essay, which contains many sound critical remarks and an appreciation of milton seldom felt at that time, he has the bad taste to quote as an illustration of the sublime, a passage from his own paraphrase of the te deum: 'where'er at utmost stretch we cast our eyes through the vast frightful spaces of the skies, ev'n there we find thy glory, there we gaze on thy bright majesty's unbounded blaze; ten thousand suns prodigious globes of light at once in broad dimensions strike our sight; millions behind, in the remoter skies, appear but spangles to our wearied eyes; and when our wearied eyes want farther strength to pierce the void's immeasurable length our vigorous towering thoughts still further fly, and still remoter flaming worlds descry; but even an angel's comprehensive thought cannot extend so far as thou hast wrought; our vast conceptions are by swelling, brought, swallowed and lost in infinite, to nought.' it is significant of dennis's judgment of his own verse that these inflated lines follow one of the loveliest passages contained in _paradise lost_. milton describes the moon unveiling her peerless light; and the poet-critic exhibits in juxtaposition his 'vigorous towering thoughts' about the stars. the comparison forced upon the reader is unfortunate. his tragedies, _iphigenia_ (1704), _liberty asserted_ (1704), _appius and virginia_ (1709), and a comedy called _a plot and no plot_ (1697) were brought upon the stage. _liberty asserted_, which was received with applause due to the violence of its attacks upon the french, although called a tragedy, does not end tragically. the heroine's patriotism is so fervid that she professes herself willing, while loving one man, to marry another whom she does not love, if her country deems him the more worthy. among other poetical attempts, dennis addressed a pindaric ode to dryden, and the great poet, with the flattery which he was always ready to lavish on his well-wishers, called him 'one of the greatest masters' in that kind of verse. 'you have the sublimity of sense as well as sound,' he wrote, 'and know how far the boldness of a poet may lawfully extend.' it may be added that dennis on one occasion successfully opposed one of the ablest controversialists of the age. in _the absolute unlawfulness of stage entertainments fully demonstrated_, william law attacked dramatic representations, not on account of the evils at that time associated with them, but as 'in their own nature grossly sinful.' 'to suppose an innocent play,' law says, 'is like supposing innocent lust, sober rant, or harmless profaneness,' and throughout the pamphlet this strain of fierce hostility is maintained. 'law,' says his biographer,'measured his strength with some of the very ablest men of his day, with men like hoadly and warburton, and tindal and wesley; and it may safely be said that he never came forth from the contest defeated. but, absurd as it may sound, it is perfectly true that what neither hoadly nor warburton, nor tindal, nor wesley could do, was done by john dennis.... "plays," wrote law, "are contrary to scripture as the devil is to god, as the worship of images is to the second commandment." to this dennis gave the obvious and unanswerable retort that "when st. paul was at athens, the very source of dramatic poetry, he said a great deal publicly against the idolatry of the athenians, but not one word against their stage. at corinth he said as little against theirs. he quoted on one occasion an athenian dramatic poet, and on others aratus and epimenides. he was educated in all the learning of the grecians, and could not but have read their dramatic poems; and yet, so far from speaking a word against them, he makes use of them for the instruction and conversion of mankind."' dennis's pamphlet, _the stage defended from scripture, reason, experience, and the common sense of mankind for two thousand years_, was published in 1726. in his latter days he suffered from two grievous calamities, poverty and blindness. in 1733 vanbrugh's play, _the provoked husband_, was acted for his benefit, and his old enemy pope wrote the prologue, of which the sarcasm is more conspicuous than the kindness. there is a story, to which allusion is made in the _dunciad_, that dennis had invented some kind of theatrical thunder, and how, being once present at a tragedy, he fell into a great passion because his art had been appropriated, and cried out ''sdeath! that is _my_ thunder.' the critic was also known to have an intense hatred of the french and of the pope, and these peculiarities are not forgotten in the prologue. after saying that dennis lay pressed by want and weakness, his doubtful friend adds: 'how changed from him who made the boxes groan, and shook the stage with thunders all his own! stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope, maul the french tyrant, or pull down the pope! if there's a briton then, true bred and born, who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn; if there's a critic of distinguished rage; if there's a senior who contemns this age; let him to-night his just assistance lend, and be the critic's, briton's, old man's friend.' dennis got £100 by this benefit, but had little time in which to spend it, for he died about a fortnight afterwards at the age of seventy-seven. upon his death aaron hill wrote some memorial verses, in which he prophesies that, while the critic's frailties will be no longer remembered, 'the rising ages shall redeem his name, and nations read him into lasting fame.' it will be seen that the poets did not all treat dennis unkindly. if praise were substantial food, he would have had enough to sustain him from 'glorious john' alone. [sidenote: colley cibber (1671-1757).] colley cibber holds a more prominent place than dennis in the list of men whom pope selected for attack. he could not have chosen one more impervious to assault. the poet's anger excited cibber's mirth, his satire contributed to his content. the comedian's unbounded self-satisfaction and good humour, his vivacity and spirits, were proof against pope's malice. graceless he may have been, but a dullard the mercurial 'king colley' was not. born in 1671, he disappointed the hopes of his father, the famous sculptor, and at the age of eighteen made his first appearance on the stage. as actor and as dramatist, the theatre throughout his life was cibber's all-absorbing interest. his first play, _love's last shift_ (1696), kept possession of the stage for forty years, and his best play, _the careless husband_ (1704), received a like welcome. as an actor he was also successful, and played for £50 a night, the highest sum ever given at that time to any english player. his career was as long as it was prosperous. 'old cibber plays to-night,' horace walpole wrote in 1741, 'and all the world will be there.' it was only as poet laureate, for he could not write poetry, that cibber displayed his inferiority. the honour was conferred in 1730, two years after gay had produced the _beggar's opera_, when pope was in the height of his fame, when thomson had published his _seasons_ and young _the universal passion_. pope, as a roman catholic, was out of the running, but there were poets living who would have saved the office from the disgrace brought upon it by cibber. 'as to cibber,' swift wrote to pope, 'if i had any inclination to excuse the court, i would allege that the laureate's place is entirely in the lord chamberlain's gift; but who makes lord chamberlains is another question.' the sole result of the appointment that deserves to be recorded is an epigram by johnson, as just as it is severe: 'augustus still survives in maro's strain, and spenser's verse prolongs eliza's reign; great george's acts let tuneful cibber sing, for nature formed the poet for the king!' of poetry there is no trace in the five volumes of his dramatic works; there are few touches of nature, and little genuine wit, but these defects are to some extent supplied by sparkling dialogue and lively badinage. cibber is often sentimental, and when he is sentimental he is odious. his attempts to express strong emotion and honourable feeling excite laughter instead of sympathy, and on this account it is difficult to accept without some deduction mr. ward's favourable judgment of _the careless husband_,[54] which, if it be one of the cleverest of cibber's dramas, is also one of the most conspicuous for this defect. here, as elsewhere, cibber should have left sentiment alone. imagine a lover exclaiming to a relenting mistress, 'oh, let my soul thus bending to your power, adore this soft descending goodness!' or a man conversing in the following strain with a wife who has discovered and forgiven his infidelities: '_sir charles._ come, i will not shock your softness by any untimely blush for what is past, but rather soothe you to a pleasure at my sense of joy for my recovered happiness to come. give then to my new-born love what name you please, it cannot, shall not be too kind. oh! it cannot be too soft for what my soul swells up with emulation to deserve. receive me then entire at last, and take what yet no woman ever truly had, my conquered heart. '_lady easy._ oh, the soft treasure! oh, the dear reward of long-desiring love--thus, thus to have you mine is something more than happiness, 'tis double life and madness of abounding joy.... '_sir charles._ oh, thou engaging virtue! but i'm too slow in doing justice to thy love. i know thy softness will refuse me; but remember, i insist upon it--let thy woman be discharged this minute.' it has been said that cibber wrote genteel comedy because he lived in the best society. if this assertion be true, the reader of his plays will decide that the best society of those days was unrefined and immoral, and that genteel comedy can be extremely vulgar. cibber's dramas are coarse in incident, and often offensive in suggestion. the language is frequently gross, and even when he writes, or professes to write, with a moral purpose, his method may justly offend a rigid moralist. moreover his comedy, like that of the dramatists of the restoration, is of a wholly artificial type. human nature has comparatively little place in it, and the fine ladies and gentlemen, the fops and fools who play their parts in his scenes, belong to a world which has no existence off the boards of the theatre. his one work which is still read by all students of the drama, and by many who are not students, is the _apology for the life of mr. colley cibber_ (1740), which dr. johnson, who sneered at actors, allowed to be very entertaining. it is that, and something more, for it contains much just and generous criticism. cibber was the author or adapter of about thirty plays, and in the latter vocation did not spare shakespeare. [sidenote: lady mary wortley montagu (1689-1762).] letter writing, a delightful branch of literature, attained its highest excellence in the eighteenth century. it is an art which gains most, if the paradox may be allowed, by being artless. the carefully studied epistle, written with a view to publication, may have its value, but it cannot have the charm of a letter written in the familiar intercourse of friendship. it is the correspondence prompted by the heart which reaches the heart of the reader. the humour, the gaiety, the tenderness, and the chatty details that make a letter attractive, should be prompted by the feelings and events of the hour. carefully constructed sentences and rhetorical flourishes ring hollow; to write for effect is to write badly, and to make a display of knowledge is to reveal an ignorance of the art. for letter writing, although the most natural of literary gifts, is not wholly due to nature. it is the outcome of many qualities which need cultivation; the soil that produces such fruit must have been carefully tilled. in our day epistolary correspondence has been in great measure destroyed by the penny post and by rapidity of communication. in the last century postage was costly: and although the burden was frequently and unjustly lightened by franks, the transmission of letters was slow and uncertain. letters, therefore, were seldom written unless the writer had something definite to say, and had leisure in which to say it. much time was spent in the occupation, letters were carefully preserved as family heirlooms, and thus it has come to pass that much of our knowledge of the age, and very much of the pleasure to be gained from a study of the period, is due to its letter writers. the list of them is a striking one, for it includes the names of swift and steele, of pope and gay, of bolingbroke and chesterfield, of mrs. delany and mrs. thrale, and of the three gifted rivals in the art, gray, horace walpole, and cowper. in the band of authors famous for their correspondence, lady mary wortley montagu holds a conspicuous place. reference has been already made to the pope correspondence, large in bulk and large too in interest. to this lady mary contributed slightly, and the greater portion of her letters were addressed to her husband, to her sister, lady mar, and to her daughter, the countess of bute. she was shrewd enough to know their value: 'keep my letters,' she wrote, 'they will be as good as madame de sévigné's forty years hence;' and they are, perhaps, as good as letters can be which are written with a sense of their value, which madame de sévigné's were not. lady mary, who may be said to have belonged to the wits from her infancy, for in her eighth year she was made the toast of the kit kat club, was not only a beauty, but a woman of some learning and of the keenest intelligence. at twenty she translated the _encheiridion_ of epictetus. she was a great reader and a good critic, unless, which often happened, political prejudices warped her judgment. she had considerable facility in rhyming, and both with tongue and pen cultivated many enmities, the deadliest of her foes being the poet who was at one time her most ardent admirer. the story of lady mary's career, with its vicissitudes and singularities, may be read in lord wharncliffe's edition of her _life and letters_. she is a prominent figure in the literature of the period, and made several passing contributions to it, but apart from a few facile and far from decent verses her letters are the sole legacy she has left behind her for the literary student. some of them, and especially those addressed to her sister the countess of mar, are often coarse; those to her daughter the countess of bute exhibit good sense, and all abound in lively sallies, interesting anecdotes, and the personal allusions which give a charm to correspondence. the section containing the letters written during her husband's embassy to constantinople (1716-1718) is perhaps the best known. among the strangest of lady mary's letters are those addressed to her future husband, whom she requests to settle an annuity upon her in order to propitiate her friends. in one of them she describes her father's purpose to marry her as he thought fit without regarding her inclinations, and observes that having declined to marry 'where it is impossible to love,' she is bidden to consult her relatives: 'i told my intention to all my nearest relations. i was surprised at their blaming it to the greatest degree. i was told they were sorry i would ruin myself; but if i was so unreasonable they could not blame my f. [father] whatever he inflicted on me. i objected i did not love him. they made answer they found no necessity of loving; if i lived well with him that was all was required of me; and that if i considered this town i should find very few women in love with their husbands and yet a many happy. it was in vain to dispute with such prudent people.' this incident is characteristic of the period, but lady mary's letters to wortley montagu are more characteristic of the woman who had her own views of female propriety, and of the right method of love-making. to escape from the man she hated, she eloped with wortley, and if, in story-book phrase, the curiously-matched couple 'lived happily ever afterwards,' it was probably because for more than twenty years they lived apart. of the following letter, written in her old age, it has been aptly said that 'the graceful cynicism of horace and pope has perhaps never been more successfully reproduced in prose.'[55] 'daughter, daughter! don't call names; you are always abusing my pleasures, which is what no mortal will bear. trash, lumber and stuff are the titles you give to my favourite amusement. if i called a white staff a stick of wood, a gold key gilded brass, and the ensigns of illustrious orders coloured strings, this may be philosophically true, but would be very ill received. we have all our playthings; happy are they that can be contented with those they can obtain; those hours are spent in the wisest manner that can easiest shade the ills of life, and are the least productive of ill-consequences.... the active scenes are over at my age. i indulge with all the art i can my taste for reading. if i would confine it to valuable books, they are almost as rare as valuable men. i must be content with what i can find. as i approach a second childhood, i endeavour to enter into the pleasures of it. your youngest son is perhaps at this very moment riding on a poker with great delight, not at all regretting that it is not a gold one, and much less wishing it an arabian horse which he would not know how to manage. i am reading an idle tale, not expecting wit or truth in it, and am very glad it is not metaphysics to puzzle my judgment, or history to mislead my opinion. he fortifies his health by exercise; i calm my cares by oblivion. the methods may appear low to busy people; but if he improves his strength, and i forget my infirmities, we both attain very desirable ends.' lady mary, it may be added, deserves to be remembered for her courage in trying inoculation on her own children, and then introducing it into this country. this was in 1721, seventy-eight years before jenner discovered a more excellent way of grappling with the small pox. [sidenote: philip dormer stanhope earl of chesterfield (1694-1773).] lord chesterfield's position in the literature of the period is also among the letter writers. he was emphatically a man of affairs, and as lord lieutenant of ireland in 1745, gained a high reputation. he entered upon his labours with the resolution to be independent of party, and during his brief administration did all that man could do for the benefit of the country. in his public career, chesterfield has the reputation of an orator who spoke 'most exquisitely well;' he was an able diplomatist, and probably no man of the time took a wider interest in public affairs. in a corrupt age, too, he appears to have been politically incorruptible: 'i call corruption,' he writes, 'the taking of a sixpence more than the just and known salary of your employment under any pretence whatsoever.' the reform of the calendar, in which he was assisted by two great mathematicians, bradley and the earl of macclesfield, is also one of his honourable claims to remembrance. on the other hand, chesterfield, whom george ii. called 'a tea-table scoundrel,' was an inveterate gambler, he mistook vice for virtue, practised dissimulation as an art, and studied men's weaknesses in order that he might flatter them. one of the chief ends of man, in the earl's opinion, was to shine in society; we need not therefore wonder that johnson, with his sturdy honesty, revolted from chesterfield's insincerity, and we have to thank the earl's character for, perhaps, the noblest piece of invective in the language. if, however, he neglected johnson at the time when his help would have been of service, he appreciated the society of men of letters, and took his part among the wits of the age. 'i used,' he tells his son, 'to think myself in company as much above me when i was with mr. addison and mr. pope as if i had been with all the princes in europe.' as an essayist, although chesterfield cannot compete with addison or steele, he is far from contemptible, and his twenty-three papers in the _world_ (1753-1756) may still be read with pleasure. his literary reputation is based upon the _letters_ (1774)[56] to his illegitimate son written for the purpose of making him a fine gentleman, but the young man had no aptitude for the part. his father offered him 'a present of the graces,' and he despised the gift. the _letters_, which johnson denounced in language better fitted for his day than for ours, abound in worldly sagacity and wise counsels; the best that can be said of them from a moral point of view is that they show the extremely low standpoint of the writer. he is honestly desirous of benefiting his son and advancing his interest in life, and so far as morality will do this it is earnestly inculcated. 'a real man of fashion,' he says, 'observes decency; at least neither borrows nor affects vices; and, if he unfortunately has any, he gratifies them with choice, delicacy and secrecy.' he observes that an intrigue with a woman of fashion is an amusement which a man of sense and decency may pursue with a proper regard for his character; gallantry without debauchery being 'the elegant pleasure of a rational being.' chesterfield's son, who was educated for a diplomatist, is told that the art of pleasing is more necessary in his profession than perhaps in any other. 'make your court particularly, and show distinguished attentions to such men and women as are best at court, highest in the fashion and in the opinion of the public; speak advantageously of them behind their backs, in companies who you have reason to believe will tell them again.' the necessity for dissimulation, constantly enjoined by his father was not forgotten by philip stanhope. so effectually did he conceal his marriage that the earl was not aware of it until after his son's death. [sidenote: george lyttelton (1708-1773).] george lyttelton, afterwards lord lyttelton, has a place among the poets in the collections of anderson and chalmers. some of his best verses were written when a school-boy at eton, and are worthy of a clever school-boy. the _monody_ on his wife's death has the merit of sincere feeling, expressed in one or two passages poetically. in 1747 he published his _dissertation on the conversion of st. paul_, 'a treatise,' says dr. johnson, 'to which infidelity has never been able to fabricate a specious answer.' he made himself conspicuous in parliament as an opponent of walpole, and after the fall of that minister was appointed one of the lords of the treasury. in 1760 lyttelton published his _dialogues of the dead_, a volume for which he owes much to fénelon. this was followed a few years later by a history of henry ii. in three volumes, upon which great labour was expended. he is said to have had the whole history printed twice over, and many sheets four or five times, an amusement which cost him £1,000. the work is praised by mr. j. r. green as 'a full and sober account of the time.' lyttelton died at hagley park in his sixty-fourth year. close to hagley, shenstone had his little estate of the leasowes, and the poet is said to have cherished the absurd fancy that lord lyttelton was envious of its beauty. he is now chiefly remembered as the patron of thomson, whom he called 'one of the best and most beloved' of his friends. [sidenote: joseph spence (1698-1768).] joseph spence, a warm friend and admirer of pope in the poet's later life, had the happy peculiarity of keeping free from the party animosities of the time. his course throughout was that of a gentleman, and to him we owe the little volume of _anecdotes_ which every student of pope has learnt to value. spence had much of boswell's curiosity and hero-worship, but there is neither insight into character in his pages, nor any trace of the dramatic skill which makes boswell's narrative so delightful. at the same time there is every indication that he strove to give the sayings of the poet, as far as possible, in his own words. johnson and warton saw the _anecdotes_ in manuscript, but strange to say, the collection was not published until 1820, when two separate editions appeared simultaneously. the publication by spence in 1727 of _an essay on pope's translation of homer's odyssey_ led to an acquaintance which soon became intimate between the poet and his critic. apart from literature, they had more than one point of interest in common. like pope, spence was devoted to his mother, and like pope he had a passion for landscape gardening. his mild virtues and engaging disposition are said to be portrayed in the _tales of the genii_, under the character of fincal the dervise of the groves. in 1747 he published his _polymetis, an enquiry into the agreement between the works of the roman poets and the remains of ancient artists_. under the _nom de plume_ of sir harry beaumont, spence produced a volume of _moralities or essays, letters, fables and translations_ (1753), and in the following year an account of the blind poet blacklock. for a learned tailor, thomas hill by name, he also performed a similarly kind office, comparing him in _a parallel in the manner of plutarch_ with the famous linguist magliabecchi. spence was made professor of poetry at oxford in 1728, and held the post for ten years. his end was a sad one. he was accidentally drowned in a canal in the garden which he had loved so well. footnotes: [49] _daniel defoe: his life and recently discovered writings, extending from 1716 to 1729._ by william lee. 3 vols. [50] lee's _defoe_, vol. i., p. 85. of defoe's fertility and capacity for work there cannot be a question; but the biographer's stupendous catalogue of his publications--254 in number--contains many which are ascribed to him solely on what mr. lee regards as internal evidence. [51] _english men of letters--daniel defoe._ by william minto. p. 170. [52] see note on page 248. [53] there can be no doubt, i think, despite mr. lee's arguments, that the work is as much a fiction as any other historical novel. that it may be based upon some authentic document is highly probable, although it is not necessary to agree with his biographer, that 'to claim for defoe the authorship of the _cavalier_, as a work of pure fiction, would be equivalent to a claim of almost superhuman genius.' [54] ward's _history of english dramatic literature_, vol. ii., p. 597. [55] _four centuries of english letters_, edited and arranged by w. baptiste scoones, p. 214. [56] these _letters_ were not published until after the earl's death, but many of them belong, chronologically, to our period. the first letter of the series was written in 1738. chapter vii. francis atterbury--lord shaftesbury--bernard de mandeville--lord bolingbroke--bishop berkeley--william law--bishop butler--bishop warburton. [sidenote: francis atterbury (1662-1732).] during the first half of the eighteenth century the position held by bishop atterbury was one of high eminence. addison ranked him with the most illustrious geniuses of his age; pope said he was one of the greatest men in polite learning the nation ever possessed; doddridge called him the glory of english orators; and johnson said that for style his sermons are among the best. unfortunately atterbury's literary gifts, like his oratory, lack the merit of permanence, and his sermons, more conspicuous for eloquence than for weightiness of matter, although extremely popular at the time, have long ceased to be read. his prominence among the queen anne wits,--and he was admired by them all,--is a sufficient reason for saying a few words about him in these pages. he was born in 1662, and, like prior, educated at westminster under the famous dr. busby. thence he went to christ church, oxford, where he gained a good reputation. he undertook the tutorship of the hon. c. boyle, a young man of more spirit than judgment, who had the audacity to enter the lists with bentley in a matter of scholarship. for this rash deed atterbury must be held responsible. sir william temple had published a foolish but eloquently written essay in defence of the ancient writers in comparison with the modern. in this essay he praises warmly the _letters of phalaris_. of these letters boyle, with the help of atterbury and other members of christ church, published a new edition to satisfy the demand caused by temple's essay. bentley, roused to reply by a remark of boyle in his preface, proved that the _letters_ were not only spurious but contemptible. under his pupil's name atterbury replied to bentley's _dissertations_, and to the discussion, as the reader will remember, swift added wit if not argument. for the moment boyle's, or rather atterbury's success, was great, for wit and rhetoric are powerful persuasives. the authors, too, had the christ church men to back them, the arch-critic having treated them with contempt. atterbury's share in the work, as he tells boyle, "consisted in writing more than half the book, in reviewing a great part of the rest, and in transcribing the whole." his _examination of dr. bentley's dissertations_ (1698) is a brilliant piece of work, and 'deserves the praise,' says macaulay, 'whatever that praise may be worth, of being the best book ever written by any man on the wrong side of a question of which he was profoundly ignorant.' having taken holy orders, atterbury became a court preacher, and ample clerical honours fell to his share. in 1700 he published a book entitled, _the rights, powers, and privileges of an english convocation stated and vindicated_, which was warmly applauded by high churchmen. in 1701 he was appointed archdeacon of totness, and afterwards prebend of exeter. he became the favourite chaplain of queen anne, and when prince george died proved the power of his eloquence by representing 'his unassuming virtues in such high relief that his widow could not help feeling her irreparable loss.' atterbury was made successively dean of carlisle and of christ church, and in 1713 succeeded sprat as dean of westminster and bishop of rochester. before making swift's acquaintance he recommended his friend trelawney, bishop of exeter, to read the _tale of a tub_, a book which is to be valued, 'in spite of its profaneness,' as 'an original in its kind, full of wit, humour, good sense, and learning.' atterbury's taste for literature was not always so discriminative. he advised pope, as has been already stated, to 'polish' _samson agonistes_, declared that all verses should have instruction at the bottom of them, and told the poet, as though he had discovered a merit, that his poetry was 'all over morality from the beginning to the end of it.' he ventured occasionally into the verse-making field himself, and wrote a song to silvia, in which, after admitting that he had loved before as men worship strange deities, he adds: 'my heart, 'tis true, has often ranged, like bees on gaudy flowers, and many a thousand loves has changed, till it was fixed on yours. 'but, silvia, when i saw those eyes, 'twas soon determined there; stars might as well forsake the skies, and vanish into air. 'when i from this great rule do err, new beauties to adore, may i again turn wanderer, and never settle more.' the close friendship between atterbury and pope did honour to both men, and when pope went to london he would 'lie at the deanery.' there, unknown to his friend, the bishop carried on his jacobite intrigues, and there may still be seen, in a residence made famous by more than one great name, a secret room in which atterbury concealed his treasonable correspondence. the poet did not believe that his friend was guilty, but it has been well known since the publication of the stuart papers, more than forty years ago, that the splendid defence made by atterbury at his trial in the house of lords was based upon a falsehood. for years the bishop appears to have corresponded, under feigned names and by the help of ciphers, with 'the king over the water;' but the plot which led to his imprisonment and ultimate exile was not discovered until 1722, when he was arrested for high treason. at his trial he called god to witness his innocence; and when pope took leave of him in the tower he told the poet he would allow him to call his sentence a just one if he should ever find that he had dealings with the pretender in his exile. pope gave evidence at his trial, and, as he told spence, lost his self-possession and made two or three blunders. atterbury was exiled in june, 1723. on reaching calais he heard that bolingbroke had just arrived there on his way to england, having had a royal pardon. 'then i am exchanged,' he said. the pathetic story of his banishment, and of his devoted daughter's illness and voyage to the south of france, where after a union of a few hours, she died in her father's arms, is full of the most touching details, and may be read in atterbury's correspondence. 'she is gone,' the bishop wrote, 'and i must follow her. when i do, may my latter end be like hers! it was my business to have taught her to die; instead of it, she has taught me.' like fielding's account of his _voyage to lisbon_, the letters give a picture of the time, and of travelling discomforts and difficulties of which we, in these more fortunate days, know nothing. the bishop, who did not long survive his daughter, died in 1732, but before the end came he defended himself admirably from the accusation of oldmixon, a libeller who stands in the pillory of the _dunciad_, that he had helped to garble clarendon's _history_. the body was carried to england and privately buried by the side of his daughter in westminster abbey. the eloquence of atterbury's sermons--there are four volumes of them in print--has not secured to them a lasting place in literature, but they are distinguished by purity of style, and have enough of _unction_ to make them highly effective as pulpit discourses. in book form, too, they were for a long time popular, and reached an eighth edition about thirty years after the bishop's death. the eloquent sermon on the death of lady cutts endows the lady with such an array of virtues, that one is inclined to wonder how so many rare qualities could have been exhibited in so brief a life: 'she excelled in all the characters that belonged to her, and was in a great measure equal to all the obligations that she lay under. she was devout without superstition; strict, without ill humour; good-natured, without weakness; cheerful, without levity; regular, without affectation. she was to her husband the best of wives, the most agreeable of companions, and most faithful of friends; to her servants the best of mistresses; to her relations extremely respectful; to her inferiors very obliging; and by all that knew her, either nearly or at a distance, she was reckoned and confessed to be one of the best of women. and yet all this goodness and all this excellence was bounded within the compass of eighteen years and as many days; for no longer was she allowed to live among us. she was snatched out of the world as soon almost as she had made her appearance in it, like a jewel of high price just shown a little, and then put up again, and we were deprived of her by that time we had learnt to value her. but circles may be complete though small; the perfection of life doth not consist in the length of it.' as a friend of literature and of men of letters, atterbury claims the student's recognition, and the five volumes of his correspondence deserve to be consulted. [sidenote: anthony, third lord shaftesbury (1671-1713).] 'i will tell you,' writes the poet gray, 'how lord shaftesbury came to be a philosopher in vogue: first, he was a lord; secondly, he was as vain as any of his readers; thirdly, men are very prone to believe what they do not understand; fourthly, they will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it; fifthly, they love to take a new road, even when that road leads nowhere; sixthly, he was reckoned a fine writer, and seemed always to mean more than he said. would you have any more reasons? an interval of above forty years has pretty well destroyed the charm.' one hundred and thirty-five years have gone by since gray wrote his estimate of lord shaftesbury, whose _characteristics of men, manners, opinions, times_ (1711) passed through several editions in the last century. the first volume consists of: _a letter concerning enthusiasm_, _an essay on the freedom of wit and humour_ and _advice to an author_; vol. ii. contains _an inquiry concerning virtue and merit_ (1699), and _the moralists, a philosophical rhapsody_ (1709), and vol. iii. contains _miscellaneous reflections_ and the _judgments of hercules_. shaftesbury was a deist, and while professing to honour the christian faith, which he terms 'our holy religion,' exercises his wit and casuistry and command of english to undermine it. pope, who shows in the _essay on man_ that he had read the _characteristics_, said that to his knowledge 'the work had done more harm to revealed religion in england than all the works of infidelity,' a judgment which may seem extravagant, for shaftesbury is too vague and rhetorical greatly to influence thoughtful readers, and too much of a 'virtuoso,' to use his own words, for readers of another class; yet the fact that the work passed, as we have said, through several editions, shows that the author had a considerable public to whom he could appeal. moreover, it is clear that what mr. balfour calls 'the shallow optimism' of his creed was not deemed so inconsiderable then as it now appears, or berkeley would not have deemed it necessary to controvert his arguments in the third dialogue of his _alciphron_. like berkeley, shaftesbury occasionally makes use of the dialogue very effectively, but he has not the bishop's incisiveness. his style, though often faulty, and giving one the impression that the author is affected, and wishes to say fine things, is at its best fresh and lucid. the reader will observe that whatever be the topic shaftesbury professes to discuss, his one aim is to assert his principles as a free-thinking and free-speaking philosopher. his inferences, his illustrations, his criticisms, and exaltation of the 'moral sense,' are all so many underhanded blows at the faith which he never openly opposes. thus his essay on the _freedom of wit and humour_ is chiefly written in defence of raillery in the discussion of serious subjects, when managed 'with good breeding,' and for 'a liberty in decent language to question everything' amongst gentlemen and friends. he regards ridicule as the antidote to enthusiasm, believes in the harmony and perfection of nature, and considers that evil only exists in our ignorance. mr. leslie stephen, whose impartiality in estimating an author like shaftesbury will not be questioned, calls him a wearisome and perplexed writer, whose rhetoric is flimsy, but who has 'a true vigour and originality which redeems him from contempt.' judged by his influence on the age shaftesbury's place in the history of literature and of philosophy is an important one. seed springs up quickly when the soil is prepared for it, and shaftesbury by his belief in the perfectibility of human nature through the aid of culture, appealed, as mandeville also did from a lower and opposite platform, to the views current in polite society. according to shaftesbury men have a natural instinct for virtue, and the sense of what is beautiful enables the virtuoso to reject what is evil and to cleave to what is good. let a man once see that to be wicked is to be miserable, and virtue will be dear for its own sake apart from the fear of punishment or the hope of reward. he found salvation for the world in a cultivated taste, but had no gospel for the men whose tastes were not cultivated. voltaire sneered at the optimism of the _essay on man_ and of the _characteristics_. 'shaftesbury,' he says, 'who made the fable fashionable, was a very unhappy man. i have seen bolingbroke a prey to vexation and rage, and pope, whom he induced to put this sorry jest into verse, was as much to be pitied as any man i have ever known; mis-shapen in body, dissatisfied in mind, always ill, always a burden to himself, and harassed by a hundred enemies to his very last moment.' [sidenote: bernard de mandeville (1670?-1733).] bernard de mandeville gained much notoriety by his _fable of the bees, or private vices, public benefits_ (1723). the book opens with a poem in doggrel verse called _the grumbling hive, or knaves turned honest_, the purport of which is to show that as the bees became virtuous, they ceased to be successful. he closes with the moral that 'to enjoy the world's conveniences, be famed in war, yet live in ease, without great vices is a vain utopia, seated in the brain. fraud, luxury, and pride must live, while we the benefits receive.' in the prose which follows the fable, mandeville may at least claim the credit of being outspoken, and he does not scruple to say that modesty is a sham and that what seems like virtue is nothing but self-love. 'i often,' he says, 'compare the virtues of good men to your large china jars; they make a fine show, but look into a thousand of them, and you will find nothing in them but dust and cobwebs.' while declaring that he is far from encouraging vice, he regards it as essential to the well-being of society. the degradation of the race excites his amusement, and the fact that he cannot see a way of escape from it, causes no regret. shaftesbury's arguments excited the mirth of a man who believed neither in present nor future good 'two systems,' he says, 'cannot be more opposite than his lordship's and mine. his notions, i confess, are generous and refined. they are a high compliment to human kind, and capable, by the help of a little enthusiasm, of inspiring us with the most noble sentiments concerning the dignity of our exalted nature. what pity it is that they are not true.' the author of the _fable of the bees_ writes coarsely for coarse readers, and the arguments by which he supports his graceless theory merit the infamy generally awarded to them.[57] the book was attacked by warburton and law, and with much force and humour by berkeley, in the second dialogue of _alciphron_. but the bishop, to use a homely phrase, does not hit the right nail on the head. instead of arguing that virtue and goodness are realities, while evil, being unreal and antagonistic to man's nature, is an enemy to be fought against and conquered, berkeley takes a lower ground, and is content to show in his reply to mandeville that virtue is more profitable to a state than vice. he annihilates many of mandeville's arguments in a masterly style, but it was left to the author of the _serious call_ to strike at the root of mandeville's fallacy, and to show how the seat of virtue, if i may apply hooker's noble words with regard to law, 'is the bosom of god, her voice the harmony of the world; all things in heaven and earth do her homage, the very least as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power.' [sidenote: lord bolingbroke (1678-1751).] the life of henry st. john was a mass of contradictions. he was a brilliant politician who affected to be a wise statesman, a traitor to his country while pretending to be a patriot, an orator whose lips distilled honied phrases which his actions belied, a man of insatiable ambition who masked as a philosopher, a profligate without shame, a faithless friend, and an unscrupulous opponent. blessed with every charm of manner, features, and voice, with a taste for literature and a large faculty of acquisition, he was a slave to the meanest vices. a secretary of state at thirty-two, no man probably ever entered upon public life with brighter prospects, and the secret of all his failures was due to the want of character. 'few people,' says lord hervey, 'ever believed him without being deceived or trusted him without being betrayed; he was one to whom prosperity was no advantage, and adversity no instruction.' it is said that his genius as an orator was of a high order and this we can believe the more readily since the style of his works is distinctly oratorical. in speech so much depends upon voice and manner that it is possible for a shallow thinker to be an extremely attractive speaker; bolingbroke's speeches have not been preserved, and we may therefore continue, if we please, to hold with pitt, that they are the most desirable of all the lost fragments of literature; his writings, far more showy than solid, do not convey a lofty impression of intellectual power. obvious truths and well-worn truisms are uttered in high-sounding words, but in no department of thought can it be said that bolingbroke breaks new ground. much that he wrote was for the day and died with it, and if his more ambitious efforts, written with an eye to posterity, cannot justly be described as unreadable, they contain comparatively little which makes them worthy to be read. his defence of his conduct in _a letter to sir william windham_, written in 1717, but not published until after the author's death, though worthless as a defence, is a fine piece of special pleading in bolingbroke's best style. it could deceive no one acquainted with the part played by the author before the death of queen anne, and afterwards in exile, but it afforded him an opportunity for attacking his former colleague, oxford, with all the weapons available by an unscrupulous and powerful assailant. he declares in this letter that he preferred exile rather than to make common cause with the man whom he abhorred. writing of oxford as a colleague in the government of the country he observes in a skilfully turned passage: 'the ocean which environs us is an emblem of our government; and the pilot and the minister are in similar circumstances. it seldom happens that either of them can steer a direct course, and they both arrive at their port by means which frequently seem to carry them from it. but as the work advances the conduct of him who leads it on with real abilities clears up, the appearing inconsistencies are reconciled, and when it is once consummated, the whole shows itself so uniform, so plain, and so natural, that every dabbler in politics will be apt to think he could have done the same. but on the other hand the man who proposes no such object, who substitutes artifice in the place of ability, who, instead of leading parties and governing accidents, is eternally agitated backwards and forwards by both, who begins every day something new, and carries nothing on to perfection, may impose awhile on the world: but a little sooner or a little later the mystery will be revealed, and nothing will be found to be couched under it but a thread of pitiful expedients, the ultimate end of which never extended farther than living from day to day. which of these pictures resembles oxford most you will determine.' it has been said with somewhat daring exaggeration, that burke never produced anything nobler than this passage, and the writer regards the whole composition of the _letter to windham_ as almost faultless.[58] that it is bolingbroke's masterpiece may be readily admitted, but in this _letter_, as elsewhere, the merits of bolingbroke's style are those of the popular orator who conceals repetitions, contradictory statements, and emptiness of thought under a dazzling display of rhetoric. that he had splendid gifts and exhibited an extraordinary ingenuity of resource was acknowledged by friend and foe. at one time taking a distinguished part in european affairs, at another artfully intriguing, sometimes posing as a moralist and philosopher while a slave to debauchery, and at other times affecting a love of retirement while a slave to ambition--bolingbroke acted a part which made him one of the most conspicuous figures of the time. he knew how to fascinate men of greater genius than he possessed, and how to guide men intellectually his superiors. the witchcraft of his wit and the charm of his manners no longer disturb the judgment. as a statesman bolingbroke is now comparatively despised, as a man of letters he is generally regarded as a brilliant pretender, and if his name survives in the history of literature it is chiefly due to the friendship of pope. unfortunately the memory of this celebrated friendship is associated with one of the most ignoble acts of bolingbroke's life. when pope lay dying, bolingbroke wept over his friend exclaiming, 'o great god, what is man!' and spence relates that upon telling his lordship how pope whenever he was sensible said something kindly of his friends as if his humanity outlasted his understanding, bolingbroke replied, '"it has so! i never in my life knew a man that had so tender a heart for his particular friends or a more general friendship for mankind. i have known him these thirty years, and value myself more for that man's love than"--sinking his head and losing himself in tears.' his sorrow was speedily changed to anger. pope, no doubt in admiration of his friend's genius, had privately printed 1,500 copies of his _patriot king_, one of bolingbroke's ablest but most sophistical works. the philosopher had only allowed a few copies to be printed for his friends, and the discovery of pope's conduct roused his indignation. in 1749 he put a corrected copy of the work into mallet's hands for publication with an advertisement in which pope is treated with contempt. he had not the courage to assail the memory of his friend openly, and hired an unprincipled man to do it. the poet had acted trickily, after his wonted habit, though in all likelihood with the design of doing bolingbroke a service. it was a fault to be forgiven by a friend, but bolingbroke, after nursing his anger for five years, gave vent to it in this contemptible and underhand way. he died two years afterwards, and in 1754 the posthumous publication of bolingbroke's _philosophical writings_ by mallet, aroused a storm of indignation in the country, which his debauchery and political immorality had failed to excite. johnson's saying on the occasion is well-known: 'sir, he was a scoundrel and a coward; a scoundrel for charging a blunderbuss against religion and morality; a coward because he had not resolution to fire it off himself, but left half-a-crown to a beggarly scotchman to draw the trigger after his death.' the most noteworthy estimate of bolingbroke's character made in our day comes from the pen of mr. john morley,[59] who describes as follows his position as a man of letters. 'he handled the great and difficult instrument of written language with such freedom and copiousness, such vivacity and ease, that in spite of much literary foppery and falsetto, he ranks in all that musicians call execution, only below the three or four highest masters of english prose. yet of all the characters in our history bolingbroke must be pronounced to be most of a charlatan; of all the writing in our literature, his is the hollowest, the flashiest, the most insincere.' this is true. by his 'execution,' consummate though it be, he is unable to conceal his insincerity and shallowness. 'bolingbroke,' said lord shelburne, was 'all surface,' and in that sentence his character is written. 'people seem to think,' said carlyle, 'that a style can be put off or put on, not like a skin, but like a coat. is not a skin verily a product and close kinsfellow of all that lies under it,--exact type of the nature of the beast, not to be plucked off without flaying and death?' two years after the publication of the _philosophical writings_, edmund burke, then a young man of twenty-four, published _a vindication of natural society_, in a _letter to lord----. by a late noble writer_, in which lord bolingbroke's style is imitated, and his arguments against revealed religion applied to exhibit 'the miseries and evils arising to mankind from every species of artificial society.' so close is the imitation of bolingbroke's style and mode of argument in this piece of irony, that it was for a time believed to be a genuine production, and mallet found it necessary to disavow it publicly. of bolingbroke's works, the _dissertation on parties_ appeared in 1735. _letters on patriotism_, and _idea of a patriot king_, in 1749; _letters on the study of history_, in 1752; _letter to sir w. windham_, 1753, and the _philosophical writings_, as already stated, in 1754. chronologically, therefore, he would belong to the handbook which deals with the latter half of the century, were it not that his most important works were posthumous, and that bolingbroke's intimate relations with pope place him among the most conspicuous figures belonging to pope's age. [sidenote: george berkeley (1685-1753).] among the men of high intellect who flourished in the age of pope, george berkeley is one of the most distinguished. born in 1685 of poor parents, in a cottage near dysert castle, in kilkenny, he went up to trinity college, dublin, in 1700, and there, first as student, and afterwards as tutor, he remained for thirteen years. in the course of them he was ordained, and gained a fellowship. in 1709 he published his _essay on vision_, and in the following year the _principles of human knowledge_, works which thus early made him famous as a philosopher, and a puzzle to many who failed to understand his 'new principle' with regard to the existence of matter. in 1712 berkeley visited england, probably for the first time, and was introduced to the london wits. already in these youthful days there was in him much of that magic power which some men exercise unconsciously and irresistibly. swift felt the spell, called berkeley a great philosopher, and spoke of him to all the ministers; while atterbury, upon being asked what he thought of him, exclaimed: 'so much understanding, so much knowledge, so much innocence, and such humility, i did not think had been the portion of any but angels till i saw this gentleman.' an incident occurred, it is conjectured during the course of this visit, which led to memorable results. he dined once with swift at mrs. vanhomrigh's, and met her daughter hester. many years later, _vanessa_ destroyed the will she had made in swift's favour, and left half of her property to berkeley. while in london the future bishop was warmly welcomed by steele, and wrote several essays for him in the _guardian_ against the freethinkers, and especially against anthony collins (1676-1729), whose arguments in his _discourse on freethinking_ (1713) are ridiculed in the _scriblerus memoirs_. collins, it may be observed here, wrote a treatise several years later on the _grounds of the christian religion_ (1724) which called forth thirty-five answers. during this visit berkeley also published one of his most original works, _dialogues between hylas and philonous_, a book marked by that consummate beauty of style for which he is distinguished. in november, 1713, the earl of peterborough was sent on an embassage to the king of sicily, and on swift's recommendation took berkeley with him as his chaplain and secretary. ten months were spent on this occasion in france and italy. another continental tour followed, in the course of which berkeley wrote to arbuthnot of his ascent of vesuvius, and to pope of his life at naples. five years were spent abroad, and he returned to england to learn of the failure of the south sea scheme. in his _essay towards preventing the ruin of great britain_ (1721), the main argument is the obvious one, that national salvation is only to be secured by individual uprightness. he deplores 'the trifling vanity of apparel' which we have learned from france, advocates the revival of sumptuary laws, considers that we are 'doomed to be undone' by luxury, and by the want of public spirit, and declares that 'neither venice nor paris, nor any other town in any part of the world ever knew such an expensive ruinous folly as our masquerade.' in the summer of this year he was again in london, and pope asked him to spend a week in his 'tusculum.' one promotion followed another until berkeley became dean of derry, with an income of from £1,500 to £2,000 a year. he did not hold this dignified position long, having conceived the magnificent but utopian idea of founding a missionary college in the bermudas--the 'summer isles' celebrated in the verse of waller and of marvell--for the conversion of america. and now berkeley exhibited his amazing power of influencing other men. the members of the scriblerus club laughed at the dean's project, but so powerful was his eloquence, that 'those who came to scoff remained to subscribe.' moreover, with sir robert walpole as prime minister, he actually obtained a grant from the state of £20,000 in order to carry out the project, the king gave a charter, and to crown all, sir robert put his own name down for £200 on the list of subscribers. 'the scheme,' says mr. balfour, 'seems now so impracticable that we may well wonder how any single person, let alone the representatives of a whole nation, could be found to support it. in order that religion and learning might flourish in america, the seeds of them were to be cast in some rocky islets severed from america by nearly six hundred miles of stormy ocean. in order that the inhabitants of the mainland and of the west indian colonies might equally benefit by the new university, it was to be placed in such a position that neither could conveniently reach it.'[60] berkeley, who had recently married, left england for rhode island, where he stayed for about three years and wrote _alciphron_ (1732), in which he attacks the freethinkers under the title of _minute philosophers_. then on learning from walpole that the promised money 'would most undoubtedly be paid as soon as suits public convenience' which would be never, he returned to england, and through the queen's influence was made bishop of cloyne. in that diocese eighteen years of his life were spent. in the course of them he published the _querist_ (1735-1737), an _essay on the social state of ireland_ (1744), and, in the same year, _siris_, which contains the bishop's famous recipe for the use of tar water followed by much philosophical disquisition. the remedy, which was afterwards praised by the poet dyer in _the fleece_, became instantly popular. 'we are now mad about the water,' horace walpole wrote; 'the book contains every subject from tar water to the trinity; however, all the women read it, and understand it no more than if it were intelligible.' editions of _siris_ followed each other in rapid succession, and it was translated into french and german. the work is that of an enthusiast, and it should be read not for its argument, but for its wealth of suggestiveness, and for what mr. balfour calls 'a certain quality of moral elevation and speculative diffidence alien both to the literature and the life of the eighteenth century.' berkeley had himself the profoundest faith in the panacea which he advocated. 'from my representing tar water,' he writes, 'as good for so many things, some, perhaps, many conclude it is good for nothing. but charity obligeth me to say what i know, and what i think, howsoever it may be taken. men may conjecture and object as they please, but i appeal to time and experience.' in his latter days berkeley, feeling his health failing, desired to resign his bishopric and retire to oxford, and there--while still bishop of cloyne, for the king would not accept his resignation--the philosopher, who was blest, to use shakespeare's fine epithet, with a 'tender-hefted nature,' passed away in 1753, leaving behind him one of the most fragrant of memories. that berkeley was a philosophical thinker from his earliest manhood is evident from his _commonplace book_ published for the first time in the clarendon press edition of his works (vol. iv., pp. 419-502). he delighted in recondite thought as much as most young men delight in action, and as a philosopher he is said to have commenced his studies with locke, whose famous _essay_ appeared in 1690. of plato, too, berkeley was an ardent admirer, and the spirit of plato pervades his works. his _essay towards a new theory of vision_ contains some intimations of the famous metaphysical theory which was developed a little later in the _treatise on human knowledge_. a good deal of foolish ridicule was excited by this book. berkeley was supposed to maintain the absurd paradox that sensible things do not exist at all. the reader will remember how dr. johnson undertook to refute the postulate by striking his foot against a stone, while james beattie (1735-1803), the poet and moral philosopher, in a volume for which he was rewarded with a pension of £200 a year, denounced berkeley's philosophy as 'scandalously absurd.' 'if,' he writes, 'i were permitted to propose one clownish question, i would fain ask ... where is the harm of my believing that if i were to fall down yonder precipice and break my neck, i should be no more a man of this world? my neck, sir, may be an idea to you, but to me it is a reality, and a very important one too. where is the harm of my believing that if in this severe weather i were to neglect to throw (what you call) the idea of a coat over the ideas of my shoulders, the idea of cold would produce the idea of such pain and disorder as might possibly terminate in my real death? what great offence shall i commit against god or man, church or state, philosophy or common sense if i continue to believe that material food will nourish me, though the idea of it will not, that the real sun will warm and enlighten me, though the liveliest idea of him will do neither; and that if i would obtain here peace of mind and self-approbation, i must not only form ideas of compassion, justice and generosity, but also really exert those virtues in external performance?'[61] beattie continues in this foolish strain to throw contempt upon a system which he had not taken the trouble to understand, and upon one of the sanest and noblest of english philosophers, and he does so without a thought that the absurdity is due to his own ignorance and not to the theory of berkeley. the author of the _minstrel_ was an honest man and a respectable poet, but he prided himself too much on what he called common sense, and failed to see that in the search after truth other and even higher faculties may be also needed. moreover, berkeley, so far from being an enemy to common sense, endeavours, as he says, to vindicate it, although in so doing, he 'may perhaps be obliged to use some _ambages_ and ways of speech not common.' a significant passage may be quoted from the _three dialogues between hylas and philonous_ (1713) in illustration of his method and style so far indeed as a short extract can illustrate an argument sustained by a long course of reasoning. '_phil._ as i am no sceptic with regard to the nature of things, so neither am i as to their existence. that a thing should be really perceived by my senses, and at the same time not really exist is to me a plain contradiction; since i cannot prescind or abstract even in thought, the existence of a sensible thing from its being perceived. wood, stones, fire, water, flesh, iron, and the like things, which i name and discourse of, are things that i know. and i should not have known them but that i perceived them by my senses; and things perceived by the senses are immediately perceived; and things immediately perceived are ideas; and ideas cannot exist without the mind; their existence therefore consists in being perceived; when therefore they are actually perceived there can be no doubt of their existence.... i might as well doubt of my own being, as of the being of those things i actually see and feel. '_hyl._ not so fast, _philonous_; you say you cannot conceive how sensible things should exist without the mind. do you not? '_phil._ i do. '_hyl._ supposing you were annihilated, cannot you conceive it possible that things perceivable by sense may still exist? '_phil._ i can; but then it must be in another mind. when i deny sensible things an existence out of the mind, i do not mean my mind in particular, but all minds. now, it is plain they have an existence exterior to my mind; since i find them by experience to be independent of it. there is therefore some other mind wherein they exist, during the intervals between the times of my perceiving them; as likewise they did before my birth, and would do after my supposed annihilation. and as the same is true with regard to all other finite created spirits, it necessarily follows there is an _omnipresent, eternal mind_, which knows and comprehends all things, and exhibits them to our view in such a manner, and according to such rules, as he himself hath ordained, and are by us termed the _laws of nature_.' 'truth is the cry of all,' says berkeley in the final paragraph of _siris_, 'but the game of a few. certainly, where it is the chief passion, it doth not give way to vulgar cares and views, nor is it contented with a little ardour, active perhaps to pursue, but not so fit to weigh and revise. he that would make a real progress in knowledge, must dedicate his age as well as youth, the latter growth as well as firstfruits at the altar of truth.' elsewhere in this famous treatise he writes: 'it cannot be denied that with respect to the universe of things we in this mortal state are like men educated in plato's cave, looking on shadows with our backs turned to the light. but though our light be dim and our situation bad, yet if the best use be made of both, perhaps something may be seen. proclus, in his commentary on the theology of plato, observes there are two sorts of philosophers. the one placed body first in the order of beings, and made the faculty of thinking depend thereupon, supposing that the principles of all things are corporeal; that body most really or principally exists, and all other things in a secondary sense and by virtue of that. others making all corporeal things to be dependent upon soul or mind, think this to exist in the first place, and primary senses and the being of bodies to be altogether derived from, and presuppose that of the mind.' this was berkeley's creed, and his great aim throughout is to prove the phenomenal nature of the things of sense, or in other words the non-existence of independent matter. he makes, he says, not the least question that the things we see and touch really exist, but what he does question is the existence of matter apart from its perception to the mind. hobbes said that the body accounted for the mind, and that matter was the deepest thing in the universe, while to berkeley the only true reality consists in what is spiritual and eternal. 'the great idealist,' says an able writer, 'certainly never denied the existence of matter in the sense in which johnson understood it. as the touched, the seen, the heard, the smelled, the tasted, he admitted and maintained its existence as readily and completely as the most illiterate and unsophisticated of mankind,' and he adds that the peculiar endowment for which berkeley was distinguished 'far beyond his predecessors and contemporaries, and far beyond almost every philosopher who has succeeded him, was the eye he had _for facts_, and the singular pertinacity with which he refused to be dislodged from his hold upon them.'[62] pope's age produced a few great masters of style, and among them berkeley holds an undisputed place. he succeeded, too, in the most difficult department of intellectual labour, since to express abstruse thought in language as beautiful as it is clear is the rarest of gifts. 'his works are beyond dispute the finest models of philosophic style since cicero. perhaps they surpass those of the orator, in the wonderful art by which the fullest light is thrown on the most minute and evanescent parts of the most subtle of human conceptions.'[63] [sidenote: william law (1686-1761).] william law was born in 1686 at king's cliffe in northamptonshire, and entered emmanuel college, cambridge, as a sizar in 1705. he obtained a fellowship, and received holy orders in 1711, but having made a speech offensive to the heads of houses, he was degraded. law believed in the divine right of kings, and on the death of queen anne, declared his principles as a non-juror. in 1717 he published his first controversial work, _three letters to the bishop of bangor_; hoadly, the famous bishop, having, in his opponent's judgment, uttered lax and latitudinarian views with regard to the church of which he was one of the chief pastors. these _letters_ have been highly praised for wit as well as for argument, and dean hook, writing of the bangorian controversy in his _church dictionary_, states that 'law's _letters_ have never been answered and may, indeed, be regarded as unanswerable.' law was also the most powerful assailant of warburton's _divine legation_, which he opposed with a burning zeal that was not always wise. but as a controversialist he was an infinitely stronger man than his opponent, and unlike warburton, he never debased controversy by scurrility, which the bishop generally found a more potent weapon than argument. on the publication, in 1723, of dr. mandeville's _fable of the bees_, it was vigorously attacked by law. in this masterly pamphlet, instead of attempting to refute the physician by showing that virtue is more profitable to the state than vice, and that, therefore, private vices are not public benefits, law takes a higher ground, and asserts that morality is not a question of profit and loss, but of conscience. mandeville maintains that man is a mere animal governed by his passions; his opponent, on the other hand, argues that man is created in the image of god, that virtue 'is a law to which even the divine nature is subject,' and that human nature is fitted to rise to the angels, while mandeville would lower it to the brutes. john sterling, writing to f. d. maurice of the first section of law's remarks, says: 'i have never seen in our language the elementary grounds of a rational ideal philosophy, as opposed to empiricism, stated with nearly the same clearness, simplicity, and force,' and it was at sterling's suggestion that maurice published a new edition of law's argument with an introductory essay (1844). the following passage from the _remarks on the fable of the bees_ will illustrate law's method as a polemic: 'deists and freethinkers are generally considered as unbelievers; but upon examination they will appear to be men of the most resigned and implicit faith in the world; they would believe _transubstantiation_, but that it implies a believing in god; for they never resign their reason, but when it is to yield to something that opposes salvation. for the deist's creed has as many articles as the christian's, and requires a much greater suspension of our reason to believe them. so that if to believe things upon no authority, or without any reason, be an argument of credulity, the freethinker will appear to be the most easy, credulous creature alive. in the first place, he is to believe almost all the same articles to be false which the christian believes to be true. 'now, it may easily be shown that it requires stronger acts of faith to believe these articles to be false, than to believe them to be true. for, taking faith to be an assent of the mind to some proposition, of which we have no certain knowledge, it will appear that the deist's faith is much stronger, and has more of credulity in it, than the christian's. for instance, the christian believes the resurrection of the dead, because he finds it supported by such evidence and authority as cannot possibly be higher, supposing the thing was true; and he does no more violence to his reason in believing it, than in supposing that god may intend to do some things, which the reason of man cannot conceive how they will be effected. 'on the contrary, the deist believes there will be no resurrection. and how great is his faith, for he pretends to no evidence or authority to support it; it is a pure naked assent of his mind to what he does not know to be true, and of which nobody has, or can give him, any full assurance. so that the difference between a christian and a deist does not consist in this, that the one assents to things unknown, and the other does not; but in this, that the christian assents to things unknown on account of evidence; the other assents to things unknown without any evidence at all. which shows that the christian is the rational believer and the deist the blind bigot.' it is probable that law, like other writers on the orthodox side, did not sufficiently take into account the service rendered by the deists in arousing a spirit of inquiry. free-thinking is right thinking, and 'it was a result of the deistic controversy, which went far to make up many evils in it, that in the end it widened and enlarged christian thought.'[64] the author's next and weakest work, _on the unlawfulness of stage entertainments_ (1726), is mentioned elsewhere.[65] in the same year he published _christian perfection_, a profoundly earnest but puritanically narrow work, in which our earthly life is regarded simply as the road to another. 'there is nothing that deserves a serious thought,' he writes, 'but how to get out of the world and make it a right passage to our eternal state.' no man ever practised what he preached with more sincerity and persistency than william law, but it can hardly be doubted that he narrowed the range of his influence by the views he expressed with regard to culture and to all human learning. he forgot that, without the logic, the wit, the irony, the singular force and lucidity of style displayed in his own writings, he would have lost the power as a religious teacher which he was so eager to exercise. literature _quâ_ literature law regarded with contempt, and he is said to have looked upon the study even of milton as waste of time. yet his biographer states what seems likely enough, considering the fine qualities of law's own writings, that 'no author was ever a favourite with him, unless he was a man of literary merit.' in 1727, and probably before that date, law held the position of tutor to edward gibbon, whose famous son, the historian, in his _autobiography_, gives to him the high praise of having left in the family 'the reputation of a worthy and pious man, who believed all that he professed, and practised all that he enjoined.' law accompanied his pupil to cambridge, and it is conjectured that during this residence at the university he wrote what gibbon justly called his 'master work,' _a serious call to a devout and holy life_ (1729), the most impressive book of its class produced in the eighteenth century. the historian's father was a man of feeble character. he left cambridge without a degree, and went on his travels, the tutor meanwhile remaining in the family house at putney, where he seems to have gathered round him a number of disciples. the _serious call_ had an immediate and strong influence on many thoughtful men, and law's book stimulated in no common measure the religious life of the country. john wesley spoke of it as a treatise hardly to be excelled in the english tongue 'either for beauty of expression, or for justness and depth of thought.' whitefield, venn, and thomas scott, the commentator, acknowledged their indebtedness to the work, and dr. johnson, speaking of his youthful days, said: 'i became a sort of lax _talker_ against religion, for i did not much _think_ against it; and this lasted till i went to oxford, when i took up law's _serious call to a holy life_, expecting to find it a dull book (as such books generally are), but i found law quite an over-match for me; and this was the first occasion of my thinking in earnest.' the first lord lyttelton, the historian and friend of thomson, is said to have taken up the book one night at bed-time, and to have read it through before he went to bed; but, perhaps, the most unimpeachable evidence in its favour comes from the pen of gibbon, who writes: 'mr. law's precepts are rigid, but they are founded on the gospel. his satire is sharp, but it is drawn from the knowledge of human life, and many of his portraits are not unworthy of the pen of la bruyère. if he finds a spark of piety in his reader's mind he will soon kindle it to a flame.' law's art as a portrait painter will be seen in the following sketch of flavia: '_flavia_ would be a miracle of piety if she was but half so careful of her soul as she is of her body. the rising of a _pimple_ on her face, the sting of a gnat, will make her keep her room two or three days, and she thinks they are very rash people that do not take care of things in time. this makes her so over careful of her health that she never thinks she is well enough, and so over indulgent that she never can be really well. so that it costs her a great deal in sleeping draughts and waking draughts, in spirits for the head, in drops for the nerves, in cordials for the stomach, and in saffron for her tea. 'if you visit _flavia_ on the sunday, you will always meet good company, you will know what is doing in the world, you will hear the last lampoon, be told who wrote it, and who is meant by every name that is in it. you will hear what plays were acted that week, which is the finest song in the opera, who was intolerable at the last assembly, and what games are most in fashion. _flavia_ thinks they are atheists who play at cards on the sunday, but she will tell you the nicety of all the games, what cards she held, how she played them, and the history of all that happened at play, as soon as she comes from church. if you would know who is rude and ill-natured, who is vain and foppish, who lives too high and who is in debt; if you would know what is the quarrel at a certain house, or who and who are in love; if you would know how late belinda comes home at night, what clothes she has bought, how she loves compliments, and what a long story she told at such a place; if you would know how cross lucius is to his wife, what ill-natured things he says to her, when nobody hears him; if you would know how they hate one another in their hearts though they appear so kind in public; you must visit _flavia_ on the sunday. but still she has so great a regard for the holiness of the sunday, that she has turned a poor old widow out of her house as a _profane wretch_, for having been found once mending her clothes on the sunday night.' between the years 1733-37, owing to his acquaintance with the writings of the famous mystic, jacob boehme, law became a mystic himself. the 'blessed jacob' as he calls him exercised an influence which colours all his later writings and lasted till his death. in 1740 he retired to his native village and to solitude; but after a while two wealthy and devout ladies, one of them a widow, the other the historian's aunt, miss hester gibbon, joined him in his retreat and devoted to charitable objects their labours and their fortunes. 'out of a joint income of not less than three thousand pounds a year, only about three hundred pounds were spent upon the frugal expenses of the household and the simple personal wants of the three inhabitants. the whole of the remainder was spent upon the poor.'[66] report says, let us hope it may be scandal, that after the master's death the love of earthly vanities revived in two of his pupils. his favourite niece had a new dress every month, and miss gibbon 'appeared resplendent in yellow stockings.' this is not the place to follow law's self-denying career, neither are we concerned with the volumes which contain his later views. admirably written though they be, these works do not belong to the field of literature. law lived in vigour both of mind and body to a good old age, and died in 1761. [sidenote: joseph butler (1692-1752).] joseph butler, whose _sermons_ (1726), and _analogy of religion natural and revealed to the constitution and course of nature_ (1736), are among the highest contributions to theology produced in the last century, called the imagination 'a forward, delusive faculty,' and he could have boasted that it was a faculty of which no trace is to be found in his works. moreover, he is generally regarded as wholly destitute of style, and in a sense this is true, for butler is so intent upon what he has to say that he cares little how he says it. his sense of beauty if he possessed it, was absorbed in a supreme allegiance to truth, and his life was that of a christian philosopher intent upon one object. his sermons, preached at the rolls chapel, which contain the germ of his philosophy, are too closely packed with argument and too recondite in thought to fit them for pulpit discourses. the _analogy_, which occupied seven years of butler's life, is better known and more generally interesting. 'there is,' he says, 'a much more exact correspondence between the natural and the moral world than we are apt to take notice of.' his aim is to show that the difficulties which meet us in revelation are to be found also in nature, that as our happiness or misery in this world largely depends upon conduct, so it is reasonable to suppose, apart from what revelation teaches, that we are also in a state of probation with regard to a future life. as youth is an education for mature age, so may the whole of our earthly life be an education for a future existence. 'and if we were not able at all to discern how or in what way the present life could be our preparation for another, this would be no objection against the credibility of its being so. for we do not discern how food and sleep contribute to the growth of the body; nor could have any thought that they would before we had experience. nor do children at all think on the one hand that the sports and exercises, to which they are so much addicted, contribute to their health and growth; nor, on the other, of the necessity which there is for their being restrained in them; nor are they capable of understanding the use of many parts of discipline, which, nevertheless, they must be made to go through in order to qualify them for the business of mature age. were we not able, then, to discover in what respects the present life could form us for a future one, yet nothing would be more supposable than that it might, in some respects or other, from the general analogy of providence. and this, for aught i see, might reasonably be said, even though we should not take in the consideration of god's moral government over the world. but, take in this consideration, and consequently, that the character of virtue and piety is a necessary qualification for the future state, and then we may distinctly see how and in what respects the present life may be a preparation for it. butler's style is uniform throughout, and if it have no other merit, may be praised for honesty. it is wholly free from the artifices of the rhetorician; if it is wanting in charm, it is never weak; if it is sometimes obscure, it must be remembered that the author does not write for readers who find it a trouble to think. the bishop's obscurity was not due to negligence. 'confusion and perplexity in writing,' he says, 'is indeed without excuse; because anyone may, if he pleases, know whether he understands and sees through what he is about; and it is unpardonable for a man to lay his thoughts before others when he is conscious that he himself does not know whereabouts he is, or how the matter before him stands. it is coming abroad in disorder, which he ought to be dissatisfied to find himself in at home.' butler weighed his thoughts rather than his words in an age when many distinguished writers were tempted to regard form as of more consequence than substance. it must be admitted, however, that if the ideal of fine literature be the expression of beautiful and richly suggestive thoughts in a style elevated by the imagination, and by a sense of rhythmical harmony, bishop butler's place is not among men of letters. his profound sense of the seriousness of life limited his range; but as a thinker, what he lost in versatility he probably gained in depth. the _analogy_ is a striking instance of a great work wholly without imagination, while full of the intellectual life which sustains the student's attention. there is not a dull page in the book, or one in which the author's meaning cannot be grasped by thoughtful readers. the work is full of weighty sayings on the power of conscience, the rule of right which a man has within him, the force of habit, the necessity of action in relation to belief, and the uselessness of passive impressions. it has been said that the defect of the eighteenth century theology 'was not in having too much good sense, but in having nothing besides,' and the straining after good sense, so prominent in pope's age, affected alike, men of letters, philosophers, and theologians. the virtue was carried to excess and is conspicuous in butler. he has his weaknesses both as a philosopher and a theologian, but the reader of the _analogy_ and of the three sermons on human nature, will be conscious that he is in the presence of a great mind. [sidenote: william warburton (1698-1779).] william warburton, pope's commentator, was born at newark-upon-trent in 1698, and died as bishop of gloucester in 1779. the main argument of his principal work, _the divine legation of moses_ (1738-41), is based upon the astounding paradox that the legation of moses must have been divine because he never invoked the promises or threatenings of a future state. the book is remarkable for its arrogance and lack of 'sweet reasonableness.' it claims no attention from the student of english literature, neither would warburton himself were it not for his association with pope. allusion has been already made to crousaz's hostile criticism of the _essay on man_ (1737) on the ground that it led to fatalism, and was destructive of the foundations of natural religion. warburton, who had previously denounced the 'rank atheism' of the poem, now endeavoured to defend it, and how effectually he did so in pope's judgment is seen in his grateful acknowledgment of the critic's labours. 'i know i meant just what you explain,' he wrote, 'but i did not explain my own meaning as well as you. you understand me as well as i do myself, but you express me better than i could express myself.' dr. conyers middleton's estimate of what warburton had done for pope is more accurate: 'you have evinced the orthodoxy of mr. pope's principles,' he says, 'but, like the old commentators on his _homer_, will be thought, perhaps, in some places to have provided a meaning for him that he himself never dreamt of.'[67] the poet and warburton met for the first time in 1740, and the bookseller, dodsley, who was present at the interview, was astonished at the compliments which pope lavished on his apologist. henceforth, until the poet's death, warburton, who, according to bishop hurd, 'found an image of himself in his new acquaintance,' became his counsellor and supporter, and among other achievements added, as ricardus aristarchus, to the confusion of the _dunciad_. ultimately, as pope's annotator, he produced much laborious and comparatively worthless criticism, and contrived by his immense fighting qualities as a critic and polemic to make a considerable noise in the world. one incident in the friendship of the poet and of the divine is worth recording. in 1741 pope and warburton were at oxford together, and while there the vice-chancellor offered to confer on the poet the degree of d.c.l., and on warburton that of d.d. some hesitation, however, on the part of the university having occurred with regard to the latter, pope wrote to his friend saying, 'as for mine i will die before i receive one, in an art i am ignorant of, at a place where there remains any scruple of bestowing one on you, in a science of which you are so great a master. in short i will be doctored with you, or not at all.' warburton's stupendous self-assertion concealed to some extent his heavy style and poverty of thought. his aim was to startle by paradoxes, since he could not convince by argument. no one could call an opponent names in the billingsgate style more effectively, and every man who ventured to differ from him was either a knave or a fool. 'warburton's stock argument,' it has been said, 'is a threat to cudgel anyone who disputes his opinion.' he was a laborious student, and the mass of work he accomplished exhibits his robust energy, but he has left nothing which lives in literature or in theology. he was, however, a man of various acquisitions, and won, for that reason, the praise of dr. johnson. 'the table is always full, sir. he brings things from the north and the south and from every quarter. in his _divine legation_ you are always entertained. he carries you round and round without carrying you forward to the point, but then you have no wish to be carried forward.' bentley's more concise description of warburton's attainments deserves to be recorded. he was, he says, 'a man of monstrous appetite, but bad digestion.' warburton's _shakespeare_ appeared in 1747, his _pope_ in 1751. it cannot be said that either poet has cause to be grateful to his commentator. of his _shakespeare_ a few words may be appropriately said here. in this pretentious and untrustworthy edition, warburton accuses theobald of plagiarism, treats him with contempt, and then uses his text to print from. in his preface he declares that his own notes 'take in the whole compass of criticism,' and he professes to restore the poet's genuine text. yet, as the editors of the _cambridge shakespeare_ observe, there is no trace, so far as they have discovered, 'of his having collated for himself either the earlier folios or any of the quartos.' warburton professed to observe the severe canons of literal criticism, and this suggested the title to thomas edwards of a volume in which the critic's editorial pretensions are attacked with some humour and much justice.[68] we may add that bishop hurd, warburton's most intimate friend, edited his works in seven volumes (1788), and six years later, by way of preface to a new edition, published an _account of the life, writings, and character of the author_. footnotes: [57] readers who remember mr. browning's estimate of 'sage mandeville' in his _parleyings with certain persons_ may deem this criticism unjust; but the de mandeville who speaks in that poem is the creation of the poet's imagination, or rather he is mr. browning himself. [58] _bolingbroke: a historical study_, p. 133. by j. churton collins. [59] _walpole_, p. 79. by john morley. macmillan. [60] _works of george berkeley._ edited by george sampson. with introduction by the rt. hon. arthur j. balfour, m.p. vol. i., p. xxxi (london, 1897). [61] _an essay on truth_, 2nd edit., p. 298. 1771. [62] _blackwood's magazine_, june, 1842. [63] sir james macintosh, _encyclopædia britannica_. [64] _the english church and its bishops._ by charles j. abbey. vol. i., p. 236. [65] see p. 194. [66] _the life and opinions of the rev. william law, m.a._ by j. h. overton, m.a. p. 243. [67] middleton's _miscellaneous works_, vol. i., p. 402. [68] the first edition of edwards's work was entitled _supplement_ to mr. warburton's edition of _shakespeare_, 1747. the third edition (1750) was called _the canons of criticism and glossary_ by thomas edwards. of this volume seven editions were published. edwards, who was born in 1699, died in 1757. index of minor poets and prose writers. john armstrong (1709-1779), a scotchman by birth, practised in london as a physician after some surgical experience in the navy. believing any subject suitable for poetry, he wrote in blank verse, reminding one of thomson, _the art of preserving health_ (1744), a poem containing some powerful passages, and many which are better fitted for a medical treatise than for poetry. an earlier and licentious poem _the economy of love_, which injured him in his profession, was 'revised and corrected by the author' in 1768. if bulk were a sign of merit sir richard blackmore (1650-1729) would not rank with the minor poets. he wrote several long and wearisome epics, his best work in dr. johnson's judgment being _the creation_ (1712), which was praised by addison in the _spectator_ as 'one of the most useful and noble productions in our english verse,' a judgment the modern reader is not likely to endorse. henry brooke (1706-1783), an irishman, was the author of a poem entitled _universal beauty_ (1735). four years later he published _gustavus vasa_, a tragedy, which was not allowed to be acted, the sentiments being too liberal for the government. his _fool of quality_ (1766) a novel in five volumes, delighted john wesley, and in our day, charles kingsley, who praises its 'broad and genial humanity.' brooke was a follower of william law, whose mysticism is to be seen in the story. william broome (1689-1745) is chiefly known from his association with pope in the translation of the _odyssey_, of which enough has been said elsewhere (p. 38). his name suggested the following epigram to henley: 'pope came off clean with homer; but they say _broome_ went before and kindly swept the way.' he entered holy orders, had two livings in suffolk and one in norfolk, and married a wealthy widow. his verses are mechanically correct, but are empty of poetry. john byrom (1691-1763), the friend and disciple of william law, the author of the _serious call_, is best remembered for his system of shorthand. in a characteristic, copious, and not very attractive journal, he describes, for the consolation of his fellow mortals, how he makes resolutions and breaks them. byrom wrote rhyme with ease and on subjects with which poetry has nothing to do. his most successful achievement was a pastoral, _colin and phoebe_, which appeared in the _spectator_ (vol. viii., no. 603). it was written in honour of the daughter of dr. bentley, master of trinity, 'not,' it has been said, 'because he wished to win her affections, but because he desired to secure her father's interest for the fellowship for which he was a candidate.' the plan was successful. the one verse of byrom's that every one has read is the happy epigram: 'god bless the king!--i mean the faith's defender- god bless (no harm in blessing!) the pretender! but who pretender is, or who is king- god bless us all!--that's quite another thing.' samuel clarke (1675-1729), a man of large attainments in science and divinity, was the favourite theologian of queen caroline, who admired his latitudinarian views, and delighted in his conversation. his works, edited by bishop hoadly, were published in 1738 in four folio volumes. in 1704 he delivered the boyle lectures on _the being and attributes of god_, and in 1705 _on natural and revealed religion_. his _scripture doctrine of the trinity_ (1712) was condemned by convocation. in defence of sir isaac newton, clarke had a controversy with leibnitz, and having published the correspondence dedicated it to the queen. his sermons, mr. leslie stephen says, are 'for the most part not sermons at all, but lectures upon metaphysics.' in addison's judgment clarke was one of the most accurate, learned, and judicious writers the age had produced. elijah fenton (1683-1730) wrote poems and _mariamne_ a tragedy, in which, according to his friend broome, 'great sophocles revives and reappears.' it was acted with applause, and brought nearly one thousand pounds to its author. his name is now chiefly known as having assisted pope in his translation of the _odyssey_. richard glover (1712-1785), the son of a london merchant, was himself a merchant of high reputation in the city. he also 'cultivated the muses,' and his _leonidas_ (1737), an elaborate poem in blank verse, preferred by some critics of the day to _paradise lost_, passed through several editions and was praised by fielding and by lord chatham. power is visible in this epic, which displays also a large amount of knowledge, but the salt of genius is wanting, and the poem, despite many estimable qualities, is now forgotten. _leonidas_ was followed by _boadicea_ (1758), and _the atheniad_, published after his death in 1788. glover was a politician as well as a verseman. his party feeling probably inspired _admiral hosier's ghost_ (1739), a ballad still remembered and preserved in anthologies. matthew green (1696-1737) is the author of _the spleen_, an original and brightly written poem. _the grotto_, printed but not published in 1732, is also marked by freshness of treatment. green's poems, written in octosyllabic metre, were published after his death. james hammond (1710-1742) produced many forlorn elegies on a lady who appears to have scorned him, and who lived in 'maiden meditation' for nearly forty years after the poet's death. his love is said to have affected his mind for a time. 'sure hammond has no right,' says shenstone, 'to the least inventive merit. i do not think that there is a single thought in his elegies of any eminence that is not literally translated.' nathaniel hooke (1690-1763), the author of a _roman history_, is better known as the editor of _an account of the conduct of the dowager duchess of marlborough, from her first coming to court in the year 1710, in a letter from herself to lord ---in 1742_. the duchess is said to have dictated this letter from her bed, and to have been so eager for its completion that she insisted on hooke's not leaving the house till he had finished it. he was munificently rewarded for his labour by a present of £5,000. it was hooke, a zealous roman catholic, who, when pope was dying, asked him if he should not send for a priest, and received the poet's hearty thanks for putting him in mind of it. john hughes (1677-1719) was the author of poems, an opera, a masque, several translations, and a tragedy, _the siege of damascus_, which was well received, and kept its place on the stage for some years. he died on the first night's performance of the play. several articles in the _tatler_ and _spectator_ are from his pen. in 1715 he published an edition of spenser in six volumes. hughes received warm praise from steele, and enjoyed also the friendship of addison. conyers middleton (1683-1750) is now chiefly known for an extravagantly eulogistic life of _cicero_ (1741), in which, as macaulay observes, he 'resorted to the most disingenuous shifts, to unpardonable distortions and suppressions of facts.' the book is written in a forcible and lively style. a man of considerable learning, middleton was a violent controversialist, who liked better to attack and to defend than to dwell in the serene atmosphere of literature or of practical divinity. he assailed the famous richard bentley with such rancour that he had to apologize and was fined £50 by the court of king's bench. middleton was a doctor of divinity, but his controversial works, while never directly attacking the chief tenets of the religion he professed, lean far more to the side of the deists than to the orthodox creed, and, indeed, it would not be uncharitable to class him among them. he appears, like swift, to have chiefly regarded the christian religion as an institution of service to the stability of the state. of the _miscellaneous works_ which were published after his death in five volumes, the most elaborate and the most provocative of disputation is _a free inquiry into the miraculous powers which are supposed to have subsisted in the christian church through several successive centuries_ (1749). middleton was educated at trinity college, cambridge, and in 1734 was elected librarian of the university. richard savage (1698-1743), whose fate is one of the most melancholy in the annals of versemen, lives in the admirable though neither impartial nor wholly accurate biography of dr. johnson. in 1719 he produced _love in a veil_, a comedy from the spanish; and in 1723 his tragedy _sir thomas overbury_ was acted, but with little success. in the same year he published _the bastard_, a poem which is said to have driven his mother out of society. _the wanderer_, in five cantos, appeared in 1729, and was regarded by the author as his masterpiece. it has some vigorous lines and several descriptive passages that are not conventional. savage died in prison at bristol, a city which recalls the equally painful story of chatterton. lewis theobald (1688-1744), the original hero of the _dunciad_, was a dramatist and translator, but is chiefly known as the author of _shakespeare restored; or specimens of blunders committed or unamended in pope's edition of the poet_ (1726). this was followed two years later by _proposals for publishing emendations and remarks on shakespeare_, and in 1733 by his edition of the dramatist in seven volumes. 'theobald as an editor,' say the editors of the _cambridge shakespeare_, 'is incomparably superior to his predecessors and to his immediate successor warburton, although the latter had the advantage of working on his materials. he was the first to recall a multitude of readings of the first folio unquestionably right, but unnoticed by previous editors. many most brilliant emendations ... are due to him.' william walsh (1663-1708) has chronologically little claim to be noticed here, for his poems were published before the beginning of the century, but he is to be remembered as the early friend and wise counsellor of pope, and also as the author, i believe, of the only english sonnet between milton's in 1658, and gray's, on richard west, in 1742. anne finch, countess of winchelsea (1660-1720), published a volume of verse in 1713 under the title of _miscellany poems on several occasions, written by a lady_. the book contains a _nocturnal reverie_, which has some lines showing a close and faithful observation of rural sounds and sights, as for example: 'when the loosed horse, now as his pasture leads, comes slowly grazing through the adjoining meads, whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear, till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear; when nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, and unmolested kine rechew the cud; when curlews cry beneath the village walls, and to her straggling brood the partridge calls.' the _nocturnal reverie_, however, is an exception to the general character of lady winchelsea's poems, which consist chiefly of odes (including the inevitable pindaric), fables, songs, affectionate addresses to her husband, poetical epistles, and a tragedy, _aristomenes; or the royal shepherd_. the _petition for an absolute retreat_ is one of the best pieces in the volume. it displays great facility in versification, and a love of country delights. thomas yalden (1670-1736), born in exeter, and educated at magdalen college, oxford, entered into holy orders (1711), and was appointed lecturer of moral philosophy. 'of his poems,' writes dr. johnson, 'many are of that irregular kind which, when he formed his poetical character, was supposed to be pindaric.' pindarics were indeed the bane of the age. every minor poet, no matter however feeble his poetical wings might be, endeavoured to fly with pindar. like gay, yalden tried his skill as a writer of fables. note. _mrs. veal's ghost_ (see pp. 186-187). a curious discovery, made by mr. g. a. aitken (see _nineteenth century_, january, 1895), makes it certain, he thinks, that 'the whole narrative is literally true.' he even hopes that the receipt for scouring mrs. veal's gown may some day be found. mr. aitken seems to infer that defoe's other tales will also turn out to be true histories, but defoe avers, with all the seriousness he expends on mrs. veal, that he witnessed the great plague of london, which it is needless to say he did not. chronological table. =1667.= =swift born.= =1672.= =steele born.= =1672.= =addison born.= 1674. milton died. =1688.= =gay born.= =1688.= =pope born.= 1688. bunyan died. 1690. locke's _essay concerning human understanding_. 1694. voltaire born. 1699. racine died. =1700.= =thomson born.= =1700.= =dryden died.= 1700. fénelon's _télémaque_. 1703. john wesley born. 1704. locke died. =1704.= =addison's= _campaign_. =1704.= =swift's= _tale of a tub_ and _battle of the books_. 1707. fielding born. 1709. johnson born. =1709.= =pope's= _pastorals_. =1709-1711.= _the tatler._ =1710.= =berkeley's= _principles of human knowledge_. =1711.= =pope's= _essay on criticism_. 1711-1712,} _the spectator._ and 1714. } 1711. hume born. =1712.= =pope's= _rape of the lock_. 1712. rousseau born. =1713.= =addison's= _cato_. 1713. sterne born. =1714.= =mandeville's= _fable of the bees_. =1715.= =gay's= _trivia_. =1715-1720.= =pope's= _translation of homer's iliad_. 1715. wycherley died. =1718.= =prior's= _poems on several occasions_ =(folio)=. =1719-1720.= =defoe's= _robinson crusoe_ =(first part)=. =1719.= =addison died.= =1721.= =prior died.= 1721. smollett born. =1723-1725.= =pope's= _translation of homer's odyssey_. =1724.= =swift's= _drapier's letters_. 1724. kant born. 1724. klopstock born. =1725-1730.= =thomson's= _seasons_. =1725.= =ramsay's= _gentle shepherd_. =1725.= =young's= _universal passion_. =1726.= =swift's= _gulliver's travels_. =1727.= =gay's= _fables_. =1728.= =pope's= _dunciad_. =1728.= =gay's= _beggar's opera_. 1728. goldsmith born. =1729.= =law's= _serious call_. 1729. burke born. 1729. lessing born. =1729.= =steele died.= =1731.= =defoe died.= 1731. cowper born. =1732-1735.= =pope's= _moral essays_. =1732-1734.= =pope's= _essay on man_. =1732.= =gay died.= =1733-1737.= =pope's= _imitations of horace_. =1735.= =pope's= _epistle to dr. arbuthnot_. =1736.= =butler's= _analogy of religion_. 1737. gibbon born. =1738.= =hume's= _treatise of human nature_. =1740.= =cibber's= _apology for his life_. 1740. richardson's _pamela_. 1742. fielding's _joseph andrews_. =1742.= =pope's= _dunciad_ =(fourth book added)=. =1742.= =young's= _night thoughts_. =1743.= =blair's= _grave_. =1744.= =akenside's= _pleasures of imagination_. =1744.= =pope died.= =1745.= =swift died.= =1748.= =thomson died.= 1748. hume's _inquiry concerning human understanding_. 1748. richardson's _clarissa harlowe_. 1748. smollett's _roderick random_. 1749. goethe born. 1749. fielding's _tom jones_. alphabetical list of writers addison, joseph 1672-1719 akenside, mark 1721-1770 arbuthnot, john 1667-1735 armstrong, john 1709-1779 atterbury, francis 1662-1732 bentley, richard 1662-1742 berkeley, george 1685-1753 binning, lord 1696-1732 blackmore, sir richard 1650-1729 blair, robert 1699-1746 bolingbroke, lord 1678-1751 boyle, charles 1676-1731 brooke, henry 1706-1783 broome, william 1689-1745 butler, joseph 1692-1752 byrom, john 1691-1763 chesterfield, lord 1694-1773 cibber, colley 1671-1757 clarke, samuel 1675-1729 collins, anthony 1676-1729 crawford, robert 1695?-1732 defoe, daniel 1661-1731 dennis, john 1657-1733-4 dorset, earl of 1637-1705-6 dyer, john 1698?-1758 edwards, thomas 1699-1757 fenton, elijah 1683-1730 garth, sir samuel 1660-1717-18 gay, john 1685-1732 glover, richard 1712-1785 green, matthew 1696-1737 halifax, charles montague, earl of 1661-1715 hamilton, william (of bangour) 1704-1754 hammond, james 1710-1742 hill, aaron 1684-1749 hooke, nathaniel 1690-1763 hughes, john 1677-1719 king, archbishop 1650-1729 law, william 1686-1761 lillo, george 1693-1739 lyttelton, george, lord 1708-1773 mallet, david 1700-1765 mandeville, bernard de 1670?-1733 middleton, conyers 1683-1750 montagu, lady mary wortley 1689-1762 parnell, thomas 1679-1718 philips, ambrose 1671-1749 philips, john 1676-1708 pope, alexander 1688-1744 prior, matthew 1664-1721 ramsay, allan 1686-1758 rowe, nicholas 1673-1718 savage, richard 1698-1743 shaftesbury, lord 1671-1713 shenstone, william 1714-1764 somerville, william 1692-1742 spence, joseph 1698-1768 steele, sir richard 1672-1729 swift, jonathan 1667-1745 theobald, lewis 1688-1744 thomson, james 1700-1748 tickell, thomas 1686-1740 walsh, william 1663-1708 warburton, william 1698-1779 wardlaw, lady 1677-1727 watts, isaac 1674-1748 wesley, charles 1708-1788 winchelsea, countess of 1660-1720 yalden, thomas 1670-1736 young, edward 1684-1765 index. addison, joseph, 4, 5, 15, 16, 19, 20, 35, 59, 62, 125-136, 145, 146. _addison, address to mr._, 112. _admiral hosier's ghost_, 244. _agamemnon_, 88. akenside, mark, 117. _alciphron_, 216, 224. _alfred, masque of_, 88, 119. _alma_, 67, 71. _ambitious step-mother, the_, 103. _amyntor and theodora_, 119. _analogy of religion_, 236. _appius and virginia_, 191, 193. arbuthnot, john, 45, 49, 175-179. _arbuthnot, epistle to dr._, 59. armstrong, john, 242. _art of political lying, the_, 177. _art of preserving health, the_, 242. _atheniad, the_, 244. atterbury, bishop, 45, 70, 207-212. atticus, character of, 59. augustan age, origin of the term, 10. _baucis and philemon_, 157. _bangor, three letters to the bishop of_, 230. bangorian controversy, the, 9. _bathos, treatise on the_, 39. bathurst, lord, 46, 49. _battle of blenheim, the_, 192. _battle of the books, the_, 160. _beggar's opera, the_, 73, 74. bentley, richard, 36, 48, 160, 207, 208, 243. _bentley's dissertations, examination of_, 208. berkeley, bishop, 46, 215, 221-229. bickerstaff, isaac, 161; _lucubrations of_ 140, 141. binning, lord, 121. _black-eyed susan_, 74. blackmore, sir richard, 47, 242. blair, robert, 84. _blenheim_, 101. blount, martha and teresa, 44, 56. _boadicea_, 244. boehme, jacob, 235. boileau and pope compared, 4, 47; his _art poétique_, 29. bolingbroke, lord, 8, 44, 51, 52, 59, 216-221. boyle, charles, 160, 207, 208. _braes of yarrow, the_, 121. bribery, prevalence of, 19. _britannia_ (thomson's), 87; (mallet's), 119. brooke, henry, 242. broome, william, 38, 243. _brothers, the_, 79. buckingham, duke of, 57, 70. _busiris_, 79. butler, bishop, 236. byrom, john, 243. _cadenus and vanessa_, 154, 165. _campaign, the_, 126. _captain singleton_, 188. _careless husband, the_, 196, 197. caroline, queen, 9. _castle of indolence, the_, 93. _cato_, 128, _et seq._ chandos, duke of, 57. _characteristics of men, manners, etc._, 19, 52, 212. charke, mrs., _narrative of her life_, 11. _chase, the_, 112. chesterfield, lord, 202-204. _chit-chat_, 144. _christian hero, the_, 137. _christianity, argument against abolishing_, 161. _christian perfection_, 232. _christian religion, grounds of the_, 222. cibber, colley, 48, 196-198; _apology for the life of_, 198. _cider_, 101. clarke, dr. samuel, 9, 243. _colin and lucy_, 110. _colin and phoebe_, 243. collier, jeremy, 137. collins, anthony, 222. _colonel jack_, 187, 188. _conscious lovers, the_, 137. _contentment, hymn to_, 107. _conversion of st. paul, dissertation on the_, 205. _coriolanus_, 88. _country mouse and city mouse, the_, 66. _country walk, the_, 114. craggs, james, 45, 56. crawford, robert, 121. _creation, the_, 242. _crisis, the_, 143, 144. _criticism, the essay on_, 29, 191. _criticism in poetry, grounds of_, 192. crousaz, m., 54, 238. cruelty of the age, 18. curll, edmund, 42. defoe, daniel, 180-191. delany, mrs., _life and correspondence of_, 12, 164. dennis, john, 191-196. _dialogues of the dead_, 205. _dispensary, the_, 96. _distrest mother, the_, 98. _divine legation of moses, the_, 230, 239. dorset, earl of, 65. _drapier's letters_, 170. drelincourt's _christian's defence, etc._, 187. dryden, john, death of, 1; and pope, 28, 58. _dryden, ode to_, 193. _drummer, the_, 134. drunkenness, prevalence of, 17. duelling, 13. _dunciad, the_, 39, 48, _et seq._, 240. dyer, john, 113, 224. _edward and eleanora_, 88. edwards, thomas, 241. _edwin and emma_, 118. _elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady_, 33. _eloisa to abelard_, 33. _elvira_, 119. _english convocation, rights, powers and privileges of_, 208. _englishman, the_, 144. _english poets, account of the greatest_, 131. _epistle to a friend in town_, 114. _epistles of phalaris, dissertations on the_, 160, 208. _essay on man, the_, 51, 238. _eurydice_, 119. eusden, lawrence, 47. _evergreen, the_, 120. _examiner, the_, 162. _excursion, the_, 118. _fable of the bees, the_, 214, 230; _remarks on the_, 231. _fables_ (gay's), 73. _fair penitent, the_, 103. _fatal curiosity, the_, 138. fenton, elijah, 38, 244. _fleece, the_, 113, 224. _fool of quality, the_, 243. _force of religion, the_, 78. _freedom of wit and humour, the_, 213. _freeholder, the_, 132. _freethinking, discourse on_, 222. french literature, influence of, 3, 4, 5. french customs, 14. _funeral, the_, 137. gambling, 21, 22. garth, sir samuel, 96. gay, john, 40, 49, 72-76. _gentle shepherd, the_, 120. _george barnwell_, 138. _gideon_, 104. glover, richard, 244. _god, the being and attributes of_, 244. granville, george, lord lansdowne, 40. _grave, the_, 84. green, matthew, 245. _grongar hill_, 113. _grotto, the_, 244. _grub street journal, the_, 51. _grumbling hive, the_, 214. _guardian, the_, 125, 142. _gulliver's travels_, 167. _gustavus vasa_, 243. halifax, montague, earl of, 65, 66. hamilton, william, of bangour, 121. hammond, james, 245. _health, an eclogue_, 108. _henry and emma_, 67. _hermit, the_, 107. hervey, lord, 47, 59, 61. hill, aaron, 104-106, 195. hoadly, bishop, 9, 230. homer, pope's translation of, 34, _et seq._, 206, 243, 244. tickell's translation, 35, 111. hooke, nathaniel, 245. horace, _ars poetica_, 29. _horace, imitations from_, 55, 59, 60. hughes, john, 40, 245. _human knowledge, treatise on_, 221, 225. _hylas and philonous, dialogue between_, 222, 227. _hymn to contentment_, 107. _hymn to the naiads_, 118. _imperium pelagi_, 76. _instalment, the_, 79. _iphigenia_, 193. _italy, letter from_, 131. _italy, remarks on several parts of_, 126. _jane shore_, 103. _john bull, history of_, 177. johnson, esther, 152, 164, 166, 172. _judgment day, the_, 104. _judgment of hercules, the_, 116. _kensington gardens_, 111. king, _on the origin of evil_, 52. _lady jane grey_, 103. _lansdowne, epistle to lord_, 77. _last day, the_, 77. law, william, 194, 230-236, 243. _law, elegy in memory of william_, 85. leibnitz, _essais de théodicée_, 52. _leonidas_, 244. _liberty asserted_, 193. lillo, george, 138. _love in a veil_, 246. _lover, the_, 144. _love's last shift_, 196. _lying lover, the_, 137. lyttelton, george, lord, 204. mallet, david, 88, 118, 219, 220. _man, allegory on_, 107. mandeville, bernard de, 214, 230. _mariamne_, 244. marlborough, duchess of, 13, 57. _marlborough, duchess of, account of the conduct of_, 245. marriages in the fleet, 11, 12. _mathematical learning, essay on the usefulness of_, 175. _memoirs of a cavalier_, 188. _merope_, 106. middleton, conyers, 246. _modest proposal, etc._, 172, 184. mohocks, the, 11. _moll flanders_, 188, 190. montagu, lady m. w., 14, 42, 44, 57, 198-202. montague, charles, earl of halifax, 65, 66. _monument, the_, 192. _moral essays, the_, 55, _et seq._ _moralties or essays, letters, etc._, 206. _mrs. veal, apparition of_, 186. _namur, taking of_, 70. _night piece on death_, 107, 108. _night thoughts_, 76, 81. _northern star, the_, 104. _ocean_, 76. _ode on st. cecilia's day_, 40. opera, italian, 127. oxford, harley, earl of, 49. _parallel in the manner of plutarch_, 206. parnell, thomas, 107. _parties, dissertation on_, 221. partridge, john, 161. party feeling, excess of, 19, 20. _pastoral ballad_, 116. _pastorals_ (pope's), 29, 191; (philips'), 98. _patriotism, letters on_, 221. _patriot king, the_, 219, 221. patronage of literature, 5, 6. _peace of ryswick, the_, 126. _persian tales, the_, 100. peterborough, earl of, 45. _phalaris, dissertation on the epistle of_, 160, 208. philips, ambrose, 11, 98. philips, john, 101. _plague, history of the_, 189. _pleasures of imagination, the_, 117. _plot and no plot, a_, 193. _poetry, rhapsody on_, 157. _polly_, 74. _polymetis_, 206. pope, alexander, a representative poet, 27; his life, 28-64; and dennis, 191, 195; and cibber, 96; and lady m. w. montagu, 14, 42, 44, 57, 199; and spence, 205; and arbuthnot, 209. _pope, epistle to_, 81. _pope's translation of homer_, spence's essay on, 206. pope, mrs., 44, 59. prior, matthew, 5, 65-72. _progress of wit, the_, 105. _projects, essay on_, 182. _prospect of peace, the_, 109. _public spirit of the whigs, the_, 143. _querist, the_, 224. ramsay, allan, 120. _rape of the lock, the_, 31. _reader, the_, 144. religion, condition of, 9. _religion, natural and revealed_, 244. _religious courtship, the_, 189. _remarks on several parts of italy_, 126. _revenge, the_, 79. _review, the_ (defoe's), 185. _rise of women, the_, 108. _robinson crusoe_, 180, 187, 189. _rosamond_, 128. roscommon's _essay on translated verse_, 29. rowe, nicholas, 102. _roxana_, 188, 189. _royal convert, the_, 103. _ruin of great britain, essay towards preventing the_, 223. _ruins of rome, the_, 115. _rule britannia_, 95. savage, richard, 246. _schoolmistress, the_, 115, 116. _scriblerus, martin, memoirs of_, 178, 222. _scripture doctrine of the trinity, the_, 244. _seasons, the_, 86, 87, 88-92. _sentiments of a church of england man_, 162. _serious call_, 216, 233. shaftesbury, lord, 19, 52, 212-215. shakespeare, pope and theobald's editions of, 39; rowe's edition, 132; warburton's edition, 241. sheffield, john, earl of, 29, 40. shenstone, william, 115, 205. _shepherd's week, the_, 73. _shortest way with dissenters, the_, 184. _siege of damascus, the_, 245. _siris_, 224, 228. _sir thomas overbury_, 246. social condition of the time, 10. _social state of ireland, essay on the_, 224. _solomon_, 67, 71. somerville, william, 40, 112. _sophonisba_, 87. south sea company, the, 21. _spectator, the_, 11, 14, 16, 19, 20, 98, 117, 125, 127, 128, 141, 142. spence, joseph, 59, 205. _spleen, the_, 244. _splendid shilling, the_, 101. _stage defended from scripture, etc., the_, 194. _stage entertainments, absolute unlawfulness of_, 194, 232. steele, sir richard, 125, 136-150. _stella, journal to_, 164, 166. _study of history, letters on the_, 221. swift, jonathan, 34, 42, 44, 48, 49, 50, 51, 62, 151-175. _swift, on the death of dr._, 154. _tale of a tub, the_, 153, 158, 209. _tales of the genii_, 206. _tamerlane_, 103. _tancred and sigismunda_, 88. _tatler, the_, 125, 140, 148, 162. _tea table, the_, 144. _tea table miscellany, the_, 120. temple, sir william, 152, 160, 208. _temple of fame, the_, 33. _tender husband, the_, 137. _theatre, the_, 144. theobald, lewis, 39, 47, 48. _theory of vision, essay towards a new_, 221, 225. thomson, james, 44, 47, 85-95. tickell, thomas, 35, 109-111, 135. _tour through great britain_, 190. _town talk_, 144. _trivia_, 11, 73. _true born englishman, the_, 184. trumbull, sir william, 29, 34. _ulysses_, 103. _ungrateful nanny_, 121. _universal passion_, 80. vanhomrigh, hester, 164, 222. _verbal criticism_, 118. vida's _scacchia ludus_, 32. _vision of mirza, the_, 146. _voltaire_, 5, 41. walpole, sir robert, 6, 8, 21, 41, 79. walsh, william, 28, 247. _wanderer, the_, 247. warburton, bishop, 55, 56, 62, 230, 239-241. wardlaw, lady, 120. warton, joseph, 63. watts, isaac, 131. _welcome from greece, a_, 75. welsted, leonard, 47. wesley, charles, 131. wesley, john, 67. _whig examiner, the_, 162. _william and margaret_, 118. winchelsea, countess of, 247. _windham, sir w., letter to_, 217, 221. _windsor forest_, 30. women, position of, 14, 15. wood's halfpence, 169, 170. _world, the_, 203. wycherley, william, 28. yalden, thomas, 248. young, edward, 15, 76-83. _zara_, 106. handbooks of english literature edited by professor hales "the admirable series of handbooks edited by professor hales is rapidly taking shape as one of the best histories of our literature that are at the disposal of the student.... [when complete] there is little doubt that we shall have a history of english literature which, holding a middle course between the rapid general survey and the minute examination of particular periods, will long remain a standard work."--_manchester guardian._ _crown 8vo, 5s. net each._ the age of alfred (664-1154). by f. j. snell, m.a. the age of chaucer (1346-1400). by f. j. snell, m.a., with an introduction by professor hales. 3rd edition. the age of transition (1400-1580). by f. j. snell, m.a. in 2 vols. vol. i.: the poets. vol. ii.: the dramatists and prose writers. with an introduction by professor hales. 3rd edition. the age of shakespeare (1579-1631). by thomas seccombe and j. w. allen. in 2 vols. vol. i.: poetry and prose, with an introduction by professor hales. vol. ii: drama. 7th edition. the age of milton (1632-1660). by the rev. j. h. b. masterman, m.a., with an introduction, etc., by j. bass mullinger, m.a. 8th edition. the age of dryden (1660-1700). by richard garnett, c.b., ll.d. 8th edition. the age of pope (1700-1744). by john dennis. 11th edition. the age of johnson (1744-1798). by thomas seccombe. 7th edition. the age of wordsworth (1798-1832). by professor c. h. herford, litt.d. 12th edition. the age of tennyson (1830-1870). by professor hugh walker, m.a. 9th edition. opinions of the press the age of chaucer "this little monograph may lay fair claim to be regarded as complete, acute, stimulating, and scholarly."--_school world._ "the book is thoroughly up-to-date, an important consideration in dealing with middle english literature, and does not lose itself in too minute a consideration of those works which are only of philological and not of literary value. the accounts of the w. midland alliterative poetry, of the development of prose, and the work of the poet gower, are specially good. the treatment of chaucer is thorough and scholarly."--_university correspondent._ "an admirable handbook, dealing in a lucid style and in a highly critical spirit with one of the most important periods in the history of english literature."--_westminster review._ the age of dryden "this scholarly little volume from the learned pen of dr. garnett.... within the limits of his space dr. garnett surveys the several departments of literature in this period with singular comprehensiveness, broad sympathy, and fine critical sagacity."--_times._ "the series which professor hales is editing aims at being that very difficult and important something between the text-book for schools and the gracefully allusive literary essay. dr. garnett has done his part of the work admirably. most readable is his book, written with a fine sense of proportion, and containing many independent judgements, yet even, so far as minor names and dates and facts are concerned, complete enough for all save a searcher after minutiae."--_bookman._ "though planned on the scale of the manual, this book is actually the first attempt worth naming to grasp in one separate review the literature of the last forty years of the seventeenth century, a time which, as dr. garnett well says, 'with all its defects, had a faculty for producing masterpieces.' dr. garnett's name is a warrant for his acquaintance not only with the masterpieces but with much besides, and with more than all that need be named in the kind of survey he undertakes."--_manchester guardian._ the age of pope "a 'handbook' is scarcely a fair description of so readable and companionable a volume, which aims not only at giving accurate information, but at directing the reader's steps 'through a country exhaustless in variety and interest.'"--_spectator._ "the biographical portion of mr. dennis's book is really admirable. the accuracy of the details and the knowledge exhibited by the author of the social and political life of the period show how thoroughly he has mastered his subject."--_westminster review._ "mr. dennis writes freely and simply, and with a thorough knowledge of the period with which he deals, and goes straight to the point without revelling in circumambient fancies. the result of this is that in 250 pages of good print we have as concise a history of queen anne literature as we could wish."--_cambridge review._ "an excellent little volume."--_athenæum._ the age of shakespeare "both volumes are excellently done, with knowledge, judgement, and a pleasant touch of vivacity. it is no easy matter to make a text-book both informing and readable; but here the feat is accomplished. i have read 'the age of shakespeare' with unflagging interest and pleasure.... everywhere one has the restful sensation of dealing with men of competent scholarship and sound critical instinct. especially valuable, to my thinking, is the chronological table of the chief publications of each year from 1579 to 1630."--mr. william archer in the _morning leader_. "these two volumes are, in short, a notable accession to the useful series to which they belong, and they constitute a luminous aid to the interpretation alike of the scope and quality of the literary activity which has rendered the 'age of shakespeare' classic in the annals of english literature."--_standard._ "the book is a well-informed and well-connected and intelligent exposition of its subject. it is more than a mere handbook. it is a _history_, though on a small scale."--_journal of education._ the age of milton "a very readable and serviceable manual of english literature during the central years of the seventeenth century."--_glasgow herald._ "mr. masterman has written a book which combines the preciseness of a text-book with the fullness of thought of a monograph. indeed, this compact little work will be studied with as much earnestness by the student as it will be read with pleasure by the lover of _belles lettres_.... we lay down the book delighted with what we have read."--_birmingham daily gazette._ "a work which reflects the utmost credit on its author ... luminous and at the same time impartial."--_westminster review._ "this excellent epitome ... very happily indicates the golden afterglow of the elizabethan sun."--_daily chronicle._ the age of johnson "the uniform excellence of mr. seccombe's manual of english literary history from 1748 to 1798 affords scarcely any opening for detailed criticism. little can be said, except that everything is just as it ought to be: the arrangement perfect, the length of the notices justly proportioned, the literary judgements sound and illuminating; while the main purpose of conveying information is kept so steadily in view that, while the book is worthy of a place in the library, the student could desire no better guide for an examination."--_bookman._ "he has knowledge, he is eminently careful, and, best of all in a handbook-maker of this kind, he is judicial. we like mr. seccombe's arrangement. there is a capital introduction, solid and grave rather than brilliant, on which the student may stand in confidence before he dives off into the stream of his tutor's survey. briefly, we have here a thorough, almost encyclopaedic, review of a great literary period--stimulating to the younger student, and to his elder refreshing by its perception."--_outlook._ "this book is one of the best of its kind, and we heartily recommend it to our readers."--_journal of education._ "the young student could not read a better book to get a comprehensive and yet detailed account of the literary history of the latter half of the eighteenth century."--_morning post._ the age of wordsworth "it is an admirable little work all the way through and one which the ripest students of the period may read with interest and profit."--_guardian._ "the desiderated text-book of the period 1798 to 1830 a.d. is no longer to seek. more than that, it has been written by the one englishman most competent to deal with it. whatever professor herford does he does well; but he has given us nothing at once so good and so helpful as this book."--_university correspondent._ "the introductory essay on romanticism in our literature is an admirable piece of work, full of suggestive thought, but professor herford is at his best--and a very fine best it is--in his brief summaries of the lives and works of individual writers. his cobbett, his lamb, and others that might be instanced, are veritable gems of biographical and critical compression presented with true literary finish."--_literary world._ "a book which is remarkable for freshness and distinction of style, philosophic grasp of first principles, and critical insight.... when we add that the book is also conspicuous for delicacy of literary appreciation and ripe judgement, both of men and movements, we have said enough to show that we consider its claims are unusual."--_speaker._ the age of tennyson "a capital little handbook of modern english literature."--_times._ "an instructive and readable manual ... an admirable first text-book on the subject."--_scotsman._ "professor walker has done his allotted task with singular skill, wonderful judiciousness, critical insight, adequate knowledge and mastery of facts, keen discernment of qualities and effectiveness of grouping.... we have read no review of the whole of the tennysonian age so genuinely fresh in matter, method, style, critical canons, and selectedness of phrase. as a small book on a great subject, it is a special treasure."--_educational news._ * * * * * uniform with the handbooks of english literature. _fourth edition enlarged. 725 pages. small crown 8vo. 6s. net._ introduction to english literature by henry s. pancoast "seems to me to fulfil better, on the whole, than any other 'introduction' known to me, the real requirements of such a book as distinguished from a 'sketch' or a 'summary.' it rightly does not attempt to be cyclopaedic, but isolates a number of figures of first-rate importance, and deals with these in a very attractive way. the directions for reading are also excellent."--professor c. h. herford, litt.d. london: g. bell and sons, ltd. york house, portugal street, w.c. literature of the age of pope. published by g. bell and sons, ltd. =addison's= works. with the notes of bishop hurd, a short memoir, and a portrait of addison after g. kneller, and 8 plates of medals and coins. edited by h. g. bohn. 6 vols. small post 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ each. [_bohn's standard library._ this is the most complete edition of addison's works ever issued. it contains much new matter, and upwards of 100 letters not before published. a very full index (108 pages) is appended to the 6th vol. vol. i.--plays--poems--poemata--dialogues on medals--remarks on italy. ii.--tatler and spectator. iii.--spectator. [_out of print._ iv.--spectator--guardian--lover--state of the war--trial of count tariff--whig examiner--freeholder. v.--freeholder--christian religion--drummer, or haunted house--various short pieces hitherto unpublished--letters. vi.--letters--poems--translations--official documents--addisoniana. the miscellaneous works of addison. edited by the late a. guthkelch, m.a. 2 vols. vol. i, poems and plays. vol. ii, prose. large post 8vo, 10_s._ 6_d._ net each. =berkeley's= works. edited by george sampson. with a biographical introduction by the right hon. a. j. balfour, m.p. 3 vols. small post 8vo. 6_s._ each. [_bohn's philosophical library._ =butler's= analogy of religion, natural and revealed, to the constitution and course of nature; together with two dissertations on personal identity and on the nature of virtue, and fifteen sermons. edited, with analytical introductions, explanatory notes, a short memoir, and a portrait. small post 8vo. 6_s._ [_bohn's standard library._ =defoe's= novels and miscellaneous works. with prefaces and notes, including those attributed to sir w. scott. 7 vols. small post 8vo. 6_s._ each. [_bohn's standard library._ vol. i.--life, adventures and piracies of capt. singleton, and life of colonel jack. with portrait of defoe. [_out of print._ ii.--memoirs of a cavalier, memoirs of captain carleton, dickory cronke, &c. iii.--life of moll flanders, and the history of the devil. [_out of print._ iv.--roxana, or the fortunate mistress; and life of mrs. christian davies. [_out of print._ v.--history of the great plague of london, 1665 (to which is added the fire of london, 1666, by an anonymous writer)--the storm (1703)--and the true-born englishman. [_out of print._ vi.--life and adventures of duncan campbell--new voyage round the world, and tracts relating to the hanoverian accession. vii.--robinson crusoe. with a short biographical account of defoe. =montagu=, the letters and works of lady mary wortley montagu. edited by her great-grandson, lord wharncliffe, with additions and corrections derived from original manuscripts, illustrative notes, and a memoir by w. moy thomas. new edition, revised, with 5 portraits. 2 vols. small post 8vo. 6_s._ each. [_vol. i out of print._ [_bohn's standard library._ =parnell's= poetical works. edited, with memoir, by g. a. aitken. fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. [_aldine edition._ =pope's= poetical works. edited by g. r. dennis, with memoir by john dennis. 3 vols. fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net each. [_aldine edition._ ---homer's iliad. with introduction and notes by the rev. j. s. watson, m.a. illustrated by the entire series of flaxman's designs. small post 8vo. 6_s._ ---homer's odyssey. with introduction and notes by the rev. j. s. watson, m.a. with the entire series of flaxman's designs. small post 8vo. 6_s._ ---life of pope, including many of his letters. by robert carruthers. with numerous illustrations. small post 8vo. 6_s._ =prior's= poetical works. edited, with memoir, by reginald brimley johnson. 2 vols. fcap. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net each. [_aldine edition._ =swift's= prose works. edited by temple scott. with a biographical introduction by the right hon. w. e. h. lecky, m.p., and a bibliography by the editor. with portraits and other illustrations. 12 vols. small post 8vo. 6_s._ each. [_bohn's standard library._ vol. i.--edited by temple scott. with a biographical introduction by the right hon. w. e. h. lecky, m.p. containing:--a tale of a tub, the battle of the books, and other early works. with _portrait_ and facsimiles. ii.--the journal to stella. edited by frederick ryland, m.a. with _2 portraits of stella_, and a facsimile of one of the letters. iii. & iv.--writings on religion and the church. edited by temple scott. with portraits and facsimiles of title-pages. v.--historical and political tracts (english). edited by temple scott. with portrait and facsimiles of title-pages. vi.--the drapier's letters. edited by temple scott. with portrait, reproduction of wood's coinage, and facsimiles of title-pages. vii.--historical and political tracts (irish). edited by temple scott. with portrait and facsimiles of title-pages. viii.--gulliver's travels. edited by g. ravenscroft dennis. with the original portrait and maps. ix.--contributions to the 'examiner,' 'tatler,' 'spectator,' etc. edited by temple scott. x.--historical writings. edited by temple scott. with portrait. xi.--literary essays. edited by temple scott. with portrait. xii.--index and bibliography. poems. edited by w. ernst browning. 2 vols. 6_s._ =swift's= poetical works. edited, with memoir, by the rev. john mitford, m.a. fcap. 8vo. 3 vols. 3_s._ 6_d._ net each. [_aldine edition. vol. i out of print._ london: g. bell and sons, ltd. york house, portugal street, kingsway, w.c. printed by the london and norwich press, limited london and norwich transcribers' notes general: corrections to punctuation have not been individually noted. general: bold text in the original is marked with ==. italic text is marked with __ pages 57, 159: variable hyphenation of death-bed as in the original. pages 222, 232, 257: variable hyphenation of free(-)thinking as in the original. 