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 CTOHNELL 
 
 UNIVER.SITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 FROM 
 
 James Morgan Hart 
 
 .UNDERGRADUATE LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University 
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 The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014166809 
 
THE SIX CHIEF LIVES 
 
 FROM 
 
 JOHNSON'S "LIVES OF THE POETS." 
 
THE 
 
 SIX CHIEF LIVES 
 
 JOHNSON'S "LIVES OF THE POETS," 
 
 MACAULAY'S "LIFE OF JOHNSON." 
 
 EDITED, WITH A PREFACE, 
 
 BV 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 1878. 
 
 {The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved.^ 
 

 LONDON : 
 K. CLAY, SONS, AND TAVLOK. 
 BREAD STREET HILL. 
 
 "if?w.-»^o^/xj-Jk ■Ipvj^w.Ha'n 
 
 (^o 
 
' CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface . . ' vii 
 
 Life of Johnson . i 
 
 Milton 45 
 
 Dryden . ■ J2I 
 
 Swift . • 235 
 
 Addison ■ ■ 273 
 
 Pope 327 
 
 Gray • • -455 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Da mihi, Domine, scire quod sciendum est — " Grant that the 
 knowledge I get may Tae the knowledge which is worth 
 having ! ' ' — the spirit of that prayer ought to rule our educa- 
 tion. How little it does rule it, every discerning man will 
 acknowledge. Life is short, and our faculties of attention 
 and of recollection are limited.; in education we proceed as if 
 our life were endless, and our powers of attention and recol- 
 lection inexhaustible. We have not time or strength to deal 
 with half of the matters which are thrown upon our minds, 
 they prove a useless load to us. When some one talked 
 to Themistocles of an art of memory, he answered : " Teach 
 me rather to forget ! " The sarcasm well criticises the fatal 
 want of proportion between what we put into our minds and 
 their real needs and powers. 
 
 From the time when first I was led to think about educa- 
 tion, this want of proportion is what has most struck me. 
 It is the great obstacle to progress, yet it is by no means 
 remarked and contended against as it should be. It hardly 
 begins to present itself until we pass beyond the strict 
 elements of education, — beyond the acquisition, I mean, of 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 reading, of writing, and of calculating so far as the operations 
 of common life require. But the moment we pass beyond 
 these, it begins to appear. Languages, grammar, literature, 
 history, geography, mathematics, the knowledge of nature, — 
 what of these is to be taught, how much, and how? There 
 is no clear, well-grounded cgnaent. The same with religion. 
 Religion is surely to be taught, but what of it is to be 
 taught, and how? A clear, well-grounded, consent is again 
 wanting. And taught in such fashion as things are now, 
 how often must a candid and sensible man, if he could be 
 offered an art of memory to secure all that he has learned 
 of them, as to a very great deal of it be inclined to say with 
 Themistocles : " Teach me rather to forget ! " 
 
 In England the common notion seems to be that education 
 is advanced in two ways principally : by for ever adding 
 fresh matters of instruction, and by preventing uniformity. 
 I should be inclined to prescribe just the opposite course ; 
 to prescribe a severe limitation of the number of matters 
 taught, a severe uniformity in the line of study followed. 
 ■\Vide ranging, and the multiplication of matters to be investi- 
 gated, belong to private study, — to the development of special 
 aptitudes in the individual learner, and to the demands which 
 they raise in him. But separate from all this should be 
 kept the broad plain lines of study for almost universal use. 
 I say almost universal, because they must of necessity vary 
 a little with the varying conditions of men. Whatever the 
 pupil finds set out for him upon these lines, he should learn ; 
 therefore it ought not to be too much in quantity. The 
 essential thing is that it should be well chosen. If once we 
 can get it well chosen, the more uniformly it can be kept 
 to, the better. The teacher will be more at home; and 
 besides, when we have once got what is good and suitable. 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 there is small hope of gan, and great certainty of risk, in 
 departing from it. 
 
 No such lines are laid out, and perhaps no one could 
 be trusted to lay them out authoritatively. But to amuse 
 oneself with laying them out in fancy is a good exercise 
 for one's thoughts. One may lay them out for this or that 
 description of pupil, in this or that branch of study. The 
 wider the interest of the branch of study taken, and the 
 more extensive the class of pupils concerned, the better for 
 our purpose. Suppose we take the department of letters. 
 It is interesting to lay out in one's mind the ideal line of 
 study to be followed by all who have to learn Latin and 
 Greek. But it is still more interesting to lay out the ideal 
 line of study to be followed by all who are concerned with 
 that body of literature which exists in English, because this 
 class is so much more numerous amongst us. The thing- 
 would be, one imagines, to begin with a very brief intro- 
 ductory sketch of our subject; then to fix a certain serie§_ 
 of works to serve as what the French, taking an expression 
 from the builder's business, call points de replre, — points 
 which stand as so many natural centres, and by returning 
 to which we can always find our way again, if we are em- 
 barrassed; finally, to mark out a number of illustrative and 
 representative works, connecting themselves with each of 
 these points de repire. In the introductory sketch we are 
 amongst generalities, in the group of illustrative works we 
 are amongst details ; generalities and details have, both of 
 them, their perils for the learner. It is evident that, for 
 purposes of education, the most important parts by far in 
 our scheme are what we call the points de repire. To get , 
 these rightly chosen and thoroughly known is the great 
 matter. For my part, in thinking of this or that line of 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 Study which human minds follow, I feel always prompted 
 to seek, first and foremost, the leading pints de refere 
 in it. 
 
 In editing for the use of the young the group of chapters 
 which are now commonly distinguished as those of the 
 Babylonian Isaiah, I drew attention to their remarkable fitness 
 for serving as a point of this kind to the student of universal 
 history. But a work which by many is regarded as simply 
 and solely a document of religion, there is difficulty, perhaps, 
 in employing for historical and literary purposes. With 
 works of a secular character one is on safer ground. And 
 for years pas^ whenever I have had occasion to use John- 
 son's Lives of the Poets, the thought ias struck me how 
 admirable a point de reph-e, or fixed centre of the sort de- 
 scribed above, these lives might be made to furnish for the 
 student of English literature. If we could but take, I have 
 said to myself, the most important- of the lives in Johnson's 
 volumes, and leave out all the rest, what a text-book we 
 should have ! The volumes at present are a work to stand 
 in a library, "a work which no gentleman's library should 
 be without." But we want to get from them a text-book 
 to be in the hands of every one who desires even so much 
 as a general acquaintance with English literature; — and so 
 much acquaintance as this who does not desire ? The work 
 as Johnson published it is not fitted to serve as such a 
 text-book ; it is too extensive, and contains the lives of many 
 poets quite insignificant. Johnson supplied lives of all whom 
 the booksellers proposed to include in their collection ot 
 British Poets j he did not choose the poets himself, although 
 he added two or three to those chosen by the booksellers. 
 Whatever Johnson did in the department of literary bio- 
 graphy and criticism possesses interest and deserves our 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 attention. But in liis Lives of the Poets there are six of 
 pre-eminent interest, because they are the lives of men who, 
 while the rest in the collection are of inferior rank, stand 
 out as names of the first class in English literature : Milton, 
 Dryden, Swift, Addison, Pope, Gray. These six writers differ 
 among themselves, of course, in power and importance, and 
 every one can see that if we were following certain modes 
 of literary classification, Milton would have to be placed on 
 a solitary eminence far above any of them. But If, without 
 seeking a close view of individual differences, we form a 
 large and liberal first ' class among English writers, all these 
 six personages, — Milton, Dryden, Swift, Addison, Pope, Gray, 
 —must, I think be placed in it. Their lives cover a space 
 of more than a century and a half, from 1608, the year of 
 Milton's birth, down to 1771, the date of the death of Gray. 
 Through this space of more than a century and a half the 
 six lives conduct us. We follow the course of what War- 
 burton well calls " the most agreeable subject in the world, 
 which is literary history,'' aiid follow it in the lives of men 
 of letters of the first class. And the writer of their lives 
 is himself, too, a man of letters of the first class. Malone 
 calls Johnson "the brightest ornament of the eighteenth 
 century." He is justly to be called, at any rate, a man of 
 letters of the first class, and the gre atesL -pewer in English 
 letters during the eighteenth century. And in his Lives of 
 the Poets, in this mature and most characteristic work, not 
 finished until 1781, and "which I wrote," as he himself 
 tells us, "in my usual way, dilatorily and hastily, unwilling 
 to work and working with vigour and haste," we have 
 Johnson mellowed by years, Johnson in his ripeness and 
 plenitude, treating the subject which he loved best and knew 
 best. Much of it he could treat with the knowledge and 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 sure tact of a contemporary ; even from Milton and Dryden 
 he was scarcely further separated than our generation is 
 from Burns and Scott. Having all these recommendations, 
 his Lives of the Poets do indeed truly stand for what 
 Boswell calls them, "the work which of all Dr. Johnson's 
 writings will perhaps be read most generally and with most 
 pleasure." And in the lives of the six chief personages of 
 the work, the lives of Milton, Dryden, Swift, Addison, Pope, 
 and Gray, we have its very kernel and quintessence. True, 
 Johnson is not at his best in all of these six lives equally ; 
 one might have hoped, in particular,, for a better life of Gray 
 from him. Still these six lives contain very much of his 
 best work, and it is not amiss, perhaps, to have specimens 
 of a great man's less excellent work by the side of his 
 best. By their subjects, at any rate, the six lives are of 
 pre-eminent interest. In these we have Johnson's series of 
 critical biographies relieved of whatever is less significant, 
 retaining nothing which is not highly significant, brought 
 within easy and convenient compass, and admirably fitted to 
 serve as a point de replre, a fixed and thoroughly known 
 centre of departure and return, to the student of English 
 literature. 
 
 I know of no such first-rate piece of literature, for supply- 
 ing in this way the wants of the literary student, existing at 
 all in any other language ; or existing in our own language 
 for any period except the period which Johnson's six lives 
 cover. A student cannot read them without gaining from 
 them, consciously or unconsciously, an insight into the his- 
 tory of English literature and life. He would find great 
 benefit, let me add, from reading in connexion with each 
 biography something of the author with whom it deals ; the 
 first two books, say, of Paradise Lost, in connexion with 
 
PREFACE. xiii 
 
 the Life of Milton; Absalo m and A chitophel. and the Dedi- 
 cation of _the^neid, in connexion with the Life of Dryden ; 
 in connexion with Swift's life, the Battle of the Books ; with 
 Addison's, the Coygrle y Pa pers ; with Pope's, the Imitations 
 of the Satires_and_EgisUes_of jiorace. The Elegy in a 
 Country Churchyard everybody knows, and will have it 
 present to his mind when he reads the life of Gray. But 
 of the other works which I have mentioned how little can 
 this be said ; to how many of us are Pope and Addison 
 and Dryden and Swift, and even Milton himself, mere names, 
 about whose date and history and supposed characteristics 
 of style we may have learnt by rote something from a hand- 
 book, but of the real men and of the power of their works 
 we know nothing 1 From Johnson's biographies the student 
 will get a sense of what the real men were, and with this 
 sense fresh in his mind he will find the occasion propitious 
 for acquiring also, in the way pointed out, a sense of the 
 power of their works. 
 
 This will seem to most people a very unambitious dis- 
 cipline. But the fault of most of the disciplines proposed 
 in education is that they are by far to o ambiti ous. Our 
 improvers of education are almost always for proceeding by 
 way of augmentation and complication ; reduction and sim- 
 plification, I say, is what is rather required. We give the 
 learner too much to do, and we are over-zealous to tell him 
 what he ought to think. Johnson, himself, has admirably 
 marked the real line of our education through letters. He 
 says in his life of Pope : " Judgment is forced upon us by 
 experience. He that reads many books must compare one 
 opinion or one style with another; and when he compares, 
 must necessarily distinguish, reject, and prefer." Nothing 
 could be better. The aim and end of education through 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 letters is to get this experience. Our being told by 
 another what its results will properly be found to be, 
 is not, even if we are told aright, at all the same thing 
 as getting the experience for ourselves. The discipline, 
 therefore, which puts us in the way of getting it, cannot 
 be called an inconsiderable or inefficacious one. We should 
 take care not to imperil its acquisition by refusing to 
 trust to it in its simplicity, by being eager to add, set 
 right, and annotate. It is much to secure the reading, by 
 young English people, of the lives of the six chief poets of 
 our nation between the years 1650 and 1750, related by 
 our foremost man of letters of the eighteenth century. 
 It is much to secure their reading, under the stimulus of 
 Johnson's interesting recital and forcible judgments, famous 
 specimens of the authors whose lives are before them. Do 
 not let us insist on also reviewing in detail and supplementing 
 Johnson's work for them, on telling them what they ought 
 really and definitely to think about the six authors and about 
 the exact place of each in Enghsh literature. Perhaps our 
 pupils are not ripe for it; perhaps, too, we have not John- 
 son's interest and Johnson's force ; we are not the power 
 in letters for our century which he was for his. We may be 
 pedantic, obscure, dull, — everything that bores, rather than 
 everything that attracts; and so Johnson and his lives will 
 repel, and will not be received, because we insist on being 
 received along with them. 
 
 And again, as we bar a learner's approach to Homer 
 and Virgil by our chevaux de frise of elaborate grammar, 
 so we are apt to stop his way to a piece of English, 
 literature by imbedding it in a mass of notes and addi- 
 tional matter. Mr. Croker's edition of Boswell's Life of 
 Johnson is a good example of the labour and ingenuity 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 which may be spent upon a masterpiece, with the result, 
 after all, really of rather encumbering than illustrating it. 
 All knowledge may be in itself good, but this kind of 
 editing seems to proceed upon the notion that we have only 
 one book to read in the course of our life, or else that we 
 have eternity to read in. What can it matter to our gene- 
 ration whether it was Molly Aston or Miss Boothby whose 
 preference for Lord Lyttelton made Johnson jealous, and 
 produced in his Life of Lyttelton a certain tone of disparage- 
 ment? With the young reader, at all events, our great 
 endeavour should be to bring him face to face with master- 
 pieces and to hold him there, not distracting or rebutting 
 him with needless excursions or trifling details. 
 
 In the present volume, therefore, I have reprinted John- 
 son's six chief Lives simply as they are given in the edition 
 in four volumes octavo, the edition which passes for being 
 -the first to have a correct and complete text ; and I have 
 left the lives, in that iiatural form, to have their own effect 
 upon the reader. I have added one single note myself, and 
 one only, — a note on the mistake committed by Johnson 
 in identifying Addison's " Little Dicky " with Sir Richard 
 Steele. And this note I have added, not because of the 
 importance of the correction in itself, but because it well 
 exhibits, in one striking example, the acuteness and re- 
 source of that famous man of letters. Lord Macaulay, and 
 is likely to rouse and enliven the reader's attention rather 
 than to dull it. 
 
 I should like to think that a number of young people 
 might thus be brought to know an important period of our 
 literary and intellectual history, through means of the lives of 
 six of its leading and representative authors, told by a great 
 man. I should like to think that they would go on, under 
 
xvi PREFACE. 
 
 the stimulus of the lives, to acquaint themselves with some 
 leading and representative work of each author. In the 
 six lives they would at least have secured, I think, a most 
 valuable point de replre in the history of our English life and 
 literature, a point from which afterwards to find their way; 
 whether they might desire to ascend upwards to our anterior 
 literature, or to come downwards to the literature of yesterday 
 and of the present. 
 
 The six lives cover a period of literary and intellectual 
 movement in which we are all profoundly interested. It is 
 the passage of our nation to prose and reason ; the passage 
 to a type of thought and expression modern, European, and 
 which on the whole is ours at the present day, from a type 
 antiquated, peculiar, and which is ours no longer. The 
 period begins with a prose like this of Milton : " They who 
 to states and governors of the commonwealth direct their 
 speech, high court of parliament ! or wanting such access 
 in a private condition, write that which they foresee may 
 advance the public good ; I suppose them, if at the begin- 
 ning of no mean endeavour, not a little altered and moved 
 inwardly in their minds." It ends with a prose like this of 
 Smollett : " My spirit began to accommodate itself to my 
 beggarly fate, and I became so mean as to go down towards 
 Wapping, with an intention to inquire for an old school- 
 fellow, who, I understood, had got the command of a small 
 coasting vessel then in the river, and implore his assistance." 
 These are extreme instances ; but they give us no unfaithful 
 notion of the change in our prose between the reigns of 
 Charles the First, and of George the Third. Johnson has 
 recorded his own impression of the extent of the change 
 and of its salutariness. Boswell gave him a book to read, 
 written in 1702 by the English chaplain of a regiment 
 
PREFACE. xvH 
 
 Stationed in Scotland. " It is sad stuff, sir," said Johnson, 
 after reading it ; " miserably written, as books in general 
 then were. There is now an elegance of style universally 
 difiiised. No man now writes so ill as Martin's account of 
 the Hebrides is written. A man could, not write so iU if he 
 should try. Set a merchant's clerk now to write, and he'll 
 do better.'' 
 
 It seems as if a simple and natural prose were a thing 
 
 which we might expect to come easy to communities of men, 
 
 and to come early to them ; but we know from experience 
 
 that it is not so. Poetry and the poetic form of expression 
 
 naturally precede prose. "We see this in ancient Greece. 
 
 We see prose forming itself there gradually and with labour ; 
 
 we see it passing through more than one stage before it 
 
 attains to thorough propriety and lucidity, long after forms of 
 
 consummate accuracy have already been reached and used 
 
 in poetry. It is a people's growth in practical life, and its 
 
 native turn for developing this Ufe and for making progress 
 
 in it, which awaken the desire for a good prose, — a prose 
 
 plain, direct, intelligible, serviceable. A dead language, the 
 
 Latin, for a long time fiimished the nations of Eirrope with 
 
 an instrument of the kind, superior to any which they had 
 
 yet discovered in their own tongue. But nations such as 
 
 England and France, called to a great historic life, and 
 
 with powerM interests and gifts either social or practical, 
 
 were sure to feel the need of having a sound prose of their 
 
 own, and to bring such a prose forth. They brought it 
 
 forth Lq the seventeenth century ; France first, afterwards 
 
 England. 
 
 The Restoration marks the real moment of birth of our 
 modem English prose. !Men of lucid and direct mental 
 habit there were, such as ChiUingworth, in whom before the 
 
 b 
 
xviii PREFACE. 
 
 Restoration the desire and the commencement of a modem 
 prose show themselves. There were men like Barrow, 
 weighty and powerful, whose mental habit the old prose 
 suited, who continued its forms and locutions after the 
 Restoration. But the hour was come for the new prose, 
 and it grew and prevailed. In Johnson's time its victory 
 had long been assured, and the old style seemed barbarous. 
 Johnson himself wrote a prose decidedly modern. The 
 reproach conveyed in the phrase " Johnsonian EngUsh " must 
 not mislead us. It is aimed at his words, not at his struc- 
 ture. In Johnson's prose the words are often pompous 
 and long, but the structure is always plain and modern. 
 The prose writers of the eighteenth century have indeed 
 their mannerisms and phrases which are no longer ours. 
 Johnson says of Milton's blame of the Universities for per- 
 mitting young men designed for orders in the Church to 
 act in plays : " This is sufficiently peevish in a man, who, 
 when he mentions his exile from college, relates, with great 
 luxuriance, the compensation which the pleasures of the 
 theatre afford him. Plays were therefore only criminal when 
 they were acted by academics." We should now-a-days not 
 say peevish here, nor luxuriance, nor academics. Yet the 
 style is ours by its organisin, if not by its phrasing. It is 
 by its organism, — an organism opposed to length and in- 
 volvement, and enabling us to be clear, plain, and short, — 
 that English style after the Restoration breaks with the 
 style of the times preceding it, finds the true law of prose, 
 and becomes modern; becomes, in spite of superficial 
 differences, the style of our own day. 
 
 Burnet has pointed out how we are under obligations in 
 this matter to Charles the Second, whom Johnson described 
 as "the last king of England who was a man of parts." A 
 
PREFACE. xix 
 
 king of England by no means fulfils his whole duty by being 
 a man of parts, or by loving and encouraging art, science, and 
 literature. Yet the artist and the student of the natural 
 sciences will always feel a kindness towards the two Charleses, 
 for their interest in art and science ; and modern letters, too, 
 have their debt to Charles the Second, although it may be 
 quite true that that prince, as Burnet says, " had little or no 
 literature." "The King had little or no literature, but true 
 and good sense, and had got a right notion of style ; for he 
 was in France at the time when they were much set on 
 reforming their language. It soon appeared that he had 
 a true taste. So this helped to raise the value of these men 
 (Tillotson and others), when the king approved of the style 
 their discourses generally ran in, which was clear, plain, and 
 short." 
 
 It is the victory of this prose style, "clear, plain, and 
 short," over what Burnet calls "the old style, long and 
 heavy," which is the distinguished achievement, in the history 
 of English letters, of the century following the Restoration. 
 From the first it proceeded rapidly and was never checked. 
 Burnet says of the Chancellor Finch, Earl of Nottingham : 
 " He was long much admired for his eloquence, but it was 
 laboured and affected, and he saw it much despised before 
 he died." A like revolution of taste brought about a general 
 condemnation of our old prose style, imperfectly disengaged 
 from the style of poetry. By Johnson's time the new style, 
 the style of prose, was altogether paramount in its own proper 
 domain, and in its pride of victorious strength had invaded 
 also the domain of poetry. 
 
 That invasion is now visited by us with a condemnation 
 not less strong and general than the condemnation which 
 the eighteenth century passed upon the unwieldy prose of 
 
 b 2 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 its predecessors. But let us be -careful to do justice while 
 we condemn. A thing good in its own place may be bad 
 out of it. Prose requires a different style from poetry. 
 
 Poetry, no doubt, is more excellent in itself than prose. 
 In poetry man finds the highest and most beautiful expres- 
 sion of that "which is in him. We had far better poetry 
 than the poetry of the eighteenth century before that century 
 arrived, we have had better since it departed. Like the 
 Greeks, and u nlike the French, we can point to an age 
 of poetry anterior to our age of prose, eclipsing our age 
 of prose in glory, and fixing the future character and con- 
 ditions of our literature. We do well to place our pride in 
 the Elizabethan age and Shakespeare, as the Greeks placed 
 theirs in Homer. We did well to return in the present 
 century to the poetry of that older age for illumination and 
 inspiration, and to put aside, in a great measure, the poetry 
 and poets intervening between Milton and Wordsworth. 
 Milton, in whom our great poetic age expired, was the last 
 of the immortals. Of the five poets whose lives follow his 
 in our present volume, three, Dryden, Addison, and Swift, 
 are eminent prose-writers as well as poets ; two of the three, 
 Swift and Addison, are far more distinguished as prose- 
 writers than as poets. The glory of English literature is in 
 poetry, and in poetry the strength of the eighteenth century 
 does not lie. 
 
 Nevertheless, the eighteenth century accomplished for us 
 an immense literary progress, and its very shortcomings in 
 poetry were an instrument to that progress, and served it. 
 The example of Germany may show us what a nation loses 
 from having no prose style. The practical genius of our 
 people could not but urge irresistibly to the production of 
 a real prose style, because for the purposes of modern life 
 
PREFACE. xxi 
 
 the old English prose, the prose of Milton and Taylor, is 
 cumbersome, unavailable, impossible. A style of regularity, 
 uniformity, precision, balance, was wanted. These are the 
 qualities of a serviceable prose style. Poetry has a different 
 logic, as Coleridge said, from prose ; poetical style follows 
 . another law of evolution than the style of prose. But there 
 is no doubt that a style of regularity, uniformity, precision, 
 .balance, will acquire a yet stronger hold upon the mind of 
 .a nation, if it is adopted in poetry as well as in prose, and 
 so comes to govern both. This is what happened in France. 
 To the practical, modern, and social genius of the French, 
 a true prose was indispensable. They produced one of 
 conspicuous excellence, so powerful and influential in the 
 last century, having been the first to come and standing at 
 first alone, that Gibbon, as is well known, hesitated whether 
 he should not write his history in French. French prose 
 ,is marked in the highest degree -by the qualities of regu- 
 larity, uniformity, precision, balance. With little opposition 
 from any deep-seated and imperious poetic instincts, the 
 French made their poetry conform to the law which 
 was moulding their prose. French poetry became marked 
 with the qualities of regularity, uniformity, precision, balance. 
 This may have been bad for French poetry, but it was 
 good for French prose. It heightened the perfection with 
 which those qualities, the true qualities of prose, were im- 
 pressed upon it. When England, at the Restoration, desired 
 a modem prose, and began to create it, our WTiters turned 
 naturally to French literature, which had just accomplished 
 the very process which engaged them. The King's acuteness 
 and taste, as we have seen, helped.. Indeed, to the admission 
 of French influence of all kinds, Charles the Second's character 
 3.nd that of his court were but too favourable. But the 
 
xxii PREFACE. 
 
 influence of the French writers was at that moment on the 
 whole fortunate, and seconded what was a vital and necessary 
 effort in oiir literature. Our literature required a prose which 
 conformed to the true law of prose ; and that it might acquire 
 this the more surely, it compelled poetry, as in France, to 
 conform itself to the law of prose likewise. The classic verse 
 of French poetry was the Alexandrine, a measure favourable 
 to the qualities of regularity, uniformity, precision, balance. 
 Gradually a measure favourable to those very same qualities, 
 — the ten-syllable couplet, — established itself as the classic 
 verse of England, until in the eighteenth century it had become 
 the ruling form of our poetry. Poetry, or rather the use of 
 verse, entered in a remarkable degree, during that century, 
 into the whole of the daily life of the civilised classes; and 
 the poetry of the century was a perpetual school of the 
 qualities requisite for a good prose, the qualities of regularity, 
 uniformity, precision, balance. This may have been of no 
 great service to English poetry, although to say that it has 
 been of no service at all, to say that the eighteenth century 
 has in no respect changed the conditions for English poetical 
 style, or that it has changed them for the worse, would be 
 untrue. But it was undeniably of signal service to that which 
 was the great want and work of the hour, English prose. 
 
 Do not let us, therefore, hastily despise Johnson and his 
 century for their defective poetry and criticism of poetry. 
 True, Johnson is capable of saying: "Surely no man could 
 have fancied that he read Lycidas with pleasure had he 
 not known the author ! " True, he is capable of maintaining 
 " that the description of the temple in Congreve's Mourning 
 Bride was the finest poetical passage he had ever read — 
 he recollected none in Shakespeare equal to it." But we 
 are to conceive of Johnson and of his century as having 
 
PREFACE. xxiil 
 
 a special task committed to them, the establishment of English j 
 prose ; and as capable of being warped and narrowed in ' 
 their judgments of poetry by this exclusive task. Such is 
 the common course and law of progress ; one thing is ,. 
 done at a time, and other things are sacrificed to it. We j / 
 must be thankful for the thing done, if it is valuable, and we ,7 
 must put up with the temporary sacrifice of other things to 
 this one. The other things will have their turn sooner or 
 later. Above all, a nation with profound poetical instincts, 
 like the English nation, may be trusted to work itself right 
 again in poetry after periods of mistaken poetical f)ractice. 
 Even in the midst of an age of such practice, and with 
 his style frequently showing the bad influence of it. Gray 
 was saved, we may say, and remains a poet whose work 
 has high and pure worth, simply by his knowing the Greeks 
 thoroughly, more thoroughly than ■ any English poet had 
 known them since Milton, Milton was a survivor from the 
 great age of poetry; Dryden, Addison, Pope, and Swift were 
 mighty workers for the age of prose. Gray, a poet in the 
 midst of the age of prose, a poet, moreover, of by no means 
 the highest force and of scanty productiveness, nevertheless 
 claims a place among the six chief personages of Johnson's 
 Lives, because it was impossible for an English poet, even 
 in that age, who knew the great Greek masters intimately, 
 not to respond to their good influence, and to be rescued ,. 
 from the false poetical practice of his contemporaries. Of 
 such avail to a nation are deep poetical instincts even in 
 an age of prose. How much more may they be trusted 
 to assert themselves after the age of prose has ended, and 
 to remedy any poetical mischief done by it ! And meanwhile 
 the work of the hour, the necessary and appointed work, 
 has been done, and we have got our prose. 
 
xxiv PREFACE. 
 
 Let us always bear in mind, therefore, that the century 
 so well represented by Dryden, Addison, Pope, and Swift, 
 and of which the literary history is so powerfully written 
 by Johnson in his Lives, is a century of prose, — a century 
 of which the great work in literature was the formation of 
 Enghsh prose. Johnson was himself a labourer in this great 
 and needful work, and was ruled by its influences. His 
 blame of genuine poets like Milton arid Gray, his over- 
 praise of artificial poets Hke Pope, are to be taken as the 
 utterances of a man who worked for an age of prose, who 
 was ruled by its influences, and could not but be ruled by 
 them. Of poetry he speaks as a man whose sense for 
 that with which he is dealing is in some degree imperfect. 
 
 Yet even on poetry Johnson's utterances are valuable, 
 because they are the utterances of a great and original man. 
 That indeed he was ; and to be conducted by such a man 
 through an important century cannot but do us good, even 
 though our guide may in some places be less competent 
 than in others. Johnson was the man of an age of prose. 
 Furthermore, Johnson was a strong force of conservatism and 
 concentratiop, in an epoch which by its natural tendencies 
 seemed to be moving towards expansion and freedom. But he 
 was a great man, and great men are always instructive. The 
 more we study him, the higher will be our esteem for the 
 power of his mind, the width of his interests, the largeness 
 of his knowledge, the freshness, fearlessness, and' strength 
 of his judgments. The higher, too, will be our esteem 
 for his character. His well-known lines on Levett's death, 
 beautiful and touching lines, are still more beautiful and 
 touching because they recall a whole history of Johnson's 
 goodness, . tenderness, and charity. Human dignity, on the 
 other hand, he maintained, we all know how well, through 
 
PREFACE. XXV 
 
 the whole long and arduous struggle of his life, from his 
 undergraduate days at Oxford, down to the Jam moriturus 
 of his closing hour. His faults and strangenesses are on 
 the surface, and catch every eye. But on the whole we 
 have in him a fine and admirable type, worthy to be kept 
 in view for ever, of " the ancient and inbred integrity, piety, 
 good-nature and good-humour of the English people." 
 
 It was right that a Life of Johnson himself should stand 
 as an introduction to the present volume, and I long ago 
 conceived the wish that it should be the Life contributed' 
 by Lord Macaulay to the Encyclopaedia Britannica. That 
 Life is a work which shows Macaulay at his very best; a 
 work written when his style was matured, and when his 
 resources were in all their fulness. The subject, too, was 
 one which he knew thoroughly, and for which he felt cordial 
 sympathy ; indeed by his mental habit Macaulay himself 
 belonged, in many respects, to the eighteenth century rather 
 than to our own. But the permission to use in this manner 
 a choice work of Lord Macaulay's was no light favour to ask. 
 However, in my zeal for the present volume I boldly asked 
 it, and by the proprietors of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, 
 the Messrs. Black, it has been most kindly and generously 
 accorded. I cannot sufficiently express my sense of obligation 
 to them for their consent, and to Mr. Trevelyan for his 
 acquiescence in it. They have enabled me to fulfil a long- 
 cherished desire, to tell the story of a whole important age 
 of English literature in one compendious volume, — itself, 
 at the same time, a piece of English literature of the very 
 first class. Such a work the reader has in his hands in the 
 present volume ; its editor may well be fearful of injuring 
 it by a single superfluous line, a single unacceptable word. 
 
THE SIX CHIEF LIVES 
 
 FROM 
 
 JOHNSON'S "LIVES OF THE POETS." 
 
LIFE OF JOHNSON. 
 
 BY LORD MACAULAY. 
 
 1709— 1784. 
 
 Samuel Johnson, one of the most eminent English writers 
 of the eighteenth century, was the son of Michael' Johnson, 
 who was, at the beginning of that century, a magistrate of 
 Lichfield, and a bookseller of great note in the midland 
 counties,. Michael's abilities and attainments seem to have > 
 been considerable. He was so well acquainted with the 
 contents of the volumes which he exposed to sale, that the 
 country rectors of Staffordshire and Worcestershire thought 
 him an oracle on points of learning. Between him and the 
 clergy, indeed, there was a strong religious and political S3rm- 
 pathy. He was a zealous churchman, and, though he had 
 qualified himself for municipal office by taking the oaths to 
 the sovereigns in possession, was to the last a Jacobite in 
 heart. At his house, a house which is still pointed out to every 
 traveller who visits Lichfield, Samuel was born on the i8th of 
 September 1709. In the child the physical, intellectual, and 
 moral peculiarities which afterwards distinguished the man 
 were plainly discernible ; great muscular strength accompanied 
 by much awkwardness and many infirmities ; great quickness 
 of parts, with a morbid propensity to sloth and procrastination ; 
 a kind and generous heart, with a gloomy and irritable temper. 
 
2 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 He had inherited from his ancestors a scrofulous taint, which 
 it was beyond the power of medicine to remove. His parents 
 were weak enough to beheve that the royal touch was a specific 
 for this malady. • In his third year he was taken up to London, 
 inspected by the court surgeon, prayed over by the court 
 chaplains, and stroked and presented with a piece of gold by 
 Queen Anne. One of his earliest recollections was that of a 
 stately lady in a diamond stomacher and a long black hood. 
 .Her hand was applied in vain. The boy's features, which were 
 originally noble, and not irregular, were distorted by his malady. 
 His cheeks were deeply scarred. He lost for a time the sight 
 nf one eye ; and he saw but very imperfectly with the other. 
 But the force of his mind overcame every impediment. Indo- 
 icnt as he was, he acquired knowledge with such ease and 
 lapidity, that at every school to which he was sent he was soon 
 the best scholar. From sixteen to eighteen he resided at 
 .'home, and was left to his own devices. He learned much at 
 this time, though his studies were without guidance and without 
 plan. He ransacked his father's shelves, dipped into a multi- 
 tude of books, read what was interesting, and passed over what 
 was dull. An ordinary lad would have acquired little or no 
 useful knowledge in such a way ; but much that was dull to 
 ordinary lads was interesting to Samuel. He read little Greek, 
 for his proficiency in that language was not such that he could 
 take much pleasure in the masters of Attic poetry and elo- 
 quence. But he had left school a good Latinist, and he soon 
 acquired, in the large and miscellaneous library of which he 
 ■now had the command, an extensive knowledge of Latin 
 literature. That Augustan delicacy of taste, which is the boast 
 
 of the great public schools of England, he never possessed. 
 But he was early familiar with some classical writers, who were 
 
 juite unknown to the best scholars in the sixth form at Eton. 
 He was peculiarly attracted by the works of the great restorers 
 
 )f learning. Once, while searching for some apples, he found 
 
 a huge folio volume of Petrarch's w^orks. The name excited 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 3 
 
 his curiosity, and he eagerly devoured hundreds of pages. 
 Indeed, the diction and versification of his own Latin com- 
 positions show that he had paid at least as much attention to 
 modern copies from the antique as to the original models. 
 
 While he was thus irregularly educating himself, his family 
 was sinking into hopeless poverty. Old Michael Johnson was 
 much better qualified to pore upon books, and to talk about 
 them, than to trade in them. His business declined : his 
 debts increased ; it was with difficulty that the daily expenses 
 of his household were defrayed. It was out of his power to 
 support his son at either university ; but a wealthy neighbour 
 offered assistance ; and, in reliance on promises which proved 
 to be of very little value, Samuel was entered at Pembroke 
 College, Oxford. When the young scholar presented himself 
 to the rulers of that society, they were amazed not more by 
 his ungainly figure acid eccentric manners than by the quantity 
 of extensive and curious information which he had picked up 
 during many months of desultory, but not unprofitable, study. 
 On the first day of his residence, he surprised his teachers by 
 quoting Macrobius ; and one of the most learned among them 
 declared, that he had never known a freshman of equal 
 attainments. 
 
 At Oxford, Johnson resided during about three years. He V 
 was poor, even to raggedness ; and his appearance excited a 
 mirth and a pity, which were equally intolerable to his haughty 
 spirit. He was driven from the quadrangle of Christ Church 
 by the sneering looks which the members of that aristocratical 
 society cast at the holes in his shoes. Some charitaible person 
 placed a new pair at his door ; but he spurned them away in 
 a fury. Distress made him, not servile, but reckless and 
 ungovernable. No opulent gentleman commoner, panting for 
 one-and-twenty, could have treated the academical authorities 
 with more gross disrespect. The needy scholar was generally 
 to be seen under the gate of Pembroke, a gate now adorned 
 
 ith his effigy, haranguing a circle of lads, over whom, in spite 
 ' B 2 
 
4 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709- 
 
 of his tattered gown and dirty linen, his wit and audacity gave 
 him an undisputed ascendency. In every mutiny against the 
 discipline of the college he was the ringleader. Much was 
 pardoned, however, to a youth so highly distinguished by 
 abilities and acquirements. He had early made himself known 
 by turning Pope's Messiah into Latin verse. The style and 
 rhythm, indeed, were not exactly Virgilian ; but the translation 
 found many admirers, and was read with pleasure by Pope 
 himself. 
 
 The time drew near at which Johnson would, in the ordinary 
 course of things, have become a Bachelor of Arts : but he was 
 at the end of his resources. Those promises of support on 
 which he had relied had not been kept. His famity could do 
 nothing for him. His debts to Oxford tradesmen were small 
 indeed, yet larger than he could pay. In the autumn of tj^i, 
 he was under the necessity of quitting tj^e university without 
 a degree. In the following winter his father died. The old 
 man left but a pittance ; and of that pittance almost the whole 
 was appropriated to the support of his widow. The property 
 to which Samuel succeeded amounted to no more than twenty 
 pounds. 
 
 His life, during the thirty years which followed, was one 
 hard struggle with poverty. The misery of that struggle 
 needed no aggravation, but was aggravated by the sufferings of 
 an unsound body and an unsound mind. Before the young 
 man left the university, his hereditary malady had broken forth 
 in a singularly cruel form. He had become an incurable hypo- 
 chondriac. He said long after that he had been mad all his 
 life, or at least not perfectly sane ; and, in truth, eccentricities 
 less strange than his have often been thought grounds sufR- 
 cient for absolving felons, and for setting aside wills. His 
 grimaces, his gestures, his mutterings, sometimes diverted and 
 sometimes terrified people who did not know him. At a 
 dinner table he would, in a fit of absence, stoop down and 
 twitcH'off a lady's shoe. He would amaze a drawing-room by 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 5 
 
 suddenly ejaculating a clause of the Lord's Prayer. He would 
 conceive an unintelligible a^iersion to a particular alley, and 
 perform a great circuit rather than see the hateful place. 
 He would set his heart on touching every post in the streets 
 through which he walked. If by any chance he missed a post, 
 he would go back a hundred yards and repair the omission. 
 Under the influence of his disease, his senses became morbidly 
 torpid, and his imagination morbidly active. At one time he 
 would stand poring on the town clock without being able to 
 tell the hour. At another, he would distinctly hear his mother, 
 who was many miles off, calling him by his name. But this 
 was not the worst. A deep melancholy took possession of 
 him, and gave a dark tinge to all his views of human nature 
 and of human destiny. Such wretchedness as he endured has 
 driven many men to shoot themselves or drown themselves. 
 But he was under no temptation to commit suicide. He was 
 sick of life ; but he was afraid of death ; and he shuddered 
 at every sight or sound which reminded him of the inevitable 
 hour. In religion he found but little comfort during his long 
 and frequent fits of dejection ; for his religion partook of his 
 own character. The light from heaven shone on him indeed, 
 but not in a direct line, or with its own pure splendour. The 
 rays had to struggle through a disturbing medium : they 
 reached him refracted, dulled, and discoloured by the thick 
 gloom which had settled on his soul ; and, though they might 
 be sufficiently clear to guide him, were too dim to cheer 
 him. 
 
 With such infirmities of body and of mind, this celebrated 
 man was left, at twoj£,d;twenty, to fight his way through the 
 world. He remained during about five years in the midland 
 counties. At Lichfield, his birthplace and his early home, he 
 had inherited some friends and acquired others. He was 
 kindly noticed by Henry Hervey, a gay officer of noble family, 
 who happened to be quartered there. Gilbert Walmesley, 
 registrar of the ecclesiastical court of the diocese, a man of 
 
6 SAMUEL JOHNSON. , [1709— 
 
 distinguislied parts, learning, and knowledge of the world, did 
 himself honour by patronising the^oung adventurer, whose re- 
 pulsive person, unpolished manners, and squalid garb, moved 
 many of the petty aristocracy of the neighbourhood to laughter 
 or to disgust. At Lichfield, however, Johnson could find no 
 way of earning a livelihood. He became usher of a grammar 
 school in Leicestershire ; he resided as a humble companion 
 in the house of a country gentleman ; but a life of dependence 
 was insupportable to his haughty spirit. He repaired to 
 Birmingham, and there earned a few guineas by literary 
 drudgery. In that town he printed a translation, little noticed 
 at the time, and long forgotten, of a Latin book about 
 Abyssinia. He then put forth proposals for publishing by 
 subscription the poems of Politian, with notes containing a 
 '■" history of modern Latin verse ; but subscriptions did not 
 
 come in, and the volume never appeared. 
 . . While leading this vagrant and miserable life, Johnson fell 
 in love. The object of his passion was Mrs. Elizabeth Porter, 
 ,a widow who had children as old as himself. To ordinary 
 spectators, the lady appeared to be a short, fat, coarse woman, 
 painted half an inch thick, dressed in gaudy colours, and fond 
 of exhibiting provincial airs and graces which were not exactly 
 . those of the Queensberrys and Lepels. To Johnson, however, 
 «-V whose passions were strong, whose eyesight was too weak to 
 distinguish ceruse from natural bloom, and who had seldom 
 or never been in the same room with a woman of real fashion, 
 - his Titty, as he called her, was the most beautiful, graceful, 
 and accomplished of her sex. That his admiration was un- 
 feigned cannot be doubted ; for she was as poor as himself. 
 She accepted, with a readiness which did her little honour, the 
 addresses of a suitor who might have been her son. The 
 marriage, however, in spite of occasional wranglings, proved 
 happier than might have been expected. The lover continued 
 to be under the illusions of the wedding-day till the lady died 
 in her sixty-fourth year. On her monument he placed an 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 7 
 
 inscription extolling the charms of her person and of her 
 manners ; and when, long after her decease, he had occasion 
 to mention her, he exclaimed, with a tenderness half ludicrous, 
 half pathetic, "Pretty creature ! " 
 
 His marriage made it necessary for him to exert himself 
 more strenuously than he had hitherto done. He took a house 
 in the neighbourhood of his native town, and advertised for 
 pupils. But eighteen months passed away, and only three 
 pupils came to his academy, Indeed, his appearance was so 
 strange, and his temper so violent, that his schoolroom must 
 have resembled an ogre's den. Nor was the tawdry painted 
 grandmother whom he called his Titty, well qualified to make 
 provision for the comfort of young gentlemen. David Garrick, 
 who was one of the pupils, used many years later, to throw 
 the best company of London into convulsions of laughter 
 by mimicking the endearments of this extraordinary pair. 
 
 At length Johnson, in the twenty-eighth year of his age, 
 determined to seek his fortune in the capital as a literary 
 adventurer. He set out with a few guineas, three acts of the 
 tragedy of Irene in manuscript, and two or three letters of 
 introduction from his friend Walmesley. 
 
 Never since literature became a calling in England had it 
 been a less gainful calling than at the time when Johnson took 
 up his residence in London. In the preceding generation, 
 a writer of eminent merit was sure to be munificently rewarded 
 by the government. The least that he could expect" was a /< 
 pension or a sinecure place ; and, if he showed any aptitude 
 for politics, he might hope to be a member of parliament, a 
 lord of the treasury, an ambassador, a secretary of state. It 
 would be easy, on the other hand to name several writers of 
 the nineteenth century of whom the least successful has 
 received forty thousand pounds from the booksellers. But 
 Johnson entered on his vocation in the most dreary part of 
 the dreary interval which separated two ages of prosperity. 
 Literature had ceased to flourish under the patronage of the. 
 
8 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 great, and had not begun to flourish under the patronage of 
 the public. One man of letters, indeed, Pope, had acquired 
 by his pten what was then considered as a handsome fortune, 
 and lived on a footing of equality with nobles and ministers of 
 state. But this was a solitary exception. Even an author 
 whose reputation was established, and whose works were 
 popular, such an author as Thomson, whose Seasons were in 
 every library, such an author as Fielding, whose Pasquin had 
 had a greater run than any drama since the Beggars' Opera, 
 was sometimes glad to obtain, by pawning his best coat, the 
 means of dining on tripe at a cookshop underground, where 
 he could wipe his hands, after his greasy meal, on the back of 
 a Newfoundland dog. It is easy, therefore, to imagine what 
 humiliations and privations must have awaited the novice who 
 had still to earn a name. One of the publishers to whom 
 Johnson appHed for employment, measured vnth a scornful 
 eye that athletic, though uncouth, frame, and exclaimed, 
 "You had better get a porter's knot, and carry trunks." Nor 
 was the advice bad ; for a porter was likely to be as plentifully 
 fed, and as comfortably lodged, as a poet. 
 
 Some time appears to have elapsed before Johnson was able 
 to form any literary connection from which he could expect 
 more than bread for the day which was passing over him. He 
 never forgot the generosity with which Hervey, who was now 
 residing in London, relieved his wants during this time of 
 trial. " Harry Hervey," said the old philosopher many years 
 later, " was a vicious man ; but he was very kind to me. If 
 you call a dog Hervey, I shall love him." At Hervey's table 
 Johnson sometimes enjoyed feasts which were made more 
 agreeable by contrast. But in general he dined, and thought 
 that he dined well, on sixpennyworth of meat and a penny- 
 worth of bread at an alehouse near Drury Lane. 
 
 The effect of the privations and sufferings which he endured 
 at this time was discernible to the last in his temper and his 
 deportment. His manners had never been courtly. They 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 9 
 
 now became almost savage. Being frequently under the neces- 
 sity of wearing shabby coats and dirty shoes, he became a 
 confirmed sloven. Being often very hungry when he sate 
 down to his meals, he contracted a habit of eating with 
 ravenous greediness. Even to the end of his life, and even at 
 the tables of the great, the sight of food affected him as it 
 affects wild beasts and birds of prey. His taste in cookery, 
 formed in subterranean ordinaries and d-/a-mode-heef-shops, 
 was far from delicate. Whenever he was so fortunate as to 
 have near him a hare that had been kept too long, or a meat 
 pie made with rancid butter, he gorged himself with such 
 violence that his veins swelled, and the moisture broke out on 
 his forehead. The affronts which his poverty emboldened 
 stupid and low-minded men to offer to him, would have 
 broken a mean spirit into sycophancy, but made him rude 
 even to ferocity. Unhappily the insolence which, while it was 
 defensive, was pardonable, and in some sense respectable, 
 accompanied him into societies where he was treated with 
 courtesy and kindness. He was repeatedly provoked into 
 striking those who had taken liberties with him. All the 
 sufferers, however, were wise enough to abstain from -talking 
 about their beatings, except Osborne, the most rapacious and 
 brutal of booksellers, who proclaimed everywhere that he had 
 been knocked down by the huge fellow whom he had hired to 
 puff the Harleian Library. 
 
 About a year after Johnson had begun to reside in London, 
 he was fortunate enough to obtain regular employment from 
 Cave, an enterprising and intelligent bookseller, who was 
 proprietor and editor of the Gentleman's Magazine. That 
 journal, just entering on the ninth year of its long existence, 
 was the only periodical work in the kingdom which then had 
 what would now be called a large circulation. It was indeed, 
 the chief source of parliamentary intelligence. It was not 
 then safe, even during a recess, to pubUsh an account of the 
 proceedings of either House without some disguise. Cave, 
 
10 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 however, ventured to entertain his readers with what he called 
 Reports of the Debates of the Senate of Lilliput. France was 
 Blefuscu : London was Mildendo : pounds were sprugs : the 
 Duke of, Newcastle was the Nardac Secretary of State : Lord 
 Hardwicke was the Hugo Hickrad ; and William Pulteney was 
 Wingul Pulnub. To write the speeches was, during several 
 years, the business of Johnson. He was generally furnished 
 with notes, meagre indeed, and inaccurate, of what had been 
 said ; but sometimes he had to find arguments and eloquence 
 both for the ministry and for the opposition. He was himself 
 a Tory, not from rational conviction — for his serious opinion 
 was that one form of government was just as good or as bad 
 as another — but from mere passion, such as inflamed the 
 Capulets against the Montagues, or the Blues of the Roman 
 circus against the Greens. In his infancy he had heard so 
 much talk about the villanies of the Whigs, and the dangers of 
 the Church, that he had become a furious partisan when he 
 
 , could scarcely speak. Before he was three he had insisted on 
 being taken to hear Sacheverell preach at Lichfield Cathedral, 
 and had listened to the sermon with as much respect, and 
 probably with as much intelligence, as any Staffordshire squire 
 
 ,/ _^in the congregation. The work which had been begun in the 
 nursery had been completed by the university. Oxford, when 
 Johnson resided there, was the most Jacobitical place in 
 England; and Pembroke was one of the most Jacobitical 
 colleges in Oxford. The prejudices which he brought up to 
 , London were scarcely less absurd than those of his own Tom 
 Tempest. Charles IL and James IL were two of the best 
 kings that ever reigned. Laud, a poor creature who never did, 
 said, or wrote anything indicating more than the ordinary 
 capacity of an old woman, was a prodigy of parts and learning 
 over whose tomb Art and Genius still continued to weep. 
 Hampden deserved no more honourable name than that of 
 "the zealot of rebellion." Even the ship money, condemned 
 not less decidedly by Falkland and Clarendon than by the 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 11 
 
 bitterest Roundheads, Johnson would not pronounce to have 
 been an unconstitutional impost. Under a government the 
 mildest that had ever been known in the world — under a 
 government which allowed to the people an unprecedented 
 liberty of speech and action, he fancied that he was a slave ; he 
 assailed the ministry with obloquy which refuted itself, and re- 
 gretted the lost freedom and happiness of those golden days in 
 which a writer who had taken but one-tenth part of the hcense 
 allowed to him would have been pilloried, mangled with the. 
 shears, whipped at the cart's tail, and flung into a noisome 
 dungeon to die. He hated dissenters and stock-jobbers, the 
 excise and the army, septennial parliaments and continental 
 connections. He long had an aversion to the Scotch, an 
 aversion of which he could not remember the commencement, 
 but which, he owned, had probably originated in his abhor- 
 rence of the conduct of the nation during the Great Rebellion. 
 It is easy to guess in what manner debates on great party 
 questions were likely to be reported by a man whose judgment 
 was so much disordered by party spirit. A show, of fairness 
 was indeed necessary to the prosperity of the magazine. But 
 Johnson long afterwards owned that, though he had saved 
 appearances, he had taken care that the Whig dogs should 
 not have the best of it ; and, in fact, every passage which has 
 lived, every passage which bears the marks of his higher 
 faculties, is put into the mouth of some member of the 
 opposition. 
 
 A few weeks after Johnson had entered on these obscure 
 labours, he published a work which at once placed him high 
 among the writers of his age. It is probable that what he had 
 suffered during his first year in London had often reminded 
 him of some parts of that noble poem in which Juvenal has 
 described the misery and degradation of a needy man of 
 letters, lodged among the pigeons' nests in the tottering garrets 
 that overhung the streets of Rome. Pope's admirable imita- 
 tions of Horace's Satires and Epistles had recently appeared, 
 
12 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 were in every hand, and were by many readers thought 
 superior to the originals. What Pope had done for Horace, 
 Johnson aspired to do for Juvenal. The enterprise was bold, 
 and yet judicious. For between Johnson and Juvenal there 
 was much in common, much more certainly than between Pope 
 and Horace. 
 
 Johnson's London appeared without his name in May, 1738. 
 He received only ten guineas for this stately and vigorous poem : 
 but the sale was rapid and the success complete. A second 
 edition was required within a week. Those small critics who 
 are always desirous to lower established reputations ran about 
 proclaiming that the anonymous satirist was superior to Pope 
 in Pope's own peculiar department of literature. It ought to 
 be remembered, to the honour of Pope, that he joined heartily 
 in the applause with which the appearance of a rival genius 
 was welcomed. He made inquiries about the author of 
 London. Such a man, he said, could not long be concealed. 
 The name was soon discovered ; and Pope, with great kind- 
 ness, exerted himself to obtain an academical degree and the 
 mastership of a grammar school for the poor young poet. The 
 attempt failed, and Johnson remained a bookseller's hack. 
 
 It does not appear that these two men, the most eminent 
 writer of the generation which was going out, and the most 
 eminent writer of the generation which was coming in, ever 
 saw each other. They lived in very different circles, one 
 surrounded by dukes and earls, the other by starving pam- 
 phleteers and index-makers. Among Johnson's associates at 
 this time may be mentioned Boyse, who, when his shirts were 
 pledged, scrawled Latin verses sitting Up in bed with his arms 
 through two holes in his blankets; who composed very 
 respectable sacred poetry when he was sober, and who was 
 at last run over by a hackney coach when he was drunk ; 
 Hoole, surnamed the metaphysical tailor, who, instead of 
 attending to his measures, used to trace geometrical diagrams 
 on the board where he sate cross-legged ; and the penitent 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 13 
 
 impostor, George Psalmanazar, who, after poring all day, in a 
 humble lodging, on the folios of Jewish rabbis and Christian 
 fathers, indulged himself at night with literary and theological 
 conversation at an alehouse in the city. But the most remark- 
 able of the persons with whom at this time Johnson consorted, 
 was Richard Savage, an earl's son, a shoemaker's apprentice, 
 who had seen life in all its forms, who had feasted among 
 blue_ribbands in St. Ja^s's Square, and had lain with fifty 
 pounds weight of irons on his legs in the condemned ward 
 of Newgate. This man had, after many vicissitudes of fortune, 
 sunk at last into abject and hopeless poverty. His pen had 
 failed him. His patrons had been taken away by death, or 
 estranged by the riotous profusion with which he squandered 
 their bounty, and the ungrateful insolence with which he 
 rejected their advice. He now lived by begging He dined 
 on venison and champagne whenever he had been so fortunate 
 as to borrow a guinea. If his questing had been unsuccessful, 
 he appeased the rage of hunger with some scraps of broken 
 meat, and lay down to rest under the Piazza of Covent Garden 
 in warm weather, and, in cold weather, as near as he could get 
 to the furnace of a glass-house. Yet, in his misery, he was 
 still an agreeable companion. He had an inexhaustible store 
 of anecdotes about that gay and brilliant world from which 
 he was now an outca.st. He had observed the great men of both 
 parties in hours of careless relaxation, had seen the leaders 
 of opposition without the mask of patriotism, and had heard 
 the prime minister roar with laughter and tell stories not over 
 decent. During some months Savage lived in the closest 
 familiarity with Johnson ; and then the friends parted, not 
 without tears. Johnson remained in London to drudge for 
 Cave. Savage went to the West of England, lived there as 
 he had lived everywhere, and, in 1743, died, penniless and 
 heart-broken, in Bristol g^l. 
 
 Soon after his death, wKile the public curiosity was strongly 
 excited about his extraordinary character, and his not less 
 
H SAMUEL, JOHNSON. [1709- 
 
 extraordinary adventures, a life of him appeared widely 
 different from the catchpenny lives of eminent men which 
 were then a staple article of manufacture in Grub Street. 
 The style was indeed deficient in ease and variety ; and the 
 writer was evidently too partial to the Latin element of our 
 language. But the little work, with all its faults, was a master- 
 piece. No finer specimen of literary biography existed iii any 
 language, living or dead ; and a discerning critic might have 
 confidently predicted that the author was destined to be the 
 founder of a new school of English eloquence. 
 
 The Life of Savage was anonymous ; but it was well known 
 in literary circles that Johnson was the writer. During the 
 three years which followed, he produced no important work ; 
 but he was not, and indeed could not be, idle. The fame of 
 his abilities and learning continued to grow. Warburton pro- 
 nounced him a man of parts and genius ; and the praise of 
 Warburton was then no light thing. Such was Johnson's 
 reputation that, in 1747, several eminent booksellers combined 
 to employ him in the arduous work of preparing a Dictionary 
 of the English Language, in two folio volumes. The sum 
 which they agreed to pay him was only fifteen hundred guineas ; . 
 and out of this sum he had to pay several poor men of letters 
 who assisted him in the humbler parts of his task. 
 
 The Prospectus of the Dictionary he addressed to the Earl 
 of Chesterfield. Chesterfield had long been celebrated for the 
 politeness of his manners, the brilliancy of his wit, and the 
 delicacy of his taste. He was acknowledged to be the finest 
 speaker in the House of Lords. He had recently governed 
 Ireland, at a momentous conjuncture, with eminent firmness, 
 wisdom and humanity; and he had since become Secretary of 
 State. He received Johnson's homage with the most winning 
 affability, and requited it with a few guineas, bestowed doubt- 
 less in a very graceful manner, but was by no means desirous to 
 see all his carpets blackened with the London mud, and his 
 soups and wines thrown to right and left over the gowns of 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 15 
 
 fine ladies and the waistcoats of fine gentlemen, by an absent, 
 awkward scholar, who gave strange starts and uttered strange 
 growls, who dressed like a scarecrow, and ate like a cormorant. 
 During some time Johnson continued to call on his patron, 
 but, after being repeatedly told by the porter that his lordship 
 was not at home, took the hint, and ceased to present himself 
 at the inhospitable door. 
 
 Johnson had flattered himself that he should have completed 
 his Dictionary by the end of 1750; but it was not till 1755 
 that he at length gave his huge volumes to the world. During 
 the seven years which he passed in the drudgery of penning 
 definitions and marking quotations for transcription, he sought 
 for relaxation in literary labour of a more agreeable kind. 
 In 1749 he published the Vanity of Human Wishes, an 
 excellent imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal. It is in 
 truth not easy to say whether the palm belongs to the ancient 
 or to the modern poet. The couplets in which the fall of 
 Wolsey is described, though lofty and sonorous, are feeble 
 when compared with the wonderful lines which bring before 
 us all Rome in tumult on the day of the fall of Sejanus, the 
 laurels on the doorposts, the white bull stalking towards the 
 Capitol, the statues rolling down from their pedestals, the 
 flatterers of the disgraced minister running to see him dragged 
 with a hook through the streets, and to have a kick at his 
 carcass before it is hurled into the Tiber. It must be owned 
 too that in the concluding passage the Christian moralist has 
 not made the most of his advantages, and has fallen decidedly 
 short of the sublimity of his Pagan model. On the other hand, 
 Juvenal's Hannibal must yield to Johnson's Charles ; and 
 Johnson's vigorous and pathetic enumeration of the miseries 
 of a literary life must be allowed to be superior to Juvenal's 
 lamentation over the fate of Demosthenes and Cicero. 
 
 For the copyright of the Vanity of Human Wishes 
 Johnson received only fifteen guineas. 
 
 A few days after the publication of this poem, his tragedy, 
 
i6 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [i7°9— 
 
 begun many years before, was brought on the stage. His 
 pupil, David Garrick, had, in 1741, made his appearance on 
 a humble stage in Goodman's Fields, had at once risen to the 
 first place among actors, and was now, after several years of 
 almost uninterrupted success, manager of Drury Lane Theatre. 
 The relation between him and his old preceptor was of a 
 very singular kind. They repelled each other strongly, and 
 yet attracted each other strongly. Nature had made them of 
 very different clay ; and circumstances had fully brought out 
 the natural peculiarities, of both. Sudden prosperity had 
 turned Garrick's head. Continued adversity had soured John- 
 son's temper. Johnson saw with more envy than became so 
 great a man, the villa, the plate, the china, the Brussels carpet, 
 which the little mimic had got by repeating, with grimaces 
 and gesticulations, what wiser men had written; and the 
 exquisitely sensitive vanity of Garrick was galled by the 
 thought that; while all the rest of the world was applauding 
 him, he could obtain from one morose cynic, whose opinion 
 it was impossible to despise, scarcely any compliment not 
 acidulated with scorn. Yet the two Lichfield men bad so 
 many early recollections in common, and sympathized with 
 each other on so many points on which they sympathized with 
 nobody else in the vast population of the capital, that, though 
 the master was often provoked by the monkey-like imperti- 
 nence of the pupil, and the pupil by the bearish rudeness of 
 the master, they remained friends till they were parted by 
 death. Garrick now brought Irene out, with alterations suf- 
 ficient to displease the author, yet not sufficient to make the 
 piece pleasing to the audience. The public, however, listened, 
 with little emotion, but with much civility, to five acts of mono- 
 tonous declamation. After nine representations the play was 
 withdrawn. It is, indeed, altogether unsuited to the stage, 
 and, even when perused in the closet, will be found hardly 
 worthy of the author. He had not the slightest notion of what 
 blank verse should be. A change in the last syllable of every 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 17 
 
 Other line would make the versification of the Vanity of Human 
 Wishes closely resemble the versification of Irene. The poet, 
 however, cleared, by his benefit flights, and by the sale of the 
 copyright of his tragedy, about three hundred pounds, then a 
 great sum in his estimation. 
 
 About a year after the representation of Irene, he began to 
 publish a series of short essays on morals, manners, and 
 literature. This species of composition had been brought 
 into fashion by the success of the Tatler, and by the still more 
 brilliant success of the Spectator. A crowd of small writers 
 had vainly attempted to rival Addison. The Lay Monastery, 
 the Censor, the Freethinker, the Plain Dealer, the Champion, 
 and other works of the same kind, had had their short day. 
 None of them had obtained a permanent place in our literature ; 
 and they are now to be found only in the libraries of the 
 curious. At length Johnson undertook the adventure in which 
 so many aspirants had failed. In the thirty-sixth year after the 
 appearance of the last number of the Spectator, appeared the 
 first number of the Rambler. From March 1750 to March 1752 
 this paper continued to come out every Tuesday and Saturday. 
 
 From the first the Rambler was enthusiastically admired by 
 a few eminent men. Richardson, when only five numbers had 
 appeared, pronounced it equal, if not superior, to the Spectator. 
 Young and Hartley expressed their approbation not less 
 warmly. Bubb Dodington, among whose many faults indiffer- 
 ence to the claims of genius and learning cannot be reckoned, 
 solicited the acquaintance of the writer. In consequence 
 probably of the good offices of Dodington, who was then 
 the confidential adviser of Pri nce F rederick, two of his Royal 
 Highness's gentlemen carried a gracious message to the printing- 
 office, and ordered seven copies for Leicester House. But 
 these overtures seemed to have been very coldly received. 
 Johnson had had enough of the patronage of the great to last 
 him all his life, and was not disposed to haunt any other door 
 as he had haunted the door of Chesterfield. 
 
iS SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 By the public the Rambler was at first very coldly received. 
 Though the price of a number was only twopence, the sale 
 did not amount to five hundred. The profits were therefore 
 very small. But as soon as the flyings leaves were collected 
 and reprinted they became popular. The author lived to see 
 thirteen thousand copies spread over England alone. Separate 
 editions were published for the Scotch and Irish markets. A 
 large party pronounced the style perfect, so absolutely perfect 
 that in some essays it would be impossible for the writer him- 
 self to alter a single word for the better. Another party, not 
 less numerous, vehemently accused him of having corrupted 
 the purity of the English tongue. The best critics admitted 
 that his diction was too monotonous, too obviously artificial, 
 and now and then turgid even to absurdity. But they did 
 justice to the acuteness of his observations on morals and 
 manners, to the constant precision and frequent brilliancy of 
 his language, to the weighty and magnificent eloquence of many 
 serious passages, and to the solemn yet pleasing humour of 
 some of the lighter papers. On the question of precedence 
 between Addison and Johnson, a question which, seventy years 
 ago, was much disputed, posterity has pronounced a decision 
 from which there is no appeal. Sir Roger, his chaplain and 
 his butler. Will Wimble and Will Honeycombe, the Vision of 
 Mirza, the Journal of the Retired Citizen, the Everlasting Club, 
 the Dunmow Flitch, the Loves of Hilpah and Shalum, the 
 Visit to the Exchange, and the Visit to the Abbey, are known 
 to everybody. But many men and women, even of highly 
 cultivated minds, are unacquainted with Squire Bluster and 
 Mrs. Busy, Quisquilius and Venustulus, the Allegory of Wit 
 and Learning, the Chronicle of the Revolutions of a Garret, 
 and the sad fate of Aningait and Ajut. 
 
 The last Rambler was written in a sad and gloomy hour. 
 Mrs. Johnson had been given over by the physicians. Three 
 days later she died. She left her husband ahnost broken- 
 hearted. Many people had been surprised to see a man of his 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 19 
 
 genius and learning stooping to every drudgery, and denying 
 himself almost every comfort, for the purpose of supplying a 
 silly, affected old woman with superfluities, which she accepted 
 with but little gratitude. But all his affections had been con- 
 centrated on her. He had neither brother nor sister, neither 
 son nor daughter. To him she was beautiful as the Gunnings, 
 and witty as Lady_ Mary. . Her opinion of his writings was 
 more important to him than the voice of the pit of Drury Lane 
 Theatre, or the judgment of the Monthly Review. The chief 
 support which had sustained him through the most arduous 
 labour of his life was the hope that she would enjoy the fame 
 and the profit which he anticipated from his Dictionary. She 
 was gone ; and in that vast labyrinth of streets, peopled by eight 
 hundred thousand human beings, he was alone. Yet it was 
 necessary for him to set himself, as he expressed it, doggedly 
 to work. After three more laborious years, the Dictionary was 
 at length complete. 
 
 It had been generally supposed that this great work would 
 be dedicated to the eloquent and accomplished nobleman to 
 whom the Prospectus had been addressed. He well knew the 
 value of such a compliment ; and therefore, when the day of 
 publication drew near, he exerted himself to soothe, by a show 
 of zealous and at the same time of delicate and judicious kind- 
 ness, the pride which he had so cruelly wounded. Since the 
 Ramblers had ceased to appear, the town had been entertained 
 by a journal called The World, to which many men of high 
 rank and fashion contributed. In two successive numbers of 
 The World, the Dictionary was, to use the modern phrase, 
 puffed with wonderful skill. The writings of Johnson were 
 warmly praised. It was proposed that he should be invested 
 with the authority of a Dictator, nay, of a Pope, over our 
 language, and that his decisions about the meaning and the 
 spelling of words should.be received as final. His two folios, 
 it was said, would of course be bought by everybody who could 
 afford to buy them. It was scon known that these papers 
 
 c 2 
 
20 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 were written by Chesterfield. But the just resentment of John- 
 son was not to be so appeased. In a letter written with singular 
 energy and dignity of thought and language, he repelled the 
 tardy advances of his patron. The Dictionary came forth with- 
 out a dedication. In the preface the author truly declared that 
 he owed nothing to the great, and described the difficulties 
 with which he had been left to struggle so forcibly and pathe- 
 tically that the ablest and most malevolent of all the enemies 
 of his fame, Home Tooke, never could read that passage 
 without tears, i-; 7 ^. ,. ; 1 ■?„.. 
 
 The public, on this occasion, did Johnson full justice,, and 
 something more than justice. The best lexicographer may 
 well be content if his productions are received by the world 
 with cold esteem. But Johnson's Dictionary was hailed with 
 an enthusiasm such as no similar work has ever excited. It 
 was indeed the first dictionary which could be r,eadwith,pleasure. 
 The definitions show so much acuteness of thought and com- 
 mand of language, and the passages quoted from poets, divines, 
 and philosophers, are so skilfully selected, that a leisure hour 
 may always be very agreeably spent in turning over the pages, 
 The faults of the book resolve themselves, for the most part, 
 into one great fault. Johnson was a wretched etymologist. 
 He knew little or nothing of any Teutonic language except 
 English, which indeed, as he wrote it, was scarcely a Teutonic 
 1 language ; and thus he was absolutely at the mercy of Junius 
 I and Skinner. '''1',;,. ',<..'■•■"' - I''':""'" 
 
 The Dictionary, though it raised Johnson's fame, added 
 nothing to his pecuniary means. The fifteen hundred guineas 
 which the booksellers bad agreed to pay him had been ad- 
 vanced and spent before the last sheets issued from the press. 
 It is painful to relate that, twice in the course of the year which 
 followed the publication of this great work, he was arrested and 
 carried to spunging-houses, and that he was twice indebted for 
 his liberty to his excellent friend Richardson. It was still 
 necessary for the man who had been formally saluted by the 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 21 
 
 highest authority as Dictator of the English language to supply 
 his wants by constant toil. He abridged his Dictionary. He 
 proposed to bring out an edition of Shakspeare by subscription ; 
 and many subscribers sent in their names, and laid down their 
 money. But he soon found the task so little to his taste that 
 he turned to more attractive employments. He contributed 
 many papers to a new monthly journal, which was called the 
 Literary Magazine. Few of these papers have much interest ; 
 but among them was the very best thing that he ever wrote, a 
 masterpiece both of reasoning and of satirical pleasantry, the 
 review of Jenyns'^ Inquiry into the Nature and Origin of Evil. 
 
 In the spring of 1758 Johnson put forth the first of a series 
 of essays, entitled the Idler. During two years these essays 
 continued to appear weekly. They were eagerly read, widely 
 circulated, and, indeed, impudently pirated, while they were 
 still in the original form, and had a large sale when collected 
 into volumes. The Idler may be described as a second part 
 of the Rambler, somewhat livelier and somewhat weaker than 
 the first part. 
 
 While Johnson was busied with his Idlers, his mother, who 
 had accomplished her ninetieth year, died at Lichfield. It 
 was long since he had seen her ; but he had not failed to con- 
 tribute largely, out of his small means, to her comfort. In 
 order to defray the charges of her funeral, and to pay some 
 debts which she had left, he wrote a httle book in a single 
 week, and sent off the sheets to the press without reading them 
 over. A hundred pounds were paid him for the copyright; 
 and the purchasers had great cause to be pleased with their 
 bargain, for the book was Rasselas. 
 
 The success of Rasselas was great, though such ladies as 
 Miss Lydia Languish must have been grievously disappointed 
 when th^y found that the new volume from the circulating 
 library was little more than a dissertation on the author's 
 favourite theme, the Vanity of Human Wishes ; that the 
 
 Prince of Abyssinia was without a mistress, and the Princess 
 
 ~ t ^ n , I 
 
22 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 without a lover; and that the story set the hero and the 
 heroine down exactly where it had taken them up. The style 
 was the subject of much eager controversy. The Monthly 
 Review and the Critical Review took different sides. Many 
 readers pronounced the writer a pompous pedant, who would 
 never use a word of two syllables where it was possible to use 
 a word of six, and who could not make a waiting-woman relate 
 her adventures without balancing every noun with another 
 noun, and every epithet with another epithet. Another party, 
 not less zealous, cited with delight numerous passages in which 
 weighty meaning was expressed with accuracy and illustrated 
 with splendour. And both the censure and the praise were 
 merited. 
 
 About the plan of Rasselas little was said by the critics ; 
 and yet the faults of the plan might seem to invite severe 
 criticism. Johnson has frequently blamed Shakspeare for 
 neglecting the proprieties of time and place, and for ascribing 
 to one age or nation the manners and opinions of another. 
 Yet Shakspeare has not sinned in this way more grievously 
 than Johnson. Rasselas and • Imlac, Nekayah and Pekuah, 
 are evidently meant to be Abyssinians of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury — for the Europe which Imlac describes is the Europe of 
 the eighteenth century — and the inmates of the Happy Valley 
 talk familiarly of that law of gravitation which Newton dis- 
 covered, and which was not fully received even at Cam- 
 bridge till the eighteenth century. What a real company of 
 Abyssinians would have been may be learned from Bruce's 
 Travels. But Johnson, not content with turning filthy savages 
 ignorant of their letters, and gorged with raw steaks cut from 
 living cows, into philosophers as eloquent and enlightened as 
 himself or his friend Burke, and into ladies as highly accom- 
 plished as Mrs. Lennox or Mrs. Sheridan, transferred the 
 whole domestic system of England to Egypt. Into a land of 
 harems, a land of polygamy, a land where women are married 
 without ever being seen, he introduced the flirtations and 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 23 
 
 jealousies of our ball-rooms. In a land where there is bound- 
 less liberty of divorce, wedlock is described as the indissoluble 
 compact. A youth and maiden meeting by chance or brought 
 together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate civilities, go 
 home and dream of each other. " Such,'' says Rasselas, " is the 
 common process of marriage." Such it may have been, and 
 may still be, in London, but assuredly not at Cairo. A writer 
 who was guilty of such improprieties had little right to blame '^ 1 
 the poet who made Hector quote Aristotle, and represented 'i ^ ^ 
 Juljo^Romano as flourishing in the days of the oracle of Delphi. '^ 
 
 By such exertions as have been described, Johnson supported 
 himself till the year 1762. In that year a great change in his " 
 circumstances took place. He had from a child been an enemy 
 of the reigning dynasty. His Jacobite prejudices had been 
 exhibited with little disguise both in his works and in his 
 conversation. Even in his massy and elaborate Dictionary, he 
 had, with a strange want of taste and judgment, inserted bitter 
 and contumelious reflections on the Whig party. The excise, 
 which was a favourite resource of Whig financiers, he had 
 designated as a hateful tax. He had railed against the 
 commissioners of excise in language so coarse that they had 
 seriously thought of prosecuting him. He had with difficulty n 
 been prevented from holding up the Lord Privy Seal by name 
 as an example of the meaning of the word "renegade." A 
 pension he had defined as pay given to a state hireling to 
 betray his country ; a pensioner as a slave of state hired by a 
 stipend to obey a master. It seemed unlikely that the author 
 of these definitions would himself be pensioned. But that 
 was a time of wonders. George the Third had ascended the 
 throne ; and had, in the course of a few months, disgusted 
 many of the old friends, and conciliated many of the old 
 enemies of his house. The city was becoming mutinous, 
 Oxford was becoming loyal. Cavendishes and Bentincks were 
 murmuring. Somersets and Wyndhams were hastening to kiss 
 hands. The head of the treasury was now Lord Bute, who 
 
24 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 was a Tory, and could have no objection to Johnson's Totyism. 
 Bute wished to be thought a patron of men of letters ; and 
 Johnson was one of the most eminent and one of the most 
 needy men of letters in Europe. A pension of three hundred 
 a year was graciously offered, and with very little hesitation 
 accepted. 
 
 This event produced a change in Johnson's whole way of 
 life. For the first time since his boyhood he no longer felt the 
 daily goad urging him to the daily toil. He was at liberty, 
 after thirty years of anxiety and drudgery, to indulge his 
 constitutional indolence, to lie in bed till two in the afternoon, 
 and to sit up talking till four in the morning, without fearing 
 either the print^s devil or the sheriff's officer. 
 
 One laborious task indeed he had bound himself to perform. 
 He had received large subscriptions for his promised edition of 
 Shakspeare ; he had lived on those subscriptions during some 
 years : and he could not without disgrace omit to perform his 
 part of the contract. His friends repeatedly exhorted him 
 to make an effort ; and he repeatedly resolved to do so. 
 But, notwithstanding their exhortations and his resolutions, 
 month followed month, year followed year, and nothing was 
 done. He prayed fervently against his idleness ; he deter- 
 mined, as often as he received the scarament, that he would 
 no longer doze away and trifle away his time ; but the spell 
 under which he lay resisted prayer and sacrament. His private 
 notes at this time are made up of self-reproaches. " My 
 indolence," he wrote on Easter Eve in 1764, "has sunk into 
 grosser sluggishness. A kind of strange oblivion has over- 
 spread me, so that I know not what has become of the last 
 year." Easter 1765 came, and found him still in the same state. 
 "My time," he wrote, "has been unprofitably spent, and 
 seems as a dream that has left nothing behind. My memory 
 grows confused, and I know not how the days pass over me." 
 Happily for his honour, the charm which held him captive was 
 at length broken by no gentle or friendly hand. He had been 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 25 
 
 weak enough to pay serious attention to a stoiy about a ghost 
 which haunted a house in Cock Lane, and had actually gone 
 himself, with some of his friends, at one in the morning, to 
 St. John's Church, Clerkenwell, ki_JJi£_iiDf)e— ef--reeeiving--Er- 
 communic atJQ w from the p ertetfeed:— spir-ife- But the spirit, 
 though adjured with all solemnity, remained obstinately silent ; 
 and it soon appeared that a naughty girl of eleven had been 
 amusing herself by making fools of so many philosophers. 
 Churchill, who, confident in his powers, drunk with popularity 
 and burning with party spirit, was looking for some man 
 of established fame and Tory politics to insult, celebrated 
 the Cock Lane Ghost in three cantos, nicknamed Johnson 
 Pomposo, asked where the book was which had been so long 
 promised and so liberally paid for, and directly accused the 
 great moralist of cheating. This terrible word proved effec- 
 tual; and in October 1765 appeared, after a delay of nine 
 years, the new edition of Shakspeare. 
 
 This publication saved Johnson's character for honesty, but 
 added nothing to the fame of his abilities and learning. The 
 preface, though it contains some good passages, is not in his 
 best manner. The most valuable notes are those in which he 
 had an opportunity of showing how attentively he had during 
 many years observed human life and human nature. The 
 best specimen is the note on the character of Polonius. 
 Nothing so good is to be found even in Wilhelm Meister's 
 admirable examination of Hamlet. But here praise must end. 
 It would be difficult to name a more slovenly, a more worthless 
 edition of any great classic. The reader may turn over play 
 after play without finding one happy conjectural emendation, 
 or one ingenious and satisfactory explanation of a passage 
 which had baffled preceding commentators. Johnson had, in 
 his Prospectus, told the world that he was peculiarly fitted for 
 the task which he had undertaken, because he had, as a 
 lexicographer, been under the necessity of taking a wider view 
 of the English language than any of his predecessors. That 
 
r 
 
 26 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 his knowledge of our literature was extensive, is indisputable. 
 But, unfortunately, he had altogether neglected that very part 
 of our hterature with which it is especially desirable that an 
 editor of Shakspeare should be conversant. It is dangerous to 
 assert a negative. Yet little will be risked by the assertion, 
 that in the two folio volumes of the English Dictionary there 
 is not a single passage quoted, from any dramatist of the 
 Elizabethan age, except Shakspeare and Ben. Even from Ben 
 the quotations are few. Johnson might easily, in a few 
 months, have made himself well acquainted with every old 
 play that was extant. But it never seems to have occurred to 
 him that this was a necessary preparation for the work which 
 he had undertaken. He would doubtless have admitted that 
 it would be the height of absurdity in a man who was 
 not familiar with the works of ^schylus and Euripides to 
 publish an edition of Sophocles. Yet he ventured to publish 
 an edition of Shakspeare, without having ever in his life, as far 
 as can be discovered, read a single scene of Massinger, Ford, 
 Decker, Webster, Marlow, Beaumont, or Fletcher, His de- 
 tractors were noisy and scurrilous. Those who most loved 
 and honoured him had little to say in praise of the manner in 
 which he had discharged the duty of a commentator. • He had, 
 however, acquitted himself of a debt which had long lain 
 heavy on his conscience, and he sank back into the repose 
 from which the sting of satire had roused him. He long 
 continued to live upon the fame which he had already won. 
 He was honoured by the University of Oxford with a Doctor's 
 degree, by the Royal Academy with a professorship, and by 
 the King with an interview, in which his Majesty most 
 graciously expressed a hope that so excellent a writer would 
 not cease to write. In the interval, however, between 1765 
 and 1775, Johnson published only two or three political tracts, 
 the longest of which he could have produced in forty-gight 
 hours, if he had worked as he worked on the life of Savage and 
 on Rasselas. 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 27 
 
 But though his pen was now idle his tongue was active. The 
 influence exercised by his conversation, directly upon those 
 with whom he lived, and indirectly on the whole literary 
 world, was altogether without a parallel. His colloquial talents 
 were indeed of the highest order. He had strong sense, 
 quick discernment, wit, humour, immense knowledge of litera- 
 ture and of life, and an infinite store of curious anecdotes. 
 As respected style, he spoke far better than he wrote. Every 
 sentence which dropped from his lips was as correct in 
 structure as the most nicely balanced period of the Rambler. 
 But in his talk there were no pompous triads, and little more 
 than a fair proportion of words in osity and ation. All was 
 simplicity, ease, and vigour. He uttered his short, weighty, and 
 pointed sentences with a power of voice, and a justness and 
 energy of emphasis, of which the effect was rather increased 
 than diminished by the rollings of his huge form, and by the 
 asthmatic gaspings and puffings in which the peals of his 
 eloquence generally ended. Nor did the laziness which made 
 him unwilling to sit down to his desk prevent him from giving 
 instruction or entertainment orally. To discuss questions of 
 taste, of learning, of casuistry, in language so exact and so 
 forcible that it might have been printed without the alteration 
 of a word, was to him no exertion, but a pleasure. He loved, 
 as he said, to fold his legs and have his talk out. He was 
 ready to bestow the overflowings of his full mind on anybody 
 who would start a subject, on a fellow-passenger in a stage- 
 coach, or on the person who sate at the same table with 
 him in an eating-house. But his conversation was nowhere 
 so brilliant and striking as when he was surrounded by a few 
 friends, whose abilities and knowledge enabled them, as he 
 once expressed it, to send him back every ball that he threw. 
 Some of these, in 1764, formed themselves into a club, which 
 gradually became a formidable power in the commonwealth 
 of letters. The verdicts pronounced by this conclave on 
 new books were speedily known over all London, and were 
 
28 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 sufficient to sell off a whole edition in a day, or to condemn the 
 sheets to the service of the trunk-maker and the pastrycook. 
 Nor shall we think this strange when we consider what great 
 and various talents and acquirements met in the little frater- 
 nity. Goldsmith was the representative of poetry and light 
 literature, Reynolds of the arts, Burke of political eloquence 
 and political philosophy. There, too, were Gibbon, the 
 greatest historian, and Jones the greatest linguist, of the age. 
 Garrick brought to the meetings his inexhaustible pleasantry, 
 his incomparable mimicry, and his consummate knowledge of 
 stage effect. Among the most constant attendants were two 
 high-born and high-bred gentlemen, closely bound together by 
 friendship, but of widely different characters and habits ; 
 Bennet Langton, distinguished by his skill in Greek literature, 
 by the orthodoxy of his opinions, and by the sanctity of his 
 life ; and Topham Beauclerk, renowned for his amours, his 
 knowledge of the gay world, his fastidious taste, and his 
 sarcastic wit. To predominate over such a society was not 
 easy. Yet even over such a society Johnson predominated. 
 Burke might indeed have disputed the supremacy to which 
 others were under the necessity of submitting. But Burke, 
 though not generally a very patient listener, was content to 
 take the second part when Johnson was present ; and the club 
 itself, consisting of so many eminent men, is to this day 
 popularly designated as Johnson's Club. 
 
 Among the members of this celebrated body was one to 
 whom it has owed the greater part of its celebrity, yet who was 
 regarded with little respect by his brethren, and had not 
 without difficulty obtained a seat among them. This was 
 James Boswell, a young Scotch lawyer, heir to an honourable 
 name and a fair estate. That he was a coxcomb and a bore, 
 weak, vain, pushing, curious, garrulous, was obvious to all 
 who were acquainted with him. That he could not reason, 
 that he had no wit, no humour, no eloquence, is apparent 
 from his writings. And yet his writings are read beyond the 
 
-17^4] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 29 
 
 Mississippi, and under the Southern Cross, and are likely to be 
 readas long as the English exists, either as a living or as a 
 dead language. Nature had made him a slave and an idolater. 
 , His mind resembled those creepers which the botanists call 
 parasites, and which can subsist only by dinging round the 
 stems and imbibing the juices of stronger plants.' He must 
 have fastened himself on somebody. He might have fastened 
 himself on Wilkes, and have become the fiercest patriot in the 
 Bill of Rights Society. He might have fastened himself on 
 Whitefield, and have become the loudest field preacher among 
 the Calvinistic Methodists. In a happy hour he fastened 
 himself on Johnson. The pair might seem ill matched. For 
 Johnson had early been prejudiced against Boswell's country. 
 To a man of Johnson's strong understanding and irritable 
 temper, the silly egotism and adulation of Boswell must have 
 been as teasing as the constant buzz of a fly. Johnson hated 
 to be questioned ; and Boswell was eternally catechizing him 
 on all kinds of subjects, and sometimes propounded such 
 questions as, "What would you do, sir, if you were locked 
 up in a tower with a baby ? " Johnson was a water-drinker 
 and Boswell was a winebibber, and indeed little better than an 
 habitual sot. It was impossible that there should be perfect 
 harmony between two such companions. Indeed, the great 
 man was sometimes provoked into fits of passion, in which he 
 said things which the small man, during a few hours, seriously 
 resented. Every quarrel, however, was soon made up. During 
 twenty years the disciple continued to worship the master : the 
 master continued to scold the disciple, to sneer at him, and 
 to love him. The two friends ordinarily resided at a great 
 distance from each other. Boswell practised in the Parliament 
 House of Edinburgh, and could pay only occasional visits to 
 London. During those visits his chief business was to watch 
 Johnson, to discover all Johnson's habits, to turn the conversa- 
 tion to subjects about which Johnson was likely to say some- 
 thing remarkable, and to fill quarto note-books with minutes 
 
30 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 of what Johnson had said. In this way were gathered the 
 materials, out of which was afterwards constructed the most 
 interestirigjbiographical work in the world. 
 
 Soon after the club began to exist, Johnson formed a con- 
 aection less important indeed to his fame, but much more im- 
 portant to his happiness, than his connection with Boswell. 
 Henry Thrale, one of the most opulent brewers in the kingdom, 
 a. man of sound and cultivated understanding, rigid principles, 
 and liberal spirit, was married to one of those clever, kind- 
 hearted, engaging, vain, pert young women, who are perpetually 
 doing or saying what is not exactly right, but who, do or say 
 what they may, are always agreeable. In 1765 the Thrales 
 became acquainted with Johnson, and the acquaintance ripened 
 Fast into friendship. They were astonished and delighted by the 
 brilliancy of his conversation. They were flattered by finding 
 that a man so widely celebrated preferred their house to any other 
 in London. Even the peculiarities which seemed to unfit him 
 For civilized society, his gesticulations, his rollings, his puffings, 
 his mutterings, the strange way in which he put on his clothes, 
 the ravenous eagerness with which he devoured his dinner, his 
 fits of melancholy, his fits of anger, his frequent rudeness, 
 his occasional ferocity, increased the interest which his new 
 associates took in him. For these things were the cruel marks 
 left behind by a life which had been one long conflict with 
 disease and adversity. In a vulgar hack writer, such oddities 
 would have excited only disgust. But in a man of genius, 
 learning, and virtue, their effect was to add pity to admiration 
 and esteem. Johnson soon had an apartment at the brewery 
 in Southwark, and a still more pleasant apartment at the viUa 
 of his friends on Streatham Common. A large part of every- 
 year he passed in those abodes — abodes which must have 
 seemed magnificent and luxurious indeed, when compared 
 with the dens in which he had generally been lodged. But his 
 chief pleasures were derived from what the astronomer of his 
 Abyssinian tale called the endearing elegance of female friendship. 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 31 
 
 Mrs. Thrale rallied him, soothed him, coaxed him, and, if she 
 sometimes provoked him by her flippancy, made ample amends 
 by listening to his reproofs with angelic sweetness of temper. 
 When he was diseased in body and in mind, she was the most 
 tender of nurses. No comfort that wealth could purchase, no 
 contrivance that womanly ingenuity, set to work by womanly 
 compassion, could devise was wanted to his sick room. He 
 requited her kindness by an affection pure as the affection of 
 a father, yet delicately tinged with a gallantry, which, though 
 awkward, must have been more flattering than the attentions of 
 a crowd of the fools who gloried in the names, now obsolete, 
 of Buck and Maccaroni. It should seem that a full half of 
 Johnson's life, during about sixteen years, was passed under the 
 roof of the Thrales. He accompanied the family sometimes to 
 Bath, and sometimes to Brighton, once to Wales and once to 
 Paris. But he had at the same time a house in one of the 
 jiarrow and gloomy courts on the north of Fleet Street. In 
 the garrets was his library, a large and miscellaneous collection 
 of books, falling to pieces and begrimed with dust. On a 
 lower floor he sometimes, but very rarely, regaled a friend with 
 a plain dinner, a veal pie, or a leg of lamb and spinage, and a 
 rice pudding. Nor was the dwelling uninhabited during his 
 long absences. It was the home of the most extraordinary 
 assemblage of inmates that ever was brought together : At the 
 head of the establishment Johnson had placed an old lady 
 named Williams, whose chief recommendations were her blind- 
 ness and her poverty. But, in spite of her murmurs and 
 reprpaches, he gave an asylum to another lady who was as 
 poor as herself, Mrs. Desmoulins, whose family he had known 
 many years before in Staffordshire. Room was found for the 
 daughter of Mrs. Desmoulins, and for another destitute damsel, 
 who was generally addressed as Miss Carmichael, but whom 
 her generous host called Polly. An old quack doctor named 
 Levett, who bled and dosed coal-heavers and hackney coach- 
 men, and received for fees crusts of bread, bits of bacon. 
 
32 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 glasses of gin, and sometimes a little copper, completed this 
 strange menagerie. All these poor creatures were at constant 
 war with each other, and with Johnson's negro servant Frank. 
 Sometimes, indeed, they transferred their hostilities from the 
 servant to the master, complained that a better table was not 
 kept for them, and railed or maundered till their benefactor 
 was glad to make his escape to Streatham, or to the Mitre 
 Tavern. And yet he, who was generally the haughtiest and 
 most irritable of mankind, who was but too prompt to resent 
 anything which looked like a shght on the part of a purse-proud 
 bookseller, or of a noble and powerful patron, bore patiently 
 from mendicants, who, but for his bounty, must have gone to 
 the workhouse, insults more provoking than those for which he 
 had knocked down Osborne and bidden defiance to Chester- 
 field. Year after year Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Desmoulins, 
 Polly and Levett, continued to torment him and to live upon 
 him. 
 
 The course of life which has been described was interrupted 
 in Johnson's sixty-fourth year by an important event. He had 
 early read an account of the Hebrides, and had been much in- 
 terested by learning that there was so near him a land peopled 
 by a race which was still as rude and simple as in the middle 
 ages. A wish to become intimately acquainted with a state of 
 society so utterly unlike all that he had ever seen frequently 
 crossed his mind. But it is not probable that his curiosity 
 would have overcome his habitual sluggishness, and his love of 
 the smoke, the mud, and the cries of London, had not Boswell 
 importuned him to attempt the adventure, and offered to be his 
 squire. At length, in August 1773, Johnson crossed the High- 
 land line, and plunged courageously into what was then 
 considered, by most Englishmen, as a dreary and perilous 
 wilderness. After wandering about two months through the 
 Celtic region, sometimes in rude boats which did not protect 
 him from the rain, and sometimes on small shaggy ponies which 
 could hardly bear his weight, he returned to his old haunts with 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 33 
 
 a mind full of new images and new theories. During the fol- 
 lowing year he employed himself in recording his adventures. 
 About the beginning of 1775, his Journey to the Hebrides was 
 published, and was, during some weeks, the chief subject of 
 conversation in all circles in which any attention was paid to 
 literature. The book is still read with pleasure. The narrative 
 is entertaining ; the speculations, whether sound or unsound, 
 are always ingenious ; and the style, though too stiff and 
 pompous, is somewhat easier and more graceful than that of 
 his early writings. His prejudice against the Scotch had at 
 length become little more than matter of jest ; and whatever 
 remained of the old feeling had been effectually removed by 
 the kind and respectful hospitality with which he had been 
 received in every part of Scotland. It was, of course, not to 
 be expected that an Oxonian Tory should praise the Presby- 
 terian polity and ritual, or that an eye accustomed to the 
 hedgerows and parks of England should not be struck by the 
 bareness of Berwickshire and East Lothian. But even in 
 censure Johnson's tone is not unfriendly. The most en- 
 hghtened Scotchmen, with Lord Mansfield at their head, were 
 well pleased. But some foolish and ignorant Scotchmen were 
 moved to anger by a little unpalatable truth which was mingled 
 with much eulogy, and assailed him whom they chose to 
 consider as the enemy of their country with libels much more 
 dishonourable to theijr country than anything that he had ever 
 said or written. They published paragraphs in the newspapers, 
 articles in the magazines, sixpenny pamphlets, five-shilling 
 books. One scribbler abused Johnson for being blear-eyed; 
 another for being a pensioner; a third informed the world that 
 one of the Doctor's uncles had been convicted of felony in 
 Scotland, and had found that there was in that country one 
 tree capable of supporting the weight of an Englishman. 
 Macpherson, whose Fingal had been proved in the Journey to 
 be an impudent forgery, threatened to take vengeance with a 
 cane. The only effect of this threat was that Johnson reiterated 
 
 D 
 
34 SAMUEL JOHNSON, [1709—- 
 
 the charge of forgery in the most contemptuous terms, and 
 walked about, during some time, with a cudgel, which, if the 
 impostor had not been too wise to encounter it, would assuredly 
 have descended upon him, to borrow the sublime language of 
 his own epic poem, "like a hammer on the red son of the 
 furnace." 
 
 Of other assailants Johnson took no notice whatever. He 
 had early resolved never to be drawn into controversy ; and 
 he adhered to his resolution with a steadfastness which is the 
 more extraordinary, because he was, both intellectually and 
 morally, of the stuff of which controversialists are made. In 
 conversation, he was a singularly eager, acute, and pertinacious 
 disputant. When at a loss for good reasons, he had recourse 
 to sophistry ; and when heated by altercation, he made un- 
 sparing use of sarcasm and invective. But when he took his 
 pen in his hand, his whole character seemed to be changed. 
 A hundred bad writers misrepresented him and reviled him ; 
 but not one of the hundred could boast of having been 
 thought by him worthy of a refutation, or even of a retort. - 
 The Kenricks, Campbells, MacNicols, and Hendersons, did 
 their best to annoy him, in the hope that he would give them 
 importance by answering them. But the reader will in vain, 
 search his works for any allusion to Kenrick or Campbell, to 
 MacNicol or Henderson. One Scotchman, bent on vindi- 
 cating the fame of Scotch learning, defied him to the combat 
 in a detestable Latin hexameter : — 
 
 Maxime, si tu vis, cupio contendere tecum. 
 
 But Johnson took no notice of the chaEenge. He had learned, 
 both from his own observation and from literary history, in 
 which he was deeply read, that the place of books in the 
 pubUc estimation is fixed, not by what is written about them, 
 but by what is written in them; and that an author whose 
 works are likely to live is very unwise if he stoops to wrangle 
 with detractors whose works are certain to die. He always 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 35 
 
 maintained that fame was a shuttlecock which could be 
 kept up only by being beaten back, as well as beaten 
 forward, and which would soon fall if there were only 
 one battledore. No saying was oftener in his mouth than 
 that fine apophthegm of Bentley, that no man was ever 
 written down but by himself. 
 
 Unhappily, a few months after the appearance of the 
 Journey to the Hebrides Johnson did what none of his 
 envious assailants could have dobe, and to a certain extent 
 succeeded in writing himself down. The disputes between 
 England and her American colonies had reached a point 
 at which no amicable adjustment was possible. Civil war 
 was evidently impending ; and the ministers seem to have 
 thought that the eloquence of Johnson might with advantage 
 be employed to inflame the nation against the opposition 
 here, and against the rebels beyond the Atlantic. He had 
 already written two or three tracts in defence of the foreign 
 and domestic policy of the government ; and those tracts, 
 though hardly worthy of him, were much superior to the 
 crowd of pamphlets which lay on the counters of Almon 
 and Stockdale. But his Taxation No Tyranny was a pitiable 
 failure. The very title was a silly phrase, which can have 
 been recommended to his choice by nothing but a jingling 
 alliteration which he ought to have despised. The arguments 
 were such as boys use in debating societies. The pleasantry 
 was as awkward as the gambols of a hippopotamus. Even 
 Boswell was forced to own that, in this unfortunate piece, 
 he could detect no trace of his master's powers. The general 
 opinion was that the strong faculties which had produced the 
 Dictionary and the Rambler were beginning to feel the effect 
 of time and of disease, and that the old man would best 
 consult his credit by writing no more. 
 
 But this was a great mistake. Johnson had failed, not 
 because his mind was less vigorous than when he wrote 
 Rasselas in the evenings of a week, but because he had 
 
 D 2 
 
36 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 foolishly chosen, or suffered others to choose for him, a 
 subject such as he would at no time have been competent 
 to treat. He was in no sense a statesman. He never 
 willingly read or thought or talked about affairs of state, 
 He loved biography, literary history, the history of manners ; 
 but political history was positively distastefiil to him. The 
 question at issue between the colonies and the mother country 
 was a question about which he had really nothing to say. He 
 failed, therefore, as the greatest men must fail when they attempt 
 to do that for which they are unfit; as Burke would have 
 failed if Burke had tried to write comedies like those of 
 Sheridan; as Reynolds would have failed if Reynolds had 
 tried to paint landscapes like those of Wilson. Happily, 
 Johnson soon had an opportunity of proving most signally 
 that his failure was not to be ascribed to intellectual decay. 
 On Easter eve 1777, some persons, deputed by a meeting 
 which consisted of forty of the first booksellers in London, 
 called upon him. Though he had some scruples about doing 
 business at that season, he received his visitors with much 
 civility. They came to inform him that a new edition of the 
 English poets, from Cowley downwards, was in contemplation, 
 and to ask him to furnish short biographical prefaces. He 
 readily undertook the task, a task for which he was pre-emi- 
 nently qualified. His knowledge of the literary history of 
 England since the Restoration was unrivalled. That know- 
 ledge he had derived partly from books, and partly from sources 
 which had long been closed ; from old Grub Street traditions ; 
 from the talk of forgotten poetasters and pamphleteers who 
 had long been lying in parish vaults ; from the recollections of 
 such men as Gilbert Walmesley, who had conversed with the 
 wits of Button ; Gibber, who had mutilated the plays of two 
 generations of dramatists ; Orrery, who had been admitted to 
 the society of Swift ; and Savage, who had rendered services of 
 no very honourable kind to Pope. The biographer therefore 
 sate down to his task with a mind full of matter. He had at 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 37 
 
 first intended to give only a paragraph to every minor poet, and 
 only four or five pages to the greatest name. But the flood of 
 anecdote and criticism overflowed the narrow channel. The 
 work, which was originally meant to consist only of a few 
 sheets, swelled into ten volumes, small volumes, it is true, and 
 not closely printed. The first four appeared in 1779, the 
 remaining six in 1781. 
 
 The Lives of the Poets are, on the whole, the best of John- 
 son's works. The narratives are as entertaining as any novel. 
 The remarks on hfe and on human nature are eminently shrewd 
 and profound. The criticisms are often excellent, and, even '' 
 when grossly and provokingly unjust, well deserve to be studied. 
 For, however erroneous they may be, they are never silly. 
 They are the judgments of a mind trammelled by prejudice ^ 
 and deficient in sensibility, but vigorous and acute. They, 
 therefore, generally contain a portion of valuable truth which 
 deserves to be separated from the alloy ; and, at the very 
 worst, they mean something, a praise to which much of what 
 is called criticism in our time has no pretensions. 
 
 Savage's Life Johnson reprinted nearly as it had appeared in 
 1744. Whoever, after reading that Life, will turn to the other 
 Lives will be struck by the difference of style. Since Johnson 
 had been at ease in his circumstances he had written little and 
 talked much. When, therefore, he, after the lapse of years, 
 resumed his pen, the mannerism which he had contracted 
 while he was in the constant habit of elaborate composition 
 was less perceptible than formerly ; and his diction frequently 
 had a colloquial ease which it had formerly wanted. The 
 improvement may be discerned by a skilful critic in the 
 Journey to the Hebrides, and in the Lives of the Poets is so 
 obvious that it cannot escape the notice of the most careless 
 reader. 
 
 Among the Lives the best are perhaps those of C owley, j ~^ 
 Dryden, and Pope. The very worst is, beyond all doubt, 
 that of Gray. 
 
38 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 
 
 This great work at once became popular. There was, 
 indeed, much just and much unjust censure ; but even those 
 who were loudest in blame were attracted by the book in 
 spite of themselves. Malone computed the gains of the 
 publishers at five or six thousand pounds. But the writer was 
 very poorly remunerated. Intending at first to write very short 
 prefaces, he had stipulated for only two hundred guineas. The 
 booksellers, when they saw how far his performance had 
 surpassed his promise, added only another hundred. Indeed, 
 Johnson, though he did not despise, or affect to despise 
 money, and though his strong sense and long experience 
 ought to have qualified him to protect his own interests, seems 
 to have been singularly unskilful and unlucky in his literary 
 bargains. He was generally reputed the first English writer of 
 his time. Yet several writers of his time sold their copyrights 
 for sums such as he never ventured to ask. To give a single 
 instance, Robertson received four thousand five hundred 
 pounds for the History of Charles V. ; and it is no disrespect 
 to the memory of Robertson to say that the History of 
 Charles V. is both a less valuable and a less amusing book 
 than the Lives of the Poets. 
 
 Johnson was now in his seventy-second year. The in- 
 firmities of age were coming fast upon him. That inevitable 
 event of which he never thought without horror was brought 
 near to him ; and his whole life was darkened by the shadow 
 of death. He had often to pay the cruel price of longevity. 
 Every year he lost what could never be replaced. The 
 strange dependants to whom he had given shelter, and to 
 whom, in spite of their faults, he was strongly attached by 
 habit, dropped off one by one; and, in the silence of his 
 home, he regretted even the noise of their scolding matches. 
 The kind and generous Thrale was no more ; and it would 
 have been well if his wife had been laid beside him. But she 
 survived to be the laughing-stock of those who had envied her, 
 and to draw from the eyes of the old man who had loved her 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 39 
 
 beyond anything in the world, tears far more bitter than he 
 would have shed over her grave. With some estimable, and 
 many agreeable qualities, she was not made to be independent. 
 The control of a mind more steadfast than her own was 
 necessary to her respectability. While she was restrained by 
 her husband, a man of sense and firmness, indulgent to her 
 taste in trifles, but always the undisputed master of his 
 house, her worst ofifences had been impertinent jokes, white 
 lies, and short fits of pettishness ending in sunny good humour. 
 But he was gone ; and she was left an opulent widow of forty, 
 with strong sensibility, volatile fancy, and slender judgment. 
 She soon fell in love with a music-master from Brescia, in 
 whom nobody but herself could discover anything to admire. 
 Her pride, and perha'ps some better feelings, struggled hard 
 against this degrading passion. But the struggle irritated her 
 nerves, soured her temper, and at length endangered her 
 health. Conscious that her choice was one which Johnson 
 could not approve, she became desirous to escape from his 
 inspection. Her manner towards him changed. She was 
 sometimes cold and sometimes petulant. She did not conceal 
 her joy when he left Streatham ; she never pressed him to 
 return j and, if he came unbidden, she received him in a 
 manner which convinced him that he was no longer a welcome 
 guest. He took the very intelligible hints which she gave. 
 He read, for the last time, a chapter of the Greek Testament 
 in the library which had been formed by himself In a solemn 
 and tender prayer he commended the house and its inmates to 
 the Divine protection, and, with emotions which choked his 
 voice and convulsed his powerful frame, left for ever that 
 beloved home for the gloomy and desolate house behind Fleet 
 Street, where the few and evil days which still remained to 
 him were to run out. Here, in June 1783, he had a paralytic 
 stroke, from which, however, he recovered, and which does not 
 appear to have at all impaired his intellectual faculties. But 
 other maladies came thick upon him. His asthma tormented 
 
■^ ' * » SAMUEL JOHNSON. [i709— 
 
 him day and night. Dropsical symptoms made their appear- 
 ance. While sinking under a complication of diseases, he 
 heard that the woman whose friendship had been the chief 
 happiness of sixteen years of' his life had married an Italian 
 fiddler; that all London was crying shame upon her; and 
 that the newspapers and magazines were filled with allusions to 
 the Ephesian matron and the two pictures in Hamlet. He 
 vehemently said that he would try to forget her existence. He 
 never uttered her name. Every memorial of her which met 
 his eye he flung into the fire. She meanwhile fled from the 
 / laughter and hisses of her countrymen and countrywomen to a 
 land where she was unknown, hastened across Mount Cenis, 
 and learned, while passing a merry Christmas of concerts 
 and lemonade parties at Milan, that the great man with 
 whose name hers is inseparably associated, had ceased to 
 exist. 
 
 He had, in spite of much mental and much bodily affliction, 
 clung vehemently to life. The feeling described in that fine 
 but gloomy paper which closes the series of his Idlers seemed 
 to grow stronger in him as his last hour drew near. He 
 fancied that he should be able to draw his breath more easily 
 in a southern climate, and would probably have set out for 
 Rome and Naples but for his fear of the expense of the 
 journey. That expense, indeed, he had the means of defray- 
 ing ; for he had laid up about two thousand pounds, the fruit 
 of labours which had made the fortune of several publishers. 
 But he was unwilling to break in upon this hoard, and he 
 seems to have wished even to keep its existence a secret. 
 Some of his friends hoped that the government might be 
 induced to increase his pension to six hundred pounds a year ; 
 but this hope was disappointed, and he resolved to stand one 
 English winter more. That winter was his last. His legs 
 grew weaker ; his breath grew shorter ; the fatal water gathered 
 fast, in spite of incisions which he, courageous against pain, 
 but timid against death, urged his surgeons to make deeper 
 
1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 41 
 
 and deeper. Though the tender care which had mitigated his 
 sufierings during months of sicknes.s at Streatham. was with- 
 drawn, he was not left desolate. The ablest physicians and 
 surgeons attended him, .and refused to accept fees from him. ^ 
 Burke parted from him with deep emotion. Windham sate 
 much in the sick room, arranged the pillows, and sent his own 
 servant to watch at night by the bed. Frances Burney, whom 
 the old man had cherished with fatherly kindness, stood 
 weeping at the door; while Langton, whose piety eminently ( 
 qualified him to be an adviser and comforter at such a time, 
 received the last pressure of his friend's hand within. When 
 at length the moment, dreaded through so many years, came 
 close, the dark cloud passed away from Johnson's mind. His 
 temper became unusually patient and gentle ; he ceased to 
 think with terror of death, and of that which lies beyond 
 death ; and he spoke much of the mercy of God, and of the 
 propitiation of Christ. In this serene frame of mind he died 
 on the 13th of December 1784. He was laid, a week later, 
 in Westminster Abbey, among the eminent men of whom he 
 had been the historian, — Cowley and Denham, Dryden and 
 Congreve, Gay, Prior, and Addison. 
 
 Since his death, the popularity of his works — the Lives ot J ^,) 
 the Poets, and, perhaps, the Vanity of Human Wishes excepted 
 — has greatly diminished. His Dictionary has been altered 
 by editors till it can scarcely be called his. An allusion to 
 his Rambler or his Idler is not readily apprehended in literary 
 circles. The fame even of Rasselas has grown somewhat dim. 
 But though the celebrity of the writings may have declined, 
 the celebrity of the writer, strange to say, is as great as ever. 
 Boswell's book has done for him more than the best of his 
 own books could do. The memory of other authors is kept 
 alive by their works. But the memory of Johnson keeps many 
 of his works alive. The old philosopher is still among us 
 in the brown coat with the metal buttons, and the shirt 
 which ought to be at wash, blinking, puffing, rolling his head, 
 
42 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709— 1784 
 
 drumming with his fingers, tearing his meat like a tiger, and 
 swallowing his tea in oceans. No human being who has been 
 more than seventy years in the grave is so well known to us. 
 And it is but just to say that our intimate acquaintance with 
 what he would himself have called the anfractuosities of his 
 intellect and of his temper, serves only to strengthen our 
 conviction that he was both a great and a good man. 
 
JOHNSON'S CHIEF LIVES. 
 
MILTON. 
 
 1608 — 1674. 
 
 The Life of Milton has been already written in so many 
 forms, and with such minute inquiry, that I might perhaps 
 more properly have contented myself with the addition of 
 a few notes to Mr. Fenton's elegant Abridgement, but that 
 a new narrative was thought necessary to the uniformity of 
 this edition. 
 
 John Milton was by birth a gendeman, descended from the 
 proprietors of Milton near Thame in Oxfordshire, one of 
 whom forfeited his estate in the times of York and Lancaster. 
 Which side he took I know not ; his descendant inherited no 
 veneration for the White Rose, l ^ c 
 
 His grandfather John was keeper of the forest of Shotover, 
 a zealous papist, who disinherited his son because he had 
 forsaken the religion of his ancestors. 
 
 His father, John, who was the son disinherited, had recourse 
 for his support to the profession of a scrivener. He was a man 
 eminent for his skUl in music, many of his compositions being 
 still to be found; and his reputation in his profession was 
 such, that he grew rich, and retired to an estate. He had 
 probably more than com mon Ji terature, as his son addresses 
 him in one of his most elaborate Latin poems. He married 
 
 -4- 
 
46 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 a gentlewoman of the name of Caston, a Welsh family, by 
 whom he had two sons, John the poet, and Christopher who 
 studied the law, and adhered, as the law taught him, to the 
 King's party, for which he was a while persecuted ; but having, 
 by his brother's interest, obtained permission to live in quiet, 
 he supported himself so honourably by chamber-practice, that 
 soon after the accession of King James, he was knighted 
 and made a Judge ; but, his constitution being too weak for 
 business, he retired before any disreputable compliances be- 
 came necessary. 
 
 He had likewise a daughter Anne, whom he married with 
 a considerable fortune to Edward Philips, who came from 
 Shrewsbury, and rose in the Crown-Office to be secondary ; by 
 him she had two sons, John and Edward, who were educated 
 by the poet, and from whom is derived the only authentic 
 account of his domestic manners. 
 
 . John, the poet, was born in his father's house, at the Spread 
 Eagle in Bread Street, Dec. 9, 1608, between six and seven in 
 the morning. His father appears to have been very solicitous 
 about his education ; for he was instructed at first by private 
 tuition under the care of Thomas Young, who was afterwards 
 chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburgh; and of 
 whom we have reason to think well, since his scholar con- 
 sidered him as worthy of an epistolary Elegy. 
 
 He was then sent to St. Paul's School, under the care of Mr. 
 Gill ; and removed, in the beginning of his sixteenth year, to 
 Christ's College in Cambridge, where he entered a sizar, Feb. 
 12, 1624. 
 
 He was at this time eminently skUled in the Latin tongue ; 
 and he himself, by annexing the dates to his first compositions, 
 a boast of which the learned Politian had given him an ex- 
 ample, seems to commend the earliness of his own proficiency 
 to the notice of posterity. But the products of his vernal 
 fertility have been surpassed by many, and particularly by 
 his contemporary Cowley. Of the powers of the mind it is 
 
l674] MILTON. 
 
 47 
 
 difficult to form an estimate : many have excelled Milton 
 in their first essays, who never rose to works like Paradisa 
 Lost. 
 
 At fifteen, a date which he uses till he is sixteen, he trans- 
 lated or versified two Psalms, 114 and 136, which he thought 
 worthy of the public eye ; but they raise no great expectations : 
 they would in any nun^erous school have obtained praise, but 
 not excited wonder. 
 
 Many of his elegies appear to have been written in his 
 eighteenth year, by which it appears that he had then read 
 the Roman authors with very nice discernment. I once heard 
 Mr. Hampton, the translator of Polybius, remark what I 
 think is true, that Milton was the first EngUshman who, 
 after the revival of letters, wrote Latin verses with classic 
 elegance. If any exceptions can be made, they are very 
 few; Haddon and Ascham, the pride of Elizabeth's reign, 
 however they may have succeeded in prose, no sooner 
 attempt verses than they provoke derision. If we produced 
 any thing worthy of notice before the elegies of Milton, it was 
 perhaps Alabaster's Roxana. 
 
 Of these exercises, which the rules of the University re- 
 quired, some were published by him in his maturer years. 
 They had been undoubtedly applauded, for they were such as 
 - few can perform ; yet there is reason to suspect that he was 
 regarded in his college with no great fondness. That he 
 obtained no fellowship is certain ; but the unkindness with 
 which he was treated was not merely negative. I am ashamed 
 to relate what I fear is true, that Milton was one of the last 
 students in either university that suffered the public indignity 
 of corporal correction, 
 
 It was, in the violence of controversial hostility, objected to 
 him, that he was expelled. This he steadily denies, and it was 
 apparently not true ; but it seeins plain, from his own verses 
 to Dio^ati, that he had incuned " Rustication ; " a temporary 
 dismission into the country, with perhaps the loss of a term ; 
 
 . ycv 
 
 >\i,: 
 
48, MILTON. [1608— 
 
 Lii^ Me tenet urbs refl^a^quam Thamesis alluit unda, 
 
 Meque nee invitum patria dulcis habet. "^ 
 ,-< X'\--':'=-]a.m nee arumiiferum mihi cfira revisere Camum, 
 
 Nee dildum veiitz me Mart's angit amor. — _ ,,•■•''■' 
 Nee duri libet usque minas perferre magistri, , 
 
 Cseteraque ingenio non subeunda meo. 
 Si sit hoe exilium patrias adiisse penates, 
 
 Et vacuum euris otia grata sequi, 
 Non ego vA profugi noxntn sortemve recuse, 
 
 Laetus et exilii conditione fruor. 
 
 I cannot find any meaning but this, which even kindness 
 and reverence can give to the term vetiti laris, " a habitation 
 from which he is excluded;" or how exile can be otherwise 
 interpreted. He declares yet more, that he is weary of en- 
 during the threats of a rigorous master, and something else, which 
 a temper like his cannot undergo. Wha,t was more than threat 
 was probably punishment. This poem, which mentions his 
 exile, proves likewise that it was not perpetual; for it con- 
 cludes with a resolution of returning some time to Cambridge. 
 And it may be conjectured from the willingness with which he 
 has perpetuated . the memory of his exile, that its cause was 
 such as gave him no shame. 
 
 He took both the usual degrees — that of Bachelor in 1628, 
 and that of Master in 1632 ; but he left the university with 
 no kindness for its institution, alienated either by the inju- 
 dicious severity of his governors, or his own captious perverse- 
 ness. The cause cannot now be known, but the effect appears 
 in his writings. His scheme of education, inscribed to Hartlib, 
 supersedes all academical instruction, being intended to com- 
 prise the whole time which men usually spend in literature, 
 from their entrance upon grammar, till they proceed, as it is 
 called, masters of arts. And in his discourse On the Likeliest 
 Way to Remove Hirelings out of the Church, he ingeniously 
 proposes that the profits of the lands forfeited by tJie act for 
 superstitious uses should be applied to such academies all over the 
 land, where languages and arts may be taught together ; so that 
 youth may be at once brought up to a competency of learning and 
 
1674] MILTON. 49 
 
 an honest trade, by which means such of them as had the gift, 
 being enabled to support themselves {without tithes) by the latter, 
 may, by the help of the former, become worthy preachers. 
 
 One of his objections to academical education, as it was 
 then conducted, is, that men designed for orders in the Church 
 were permitted to act plays, writhing and unboning their clergy 
 limbs to all the antick and dishonest gestures of Trincalos, buffoons 
 and bawds, prostituting the shame of that ministry which they 
 had, or were near having, to the eyes of courtiers and court-ladies, 
 their grooms and mademoiselles. 
 
 This is sufficiently peevish in a man, who, when he mentions 
 his exile from the college, relates, with great luxuriance, the 
 compensation which the pleasures of the theatre afford him. 
 Plays were therefore only criminal when they were acted by 
 academicks. 
 
 He went to the university with a design of entering into 
 the Church, but in time altered his mind; for he declared, 
 that whoever became a clergyman must "subscribe slave, 
 and take an oath withal, which, unless he took^ with a con- 
 science that could retch, he must straight perjure himself. 
 He thought it better to prefer a blameless silence before the 
 office of speaking, bought and begun with servitude and 
 forswearing." 
 
 These ejtpressions are, I find, applied to the subscription of 
 the Articles ; but it seems more probable that they relate to 
 can onica l obedience. I know not any of the Articles which 
 seem to thwart his opinions ; but the thoughts of obedience, 
 whether canonical or civil, raised his indignation. 
 
 His unwillingness to engage in the ministry, perhaps not yet 
 advanced to a settled resolution of declining it, appears in a 
 letter to one of his friends, who had reproved his suspended 
 and dilatory life, which he seems to have imputed to an in- 
 satiable curiosity, and fantastick luxury of various knowledge. 
 To this he writes a cool and plausible answer, in which he 
 endeavours to persuade him that the delay proceeds not from 
 
 E 
 
50 MILTON. [i6oS- 
 
 the delights of desultory study, but from the desire of obtaining 
 more fitness for his task ; and that he goes on, not taking 
 thought of being late, so it give advantage to be more fit. 
 
 When he left the university, he returned to his father, then 
 residing at Horton in Buckinghamshire, with whom he lived 
 five years ; in which time he is said to have read all the Greek 
 and Latin writers. With what limitations this universality is 
 to be understood, who shall inform us ? 
 
 It might be supposed that he who read so much should have 
 done nothing else ; but Milton found time to write the masque 
 of Comus, which was presented at Ludlow, then the residence 
 of the Lord President of Wales, in 1634; and had the honour 
 of being acted by the Earl of Bridgewater's sons and daughter. 
 The fiction is derived from Homer's Circe ; but we never can 
 refuse to any modern the liberty of borrowing from Homer : 
 
 — a quo ceu fonte perenni i--' 
 Vatum Pieriis era rigantur aquis. \ 
 
 His next production was Lycidas, an elegy, written in 1637, 
 on the death of Mr. King, the son of Sir John King, Secretary 
 for Ireland in the time of Elizabeth, James, and Charles. 
 King was much a favourite at Cambridge, and many of the wits 
 joined to do honour to his memory. Milton's acquaintance, 
 with the Italian writers may be discovered by a mixture of 
 longer and shorter verses, according to the rules of Tuscan 
 poetry, and his malignity to the Church by some lines which 
 are interpreted as threatening its extermination. 
 
 He is supposed about this time to have written his Arcades ; 
 for while he lived at Horton he used sometimes to steal from 
 his studies a few days, which he spent at Harefield, the house 
 of the Countess Dowager of Derby, where the Arcades made 
 part of a dramatic entertainment. 
 
 He began now to grow weary of the country ; and had some 
 purpose of taking chambers in the Inns of Court, when the 
 death of his mother set him at liberty to travel, for which he 
 
1674] MILTON. 51 
 
 obtained his father's consent, and Sir Henry Wotton's direc- 
 tions, with the celebrated precept of prudence, i pensieri stretti, 
 ed il visa sciolto ; " thoughts close, and looks loose." ■^ '/> 
 
 In 1638 he left England, and went first to^Paris; where, b}r05t 
 the favour of Lord Scudamore, he had the opportunity of'^^^ ", 
 visiting Grotius, then residing at the French court as am- T- 
 bassador from Christina of Sweden. From Paris he hasted L j ; 
 into Italy, of which he had with particular diligence studied ' 
 the language and literature : and, though he seems to have 
 intended a very quick perambulation of the country, stayed ' 
 two months at Florence ; where he found his way into the 
 academies, and produced his compositions with such applause 
 as appears to have exalted him in his own opinion, and con- 
 firmed him in the hope, that, " by labour and intense study, 
 which,'' says he, "I take to be my portion in this life, joined 
 with a strong propensity of nature," he might "leave some- 
 thing so written to after times, as they should not willingly 
 let it die." 
 
 It appears, in all his writings, that he had the usual con- 
 comitant of great abilities, a lofty and steady confidence in 
 himself, perhaps not without some contempt of others; for 
 scarcely any man ever wrote so much, and praised so few. Of 
 his praise he was very frugal; as he set its value high, and 
 considered his mention of a name as a security against the 
 waste of time, and a certain preservative from oblivion. 
 
 At Florence he could not indeed complain that his merit 
 wanted distinction. Carlo Dati presented him with an enco- 
 miastick inscription, in the tumid lapidary style ; and Fra ncini -f 
 wrote him an ode, of which the first stanza is only empty 
 noise ; the rest are perhaps too diffuse on common topicks : 
 but the last is natural and beautiful. 
 
 From Florence he went to Sienna, and from Sienna to 
 Rome, where he was again received with kindness by the 
 learned and the great. Holstenius, the keeper of the Vatican •» 
 Library, who had resided three years at Oxford, introduced 
 
 E 2 
 
52 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 him to Cardinal Barbe rini j and he, at a musical entertainment, 
 waited for him at the door, and led him by the hand into the 
 assembly. Here Selvaggi praised him in a distich, and Salsilli 
 in a tetrastick : ^either of them of much value. The Italians 
 were gainers by this literary commerce ; for the encomiums 
 with which Milton repaid Salsilli, though not secure against a 
 stern grammarian, turn the balance indisputably in Milton's 
 favour. 
 
 Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they are, he was proud 
 enough to publish them before his poems ; though, he says, he 
 cannot be suspected but to have known that they were said 
 non tarn de se, quam supra se. ■ ' ".Oii . , ^, ,ui^ ^ 
 
 At Rome, as at Florence, he stayed only two months ; a time 
 indeed sufficient, if he desired only to ramble with an explainer 
 of its antiquities, or to view palaces and count pictures ; but 
 certainly too short for the contemplation of learning, policy, or 
 manners. 
 
 From Rome he passed on to Naples, in company of a 
 hermit ; a companion from whom little could be expected, yet 
 to him Milton owed his introduction to Ma^so, Marquis of 
 Villa, who had been before the patron of Tasso.^' Manso was 
 enough delighted with his accomplishments to honour him with 
 a sorry distich, in which he commends him for everything but 
 his religion ; and Milton, in return, addressed him in a Latin 
 poem, which must have raised an high opinion of English 
 elegance and literature. 
 
 His purpose was now to have visited Sicily and Greece ; 
 but, hearing of the differences between the King' and parlia- 
 ment, he thought it proper to hastep home, rather than pass 
 his life in foreign amusements while his countrymen were con- 
 tending for their rights. He therefore came back to Rome, 
 though the merchants informed him of plots laid against him 
 by the Jesuits, for the libejty of his conversations on religion. 
 He had sense enough to judge that. there was no danger, 
 and therefore kept on his way, and acted as before, neither 
 
i674] MILTON. 53 
 
 obtruding nor shunning controversy. He had perhaps given 
 some offence by visiting Galileo, then a prisoner in the Inqui- 
 sition for philosophical heresy ; and at Naples he was told by 
 Manso, that, by his declarations on religious questions, he had 
 excluded himself from some distinctions which he should 
 otherwise have paid him. But such conduct, though it did 
 not please, was yet sufficiently safe ; and Milton stayed two 
 months more at Rome, and went on to Florence without 
 molestation. 
 
 From Florence he visited Lucca. He afterwards went to 
 Venice; and having sent away a collection of musick and 
 other books, travelled to Geneva, which he probably con- 
 sidered as the metropolis of orthodoxy. Here he reposed, as 
 in a congenial element, and became acquainted with John 
 Diodati and Frederick Spanheim, two learned professors of 
 Divinity. From Geneva he passed through France ; and came 
 home, after an absence of a year and three months. 
 
 At his return he heard of the death of his friend Charles 
 Diodati ; a man whom it is reasonable to suppose of great 
 merit, since he was thought by Milton worthy of a poem, 
 intituled, Epitaphium Damonis, written with the common but 
 childish imitation of pastoral life. 
 
 He now hired a lodging at the house of one Russel, a taylor 
 in St. Bride's Churchyard, and undertook the education of 
 John and Edward Philips, his sister's sons. Finding his rooms 
 too little, he took a house and garden in Aldersgate-street, 
 which was not then so much out of the world as it is now ; 
 and chose his dwelling at the upper end of a passage, that he 
 might avoid the noise of the street. Here he received more 
 boys, to be boarded and instructed. 
 
 Let not our veneration for Milton forbid us to look with 
 some degree of merriment on great promises and small per- 
 formance, on the man who hastens home, because his country- 
 men are contending for their liberty, and, when he reaches 
 the scene of action, vapours away his patriotism in a private 
 
54 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 boarding-school. This is the period of his life from which all 
 his biographers seem inclined to shrink. They are unwilling 
 • that Milton should be degraded to a schoolmaster ; but, since 
 it cannot be denied that he taught boys, one finds out that he 
 taught for nothing, and another that his motive was only zeal 
 for the propagation of learning and virtue ; and all tell what 
 they do not know to be true, only to excuse an act which no 
 wise man will consider as in itself disgraceful. His father 
 was alive ; his allowance was not ample ; and he supplied its 
 deficiencies by an honest and useful employment. 
 
 It is told, that in the art of education he performed wonders; 
 and a formidable list is given of the authors, Greek and Latin, 
 that were read in Aldersgate-street, by youth between ten and 
 fifteen or sixteen years of age. Those who tell or receive these 
 stories should consider that nobody can be taught faster than 
 he can learn. The speed of the horseman must be limited by 
 the power of his horse. Every man, that has ever undertaken 
 to instruct others, can tell what slow advances he has been 
 able to make, and how much patience it requires to recall 
 vagrant inattention, to stimulate sluggish indifference, and to 
 rectify absurd misapprehension. 
 
 The purpose of Milton, as it seems, was to teach something 
 more solid than the common literature of schools, by reading 
 those authors that treat of physical subjects; such as the 
 Georgick, and astronomical treatises of the ancients. This 
 was a scheme of improvement which seems to have busied 
 many literary projectors of that age. Cowley, who had more 
 means than Milton of knowing what was wanting to the 
 embellishments of life, formed the same plan of education in 
 his imaginary college. 
 
 But the truth is, that the knowledge of external nature, and 
 the sciences which that knowledge requires or includes, are 
 not the great or the frequent business of the human mind. 
 Whether we provide for action or conversation, whether we 
 wish to be useful or pleasing, the first requisite is the religious 
 
 H i\ 
 
 ^v :f>.;>.r:^.'.'--0. 
 
i674] MILTON. 55 
 
 and moral knowledge of right and wrong ; the next is an 
 acquaintance with the history of mankind, and with those 
 examples which may be said to embody truth, and prove by 
 events the reasonableness of opinions. Prudence and Justice 
 are virtues, and excellences, of all times and of all places ; we 
 are perpetually moralists, but we are geometricians only by 
 chance. Our intercourse with intellectual nature is necessary ; 
 our speculations upon matter are voluntary, and at leisure. 
 Physiological learning is of such rare emergence, that one man 
 may know another half his life without being abl6 to estimate 
 his skill in hydrostaticks or astronomy; but his moral and 
 prudential character immediately appears. 
 
 Those authors, therefore, are to be read at schools that 
 supply most axioms of prudence, most principles of moral 
 truth, and most materials for conversation ; and these purposes 
 are best served by poets, orators, and historians. 
 
 Let me not be censured for this digression as pedantick or 
 paradoxical ; for if I have Milton against me, I have Socrates 
 on my side. It was his labour to turn philosophy from the 
 study of nature to speculations upon life ; but the innovators 
 whom I oppose are turning off attention from life to nature. 
 They seem to think, that we are placed here to watch the 
 growth of plants, or the motions of the stars. Socrates was 
 rather of opinion, that what we had to learn was, how to do 
 good, and avoid evil. ,1 ^ ^ 'i ■ 
 
 Ottl Toi^ ev_jieyapoia-L KaKovf dyadoijre reruxrai. 
 
 Of mstitutions we may judge by their Effects. From this 
 wonder-working academy, I do not know that there ever 
 proceeded any man very eminent for knowledge: its only 
 genuine product, I believe, is a small History of Poetry, 
 written in Latin by his nephew Philips, of which perhaps 
 none of my readers has ever heard.. 
 
 That in his school, as in everything else which he under- 
 took, he laboured with great diligence, there is no reason for 
 
5'' MILTON. [i6oS— 
 
 doubting. One part of his method tlcsorvcs general imitation. 
 He was careful to instruct his scholars in religion. Every 
 Sunday was spent upon theology, of which he dictated a short 
 system, gathered from the writers that were then fashionable 
 in the Dutch universities. 
 
 He set his pupils an example of hard study and spare diet ; 
 only now and then he allowed himself to pass a d.iy of festivity 
 and indulgence with some gay gentlemen of Gray's Inn. 
 
 He now began to engage in the controversies of the times, 
 and lent his breath to blow the flames of contention. In 1641 
 he published a treatise of Reformation, in two books, against 
 the established Churdh ; being willing to help the I'uritans, 
 who were, he says, inferior to the Prelates in learning. 
 
 Hall, bishop of Norwich, had published an 1 lumble Remon- 
 strance, in defence of lipiscopacy ; to which, in 1641, six 
 ministers, of whose names the first letters made the celebrated 
 r word ^nectyninuus, gave their answer. Of this answer a 
 Confutation was attempted by the learned Uslier j and to the 
 Confutation Milton published a Reply, intituled. Of Prelatical 
 lipiscopacy, and whether it may be deduced from the 
 Apostolical Times, by virtue of those testimonies which 
 are alle^ged to that purpose in some late treatises, one 
 whereof goes under the name of James, Lord Hishop of 
 Armagh. 
 
 I have transcribed this title, to shew, by his contemptuous 
 mention of Usher, that he had now adopted the purilani<::U 
 savageness of manners. His next work was. The Reason of 
 Church Government urged against Prelacy, by Mr. John 
 Milton, 1642. In this book he discovers, not willi osten- 
 tatious exultation, but with calm confidence, his high opinion 
 of his own powers ; and promises to undertake something, he 
 yet knows not what, that may be of use and honour to liis 
 country, "This," says he, "is not to be obtained but by 
 devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit that can enrich witli 
 all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his Seraphim 
 
 1 -M-i... -'':'-'■•'' '•;rv<AiU,wj^,..(Mn... 
 
 '■( 4- — - '■ ^ 
 
 
y 
 
 1674] MILTON. 57 
 
 with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the 
 lips of whom he pleases. To this must be added, industrious 
 and select reading, steady observation, and insight into all 
 seemly and generous arts and affairs ; till which in some 
 measure be compassed, I refuse not to sustain this expectation." 
 From a promise like this, at once fervid, pious, and rational, 
 might be expected the Paradise Lost. 
 
 He published the same year two more pamphlets, upon the 
 same question. To one of his antagonists, who affirms that 
 he was vomited out of the university, he answers, in general 
 terms, "The Fellows of the College wherein I spent some 
 years, at my parting, after I had taken two degrees, as the 
 manner is, signified many times how much better it would 
 content them that I should stay. — As for the common appro- 
 bation or dislike of that place, as now it is, that I should 
 esteem or disesteem myself the more for that, too simple 
 is the answerer, if he think to obtain with me. Of small 
 practice were the physician, who could not judge, by what 
 she and her sister have of long time vomited, that the worser 
 stuff she strongly keeps in her stomach, but the better she is 
 ^■Ifevrfr k^king at, and is queasy : she vomits now out of sick- 
 ness ; but before it be well with her, she must vomit by strong 
 physick. — The university, in the time of her better health, 
 and my younger judgement, I never greatly admired, but now 
 much less." 
 
 This is surely the language of a man who thinks that he has 
 been injured. He proceeds to describe the course of his 
 conduct, and the train of his thoughts ; and, because he has 
 been suspected of incontinence, gives an account of his own 
 purity: "That if I be justly charged," says he, "with this 
 crime, it may come upon me with tenfold shame." 
 
 The style of his piece is rough, and such perhaps was 
 that of his antagonist. This roughness he justifies, by great 
 examples, in a long digression. Sometimes he tries to be 
 humorous: "Lest I should take him for some chaplain in 
 
^"''■' 'h <■"■-■-' -f 
 
 58 '■'"'' MILTON. >\ [1608— 
 
 v^ liand, some squire of the_body to his prelata, one who serves 
 
 \ not at the altar only but at the court-cupbosird, he will bestow 
 
 \on us a pretty model of himself j and sets tn^ out half a dozen 
 
 ptisical mottos, wherever he had them, hopping short in the 
 
 measure of convulsion fits ; in which labour the agony of his 
 
 wit having scaped narrowly, instead of welUsized periods, he 
 
 .i- greets us with a quantity of thumbring posies. — And thus ends 
 
 } this section, or rather dissection of himself." Such is the 
 
 ^ controversial merriment of Milton ; his gloomy seriousness is 
 
 yet more offensive. Such is his malignity, that hell grows darker 
 
 at his frown. 
 
 His father, after Reading was taken by Essex, came to reside 
 in his house; and his school increased. At Whitsuntide, in 
 his thirty-fifth year, he married Mary, the daughter of Mr. 
 Powel, a justice of the peace in Oxfordshire. He brought 
 her to town with him, and expected all the advantages of 
 a conjugal life. The lady, however, seems not much to 
 have delighted in the pleasures of spare diet and hard study : 
 for, as Philips relates, " having for a month led a philosophical 
 life, after having been used at home to a great house and 
 much company and joviality, her friends, possibly by her own 
 desire, made earnest suit to have her company the remaining 
 part of the summer ; which was granted, upon a promise of 
 her return at Michaelmas." 
 
 Milton was too busy to much miss his wife : he pursued his 
 studies ; and now and then visited the Lady Margaret Leigh, 
 whom he has mentioned in one of his sonnets. At last 
 Michaelmas arrived ; but the lady had no inclination to 
 return to the sullen gloom of her husband's habitation, 
 and therefore very willingly forgot her promise. He sent 
 her a letter, but had no answer; he sent more with the 
 same success. It could be alleged that letters miscarry; 
 he therefore dispatched a messenger, being by this time too 
 angry to go himself. His messenger was sent back witli 
 some contempt. The family of the lady were Cavaliers. 
 
1674] MILTON. ' 59 
 
 In a man whose opinion of his own merit was like Milton's, 
 less provocation than this might have raised violent resentment. 
 Milton soon determined to repudiate her for disobedience ; 
 and, being one of those who could easily find arguments to 
 justify inclination, published (in 1644) The Doctrine and Dis- 
 cipline of Divorce ; which was followed by The Judgement of 
 Martin Bucer, concerning Divorce ; and the next year his 
 Tetrachordon, Expositions upon the four chief Places of 
 Scripture which treat of Marriage. 
 
 This innovation was opposed, as might be expected, by the 
 clergy ; who, then holding their famous assembly at West- -Y 
 minster, procured that the author should be called before the 
 Lords; "but that House," says Wood, "whether approving 
 the doctrine, or not favouring his accusers, did soon dismiss 
 him." 
 
 There seems not to have been much written against him, 
 nor anything by any writer of eminence. The antagonist that 
 appeared is styled by him, a Serving man turned Solicitor. 
 Howel in his letters mentions the new doctrine with contempt ; 
 and it was, I suppose, thought more worthy of derision than 
 of confutation. He complains of this neglect in two sonnets, 
 of which the first is contemptible, and the second not ex- 
 cellent. 
 
 From this time it is observed that he became an enemy to j^ 
 the Presbyterians, whom he had favoured before. He that 
 changes his party by his humour, is not more virtuous than he 
 that changes it by his interest ; he loves himself rather than 
 truth. 
 
 His wife and her relations now found that Milton was not 
 an unresisting sufferer of injuries ; and perceiving that he had 
 begun to put his doctrine in practice, by courting a young 
 woman of great accomplishments, the daughter of one Doctor 
 Davis, who was however not ready to comply, they resolved to 
 endeavour a re-union. He went sometimes to the house of 
 one Blackborough, his relation, in the lane of St. Martin's-le- 
 
6o MILTON. [1608— 
 
 Grand, and at one of his usual visits was surprised to see his 
 wife come from another room, and implore forgiveness on her 
 knees. He resisted her entreaties for a while ; " but partly," 
 says Philips, " his own generous nature, more inclinable to 
 reconciliation than to perseverance in anger or revenge, and 
 partly the strong intercession of friends on both sides, soon 
 brought him to an act of oblivion and a firm league of peace. " 
 It were injurious to omit, that Milton afterwards received her 
 father and her brothers in his own house, when they were 
 distressed, with other Royalists. 
 
 He published about the same time his Areopagitica, a Speech 
 of Mr. John Milton for the liberty of unlicensed Printing. 
 The danger of such unbounded liberty, and the danger of 
 bounding it, have produced a problem in the science of 
 government, which human understanding seems hitherto unable 
 to solve. If nothing may be published but what civil authority 
 shall have previously approved, power must always be the 
 standard of truth ; if every dreamer of innovations may pro- 
 pagate his projects, there can be no settlement; if every 
 murmurer at government may diffuse discontent, there can be 
 no peace ; and if every sceptick in theology may teach his 
 follies, there can be no religion. The remedy against these 
 evils is to punish the authors ; for it is yet allowed that every 
 society may punish, though not prevent, the publication of 
 opinions which that society shall think pernicious ; but this 
 punishment, though it may crush the author, promotes the 
 book ; and it seems not more reasonable to leave the right of 
 printing unrestrained, because writers may be afterwards cen- 
 sured, than it would be to sleep with doors unbolted, because 
 by our laws we can hang a thief 
 
 But whatever were his engagements, civil or domestick, 
 poetry was never long out of his thoughts. About this time 
 (1645) a collection of his Latin and English poems appeared, 
 in which the Allegro and Penseroso, with some others, were 
 first published. 
 
1674] MILTON. 61 
 
 He had taken a larger house in Barbican for the reception 
 of scholars ; but the numerous relations of his wife, to whom 
 he generously granted refuge for a while, occupied his rooms. 
 In time, however, they went away ; " and the house again,'' 
 says Philips, "now looked like a house of the Muses only, 
 though the accession of scholars was not great. Possibly his 
 having proceeded so far in the education of youth may have 
 been the occasion of his adversaries calling him pedagogue 
 and schoolmaster ; whereas it is well known he never set up 
 for a publick school, to teach all the young fry of a parish ; 
 but only was willing to impart his learning and knowledge to 
 relations, and the sons of gentlemen who were his intimate 
 friends ; and that neither his writings nor his way of teaching 
 ever savoured in the least of pedantry." 
 
 Thus laboriously does his nephew extenuate what cannot be 
 denied, and what might be confessed without disgrace. Milton 
 was not a man who could become mean by a mean employ- 
 ment. This, however, his warmest friends seem not to have 
 found ; they therefore shift and palliate. He did not sell 
 literature to all comers at an open shop ; he was a chamber- 
 mijliner, and measured his commodities only to his friends. 
 
 Philips, evidently impatient of viewing him in this state of 
 degradation, tells us that it was not long continued ; and, to 
 raise his character again, has a mind to invest him with military 
 splendour: "He is much mistaken," he says, "if there was 
 not about this time a design of making him an adjutant-general 
 in Sir William Waller's army. But the new-modelling of the 
 army proved an obstruction to the design." An event cannot 
 be set at a much greater distance than by having been only 
 designed, about some time, if a man be not much mistaken. 
 Milton shall be a pedagogue no longer ; for, if Philips be not 
 much mistaken, somebody at some time designed him for a 
 soldier. 
 
 About the time that the army was new-modelled (1645) 
 he removed to a smaller house in Holbourn, which opened 
 
62 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 backward into Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. He is not known to , 
 have published anything afterwards till the King's death, 
 when, finding his murderers condemned by the Presbyterians, 
 he wrote a treatise to justify it, and U compose the minds of 
 the people. 
 
 He made some Remarks on the Articles of Peace between 
 Ormond and the Irish Rebels. While he contented himself to 
 write, he perhaps did only what his conscience dictated ; and 
 if he did not very vigilantly watch the influence of his own 
 passions, and the gradual prevalence of opinions, first willingly 
 admitted and then habitually indulged, if objections, by being 
 overlooked, were forgotten, and desire superinduced conviction ; 
 he yet shared only the common weakness of mankind, and 
 might be no less sincere than his opponents. But as faction 
 seldom leaves a man honest, however it might find him, Milton 
 is suspected of having interpolated the book called Icon 
 Basilike, which the Council of State, to whom he was now made 
 Latin Secretary, employed him to censure, by inserting a 
 prayer taken from Sidney's Arcadia, and imputing it to the 
 King ; whom he charges, in his Iconoclastes, with the use of 
 this prayer as with a heavy crime, in the indecent language 
 with which prosperity had emboldened the advocates for re- 
 bellion to insult all that is venerable or great : ' ' Who would 
 have imagined so little fear in him of the true all-seeing Deity 
 — as, immediately before his death, to pop into the hands of 
 the grave Bishop that attended him, as a special relique of his 
 saintly exercises, a prayer stolen word for word from the mouth 
 of a heathen woman praying to a heathen god ! " 
 
 The papers which the King gave to Dr. Juxon on the 
 scaffold the regicides took away, so that they were at least the 
 publishers of this prayer ; and Dr. Birch, who had examined 
 the question with great care, was inclined to think them the 
 forgers. The use of it by adaptation was innocent ; and they 
 •who could so noisily censure it, with a little extension of their 
 malice could contrive what they wanted to accuse. 
 
'1674] uniTOx. 63 
 
 King Charles the Second, being now sheltered in Holland, 
 employed Salmasius, professor of Polite Learning at Leyden, 
 to write a defence of his father and of monarchy ; and, to 
 excite his industrj^ gave him, as was reported, a hundred 
 Jacobuses. Salmasius was a man of skill in languages, know- 
 ledge of antiquity-, and sagacity of emendatory criticism, almost 
 exceeding all hope of human attainment ; and having, by ex- 
 cessive praises, been confirmed in great confidence of himself, 
 though he probably had not much considered the principles of 
 society or the rights of government, undertook the employment 
 without distrust of his own qualifications ; and, as his expe- 
 dition in writing was wonderful, in 1649 pubUshed Defensio 
 Regis. 
 
 To this Milton was required to write a sufficient answer; 
 which he performed (1651) in such a manner, that Hobbes 
 declared himself unable to decide whose language was best, or 
 whose arguments were worst In my opinion, MUton's periods 
 are smoother, neater, and more pointed ; but he deUghts him 
 self with teizing his adversary as much as with confiiting him. 
 He makes a foolish allusion of Salmasius, whose doctrine he 
 considers as servile and unmanly, to the stream of Salmacis,_ 
 which whoever entered left half his virility behind him. Salma- 
 sius was a Frenchman, and was unhappily married to a scold. 
 Tu es Gallus, says Milton, et, ut aiunt, nimium gaUinaceus. But 
 his supreme pleasure is to tax his adversary, so renowned for 
 crilicism, with v itiou s Latin. He opens his book with telling 
 that he has used Persona, which, according to Milton, signifies 
 only a Mask, in a sense not known to the Romans, by applying 
 it as we apply Person. But as Xemesis is always on the 
 watch, it is memorable that he has enforced the charge of a 
 solecism by an expression in itself grossly soj ecist ical, when, 
 for one of those supposed blunders, he sajrs, as Ker, and I 
 think some one before him, has remarked, /ri^/w te gramma- 
 iistis tnis vapnlandnm. From vapulo, which has a passive 
 sense, vapulaadus can never be derived. No man forgets his 
 
64 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 original trade : the rights of nations, and of kings, sink into 
 questions of grammar, if grammarians discuss them. 
 
 Milton when he undertook this answer was weak of body, 
 and dim of sight ; but his will was forward, and what was 
 wanting of health was supplied by zeal. He was rewarded 
 with a thousand pounds, and his book was much read ; for 
 paradox, recommended by spirit and elegance, easily gains 
 attention ; and he who told every man that he was equal to 
 his King could hardly want an audience. 
 
 That the performance of Salmasius was not dispersed with 
 equal rapidity, or read with equal eagerness, is very credible. 
 He taught only the stale doctrine of authority, and the un- 
 pleasing duty of submission ; and he had been so long not 
 only the monarch but the tyrant of literature, that almost all 
 mankind were delighted to find him defied and insulted by a 
 new name, not yet considered as any one's rival. If Christina, 
 as is said, commended the Defence of the People, her purpose 
 must be to torment Salmasius, who was then at her Court ; for 
 neither her civic station nor her natural character could dispose 
 her to favour the doctrine, who was by birth a queen, and by 
 temper despotick. 
 
 That Salmasius was, from the appearance of Milton's book, 
 treated with neglect, there is not much proof; but to a man so 
 long accustomed to admiration, a little praise of his antagonist 
 would be sufficiently offensive, and might incline him to leave Swe- 
 den, from which, however, he was dismissed, not with any mark 
 of contempt, but with a train of attendance scarce less than regal. 
 
 He prepared a reply, which, left as it was imperfect, was 
 published by his son in the year of the Restauration. In the 
 beginning, being probably most in pain for his Latmity, he 
 endeavours to defend his use of the word persona ; but, if I 
 remember right, he misses a better authority than any that he 
 has found, that of Juvenal in his fourth satire : 
 
 — Quid agis cum dira & foedior omni 
 -^ Crimine Persona est ? " ■ . , ^ 
 
1674] MILTON. 65 
 
 As Salmasius reproached Milton with losing his eyes in the 
 quarrel, Milton delighted himself with the belief that he had 
 shortened Salmasius's life, and both perhaps with more 
 malignity than reason. Salmasius died at the Spa, Sept. 3, 
 1653 ; and as controvertists.are commonly said to be killed by 
 their last dispute, Milton was flattered with the credit of 
 destroying him. 
 
 Cromwell had now dismissed the parliament by the authority 
 of which he had destroyed monarchy, and commenced monarch 
 himself, under the title of Protector, but with kingly and more 
 than kingly power. That his authority was lawful, never was 
 pretended ; he himself founded his right only in necessity ; 
 but Milton, having now tasted the honey of publick employ- 
 ment, would not return to hunger and philosophy, but, con" 
 tinuing to exercise his office under a manifest usurpation, 
 betrayed to his power that liberty which he had defended. 
 Nothing can be more just than that rebellion should end in 
 slavery ; that he, who had justified the murder of his king, for 
 some acts which to him seemed unlawful, should now sell his 
 services, and his flatteries, to a tyrant, of whom it was evident 
 that he could do nothing lawful. 
 
 He had now been blind for some years ; but his vigour of 
 intellect was such, that he was not disabled to discharge his 
 office of Latin secretary, or continue his controversies. His 
 mind was too eager to be diverted, and too strong to be subdued. 
 About this time his first wife died in childbed, having left 
 him three daughters. As he probably did not much love her, 
 he did not long continue the appearance of lamenting her; 
 but after a short time married Catherine, the daughter of one 
 captain Woodcock of Hackney; a woman doubtless educated 
 in opinions like his own. She died within a year, of childbirth, 
 or some distemper that followed it ; and her husband has 
 honoured her memory with a poor sonnet. 
 
 The first Reply to Milton's Defensio Populi was published in 
 1651, called Apologia pro Rege et Populo Anglicano, contra 
 
 F 
 
66 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 Johannis Polypragmatici (alias Miltoni) Defensionem Destruc- 
 tivam Regis et Populi. Of this the author was not known ; 
 but Milton and his nephew Philips, under whose name he 
 published an answer so much corrected by him that it might 
 be called his own, imputed it to Bramhal ; and, knowing him 
 ho friend to regicides, thought themselves at liberty to treat 
 hihi as if they had known what they only suspected. 
 
 Next year appeared Regii Sanguinis Clamor ad Caelum. Of 
 this the author was Peter du Moulin, who was afterwards 
 prebendary of Canterbury ; but Morus, or More, a French 
 minister, having the care of its publication, was treated as the 
 writer by Milton in his Defensio Secunda, and overwhelmed by 
 such violence of invective, that he began to shrink under the 
 tempest, and gave his persecutors the means of knowing the 
 true author. Du Moulin was now in great danger ; but 
 Milton's pride operated against his malignity; and both he 
 and his friends were more willing that Du Moulin should 
 escape than that he should be convicted of mistake. 
 
 In this second Defence he shews that his eloquence is not 
 merely satirical ; the rudeness of his invective is equalled by 
 the grossness of his flattery. " Deserimur, Cromuelle, tu solis u, 
 superes, ad te summa nostrarum rerum rediit, in te solo con- 
 sistit, insuperabili tuse virtuti cedimus cuncti, nemine vel 
 obloquente, nisi qui asquales inasqualis ipse honores sibi 
 quserit, aut digniori concessos invidet, aut non intelligit nihil 
 esse in societate hominum magis vel Deo gratum, vel rationi 
 consentaneum, esse in civitate nihil sequius, nihil utilius, quam 
 potiri rerum dignissimum. Bum te agnoscunt omnes, Crom- 
 uelle, ea tu civis maximus et gloriosissimus,^ dux public! 
 consilii, exercituum fortissimorum imperator, pater patrise 
 gessisti. Sic tu spontanea bonorum omnium et animitus 
 missa voce salutaris." 
 
 ^ It may be doubted whether gloriosisnmus be here used with Milton's 
 boasted purity. Hes gloriosa is an illustrious thing ; but vir gloriosus is 
 commonly a braggart, as in miles gloriosus. 
 
1674] MILTON. 67 
 
 Caesar, when he assumed the perpetual dictatorship, had not 
 nnore servile or more elegant flattery. A translation may shew 
 its servility; but its elegance is less attainable. Having ex- 
 posed the unskilfulness or selfishness of the former government, 
 "We were left," says Milton, "to ourselves: the whole national 
 interest fell into your hands, and subsists only in your abilities. 
 To your virtue, overpowering and resistless, every man gives 
 way, except some who, without equal qualifications, aspire to 
 equal honours, who envy the distinctions of merit greater than 
 their own, or who have yet to learn, that in the coalition of 
 human society nothing is more pleasing to God, or more 
 agreeable to reason, than that the highest mind should have 
 the sovereign power. Such, Sir, are you by general confession; 
 such are the things atchieved by you, the greatest and most 
 glorious of our countrymen, the director of our pubUck 
 councils, the leader of unconquered armies, the father of your 
 country ; for by that title does every good man hail you, with 
 sincere and voluntary praise." 
 
 Next year, having defended all that wanted defence, he 
 found leisure to defend himself. He undertook his own 
 vindication against More, whom he declares in his title to be 
 justly called the author of the Regii Sanguinis Clamor. In 
 this there is no want of vehemence nor eloquence, nor does he 
 forget his wonted wit. " Morus es ? an Momus ? an uterque 
 iderii est ? " He then remembers that Morus is Latin for a 
 Mulberry-tree, and hints at the known transforrnation : 
 
 ■ — Poma alba ferebat 
 Quse post nigra tulit Morus. *-^-''' 
 
 With this piece ended his controversies ; and he from this 
 time gave himself up to his private studies and his civil 
 employment. 
 
 As secretary to the Protector he is supposed to have wiitten 
 the Declaration of the reasons for a war with Spain. His 
 agency was considered as of great importance ; for when a 
 
 F 2 
 
68 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 treaty with Sweden was artfully suspended, the delay was 
 publickly imputed to Mr. Milton's indisposition ; and the 
 Swedish agent was provoked to express his wonder, that only 
 one man in England could write Latin, and that man blind. 
 
 Being now forty-seven years old, and seeing himself dis- 
 encumbered from external interruptions, he seems to have 
 recollected his former purposes, and to have resumed three 
 great works which he had planned for his future employment : 
 an epick poem, the history of his country, and a dictionary of 
 the Latin tongue. 
 
 To collect a dictionary, seems a work of all others least 
 practicable in a state of blindness, because it depends upon 
 perpetual and minute inspection and coUation. Nor would 
 Milton probably have begun it, after he had lost his eyes; 
 but, having had it always before him, he continued it, says 
 Philips, almost to his dying-day ; but the papers were so dis- 
 composed and deficient, that they could not be fitted for the press. 
 The compilers of the Latin dictionary, printed at Cambridge, 
 had the use of those collections in three folios ; but what was 
 ' their fate afterwards is not known. 
 
 To compile a history from various authors, when they can 
 only be consulted by other eyes, is not easy, nor possible, but 
 with more skilful and attentive help than can be commonly 
 
 obtained ; and it was probably the difficulty of consulting and 
 
 comparing that stopped Milton's narrative at the Conquest ; 
 
 a period at which affairs were not yet very intricate, nor 
 
 authors very numerous. 
 
 For the subject of his epick poem, after much deliberation, 
 
 long chusing, and beginning late, he fixed upon Paradise Lost ; 
 
 a design so comprehensive, that it could be justified only by 
 
 success. He had once designed to celebrate King Arthur, as 
 
 he hints in his verses to Mansus : but Arthur was reserved, says 
 
 Fenton, to qnofher destiny. 
 
 It appears, by some sketches of poetical projects left in 
 
 manuscript, and to be seen in a library at Cambridge, that he 
 
1 674] 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 69 
 
 had digested his thoughts on this subject into one of those 
 wild dramas which were anciently called Mysteries; and 
 Philips had seen what he terms part of a trage3y7 beginning 
 with the first ten lines of Satan's address to the Sun. These 
 M^eries consist of allegorical persons ; such as Justice, 
 Mercy, Faith. Of the tragedy or mystery of Paradise Lost 
 there are two plans : 
 
 The Persons. 
 Michael. 
 
 Chorus of Angels. 
 Heavenly Love. 
 Lucifer. 
 
 Eve™' \ '*''* *^ Serpent. 
 
 Conscience. 
 
 Death. 
 
 Labour, 
 
 Sickness, 
 
 Discontent, V Mutes. 
 
 Ignorance, 
 
 with others ; 
 
 Faith. 
 
 Hope. 
 
 Charity. 
 
 The Persons. 
 Moses. 
 Divine Justice, Wisdom, 
 
 Heavenly Love. 
 The Evening Star, Hesperus^ 
 Chorus of Angels. 
 Lucifer. 
 Adam. 
 Eve. 
 
 Conscience. 
 Labour, 
 Sickness, 
 Discontent, 
 Ignorance, 
 Fear, 
 Death ; 
 Faith. 
 Hope. 
 Charity. 
 
 ) Mutes 
 
 PARADISE LOST. 
 
 THE PERSONS. 
 
 Moses, irpoXoyi^ei, recounting how he assumed his true body ; 
 that it corrupts not, because it is with God in the mount; 
 declares the like of Enoch and Elijah; besides the purity of 
 the place, that certain pure winds, dews, and clouds, preserves 
 it from corruption : whence exhorts to the sight of God ; tells, 
 they cannot see Adam in the state of innocence, by reason of 
 their sin. 
 
70 MILTON. [1608- 
 
 Justice, ■) 
 
 Mercy, > debating what should become of man, if he fall. 
 
 Wisdom, ) 
 
 Chorus of Angels singing a hymn of the Creation. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Heavenly Love. 
 
 Evening Star. 
 
 Chorus sings the marriage-song, and describes Paradise. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Lucifer, contriving Adam's ruin. 
 
 Chorus fears for Adam, and relates Lucifer's retellion and fall. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Adam, ) - „ 
 
 Eve, \ f^"^"- 
 
 Conscience cites them to God's examination. 
 
 Chorus bewails, and tells the good Adam has lost. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Adam and Eve driven out of Paradise. 
 
 presented by an angel with 
 
 Labour, Grief, Hatred, Envy, War, Famine,") 
 
 Pestilence, Sickness, Discontent, Ignorance, > Mutes. 
 
 Fear, Death. J 
 
 To whom he gives their names. Likewise Winter, Heat, 
 
 Tempest, &c. 
 Faith, ) 
 
 Hope, I comfort him, and instruct him. 
 Charity, ) 
 Chorus briefly concludes. 
 
 Such was his first design, which could have produced only 
 an allegory, or mystery. The following sketch seems to have 
 attained more maturity. 
 
1674] MILTON. 7t 
 
 Adam unparadised : 
 
 The angel Gabriel, either descending or entering ; shewing, 
 since this globe was created, his frequency as much on earth 
 as in heaven ; describes Paradise. Next, the Chorus, shewing 
 the reason of his coming to keep his watch in Paradise, after 
 Lucifer's rebellion, by command from God; and withal ex- 
 pressing his desire to see and know more concerning this 
 excellent new creature, man. The angel Gabriel, as by his 
 name signifying a prince of power, tr acing Paradise with a 
 more free office, passes by the station of the Chorus, and, 
 desired by them, relates what he knew of man; as the 
 creation of Eve, with their love and marriage. After this, 
 Lucifer^ appears ; after his overthrow, bemoans himself, seeks 
 revenge on man. The Chorus prepare resistance at his first 
 approach. At last, after discourse of enmity on either side, he 
 departs : whereat the Chorus sings of the battle and victory in 
 heaven, against him and his accomplices : as before, after the 
 first act, was sung a hymn of the creation. Here again may 
 appear Lucifer, relating and insulting in what he had done to 
 the destruction of man. Man next, and Eve having by this 
 time been seduced by the Serpent, appears confusedly covered 
 with leaves. Conscience, in a shape, accuses him; Justice 
 cites him to the place whither Jehovah called for him. In the 
 mean while, the Chorus entertains the stage, and is informed 
 by some angel the manner of the Fall. Here the Chorus 
 bewails Adam's fall ; Adam then and Eve return ; accuse one 
 another ; but especially Adam lays the blame to his wife ; is 
 stubborn in his offence. Justice appears, reasons with him, 
 convinces him. The Chorus admonisheth Adam, and bids 
 him beware Lucifer's example of impenitence. The angel is 
 sent to banish them out of Paradise; but before causes to 
 pass before his eyes, in shapes, a mask of all the evils of this 
 life and world. He is humbled, relents, despairs : at last 
 appears Mercy, comforts him, promises the Messiah ; then 
 
72 MILTON. [1608- 
 
 calls in Faith, Hope, and Charity ; instructs him ; he repents, 
 gives God the glory, submits to his penalty. The Chorus 
 briefly concludes. Compare this with the former draught. 
 
 These are very imperfect rudiments of Paradise Lost ; but 
 it is pleasant to see great works in their seminal state, pregnant 
 with latent possibilities of excellence; nor could there be 
 any more delightful entertainment than to trace their gradual 
 growth and expansion, and to observe how they are sometimes 
 suddenly advanced by accidental hints, and sometimes slowly 
 improved by steady meditation. 
 
 Invention is almost the only literary labour which blindness 
 cannot obstruct, and therefore he naturally solaced his solitude 
 by the indulgence of his fancy, and the melody of his numbers. 
 He had done what he knew to be necessaril;2_grevious to 
 poetical excellence; he had made himself acquainted with 
 seemly arts and affairs; his comprehension was extended by 
 various knowledge, and his memory stored with intellectual 
 treasures. He was skilful in many languages, and had by 
 reading and composition attained the full mastery of his own. 
 He would have wanted little help from books, had he retained 
 the power of perusing them. 
 
 But while his greater designs were advancing, having now, 
 like many other authors, caught the love of publication, he 
 amused himself, as he could, with little productions. He sent 
 to the press (1658) a manuscript of Raleigh, called the Cabinet 
 Council ; and next year gratified his malevolence to the clergy, 
 by a Treatise of Civil Power in Ecclesiastical Cases, and the 
 Means of removing Hirelings out of the Church. 
 
 Qliver was now dead ; Richard was constrained to resign : 
 the system of extemporary government, which had been held 
 together only by force, naturally fell into fragments when that 
 force was taken away ; and Milton saw himself and his cause 
 in equal danger. But he had still hope of doing something. 
 He wrote letters, which Toland has published, to such men as 
 
1674] MILTON. 73 
 
 he thought friends to the new commonwealth ; and even in 
 the year of the Restoration he bated no jot of heart or hope, 
 but was fantastical enough to think that the nation, agitated as 
 it was, might be settled by a pamphlet, called A Ready and 
 Easy Way to Establish a Free Commonwealth; which was, how- 
 ever, enough considered to be both seriously and ludicrously 
 answered. 
 
 The obstinate enthusiasm of the commonwealth men was 
 vfery remarkable. When the King was apparently returning, 
 Harrington, with a few associates as fanatical as himself, used 
 to meet, with all the gravity of political importance, to settle 
 an equal government by rotation ; and Milton, kicking when 
 he could strike no longer, was foolish enough to publish, a few 
 weeks before the Restoration, Notes upon a Sermon preached 
 by one Griffiths, intituled. The Fear of God and the King. 
 To these Notes an answer was written by L'Estrange, in a 
 pamphlet, petulantly called No Blind Guides. 
 
 But whatever Milton could write, or men of greater activity 
 could do, the King was now about to be restored with the 
 irresistible approbation of the people. He was therefore no 
 longer secretary, and was consequently obliged to quit the 
 house which he held by his office ; and proportioning his 
 sense of danger to his opinion of the importance of his 
 writings, thought it convenient to seek some shelter, and hid 
 himself for a time in Bartholomew-Close by West Smithfield. 
 
 I cannot but remark a kind of respect, perhaps uncon- 
 sciously, pa,id to this great man by his biographers : every 
 house in which he resided is historically mentioned, as if it 
 were an injury to neglect naming any place that he honoured 
 by his presence. 
 
 The King, with lenity of which the world has had perhaps 
 no other example, declined to be the judge or avenger of his 
 own or his father's wrongs ; and promised to admit into the 
 Act of Oblivion all, except those whom the parliament should 
 except ; and the parliament doomed none to capital punish- 
 
74 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 ment but the wretches who had immediately co-operated in the 
 murder of the King. Milton was certainly not one of them ; 
 he had only justified what they had done. 
 
 This justification was indeed sufficiently offensive ; and 
 (June 16) an order was issued to seize Milton's Defence, and 
 Goodwin's Obstructors of Justice, another book of the same 
 tendency, and burn them by the common hangman. The 
 attorney-general was ordered to prosecute the authors; but 
 Milton was not seized, nor perhaps very diligently pursued. 
 
 Not long after (August 19) the flutter of innumerable 
 bosoms was stilled by an act, which the King, that his mercy 
 might want no recommendation of elegance, rather called an 
 act of oblivion than of grace. Goodwin was named, with 
 nineteen more, as incapacitated for any publick trust ; but of 
 Milton there was no exception. 
 
 Of this tenderness shewn to Milton, the curiosity of man- 
 kind has not forborne to enquire the reason. Burnet thinks 
 he was forgotten ; but this is another instance which may 
 confirm Dalrym pie's observation, who says, "that whenever 
 Burnet's narrations are examined, he appears to be mistaken.'' 
 
 Forgotten he was not ; for his prosecution was ordered ; it 
 must be therefore by design that he was included in the 
 general oblivion. He is said to have had friends in the House, 
 such as Marvel, Morrice, and Sir Thomas Clarges; and un- 
 doubtedly a man like him must have had influence. A very 
 particular story of his escape is told by Richardson in his 
 Memoirs, which he received from Pope, as delivered by 
 Betterton, who might have heard it from Davenant. In the 
 war between the King and ParUament, Davenant was made 
 prisoner, and condemned to die ; but was spared at the re- 
 quest of Milton. When the turn of success brought Milton 
 into the like danger, Davenant repaid the benefit by appearing 
 in his favour. Here is a reciprocation of generosity and 
 gratitude so pleasing, that the tale makes its own way to credit. 
 But if help were wanted, I know not where to find it. The 
 
l674] MILTON. 7S 
 
 danger of Davenant is certain from his own relation ; but of 
 his escape there is no account. Betterton's narration can be 
 traced no higher ; it is not known that he had it from Dave- 
 nant. We are told that the benefit exchanged was life for 
 life ; but it seems not certain that Milton's life ever was in 
 danger. Goodwin, who had committed the same kind of 
 crime, escaped with incapacitation; and as exclusion from 
 publick trust is a punishment which the power of government 
 can commonly inflict without the help of a particular law, it 
 required no great interest to exempt Milton from a censure 
 little more than verbal. Something may be reasonably ascribed 
 to veneration and compassion ; to veneration of his abilities, 
 and compassion for his distresses, which made it fit to forgive 
 his malice for his learning. He was now poor and blind ; and 
 who would pursue with violence an illustrious enemy, depressed 
 by fortune, and disarmed by Nature ? 
 
 The publication of the act of oblivion put him in the same 
 condition with his fellow-subjects. He was, however, upon 
 some pretence not now known, in the custody of the Serjeant 
 in December ; and, when he was released, upon his refusal of 
 the fees demanded, he and the serjeant were called before the 
 House. He was now safe within the shade of oblivion, and 
 knew himself to be as much out of the power of a griping 
 officer as any other man. How the question was determined 
 is not known. Milton would hardly have contended, but that 
 he knew himself to have right on his side. 
 
 He then removed to Jewin Street, near Aldersgate Street ; 
 and being blind, and by no means wealthy, wanted a domestick 
 companion and attendant ; and therefore, by the recommenda- 
 tion of Dr. Paget, married Ehzabeth Minshul, of a gentleman's 
 family in Cheshire, probably without a fortune. All his wives 
 were virgins ; for he has declared that he thought it gross and 
 indelicate to be a second husband : upon what other principles 
 his choice was made cannot now be known; but marriage 
 afforded not much of his happiness. The first wife left him 
 
75 MILTON. * [1608— 
 
 in disgust, and was brought back only by terror ; the second, 
 indeed, seems to have been more a favourite, but her life was 
 short. The third, as Philips relates, oppressed his children in 
 his life-time, and cheated them at his death. 
 
 Soon after his marriage, according to an obscure story, he 
 was offered the continuance of his employment ; and, being 
 pressed by his wife to accept it, answered, " You, like other 
 women, want to ride in your coach ; my wish is to live and 
 die an honest man." If he considered the Latin secretary as 
 exercising any of the powers of government, he that had 
 shared authority either with the parliament or Cromwell, might 
 have forborne to talk very loudly of his honesty ; and if he 
 thought the office purely ministerial, he certainly might have 
 honestly retained it under the King. But this tale has too little 
 evidence to deserve a disquisition ; large offers and sturdy 
 rejections are among the most common topicks of falsehood. 
 
 He had so much either of prudence or gratitude, that he 
 forbore to disturb the new settlement with any of his political 
 or ecclesiastical opinions, and from this time devoted himself 
 to poetry and literature. Of his zeal for learning, in all its 
 parts, he gave a proof by pubUshing, the next year (1661), 
 Accidence Commenced Grammar; a little book which has 
 nothing remarkable, but that its author, who had been lately 
 defending the supreme powers of his country, and was then 
 writing Paradise Lost, could descend from his elevation to 
 rescue children from the perplexity of grammatical confusion, 
 and the trouble of lessons unnecessarily repeated. 
 
 About this time Elwood the quaker, being recommended to 
 him as one who would read Latin to him, for the advantage of 
 his conversation, attended him every afternoon, except on 
 Sundays. Milton, who, in his letter to Hartlib, had declared, 
 that to read Latin with an English mouth is as ill a hearing as 
 Law French, required that Elwood should learn and practise 
 the Italian pronunciation, which, he said, was necessary, if he 
 would talk with foreigners. This seems to have been a task 
 
i674] MILTON. 77 
 
 troublesome without use. There is little reason for preferring 
 the Italian pronunciation to our own, except that it is more 
 general ; and to teach it to an Englishman is only to make him 
 a foreigner at home. He who travels, if he speaks Latin, may 
 so soon learn the sounds which every native gives it, that he 
 need make no provision before his journey; and if strangers 
 visit us, it is their business to practise such conformity to our 
 modes as they expect from us in their own countries. Elwood 
 complied with the directions, and improved himself by his 
 attendance ; for he relates, that Milton, having a curious ear, 
 knew by his voice when he read what he did not understand, 
 and would stop him, and open the most difficult passages. 
 
 In a short time he took a house in the Artillery Walk, 
 leading to Bunhill Fields ; the mention of which concludes the 
 register of Milton's removals and habitations. He lived longer 
 in this place than in any other. 
 
 He was now busied by Paradise Lost. Whence he drew 
 the original design has been variously conjectured, by men 
 who cannot bear to think themselves ignorant of that which, 
 at last, neither diligence nor sagacity can discover. Some find 
 the hint in an Italian tragedy. Voltaire tells a wild and un- 
 authorised story of a farce seen by Milton in Italy, which 
 opened thus : Let the Rainbow be the Fiddlestick of the Fiddle of 
 Heaven. It has been already shewn, that the first conception 
 was a tragedy or mystery, not of a narrative, but a dramatick 
 work, which he is supposed to have begun to reduce to its 
 present form about the time (1655) when he finished his 
 dispute with the defenders of the King. 
 
 He long before had promised to a:dorn his native country by 
 some great performance, while he had yet perhaps no settled 
 design, and was stimulated only by such expectations as 
 naturally arose from the survey of his attainments, and the 
 consciousness of his powers. What he should undertake, it 
 was difficult to determine. He was long chusitig, and began late. 
 
 While he was obliged to divide his time between the private 
 
78 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 studies and affairs of state, his poetical labour must have been 
 often interrupted ; and perhaps he did little more in that busy 
 time than construct the narrative, adjust the episodes, propor- 
 tion the parts, accumulate images and sentiments, and treasure 
 in his memory, or preserve in writing, such hints as books or 
 meditation would supply. Nothing particular is known of his 
 intellectual operations while he was a statesman ; for, having 
 every help and accommodation at hand, he had no need of 
 uncommon expedients. 
 
 Being driven from all publick stations, he is yet too great 
 not to be traced by curiosity to his retirement ; where he has 
 been found by Mr. Richardson, the fondest of his admirers, 
 sitting before his door 171 a grey coat of coarse cloth, i?i warm 
 sultry weather, to enjoy the fresh air ; and so, as well as in his 
 own room, receiving the visits of people of distinguished parts as 
 well as quality. His visitors of high quality must now be 
 imagined to be few ; but men of parts might reasonably court 
 the conversation of a man so generally illustrious, that 
 foreigners are reported, by Wood, to have visited the house 
 in Bread Street where he was born. 
 
 According to another account, he was seen in a small house, 
 neatly enough dressed in black cloaths, sitting in a room hung 
 with rusty green ; pale but not cadaverous, with chalkstones in 
 his hands. He said, that if it were not for the gout, his blhidness 
 would be tolerable. 
 
 In the intervals of his pain, being made unable to use the 
 common exercises, he used to swing in a chair, and sometimes 
 played upon an organ. 
 
 He was now confessedly and visibly employed upon his 
 poem, of which the progress might be noted by those with 
 whom he was familiar ; for he was obliged, when he had com- 
 posed as many lines as his memory would conveniently retain, 
 to employ some friend in writing them, having, at least for 
 part of the time, no regular attendant. This gave opportunity 
 to observations and reports. 
 
1674] MILTON. 79 
 
 Mr. Philips observes, that there was a very remarkable 
 circumstance in the composure of Paradise Lost, "which I 
 have a particular reason," says he, " to remember ; for whereas 
 I had the perusal of it from the very beginning, for some , 
 years, as I went from time to time to visit him, in parcels of 
 ten, twenty, or thirty verses at a time (which, being written by 
 whatever hand came next, might possibly want correction as to 
 the orthography and pointing), having, as the summer came 
 on, not been shewed any for a considerable while, and desiring 
 the reason thereof; was answered that his vein never happily 
 flowed but from the Autumnal Equinox to the Vernal ; and 
 that whatever he attempted at other times was never to his 
 satisfaction, though he courted his fancy never so much ; so 
 that, in all the years he was about this poem, he may be said 
 to have spent half his time therein." 
 
 Upon this relation Toland remarks, that in his opinion 
 Philips has mistaken the time of the year; for Milton, in his 
 Elegies, declares that with the advance of the Spring he feels 
 the increase of his poetical force, redeunf in carmina vires. 
 To this it is answered, that Philips could hardly mistake time 
 so well marked ; and it may be added, that Milton might find 
 different times of the year favourable to different parts of life. 
 Mr. Richardson conceives it impossible that such a work should 
 be suspended for six mofiihs, or for one. It may go on faster w 
 slower, but it must go on. By what necessity it must con- 
 tinually go on, or why it might not be laid aside and resumed, 
 it is not easy to discover. 
 
 This dependence of the soul upon the seasons, those 
 temporary and periodical ebbs and flows of intellect, may, I 
 suppose, justly be derided as the fumes of vain imagination. 
 Sapiens dominabitur astris. The author that thinks himself 
 weather-bound will find, with a little help from hellibore, that 
 he is only idle or exhausted. But while this notion has 
 possession of the head, it produces the inability which it 
 supposes. Our powers owe much of their energy to our 
 
8o , MILTON. [1608— 
 
 hopes ; possunt quia posse videntur. When success seems 
 attainable, diligence is enforced ; but when it is admitted that 
 the faculties are suppressed by a cross wind, or a cloudy sky, 
 , the day is given up without resistance ; for who can contend 
 with the course of Nature ? 
 
 From such prepossessions Milton seems not to have been 
 free. There prevailed in his time an opinion that the world 
 was in its decay, and that we have had the misfortune to be 
 produced in the decrepitude of Nature. It was suspected 
 that the whole creation languished, that neither trees nor 
 animals had the height or bulk of their predecessors, and that 
 everything was daily sinking by gradual diminution. Milton 
 appears to suspect that souls partake of the general degeneracy, 
 and is not without some fear that his book is to be written in 
 an age too late for heroick poesy. 
 
 Another opinion wanders about the world, and sometimes 
 finds reception among wise men ; an opinion that restrains 
 the operations of the mind to particular regions, and supposes 
 that a luckless mortal may be born in a degree of latitude too 
 high or too low for wisdom or for wit. From this fancy, wild 
 as it is, he had not wholly cleared his head, when he 
 feared lest the climate of his country might be too cold for 
 flights of imagination. 
 
 Into a mind already occupied by such fancies, another not 
 more reasonable might easily find its way. He that could 
 fear lest his genius had fallen upon too old a world, or too 
 chill a climate, might consistently magnify to himself the 
 influence of the seasons, and believe his faculties to be 
 vigorous only half the year. 
 
 His submission to the seasons was at least more reasonable 
 than his dread of decaying Nature, or a frigid zone ; for 
 general causes must operate uniformly in a general abatement 
 of mental power ; if less could be performed by the writer, 
 less likewise would content the judges of his work. Among 
 this lagging race of frosty grovellers he might still have risen 
 
1674] MILTON. 81 
 
 into eminence by producing something which they should not 
 wiilhigly let die. However inferior to the heroes who were 
 born in better ages, he might still be great among his con- 
 temporaries, with the hope of growing every day greater in 
 the dwindle of posterity, He might still be the giant of the 
 pygmies, the one-eyed monarch of the blind. 
 
 Of his artitices of study, or particular hours of composi- 
 tion, we have little account, and there was perhaps little to be 
 told. Richardson, who seems to have been very diligent in 
 his enquiries, but discovers always a wish to find Milton 
 discriminated from other men, relates, that " he would some- 
 times lie awake whole nights, but not a verse could he make ; 
 and on a sudden his poetical faculty would rush upon him 
 with an impettis or cestrum, and his daughter was immediately 
 called to secure what came. At other times he would dictate 
 perhaps forty lines in a breath, and then reduce them to half 
 the number." 
 
 These bursts of lights, and involutions of darkness ; these 
 transient and involuntary excursions and retrocessions of 
 invention, having some appearance of deviation from the 
 common train of Nature, are eagerly caught by the lovers of 
 a wonder. Yet something of this inequality happens to every 
 man in every mode of exertion, manual or mental. The 
 mechanick cannot handle his hammer and his file at all 
 times with equal dexterity ; there are hours, he knows not 
 why, when Ms hand is out. By Mr. Richardson's relation, 
 casually conveyed, much regard cannot be claimed. That, 
 in his intellectual hour, Milton called for his daughter to secure 
 what came, may be questioned ; for unluckily it happens to 
 be known that his daughters were never taught to write ; nor 
 would he have been obliged, as is universally confessed, to J 
 have employed any casual visitor in disburthening his memory, 
 if his daughter could have performed the office. 
 
 The story of reducing his exuberance has been told of other 
 authors, and, though doubtless true of every fertile and 
 
82 MILTON. [1608- 
 
 copious mind, seems to have been glatuitously transferred to 
 Milton. 
 
 What he has told us, and we cannot now know more, is, 
 that he composed much of his poem in the night and morning, 
 I suppose before his mind was disturbed with common busi- 
 ness ; and that he poured out with great fluency his unpre- 
 meditated verse. Versification, free, like his, from the distresses 
 of rhyme, must, by a work so long, be made prompt and 
 habitual ; and, when his thoughts were once adjusted, the 
 words would come at his command. 
 
 At what particular times of his life the parts of his work 
 were written, cannot often be known. The beginning of the 
 third book shews that he had lost his sight ; and the Intro- 
 duction to the seventh, that the return of the King had 
 clouded him with discountenance ; and that he was offended 
 by the licentious festivity of the Restoration. There are no 
 other internal notes of time. Milton, being now cleared from 
 all effects of his disloyalty, had nothing required from him but 
 the common duty of living in quiet, to be rewarded with the 
 common right of protection : but this, which, when he sculked 
 from the approach of his King, was perhaps more than he hoped, 
 seems not to have satisfied him ; for no sooner is he safe, than 
 he finds himself in danger, fallen on evil days and evil tongues, 
 and with darkness and with danger compas^d roujid. This 
 darkness, had his eyes been better employed, had undoubtedly 
 deserved compassion : but to add the mention of danger was 
 ungrateful and unjust. He was fallen indeed on evil days; 
 the time was come in which regicides could no longer boast 
 their wickedness. But of evil tongues for Milton to complain 
 required impudence at least equal to his other powers; 
 Milton, whose warmest advocates must allow, that he never 
 spared any asperity of reproach or brutality of insolence. 
 
 But the charge itself seems to be false ; for it would be 
 hard to recollect any reproach cast upon him, either serious or 
 ludicrous, through the whole remaining part of his life. He 
 
1674] MILTON, 83 
 
 pursued his studies, or his amusements, without persecution, 
 molestation, or insult. Such is the reverence paid to great 
 abilities, however misused ; they who contemplated in Milton 
 the scholar and the wit, were contented to forget the revilerf 
 his King. 
 
 When the plague (1665) raged in London, Milton took refuge 
 at Chalfont in Bucks ; where Elwood, who had taken the house 
 for him, first saw a complete copy of Paradise Lost, and having 
 perused it, said to him, " Thou hast said a great deal upon 
 Paradise Lost ; what hast thou to say upon Paradise Found ? " 
 
 Next year, when the danger of infection had ceased, he 
 returned to Bunhill-fiields, and designed the publication of his 
 poem. A license was necessary, and he could expect no great 
 kindness from a chaplain of the Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 He seems, however, to have been treated with tenderness ; for 
 though objections were made to particular passages, and among 
 them to the simile of the sun eclipsed in the first book, yet the 
 license was granted; and he sold his copy, April 27, 1667, to 
 Samuel Simmons, for an immediate payment of five pounds, 
 with a stipulation to receive five pounds more when thirteen 
 hundred should be sold of the first edition : and again five 
 pounds afte'r the sale of the same number of the second 
 edition : and another five pounds after the same sale of the 
 third. None of the three editions were to be extended beyond 
 fifteen hundred copies. 
 
 The first edition was ten books, in a small quarto. The 
 titles were varied from year to year ; and an advertisement and 
 the arguments of the books were omitted in some copies, and 
 inserted in others. 
 
 The sale gave him in two years a right to his second pay- 
 ment, for which the receipt was signed April 26, 1669. The 
 second edition was not given till 1674 ; it was printed in small 
 octavo, and the number of books was increased to twelve, by a 
 division of the seventh and twelfth ; and some other small 
 improvements were made. The third edition was published in 
 
84 .MILTON. [1608— 
 
 1678 ;'and the widow, to whom the copy was then to devolve, 
 sold all her claims to Simmons for eight pounds, according to 
 her receipt given Dec. 21, 1680. Simmons had already agreed 
 to transfer the whole right to Brabazon Aylmer for twenty- 
 five pounds ; and Aylmer sold to Jacob Tonson half, August 
 17, 1683, and half, March 24, 1690, at a price considerably 
 enlarged. In the history of Paradise Lost a deduction thus 
 minute will rather gratify than fatigue. 
 
 The slow sale and tardy reputation of this poem have been 
 always mentioned as evidences of neglected merit, and of the 
 uncertainty of literary fame ; and enquiries have been made, 
 and conjectures offered, about the causes of its long obscurity 
 and late reception. But has the case been truly stated? 
 Have not lamentation and wonder been lavished on an evil 
 that was never felt ? 
 
 That in the reigns of Charles and James the Paradise Lost 
 received no publick acclamations, is readily confessed. Wit 
 and literature were on the side of the Court : and who that 
 solicited favour or fashion would venture to praise the defender 
 of the regicides ? All that he himself could think his due, 
 from evil tongues in evil days, was that reverential silence which 
 was generously preserved. But it cannot be inferred that his 
 pOem was not read, or not, however unwillingly, admired. 
 
 The sale, if it be considered, will justify the publick. Those 
 who have no power to judge of past times but by their own 
 should always doubt their conclusions. The call for books 
 was not in Milton's age what it is in the present. To read 
 was not then a general amusement ; neither traders, nor often 
 gentlemen, thought themselves disgraced by ignorance. The 
 women had not then aspired to literature, nor was every house 
 supplied with a closet of knowledge. Those, indeed, who pro- 
 fessed learning, were not less learned than at any other time ; 
 but of that middle race of students who read for pleasure or 
 accomplishment, and who buy the numerous products of 
 modern typography, the number was then comparatively small. 
 
1674]" MILTON. 85 
 
 To prove the paucity of readers, it may be sufficient to remark, 
 that the nation had been satisfied, from 1623 to 1664, that 
 is, forty-one years, with only two editions of the works of -< 
 Shakspeare, which probably did not together make one 
 thousand copies. 
 
 The sale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, in oppo- 
 sition to so much recent enmity, and to a style of versification 
 new to all and disgusting to many, was an uncommon example 
 of the prevalence of genius. The demand did not immediately 
 increase ; for many more readers than were supplied at first 
 the nation did not afford. Only three thousand were sold in 
 / eleven years ; for it forced its way without assistance ; its 
 admirers did not dare to pubKsh their opinion ; and the oppor- 
 tunities now given of attracting notice by advertisements were 
 then very few; the means of proclaiming the publication of 
 new books have been,produced by that general literature which 
 now pervades the nation through all its ranks. 
 
 But the reputation and price of the copy still advanced, till 
 the Revolution put an end to the secrecy of love, and Paradise 
 Lost broke into open view with sufficient security of kind 
 reception. 
 
 Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper 
 Milton surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked 
 his reputation stealing its way in a kind of subterraneous 
 current through fear and silence. I cannot but conceive hirh 
 calm and confident, little disappointed, not at all dejected, 
 relying on his own merit with steady consciousness, and 
 waiting, without impatience, the vicissitudes of opinion, and 
 the impartiality of a future generation. 
 
 In the mean time he continued his studies, and supplied the 
 want of sight by a very odd expedient, of which Philips gives 
 the following account : 
 
 Mr. Philips tells us, " that though our author had daily about 
 him one or other to read, some persons of man's estate, who, 
 of their own accord, greedily catched at the opportunity of 
 
86 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 being his readers, that they might as well reap the benefit 
 of what they read to him, as oblige him by the benefit of 
 their reading ; and others of younger years were sent by their 
 parents to the same end : yet excusing only the eldest daughter, 
 by reason of her bodily infirmity, and difficult utterance of 
 speech, (which, to say truth, I doubt was the principal cause 
 of excusing her), the other two were condemned to the per- 
 formance of reading, and exactly pronouncing of all the lan- 
 guages of whatever book he should, at one time or other, think 
 fit to pemse, viz. the Hebrew (and I think the Syriac), the 
 Greek, the Latin, the Italian, Spanish, and French. All which 
 sorts of books to be confined to read, without understanding 
 one word, must needs be a trial of patience almost beyond 
 endurance. Yet it was endured by both for a long time, though 
 the irksomeness of this employment could not be always con- 
 cealed, but broke out more and more into expressions of 
 ■uneasiness ; so that at length they were all, even the eldest 
 also, sent out to learn some curious and ingenious sorts of 
 manufacture that are proper for women to learn ; particularly 
 embroideries in gold or silver." 
 
 In the scene of misery which this mode of intellectual 
 labour sets before our eyes, it is hard to determine whether 
 the daughters or the father are most to be lamented. A 
 language not understood can never be so read as to give 
 pleasure, and very seldom so as to convey meaning. If few 
 men would have had resolution to write books with such 
 embarrassments, few likewise would have wanted abihty to 
 find some better expedient. 
 
 Three years after his Paradise Lost (1667), 4ie published his 
 History of England, comprising the whole fable of Geoffry of 
 Monmouth, and continued to the Norman invasion. Why he 
 should have given the first part, which he seems not to beUeve, 
 and which is universally rejected, it is difficult to conjecture. 
 The style is harsh ; but it has something of rough vigour, 
 which perhaps may often strike, though it cannot please. 
 
i674] MILTON. 87 
 
 On this history the licenser again fixed his claws, and before 
 he would transmit it to the press tore out several parts. Some 
 censures of the Saxon monks were taken away, lest they should 
 be applied to the modern clergy ; and a character of the Long 
 Parliament, and Assembly of Divines, was excluded, of which 
 the author gave a copy to the earl of Anglesea, and which, 
 being afterwards published, has been since inserted in its 
 proper place. 
 
 The same year were printed Paradise Regained, and Sam- 
 son Agonistes, a tragedy written in imitation of the Ancients, 
 and never designed by the author for the stage. As these 
 poems were published by another bookseller, it has been 
 asked, whether Simmons was discouraged from receiving them 
 by the slow sale of the former. Why a writer changed his 
 bookseller a hundred years ago, I am far from hoping to dis- 
 cover. Certainly, he who in two years sells thirteen hundred 
 copies of a volume in quarto, bought for two payments of 
 five pounds each, has no reason to repent his purchase. 
 
 When Milton shewed Paradise Regained to Elwood, " This," 
 said he, " is owing to you ; for you put it in my head by the 
 question you put to me at Chalfont, which otherwise I had not 
 thought of." 
 
 His last poetical offspring was his favourite. He could not, 
 as Elwood relates, endure to hear Paradise Lost preferred to 
 Paradise Regained. Many causes may vitiate a writer's judge- 
 ment of his own works. On that which has cost him much 
 labour he sets a high value, because he is unwilling to think 
 that he has been diligent in vain ; what has been produced 
 without toilsome efforts is considered with delight, as a proof 
 of vigorous faculties and fertile invention ; and the last work, 
 whatever it be, has necessarily most of the grace of novelty. 
 Milton, however it happened, had this prejudice, and had it 
 to himself. 
 
 To that multiplicity of attainments, and extent of compre- 
 hension, that entitle this great author to our veneration, may 
 
88 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 be added a kind of humble dignity, which did not disdain the 
 meanest services to literature. The epic poet, the controvertist, 
 the politician, having already descended to accommodate chil- 
 dren with a book of rudiments, now, in the last years of his 
 life, composed a book of Logick, for the initiation of students 
 in philosophy : and published (1672) Artis Logicae plenior 
 Institutio ad Petri Rami methodum concinnata ; that is, "A 
 new scheme of Logick, according to the Method of Ramus." 
 I know not whether, even in this book, he did not intend an 
 act of hostility against the Universities ; for Ramus was one 
 of the first oppugners of the old philosophy, who disturbed 
 with innovations the quiet of the schools. 
 
 His polemical disposition again revived. He had now been 
 safe so long, that he forgot his fears, and published a Treatise 
 of true Religion, Heresy, Schism, Toleration, and the best 
 Means to prevent the Growth of Popery. 
 
 But this little tract is modestly written, with respectful 
 mention of the Church of England, and an appeal to the 
 thirty-nine articles. His principle of toleration is, agreement 
 in the sufficiency of the Scriptures ; and he extends it to all 
 who, whatever their opinions are, profess to derive them from 
 the sacred books. The papists appeal to other testimonies, 
 and are therefore in his opinion not to be permitted the liberty 
 of either publick or private worship ; for though they plead 
 conscience, we have no warrant, he says, to regard conscience 
 which is not grounded in Scripture. 
 
 Those who are not convinced by his reasons, may be 
 perhaps delighted with his wit. The term Roman Catholick is, 
 he says, one of the Pop^s bulls ; it is particular universal, or 
 catholick schismatick. 
 
 He has, however, something better. As the best preservative 
 against Popery, he recommends the diligent perusal of the 
 Scriptures ; a duty, from which he warns the busy part of 
 mankind not to think themselves excused. 
 
 He now reprinted his juvenile poems, with some additions. 
 
i674] illLTOX. 89 
 
 In the last year of his life he sent to the press, seeming to 
 take delight in publication, a collection of Familiar Epistles in 
 Latin j to which, being too few to make a volume, he added 
 some academical exercises, which perhaps he perused with 
 pleasure, as the}- recalled to his memory the days of youth ; 
 but for which nothing but veneration for his name could now 
 procure a reader. 
 
 ^Mien he had attained his sixty-sixth year, the gout, with 
 which he had been long tormented, prevailed over the en- 
 feebled powers of nature. He died by a quiet and silent 
 expiration, about the tenth of November, 1674, at his house 
 in Bunhill-fields ; and was biffied next his father in the chancel 
 of St Giles at Cripplegate. His fimeral was very splendidly 
 and numerously attended. 
 
 Upon his grave there is supposed to have been no memorial; 
 but in our time a monument has been erected in Westminster- 
 Abbey To the Author of Paradise Lost, by Mr. Benson, who has 
 in the inscription bestowed more words upon himself than 
 upon Milton. 
 
 When the inscription for the monument of Philips, in which 
 he was said to be soli Miltotw secundus, was exhibited to Dr. 
 Sprat, then Dean of Westminster, he refused to admit it ; the 
 name of Milton was, in his opinion, too detestable to be read 
 on the wall of a building dedicated to devotion. Atterbury, 
 who succeeded him, being author of the inscription, permitted 
 its reception. "And such has been the change of publick 
 opinion," said Dr. Gregory, from whom I heard this account, 
 " that I have seen erected in the church a statue of that man, 
 whose name I once knew considered as a pollution of its 
 walls." 
 
 Milton has the reputation of having been in his youth 
 eminently beautifiil, so as to have been called the Lady of his 
 coUege. His hair, which was of a light brown, parted at the 
 foretop, and hung down upon his shoulders, according to the 
 picture which he has given of Adam. He was, however not 
 
90 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 of the heroick stature, but rather below the middle size, 
 according to Mr. Richardson, who mentions him as having 
 narrowly escaped from being short and thick. He was vigorous 
 and active, and dehghted in the exercise of the sword, in 
 which he is related to have been eminently skilful. His 
 weapon was, I believe, not the rapier, but the backsword, of 
 which he recommends the use in his book on Education. 
 
 His eyes are said never to have been bright ; but, if he was 
 a dexterous fencer, they must have been once quick. 
 
 His domestick habits, so far as they are known, were those 
 of a severe student. He drank little strong drink of any kind, 
 and fed without excess in quantity, and in his earUer years 
 without delicacy of choice. In his youth he studied late at 
 night; but afterwards changed his hours, and rested in bed 
 from nine to four in the summer, and five in winter. The 
 course of his day was best known after he was blind. When 
 he first rose, he heard a chapter in the Hebrew Bible, and then 
 studied till twelve ; then took some exercise for an hour ; 
 then dined ; 'then played on the organ, and sung, or heard 
 another sing ; then studied to six ; then entertained his visiters 
 till eight ; then supped, and, after a pipe of tobacco and a 
 glass of water, went to bed. 
 
 So is his life described ; but this even tenour appears 
 attainable only in Colleges. He that lives in the world will 
 sometimes have the succession of his practice broken and 
 confused. Visitors, of whom Milton is represented to have 
 had great numbers, will come and stay unseasonably ; business, 
 of which every man has some, must be done when others will 
 doit. 
 
 When he did not care to rise early, he had something read 
 to him by his bedside ; perhaps at this time his daughters were 
 employed. He composed much in the morning, and dictated 
 in the day, sitting obliquely in an elbow-chair, with his leg 
 thrown over the arm. 
 
 Fortune appears not to have had much of his care. In the 
 
i674] MILTON. gi 
 
 civil wars he lent his personal estate to the parliament ; but 
 when, after the contest was decided, he solicited repayment, 
 he met not only with neglect, but sharp rebiike ; and, having 
 tired both himself and his friends, was given up to poverty and 
 hopeless indignation, till he shewed how able he was to do 
 greater service, He was then made Latin secretary, with two 
 hundred pounds a year ; and had a thousand pounds for his 
 Defence of the People. His widow, who, after his death, 
 retired to Namptwich in Cheshire, and died about 1729, is 
 said to have reported that he lost two thousand pounds by 
 entrusting it to a scrivener; and that, in the general depredation 
 upon the Church he had grasped an estate of about sixty 
 pounds a year belonging to Westminster-Abbey, which, like 
 other sharers of the plunder of rebellion, he was afterwards 
 obliged to return. Two thousand pounds, which he had 
 placed in the Excise-office, were also lost. There is yet no 
 reason to believe that he was ever reduced to indigence. His 
 wants, being few, were competently supplied. He sold his 
 library before his death, and left his family fifteen hundred 
 pounds, on which his widow laid hold, and only gave one 
 hundred to each of his daughters. 
 
 His literature was unquestionably great. He read all the 
 languages which are considered either as learned or polite; 
 Hebrew, with its two dialects, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, 
 and Spanish. In Latin his skill was such as places him in 
 the first rank of writers and criticks ; and he appears to have 
 cultivated Italian with uncommon diligence. The books in 
 which his daughter, who used to read to him, represented him 
 as most delighting, after Homer, which he could almost repeat, 
 were Ovid's Metamorphoses and Euripides. His Euripides is, 
 by Mr. Cradock's kindness, now in my hands : the margin is 
 sometimes noted ; but I have found nothing remarkable. 
 
 Of the English poets he set most value upon Spenser, 
 Shakspeare, and Cowley. Spenser was apparently his favourite : 
 Sliakspeare he may easily be supposed to like, with every other 
 
92 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 skilful reader ; but I should not have expected that Cowley, 
 whose ideas of excellence were different from his own, would 
 have had much of his approbation. His cha racte r of Dryden, 
 who sometimes visited him, was, that he was a good rhymist, 
 but no poet. 
 
 His theological opinions are said to have been first Calvin- 
 istical ; and afterwards, perhaps when he began to hate the 
 Presbyterians, to have tended towards Arminianism. In the 
 mixed questions of theology and government, he never thinks 
 that he can recede far enough from popery, or prelacy ; but 
 what Baudius says of Erasmus seems applicable to him, magis 
 habuit quod fugeret quam quod sequerdur. He had determined 
 rather what to condemn, than what to approve. He has not 
 associated himself with any denomination „of Protestants ; we 
 know rather what he was not, than what he was. He was 
 not of the Church of Rome ; he was not of the Church of 
 England. 
 
 To be of no church, is dangerous. Religion, of which the 
 rewards are distant, and which is animated only 4>y Faith and 
 Hope, will glide by degrees out of the mind, unless it be 
 invigorated and reimpressed by external ordinances, by stated 
 calls to worship, and the salutary influmce of example. 
 Milton, who appears to have had full conviction of the 
 truth of Christianity, and to have regarded the Holy Scriptures 
 with the profoundest veneration, to have been untainted by an 
 heretical peculiarity of opinion, and to have lived in a con- 
 firmed belief of the immediate and occasional agency ot 
 Providence, yet grew old without any visible worship. In 
 the distribution of his hours, there was no hour of prayer, 
 either solitary, or with his household ; omitting publick 
 prayers, he omitted all. 
 
 Of this omission the reason has been sought, upon a sup- 
 position which ought never to be made, that men live with 
 their own approbation, and justify their conduct to themselves. 
 Prayer certainly was not thought superfluous by him, who 
 
1674] MILTON. 93 
 
 represents our first parents as praying acceptably in the state 
 of innocence, and efficaciously after their fall. That he lived 
 without prayer can hardly be affirmed ; his studies and medi- 
 tations were an habitual prayer. The neglect of it in his 
 family was probably a fault for which he condemned himself, 
 and which he intended to correct, but that death, as too often 
 happens, intercepted his reformation. 
 
 His political notions were those of an acrimonious and surly 
 republican, for which it is not known that he gave any better 
 reason than that a popular government was the most frugal; 
 for the trappings of a monarchy would set up an ordinary 
 commonwealth. It is surely very shallow policy, that supposes 
 money to be the chief good ; and even this, without con- 
 sidering that the support and expence of a Court is, for 
 the most part, only a particular kind of traffick, by which 
 money is circulated, without any national impoverishment. 
 
 Milton's republicanism was, I am afraid, founded in an 
 envious hatred of greatness, and a sullen desire of indepen- 
 dence ; in petulance impatient of contrpul, and pride disdain- 
 ful of superiority. He hated monarchs in the state, and 
 prelates in the church ; for he hated all whom he was required 
 to obey. It is to be suspected, that his predominant desire 
 was to destroy rather than establish, and that he felt not so 
 much the love of liberty as repugnance to authority. 
 
 It has been observed, that they who most loudly clamour 
 for liberty do not most liberally grant it. What we know of 
 Milton's character, in domestick relations, is, that he was severe 
 and arbitrary. His family consisted of women; and there 
 appears in his books something like a Turkish contempt of 
 females, as subordinate and inferior beings. . That his own 
 daughters might not break the ranks, be suffered them to be 
 depressed by a mean and penurious education. He thought 
 woman made only for obedience, and man only for rebellion. 
 
 Of his family some account may be expected. His sister, 
 first married to Mr. Philips, afterwards married Mr. Agar, a 
 
94 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 friend of her first husband, who succeeded him in the Crown- 
 office. She had by her first husband Edward and John, the 
 two nephews whom Milton educated; and by her second, 
 two daughters. 
 
 His brother, Sir Christopher, had two daughters, Mary and 
 Catherine, and a son Thomas, who succeeded Agar in the 
 Crown-office, and left a daughter living in 1749 in Grosvenor- 
 street. 
 
 Milton had children only by his first wife ; Anne, Mary, 
 and Deborah. Anne, though deformed, married a master- 
 builder, and died of her first child. Mary died single. De- 
 borah married Abraham Clark, a weaver in Spitalfields, and 
 lived seventy-six years, to August 1727. This is the daughter 
 of whom publick mention has been made. She could repeat 
 the first lines of Homer, the Metamorphoses, and some of 
 Euripides, by having often read them. Yet here incredulity 
 is ready to make a stand. Many repetitions are necessary 
 to fix in the memory lines not understood ; and why should 
 Milton wish or want to hear them so often ? These lines were 
 at the beginning of the poems. Of a book written in a 
 language not understood, the beginning raises no more atten- 
 tion than the end ; and as those that understand it know 
 commonly the beginning best, its rehearsal will seldom be 
 necessary. It is not likely that Milton required any passage 
 to be so much repeated as that his daughter could learn it; 
 nor likely that he desired the initial lines to be read at all ; 
 nor that the daughter, weary of the drudgery of pronouncing 
 un-ideal sounds, would voluntarily commit them to memory. 
 
 TTothis gentlewoman Addison made a present, and promised 
 some establishment; but died soon after. Queen Caroline 
 sent her fifty guineas. She had seven sons and three 
 daughters ; but none of them had any children, except her 
 son Caleb and her daughter Elizabeth. Caleb went to Fort 
 St. George in the East Indies, and had two sons, of whom 
 nothing is now known. Elizabeth married Thomas Foster, 
 
i674] MILTON. , 95 
 
 a weaver in Spitalfields, and had seven children, who all died. 
 She kept a petty grocer's or chandler's shop, first at HoUoway, 
 and afterwards in Cock-lane near Shoreditch Church. She 
 knew little of her grandfather, and that little was not good. 
 She told of his harshness to his daughters, and his refusal to 
 have them taught to write ; and, in opposition to other 
 accounts, represented him as delic^tej though temperate, in 
 his diet. 
 
 In 1750, April 5, Comus was played for her benefit. She 
 had so little acquaintance with diversion or gaiety, that she 
 did not know what was intended when a benefit was offered 
 her. The profits of the night were only one hundred and 
 thirty pounds, though Dr. Newton brought a large contribu- 
 tion ; and twenty pounds were given by Tonson, a man who 
 is to be praised as often as he is named. Of this sum one 
 hundred pounds was placed in the stocks, after some debate 
 between her and her husband in whose name it should be 
 entered ; and the rest augmented their little stock, with which 
 they removed to Islington. This was the greatest benefaction 
 that Paradise Lost ever procured the author's descendents 
 and to this he who has now attempted to relate his Life, had 
 the honour of contributing a Prologue. 
 
 In the examination of Milton's poetical works I shall pay so 
 much regard to time as to begin with his juvenile productions 
 For his early pieces he seems to have had a degree of fond- 
 ness not very laudable : what he has once written he resolves to 
 preserve, and gives to the publick an unfinished poem, which he 
 broke off because he was nothing satisfied with what he had done, 
 supposing his readers less nice than himself. These preludes 
 to his future labours are in Italian, Latin, and EngHsh. Of 
 the ItaUan I cannot pretend to speak as a critick ; but I have 
 heard them commended by a man well qualified to decide 
 their merit. The Latin pieces are lusciously elegant ; but the 
 delight which they afford is rather by the exquisite imitation 
 
96 MILtON. [1608— 
 
 of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction, and the 
 harmony of the nurnbers, than by any power of invention, or 
 vigour of sentiment. They are not all of equal value ; the 
 elegies excell the odes ; and some of the exercises on 
 Gunpowder Treason might have been spared. 
 
 The English poems, though they make no promises of 
 Paradise Lost, have this evidence of genius, that they have 
 a cast original and unborrowed. But their pecuharity is not 
 excellence; if they differ from verses of others, they differ 
 for the worse ; for they are too often distinguished by repulsive 
 harshness ; the combinations of words are new, but they are 
 not pleasing ; the rhymes and epithets seem to be laboriously 
 sought, and violently applied. 
 
 That in the early parts of his life he wrote with much care 
 appears from his manuscripts, happily preserved at Cambridge, 
 in which many of his' smaller works are found as they were 
 first written, with the subsequent corrections. Such reUques 
 shew how excellence is^eqtiired ; what we hope ever to do 
 with ease, we may learn first to do with diligence. 
 
 Those who admire the beauties of this great poet, sometimes 
 force their own judgement into false approbation of his little 
 pieces, and prevail upon themselves to think that admirable 
 which is only singular. All that short compositions can 
 commonly attain is neatness and elegance. Milton never 
 learned the art of doing little things with grace; he overlooked 
 the milder excellence of suavity and softness ; he was a Lion 
 that had no skill in dandling the Kid. 
 
 One of the poems on which much praise has been bestowed 
 is Lycidas; of which the diction is harsh, the rhymes uncer- 
 tain, and the numbers unpleasing. What beauty there is, we 
 must therefore seek in the sentiments and images. It is not 
 to be considered as the efiusion of real passion ; for passion 
 runs not after remote allusions and obscure opinions. Passion 
 plucks no berries from the myrtle and ivy, nor calls upon 
 Arethuse and Mincius, nor tells of rough satyrs and fauns with 
 
1674] MILTON. 97 
 
 cloven heel. Where there is leisure for fiction there is little 
 grief. 
 
 In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth ; there 
 is no art, for there^isjiotihing;__ne^ Its form is that of a 
 pfistoral, easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting : whatever 
 images it can supply, are long ago exhausted ; and its inherent 
 improbability always forces dissatisfaction on the mind. When 
 Cowley tells of Hervey that they studied together, it is easy to 
 suppose how much he must miss the companion of his labours, 
 and the partner of his discoveries ; but what image of tender- 
 ness can be excited by these lines ? 
 
 We drove a field, and both together heard 
 ^ What time the grey fly winds her sultry horn. 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night. 
 
 We know that they never drove a field, and that they had no 
 flocks to batten ; and though it be allowed that the representa- 
 tion may be allegorical, the true meaning is so uncertain and 
 remote, that it is never sought because it cannot be known 
 when it is found. 
 
 Among the flocks, and copses, and flowers, appear the 
 heathen deities ; Jove and Phoebus, Neptune and ^olus, with 
 a long train of mythological imagery, such as a College easily 
 supplies. Nothing can less display knowledge, or less exercise 
 .invention, than to tell how a shepherd has lost his companion, 
 and must now feed his flocks alone, without any judge of his 
 skill in piping; and how one god asks another god what is 
 become of Lycidas, and how neither god can tell. He who 
 thus grieves will excite no sympathy ; he who thus praises will 
 confer no honour. 
 
 This poem has yet a grosser fault. With these trifling 
 fictions are mingled the most awful and sacred truths, such as \ 
 ought never to be ■ polluted with such irreverend combinations. > 
 The shepherd likewise is now a feeder of sheep, and after- | 
 wards an ecclesiastical pastor, a superintendent of a Christian ; 
 
 H 
 
98 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 flock. Such equivocations are always unskilful ; but here 
 they are indecent, and at least approach to impiety, of which, 
 however, I believe the writer not to have been conscious. 
 
 Such is the power of reputation justly acquired, that its 
 blaze drives away .the eye from nice examination. Surely no 
 man could have fancied that he read Lycidas with pleasure, 
 had he not known its author. 
 
 Of the two pieces, L'Allegro and II Penseroso, I believe 
 opinion is uniform ; every man that reads them, reads them 
 with pleasure. The author's design is not, what Theobald has 
 remarked, merely to show how objects derive their colours 
 from the mind, by representing the operation of the same things 
 upon the gay and the melancholy temper, or upon the same 
 man as he is differently 'disposed ; but rather how, among the 
 successive variety of appearances, every disposition of mind 
 takes hold on those by which it may be gratified. 
 
 The chearful man hears the lark in the morning ; the pensive 
 man hears the nightingale in the evening. The chearful man 
 sees the cock strut, and hears the horn and hounds echo in 
 the wood ; then walks not unseen to observe the glory of the 
 rising sun, or listen to the singing mUk-maid, and view the 
 labours of the plowman and the mower ; then casts his eyes 
 about him over scenes of smiling plenty, and looks up to the 
 distant tower, the residence of some fair inhabitant ; thus he 
 pursues rural gaiety through a day of labour or of play, and 
 delights himself at night with the fanciful narratives of super- 
 stitious ignorance. 
 
 T^^ pensive man, at one time, walks unseen to muse at mid- 
 night ; and at another hears the sullen curfew. If the weather 
 drives him home, he sits in a room hghted only by glowing 
 embers; or by a lonely lamp outwatches the North Star, to 
 discover the habitation of separate souls, and varies the shades 
 of meditation, by contemplating the magnificent or pathetick 
 scenes of tragick and epic poetry. When the morning comes, 
 a morning gloomy with rain and wind, he walks into the dark 
 
1674] MILTON. 99 
 
 trackless woods, falls asleep by some murmuring water, and 
 with melancholy enthusiasm expects some dream of prognosti- 
 cation, or some musick played by aerial performers. 
 
 Both Mirth and Melancholy are solitary, silent inhabitants of 
 the breast that neither receive nor transmit communication'; 
 no mention is therefore made of a philosophical friend, or a 
 pleasant companion. The seriousness does not arise from any 
 participation of calamity, nor the gaiety from the pleasured 
 of the bottle. 
 
 The man of chearfulness, having exhausted the country, tries 
 what towered cities will afford, and mingles with scenes of 
 splendor, gay assemblies, and nuptial festivities ; but h6 
 mingles a mere spectator, as, when the learned comedies of 
 Jonson, or the wild dramas of Shakspeare, are exhibited, he 
 attends the theatre. 
 
 The pensive man never loses himself in crowds, but walks 
 the cloister, or frequents the cathedral. Milton probably had 
 not yet forsaken the Church. 
 
 Both his characters delight in musick; but he seems to 
 think that chearful notes would have obtained from Pluto a 
 compleat dismission of Eurydice, of whom solemn sounds 
 only procured a conditional release. 
 
 For the old age of Chearfulness he makes no provision; 
 but Melancholy he conducts with great dignity to the close of 
 life. His Chearfulness is without levity, and his Pensiveness 
 without asperity. 
 
 Through these two poems the images are properly selected, 
 and nicely distinguished ; but the colours of the diction seem 
 not sufficiently discriminated. I know not whether the 
 characters are kept sufficiently apart. No mirth can, indeed, 
 be found in his melancholy ; but I am afraid that I always 
 meet some melancholy in his mirth. They are two noble 
 efforts of imagination. 
 
 The greatest of his juvenile performances is the Mask of 
 Comus ; in which may vefy plainly be discovered the dawn of 
 
 H 2 
 
 efy"; 
 
lOO MILTON. [1608— 
 
 twilight of Paradise Lost. Milton appears to have formed 
 very early that system of diction, and mode of verse, which 
 his maturer judgement approved, and from which he never 
 endeavoured nor desired to deviate. 
 
 Nor does Comus afford only a specimen of his language; 
 it exhibits likewise his power of description and his vigour of 
 sentiment, employed in the praise and defence of virtue. A 
 work more truly poetical is rarely found ; allusions, images, 
 and descriptive epithets, embellish almost every period with 
 lavish decoration. As a series of lines, therefore, it may be 
 considered as worthy of all the admiration with which the 
 votaries have received it. 
 
 As a drama it is deficient. The action is not probable. A 
 Masque, in those parts where supe rnatural intervention is 
 admitted, must indeed be given up to all the freaks of imagi- 
 nation ; but, so far as the action is merely human, it ought to 
 be reasonable, which can hardly be said of the conduct of the 
 two brothers ; who, when their sister sinks with fatigue in a 
 pathless wilderness, wander both away together in search of 
 berries too far to find their way back, and leave a helpless 
 L,ady to all the sadness and danger of solitude. This howevei 
 is a defect overbalanced by its convenience. 
 
 What deserves more reprehension is, that the prologue 
 spoken in the wild wood by the attendant Spirit is addressed 
 to the audience ; a mode of communication so contrary to the 
 nature of dramatick representation, that no precedents can 
 support it. 
 
 The discourse of the Spirit is too long; an objection that 
 may be made to almost all the following speeches : they have 
 not the spriteliness of a dialogue animated by reciprocal con- 
 tention, but seem rather declamations deliberately composed, 
 and formally repeated, on a moral question. The auditor 
 therefore listens as to a lecture, without passion, without 
 anxiety. ' 
 
 The-song of Comus has airiness an^i jollity ; but, what may 
 
1674] MILTON. loi 
 
 recommend Milton's morals as well as his poetry, the invitations 
 to pleasure are so general, that they excite no distinct images 
 of corrupt enjoyment, and take no dangerous hold on the 
 fancy. 
 
 The • following soliloquies of Comus and the Lady are 
 elegant, but tedious. The song must owe much to the voice, 
 if it ever can delight. At last the Brothers enter, with too 
 much tranquillity ; and when they have feared lest their sister 
 should be in danger, and hoped- that she is not in danger, the 
 Elder makes a speech in praise of chastity, and the Younger 
 finds how fine it is to be a philosopher. 
 
 Then descends the Spirit in form of a shepherd ; and the 
 Brother, instead of being in haste to ask his help, praises his 
 singing, and enquires his business in that place. It is remark- 
 able, that at this interview the Brother is taken with a short fit 
 of rhyming. The Spirit relates that the Lady is in the power 
 of Comus ; the Brother moralises again ; and the Spirit makes 
 a long narration, of no use because it is false, and therefore 
 unsuitable to a good Being. 
 
 In all these parts the language is poetical, and the senti- 
 ments are generous ; but there is something wanting to allure 
 attention. 
 
 The dispute between the Lady and Comus is the most 
 animated and affecting scene of the drama, and wants nothing 
 but a brisker recJ Brocat ion of objections and replies, to invite 
 attention, and detain it. 
 
 The songs are vigorous, and full of imagery ; but they are 
 harsh in their diction, and not very musical in their numbers. 
 
 Throughout the whole, tlie figures are too bold, and the 
 language too luxuriant for dialogue. It is a drama in the epic 
 style, inelegantly splendid, and tediously instructive. 
 
 The Sonnets were written in different parts of Milton's life, 
 upon different occasions. They "deserve not any particular 
 criticism ; for of the best it can only be said, that they are not 
 bad ; and perhaps only the eighth and the twenty-first are truly 
 
102 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 entitled to this slender commendation. The fabrick of a 
 sonnet, however adapted to the Italian language, has ever 
 succeeded in ours, which, having greater variety of termina- 
 tion, requires the rhymes to be often changed. 
 
 Those little pieces may be dispatched without much anxiety; 
 a 'greater work calls for greater care. I am now to examine 
 Paradise Lost; a poem, which, considered with respect to 
 design , may claim the first place, and with respect to perform- 
 ance the second, among the productions of the human mind. 
 
 By the general consent of criticks, the first praise of genius 
 is due to the writer of an epick poem, as it requires an assem- 
 blage of all the powers which are singly sufficient for other 
 compositions. Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, 
 by calling imagination to the help of reason. Epick poetry 
 undertakes to teach the most important truths by the most 
 pleasing precepts, and therefore relates some great event in the 
 most affecting manner. I^tory must supply the writer with 
 the rudiments of narration, which he must improve and exalt 
 by a nobler art, must animate by dramatick energy, and 
 diversify by retrospection and anticipation ; rnorality must 
 teach him the exact bounds, and different shades, of vice and 
 virtue ; from 2olicy,_and the practice of life, he has to learn 
 the discriminations of character, and the tendency of the 
 passions, either single or combined; and p hysiolog y must 
 supply him with illustrations and images. To put these 
 materials to poetical use, is required an imagination capable 
 of painting nature, and realizing fiction. Nor is he yet a 
 poet till he has attained the whole extension of his language, 
 distinguished all the delicacies of phrase, and all the colours 
 of words, and learned to adjust their different sounds to all 
 the varieties of metrical moderation. 
 
 Bossu^is of opinion that the poet's first work is to find a 
 moral, which his fable is afterwards to illustrate and establish. 
 This seems to have been the process only of Milton ; the moral 
 of other poems is incidental and consequent ; in Milton's only 
 
1^74] . MILTON. lej 
 
 it is essential and intrinsick; His purpose was the most useful 
 
 and the most arduous ; f£J!Hi^i£2iiJ!i£JS!S2iJ2L££^j2„ZS^ '•^ 
 shew the reasonableness of religion, and the necessity of 
 obedience to the Divine Law. 
 
 To convey this moral, there must be a fable, a narration 
 artfully constructed, so as to excite curiosity, and surprise 
 expectation. In this part of his work, Milton must be con- 
 fessed to have equalled every other poet. He has involved 
 in his account of the Fall of Man the events which preceded, 
 iand those that were to follow it : he has interwqventhe whole 
 systemof theology with such propriety, that every part 
 app"ears to be necessary; and scarcely any recital is wished 
 shorter for the sake of quickening the progress of the main 
 action. 
 
 The subject of an epic poem is naturally an event of great 
 importance. That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the 
 conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire. His 
 subject is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of heaven and 
 of earth ; rebellion against the Supreme King, raised by the 
 highest order of created beings ; the overthrow of their host, 
 and the punishment of their crime; the creation of a new- 
 race of reasonable creatures ; their original happiness and 
 innocence, their forfeiture of immortality, and their restoration 
 to hope and peace. 
 
 Great events can be hastened or retarded only by persons 
 of elevated dignity. Before the greatness displayed in 
 Milton's poem, all other greatness shrinks away. The weakest 
 p^of his agents are the highest and noblest of human beings, 
 the original . parents of iiiankind ; with whose actions the 
 elements consented ; on whose rectitude, or deviation of will, 
 depended the state of terrestrial nature, and the condition of 
 all the future inhabitants of the globe. 
 
 Of the other agents in the poem, the chief are such as it is 
 irreverence to name on sUght occasions. The rest were lower 
 powers ; 
 
104 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 ■ — of which the least could wield 
 Those elements, and arm him with the force 
 Of all their regions ; 
 
 powers, which only the controul of Omnipotence restrains 
 from laying creation waste, and filling the vast expanse of 
 space with ruin and confusion. To display the motives and 
 actions of beings thus superiour, so far as human reason can 
 examine them, or human imagination represent them, is the 
 task which this mighty poet has undertaken and performed. 
 
 In the examination of epick poems much speculation is 
 commonly employed upon the characters. The characters in 
 the Paradise Lost, which admit of examination, are those of 
 angels and of man; of angels good and evil; of man in his 
 innocent and sinful state. 
 
 Among the angels, the virtue of Raphael is mild and 
 placid, ofrcasy condescensio n and free co mmunication ; that of 
 Michael is regal and lofty, and, as may seem, attentive to the 
 dignity of his own nature. Abdiel and Gabriel appear occa- 
 sionally, and act as every incident requires; the solitary 
 fidelity of Abdiel is very amiably painted. 
 
 Of the evil angels the characters are more diversified. To 
 Satan, as Addison observes, such sentiments are given as suit - 
 the most exalted and most depraved being. Milton has been cen- 
 sured, by Clarke,\for the impiety which sometimes breaks from 
 Satan's mouth. For there are thoughts, as he justly remarks, 
 which no observation of character can justify, because no good 
 man would willingly permit them to pass, however transiently, 
 through his own mind. To make Satan speak as a rebel, 
 without any such expressions as might taint the reader's imagi- 
 nation, was indeed one of the great difficulties in Milton's 
 undertaking, and I cannot but think that he has extricated 
 himself with great happiness. There is in Satan's speeches 
 little that can give pain to a pious ear. The language of 
 rebellion cannot be the same with that of obedience. The 
 ' Essay on Study. 
 
l674l MILTON. lo's 
 
 malighity of Satan foams in haughtiness and obstinacy; but 
 his expressions are commonly general, and no otherwise offen- 
 sive than as they are wicked. 
 
 The other chiefs of the celestial rebellion are very judiciously 
 discriminated in the first and second books ; and the ferocious 
 character of Moloch appears, both in the battle and the 
 council, with exact consistency. 
 
 To Adam and to Eve are given, during their innocence, 
 such sentiments as innocence can generate and utter. Their 
 love is pure benevolence and mutual veneration ; their repasts 
 are without luxury, and their diligence without toil. Their 
 addresses to their Maker have little more than the voice of 
 admiration and gratitude. Fruition left them nothing to ask, 
 and Innocence left them nothing to fear. 
 
 Biit with guilt enter distrust and discord, mutual accusa- 
 tion, and stubborn self-defence ; they regard each other with 
 alienated minds, and dread their Creator as the avenger of 
 their tra.nsgression. At last they seek shelter in his mercy, 
 soften to repentance, and melt in supplication. Both before 
 and after the Fall, the superiority of Adam is diligently 
 sustained. 
 
 Of the probable and the marvellous, two parts of a vulgar 
 epic poem, which immerge the critick in deep consideration, 
 the Paradise Lost requires little to be said. It contains the 
 history of a miracle, of Creation and Redemption ; it displays 
 the power and the mercy of the Supreme Being ; the probable 
 therefore is marvellous, and the marvellous is probable. The 
 substance of the narrative is truth; and as truth allows no 
 choice, it is, like necessity, superior to rule. To the accidental 
 or adventitious parts, as to every thing human, some slight 
 exceptions may be made. But the main fabrick is immovably 
 supported. 
 
 It is justly remarked by Addison, that this poem has, by 
 the nature of its subject, the advantage above all others, that 
 it is universally and perpetually interesting. All mankind will, 
 
To6 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 through all ages, bear the same relation to Adam and to Eve, 
 ' and must partake of that good and evil which extend to 
 themselves. 
 
 Of the machinery, so called from 9cos a-na jjrixavve, by which 
 is meant the occasional interposition of supernatural power, 
 another fertile topic' of critical remarks, here is no room to 
 speak, because every thing is done under the immediate and 
 visible direction of Heaven ; but the rule is so far observed, 
 that no part of the action could have been accomplished by 
 any other means. , 
 
 Of episodes, I think there are only two, contained in Raphael's 
 relation of the war in heaven, and Michael's prophetick account 
 of the changes to happen in this world. Both are closely 
 connected with the great action ; one was necessary to Adam 
 as a warning, the other as a consolation. 
 
 To the compleatness or integrity of the design nothing can 
 be objected ; it has distinctly and clearly what Aristotle re- 
 quires, a beginning, a middle, and an end. There is perhaps 
 no poem, of the same length, from which so little can be 
 taken without apparent mutilation. Here are no funeral 
 games, nor is there any long description of a shield. The 
 short digressions at the beginning of the third, seventh, and 
 ninth books, might doubtless be spared ; but superfluities so 
 /' beautiful, who would take away ? or who does not wish that 
 ; the author of the Iliad had gratified succeeding ages with a 
 i little knowledge of himself? Perhaps no passages are more 
 frequently or more attentively read than those extrinsick para- 
 graphs ; and, since the end of poetry is pleasure, that cannot 
 be unpoetical vnth which all are pleased. 
 
 The questions, whether the action of the poem be strictly 
 one, whether the poem can be properly termed heroick, and 
 who is the hero, are raised by such readers as draw their 
 principles of judgement rather from books than from reason. 
 Milton, though he intituled Paradise Lost only z.poem, yet calls 
 it himself heroick song. Diyden, petulantly and indecently, 
 
1674] MILTON. 107 
 
 denies the heroism of Adam, because he was overcome ; 
 but there is no reason why the hero should not be unfor- 
 tunate, except established practice, since success and virtue 
 do not go necessarily together. Cato is the hero of Lucan : 
 but Lucan's authority will not be suffered by Quintilian to 
 decide. However, if success be necessary, Adam's deceiver 
 was at last crushed; Adam was restored to his Maker's favour, 
 and therefore may securely resume his human rank. 
 
 After the scheme and fabrick of the poem, must be con- 
 sidered its component parts, the sentiments and the diction. 
 
 The sentiments, as expressive of manners, or appropriated 
 to characters, are, for the greater part, unexceptionably just. 
 
 Splendid passages, containing lessons of morality, or precepts 
 of prudence, occur seldom. Such is the original formation of 
 this poem, that as it admits no human manners till the Fall, it 
 can give little assistance to human conduct. Its end is to 
 raise the thoughts above sublunary cares or pleasures. Yet 
 the praise of that fortitude, with which Abdiel maintained his 
 singularity of virtue against the scorn of multitudes, may be 
 accommodated to all times ; and Raphael's reproof of Adam's 
 curiosity after the planetary motions, with the answer returned 
 by Adam, may be confidently 0££^ed to any rule of life which 
 any poet has delivered. 
 
 The thoughts which are occasionally called forth in the 
 progress, are such as could only be produced by an imagination 
 in the highest degree fervid and active, to which materials were 
 supplied by incessant study and unlimited curiosity. The heat 
 of Milton's mind might be said to sublimate his learning, to 
 throw off into his work the spirit of science, unmingled with 
 its grosser parts. 
 
 He had considered creation in its whole extent, and his 
 descriptions are therefore learned. He had accustomed his 
 imagination to unrestrained indulgence, and his conceptions 
 therefore were extensive. The characteristick quality of his 
 poem is sublimity. He sometimes descends to the elegant. 
 
io8 MILTON. [1608- 
 
 but his element is the great. He can occasionally invest 
 himself with grace; but his natural port is gigantick loftiness.' 
 He can please when pleasure is required ; but it is his pecuHar 
 power to astonish. 
 
 He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, 
 and to know what it was that Nature had bestowed upon him 
 more bountifully than upon others ; the power of displaying, 
 the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, 
 darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful : he 
 therefore chose a subject on which too much could not 
 be said, on which he might tire his fancy without the 
 censure of extravagance. 
 
 The appearances of Nature, and the occurrences of life, did 
 not satiate his appetite of greatness. To paint things as they 
 are requires a minute attention, and employs the memory 
 rather than the fancy. Milton's delight was to sport in the 
 wide regions of possibility ; reality was a scene too narrow for 
 his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, into 
 worlds where only imagination can travel, and delighted to 
 form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and 
 action to superior beings, to trace the counsels of hell, or 
 accompany the choirs of heaven. 
 
 But he could not be always in other worlds : he must 
 sometimes revisit earth, and tell of things visible and known. 
 When he cannot raise wonder by the sublimity of his mind, he 
 gives delight by its fertility. 
 
 Whatever be his subject, he never fails to fill the imagination; 
 But his images and descriptions of the scenes or operations of 
 Nature do not seem to be always copied from original form, 
 nor to have the freshness, raciness, and energy of immediate 
 observation. He saw Nature, as Dryden expresses it, through 
 the spectacles of books ; aftd on most occasions calls learning to 
 his assistance.. The garden of Eden brings to his mind the 
 vale of Enna, where Proserpine was gathering flowers. Satan 
 1 Algarotti terms it giganiesea suUimiih Miltoniana. 
 
1S74] MILTON. 109 
 
 makes his way through fighting elements, like Argo between 
 the Cyanean rocks, or Ulysses between the two Sicilian 
 whirlpools, when he shunned Charybdis on the larboard. The 
 mythological allusions have been justly censured, as not being 
 always used with notjce of their vanity ; but they contribute 
 variety to the narration, and produce an alternate exercise of 
 the memory and the fancy. 
 
 His similies are less numerous, and more various, than those 
 of his predecessors. But he does not confine himself within 
 the limits of rigorous comparison : his great excellence is 
 amplitude, and he expands the adventitious image beyond the 
 dimensions which the occasion required. Thus, comparing 
 the shield of Satan to the orb of the Moon, he crowds the 
 imagination with the discovery of the telescope, and all the 
 wonders which the telescope discovers. 
 
 Of his moral sentiments it is hardly praise to affirm that they 
 excel those of all other poets ; for this superiority he was 
 indebted to his acquaintance with the sacred writings. The 
 ancient epick poets, wanting the light of Revelation, were very 
 unskilful teachers of virtue : their principal characters may be 
 great, but they are not amia ble. The reader may rise from 
 their works with a greater degree of active or passive fortitude, 
 and sometimes of prudence ; but he will be able to carry away' 
 few precepts of justice, and none of mercy. 
 
 From the Italian writers it appears, that the advantages of 
 even Christian knowledge may be supEOsed in vain. Ariosto's vi 
 pravity is generally known ; and though the Deliverance of 
 Jerusalem may be considered as a sacred subject, the poet has ^ 
 been very sparing of moral instruction. 
 
 In Milton every line breathes sanctity of thought, and purity 
 of manners, except when the train of the narration requires the 
 introduction of the rebellious Spirits ; and even they are com'- 
 pelled to acknowledge their subjection to God, in such a manner 
 as excites reverence, and confirms piety. 
 
 Of human beings there are but two ; but those two are the 
 
no MILTON. [1608^ 
 
 parents of mankind, venerable before their fall for dignity and 
 innocence, and amiable after it for repentance and submission. 
 In their first state their affection is tender without weakness, 
 and their piety sublime without presumption. When they^have 
 sinned, they shew how discord begins in mutual frailty, and 
 how it ought to cease in mutual forbearance ; how confidence 
 of the divine favour is forfeited by sin, and how hope of 
 pardon may be obtained by penitence and prayer. A state of 
 innocence we can only conceive, if indeed, in our present 
 misery, it be possible to conceive it ; but the sentiments and 
 worship proper to a fallen and offending being, we have all to 
 learn, as we have all to practise. 
 
 The poet, whatever be done, is always great. Our pro- 
 genitors, in their first state, conversed with angels ; even when 
 folly and sin had degraded them, they had not in their 
 humiliation the port of mean suitors ; and they rise again to 
 reverential regard, when we find that their prayers were 
 heard. 
 
 As human passions did not enter the world before the Fall, 
 there is in the Paradise Lost little opportunity for the pathetick ; 
 but what little there is has not been lost. That passion which 
 , is peculiar to rational nature, the anguish arising from the 
 consciousness of transgression, and the horrors attending the 
 sense of the Divine displeasure, are very justly described and 
 forcibly impressed. But the passions are moved only on one 
 occasion; sublimity is the general and prevailing quality in 
 this poem ; sublimity variously modified, sometimes descriptive, 
 sometimes argumentative. 
 
 The defects and faults of Paradise Lost, for faults and 
 defects every work of man must have, it is the business of 
 impartial criticism to discover. As, in displaying the excel- 
 lence of Milton, I have not made long quotations, because of 
 selecting beauties there had been no end, I shall in the same 
 general manner mention that which seems to deserve censure ; 
 for what Englishman can take delight in transcribing passages, 
 
1674] MILTON. II r 
 
 which, if they lessen the reputation of Milton, diminish in 
 some degree the honour of our country ? 
 
 The generality of my scheme does not admit the frequent 
 notice of verbal inaccuracies ; which Bentley, perhaps better 
 skilled in grammar than in poetry, has often found, though he 
 sometimes made them, and which he imputed to the obtru- , 
 sions of a reviser whom the author's blindness obliged him 
 to employ. A supposition rash and groundless, if he thought 
 it true ; and vile and pernicious, if, as is said, he in private 
 allowed it to be false. 
 
 The plan of Paradise Lost has this inconvenience, that it 
 comprises neither human actions nor human manners. The 
 man and woman who act and suffer, are in a state which 
 no other man or woman can ever know. The reader finds 
 no transaction in which he can be engaged ; beholds no 
 condition in which he can by any effort of imagination 
 place himself; he has, therefore, little natural curiosity or 
 sympathy. 
 
 We all, indeed, feel the effects of Adam's disobedience ; we 
 all sin like Adam, and like hitti must all bewail our offences ; 
 we have restless and insidious enemies in the fallen angels, 
 and in the blessed spirits we have guardians and friends ; in 
 the Redemption of mankind we hope to be included : in 
 the description of heaven and hell we are surely interested, 
 as we are all to reside hereafter either in the regions of horror 
 or bliss. - 
 
 But these truths are too important to be new; they have <k 
 been taught to our infancy; they have mingled with our soli-fK: 
 tary thoughts and familiar conversation, and are habitually ^" 
 interwoven with the whole texture of life. Being therefore 
 not new, they raise no unaccustomed emotion in the mind ; 
 what we knew before, we cannot learn ; what is not unexpected, 
 cannot surprise. 
 
 Of the ideas suggested by these awful scenes, from some we 
 recede with reverence, except when stated hours require their 
 
112 MILTON. [1608^ 
 
 association ; and from others we shrink with horrour, or admit 
 them only as salutary inflictions, as counterpoises to our in- 
 terests and passions. Such images rather obstruct the career 
 of fancy than incite it 
 
 Pleasure and terrour are indeed the genuine soMces of 
 poetry ; but poetical pleasure must be such as human imagi- 
 nation can at least conceive, and poetical terrour such as 
 human strength and fortitude may combat. The good and 
 evil of Eternity are too ponderous for the wings of wit; the 
 mind sinks under them in passive helplessness, content with 
 calm belief and humble adoration. 
 
 Known truths, however, may take a different appearance, 
 and be conveyed to the mind by a new train of intermediate 
 images. This Milton has undertaken, and performed with 
 pregnancy and vigour of mind peculiar to himself. Whoever 
 considers the few radical positions which the Scriptures afforded 
 him, will wonder by what energetick operation he expanded 
 them to such extent, and ramified them to so much variety, 
 restrained as he was by religious reverence from licentiousness 
 of fiction. 
 
 Here is a full display of the united force of study and 
 genius ; of a great accumulation of materials, with judgement 
 to digest, and fancy to combine them : Milton was able to 
 select from nature, or from story, from ancient fable, or from 
 rhodern science, whatever could illustrate or adorn his thoughts. 
 An accumulation of knowledge impregnated his mind, fer- 
 mented by study, and exalted by imagination. 
 
 It has been therefore said, without an indecent hyperbole, 
 by one of his encomiasts, that in reading Paradise Lost we 
 read a book of universal knowledge. 
 
 But original deficience cannot be supplied. The want of 
 human interest is always felt. Paradise Lost is one of the 
 books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to 
 take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is. Its 
 perusal is a duty rather than a pleasure. We read Milton for 
 
1674] MILTON. 113 
 
 instruction, retireTharassed and overburdened, and look else- 
 where for recreation ; we desert our master, and seek for 
 companions. 
 
 Another inconvenience of Milton's design is, that it requires 
 the description of what cannot be described, the agency of 
 spirits. He saw that immateriaUty supplied no images, and 
 that he could not show angels acting but by instruments of 
 action : he therefore invested them with form and matter. 
 This, being necessary, was therefore defensible ; and he should 
 have secured the consistency of his " system, by keeping 
 immateriality out of sight, and enticing his reader to drep it 
 from his thoughts. But he has unhappily perplexed his poetry 
 with his philosophy. His infernal and celestial powers are 
 sometimes pure spirit, and sometimes animated body. When 
 Satan walks with his lance upon the burning marie, he has a 
 body ; when, in his passage between hell and the new world, 
 he is in danger of sinking in the vacuity, and is supported by 
 a gust of rising vapours, he has a body ; when he animates 
 the toad, he seems to be mere spirit, that can penetrate matter 
 at pleasure; when he starts up in his own shape, he has at 
 least a determined form; and when he is brought before 
 Gabriel, he has a spear and a shield, which he had the power 
 of hiding in the toad, though the arms of the contending angels 
 are evidently material. 
 
 The vulgar inhabitants of Pandsemonium, being incorporeal 
 spirits, are at large, though without number, in a limited space ; 
 yet in the battle, when they were overwhelmed by mountains, 
 their armour hurt them, crushed in upon their substance, now 
 grown gross by sinning. This likewise happened to the un- 
 corrupted angels, who were overthrown the sooner for their arms, 
 for utiarmed they might easily as spirits have evaded by contraction 
 or remove. Even as spirits they are hardly spiritual ; for con- 
 traction and remove are images of matter ; but if they could 
 have escaped without their armour, they might have escaped 
 from it, and left only the empty cover to be battered. Uriel, 
 
 I 
 
114 MILTON. [i6oS— 
 
 when he rides on a sun-beam, is material; Satan is material 
 when he is afraid of the prowess of Adam. 
 
 The confusion of spirit and matter which pervades the 
 whole narration of the war of heaven fills it with incon- 
 gruity : and the book, in which it is related, is, I beHeve, the 
 favourite of children, and gradually neglected as knowledge 
 is increased. 
 
 After the operation of immaterial agents, which cannot be 
 explained, may be considered that of allegorical persons, 
 which have no real existence. To exalt causes into agents, 
 to invest abstract ideas with form, and animate them with 
 activity, has always been the right of poetry. But such airy 
 beings are, for the most part, suffered only to do their natural 
 office, and retire. Thus Fame tells a tale, and Victory hovers 
 over a general, or perches on a standard ; but Fame and 
 Victory can do no more. To give them any real employ- 
 ment, or ascribe to them any material agency, is to make 
 them allegorical no longer, but to shock the mind by ascribing 
 effects to non-entity. In the Prometheus of ^schylus, we see 
 Violence and Strength, and in the Alcestis of Euripides, we see 
 Death, brought upon the stage, all as active persons of the 
 drama ; but no precedents can justify absurdity. 
 
 Milton's allegory of Sin and Death is undoubtedly faulty. 
 Sin is indeed the mother of Death, and may be allowed to be 
 the portress of hell ; but when they stop the journey of Satan, 
 a journey described as real, and when Death offers him battle, 
 the allegory is broken. That Sin and Death should have 
 shewn the way to hell, might have been allowed; but 
 they cannot facilitate the passage by building a bridge, 
 because the difficulty of Satan's passage is described as real 
 and sensible, and the bridge ought to be only figurative. The 
 ' hell assigned to the rebellious spirits is described as not less 
 local than the residence of man. It is placed in some distant 
 part of space, separated from the regions of harmony and 
 order by a chaotick waste and an unoccupied vacuity; but 
 
1674] MILTON. 115 
 
 Sin and Death worked up a male of aggravated soil, cemented 
 with asphaltus ; a work too bulky for ideal architects. 
 
 This unskilful allegory appears to me one of the greatest 
 faults of the poem ; and to this there was no temptation, but 
 the author's opinion of its beauty. 
 
 To the conduct of the narrative some objections may be 
 made. Satan is with great expectation brought before Gabriel 
 in Paradise, and is suffered to go away unmolested. The 
 creation of man is represented as the consequence of the 
 vacuity left in heaven by the expulsion of the rebels ; yet 
 Satan mentions it as a report rife in heaven before his de- 
 parture. 
 
 To find sentiments for the state of innocence, was very 
 difficult ; and something of anticipation perhaps is now and 
 then discovered. Adam's discourse of dreams "seems not to be 
 the speculation of a new-created being. I know not whether 
 his answer to the angel's reproof for curiosity does not want 
 something of propriety : it is the speech of a man acquainted 
 with many other men. Some philosophical notions, especially 
 when the philosophy is false, might have been better omitted. 
 The angel, in a comparison, speaks of timorous deer, before 
 deer were yet timorous, and before Adam could understand 
 the comparison. 
 
 Dryden remarks, that Milton has some flats among his 
 elevations. This is only to say, that all the parts are not 
 equal. In every work, one part must be for the sake of 
 others ; a palace must have passages ; a poem must have 
 transitions. It is no more, to be required that wit should always 
 be blazing, than that the sun should always stand at noon. 
 In a great work there is a vicissitude of luminous and opaque 
 parts, as there is in the world a succession of day and night. 
 Milton, when he has expatiated in the sky, may be allowed 
 sometimes to revisit earth ; for what other author ever soared 
 so high, or sustained his flight §0 long ? 
 
 Milton, being well versed in the Italian poets, appears to 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 have borrowed often from them ; and, as every man catches 
 something from his companions, his desire of imitating 
 Ariosto's levity has disgraced his work with the Paradise of 
 Fools ; a fiction not in itself ill-imagined, but too ludicrous 
 for its place. 
 
 His play on words, in which he delights too often ; his 
 equivocations, which Bentley endeavours to defend by the 
 example of the ancients ; his unnecessary and ungraceful use 
 of terms of art ; it is not necessary to mention, because they 
 are easily remarked, and generally censured, and at last bear 
 so little proportion to the whole, that they scarcely deserve 
 the attention of a critick. 
 
 Such are the faults of that wonderful performance Paradise 
 Lost ; which he who can put in balance with its beauties must 
 be considered not as nice but as dull, as less to be censured 
 for want of candour, than pitied for want of sensibility. 
 
 Of Paradise Regained, the general judgement seems now to 
 be right, that it is in many parts elegant, and everywhere 
 instructive. It was not to be supposed that the writer of 
 Paradise Lost could ever write without great effusions of 
 fancy, and exalted precepts of wisdom. The basis of Para' 
 dise Regained is narrow ; a dialogue without action can never 
 please like an union of the narrative and dramatick powers. 
 Had this poem been written not by Milton, but by some 
 imitator, it would have claimed and received universal praise. 
 
 If Paradise Regained has been too much depreciated, 
 Sampson Agonistes has in requital been too much admired. 
 It could only be by long prejudice, and the bigotry of learning, 
 that Milton could prefer the ancient tragedies, with their 
 encumbrance of a chorus, to the exhibitions of the French 
 and English stages; and it is only by a blind confidence in 
 the reputation of Milton, that a drama can be praised in 
 which the intermediate parts have neither cause nor con- 
 sequence, neither hasten nor retard the catastrophe. 
 
 In this tragedy are however many particular beauties, many 
 
1674] MILTON. 117 
 
 just sentiments and striking lines ; but it wants that power of 
 attracting the attention which a well-connected plan produces. 
 
 Milton would not have excelled in dramatick writing ; he \ 
 knew human nature only in the gross, and had never studied j 
 the shades of character, nor the combinations of concurring, / 
 or the perplexity of contending passions. He had read much, 
 and knew what books could teach ; but had mingled little in 
 the world, and was deficient in the knowledge which experience 
 must confer. 
 
 Through all his greater works there prevails an uniform 
 peculiarity of Diction, a mode and cast of expression which 
 bears little resemblance to that of any former writer, and which 
 is so far removed from common use, that an unlearned reader, 
 when he first opens his book, finds himself surprised by a new 
 language. 
 
 This novelty has been, by those who can find nothing wrong 
 in Milton, imputed to his laborious endeavours after words • 
 suitable to the grandeur of his ideas. Our language, says ' 
 Addison, sunk under him. But the truth is, that, both in prose |ii 
 and verse, he had formed his style by a perverse and pedantick 
 principle. He was desirous to use English words with a 
 foreign idiom. This in all his prose is discovered and con- 
 demned ; for there judgement operates freely, neither softened 
 by the beauty, nor awed by the dignity of his thoughts ; but 
 such is the power of his poetry, that his call is obeyed without 
 resistance, the reader feels himself in captivity to a higher and 
 a nobler mind, and criticism sinks in admiration. 
 
 Milton's style was not modified by his subject: what is 
 shewn with greater extent in Paradise Lost, may be found in 
 Comus. One source of his peculiarity was his familiarity with 
 the Tuscan poets : the disposition of his words is, I think, 
 frequently Italian ; perhaps sometimes combined with other 
 tongues. Of him, at last, may be said what Jonson says of 
 Spenser, that he wrote no language, but has formed what Butler 
 calls a Babylonish Dialect, in itself harsh and barbarous, but 
 
Ii8 MILTON. [1608— 
 
 made by exalted genius, and extensive learning, the vehicle of 
 so much instruction and so much pleasure, that, like other 
 lovers, we find grace in its deformity. 
 
 Whatever be the faults of his diction, he cannot want the 
 praise of copiousness and variety ; he was master of his 
 language in its full extent; and has selected the melodious 
 words with such diligence, that from his book alone the Art 
 of English Poetry might be learned. 
 
 After his diction, something must be said of his versification. 
 The measure, he says, is the English heroick verse without rhyme. 
 Of this mode he had many examples among the Italians, 
 and some in his own country. The Earl of Surrey is said to 
 have translated one of Virgil's books without rhyme ; and, 
 besides our tragedies, a few short poems had appeared in 
 blank verse ; particularly one tending to reconcile the nation 
 to Raleigh's wild attempt upon Guiana, and probably written 
 by Raleigh himself. These petty performances cannot be 
 supposed to have much influenced Milton, who more probably 
 took his hint from Trisino's Italia Liberata ; and, finding blank 
 verse easier than rhyme, was desirous of persuading himself 
 that it is better. 
 
 Rhyme, he says, and says truly, is tw necessary adjunct of true 
 poetry. But perhaps, of poetry as a mental operation, metre 
 or musick is no necessary adjunct : it is however by the musick 
 of metre that poetry has been discriminated in. all languages; 
 and in languages melodiously constructed with a due propor- 
 r tioh of long and short syllables, metre is sufficient. But one 
 ' language cannot communicate its rules to another : where 
 metre is scanty and imperfect, some help is necessary. The 
 musick of the English heroick line strikes the ear so faintly 
 Y that it is easily lost, unless all the syllables of every line co- 
 operate together : this co-operation can be only obtained by 
 the preservation of every verse unmingled with another, as a 
 distinct system of sounds ; and this distinctness is obtained and 
 preserved by the artifice of rhyme. The variety of pauses, 
 
1674] MILTON. 119 
 
 SO much boasted by the lovers of blank verse, changes the 
 measures of an English poet to the periods of a declaimer ; 
 and there are only a few skilful and happy readers of Milton, 
 who enable their audience to perceive where the' lines end or 
 begin. Blank verse, said an ingenious critick, seems to be verse 
 only to the eye. 
 
 Poetry may subsist without rhyme, but English J^^^^^ 
 not often ple ase ; nor can rhyme ever be safely spared but 
 where the subject is able to support itself Blank verse makes 
 some approach to that which is called the lapidary style; has 
 neither the easiness of prose, nor the melody of numbers, and 
 therefore tires by long^^tmuance. Of the Italian writers 
 without rhyme, whom Milton alleges as precedents, not one 
 is popular ; what reason could urge in its defence, has been 
 confuted by the ear. 
 
 But, whatever be the advantage of rhyme, I cannot prevail 
 on myself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer ; for-J 
 cannot wish his work to be other than it is ; yet, Uke other 
 heroes, he^isjtobe admired rather_than imitated. He that 
 thinks himself capable of astonishing, may write blank verse ; 
 but those that hope only to please, must condescend to 
 rhyme. 
 
 The highest_grai§£_u£-g£nius is original invention. Milton 
 cannot be said to have contrived The structure of an epick 
 poem, and therefore owes reverence to that vigour and ampli- 
 tude of mind to whicTi all generations must be indebted for 
 the art of poetical narration, for the texture of the fable, the 
 variation of incidents, the interposition of dialogue, and all 
 the stratagems that surprise and enchain attention. But, ot 
 all the borr owers from Homer, Milton is perhaps the least 
 indebted. He was naturally a thinker for himself, confident 
 of his own abilities, and disdainful of help or hindrance : he 
 did not refuse admission to the thoughts or images of his 
 predecessors, but he did not seek them. From his contempo- 
 raries he' neither courted nor received support ; there is in his 
 
I20 MILTON. [1608— 1674 
 
 writings nothing by which the pride of other authors might 
 be gratified, or favour gained; no exchange of praise, nor 
 solicitation of support. His great works were performed 
 under discountenance, and in blindness, but difficulties van- 
 ished at his touch ; he was born for whatever is arduous ; >and 
 his work is not the greatest of heroick poems, only because 
 it is not the first. 
 
D R Y D E N. 
 
 163I— JJ**T I' 
 
 Of the great poet whose life I am about to delineate, the 
 curiosity which his reputation must excite will require a 
 display more ample than can now be given. His contem- 
 poraries, however they reverenced his genius, left his life 
 unwritten ; and nothing therefore can be known beyond what 
 casual mention and uncertain -tradition have supplied. 
 
 John Dryden was bom August 9, 1631, at Aldwincle near 
 Oundle, the son of Erasmus Dryden of Tichmersh ; who was 
 the third son of Sir Erasmus Dryden, Baronet, of Canons 
 Ashby. All these places are in Northamptonshire; but the 
 original stock of the family was in the county of Huntingdon. 
 
 He is repoirted by his last biographer, Derrick, to have 
 inherited from his father an estate of two hundred a year, 
 and to have been bred, as was said, an Anabaptist. For either 
 of these particulars no authority is given. Such a fortune 
 ought to have secured him from that poverty which seems 
 always to have oppressed him ; or if he had wasted it, to have 
 made him ashamed of publishing his necessities. But though 
 he had many enemies, who undoubtedly examined his life with 
 a scrutiny sufficiently malicious, I do not remember that he is 
 ever charged with waste of his patrimony. He was indeed 
 
122 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 sometimes reproached for his first religion. I am therefore 
 indined to believe that Derrick's intelligence was partly true, 
 and partly erroneous. 
 
 From Westminster School, where he was instructed as one 
 of the king's scholars by Dr. Busby, whom he long after 
 continued to reverence, he was in 1 650 elected to one of the 
 Westminster scholarships at Cambridge. 
 
 Of his school performances has appeared only a poem on 
 the death of Lord Hastings, composed with great ambition of 
 such conceits as, notwithstanding the reformation begun by 
 Waller and Denham, the example of Cowle"y still kept in 
 reputation. Lord Hastings died of the small-pox, and his poet 
 has made of the pustules first rosebuds, and then gems ; at 
 last exalts them into stars ; and says. 
 
 No comet need foretell his change drew on, 
 Whose corps might seem a constellation. ' 
 
 At the university he does not appear to have been eager of 
 poetical distinction, or to have lavished his early wit either 
 on fictitious subjects or public occasions. He probably con- 
 sidered that he who purposed to be an author, ought first to 
 be a student. He obtained, whatever was the reason, no 
 fellowship in the College. Why he was excluded cannot now 
 be known, and it is vain to guess ; had he thought himself 
 injured, he knew how to complain. In the Life of Plutarch 
 he mentions his education in the College with gratitude ; but 
 in a prologue at Oxford, he has these lines : 
 
 Oxford to him a dearer name shall be 
 Than his own mother-university ; 
 Thebes did his rude unknowing youth engage ; 
 He chooses Athens in his riper age. 
 
 It was not till the death of Cromwell, in 1658, that he 
 became a pubhc candidate for fame, by publishing Heroic 
 Stanzas on the late Lord Protector; which, compared with 
 
l7ot] DRYDEN. 123 
 
 the verses of Sprat and Waller on the same occasion, were 
 sufficient to raise great exp ectations of the rising poet. 
 
 When the king was restored, Dryden, like the other 
 panegpists of usurpation, changed his opinion, or his pro- 
 fession, and published Astrea Redux, a poem on the happy 
 restoration and return of his most sacred Majesty King 
 Charles the Second. 
 
 The reproach of inconstancy was, on this occasion, shared 
 with such numbers, that it produced neither hatred nor dis- 
 grace ; if he changed, he changed with the ' nation. It was, 
 however, not totally forgotten when his reputation raised him 
 enemies. 
 
 The same year he praised the new king in a second poem 
 on his restoration. In the Astrea was the line, 
 
 An horrid stillness first includes the ear, 
 And in that silence we a tempest fear ; 
 
 for which he was persecuted with perpetual ridicule, perhaps 
 with more than was deserved. Silence is indeed mere priva- 
 tion; and, so considered, cannot invade; but privation likewise 
 certainly is darkness, and probably cold; yet poetry has never 
 been refused the right of ascribing effects or agency to them 
 as to positive powers. No man scruples to say that darkness 
 hinders him from his work ; or that cold has killed the plants. 
 Death is also privation, yet who has made any difficulty of 
 assigning to Death a dart and the power of striking ? 
 
 In settling the order of his works, there is some difficulty ; 
 for, even when they are important enough to be formally 
 offered to a patron, he does not commonly date his dedication; 
 the time of writing and publishing is not always the same ; 
 nor can the first editions be easily found, if even from them 
 could be obtained the necessary information. 
 
 The time at which his first play was exhibited is not cer- 
 tainly known, because it was not printed till it was some years 
 afterwards altered and revived; but since the plays are said, 
 
124 DRYDEN. " [1631— 
 
 to be printed in the order in which they were written, from the 
 dates of some, those of others may be inferred ; and thus it 
 may be collected that in 1663, in the thirty-second year of his 
 life, he commenced a writer for the stage; compelled un- 
 doubtedly by necessity, for he appears never to have loved 
 that exercise of his genius, or to have much pleased himself 
 with his own dramas. 
 
 Of the stage, when he had once invaded it, he kept posses- 
 sion for many years ; not indeed without the competition of 
 rivals who sometimes prevailed, or the censure of criticks, 
 which was often poignant and often just ; but with such a 
 degree of reputation as made him at least secure of being 
 heard, whatever might be the final determination of the public. 
 
 His first piece was a comedy called th e Wild Gallant. He 
 began with no happy auguries ; for his performance was so much 
 disapproved, that he was compelled to recall it, and change 
 it from its imperfect state to the form in which it now appears, 
 and which is yet sufficiently defective to vindicate the criticks. 
 
 I wish that there were no necessity of following the progress 
 of his theatrical fame, or tracing the meanders of his mind 
 through the whole series of his draniatick performances ; it 
 will be fit however to enumerate them, and to take especial 
 notice of those that are distinguished by any peculiarity intrin- 
 sick or concomitant; for the composition and fate of eight and 
 twenty dramas include too much of a poetical life to be omitted. 
 
 In 1664 he published the RimlLadies, which he dedicated 
 to the Earl of Orrery, a man of high reputation both as a 
 writer and a statesman. In this play he made his essay of 
 dramatick rhyme, which he defends in his dedication, with 
 sufficient certainty of a favourable hearing; for Orrery was 
 himself a writer of rhyming tragedies. 
 
 He then joined with Sir Robert Howard in the Indian 
 Queen, a tragedy in rhyme. The parts which either of them 
 wrote are not distinguished. 
 
 The Indian Emperor was published in 1667. It is a tragedy 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 125 
 
 in rhyme, intended for a sequel to Howard's Indian Queen. 
 Of this connection notice was given to the audience by printed 
 bills distributed at the door j an expedient supposed to be ridi- 
 culed in the Rehearsal, when Bayes tells how many reams he has 
 printed, to instil into the audience some conception of his plot. 
 
 In this play is the description of Night, which Rymer has 
 made famous by preferring it to those of all other poets. 
 
 The practice of making tragedies in rhyme was introduced 
 soon after the Restoration, as it seems by the Earl of Orrery, 
 in compliance with the opinion of Charles the Second, who 
 had formed his taste by the French theatre ; and Dryden, who 
 wrote, and made no difficulty of declaring that he wrote, only 
 to please, and who perhaps knew that by his dexterity of 
 versification he was more likely to excel others in rhyme than 
 without it, very readily adopted his master's preference. He 
 therefore made rhyming tragedies, till, by the prevalence of 
 manifest propriety, he seems to have grown ashamed of making 
 them any longer. 
 
 To this play is prefixed a very vehement defence of dra- 
 matick rhyme, in confutation of the preface to the Duke of 
 Lerma, in which Sir Robert Howard had censured it 
 
 In 1667 he published Annus Mirabili s. the Year of Wonders, 
 which may be esteemed one of his most elaborate works. 
 
 It is addressed to Sir Robert Howard by a letter, which is 
 not properly a dedication; and, writing to a poet, he has 
 interspersed many critical observations, of which some are 
 common, and some perhaps ventured without much considera- 
 tion. He began, even now, to exercise the domination of 
 conscious genius, by recommending his own performance: 
 " I am satisfied that as the Prince and General [Rupert and 
 Monk] are incomparably the best subjects I ever had, so 
 what I have written on them is much better than what I have 
 performed on any other. As I have endeavoured to adorn 
 my poem with noble thoughts, so much more to express those 
 thoughts with elocution." 
 
126 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 It is written in quatrains, or heroick stanzas of four lines ; a 
 
 f measure which he had learned from the Gondibert of Davenant, 
 
 I and which he then thought the most majestick that the 
 
 '.English language affords. Of this stanza he mentions the 
 
 ^encumbrances, en creased as they were by the exactness which 
 
 ;the age required. It was, throughout his life, very much his 
 
 y custom to recommend his works, by representation of the 
 
 difficulties that he had encountered, without appearing to have 
 
 sufficiently considered, that where there is no difficulty there 
 
 is no praise. 
 
 There seems to be in the conduct of Sir Robert Howard 
 and Dryden towards each other, something that is not now 
 easily to be explained. Dryden, in his dedication to the Earl 
 of Orrery, had defended dramatick .Thyme ; and Howard, in 
 the preface to a collection of plays, had censured his opinion. 
 Dryden vindicated himself in his Dial9gu«^-on -Dramatick 
 Poetry ; Howard, in his Preface to the Duke of Lerma, ani- 
 madverted on the Vindication ; and Dryden, in a Preface to 
 the Indian Emperor, replied to the Animadversions with great 
 asperity, and almost with contumely. The dedication to this 
 play is dated the year in which the Annus Mirabilis was 
 published. Here appears a strange inconsistency ; but Lang- 
 baine affords some help, by relating that the answer to Howard 
 was not published in the first edition of the play, but was 
 added when it was afterwards reprinted ; and as the Duke of 
 Lerma did not appear till 1668, the same year in which the 
 Dialogue was published, there was time enough for enmity to 
 grow up between authors, who, writing both for the theatre, 
 were naturally rivals. 
 
 He was now so much distinguished, that in 1668 he suc- 
 ceeded Sir William Davenant as p.oet-laureat. The salary of 
 the laureat had been raised in favour of Jonson, by Charles 
 the First, from an hundred marks to one hundred pounds a 
 year and a tierce of wine ; a revenue in those days not 
 inadequate to the conveniencies of life. 
 
1701] DRYDEN. 127 
 
 The same year he published his Essay on Dramatick Poetry, 
 
 an elegant and instructive dialogue ; mwhichwe^lire told by 
 Prior, that the principal character is meant to represent the 
 duke of Dorset. This work seems to have given Addison a 
 model for his Dialogues upon Medals. 
 
 Secret-ias£, or the Maiden Queen, is a tragi-comedy. In 
 the preface he discusses a curious question, whether a poet 
 can judge well of his own productions : and determines very 
 justly, that, of the plan and disposition, and all that can be 
 reduced to principles of science, the author may depend upon 
 his own opinion ; but that, in those parts where fancy pre- 
 dominates, self-love may easily deceive. He might have 
 observed, that what is good only because it pleases cannot 
 be pronounced good till it has been found to please. 
 
 Sir Mjiitin^Marall is a comedy, published without preface 
 or dedication, and at first without the name of the author. 
 Langbaine charges it, like most of the rest, with plagiarism ; 
 and observes that the song is translated from Voiture, allowing 
 however that both the sense and measure are exactly observed. 
 
 The Tempest is an alteration of Shakspeare's play, made 
 by Dryden ,in conjunction with Davenant, "whom," says he, 
 " I found of so quick a fancy, that nothing was proposed to 
 him in which he could not suddenly produce a thought ex- 
 tremely pleasant and surprising ; and those first thoughts of 
 his, contrary to. the Latin proverb, were not always the least 
 happy; and as his fancy was quick, so likewise were the 
 products of it remote and new. He borrowed not of any 
 other, and his imaginations were such as could not easily enter 
 into any other man." 
 
 The effect produced by the conjunction of these two 
 powerful minds was, that to Shakspeare's monster Caliban is • 
 added a sister-monster Sicorax; and a woman, who, in the 
 original play, had never seen a man, is in this brought 
 acquainted with a man that had never seen a woman. 
 
 About this time, in 1673, Dryden seems to have had his quiet 
 
128 DRYDEN. [1631-^ 
 
 much disturbed by the success of the Empress ofMoroc co. 
 a tragedy written in rhyme by E lkanah Se ttle; which was so 
 much applauded, as to make him think his supremacy of reputa- 
 tion in some danger. Settle had not only been prosperous on 
 the stage, but, in the confidence of success, had published his 
 play, with sculptures and a preface of defiance. Here was 
 one offence added to another; and, for the last blast of 
 inflammation, it was acted at Whitehall by the court-ladies. 
 
 Dryden could not now repress these emotions, which he 
 called indignation, and others jealousy; but wrote upon the 
 play and the dedication such criticism as malignant impatience 
 could pour out in haste. 
 
 Of Settle he gives this character. " He's an animal of a 
 most deplored understanding, without conversation. His 
 being is in a twilight of sense, and some glimmering of 
 thought, which he can never fashion into wit or English. His 
 style is boisterous and rough-hewn, his rhyme incorrigibly 
 lewd, and his numbers perpetually harsh and ill-sounding. 
 The little talent which he has, is fancy. He sometimes 
 labours with a thought; but, with the pudder he makes to 
 bring it into the world, 'tis commonly still-bom ; so that, for 
 want of learning and elocution, he will never be able to 
 express any thing either naturally or justly ! " 
 
 This is not very decent ; yet this is one of the pages in 
 which criticism prevails most over brutal fury. He proceeds : 
 " He has a heavy hand at fools, and a great feUcity in writing 
 nonsense for them. Fools they will be in spite of him. His 
 King, his two Empresses, his villain, and his sub-villain, nay 
 his hero, have all a certain natural cast of the father — their 
 folly was born and bred in them, and something of the 
 Elkanah will be visible." 
 
 This is Dryden's general declamation ; I will not withhold 
 from the reader a particular remark. Having gone through 
 the first act, he says, "To conclude this act vvith the most 
 rumbling piece of nonsense spoken yet, 
 
y/vi.u 
 
 701] DRYDEN. 129 
 
 To flatteriiig lightning our feign'd smiles conform, 1 
 Which back'd with thunder do but gild a storm. 
 
 ".onform-a smile to lightning, make a smile imitate lightning, and 
 attering lightning : lightning sure is a threatening thing. And 
 lis lightning must gild a storm. Now if I must conform my 
 miles to lightning, then my smiles must gild a storm too : to 
 '.Id with smiles is a new invention of gilding. And gild a 
 term by being backed with thunder. Thunder is part of the 
 torm ; so one part of the storm must help to gild another 
 art, and help by backing ; as if a man would gild a thing the 
 etter for being backed, or having a load upon his back. So 
 bat here is gilding by conforming, smiling, lightning, backing, 
 nd thundering. The whole is as if I should say thus : I will 
 aake my counterfeit smiles look like a flattering stone-horse, 
 irhich, being backed with a trooper, does but gild the battle. 
 
 am mistaken if nonsense is not here pretty thick sown. Sure 
 he poet writ these two lines aboard some smack in a storm, 
 nd, being sea-sick, spewed up a good lump of clotted non- 
 ense at once." 
 
 Here is perhaps a sufficient specimen ; but as the pamphlet, 
 hough Dryden's, has never been thought worthy of republica- 
 ion, and is not easily to be found, it may gratify curiosity to 
 [uote it more largely. 
 
 " Whene'er she bleeds. 
 He no severer a damnation needs 
 That dares pronounce the sentence of her death, 
 Than the infection that attends that breath. 
 
 That attends that breath. — ^The poet is at breath again ; 
 ^reath can never 'scape him ; and here he brings in a breath 
 hat must be infectious with pronouncing a sentence ; and this 
 entence is not to be pronounced till the condemned party 
 'leeds; that is, she must be executed iirst, and sentenced after 
 .nd the proiuiuncing of this sentence will be infectious; that is, 
 ithers will catch the disease of that sentence, and this infect- 
 ng of others will torment a man's self. The whole is thus : 
 
 K 
 
I30 
 
 DRYDEK. [1631— 
 
 when she bleeds, thou needest no greater hell or torment to thyself, 
 than infecting of others by pronouncing a sentence upon her. 
 What hodge-podge does he make here! Never was Dutch 
 grout such clogging, thick, indigestible stuff. But this is but 
 a taste to stay the stomach ; we shall have a more plentiful 
 mess presently. 
 
 " Now to dish up the poet's broth, that I promised : 
 
 For when we're dead, and our freed souls enlarg'd, 
 
 Of Nature's grosser burden we're discharg'd. 
 
 Then gently, as a happy Ifcver's sigh, 
 
 Like wandering meteors through the air we'll fly, 
 
 And in our airy walk, as subtle guests. 
 
 We'll steal into our cruel fathers' breasts. 
 
 There read their souls, and track each passion's sphere : 
 
 See how Revenge moves there, Ambition here. 
 
 And in their orbs view the dark characters 
 
 Of sieges, ruins, murders, blood and wars. 
 
 We'll blot out all those hideous draughts, and write 
 
 Pure and white forms ; then with a radiant light 
 
 Their breasts encircle, till their passions be 
 
 Gentle as nature in its infancy : 
 
 Till soften'd by our charms their furies cease, 
 
 And their revenge resolves into a peace. 
 
 Thus by our death their quarrel ends. 
 
 Whom living we made foes, dead we'll make friends. 
 
 If this be not a very liberal mess, I will refer myself to the 
 stomach of any moderate guest. And a rare mess it is, far 
 excelling any Westminster white-broth. It is a kind of gibblet 
 porridge, made of the gibblets of a couple of young geese, 
 s todg ed full of meteors, orbs, spheres, track, hideous draughts, 
 dark characters, white forms, and radiant lights, designed not 
 only to please appetite, and indulge luxury; but it is also 
 physical, being an approved medicine to purge choler : for it 
 is propounded by Morena, as a receipt to cure their fathers 
 of their choleric humours : and were it written in characters 
 as barbarous as the words, might very well pass for a doctor's 
 bill. To conclude, it is porridge, 'tis a receipt, 'tis a pig with 
 a pudding in the belly, 'tis I know not what ; for, certainly, 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 131 
 
 never any one that pretended to write sense, had the impu- 
 dence before to put suph stuff as this into the mouths of those 
 that were to speak it before an audience, whom he did not 
 take to be all fools ; and after that to print it too, and expose 
 it to the examination of the world. But let us see, what we 
 can make of this stuff : 
 
 For when we're dead, and our freed souls enlarg'd — 
 
 Here he tells us what it is to be dead; it is to have our 
 freed souls set free. Now if to have a soul set free is to be 
 dead, then to have, a freed soul set free, is to have a dead 
 man die. 
 
 Then gentle, as a happy lover's sigh — 
 
 They two like one sigh, and that one sigh like two wandering 
 meteors, 
 
 ■ — shall flie through the air- 
 That is, they shall mount above hke falling stars, or else they 
 shall skip like two Jacks' with lanthoms,. or Will with a wisp, 
 and Madge with a candle. 
 
 " And in their airy walk steal into their cruel father^ breasts, 
 like subtle guests. — So that their fathers breasts must be in an 
 airy walk, an airy walk of a flier. And there they will read 
 their soul's, and track the spheres of their passions. That is, 
 these walking fliers, Jack with a lanthorn, &c., will put on his 
 spectacles, and fall a reading souls, and put on his pumps and 
 fall a tracking of spheres ; so that he will read and run, walk 
 and fly at the same time ! Oh ! Nimble Jack. Then he will 
 see, how revenge here, how ambition there. — The birds will hop 
 about. And then view the dark characters of sieges, ruins, ' 
 murders, blood, and wars, in their orbs: Track the characters 
 to their forms ! Oh ! rare sport for Jack. Never was place 
 so full of game as these breasts ! You cannot stir but flush a 
 sphere, start a character, or unkennel an orb ! " 
 
 K 2 
 
132 : DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 Settle's is said to have been the first play embellished with 
 sculptures ; those ornaments seem to have given poor Dryden 
 great disturbance. He tries however to ease his pain, by 
 venting his malice in a parody. 
 
 "The poet has not only been so impudent to expose all 
 this stuff, but so arrogant to defend it with an epistle ; like a 
 saucy booth-keeper, that, when he had put a cheat upon the 
 people, would wrangle and fight with any that would not like 
 it, or would offer to discover it ; for which arrogance our poet 
 receives this correction ; and to jerk him a little the sharper, I 
 will not transpose his verse, but by the help of his own words 
 trans-non-sense sense, that, by my stufi) people may judge the 
 better what his is : 
 
 Great Boy, thy tragedy and sculptures done 
 From press, and plates in fleets do homeward come : 
 And in ridiculous and humble pride, 
 Their course in ballad-singers' baskets guide, 
 Whose greasy twigs do all new beauties take. 
 From the gay shows thy dainty sculptures make. 
 Thy lines a mess of rhiming nonsense yield, 
 A senseless tale, with flattering fustian fill'd. 
 No grain of sense does in one line appear. 
 Thy words big bulks of boisterous bombast bear. 
 With noise they move, and from players' mouths rebound, 
 When their tongues dance to thy words' empty sound. 
 ' By thee inspir'd the rumbling verses roll. 
 As if that rhyme and bombast lent a soul : 
 And with that soul they seem taught duty too, 
 To huffing words does humble nonsense bow. 
 As if it would thy worthless worth enhance, 
 To th' lowest rank of fops thy praise advance ; 
 To whom, by instinct, all thy stuff is dear ; 
 Their loud claps echo to the theatre. 
 From breaths of fools thy commendation spreads, 
 Fame sings thy praise with mouths of loggerheads. 
 With noise and laughing each thy fustian greets, 
 'Tis clapt by quires of empty-headed cits, 
 Who have their tribute sent, and homage given, 
 As men in whispers send loud noise to heaven. 
 
 " Thus I have daubed him with his own puddle : and now 
 we are come from a-board his dancing, masking, rebounding, 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 133 
 
 breathing fleet ; and as if we had landed at Gotham, we meet 
 nothing but fools and nonsense. " 
 
 Such was the criticism to which the genius of Dryden could 
 be reduced, between rage and terrour ; rage with Uttle provo- 
 cation, and terrour with little danger. To see the highest 
 minds thus levelled with the meanest, may produce some 
 solace to the consciousness of weakness, and some mortifica- 
 tion to the pride of wisdom. But let it be remembered, that 
 minds are not levelled in their powers but when they are first 
 levelled in their desires. Dryden and Settle had both placed 
 their happiness in the claps of multitudes. 
 
 The Mq^_Astro]oger, a comedy, is dedicated to the illustri- 
 ous Duke of Newcastle, whom he courts by adding to his 
 praises those of his lady, not only as a lover but a partner of 
 his studies. It is unpleasing to think how many names, once 
 celebrated, are since forgotten. Of Newcastle's wo'rks nothing 
 is now known but his treatise on horsemanship. 
 
 The Preface seems very elaborately written, and contains 
 many just remarks on the Fathers of the English drama. 
 Shakspeare's plots, he says, are in the hundred novels of 
 Cinthio ; those of Beaumont and Fletcher in Spanish Stories ; 
 f^ft_Jonson jM»Jy^ made them for himself. His criticisms upon 
 tragedy, comedy, and farce, are judicious and profound. He 
 endeavours to defend the immorality of some of his comedies 
 by the example of former writers ; which is only to say, that 
 he was not the first nor perhaps the greatest offender. Against 
 those that accused him of plagiarism, he alleges a favourable 
 expression of the king : " He only desired that they, who 
 accuse me of thefts, would steal him plays like mine ; " and 
 then relates how much labour he spends in fitting for the 
 English stage what he borrows from others. 
 
 Tyrannick Love, or the Virgin Martyr, was another tragedy 
 in rhyme, conspicuous for many passages of strength and 
 elegance, and many of empty noise and ridiculous turbulence. 
 The rants of Maximin have been always the sport of criticism ; 
 
134 
 
 DRYDEN. [1631- 
 
 and were at length, if his own confession may be trusted, the 
 shame of the writer. 
 
 Of this play he takes care to let the reader know, that it was 
 contrived and written in seven weeks. Want of time was often 
 his excuse, or perhaps shortness of time was his private boast 
 in the form of an apology. 
 
 It was written before the Conquest of Granada, but published 
 after it. The design is to recommend piety. " I considered 
 that pleasure was not the only end of poesy, and that even the 
 instructions of morality were not so wholly the business of a 
 poet, as that precepts and examples of piety were to be 
 omitted ; for to leave that employment altogether to the clergy, 
 were to forget that religion was first taught in verse, which the 
 laziness or dulness of succeeding priesthood turned afterwards 
 into prose.'' Thus foolishly could Dryden write, rather than 
 not show his malice to the parsons. 
 
 The two parts of the Conquestjof Granada are written with 
 a seeming determination to glut the public with dramatick 
 wonders ; to exhibit in its highest elevation a theatrical meteor 
 of incredible love and impossible valour, and to leave no room 
 \ for a wilder flight to the extravagance of posterity. All the 
 j" rays of romantick heat, whether amorous . or warlike, glow in 
 Almanzor by a kind of concentration. He is above all laws; 
 he is exempt from all restraints ; he ranges the world at will, 
 and governs wherever he appears. He fights without enquiring 
 the cause, and loves in spite of the obligations of justice, of 
 rejection by his mistress, and of prohibition from the dead. 
 Yet the scenes are, for the most part, delightful ; they exhibit 
 a kind of illustrious depravity, and majestick madness : such as, 
 if it is sometimes despised, is often reverenced, and in which 
 ^he ridiculous is mingled with the astonishing. 
 
 In the Epilogue to the second part of the Conquest of 
 Granada, Dryden indulges his favourite pleasure of discrediting 
 his predecessors ; and this Epilogue he has defended by a long 
 postscript. He had promised a second dialogue, in which he 
 
1701] DRYDEN. 13S 
 
 should more fully treat of the virtues and faults of the English 
 poets, who have written in the dramatick, epick, or lyriek way. 
 This promise was never formally performed ; but, with respect 
 to the dramatick writers, he has given us in his prefaces, and in 
 this postscript, something equivalent ; but his purpose being to 
 exalt himself by the comparison, he shews faults distinctly, and 
 only praises excellence in general terms. 
 
 A play thus written, in professed defiance of probability, 
 naturally drew down upon itself the vultures of the theatre. One 
 of the criticks that attacked it was Marrin Clifford, to whom 
 Sprat addressed the Life of Cowley, with such veneration of 
 his critical powers as might naturally excite great expectations 
 of instruction from his remarks. But let honest credulity 
 beware of receiving characters from contemporary writers. 
 Clififord's remarks, by the (avour of Dr. Percy, were at last,, 
 obtained; and, that no man may ever want them more, I will 
 extract enough to satisfy all reasonable desire. 
 
 In the first Letter his observation is only general : " You do 
 live,'' says he, " in as much ignorance and darkness as you did 
 in the womb : your writings are like a Jack-of-all-trades' shop ; 
 they have a variety, but nothing of value ; and if thou art not 
 the dullest plant-animal that ever the earth produced, all that 
 I have conversed with are strangely mistaken in thee." 
 
 In the second, he tells him that Almanzor is not more copied 
 from Achilles than from Ancient Pistol. " But I am," says he, 
 " strangely mistaken if I have not seen this very Almanzor of 
 yours in some disguise about this town, and passing under 
 another name. Pr'ythee tell me true, was not this Huffcap 
 once the Indian Emperor, and at another time did he not call 
 himself Maximin ? Was not Lyndaraxa once called Almeira ? 
 I mean under Montezuma the Indian Emperor. I protest and 
 vow they are either the same, or so alike that I cannot, for my 
 heart, distinguish one from the other. You are therefore a 
 strange unconscionable thief; thou art not content to steal 
 from others, but dost rob thy poor wretched self too." 
 
136 DRYDEX. [iSji— 
 
 Now was Settle's time to take his revenge. He wrote a 
 ■vindication of his own lines ; and, if he is forced to yield any- 
 thing, makes reprisals upon his enemy. To say that his answer 
 is equal to the censure, is no high commendation. To expose 
 Dryden's method of analysing his expressions, he tries the same 
 experiment upon the description of the ships in the Indian 
 Emperor, of which however he does not deny the excellence ; 
 but intends to shew, that by studied misconstruction every- 
 thing may be equally represented as ridiculous. After so much 
 of Dryden's elegant animadversions, justice requires that 
 something of Settle's should be exhibited. The following 
 observations are therefore extracted from a quarto pamphlet of 
 ninety-five pages : 
 
 " Fate aftei" him below with pain did move, 
 And victory could scarce keep pace above. 
 
 These two lines, if he can shew me any sense or thought in, 
 or anything but bombast and noise, he shall make me believe 
 every word in his observations on Morocco sense. 
 " In the Empress of Morocco were these lines : 
 
 I'll travel then to some remoter sphere. 
 
 Till I find out new worlds, and crown you there. 
 
 On which Dryden made this remark : " / believe our learned 
 author takes a sptierefor a country : the sphere of Morocco, as if 
 Morocco were the globe of earth and water ; but a globe is no 
 sphere neit/ier, by his IcoTe, &c. So sphere must not be sense, 
 unless it reldte to a circular motion about a globe, in which 
 sense the astronomers use it I would desire him to expound 
 those lines in Granada : 
 
 I'll to the turrets of the palace go, 
 And add new fire to those that fight below. 
 Thence, hero-like, w ith torghcs by my side, 
 (Far be the omenjho') my Love I'll guide. 
 NoTlike his better fortune I'll appear, \ 
 
 With open arms, loose vail and flowing hair, > 
 Just flying forward from my rowling sphere. \ 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 137 
 
 I wonder if he be so strict, how he dares make so bold with 
 sphere himself, and be so critical in other men's writings. 
 Fortune is fancied standing on a globe, not on a sphere, as 
 he told us in the first Act. 
 
 "Because Elkanah's similes are the most unlike things to 
 ■what they are compared in the world, I'll venture to start a 
 simile in his Annus Mirabilis : he gives this poetical descrip- 
 tion of the ship called the London : 
 
 The goodly London in her gallant trim. 
 
 The Phenix-daughter of the vanquisht old, 
 
 Like a rich bride does to the ocean swim, 
 
 And on her shadow rides in floating gold. 
 
 Her flag aloft spread ruffling in the wind. 
 
 And sanguine strearners seem'd the flood to fire : 
 
 The weaver, charm'd with what his loom design'd, ~\ ' 
 
 Goes on to sea, and knows not to retire. J 
 
 With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength, 
 
 Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves. 
 
 Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length, 
 
 She seems a sea-wasp flying on the waves. 
 
 " What a wonderful pother is here, to make all these poetical 
 beautifications of a ship ! that is, a plienix in the first stanza, 
 and but a wasp in the last : nay, to make his humble com- 
 parison of a wasp more ridiculous, he does not say it flies upon 
 the waves as nimbly as a wasp, or the like, but it seemed a 
 wasp. But our author at the writing of this was not in his 
 altitudes, to compare ships to floating palaces ; a comparison 
 to the purpose, was a perfection he did not arrive to, till his 
 Indian Emperor's days. But perhaps his similitude has more 
 in it than we imagine ; this ship had a great many guns in her, 
 and they, put all together, made the sting in the wasp's tail : 
 for this is all the reason I can guess, why it seem'd a wasp. 
 But, because we will allow him all we can to help out, let it 
 be Aphenix sea-wasp, and the rarity of such an animal may do 
 much towards the heightening the fancy. 
 
 " It had been much more to his purpose, if he had designed 
 
138 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 to render the senseless play little, to have searched for some 
 such pedantry as this : 
 
 Two ifs scarce make one possibility. 
 If justice will take all and nothing give, 
 Justice, methinks, is not distributive. 
 To die or kill you, is the alternative. 
 Rather than take your life, I will not live. 
 
 " Observe, how prettily our author chops logick in heroick 
 verse. Three such fustian canting words as distributive, alterna- 
 tive and two ifs, no man but himself would have come within 
 the noise of. But he's a man of general learning, and all 
 comes into his play. 
 
 " 'Twould have done well too, if he could have met with a 
 rant or t^jo, worth the observation : such as, 
 
 Move swiftly, Sun, and fly a lover's pace. 
 
 Leave months and weeks behind thee in thy race. 
 
 " But surely the Sun, whether he flies a lover's or not a lover's 
 pace, leaves weeks and months, nay years too, behind him in 
 his race. 
 
 " Poor Robin, or any other of the Philo-mathematicks, 
 would have given him satisfaction in the point. 
 
 If I could kill thee now, thy fate's so low 
 That I must stoop, ere I can give the blow 
 But mine is fixt so far above thy crown. 
 That all thy men, 
 Piled on thy back, can never pull it down. 
 
 " Now where that is, Almanzor's fate is fixt, I cannot guess ; 
 but wherever it is, I believe Almanzor, and think that all 
 Abdalla's subjects, piled upon one another, might not pull 
 down his fate so well as without piling : besides, I think 
 Abdalla so wise a man, that if Almanzor had told him piling 
 his men upon his back might do the feat, he would scarce bear 
 such a weight, for the pleasure of the exploit ; but it is a huff, 
 and let Abdalla do it if he dare. 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 139 
 
 The people like a headlong torrent go, 
 
 And every dam they break or overflow. 
 
 But, unoppos'd, they either lose their force, ^j 
 
 Or wind in volumes to their former course. T 
 
 "A very pretty allusion, contrary to all sense or reason. 
 Torrents, I take it, let them wind never so much, can never 
 return to their former course, unless he can suppose that 'p- 
 fountains can go upwards, which is impossible : nay more, in 
 the foregoing page he tells us so too. A trick of a very 
 unfaithful memory. 
 
 But can no more than fountains upward flow. 
 
 " Which of a torrent, which signifies a rapid stream, is much 
 more impossible. Besides, if he goes to quibble, and say that 
 it is possible by art water may be made return, and the same 
 water run twice in one and the same channel : then he quite 
 confutes what he says ; for, it is by being opposed, that it runs 
 into its former course : for all engines that make water so 
 return, do it by compulsion and opposition. Or, if he means 
 . a headlong torrent for a tide, which would be ridiculous, yet 
 they do not wind in volumes, but come fore-right back (if 
 their upright lies straight to their former course), and that by 
 opposition of the sea-water, that drives them back again. 
 
 " And for fancy, when he lights of any thing like it, 'tis a 
 wonder if it be not borrowed. As here, for example of, I find 
 this fanciful thought in his Annus Mirabilis : 
 
 Old Father Thames raised up his reverend head 
 But feared the fate of Simoeis would return ; 
 Deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed ; 
 And shrunk his waters back into his urn. 
 
 " This is stolen from Cowley's Davideis, p. 9. 
 
 Swift Jordan started, and strait backward fled, V) ? \j ■ J -° " 
 
 Hiding am ongst t hick reeds his aged head. ~^ ~ ""' 
 
 And whenTlie Spaniards their assault begm, " 
 
 At once beat those without and those within. < .':' '^ %12:^'- " 
 
HO DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 " This , Alraanzor speaks of himself ; and sure for one man 
 to conquer an army within the city, and another without the 
 city, at once, is something difficult ; but this flight is pardon- 
 able, to some we meet with in Granada. Osmin, speaking of 
 Alraanzor : 
 
 Who, like a tempest that outrides the wind. 
 
 Made a just battle, ere the Ijodies join'd, j ^ 
 
 " Pray what does this honourable person mean by a tempest 
 that outrides the windt A tempest that outrides itself. To 
 suppose a tempest without wind, is as bad as Supposing a man 
 to walk without feet ; for if he supposes the tempest to be 
 something distinct from the wind, yet as being the effect of 
 wind only, to come before the cause is a little preposterous : so 
 that, if he takes it one way, or if he takes it the other, those 
 two ifs will scarce make one possibility^' Enough of Settle. 
 
 Marri age Alam ode is a comedy, dedicated to the Earl of 
 Rochester ; whom he acknowledges not only as the defender 
 of his poetry, but the promoter of his fortune. Langbaine 
 places this play in 1673. The Earl of Rochester therefore was 
 the famous Wilmot, whom yet tradition always represents as 
 an enemy to Dryden, and who is mentioned by him with some 
 disrespect in the preface to Juvenal. 
 
 The Ass ignati on, or Love in a Nunnery, a comedy, was 
 driven off the stage, against the opinion, as the author says, 
 of the best judges. It is dedicated, in a very elegant address, 
 to Sir Charles Sedley ; in which he finds an opportunity for his 
 usual complaint of hard treatment and unreasonable censure. 
 
 Amboyna is a tissue of mingled dialogue in verse and prose, 
 and was perhaps written in less time than the Virgin Martyr ; 
 though the author thought not fit either ostentatiously or 
 mournfully to tell how little labour it cost him, or at how 
 short a warning he produced it. It was a temporary per- 
 formance, written in the time of the Dutch war, to inflame 
 the nation against their enemies ; to whom he hopes, as he 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 141 
 
 declares in his Epilogue, to make his poetry not less destructive 
 than that by which Tyrtaeus of old animated the Spartans. 
 This play was written in the second Dutch war in 1673. 
 
 Troilus ^nd Cress ida, is a play altered from Shakspeare ; but 
 so altered that even in Langbaine's opinion, i^ last scene in the 
 third act is a masterpiece. It is introduced by a discourse on the 
 grounds of criticism in tragedy ; to which I suspect that Rymer's 
 book had given occasion. 
 
 The Spanish-Eiyar is a tragi-comedy, eminent for the happy 
 coincidence and coalition of the t wo plo ts. As it was written 
 against the Papists, it would naturally at that time have friends 
 and enemies ; and partly by the popularity which it obtained 
 at first, and partly by the real power both of the serious and 
 risible part, it continued long a fevourite of the publick. 
 
 It was Dryden's opinion, at least for some time, and he 
 maintains it in the dedication of this play, that the drama 
 required an alternation of comick and tragick scenes, and 
 that it is necessary to mitigate by alleviations of merriment 
 the pressiu-e of ponderous events, and the fatigue of toilsome 
 p^sions. " Whoever," says he, " cannot perform both parts, 
 is but half a writer for the stage." 
 
 The Du ke of G aise, a tragedy written in conjunction with 
 Lee, as Oedigus had been before, seems to deserve notice only 
 for the offence which it gave to the remnant of the Covenanters, 
 and in general to the enemies of the court, who attacked him 
 with great violence, and were answered by him ; though at last 
 he seems to withdraw firom the conflict, by transferring the 
 greater part of the blame or mait to his partner. It happened 
 that a contract had been made between them, by which they 
 were to join in writing a play ; and he happetied, says Dryden, 
 to claim the promise just upon ihe finishing of a poem, when I 
 would have been glad of a little respite. — Two thirds of it 
 belonged to him; and to me o?ily the first scetie of the play, the 
 whole fourth act, and the first half or somewhat more of the fifth. 
 
 This was a play written professedly for the party of the Duke 
 
142 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 of York, whose succession was then opposed. A parallel is 
 intended between the Leaguers of France and the Covenanters 
 of England ; and this intention produced the controversy. 
 
 Albion and^ bania is a musical drama or opera, written, 
 like the Duke of Guise, against the Republicans. With what 
 success it was performed, I have not found. 
 
 The State of Innocence and Fall of Man is termed by him 
 an opera : it is rather a tragedy in heroick rhyme, but of which 
 the personages are such as cannot decently be exhibited on the 
 stage. Some such production was foreseen by Marvel, who 
 writes thus to Milton : 
 
 Or if a work so infinite be spann'd^ 
 
 Jealous I was least some less skilful hand. 
 
 Such as disquiet always what is well. 
 
 And by ill-imitating would excel, 
 / Might hence presume the whole creation's day, 
 ' To change in scenes, and show it in a play. 
 
 It is another of his hasty productions ; for the heat of his 
 imagination raised it in a month. 
 
 This composition is addressed to the Princess of Modena, 
 then Dutchess of York, in a strain of flattery which disgraces 
 genius, and which it was wonderful that any man that' knew the 
 meaning of his own words, could use without self-detestation. 
 It is an attempt to mingle earth and heaven, by praising human 
 excellence in the language of religion. 
 
 The preface contains an apology for heroick verse, and 
 poetick licence; by which is meant not any liberty taken 
 in contracting or extending words, but the use of bold fictions 
 and ambitious figures. 
 
 The reason which he gives for printing what was never 
 acted, cannot be overpassed : "I was induced to it in my own 
 defence, many hundred copies of it being dispersed abroad 
 without my knowledge or consent, and every one gathering 
 new faults, it became at length a libel against me." These 
 copies as they gathered faults were apparently manuscript j 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. '" 143 
 
 and he lived in an age very unlike ours, if many hundred 
 copies of fourteen hundred lines were likely to be transcribed. 
 An author has a right to print his own works, and needs not 
 seek an apology in falsehood ; but he that could bear to write 
 the dedication felt no pain in writing the preface. 
 
 Aure ng Zebe is a tragedy founded on the actions of a great 
 prince then reigning, but over nations not hkely to employ 
 their criticks upon the transactions of the English stage. If 
 he had known and disliked his own character, our trade was 
 not in those times secure from his resentment. His country is 
 at such a distance, that the manners might be safely falsified, 
 and the incidents feigned ; for remoteness of place is remarked 
 by Racine, to afford the same conveniencies to a poet as length 
 of time. 
 
 This play is written in rhyme ; and has the appearance of 
 being the most elaborate of all the dramas. The personages 
 are imperial ; but the dialogue is often domestick, and there- 
 fore susceptible of sentiments accommodated to familiar 
 incidents. The complaint of life is celebrated, and there 
 are many other passages that may be read with pleasure. 
 
 The play is addressed to the Earl of Mulgrave, afterwards 
 Duke of Buckingham, himself, if not a poet, yet a writer of 
 verses, and a critick. In this address Dryden gave the first 
 hints of his intention to write an epick poem. He mentions 
 his design in terras so obscure, that he seems afraid lest his 
 plan should be purloined, as, he says, happened to him when 
 he told it more plainly in his preface to Juvenal. " The de- 
 sign,'' says he, "you know is great, the story English, and 
 neither too near the present times, nor . too distant from 
 them." 
 
 All for Love, or the World well Lost, a tragedy founded upon 
 the story of AnB8ny-aird Cleopatra, he tells us, is the only play 
 which he wrote for himself; the rest were given to the people. 
 It is by universal consent accounted the work in which he has 
 admitted the fewest improprieties of style or character ; but 
 
144 DRYDF.N. \i(>V 
 
 it has one fault equal to many, though rather moral than 
 critical, that by admitting the romantick omnipotence of l^ove, 
 he has recommended as laudable and worthy of imitation that 
 conduct which, through all ages, the good have censured as 
 vicious, and the bad despised as foolish. 
 
 Of this play the prologue and the epilogue, though written 
 upon the common topicks of malicious and ignorant criticism, 
 and without any particular relation to the characters or 
 incidents of the drama, are deservedly celebrated for their 
 elegance and spriteliness. 
 
 Limberham, or the kind Keeper, is a comedy, which, after 
 the third night, was prohibited as too indecent for the stage. 
 What gave offence, was in the printing, as the author says, 
 altered or omitted. Dryden confesses that its indecency was 
 objected to ; but Langbaine, who yet seldom favours him, 
 imputes its expulsion to resentment, because it so much exposed 
 the keeping part of the town, 
 
 Oedipus is a tragedy formed by Dryden and Lee, in 
 conjunction, from the works of Sophocles, Seneca, and 
 Corneille. Dryden jilanned the scenes, and comjxwed tlie 
 first and third acts. 
 
 Don Sebastian is commonly esteemed either the first or 
 second of his dratnatick performances. 1 1 is too long to be all 
 acted, and has many characters and many incidents ; and 
 though it is not without sallies of frantick dignity, and more 
 noise than meaning, yet as it makes approaches to the 
 possibilities of real life, and has some sentiments whicli leave 
 a strong impression, it continued long to attract attention. 
 Amidst the distresses of princes, and the vicissitudes of empire, 
 are inserted several scenes which the writer intended for 
 comick; but which, I suppose, that age did not much 
 commend, and this would not endure. There are, however, 
 passages of excellence universally acknowledged ; the dispute 
 and the reconciliation of Dorax and Sebastian has always been 
 admired. 
 
1701] DRVDEN. 145 
 
 This play was first acted in 1690, after Dryden had for some 
 years discontinued dramatick poetry. 
 
 Am phitryon _is a comedy derived from Plautus and Moliere. ' 
 The dedication is dated October, 1690. This play seems to 
 have succeeded at its first appearance ; and was, I think, long 
 considered as a very diverting entertainment. 
 
 CleomeneaJLS a tragedy, only remarkable as it occasioned an ' 
 incident related in the Guardian, and allusively mentioned by 
 Dryden in his preface. As he came out from the represen- 
 tation, he was accosted thus by some airy stripling : Had I 
 been left alone with a young beauty, I would not have spent my 
 time like your Spartan. That, Sir, said Dryden, perhaps i^ 
 true; but give me leave to tell you, that you are no hero. 
 
 King Art hur is another opera. It was the last work that i 
 Dryden performed for King Charles, who did not live to see it 
 exhibited; and it does not seem to have been ever brought 
 upon the stage. In the dedication to the Marquis of Halifax, 
 there is a very elegant character of Charles, and a pleasing 
 account of his latter life. When this was first brought upon 
 the stage, news that the Duke of Monmouth bad landed was 
 told in the theatre, upon which the company departed, and 
 Arthur was exhibited no more. 
 
 His last drama was LoveJJiiumphant, a tragi-comedy. In 
 his dedication to the Earl of Salisbury, he mentions the lowness 
 of fortune to which he has voluntarily reduced himself, and of 
 which he has no reason to be ashamed. 
 
 This play appeared in 1694. It is said to have been un- 
 successful. The catastrophe, proceeding merely from a 
 change of mind, is confessed by the author to be defective. 
 Thus he began and ended his dramatick labours with ill- 
 success. 
 
 From such a number of theatrical pieces it will be supposed, 
 by most readers, that he must have improved his fortune ; at 
 least, that such diligence with such abilities must have set 
 penury at defiance. But in Dryden's time the drama was 
 
 L 
 
146 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 very far from that universal approbation which it has now 
 obtained. The playhouse was abhorred by the Puritans, and 
 avoided by those who desired the character of seriousness or 
 decency, A grave lawyer would have debased his dignity, 
 and a young trader would have impaired his credit, by appear- 
 ing in those mansions of dissolute licentiousness. The profits 
 of the theatre, when so many classes of the people were 
 deducted from the audience, were not great; and the poet 
 had for a long time but a single night. The first that had 
 two nights was Southern, and the first that had three was Rowe. 
 There were however, in those days, arts of improving a poet's 
 profit, which Dryden forbore to practise ;. and a play therefore 
 seldom produced him more than a hundred pounds, by the 
 accumulated gain of the third night, the dedication, and the 
 copy. 
 
 Almost every piece had a dedication, written with such 
 elegance and luxuriance of praise, as neither haughtiness nor 
 avarice could be imagined able to resist. But he seems to 
 have made flattery too cheap. That praise is worth nothing 
 of which the price is known. 
 
 To increase the value of his copies, he often accompanied 
 his work with a preface of criticism ; a kind of learning then 
 almost new in the English language, and which he, who had 
 considered with great accuracy the principles of writing, was 
 ^ble to distribute copiously as occasions arose. By these 
 dissertations the publick judgement must have been much 
 ipiproved ; and Swift, who conversed with Dryden, relates that 
 he regretted the success of his own instructions, and found 
 his readers made suddenly too skilful to be easily satisfied. 
 
 His prologues had such reputation, that for some time a 
 play was considered as less likely to be well received, if some 
 of his verses did not introduce it. The price of a prologue 
 was two guineas, till being asked to write one for Mr. 
 Southern he demanded three ; Not, said he, young man, out of 
 disrespect to you, but the players have had my goods too cheap. 
 
I701] DRYDEN. 147 
 
 Though he declares, that in his own opinion his genius 
 was not dramatick, he had great confidence in his own 
 fertility; for he is said to have engaged, by contract, to 
 furnish four plays a year. 
 
 It is certain that in one year, 1678, he published All for 
 Love, Assignation, two parts of the Conquest of Granada, 
 Sir Martin Marall, and the State of Innocence, six complete 
 plays; with a celerity of performance, which, though all 
 Langbaine's charges of plagiarism should be allowed, shews 
 such facility of composition, such readiness of language, and 
 such copiousness of sentiment, as, since the time of Lopez de 
 Vega, perhaps no other author has possessed. ~ 
 
 ~He did not enjoy his reputation, however great, nor his 
 profits, however small, without molestation. He had criticks 
 to endure, and rivals to oppose. The two most distinguished 
 wits of the nobility, the Duke of Buckingham and Earl of 
 Rochester, declared themselves his enemies. 
 
 Buckingham characterised him in 1 671 by the name of 
 Bayes in the Rehearsal : a farce which he is said to have 
 written with the assistance of Butler the author of Hudibras, 
 Martin Clifford of the Charterhouse, and Dr. Sprat, the friend 
 of Cowley, then his chaplain. Dryden and his friends laughed 
 at the length of time, and the number of hands employed 
 upon this performance ; in which, though by some artifice of 
 action it yet keeps possession of the stage, it is not possible 
 now to find any thing that might not have been written with- 
 out so long delay, or a confederacy so numerous. 
 
 To adjusLihsjninute__eTCnts_ofJit^^ history, is tedious 
 and troublesome ; it requires indeed no great force of under- 
 derstanding, but often depends upon enquiries which there 
 is no opportunity of making, or is to be fetched TromTooks 
 and pamphlets not always at hand. 
 
 The Rehearsal was played in 167 1, and yet is represented 
 as ridiculing passages in the Conquest of Granada and Assigna- 
 tion, which were not published till 1678, in Marriage Alamode 
 
 L 2 
 
J- 
 
 148 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 published in 1673, and in Tyrannick Love of 1677. These 
 contradictions shew how rashly satire is applied. 
 
 It is said that this farce was originally intended against 
 Davenan t. who in the first draught was characterised by the 
 name of Bilboa. Davenant had been a soldier and an 
 adventurer. 
 
 There is one passage in the Rehearsal still remaining, which 
 seems to have related originally to Davenant. Bayes hurts 
 his nose, and comes in with brown paper applied to the 
 bruise ; how this affected Dryden, does not appear. D avenant' s 
 nose had suffered such diminution by mishaps among the 
 women, that a patch upon that part evidently denoted him. 
 
 It is said likewise that Sir Robert Howard was once meant. 
 The design was probably to ridicule the reigning poet, who- 
 ever he might be. 
 
 Much of the personal satire, to which it might owe its first 
 reception, is now lost or obscured. Bayes probably imitated 
 the dress , and mimicked the manner, of Dryden ; the cant 
 words which are so often in his mouth may be supposed to 
 have been Dryden's habitual phrases, or customary exclama- 
 tions. Bayes, when he is to write, is bloode d and purged : 
 this, as Lamotte relates himself to have heard, was the real 
 practice of the poet. 
 
 There were other strokes in the Rehearsal by which malice 
 was gratified : the debate between Love and Honour, which 
 keeps Prince Volscius in a single_boo_t, is said to have alluded 
 to the misconduct of the Duke of Ormond, who lost Dublin 
 to the rebels while he was toying with a mistress. 
 
 The Earl of Rochester, to suppress the reputation of 
 Dryden, took Settle into his protection, and endeavoured to 
 persuade the pubUck that its approbation had been to that 
 time misplaced. Settle was a while in high reputation : his 
 Empress of Morocco, having first delighted the town, was 
 carried in triumph to Whitehall, and played by the ladies of 
 the court. Now was the poetical meteor at the highest ; the 
 
I73I] DRYDEN, 149 
 
 next moment began its falL Rochester withdrew his patron- 
 age ; seeming resolved, says one of his biographers, to have a 
 judgement contrary to that of the town. Perhaps being unable 
 to endure any reputation beyond a certain height, even when 
 he had himself contributed to raise it. 
 
 Neither criticks nor rivals did Dryden much mischief, unless 
 they gained from his own temper the power of vexing him, 
 which his frequent bursts of resentment give reason to suspect. 
 He is always angry at some past, or afraid of some future 
 censure ; but he lessens the smart of his wounds by the balm 
 of his own approbation, and endeavours to repel the shafts 
 of criticism by opposing a shield of adamantine confidence. 
 
 The perpetual accusation produced against him, was that of 
 plagiarism, against which he never attempted any vigorous 
 defence ; for, though he was perhaps sometimes injuriously 
 censured, he would by denying part of the charge have con- 
 fessed the rest ; and as his adversaries had the proof in their 
 own hands, he, who knew that wit had little power against 
 facts, wisely left in that perplexity which generality produces 
 a question which it was his interest to suppress, and which, 
 unless provoked by vindication, few were likely to examine. 
 
 Though the life of a writer, from about thirty-five to sixty- 
 three, may be supposed to have been sufficiently busied by the 
 composition of eight and twenty pieces for the stage, Dryden 
 found room in the same space for many other mndertakings. 
 
 But, how. much soever he wrote, he was at least once 
 suspected of writing more; for in 1679 a paper of verses, 
 called An Essay on Satire, was shewn about in manuscript, by 
 which the Earl of Rochester, the Dutchess of Portsmouth, and 
 others, were so much provoked, that, as was supposed, for 
 the actors were never discovered, they procured Dryden, 
 whom they suspected as the author, to be waylaid and beaten. 
 This incident is mentioned by the Duke of Buckinghamshire, 
 the true writer, in his Art of Poetry; where he says of 
 Dryden ; 
 
19° DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 Though prais'd and beaten for another's rhymes, 
 His own deserves as great applause sometimes. 
 
 His reputation in time was such, that his name was thought 
 necessary to the success of every poetical or literary per- 
 formance, and therefore he was engaged to contribute some- 
 thing, whatever it might be, to many publications. He pre- 
 fixed the Life of Polybius to the translation of Sir Henry 
 Sheers ; and those of Lucian and Plutarch to versions of their 
 works by different hands. Of the English Tacitus he trans- 
 lated the first book ; and, if Gordon be credited, translated it 
 from the French. Such a charge can hardly be mentioned 
 without some degree of indignation ; but it is not, I suppose, 
 so much to be inferred that Dryden wanted the literature 
 necessary to the perusal of Tacitus, as that, considering himself 
 as hidden in a crowd, he had no awe of the publick; and 
 writing merely for money, was contented to get it by the 
 nearest way. 
 
 In 1680, the EpistlesofOvid being translated by the poets 
 of the time, among which one was the work of Dryden, and 
 another of Dryden and Lord Mulgrave, it was necessary to 
 introduce them by a preface; and Dryden, who on such 
 occasions was regularly summoned, prefixed a discourse upon 
 translation, which was then struggling for the liberty that it 
 now enjoys. Why it should find any diflnculty in breaking the 
 shackles of verbal interpretation, which must for ever debar it 
 from elegance, it would be difficult to conjecture, were not the 
 power of prejudice every day observed. The authority of 
 Jonson, Sandys, and Holiday had fixed the judgement of the 
 nation ; and it was not easily believed that a better way could 
 be found than they had taken, though Fanshaw, Denham, 
 Waller, and Cowley had tried to give examples of a different 
 practice. 
 
 In 1681, Dryden became yet more conspicuous by uniting 
 politicks with poetry, in the memorable satire called Absalom 
 and Achitophel, written against the faction which, by Lord 
 
 / ,; ,v, „,.( , „i, K-f^".-i .'r Lh 
 
1701] DRYDEN. ^ 151 
 
 Shaftesbury's incitement, set the Duke of Monmouth at its 
 head. 
 
 Of this poem, in wbich-^ersonal- satire was applied to the 
 support of publick principles, and in which therefore every 
 mind was^^togsted, the reception was eager, and the sale so 
 large, that my father, an old bookseller, told me, he had not 
 known it equalled but by Sacheverell's trial. 
 
 The reason of this general perusal Addison has attempted 
 to derive from the delight which the mind feels in the in- 
 vestigation of secrets ; and thinks that curiosity to decypher 
 the names procured readers to the poem. There is no need 
 to enquire why those verses were read, which, to all the attrac- 
 tions of wit, elegance, and harmony, added the co-operation 
 of all the factious passions, and filled every mind with triumph 
 or resentment. 
 
 It could not be supposed that all the provocation given by 
 Dryden would be endured without resistance or reply. Both 
 his person and his party were exposed in their turns to the 
 shafts of satire, which, though neither so well pointed nor 
 perhaps so well aimed, undoubtedly drew blood. 
 
 One of these poems is called Dryden's Satire on his Muse ; 
 ascribed, though, as Pope says, falsely, to Somers, who was 
 afterwards Chancellor. The poem, whose soever it was, has 
 much virulence, and some spriteliness. The writer tells all 
 the ill that he can collect both of Dryden and his friends. 
 
 The poem of Absalom and Achitophel had two answers) now f 
 both forgotten ; one called Azaria and Hushai ; the other f 
 Absalom Senior. Of these hostile compositions, Dryden appa- 1 
 rently imputes Absalom Senior to Settle, by quoting in his ' 
 verses against him the second line. Azaria and Hushai was, 
 as Wood says, imputed to him, though it is somewhat unlikely 1 
 that he should write twice on the same occasion. This is 
 a difficulty which I cannot remove, for want of a minuter ] 
 knowledge of poetical transactions. 
 
 The same year he published The Medal, of which the 
 
152 DRYDEN. [1631 — 
 
 subject is a medal struck on Lord Shaftesbury's escape from 
 a prosecution by the ignoramus of a grand jury of Londoners. 
 In both poems he maintains the same principles, and saw 
 them both attacked by the same antagonist. Elkanah Settle, 
 who had answered Absalom, appeared with equal courage in 
 opposition to The Medal, and published an answer called The 
 Medal Reversed, with so much success in both encounters, that 
 he left the palm doubtful, and divided the suffrages of the 
 nation. Such are the revolutions of fame, or such is the 
 prevalence of fashion, that the man whose works have not yet 
 been thought to deserve the care of collecting them ; who died 
 forgotten in an hospital ; and whose latter years were spent in 
 contriving shows for fairs, and carrying an elegy or epithala- 
 mium, of which the beginning and end were occasionally 
 varied, but the intermediate parts were always the same, to 
 every house where there was a funeral or a wedding ; might, 
 with truth, have had inscribed upon his stone, 
 
 Here lies the Rival and Antagonist of Dryden. 
 
 Settle was, for this rebeUion, severely chastised by Dryden 
 under the name of Doeg, in the second part of Absalom and 
 Achitophel, and was perhaps for his factious audacity made 
 the city poet, whose annual office was to describe the glories 
 of the Mayor's day. Of these bards he was the last, and 
 seems not much to have deserved even this degree of regard, 
 if it was paid to his political opinions ; for he afterwards wrote 
 a panegyrick on the virtues of Judge Jefiferies, and what more 
 could have been done by the meanest zealot for prerogative ? 
 
 Of translated fragments, or occasional poems, to enumerate 
 the titles, or settle the dates would be tedious, with Httle use. 
 It may be observed, that as Dryden's genius was commonly 
 excited by some personal regard, he rarely writes upon a 
 general topick. 
 
 Soon after the accession of King James, when the design of 
 reconciling the nation to the Church of Rome became apparent, 
 
1701] DRYDEN. 153 
 
 and the religion of the court gave the only efficacious title to 
 its favours, Dryden declared himself a convert to popery. 
 This at any other time might have passed with little censure. 
 Sir Kenelm Digby embraced popery ; the two Rainolds re- /^ , 
 ciprocally converted one another ; and Chillingworth himself , 
 was a while so entangled in the wilds of controversy, as to y/ 
 retire for quiet to an infallible church. If men of argument . , 
 and study can find such difficulties, or such motives, as may C i 
 either unite them to the Church of Rome, or detain them in | ' 
 uncertainty, there can be no wonder that a man, who perhaps 
 never enquired why he was a protestant, should by an artful 
 and experienced disputant be made a papist, overborne by the 
 sudden violence of new and unexpected arguments, or deceived 
 by a representation which shews only the doubts on one part, 
 and only the evidence on the other. 
 
 That conversion will always be suspected that apparently 
 concurs with interest. He that never finds his error till it 
 hinders his progress towards wealth or honour, will not be 
 thought to love Truth only for herself. Yet it may easily 
 happen that information may come at a commodious time ; 
 and as truth and interest are not by any fatal necessity at 
 variance, that one may by accident introduce the other. 
 When opinions are struggling into popularity, the arguments 
 by which they are opposed or defended become more known ; 
 and he that changes his profession would perhaps have 
 changed it before, with the like opportunities of instruction. 
 This was then the state of popery ; every artifice was used 
 to shew it in its fairest form ; and it must be owned to be a 
 religion of external appearance sufficiently attractive. 
 
 It is natural to hope that a comprehensive is likewise an 
 elevated soul, and that whoever is wise is also honest. I am 
 willing to believe that Dryden, having employed his mind, 
 active as it was, upon different studies, and filled it, capacious 
 as it was, with other materials, came unprovided to the con- 
 troversy, and wanted rather skill to discover the right than 
 
IS4 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 virtue to maintain it. But enquiries into the heart are not 
 for man ; we must now leave him to his Judge. 
 
 The priests, having strengthened their cause by so powerful 
 an adherent, were not long before they brought him into 
 action. They engaged him to defend the controversial papers 
 found in the strong-box of Charles the Second, and, what yet 
 was harder, to defend them against Stillingfleet. id'^if.-- i\,<>^i :J;^;,l 
 
 With hopes of promoting popery, he was employed to trans- 
 late Maimbourg's History of the League ; which he published 
 with a large introduction. His name is likewise prefixed to 
 the English Life of Francis Xavier ; but I know not that he 
 ever owned himself the translator. Perhaps the use of his 
 name was a pious fraud, which however seems not to have 
 had much effect; for neither of the books, I believe, was ever 
 popular. 
 
 The version of Xavier's Life is commended by Brown, in a 
 pamphlet not written to flatter ; and the occasion of it is said 
 to have been, that the Queen, when she solicited a son, made 
 vows to him as her tutelary saint. 
 
 He was supposed to have undertaken to translate Varillas's 
 History of Heresies ; and when Burnet published Remarks 
 upon it, to have written an Answer ; upon which Burnet makes 
 the following observation ; 
 
 " I have been informed from England, that a gentleman, 
 who is famous both for poetry and several other things, had 
 spent three months in translating M. Varillas's History; but 
 that, as soon as my Reflections appeared, he discontinued his 
 labour, finding the credit of his author was gone. Now, if 
 he thinks it is recovered by his Answer, he will perhaps go on 
 with his translation ; and this may be, for aught I know, as 
 good an entertainment for him as the conversation that he had 
 set on between the Hinds and Panthers, and all the rest of 
 animals, for whom M. Varillas may serve well enough as an 
 author : and this history and that poem are such extraordinary 
 things of their kind, that it will be but suitable to see the 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. iSS 
 
 author of the worst poem become likewise the translator of 1 
 the worst history that the age has produced. If his grace and 
 his wit improve both proportionably, he will hardly find that he 
 has gained much by the change he has made, from having no 
 religion to chuse one of the worst. It is true, he had some- 
 what to sink from in matter of wit ; but as for his morals, it 
 is scarce possible for him to grow a worse man than he was. 
 He has lately wreaked his malice on me for spoiling his three 
 months labour ; but in it he has done me all the honour that 
 any man can receive from him, which is to be railed at by 
 him. If I had ill-nature enough to prompt me to wish a very 
 bad wish for him, it should be, that he would go on and finish 
 his translation. By that it will appear, whether the EngKsh 
 nation, which is the most competent judge in this matter, has," 
 upon the seeing our debate, pronounced in M. Varillas's favour, 
 or in mine. It is true, Mr. D. will suffer a little by it ; but at 
 least it will serve to keep him in from other extravagancies ; 
 and if he gains little honour by this work, yet he cannot lose 
 so much by it as he has done by his last employment." 
 
 Having probably felt his own inferiority in theological 
 controversy, he was desirous of trying whether, by bringing 
 poetry to aid his arguments, he might become a more effica- 
 cious defender of his new profession. To reason in verse 
 was, aindeed, one of his powers ; but subtilty and harmony 
 united are still feeble, when opposed to truth. 
 
 Actuated therefore by zeal for Rome, or hope of fame, he 
 published the Hind and Panther, a poem in which the Church 
 of Rome, figured by the milk-white Hind, defends her tenets 
 against the Church of England, represented by the Panther, a 
 beast beautiful, but spotted. 
 
 A fable which exhibits two beasts talking Theology, appears 
 at once full of absurdity ; and it was accordingly ridiculed in '|' 
 the City Mouse and Country Mouse, a parody, written by 
 Montague, afterwards Earl of Halifax, and Prior, who then 
 gave the first specimen of his abilities. ' ,. -/ 
 
156 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 The conversion of such a man, at such a time, was not 
 likely to pass uncensured. Three dialogues were published 
 by the facetious Thomas Brown, of which the two first were 
 called Reasons of Mr. Bayes's changing his ReUgion : and the 
 third The Reasons of Mr. Hains the player's Conversion and 
 Re-conversion. The first was printed in 1688, the second 
 not till 1690, the third in 1691. The clamour seems to have 
 been long continued, and the subject to have strongly fixed 
 the publick attention. 
 
 In the two first dialogues Bayes is brought into the company 
 of Crites and Eugenius, with whom he had formerly debated 
 on dramatick poetry. The two talkers in the third are Mr. 
 Bayes and Mr. Hains. 
 
 Brown was a man not deficient in literature, nor destitute of 
 fancy ; but he seems to have thought it the pinnacle of excel- 
 lence to be a merry fellow ; and therefore laid out his powers 
 upon small jests or gross buffoonery, so that his performances 
 have little intrinsick value, and were read only while they 
 were recommended by the novelty of the event that occasioned 
 them. 
 
 These dialogues are like his other works : what sense or 
 knowledge they contain, is disgraced by the garb in which it 
 is exhibited. One great source of pleasure is to call Dryden 
 little Bayes. Ajax, who happens to be mentioned, is he 
 that wore as many cowhides upon his shield as would have 
 furnished half the king's army with shoe-leather. 
 
 Being asked whether he has seen the Hind and Panther, 
 Crites answers : Seen it I Mr. Bayes, why I can stir no where 
 but it pursues me ; if haunts me worse than a pewter-buttoned 
 Serjeant does a decayed cit. Sometimes T meet it in a band-box, 
 when my laundress brings home my linen ; sometimes, whether I 
 will or no, it lights my pipe at a coffee-tiouse ; sometimes it 
 surprises me in a trunkmaker's shop ; and sometimes it refreshes 
 my memory for me on the backside of a Chancery-lane parcel. 
 For your comfoit too, Mr. Bayes, I have not only seen it, as you 
 
1701] DRYDEN. 157 
 
 may perceive, but have read it too ; and can quote it as freely upon 
 occasion as a frugal tradesman can quote that noble treatise the 
 Worth of a Penny to his extravagant 'prentice, that revels in 
 stewed apples and penny custards. 
 
 The whole animation of these compositions arises from a 
 profusion of ludicrous and afifected comparisons. To secure 
 on^s chastity, says Bayes, little more is necessary than to leave off 
 a correspondence with the other sex, which, to a wise man, is no 
 greater a punishme?it than it would be to a fanatic parson to be 
 forbid seeing the Cheats and the Committee ; or for my Lord 
 Mayor and Aldermen to be interdicted the sight of the London 
 Cuckold. — This is the general strain, and therefore I shall be 
 easily excused the labour of more transcription. 
 
 Brown does not wholly forget past transactions : You began, 
 says Crites to Bayes, with a very indifferent religion, and have 
 not mended the matter in your last choice. It was but reason 
 that your Muse, which appeared first in a Tyrant's quarrel, 
 should employ her last efforts to jusiifiy the usurpations of the 
 Hind. 
 
 Next year the nation was summoned to celebrate the birth 
 of the Prince. Now was the time for Dryden to rouse his 
 imagination, and strain his voice. Happy days were at hand, 
 and he was willing to enjoy and diffuse the anticipated bless- 
 ings. He published a poem, filled with predictions of great- 
 ness and prosperity ; predictions of which it is not necessary 
 to tell how they have been verified. 
 
 A few months passed after these joyful notes, and every 
 blossom of popish hope was blasted for ever by the Revolu- 
 tion. A papist now could be no longer Laureat. The revenue, 
 which he had enjoyed with so much pride and praise, was 
 transferred to Shadwell, an old enemy, whom he had formerly 
 stigmatised by the name of Og. Dryden could not decently yi 
 complain that he was_ deposed ; but seemed very angr>' that 1 I 
 Shadwell succeeded him,, and. Jias therefore celebrated the i 
 intruder's inauguration in a poem exquisitely satirical, called 1 
 
 -^'> r-f 
 
 CcW'^fc-" 
 
158 DRYDEN. [1631 — 
 
 Mac Flecknog ; of which the Dunciad, as Pope himself de- 
 t Clares, is an imitation, though more extended in its plan, and 
 more diversified in its incidents. 
 
 It is related by Prior, that Lord Dorset, when, as chamber- 
 lain, he was constrained to eject Dryden from his office, gave 
 him from his own purse an allowance equal to the salary. 
 This is no romantick or incredible act of generosity; an 
 hundred a year is often enough given to claims less cogent, 
 by men less famed for liberality. Yet Dryden jjwajrs_ repre- 
 sented himself as suffering under a publick infliction ; and 
 once particularly demands respect for the patience with which 
 he endured the loss of his little fortune. His patron might, 
 indeed, enjoin him to suppress his bounty; but if he suffered 
 nothing, he should not have complained. 
 
 During the short reign of King James he had written nothing 
 for the stage, being, in his opinion, more profitably employed 
 in controversy and flattery. Of praise he might perhaps 
 have been less lavish without inconvenience, for James was 
 never said to have much regard for poetry : he was to be 
 flattered only by adopting his religion. 
 
 Times were now changed : Dryden was no longer the court- 
 poet, and was to look back for support to his former trade ; 
 and having waited about two years, either considering himself 
 as discountenanced by the publick, or perhaps expecting a 
 second revolution, he produced Don Sebastian in 1690; and 
 in the next four years four dramas more. 
 
 In 1693 appeared a new version of Juvenal and Persius. 
 Of Juvenal he translated the first, third, siinr,~tenth, and six- 
 teenth satires ; and of Persius the whole work. On this occa- 
 sion he introduced his two sons to the publick, as nurselings 
 of the Muses. The fourteenth of Juvenal was the work of 
 John, and the seventh of Charles Dryden. He prefixed a very 
 ample preface in the form of a dedication to Lord Dorset ; and 
 there gives an account of the Resign which he had once formed 
 to write an epick poem on the actions either of Arthur or the 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 159 
 
 Black Prince. He considered the epick as necessarily including 
 some kind of supernatural agency, and had imagined a new- 
 kind of contest between the guardian angels of kingdoms, of 
 whom he conceived that each might be represented zealous for 
 his charge, without any intended opposition to the purposes of 
 the Supreme Being, of which all created minds must in part 
 be ignorant. 
 
 This is the most reasonable scheme of celestial interposition 
 that ever was formed. The surprises and terrors of enchant- 
 ments, which have succeeded to the intrigues and oppositions 
 of pagan deities, afford very striking scenes, and open a vast 
 extent to the imagination ; but, as Boileau observes, and 
 Boileau will be seldom found mistaken, with this incurable 
 defect, that in a contest between heaven and hell we know at 
 the beginning which is to prevail ; for this reason we follow 
 Rinaldo to the enchanted wood with more curiosity than terror. 
 In the scheme of Dryden there is one great difficulty, which 
 yet he would perhaps have had address enough to surmount. 
 In a war justice can be but on one side ; and to entitle the 
 hero to the protection of angels, he must fight in the defence 
 of indubitable right. Yet some of the celestial beings, thus 
 opposed to each other, must have been represented as 
 defending guilt. 
 
 That this poem was never written, is reasonably to be 
 lamented It would doubtless have improved our numbers, 
 and enlarged our language, and might perhaps have contributed 
 by pleasing instruction to rectify our opinions, and purify our 
 manners. 
 
 What he required as the indispensable condition of such an 
 undertaking, a publick stipend, was not likely in those times 
 to be obtained. Riches were not become familiar to us, nor 
 had the nation yet learned to be liberal. 
 
 This plan he charged Blackmore with stealing ; only says 
 he, the guardian angels' of kingdoms were machines too ponderous 
 for him to manage. 
 
i6o DRYDEN, [1631-- 
 
 In 1694, he began the most laborious and difficult of all his 
 works, the translatio n of V irglL; from which he borrowed two 
 months, that he might turn Fresnoy's Art of Painting into 
 English prose. The preface, which he boasts to have written 
 in twelve mornings, exhibits a parallel of poetry and painting, 
 with a miscellaneous collection of critical remarks, such as cost 
 a mind stored like his no labour to produce them. 
 
 In 1697, he published his version of the works of Virgil; 
 and that no opportunity of profit might be lost, dedicated the 
 Pastorals to the Lord Clifford, the Georgics to the Earl of 
 Chesterfield, and the Eneid to the Earl of Mulgrave. This 
 ceconomy of flattery, at once lavish and discreet, did not pass 
 without observation. 
 
 This translation was censured by Milbourney a clergyman, 
 styled by Pope the fairest of criticks, because he exhibited his 
 own version to be compared with that which he condemned. 
 
 His last work was his .JaMes, published in 1699, in conse- 
 quence, as is supposed, of a contract now in the hands of Mr. 
 Tonson ; by which he obliged himself, in consideration of three 
 hundred pounds, to finish for the press ten thousand verses. 
 
 In this volume is comprised the well-known Ode on St. 
 Ceciha's day, which, as appeared by a letter communicated 
 to Dr. Birch, he spent a f ortnight in composing and correcting. 
 But what is this to the patience and diligence of Boileau, 
 whose Equivoque, a poem of only three hundred forty-six 
 lines, took from his life eleven months to write it, and three 
 years to revise it ! 
 
 Part of this book of Fables is the fi rst Ilia d in English, 
 intended as a specimen of a version of the whole. Consider- 
 ing into what hands Homer was to fall, the reader cannot 
 but rejoice that this project went no further. 
 
 The time was now at hand which was to put an end to all 
 his schemes and labours. On the first of May, lyoi, having 
 been some time, as he tells us, a cripple in his limbs, he died 
 in Gerard-street of a mortification in his leg. 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. i6i 
 
 There is extant a wild story relating to some vexatious 
 events that happened at his funeral, which, at the end of 
 Congreve's Life, by a writer of I know not what credit, are 
 thus related, as I find the account transferred to a biographical 
 dictionary : 
 
 " Mr. Dryden dying on the Wednesday morning, Dr. 
 Thomas Sprat, then Bishop of Rochester and Dean of West- 
 minster, sent the next day to the Lady Elizabeth Howard, 
 Mr. Dryden's widow, that he would make a present of the 
 ground, which was forty pounds, with all the other Abbey-fees. 
 The Lord Halifax likewise sent to the Lady Elizabeth, and Mr. 
 Charles Dryden her son, that, if they would give him leave 
 to bury Mr. Dryden, he would inter him with a gentleman's 
 private funeral, and afterwards bestow five hundred pounds on 
 a monument in the Abbey ; which, as they had no reason to 
 refuse, they accepted. On the Saturday following the com- 
 pany came : the corpse was put into a velvet hearse, and 
 eighteen mourning coaches, filled with company, attended. 
 When they were just ready to move, the Lord Jefferies, son of 
 the Lord Chancellor Jefferies, with some of his rakish com- 
 panions coming by, asked whose funeral it was : and being 
 told Mr. Dryden's, he said, ' What, shall Dryden, the greatest 
 honour and ornament of the nation, be buried after this 
 private manner ! No, gentlemen, let all that loved Mr. 
 Dryden, and honour his memory, alight and join with me in , 
 gaining my lady's consent to let me have the honour of his 
 interment, which shall be after another manner than this; 
 and I will bestow a thbusand pounds on a monument in the 
 Abbey for him.' The gentlemen in the coaches, not knowing 
 of the Bishop of Rochester's favour, nor of the Lord Halifax's 
 generous design (they both having, out of respect to the 
 family, enjoined the Lady Elizabeth and her son to keep 
 their favour concealed to the world, and let it pass for 
 !'i their own expence) readily came out of the coaches, and 
 attended Lord Jefferies up to the lady's bedside, who was then 
 
 M 
 
I62 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 sick; he repeated the purport of what he had before said; 
 but she absolutely refusing, he fell on his knees, vowing 
 never to rise till his request was granted. The rest of the 
 company by his desire kneeled also ; and the lady, being 
 under a sudden surprise, fainted away. As soon as she 
 recovered her speech, she cried, 'No, no. ' ' Enough, gentlemen,' 
 replied he ; ' my lady is very good, she says, Go, go.' She 
 repeated her former words, with all her strength, but in vain ; 
 for her feeble voice was lost in their acclamations of joy ; and 
 the Lord Jefferies ordered the hearsemen to carry the corpse 
 to Mr. Russel's, an undertaker's in Cheapside, and leave it 
 there till he should send orders for the embalment, which, he 
 added, should be after the royal manner. His directions were 
 obeyed, the company dispersed, and Lady Elizabeth and her 
 son remained inconsolable. The next day Mr. Charles Dryden 
 waited on the Lord Halifax and the Bishop, to excuse his 
 mother and himself, by relating the real truth. But neither 
 his Lordship nor the Bishop would admit of any plea ; 
 especially the latter, who had the Abbey lighted, the ground 
 opened, the choir attending, an anthem ready set, and himself 
 waiting for some time without any corpse to bury. The under- 
 taker, after three days' expectance of orders for embalment 
 without receiving any, waited on the Lord Jefferies ; who 
 pretending ignorance of the matter, turned it off with an 
 ill-natured jest, saying. That those who observed the orders 
 of a drunken frolick deserved no better ; that he remembered 
 nothing at all of it ; and that he might do what he pleased 
 with the corpse. Upon this, the undertaker waited upon the 
 Lady EUzabeth and her son, and threatened to bring the corpse 
 home, and set it before the door. They desired a day's 
 respite, which was granted. Mr. Charles Dryden wrote a 
 handsome letter to the Lord Jefferies, who returned it with this 
 cool answer, ' That he knew nothing of the matter, and 
 would .be troubled no more about it." He then addressed the 
 Lord Hahfax and the Bishop of Rochester, who absolutely 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 163 
 
 refused to do anything in it. In this distress Dr. Garth sent 
 for the corpse to the College of Physicians, and proposed a 
 funeral by subscription, to which himself set a most noble 
 example. At last a day, about three weeks after Mr. Dryden's 
 decease, was appointed for the interment : Dr. Garth pro- 
 nounced a fine Latin oration, at the College, over the corpse ; 
 which was attended to the Abbey by a numerous train of 
 coaches. When the funeral was over, Mr. Charles Dryden 
 sent a challenge to the Lord Jefferies, who refusing to answer 
 it, he sent several others, and went often himself; but could 
 neither get a letter delivered, nor admittance to speak to him : 
 which so incensed him, that he resolved, since his Lordship 
 refused to answer him like a gentleman, that he would watch 
 an opportunity to meet, and fight off-hand, though with all 
 the rules of honour; which his Lordship hearing, left the 
 town : and Mr. Charles Dryden could never have the satisfac- 
 tion of meeting him, though he sought it till his death with the 
 utmost application." 
 
 This story I once intended to. omit, as it appears with no 
 great evidence; nor have I met with any confirmation but 
 in a letter of Farquhar, and he only relates that the funeral 
 of Dryden was tumultuary and confused. 
 
 Supposing the story true, we may remark that the gradual 
 change of manners, though imperceptible in the process, 
 appears great when different times, and those not very 
 distant, are compared. If at this time a young drunken Lord 
 should interrupt the pompous regularity of a magnificent 
 funeral, what would be the event, but that he would be 
 justled out of the way, and compelled to be quiet? If he 
 should thrust himself into a 'house, he would be sent roughly 
 away; and what is yet more to the honour of the present 
 time, I believe that those who had subscribed to the funeral 
 of a man Uke Dryden, would not, for such an accident, have 
 withdrawn their contributions. 
 
 He was buried among the poets in Westminster Abbey, 
 
 M 2 
 
i64 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 where, though the Duke of Newcastle had, in a general 
 dedication prefixed by Congreve to his dramatick works, 
 accepted thanks for his intention of erecting him a monument, 
 he lay long without distinction, till the Duke of Buckingham- 
 shire gave him a tablet, inscribed only with the name of 
 DRYDEN. i.i -■■"'' 
 
 He married the Lady Elizabeth Howard, jflaughter of the 
 Earl of Berkshire, with circumstances, according to the satire 
 imputed to Lord Somers, not very honourable to either pa^ty ; 
 by her he had three sons, Charles, John, and .Henry. Charles 
 was usher of the palace to Pope Clement the Xlth, and 
 visiting England in 1704, was drowned in an attempt to swim 
 across the Thames at Windsor. 
 
 John was author of a comedy called The Husband his 
 Own Cuckold. He is said to have died at Rome. Henry 
 entered into some religious order. It is some proof of 
 Dryden's sincerity in his second religion, that he taught it to 
 his sons. A man conscious of hypocritical profession in him- 
 self is not likely to convert others; and as his sons were^^ 
 qualified in 1693 to appear among the translators of Juvena-C--- 
 they must have been taught some religion before their father's 
 change. 
 
 pf the person of Dryden I know not any account; of his mind, 
 the portrait which has been left by Congreve, who knew him 
 with great familiarity, is such as adds our love of his manners 
 to our adrniration of Jiis genius. " He was," we are told, " of 
 a nature exceedingly humane and compassionate, ready to for- 
 give injuries, and capable of a sincere reconciliation with 
 those that had offended him. His friendship, where he pro- 
 fessed it, went beyond his professions. He was of a very 
 easy, of very pleasing access ; but somewhat slow, and, as it 
 were, diffident in his advances to others : he had that in his 
 nature which abhorred intrusion into any society whatever. 
 He was therefore less known, and consequently his character 
 became more liable to misapprehensions and misrepresenta- 
 
 a.a^^a I51+6 
 
1701] DRYDEN. 165 
 
 tions : he was very modest, and very easily to be discounte- 
 naiiced inTiiF approacEes to.his equals or superiors. As his 
 reading had been very extensive, so was he very happy in a 
 memory tenacious of every thing that he had read. He was 
 not more possessed of knowledge thari he was communicative 
 of it; but then his communication was by no means pedantick, 
 or imposed upon the conversation, but just such, and went so 
 far as, by the natural turn of the conversation in which he 
 was engaged, it was necessarily promoted or required. He 
 was extreme ready, and gentle in his correction of the errors 
 of any writer who thought fit to consult him, and full as ready 
 and patient to admit of the reprehensions of others, in respect 
 of his gwn oversights or mistakes." 
 
 To this account of Congreve nothing can be objected but 
 the fondness of friendship ; and to have excited that fondness 
 in such a mind is no small degree of praise. The disposition 
 of Dryden, however, is shewn in this character rather as it 
 exhibited itself in cursory conversation, than as it operated on 
 the more important parts of life. His placability and his 
 friendship indeed were solid virtues; but courtesy and good- 
 humour are often found with little real worth. Since Congreve, 
 who knew him well, has told us no more, the rest must be 
 collected as it can from other testimonies, and particularly from 
 those notices which Dryden has very liberally given us of 
 himself 
 
 The modesty which made him so slow to advance, and so 
 easy to be repulsed, was certainly no suspicion of deficient 
 merit, or unconsciousness of his own value : he appears to 
 have known, in its whole extent, the dignity of his character, 
 and to have set a very high value on his own powers and 
 performances. He probably did not offer his conversation, 
 because he expected it to be solicited ; and he retired from a 
 cold reception, not submissive but indignant, with such 
 reverence of his own greatness as made him unwilling to 
 expose it to neglect or violation. 
 
166 ' DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 His modesty was by no means inconsistent with ostentatious- 
 ness : he is dilligent enough to remind the world of his merit, 
 and expresses with very little scruple his high opinion of his 
 own powers ; but his self-commendations are read without 
 scorn or indignation ; we allow his claims, and love his 
 frankness. 
 
 Tradition, however, has not allowed that his confidence in 
 himself exempted him from jealousy of others. He is accused 
 of envy and insidiousness ; and is particularly charged with 
 inciting Creech to translate Horace, that he might lose the 
 reputation which Lucretius had given him. 
 
 Of this charge we immediately discover that it is merely 
 conjectural; the purpose was such as no man would confess; 
 and a crime that admits no proof why should we believe ? 
 
 He has been described as magisterially presiding over the 
 younger writers, and assuming the distribution of poetical 
 fame ; but he who excels has a right to teach, and he whose 
 judgement is incontestable may, without usurpation, examine 
 and decide. 
 
 Congreve represents him as ready to advise and instruct ; 
 but there is reason to believe that his communication was 
 rather useful than entertaining. He declares of himself that he 
 was saturnine, and not one of those whose spritely sayings 
 diverted company ; and one of his censurers makes him say, 
 
 Nor wine nor love could ever see me gay ; 
 To writing bred, I knew not what to say. 
 
 There are men whose powers operate only at leisure and in 
 retirement, and whose intellectual vigour deserts them in con- 
 versation; whom merriment confuses, and objection disconcerts; 
 whose bashfulness restrains their exertion, and suffers them not 
 to speak till the time of speaking is past ; or whose attention 
 to their own character makes them unwilling to utter at hazard 
 what has not been considered, and cannot be recalled. 
 
 Of Dryden's sluggishness in conversation it is vain to search 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 167 
 
 or to guess the cause. He certainly wanted neither sentiments 
 nor language ; his intellectual treasures were great, though 
 they were locked up from his own use. His thoughts, when he 
 wrote, flowed in upon him so fast, that his only care was which 
 to chuse, and which to reject. Such rapidity of composition 
 naturally promises a flow of talk, yet we must be content to 
 believe what an enemy says of him, when he likewise says it of 
 himself. But whatever was his character as a companion, it 
 appears that he lived in familiarity with the highest persons of 
 his time. It is related by Carte of the Duke of Ormond, that 
 he used often to pass a night with Dryden, and those with 
 whom Dryden consorted : who they were. Carte has not told ; 
 but certainly the convivial table at which Ormond sat was not 
 surrounded with a plebeian society. He was indeed re- 
 proached with boasting of his familiarity with the great ; and 
 Horace will support him in the opinion, that to please 
 superiors is not the lowest kind of merit. 
 
 The merit of pleasing must, however, be estimated by the 
 means. Favour is not always gained by good actions or 
 laudable qualities. Caresses and preferments are often be- 
 stowed on the auxiliaries of vice, the procurers of pleasiure, or 
 the flatterers of vanity. Dryden has never been charged with 
 any pers onal age ncy unworthy of a good character : he abetted 
 vice and vanity only with his pen. One of his enemies has 
 accused him of lewdness in his conversation ; but if accusa- 
 tion without proof be credited, who shall be innocent ? 
 
 His works afford too many examples of dissolute licentious- 
 ness, and abject adulation ; but they were probably, like his 
 merriment, artificial and constrained ; the effects of study and 
 meditation, and his trade rather than his pleasure. 
 
 Of the mind that can trade in corruption, and can de- 
 liberately pollute itself with ideal wickedness for the sake of 
 spreading the contagion .n society, I wish not to conceal 01 
 excuse the depravity. Such degradation of the dignity of 
 genius, such abuse of superlative abilities, cannot be contem- 
 
i68 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 plated but with grief and indignation. What consolation can 
 be had, Dryden has afforded, by living to repent, and to testify 
 his repentance. 
 
 Of draraatick immorality he did not want examples among 
 his predecessors, or companions among his contemporaries ; 
 but in the meanness and servility of hyperbolical adulation, 
 I know not whether, since the days in which the Roman 
 Emperors were deified, he has been ever equalled, except by 
 Afra Behn in an address to EJeanpr Gwyn. When once he 
 has undertaken the task of praise, he no longer retains shame 
 in himself, nor supposes it in his patron. As many odoriferous 
 bodies are observed to diffuse perfumes from year to year, 
 without sensible diminution of bulk or weight, he appears 
 never to have impoverished his mint of flattery by his ex- 
 pences, however lavish. He had all the forms of excellence, 
 intellectual and moral, combined in his mind, with endless 
 variation ; and when he had scattered on the hero of the day 
 the golden shower of wit and virtue, he had ready for him 
 whom he wished to court on the morrow, new wit and virtue 
 with another stamp. Of this kind of meanness he never seems 
 to decline the practice, or lament the necessity : he considers 
 the great as entitled to encomiastick homage, and brings praise 
 rather as a tribute than a gift, more delighted with the fertility 
 of his invention than mortified by the prostitution of his judge- 
 ment. It is indeed not certain, that on these occasions his 
 judgement much rebelled against his interest. There are 
 minds which easily sink into submission, that look on grandeur 
 with undistinguishing reverence, and discover no defect where 
 there is elevation of rank and affluence of riches. 
 
 With his praises of others and of himself is always inter- 
 mingled a strain of discontent and lamentation, a sullen growl 
 of resentment, or a querulous murmur of distress. His works 
 are under-valued, his merit is unrewarded, and he has few 
 thanks to pay his stars that he was born among Englishmen. 
 To his criticks he is sometimes contemptuous, sometimes 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 169 
 
 resentful, and sometimes submissive. The writer who thinks 
 his works formed for duration, mistakes his interest when he 
 mentions his enemies. He degrades his own dignity by 
 shewing that he was affected by their censures, and gives 
 lasting importance to names, which, left to themselves, would 
 vanish from remembrance. From this principle Dryden did 
 not oft depart ; his complaints are for the greater part general ; 
 he seldom pollutes his page with an adverse name. He con- 
 descended indeed to a controversy with Settle, in which he 
 perhaps may be considered rather as assaulting than repelhng ; 
 and since Settle is sunk into oblivion, his libel remains injurious 
 [ only to himself. 
 
 Amongj^nswers to criticks, no poetical attacks, or alterca- 
 tions, are to be included ; they are, like other poems, effusions 
 of genius, produced as much to obtain praise as to obviate 
 censure. These Dryden practised, and in these he excelled. 
 
 Of Collier, Blackmore, and Milbourne, he has made mention 
 in the preface to his Fables. To the censure of Colher, whose 
 remarks may be rather termed admonitions than criticisms, he 
 makes little reply ; being, at the age of sixty-eight, attentive to 
 better things than the claps of a playhouse. He complains 
 of Collier's rudeness, and the horse-play of his raillery; and 
 asserts that in many places he has perverted by his glosses the 
 meaning of what he censures ; but in other things he confesses 
 that he is justly taxed; and says, with great calmness and 
 candour, / have pleaded guilty to all thoughts or expressions of 
 mine that can be truly accused of obscenity, immorality, or pro- 
 faneness, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph ; 
 if he be my friend, he will be glad of my repetitance. Yet, as our 
 best dispositions are imperfect, he left standing in the same 
 book a reflection on Collier of great asperity, and indeed of 
 more asperity than wit. 
 
 Blackmor£ji£L^j)resents as made his enemy by the poem 
 of Absalom and Achitophel, whicTf -^^ thmks a little hardupon 
 his fanatuk-pairpns'rdSA charges him with bbSo wing the plan 
 
170 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 of his Arthur from the preface to Juvenal, though he had, says 
 he, the baseness not to acknowledge his benefactor, but instead of 
 it to traduce me in a libel. 
 
 The libel in which Blackmore traduced him was a Satire 
 upon Wit ; in which, having lamented the exuberance of false 
 wit and the deficiency of true, he proposes that all wit should 
 be re-coined before it is current, and appoints masters of assay 
 who shall reject all that is light or debased. 
 
 'Tis true that when the coarse and worthless dross 
 Is purg'd away, there will be mighty loss ; 
 Ev'n Congreve, Southern, manly Wycherley, 
 When thus refin'd, will grievous sufferers be ; 
 Into the melting-pot when Dryden comes, 
 What horrid stench will rise, what noisome fumes ! 
 How will he shrink, when all his lewd allay, 
 And wicked mixture, shall be purg'd away ! 
 
 Thus stands the passage in the last edition ; but in the original 
 there was an abatement of the censure, beginning thus : 
 
 But what remains will be so pure, 'twill bear 
 Th' examination of the most severe. 
 
 Blackmore, finding the censure resented, and the civility 
 disregarded, ungenerously omitted the softer part. Such 
 variations discover a writer who consults his passions more 
 than his virtue ; and it may be reasonably supposed that 
 Dryden imputes his enmity to its true cause. 
 
 Of Milbourne he wrote only in general terms, such as are 
 always ready at the call of anger, whether just or not : a short 
 extract will be sufficient. He pretends a quarrel to me, that 1 
 have fallen foul upon priesthood ; if T have, I am only to ask 
 pardon of good priests, and am afraid his share of the reparation 
 will come to little. Let him be satisfied that he shall never be able 
 to force himself upon me for an adversary ; I contemn him too 
 much to enter into competition with him. 
 
 As for the rest of those who have written against me, they are 
 
I70I] BRYDEN 171 
 
 such scoundrels that they deserve not the least notice to be token of 
 them. Blackmore and Milbourne are only distinguished from the 
 crowd by being remembered to their infamy. 
 
 Dryden indeed discovered, in many of his writings, an 
 affected and absurd malignity to priests and priesthood, which 
 naturally raised him many enemies, and which was sometimes 
 as unseasonably resented as it was exerted. Trapp is angry 
 that he calls the sacrificer in the Georgicks the holy butcher : 
 the translation is indeed ridiculous ; but Trapp's anger arises 
 from his zeal, not for the author, but the priest; as if any 
 reproach of the follies of paganism could be extended to the 
 preachers of truth. 
 
 Dryden' s. dislike of the priesthood is imputed by Langbaine, J/ 
 and I think by Brown, to a repulse which he suffered when he 
 solicited ordination ; but he denies, in the preface to his Fables, 
 that he ever designed to enter into the church ; and such a 
 denial he would not have hazarded, if he could have been 
 convicted of falsehood. 
 
 Malevolence to the clergy is seldom at a great distance from 
 irreverence of religion, and Dryden affords no exception to 
 this observation. His writings exhibit many passages, which, 
 with all the allowance that can be made for characters and 
 occasions, are such as piety would not have admitted, and 
 such as may vitiate light and unprincipled minds. But there 
 is no reason for supposing that he disbelieved the religion which 
 he disobeyed. He forgot his duty rather than disowned it. 
 His tendency to profaneness is the effect of levity, negligence, 
 and loose conversation, with a desire of accommodating himself 
 to the corruption of the times, by venturing to be wicked as far 
 as he durst. When he professed himself a convert to Popery, 
 he did not pretend to have received any new conviction of the 
 fundamental doctrines of Christianity. 
 
 The persecution of criticks was not the worst of his 
 vexations ; he was much more disturbed by the importunities 
 of want. His complaints of poverty are so frequently repeated, 
 
172 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 either with the dejection of weakness sinking in helpless misery, 
 or the indignation of merit claiming its tribute from mankind, 
 that it is impossible not to detest the age which could impose 
 on such a man the necessity of such solicitations, or not to 
 despise the man who could submit to such solicitations without 
 necessity. 'ItiJ u ^ , \ /dA ri',. 
 
 Whether by the world's neglect, or his own imprudence, 
 I am afraid that the greatest part of his life was passed in 
 exigences. Such outcries were surely never uttered but in 
 severe pain. Of his supplies or his expences no probable 
 estimate can now be made. Except the salary of the Laureate, 
 to which King James added the office of Historiographer, 
 perhaps with some additional emoluments, his whole revenue 
 seems to have been casual ; and it is well known that he 
 seldom lives frugally who lives by chance. Hope is always 
 liberal, and they that trust her promises make little scruple of 
 revelling to-day on the profits of the morrow- 
 
 Of his plavsthe profit w as not gr eat^nd .of the produce of 
 his other works very little intelligence can be had. By dis- 
 coursing with the late amiable Mr. Tonson, I could not find 
 that any memorials of the transactions between his predecessor 
 and Dryden had been preserved, except the following papers : 
 
 "I do hereby promise to pay John Dryden, Esq., or order, 
 on the 2Sth of March, 1699, the sum of two hundred and 
 fifty guineas, in consideration of ten thousand verses, which 
 the said John Dryden, Esq., is to deliver to me, Jacob 
 Tonson, when finished, whereof seven thousand five hundred 
 verses, more or less, are already in the said Jacob Tonson's 
 possession. And I do hereby farther promise, and engage 
 myself, to make up the said sum of two hundred and fifty 
 guineas three hundred pounds sterling to the said John 
 Dryden, Esq., his executors, administrators, or assigns, at the 
 beginning of the second impression of the said ten thousand 
 verses. _ 
 
 1 ^^ j( - -fui^'" 
 
' ■■■■) 
 
 1701] I- DRYDEN. 173 
 
 " In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal, 
 this 20th day of March, i69f. 
 
 "Jacob Tonson. 
 " Sealed and delivered, being first 
 duly stampt, pursuant to the acts 
 of parliament for that purpose, 
 in the presence of 
 
 Ben. Portlock. 
 Will. Congreve." 
 
 " March 24th, 1698. 
 "Received then of Mr. Jacob Tonson the sum of two 
 hundred sixty-eight poujids-^fifteen shillings, in pursuance 
 of an agreemSnt— fi5ften thousand verses, to be delivered by 
 me to the said Jacob Tonson, whereof I have already delivered 
 to him about seven thousand five hundred, more or less ; he 
 the said Jacob Tonson being obliged to make up the foresaid 
 sum of two hundred sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings tjiree 
 hundred pounds, at the beginning of the second impression of 
 the foresaid ten thousand verses ; 
 
 "I say, received by me 
 
 "John Dryeen. 
 "Witness Charles Dryden." 
 
 Two hundred and fifty guineas, at il. is. 6d. is 268/. i5j-. 
 
 It is manifest from the dates of this contract, that it relates 
 to the volume of Fables, which contains about twelve thousand 
 verses, and for which therefore the payment must have been 
 afterwards enlarged. 
 
 I have been told of another letter yet remaining, in which 
 he desires Tonson to bring him money, to pay for a watch 
 which he had ordered for his son, and which the maker would 
 not leave without the price. 
 
 The inevitable consequence of poverty is dependence. 
 Dryden had probably no recourse in his exigences but to his 
 bookseller. The particular character of Tonson I do not 
 know; but the general conduct of traders was much less 
 
174 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 liberal in those times than in our own ; their views were 
 narrower, and their manners ^grosser. To the mercantile 
 ruggedness of that race, the delicacy of the poet was some- 
 times exposed. Lord Bolingbroke, who in his youth had 
 cultivated poetry, related to Dr. King of Oxford, that one 
 day, when he visited Dryden, they heard, as they were con- 
 versing, another person entering the house. " This," said 
 Dryden, "is Tonson. You will take care not to depart before 
 he goes away; for 1 have not completed the sheet which I 
 promised him ; and if you leave me unprotected, I must suffer 
 all the rudeness to which his resentment can prompt his 
 tongue." 
 
 What rewards he obtained for his poems, besides the pay- 
 ment of the bookseller, cannot be known : Mr. Derrick, who 
 consulted some of his relations, was informed that his Fables 
 obtained five hundred pounds from the Dutchess of Ormond ; 
 a present not unsuitable to the magnificence of that splendid 
 family ; and he quotes Moyle, as relating that forty pounds 
 were paid by a musical society for the use of Alexander's 
 Feast. 
 
 In those days the econo my of g overnment was yet un- 
 settled, and the payments of the Exchequer were dilatory and 
 uncertain : of this disorder there is reason to believe that the 
 Laureate sometimes felt the effects ; for in one of his prefaces 
 he complains of those, who, being intrusted with the distribu- 
 tion of the Prince's bounty, suffer those that depend, upon it 
 to languish in penury. 
 
 Of his petty habits or sHght amusements, tradition has 
 retained little. Of the only two men whom I have found to 
 whom he was personally known, one told me that at the house 
 which he frequented, called Will's Coffee-house, the appeal 
 upon any literary dispute was made to him ; and the other 
 related, that his armed chair, which in the winter had a settled 
 and prescriptive place by the fire, was in the summer placed 
 in the balcony, and that he called the two places his winter 
 
1701] DRYDEN. 1 75 
 
 and his summer seat. This is all the intelligence which his 
 two survivors afforded me. 
 
 One of his opinions will do him no honour in the present 
 age, though in his own time, at least in the beginning of it, he 
 was far from having it confined to himself. He put great 
 confidence in the prognostications of judicial astrology. In 
 the Appendix to the Life of Congreve is a narrative of some 
 of his predictions wonderfully fulfilled ; but I know not the 
 writer's means of information, or character of veracity. That 
 he had the configurations of the horoscope in his mind, and 
 considered them as influencing the affairs of men, he does not 
 forbear to hint. 
 
 L. "^ H The utmost malice of the stars is past. — 
 ^' j 1'' Now frequent /;22£i the happier lights ampng, 
 
 ; , y^-. ij !■."' And high-rai^djove, from his dark prison freed, 
 •' '■ ,1 '!j Those weights took off that on his planet hung, 
 
 !'-' ' Will gloriously the new-laid works succeed. 
 
 He has elsewhere shewn his attention to the planetary powers; 
 and in the preface to his Fables has endeavoured obliquely to 
 justify his superstition, by attributing the same to some of the 
 Ancients. The latter, added to this narrative, leaves no doubt 
 of his notions or practice. 
 
 So slight and so scanty is the knowledge which I have been 
 able to collect concerning the private life and domestic manners 
 of a man, whom every English generation must mention with 
 reverence as a critick and a poet. 
 
 DRYDEN may be properly considered as the father of 
 EnglislicHET^rn^""as the'"wrifer"w1!o' first taught us to determine 
 upon prmcTpTes the merit of composition. Of our former 
 poets, the greatest dramatist wrote without rules, conducted 
 through life and nature by a genius that rarely misled, and 
 rarely deserted him. Of the rest, those who knew the laws of 
 propriety had neglected to teach them. 
 
o '-■ c'.vjy-! 
 
 
 176 DRYDEN. [163 1— 
 
 Two Arts of English Poetry were written in the days of 
 
 Elizabeth by Webb and Puttenham, from which something 
 
 might be learned, and a few hints had been given by Jonson 
 
 ■ and Cowley ; but Dryden's Essay on Dramatick Poetry was 
 
 the first regular and valuable treatise on the art of writing. 
 
 He who, having formed his opinions in the present age of 
 English literature, turns back to peruse this dialogue, will not 
 perhaps find much increase of knowledge, or much novelty 
 of instruction ; but he is to remember that critical principles 
 were then in the hands of a few, who had gathered them partly 
 from the Ancients, and partly from the Italians and French. 
 The structure of dramatick poems was not then generally 
 understood. Audiences applauded by instinct, and poets 
 perhaps often pleased by chance. 
 
 A writer who obtains his full purpose loses himself in his 
 own lustre. Of an opinion which is no longer doubted, the 
 evidence ceases to be examined. Of an art universally 
 practised, the first teacher is forgotten. Learning once made 
 popular is no longer learning ; it has the appearance of some- 
 thing which we have bestowed upon ourselve.s, as the dew 
 appears to rise from the field which it refreshes. 
 
 To judge rightly of an author, we must transport ourselves 
 to his time, and examine what were the wants of his contem- 
 poraries, and what were his means of supplying them. 
 That which is easy at one time was diflScult at another. 
 Dryden at least imported his science, and gave his country 
 what it wanted before ; or rather, he imported only the 
 materials, and manufactured them by his own skill. 
 
 The dialogue on the Drama was one of his first essays of 
 criticism, written when he was yet a timorous candidate for 
 reputation, and therefore laboured with that diligence which 
 he might allow himself somewhat to remit, when his name 
 gave sanction to his positions, and his awe of the public was 
 abated, partly by custom, and partly by success. It will not 
 be easy to find, in all the opulence of our language, a treatise 
 
I70i] DRYDEN. 177 
 
 so artfully varipgatcrl wi(- >| Biirrnnrirr irp i T -i rn l i il i iiii , ii ri i | i | i [ i 
 "site probab ilities, so enlivened with imagery, so brightned 
 with Illustrations. His portraits of the English dramatists 
 are wrought with great spirit and diligence. The account of 
 Shakspeare may stand as a perpetual model of encomiastick 
 criticism ; exact without minuteness, and lofty without exagge- 
 ration. The praise lavished by Longinus, on the attestation of 
 the heroes of Marathon, by Demosthenes, fades away before 
 it. In a few lines is exhibited a character, so extensive in its 
 comprehension, and so curious m its limitations, that nothing 
 can be added, di ^xmshed j, or reformed; nor can the editors 
 and admirers of Shakspeare, in all their emulation of reverence, 
 boast of much more than of having diffused and paraphrased 
 this epitome of excellence, of having changed Dryden's gold 
 for baser metal, of lower value though of greater bulk. 
 
 In this, and in all his other essays on the same subject, the 
 criticism of Dryden is the criticism of a poet ; not a dull 
 collection of theorems, nor a rude detection of faults, which 
 perhaps the censor was not able to have committed ; but a gay 
 and vigorous dissertation, where delight is mingled with in- 
 struction, and where the author proves his right of judgement, 
 by his power of performance. 
 
 The different manner and effect with which critical know- 
 ledge may be conveyed, was perhaps never more clearly 
 exemplified than in the performances of Rymer and Dryden. 
 It was said of a dispute between two mathematicians, '' malim 
 cum Scaligero errare, quam cum Clavio recte sapere ; " that 
 it was more eligible to go wrong with one than right with the 
 other. A tendency of the same kind every mind must feel at 
 the perusal of Dryden's prefaces and Rymer's discourses. 
 With Dryden we are wandering in quest of Truth j whom we 
 find, if we find her at all, drest in the graces of elegance ; and 
 if we miss her, the labour of the pursuit rewards itself; we are 
 led only through fragrance and flowers : Rymer, without taking 
 a nearer, takes a rougher way ; every step is to be made 
 
 ! f f i I 
 
J78 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 through thorns and brambles; and Truth, if we meet her, 
 appears repulsive by her mien, and ungraceful by her habit. 
 Dryden's criticism has the majesty of a queen ; Rymer's has 
 the ferocity of a tyrant. 
 
 As he ■ had studied with great diUgence the art of poetry, 
 and enlarged or rectified his notions, by experience perpetually 
 increasing, he had his mind stored with principles and obser- 
 \-ations ; he poured out his knowledge with little labour ; for 
 of labour, notwithstanding the multipUcity of his productions, 
 there is sufficient reason to suspect that he was not a lover. 
 To write con amore, with fondness for the employment, with 
 perpetual touches and retouches, with unwillingness to take 
 leave of his own idea, and an unwearied pursuit of unattainable 
 perfection, was, I think, no part of his character. 
 
 His Criticism may be considered as general or occasional. 
 . In his general precepts, which depend upon the nature of 
 things, and the structure of the human mind, he may doubtless 
 be safely recommended to the confidence of the reader ; but 
 his occasional and particular positions were sometimes in- 
 terested, sometimes negligent, and sometimes capricious. It is 
 not without reason that Trapp, speaking of the praises which 
 he bestows on Palamon and Arcite, says, " Novimus judicium 
 Drydeni de poemate quodam Chauceri, pulchro sane^illo, et 
 ij admodum laudando, nimirum quod non modo vere epjhum sit, 
 ' sed Iliada etiam atque ^neada aequet, imo superet. Sed 
 novimus eodem tempore viri illius maximi rioii seiJiper accura- 
 tissimas esse censuras, nee ad severissimam critices norniam 
 exactas : illo judice id plerumque optimum est, quod nunc 
 prse manibus habet, & in quo nunc occupatur." 
 
 He is therefore by no means constant to himself His 
 defence and desertion of dramatick rhyme is generally known. 
 Spence, in his remarks on Pope's Odyssey, produces what he 
 thinks an unconquerable quotation from Dryden's preface to 
 the Eneid, in favour of translating an epic poem into blank 
 verse j but he forgets that when his author attempted the 
 
I70I] ■ DRY DEN. 179 
 
 Iliad, some years afterwards, he departed from his own 
 decision, and translated into rhyme. 
 
 When he has any objection to obviate, or any license to 
 defend, he is not very scrupulous about what he asserts, nor 
 very cautious, if the present purpose be served, not to entangle 
 himself in his own sophistries. But when all arts are ex- 
 hausted, like other hunted animals, he sometimes stands at 
 bay J when he cannot disown the grossness of one of his 
 plays, he declares that he knows not any law that prescribes 
 morality to a comick poet. 
 
 His remarks on ancient or modern writers are not always to 
 be trusted. His parallel of the versification of Ovid with that 
 of Claudian has been very justly censured by Sewel.^ His 
 comparison of the first line of Virgil with the first of Statius 
 is not happier. Virgil, he says, is soft and gentle, and would 
 have thought Statius mad if he had heard him thundering 
 out 
 
 Qusa superimposito moles geminata colosso. 
 
 Statius perhaps heats himself, as he proceeds, to exaggera- '>\j^ 
 tions somewhat hyperbolical ; but undoubtedly Virgil wbuU^ /^^ 
 have been too hasty, if he had condemned him to straw^r \ t 
 
 one sounding line. Dryden wanted an instance, and the" first 
 that occurred was imprest into the service. 
 
 What he wishes to say, he says at hazard ; he cited Gor- ^-^ 
 Jjudu c, which he had never seen ; gives a false account_j3f (e t* 
 Chapman's versification; and discovers, Jn-t-he'preface to his XV 
 Fables, that he translated the first book of the Iliad, without . ( 
 knowing what was in the second. , H ( 
 
 It will be difficult to prove that Dryden ever made any "J-S 
 great advances in literature. As having distinguished himself 1 
 at Westminster under the tuition of Busby, who advanced his 
 scholars to a height of knowledge very rarely attained in 
 grammar-schools, he resided afterwards at Cambridge, it is 
 ^ Preface to Ovid's Metamorphoses, 
 
i8o DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 not to be supposed, that his skill in the ancient languages was 
 deficient, compared with that of common students ; but his 
 scholastick acquisitions seem not proportionate to his opportu- 
 nities and abilities. He could not, like Milton or Cowley, 
 have made his name illustrious merely by his learning. He 
 mentions but few books, and those such as lie in the beaten 
 track of regular study ; from which if ever he departs, he is 
 in danger of losing himself in unknown regions. 
 
 In his Dialogue on the Drama, he pronounces with great 
 confidence that the Latin tragedy of Medea is not Ovid's, 
 because it is not sufficiently interesting and pathetick. He 
 might have determined the question upon surer evidence ; 
 for it is quoted by Quintilian as the work of Seneca ; and the 
 only line which remains of Ovid's play, for one line is left us, 
 is not there to be found. There was therefore no need of the 
 gravity of conjecture, or the discussion of plot or sentiment, 
 to find what was already known upon higher authority than 
 such discussions can ever reach. 
 
 His literature, though not always free from ostentation, will 
 be commonly found either obvious, and made his own by the 
 art of dressing it ; or superficial, which, by what he gives, 
 shews what he wanted ; or erroneous, hastily collected, and 
 negligently scattered. 
 
 Yet it cannot be said that his genius is ever unprovided of 
 
 matter, or that his fancy languishes in penury of ideas. His 
 works abound with knowledge, and sparkle with illustrations. 
 There is scarcely any science or faculty that does not supply 
 him with occasional images and lucky similitudes ; every page 
 discovers. a mind very widely acquainted .bflth- witb^art and 
 nature, and in full possession of great stores of intellectual 
 wealth. Of him that knows much, it is natural to suppose 
 that he has read with diligence ; yet I rather believe that the 
 knowledge of Dryden was gleaned from accidental intelligence 
 and various conversation, by a quick apprehension, a judicious 
 selection, and a happy memory, a keen appetite of knowledge, 
 
 .-- , ' 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. i8i 
 
 and a powerful digestion ; by vigilance that permitted nothing 
 to pass without notice, and a habit of reflection that suffered 
 nothing useful to be lost. A mind like Dryden's, always 
 curious, always active, to which every understanding was proud 
 to be associated, and of which every one solicited the regard, 
 by an ambitious display of himself, had a more pleasant, per- 
 haps a nearer way, to knowledge than by the silent progress of 
 solitary reading. I do not suppose that he despised books, or 
 intentionally neglected them ; but that he was carried out, by 
 the impetuosity of his genius, to more vivid and speedy in- 
 structors ; and that his studies were rather desultory and 
 fortuitous than constant and systematical. 
 
 It must be confessed that he scarcely ever appears to want 
 book-learning but when he mentions books ; and to him may 
 be transferred the praise which he gives his master Charles. 
 
 His conversation, wit, and parts. 
 His knowledge in the noblest useful arts, 
 
 Were such, dead authors could not give. 
 
 But habitudes of those that live ; 
 Who, lighting him, did greater lights receive : 
 
 He drain'd from all, and all they knew, 
 His apprehension quick, his judgement true : 
 
 That the most learn'd with shame confess 
 His knowledge more, his reading only less. 
 
 Of all this, however, if the proof be demanded, I will not 
 undertake to give it ; the atoms of probability, of which my 
 opinion has been formed, lie scattered over all his works ; and 
 by him who thinks the question worth his notice, his works 
 must be perused with very close attention. 
 
 Criticism, either didactick or defensivCj^ occupies almost all 
 his_ prose, except those' pages which he has devoted to his 
 patrons ; but none of his prefaces were ever thought tedious. 
 They have not the formality of a settled style, in which the 
 first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are 
 never balanced, nor the periods modelled ; every word seems 
 to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. 
 
iS2 DRYDEN. [1631- 
 
 Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, atiimated, and 
 vigorous; what is little, is gay; what is great, is splendid. He 
 may be thought to mention himself too frequently ; but while" 
 he forces himself upon our esteem, we cannot refuse him to 
 stand high in his own. Every thing is excused by the play of 
 images and the spriteliness of expression. Though all is easy, 
 nothing is feeble ; though all seems careless, there is nothing 
 harsh ; and though, since his earlier works, more than a 
 century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete. 
 
 He who writes much, will not easily escape a manner, such 
 a recurrence of particular modes as may be easily noted. 
 Dryden is always another and the same, he does not exhibit 
 a second time the same elegances in the same form, nor 
 appears to have any art other than that of expressing with 
 clearness what he thinks with vigour. His style could not 
 easily be imitated, either seriously or ludicrously; for, being 
 always equable and always varied, it has no prominent or 
 discriminative characters. The beauty who is totally free from 
 disproportion of parts and features, cannot be ridiculed by an 
 overcharged resemblance. 
 
 From his prose, however, Dryden derives only his accidental 
 and secondary praise ; the veneration with which his name is 
 pronounced by every cultivator of English literature, is paid to 
 him as he refined the language, impro^^d the sentiments, and 
 tuned the numbers of English Poetry. 
 
 After about half a century of forced thoughts, and rugged 
 metre, some advances towards nature and harmony had been 
 already made by 'V\ialler and Dgnham; they had shewn that 
 long discourses in rhyme grew more pleasing when they were 
 broken into couplets, and that verse consisted not only in the 
 number bu\ the arrangement of syllables. 
 
 But though they did much, who can deny that they left 
 much to do ? Their works were not many, nor were their 
 minds of very ample comprehension. More examples of more 
 modes of composition were necessary for the establishment of 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 183 
 
 regularity, and the introduction of propriety in word and 
 thought. 
 
 Every language of a learned nation necessarily divides itself 
 into diction scholastick and popular, grave and familiar, elegant 
 and gross ; and from a nice distinction of these different parts, 
 arises a great part of the beauty of style. But if we except a 
 few minds, the favourites of nature, to whom their own original 
 rectitude was in the place of rules, this dehcacy of selection 
 was little known to our authors ; our speech lay before them 
 in a heap of confusion, and every man took for every purpose 
 what chance might offer him. 
 
 There was therefore. -^eftire' the time of Dry den no poetical 
 diction, ho system of words at once refined from the grossness 
 of„_dornestick use, and free from the harshness of terras 
 appropriated to particular arts. Words too familiar, or too 
 remote, defeat the purpose of a poet. From those sounds which 
 we hear on small or on coarse occasions, we do not easily 
 receive strong impressions, or delightful images ; and words to 
 which we are nearly strangers, whenever they occur, draw that 
 attention on themselves which they should transmit to things. 
 
 Those happy combinations of words which distinguish 
 poetry from prose, had been rarely attempted ; we had few 
 elegances or flowers of speech, the roses had not yet been 
 plucked from the bramble, or different colours had not been 
 joined to enliven one another. 
 
 It may be doubted whether Waller and Denham could have 
 over-borne the prejudices which had long prevailed, and which 
 even then were sheltered by the protection of Cowley. The 
 new versififi^tien, as it was called, may bejxjnsidered as owing 
 its establishment to Dryden ; from whose time it is apparent 
 that English poetiy has had no tendency to relapse to its 
 former savageness. 
 
 The affluence and comprehension of our language is very 
 illustriously displayed in our poetical translations of Ancient 
 Writers ; a work which the French seem to relinquish in 
 
i34 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 despair, and which we were long unable to perform with 
 dexterity. Ben Jonson thought it necessary to copy Horace 
 almost word by word; Feltham, his contemporary and ad- 
 versary, considers it as indispensably requisite in a translation 
 to give line for line. It is said that Sandys, whom Dryden 
 calls the best versifier of the last age, has struggled hard to 
 comprise every book of his English Metamorphoses in the 
 same number of verses with the original. Holyday had 
 nothing in view but to shew that he understood his author, with 
 so little regard to the grandeur of his diction, or the volubility 
 of his numbers, that his metres can hardly be called verses ; 
 they cannot be read without reluctance, nor will the labour 
 always be rewarded by understanding them. Cowley saw that 
 such copyers were a servile race ; he asserted his liberty, and 
 spread his wings so boldly that he left his authors. It was 
 reserved for Dryden to fix the limits of poetical liberty, and 
 give us just rules and examples of translation. 
 
 When languages are formed upon different principles, it is 
 impossible that the same modes of expression should always 
 be elegant in both. While they run on together, the closest 
 translation may be considered as the best ; but when they 
 divaricate, each must take its natural course. Where corre- 
 spondence cannot be obtained, it is necessary to be content 
 with something equivalent. Translation therefore, says Dryden, 
 is not so loose as paraphrase, nor so dose as metaphrase. 
 
 All polished languages have different styles ; the concise, the 
 diffuse, the lofty, and the humble. In the proper choice of 
 style consists the resemblance which Dryden principally exacts 
 from the translator. He is to exhibit his author's thoughts in 
 such a dress of diction as the author would have given them, 
 had his language been English ; rugged magnificence is not to 
 be softened : hyperbolical ostentation is not to be repressed, 
 nor sententious affectation to have its points blunted. A 
 translator is to be like his author : it is not his business to 
 excel him. 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 185 
 
 The reasonableness of these rules seems sufficient for their 
 vindication ; a,nd the effects produced by observing them were 
 so happy, that I know not whether they were ever opposed but 
 by Sir Edward Sherburne, a man whose learning was greater 
 than his powers of poetry ; and who, being better qualified to 
 give the meaning than the spirit of Seneca, has introduced his 
 version of three tragedies by a defence of close translation. 
 The authority of Horace,, which the new translators cited in 
 defence of their practice, he has, by a judicious explana- 
 tion, taken fairly from them ; but reason wants not Horace to 
 support it. 
 
 It seldom happens that all the necessary causes concur to 
 any great effect : will is wanting to power, or power to will, or 
 both are impeded by external obstructions. The exigences in 
 which Dryden was condemned to pass his life, are reasonably 
 supposed to have blasted his genius, to have driven out his 
 works in a state of immaturity, and to have intercepted the 
 full-blown elegance which longer growth would have supplied. 
 
 Poverty, like other rigid powers, is sometimes too hastily 
 accused. If the excellence of Dryden's works was lessened 
 by his indigence, their number was increased ; and I know not 
 how it will be proved, that if he had written less he would have 
 written better; or that indeed he would have undergone the 
 toil of an author, if he had not been solicited by something 
 more pressing than the love of praise. 
 
 But as is said by his Sebastian, 
 
 What h^d been, is unknown ; what is, appears. 
 
 We know that Dryden's several productions were so many 
 successive expedients for his support ; his plays were therefore 
 often borrowed, and his poems were almost all oc casio nal. 
 
 In an occasional performance no height of excellence can 
 be expected from any mind, however fertile in itself, and how- 
 ever stored with acquisitions. He whose work is general and 
 a rbitrary , has the choice of his matter, and takes that which 
 
i86 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 his inclination and his studies have best qualified him to dis- 
 play and decorate. He is at liberty to delay his publication, 
 till he has satisfied his friends and himself; till he has reformed 
 his first thoughts by subsequent examination ; and polished 
 away those faults which the precipitance of ardent composition 
 is likely to leave behind it. Virgil is related to have poured 
 out a great number of lines in the morning, and to have passed 
 the day in reducing them to fewer. 
 
 The o ccasio nal poet is circumscribed by the narrowness of 
 his subject. Whatever can happen to man has happened so 
 often, that little remains for fancy or invention. We have 
 been all born ; we have most of us been married, and so many 
 have died before us, that our deaths can supply but few materials 
 for a poet. In the fate of princes the publick has an interest ; 
 and what happens to them of good or evil, the poets have 
 always considered as business for the Muse. But after so 
 many inauguratory gratulations, nuptial hymns, and funeral 
 dirges, he must be highly favoured by nature, or by fortune, 
 who says any thing not said before. Even war and conquest, 
 however splendid, suggest no new images ; the triumphal 
 chariot of a victorious monarch can be decked only with those 
 ornaments that have graced his predecessors. 
 
 Not only matter but time is wanting. The poem must not 
 be delayed till the occasion is forgotten. The lucky moments 
 of animated imagination cannot be ^tjended ; elegances and 
 illustrations cannot be multiplied by gradual accumulation : 
 the composition must be dispatched while conversation is yet 
 busy, and admiration fresh; and haste is to be made, lest 
 some other event should lay hold upon mankind. 
 
 Occasional compositions may however secure to a writer the 
 praise both of learning and facility : for they cannot be the 
 effect of long study, and must be furnished immediately from 
 the treasures of the mind. 
 
 The._deaJ;h of Cromwell was the first puhlinW evpnt- which 
 called forth- Dryden's pjDetical powers. His heroick stanzas 
 
1701] ' 7 DRYDEN. 187 
 
 have beauties and defects ; the thoughts are vigorous, and 
 though not always proper, shew a mind replete with ideas ; the 
 numbers are smooth, and the diction, if not altogether correct, 
 is elegant and easy. 
 
 Davenant was perhaps at this time his favourite author, <^ 
 though G ondibe rt never appears to have been popular ; and 
 from Davenant he learned to please his ear with the stanza of 
 four lines alternately rhymed. 
 
 Dryden very early formed his versification : there are in this 
 early production no traces of Donne's or Jonson's ruggedness ; 
 but he did not so soon free his mind from the ambition of forced 
 conceits. In his verses on the Restoration, he says of the 
 King's exile. 
 
 He, toss'd by Fate — 
 Could taste no sweets of youth's desired age, 
 But found his life too true a pilgrimage. 
 
 And afterwards, to shew how virtue and wisdom are increased 
 by adversity, he makes this remark : 
 
 Well might the ancient poets then confer 
 On Night the honour'd name of counsellor. 
 Since, struck with rays of prosperous fortune blind, 
 We light alone in dark afflictions find. 
 
 His praise of Monk's dexterity comprises such a cluster of 
 thoughts unallied to one another, as will not elsewhere be 
 easily found : 
 
 'Twas Monk, whom Providence designed to loose 
 
 Those real bonds false freedom did impose. 
 
 The blessed saints that watch'd this turning scene, 
 
 Did from their stars with joyful wonder lean. 
 
 To see small clues draw vastest weightsjJong, -^ 
 
 Not in their bulk, but in theiiTofSeiTtrong. 
 
 Thus pencils can by one slight touch restore 
 
 Smiles to that changed face that wept before. 
 
 With ease such fond chimasras we pursue, 
 
 As fancy frames for fancy to subdue : 
 
 But, when ourselves to action we betake. 
 
 It shuns the mint like gold that chymists make : 
 
 illxu- r 
 
 ) 
 
iS8 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 I , (jW- < How hard was then his task, at once to be 
 
 fc«.vi ■■ )_ What in the body natural we see ! 
 
 Man's Architect distinctly did ordain 
 The charge of muscles, nerves, and of the brain, 
 Through viewless conduits spirits to dispense 
 The springs of motion from the seat of sense. 
 'Twas not the hasty product of a day, 
 But the well-ripen'd fruit of wise delay. 
 He, like a patient angler, ere he strojjk, -^ 
 
 Would let them play a-while upon the hook. 
 Our healthful food the stomach labours thus. 
 At first embracing what it straight doth crush. 
 I, , > Wise l each es will not vain receipts obtrude, 
 
 While growing pains pronounce the humours crude ; 
 Deaf to complaints, they wait upon the ill, 
 Till some safe crisis authorize their skill. 
 
 He had not yet learned, indeed, he never learned well, to 
 forbear, the improper use of mythology. After having rewarded 
 the heathen deities for their care, 
 
 With 'Alga who the sacred altar strows ? 
 ^ To all the sea-gods Charles an offering owes ; 
 
 {^cvw ^'" '" ' A, bull to thee, Poijunus, shall be slain ; 
 I J ^ ,\ i ■--, J A ram to you, ye Tempests of the Main. 
 
 He tells us, in the language of religion. 
 
 Prayer storm'd the skies, and ravish'd Charles from thence. 
 As heaven itself is took by violence. 
 
 And afterwards mentions one of the most awful passages of 
 Sacred History. 
 
 Other conceits there are, too curious to be quite omitted ; 
 as, 
 
 For by example most we sinn'd before. 
 
 And, glass-like, clearness mix'd with frailty bore. 
 
 How far he was yet from thinking it necessary to found his 
 sentiments on Nature, appears from the extravagance of his 
 fictions and hyperboles : 
 
1 701] DRYDEff. 189 
 
 The winds, that never moderation knew, 
 Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew ; 
 Or, out of breath with joy, could not enlarge 
 Their straiten'd lungs. — 
 
 It is no longer motion cheats your view ; 
 As you meet it, the land approacheth you ; 
 The land returns, and in the white it weaA 
 The marks of penitence and sorrow bears. 
 
 I know not whether this fancy, however little be its value, was 
 not borrowed. A French poet read to Malherbe some verses, 
 in which he represents France as moving out of its place to 
 receive the king. " Though this," said Malherbe, " was in my 
 time, I do not remember it." 
 
 His poem on the Coronation has a more even tenour of 
 thought. Some lines deserve to be quoted : 
 
 You have already quench'd sedition's brand. 
 And zeal, that burnt it, only warms the land ; 
 The jealous sects that durst not trust their cause 
 So far from their own will as to the laws, 
 Him for their umpire and their synod take. 
 And their appeal alone to Cssar make. 
 
 Here may be found one particle of that old versification, of 
 which, I believe, in all his works, there is not another : 
 
 Nor is it duty, or our hope alone. 
 Creates that joy, but i\i!iS. fruition. 
 
 In the verses to the Lord Chancellor Clarendon, two years 
 afterwards, is a conceit so hopeless at the first view, that few 
 would have attempted it ; and so successfully laboured, that 
 though at last it gives the reader more perplexity than pleasure, 
 and seems hardly worth the study that it costs, yet it must 
 be valued as a proof of a mind at once subtle and com- 
 prehensive : ^ 
 
 In opeti prospect iigthing bounds our eye. 
 Until the earth seems join'd unto the sky : 
 So in this hemisphere our utmost view 
 Is only bounded by our king and you : 
 
190 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 Our sight is limited where you are join'd, 
 And beyond that no farther heaven can find. 
 ~- - - So well your virtues do with his agree, 
 
 That, though your orbs of different greatness be. 
 Yet both are for each other's use dispos'd, 
 ^) His to enclose, and yours to be enclos'd. 
 
 Nor could another in your room have been, 
 Except an emptiness had come between. 
 
 The comparison of the Chancellor to the Indies leaves all 
 resemblance too far behind it : 
 
 And as the Indies were not found before 
 Those rich perfumes which from the happy shore 
 The winds upon their balmy wings convey'd, 
 Whose guilty sweetness first their world betray'd ; 
 So by your counsels we are brought to view 
 A new and undiscover'd world in you. 
 
 There is another comparison, for there is little else in the 
 poem, of which, though perhaps it cannot be explained into 
 plain prosaick meaning, the mind perceives enough to be 
 delighted, and readily forgives its obscurity for its mag- 
 nificence : 
 
 How strangely active are the arts of peace, 
 Whose restless motions less than wars do cease : 
 Peace is not freed from labour, but from noise ; 
 And war more force, but not more pains employs : 
 Such is the mighty swiftness of your mind, 
 That, like the earth's, it leaves our sense behind. 
 While you so smoothly turn and rowl our sphere. 
 That rapid motion does but rest appear. 
 For as in nature's swiftness, with the throng 
 Of flying orbs while ours is borne along, 
 '^ AH seems at rest to the deluded eye, 
 
 Mov'd by the soul of the same harmony ■ 
 So carry'd on by our unwearied care. 
 We rest in peace, and yet in motion share. 
 
 To this succeed four lines, which perhaps afford Dryden's 
 first attempt at those penetrating remarks on human nature, 
 for which he seems to have been peculiarly formed : 
 
lyot] DRYDEN. 191 
 
 Let envy then those crimes within you see, 
 
 From which the happy never must be free ; 
 
 Envy that does with misery reside, f) 
 
 The joy and the revenge of ruin'd pride. 
 
 Into this poem he seems to have collected all his powers; 
 and after this he did not often bring upon his anvil such 
 stubborn and unmalleable thoughts ; but, as a specimen of 
 his abilities to unite the most unsociable matter, he has 
 concluded with lines, of which I think not myself obliged 
 to tell the meaning : 
 
 Yet unimpair'd with labours, or with time. 
 Your age but seems to a new youth to chmb. 
 Thus heavenly bodies do our time beget, 
 And measure change, but share no part of it : 
 And still it shall without a weight increase. 
 Like this new year, whose motions never cease. 
 For since the glorious course you have begun 
 Is led by Charles, as that is by the sun. 
 It must both weightless and immortal prove, 
 Because the centre of it is above. 
 
 In the Annus Mirabilis he returned to the quatrain, 
 which from that time he totally quitted, perhaps from this 
 experience of its inconvenience, for he complains of its 
 difficulty. This is one of his greatest attempts. He had 
 subjects equal to his abilities, a great naval war, and the 
 Fire of London. Battles have always been described in 
 heroick poetry ; but a sea-fight and artillery had yet some- 
 thing of novelty. New arts are long in the world before 
 poets describe them ; for they borrow everything from their 
 pre decessors, and commonly derive very little from_nature 
 or from life. Boileau was the first French writer that had 
 ever hazarded in verse the mention of modern war, or the 
 effects of gunpowder. We, who are less afraid of novelty, 
 had already possession of those dreadful images : Waller had 
 described a sea-fight. Milton had not yet transferred the 
 invention of fire-arms to the rebellious angels. \ 
 
192 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 This poem is written with great diligence, yet does not fully 
 answer the expectation raised by such subjects and such a 
 writer. With the stanza of Davenant he has sometimes his 
 vein of parenthesis, and incidental disquisition, and stops his 
 narrative for a wise remark. 
 
 The general fault is, that he affords more sentiment than 
 description, and does not so much impress scenes upon the 
 fancy, as deduce consequences and make comparisons. 
 
 The initial stanzas have rather too much resemblance to the 
 first lines of Waller's poem on the war with Spain ; perhaps 
 such a beginning is natural, and could not be avoided without 
 affectation. Both Waller and Dryden might take their hint 
 from the poem on the civil war of Rome, Orbem jam 
 totum, &c. 
 
 Of the king collecting hip navy, he says. 
 
 It seems as every ship their sovereign knows. 
 His awful summons they so soon obey ; 
 
 So hear the scaly herds when P roteu s blows. 
 And so to pasture follow through the sea. 
 
 It would not be hard to believe that Dryden had written 
 the two first lines seriously, and that some wag had added the 
 two latter in burlesque. Who would expect the lines that 
 immediately follow, which are indeed perhaps indecently 
 hyperbolical, but certainly in a mode totally different ? 
 
 To see this fleet upon the ocean move. 
 
 Angels drew wide the curtains of the skies ; 
 
 And heaven, as if there wanted lights above. 
 For tapers made two glaring comets rise. 
 
 The description of the attempt at Bergen will afford a very 
 compleat specimen of the descriptions in this poem : 
 
 ,, , , ■,.. f- And now approach'd their fleet from India, fraught 
 ' With all the riches of the rising sun : 
 
 And precious sand from southern climates brought, 
 The fatal regions where the war begun. 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 193 
 
 Like hunted c astors , conscious of their store, 
 
 Their way-lai d wealth to Norway's coast they bring : 
 
 Then first the N'orth's cold bosom spices bore, 
 And winter brooded on the eastern spring. 
 
 By the rich scent we found our perfum'd prey, 
 Which, flank'd with rocks, did close in covert lie : 
 
 And round about their murdering cannon lay. 
 At once to threaten and invite the eye. 
 
 Fiercer than cannon, and than rocks more hard, 
 The English undertake th' unequal war : 
 
 Seven ships alone, by which the port is barr'd, 
 Besiege the Indies, and all Denmark dare. 
 
 These fight like husbands, but like lovers those : 
 These fain would keep, and those more fain enjoy ■ 
 
 And to such height their frantic passion grows, 
 That what both love, both hazard to destroy ; 
 
 Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball, 
 And now their odours arm'd against them fly : 
 
 Some pr eciously bv shat tered porcelain fell, 
 And some by aromatic splinters die. 
 
 And though by tempests of the prize bereft. 
 In heaven's inclemency some ease we find : 
 
 Our foes wejujanquish'd by our valour leftjj 
 And only yieldBd'tO the'seas and wmd. 
 
 In this manner is the sublime too often mingled wiih the 
 ridiculous. The Dutch seek a shelter for a wealthy fleet : this 
 surely needed no illustration ; yet they must fly, not like all 
 the rest of mankind on the same occasion, but like hunted 
 castors ; and they might with strict propriety be hunted ; for 
 we winded them by our noses — their perfumes betrayed them. 
 The Husband and the Lover, though of more dignity than the 
 Castor, are images too domestick to mingle properly with the 
 horrors of war. The two quatrains that follow are worthy of 
 the author. 
 
 The account of the different sensations with which the two 
 fleets retired, when the night parted them, is one of the fairest 
 flowers of English poetry. 
 
194 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 The night comes on, we eager to pursue 
 The combat still, and they asham'd to leave : 
 
 Till the last streaks of dying day withdrew. 
 And doubtful moon-light did our rage deceive. 
 
 In th' English fleet each ship resounds with joy. 
 And loud applause of their great leader's fame : 
 
 In fiery dreams the Dutch they still destroy, 
 And, slumbering, smile at the imagin'd flame. 
 
 , I Not so the Holland fleet, who, tired and done, 
 
 Stretch'd on their decks like weary oxen lie : 
 
 Faint sweats all down their mighty members run, 
 (Vast bulks, which little souls but ill supply.) 
 
 In dreams they fearful precipices tread. 
 Or, shipwreck'd, labour to some distant shore : 
 
 Or, in dark churches, walk among the dead ; 
 They wake with horror, and dare sleep no more. 
 
 It is a general rule in poetry, that all appropriated terms ot 
 art should be sunk in general expressions, because poetry is to 
 speak an universal language. This rule is still stronger with 
 regard to arts not liberal, or confined to few, and therefore far 
 removed from common knowledge; and of this kind, certainly, 
 is technical navigation. Yet Dryden was of opinion that a 
 sea-fight ought to be described in the nautical language ; and 
 certainly, says he, as those who in a logical disputation keep to 
 general terms would hide a fallacy, so those who do it in any 
 poetical description would veil their ignorance. 
 
 Let us then appeal to experience ; for by experience at last 
 we learn as well what will please as what will profit. In the 
 battle, his terms seem to have been blown away ; but he deals 
 them liberally in the dock : 
 
 So here some pick out bullets from the side. 
 Some drive old okum thro' each seam and rift : 
 
 Their left hand does the calking-iron guide. 
 The rattling mallet with the right they lift. 
 
 With boiling pitch another near at hand 
 
 (From friendly Sweden brought) the seams instops : 
 
 Which, well laid o'er, the salt-sea waves withstand, 
 And shake them from the rising beak in drops. 
 

 1 701] DRYDEN. j 19s 
 
 1 I ;f . 
 
 Some the galPd ropes with dawby marking blijid, ^ 
 
 Or sear-cloth masts with strong tarpawling coats : 
 To try new shrouds one mounts into the wind, 
 
 And one below their ease or stiffness notes. 
 
 I suppose here is not one term which every reader does not 
 wish away. 
 
 His digression to the original and progress of navigation, 
 with his prospect of the advancement which it shall receive 
 from the Royal Society, then newly instituted, may be con- 
 sidered as an example seldom equalled of seasonable excursion 
 and artful return. 
 
 One line, however, leaves me discontented ; he says, that by 
 the help of the philosophers, 
 
 Instructed ships shall sail to quick commerce. 
 By which remotest regions are allied — 
 
 Which he is constrained to explain in a note, By a more exact 
 measure of longitude. It had better become Dryden's learning 
 and genius to have laboured science into poetry, and have 
 shewn, by explaining longitude, that verse did not refuse the 
 ideas of philosophy. 
 
 His description of the Fire is painted by resolute medita- 
 tion, out of a mind better formed to reason than to feel. The 
 conflagration of a city, with all its tumults of concomitant 
 distress, is one of the most dreadful spectacles which this world 
 can offer to human eyes ; yet it seems to raise little emotion in 
 the breast of the poet; he watches the flame coolly from 
 street to street, with" now a reflection, and now a simile, till at 
 last he meets the king, for whom he makes a speech, rather 
 tedious in a time so busy ; and then follows again the progress 
 of the fire. 
 
 There are, however, in this part some passages that deserve 
 attention ; as in the beginning : 
 
 The diligence of trades and noiseful gain 
 And luxury more late asleep were laid ; 
 
igS DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 All was the night's, and in her silent reign 
 No sound the rest of Nature did invade 
 In this deep quiet — 
 
 The expression AH was the nighfs is taken from Seneca, 
 who remarks on Virgil's line, , 
 
 Omnia noctis erant placida composta qidete, 
 
 that he might have concluded better, 
 
 Omnia 7toctis erant. 
 
 The following quatrain is vigorous and animated : 
 
 The ghosts of traytors from the bridge descend 
 
 With bold fanatick spectres to rejoice ; 
 About the fire into a dance they bend, 
 
 And sing their s abba th notes with feeble voice. 
 
 His prediction of the improvements which shall be made 
 in the new city, is elegant and poetical, and with an event, 
 which Poets cannot always boast, has been happily verified. 
 The poem concludes with a simile that might have better been 
 omitted. 
 
 Dryden when he wrote this poem, seems not yet fully to 
 have formed his versification, or settled his system of propriety. 
 
 From this time, he addicted himself almost wholly to the 
 stage, to which, says he, my genius never much inclined me, 
 merely as the most profitable market for poetry. By writing 
 tragedies in rhyme, he continued to improve his diction and 
 his numbers. According to the opinion of Harte, who had 
 studied his works with great attention, he settled his principles 
 of versification in 1676, when he produced the play of Aureng 
 Zeb ; and according to his own account of the short time in 
 which he wrote Tyrannick Love, and the State of Innocence, 
 he soon obtained the full effect of diligence, and added facility 
 to exactness. 
 
 Rhyme has been so long banished from the theatre, that 
 we know not its effect upon the passions of an audience ; but 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 197 
 
 it has this convenience, that sentences stand more independent 
 on each other, and striking passages are therefore easily 
 selected and retained. Thus the description of Night in the 
 Indian Emperor, and the rise and fall of empire in the 
 Conquest of Granada, are more frequently repeated than any 
 lines in All for Love, or Don Sebastian. 
 
 To search his plays for vigorous sallies, and sententious 
 elegances, or to fix the dates of any little pieces which he 
 wrote by chance, or by solicitation, were labour too tedious 
 and minute. 
 
 His dramatic labours did not so wholly absorb his thoughts, 
 but that he promulgated the laws of translation in a preface to 
 the English Epistles of Ovid ; one of which he translated 
 himself, and another in conjunction with the Earl of Mulgrave. 
 
 Absalom and Achitophel is a work so well known, that 
 particular criticism is superfluous. If it be considered as a, 
 poem political and controversial, it will be fourtd to comprises 
 all the excellences of which the subject is susceptible ;/ 
 acrimony of censure, elegance of praise, artful delineation of 1 
 characters, variety and vigour of sentiment, happy turns of 
 language, and pleasing harmony of numbers ; and all these 
 raised to such a height as can scarcely be found in any other j^- 
 English composition. 
 
 It is_ not. howe ver, without faults ; some.lines are. inelegant 
 or improper, and too many are irreligiously licentioHS. The 
 origiiiaritfucture of the poem was defective ; allegories drawn 
 to great length will, always break; Charles could not run 
 continually parallel with David. 
 
 The subject hadJikgwiseanqther^ inconvenience ; it admitted 
 little imagery.^f-de5£ription, and a long- poetii of mere senti- 
 ments easily becomes tedious; though all the parts are forcible, 
 and every line kindles new rapture, the reader, if not relieved 
 by the interposition of something that sooths the fancy, grows 
 weary of admiration, and defers the rest. 
 
 As an approach to historical truth was necessary, the action 
 
198 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 and cataslxpphe were not in the poet's power; there is therefore 
 an unpleasing disproportion between the beginning and Jhe 
 end. We are alarmed by a faction formed out of many sects 
 various in their principles, but agreeing in their purpose of 
 mischief, formidable for their numbers, and strong by their 
 supports, while the king's friends are few and weak. The 
 chiefs on either part are set forth to view; but when 
 expectation is at the height, the king makes a speech, and 
 
 Henceforth a series of new times began. 
 
 Who can forbear to think of an enchanted castle, with a 
 wide moat and lofty battlements, walls of marble and gates of 
 brass, which vanishes at once into air, when the destined 
 knight blows his horn before it ? 
 
 In the second part, written by Tate, there is a long insertion, 
 which, for poignancy of satire, exceeds any part of the former. 
 Personal resentment, though no laudable motive to satire, can 
 add great force to general principles. Self-love is a busy 
 prompter. 
 
 The Medal, .written upon the same principles jnth Absalom 
 and Achitophel, but upon a narrower planj gives less pleasure, 
 though it discovers equal abilities in the writer. The super- 
 structure cannot extend beyond the foundation ; a single 
 character or incident cannot furnish as many ideas, as a series 
 of events, or multiplicity of agents. This poem therefore, 
 since time has left it to itself, is not much read, nor perhaps 
 generally understood, yet it abounds with touches both of 
 humorous and serious satire. The picture of a man whose 
 progensions to mischief are such that his best actions are but 
 inability of wickedness, is very skilfully delineated and strongly 
 coloured. 
 
 Power was his aim : but, thrown from that pretence, ) 
 The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence, > 
 
 And malice reconcii'd him to his Prince. ) 
 
 Him, in the anguish of his soul, he serv'd ; 
 Rewarded faster still than he deserv'd : 
 
I70i] DRYDEN. 199 
 
 Behold him now exalted into trust ; 
 His counsels oft convenient, seldom just. 
 Ev'n in the most sincere advice he gave. 
 He had a grudging still to be a knave. 1 'j.-. ' 
 
 The frauds he learnt in his fanatic yekrs, Av- - ■ I 
 Made him uneasy in his lawful ggars ; ( ,,■; yp-'' ' r 
 
 (fy At least as little honest as he cou'd : '' i 
 
 And, like white..^ches, mischievously good. 
 To this first bias, longingly, he leans ; 
 And rather would be great by wicked means. 
 
 The Threnodia, which, by a term I am afraid neither 
 ' authorized nor analogical, he calls Augustalis, is not among 
 his happiest productions. Its first ancioBvious defect is the 
 irregularity of its metre, to which the ears of that age, however, 
 were accustomed. What is worse, it has neither tenderness 
 nor dignity, it is neither magnificent nor pathetick. He seems 
 to look round him for images which he cannot find, and what 
 he has he distorts by endeavouring to enlarge them. He is, 
 he says, petrified with grief; but the marble sometimes relents, 
 and trickles in a joke. 
 
 The sons of art all med'cines tr/d. 
 And every noble remedy apply'd ; 
 
 With emulation each essay'd 
 
 His utmost skill ; nay more they prayd: 
 Was never losing game with better conduct play'd. 
 
 He had been a little inclined to merriment before upon the 
 prayers. of a nation for their dying sovereign, nor was he 
 serious enough to keep heathen fables out of his religion. 
 
 With him th' innumberable croud of armed prayers — f 
 
 Knock'd at the gates oTTieaven, and knock'd aloud ; 
 The first well-meaning rude petitioners. 
 
 All for his life assail'd the throne. 
 All would have brib'd the skies by offering up their own. 
 So great a throng not heaven itself could bar ; 
 'Twas almost borne by force as in the giants war. 
 
 The prayers, at least, for his reprieve were heard ; 
 His death, like Hezekiah's, was deferr'd. 
 
 There is throughout the composition a desire of splendor 
 without wealth. In the conclusion he seems too much pleased 
 
200 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 with the prospect of the new reign to have lamented his old 
 master with much sincerity. 
 
 He did not miscarry in this attempt for want of skill either 
 in lyrick or elegiack poetry. His poem on the death of Mrs. 
 Killigrew, is undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language 
 ever has produced. The first part flows with a torrent of 
 enthusiasm. Fervet immensusque ruit. All the stanzas indeed 
 are not equal. An imperial crown cannot be one continued 
 diamond ; the gems must be held together by some less 
 valuable matter. 
 
 In his first ode for Cecilia's day, which is lost in the splendor 
 of the second, there are passages which would have dignified 
 any other poet. The first stanza is vigorous and, elegant, 
 though the word diapason is too technical, and the rhymes are 
 too remote from one another. 
 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 
 
 This universal frame began : 
 When nature underneath a heap of jarring atoms lay, 
 
 And could not heave her head, 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 
 Arise ye more than dead. 
 Then cold and hot, and moist and dry, 
 In order to their stations leap. 
 
 And musick's power obey. 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 
 
 This universal frame began : 
 
 From harmony to harmony 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
 
 The diapason closing full in man. 
 
 The conclusion is likewise striking, but it includes an image 
 so awful in itself, that it can owe little to poetry ; and I could 
 wish the antithesis of musick untuning had found some other 
 place. 
 
 As from the power of sacred lays 
 
 The spheres began to move. 
 And sung the great Creator's praise 
 
 To all the bless'd above. 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 201 
 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
 The dead shall live, the living die, 
 And musick shall untune the sky. 
 
 Of his skill in Elegy he has given a specimen in his Eleonora, 
 of which the following lines discover their author. 
 
 Though all these rare endowments of the mind 
 
 Were in a narrow space of life confin'd, 
 
 The figure was with full perfection crown'd ; 
 
 Though not so large an orb, as truly round : 
 
 As when in glory, through the public place. 
 
 The spoils of conquer'd nations were to pass, 
 
 And but one day for triumph was allow'd. 
 
 The consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd ; 
 
 And so the swift procession hurr/d on. 
 
 That all, though not distinctly, might be shown :. 
 
 So in the straiten'd bounds of life confin'd. 
 
 She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind : 
 
 And multitudes of virtues pass'd along ; 
 
 Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng, 
 
 Ambitious to be seen, and then make room 
 
 For greater multitudes that were to come. 
 
 Yet unemploy'd no minute slipp'd away ; I 
 
 Moments were precious in so short a stay. ,1 /"V,. 
 
 The haste of heaven to have her was so great, "j 
 
 That some were single acts, though each compleat ; V ^^ 
 
 And every act stood ready to repeat. J (\^^J^Jl"'-''' 
 
 This piece, however, is not without its faults ; there is so 
 much likeness in the initial comparison, that there is no 
 illustratiofl. As a king would be lamented, Eleonora was 
 lamented. 
 
 As when some great and gracious monarch dies, 
 Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise 
 Among the sad attendants ; then the sound 
 Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around, 
 Through town and country, till the dreadful blast 
 Is blown to distant colonies at last ; 
 Who, then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain. 
 For his long life, and for his happy reign : 
 So slowly by degrees, unwilling fame ) 
 
 Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim, > 
 Till publick as theloss the news became. J 
 
202 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 This is little better tlian to say in praise of a shrub, that it 
 is as green as a tree, or of a brook, that it waters a garden, as 
 as river waters a country. 
 
 Dryden confesses that he did not know the lady whom he 
 celebrates; the praise being therefore inevitably general, 
 fixes no impression upon the reader, nor excites any ten- 
 dency to love, nor much desire of imitation. Knowledge of 
 the subject is to the poet, what durable materials are to the 
 architect. 
 
 The Religio Laici, which borrows its title from the Religio 
 Medici of Browne, is almost the only work of Dryden which 
 can be considered as a voluntary effusion ; in this, therefore, it 
 might be hoped, that the full effulgence of his genius would be 
 found. But unhappily the subject is rather argumentative 
 than poetical : he intended only a specimen of metrical 
 disputation. 
 
 And this unpolish'd rugged verse I chose 
 As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose. 
 
 This, however, is a composition of great excellence in its 
 kind, in which the familiar is very properly diversified with the 
 solemn, and the grave with the humorous ; in which metre has 
 neither weakened the force, nor clouded the perspicuity of 
 argument ; nor will it be easy to find another example equally 
 happy of this middle kind of writing, which, though prosaick 
 in some parts, rises to high poetry in others, and neither towers 
 to the skies, nor creeps along the ground. 
 
 Of tlie same kind, or not far distant from it, is the Hind and 
 Panther, the longest of all Dryden's original poems ; an alle- 
 gory intended to comprise and to decide the controversy 
 between the Romanists and Protestants. The scheme of the 
 work is injudicious and incommodious ; for what can be more 
 absurd than that one beast should counsel another to rest her 
 faith upon a pope and council ? He seems well enough skilled 
 in the usual topicks of argument, endeavours to shew the 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. • 203 
 
 necessity of an infallible judge, and reproaches the Reformers 
 with want of unity ; but is weak enough to ask, why since we 
 see without knowing how, we may not have an infallible judge 
 without knowing where. 
 
 The Hind at one time is afraid to drink at the common 
 brook, because she may be worried ; but walking home with 
 the Panther, talks by the way of the Nicene Fathers, and at 
 last declares herself to be the Catholic church. 
 
 This absurdity was very properly ridiculed in the City Mouse 
 and Country Mouse of Montague and Prior ; and in the detec- 
 tion and censure of the incongruity of the fiction, chiefly 
 consists the value of their performance, which, whatever 
 reputation it might obtain by the help of temporary passions, 
 seems to readers almost a century distant, not very forcible or 
 animated. 
 
 Pope, whose judgement was perhaps a little bribed by the 
 subject, used to mention this poem as the most correct specimen 
 of Dry den's versification. It was indeed written when he had 
 completely formed his manner, and may be supposed to exhibit, 
 negligence excepted, his deliberate and ultimate scheme of 
 metre. 
 
 We may therefore reasonably infer, that he did not approve 
 the perpetual uniformity which confines the sense to couplets, 
 since he has broken his lines in the initial paragraph. 
 
 A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchang'd, 
 
 Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd ; 
 
 Without unspotted, innocent within. 
 
 She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin. 
 
 Yet had she oft been chac'd with horns and hounds 
 
 And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds 
 
 Aim'd at her heart ; was often forc'd to fly, 
 
 And doom'd to death, though fated not to die. 
 
 These lines are lofty, elegant, and musical, notwithstanding 
 the interruption of the pause, of which the effect is rather 
 increase of pleasure by variety, than ofifence by ruggedness. 
 
 To the first part it was his intention, he says, to give t/ie 
 
204 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 majestich turn of heroick poesy ; and perhaps he might have 
 executed his design not unsuccessfully had not an opportunity 
 of satire, which he cannot forbear, fallen sometimes in his way. 
 The character of a Presbyterian, whose emblem is the Wolf, is 
 not very heroically majestick. 
 
 More haughty than the rest, the wolfish race ' 
 
 Appear with belly gaunt and famish'd face : 
 
 Never was so deform'd a beast of grace. 
 
 His ragged tail betwixt his legs he wears, ] 
 
 Close clapp'd for shame; but his rough crest he rears, > 
 
 And pricks up his predestinating ears. ; 
 
 His general character of the other sorts of beasts that never 
 go to church, though spritely and keen, has, however, not 
 much of heroick poesy. 
 
 These are the chief ; to number o'er the rest, 
 And stand like Adam naming every beast, 
 ' ■ „ , ,, Were weary work ; nor will the Muse describe 
 A slimvjporn, and sun-begotten tribe ; 
 Who, far from steeples and thgir sacred sound, 
 In fields their sullen conventicles found. 
 These gross, half-animated, lumps I leave ; 
 Nor can I think what thoughts they can conceive ; 
 But if they think at all, 'tis sure no higher 
 Than matter, put in motion, may aspire ; 
 Souls that can scarce ferment their mass of clay ; ] 
 So drossy, so divisible are they, > 
 
 As would but serve pure bodies for allay : ) 
 
 Such souls as shards produce, such.bcetle things 
 As only buz to heaven with evening wings ; 
 Strike in the dark, offending but by chance ; 
 Such are the blindfold blows of ignorance. 
 They know not beings, and but hate a name ; 
 To them the Hind and Panther are the same. 
 
 One more instance, and that taken from the narrative part, 
 where style was more in his choice, will show how steadily he 
 kept his resolution of heroick dignity. 
 
 ^ For when the herd, suffic'd, did late repair 
 
 To ferney heaths, andToTheir forest laire, 
 
} 
 
 I70I] DRYDEX. 
 
 She made a mannerly excuse to stay. 
 
 Proffering the Hind to wait her half the way : 
 
 That, since the sky was dear, an hour of talk 
 
 Might help her to beguile the tedious walk. 
 
 With mudi good-wiU the motion was embrac'd. 
 
 To chat awhile on their adventures past : 
 
 Nor had the grateful Hind so soon forgot 
 
 Her friend and fellow-sufferer in the plot. 
 
 Yet, wondering how of late she grew estrang*-!. 
 
 Her forehead cloudy and her count'nance chang'd. 
 
 She thought this hour th' occasion would present 
 
 To leam her secret cause of discontent, 
 
 ■\\Tiich well she hop'd, might be with ease redress'd. 
 
 Considering her a well-bred ciifil beast. 
 
 And more a gentlewoman than the rest. 
 
 After some common talk what rumours ran. 
 
 The lady of the spotted muff began. 
 
 The second and third parts he professes to have reduced to 
 diction more familiar and more suitable to dispute and con- 
 versation ; the difference is not, however, very easily perceived ; 
 the first has familiar, and the two others have sonorous, lines. 
 The original incongruity runs through the whole ; the king is 
 now Caesar, and now the Lyon ; and the name Pan is given to 
 the Supreme Being. 
 
 But when this constitutional absurdity is forgiven, the poem 
 must be confessed to be written with great smoothness of 
 metre, a wide extent of knowledge, and an abundant multi- 
 plicity of images ; the controversy is embellished with pointed 
 sentences, diversified by illustrations, and enlivened by saUies 
 of invective. Some cf the facts to which aUosions are made, 
 are now become obscure, and perhaps there may be many 
 satirical passages little understood. 
 
 As it was by its nature a work of defiance, a composition 
 which would naturally be examined with the utmost acrimony 
 of criticism, it was probably laboured with uncommon atten- 
 tion ; and there are, indeed, few n^bgences in the subordinate 
 parts. The original impropriety, and the subsequent im- 
 popularity of the subject, added to the ridiculousness of its 
 first elements, has stmk it into n^lect ; but it may be usefiilh- 
 
2o6 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 studied, as an example of poetical ratiocination, in which the 
 argument suffers little from the metre. 
 
 In the poem on the Birth of the Prince of Wales, nothing is 
 very remarkable but the^Qxorbitant adulation, and that insensi- 
 bility of the precipice on whicKthe king was then standing, 
 which the laureate apparently shared with the rest of the 
 courtiers. A few months cured him of controversy, dismissed 
 him from court, and made him again a play-wright and 
 translator. 
 
 Of Juvenal there had been a translation by Stapylton, and 
 another by Holiday; neither of them is very poetical. Stapyl- 
 ton is more smooth, and Holiday's is more esteemed for the 
 learning of his notes. A new version was proposed to the 
 poets of that time, and undertaken by them in conjunction. 
 The main design was conducted by Dryden, whose reputation 
 was such that no man was unwilling to serve the Muses under 
 him. 
 
 The general character of this translation will be given, when 
 it is said to preserve the wit, but to want the dignity of the 
 original. The peculiarity of Juvenal is a mixture of gaiety 
 and stateliness, of pointed sentences and declamatory grandeur. 
 His points have not been neglected ; but his grandeur none of 
 the band seemed to consider as necessary to be imitated, 
 except Creech, who undertook the thirteenth satire. It is 
 therefore perhaps possible to give a better representation of 
 that great satirist, even in those parts which Dryden himself 
 has translated, some passages excepted, which will never be 
 excelled. 
 
 With Juvenal was published Persius, translated wholly by 
 Dryden. This work, though like all the other productions 
 of Dryden it may have shining parts, seems to have been 
 written merely for wages, in an uniform mediocrity, without 
 any eager endeavour after excellence, or laborious effort of 
 the mind. 
 
 There wanders an opinion among the readers of poetry, 
 
v 
 
 . I 'f- , ' '/ 
 
 1701] DRYDEN.h'j-,;, H C[^H.Jl..','^ ^""'207 
 
 that one of these satires is an exercise of the school. Dryden\ 
 says that he once translated it at school; but not that he 
 preserved or published the juvenile performance. 
 
 Not long afterwards he undertook perhaps the most arduous 
 work of its kind, a translation of Virgil, for which he hajj 
 shewn how well he was qualified by his version of the !^Ili9J 
 and two episodes, one of Nisus and Euryalus, the other of 
 Mezentius and Lausus. 
 
 In the comparison of Homer and Virgil, the discriminative 
 excellence of Homer is elevation and comprehension of 
 thought, and that of Virgil is grace and splendor of diction. 
 The beauties of Homer are therefore difficult to be lost, and 
 those of Virgil difficult to be retained. The massy trunk of " 
 senti ment is safe by its solidity, but the blossoms of elocution 
 easily drop away. The author, having the choice of his own 
 images, selects those which he can best adorn : the translator 
 mustP"at all hazards, follow his original, and express thoughts 
 which perhaps he would not have chosen. When to this Aj 
 primary difficulty is added the inconvenience of a language so 
 much inferior in harmony to the Latin, it cannot be expected 
 that they who read the Georgick and the Eneid should be 
 much delighted with any version. 
 
 All these obstacles Dryden saw, and all these he determined 
 to encounter. The expectation of his work was undoubtedly 
 great; the nation considered its honour as interested in the 
 event. One gave him the different editions of his author, and 
 another helped him in the subordinate parts. The arguments 
 of the several books were given him by Addison. 
 
 The hopes of the publick were not disappointed. He 
 produced, says Pope, the most noble and spirited translation 
 that I know in any language. It certainly excelled whatever 
 had appeared in English, and appears to have satisfied his 
 friends, and, for the most part, to have silenced his enemies. 
 Milbourne, indeed, a clergyman, attacked it ; but his outrages 
 seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by stronger 
 
 V^' 
 
2o8 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 resentment than bad poetry can excite, and previously resolved 
 not to be pleased. 
 
 His criticism extends only to the Preface, Pastorals, and 
 Georgicks ; and, as he professes to give his antagonist an 
 opportunity of reprisal, he has added his own version of the 
 first and fourth Pastorals, and the first Georgick. The world 
 has forgotten his book ; but since his attempt has given him 
 a place in literary history, I will preserve a specimen of his 
 criticism, by inserting his remarks on the invocation before 
 the first Georgick, and of his poetry, by annexing his own 
 version. 
 
 Ver. I. " W/ia( makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn. 
 The fruitful soil, and when to sow the com — It's unlucky, they 
 say, to stumble at the threshold, but what has a. plenteous harvest 
 to do here ? Virgil would not pretend to prescribe rules for that 
 which depends not on the husbandman's care, but the disposition 
 of Heaven altogether. Indeed, the plenteous crop depends 
 somewhat on the good method of tillage, and where the land's 
 ill manur'd, the corn, without a miracle, can be but indifferent ; 
 but the harvest may be good, which is its properest epithet, tho' 
 the husbandman's skill were never so indifferent. The nex 
 sentence is too literal, and when to plough had been Virgil's 
 meaning, and intelligible to every body ; and when to sow the 
 corn, is a needless addition." 
 
 Ver. 3. " The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine. And when 
 to geld the lambs, and sheer the swine, would as well have fallen 
 under the cura bourn, qui cultus habendo sit pecori, as Mr. D's 
 deduction of particulars." 
 
 Ver. 5. " The birth and genius of the frugal bee, I sing, 
 
 Maecenas, and I sing to thee. — But where did' experientia 
 
 ever signify birth and genius 1 or what ground was there 
 
 for such a figure in this place? How much more manly 
 
 is Mr. Ogylb/s version ! 
 
 " What makes rich grounds, in what celestial signs, 
 'Tis good to plough, and marry elms with vines. 
 
1701] DRYDEN. 2og 
 
 What best fits cattle, what with sheep agrees, 
 And several arts improving frugal bees, 
 I sing, Macenas. 
 
 Which four lines, tho' faulty enough, are yet rinyph more to« 
 the purpose than Mr. D's six." ^-tvi ft. x':<-ti •_; >'■" 
 
 Ver. 22. " From fields and mountains to my song repair. 'For 
 patrium linquens nemus, sa ltusque L siSLir^^"^ well explained !" 
 
 Ver. 23, 24. '■'■Inventor Pallas, of the fdtte7iing oil. Thou 
 founder of the plough, and ploughman's toil / Written as 
 if these had been Pallas' s invention. The ploughman's toil's 
 impertinent." 
 
 Ver. 25. " — The shroud-like cypress- — Why shroud-like ? Is 
 a cypress pulled up by the roots, which the sculpture in the last 
 Eclogue fills Silvanus's hand with, so very like a shroud 1 Or 
 did not Mr. D. think of that kind of cypress us'd often for 
 scarves and hatbands at funerals formerly/orTor widow's vails, 
 &c., if so, 'twas a deep good thought." 
 
 Ver. 26. " — That wear the rural honours, and increase the 
 year — What's meant by increasing the year 1 Did the gods 
 or goddesses add more months, or days, or hours to it ? Or 
 how can arva tueri — signify to wear rural honours ? Is this 
 to translate, or abuse an author ? The next couplet are borrowed 
 from Ogylby, I suppose, because less to the purpose than 
 ordinary. 
 
 Ver. 33. " The patron of the world, and Rome's peculiar 
 guard — Idle, and none of Virgil's, no more than the sense of 
 the precedent couplet ; so again, he interpolates Virgil with that 
 and the round circle of the year to guide powetful of blessings, 
 which thou strew' st around. A ridiculous Latinism, and an 
 impertinent addition; indeed the whole periodic but one piece 
 of absurdity and nonsense, as those who lay it with the original 
 must find." 
 
 • Ver. 42, 43. " And Neptune shall resign the fasces of the sea. 
 Was he cotuul or dictator there ? And watry virgins for thy bed 
 shall strive. Both absurd interpolations'' 
 
 p 
 
210 DRYDEN. [1S31— 
 
 Ver. 47, 48. " Where in the void of heaven a place is free. 
 Ah, happy D — n, were that place for thee ! But where is that 
 void ? Or what does our translator mean by it ? He knows 
 what Ovid says God did, to prevent such a void in heaven ; 
 perhaps, this was then forgotten : but Virgil talks more 
 sensibly." 
 
 Ver. 49. " The scorpion ready to receive thy laws. No, he 
 would not then have gotten out of his way so fast." 
 
 Ver. 56. " The Proserpine affects her silent seat — What made 
 her then so angry with Ascalaphus, for preventing her return ? 
 She was now mus'd to Patience under the determinatiotis of 
 Pate, rather than fond of her residence." 
 
 Ver. 61, 2, 3. "Pity the poet's, and the ploughman's cares. 
 Interest thy greatness in our mean affairs. And use thyself betimes 
 to hear our prayers. Which is such a wretched perversion of 
 Virgil's noUe thought as Vicars would have blush'd at; but Mr. 
 Ogylby makes us some amends, by his better lines : 
 
 " O wheresoe'er thou art, from thence incline, 
 And grant assistance to my bold design ! 
 Pity with me, poor husbandmen's affairs, 
 And now, as if translated, hear our prayers. 
 
 " This is sense, and to the picrpose : the other, pooi-mistahn 
 stuff." 
 
 Such were the strictures of Milboume, who found few 
 abettors ; and of whom it may be reasonably imagined, that 
 many who favoured his design were ashamed of his insolence. 
 
 When admiration had subsided, the translation was more 
 coolly examined, and found like all others, to be sometimes 
 erroneous, and sometimes licentious. Those who could find 
 faults, thought they could avoid them ; and Dr. Brady at- 
 tempted in blank verse a translation of the Eneid, which, when 
 dragged into tlje world, did not live long enough to cry. I 
 have never seen it ; but that such a version there is, or has 
 been, perhaps some old catalogue informed me. 
 
 With not much better success, Trapp, when his Tragedy and 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 211 
 
 his Prelections had given him reputation, attempted another 
 blank version of the Eneid ; to which, notwithstanding the sliglit 
 regard with which it was treated, he had afterwards persever- 
 ance enough to add the Eclogues and Georgicks. His book 
 may continue its existence as long as it is the clandestine refuge 
 of school-boys. 
 
 Since the English ear has been accustomed to the mellifluence 
 of Pope's numbers, and the diction of poetry has become more 
 splendid, new attempts have been made to translate Virgil ; 
 and all his works have been attempted by men better qualified 
 to contend with Dryden. I will not engage myself in an 
 invidious comparison by opposing one passage to another ; a 
 work of which there would be no end, and which might be 
 often offensive without use. 
 
 It is not by comparing line with line that the merit of great 
 works is to be estimated, but by their general effects and 
 ultimate result. It is easy to note a weak line, and write one 
 more vigorous in its place ; to find a happiness of expression 
 in the original, and transplant it by force into the version : but 
 what is given to the parts, may be subducted from the whole, 
 and the reader may be weary, though the critick may commend. 
 Works of imagination excel by their allurement and delight; 
 by their power of attracting and detaining the attention. That 
 book is good in vain, which the reader throws away. He only 
 is the master, who keeps the mind in pleasing captivity ; whose 
 pages are perused with eagerness, and in hope of new pleasure 
 are perused again ; and whose conclusion is perceived with an 
 eye of sorrow, such as the traveller casts upon departing day. 
 
 By his proportion of this predomination I will consent that 
 Dryden should be tried ; of this, which, in opposition to reason, 
 makes Ariosto the darling and the pride of Italy ; of this, 
 which, in defiance of criticism, continues Shakspeare the^ 
 .sovereign of the drama . ' ---''' 
 
 His last work was his Fables, in which he gave us the 
 first example of a mode of writing which the Italians call 
 
 P 2 , 
 
212 DRYDEN. [ifj'— 
 
 refaccimento, a renovation of ancient writers, by modernizing 
 their language. Thus the old poem of Boiardo has been 
 newdressed by Domenichi and Berni. The works of Chaucer, 
 upon which this kind of rejuvenescence has been bestowed by 
 Dryden, require little criticism. The tale of the Cock seems 
 hardly worth revival ; and the story of Palamon and Arcite, 
 containing an action unsuitable to the times in which it is 
 placed, can hardly be suflFered to pass without censure of the 
 hyperbolical commendation which Dryden has given it in the 
 general Preface, and in a poetical Dedication, a piece where 
 his original fondness of remote conceits seems to have revived. 
 
 Of the three pieces borrowed from Boccace, Sigismunda 
 may be defended by the celebrity of the stor}'. Theodore 
 and Honoria, though it contains not much moral, yet afforded 
 opportimities of striking description. And Cymon was formerly 
 a tale of such reputation, that, at the revival of letters, it was 
 translated into Latin by one of the Beroalds. 
 
 Whatever subjects employed his pen, he was still improving 
 our measures and embellishing our language. 
 
 In this volume are interspersed some short original poems, 
 which, with his prologues, epilogues, and songs, may be com- 
 prised in Congreve's remark, that even those, if he had written 
 nothing else, would have entitled him to the praise of excellence 
 in his kind. 
 
 One composition must however be distinguished. The ode 
 for St. Cecilia's Day, perhaps the last effort of his poetry, has 
 been always considered as exhibiting the highest flight of fancy 
 and the exactest nicety of art This is allowed to stand with- 
 out a rival. If indeed there is any excellence beyond it, in 
 some other of Dryden's works that excellence must be found. 
 Compared with the Ode on ^Bligrew, it may be pronounced 
 perhaps superior in the whole; but without any single part, 
 equal to the first stanza of the other. ^ 
 
 It is said to have cost Dryden a fortnight's Jabour ; but it 
 does not want its negligences : some of the lines are without 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 213 
 
 correspondent rhymes ; a defect which I never detected but 
 after an acquaintance of many years, and which the enthusiasm 
 of the writer might hinder him from perceiving. 
 
 His last stanza has less emotion than the former; but is 
 not less elegant in the diction. The conclusion is vicious ; the 
 musick of Timotheus, which raised a mortal to tlie skies, had 
 only a metaphorical power ; that of Cecilia, which drew an 
 angel down, had a real effect : the crown therefore could not 
 reasonably be divided. 
 
 In a general survey of Dryden's labours, he appears to have 
 a mind very comprehensive by nature, and much enriched with 
 acquired knowledge. His compositions are the effects of a 
 vigorous genius operating upon large materials. 
 
 The power that predominated in his intellectual operations, 
 was rather strong reason than quick sensibility. Upon all 
 occasions that were presented, he studied rather than felt, 
 and produced sentiments not such as Nature enforces, but 
 meditation supplies. With the simple and elemental passions, 
 as they spring separate in the mind, he seems not much 
 acquainted ; and seldom describes them but as they are 
 complicated by the various relations of society, and confused \, »v'- 1 
 in the tumults and agitations of life. ri 1 ;^: 
 
 What he says of love may contribute to the explanation of '*' 
 his character : 
 
 Love various minds does variously inspire ; 
 It stirs in gentle bosoms gentle fire, 
 Like that of incense on the altar laid ; 
 But raging flames tempestuous souls invade ; 
 A fire which every windy passion blows. 
 With pride it mounts, or with revenge it glows. 
 
 Dryden's was not one of the gentle bosoms: Love, as it 
 subsists in itself, with no tendency but to the person loved, 
 and wishing only for correspondent kindness ; such love as 
 shuts out all other interest ; the Love of the Golden Age, was 
 
 ^r 
 
214 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 too soft and subtle to put his faculties in motion. He hardly 
 conceived it but in its turbulent effervescence with some 
 other desires ; when it was inflamed by rivalry, or obstructed 
 by difficulties : when it invigorated ambition, or exasperated 
 revenge. 
 
 He is therefore, with all his variety of excellence, not often 
 pathetick ; and had so little sensibility of the power of effusions 
 purely natural, that he did not esteem them in others. Sim- 
 plicity gave him no pleasure; and for the first part of his life 
 he looked on Otway with contempt, though at last, indeed 
 very late, he confessed that in his play there was Nature, which 
 is the chief beauty. 
 
 We do not always know our own motives. I am not certain 
 whether it was not rather the difficulty which he found in 
 exhibiting the genuine operations of the heart, than a servile 
 submission to an injudicious audience, that filled his plays 
 with false magnificence. It was necessary to fix attention ; 
 and the mind can be captivated only by recollection, or by 
 curiosity; by reviving natural sentiments, or impressing new 
 appearances of things : sentences were readier at his call than 
 images ; he could more easily fill the ear with some splendid 
 novelty, than awaken those ideas that slumber in the heart. 
 
 The favourite exercise of his mind was ratiocination ; and, 
 that argument might not be too soon at an end, he delighted 
 to talk of liberty and necessity, destiny and contingence ; 
 these he discusses in the language of the s chool with so much 
 profundity, that the terms which he uses are not always under- 
 stood. It is indeed learning, but learning out of place. 
 
 When once he had engaged himself in disputation, thoughts 
 flowed in on either side : he was now no longer at a loss ; he 
 had always objections and solutions at command; verbaque 
 provisam rem — give him matter for his verse, and he finds 
 without difficulty verse for his matter. 
 
 In Comedy, for which he professes himself not naturally 
 qualified, the mirth which he excites will perhaps not be found 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 215 
 
 so much to arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of 
 character nicely distinguished and diligently pursued, as from , 
 incidents and circumstances, artifices and surprises; from jests ' 
 of action rather than of sentiment. What he had of humorous 
 or passionate, he seems to have had not from nature, but from 
 other poets ; if not always as a plagiary, at least as an imitator. j. 
 
 Next to argument, his delight was in wild and daring sallies 
 of sentiment, in the irregular and excentrick violence of wit. 
 He delighted to tread upon the brink of meaning, where light 
 and darkness begin to mingle ; to approach the precipice of 
 absurdity, and hover over the abyss of unideal vacancy. This ~ 
 inclination sometimes produced nonsense, which he knew ; as. 
 
 Move swiftly, sun, and fly a lover's pace, ^ •.,,.,.' 
 
 Leave weeks and months behind thee in thy race. >&'"■" 
 
 Amariel flies 
 To guard thee from the demons of the air ; 
 My flaming sword above them to display, 
 All keen, and ground upon the edge of day. 
 
 And sometimes it issued in absurdities, of which perhaps he 
 was not conscious : 
 
 Then we upon our orb's last verge shall go, (\\- ■■'»'■ ■ i. ' 
 
 And see the ocean leaning on the sky ; 1 > ^.. > 
 
 From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know, j> , ^^ cUi "fj-- 
 And on the lunar world securely pry. ~ , f 
 
 These lines have no meaning ; but may we not say, in imita- 
 tion of Cowley on another book, 
 
 'Tis so like sense 'twill serve the turn as well ? 
 
 This endeavour after the grand and the new, produced many 
 sentiments either great or bulky, and many images, either just 
 or splendid : 
 
 I am as free as Nature first made man, 1 
 Ere the base laws of servitude began, V 
 
 When wild in woods the noble savage ran. J 
 
<-* 
 
 2i6 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 — ^"Tis but because the Living death ne'er knew, 
 They fear to prove it as a thing that's new : 
 Let me th' experiment before you try, 
 I'll show you first how easy 'tis to die. 
 
 — There with a for est of the ir darts he strove. 
 
 And stood like Ca^dneus defying Jove ; 
 
 With his broad sword the boldest beating down, 
 
 While Fate grew pale lest he should win the town, 
 f And turn'd the iron leaves of his dark book 
 v To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook. 
 
 — I beg no pity for this mouldering clay ; 
 
 For if you give it burial, there it takes 
 
 Possession of your earth ; 
 
 If burnt, and scattered in the air, the winds 
 
 That strew my dust diffuse my royalty, 
 
 And spread me o'er your clime ; for where one atom 
 
 Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns. 
 
 Of these quotations the two first may be allowed to be great, 
 the two latter only tumid. 
 
 Of such selection there is no end. I will add only a few 
 more passages ; of which the first, though it may perhaps not 
 be quite clear in prose, is not top obscure for poetry, as the 
 meaning that it has is noble : 
 
 No, there is a necessity in Fate, 
 Why still the brave bold man is fortunate ; 
 He keeps his object ever fuU in sight, 
 And that assurance holds him firm and right ; 
 True, 'tis a narrow way that leads to bliss, \ 
 
 But right be£i^ there is no precipice ; > 
 
 Fear makes men look aside, and so their footing miss. ) 
 
 Of the images which the two following citations afford, the 
 first is elegant, the second magnificent ; whether either be just, 
 1 et the reader judge : 
 
 What precious drops are these, 
 
 -) Which silently each other's track pursue, 
 
 . t Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew ? . 
 
J7oiJ DRYDEN. 217 
 
 — Resign your castle — 
 — Enter, brave Sir ; for when you speak the word, 
 The gates shall open of their own accord ; 
 The genius of the place its Lord shall meet, / 
 
 And bow its towery forehead at your feet. ""ft'i-i ' 
 
 These bursts of extravagance, Dryden calls the Dalilahs of 
 the Theatre ; and owns that many noisy lines of Maxamin and 
 Almanzor call out for vengeance upon him ; but I knew, says 
 he, that they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them. 
 There is surely reason to suspect that he pleased himself as 
 well as his audience ; and that these, like the harlots of other 
 men, had his love, though not his approbation. 
 
 He had sometimes faults of a less generous and splendid 
 kind. He makes, like almost all other poets, very frequent 
 use of mythology, and sometimes connects religion and fable 
 too closely without distinction. 
 
 He descends to display his knowledge with pedantick os- 
 tentation ; as when, in translating Virgil, he says, tack to the 
 larboard — and veer starboard; and talks, in another work, of 
 virtue spooming before the wind. His vanity now and then 
 betrays his ignorance : 
 
 They Nature's king through Nature's opticks view'd ; 
 Revers'd they view'd him lessen'd to their eyes. 
 
 He had heard of reversing a telescope, and unluckily reverses 
 the object. 
 
 He is sometimes unexpectedly mean. Wlien he describes 
 the Supreme Being as moved by prayer to stop the Fire of 
 London, what is his expression ? 
 
 A hollow crystal pyramid he takes. 
 
 In fi rmamenta l waters dipp'd above, 
 Of this a ^ro^fX' extinguisher he makes. 
 
 And hoods the flames that to their quarry strove. 
 
 When he describes the Last Day, and the decisive tribunal, he 
 intermingles this image : 
 
&i8 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 When rattling bones together fly, 
 From the four quarters of the sky. 
 
 Tt was indeed never in his power to resist the temptation of 
 a jest. In his Elegy on Cromwell : 
 
 No sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd, 
 Than the light Monsieur the grave Don outweigh'd ; 
 His fortune turn'd the scale — 
 
 He had a vanity, unworthy of his abilities, to shew, as may be 
 suspected, the rank of the company with whom he lived, by the 
 use of French words, which had then crept into conversation ; 
 such as fraicheur for coolness, fougue for turbulence, and a few 
 more, none of which the language has incorporated or retained. 
 They continue only where they stood first, perpetual warnings 
 to future innovators. 
 
 These are his faults of affectation ; his faults of negligence 
 are beyond recital. Such is the unevenness of his compositions, 
 that ten lines are seldom found together without something of 
 which the reader is ashamed. Dryden was no rigid judge of 
 his own pages ; he seldom struggled after supreme excellence, 
 but snatched in haste what was within his reach ; and when he 
 could content others, was himself contented. He did not 
 keep present to his mind an idea of pure perfection ; nor 
 compare his works, such as they were, with what they might 
 be made. He knew to whom he should be opposed. He 
 had more musick than Waller, more vigour than Denham, and 
 more nature than Cowley; and from his contemporaries he 
 was in no "danger. Standing therefore in the highest place 
 he had no care to rise by contending with himself; but while 
 there was no name above his own, was willing to enjoy fame 
 on the easiest terms. 
 
 He was no lover of labour. What he thought sufficient, he 
 did not stop to make better; and allowed himself to leave 
 many parts unfinished, in confidence that the good lines would 
 overbalance the bad. What he had once written, he dismissed 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 219 
 
 from his thoughts ; and, I believe, there is no example to be 
 found of any correction or improvement made by him after 
 publication. The hastiness of his productions might be the 
 effect of necessity ; but his subsequent neglect could hardly 
 have any other cause than impatience of study. 
 
 What can be said of his versification, will be little more than 
 a dilatation of the praise given it by Pope : 
 
 Waller was smooth ; but Dryden taught to join ) ■ ;iv 
 
 The varying verse, the full-resounding line, '~~ > f>\'\\^ 
 
 The long majestick march, and energy divine. ) " '>- 
 
 Some improvements had been already made in English 
 numbers ; but the full force of our language was not yet felt ; 
 the verse that was smooth wai^commonly feeble. If Cowley 
 had sometimes a finished line, he had it by chance. Dryden 
 knew how to chuse the flowing and the sonorous words ; to 
 vary the pauses, and adjust the accents ; to diversify the 
 cadence, and yet preserve the smoothness of his metre. 
 
 Of Triplets andAlexandrines, though he did not introduce 
 the use, he established it The triplet has long subsisted 
 among us. Dryden seems not to have traced it higher than to 
 Chapman's Homer; but it is to be found in Phaer's Virgil, 
 written in the reign of Mary, and in Hall's Satires, published 
 five years before the death of Elizabeth. ^v. ^ »-(Vj:^^' 
 
 The Alexandrine was, I believe, first used ^^ by Spenser, for 
 the sake of closing his stanza with a fuller sound. We had 
 a lo nger me a sure of fourteen syllabl es, into which the Eneid 
 was translated by Phaer, and other works of the ancients by 
 other writers; of which Chapman's Iliad was, I believe, the 
 last. 
 
 The two first lines of Phaer's third Eneid will exemplify this 
 measure : 
 
 When Asia's state was overthrown, and Priam's kingdom stout, 
 ■ All giltless, by the power of gods above was rooted out. 
 
220 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 As these lines had their break, or cxsura, always at the 
 eighth syllable, it was thought, in time, commodious to divide 
 them; and quatrains of lines, alternately, consisting of eight 
 and six syllables, make the most soft and pleasing of our lyrick 
 measures ; as, 
 
 Relentless Time, destroying power, 
 
 Which stone and brass obey, 
 Who giv'st to every flying hour 
 
 To work some new decay. 
 
 In the Alexandrine, when its power was once felt, some 
 poems, as Drayton's Polyolbion, were wholly written ; and 
 sometimes the measures of twelve and fourteen syllables were 
 interchanged with one another. Cowley was the first that 
 inserted the Alexandrine at pleasure among the heroick 
 lines of ten syllables, and from him Dryden professes to have 
 adopted it. 
 
 The Triplet aiid Alexandrine are not universally approved. 
 Swift always censured them, and wrote some lines to ridicule 
 them. In examining their propriety, it is to be considered 
 that the essence of verse is regularity, and its ornament is 
 variety. To write verse, is to dispose syllables and sounds 
 harmonically by some known and settled rule; a rule however 
 lax enough to substitute similitude for identity, to admit change 
 without breach of order, and to relieve the ear without disap- 
 pointing it. Thus a Latin hexameter is formed from dactyls 
 and spondees differently combined ; the English heroick admits 
 of acute or grave syllables variously disposed. The Latin 
 never deviates into seven feet, or exceeds the number of 
 seventeen syllables ; but the English Alexandrine breaks the 
 ^ lawful bounds, and surprises _the reader with two syllables 
 '^^ mor e than he expected. ~ 
 
 The effect of the Triplet is the same; the ear has been 
 accustomed to expect a new rhyme in every couplet; but is 
 on a sudden surprised with three rhymes together, to which 
 the reader could not accommodate his voice, did he not obtain 
 
I70I] DRYDEN. 221 
 
 notice of the change from the braces of the margins. Surely 
 there is something unskilful in the necessity of such mechanical 
 direction. 
 
 Considering the metrical art simply as a science, and con- 
 sequently excluding all casualty, we must allow that Triplets 
 and Alexandrines, inserted by caprice, are interruptions of thalj 
 constancy to which science Jsptres: — And though the variety 
 which they produce may very' justly be desired, yet to makeU, i'- 
 our poetry exact, there ought to be some stated mode of 
 admitting them. 
 
 But till some such regulation can be formed, I wish them 
 still to be retained in their present state. They are sometimes 
 grateful to the reader, and sometimes convenient to the poet. 
 Fenton was of opinion that Dryden was too liberal and Pope 
 too sparing in their use. 
 
 The rhymes of Dryden are commonly just, and he valued 
 himself for his readiness in finding them ; but he is sometimes 
 open to objection.- 
 
 It is the common practice of our poets to end the second 
 line with a weak or grave syllable : m - V'^ ' 
 
 Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, ] 
 
 Fill'd with ideas of fair liafy. \ 
 
 Dryden sometimes puts the weak rhyme in the first : 
 
 Laugh all the powers that favour tyranny, 
 And all the standing army of the sky. 
 
 Sometimes he concludes a period or paragraph with the 
 first line of a couplet, which, though the French seem to do it 
 without irregularity, always displeases in English poetry. 
 
 The Alexandrine, though much his favourite, is not always 
 very diligently fabricated by him. It invariably requires a 
 break at the sixth syllable; a rule which the modern French 
 poets never violate, but which Dryden sometimes neglected : 
 
 And with paternal thunder vindicates his throne. 
 
L 
 
 222 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 Of Dryden's works it was said by Pope, that he could select 
 from them better specimens of every mode of poetry than any other 
 English writer could supply. Perhaps no nation ever produced 
 a writer that enriched his language with such variety of models. 
 To him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion of 
 our metre, the refinement of our language, and much of the 
 / correctness of our sentiments. By him we were taught sapere 
 &' fari, to think naturally and express forcibly. Though Davis 
 has reasoned in rhyme before him, it may be perhaps main- 
 j-S.f^ tained that he was the first who joined argument with poetry. 
 He shewed us the true bounds of a translator's liberty. What 
 was said of Rome, adorned by Augustus, may be applied by 
 an easy metaphor to English pioetry embellished by Dryden, 
 lateritiam invenit, marmoi'eam reliquit, he found it brick, and 
 he left it marble. 
 
 The invocation before the Georgicks is here inserted from 
 Mr. Milbourne's version, that, according to his own proposal, 
 his verses may be compared with those which he censures. 
 
 What makes the richest tilth, beneath what signs 
 
 To plough, and when to match your elms and vines; 
 
 What care -vixX^a. flocks and what with herds agrees, 
 
 And all the management of frugal bees, 
 
 I sing, McBcenas I Ye immensely clear. 
 
 Vast orbs of light which guide the rolling year ; 
 
 Bacchus, and mother Ceres, if by you 
 
 We fat'ning corn for hungry mast pursue. 
 
 If, taught by you, we first the cluster prest, 
 
 And thin cold streams with spritely juice refresht. 
 
 Y^ fawns the present numens of the field, 
 
 Wood nymphs ZMdifawtts, your kind assistance yield, 
 
 Your gifts I sing ! and thou, at whose fear'd stroke 
 
 From rending earth the fiery courser broke, 
 
 Great Neptune, O assist my artful song ! 
 
 And thou to whom the woods and groves belong, 
 
 Whose snowy heifers on her flow'ry plains 
 
 In mighty herds the Ccean Isle maintains ! 
 
 Pan, happy shepherd, if thy cares divine, 
 
 E'er to improve tny Mc^nalus incline ; 
 
 Leave thy Lycaan wood and native grove, 
 
 And with thy lucky smiles our work approve ! 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 223 
 
 Be Pallas too, sweet oil's inventor, kind ; 
 And he, who first the crooked plough design'd ! 
 Sylvanus, god of all the woods appear, 
 Whose hands a new-drawn tender cypress bfcar ! 
 Ye gods and goddesses who e'er with love 
 Would guard our pastures, and our fields improve ! 
 You, who new plants from unsown lands supply ; 
 And with condensing clouds obscure the sky, 
 And drop 'em softly thence in fruitful showers, 
 Assist my enterprize, ye gentler powers ! 
 
 And thou, great Ccesar ! though we know not yet 
 Among what gods thou'lt fix thy lofty seat, 
 Whether thou'lt be the kind tutelar god 
 Of thy own Rome ; or with thy awful nod, 
 Guide the vast world, while thy gi-eat hand shall bear ] 
 The fruits and seasons of the turning year, > 
 
 And thy bright brows thy mother's myrtles wear : ) 
 Whether thou'lt all the boundless ocean sway. 
 And sea-men only to thyself shall pray, 
 Thule, the farthest island, kneel to thee, 
 And, that thou may'st her son by marriage be, 
 Tethys will for the happy purchase yield 
 To make a dowry of her watry field ; 
 Whether thou'lt add to heaven a brighter sign, 
 And o'er the summer months serenely shine ; 
 Where between Cancer and Erigone, 
 There yet remains a spacious room for thee. 
 Where the hot Scorpion too his arms declines, 
 And more to thee than half his arch resigns ; 
 Whate'er thou'lt be : for sure the realms below 
 No just pretence to thy command can show ; 
 No such ambition sways thy vast desires, 
 Though Greece her own Elysian fields admires. 
 And now, at last, contented Proserpine 
 Can all her mother's earnest prayers decline. 
 Whate'er thou'lt be, O guide our gentle course. 
 And with thy smiles our bold attempts enforce ; 
 With me th' unknowing rustic^ wants relieve, 
 And, though on earth, our sacred vows receive ! 
 
 Mr. Dryden, having received from Rymer his Remarks on 
 the Tragedies of the last Age, wrote observations on the blank 
 leaves ; which, having been in the possession of Mr. Garrick, 
 are by his favour communicated to the publick, that no particle 
 of Dryden may be lost. 
 

 224 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 " That we may the less wonder why pity and terror are not 
 now the only springs on wMch our tragedies move, and that 
 Shakspeare maybe more excused^ Rapip^ confesses that the 
 French tragedies now all run on the tendre ; and gives the 
 reason, because love is the passion which most predominates 
 in our souls, and that therefore the passions represented be- 
 come insipid, unless they are conformable to the thoughts of 
 the audience. But it is to be concluded that this passion 
 works not now amongst the French so strongly as the other two 
 did amongst the ancients. Amongst us, who have a stronger 
 genius for writing, the operations from the writing are much 
 stronger : for the raising of Shakspeare's passions is more from 
 the excellency of the words and thoughts, than the justness of 
 the occasion ; and if he has been able to pick single occasions, 
 he has never founded the whole reasonably : yet, by the genius 
 of poetry in writing, he has succeeded. 
 
 "Rapin attributes more to the didio, that is, to the words 
 and discourse of a tragedy, than Aristotle has done, who places 
 them in the last rank of beauties ; perhaps, only last in order, 
 because they are the last product of the design, of the dis- 
 position or connection of its parts ; of the characters, of the 
 manners of those characters, and of the thoughts proceeding 
 from those manners. Rapin's words are remarkable : 'Tis 
 not the admirable intrigue, the surprising events, and extra, 
 ordinary incidents, that make the beauty of a tragedy ; 'tis 
 the discourses, when they are natural and passionate : so are 
 Shakspeare's. 
 
 " The parts of a poem, tragick or heroick, are, 
 
 " I. The fable itself. 
 
 "2. The order or manner of its contrivance, in relation of 
 the parts to the whole. 
 
 " 3. The manners, or dgcency of the characters, in speaking 
 or acting what is proper for them, and proper to be shewn by 
 the poet. 
 
 " 4. The thoughts which express the manners. 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 22S 
 
 " 5. The words which express those thoughts. 
 
 " In the last of these, Homer excels Virgil ; Virgil all other 
 ancient poets ; and Shakspeare all modem poets. 
 
 " For the second of these, the order : the meaning is, that a 
 fable ought to have a beginning, middle, and an end, all just 
 and natural : so that that part, e.g. which is the middle, could 
 not naturally be the beginning or end, and so of the rest : all 
 depend on one another, like the links of a curious chain. If 
 terror and pitj^i^are vonly to be raised, certainly this author 
 follows Aristotle's rules, and Sophocles' and Euripides's ex- 
 ample : but joy may be raised too, and that doubly ; either by 
 seeing a wicked man punished, or a good man at last fortu- 
 nate; or perhaps indignation, to see wickedness prosperous 
 and goodness depressed : both these may be profitable to 
 the end of tragedy, reformation of manners; but the last 
 improperly,! onhc-aS" It Tegetsypity in the audience: though 
 Aristotle, I confess, places tragedies of this kind in the second 
 form. 
 
 "He who undertakes to answer this excellent critique of 
 Mr. Rymer, in behalf of our English poets against the Greek, 
 ought to do it in this manner. Either by yielding to hirii the 
 greatest part of what he contends for, which consists in this, 
 that the iivQoq, i.e. the design and conduct of it, is more con- 
 ducing in the Greeks to those ends of tragedy, which Aristotle 
 and he propose, namely, to cause terror and pity ; yet the 
 granting this does not set the Greeks above the English 
 poets. , 
 
 " But the answerer ought to prove two things : first, that the 
 fable is not the greatest master-piece of a tragedy, though it 
 be the foundation of it. 
 
 "Secondly, That other ends as suitable to the nature of 
 tragedy may be found in the English, which were not in the 
 Greek. 
 
 " Aristotle places the fable first ; not quoad dignitatem, sed 
 quoad fundamentum : for a fable, never so movingly contrived 
 
 Q 
 
225 DRYDEN. [1631- 
 
 to those ends of his, pity and terror, will operate nothing on 
 our affections, except the characters, manners, thoughts, and 
 ' words are, suitable. 
 
 " So that it remains for Mr. Rymer to prove, that in all 
 those, or the greatest part of them, we are inferior to Sophocles 
 and Euripides : and this he has offered at, in some measure ; 
 but, I think, a little partially to the ancients. 
 
 " For the fable itself; 'tis in the English more adorned with 
 episodes, and larger than in the Greek poets ; consequently 
 more diverting. For, if the action be but one, and that plain, 
 without any counter-turn of design or episode, i.e, under-plot, 
 how can it be so pleasing as the English, which have both 
 under-plot and a turned design, which keeps the audience in 
 expectation of the catastrophe? whereas in the Greek poets 
 we see through the whole design at first 
 
 " For the characters, they are neither sa many nor so various 
 in Sophocles and Euripides, as in Shakspeare and Fletcher; 
 only they are more adapted to those ends of tragedy which 
 Aristotle commends to us, pity and terror. 
 
 " The manners flow from the characters, and consequently 
 must partake of their advantages and disadvantages. 
 
 "The thoughts and words, which are the fourth and fifth 
 beauties of tragedy, are certainly more noble and more poetical 
 in the English than in the Greek, which must be proved by 
 comparing them, somewhat more equitably than Mr. Rymer 
 has done. 
 
 " After all, we need not yield that the English way is less 
 conducing to move pity and terror, because they often shew 
 virtue oppressed and vice punished : where they do not both, 
 or either, they are not to be defended. 
 
 " And if we should grant that the Greeks performed this 
 better, perhaps it may admit of dispute, whether pity and 
 terror are either the prime, or at least the only ends of tragedy. 
 ' " 'Tis not enough that Aristotle has said so ; for Aristotle 
 drew his models of tragedy from Sophocles and Euripides ; 
 
1 70 1] DRYDEN. 227 
 
 and, if he had seen ours, might have changed his mind. And 
 chiefly we have to say (what I hinted on pity and terror, in 
 the last paragraph save one), that the punishment of vice 
 and reward of virtue are the most adequate ends of tragedy, 
 because most conducing to good example of life. Now pity 
 is not so easily raised for a criminalj^nd the ancient tragedy 
 always represents its chief person suchi as it is for an innocent 
 man ; and the suffering of innocence^nd punishment of the 
 offender is of the nature of English tragedy : contrarily, in 
 the Greek, innocence is unhappy often, and the offender 
 escapes. Then we are not touched with the sufferings of any 
 sort of men so much as of lovers ; and this was almost un- 
 known to the ancients : so that they neither administered 
 poetical justice, of which Mr. Rymer boasts, so well as we ; 
 neither knew they the best common-place of pity, which is 
 love. 
 
 " He therefore unjustly blames us for not building on what 
 the ancients left us ; for it seems, upon consideration of the 
 premises, that we have wholly finished what they began. 
 
 " My judgement on this piece is this, that it is extremely 
 learned ; but that the author of it is better read in the Greek 
 than in the English poets : that all writers ought to study this 
 critique, as the best account I have ever seen of the ancients : 
 that the model of tragedy he has here given, is excellent, and 
 extreme correct ; but that it is not the only model of all 
 tragedy, because it is too much circumscribed in plot, cha- 
 racters, &c. ;. and lastly, that we may be taught here justly to 
 admire and imitate the ancients, without giving them the 
 preference with this author, in prejudice to our own country. 
 
 " Want of method in this excellent treatise, makes the 
 thoughts of the author sometimes obscure. 
 
 " His meaning, that pity and terror are to be moved, is, that 
 they are to be moved as the means conducing to the ends of 
 tragedy, which are pleasure and instruction. 
 
 "And these two ends may be thus distinguished. The chief 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 end of the poet is to please ; for his immediate reputation 
 depends on it. 
 
 " The great end of the poem is to instruct, which is per- 
 formed by making pleasure the vehicle of that instruction ; for 
 poesy is an art, and all arts are made to profit. Rapin. 
 
 " The pity, which the poet is to labour for, is for the criminal, 
 not for those_or him whom he has murdered, or who have been 
 the occasion of the tragedy. The terror is likewise in the 
 punishment of the same criminal ; who, if he be represented 
 too great an offender, will not be pitied : if altogether innocent, 
 his punishment will be unjust. 
 
 " Another obscurity is, where he says Sophocles perfected 
 tragedy by introducing the third actor; that is, he meant, three 
 kinds of action ; one company singing, or another playing on 
 the musick ; a third dancing. 
 
 To make a true judgement in this competition betwixt the 
 Greek poets and the English, in tragedy : 
 
 Consider, first, how Aristotle has defined a tragedy. 
 Secondly, what he assigns the end of it to be. Thirdly, what 
 he thinks the beauties of it. Fourthly, the means to attain the 
 end proposed. 
 
 Compare the Greek and English tragick poets justly, and 
 without partiality, according to those rules. 
 
 "Then secondly, consider whether Aristotle has made a just 
 definition of tragedy ; of its parts, of its ends, and of its 
 beauties ; and whether he, having not seen any others but 
 those of Sophocles, Euripides, &c. had or truly could determine 
 what all the excellences of tragedy are, [and wherein they 
 consist. 
 
 " Next shew in what ancient tragedy was deficient : for 
 example, in the narrowness of its plots, and fewness of persons, 
 and try whether that be not a fault in the Greek poets ; and 
 whether their excellency was so great, when the variety was 
 visibly so little ; or whether what they did was not very easy 
 to do. 
 
I701] DRYDEN. 229 
 
 " Then make a judgement on what the English have added to 
 their beauties : as, for example, not only more plot, but also 
 new passions ; as, namely, that of love, scarce touched on by 
 the ancients, except in this one example of Phsedra, cited by 
 Mr. Rymer ; and in that how short they were of Fletcher 1 
 
 " Prove also that love, being an heroick passion, is fit for 
 tragedy, which cannot be denied, because of the example 
 alleged of Phaedra; and how far Shakspeare has outdone 
 them in friendship, &c. 
 
 "To return to the beginning of this enquiry; consider if 
 pity and terror be enough for tragedy to move : and I believe, 
 upon a true definition of tragedy, it will be found that its work 
 extends farther, and that it is to reform manners, by a delightful 
 representation of human life in great persons, by way of 
 dialogue. If this be true, then not only pity and terror are to 
 be moved, as the only means to bring us to virtue, but 
 generally love to virtue and hatred to vice ; by shewing the 
 rewards of one, and punishments of the other ; at least, by 
 rendering virtue always amiable, tho' it be shewn unfortunate ; 
 and vice detestable, though it be shewn triumphant. 
 
 " If, then, the encouragement of virtue and discouragement 
 of vice be the proper ends of poetry in tragedy, pity and 
 terror, though good means, are not the only. For all the 
 passions, in their turns, are to be set in a ferment : as joy, 
 anger, love, fear, are to be used as the poet's commonplaces ; 
 and a general concernment for the principal actors is to be 
 raised, by making them appear such in their characters, their 
 words, and actions, as will interest the audience in their 
 fortunes. 
 
 " And if, after all, in a larger sense, pity comprehends this 
 concernment for the good, and terror includes detestation for 
 the bad, then let us consider whether the English have not 
 answered this end of tragedy, as well as the ancients, or perhaps 
 better. 
 
 " And here Mr. Rymer's objections against these plays are 
 
230 
 
 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 to be impartially weighed, that we may see whether they are of 
 weight enough to turn the balance against our countrymen. 
 
 " 'Tis evident those plays, which he arraigns, have moved 
 both those passions in a high degree upon the stage. 
 
 " To give the glory of this away from the poet, and to place 
 it upon the actors, seems unjust. 
 
 " One reason is, because whatever actors they have found, 
 the event has been the same ; that is, the same passions have 
 been always moved : which shews, that there is something of 
 force and merit in the plays themselves, conducing to the 
 design of raising these two passions : and suppose them ever 
 to have been excellently acted, yet action only adds grace, 
 vigour, and more life, upon the stage ; but cannot give it 
 wholly where it is not first. But secondly, I dare appeal to 
 those who have never seen them acted, if they have not found 
 these two passions moved within them : and if the general 
 voice will carry it, Mr. Rymer's prejudice will take off his 
 single testimony. 
 
 " This, being matter of fact, is reasonably to be established 
 by this appeal ; as if one man says 'tis night, the rest of the 
 world conclude it to be day ; there needs no farther argument 
 against him, that it is so. 
 
 " If he urge, that the general taste is depraved, his arguments 
 to prove this can at best but evince that our poets took not 
 the best way to raise those passions; but experience proves 
 against him, that these means, which they have used, have been 
 successful, and have produced them. 
 
 " And one reason of that success is, in my opinion, this, that 
 Shakspeare and Fletcher have written to the genius of the age 
 and nation in which they lived ; for though nature, as he objects, 
 is the same in all places, and reason too the same ; yet the 
 climate, the age, the disposition of the peopk, to whom a poet 
 writes, may be so different, that what pleased the Greeks would 
 not satisfy an English audience. 
 
 " And if they proceeded upon a foundation of truer reason 
 
I7CI] DRYDEN. 231 
 
 to please the Athenians than Shakspeare and Fletcher to please 
 the English, it only shews that the Athenians were a more 
 judicious people ; but the poet's business is certainly to please 
 the audience. 
 
 " Whether our English audience have been pleased hitherto 
 with acorns, as he calls it, or with bread, is the next question ; 
 that is, whether the means which Shakspeare and Fletcher have 
 used in their plays to raise those passions before named, be 
 better applied to the ends by the Greek poets than by them. 
 And perhaps we shall not grant him this wholly : let it be 
 granted that a writer is not to run down with the stream, or to 
 please the people by their own usual methods, but rather to 
 reform their judgements, it still remains to prove that our 
 theatre needs this total reformation. 
 
 " The faults, which he has found in their designs, are rather 
 wittily aggravated in many places than reasonably urged ; and 
 as much may be returned on the Greeks, by one who were as 
 witty as himself. 
 
 " 2. They destroy not, if they are granted, the foundation of 
 the fabrick ; only take away from the beauty of the symmetry : 
 for example, the faults in the character of the King and No- 
 king are not as he makes them, sucTi as render him detestable^ 
 but only imperfections which accompany human nature, and 
 are for the most part excused by the violence of his love ; so 
 that they destroy not our pity or concernment for him : this 
 answer may be applied to most of his objections of that 
 kind. 
 
 " And RoUo committing many murders, when he is answerable 
 but for one, is too severely arraigned by him ; for it adds to 
 our horror and detestation of the criminal : and poetick justice 
 is not neglected neither; for we stab him in our minds for 
 every offence which he commits ; and the point, which the 
 poet is to gain on the audience, is not so much in the death 
 of an offender as the raising an horror of his crimes. 
 
 " That the criminal should neither be wholly guilty, nor 
 
232 DRYDEN. [1631— 
 
 wholly innocent, but so participating of both as to move both 
 pity and terror, is certainly a good rule, but not perpetually to 
 be observed ; for that were to make all tragedies too much 
 alike, which objection he foresaw, but has not fully answered. 
 
 " To conclude, therefore ; if the plays of the ancients are 
 more correctly plotted, ours are more beautifully written. 
 And if we can raise passions as high on worse foundations, it 
 shews our genius in tragedy is greater j for, in all other parts 
 of it, the English have manifestly excelled them.'' 
 
 THE original of the following letter is preserved in the 
 Library at Lambeth, and was kindly imparted to the publick 
 by the reverend Dr. Vyse. 
 
 Copy of an original Letter from John Dryden, Esq., to his 
 sons in Italy, from a MS in the Lambeth Library, marked 
 N° 933- P- 56. 
 {Supersa'ibed) 
 
 Al Illustrissimo Sig'^ 
 
 Carlo Dryden Camariere 
 
 d'Honore A. S. S. 
 
 In Roma. 
 Franca per Mantoua. 
 
 " Septi the 3rd, our style. 
 " Dear Sons, 
 "Being now at Sir William Bowyer's in the country, I 
 cannot write at large, because I find myself somewhat indis- 
 posed with a cold, and am thick of hearing, rather worse than 
 I was in town. I am glad to find, by your letter of July 26th, 
 your style, that you are both in health ; but wonder you should 
 think me so negligent as to forget to give you an account of the 
 ship in which your parcel is to come. I have written to you 
 two or three letters concerning it, which I have sent by safe 
 hands, as I told you, and doubt not but you have them before 
 
1 701] DRYDEN. 233 
 
 this can arrive to you. Being out of town, I have forgotten 
 the ship's name, which your mother will enquire, and put it 
 into her letter, which is joined with mine. But the master's 
 name I remember : he is called Mr. Ralph Thorp ; the ship is 
 bound to Leghorn, consigned to Mr. Peter and Mr. Tho. 
 Ball, merchants. I am of your opinion, that by Tonson's 
 means almost all our letters have miscarried for this last year. 
 But, however, he has missed of his design in the Dedication, 
 though he had prepared the book for it ; for in every figure of 
 Eneas he has caused him to be drawn like King WiUiam, with a 
 hooked nose. After my return to town, I intend to alter a 
 play of Sir Robert Howard's, written long since, and lately put 
 by him into my hands : 'tis called The Conquest of China by 
 the Tartars. It will cost me six weeks study, with the probable 
 benefit of an hundred pounds. In the mean time I am writing 
 a song for St. Cecilia's Feast, who, you know, is the patroness 
 of musick. This is troublesome, and no way beneficial ; but 
 I could not deny the Stewards of the Feast, who came in a 
 body to me to desire that kindness, one of them being Mr. 
 Bridgman, whose parents are your mother's friends. I hope 
 to send you thirty guineas between Michaelmass and Christ- 
 mass, of which I will give you an account when I come to 
 town. I remember the counsel you give me in your letter ; 
 but dissembling, though lawful in some cases, is not my talent, 
 yet, for your sake, I will struggle with the plain openness of 
 my nature, and keep-in my just resentments against that 
 degenerate order. In the mean time, I flatter not myself with 
 any manner of hopes, but do my duty, and suffer for God's 
 sake ; being assured, beforehand, never to be rewarded, though 
 the times should alter. Towards the latter end of this month, 
 September, Charles will begin to recover his perfect health, 
 according to his nativity, which, casting it myself, I am sure is 
 true, and all things hitherto have happened accordingly to the 
 very time that I predicted them : I hope at the same time 
 to recover more health, according to my age. Remember 
 me to poor Harry, whose prayers I earnestly desire. My Virgil 
 
234 DRYDEN. [1631— 1701 
 
 succeeds in the world beyond its desert or my expectation. 
 You know the profits might have been more ; but neither my 
 conscience nor my honour would suffer me to take them : but 
 I never can repent of my constancy, since I am thoroughly 
 persuaded of the justice of the cause for which I suffer. It 
 has pleased God to raise up many friends to me amongst my 
 enemies, though they who ought to have been my friends are 
 negligent of me. I am called to dinner, and cannot go on 
 with this letter, which I desire you to excuse ; and am 
 
 " Your most affectionate father, 
 
 "John Dryden." 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 1667—1744. '/'t) 
 
 yv^- 
 
 An account of Dr. Swift has been klready collected, with 
 great diligence and acuteness, by Dr. Hawkesworth, according 
 to a scheme which I laid before him in the intimacy of our 
 friendship. I cannot therefore be expected to say much of a 
 life, concerning which I had long since communicated my 
 thoughts to a man capable of dignifying his narration with so 
 much elegance of language and force of sentiment. 
 
 Jonathan Swift was, according to an account said to be 
 written by himself, the son of Jonathan Swift, an attorney, 
 and was born at Dublin on St. Andrew's day, 1667 : according 
 to his own report, as delivered by Pope to Spence, he was 
 born at Leicester, the son of a clergyman, who was minister of 
 a parish in Herefordshire. ^ During his life the place of his 
 birth was undetermined. He was contented to be called an 
 Irishman by the Irish ; but would occasionally call himself an 
 Englishman. The question may, without much regret, be left 
 in the obscurity in which he delighted to involve it. 
 
 Whatever was his birth, his education was Irish. He was 
 sent at the age of six to the school at Kilkenny, and in his 
 1 Spence's Anecdotes, vol. ii. p. 273. 
 
236 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 fifteenth year (1682) was admitted into the University of 
 Dublin. 
 
 In his academical studies he was either not diligent or not 
 happy. It must disappoint every reader's expectation, that, 
 when at the usual time he claimed the Bachelorship of Arts, he 
 was found by the examiners too conspicuously deficient for 
 regular admission, and obtained his degree at last by special 
 favour ; a term used in that university to denote want of merit. 
 
 Of this disgrace it may be easily supposed that he was much 
 ashamed, and shame had its proper effect in producing 
 reformation. He resolved from that time to study eight hours 
 a-day, and continued his industry for seven years, with what 
 improvement is sufficiently known. This part of his story well 
 deserves to be remembered ; it may afford useful admonition 
 and powerful encouragement to men, whose abilities have been 
 made for a time useless by their passions or pleasures, and 
 who, having lost one part of life in idleness, are tempted to 
 throw away the- remainder in despair. 
 
 In this course of daily application he continued three years 
 longer at Dublin ; and in this time, if the observation and 
 memory of an old companion may be trusted, he drew the 
 first sketch of his Tale of a Tub; 
 
 When he was about one-and-twenty (1688), being by the 
 death of Godwin Swift his uncle, who had supported him, left 
 without subsistence, he went to consult his mother, who then 
 lived at Leicester, about the future course of his life, and by 
 her direction solicited the advice and patronage of Sir William 
 Temple, who had married one of Mrs. Swift's relations, and 
 whose father Sir John Temple, Master of the Rolls in Ireland, 
 had lived in great familiarity of friendship with Godwin Swift, 
 by whom Jonathan had been to that time maintained. 
 
 Temple received with sufficient kindness the nephew of his 
 father's friend, with whom he was, when they conversed 
 together, so much pleased, that he detained him two years in 
 his house. Here he became known to King William, who 
 
1744] SWIFT. 237 
 
 Sometimes visited Temple when he was disabled by the gout, 
 and, being attended by Swift in the garden, shewed him how 
 to cut asparagus in the Dutch way. 
 
 King William's notions were all military ; and he expressed 
 his kindness to Swift by offering to make him a captain of 
 horse. 
 
 When Temple removed to Moorjpark, he took Swift with 
 him ; and when he was consulted by the Earl of Portland 
 about the expedience of complying with a bill then depending 
 for making parliaments triennial, against which King William 
 was strongly prejudiced, after having in vain tried to shew, the 
 Earl that the proposal involved nothing dangerous to royal 
 power, he sent Swift for the same purpose to the King. Swift, 
 who probably was proud of his employment, and went with 
 all the confidence of a young man, found his arguments, and 
 his art of displaying them, made totally ineffectual by the 
 predetermination of the King ; and used to mention this 
 disappointment as his first antidote against vanity. 
 
 Before he left Ireland he contracted a disorder, as he \ 
 thought, by eating too much fruit. The original of diseases is i, 
 commonly obscure. Almost every boy eats as much fruit as he 
 can get, without any great inconvenience. The disease of 
 Swift was giddiness with deafness, which attacked him from 
 time to time, began very early, pursued him through life, and 
 at last sent him to the grave, deprived of reason. 
 
 Being much oppressed at Moor-park by this grievous 
 malady, he was advised to try his native air, and went to 
 Ireland; but, finding no benefit, returned to Sir WiUiam, at 
 whose house he continued his studies, and is known to have 
 read among other books, Cyprian and Irenaeus. He thought 
 exercise of great necessity, and used to run half a mile up and 
 down a hill every two hours. 
 
 It is easy to imagine that the mode in which his first degree 
 was conferred left him no great fondness for the University of 
 Dublin, and therefore he resolved to become a Master of Arts 
 
238 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 at Oxford. In the testimonial which he produced, the words of 
 disgrace were omitted, and he took his Master's degree (July 5, 
 1692) with such reception and regard as fully contented him. 
 
 While he lived with Temple, he used to pay his mother at 
 Leicester an yearly visit. He travelled on foot, unless some 
 violence of weather drove him into a waggon, and at night he 
 would go to a penny lodging, where he purchased clean sheets for 
 sixpence. This practice Lord Orrery imputes to his innate love 
 of grossness and vulgarity : some may ascribe it to his desire 
 of surveying human lifei- through all its varieties ; and others, 
 perhaps with equal probability, to a passion which seems to 
 have been deep fixed in his heart, the love of a shilling. 
 
 In time he began to think that his attendance at Moor-park 
 deserved some other recompense than the pleasure, however 
 mingled with improvement, of Temple's conversation ; and 
 grew so impatient, that in (1694) he went away in discontent. 
 
 Temple, conscious of having given reason for complaint, is 
 said to have made him Deputy Master of the Rolls in Ireland ; 
 which, according to his kinsman's account, was an office which 
 he knew him not able to discharge. Swift therefore resolved 
 to enter into the Church, in which he had at first no higher 
 hopes than of the chaplainship to the Factory of Lisbon ; but 
 being recommended to Lord Capel, he obtained the prebend 
 of Kilroot in Connor, of about a hundred pounds a year. 
 
 But the infirmities of Temple made a companion like Swift 
 so necessary, that he invited him back, with a promise to 
 procure him English preferment, in exchange for the prebend 
 which he desired him to resign. With this request Swift 
 complied, having perhaps equally repented their separation, 
 and they lived on together with mutual satisfaction ; and, in 
 the four years that passed between his return and Temple's 
 death, it is probable that he wrote the Tale of a Tub and the 
 Battle of the Books. 
 
 Swift began early to think, or to hope, that he was a poet, 
 and wrote Pindarick Odes to Temple, to the King, and to the 
 
 ■ ,' V, i 
 
1744] SWIFT. 239 
 
 Athenian Society, a knot of obscure men, who published a 
 periodical pamphlet of answers to questions, sent, or supposed 
 to be sent, by Letters. I have been told that Dryden, having 
 perused these verses, said, " Cousin Swift, you will never be a 
 poet ; " and that this denunciation was the motive of Swift's 
 perpetual malevolence to Drytien. 
 
 In 1699 Temple died, and left a legacy with his manuscripts 
 to Swift, for whom he had obtained, from King William, a 
 promise of the first prebend that should be vacant at 
 Westminster or Canterbury. 
 
 That this promise might not be forgotten. Swift dedicated to 
 the King the posthumous works with which he was intrusted ; 
 but neither the dedication, nor tenderness for the man whom 
 he once had treated with confidence and fondness, revived in 
 King William the remembrance of his promise. Swift awhile 
 attended the Court ; but soon found his solicitations hopeless. 
 
 He was then invited by the Earl of Berkeley to accompany, 
 him into Ireland, as his private secretary ; but after having done 
 the business till their arrival at Dublin, he then found that one 
 Bush had persuaded the Earl that a Clergyman was not a 
 proper secretary, and had obtained the office for himself. In 
 a man like Swift, such circumvention and inconstancy must 
 have excited violent indignation. 
 
 But he had yet more to suffer. Lord Berkeley had the 
 disposal of the deanery of Derry, and Swift expected to obtain 
 it; but by the secretary's influence, supposed to have been 
 secured by a bribe, it was bestowed on somebody else ; and 
 Swift was dismissed with the livings of Laracor and Rathbeggin 
 in the diocese of Meath, which together did not equal half 
 the value of the deanery. 
 
 At Laracor he increased the parochial duty by reading 
 prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and performed all the 
 offices of his profession with great decency and exactness. 
 
 Soon after his settlement at Laracor, he invited to Ireland 
 the unfortunate Stella, a young woman whose name was 
 
240 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 Johnson, the daughter of the steward of Sir William Temple, 
 who, in consideration of her father's virtues, left her a thousand 
 pounds. With her came Mrs. Dingley, whose whole fortune 
 was twenty-seven pounds a year for her life. With these 
 Ladies he passed his hours of relaxation, and to them he 
 opened his bosom ; but they never resided in the same house, 
 nor did he see either without a witness. They lived at the 
 Parsonage, when Swift was away; and when he returned, 
 removed to a lodging, or to the house of a neighbouring 
 clergyman. 
 
 Swift was not one of those minds which amaze the world 
 with early pregnancy: his first work, except his few poetical 
 Essays, was the Dissentions in Athens and Rome, published 
 (1701) in his thirty-fourth year. After its appearance, paying 
 a visit to some bishop, he heard mention made of the new 
 pamphlet that Burnet had written, replete with political know- 
 ledge. When he seemed to doubt Burnet's right to the work, 
 he was told by the Bishop, that he was a young man; and, 
 still persisting to doubt, that he was a very positive young 
 man. 
 
 Three years afterward (1704) was published The Tale of a 
 Tub : of this book charity may be persuaded to think that it 
 might be written by a man of a peculiar character, without ill 
 intention ; but it is certainly, of dangerous example. That Swift 
 was its author, though it be universally believed, was never 
 owned by himself, nor very well proved by any evidence ; but 
 no other claimant can be produced, and he did not deny it 
 when Archbishop Sharpe and the Duchess of Somerset, by 
 shewing it to the Queen, debarred him from a bishoprick. 
 
 When this wild work first raised the attention of the publick, 
 Sacheverell, meeting Smalridge, tried to flatter him, by seeming 
 to think him the author ; but Smalridge answered with indig- 
 nation, " Not all that you and I have in the world, nor all 
 that ever we shall have, should hire me to write the Tale of 
 a Tub." 
 

 1744] r' j^ 1;"^ SWIFT. (/ f'*^'-'' 241 
 
 The digressions relating to Wott on and Bentiey must be 
 confessed to discover want of knowledge, or want of integrity ; 
 he did not understand the two controversies, or he willingly 
 misrepresented them. But Wit can stand its ground against 
 Truth only a little while. The honours due to learning have 
 been justly distributed by the decision of posterity. 
 
 The Battle of the Books is so like the Combat des Livres, 
 which the same question concerning the Ancients and Moderns 
 had produced in France, that the improbability of such a coin- 
 cidence of thoughts without communication is not, in my 
 opinion, balanced by the anonymous protestation prefixed, 
 in which all knowledge of the French book is peremptorily 
 diso\\Tied. 
 
 For some time after Swift was probably employed in solitary 
 study, gaining the qualifications requisite for future eminence. 
 How often he visited England, and with what diligence he 
 attended his parishes, I know not. It was not till about four 
 years afterwards that he became a professed author, and then 
 one year (1708) produced The Sentiments of a Church-of- 
 England Man ; the ridicule of Astrology, under the name of 
 Bickerstafi'; the Argument against abolishing Christianity; and 
 the Defence of the Sacramental Test. 
 
 The Sentiments of a Church-of-England Man is written 
 with great coolness, moderation, ease, and perspicuity. The 
 Argument against abolishing Christianity is a very happy and 
 judicious irony. One passage in it deserves to be selected. 
 
 "If Christianity were once abolished, how could the free- 
 thinkers, the strong reasoners, and the men of profound 
 learning, be able to find another subject so calculated, in all 
 points, whereon to display their abilities? What wonderful 
 productions of wit should we be deprived of from those 
 whose genius, by continual practice, hath been wholly turned 
 upon raillery and invective against religion, and would there- 
 fore never be able to shine, or distinguish themselves, upon 
 any other subject? We are daily complaining of the great 
 
242 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 decline of wit among us, and would take away the greatest, 
 , perhaps the only, topick we have left. Who would ever have 
 suspected Asgill for a wit, or Toland for a philosopher, if the 
 inexhaustible stock of Christianity had not been at hand to 
 provide them with materials? What other subject, through 
 all art or nature, could have produced Tindal for a profound 
 author, or furnished him with readers ? It is the wise choice 
 of the subject that alone adorns and distinguishes the writer. 
 For had an hundred such pens as these been employed on the 
 side of religion, they would have immediately sunk into silence 
 and oblivion." 
 
 The reasonableness of a Test is not hard to be proved; 
 but perhaps it must be allowed that the proper test has not 
 been chosen. 
 
 The attention paid to the papers published under the name 
 of Bickerstaff, induced Steele, when he' projected the Tatler, 
 to assume an appellation which had already gained possession 
 of the reader's notice. 
 
 In the year following he wrote a Project for the Advance- 
 ment of Religion, addressed to Lady Berkeley ; by whose 
 kindness it is not unlikely that he was advanced to his benefices. 
 To this project, which is formed with great purity of intention, 
 and displayed with spriteliness and elegance, it can only be 
 objected, that, like many projects, it is, if not generally im- 
 practicable, yet evidently hopeless, as it supposes more zeal, 
 concord, and perseverance, than a view of mankind gives 
 reason for expecting. 
 
 He wrote likewise this year a Vindication of Bickerstaff; and 
 an explanation of an Ancient Prophecy, part written after the 
 facts, and the rest never completed, but well planned to excite 
 amazement. 
 
 Soon after began the busy and important part of Swift's life. 
 He was employed (17 10) by the primate of Ireland to solicit 
 the Queen for a remission of the First Fruits and Twentieth 
 parts to the Irish Clergy. With this purpose he had recourse 
 
1744] SWIFT. 243 
 
 to Mr. Harley, to whom he was mentioned as a man neglected 
 and oppressed by the last Ministry, because he had refused to 
 co-operate with some of their schemes. What he had refused, 
 has never been told, what he had suffered was, I suppose, the 
 exclusion from a bishoprick by the remonstrances of Sharpe, 
 whom he describes as the harmless tool of others' hate, and whom 
 he represents as afterwards suing for pardon, 
 
 Hailey's designs and situation were such as made him glad 
 of an auxiliary so well qualified for his service ; he therefore 
 soon admitted him to familiarity, whether ever to confidence 
 some have made a doubt ; but it would have been difficult to 
 excite hip zeal without persuading him that he was trusted, 
 and not very easy to delude him by false persuasion. 
 
 He was certainly admitted to those meetings in which the 
 first hints and original plan, of action are supposed to have 
 been formed ; and was one of the sixteen Ministers, or agents 
 of the Ministry, who met weekly at each other's houses, and 
 were united by the name of Brother. 
 
 Being not immediately considered as an obdurate Tory, he 
 conversed indiscriminately with all the wits, and was yet the 
 friend of Steele; who, in the Tatler, which began in 17 10, 
 confesses the advantages of his conversation, and mentions 
 something contributed by him to his paper. But he was now 
 immerging into political controversy ; for the same year 
 produced the Examiner, of which Swift wrote thirty-three 
 papers. In argument he may be allowed to have the 
 advantage ; for where a wide system of conduct, and the 
 whole of a publick character, is laid open to enquiry, the 
 accuser, having the choice of facts, must be very unskilful if 
 he does not prevail ; but with regard to wit, I am afraid none 
 of Swift's papers will be found equal to those by which 
 Addison opposed him. 
 
 Early in the next year he published a Proposal for correcting, 
 improving, and ascertaining the English Tongue, in a Letter 
 to the Earl of Oxford; written without much knowledge of 
 
244 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 the general nature of language, and without any accurate 
 enquiry into the history of other tongues. The certainty and 
 stability which, contrary to all experience, he thinks attainable, 
 he proposes to secure by instituting an academy,* the decrees 
 of which every man would have been willing, and many would 
 have been proud to disobey, and which, being renewed by 
 successive elections, would in a short time have differed from 
 itself 
 
 He wrote the same year a Letter to the October Club, a 
 number of Tory gentlemen sent from the country to Parlia- 
 ment, who formed themselves into a club, to the number of 
 about a hundred, and met to animate the zeal and raise the 
 expectations of each other. They thought, with great reason, 
 that the Ministers were losing opportunities ; that sufficient use 
 was not made of the ardour of the nation ; they called loudly 
 for more changes, and stronger efforts ; and demanded the 
 punishment of part, and the dismission of the rest, of those 
 whom they considered as publick robbers. 
 
 Their eagerness was not gratified by the Queen, or by 
 Harley. The Queen was probably slow because she was 
 afraid, and Harley was slow because he was doubtful ; he was 
 a Tory only by necessity, or for convenience ; and when he had 
 power in his hands, had no settled purpose for which he 
 should employ it : forced to gratify to a certain degree the 
 Tories who supported him, but unwilling to make his recon- 
 cilement to the Whigs utterly desperate, he corresponded at 
 once with the two expectants of the Crown, and kept, as has 
 been observed, the succession undetermined. Not knowing 
 what to do, he did nothing ; and with the fate of a double- 
 dealer, at last he lost his power, but kept his enemies. 
 
 Swift seems to have concurred in opinion with the October 
 Club ; but it was not in his power to quicken the tardiness of 
 Harley, whom he stimulated as much as he could, but with 
 little effect. He that knows not whither to go, is in no haste 
 to move. Harley, who was perhaps not quick by nature, 
 
1744] SWIFT. 245 
 
 became yet more slow by irresolution ; and was content to 
 hear that dilatoriness lamented as natural which he applauded 
 in himself as politick. 
 
 Without the Tories, however, nothing could be done ; and 
 as they were not to be gratified, they must be appeased ; and 
 the conduct of the Minister, if it could not be vindicated, was 
 to be plausibly excused. 
 
 Swift now attained the zenith of his political importance : 
 he published (1712) the Conduct of the Allies, ten days before J{ 
 the Parliament assembled. The purpose was to persuade the 
 nation to a peace ; and never had any writer more success. 
 The people, who had been amused with bonfires and triumphal 
 processions, and looked with idolatry on the General and his 
 friends, who, as they thought, had made England the arbitress of 
 nations, were confounded between shame and rage when they 
 found that mines had been exhausted, and millions destroyed, to 
 secure the Dutch or aggrandize the emperor, without any 
 advantage to ourselves ; that we had been bribing our neigh- 
 bours to fight their own quarrel ; and that amongst our 
 enemies we might number our allies. 
 
 That is now no longer doubted, of which the nation was 
 then first informed, that the war was unnecessarily protracted 
 to fill the pockets of Marlborough; and that it would have 
 been continued without end, if he could have continued his 
 annual plunder. But Swift, I suppose, did not yet know what 
 he has since written, that a commission was drawn which 
 would have appointed him General for life, had it not become 
 ineffectual by the resolution of Lord Cowper, who refused 
 the seal. 
 
 Whatever is received, say the schools, is received in proportion 
 to the recipient. The power of a political treatise depends 
 much upon the disposition of the people ; the nation was then 
 combustible, and a spark set it on fire. It is boasted, that 
 between November and January eleven thousand were sold ; a 
 great number at that time, when we were not yet a nation of 
 
246 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 readers. To its propagation certainly no agency of power or 
 influence was wanting. It furnished arguments for conver- 
 sation, speeches for debate, and materials for parliamentary 
 resolutions. 
 
 Yet, surely, whoever survey s this wonder-working pamphlet 
 
 with cool per usal, will confess that its efficacy was supplied by 
 
 the passions of its readers ; that it operates by the mere weight 
 
 of facts, with very little assistance from the hand that produced 
 
 them. 
 
 . \. This year (17 12) he published his Reflections on the Barrier 
 
 0^ Treaty, which carries on the design of his Conduct of the 
 
 ■^ Allies, and shows how little regard in that negotiation had 
 
 ^ been shewn to the interest of England, and how much of the 
 
 ^ conquered country had been demanded by the Dutch. 
 
 J This was followed by Remarks on the Bishop of Sarum's 
 
 ' Introduction to his Third Volume of the History of the 
 
 Reformation ; a pamphlet which Burnet published as an alarm, 
 
 to warn the nation of the approach of Popery. Swift, who 
 
 seems to have disliked the Bishop with something more than 
 
 political aversion, treats him like one whom he is glad of an 
 
 opportunity to insult. 
 
 Swift, being now the declared favourite and supposed 
 confidant of the Tory Ministry, was treated by all that 
 depended on the Court with the respect which dependents 
 know how to pay. He soon began to feel part of the misery 
 of greatness ; he that could say he knew him, considered him- 
 self as having fortune in his power. Commissions, solicita- 
 tions, remonstrances, crowded about him ; he was expected to 
 do every man's business, to procure employment for one, and 
 to retain it for another. In assisting those who addressed him, 
 he represents himself as sufficiently dihgent; and desires to 
 have others believe, what he probably believed himself, that 
 by his interposition many Whigs of merit, and among them 
 Addison and Congreve, were continued in their places. But 
 every man of known influence has so many petitions which he 
 
1744] SWIFT. 247 
 
 cannot grant, that lie must necessarily offend more than he 
 gratifies, because the preference given to one affords all the 
 rest a reason for complaint. Wken I give away a place, said 
 Lewis XIV. / make an hundred discontented, and one ungrateful. 
 
 Much has been said of the equality and independence which 
 he preserved in his conversation with the Ministers, of the 
 frankness of his remonstrances, and the familiarity of his 
 friendship. In accounts of this kind a few sipgle incidents are 
 set against the general tenour of behaviour. No man, however, 
 can pay a more servile tribute to the Great, than by suffering 
 his liberty in their presence to aggrandize him in his own 
 esteem. Between different ranks of the community there is 
 necessarily some distance : he who is called by his superior 
 to pass the interval, may properly accept the invitation ; but 
 petulance and obtrusion are rarely produced by magnanimity ; 
 nor have often any nobler cause than the pride of importance, 
 and the malice of inferiority. He who knows himself neces- 
 sary may set, while that necessity lasts, a high value upon 
 himself; as, in a lower condition, a servant eminently skilful 
 may be saucy; but he issauc5;_^nly_j3ecause_h^is_semle^ 
 Swift appears to have preserved the kindness of the great when 
 they wanted him no longer ; and therefore it must be allowed, 
 that the childish freedom, to which he seems enough inclined, 
 was overpowered by his better qualities. 
 
 His disinterestedness has been likewise mentioned ; a strain 
 of heroism, which would have been in his condition romantick 
 and superfluous. Ecclesiastical benefices, when they become 
 vacant, must be given away ; and the friends of Power may, if 
 there be no inherent disqualification, reasonably expect them. 
 Swift accepted (1713) the deanery of St. Patrick, the best 
 preferment that his friends could venture to give him. That 
 Ministry was in a great degree supported by the Clergy, who 
 were not yet reconciled to the author of the Tale of a Tub, 
 and would not without much discontent and indignation have 
 borne. to see hina installed in an English cathedral. 
 
248 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 He refused, indeed, fifty pounds from Lord Oxford ; but he 
 accepted afterwards a draft of a thousand upon the Ex- 
 chequer, which was intercepted by the Queen's death, and 
 which he resigned, as he says himself, multa gemens, with many 
 a groan. 
 
 In the midst of his power and his politicks, he kept a 
 
 journal of his visits, his walks, his interviews with Ministers, 
 
 and quarrels with his servant, and transmitted it to Mrs. 
 
 Johnson and Mrs. Dingley,.to whom he knew that whatever 
 
 { , 1 befel him was interesting, and no accounts could be too minute. 
 
 ^_^ Whether these diurnal trifles were proper lyexposed to eyes 
 
 ' ^, which had never received any pleasure from the presence of 
 
 the Dean may be reasonably doubted : they have, however, 
 
 some odd attraction ; the reader, finding frequent mention of 
 
 names which he has been used to consider as important, goes 
 
 on in hope of information ; and, as there is nothing to fatigue 
 
 attention, if he is disappointed he can hardly complain. It is 
 
 easy to perceive, from every page, that though ambition pressed 
 
 Swift into a life of bustle, the wish for a life of ease was always 
 
 returning. 
 
 He went to take possession of his deanery, as soon as he 
 
 had obtained it ; but he was not suffered to stay in Ireland 
 more than a fortnight before he was recalled to England, that 
 he might reconcile Lord Oxford and Lord Bolingbroke, who 
 began to look on one another with malevolence, which every 
 day increased, and which Bolingbroke appeared to retain in 
 his last years. 
 
 Swift contrived an interview, from which they both departed 
 discontented : he procured a second, which only convinced 
 him that the feud was irreconcileable : he told them his 
 opinion, that all was lost. This denunciation was contra- 
 dicted by Oxford, but Bolingbroke whispered that he was 
 right. 
 
 Before this violent dissension had shattered the Ministry, 
 Swift had published, in the beginning of the year (17 14), The 
 
1744] SWIFT. 249 
 
 Publick Spirit of the Whigs, in answer to The Crisis, a 
 pamphlet for which Steele was expelled from the House -f 
 of Commons. Swift was now so far alienated from Steele as 
 to think him no longer ent itled to decen cy, and therefore 
 treats him sometimes with contempt, and sometimes with 
 abhorrence. 
 
 In this pamphlet the Scotch were mentioned in terms so 
 provoking to that irritable nation, that, resolving not to be 
 offended with impunity, the Scotch Lords in a body demanded 
 an audience of the Queen, and solicited reparation. A pro- 
 clamation was issued, in which three hundred pounds were 
 offered for discovery of the author. From this storm he was, 
 as he relates, secured by a sleight ; of what kind, or by whose 
 prudence, is not known j and such was the increase of his 
 reputation, that the Scottish Nation applied again that he would 
 be their friend. 
 
 He was become so formidable to the Whigs, that his 
 familiarity with the Ministers was clamoured at in Parliament, 
 particularly by two men, afterwards of great note, Aislabie and 
 Walpole. J,:, ^,.; ?;. 1 i><X^^.^ ^^ 
 
 But, by the disunion of his great friends, h/s importance and 
 his designs were now at an end ; and seeing his services at 
 last useless, he retired about June (1714) into Berkshire, where, 
 in the house of a friend, he wrote what was then suppressed, 
 but has since appeared under the title of Free Thoughts on the 
 present State of Affairs. 
 
 While he was waiting in this retirement for events which time 
 or chance might bring to pass, the death of the Queen broke 
 down at once the whole system of Tory Politicks ; and nothing 
 remained but to withdraw from the implacabiUty of triumphant 
 Whiggism, and shelter himself in unenvied obscurity. 
 
 The accounts of his reception in Ireland, given by Lord 
 Qjrery and Dr. D^joy, are so different, that the credit of IHe 
 writers, both undoubtedly veracious, cannot be saved, but by 
 supposing, what I think is true, that they speak of different 
 
250 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 times. When Delany says that he was received with respect, 
 he means for the first fortnight, when he came to take legal 
 possession ; and when Lord Orrery tells that he was pelted by 
 the populace, he is to be understood of the time when, after 
 the Queen's death, he became a settled resident. 
 
 The Archbishop of Dublin gave him at first some disturb- 
 ance in the exercise of his jurisdiction ; but it was soon dis- 
 covered, that between prudence and integrity he was seldom 
 in the wrong ; and that, when he was right, his spirit did not 
 easily yield to opposition. 
 
 Having so lately quitted the tumults of a party and the 
 intrigues of a court, they still kept his thoughts in agitation, as 
 the sea fluctuates a while when the storm has ceased. He 
 therefore filled his hours with some historical attempts relating 
 to the Change of the Ministers and the Conduct of the Ministry. 
 He likewise is said to have written a History of the Four last 
 Years of Queen Anne, which he began in her lifetime, and 
 afterwards laboured with great attention, but never published. 
 It was after his death in the hands of Lord Orrery and Dr. 
 King. A book under that title was published, with Swift's 
 name, by Dr. Lucas ; of which I can only, say, that it seemed 
 by no means to correspond with the notions that I had formed 
 of it, from a conversation which I once heard between the Earl 
 of Orrery and old Mr-_Lewis. 
 
 Swift now, much against his will, commenced Irishman for 
 life, and was to contrive how he might be best accommodated 
 in a country where he considered himself as in a state of exile. 
 It seems that his first recourse was to piety. The thoughts of 
 death rushed upon him, at this time, with such incessant 
 importunity, that they took possession of his mind, when he 
 first waked, for many years together. 
 
 He opened his house by a publick table two days a week, 
 and found his entertainments gradually frequented by more and 
 more visitants of learning among the men, and of elegance 
 among the women. Mrs. Johnson had left the country, and 
 
1744] SWIFT. 251 
 
 lived in lodgings not far from the deanery. On his publick 
 days she regulated the table, but appeared at it as a mere 
 guest, like other ladies. 
 
 On other days he often dined, at a stated price, with Mr. 
 Worral, a clergyman of his cathedral, whose house was recom- 
 mended by the peculiar neatness and pleasantry of his wife. 
 To this frugal mode of living, he was iirst disposed by care to 
 pay some debts which he had contracted, and he continued it 
 for the pleasure of accumulating money. His avarice, how- 
 ever, was not suffered to obstruct the claims of his dignity ; he 
 was served in glate, and used to say that he was the poorest 
 gentleman in Ireland that ate upon plate, and the richest that 
 lived without a coach. 
 
 How he spent the rest of his time, and how he employed his 
 hours of study, has been enquired with hopeless curiosity. 
 For who can give an account of another's studies ? Swift was 
 not likely to admit any to his privacies, or to impart a minute 
 account of his business or his leisure. 
 
 Soon after (17 16), in his forty-ninth year, he was privately 
 married to Mrs. Johnson by Dr. Ashe, Bishop of Clogher, as 
 Dr. Madden told me, in the garden. The marriage made no 
 change in their mode of life; they lived in different houses, 
 as before ; nor did she ever lodge in the deanery but when 
 Swift was seized with a fit of giddiness. "It would be 
 difficult," says Lord Orrery, "to prove that they were ever 
 afterwards together without a third person." 
 
 The Dean of St. Patrick's lived in a private manner, known 
 and regarded only by his friends, till, about the year 1720, he, 
 by a pamphlet, recommended to the Irish the use, and con- 
 sequently the improvement, of their manufacture. For a man 
 to use the productions of his own labour is surely a natural 
 right, and to like best what he makes himself is a natural 
 passion. But to excite this passion, and enforce this right, 
 appeared so criminal to those who had an interest in the 
 English trade, that the printer was imprisoned; and, as 
 
^S2 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 -Hawkesworth justly observes, the attention of the publick 
 being by this outrageous resentment turned upon the proposal, 
 the author was by consequence made popular. 
 
 In 1723 died Mrs. Van Homrigh, a woman made unhappy 
 by her admiration of wit, and ignominiously distinguished by 
 the name of Vanessa, whose conduct has been already sufficiently 
 discussed, and whose history is too well known to be minutely 
 repeated. She was a young woman fond of literature, whom 
 Decanus the Dean, called (Caoenus by transposition of the 
 letters, took pleasure in directing and instructing ; till, from 
 being proud of his praise, she grew fond of his person. Swift 
 was then about forty-seven, at an age when vanity is strongly 
 excited by the amorous attention of a young woman. If it be 
 said that Swift should have checked a passion which he never 
 meant to gratify, recourse must be had to that extenuation 
 which he so much despised, men are but men : perhaps how- 
 ever he did not at first know his own mind, and, as he 
 represents himself, was undetermined. For his admission of 
 her courtship, and his indulgence of her hopes after his mar- 
 riage to Stella, no other honest plea can be found than that he 
 delayed a disagreeable discovery from time to time, dreading 
 the immediate bursts of distress, and watching for a favourable 
 moment. She thought herself neglected, and died of dis- 
 appointment ; having ordered by her will the poem to be 
 published in which Cadenus had proclaimed her excellence, 
 and confessed his love. The effect of the publication upon 
 the Dean and Stella is thus related by Delany. 
 
 " I have good reason to believe, that they both were greatly 
 shocked and distressed (though it may be differently) upon this 
 occasion. The Dean made a tour to the South of Ireland, for 
 about two months, at this time, to dissipate his thoughts, and 
 give place to obloquy. And Stella retired (upon the earnest 
 invitation of t£e owner) to the house of a cheerful, generous, 
 good-natured friend of the Dean's, whom she also much loved 
 and honomred. There my informer often saw her ; and, I have 
 
1744] SWIFT. 253 
 
 reason to believe, used his utmost endeavours to relieve, 
 support, and amuse her, in this sad situation. 
 
 " One little incident he told me of, on that occasion, I think 
 I shall never forget. As her friend was an hospitable, open- 
 hearted man, well-beloved, and largely acquainted, it happened 
 one day that some gentlemen dropt in to dinner, who were 
 strangers to Stella's situation; and as the poem of Cadenus 
 and Vanessa was then the general topic of conversation, one 
 of them said, ' Surely that Vanessa must be an extraordinary 
 woman, that could inspire the Dean to write so finely upon 
 her.' Mrs. Johnson smiled, and answered, ' that she thought 
 that point not quite so clear ; for it was well known the Dean 
 could write finely upon a broomstick.' " 
 
 The great acquisition of esteem and influence was made by 
 the Drapier's Letters in 1724. One Wood of Wolverhampton 
 in Staffordshire, a man enterprising and rapacious, had, as is 
 said, by a present to the Duche§s of Munster, obtained a 
 patent, empowering him to coin mie" hundred and eighty 
 thousand pounds of halfpence and farthings for the kingdom 
 of Ireland, in which there was a very inconvenient and em- 
 barrassing scarcity of copper coin ; so that it was possible to 
 run in debt upon the credit of a piece of money ; for the cook 
 or keeper of an alehouse could not refuse to supply a man that 
 had silver in his hand, and the buyer would not leave his 
 money without change. 
 
 The project was therefore plausible. The scarcity, which 
 was already great. Wood took care to make greater, by agents 
 who gathered up the old half-pence ; and was about to turn his 
 brass into gold, by pouring the treasures of his new mint upon 
 Ireland, when Swift, finding that the metal was debased to an 
 enormous degree, wrote Letters, under the name of M. B. 
 Drapier, to shew the folly of receiving, and the mischief that 
 must ensue by giving gold and silver for coin worth perhaps 
 not a third part of its nominal value. 
 
 The nation was alarmed; the new coin was universally 
 
254 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 refused : but the governors of Ireland considered resistance to 
 the King's patent as highly criminal ; and one Whitshed, then 
 Chief Justice, who had tried the printer of the former pamphlet, 
 and sent out the Jury nine times, till by clamour and menaces 
 they were frighted into a special verdict, now presented the 
 Drapier, but could not prevail on the Grand Jury to find 
 the bill. 
 
 Lord Carteret and the Privy Council published a proclam- 
 ation, offering three hundred pounds for. discovering the author 
 of the Fourth Letter. Swift had concealed himself from his 
 printers, and trusted only his butler, who transcribed the paper. 
 The man, immediately after the appearance of the proclam- 
 ation, strolled from the house, and staid out all night, and part 
 of the next day. There was reason enough to fear that he had 
 betrayed his master for the reward ; but he came home, and 
 the Dean ordered him to put off his livery, and leave the 
 house ; " for," says he, " I know that my life is in your power, 
 and I will not bear, out of fear, either your insolence or 
 negligence.'' The man excused his fault with great submission, 
 and begged that he might be confined in the house while it 
 was in his power to endanger his master ; but the Dean 
 resolutely turned him out, without taking farther notice of him, 
 till the term of information had expired, and then received him 
 again. Soon afterwards he ordered him and the rest of his 
 servants into his presence, without teUing his intentions, and 
 bade them take notice that their fellow-servant was no longer 
 Robert the butler ; but that his integrity had made him Mr. 
 Blakeney, verger of St. Patrick's ; an officer whose income was 
 (between thirty and forty pounds a year : yet he still continued 
 'for some years to serve his old master as his butler. 
 
 Swift was known from this time by the appellation of The 
 Dean. He was honoured by the populace, as the champion, 
 patron, and instructor of Ireland ; and gained such power as, 
 considered both in its extent and duration, scarcely any man 
 has ever enjoyed without greater wealth or higher station. 
 
1744] SWIFT. 25s 
 
 He was from this important year the oracle of the traders, 
 and the idol of the rabble, and by consequence was feared 
 and courted by all to whom the kindness of the traders or the 
 populace was necessary. The Drapier was a sign ; the Drapier 
 was a health ; and which way soever the eye or the ear was 
 turned, some tokens were found of the nation's gi-atitude to the 
 Drapier. 
 
 The benefit was indeed great ; he had rescued Ireland from 
 a very oppressive and predatory invasion ; and the popularity 
 'which he had gained he was dihgent to keep, by appearing 
 forward and zealous on every occasion where the publick 
 interest was supposed to be involved. Nor did he much 
 scruple to boast his influence ; for when, upon some attempts 
 to regulate the coin, Archbishop Boulter, then one of the 
 Justices, accused him of exasperating the people, he excul- 
 pated himself by saying, " If I had lifted up my finger, they . 
 would have torn you to pieces." 
 
 But the pleasure of popularity was soon interrupted by 
 domestic misery. Mrs. Johnson, whose conversation was to 
 him the great softener of the ills of life, began in the year of 
 the Drapier's triumph to decline ; and two years afterwards 
 was so wasted with sickness that her recovery was considered 
 as hopeless. 
 
 Swift was then in England, and had been invited by Lord 
 Bolingbroke to pass the winter with him in France ; but this 
 call of calamity hastened him to Ireland, where perhaps his 
 presence contributed to restore her to imperfect and tottering 
 health. / 
 
 He was now so much at ease, that (1727) he returned to p- ^^ 
 England; where he collected three volumes of Miscellanies >L 
 in conjunction with Pope, who prefixed a querulous and 
 apologetical Preface. 
 
 This important year sent likewise into the world Gulliver's + 
 Travels, a production so new and strange, that it filled the 
 reader with a mingled emotion of merriment and amazement. 
 
256 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 It was received with such avidity, that the price of the first 
 edition was raised before the second could be made ; it was 
 read by the high and the low, the learned and illiterate. 
 Criticism was for a while lost in wonder ; no rules of judge- 
 ment were applied to a book written in open defiance of truth 
 and regularity. But when distinctions came to be made, the 
 part which gave least pleasure was that which describes the 
 Flying Island, and that which gave most disgust -«rtfst be the 
 history of the Houyhnhnms. 
 
 WhUe Swift was enjoying the reputation ot Hs' new work, 
 the news of the King's death arrived ; and he kissed the hands 
 of the new King and Queen three days after their accession. 
 
 By the Queen, when she was Princess, he had been treated 
 with some distinction, and was well received by her in her 
 exaltation ; but whether she gave hopes which she never took 
 care to satisfy, or he formed expectations which she never 
 meant to raise, the event was, that he always afterwards thought 
 on her with malevolence, and particularly charged her with 
 breaking her promise of some medals which she engaged to 
 send him. 
 
 I know not whether she had not, in her turn, some reason 
 for complaint. A Letter was sent her, not so much entreating 
 as requiring her patronage of Mrs. Barber, an ingenious Irish- 
 woman, who was then begging subscriptions for her Poems. 
 To this Letter was subscribed the name of Swift, and it has all 
 the appearances of his diction and sentiments ; but it was not 
 written in his hand, and had some little improprieties. When 
 he was charged with this Letter, he laid hold of the inac- 
 curacies, and urged the improbability of the accusation ; but 
 never denied it : he shuffles between cowardice and veracity, 
 and talks big when he says nothing. 
 
 He seemed desirous enough of recommencing courtier, and 
 endeavoured to gain the kindness of Mrs. Howard, remem- 
 bering what Mrs. Ma sham had performed in former times ; but 
 his flatteries wfere, like those of the other wits, unsuccessful ; 
 
1744] SWIFT. 257 
 
 the Lady either wanted power, or had no ambition of poetical 
 immortality. 
 
 He was seized not long afterwards by a fit of giddiness,' and 
 again heard of the sickness and danger of Mrs. Johnson. He 
 then left the house of Pope, as it seems, with very little cere- 
 mony, finding that two sick friends cannot live together ; and did 
 not write to him till he found himself at Chester. 
 
 He returned to a home of sorrow : poor Stella was sinking 
 into the grave, and, after a languishing decay of about two 
 months, died in her forty-fourth year, on January 28, 1728. 
 How much he wished her life, his papers shew ; nor can it be 
 doubted that he dreaded the death of her whom he loved 
 most, aggravated by the consciousness that himself had 
 hastened it. 
 
 Beauty and the power of pleasing, the greatest external 
 advantages that woman can desire or possess, were fatal to the 
 unfortunate Stella. The man whom she had the misfortune to 
 love was, as Delany observes, fond of singularity, and desirous 
 to make a mode of happiness for himself, different from the 
 general course of things and order of Providence. From the 
 time of her arrival in Ireland he seems resolved to keep her 
 in his power, and therefore hindered a match sufficiently 
 advantageous, by accumulating unreasonable demands, and 
 prescribing conditions that could not be performed. While 
 she was at her own disposal he did not consider his possession 
 as secure; resentment, ambition, or caprice, might separate 
 them ; he was therefore resolved to make assurance double sure, 
 and to appropriate her by a private marriage, to which he had 
 annexed the expectation of all the pleasures of perfect friend- 
 ship, without the uneasiness of conjugal restraint. But with 
 this state poor Stella was not satisfied ; she never was treated 
 as a wife, and to the world she had the appearance of a mistress. 
 She lived sullenly on, in hope that in time he would own and 
 receive her ; but the time did not come till the change of his 
 manners and depravation of his mind made her tell him, when 
 
 s 
 
258 SWIFT. [1667^ 
 
 he offered to acknowledge her, that it was too late. She then 
 gave up herself to sorrowful resentment, and died under the 
 tyranny of him, by whom she was in the highest degree loved 
 and honoured. 
 
 What were her claims to this excentrick tenderness, by which 
 the laws of nature were violated to retain her, curiosity will 
 enquire ; but how shall it be gratified ? Swift was a lover ; his 
 testimony may be suspected. Delany and the Irish saw with 
 Swift's eyes, and therefore add little confirmation. That she 
 was virtuous, beautiful, and elegant, in a very high degree, such 
 admiration from such a lover makes it very probable : but she 
 had not much literature, for she could not spell her own 
 language ; and of her wit, so loudly vaunted, the smart sayings 
 which Swift himself has collected afford no splendid specimen. 
 
 The reader of Swift's Letter to a Lady on her Marriage, may 
 be allowed to doubt whether his opinion of female excellence 
 ought implicitly to be admitted ; for if his general thoughts on 
 women were such as he exhibits, a very little sense in a Lady 
 would enrapture, and a very little virtue would astonish him. 
 Stella's supremacy, therefore, was perhaps only local ; she was 
 great, because her associates were little. 
 
 In some Remarks lately published on the Life of Swift, this 
 marriage is mentioned as fabulous, or doubtful ; but, alas ! 
 poor Stella, as Dr. Madden told me, related her melancholy 
 story to Dr. Sheridan, when he attended her as a clergyman to 
 prepare her for death ; and Delany mentions it not with doubt, 
 but only with regret. Swift never mentioned her without a 
 sigh. 
 
 The rest of his life was spent in Ireland, in a country to 
 which not even power almost despotick, nor flattery almost 
 idolatrous, could reconcile him. He sometimes wished to visit 
 England, but always found some reason of delay. He tells 
 Pope, in the decline of life, that he hopes once more to see 
 him ; but if not, says he, we must part, as all humaji beings have 
 parted. 
 
■ 1744] SWIFT, 259 
 
 After the death of Stella, his benevolence was contracted, 
 and his severity exasperated ; he drove his acquaintance from 
 his table, and wondered why he was deserted. But he con- 
 tinued his attention to the publick, and wrote from time to tirrie 
 such directions, admonitions, or censures, as the exigency of 
 affairs, in his opinion, made proper ; and nothing fell from his 
 pen in vain. 
 
 In a short poem on the Presbyterians, whom he always 
 regarded with detestation, he bestowed one stricture upon 
 Bettesworth, a lawyer eminent for his insolence to the clergy, 
 which, from very considerable reputation, brought Inm into 
 immediate and universal contempt. Bettesworth, enraged at 
 his disgrace and loss, went to Swift, and demanded whether he 
 was the author of that poem? "Mr. Bettesworth," answered 
 he, "I was in my youth acquainted with great lawyers, who, 
 knowing my disposition to satire, advised me, that, if any 
 scoundrel or blockhead whom I had lampooned should ask. 
 Are you the author of this paper 2 I should tell him that I was 
 not the author; and therefore I tell you, Mr. Bettesworth, 
 that I am not the author of these lines." 
 
 Bettesworth was so little satisfied with this account, that he 
 publickly professed his resolution of a violent and corporal 
 revenge; but the inhabitants of St. Patrick's district embodied 
 themselves in the Dean's defence. Bettesworth declared in 
 Parliament, that Swift had deprived him of twelve hundred 
 pounds a year. 
 
 Swift was popular a while by another mode of beneficence. 
 He set aside some hundreds to be lent in small sums to the 
 poor, from five shillings, I think, to five pounds. He took no 
 interest, and only required that, at repayment, a small fee 
 should be given to the accomptant ; but he required that the 
 day of promised payment should be exactly kept. A severe 
 and punctilious temper is ill-qualified for transactions with the 
 poor; the day was often broken, and the loan was not repaid. 
 This might have been easily foreseen ; but for this Swift had 
 
 s 2 
 
260 : " ' SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 made n6^ provision of patience or pity. He ordered his 
 debtors to be sued. A severe creditor has no popular 
 character; wjiat then was likely to be said of him who 
 employs the Catchpoll under the appearance of charity? 
 The clamour agamst him was loud, and the resentment of 
 the populace outrageous ; he was therefore forced to drop his 
 scheme, and own the folly of expecting punctuality from the 
 poor. 
 
 His asperity continually increasing, condemned him to 
 solitude; and his resentment of solitude sharpened his asperity. 
 He was not, however, totally deserted ; some men of learning, 
 and some women of elegance, often visited him ; and he wrote 
 from time to time either verse or prose; of his verses he 
 willingly gave copies, and is supposed to have felt no dis- 
 content when he saw them printed. His favourite maxim was 
 m've la bagatelle ; he thought trifles a necessary part of life, and 
 perhaps found them necessary to himself. It seems impossible 
 to him to be idle, and his disorders made it difficult or dan- 
 gerous to be long seriously studious, or laboriously diligent. 
 The love of ease is always gaining upon age, and he had one 
 temptation to petty amusements peculiar to himself; what- 
 ever he did, he was sure to hear applauded ; and such was his 
 predominance over all that approached, that all their applauses 
 were probably sincere. He that is much flattered, soon learns 
 to flatter himself: we are commonly taught our duty by fear or 
 shame, and how can they act upon the man who hears nothing 
 but his own praises ? 
 
 As his years increased, his fits of giddiness and deafness 
 grew more frequent, and his deafness made conversation 
 difficult; they grew likewise more severe, till in 1736, as 
 he was writing a poem called The Legion Club, he was 
 seized with a fit so painful, and so long continued, that 
 he never after thought it proper to attempt any work of 
 thought or labour. 
 
 He was always careful of his money, and was therefore no 
 
1744] SWIFT. 261 
 
 liberal entertainer ; but was less frugal of his wine than of his 
 meat. When his friends of either sex came to him, in expec- 
 tation of a dinner, his custom was to give every one a shilling, 
 that they might please themselves with their provision. At 
 last his avarice grew too powerful for his kindness ; he would 
 refuse a bottle of wine, and in Ireland no man visits where he 
 cannot drink. 
 
 Having thus excluded conversation, and desisted from study, 
 he had neither business nor amusement ; for having, by some 
 ridiculous resolution or mad vow, determined never to wear 
 spectacles, he could make little use of books in his later 
 years : his ideas, therefore, being neither renovated by dis- 
 course, nor increased by reading, wore gradually away, and 
 left his mind vacant to the vexations of the hour, till at last 
 his anger was heightened into madness. 
 
 He however permitted one book to be published, which 
 had been the production of former years ; Polite Con- 
 versation, which appeared in 1738. The Directions for 
 Servants was printed soon after his death. These two 
 performances shew a mind incessantly attentive, and, when 
 it was not employed upon great things, busy with minute 
 occurrences. It is apparent that he must have had the habit 
 of noting whatever he observed ; for such a number of 
 particulars could never have been' assembled by the power 
 of recollection. 
 
 He grew more violent ; and his mental powers declined till 
 (1741) it was found necessary that legal guardians should be 
 appointed of his person and fortune. He now lost distinction. 
 His madness was compounded of rage and fatuity. The last 
 face that he knew was that of Mrs. Whiteway, and her he 
 ceased to know in a little time. His meat was brought him 
 cut into mouthfuls ; but he would never touch it while the 
 servant staid, and at last, after it had stood perhaps an hour, 
 would eat it walking ; for he continued his old habit, and was 
 on his feet ten hours a-day. 
 
262 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 Next year (1742) he had an inflammation in his left eye, 
 which swelled it to the size of an egg, with boils in other 
 parts ; he was kept long waking with the pain, and was not 
 easily restrained by five attendants from tearing out his eye. 
 
 The tumour at last subsided ; and a short interval of reason 
 ensuing, in which he knew his physician and his family, gave 
 hopes of his recovery ; but in a few days he sunk into le- 
 thargick stupidity, motionless, heedless, and speechless. But 
 it is said, that, after a year of total silence, when his house- 
 keeper, on the 30th of November, told him that the usual 
 bonfires and illuminations were preparing to celebrate his birth- 
 day, he answered. It is all folly ; they had better let it alone. 
 
 It is remembered that he afterwards spoke now and then, or 
 gave some intimation of a meaning ; but at last sunk into 
 perfect silence, which continued till about the end of October, 
 1744, when, in his seventy-eight year, he expired without a 
 strujggle. 
 
 When Swift is considered as an author, it is just to estimate 
 his powers by their effects. In the reign of Queen Anne he 
 turned the stream of popularity against the Whigs, and must be 
 confessed to have dictated for a time the political opinions of 
 the English nation. In the succeeding reign he delivered 
 Ireland from plunder and oppression; and shewed that wit, 
 confederated with truth, had such force as authority was unable 
 to resist. He said truly of himself, that Ireland was his debtor. 
 It was from the time when he first began to patronise the 
 Irish, that they may date their riches and prosperity. He 
 taught them first to know their own interest, their weight, and 
 their strength, and gave them spirit to assert that equality with 
 their fellow-subjects to which they have ever since been making 
 vigorous advances, and to claim those rights which they have 
 at last estabHshed. Nor can they be charged with ingratitude 
 to their benefactor; for they reverenced him as a guardian, 
 and obeyed him as a dictator. 
 
1744] SWIFT. 263 
 
 In his works, he has given very different specimens both of 
 sentiment and expression. His Tale of a Tub has little re- 
 semblance to his other pieces. It exhibits a vehemence and 
 rapidity of mind, a copiousness of images, and vivacity of 
 diction, such as he afterwards never possessed, or never ex- 
 erted. It is of a mode so distinct and peculiar, that it must be -| 
 considered by itself; what is true of that, is not true of any 
 thing else which he has written. 
 
 In his other works is found an equable tenour of easy lan- 
 guage, which rather trickles than flows. His delight was in sim- 
 plicity. That he has in his works no metaphor, as has been 
 said, is not true; but his few metaphors seem to be received | 
 rather by necessity than choice. He studied purity; and p^ 
 though perhaps all his strictures are not exact, yet it is not : ' 
 often that solecisms can be found ; and whoever depends on 
 his authority may generally conclude himself safe. His sen- 
 tences are never too much dilated or contracted ; and it will 
 not be easy to find any embarrassment in the complication of 
 his clauses, any inconsequence in his connections, or abrupt- 
 ness in his transitions. 
 
 His style was well suited to his thoughts, which are never 
 subtilised by nice disquisitions, decorated by sparkling conceits, 
 elevated by ambitious sentences, or variegated by far-sought 
 learning. He pays no coiirt to the passions ; he excites neither 
 surprise nor admiration; he always understands himself: and 
 his reader always understands him : the peruser of Swift wants ' 
 little previous knowledge ; it will be sufficient that he is 
 acquainted with common words and common things ; he is 
 neither required to mount elevations, nor to explore pro- 
 fundities ; his passage is always on a level, along solid ground, 
 without asperities, without obstruction. 
 
 This easy and safe conveyance of meaning 'it was Swift's 
 desire to attain, and for having attained he deserves praise, 
 though perhaips not the highest praise. For purposes merely 
 didactick, when something is to be told that was not known 
 
264 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 before, it is the best mode, but against that inattention by which 
 known truths are suffered to lie neglected, it makes no 
 provision ; it instructs, but does not persuade. 
 
 By his political education he was associated with the Whigs ; 
 but he deserted them when they deserted their principles, yet 
 without running into the contrary extreme ; he continued 
 throughout his life to retain the disposition which he assigns to 
 the Church-of-England Man, of thinking commonly with the 
 Whigs of the State, and with the Tories of the Church. 
 
 He was a churchman rationally zealous; he desired the 
 prosperity, and maintained the honour of the Clergy ; of the 
 Dissenters he did not wish to infringe the toleration, but he 
 opposed their encroachments. 
 
 To his duty as Dean he was very attentive. He managed the 
 revenues of his church with exact ceconoray ; and it is said by 
 Delany, that more money was, under his direction, laid out 
 in repairs than had ever been in the same time since its first 
 erection. Of his choir he was eminently careful ; and, though 
 he neither loved nor understood musick, took care that all 
 the singers were well quahfied, admitting none without the 
 testimony of skilful judges. 
 
 In his church he restored the practice of weekly communion, 
 and distributed the sacramental elements in the most solemn 
 and devout manner with his own hand. He came to church 
 every morning, preached commonly in his turn, and attended 
 the evening anthem, that it might not be negligently per- 
 formed. 
 
 He read the service rather with a strong nervous voice than 
 in a graceful manner ; his voice was sharp and high-toned, rather 
 than harmonious. 
 
 He entered upon the clerical state with hope to excel in 
 preaching ; but complained, that, from the time of his political 
 controversies, he could only preach pamphlets. This censure of 
 himself, if judgement be made from those sermons which have 
 been published, was unreasonably severe. 
 
1744] SWIFT. 26s 
 
 The suspicions of his irreligion proceeded in a great measure ^^ 
 from his dread of hypocrisy ; instead of wishing to seem better, 
 he delighted in seeming worse than he was. He went in Lon- 
 don to early prayers, lest he should be seen at church ; he read 
 prayers to his servants every morning with such dexterous se- 
 crecy, that Dr. Delany was six months in his house before he 
 knew it. He was not only careful to hide the good which he 
 did, but willingly incurred the suspicion of evil which he did 
 not. He forgot what himself had formerly asserted, that hypo- 
 crisy is less mischievous than open impiety. Dr. Delany, with 
 all his zeal for his honour, has justly condemned this part of 
 his character. 
 
 The person of Swift had not many recommendations. He 
 had a kind of muddy complexion, which, though he washed 
 himself with oriental scrupulosity, did not look clear. He 
 had a countenance sour and severe, which he seldom softened 
 by any appearance of gaiety. He stubbornly resisted any ten- 
 dency to laughter. 
 
 To his domesticks he was naturally rough ; and a man of a 
 rigorous temper, with that vigilance of minute attention which 
 his works discover, must have been a master that few could 
 bear. That he was disposed to do his servants good, on 
 important occasions, is no great mitigation ; benefaction can 
 be but rare, and tyrannick peevishness is perpetual. He did 
 not spare the servants of others. Once, when he dined alone 
 with the Earl of Orrery, he said, of one that waited in the 
 room. That man has, since we sat to the table, committed fifteen 
 faults. What the faults were, Lord Orrery, from whom I heard 
 the story, had not been attentive enough to discover. My 
 number may perhaps not be exact. 
 
 In his oeconomy he practised a peculiar and offensive 
 parsimony, without disguise or apology. The practice of 
 saving being once necessary, became habitual, and grew first 
 ridiculous, and at last detestable. But his avarice, though it 
 might exclude pleasure, was never suffered to encroach upon 
 
266 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 his virtue. He was frugal by inclination,, but liberal by 
 principle ; and if the purpose to which he destined .his little 
 accumulations be remembered, with his distribution of 
 occasional charity, it will perhaps appear that he only liked 
 one mode of expence better than another, and saved merely 
 that he might have something to give. He did not grow rich 
 by injuring his successors, but left both Laracor and the 
 Deanery more valuable than he fpund them. — With all this 
 talk of his covetousness and, generosity, it should be re- 
 membered that he was never rich. The revenue of his 
 Deanery was not much more than seven hundred a year. 
 
 His beneficence was not graced with tenderness or civility ; 
 he relieved without pity, and assisted without kindness, so that 
 those who were fed by him could hardly love him. , 
 
 He made a rule to himself to give but one piece at a time, 
 and therefore always stored his ppcket with coins of different 
 value. 
 
 Whatever he did, he seemed willing to do in a manner 
 peculiar to himself, without suflSciently considering that singu- 
 larity, as it implies a contempt of the general , practice, is a 
 kind of defiance which justly provokes the hostility of ridicule ; 
 he therefore who indulges peculiar habits is worse than otliers if 
 he be not better. 
 
 Of his humour, a story told by Pope may afford a 
 specimen. 
 
 " "^ Dr. Swift has an odd, blunt way, that is mistaken, by 
 strangers, for ill-nature. — 'Tisso odd, that there's no describing 
 it but by facts. I'll tell you one that first comes into my 
 head. One evening, Gay and I went to see him : you know 
 how intimately we were all acquainted. On our coming in, 
 'Heyday, gentlemen (says the Doctor), what's the meaning of 
 this visit ? How came you to leave all the great Lords, that you 
 are so fond of, to come hither to see a poor Dean ? ' — Because 
 we would rather see you than any of them. — 'Ay, any one 
 ^ Spence. 
 
1744] SWIFT. 267 
 
 that did not know so well as I do, might believe you. But 
 sinceyou are come, I must get some supper for you, I suppose.' 
 No, Doctor, we have supped already. — ' Supped already ? that's 
 impossible ! why, 'tis not eight o'clock yet.— That's very strange ; 
 but, if you had not supped, I must have got something for 
 you. — Let me see, what should I have had? A couple of 
 lobsters ; ay, that would have done very well ; two shillings — 
 tarts, a shilling : but you will drink a glass of wine with me, 
 though you supped so much before your usual time only to 
 spare my pocket?' — No, we had rather talk with you than 
 drink with you. — ' But if you had supped with me, as in all 
 reason you ought to have done, you must then have drunk with 
 me. — A bottle of wine, two shillings — two and two is four, and 
 one is five : just two-and-six-pence a-piece. There, Pope, 
 there's half-a-crown for you, and there's another for you. Sir; 
 for I won't save any thing by you, I am determined.' — This was 
 all said and done with his usual seriousness on such occasions ; 
 and, in spite of every thing we could say to the contrary, he 
 actually obliged us to take the money.'' 
 
 In the intercourse of familiar life, he indulged his disposition 
 to petulance and sarcasm, and thought himself injured if the 
 licentiousness of his raillery, the freedom of his censures, or 
 the petulance of his frolicks, was resented or repressed. He 
 predominated over his companions with very high ascendency, 
 and probably would bear none over whom he could not pre- 
 dominate. To give him advice was, in the style of his 
 friend Delany, to venture to speak to him. This customary 
 superiority soon grew too delicate for truth ; and Swift, with 
 all his penetation, allowed himself to be delighted with low 
 flattery. 
 
 On all common occasions, he habitually affects a style of 
 arrogance, and dictates rather than persuades. This authorita- 
 tive and magisterial language he expected to be received as his 
 peculiar mode of jocularity ; but he apparently flattered his 
 own arrogance by an assumed imperiousness, in which he was 
 
268 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 ironical only to the resentful, and to the submissive sufficiently 
 serious. 
 
 He told stories with great felicity, and delighted in doing 
 what he knew himself to do well. He was therefore captivated 
 by the respectful silence of a steady listener, and told the same 
 tales too often. 
 
 He did not, however, claim the right of talking alone ; for 
 it was his rule, when he had spoken a minute, to give room by 
 a pause for any other speaker. Of time, on all occasions, he 
 was an exact computer, and knew the minutes required to 
 every common operation. 
 
 It may be justly supposed that there was in his conversation, 
 what appears so frequently in his Letters, an affectation of 
 familiarity with the Great, an ambition of momentary equality 
 sought and enjoyed by the neglect of those ceremonies which 
 custom has established as the barriers between one order of 
 society and another. This trangression of regularity was by 
 himself and his admirers termed greatness of soul. But a 
 great mind disdains to hold anything by courtesy, and there- 
 fore never usurps what a lawful claimant may take away. 
 He that encroaches on another's dignity, puts himself in his 
 power ; he is either repelled with helpless indignity, or endured 
 by clemency and condescension. 
 
 Of Swift's general habits of thinking, if his Letters can be 
 supposed to afford any evidence, he was not a man to be either 
 loved or envied. He seems to have wasted life in discontent, 
 by the rage of neglected pride, and the languishment of un- 
 satisfied desire. He is querulous and fastidious, arrogant and 
 malignant; he scarcely speaks of himself but with indignant 
 lamentations, or of others but with insolent superiority when he 
 is gay and with angry contempt when he is gloomy. From the 
 Letters that pass between him and Pope it might be inferred 
 that they, with Arbjjthnot and Gay, had engrossed all the 
 understanding and virtue of mankind, that their merits filled 
 the world j or that there was no hope of more. They shew 
 
1744] SWIFT. 269 
 
 the age involved in darkness, and shade the picture with sullen 
 emulation. 
 
 When the Queen's death drove him into Ireland, he might 
 be allowed to regret for a time the interception of his views, 
 the extinction of his hopes, and his ejection from gay scenes, 
 important employment, and splendid friendships ; but when 
 time had enabled reason to prevail over vexation, the com- 
 plaints, which at first were natural, became ridiculous because 
 they were useless. But querulousness was now grown habitual, 
 and he cried out when he probably had ceased to feel. His 
 reiterated wailings persuaded Bolingbroke that he was really 
 willing to quit his Deanery for an English parish ; and Boling- 
 broke procured an exchange, which was rejected, and Swift 
 still retained the pleasure of complaining. 
 
 The greatest difficulty that occurs, in analysing his character, 
 is to discover by what depravity of intellect he took delight in 
 revolving ideas, from which almost every other mind shrinks 
 with disgust. The ideas of pleasure, even when criminal, may 
 solicit the imagination ; but what has disease, deformity, and 
 filth, upon which the thoughts can be allured to dwell ? Delany 
 is willing to think that Swift's mind was not much tainted with 
 this gross corruption before his long visit to Pope. He does 
 not consider how he degrades his hero, by making him at 
 fifty-nine the pupil of turpitude, and liable to the malignant 
 influence of an ascendant mind. But the truth is, that Gulliver 
 had described his Yahoos before the visit, and he that had 
 formed those images had nothing filthy to learn. 
 
 I have here given the character of Swift as he exhibits him- 
 self to my perception ; but now let another be heard, who 
 knew him better. Dr. Delany, after long acquaintance, 
 describes him to Lord Orrery in these terms : 
 
 " My Lord, when you consider Swift's singular, peculiar and 
 most variegated vein of wit, always rightly intended (although ^ 
 not always so rightly directed), delightful in many instances,, 
 and salutary, even where it is most offensive; when you 
 
270 SWIFT. [1667— 
 
 consider his strict truth, his fortitude in resisting oppression and 
 arbitrary power ; his fidelity in friendship, his sincere love and 
 zeal for religion, his uprightness in making right resolutions, 
 and his steadiness in adhering to them ; his care of his church, 
 its choir, its oeconomy, and its income ; his attention to all 
 those that preached in his cathedral, in order to their amend- 
 ment in pronunciation and style ; as also his remarkable 
 attention to the interest of his successors, preferably to his 
 own present emoluments ; invincible patriotism, even to a 
 country which he did not love ; his very various, well-devised, 
 well-judged, and extensive charities, throughout his life, and 
 his whole fortune (to say nothing of his wife's) conveyed to the 
 same Christian purposes at his death ; charities from which he 
 could enjoy no honour, advantage or satisfaction of any kind 
 in this world. When you consider his ironical and humorous, 
 as well as his serious schemes, for the promotion of true religion 
 and virtue ; his success in soliciting for the First Fruits and 
 Twentieths, to the unspeakable benefit of the established 
 Church of Ireland ; and his felicity (to rate it no higher) in 
 giving occasion to the building of fifty new churches in 
 London. 
 
 "All this considered, the character of his life will appear 
 like that of his writings; they will both bear to be re-considered' 
 and re-examined with the utmost attention, and always discover 
 new beauties and excellences upon every examination. 
 
 " They will bear to be considered as the sun, in which the 
 brightness will hide the blemishes ; and whenever petulant 
 ignorance, pride, malice, malignity, or envy, interposes to 
 cloud or sully his fame, I will take upon me to pronounce that 
 the eclipse will not last long. 
 
 " To conclude — no man ever deserved better of any country 
 than Swift did of his. A steady, persevering, inflexible friend; 
 a wise, a watchful, and a faithful counsellor, under many severe 
 trials and bitter persecutions, to the manifest hazard both of 
 his liberty and fortune. 
 
1744] SWIFT. 271 
 
 " He lived a blessing, he died a benefactor, and his name 
 will ever live an honour to Ireland." 
 
 In the Poetical Works of Dr. Swift there is not much upon 
 which the critick can exercise > his powers. They are often 
 humorous, almost always light, and have the qualities which 
 recommend such compositions, easiness and gaiety. They 
 are, for the most part, what their author intended. The diction 
 is correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rh)mies exact. 
 There seldom occurs a hard-laboured expression, or a redun- 
 dant epithet ; all his verses exemplify his own definition of a 
 good style, they consist oi proper words in proper places. 
 
 To divide this Collection into classes, and shew how some 
 pieces are gross, and some are trifling, would be to tell the 
 reader what he knows already, and 'to find faults of which the 
 author could not be ignorant, who certainly wrote often not 
 to his judgement, but his humour. 
 
 It was said, in a Preface to one of the Irish editions, that 
 Swift had never been known to take a single thought from 
 any writer, ancient or modern. This is not literally true ; but 
 perhaps no writer can easily be found that has borrowed so 
 little, or that in all his excellences and all his defects has so 
 well maintained his claim to be considered as original. 
 
ADDISON. 
 
 1672 — 1719. 
 
 Joseph Addison was born on the first of May, 1672, at 
 Milston, of which his father, Lancelot Addison, was then 
 rector, near Ambrosbury in Wiltshire, and appearing weak 
 and unlikely to live, he was christened the same day. After 
 the usual domestick education, which, from the character of 
 his father, may be reasonably supposed to have given him 
 strong impressions of piety, he was committed to the care of 
 Mr. Naish at Ambrosbury, and afterwards of Mr. Taylor at 
 Salisbury. 
 
 Not to name the school or the masters of men illustrious 
 for literature is a kind of historical fraud, by which honest 
 fame is injuriously diminished : I would therefore trace him 
 through the whole process of his education. In 1683, in the 
 beginning of his twelfth year, his father being made Dean of 
 Lichfield, naturally carried his family to his new residence, 
 and, I believe, placed him for some time, probably not long, 
 under Mr. Shaw, then master of the school at Lichfield, father 
 of the late Dr. Peter Shaw. Of this interval his biographers 
 have given no account, and I know it only from a story of 
 a barring-out, told me, when I was a boy, by Andrew Corbet 
 of Shropshire, who had heard it from Mr. Pigot his uncle. 
 
274 ADDISON. [1S72— 
 
 The practice of barring-out, was a savage license, practised 
 in many schools to the end of the last century, by which the 
 boys, when the periodical vacation drew near, growing petu- 
 lant at the approach of liberty, some days before the time of 
 regular recess, took possession of the school, of which they 
 barred the doors, and bade their master defiance from the 
 windows. It is not easy to suppose that on such occasions 
 the master would do more than laugh ; yet, if tradition may 
 be credited, he often struggled hard to force or surprise the 
 garrison. The master, when Pigot was a school-boy, was 
 barred-out at Lichfield, and the whole operation, as he said, 
 was planned and conducted by Addison. 
 
 '■"-■■ To judge better of the probability of this story, I have 
 enquired when he was sent to the Chartreux ; but, as he was 
 not one of those who enjoyed the~Tounder's benefaction, 
 there is no account preserved of his admission. At the school 
 of the Chartreux, to which he was removed either from that of 
 Salisbury or Lichfield, he pursued his juvenile studies under the 
 care of Dr. Ellis, and contracted that intimacy with Sir Richard 
 Steele which their joint labours have so effectually recorded. 
 
 Of this memorable friendship the greater praise must be 
 given to Steele. It is not hard to love those from whom 
 nothing can be feared, and Addison never considered Steele 
 as a rival ; but Steele lived, as he confesses, under an habitual 
 subjection to the predominating genius of Addison, whom he 
 always mentioned with reverence, and treated with obsequious- 
 ness. 
 
 Addison,' who knew his own dignity, could not always 
 forbear to shew it, by playing a little upon his admirer ; but he 
 was in no danger of retort : his jests were endured without 
 resistance or resentment. 
 
 But the sneer of jocularity was not the worst. Steele, whose 
 imprudence of generosity, or vanity of profusion, kept him 
 always incurably necessitous, upon some pressing exigence, in 
 
1719] ADDISON. 275 
 
 an evil hour borrowed a hundred pounds of hig friend, 
 probably without much purpose of repayment ^ but Addison, 
 who seems to have had other notions of an hundred pounds, 
 grew impatient of delay, and reclaimed his loan by an execution. 
 Steele felt with great sensibility the obduracy of his creditor ; 
 but with emotions of sorrow rather than, of anger. 
 
 In 1687 he was e ntered into Qu een's College in Oxford, 
 where, in 1689, the accidental perusal of some Latin verses 
 gained him the patronage of Dr. Lancaster, afterwards provost 
 of Queen's College ■; by whose recommendation he was elected 
 into Magdalen College as a Demy, a term by which that 
 society denominates those which are elsewhere called Scholars ; 
 young men, who partake of the founder's benefaction, and 
 succeed in their order to vacant fellowships.' 
 
 Here he continued to cultivate poetry and criticism, and 
 grew first eminent by his Latin compositions, which are indeed 
 entitled to particular praise. He has not confeied himself to 
 the imitation of any ancient author, but has formed his style 
 from the general language, such as a dilige-nt perusal of the 
 productions of different ages happened to supply. 
 
 His Latin compositions seem to have had much of his 
 fondness ; for he collected a second volume of the Mus» 
 A nglicans a, perhaps for a convenient receptacle, in which all 
 his Latin pieces are inserted, and where his Poem on the 
 Peace has the first place. He afterwards presented the col- 
 lection to Boileau, who from that time conceived, says Tickell, 
 an opinion of the English genius for poetry. Nothing is better 
 known of Boileau, than that he had an injudicious and peevish 
 contempt of modern Latin, and therefore his profession of 
 regard was probably the effect of his civility rather than 
 approbation. 
 
 Three of his Latin poems are upon subjects on which 
 perhaps he would not have ventured to have written in his 
 own language. The Battle of the Pigmies__aiid Cranes ; The 
 ^ He took the degree of M. A. Feb. 14, 1693. 
 
 T 2 
 
376 ADDISON. [1^672— 
 
 Barometer ; and A Bowling-green. When the matter is low or 
 scanty, a dead language, in which nothing is mean because 
 nothing is familiar, affords great conveniences ; and by the 
 / sonorous magnificence of Roman syllables, the writer con- 
 I . ceals penury of thought, and want of novelty, often from the 
 reader,, and often from himself. 
 
 In his twenty-second year he first shewed his power of 
 English poetry by some verses addressed to Dryden ; and 
 soon afterwards published a translation of the greater part of 
 the Fourth <Jeorgick upon Bees ; after which, says Dryden, 
 my latter swarm is hardly worth the hiving. 
 
 About the same time he composed the arguments prefixed 
 to the several books of Dryden's Virgil; and produced an 
 Essay on the Georgicks, juvenile, superficial, and uninstructive, 
 without much either_ of the scholar's learning or the critick's 
 penetration. 
 
 His next paper of verses contained a character of the 
 principal English poets, inscribed to Henry Sacheverell, who 
 was then, if not a poet, a writer of verses ; as is shewn by his 
 version of a small part of Virgil's Georgicks, published in the 
 Miscellanies, and a Latin encomium on Queen Maiy, in the 
 Musse Anglicanse. These verses exhibit all the fondness of 
 friendship ; but on one side or the other, friendship was 
 afterwards too weak for the malignity of faction. 
 
 In this poem is a very confident and discriminative character 
 of Spenser, whose work he had then never read.' So little 
 sometimes is criticism the effect of judgement. It is necessary to 
 inform the reader, that about this time he was introduced by 
 Congreve to Montague, then Chancellor of the Exchequer: 
 Addison was then learning the trade of a courtier, and 
 subjoined Montague as a poetical name to those of Cowley 
 and of Dryden. 
 
 By the influence of Mr. Montague, concurring, according to 
 Tickell, with his natural modesty, he was diverted from his 
 ' Spence. 
 
 ( 
 
1719] ADDISON. 277 
 
 original design of entering into holy orders. Montague 
 alleged the corruption of men who engaged in civil employ- 
 ments without liberal education ; and declared, that, though 
 he was represented as an eriemy to the Church, he would never 
 do it any injury but by withholding Addison from, it. 
 
 Soon after (in 1695) he wrote a poem to King William, with 
 a rhyming introduction addressed to Lord Somers. King 
 William had no regard to elegance or literature ; his study was 
 only war ; yet by a choice of ministers, whose disposition was 
 very different from his own, he procured, without intention, a 
 very liberal patronage to poetry, Addison was caressed both 
 by Somers and Montague. 
 
 In 1697 appeared his Latin verses on the Peace of Ryswick, 
 which he dedicated to Montague, and which was afterwards 
 called by Smith iAe best Latin poem since the ^neid. Praise 
 must not be too rigorously examined; but the performance 
 cannot be denied to be vigorous and elegant. 
 
 Having yet no public employment, he obtained (in 1699) 
 a pension of three hundred pounds a year, that he might be ^, //i 
 enabled to travel. He staid a year at Blois,i probably to learn i^ff 
 the French language ; and then proceeded in his journey to ,- 
 
 Italy, which he surveyed with the e;^fis_of-a-poet.- 
 
 While he was travelling at leisure, he was far from being 
 idle; for he not only collected his observations on the 
 country, but found time to write his Dialogues on Medals, and j 
 four__Acts_of Cato. Such at least is the relation of Tickell. I 
 Perhaps he only collected his materials, and formed his plan. \ 
 
 Whatever were his other employments in Italy, he there 
 wrote the Letter to Lord Halifax, which is justly considered as 
 the most elegant, if not the most sublime, of his poetical 
 productions. But in about two years he found it necessary to 
 hasten home ; being, as Swift informs us, distressed by indi 
 gence, and compelled to become the tutor of a travelhng 
 Squire, because his pension was not remitte J. 
 ^ Spence. 
 
278 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 At his return he published his Travels, with a dedication to 
 Lord Somers. As his stay in foreign countries was short, his 
 observations are such as might be supplied by a hasty view, 
 and consist chiefly in comparisons of th« present face of the 
 country with the descriptions left us by the Roman poets, from 
 whom he made preparatory collections, though he might have 
 spared the trouble, had he known that such collections had 
 been made twice before by Italian authors. 
 
 The most amusing passage of his book, is his account of the 
 minute republick of San Marino ; of many parts it is not a 
 very severe censure to say that they might have been written 
 at home. His elegance of language, and variegation of prose 
 and verse, however, gains upon the reader ; and the book, 
 though a while neglected, became in time so much the favourite 
 of the publick, that before it was reprinted it rose to five times 
 its price. 
 
 When he returned to England (in 170-2), with a meanness of 
 appearance which gave testimony of the difficulties to which 
 he had been reduced, he found his old patrons out of power, 
 and was therefore for a time at full leisure- for the cultivation of 
 his mind, and a mind so cukivated gives reason to believe that 
 little time was lost. 
 
 But he remained not long neglected or useless. The victory 
 a t Blenhei m (1704) spread triumph and confidence over the 
 nation ; and Lord Godolphin lamenting to Lord Halifax, that 
 it had not been celebrated in a manner equal to the subject, 
 desired him to propose it to some better poet. Halifax told 
 him that there was no encouragement for genius ; that worth- 
 less men were unprofitably enriched with publick money, 
 without any care to find or employ those whose appearance 
 might do honour to their country. To this Godolphin replied, 
 that such abuses should in time be rectified ; and that if a man 
 could be found capable of the task then proposed, he should 
 not want an ample recompense. Halifax then named Addison ; 
 but required that the Treasurer should apply to him in his own 
 
1719] ADDISON. 279 
 
 person. Godolphin sent the message by Mr. Boyle, afterv5rards f'lj. 
 Lord Carleton ; and Addison having undertaken the work, /^ 1 
 communicated it to the Treasurer, while it was yet advanced ^^'^'r' 
 no further than the simile jof_the Angel, and was immediately 
 rewarded by succeeding Mr. Locke in the place of Commis- 
 sioner of Appeals. 
 
 In the following year he was at Hanover with Lord Halifax ; 
 and the year after was made under-secretary of state, first to 
 Sir Charles Hedges, and in a few months more to the Earl of 
 Sunderland. 
 
 About this time the prevalent taste for Italian operas in- 
 clined him to try what would be the effect of a musical Drama 
 in our own language. He therefore wrote the opera of Rosa- 
 mond, which, when exhibited on the stage, was either hissed 
 or neglected ; but trusting that the readers would do him more 
 justice, he published it, with an inscription to the Duchess of 
 Marlborough ; a woman without skill, or pretensions to skill, 
 in poetry or literature. His dedication was therefore an 
 instance of servile absurdity, to be exceeded only by Joshua 
 Barnes's dedication of a Greek Anacreon to the Duke. 
 
 His reputation had been somewhat advanced by The 
 Tender Husband, a comedy which Steele dedicated to him, 
 with a confession that he owed to him several of the most 
 successful scenes. To this play Addison supplied a prologue. 
 
 When the Marquis of Wharton was appointed Lord-lieutenant 
 of Ireland, Addison attended him as his secretary ; and was 
 made keeper of the records in Birmingham's Tower, with a 
 salary of three hundred pounds a year. The office was little 
 more than nominal, and the salary was augmented for his 
 accommodation. 
 
 Interest and faction allow little to the operation of particulai 
 dispositions, or private opinions. Two men of personal 
 characters more opposite than those of Wharton and Addison 
 could not easily be brought together. Wharton was impious, 
 profligate, and shameless, without regard, or appearance of 
 
28o ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 regard, to right and wrong : whatever is contrary to this, may 
 be said of Addison ; but as agents of a party they were 
 connected, and how they adjusted their other sentiments we 
 cannot know. 
 
 Addison must however not be too hastily condemned. It is 
 not necessary to refuse benefits from a bad man, when the 
 acceptance impHes no approbation of his crimes ; nor has the 
 subordinate officer any obHgation to examine the opinions 
 or conduct of those under whom he acts, except that he may 
 not be made the instrument of wickedness. It is reasonable 
 to suppose that Addison counteracted, as far as he was able,'- 
 the malignant and blasting influence of the Lieutenant, and 
 that at least by his intervention some good was done, and some 
 mischief prevented. 
 
 When he was in office, he made a law to himself, as Swift has 
 recorded, never to remit his regular fees in civility to his 
 friends : " For,'' said he, " I may have a hundred friends ; and, 
 if my fee be two guineas, I shall, by relinquishing my right 
 lose two hundred guineas, and no friend gain more than two ; 
 there is therefore no proportion between the good imparted and 
 the evil suffered." 
 
 He was in Ireland when Steele, without any communication 
 of his design, began the publication of the Tatler ; but he was 
 not long concealed : by inserting a remark on Virgil, which 
 Addison had given him, he discovered himself. It is indeed 
 not easy for any man to write upon hterature, or common life, 
 so as not to make himself known to those with whom he 
 familiarly converses, and who are acquainted with his track of 
 study, his favourite topicks, his peculiar notions, and his 
 habitual phrases. 
 
 If Steele desired to write in secret, he was not lucky ; a 
 single month detected him. His first Tatler was published 
 April 22 (1709), and Addison's contribution- appeared May 26. 
 Tickell observes, that the Tatler began and was coii- 
 cluded without his Concurrence. This is doubtless literally 
 
1719] ADDISON. 281 
 
 true; but the work did not suffer much by his unconscious- 
 ness of its commencement, or his absence at its cessation ; for 
 he continued his assistance to December 23, and the paper 
 stopped on January 2. He did not distinguish his pieces by 
 Sny Signature ; and I know not whether his name was not kept 
 Secret, till the papers were collected into volumes. 
 
 To the Tatler, in about two months, succeeded the Spectator ; 
 a series of essays of the same kind, but written with less 
 levity, upon a more regular plan, and pubhshed daily. Such 
 an undertaking shewed the writers not to distrust their own 
 copiousness of materials or facility of composition, and their 
 performance justified their confidence. They found, however, 
 in their progress, many auxiliaries. To attempt a single paper 
 was no terrifying labour : many pieces were offered, and many 
 were received. 
 
 Addison had enough of the zeal of party, but Steele had at 
 that time almost nothing else. The Spectator, in one of the ^ 
 first papers, shewed the political tenets of its authors; but C 
 a resolution was soon taken, of courting general approbation by 
 general topicks, and subjects on which faction had produced no 
 diversity of sentiments ; such as literature, morality, and famiKar 
 life. To this practice they adhered with very few deviations. 
 The ardour of Steele once broke out in praise of Marlborough ; 
 g^nd when Dr. Fleetwood prefixed to some sermons a preface, 
 overflowing with whiggish opinions, that it might be read by 
 the Queen, it was reprinted in the Spectator. 
 
 To teach the minuter decencies and inferior duties, to 
 ""egulate the practice of daily conversation, to correct those 
 depravities which are rather ridiculous than criminal, and 
 remove those grievances which, if they produce no lasting 
 calamities, impress hourly vexation, was first attempted by 
 Casa in his book of Manners, and Castiglione in his Courtier ; 
 two books yet celebrated in Italy for purity and elegance, and 
 which, if they are now less read, are neglected only because 
 they have effected that reformation which their authors 
 

 282 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 intended, and their precepts now are no longer wanted. 
 Their usefulness to the age in which they were written is 
 sufficiently attested by the translations which almost all the 
 nations of Europe were in haste to obtain. 
 
 This species of instruction was continued, and perhaps 
 advanced, by the French ; among whom LaBruyere's Manners 
 of the Age, though, as Boileau remarked, it is written without 
 connection, certainly deserves great praise, for liveliness of 
 description and justness of observation. 
 
 Before the Tatler and Spectator, if the writers for the theatre 
 are excepted, England had no masters of common life. No 
 writers had yet undertaken to reform either the savageness of 
 neglect, or the impertinence ■ of civility ; to shew when to 
 speak, or to be silent ; how to refuse, or how to comply. We 
 had many books to teach us our more important duties, and 
 > to settle opinions in philosophy or politicks ; but an Arbiter 
 t^P"" elegantiarum, a judge of propriety, was yet wanting, who should 
 survey the track of daily conversation, and free it from thorns 
 and prickles, which teaze the passer, though they do not 
 wound him. 
 
 For this purpose nothing is so proper as the frequent 
 publication of short papers, which we read not as study but 
 amusement. If the subject be slight, the treatise likewise is 
 short. The busy may find time, and the idle may find patience. 
 
 This mode of conveying cheap and easy knowledge began 
 among us in the Civil War, when it was much the interest of 
 either party to raise and fix the prejudices of the people. At 
 that time appeared Mercurius Aulicus, Mercurius Rusticus, 
 and Mercurius Civicus. It is said, that when any title grew 
 popular, it was stolen by the antagonist, who by this stratagem 
 conveyed his notions to those who would not have received 
 him had he not worn the appearance of a friend. The tumult 
 of those unhappy days left scarcely any man leisure to treasure 
 up occasional compositions ; and so much were they neglected, 
 that a complete collection is no where to be found. 
 
1719] ADDISON. 283 
 
 Theae Mercuries were succeeded by L'Estrange's Observator, 
 and that by Lesley's Rehearsal, and perhaps by others ; but 
 hitherto nothing had been conveyed to the people, in this 
 commodious manner, but controversy relating to the Church or 
 State ; of which they taught many to talk, whom they could / 
 
 not teach to judge. . • fj 
 
 It has been suggested that the Royal Society was instituted j.'^-^-"-'' 
 soon after the Restoration, to divert the attention of the people 
 from public discontent. The Tatler and the Spectator had the 
 same tendency ; they were published at a time when two parties, 
 loud, restless, and violent, each with plausible declarations, 
 and each perhaps without any distinct termination of its views, 
 were agitating the nation ; to minds heated with political 
 contest, they supplied coaler and more inoffensive reflections ; 
 and it is said by Addison, in a subsequent work, that they had 
 a perceptible influence upon the conversation of that time, and ' 
 taught the frolick and the gay to unite merriment with decency; 
 an effect which they can never wholly lose, while they continue 
 to be among the first books by which both sexeg are initiated 
 in the elegances of knowledge. 
 
 The Tatler and Spectator adjusted, like Casa, the unsettled 
 practice of daily intercourse by propriety and politeness ; and> 
 like La Bruyere, exhibited the Characters and Manners of the 
 Age. The persons introduced in these papers were not merely 
 ideal ; they were then known and conspicuous in various 
 stations. Of the Tatler this is told by Steele in his last paper, 
 and of the Spectator by Budgell in the Preface to Theophraatus; /< ff / 
 a book which Addison has recommended, and which he was(*/fc^,> 
 suspected to have revised, if he did not write it. Of those X^^TT 
 portraits, which may be supposed to be sometimes embellished, \\k^ 
 and sometimes aggravated, the originals are now partly known, 'Yf 
 and partly forgotten. fcLiO ; 
 
 But to say that they united the plans of two or three C-iTt< 
 eminent writers, is to give them but a small part of their due /' '-' 
 praise ; they superadded literature and criticism, and some- ' ' ,',i< 
 
284 ADDISON. [1672- 
 
 times towered far above their predecessors ; and taught, with 
 great justness of argument and dignity of language, the most 
 important duties and subHme truths* 
 
 All these topicks were happily varied with elegant fictions 
 and refined allegories, and illuminated with different changes of 
 style and felicities of invention. 
 
 It is recorded by Budgell, that of the characters feigned or 
 
 exhibited in the Spectator, the favourite of Addison was: Sir 
 
 Roger de Coverley, of whom he had formed a very delicate and 
 
 discriminated idea, which he would not suffer to be violated ; 
 
 f^> and therefore when Steele had shewn him innocently picking 
 
 / up a girl in the Temple and taking her to a tavern, he drew 
 
 upon himself so much of his friend's indignation, that he was 
 
 ', forced to appease him by a promise of forbearing Sir Roger for 
 
 the time to come. 
 
 The reason which induced Cervantes to bring his hero to 
 the grave, ^ara mi sola nacio Don Quixote, y yo para el, made 
 Addison declare, with an undue vehemence of expression, that 
 he would kill Sir Roger ; being of opinion that they were born 
 for one another, and that any other hand would do him 
 wrong. 
 
 It may be doubted whether Addison ever filled up his 
 original deUneation. He describes his Knight as having his 
 imagination somewhat warped ; but of this perversion he has 
 made very little use. The irregularities in Sir Roger's conduct 
 seem not so much the effects of a mind deviating from the 
 beaten track of life, by the perpetual pressure of some over- 
 whelming idea, as of habitual rusticity, and that negligence 
 which solitarx_grandeur naturally generates. 
 
 The variable weather of the mind, the flying vapours of in- 
 cipient madness, which from time to time cloud reason, without 
 eclipsing it, it requires so much nicety to exhibit, that Addison 
 seems to have been deterred from prosecuting his own design. 
 
 To Sir Roger, who, as a country gentleman, appears to be a 
 Tory, or, as it is gently expressed, an adherent to the landed 
 
J 719] ADDISON. 285 
 
 interest, is opposed Sir Andrew Freeport, a nevpoaan, a wealthy 
 merchant, zealous for the moneyed interest, and a Whig. Of 
 this contrariety of opinions, it is probable more consequences 
 were at first intended, than could be produced when the reso- 
 lution was taken to exclude party from the paper. Sir Andrew 
 does but little, and that little seems not to have pleased 
 Addison, who, when he dismissed him from the club, changed 
 his opinions. Steele had made him, in the true spirit of un- 
 feeling commerce, declare that he would 7iot build an hospital 
 for idle people; but at last he buys land, settles in the 
 country, and builds not a manufactory, but an hospital for 
 twelve old husbandmen, for men with whom a merchant has 
 Httle acquaintance, and whom he commonly considers with 
 little kindness. 
 
 Of essays thus elegant, thus instructive, and thus com- 
 modiously distributed, it is natural to suppose the approbation 
 general and the sale numerous. I once heard it observed, that 
 the sale may be calculated by the product of the tax, related in 
 the last number to produce more than twenty pounds a week, 
 and therefore stated at one and twenty pounds, or three pounds 
 ten shillings a day : this, at a half-penny a paper, will give six- 
 teen hundred and eighty for the daily number. 
 
 This sale is not great; yet this, if Swift be credited, was 
 likely to grow less ; for he declares that the Spectator, whom 
 he ridicules ifor his endless mention of the fair sex, had before 
 his recess^ wearied his readers. 
 
 The next year (1713), in which Cato came upon the stage, 
 was the grand climacterick of Addison's reputation. Upon the 
 death of Cato, he had, as is said, planned a tragedy.in the time of 
 his travels, and had for several years the four first acts finished, 
 which were shewn to such as were likely to spread their 
 admiration. They were seen by Pope, and by Gibber ; who 
 relates that Steele, when he took back the copy, told him, in 
 the despicable.jcant oLliterary modesty, that, whatever spirit 
 his friend had shewn in the composition, he doubted whether 
 
/: L^ iW^ 
 
 iIt: 
 
 2S6 t'''"'-*" ' ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 he would have courage sufficient to expose it to the censure of 
 a British audience. 
 
 The time however was now come, when those wlio affected 
 to think liberty in danger, affected likewise to think that a 
 stage-play might preserve it : and Addison was importuned, 
 in the name of the tutelary deities of Britain, to shew his 
 courage and his zeal by finishing his design. 
 
 To resume his work he seemed perversely and unaccountably 
 unwilling ; and by a request, which perhaps he wished to be 
 denied, desired Mr. Hughes to add a fifth act. Hughes 
 supposed him serious ; and, undertaking the supplement, 
 brought in a few days some scenes for his examination ;, but he 
 had in the mean time gone to work himself, and produced 
 half an act, which he afterwards completed, but with brevity 
 irregularly disproportionate to the foregoing parts ; like a task 
 performed with reluctance, and hurried to its conclusion. 
 
 It may yet be doubted whether Cato was made publick by 
 any change of the author's purpose ; for Dennis charged him 
 with raising prejudices in his own favour by false positions of 
 preparatory criticism, and with poisoning the town by con- 
 tradicting in the Spectator the establish e(^ rule of poetical 
 justice, because his own hero, with all his virtues, was to fall 
 before a tyrant. The fact is certain ; the motives we must 
 guess. 
 
 Addison was, I believe, sufficiently disposed to bar all 
 avenues against all danger. When Pope brought him the 
 prologue, which is properly accommodated to the play, there 
 were these words, Britons, arise, be worth like this approved; 
 meaning nothing more than, Britons, erect and exalt yourselves 
 to the approbation of public virtue! Addison was frighted lest 
 he should be thought a promoter of insurrection, and the line 
 was liquidated to. Britons, attend. 
 
 Now, heavily in clouds came on the day, the great, the im- 
 portant day, when Addison was to stand the hazard of the 
 theatre. That there might, however, be left as little to hazard 
 

 1719] ADDISON. 287 
 
 as was possible, on the first night Steele, as himself relates, 
 undertook to pack an audience. This, says Pope,^ had been "^ 
 tried for the first time in favour of the Distress Mother ; and i .v.' 
 was now, with more efficacy, practised for Cato. 
 
 The danger was soon over. The whole nation was at that 
 time on fire with faction. The Whigs applauded every line in 
 which Liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the Tories ; and 
 the Tories echoed every clap, to shew that the satire was unfelt. 
 The story of Bolingbroke is well known. He called Booth 
 to his box, and gave him fifty guineas for defending the cause 
 of Liberty so well against a perpetual^dictator. The Whigs, 
 says Pope, design a second present, when they can accompany 
 it with as good a sentence. 
 
 The play, supported thus by the emulation of factious praise, 
 was acted night after night for a longer time than, I believe, 
 the publick had allowed to any drama before ; and the author, 
 as Mrs. Potter long afterwards related, wandered through the 
 whole exhibition behind the scenes with restless and unappeas- 
 able solicitude. 
 
 When it was printed, notice was given that the Queen would 
 be pleased if it was dedicated to her ; duf as he had designed 
 that compliment elsewhere, he found himself obliged, says Tickell, 
 by his duty on the one hand, and his honour on the other, to send 
 it into the world without any dedication. 
 
 Human happiness has always its abatements ; the brightest 
 sun-shine of success is not without a cloud. No sooner was 
 Cato offered to the reader, than it was attacked by the acute 
 malignity of Dennis, with all the violence of angry criticism. 
 Dennis, though equally zealous, and probably by his temper 
 more furious than Addison, for what they called Liberty, and 
 though a flatterer of the Whig ministry, could not sit quiet at a 
 successful play; but was eager to tell friends and enemies, that 
 they had misplaced their admirations. The world was too 
 stubborn for instruction; with the fate of the censurer of 
 ■■ Spence. 
 
288 ^ ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 Corneille's Cid, his animadversions shewed his anger without 
 effect, and Cato continued to be praised. 
 
 Pope had now an opportunity of courting the friendship of 
 Addison, by viUfying his old enemy, and could give resentment 
 its full play without appearing to revenge himself. He there- 
 fore published A Narrative of the Madness of John Dennis ; a 
 performance which left the objections to the play in their full 
 force, and therefore discovered more desire of vexing the 
 critick than of defending the poet. 
 
 Addison, who was no . stranger to the world, probably saw 
 the selfishness of Pope's friendship; and, resolving that he 
 should have the consequences of his officiousness to himself, 
 informed Dennis by Steele, that he was sorry for the insult: 
 and that whenever he should think fit to answer his remarks, 
 he would do it in a manner to which nothing could be 
 objected. 
 
 The greatest weakness of the play is in the scenes of love, 
 which are said by Pope^ to have been added to the original 
 plan upon a subsequent review, in compliance with the popular 
 practice of the stage. Such an authority it is hard to reject ; 
 yet the love is so intimately mingled with the .whole action, 
 that it cannot easily be thought extrinsick and adventitious ; 
 for if it were taken away, what would be left ? or how were the 
 four acts filled in the first draught ? 
 
 At the publication the Wits seemed proud to pay their 
 attendance with encomiastick verses. The best are from an 
 unknown hand, which will perhaps lose somewhat of their 
 praise when the author is known to be Jeffreys. 
 
 Cato had yet other honours. It was censured as a party- 
 play by a Scholar of Oxford, and defended in a favourable 
 examination by Dr. Sewel. It was translated by Salvani into 
 Italian, and acted at Florence ; and by the Jesuits of St. 
 Omer's into Latin, and played by their pupils. Of this version 
 a copy was sent to Mr. Addison : it is to be wished that it 
 ^ Spence. ., k 1 ■- 
 
1719] ADDISON. aSEi 
 
 could be found, for the sake of comparing their version of the 
 soliloquy with that of Bland. 
 
 A tragedy was written on the same subject by Des Champs, 
 a French poet, which was translated, with a criticism on the 
 English play. But the translator and the critick are now 
 forgotten. 
 
 Dennis lived on unanswered, and therefore little read : 
 Addison knew the policy of literature too well to make his 
 enemy ■ important, by drawing the attention of the publick 
 upon a criticism, which, though sometimes intemperate, was 
 often irrefragable. 
 
 While Cato was upon the stage, another daily paper, called 
 The Guardiari, was published by Steele. To this Addison 
 gave great assistance, whether occasionally or by previous 
 engagement is not known. 
 
 The character of Guardian was too narrow and too serious : 
 it might properly enough admit both the duties and the decencies 
 of life, but seemed not to include literary speculations, and 
 was in some degree violated by merriment and burlesque. 
 What had the Guardian of the Lizards to do with clubs of 
 tall or of little men, with nests of ants, or with Strada's 
 prolusions ? 
 
 Of this paper nothing is necessary to be said, but that it 
 found many contributors, and that it was a continuation of the 
 Spectator, with the same elegance, and the same variety, till 
 some unlucky sparkle from a Tory paper set Steele's politics 
 on fire, and wit at once blazed into faction. He was soon too 
 hot for neutral topicks, and quitted the Guardian to write the 
 Englishman. 
 
 The papers of Addison are marked in the Spectator by one 
 of the Letters in the name of Clio, and in the Guardian by 
 a hand; whether it was, as Tickell pretends to think, that he 
 was unwilling to usurp the praise of others, or as Steele, with 
 far greater likelihood, insinuates, that he could not without 
 discontent impart to others any of his own. I have heard 
 
 V..' ^ " I, , ,'; ^ . ,. 
 
29P ADDISON, [1672— 
 
 that his avidity did not satisfy itself with the air of renown, 
 but that with great eagerness he laid hold on his proportion 
 of the profits. 
 
 Many of these papers were written with powers truly comick, 
 with nice discrimination of characters, and accurate observa- 
 
 ,tion of natural or accidental de viations from pro priety ; but it 
 was not supposed that he had tried a comedy on the stage, 
 till Steele, after his death, declared him the author of The 
 Drummer; this however Steele did not know to be true by 
 any direct testimony ; for when Addison put the play into his 
 hands, he only told him, it was the work of a Gentleman in 
 the Company ; and when it was received, as is confessed, with 
 cold disapprobation, he was probably less willing to claim it. 
 Tickell (jraitted it in his collection; but the testimony of Steele, 
 and the total silence of any other claimant, has determined the 
 publick to assign it to Addison, and it is now printed with his 
 other poetry. Steele carried The Drummer to the playhouse, 
 and afterwards to the press, and sold the copy for fifty guineas. 
 To the opinion of Steele may be added the proof supplied 
 by the play itself, of which the characters are such as Addison 
 would have delineated, and the tendency such as Addison 
 would have promoted. That it should have been ill received 
 would raise wonder, did we not daily see the capricious 
 
 ' distribution of theatrical praise. 
 
 He was not all this time an indiiferent spectator of publick 
 affairs. He wrote, as different exigences required (in 1707), 
 The present State of the War, and the Necessity of an 
 Augmentation; which, however judicious, being written on 
 temporary topicks, and exhibiting no peculiar powers, laid 
 hold on no attention, and has naturally sunk by its own weight 
 into neglect. This cannot be said of the few papers entitled 
 The Whig Examiner, in which is employed all the force of 
 gay malevolence and humorous satire. Of this paper, which 
 just appeared and expired, Swift remarks, with exultation, that 
 it is now down among the dead men. He might well rejoice 
 
1 719] ADDISON. 
 
 291: 
 
 at the death of that which he could not have killed. Every 
 reader of every party, since personal malice is past, and the 
 papers which once inflamed the nation are read only as effusions - 
 of wit, must wish for more of the Whig Exami ixers-; for on no 
 occasion was the genius of Addison more vigorously exerted, ''■ 
 and on none did the superiority of his powers more evidently ' 
 appear. His Trial of Count Tariff, written to expose the 
 Treaty of Commerce with France, lived no longer than the 
 question that produced it. 
 
 Not long afterwards an attempt was made to revive the 
 Spectator, at a time indeed by no means favourable to 
 literature, when the succession of a new family to the throne 
 filled the nation with anxiety, discord, and confusion; and 
 either the turbulence of the times, or the satiety of the readers, ^ 
 put a stop to the publication, after an experiment of eighty 
 numbers, which were afterwards collected into an eighth 
 volume, perhaps more valuable than any one of those that 
 went before it. Addison produced more than a fourth part, 
 and the other contributors are by no means unworthy of 
 appearing as his associates. The time that had passed during 
 the suspension of the Spectator, though it had not lessened 
 his power of humour, seems to have increased his disposition 
 to seriousness : the proportion of his religious to his comick 
 papers is greater than in the former series. 
 
 The Spectator, from its recommencement, was published 
 Only three times a week ; and no discriminative marks were 
 added to the papers. To Addison, Tickell has ascribed 
 twenty-three.' 
 
 The Spectator had many contributors; and Steele, whose 
 negligence kept him always in a hurry, when it was his turn 
 to furnish a paper, called loudly for the Letters, of which 
 Addison, whose materials were more, made fittie~iise ; having 
 recourse to sketches and hints, the product of his former 
 
 1 Numb. 556, 557, 558, 559, 561, 562, 565, 567, 568, 5,69, 571, 574, 
 575. 579. 580, 5.82. 583. 584. 585. 5'5o. 592, 598, 600. 
 
 U 2 
 
/. / 
 
 292 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 Studies, -which he now reviewed and completed : among these 
 are named by Tickell the Essays on Wit, those on the Pleasures 
 of the Imagination, and the Criticism on Milton. 
 
 When the House of Hanover took possession of the throne, 
 it was reasonable to expect that the zeal of Addison would be 
 suitably rewarded. Before the arrival of King George, he was 
 made secretary to the regency, and was required by his office 
 to send notice to Hanover that the Queen was dead, and that 
 the throne was vacant. To do this would not have been 
 difficult to any man but Addison, who was so overwhelmed 
 with the greatness of the event, and so distracted by choice of 
 expression, that the Lords, who could not wait for the niceties 
 of criticism, called Mr. Southwell, a clerk in the house, and 
 ordered him to dispatch the message. Southwell readily told 
 what was necessary, in the common style of business, and 
 valued himself upon having done what was too hard for 
 Addison. 
 
 He was better qualified for the Freeholder, a paper which he 
 published twice a week, from Dec. 23, 17 15, to the middle of 
 the next year. This was undertaken in defence of the estab- 
 lished government, sometimes with argument, sometimes with 
 mirth. In argument he had many equals ; but his humour 
 was singular and matchless. Bigotry itself must be delighted 
 with the Tory-Fox-hunter. 
 
 There are however some strokes less elegant, and less 
 decent ; such as the Pretender's Journal, in which one topick 
 of ridicule is his poverty. This mode of abuse had been 
 employed by Milton against King Charles II. 
 
 " — — — — — Jacobcsi. 
 Centum exulantis viscera Marsupii regis." 
 
 And Oldmixon delights to tell of some alderman of London, 
 that he had more money than the exiled princes ; but that 
 which might be expected from Milton's savageness, or Old- 
 mixon's meanness, was not suitable to the delicacy of Addison 
 
1719] ADDISON. 293 
 
 Steele thought the humour of the Freeholder too nice and 
 gentle for such noisy times ; and is reported to have said that 
 the ministry made use of a lute, when they should have called 
 for a trumpet. 
 
 This year (1716)' he married the Countess Dowager of 
 Warwick, whom he had solicited by a very long and anxious 
 courtship, perhaps with behaviour not very unlike that of Sir 
 Roger to his disdainful widow : and who, I am afraid, diverted I 
 herself often by playing with his passion. He is said to have 
 first known her by becoming tutor to her son.^' " He formed," 
 said Tonson, " the design of getting that lady, from the time 
 when he was first recommended into the family.'' In what 
 part of his life he obtained the recommendation, or how long, 
 and in what manner he lived in the family, I know not. His 
 advances at first were certainly timorous, but grew bolder as his 
 reputation and influence increased ; till at last the lady was 
 persuaded to marry him, on terms much like those on which a 
 Turkish princess is espoused, to whom the Sultan is reported 
 to pronounce, "Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave." 
 The marriage, if uncontradicted report can be credited, made 
 no addition to his happiness ; it neither found them nor made 
 them equal. She always remembered her own rank, and 
 thought herself entitled to treat with very little ceremony the 
 tutor of her son. Rowe's ballad of the Despairing Shepherd 
 is said to have been written, either before or after marriage, 
 upon this memorable pair ; and it is certain that Addison has 
 left behind him no encouragement for ambitious love. 
 
 The year after (17 17) he rose to his highest elevation, being 
 made secretary of state. For this employment he might be 
 justly supposed qualified by long practice of business, and 
 by his regular ascent through other offices ; but expectation is 
 often disappointed ; it is universally confessed that he was 
 unequal to the duties of his place. In the House of Commons 
 he could not speak, and therefore was useless to the defence of 
 ' August 2. ^.S pence. 
 
 7 
 
294 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 the Government. Ip the office, says Pope,' he could not issue 
 an order without losing his time in quest of fine expressions. 
 What he gained in rank, he lost in credit; and, finding by 
 experience his own inability, was forced to solicit his dis- 
 mission, with a pension of fifteen hundred pounds a year. 
 His friends palliated this relinquishment, of which both friends 
 and enemies knew the true reason, with an accou nt of d eclining 
 health, and the necessity of recess and quiet. 
 
 He now returned to his vocation, and began to plan literary 
 occupations for his future life. He purposed a tragedy on the 
 death of Socrates ; a story of which, as Tickell remarks, the 
 basis is narrow, and to which I know not how love could have 
 been appended. There would however have been no want 
 either of virtue in the sentiments, or elegance in the language. 
 
 He engaged in a nobler work, a defence of the Christian 
 Religion, of which part was published after his death ; and he 
 designed to have made a new poetical version of the Psalms. 
 
 These pious compositions Pope imputed== to a selfish motive, 
 upon the credit, as he owns, of Tonson ; who having quarrelled 
 with Addison, and not loving him, said, that, when he laid 
 down the secretary's office, he intended to take orders, and 
 obtain a bishoprick ; for, said he, / always thought him a priest 
 in his heart. 
 
 That Pope should have thought this conjecture of Tonson 
 worth remembrance is a proof, but indeed so far as I have 
 found, the only proof, that he retained some malignity from 
 their ancient rivalry. Tonson pretended but to guess it; no 
 other mortal ever suspected it ; and Pope might have reflected, 
 that a man who had been secretary of state, in the ministry of 
 Sunderland, knew a nearer way to a bishoprick than by defend- 
 ing~K5ligion, or translating the Psalms. 
 
 It is related that he had once a design to make an English 
 Dictionary, and that he considered Dr. Tillotson as the writer 
 of highest authority. There was formerly sent to me by Mr. 
 '.Spence. ^ Sperce. 
 
 /Lc(..i 
 
 
1719] .ADDISON. 295 
 
 Locker, clerk of the Leathersellers' Company, who was eminent 
 for curiosity and literature, a collection of examples selected 
 from Tillotson's works, as Locker said, by Addison. It came 
 too late to be of use, so I inspected it but slightly, and re- 
 member it indistinctly. I thought the passages too short. 
 
 Addison however did not conclude his life in peaceful 
 studies ; but relapsed, when he was near his end, to a political 
 dispute. 
 
 It so happened that (1718-19) a controversy was agitated, 
 with great vehemence, between those friends of long continu- 
 ance, Addison and Steele. It may be asked, in the language 
 of Homer, what power or what cause could set them at variance. 
 The subject of their dispute was. of great importance. The 
 Earl of Sunderland proposed an act called the PeerageJBjll, by 
 which the number of peers should be fixed, and the King re- 
 strained from any new creation of nobility, unless when an old 
 family should be extinct. To this the Lords would naturally 
 agree ; and the King, who was yet little acquainted with his 
 own prerogative, and, as is now well known, almost indifferent 
 to the possessions of the Crown, had been persuaded to consent. 
 The only difficulty was found among the Commons, who were 
 not likely to approve the perpetual exclusion of themselves 
 and their posterity. The bill therefore was eagerly opposed, 
 and among others by Sir Robert Walpole, whose speech was 
 published. 
 
 The Lords might think their dignity diminished by improper 
 advancements, and particularly by the introduction of twelve 
 new peers at once, to produce a majority of Tories in the last 
 reign ; an act of authority violent enough, yet certainly legal, and 
 by no means to be compared with that contempt, of national 
 right, with which some time afterwards, by the instigation 
 of Whiggism, the Commons, chosen by the people for three 
 years, chose themselves for seven. But, whatever might be the 
 disposition of the Lords, the people had no wish to increase 
 their power. The tendency of the bill, as Steele observed in 
 
296 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 a letter to the Earl of Oxford, was to introduce an Aristocracy ; 
 for a majority in the House of Lords, so limited, would have 
 been despotick and irresistible. 
 
 To prevent this subversion of the ancient establishment, 
 Steele, whose pen readily seconded his political passions, en- 
 deavoured to alarm the nation by a pamphlet called The 
 Plebeian ; to this an answer was published by Addison, under 
 the title of The Old Whig, in which it is not discovered that 
 Steele was then known to be the advocate for the Commons. 
 Steele replied by a second Plebeian ; and, whether by ignorance 
 or by courtesy, confined himself to his question, without any ■ 
 personal notice of his opponent. Nothing hitherto was com- 
 mitted against the laws of friendship, or proprieties of decency; 
 but controvertists cannot long- retain their kindness for each 
 other. The Old Whig answered the Plebeian, and could not 
 forbear some contempt of " little Dicky, whose trade it was to 
 write pamphlets." " Dicky however did not lose his settled 
 veneration for his friend ; but contented himself with quoting 
 some lines of Cato, which were at once detection and reproof. 
 The bill was laid aside during that session, and Addison died 
 before the riext, in which its commitment was rejected by two 
 hundred and sixty-five to one hundred and seventy-seven. 
 
 ^ Macaulay has conclusively shown that fohnson was wrong in supposing 
 that by ' little Dicky ' Addison meant Steele. In an article in the Edin- 
 burgh Review (July 1843), on Miss Aikin's Life and Writings of Addison, 
 Macaulay says : — " It is asserted in the Biographia Britannica that Addison 
 designated Steele as 'little Dicky.' This assertion was repeated by John- 
 son, who, had never seen The Old Whig, and was therefore excusable. It 
 is true that the words 'little Dicky' occur in The Old Whig, and that 
 Steele's name was Richard. It is equally true that the words 'little Isaac ' 
 occur in The Duenna, and that Newton's name was Isaac. But we con- 
 fidently affirm that Addison's 'little Dicky' had no more to do with Steele 
 than Sheridan's ' little Isaac ' with Newton. If we apply the words ' little 
 Dicky' to Steele, we deprive a very lively and ingenious passage not only 
 of all its wit but of all its meaning. ' Little Dicky ' was evidently the 
 nickname of some comic actor who played the usurer Gomez, then a most 
 popular part, in Dryden's Spanish Friar." 
 
 Shortly afterwards, in a letter to Mr. Napier, the editor of the Edinburgh 
 Review, Macaulay writes as follows : — " I am much pleased with one thing. 
 You may remember how confidently I asserted that 'little Dicky,' in the 
 
1 719] ADDISON. 297 
 
 Every reader surely must regret that these two illustrious 
 friends, after so many years past in confidence and endearment, 
 in unity of interest, conformity of opinion, and fellowship of 
 study, should finally part in acrimonious opposition. Such a 
 controversy was Bdlum plusquam civile, as Lucan expresses it. 
 Why could not faction find other advocates ? But, among the 
 uncertainties of the human state, we are doomed to number 
 the instability of friendship. 
 
 Of this dispute I have little knowledge but from the 
 Biographia Britannica. The Old Whig is not inserted in 
 Addison's works, nor is it mentioned by Tickell in his Life ; 
 why it was omitted the biographers doubtless give the true 
 reason ; the fact was too recent, and those who had been 
 heated in the contention were not yet cool. 
 
 The necessity of complying with times, and of sparing 
 persons, is the great impediment of biography. History may 
 be formed from permanent monuments and records ; but Lives 
 can only be written from personal knowledge, which is growing 
 every day less, and in a short time is lost for ever. What is 7 
 known can seldom be immediately told ; and when it might \ 
 be told, it is no longer known. The delicate features of the 
 
 Old Whig, was the nickname of some comic actor. Several people thought 
 that I risked too much in assuming this so strongly on mere internal evi- 
 dence. I have now, by an odd accident, found out who the actor was. 
 An old prompter of Drury Lane theatre, named Chetwood, published, in 
 1749, a small volume containing an account of all the famous performers 
 he remembered, arranged in alphabetical order. This little volume I 
 picked up yesterday, for sixpence, at a bookstall in Holbom ; and the first 
 name on which I opened was that of Henry Norris, a favourite comedian, 
 who was nicknamed ' Dicky ' because he first obtained celebrity by acting 
 the part of Dicky in the Trip to the Jubilee. It is added that his figure 
 was very diminutive. He was, it seems, in the height of his popularity at 
 the very time when the Old Whig was vnritten. You will, I think, agree 
 with me that this is decisive. I am a little vam of my sagacity, which I 
 really think would have dubbed me a vir darissimus, if it had been shewn 
 on a point of Greek or Latin learning ; but I am still more pleased that 
 the vindication of Addison firom an unjust charge, which has been uni- 
 versally believed since the publication of the Lives of tlie Poets, should 
 thus be complete. Should you have any objection to inserting a short note 
 at the end of the next Number?" (Note by the Editor.) 
 
IsgS ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 mind, the nice discriminations of character, and the minute 
 peculiarities of conduct, are soon obliterated ; and it is 
 surely better that caprice, obstinacy, frolick, and folly, 
 however they might delight in the description, should be 
 silently forgotten, than that, by wanton merriment and 
 unseasonable detection, a pang should be given to a widow, a 
 daughter, a brother, or a friend. As the process of these 
 narratives is now bringing me among my contemporaries, I 
 begin to feel myself walking upon ashes under which the fire is 
 not extinguished, and coming to the time of which it will be 
 proper rather to say nothing that is false, than all that is true. 
 
 The end of this useful life was now approaching. — Addison 
 had for some time been oppressed by shortness of breath, 
 which was now aggravated by a dropsy ; and, finding his danger 
 pressing, he prepared to die conformably to his own precepts 
 and professions. 
 
 During this lingering decay, he sent, as Pope relates,? a 
 message by the Earl of Warwick to Mr. Gay, desiring to see 
 him : Gay, who had not visited him for some time before, 
 obeyed the summons, and found himself received with great 
 kindness. The purpose for which the interview had been 
 solicited was then discovered ; Addison told him that he had 
 injured him ; but that, if he recovered, he would recompense 
 him. What the injury was he did not explain, nor did Gay 
 ever know ; but supposed that some preferment designed for 
 him, had, by Addison's intervention, been withheld. 
 
 Lord Warwick was a young man of very irregular life, and 
 perhaps of loose opinions. Addison, for whom he did not 
 want respect, had very diligently endeavoured to reclaim him ; 
 but his arguments and expostulations had no effect. One 
 experiment, however, remained to be tried : when he found his 
 life near its end, he directed the young Lord to be called ; and 
 when he desired, with great tenderness, to hear his last injunc- 
 tions, told him, / have sent for you that you may see how a 
 ' Spence. 
 
1719] ADDISON. 299 
 
 Christian can die. What effect this awful scene had on the 
 Earl I know not ; he likewise died himself in a short time. 
 In Tickell's excellent Elegy on his friend are these lines : 
 
 He taught us how to live ; and, oh ! too high 
 The price of knowledge, taught us how to die. 
 
 In which he alludes, as he told Dr. Young, to this moving 
 interview. 
 
 Having given directions to Mr. Tickell for the publication of 
 his works, and dedicated them on his death-bed to his friend 
 Mr. Craggs, he died June 17, 17 19, at Holland-house, leaving 
 no child but a daughter. 
 
 Of his virtue it is a sufficient testimony, that the resentment 
 of party has transmitted no charge of any crime. He was not 
 one of those who are praised only after death ; for his merit 
 was so generally acknowledged, that Swift, having observed 
 that his election passed without a contest, adds, that if he 
 had proposed"himself for king, he would hardly have been 
 refused. 
 
 His zeal for his party did not extinguish his kindness for the 
 merit of his opponents : when he was secretary in Ireland, he 
 refused to intermit his acquaintance with Swift. 
 
 Of his habits, or external manners, nothing is so often 
 mentioned as that timorous or sullen taciturnity, which his 
 friends called modesty by too mild a name. Steele mentions 
 with great tenderness " that remarkable bashfulness, which is a 
 cloak that hides and muffles merit;" and tells us, that "his 
 abilities were covered only by modesty, which doubles the 
 beauties which are seen, and gives credit and esteem to all 
 that are concealed." Chesteriield affirms, that " Addison was 
 the most timorous and aukward man that he ever saw." And 
 Addison, speaking of his own deficience in conversation, used 
 to say of himself, that, with respect to intellectual wealth, " he 
 could draw bills for a thousand pounds, though he had not a 
 guinea in his pocket." 
 
 P"' 
 
300 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 That he wanted current coin 'for ready payment, and by 
 that want was often obstructed and distressed; that he was 
 oppressed by an improper and ungraceful timidity, every 
 testimony concurs to prove ; but Chesterfield's representation 
 is doubtless hyperbolical. That man cannot be supposed very 
 unexpert in the arts of conversation and practice of life, who, 
 without fortune or alliance, by his usefulness and dexterity 
 became secretary of state ; and who died at forty-seven, after 
 having not only stood long in the highest rank of wit and 
 literature, but filled one of the most important offices of state. 
 
 The time in which he lived had reason to lament his 
 obstinacy of silence ; " for he was," says Steele, " above all men 
 in that talent called humour, and enjoyed it in such perfection, 
 that I have often reflected, after a night spent with him apart 
 from all the world, that I had had the pleasure of conversing 
 with an intimate acquaintance of Terence and Catullus, who 
 had all their wit and nature, heightened with humour more 
 exquisite and delightful than any other man ever possessed." 
 This is the fondness of a friend ; let us hear what is told us by 
 a rival. "Addison's conversation,"' says Pope, "had some- 
 thing in it more charming than I have found in any other man. 
 But this was only when familiar : before strangers or perhaps a 
 single stranger, he preserved his dignity by a stiff silence." 
 
 This modesty was by no means inconsistent with a very 
 high opinion of his own merit. He demanded to be the first 
 name in modern wit ; and, with Steele to echo him, used 
 to depreciate Dryden, whom Pope and Congreve defended 
 against them.^ There is no reason to doubt that he suffered 
 too much pain from the prevalence of Pope's poetical reputa- 
 tion ; nor is it without strong reason suspected, that by some 
 disingenuous acts he endeavoured to obstruct it ; Pope was 
 not the only man whom he insidiously injured, though the only 
 man of whom he could be afraid. 
 
 His own powers were such as might have satisfied him with 
 ^ Spence. ^ Tonson and Spence. 
 
1 719] ADDISON. 301 
 
 conscious excellence. Of very extensive learning he has 
 indeed given no proofs. He seems to have had small ac- 
 quaintance with the sciences, and to have read little except 
 Latin and French; but of the Latin poets his Dialogues on 
 Medals shew that he had perused the works with great 
 diligence and skill. The abundance of his own mind left him 
 little need of adventitious sentiments ; his wit always could 
 suggest what the occasion demanded. He had read with 
 critical eyes the important volume of human life, and knew 
 the heart of man from the depths of stratagem to the surface 
 of affectation. 
 
 What he knew he could easily communicate. " This," says 
 Steele, " was particular in this writer, that when he had taken 
 his resolution, or made his plan for what he designed to write, 
 he would walk about a room, and dictate it into language with 
 as much freedom and ease as any one could write it down, and 
 attend to the coherence and grammar of what he dictated. 
 
 Pope,i who can be less suspected of favouring his memory, 
 declares that he wrote very fluently, but was slow and 
 Scrupulous in correcting; that many of his Spectators were 
 written very fast, and sent immediately to the press ; and that 
 it seemed to be for his advantage not to have time for much 
 revisal. 
 
 " He would alter,'' says Pope, " any thing to please his 
 friends, before publication ; but would not retouch his pieces 
 afterwards : and I believe not one word in Cato, to which I 
 made an objection, was suffered to stand. 
 
 The last line of Cato is Pope's, having been originally 
 written 
 
 And, oh ! 'twas this that ended Cato's life. 
 
 Pope might have made more objections to the six concluding 
 lines. In the first couplet the words from hence are improper ; 
 
 ' Spence, 
 
302 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 and the second line is taken from Dryden's Virgil. Of the 
 next couplet, the first verse being included in the second, is 
 therefore useless ; and in the third Discord is made to produce 
 Strife, 
 
 Of the course of Addison's familiar day,i before his marriage, 
 Pope has given a detail. He had in the house with him 
 Budgell, and perhaps Philips. His chief companions were 
 Steele, Budgell, Philips, Carey, Davenant, and Colonel Brett. 
 With one or other of these he always breakfasted. He studied 
 all morning; then dined at a tavern, and went afterwards to 
 Button's. 
 
 Button had been a servant in the Countess of Warwick's 
 family, who, under the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee- 
 house on the south side of Russell-street, about two doors from 
 Covent-garden. Here it was that the wits of that time used 
 to assemble. It is said, that when Addison had suffered any 
 vexation from the countess, he withdrew the company from 
 Button's house. 
 
 From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where he 
 often sat late, and drank too much wine. In the bottle, 
 discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and bash- 
 fulness for confidence. It is not unlikely that Addison was 
 first seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained 
 from the servile timidity of his sober hours. He that feels 
 oppression from the presence of those to whom he knows 
 himself superior, will desire to set loose his powers of conver- 
 sation; and who, that ever asked succour from Bacchus, was 
 able to preserve himself from being enslaved by his auxiliary ? 
 Among those friends it was that Addison displayed the 
 elegance of his colloquial accomplishments, which may easily 
 be supposed such as Pope represents them. The remark of 
 Mg,ndeville, who, when he had passed an evening in his 
 company, declared that he was a parson in a tye-wig, can 
 detract little from his character ; he was always reserved to 
 ^ Spence, 
 
1 719] ADDISON. 303 
 
 strangers, and was not incited to uncommon freedom by a, 
 character like that of Mandevilk. 
 
 From any minute knowledge of his familiar manners, the 
 intervention of sixty years has now bebarred us. Steele once 
 promised Congreve and the publick a complete description of 
 his character ; but the promises of authors are like the vows of / 
 lovers. Steele thought no more on his design, or thought on 
 it with anxiety that at last disgusted him, and left his friend in 
 the hands of Tickell. 
 
 One slight lineament of his character Swift has preserved. 
 It was his practice when he found any man invincibly wrong, ~ , 
 to flatter his opinions by acquiescence, and sink him yet ; 
 deeper in absurdity. This artifice of mischief was admired by ' 
 Stella ; and Swift seems to approve her admiration. 
 
 His works will supply some information. It appears from 
 his various pictures of the world, that, with all his bashfulness, 
 he had conversed with many distinct classes of men, had 
 surveyed their ways with very diligent observation, and marked 
 with great acuteness the effects of different modes of life. He 
 was a man in whose presence nothing reprehensible was out of 
 danger ; quick in discerning whatever was wrong or ridiculous, 
 and not unwilling to expose it. TAere are, says Steele, in his I 
 writings many oblique strokes upon some of the wittiest meti of the 
 age. His delight was more to excite merriment than detesta- ', 
 tion, and he detects follies rather than crimes. 
 
 If any judgemerrt be made, from his books, of his moral 
 character, nothing will be found but purity and excellence. 
 Knowledge of mankind indeed, less extensive than that of 
 Addison, will shew, that to write, and to live, are very different. 
 Many who praise virtue, do no more than praise it. Yet it is 
 reasonable to believe that Addison's professions and practice 
 were at no great variance, since, amidst Ahat storm of faction 
 in which most of his life was passed, though his station made 
 him conspicuous, and his activity made him formidable, the 
 character given him by his friends was never contradicted by 
 
304 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 his enemies : of those with whom interest or opinion united 
 him, he had not only the esteem, but the kindness ; and of 
 others whom the violence of opposition drove against him, 
 though he might lose the love, he retained the reverence. 
 
 It is justly observed by Tickell, that he employed wit on the 
 side of virtue and religion. He not only made the proper use 
 of wit himself, but taught it to others ; and from his time it 
 has been generally subservient to the cause of reason and of 
 truth. He has dissipated the prejudice that had long connected 
 gaiety with vice, and easiness of manners with laxity of prin- 
 ciples. He has restored virtue to its dignity, and taught 
 innocence not to be ashamed. This is an elevation of literary 
 character, above all Greek, above all Roman fame. No greater 
 felicity can genius attain than that of having purified intel- 
 lectual pleasure, separated mirth from indecency, and wit from 
 licentiousness ; of having taught a succession of writers to 
 bring elegance and gaiety to the aid of goodness ; and, if I 
 may use expressions yet more awful, of having turned many 
 to righteousness. 
 
 Addison, in his life, and for some time afterwards, was 
 considered by the greater part of readers as supremely 
 excelling both in poetry and criticism, tart of his reputation 
 may be probably ascribed to the advancement of his fortune : 
 when, as Swift observes, he became a statesman, and saw poets 
 waiting at his levee, it is no wonder that praise was accumulated 
 upon him. Much likewise may be more honourably ascribed 
 to his personal character : he who, if he had claimed it, might 
 have obtained the diadem, was not likely to be denied the 
 laurel. 
 
 But time quickly puts an end to artificial and accidental 
 fame ; and Addison is to pass through futurity protected only 
 by his genius. Every name which kindness or interest once 
 raised too high, is in danger, lest the next age should, by the 
 vengeance of criticism, sink it in the same proportion. A 
 
1719] /J j- ADDISON. 30s 
 
 great_writer has lately styled him an indifferent pet, and a i 
 worse critick. 
 
 His poetry is first to be considered ; of which it must be 
 confessed that it has not often those felicities of diction which 
 give lustre to sentiments, or that vigour of sentiment that 
 animates diction : there is little of ardour, vehemence, or 
 transport ; there is very rarely the awfulness of grandeur, and 
 not verj' often the splendour of elegance. He thinks justly ; 
 but he thinks faintly. This is his general character ; to which, 
 doubtless, many single passages will furnish exceptions. 
 
 Yet, if he seldom reaches supreme excellence, he rarely 
 sinks into dulness, and is still more rarely entangled in absur- 
 dity. He did not trust his powers enough to be negligent. 
 There is in most of his compositions a calmness and equa- 
 bility, deliberate and cautious, sometimes with little that 
 delights, but seldom with any thing that offends. 
 
 Of this kind seem to be- his poems to Dryden, to Somers, 
 and to the King. His ode on St. Cecilia has been imitated by 
 Pope, and has something in it of Dryden's vigour. Of his 
 Account of the English Poets, he used to speak as a poor 
 thing ; ^ but it is not worse than his usual strain. He has said, 
 not very judiciously, in his character of Waller : 
 
 Thy verse could shew ev'n Cromwell's innocence. 
 And compliment the storms that bore him hence. 
 O ! had thy Muse not come an age too soon, 
 But seen great Nassau on the British throne, 
 How had his triumph glitter'd in thy page ! — 
 
 1 
 
 What is this but to say that he who could compliment Crom^, 
 well had been the proper poet for King WilUam ? Addison 
 however never printed the piece. 
 
 The Letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never 
 been praised beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less 
 appearance of labour, and more elegant, with less ambition of 
 
 '^ Spence. 
 
3o6 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 ornamei 
 one br( 
 taken : 
 
 300 AUDlbUJN. L1072— 
 
 ornament, than any other of his poems. There is however 
 one broken metaphor, of which notice may properly be 
 
 Fir'd with that name — 
 I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain. 
 That longs to launch into a nobler strain. 
 
 To bridle a goddess is no very delicate idea ; but why must she 
 be bridled 2 because she longs to launch 7 an act which was 
 never hindered by a bridle : and whitlier will she launch 1 into 
 a nobler straiti. She is in the first line a horse, in the second a 
 boat ; and the care of the poet is to keep his horse or his boat 
 from singing. 
 
 The next composition is the far-famed Campaign, which Dr. 
 Warton has termed a Gazette in Rhyme, with harshness not 
 often used by the good-nature of his criticism. Before a 
 censure so severe is admitted, let us consider that War is a 
 frequent subject of Poetry, and thenenquire who has described 
 it with more justness and force. Many of our own writers 
 tried their powers upon this year of victory, yet Addison's is 
 confessedly the best performance ; his poem is the work of a 
 man not bhnded by the dust of learning : his images are not 
 borrowed merely from books. The superiority which he confers 
 upon his hero is not personal prowess, and mighty bone, but 
 deliberate intrepidity, a, calm command of his passions, and the 
 power of consulting his own mind in the midst of danger. 
 The rejection and contempt of fiction is rational and manly. 
 
 It may be observed that the last line is imitated by Pope ; 
 
 Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright — 
 Rais'd of themselves, their genuine charms they boast. 
 And those that paint them truest, praise them most. 
 
 This Pope had in his thoughts ; but, not knowing how to use 
 what was not his own, he spoiled the thought when he had 
 borrowed it 
 
1719] ADDISON. 307 
 
 The well-sung woes shall soothe my ghost ; 
 He best can paint them who shall feel them most. ^~' 
 
 Martial exploits may be painted ; perhaps woes may ht painted ; ■; 
 but they are surely not painted by being well-sung : it is not 
 easy to paint in song, or to sing in colours. 
 
 No passage in the Campaign has been more often mentioned 
 than the simile of the Angel, which is said in the Tatler to be 
 one of the noblest thoughts that ever entered into the heart of 
 man, and is therefore worthy of attentive consideration. Let 
 it be first enquired whether it be a simile. A poetical simile 
 is the discovery of likeness between two actions in their 
 general nature dissimilar, or of causes terminating by different 
 operations in some resemblance of effect. But the mention of 
 another like consequence from a like cause, or of a like per- 
 formance by a like agency, is not a simile, but an exemplifica- -\ 
 tion. It is not a simile to say that the Thames waters fields, as 
 the Po waters fields ; or that as Hecla vomits flames in Iceland, 
 so ^tna vomits flames in Sicily. When Horace says of 
 Pindar, that he pours his violence and rapidity of verse, as a 
 river swoln with rain rushes from the mountain ; or of himself, 
 that his genius wanders in quest of poetical decorations, as the 
 bee wanders to collect honey; he, in either case, produces a 
 simile ; the mind is impressed with the resemblance of things 
 generally unlike, as unlike as intellect and body. But if i i, 
 Pindar had been described as writing with the copiousness and / vi 
 grandeur of Homer, or Horace had'told that he reviewed and ; 
 finished his own poetry with the same care as Isocrates polished ,' 
 his orations, instead of similitude he would have exhibited ' 
 almost identity ; he would have given the same portraits with / 
 different names. In the poem now examined, when the 
 English are represented as gaining a fortified pass, by repetition- 
 of attack and perseverance of resolution ; their obstinacy of 
 courage, and vigour of onset, is well illustrated by the sea that • 
 breaks, with incessant battery, the dikes of Holland. This is 
 a simile : but when Addison, Iiaving celebrated the beauty of 
 
 X 2 
 
3o8 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 Mariborough's person, tells us that Achilles thus was formed 
 with eiiery grace, here is no simile, but a mere exemplification. 
 A simile may be compeared to lines converging at a point, and 
 is more excellent as the lines approach from greater distance : 
 an exemplification may be considered as two parallel lines 
 which run on together without approximation, never far 
 separated, and never joined. 
 
 Marlborough is so like the angel in the poem, that the action 
 of both is almost the same, and performed by both in the same 
 manner. Marlborough teaches the battle to rage; the angel 
 directs the storm : Marlborough is unmoved iti peaceful thought ; 
 the angel is calm and serene: Marlborough stands unmoved 
 amidst the shock of hosts ; the angel rides calm in the whirlwind. 
 The lines on Marlborough are just and noble ; but the simile 
 gives almost the same images a second time. 
 
 But perhaps this thought, though hardly a simile, was remote 
 from vulgar conceptions, and required great labour of research, 
 or dexterity of application. Of this, Dr. Madden, a name 
 which Ireland ought to honour, once gave me his opinion. 
 Jf I had set, said he, ten school-boys to write on the battle of 
 Blenheim, and eight had brought me the Angel, ■ I should not 
 have been surprised. 
 
 The opera of Rosamond, though it is seldom mentioned,, is 
 one of the first of Addison's compositions. The subject is 
 well-chosen, the fiction is pleasing, and the praise of Marl- 
 borough, for which the scene gives an opportunity, is, what 
 perhaps every human excellence must be, the product of 
 good-luck improved by genius. The thoughts are sometimes 
 great, and sometimes tender ; the versification is easy and gay. 
 There is doubtless some advantage in the shortness of the 
 lines, which there is little temptation to load with expletive 
 epithets. The dialogue seems commonly better than the 
 songs. The two comick characters of Sir Trusty and Gride- 
 line, though of no great value, are yet such as the poet 
 intended. Sir Trusty's account of the death of Rosamond 
 
1719] ADDISON. 309 
 
 is, I think, too grossly absurd. The whole drama is airy 
 and elegant; engaging in its process, and pleasing in its '" ' 
 conclusion. If Addison had cultivated the lighter parts of ' 
 poetry, he would probably have excelled. 
 
 The tragedy of Cato, which, contrary to the rule observed 
 in selecting the works of other poets, has by the weight of its [,. 
 character forced its way into the late collection, is unquestionably 
 the noblest production of Addison's genius. Of a work so much 
 read, it is difficult to say any thing new. About things on which 
 the public thinks long, it commonly attains to think right ; and 
 of Cato it has been not unjustly determined, that it is rather 
 a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just 
 sentiments in elegant language, than a representation of natural 
 affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. 
 Nothing here excites or asswages emotion ; here is no magical 
 power of raising phantastick terror or wild anxiety. The 
 events are expected without solicitude, and are remembered 
 without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care ; we 
 consider not what they are doing, or what they are suffering ; 
 we wish only to know what they have to say, Cato is a being 
 above our solicitude ; a man of whom the gods take care, and 
 whom we leave to their care with heedless confidence. To 
 the rest, neither gods nor men can have much attention ; for 
 there is not one amongst them that strongly attracts either 
 affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of such 
 sentiments and such expression, that there is scarcely a scene 
 in the play which the reader does not wish to impress upon 
 his memory. 
 
 When Cato was shewn to Pope,' he advised the author to 
 print it, without any theatrical exhibition ; supposing that it 
 would be read more favourably than heard. Addison declared 
 himself of the same opinion ; but urged the importunity of his 
 friends for its appearance on the stage. The emulation of 
 parties made it successful beyond expectation, and its success 
 ^ S pence. 
 
310 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 !'S'' has introduced or confirmed among us the use of dialogue too 
 declamatory, of unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy. 
 
 The universality of applause, however it might quell the 
 censure of common morta:ls, had no other effect than to harden 
 Dennis in fixed dislike ; but his dislike was not merely ca- 
 pricious. He found and shewed many faults : he shewed them 
 indeed with anger, but he found them with acuteness, such as 
 ought to rescue his criticism from oblivion; though, at last, 
 it will have no other life than it derives from the work which it 
 endeavours to oppress. 
 
 Why he pays no regard to the opinion of the audience, he 
 gives his reason, by remarking, that 
 
 "A deference is to be paid to a general applause, when it 
 appears that that applause is natural and spontaneous ; but 
 that little regard is to be had to it, when it is affected and 
 artificial. Of all the tragedies which in his memory have had 
 vast and violent runs, not one has been excellent, few have 
 been tolerable, most have been scandalous. When a poet writes 
 a tragedy, who knows he has judgement, and who feels he has 
 genius, that poet presumes upon his own merit, and scorns to 
 make a cabal. That people come coolly to the representation 
 of such a tragedy, without any violent expectation, or delusive 
 imagination, or invincible prepossession ; that such an audience 
 is liable to receive the impressions which the poem shall natur- 
 ally make in them, and to judge by their own reason, and their 
 own judgements, and that reason and judgement are calm and 
 serene, not formed by nature to make proselytes, and to con- 
 troul and lord it over the imaginations of others. But that 
 when an author writes a tragedy, who knows he has neither 
 genius nor judgement, he has recourse to the making a party, 
 and he endeavours to make up in industry what is wanting in 
 talent, and to supply by poetical craft the absence of poetical 
 art : that such an author is humbly contented to raise men's 
 passions by a plot without doors, since he despairs of doing 
 it by that which he brings upon the stage. TJiat party, and 
 
1719] ADDISON. 311 
 
 passion, and preposession, are clamorous and tumultuous 
 things, and so much the more clamorous and tumultuous by 
 how much the more erroneous : that they domineer and tyran- 
 nize over the imaginations of persons who want judgement, 
 and sometimes too of those who have it ; and, like a fierce 
 and outrageous torrent, bear down all opposition before them." 
 
 He then condemns the neglect of poetical justice; which is 
 always one of his favourite principles. 
 
 '"Tis certainly the duty of every tragick poet, by the exact 
 distribution of poetical justice, to imitate the Divine Dispensa- 
 tion, and to inculcate a particular Providence. 'Tis true, 
 indeed, upon the stage of the world, the wicked sometimes 
 prosper, and the guiltless suffer. But that is permitted by the 
 Governor of the world, to shew, from the attribute of his 
 infinite justice, that there is a compensation in futurity, to 
 prove the immortality of the human soul, and the certainty of 
 future rewards and punishments. But the poetical persons in 
 tragedy exist no longer than the reading, or the representation ; 
 the whole extent of their entity is circumscribed by those ; and 
 therefore, during that reading or representation, according to 
 their merits or demerits, they must be punished or rewarded. 
 If this is not done, there is no impartial distribution of poeti- 
 cal justice, no instructive lecture of a particular Providence, 
 and no imitation of the Divine Dispensation. And yet the 
 author of this tragedy does not only run counter to this, in the 
 fate of his principal character ; but every where, throughout it, 
 makes virtue suffer, and vice triumph : for not only Cato is 
 vanquished by Csesar, but the treachery and perfidiousness of 
 Syphax prevails over the honest simplicity and the credulity of 
 Juba; and the sly subtlety and dissimulation of Portius over 
 the generous frankness and open-heartedness of Marcus." 
 
 Whatever pleasure there may be in seeing crimes punished 
 and virtue rewarded, yet, since wickedness often prospers in 
 real life, the poet is certainly at liberty to give it prosperity on 
 the stage. For if poetry has an imitation of reality, how are its 
 
312 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 laws broken by exhibiting the world in its true form ? The 
 stage may sometimes gratify our wishes ; but, if it be truly the 
 ■mirror of life, it ought to shew us sometimes what we are to 
 expect. 
 
 Dennis objects to the characters that they are not natural, or 
 reasonable ; but as heroes and heroines are not beings that are 
 seen every day, it is hard to find upon what principles their 
 conduct shall be tried. It is, however, not useless to consider 
 what he says of the manner in which Cato receives the account 
 of his son's death. 
 
 " Nor is the grief of Cato, in the Fourth Act, one jot more in 
 nature than that of his son and Lucia in the third. Cato re- 
 ceives the news of his son's death not only with dry eyes, but 
 with a sort of satisfaction ; and in the same page sheds tears for 
 the calamity of his country, and does the same thing in the next 
 page upon the bare apprehension of the danger of his friends. 
 Now, since the love of one's country is the love of one's country- 
 men, as I have shewn upon another occasion, I desire to ask these 
 questions : Of all our countrymen, which do we love most, those 
 whom we know, or those whom we know not ? And of those 
 whom we know, which do we cherish most, our friends or our 
 enemies ? And of our friends, which are the dearest to us ? 
 those who are related to us, or those who are not ? And of all 
 our relations, for which have we most tenderness, for those who 
 are near to us, or for those who are remote ? And of our near 
 relations, which are the nearest, and consequently the dearest 
 to us, our offspring or others? Our offspring, most certainly ; 
 as nature, or in other words Providence, has wisely contrived 
 or the preservation of mankind. Now, does it not follow, from 
 what has been Said, that for a man to receive the news of his 
 son's death with dry eyes, and to weep at" the same time for the 
 calamities of his country, is a wretched affectation, and a 
 miserable inconsistency? Is not that, in plain English, to 
 receive with dry eyes the news of the deaths of those for whose 
 sake our country is a name so dear to us, and at the same time 
 
1719] ADDISON. 313 
 
 to shed tears for those for whose sakes our country is not a 
 name so dear to us?" 
 
 But this formidable assailant is least resistible when he 
 attacks the probability of the action, and the reasonableness of 
 the plan. Every critical reader must remark, that Addison has, 
 with a scrupulosity almost unexampled on the English stage, 
 coniined himself in time to a single day, and in place to 
 rigorous unity. The scene never changes and 'the whole 
 action of the play passes in the great hall of Cato's house at 
 Utica. Much therefore is done in the hall, for which an^ other 
 place had been more fit ; and this impropriety affords Dennis 
 many hints of merriment, and opportunities of triumph. The 
 passage is long ; but as such disquisitions are not common, and 
 the objections are skilfully formed and vigorously urged, those 
 who delight in critical controversy will not think it tedious. 
 
 " Upon the departure of Fortius, Sempronius makes but one 
 soliloquy, and immediately in comes Syphax, and then the 
 two politicians are at it immediately. They lay their heads 
 together, with their snuff-boxes in their hands, as Mr. Bayes has 
 it, and league it away. But, in the midst of that wise scene, 
 Syphax seems to give a seasonable caution to Sempronius : 
 
 " Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate 
 Is cali'd together ? Gods ! thou must be cautious, 
 Cato has piercing eyes. 
 
 " There is a great deal of caution shewn indeed, in meeting in 
 a governor's own hall to carry on their plot against him. 
 Whatever opinion they have of his eyes, I suppose they had 
 none of his ears, or they would never have talked at this foolish 
 rate so near. 
 
 " Gods ! thou must be cautious. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, very cautious : for if Cato should overhear you, 
 and turn you off for politicians, Caesar would never take you ; 
 no, Caesar would never take you. 
 
314 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 "When Cato, Act II. turns the senators out of the hall, 
 upon pretence of acquainting Juba with the result of their 
 debates, he appears to me to do a thing which is neither 
 reasonable nor civil. Juba might certainly have better been 
 made acquainted with the result of that debate in some private 
 apartment of the palace. But the poet was driven upon this 
 absurdity to make way for another ; and that is, to give Juba 
 an opportunity to demard Marcia of her father. But the 
 quarrel and rage of Juba and Syphax, in the same Act, the 
 invectives of Syphax against the Romans and Cato ; the advice 
 that he gives Juba, in her father's haU, to bear away Marcia by 
 force ; and his brutal and clamorous rage upon his refusal, and 
 at a time when Cato was scarce cut of sight, and perhaps not 
 out of hearing ; at least, some of his guards or domesticks 
 must necessarily be supposed to be within hearing ; is a thing 
 that is so far from being probable, that it is hardly possible. 
 
 "Sempronius, in the second Act, comes back once more in 
 the same morning to the governor's hall, to carry on the 
 conspiracy with Syphax against the governor, his country,' and 
 his family ; which is so stupid, that it is below the wisdom of 
 the O — 's, the Mac's, and the Teague's ; even Eustace Commins 
 himself would never have gone to Justice-hall, to have con- 
 spired against the government. If officers at Portsmouth 
 should lay their heads together, in order to the carrying off 
 J — G — 's niece or daughter, would they meet in J— G — 's 
 hall, to carry on that conspiracy ? There would be no necessity 
 for their meeting there, at least till they came to the execution 
 of their plot, because there would be other places to meet 
 in. There would be no probability that they should meet 
 there, because there would be places more private and more 
 commodious. Now there ought to be nothing in a tragical 
 action but what is necessary or probable. 
 
 " But treason is not the only thing that is carried on in this 
 hall : that, and love, and philosophy, take their turns in it, 
 without any manner of necessity or probability occasioned by 
 
1719] ADDISON. 315 
 
 the action, as duly and as regularly, without interrupting one 
 another, as if there were a triple league between them, and a 
 mutual agreement that each should give plg.ce to and make 
 way for the other, in a due and orderly succession. 
 
 " We come now to the Third Act. Sempronius, in this Act, 
 comes into the governor's hall, with the leaders of the mutiny : 
 but as soon as Cato is gone, Sempronius, who but just before 
 had acted like an unparalleled knave, discovers himself, like 
 an egregious fool, to be an accomplice in the conspiracy. 
 
 " Semp. Know, villains, when such paltry slaves presume 
 To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, 
 They're thrown neglected by ; but if it fails, 
 They're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do. 
 Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth 
 To sudden death. — 
 
 " 'Tis true, indeed, the second leader says, there are none there 
 but friends; but is that possible at such a juncture? Can a 
 parcel of rogues attempt to assassinate the governor of a town 
 of war, in his own , house, in mid-day, and after they are 
 discovered and defeated, can there be none near them but 
 friends ? Is it not plain from these words of Sempronius, 
 
 " Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth 
 To sudden death — 
 
 " and from the entrance of the guards upon the word of 
 command, that those guards were within ear-shot? Behold 
 Sempronius then palpably discovered. How comes it to pass, 
 then, that, instead of being hanged up with the rest, he remains 
 secure in the governor's hall, and there carries on his con- 
 spiracy against the government, the third time in the same day, 
 with his old comrade Syphax ? who enters at the same time that 
 the guards are carrying away the leaders, big with the news of the 
 defeat of Sempronius ; though where he had his intelligence so 
 soon is difficult to imagine. And now the reader may expect 
 a very extraordinary scene : there is not abundance of spirit 
 
3i6 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 indeed, nor a great deal of passion, but there is wisdom more 
 than enough to supply all defects. 
 
 " Syph. Our first design, my friend, has prov'd abortive ; 
 Still there remains an after-game to play : 
 My troops are mounted, their Numidian steeds 
 Snuff up the winds, and long to scour the desart : 
 Let but Sempronius lead us in our flight, 
 We'll force the gate, where Marcus keeps his guard, 
 And hew down all that would oppose our passage ; 
 A day will bring us into Caesar's camp. 
 
 " Semp. Confusion ! I have fail'd of half my purpose ; 
 Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind. 
 
 " Well ! but though he tells us the half-purpose that he has 
 failed of, he does not tell us the half that he has carried. But 
 what does he mean by 
 
 ' ': " Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind ? 
 
 " He is now in her own house ; and we have neither seen her 
 nor heard of her any where else since the play began. But 
 now let us hear Syphax : 
 
 " What hinders then, but that thou find her out. 
 And hurry her away by manly force ? 
 
 " But what does old Syphax mean by finding her out? They 
 talk as if she were as hard to be found as a hare in a frosty 
 morning. 
 
 " Semp. But how to gain admission ? 
 
 " Oh ! she is found out then, it seems. 
 
 " But how to gain admission ? for access 
 Is giv'n to none, but Juba and her brothers. 
 
 " But, raillery apart, why access to Juba ? For he was owned 
 and received as a lover neither by the father nor by the 
 daughter. Well ! but let that pass. Syphax puts Sempronius 
 out of pain immediately; and, being a Numidian, abounding 
 
1719] ADDISON. 317 
 
 in wiles, supplies him with a stratagem for admission, that, I 
 believe, is a non-pareille : 
 
 " Syph. Thou shalt have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards ; 
 The doors will open, when Numidia's prince 
 Seems to appear before them. 
 
 " Sempronius is, it seems, to pass for Juba in full day at 
 Cato's house, where they were both so very well known, by 
 having Juba's dress and his guards : as if one ,of the marshals 
 of France could pass for the Duke of Bavaria, at noon-day, at 
 Versailles, by having his dress and liveries. But how does 
 Syphax pretend to help Sempronius to young Juba's dress? 
 Does he serve him in a double capacity, as general and master 
 of his wardrobe ? But why Juba's guards ? for the devil of 
 any guards has Juba appeared with yet. Well ! though this is 
 a mighty politick invention, yet, methinks, they might have 
 done without it : for, since the advice that Syphax gave to 
 Sempronius was, 
 
 " To hurry her away by manly force, 
 
 "in my opinion, the shortest and likeliest way of coming , 
 at the lady was by demolishing, instead of putting on an ^'^ 
 impertinent disguise to circumvent two or three slaves. But 
 Sempronms, it seems, is of another opinion. He extols to the 
 skies the invention of old Syphax : 
 
 " Sempr. Heavens ! what a thought was there ! 
 
 "Now I appeal to the reader, if I have not been as good 
 as my word. Did I not tell him, that I would lay before him 
 a very wise scene ? 
 
 "But now let us lay before the reader that part of the 
 scenery of the Fourth Act, which may shew the absurdities 
 which the author has run into, through the indiscreet observance 
 of the Unity of Place. I do not remember that Aristotle has 
 said any thing expressly concerning the Unity of Place. 'Tis '^ 
 
318 ,-,»i-'v'- ] ADDISON. [1672 
 
 true, implicitly he has said enough in the rules which he has 
 laid down for the Chorus. For, by making the Chorus an 
 essential part of Tragedy, and by bringing it on the stage 
 immediately after the opening of the scene, and retaining it 
 there till the very catastrophe, he has so determined and] fixed 
 the place of action, that it was impossible for an author on the 
 Grecian stage to break through that unity. I am of opinion, 
 that if a modern tragic poet can preserve the unity of place, 
 without destroying the probability of the incidents, 'tis always 
 best for him to do it ; because, by the preservation of that 
 unity, as we have taken notice above, he adds grace, and 
 cleanness, and comeliness, to the representation. But since 
 there are no express rules about it, and we are under no 
 compulsion to keep it, since we have no Chorus as the 
 Grecian poet had j if it cannot be preserved,without render- 
 ing the greater part of the incidents unreasonable and absurd, 
 and perhaps sometimes monstrous, 'tis certainly better to 
 break it. 
 
 " Now comes bully Sempronius, comically accoutred and 
 equipped with his Numidian dress and his Numidian guards. 
 Let the reader attend to him with all his ears ; for the words 
 of the wise are precious : 
 
 " Sempr. The deer is lodg'd, I've track'd her to her covert. 
 
 "Now I would fain know why this deer is said to be lodged, 
 since we have not heard one word, since the play began, of 
 her being at all out of harbour: and if we consider the 
 discourse with which she and Lucia began the Act, we have 
 reason to believe that they had hardly been talking of such 
 rriatters in the street. However, to pleasure Sempronius, let 
 us suppose, for once, that the deer is lodged : 
 
 " The deer is lod^d, I've track'd her to her covert. 
 
 " If he had seen her in the open field, what occasion had he 
 to track her, when he had so many Numidian dogs at his heels, 
 
1719] ADDISON. 319 
 
 which, with one halloo, he might have set upon her haunches ? 
 If he did not see her in the open field, how could he possibly 
 track her ? If he had seen her in the street, why did he not 
 set upon her in the street, since through the street she must 
 be carried at last? Now here, instead of having his thoughts 
 upon his business, and upon the present danger ; instead of 
 meditating and contriving how he shall pass with his mistress 
 through the southern gate, where her brother Marcus is upon 
 the guard, and where she would certainly prove an impedi- 
 ment to him, which is the Roman word for the baggage; 
 instead of doing this, Sempronius is entertaining himself 
 with whimsies : 
 
 " Sempr. How will the young Numidian rave to see 
 His mistress lost ! If aught could glad my soul. 
 Beyond th' enjoyment of so bright a prize, 
 'Twould be to torture that young gay Barbarian. 
 But hark ! what noise ? Death to my hopes, 'tis he, 
 'Tis Juba's self ! There is but one way left ! 
 He must be murder'd, and a passage cut 
 Through those his guards. 
 
 "Pray, what are those his guards t I thought at present, 
 that Juba's guards had been Sempronius's tools, and had been 
 danghng after his heels. 
 
 "But now let us sum up all these absurdities together. 
 Sempronius goes at noonday, in Juba's clothes, and with 
 Juba's guards, to Cato's palace, in order to pass for Juba, 
 in a place were they where both so very well known : he meets 
 Juba there, and resolves to murder him with his own guards. 
 Upon the guards appearing a little bashful, he threatens them : 
 
 " Hah ! Dastards, do you tremble ! 
 Or act like men, or by yon azure heav'n ! 
 
 " But the guards still remaining restive, Sempronius himself 
 attacks Juba, while each of the guards is representing 
 Mr. Spectator's sign of the Gaper, awed, it seems, and 
 terrified by Sempronius's threats. Juba kills Sempronius, 
 
320 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 and takes his own army prisoners, and carries them in 
 triumph away to Cato. Now I would fain know, if any 
 part of Mr. Bayes's tragedy is so full of absurdity as this? 
 
 "Upon hearing the clash of swords, Lucia and Marcia 
 come in. The question is, why no men come in upon hearing 
 the noise of swords in the governor's hall? Where was the 
 governor himself? Where were his guards ? Where were his 
 servants ? Such an attempt as this, so near the person of a 
 governor of a place of war, was enough to alarm the whole 
 garrison : and yet, for almost half an hour after Sempronius 
 was killed, we find none of those appear who. were the likeliest 
 in the world to be alarmed ; and the noise of swords is made 
 to draw only two poor women thither, who were most certain 
 to run away from it. Upon Lucia and Marcia's coming in, 
 Lucia appears in all the symptoms of an hystetial gentle- 
 
 " Luc. Sure 'twas the clash of swords ! my troubled heart 
 Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sorrows, 
 It throbs with fear, and akes at every sound ! 
 
 " And immediately her old whimsy returns upon her : 
 
 " O Marcia, should thy brothers, for my sake — 
 I die away with horror at the thought. 
 
 "She fancies that there can be no cutting of throats but it 
 must be for her. If this is tragical, I would fain know what is 
 comical. Well ! upon this they spy the body of Sempronius ; 
 and Marcia, deluded by the habit, it seems, takes him for 
 Juba; for, says she, 
 
 " The face is muffled up within the garment. 
 
 / " Now how a man could fight, and fall with his face muffled 
 N up in his garment, is, I think, a little hard to conceive 1 
 Besides, Juba, before he killed him, knew him to be Sempro- 
 nius. It was not by his garment that he knew this ; it was by 
 
1719] • ADDISON. 321 
 
 his face then : his face therefore was not muffled. Upon seeing 
 this man with the muffled face, Marcia falls a-raving; and, 
 owning her passion for the supposed defunct, begins to make 
 his funeral oration. Upon which Juha enters listening, I 
 suppose on tip-toe : for I cannot imagine how any one can 
 enter listening, in any other posture. I would fain know how 
 it came to pass, that during all this time he had sent nobody, no 
 not so much as a candle- snuffer, to take away the dead body 
 of Sempronius. Well ! but let us regard him listening. 
 Having left his apprehension behind him, he, at first, applies 
 what Marcia says to Sempronius. But finding at last, with 
 much ado, that he himself is the happy man, he quits his 
 eves-dropping, and discovers himself just time enough to 
 prevent his being cuckoled by a dead man, of whom the 
 moment before he had appeared so jealous ; and greedily 
 intercepts the bliss, which was fondly designed for one who 
 could not be the better for it. But here I must ask a question : 
 how comes Juba to listen here, who had not listened before 
 throughout the play? Or, how comes he to be the only per- 
 son of this tragedy who listens, when love and treason were 
 so often talked in so publick a place as a hall ? I am afraid 
 the author was driven upon all these absurdities only to 
 introduce this miserable mistake of Marcia ; which, after all, 
 is much below the dignity of tragedy, as any thing is which 
 is the effect or result of trick. 
 
 "But let us come to the scenery of the Fifth Act. Cato 
 appears first upon the scene, sitting in a thoughtful posture ; 
 in his hand Plato's treatise on the Immortality of the Soul, 
 a drawn sword on the table by him. Now let us consider 
 the place in which this sight is presented to us. The place, 
 forsooth, is a long hall. Let us suppose, that any one should 
 place himself in this posture, in the midst of one of our halls 
 in London ; that he should appear so/us, in a sullen posture, 
 a drawn sword on the table by him ; in his hand Plato's 
 treatise on the Immortahty of the Soul, translated lately by 
 
322 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 Bernard Lintot : I desire the reader to consider, whether such 
 a person as this would pass with them who beheld him for a 
 great patriot, a great philosopher, or a general, or for some 
 whimsical person who fancied himself all these ; and whether 
 the people, who belonged to the family, would think that 
 such a person had a design upon their midrifs or his own ? 
 
 "In short, that Cato should sit long enough, in the aforesaid 
 posture, in' the midst of this large hall, to read over Plato's 
 treatise on the Immortality of the Soul, which is a lecture of 
 two long hours ; that he should propose to himself to be private 
 there upon that occasion ; that he should be angry with his son 
 for intruding there ; then, that he should leave this hall upon 
 the pretence of sleep, give himself the mortal wound in his 
 bedchamber, and then be brought back into that hall to expire, 
 purely to shew his good-breeding, and save his friends the 
 trouble of coming up to his bedchamber ; all this appears 
 to me to be improbable, incredible, impossible." 
 ■ Such is the censure of Dennis. There is, as Dryden expresses 
 it, perhaps too much horse play in his raillery ; but if his jests'are 
 coarse, his arguments are strong. Yet as we love better to be 
 pleased than tobe taught, Catois read,and the critick is neglected. 
 
 Flushed with consciousness of these detections of absurdity in 
 the conduct, he afterwards attacked the sentiments of Cato ; but 
 he then amused himself with petty cavils, and minute objections. 
 
 Of Addison's smaller poems, no particular iriention is neces- 
 sary ; they have little that can employ or require a critick. 
 The parallel of the Princes and Gods, in his verses to Kneller, 
 is often happy, but is too well known to be quoted, 
 f His translations, so far as I have compared them, want the 
 \ exactness of a scholar. That he understood his authors cannot 
 be doubted ; but his versions will not teach others to under- 
 stand them, being too licentiously paraphrastical. They are, 
 however, for the most part, smooth and easy ; and, what is 
 the first excellence of a translator, such as may be read with 
 pleasure by those who do not know the originals. 
 
1719] ADDISON. 323 
 
 His poetry is polished and pure ; the product of a mind too 
 judicious to commit faults, but not sufficiently vigorous to attain 
 excellence. He has sometimes a striking line, or a shining 
 paragraph ; but in the whole he is warm rather than fervid, 
 and shews more dexterity than strength. He was however 
 one orour earliest examples of correctness. 
 
 The versification which he had learned from Dryden, he 
 debased rather than refined. His rhymes are often dissonant ; 
 in his Georgick he admits broken lines. He uses both triplets 
 and alexandrines, but triplets more frequently in his translations 
 than his other works. The mere structure of verses seems 
 never to have engaged much of his care. But his lines are 
 very smooth in Rosamond, and too smooth in Cato. 
 
 Addison is now to be considered as a critick ; a name which 
 the present generation is scarcely willing to allow him. His 
 criticism is condemned as tentative or experimental, rather 
 than scientifick, and he is considered as deciding by taste 
 rather than by principles. 
 
 It is not uncommon for those who have grown wise by the 
 labour of others, to add a little of their own, and overlook their 
 masters. Addison is now despised by some who perhaps 
 would never have seen his defects, but by the lights which 
 he afforded them. That he always wrote as he would think it 
 necessary to write now, cannot be affirmed ; his instructions 
 were such as the character of his readers made proper. That 
 general knowledge which now circulates in common talk, was 
 in his time rarely to be found. Men not professing learning 
 were not ashamed of ignorance ; and in the female world, any 
 acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured. 
 His purpose was to infuse literary curiosity, by gentle and un- 
 suspected conveyance, into the gay, the idle, and the wealthy ; 
 he therefore presented knowledge in the most alluring form, 
 not lofty and austere, but accessible and familiar. When he 
 shewed them their defects, he shewed them likewise that they 
 might be easily supplied. His attempt succeeded; enquiry 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 ADDISON. [1672— 
 
 was awakened, and comprehension expanded. An emulation 
 of intellectual elegance was excited, and from his time to our 
 own, life has been gradually exalted, and conversation purified 
 and enlarged. 
 
 Dryden had, not many years before, scattered criticism over 
 his Prefaces with very little parsimony ; but though he some- 
 times condescended to be somewhat familiar, his manner was 
 in general too scholastick for those who had yet their rudi- 
 ments to learn, and found it not easy to understand their 
 master. His observations were framed rather for those 
 that were learning to write, than for those that read only 
 to talk. 
 '^ An instructor like Addison was now wanting, whose remarks 
 being superficial, might be easily understood, and beingjust, 
 might prepare the mind for more attainments. Had he pre- 
 sented Paradise Lost to the publick with all the pomp of 
 system and severity of science, the criticism would perhaps have 
 been admired, and the poem still have been neglected ; but 
 by the blandishments of gentleness and facility, he has made 
 Milton an universal favourite, with whom readers of every class 
 think it necessary to be pleased. 
 
 He descended now and then to lower disquisitions ; and by 
 a serious display of the beauties of Chevy Chase, exposed 
 himself to the ridicule of Wagstaff, who bestowed a like 
 pompous character on Tom Thumb ; and to the contempt 
 of Dennis, who, considering the fundamental position of 
 his criticism, that Chevy Chase pleases, and ought to please, 
 because it is natural, observes, " that there is a way of deviat- 
 ing from nature, by bombast or tumour, which soars above 
 nature, and enlarges images beyond their real bulk ; by 
 affectation, which forsakes nature in quest of something 
 unsuitable ; and by imbecilit}', which degrades nature by 
 faintness and diminution, by obscuring its appearances, and 
 weakening its effects." In Chevy Chase there is not much 
 of either bombast or affectation ; but there is chill and 
 
1 719] ADDISON. 325 
 
 lifeless imbecility. The story cannot possibly be told in 
 a manner that shall make less impression on the mind. 
 
 Before the profound observers of the present race repose 
 too securely on the consciousness of their superiority to 
 Addison, let them consider his Remarks on Ovid, in which 
 may be found specimens of criticism sufficiently subtle and 
 refined ; let them peruse likewise his Essays on Wit, and 
 on the Pleasures of Imagination, in which he founds art 
 on the base of nature, and draws the principles of invention 
 from dispositions inherent in the mind of man, with skill and 
 elegance, such as his contemners will not easily attain. 
 
 As a describer of life and manners, he must be allowed to 
 stand perhaps the first of the first rank. His humour, which, 
 as Steele observes, is peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused 
 as to give the grace of novelty to domestick scenes and daily 
 occurrences. He never outsteps the modesty of nature, nor 
 raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His 
 figures neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. 
 He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can be hardly said 
 to invent ; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, 
 that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of 
 imagination. 
 
 As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. 
 His religion has nothing in it enthusiastick or superstitious : 
 he appears neither weakly credulous nor wantonly sceptical ; 
 his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor impracticably rigid. 
 All the enchantment of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, 
 are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the 
 care of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shewn 
 sometimes as the phantom of a vision, sometimes appears 
 half- veiled in an allegory; sometimes attracts regard in the 
 robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the confidence of 
 reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing. 
 
 Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet. 
 
326 ADDISON. [1672— 1719 
 
 His prose is the model of ■ the middle style ; on grave 
 subjects not formal, on light occasions not groveling; pure 
 without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration ; 
 always equable, and always easy, without glowing words 
 or pointed sentences. Addison never deviates from his track 
 to snatch a grace ; he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and 
 tries no hazardous innovations. His page is always luminous, 
 but never blazes in unexpected splendour. 
 
 It was apparently his principal endeavour to avoid all 
 harshness and severity of diction ; he is therefore sometimes 
 verbose in his transitions and connections, and sometimes 
 descends too much to the language of conversation ; yet if 
 his language had been less idiomatical, it might have lost 
 somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. What he attempted, 
 he performed ; he is never feeble, and he did not wish to 
 be energetick ; he is never rapid, and he never stagnates; 
 His sentences have neither studied amplitude, nor affected 
 brevity : his periods, though not diligently rounded, are 
 voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an English style,- 
 familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must 
 give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison. 
 
POPE. 
 
 1688 — 1744. 
 
 Alexander Pope was born in London, May 22, 1688, of 
 parents whose rank or station was never ascertained; we 
 are informed that they were of gentle blood; that his father 
 was of a family of which the Earl of Downe was the head, 
 and that his mother was the , daughter of William Turner, 
 Esquire, of York, who had likewise three sons, one of whom 
 had the honour of being killed,' and the other of dying, in 
 the service of Chai-Ies the First ; the third was made a general 
 officer in Spain, from whom the sister inherited what seques- 
 trations and forfeitures had left in the family. 
 
 This, and this only, is told by Pope ; who is more willing, 
 as I have heard observed, to shew what his father was not, 
 than what he was. It is allowed that he grew rich by trade ; 
 but whether in a shop or on the Exchange was never dis- -^■ 
 covered, till Mr. Tyers told, on the authority of Mrs. Racket, 
 that he was a hnen-draper in the Strand. Both parents were 
 papists. 
 
 Pope was from his birth of a constitution tender and 
 delicate ; but is said to have shewn remarkable gentleness 
 and sweetness of disposition. The weakness of his body 
 continued through his life, but the mildness of his mind 
 
32S l-OPE. [1688— 
 
 perhaps ended with his childhood. His voice, when he was 
 young, was so pleasing, that he was called in fondness the 
 little Nightingale. 
 
 Being npt sent early to school, he was taught to read by 
 an aunt ; and when he was seven or eight years old, became 
 a lover of books. He first learned to write by imitating 
 printed books ; a species of penmanship in which he retained 
 great excellence through his whole life, though his ordinary 
 hand was not elegant .l{£'~ ■'' ''" V ^;'/._^ v^ ci/\^\. 
 
 When he was about eight, he. was placect iri Hampshire 
 under Taverner, a Romish priest, who, by a method very 
 rarely practised, taught /him the Greek and Latin rudiments 
 together. He was now first regularly initiated in poetry by 
 the perusal of Ogylby''s Homer, and San^ys's Ovid : Ogylby's 
 assistance he never repaid with any praise ; but of Sandys 
 he declared, in his notes to the Iliad, that English poetry owed 
 much of its present beauty to his translations. Sandys very 
 rarely attempted original composition. 
 
 From the care of Taverner, under whom his proficiency was 
 considerable, he was removed tO' a school at Twyford near 
 Winchester, and again to another school about Hyde-park 
 Corner; from which he used sometimes to stroll to the 
 playhouse, and was so delighted with theatrical exhibitions, 
 that he formed a kind of play from Ogylby's Iliad, with some 
 verses of his own intermixed, which he persuaded his school- 
 follows to act, with the addition of his master's gardener, who 
 personated Ajax. 
 
 At the two last schools he used to represent himself as 
 having lost part of wl-tat Tavenier had taught him, and on 
 his master at Twyford he had already exercised his poetry 
 in a lampoon. Yet under those masters he translated more 
 than a fourth part of the Metamorphoses. If he kept the 
 ' same proportion in his other exercises, it cannot be thought 
 that his loss was great. 
 
 He tells of himself, in his poems, that ke lisfd in numbers ; 
 
1744] POPE. 329 
 
 and used to say that he could not remember the time when 
 he began, to make verses. In the style of fiction it might 
 have been said of him as of Pindar, that when he lay in 
 his cradle, the bees swarmed about his mouth. 
 
 About the time of the Revolution his father, who was 
 undoubtedly disappointed by the sudden blagt, of popish 
 prosperity, quitted his trade, and retired to Binfield in 
 Windsor Forest, with about twenty thousand pounds ; for 
 which, being conscientiously determined not to entrust it to 
 the government, he found no better use than that of locking 
 it up in a chest, and taking from it what his expences re- 
 quired ; and his life was long enough to consume a great 
 part of it, before his son came to the inheritance. 
 
 To Binfield Pope was called by his father when he was 
 about twelve years old ; and there he had for a few months 
 the assistance of one Deane, another priest, of whom he 
 learned only to construe a little of Tully's Offices. How 
 Mr. Deane could spend, with a boy who had translated so 
 much of Ovid, some months over a small part of Tully's 
 Offices,, it is now vain to enquire. 
 
 Of a youth so successfully employed, and so conspicuously 
 improved, a minute account must be naturally desired; but 
 curiosity must be contented with confused, imperfect, and 
 sometimes improbable intelligence. Pope, finding little ad- 
 vantage from external help, resolved thenceforward to direct 
 himself, and at twelve formed a plan of study which he 
 completed with little other incitement than the desire of 
 excellence. 
 
 His primary and principal purpose was to be a poet, with 
 which his father accidentally concurred, by proposing subjects, 
 and obliging him to correct his performances by many revisals ; 
 after which the old gentleman, when he was satisfied, would 
 say, these are good rhymes. 
 
 In his perusal of the EngKsh poets he soon distinguished 
 the versification of Dryden, which he considered as the model 
 
333 POPE. [i6gS — 
 
 to be studied, and was impressed with such veneration for his 
 instructer, that he persuaded some friends to take him to the 
 coffee-house which Dryden frequented, and pleased himself 
 with having seen him. 
 
 Dryden died May 1,(1701!, some days before Pope was 
 twelve ; so early must life~fIierefore have felt the power of 
 harmony, and the zeal of genius. Who does not wish that 
 Dryden could have known the value of the homage that was 
 paid him, and foreseen the greatness of his young admirer? 
 
 The earliest of Pope's productions is his Ode on Solitude, 
 written before he was twelve, in which there is nothing more 
 than other forward boys have attained, and which is not equal 
 to Cowley's performances at the same age. 
 
 His time was now spent wholly in reading and writing. 
 As he read the Classicks, he amused himself with translating 
 them ; and at fourteen made a version of the first book of 
 the Thebais, which, with some revision, he afterwards published. 
 . ,He must have been at this time, if he, had no help, a consider- 
 able proficient in the Latin tongue. 
 
 By Dryden's Fables, which had then been not long published, 
 and were much in the hands of poetical readers, he was 
 tempted to try his own skill in giving Chaucer a more 
 fashionable appearance, and put January and May, and the 
 Prologue of the Wife of Bath, into modern, English. He 
 translated likevvise the Epistle of Sappho to Phaon from Ovid, 
 to complete the version, which was before imperfect ; and 
 wrote some other small pieces, which he afterwards printed. 
 
 He sometimes imitated the English poets, and professed 
 to have written at fourteen his poem upon Silence, after 
 Rochester's Nothing. He had now formed his versification, 
 and in the smoothness of his numbers surpassed his original : 
 but this is a small part of his praise ; he discovers such 
 acquaintance both with human life and public affairs, as is 
 not easily conceived to have been attainable by a boy of 
 fourteen in Windsor Forest. 
 
1744] POPE. 331 
 
 Next year he "was desirous of opening to himself new 
 sources of knowledge, by making himself acquainted with 
 modern languages ; and removed for a time to London, that 
 he might study French and Italian, which, as he desired 
 nothing more than to read them, were by diligent application 
 soon dispatched. Of Italian learning he does not appear to 
 have ever made much use in his subsequent studies. 
 
 He then returned to Binfield, and delighted himself with 
 his own poetry. He tried all styles, and many subjects. He 
 wrote a comedy, a tragedy, an epick poem, with panegyricks, 
 on all the princes of Europe ; and, as he confesses, thought 
 himself the greatest genius that ever was. Self-confidence is 
 the first requisite to great undertakings ; he, indeed, who 
 forms his opinion of himself in solitude, without knowing 
 the powers of other men, is very liable to errour ; but it was 
 the felicity of Pope to rate himself at his real value. 
 
 Most of his puerile proHuctions were, by his maturer judge*: 
 ment, afterwards destroyed ; Alcander, the epick poem, was 
 burnt by the persuasion of Atterbury. The tragedy was 
 founded on the legend of St. Genevieve. Of the comedy 
 there is no account. 
 
 Concerning his studies it is related, that he translated Tully 
 on Old Age ; and that, besides his books of poetry and criticism, 
 he read Temple's Essays and Locke on Human Understanding. 
 His reading, though his favourite authors are not known, 
 appears to have been sufBciently extensive and multifarious ; 
 for his early pieces shew, with sufficient evidence, his know- 
 ledge of books. 
 
 He that is pleased with himself, easily imagines that he shall 
 please others. Sir William Trumbal, who had been ambassa- 
 dor at Constantinople, and secretary of state, when he retired 
 from business, fixed his residence in the neighbourhood of 
 Binfield. Pope, not yet sixteen, was introduced to the states- 
 man of sixty, and so distinguished himself, that their interviews 
 ended in friendship and correspondence. Pope was, through 
 
332 POPE. [i6S8— 
 
 his whole life, ambitious of splendid acquaintance, and he 
 seems to have wanted neither diligence nor success in attracting 
 the notice of the great ; for from his first entrance into the 
 world, and his entrance was very early, he was admitted to 
 familiarity with those whose rank or station made them most 
 conspicuous. 
 
 From the age of sixteen the life of Pope, as an author, may 
 be properly computed. He now wrote his Pastorals, which 
 were shewn to the Poets and Criticks of that time ; as they 
 well deserved, they were read with admiration, and many 
 praises were bestowed upon them and upon the Preface, which 
 is both elegant and learned in a high degree : they were, how- 
 ever, not published till five years afterwards. 
 j- .,^, Cowley, Milton, and Pope, are distinguished among the 
 If'' Enghsh Poets by the early exertion of their powers: but the 
 1 1 works of Cowley alone were published in his childhood, and 
 ^J '',-■;' therefore of him only can it be certain that his puerile per- 
 c'-^ formances received no improvement from his maturer studies. 
 
 At this time began his acquaintance with Wycherley, a man 
 who seems to have had among his contemporaries his full share 
 of reputation, to have been esteemed without virtue, and 
 ^ caressed without good-humour. Pope was proud of his notice; 
 Wycherley wrote verses in his praise, which he was charged by 
 Dennis with writing to himself, and they agreed for a while to 
 flatter one another. It is pleasant to remark how soon Pope 
 learned the cant of an author, and began to treat criticks 
 with contempt, though he had yet suffered nothing from 
 them. 
 
 But the fondness of Wycherley was too violent to last. Ilis 
 esteem of Pope was such, that he submitted some poems to his 
 revision ; and when Pope, perhaps proud of such confidence, 
 was sufficiently bold in his criticisms, and liberal in his alter- 
 ations, the old scribbler was angry to see his pages defaced, 
 and felt more pain from the detection than content from the 
 amendment of his faults. They parted; but Pope always 
 
1744] POPE. 333 
 
 considered him with kindness, and visited him a little tinse 
 before he died. 
 
 Another of his early correspondents was Mr. Cromwell, of 
 whorn I have learned nothing particular but that he used to 
 ride a-hunting in a t^e-wig. He was fond, and perhaps vain, 
 of amusing himself with poetry and criticism ; and sometimes ' 
 sent his performances to Pope, who did not forbear such 
 remarks as were now-and-then unwelcome. Pope, in his turn, 
 put the juvenile version of Statius into his hands for correction. 
 
 Their correspondence afforded the publick its first know- 
 ledge of Pope's Epistolary Powers ; for his Letters were given 
 by Cromwell to one Mrs. Thomas, and she many years after- 
 wards sold them to Curll, who inserted them in a volume of 
 his. Miscellanies. 
 
 Walsh, a name yet preserved among the minor poets, was 
 one of his first encouragers. His regard was gained by the 
 Pastorals, and from him Pope received the counsel by which 
 he seeras to have regulated his studies. Walsh advised him to 
 correctness, which, as he told him, the English poets had 
 hitherto neglected, and which therefore was left to him as a 
 basis of fame ; and, being delighted with rural poems, recom- 
 mended to him to write a pastoral comedy, like those which 
 are read so eagerly in Italy; a design which Pope probably 
 did not approve, as he did not follow it. 
 
 Pope had now declared himself a poet ; and thinking himself 
 entitled to poetical conversation, began at seventeen to fre- 
 quent Will's, a co ffee- house on the north side of Russell-street 
 in Covent-garden, where the wits of that time used to assemble, 
 and where Dryden had, when he lived, been accustomed to 
 preside. 
 
 During this period of his life he was indefatigably diligent, 
 and insatiably curious ; wanting health for violent, and money 
 for expensive pleasures, and having certainly excited in himself 
 very strong desires of intellectual eminence, he spent much of 
 his time over his books ; but he read only to store his min'' 
 
334 POPE. [1688— 
 
 with facts and images, seizing all that his authors presented 
 with undistinguishing voracity, and with an appetite for know- 
 ledge too eager to be nice. In a mind like his, however, 
 all the faculties were at once involuntarily improving. Judge- 
 ment is forced upon us by experience. He that reads many 
 books must compare one opinion or one style with another ; 
 and when he compares, must necessarily distinguish, reject, 
 and prefer. But the account given by himself of his studies 
 was, that from fourteen to twenty he read only for amusement, 
 from twenty to twenty-seven for improvement and instruction ; 
 that in the first part of this time he desired only to know, and 
 in the second he endeavoured to judge. 
 
 The Pastorals, which had been for some time handed about 
 'TO'i among poets and criticks, were at last printed (1709) in 
 Tons on's Miscellany, in a volume which began with the 
 ,1 '" ■■ Pastorals of Philips, and ended with those of Pope. 
 
 The same year was written the Essay on Criticism ; a work 
 which displays such extent of comprehension, such nicety 
 of distinction, such acquaintance with mankind, and such 
 ^ . knowledge both of ancient and modern learning, as are not 
 ~©ften attained by the maturest age and longest experience. 
 It was published abouLtwo years afterwards, and being praised 
 5 j by Addison in the Spectator with sufficient liberality, met with 
 ■^\i\ so much favour as enraged Dennis, "who," he says, "found 
 ' himself attacked, without any manner of provocation on his 
 
 side, and attacked in his person, instead of his writings, by one 
 who was wholly a stranger to him, at a time when all the world 
 knew he was persecuted by fortune ; and not only saw that this 
 was attempted in a clandestine manner, with the utmost false- 
 hood and calumny, but found that all this was done by a little 
 affected hypocrite, who had nothing in his mouth at the same 
 time but truth, candour, friendship, good-nature, humanity, and 
 magnanimity." 
 
 How the attack was clandestine is not easily perceived, nor 
 how his person is depreciated ; but he seems to have known 
 
, 1744] POPE. '- 335 
 
 something of Pope's character, in whom may be discovered 
 an appetite to talk too frequently of his own virtues. 
 
 The pamphlet is such as rage might be expected to dictate. 
 He supposes himself to be asked two questions ; whether the 
 Essay will succeed, and who or what is the author. 
 
 Its success he admits to be secured by the false opinions 
 then prevalent ; the author he concludes to be young and 
 raw. 
 
 " First, because he discovers a sufficiency beyond his littie 
 ability, and hath rashly undertaken a task infinitely above his 
 force. Secondly, while this Httle author struts, and affects, the 
 dictatorian air, he plainly shews that at the same time he is 
 under the rod ; and while he pretends to give law to others, is 
 a pedantick slave- to authority and opinion. Thirdly, he 
 hath, like school-boys, borrowed both from living and dead. 
 Fourthly, he knows not his own mind, and frequently con- 
 tradicts himself. Fifthly, he is almost perpetually in the 
 wrong." 
 
 All these positions he attempts to prove by quotations and 
 remarks ; but his desire to do mischief is greater than his 
 power. He has, however, justly criticised some passages, 
 in these lines. 
 
 There are whom Heaven has bless'd with store of wit, 
 Yet want asmuch, again to manage it : 
 For wit anSjudgement ever are at strife — 
 
 it is apparent that wit has two meanings, and that what is 
 wanted, though called wit, is truly judgement. So far Dennis 
 is undoubtedly right ; but, not content with argument, he will 
 have a little mirth, and triumphs over the first couplet in terms 
 too elegant to be forgotten. " By the way, what rare numbers 
 are here ! Would not one swear that this youngster had 
 espoused some antiquated Muse, who had sued out a divorce 
 on account of impotence from some superannuated sinner; 
 and, having been p — xed by her former spouse, has got 
 the gout in her decrepit age, which makes her hobble so 
 
336 POPE [i6S8— 
 
 damnably." This was the man who would reform a nation 
 sinking into barbarity. 
 
 In another place Pope himself allowed that Dennis had 
 detected one of those blunders which are called bulls. The 
 first edition had this line : 
 
 ' What is this wit — 
 
 Where wanted, scom'd ; and envied where acquir'd ? 
 
 "How," says the critick, "can wit be scorn' d y^\itxt it is not? 
 Is not this a figure frequently employed in Hibernjan land ? 
 The person that wants this wit may indeed be scorned, but 
 the scorn shews the honour which the contemner has for wit." 
 Of this remark Pope made the proper use, by correcting the 
 passage. 
 
 I have preserved, I think, all that is reasonable in Dennis's 
 criticism ; it remains that justice be done to his delicacy. 
 " For his acquaintance (says Dennis) he names Mr. Walsh, who 
 had by no means the qualification which this author reckons 
 absolutely necessary to a critick, it being very certain that he 
 was, like this Essayer, a very indifferent poet ; he loved to be 
 well dressed ; and I remember a Ktt:le young gentleman whom 
 Mr. Walsh used to take into his company, as a double foil tr 
 his person and capacity. — Enquire between Sunninghill and 
 Oakingham for a young, short, s£uab gentleman, the very bow 
 of the God of Love, and tell me whether he be a proper 
 author to make personal reflections? — He may extol the 
 antients, but he has reason to thank the gods that he was born 
 a modern ; for had he been born of Grecian parents, and his 
 father consequently had by law had the absolute disposal of 
 him, his life had been no longer than that of one of his poems, 
 the life of half a day. — Let the person of a gentleman of his 
 parts be never so contemptible, his inward man is ten times 
 more ridiculous; it being impossible that his outward form, 
 though it be that of downright monkey, should differ so much 
 from human shape, as his unthinking immaterial part does 
 
1744] POPE. 337 
 
 from human understanding.'' Thus begin the hostiHty between 
 Pope and Dennis, which, though it was suspended for a short 
 time, never was appeased. Pope seems, at first, to have 
 attacked him wantonly ; but though he always professed to 
 despise him, he discovers, by mentioning him very often, that 
 he felt his force or his venom. 
 
 Of this Essay Pope declared that he did not expect the sale 
 to be quick, because not one gentleman in sixty, even of liberal 
 education, could understand it. The gentlemen and the educa- 
 tion of that time seem to have been of a lower character than 
 they are of this. He mentioned a thousand copies as a 
 numerous impression. 
 
 Dennis was not his only censurer; the zealous papists 
 thought the monks treated with too much contempt, and 
 Erasmus too studiously praised; but "to these objections he 
 had not much regard. 
 
 The Essay has been translated into French by Hamilton, 
 author of the Comte de Grammont, whose version was never 
 printed; by Robotham, secretary to the King for Hanover, and 
 by Resnel ; and commented by Dr. Warburton, who has dis- 
 covered in it such order and connection as was not perceived 
 by Addison, nor, as is said, intended by the author. 
 
 Almost every poem, consisting of precepts, is so far arbitrary 
 and immethodical, that many of the paragraphs may change 
 places with no apparent inconvenience ; for of two or more 
 positions, depending upon some remote and general principle, 
 there is seldom any cogent reason why one should precede the 
 other. But for the order in which they stand, whatever it be, 
 a little ingenuity may easily give a reason. It is possible, says 
 Hooker, that by long circumduction, from any one-truth all truth 
 may be inferred. Of all homogeneous truths at least, of all truths 
 respecting the same general end, in whatever series they may 
 be produced, a concatenatiori^ by intermediate^ ideas may be 
 formed, such as, when it is once shewn, shall appear natural ; 
 but if this order be reversed, another mode of connection 
 
338 POPE. [1688— 
 
 equally specious may be found or made. Aristotle is praised 
 for naming Fortitude first of the cardinal virtues, as that 
 without which no other virtue can steadily be practised ; but 
 he might, with equal propriety, have placed Prudence and 
 Justice before it, since without Prudence Fortitude is mad ; 
 without Justice, it is mischievous. 
 
 As the end of method is perspicuity, that series is sufficiently 
 regular that avoids obscurity ; and where there is no obscurity 
 it will not be difficult to discover method. 
 
 In the Spectator was pubHshed the Messia h, which he first 
 submitted to the perusal of Steele, and corrected in compliance 
 with his criticisms. 
 
 It is reasonable to infer, from his Letters, that the verses on 
 the Unfortunate Lady were written about the time when his 
 Essay was published. ' The Lady's name and adventures I 
 have sought with fruitless enquiry. 
 
 I can therefore tell no more than I have learned from 
 Mr. Ruffhead, who writes with the confidence of one who 
 could trust his information. She was a woman of eminent 
 rank and large fortune, the ward of an unkle, who, having 
 given her a proper education, expected like other guardians 
 that she should make at least an equal match ; and such he 
 proposed to her, but found it rejected in favour of a young 
 gentleman of inferior condition. 
 
 Having discovered the correspondence between the two 
 lovers, and finding the young lady determined to abide by 
 her own choice, he supposed that separation might do what 
 can rarely be done by arguments, and sent her into a foreign 
 country, where she was obliged to converse only vrith those 
 from whom her unkle had nothing to fear. 
 
 Her lover took care to repeat his vows ; but his letters were 
 intercepted and carried to her guardian, who directed her 
 to be watched Avith still greater vigilance ; till of this restraint 
 she grew so impatient, that she bribed a woman-servant to 
 procure her a sword, which she directed to her heart. 
 
1744] POPE. 339 
 
 From this account, given with evident intention to raise 
 the Lady's character, it does not appear that she had any 
 claim to praise, nor much to compassion. She seems to 
 have been impatient, violent, and ungovernable. Her .unkle's 
 power could not have lasted long; the hour of liberty and 
 choice would have come in time. But her desires were too 
 hot for delay, and she liked self-murder better than suspence. 
 
 Nor is it discovered that the unkle, whoever he was, is with 
 much justice delivered to posterity as s. false Guardian; he 
 seems to have done only that for which a guardian is ap- 
 pointed; he endeavoured to direct his "niece till she should 
 be able to direct herself. Poetry has not often been worse 
 employed than in dignifying the amorous fury of a raving girl. 
 
 Not long after, he wrote the Rape of the Lock, the most 
 airy, the most ingenious, and the most delightful of all his 
 compositions, occasioned by a frolick of gallantry, rather too 
 familiar, in which Lord Petre cut off a lock of Mrs. Arabella 
 Termor's hair. This, whether stealth or violence, was so 
 much resented, that the commerce of the two families, before 
 very friendly, was interrupted. Mr. Caryl, a gentleman who, 
 being secretary to King James's Queen, had followed his Mistress 
 into France, and who being the author of Sir Solomon Single, 
 a comedy, and some translations, was entitled to the notice ^y ' ' ' 
 of a Wit, . solicited Pope to endeavour a reconciliation by a w^ " 
 ludicrous poem, which might bring both the parties to a better 
 temper. In compliance with Caryl's request, though his name 
 was for a long time marked only by the first and last letter, 
 C — 1, a poem of two_cantos was written (171 1), as is said, in 
 a fortnight, and sent to the offended Lady, who liked it well 
 enough to shew it ; and, with the usual process of literary 
 transactions, the author, dreading a surreptitious edition, was 
 forced to publish it. 
 
 The event is said to have been such as. was desired ; the 
 pacification and diversion of all to whom it related, except 
 Sir George Brown, who complained with some bitterness that, 
 
 z 2 
 
340 POPE. [1688— 
 
 in the character of Sir Plume, he was made to talk nonsense. 
 Whether all this be true, I have some doubt; for at Paris, 
 a few years ago, a niece of Mrs. Fermor, who presided in an 
 English Convent, mentioned Pope's work with very little 
 gratitude, rather as an insult than an honour; and she may 
 be supposed to have inherited the opinion of her family. 
 
 At its first appearance it was termed by Addison merum sal. 
 Pope, however, saw that it was capable of improvement ; and, 
 having luckily contrived to borrow his machinery from the 
 R osicr ucians, imparted the scheme with which his head was 
 teeming to Addison, who told him that his work, as it stood, 
 was a delicious little thing, and gave him no encourageihent to 
 retouch it. 
 
 This has been too hastily considered as an instance of 
 Addison's jealousy; for as he could not guess the conduct 
 of the new design, or the possibilities of pleasure comprised 
 in a fiction of which there had been no examples, he might 
 ' very reasonably and kindly persuade the author to acquiesce 
 in his own prosperity, and forbear an attempt which he 
 considered as an unnecessary hazard. 
 
 Addison's counsel was happily rejected. Pope foresaw the 
 future efflorescence of imagery then budding, in his mind, and 
 resolved to spare no art, or industry of culti^tion. The soft 
 luxuriance of his fancy was already shooting, afid all the gay 
 varieties of diction were ready at his hand to colour and 
 embellish it. \ 
 
 His attempt was justified by its success. The \Rape of the 
 Lock stands forward, in the classes of literature,! as the most 
 exquisite example of ludicrous poetry. Berkeley congratulated 
 him upon the display of powers more truly poetical than he 
 had shewn before; with elegance of description and justness 
 of precepts, he had now exhibited boundless fertility of 
 invention. 
 
 He always considered the intermixture of the machinery 
 with the action as his most successful exertion of poetical 
 
1744] POPE. 341 
 
 art. He indeed could never afterwards produce anything of 
 such unexampled excellence. Those performances, which 
 strike with wonder, are combinations of skilful genius with 
 happy casualty; and it is not likely that any felicity, like 
 the discovery of a new race of preternatural agents, should 
 happen twice to the same man. 
 
 Of this poem the author was, I think, allowed to enjoy 
 the praise for a long time without disturbance. Many years 
 afterwards Dennis published some remarks upon it, with very 
 little force, and with no effect ; for the opinion of the publick 
 was already settled, and it was no longer at the mercy of 
 criticism. 
 
 About this time he published the Temple of Fame, which, 
 as he tells Steele in their correspondence, he had written two . 
 years before ; that is, when he was only twenty-two years old, 
 an early time of life for so much learning and so much 
 observation as that work exhibits. 
 
 On this poem Dennis afterwards published some remarks, 
 of which the most reasonable is, that some of the lines 
 represent motion as exhibited by scutfture. ' 
 
 Of the Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, I do not know the 
 date. His first inclination to attempt a composition of that 
 tepder kind arose, as Mr. Savage told me, from his perusal 
 of Prior's Nut-brown Maid. How much he has surpassed 
 Prior's work it is not necessary to mention, when perhaps it 
 may be said with justice, that he has excelled every com- ^ 
 position of the same kind. The mixture of religious hope 
 and resignation gives an elevation and dignity to disappointed 
 love, which images merely natural cannot bestow. The gloom 
 of a convent strikes the imagination with far greater force than 
 the solitude of a grove. 
 
 This piece was, however, not much his favourite in his 
 latter years, though I never heard upon what principle he 
 slighted it. 
 
 In the next year (17 13) he published Windsor Forest; of 
 
342 POPE. [1688— 
 
 which part was, as he relates, written at sixteen, about the 
 same time as his Pastorals, and the latter part was added 
 afterwards : where the addition begins we are not told. The 
 I lines relating to the Peace confess their own date. It is 
 dedicated to Lord Lansdowne, who was then high in reputation 
 and influence among the Tories ; and it is said, that the con- 
 clusion of the poem gave great pain to Addison, both as a 
 poet and a politician. Reports like this are often spread with 
 boldness very disproportionate to their evidence. Why should 
 Addison receive any particular disturbance from the last lines 
 of Windsor Forest? If contrariety of opinion could poison 
 a politician, he would not live a day ; and, as a poet, he must 
 have felt Pope's force of genius much more from many other 
 parts of his works. 
 
 The pain that Addison might feel it is not likely that he 
 would confess; and it is certain that he so well suppressed 
 his discontent, that Pope now thought himself his favourite; 
 for having been consulted in the revisal of Cato, he introdu ced 
 it-43jr_aj£ja3l«gue ; and, when Dennis published his Remarks, 
 undertook not indeed to vindicate but to revenge his friend, 
 by a Narrative of the Frenzy of John Dennis. 
 
 There is reason to believe that Addison gave no encourage- 
 ment to this disingenuous hostility ; for, says Pope, in a letter 
 to him, " indeed your opinion, that 'tis entirely to be neglected, 
 would be my own in my own case ; but I felt more warmth 
 here than I did when I first saw his book against myself 
 (though indeed in two minutes it made me heartily merry)." 
 Addison was not a man on whom such cant of sensibility 
 could make much impression. He left the pamphlet to 
 itself, having disowned it to Dennis, and perhaps did not 
 think Pope to have deserved much by his ofificiousness. 
 , This year was printed in the Guardian the ironical comparison 
 i between the Pastorals of PhiUps and Pope ; a composition of 
 artifice, criticism, and literature, to which nothing equal wiU 
 easily be found. The superiority of Pope is so ingeniously 
 
1744] POPE. 343 
 
 dissembled, and the feeble lines of Philips so skilfully pre- 
 ferred, that Steele, being deceived, was unwilling to print the 
 paper lest Pope should be oifended. Addison inrmediately 
 saw the writer's design ; and, as it seems, had malice enough 
 to conceal his discovery, and to permit a publication which, 
 by making his friend Philips ridiculous, made him for ever an 
 enemy to Pope. 
 
 It appears that about this time Pope had a strong inclination 
 to unite the art of Painting "with that of Poetry, and put himself 
 under the tuition of Jervas. He was near-sighted, and there- 
 fore not formed by nature for a painter : he tried, however, 
 how far he could advance, and sometimes persuaded his friends '^ ^ ^ 
 to sit. A picture of Bgtterton, supposed to be drawn by him,, , r 
 was in the possession of Lord Mansfield : if this was taken from ^'^^ ' 
 the life, he must have begun to paint earlier ; for Betterton was '' ' ' 
 now dead. Pope's ambition of this new art produced some 
 encomiastick verses to Jervas, which certainly shew his power 
 as a poet, but I have been told that they betray his ignorance 
 of painting. 
 
 He appears to have regarded Betterton with kindness and 
 esteem ; and after his death published, under his name, a 
 version into modern English of Chaucer's Prologues, and one 
 of his Tales, which, as was related by Mr. Harte, were believed 
 to have been the performance of Pope himself by Fenton, who 
 made him a gay. offer of five pounds if he would shew them in 
 the hand of Betterton. 
 
 The next year (17 13) produced a bolder attempt, by which 
 profit was sought as well as praise. The poems which he had 
 hitherto written, however they might have diffused his name, 
 had made very little addition to his fortune. The allowance 
 which his father made him, though, proportioned to vrhai he 
 had, it might be liberal, could not be large ; his religion hindered 
 him from the occupation of any civil emplo)rment, and he com- 
 plained that he wanted even money to buy books.' 
 ^ S pence. 
 
344 POPE. [1688— 
 
 He therefore resolved to try how far the favour of the publick 
 extended, by soHciting a subscription to a version of the IHad, 
 with large notes. 
 
 To print by subscription was, for some time, a practice 
 peculiar to the English. The first considerable work for which 
 this expedient was employed is said to have been Dryden's 
 Virgil ; and it had been tried again with great success when the 
 Tatlers were collected into volumes. 
 
 There was reason to believe that Pope's attempt would be 
 successful. He was in'the full bloom of reputation, and was 
 personally known to almost all whom dignity of employment 
 or splendour of reputation had made eminent ; he conversed 
 indifferently with both parties, and never disturbed the publick 
 with his political opinions ; and it might be naturally expected, 
 as each faction then boasted its literary zeal, that the great men, 
 who on other occasions practised all the violence of opposition, 
 would emulate each other in their encouragement of a poet who 
 had delighted all, and by whom none had been offended. 
 
 With those hopes, he offered an English Iliad to subscribers, 
 in six volumes in (juarto, for six guineas ; a sum, according to 
 the value of money at that time, by no means inconsiderable, 
 and greater than I believe to have been ever asked before. 
 His proposal, however, was very favourably received, and the 
 patrons of literature were busy to recommend his undertaking, 
 and promote his interest. Lord Oxford, indeed, lamented that 
 such a genius should be wasted upon a work not original ; but 
 proposed no means by which he might live without it : Addison 
 recommended caution and moderation, and advised him not 
 to be content with the praise of half the nation when he might 
 be universally favoured. 
 
 The greatness of the design, the popularity of the author, and 
 the attention of the literary world, naturally raised such expecta- 
 tions of the future sale,|that the booksellers made their offers with 
 great eagerness; but the highest bidder was Bernard Lintot, 
 who became proprietor on condition of supplying, at his own 
 
1744] POPE. 345 
 
 expence, all the copies which were to be delivered to sub- 
 scribers, or presented to friends, and paying two hundred 
 pounds for every volume. 
 
 Of the Quartos it was, I believe, stipulated that none should 
 be printed but for the author, that the subscription might not 
 be depreciated ; but Lintot impressed the same pages upon a 
 small Folio, and paper perhaps a little thinner ; and sold 
 exactly at half the price, for half a guinea each volume, books 
 so little inferior to the Quartos, that, by a fraud of trade, those 
 Folios, being afterwards shortened by cutting away the top and 
 bottom, were sold as copies printed for the subscribers. 
 
 Lintot printed two hundred and fifty on royal paper in 
 Folio for two guineas a volume ; of the small Folio, having 
 printed seventeen hundred and fifty copies of the first volume, 
 he reduced the number in the other volumes to a thousand. 
 
 It is unpleasant to relate that the bookseller, after all his 
 hopes and all his liberality, was, by a very unjust and illegal 
 action, defrauded of his profit. An edition of the English 
 Iliad was printed in Holland in Duodecimo, and imported 
 clandestinely for the gratification of those who were impatient 
 to read what they could not yet afford to buy. This fraud could 
 only be counteracted by an edition equally cheap and more com- 
 modious ; and Lintot was compelled to contract his Folio at 
 once into a Duodecimo, and lose the advantage of an inter- 
 mediate gradation. The notes, which in the Dutch copies 
 were placed at the end of each book, as they had been in the 
 large volumes, were now subjoined to the text in the same 
 page, and are therefore more easily consulted. Of this edition 
 two thousand five hundred were first printed, and five thousand 
 a few weeks afterwards ; but indeed great numbers were 
 necessary to produce considerable profit. 
 
 Pope, having now emitted his proposals, and engaged not 
 only his own reputation, but in some degree that of his friends 
 who patronised his subscription, began to be frighted at his- 
 own undertaking; and finding himself at first embarrassed 
 
346 1 POPE. [1688— 
 
 with i difficulties, which retarded and oppressed him, he was 
 for a time timorous and uneasy ; had his nights disturbed by 
 dreams of long journeys through unknown ways, and wished, ' 
 as he said, that somebody would hang him^ 
 
 This misery, however, was not of long continuance j he 
 grew by degrees more acquainted with Homer's images and 
 expressions, and practice increased his facility of versification. 
 In a short time he represents himself as dispatching regularly 
 fifty verses a day, which would shew him by an easy com- 
 putation the termination of his labour. 
 
 His own diffidence was not his only vexation. He that asks 
 a subscription soon finds that he has enemies. All who do not 
 encourage him defame him. He that wante money will 
 rather be thought angry than poor, and he that wishes to save 
 his money conceals his avarice by his malice. Addison had 
 hinted his suspicion that Pope was too much a Tory; and 
 some of the Tories suspected his principles because he had 
 contributed to the Guardian, which was carried on by Steele. 
 
 To those who censured his politicks were added enemies yet 
 more dangerous, who called in question his knowledge of Greek, 
 and his qualifications for a translator of Homer. To these he 
 made no publick opposition ; but in one of his Letters escapes 
 frpm them as well as he can. At an age like his — for he was 
 not more than twenty-five^with an irregular education, and a 
 course of life of which much seems to have passed in conver- 
 sation, it is not very likely that he overflowed with Greek. 
 But when he felt himself deficient he sought assistance ; and 
 what man of learning would refuse to help him ? Minute 
 enquiries into the force of words are less necessary in translating 
 Homer than other poets, because his positions are general, and 
 his representations natural, with very little dependence on local 
 or temporary customs, on those changeable scenes of artificial 
 life, which, by mingling original with accidental notions, and 
 crowding the mind with images which time effaces, produce 
 '^ S pence. 
 
 V\,' 
 

 1744] POPE. 347 
 
 ambiguity in diction, and obscurity in books. To this open 
 display of unadulterated nature it must be ascribed, that Homer 
 has fewer passages of doubtful meaning than any other poet 
 either in the learned or in modern languages. I have read of 
 a man, who being, by his ignorance of Greek, compelled to 
 gratify his curiosity with the Latin printed on the opposite 
 page, declared that from the rude simplicity of the lines literally 
 rendered, he formed nobler ideas of the Homeric majesty than 
 from the laboured elegance of polished versions. 
 
 Those literal translations were always at hand, and from 
 them h^ could easily obtain his author's sense with sufficient 
 certainty; and among the readers of Homer the number \ 
 is very small of those who find much in the Greek more j 
 than iii the Latin, except the musick of the numbers. <f^' e^^> 
 
 If more help was wanting, he had the poetical translatiorih'i v- i~- 
 of Eobanug_Hessus, an unwearied writer of Latin verses; he/t/f-f 
 had the French Homers of L'a YsJterie and Dacier, and the li't^ 
 English of Chapman, Hobbes, and Ogylby. With Chapman, j. 
 whose work, though now totally neglected, seems to have been 
 popular almost to the end of the last century, he had very 
 frequent consultations, and perhaps never translated any 
 passage till he had read his version, which indeed he has 
 been sometimes suspected of using instead of the original. 
 
 Notes were likewise to be provided ; for the six volumes 
 would have been very little more than six pamphlets without 
 them. What the mere perusal of the text could suggest. 
 Pope wanted no assistance to collect or methodize ; but 
 more was necessary; many pages were to be filled, and 
 learning must supply materials to wit and judgement. Some- 
 thing might be gathered from Dacier ; but no man loves to 
 be indebted to his contemporaries, and! Dacier was accessible 
 to common readers. Eustathius was therefore necessarily * 
 consulted. To read Eustpihius, of whose work there was 
 then no Latin version,- I suspect Pope, if he had been 
 willing, not to have been able; some other was therefore 
 
/ i/^ { UV: . - ;■■ ^- "-•- 9 & > K 
 
 348 POPE. [16SS— 
 
 to be found, who had leisure as well as abilities, and he 
 was doubtless most readily employed who would do much 
 work for little money. 
 
 The history of the notes has never been traced. Bjoome, 
 in his preface to his poems, declares himself the commentator 
 ^i.j f in part upon the Iliad; and it appears from Fqnton's Letter, 
 _j-^-lk preserved in the Museum, that Broome was at first engaged 
 : " in consulting Eustathius ; but that after a time, whatever was 
 the *teason, he desisted : another man of Cambridge was then 
 employed, who soon grew weary of the work; and a third, 
 that was recommended by Thirlby, is now discovered to have 
 been Jortin, a man since well known to the learned world, 
 who complained that Pope, having accepted and approved 
 his performance, never testified any curiosity to- see him, and 
 who professed to have forgotten the terms on which he worked. 
 The terms which Fenton uses are very mercantile : / think at 
 first sight that his performance is very commendable, and have 
 sent word for him to foiish the iph book, and to send -it with 
 his demands for his trouble. I have here enclosed the specimen; 
 if the rest come before th^ return, I will keep them till I receive 
 your order. 
 
 Broome then offered his service a second time, which was 
 probably accepted, as they had afterwards a closer correspon- 
 dence. Parnell contributed the Life of Homer, which Pope 
 found so harsh, that he took great pains in correcting it ; and 
 by his own dihgence, with such help as kindness or money 
 could procure him, in somewhat more than five years he 
 completed his version of the Iliad, with the notes. He began 
 it in 17 1 2, his twenty-fifth year, and concluded it in 17 18, his 
 thirtieth year. 
 
 When we find him translating fifty lines a day, it is natural 
 to suppose that he would have brought his work to a more 
 speedy conclusion. The Iliad, containing less than sixteen 
 thousand verses, might have been dispatched in less than 
 three hundred and twenty days by fifty verses in a day. 
 
 "-S 
 
1744] POPE. ,349 
 
 The notes, compiled with the assistance of his mercenaries, 
 could not be supposed to require more time than the text. 
 According to this calculation, the progress of Pope may seem 
 to have been slow ; but the distance is commonly very great 
 between actual performances and speculative possibility. It 
 is natural to suppose, that as much as has been done to-day 
 may be done to-morrow; but on the morrow some difficulty 
 emerges, or some external impediment obstructs. Indolence, 
 interruption, business, and pleasure, all take their turns of 
 ' retardation ; and every long work is lengthened by a thousand 
 causes that can, and ten thousand that cannot, be recounted. 
 Perhaps no extensive and multifarious performance was ever 
 effected within the term originally fixed in the undertaker's ^^ 
 mind. He that rui«_against Time, has an antagonist not, .„w 
 subject to casualties. '^'-''^ ' ' 
 
 The encouragement given to this translation, though report 
 seems to have over-rated it, was such as the world has not often 
 seen. The subscribers were five hundred and seventy-five. 
 The copies for which subscriptions were given were six hundred 
 and fifty-four ; arid only six hundred and sixty were printed. 
 For those copies Pope had nothing to pay; he therefore 
 received, including the two hundred pounds a volume, five 
 thousand three hundred and twenty pounds four shillings, 
 without deduction, as the books were supplied by Lintot. 
 
 By the success of his subscription Pope was reheved from 
 those pecuniary distresses with which, notwithstanding his 
 popularity, he had hitherto struggled. Lord Oxford had often 
 lamented his disqualification for public employment, but never 
 proposed a pension. While the translation of Homer was in 
 its progress, Mr. Craggs, then secretary of state, offered to 
 procure him a pension, which, at least during his ministry, 
 might be enjoyed with secrecy. This was not accepted by Pope, 
 who told him, however, that, lY he should, be pressed with want 
 of money, he would send to him for occasional supplies. 
 Craggs was not long in power, and was never solicited for 
 
350 POPE. [1688— 
 
 money by Pope, who disdained to beg what he did not 
 want. 
 
 With the product of this subscription, which he had too 
 much discretion to squander, he secured his future life from 
 want, by considerable annuities. The estate of the Duke of 
 • Buckingham was found to have been charged with five hundred 
 pounds a years, payable to Pope, which doubtless his translation 
 enabled him to purchase. 
 
 It cannot be unwelcome to literary curiosity, that I deduce 
 thus minutely the history of the English Iliad. It is certainly 
 the noblest version of poetry which the world has ever seen ; 
 and its publication must therefore be considered as one of the 
 great events in the annals of Learning. 
 
 To those who have skill to estimate the excellence and 
 difficulty of this great work, it must be very desirable to know 
 how it was performed, and by what gradations it advanced to 
 correctness. Of such an intellectual process the knowledge has 
 very rarely been attainable ; but happily there remains the 
 original copy of the Iliad, which, being obtained by Bolingbroke 
 as a curiosity, descended from him to Mallet, and is now by the 
 solicitation of the late Dr. Maty reposited in the Museum. 
 
 Between this manuscript, which is written upon accidental 
 fragments of paper, and the printed edition, there must have 
 been an intermediate copy, that was perhaps destroyed as it 
 returned from the press. 
 
 From the first copy I have procured a few transcripts, and 
 shall exhibit first the printed lines ; then, in a smaller print, 
 those of the-manuscripts, with all their variations. Those words 
 in the small print which are given in Italics, are cancelled in the 
 copy, and the words placed under them adopted in their stead. 
 
 The beginning of the first book stands thus : 
 
 The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful spring 
 Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing ; 
 That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign 
 The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain. 
 
1744] POPE. 351 
 
 The stem Pelides' rage, O Goddess, sing, 
 wrath 
 Of all the woes of Greece the fatal spring, 
 
 Grecian 
 That strew'd with warriors dead the Phrygian plain, 
 
 heroes 
 And peopled the dark hell with heroes slain ; 
 fiU'd the shady hell with chiefs untimely 
 
 Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore, 
 
 Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore, 
 
 Since great Achilles and Atrides strove ; 
 
 Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove. 
 
 Whose limbs, unburied on the hostile shore, 
 
 Devouring dogs and greedy vultures tore. 
 
 Since first Atrides and Achilles strove ; 
 
 Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove. 
 
 Declare, O Muse, in what ill-fated hour 
 
 Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended Power ! 
 
 Latona's son a dire contagion spread, 
 
 And heap'd the camp with mountains of the dead ; 
 
 The King of Men his reverend priest defy'd. 
 
 And for the King's offence the people dy'd. 
 
 Declare, O Goddess, what offended Power 
 Enflam'd their rage, in that ill-omen' d hour ;, 
 
 anger fatal, hapless 
 
 Phoebus himself the dire debate procur'd, 
 
 fierce 
 T' avenge the wrongs his injur'd priest endur'd ; 
 For this the God a dire infection spread, 
 And heap'd the camp with millions of the dead : 
 The King of Men the sacred Sire defy'd. 
 And for the King's offence the people dy'd. 
 
 For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain 
 His captive daughter from the Victor's chain ; 
 Suppliant the venerable Father stands, 
 Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands. 
 By these he begs, and, lowly bending down, 
 Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown. 
 
 For Chryses sought h^ presents to regain 
 
 costly gifts to gain 
 His captive daughter from the Victor's chain ; 
 Suppliant tl^e venerable Father stands, 
 Apollo's awful ensigns grac'd his hands. 
 
352 , POPE. [i68S— 
 
 By these he begs,, and lowly bending down 
 The golden sceptre and the laurel crown, 
 Presents the sceptre 
 For these as ensigns of his Cod he bare. 
 The God that sends his golden shafts afar ; 
 The low on earth, the venerable man, 
 Suppliant before the brother kings began. 
 
 He sued to all, but chief implor'd for grace 
 The brother kings of Atreus' royal race ; 
 Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crown' d, 
 And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground ; 
 May Jove restore you, when your toils, are o'er, 
 Safe to the pleasures of your native shore. 
 
 To all he sued, but chief implor'd for grace 
 The brother kings of Atreus royal race. 
 Ye sons of Atreus, may your vows be crown'd, 
 Kings and warriors 
 
 Your labours, by the Gods be all your labours crmirHd ; 
 So may the Gods your aifms with conquest bless. 
 And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground ; 
 
 Till laid 
 
 And crown your labours with deserv'd success ; 
 May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er, 
 Safe to the pleasures of your native shore. 
 
 But, oh ! relieve a wretched parent's pain, 
 And give Chryseis to these arms again ; 
 If mercy fail, yet let my present move, 
 And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove. 
 
 But, oh ; relieve a hapless parent's pain. 
 And give my daughter to these arms again ; 
 Receive my gifts ; if mercy fails, yet let my present move. 
 And fear the God that deals his darts around, 
 avenging Phoebus, son of Jove. 
 
 The Greeks, in shouts, their joint assent declare 
 The priest to reverence, and release the fair. 
 Not so Atrides : he, with kingly pride, 
 Repuls'd the sacred Sire, and thus reply'd. 
 
 He said, the Greeks their joint assent declare, 
 The father said, tkegen'rous Greeks relent, 
 T' accept the ransom, and release the fair : 
 Revere the priest, and speak their joint assent : 
 Not so the tyrant, he, with kingly pride, 
 
 Atrides, 
 Repuls'd the sacred Sire, and thus reply'd. 
 
 [Not so the tyrant. Dryden.] 
 
1744] POPE. 353 
 
 Of these lines, and of the whole first book, I am told that 
 there was yet a former copy, more varied, and more deformed 
 with interlineations. 
 
 The beginning of the secpnd book varies very little from the 
 printed page, and is therefore set down without any parallel : 
 the few slight differences do not require to be elaborately 
 displayed. 
 
 Now pleasing sleep had seal'd each mortal eye ; 
 Stretch'd in their tents the Grecian leaders lie ; 
 Th' Immortals slumber'd on their thrones above. 
 All but the ever- watchful eye of Jove. 
 To honour Thetis' son he bends his care, 
 ' And plunge the Greeks in all the woes of war. 
 Then bids an empty phantom rise to sight, 
 And thus commands the vision of the night : 
 
 directs 
 Fly hence, delusive dream, and, light as air. 
 To Agamemnon's royal tent repair ; 
 Bid him in arms draw forth th' embattled train, 
 March all his legions to the dusty plain. 
 Now tell the King 'tis given him to destroy 
 Declare ev'n now 
 The lofty walls of wide-extended Troy ; 
 
 towr's 
 For now no more the Gods with Fate contend ; 
 At Juno's suit the heavenly factions end. 
 Destruction hovers o'er yon devoted wall, 
 
 hangs 
 And nodding Ilium waits th' impending fall. 
 
 Invocation to the Catalogue of Ships. 
 
 Say, Virgins, seated round the throne divine. 
 All-knowing Goddesses ! immortal Nine ! 
 Since earth's wide regions, heaven's unmeasured height, 
 And hell's abyss, hide nothing from your sight, 
 (We, wretched mortals ! lost in doubts below. 
 But guess by rumour, and but boast we know) 
 Oh say what heroes, fir'd by thirst of fame. 
 Or urg'd by wrongs, to Troy's destruction came ! 
 To count them all, demands a thousand tongues, 
 A throat of brass and adamantine lungs. 
 
 A A 
 
354 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Now, Virgin Goddesses, immortal Nine ! 
 That round Olympus' heavenly summit shine, 
 Who see through heaven and earth, and hell profound, 
 And all things know, and all things can resound ; 
 Relate what armies sought the Trojan land. 
 What nations follow'd, and what chiefs command ; 
 (For doubtful Fame distracts mankind below. 
 And nothing can we tell, and nothing know) 
 Without your aid, to count th' unnumber'd train,' 
 A thousand mouths, a thousand tongues were vain. 
 
 Book 'Sf. V. I. 
 
 But Pallas now Tydides' soul inspires. 
 Fills with her force, and warms with all her fires : 
 Above the Greeks his deathless fame to raise, 
 And crown her hero with distinguish'd praise, 
 High on his helm celestial lightnings play. 
 His beamy shield emits a living ray ; 
 Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, 
 Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. 
 
 But Pallas now Tydides' soul inspires. 
 Fills with her rage, and warms with all her fires ; 
 
 force. 
 O'er all the Greeks decrees his fame to raise, 
 Above the Greeks her warrior's fame to raise, 
 
 his deathless 
 And crown her hero with immortal praise : 
 
 distinguish'd 
 Bright from his beamy crest the lightnings play. 
 High on helm 
 
 From his broad buckler flash'd the living ray, 
 High on his helm celestial lightnings play. 
 His beamy shield emits a living ray. 
 The Goddess with her breath the flame supplies, 
 Bright as the star whose fires in Autumn rise ; 
 Her breath divine thick streaming flame supplies. 
 Bright as the star that fires the autumnal sl<ies : 
 Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies. 
 Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. 
 
 When first he rears his radiant orb to sight. 
 And bath'd in ocean shoots a keener light. 
 Such glories Pallas on the chief bestow' d, 
 Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow'd ; 
 Onward she drives him furious to engage, 
 Where the fight burns, and where the thickest rage. 
 
 When fresh he rears his radiant orb to sight, 
 And gilds old Ocean with a blaze of light. 
 
1744] POPE. 355 
 
 Bright as the star that fires th' autumnal skies, 
 Fresh from the deep, and gilds the seas and skies. 
 Such glories Pallas on her chief bestow'd, 
 Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flow'd. 
 Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow'd. 
 Onward she drives him headlong to engage, 
 
 ^ furious 
 Where the war bleeds, and where the fiercest rage, 
 fight burns, thickest 
 
 The sons of Dates first the combat sought, 
 A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault ; 
 In Vulcan's fane the father's days were led, 
 The sons to toils of glorious battle bred. 
 
 There liv'd a Trojan — Dares was his name. 
 The priest of Vulcan, rich, yet void of blame ; 
 The sons of Dares first the combat sought, 
 A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault. 
 
 Conclusion of Book VIII. v. 687. 
 
 As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, 
 O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light ; 
 When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
 And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
 And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole : 
 O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure slied. 
 And tip with silver every mountain's head ; 
 Then shine the vales — the rocks in prospect rise, 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies ; 
 The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight. 
 Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. 
 So many flames before proud Ilion blaze. 
 And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays ; 
 The long reflexion of the distant fires 
 Glearn_on the walTi, and tremble_^on the spires : 
 A thoiisand piles the dusky horrors gild. 
 And shpot a shad5cjustre o'er the field ; 
 Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, 
 Whose umber'd arms by fits thick flashes send ; 
 Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn. 
 And ardent warriors wait the rising mom. 
 
 As when in stillness of the silent night. 
 As when the moon in all her lustre bright. 
 As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, 
 O'er heaven's clear azure sheds her silver light ; 
 pure spreads sacred , 
 
 A A 2 
 
3S6 POPE. [1688— 
 
 As still in air the trembling lustre stood. 
 And o'er its golden border shoots a flood ; 
 When no loose gale disturbs the deep serene, 
 
 not a breath 
 And no dim cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; 
 
 not a 
 Around her silver throne the planets glow, 
 And stars unnumber'd trembling beams bestow : 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
 And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole : 
 Clear gleams of light o'er the dark trees are seen, 
 
 o'er the dark trees a yellow sheds. 
 O'er the dark trees a yellower green they shed, 
 gleam 
 verdure 
 And tip with silver all the mountain heads 
 
 forest 
 And tip with silver every mountain's head. 
 The vallies open, and the forests rise. 
 The vales appear, the rocks in prospect rise, 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
 All Nature stands reveal'd before our eyes ; 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies. 
 The conscious shepherd, joyful at the sight, 
 Eyes the blue vault, and numbers every light. 
 The conscious swains rejoicing at the sight 
 
 shepherds gazing with delight 
 Eye the blue vault, and bless the vivid light. 
 
 glorious 
 useful _ 
 So many flames before Ihe navy blaze, 
 
 proud Ilion 
 And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays, 
 Wide o'er the fields to Troy extend the gleams. 
 And tip the distant spires with fainter beams ; 
 The long reflexions of the distant tires 
 Gild the high walls, and tremble on the spires. 
 Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires ; 
 A thousand fires at distant stations bright. 
 Gild the dark prospect, and dispel the night. 
 
 Of these specimens every man who has cultivated poetry, or 
 who delights to trace the mind from the rudeness of its first 
 conceptions to the elegance of its last, will naturally desire a 
 greater number ; but most other readers are already tired, and 
 I am not writing only to poets and philosophers. 
 
 The Iliad was published volume by volume, as the transla- 
 tion proceeded ; the four first books appeared in 1715. The 
 
1744] POPE. 357 
 
 expectation of this work was undoubtedly high, and every man 
 who had connected his name with criticism, or poetry, was 
 desirous of such intelligence as might enable him to talk upon 
 the popular topick. Halifa x, who, by having been first a poet, 
 and then a patron of poetry, had acquired the right of being a 
 judge, was wiUing to hear some books while they were yet un- 
 published. Of this rehearsal Pope afterwards gave the follow- 
 ing account.^ 
 
 "The famous Lord Halifax was rather a pretender to taste 
 than really possessed of it. — When I had finished the two or 
 t hree first bo oks of my translation of the Iliad, that LoidT de- 
 sired to have the pleasure of hearing them read at his house. — • 
 Addison, Congreve, and Garth, were there at the reading. In 
 four or five places. Lord Halifax stopt me very civilly, and with 
 a speech each time, much of the same kind, ' I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. Pope; but there is something in that passage that does not 
 quite please me. — Be so good as to mark the place, and con- 
 sider it a little at your leisure. I'm sure you can give it a little 
 turn.'— I returned from LordJ Halifax's with Dr. Garth, in his 
 cljariot; and, as we were going along, was saying to the Doctor, 
 that my Lord had laid me under a good deal of difficulty by 
 such loose and general observations ; that I had [.been thinking 
 over the passages almost ever since, and could not guess at what 
 it was that offended his Lordship in either of them. Garth 
 laughed heartily at my embarrassment ; said, I had not been 
 long enough acquainted with Lord Halifax to know his way yet ; 
 that I need not puzzle myself about looking those places over 
 and over, when I got home. 'All you need do (says he) is to 
 leave them just as they are; call on Lord Halifax two or three 
 months hence, thank him for his kind observations on those 
 passages, and then read them to him as altered. I have known 
 him much longer than you have, and will be answerable for the 
 event.' I followed his advice ; waited on Lord Halifax 
 some time after ; said, I hoped he would find his objections 
 ^ Spence. 
 
3S8 POPE. [1688— 
 
 to those passages removed ; read them to him exactly as they 
 were at first: and his Lordship was extremely pleased with 
 them, and cried out, Ay, now they are perfectly right : nothing 
 can be better." 
 
 It is seldom that the great or the wise suspect that they are 
 despised or cheated. HaHfax, thinking this a lucky opportunity 
 of securing immortality, made some advances of favour 'and 
 some overtures of advantage to Pope, which he seems to have 
 received with sullen coldness. All our knowledge of this 
 transaction is derived from a single Letter (Dec. i, 17 14), in 
 which Pope says, " I am obliged to you, both for the favours you 
 have done me, and those you intend me. I distrust neither 
 your will nor your memory, when it is to do good ; and if I 
 ever become troublesome or solicitous, it must not be out of 
 expectation, but out of gratitude. Your Lordship may cause 
 me to live agreeably in the town, or contentedly in the country, 
 which is really all the difference I set between an easy fortune 
 and a small one. It is indeed a high strain of generosity in 
 you to think of making me easy all my life, only because I have 
 been so happy as to divert you some fefw hours ; but, if I may 
 have leave to add it is because you think me no enemy to 
 my native country, there will appear a better reason; for I 
 must of consequence be very much (as I sincerely am) 
 yours, &c." 
 
 These voluntary offers, and this faint acceptance, ended 
 without effect. The patron was not accustomed to such frigid 
 gratitude, and the poet fed his own pride with the dignity of 
 independence. They probably were suspicious of each other. 
 Pope would not dedicate till he saw at what rate his praise 
 was valued ; he would be troublesome out of gratitude, not 
 expectation. Halifax thought himself entitled to confidence ; 
 and would give nothing, unless he knew what he should receive. 
 Their commerce had its beginning in hope of praise on one 
 side, and of money on the other, and ended because Pope was 
 less eager of money than Halifax of praise. It is not likely 
 
1744] POPE. 359 
 
 that Halifax had any personal benevolence to Pope ; it is 
 evident that Pope looked on Halifax with scorn and hatred. 
 
 The reputation of this great work failed of gaining him a patron; 
 but it deprived him of a friend. Addison and he were now at 
 the head of poetry and criticism ; and both in such a state of 
 elevation, that, like the two rivals in the Roman state, one 
 could no longer bear an equal, nor the other a superior. Of 
 the gradual abatement of kindness between friends, the 
 beginning is often scarcely discernible by themselves, and the 
 process is continued by petty provocations, and incivilities 
 sometimes peevishly returned, and sometimes contemptuously 
 neglected, which would escape all attention but that of pride, 
 and drop from any memory but that of resentment. That the 
 quarrel of those two wits should be minutely deduced, is not to 
 be expected from a writer to whom, as Homer says, nothing but 
 humour has reached, and who has no persotial knowledge. 
 
 Pope doubtless approached Addison, when the reputation of 
 their wit first brought them together, with the respect due to a man 
 whose abilities were acknowledged, and who, having attained 
 that eminence to which he was himself aspiring, had in his 
 hands the distribution of literary fame. He paid court with 
 sufficient diligence by his Prologue to Cato, by his abuse of 
 Dennis, and, with praise yet more direct, by his poem on the 
 Dialogues on Medals, of which the immediate publication was 
 then intended. In all this there was no hypocrisy ; for he con- 
 fessed that he found in Addison something more pleasing than 
 in any other man. 
 
 It may be supposed, that as Pope saw himself favoured by 
 the world, and more frequently compared his own powers with 
 those of others, his confidence increased, and his submission 
 lessened ; and that Addison felt no delight from the advances 
 of a young wit, who might soon contend with him for the 
 highest place. Every great man, of whatever kind be his 
 greatness, has among his friends those who officiously, or 
 
 insidiously, quicken his attention to offences, heighten his 
 
36o " .POPE. [1688— 
 
 disgust, and stimulate his resentment. Of such adherents 
 Addison doubtless had many, and Pope was now too high to 
 be without them. 
 
 From the emission and reception of the Proposals for the 
 Iliad, the kindness of Addison seems to have abated. Jervas 
 the painter once pleased himself (Aug. 20, 17 14) with imagining 
 that he had re-established their friendship ; and wrote to Pope 
 that Addison once suspected him of too close a confederacy 
 with Swift, but was now satisfied with his conduct. To this 
 Pope answered, a week after, that his engagements to Swift 
 were such as his services in regard to the subscription demanded, 
 and that the Tories never put him under the necessity of asking 
 -leave to be grateful. But, says he, as Mr. Addison must be the 
 judge in what regards himself, and seems to he no very just one 
 in regard to me, so I must own to you T expect nothing hut 
 civility from him. In the same Letter he mentions Philips, 
 as having been busy to kindle animosity between them ; but, 
 in a Letter to Addison, he expresses some consciousness of 
 behaviour inattentively deficient in respect. 
 
 Of Swift's industry in promoting the subscription there 
 remains the testimony of Kgnpet, no friend to either him or 
 Pope. 
 
 "Nov. 2, 1 7 13, Dr. Swift came into the coffee-house, and 
 had a bow from every body but me, who, I confess, could not 
 but despise him. When I came to the anti-chamber to wait, 
 before prayers. Dr. Swift was the principal man of talk and 
 business, and acted as master of requests. — Then he instructed 
 a young nobleman that the hest 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 /" have a thousand 
 guineas for him." 
 
 About this time it is likely that Steele, who was, with all his 
 political fury, good-natured and ofl5cious, procured an interview 
 between these angry rivals, which ended in aggravated 
 
1744] POPE. 361 
 
 malevolence. On' this occasion, if the reports be true, Pope 
 made his complaint with frankness and spirit, as a man 
 undeservedly neglected or opposed ; and Addison affected a 
 contemptuous unconcern, and, in a calm even voice, reproached 
 Pope with his vanity, and, telling him of the improvements j 
 which his early works had received from his own remarks and r,J), 
 those of Steele, said, that he, being now engaged in public ,-, 
 business, had no longer any care for his poetical reputation ; ,7 p// ■ 
 nor had any other desire, with regard to Pope, than that his , ,. 
 should not, by too much arrogance, alienate the publick. r: 
 
 To this Pope is said to have replied with great keenness and 
 severity, upbraiding Addison with perpetual dependance, and 
 with the abuse of those qualifications which he had obtained at 
 the publick cost, and charging him with mean endeavours to 
 obstruct the progress of rising merit. The contest rose so high, 
 that they parted at last without any interchange of civility. 
 
 The' first volume of Homer was (1715) in time published; 
 and a rival version of the first Iliad, for rivals the time of their 
 appearance inevitably made them, was immediately printed, 
 with the name of Tickell. It was soon perceived that, among 
 the followers of Addison, Tickell had the preference, and the 
 criticks and poets divided into factions. /, says Pope, have 
 the town, that is, the mob, on my side; but it is not uncommon 
 for the smaller party to supply by industry what it wants in 
 numbers. — / appeal to the people as my rightful judges, and, 
 while they are not inclined to condemn the, shall not fear the high- 
 flyers at Button! s. This opposition he immediately imputed to 
 Addison, and complained of it in terms sufficiently resentful to 
 Craggs, their common friend. 
 
 When Addison's opinion was asked, he declared the versions 
 to be both good, but Tickell's the best that had ever been 
 written ; and sometimes said that they were both good, but 
 that Tickell had more of Homer. 
 
 Pope was now sufficiently irritated ; his reputation and his 
 interest were at hazard. He once intended to print together 
 
362 pope; [1688— 
 
 the four versions of Dryden, Maynwaring, Pope, and Tickell, 
 that they might be readily compared, and fairly estimated. 
 This design seems to have been defeated by the refusal of 
 Tonson, who was the proprietor of the other three versions. 
 
 Pope intended at another time a rigorous criticism of Tickell's 
 
 translation, and had marked a copy, which I have seen, in all 
 
 places that appeared defective. But while he was thus medi- 
 
 u ^^^_ , tating defence or revenge, his adversary sunk before him with- 
 
 ^, , ^ out a blow ; the voice of the publick was not long divided, 
 
 and the preference was universally given to Pope's performance. 
 
 He was convinced, by adding one circumstance to another, 
 
 that the other translation was the work of Addison himself; 
 
 but if he knew it in Addison's life-time, it does not appear that 
 
 he told it. He left his illustrious antagonist to be punished 
 
 by what has been considered as the most painful of all reflections, 
 
 the remembrance of a crime perpetrated in vain. 
 
 The other circumstances of their quarrel were thus related 
 
 by Pope.'- 
 
 ,■; " Philips seems to have been encouraged to abuse me in 
 
 coffee-houses- and conversations : and Gildon wrote a thing 
 
 about Wycherley, in which he had abused both me and my 
 
 ' (relations very grossly. Lord Warwick himself told me one day, 
 
 , ;i- ■ that it was in vain for me to endeavour to be well with Mr. 
 
 - -- Addison ; that his jealous temper would never admit of a settled 
 
 •( ./^-friendship between us: and, to convince me of what he had 
 
 ^., J said, assured me, that Addison had encouraged Gildon to 
 
 ' I publish those scandals, and had given him ten guineas after 
 
 they were published. The next day, while I was heated with 
 
 what I had heard, I wrote a Letter to Mr. Addison, to let him 
 
 know that I was not unacquainted with this behaviour of his ; 
 
 that if I was to speak severely of him, in return for it, it should 
 
 be in such a dirty way, that I should rather tell him, himself, 
 
 fairly of his faults, and allow his good qualities ; and that it 
 
 should be something in the following manner : I then adjoined 
 
 ^ Spence. 
 
 '''!f4^. 
 
OibJ' 
 
 1744] POPE. 363 
 
 the first sketch of what has since been called my Satire on 
 Addison. Mr. Addison used me very civilly ever after.'' 
 
 The verses on Addison, when they were sent to- Atterbury, 
 were considered by him as the most excellent of Pope's per- 
 formances ; and the writer was advised, since he knew where 
 his strength lay, not to suffer it to remain unemployed. 
 
 This year (iTiObeing, by the subscription, enabled to live 
 more by choice, having persuaded his father to sell their estate 
 at Binfield, he purchased, I think only for his life, that house at 
 Twickenham to which his residence afterwards procured so much 
 celebration, and removed thither with his father and mother. 
 
 Here he planted the vines and the quincunx which his verses / L/ 
 mention ; and being under the necessity of making a subter- ^ 
 raneous passage to a garden on the other side of the road, he 
 adorned it with fossile bodies, and dignified it with the title of 
 a grotto ; a place of silence and retreat, from which he 
 endeavoured to persuade his friends and himself that cares 
 and passions could be excluded. 
 
 A grotto is not often the wish or pleasure of an Englishman, 
 who has more frequent need to solicit than exclude the sun ; 
 but Pope's excavation was requisite as an entrance to his 
 garden, and, as some men try to be proud of their defects, he 
 extracted an ornament from an inconvenience, and vanity 
 produced a grotto where necessity enforced a passage. It may 
 be frequently remarked of the studious and speculative, that 
 they are proud of trifles, and that their amusements seem 
 frivolous and childish ; whether it be that men conscious of 
 great reputation think themselves above the reach of censure, 
 and safe in the admission of negligent indulgences, or that 
 mankind expect from elevated genius an uniformity of great- 
 ness, and watch its degradation with malicious wonder ; like 
 him who having followed with his eye an eagle into the clouds, 
 should lament that she ever descended to a perch. 
 
 While the volumes of his Homer were annually published, 
 he collected his former works (17 17) into one quarto volume, 
 
364 POPE. [1688— 
 
 to which he prefixed a Preface, written with great spriteliness 
 and elegance, which was afterwards reprinted, with some 
 passages subjoined that he at first omitted ; other marginal 
 additions of the same kind he made in the later editions 
 of his poems. Waller remarks, that poets lose half their 
 praise, because the reader knows not what they have blotted. 
 Pope's voracity of fame taught him the art of obtaining the 
 accumulated honour both of what he had published, and of 
 what he had suppressed. 
 
 In this year his father died suddenly, in his seventy-fifth 
 year, having passed twenty-nine years in privacy. He is not 
 known but by the character which his son has given him. If 
 the money with which he retired was all gotten by himself, 
 he had traded very successfully in times when sudden riches 
 were rarely attainable. 
 
 The publication of the Iliad was at last completed in 1720. 
 The splendour and success of this work raised Pope many 
 enemies, that endeavoured to depreciate his abilities ; Burnet, 
 who was afterwards a Judge of no mean reputation, censured 
 him in a piece called Homerides before it was published ; 
 Ducket likewise endeavoured to make him ridiculous. Dennis 
 was the -^perpetual persecutor of all his studies. But, whoever 
 his criticks were, their writings are lost, and the names which 
 are preserved are preserved in the Dunciad. 
 
 In this disastrous year (1720) of national infatuation, when 
 more riches than Peru can boast were expected from the South 
 Sea, when the contagion of avarice tainted every mind, and 
 even poets panted after wealth, Pope was seized with the 
 universal passion, and ventured some of his money. The 
 stock rose in its price ; and he for a while thought himself 
 the Lord of thousands. But this dream of happiness did 
 not last long, and he seems to have waked soon enough 
 to get clear with the loss only of what he once thought 
 himself to have won, and perhaps not wholly of that. 
 
 Next year he published some select poems of his friend Dr. 
 
1744] POPE. 36s 
 
 Parnell, with a very elegant Dedication to the Earl of Oxford ; 
 who, after all his struggles and dangers, then lived in retire- 
 ment, still under the frown of a victorious faction, who could 
 take no pleasure in hearing his praise. 
 
 He gave the same year (1721) an edition of Shakspeare. 
 His name was now of so much authority, that Toilson thought 
 himself entitled, by annexing it, to demand a subscription 
 of six guineas for Shakspeare' s plays in six quarto volumes ; 
 nor did his expectation much deceive him ; for of seven 
 hundred and fifty which he printed, he dispersed a great 
 number at the price proposed. The reputation of that edition 
 indeed sunk afterwards so low, that one hundred and forty 
 copies were sold at sixteen shillings each. 
 
 On this undertaking, to which Pope was induced by a 
 reward of two hundred and seventeen pounds twelve shillings, 
 he seems never to have reflected afterwards without vexation ; 
 for Theobald, a man of heavy diligence, with very slender 
 powers/~Hrst, in a book^ called Shakspeare Restored, and 
 then in a formal edition, detected his deficiencies with all 
 the insolence of victory ; and, as he was now high enough 
 to be feared and hated, Theobald had from others all the 
 help that could be supplied, by the desire of humbling a 
 haughty character. 
 
 From this time Pope became an enemy to editors, collaters, 
 commentators, and verbal criticks ; and hoped to persuade the 
 world that he miscarried in this undertaking only by having 
 a mind too great for such minute employment. 
 
 Pope in his edition undoubtedly did many tilings wrong, and 
 left many things undone ; but let him not be defrauded of his 
 ' due praise. He was the first that knew, at least the first that 
 told, by what helps the text might be improved. If he in- 
 spected the early editions negligently, he taught others to be 
 more accurate. In his Preface he expanded with great skill 
 and elegance the character which had been given of Shak- 
 speare by Dryden; and he drew the publick attention upon 
 
366 POPE. [1688— 
 
 his works, which, though often mentioned, had been little 
 read. 
 
 Soon after the appearance of the Iliad, resolving not to let 
 the general kindness cool, he published proposals for a trans- 
 lation of the Odyssey, in five volumes, for five guineas. He was 
 willing, however, now to have associates in his labour, being 
 either weary with toiling upon another's thoughts, or having 
 heard, as Ruffhead relates, that Fenton and Broome had 
 already begun the work, and liking better to have them 
 confederates than rivals. 
 
 In the patent, instead of saying that he had translated the 
 Odyssey, as he had said of the Iliad, he says that he had under- 
 taken a translation ; and in the proposals the subscription is 
 said to be not solely for his own use, but for that of two of 
 his friends who have assisted him in this work. 
 
 In 1723, while he was engaged in this new version, he 
 appeared before the Lords at the memorable trial of Bishop 
 Atterbury, with whom he had lived in great familiarity and 
 ' frequent correspondence. Atterbury had honestly recom- 
 mended to him the study of the popish controversy, in hope 
 - of his conversion ; to which Pope answered in a manner that 
 ^cannot much recommend his principles or his judgement. In 
 questions and projects of learning, they agreed better. He 
 was called at the trial to give an account of Atterbury's 
 domestick life and private employment, that it might appear 
 how little time he had left for plots. Pope had but few words 
 to utter, and in those few he made several blunders. 
 
 His Letters to Atterbury express the utmost esteem, tender- 
 ness, and gratitude : perhaps, says he, it is not only in this world 
 that I may have cause to remember the Bishop of Rochester. At 
 their last interview in the Tower, Atterbury presented him with 
 a Bible. 
 
 Of the Odyssey Pope translated only twelve books ; the rest 
 were the work of Broome and Fenton : the notes were written 
 wholly by Broome, who was not over-liberally rewarded. The 
 
1744] POPE. 367 
 
 Publick was carefully kept ignorant of the several shares ; and an 
 account was subjoined at the conclusion, which is now known 
 not to be true. 
 
 The first copy of Pope's books, with those of Fenton, are to 
 be seen in the Museum. The parts of Pope are less interlined 
 than the Iliad, and the latter books of the Iliad less than the 
 former. He grew dexterous by practice, and every sheet 
 enabled him to write the next with more facility. The books 
 of Fenton have very few alterations by the hand of Pope. 
 Those of Broome have not been found ; but Pope complained, 
 as it is reported, that he had much trouble in correcting 
 them. 
 
 His contract with Lintot was the same as for the Iliad, except 
 that only one hundred pounds were to be paid him for each 
 volume. The number of subscribers was five hundred and 
 seventy-four, and of copies eight hundred and nineteen ; so that 
 his profit, when he had paid his assistants, was still very con- 
 siderable. The work was finished in 1725, and from that time 
 he resolved to make no more translations. 
 
 The sale did not answer Lintofs expectation, and he then 
 pretended to discover something of fraud in Pope, and com- 
 menced, or threatened, a suit in Chancery. 
 
 On the English Odyssey a criticism was published by Spence, 
 at that time Prelector of Poetry at Oxford; a man whose 
 learning was not very great, and whose mind was not very 
 powerful. His criticism, however, was commonly just; what 
 he thought, he thought rightly ; and his remarks were recom- 
 mended by his coolness and candour. In him Pope had the 
 first experience of a critick without malevolence who thought 
 it as much his duty to display beauties as expose faults; 
 who censured with respect, and praised with alacrity. 
 
 With this criticism Pope was so little offended, that he 
 sought the acquaintance of the writer, who lived with him 
 from that time in great familiarity, attended him in his last 
 hours, and compiled memorials of his conversation. The 
 
368 POPE. [1688— 
 
 regard of Pope recommended him to the great and powerful, 
 and he obtained very valuable preferments in the Church. 
 
 Not long after Pope was returning home from a visit in a 
 friend's coach, which, in passing a bridge, was overturned into 
 the water ; the windows were closed, and being unable to force 
 them open, he was in danger of immediate death, when the 
 postilion snatched him out by breaking the glass, of which the 
 fragments cut two of his fingers in such a manner, that he lost 
 their use. 
 
 Voltaire, who was then in England, sent him a Letter, of 
 Consolation. He had been entertained by Pope at his table, 
 where he talked with so much grossness that Mrs. Pope was 
 driven from the room. Pope discovered, by a trick, that he 
 was a spy for the Court, and never considered him as a man 
 worthy of confidence. 
 
 He soon afterwards (1727) joined with Swift, who was then 
 in England, to publish three volumes of Miscellanies, in which 
 amongst other things he inserted the Memoirs of a Parish 
 Clerk, in ridicule of Bidet's importance in his own History, 
 ' and a Debate upon Black and White Horses, written in all the 
 ! formalities of a legal process by the assistance, as is said, of 
 .» Mr. Fortescue, afterwards Master of the Rolls. Before these 
 Miscellanies is a preface signed by Swift and Pope, but ap- 
 parently written by Pope ; in which he made a ridiculous and 
 romantick complaint of the robberies committed upon authors 
 by the clandestine seizure and sale of their papers. He tells, 
 in tragic strains, how the cabinets of the Sick and the closets of 
 the Dead have been broke open and ransacked ; as if those 
 violences were often committed for papers of uncertain and 
 accidental value, which are rarely provoked by real treasures ; 
 as if epigrams and essays were in danger where gold and 
 diamonds are safe. A cat, hunted for its musk, is, according 
 to Pope's account, but the emblem of a wit winded by book- 
 sellers. 
 
 His complaint however, deceived some attestation; for 
 
1744] POPE. 369 ^ 
 
 the same year the Letters written by him to Mr. Cromwell, ^ 
 in his youth, were sold by Mrs. Thomas to Curll, who printed t 
 them. 
 
 In these Miscellanies was first published the Art of Sinking 
 in Poetry, which, by such a train of consequences as usually 
 passes in literary quarrels, gave in a short time, according to 
 Pope's account, occasion to the Dunciad. 
 
 In the following year (1728) he began to put Atterbury's |.,, 
 advice in practice ; and shewed his satirical powers by publish- '• 
 ing the Dunciad, one of his greatest and most elaborate per- ^,f < 
 formances, in which he endeavoured to sink into contempt all | 
 the writers by whom he had been attacked, and some others ^ 
 whom he thought unable to defend themselves. 
 
 At the head of the Dunces he placed poor Theobald, whom 
 he accused of ingratitude ; but whose real crime was supposed 
 to be that of having revised Shakspeare more happily than 
 himself, This satire had the effect which he intended, by 
 blasting the characters which it touched, i^algh, who, un- 
 necessarily interposing in the quarrel, got a place in a subse- 
 quent edition, complained that for a time he was in danger of 
 starving; as the booksellers had no longer any confidence in 
 ^his capacity. ^ 
 
 The prevalence of this poem was gradual and slow ; the 
 plan, if not wholly new, was little understood by common 
 readers. Many of the allusions required illustration; the 
 names were often expressed only by the initial and final 
 letters, and, if they had been printed at length, were such as 
 few had known or recollected. The subject itself had nothing 
 generally interesting, for whom did it concern to know that 
 one or another scribbler was a dunce? If therefore it had 
 been possible for those who were attacked to conceal their 
 pain and their resentment, the DunciacJ might have made its 
 way very slowly in the world. 
 
 This, however, was not to be expected : every man is of 
 importance to himself, and therefore, in his own opinion, to 
 
 B E 
 
370 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Others ; and, supposing the world already acquainted with all 
 his pleasures and his pains, is perhaps the first to publish 
 injuries or misfortunes, which had never been known unless 
 related by himself, and at which those that hear them will 
 only laugh ; for no man sympathises with the sorrows of 
 vanity. 
 
 The history of the Dunciad is very minutely related by 
 Pope himself, in a Dedication which he wrote to Lord 
 Middlesex in the name of Savage. 
 
 "I will relate the war of the Dunces (for so it has been 
 commonly called), which began in the year 1727, and ended 
 in 1730. 
 
 "When Dr. Swift and Mr. Pope 'thought it proper, for 
 reasons specified in the Preface to their Miscellanies, to 
 publish such little pieces of theirs as had casually got abroad, 
 there was added to them the Treatise of. th e Bathos, or the 
 Art of Sinking in Poetry. It happened that in one chapter 
 of this piece the several species of bad poets were ranged 
 in classes, to which were prefixed almost all the letters of 
 the alphabet (the greatest part of them at random); but 
 such was the number of poets eminent in that art, that 
 some one or other took every letter to himself: all fell into 
 so violent a fury, that, for half a year or more, the common 
 newspapers (in most of which they had some property, as 
 being hired writers) were filled with the most abusive false- 
 hoods and scurrilities they could possibly devise. A liberty 
 no way to be wondered at in those people, and in those 
 papers, that for many years, during the uncontrouled license 
 of the press, had aspersed almost all the great characters 
 of the age; and this with impunity, their own persons and 
 names being utterly secret and obscure. 
 
 "This gave Mr. Pope the thought, that he had now some 
 opportunity of doing good, by detecting and dragging into 
 light these common enemies of mankind ; since to invalidate 
 this universal slander, it sufficed to shew what contemptible 
 
1744] POPE. 371 
 
 men were the authors of it. He was not without hopes that, 
 by manifesting the dulness of those who had only malice to 
 recommend them, either the booksellers would not find their 
 account in employing them, or the men themselves, when 
 discovered, want courage to proceed in so unlawful an 
 occupation. This it was that gave birth to the Dunciad; 
 and he thought it a happiness, that, by the late flood of 
 slander on himself, he had acquired such a peculiar right 
 over their names as was necessary to this design. 
 
 "On the i2th of March, 1729, at St. James's, that poem 
 was presented to the King and Queen (who had before 
 been pleased to read it) by the right honourable Sir Robert 
 Walpole; and some days after the whole impression was 
 taken and dispersed by several noblemen and persons of 
 the first distinction. 
 
 "It is certainly a true observation, that no people are so 
 impatient of censure as those who are the greatest slanderers, 
 which was wonderfully exemplified on this occasion. On the 
 day the book was first vend ed, a crowd of authors besieged 
 the shop ; intreaties, advices, threats of law and battery, nay, 
 cries of treason, were all employed to hinder the coming-out 
 of the Dunciad : on the other side, the booksellers and 
 hawkers made as great efforts to procure it. What could 
 a few poor authors do against so great a majority as the 
 publick? There was no stopping a torrent with a finger, 
 so out it came. 
 
 "Many ludicrous circumstances attended it. The Dunces 
 (for by this name they were called) held weekly clubs, to 
 consult of hostilities against the author : one wrote a Letter 
 to a great minister, assuring him Mr. Pope was the greatest 
 enemy the government had; and another bought his image 
 in clay, to execute him in effigy, with which sad sort of 
 satisfaction the gentlemen were a little comforted. 
 
 "Some false editions of the book having an owl in their 
 frontispiece, the true one, to distinguish it, fixed in its stead 
 
 B B 2 
 
372 POPE. [1688— 
 
 an ass laden with authors. Then another surreptitious one 
 being printed with the same ass, the new edition in octavo 
 returned for distinction to the owl again. Hence arose a 
 great contest of booksellers against booksellers, and adver- 
 tisements against advertisements ; some recommending the 
 edition of the owl, and others the edition of the ass ; by 
 which names they came to be distinguished, to the great 
 honour also of the gentlemen of the Dunciad." 
 
 Pope appears by this narrative to have contemplated his 
 victory over the Dunces with great exultation ; and such was 
 his delight in the tumult which he had raised, that for a while 
 his natural sensibility was suspended, and he read reproaches 
 and invectives without emotion, considering them only as the 
 necessary effects of that pain which he rejoiced in having given. 
 1 It cannot however be concealed that, by his own confession, 
 he was the aggressor ; for nobody believes that the letters in 
 the Bathos were placed at random ; and it may be discovered 
 that, when he thinks himself concealed, he indulges the common 
 vanity of common men, and triumphs in those distinctions 
 which he had affected to despise. He is proud that his book 
 was presented to the King and Queen by the right honourable 
 Sir Robert Walpole j he is proud that they had read it before ; 
 he is proud that the edition was taken off by the nobility and 
 ^ persons of the first distinction. 
 1 The edition of which he speaks was, I believe, that which 
 by tellmg in me text the names and in the notes the characters 
 of those whom he had satirised, was made intelligible and 
 diverting. The criticks had now declared their approbation 
 of the plan, and the common reader began to like it without 
 fear; those who were strangers to petty literature, and there- 
 fore unable to decypher initials and blanks, had now names 
 and persons brought within their view and delighted in the 
 visible effect of those shafts of malice, which they had hitherto 
 contemplated as shot into the air. 
 
 Dennis, upon the fresh provocation now given him, renewed 
 
1744] POPE, 373 
 
 the enmity which had for a time been appeased by mutual 
 civilities ; and published remarks, which he had till then 
 suppressed, upon the Rape of the Lock. Many more 
 grumbled in secret, or vented their resentment in the news- 
 papers by epigrams or invectives. 
 
 Ducket, indeed, being mentioned as loving Burnet with 
 pious passion, pretended that his moral character was injured, 
 and for some time declared his resolution to take vengeance 
 with a cudgel. But Pope appeased him, by changing pious 
 passion to cordial friendship, and by a note, in which he 
 vehemently disclaims the malignity of meaning imputed to 
 the first expression. 
 
 Aaron Hill, who was represented as diving for the prize, 
 expostulated with Pope in a manner so much superior to 
 all mean solicitation, that Pope was reduced to sneak and 
 shuffle, sometimes to deny, and sometimes to apologize ; 
 he first endeavours to wound, and is then afraid to own that 
 he meant a blow. 
 
 The Dunciad, in the complete edition, is addressed to ^ J 
 Dr. Swift : of the notes, part was written by Dr. Ar buthn ot. ';/ ' 
 and an apologetical Letter was prefixed, signed by Cleland, ' / 
 but supposed to have been written by Pope. i-VjI'-i- 
 
 After this general war upon dulness, he seems to have C • 
 indulged himself a while in tranquillity; but his subsequent 
 productions prove that he was not idle. He published (1731) 
 a poem on Taste, in which he very particularly and severely 
 criticises the house, the furniture, the gardens, and the enter- 
 tainments of Timon, a man of great wealth and little taste. 
 By Timon he was universally supposed, and by the Earl 
 of Burlington, to whom the poem is addressed, was privately 
 said, to mean the Duke of Chandos ; a man perhaps too much 
 delighted with pomp and show, but of a temper kind and 
 beneficent, and who had consequently the voice of the publick 
 in his favour. 
 
 A violent outcry was therefore raised against the ingratitude 
 
374 POPE. [1688— 
 
 and treachery of Pope, who was said to have been indebted 
 to the patronage of Chandos for a present of a thousand pounds, 
 and who gained the opportunity of insulting him by the 
 kindness of his invitation. 
 
 The receipt of the thousand pounds Pope publickly denied ; 
 but from the reproach which the attack on a character so 
 amiable brought upon him, he tried all nieans of escaping. 
 The name of Cleland was again employed in an apology, 
 by which no man was satisfied ; and he was at last reduced 
 to shelter his temerity behind dissimulation, and endeavour 
 to make that disbelieved which he never had confidence 
 openly to deny. He wrote an exculpatory letter to the 
 Duke, which was answered with great magnanimity, as by 
 a man who accepted his excuse without believing his pro- 
 fessions. He said, that to have ridiculed his taste, or his 
 buildings, had been an indifferent action in another man ; 
 but that in Pope, after the reciprocal kindness that had been 
 exchanged between them, it had been less easily excused. 
 
 Pope, in one of his Letters, complaining of the treatment 
 which his poem had found, owns that such criticks can 
 intimidate him, tiay almost persuade him to write no more, 
 which is a compliment this age deserves. The man who 
 threatens the world is always ridiculous; for the world can 
 easily go on without him, and in a short time will cease to 
 miss him. I have heard of an idiot, who used to revenge 
 his vexations by lying all night upon the bridge. There is 
 nothing, says Juvenal, that a man will not believe in his own 
 favour. Pope had been flattered till he thought himself one 
 of the moving powers in the system of life. When he talked 
 of laying down his pen, those who sat round him intreated 
 and implored, and self-love did not suffer him to suspect 
 that they went away and laughed. 
 
 The following year deprived him of Gay, a man whom 
 he had known early, and whom he seemed to love with 
 more tenderness than any other of his literary friends. Pope 
 
1744] POPE. 375 
 
 was now forty-four years old ; an age at which the mind begins 
 less easily to admit new confidence, and the will to grow less 
 flexible, and when therefore the departure of an old friend 
 is very acutely felt. 
 
 In the next year he lost his mother, not by an unexpected ;. ji.^'. 
 death, for she had lasted to the age of ninety-three ; but she >j_ . 
 did not die unlamented. The filial piety^'oTPope was 'my[''j 
 the highest degree amiable and exemplary ; his parents had i ^^ , 
 the happiness of living till he was at the summit of poetical "^ 
 reputation, till he was at ease in his fortune, and without a 
 rival in his fame,, and found, no diminution of his respect 
 or tenderness. Whatever was his pride, to them he was 
 obedient; and whatever was his irritability, to them he 
 was gentle. Life has, among its soothing and quiet comforts, 
 few things better to give than such a son.. 
 
 One of the passages of Pope's life, which seems to deserve .^ 
 some enquiry, was a publication of Letters between him and i 
 many of his friends, which falling into the hands of Curll, ah' 
 rapacious bookseller of no good fame, were by him printed and 
 sold. This volume containing some Letters from noblemen. 
 Pope incited a prosecution against him in the House of Lords 
 for breach of privilege, and attended himself to stimulate the 
 resentment of his friends. Curll appeared at the bar, and, 
 knowing himself in no great danger, spoke of Pope with very 
 little reverence. Jle has, said Curll, a knack at versifying, hut 
 in prose I think myself a match for him. When the orders oi 
 the House were examined, none of them appeared to have 
 been infringed ; Curll went away triumphant, and Pope was 
 left to seek some other remedy. 
 
 Curll's account was, that one evening a man in a clergyman's 
 gown, but with a lawyer's band, brought and offered to sale a 
 number of printed volumes, which he found to be Pope's 
 epistolary correspondence ; that he asked no name, and was 
 told none, but gave the price demanded, and thought himself 
 authorised to use his purchase to his own advantage. 
 
376 POPE. [1688^ 
 
 That Curll gave a true account of the transaction, it is 
 reasonable to believe, because no falsehood was ever detected ; 
 and when some yeai's afterwards I mentioned it to Lintot, the 
 son of Bernard, he declared his opinion to be, that Pope knew 
 better than any body else how Gurll obtained the copies, 
 because another parcel was at the same time sent to himself, 
 for which no price had ever been demanded, as he made 
 known his resolution not to pay a porter, and consequently 
 not to deal with a nameless agent. 
 
 Such care had been taken to make them publick, that they 
 were sent at once to two booksellers ; to Curll, who was 
 likely to seize them as a prey, and to Lintot, who might be 
 expected to give Pope information of the seeming injury. 
 Lintot, I believe, did nothing; and Curll did what was 
 expected. That to make them publick was the only purpose 
 may be reasonably supposed, because the numbers offered to 
 sale by the private messengers shewed that hope of gain could 
 not have been the motive of the impression. 
 
 It seems that Pope, being desirous of printing his Letters, 
 and not knowing how to do, without imputation of vanity, 
 what has in this country been done very rarely, contrived an 
 appearance of compulsion ; that when he could complain that 
 his Letters were surreptitiously published, he might decently and 
 defensively publish them himself. 
 
 Pope's private correspondence, thus promulgated, filled the 
 nation with praises of his candour, tenderness, and benevolence, 
 the purity of his purposes, and the fidelity of his friendship. 
 There were some Letters which a very good or a very wise man 
 would wish suppressed ; but, as they had been already exposed, 
 it was impracticable now to retract them. 
 
 From the perusal of those Letters, Mr. Allen first conceived 
 the desire of knowing him ; and with so much zeal did he 
 cultivate the friendship which he had newly formed, that when 
 Pope told his purpose of vindicating his own property by a 
 genuine edition, he offered to pay the cost. 
 
1744] POPE. 377 
 
 This however Pope did not accept ; but in time solicited a 
 subscription for a Quarto volume, which appeared (1737) I 
 believe, with sufficient profit. In the Preface he tells that his 
 Letters were deposited in a friend's library, said to be the Earl 
 of Oxford's, and that the copy thence stolen was sent to the 
 press. The story was doubtless received with different de- 
 grees of credit. It may be suspected that the Preface to the ' 
 Miscellanies was written to prepare the publick for such an 
 incident; and to strengthen this opinion, James Worsdale, a 
 painter, who was employed in clandestine negotiations, but 
 whose veracity was very doubtful, declared that he was the 
 messenger who carried, by Pope's direction, the books to 
 Curll. 
 
 When they were thus published and avowed, as they had 
 relation to recent facts and persons either then living or not yet 
 forgotten, they may be supposed to have found readers ; but as 
 the facts were minute, and the characters being either private 
 or literary, were little known, or little regarded, they awakened 
 no popular kindness or resentment: the book never became 
 much the subject of conversation ; some read it as contemporary 
 history, and some perhaps as a model of epistolary language ; 
 but those who read it did not talk of it. Not much therefore 
 was added by it to fame or envy; nor do I remember that 
 it produced either publick praise, or publick censure. 
 
 It had however, in some degree, the recommendation of 
 novelty. Our language has few Letters, except those of states- 
 men. I jpwe l, indeed, about a century ago, published his 
 Letters, which are commended by Morhoff, and which alone of 
 his hundred volumes continue his memory. Loveda/s Letters 
 were printed only once ; . those of Herbert and Suckling are 
 hardly known. Mrs. Phillip's [Orinda's] are equally neglected ; 
 and those of Walsh seem written as exercises, and were never 
 sent to any living mistress or friend. Pope's epistolary 
 excellence had an open field ; he had no EngHsh rival, living 
 or dead. , 
 
378 POPE. [j688— 
 
 Pope is seen in this collection as connected with the other 
 contemporary wits, and certainly suffers no disgrace in the com- 
 parison ; but it must be remembered, that he had the power of 
 favouring himself: he might have originally had publication in his 
 mind, and have written with care, or have afterwards selected 
 those which he had most happily conceived, or most diligently 
 laboured ; and I know not whether there does not appear 
 something more studied and artificial in his productions 
 than the rest, except one long Letter by Bolingbroke, composed 
 with all the skill and industry of a professed author. It is 
 iiideed not easy to distinguish affectation from habit ; he that 
 has once studiously formed a style, rarely writes afterwards 
 with complete ease. Pope may be said to write always with 
 his reputation in his head; Swift perhaps like a man who 
 remembered that he was writing to Pope ; but Arbuthnot like 
 one who lets thoughts drop from his pen as they rise into his 
 mind. 
 
 Before these Letters appeared, he published the first part 
 of what he persuaded himself to think a system of Ethicks, 
 Under the title of an Essay on Man ; which, if his Letter to 
 Swift (of Sept. 14, 1725) be rightly explained by the com- 
 mentator, had been eight years- under his consideration, and of 
 which he seems to have desired the success with great solicitude. 
 He had now many open and doubtless many secret enemies. 
 The Dunces were yet smarting with the war; and the supe- 
 riority which he publickly arrogated, disposed the world to wish 
 his humiliation. 
 
 All this he knew, and against all this he provided. His own 
 name, and that of his friend to whom the work is inscribed, 
 were in the first editions carefully suppressed ; and the poem, 
 being of a new kind, was ascribed to one or another, as favour 
 determined, or conjecture wandered; it was given, says War- 
 burton, to every man, except him only who could write it. 
 Those who like only when they like the author, and who are 
 under the dominion of a name, condemned it; and those 
 
1744] . POPE. 379 
 
 admired it who are willing to scatter praise at random^ which 
 while it is unappropriated excites no envy. Those friends of 
 Pope, that were trusted with the secret, went about lavishing 
 honours on the new-bom poet, and hinting that Pope was never 
 so much in danger from any former rival. 
 
 To those authors whom he had personally offended, and to 
 those whose opinion the world considered as decisive, and 
 whom he suspected of envy or malevolence, he sent his essay 
 as a present before publication, that they might defeat their 
 own enmity by praises, which they could not afterwards decently 
 retract. 
 
 With these precautions, in 1733 was published the first part 
 of the Essay on Man. There had been for some time a report 
 that Pope was busy upon a System of Morality; but this design 
 was not discovered in the new poem, which had a form and a 
 title with which its readers were unacquainted. Its reception 
 was not uniform ; some thought it a very imperfect piece, 
 though not without good lines. While the author was unknown, 
 some, as will always happen, favoured him as an adventurer, 
 and some censured him as an intruder ; but all thought him 
 above neglect ; the sale increased, and editions were multiplied. 
 
 The subsequent editions of the first Epistle exhibited two 
 memorable corrections. At first, the poet and his friend 
 
 Expatiate freely o'er this scene of man, 
 A mighty maze of walks without a plan. 
 
 For which he wrote afterwards, 
 
 A mighty maze, but not without a plan : 
 
 for, if there were no plan, it was in vain to describe or to trace 
 the maze. 
 
 The other alteration was of these lines : 
 
 And spite of pride, and in thy reason's spite. 
 One truth is clear, whatever is, is right : 
 
38o POPE. [1688— 
 
 but having afterwards discovered, or been shewn, that the 
 truth which subsisted in spite of reason could not be very clear, 
 he substituted 
 
 And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. 
 
 To such oversights will the most vigorous mind be liable when 
 it is employed at once upon argument and poetrj-. 
 
 The second and third Epistles were published ; and Pope 
 was, I believe, more and more suspected of writing them ; at 
 last, in 1734, he avowed the fourth, and claimed the honour of 
 a moral poet. 
 
 In the conclusion it is sufficiently acknowledged, that the 
 doctrine of the Essay on Man was received from Bolingbroke, 
 who is said to have ridiculed Pope, among those who enjoyed 
 his confidence, as having adopted and advanced principles of 
 which he did not perceive the consequence, and as blindly 
 propagating opinions contrary to his own. That those com- 
 munications had been consolidated into a scheme regularly 
 drawn, and delivered to Pope, from whom it returned only 
 transformed from prose to verse, has been reported, but hardly 
 can be true. The Essay plainly appears the fabrick of a 
 poet : what Bolingbroke supplied could be only the first prin- 
 ciples ; the order, illustration, and embellishments must all be 
 Pope's. 
 
 These principles it is not my business to clear from obscurity, 
 dogmatism, or falsehood; but they were not immediately 
 examined; philosophy and poetry have not often the same 
 readers; and the Essay abounded in splendid amplifications 
 and sparkling sentences, which were read and admired, with no 
 great attention to their ultimate purpose ; its flowers caught 
 the eye, which did not see what the gay foliage concealed, 
 and for a time flourished in the sunshine of universal appro- 
 bation. So little was any evil tendency discovered, that, as 
 innocence is unsuspicious, many read it or a manual of piety. 
 (^1 Its reputation soon invited a translator. It was first turned 
 
1744] POPE. 381 
 
 into French prose, and afterwards by Resnel into verse. 
 Both translations fell into the hands of Crousaz^ who first, 
 when he had the version in prose, wrote a general censure, and 
 afterwards reprinted Resnel's version, with particular remarks 
 upon every paragraph. 
 
 Crousaz was a professor of Switzerland, eminent for his 
 treatise of Logick, and his Examen de Pyrrhonisme, and, 
 however little known or regarded here, was no mean anta- 
 gonist. His mind was one of those in which philosophy and 
 piety are happily united. He was accustomed to argument 
 and disquisition, and perhaps was grown too desirous of detect- 
 ing faults ; but his intentions were always right, his opinions 
 were solid, and his religion pure. 
 
 His incessant vigilance for the promotion of piety disposed 
 him to look with distrust upon all metaphysical systems of 
 Theology, and all schemes of virtue and happiness purely 
 rational; and therefore it was not long before he was per- 
 suaded that the positions of Pope, as they terminated for the 
 most part in natural religion, were intended to draw mankind 
 away from revelation, and to represent the whole course of 
 things as a necessary concatenation of indissoluble fatality ; 
 and it is undeniable, that in many passages a religious eye may 
 easily discover expressions not very favourable to morals, or to 
 liberty. 
 
 About this time Warburton began to make his appearance 
 in the first ranks of learning. He was a man of vigorous 
 faculties, a mind fervid and vehement, supplied by incessant 
 and unlimited enquiry, with wonderful extent and variety of 
 knowledge, which yet had not impressed his imagination, 
 nor clouded his perspicacity. To every work he brought a 
 memory full fraught, together with a fancy fertile of original 
 combinations, and at once exerted the powers of the scholar, 
 thejeasoner, and the wit. But his knowledge was too multi- 
 farious to be always exact, and his pursuits were too eager 
 to be always cautious. His abilities gave him an haughty 
 
382 POPE. [1688— 
 
 confidence, which he disdained to conceal or mollify ; and his 
 impatience of opposition disposed him to treat his adversaries 
 with such contemptuous superiority as made his readers com- 
 monly his enemies, and excited against the advocate the wishes 
 of some who favoured the cause. He seems to have adopted 
 the Roman Emperor's determination, oderint dum metuant ; 
 he used no allurements of gentle language, but wished to 
 compel rather than persuade. 
 
 His style is copious without selection, and forcible without 
 neatness ; he took the words that presented themselves : 
 his diction is coarse and impure, and his sentences are 
 unmeasured. 
 
 He had, in the early part of his life, pleased himself with 
 the notice of inferior wits, and corresponded with the enemies 
 of Pope. A Letter was produced, when he had perhaps 
 himself forgotten it, in which he tells Concg/nen, "Dryden 
 / observe borrows for want of leisure, and^Vo^e. for want of 
 genius : Milton qutof pride, and Addison out of modesty." 
 And when Theobald published Shakespeare, in opposition to 
 Pope, the best notes were supplied by Warburton. 
 
 But the time was now come when Warburton was to change 
 his opinion, and Pope was to find a defender in him who had 
 contributed so much to the exaltation of his rival. 
 
 The arrogance of Warburton excited against him every 
 artifice of offence, and therefore it may be supposed that his 
 union with Pope was censured as hypocritical inconstancy; 
 but surely to think differently, at different times, of poetical 
 merit, may be easily allowed. Such opinions are often ad- 
 mitted, and dismissed, without nice examination. Who is 
 there that has not found reason for changing his mind about 
 questions of greater importance ? 
 
 Warburton, whatever was his motive, undertook, without 
 solicitation, to rescue Pope from the talons of Crousaz, by 
 freeing him from the imputation of favouring fatality, or 
 rejecting revelation; and from month to month continued 
 
1744] POPE. 383 
 
 a vindication of the Essay on Man, in the literary journal of 
 that time called The Republick of Letters. 
 
 Pope, who probably began to doubt the tendency of his 
 own work, was glad that the positions, of which he perceived 
 himself not to know the full meaning, could by any mode of 
 interpretation be made to mean well. How much he was 
 pleased with his gratuitous defender, the following Letter 
 evidently shews : 
 
 "March 24, 1743. 
 "Sir, 
 " I have just received from Mr. R. two more of your 
 Letters. It is in the greatest hurry imaginable that I write 
 this ; but I cannot help thanking you in particular for your 
 third Letter, which is so extremely clear, short, and full, that 
 I think Mr. Crousaz ought never to have another answer, and 
 deserved not so good an one. I can only say, you do him 
 too much honour, and me too much right, so odd as the 
 expression seems ; for you have made my system as clear as 
 I ought to have done and could not. It is indeed the same 
 system as mine, but illustrated with a ray of your own, as they 
 say our natural body is the same still when it is glorified. I 
 am sure I like it better than I did before, and so will every 
 man else. I know I meant just what you explain ; but I did 
 not explain my own meaning so well as you. You understand 
 me as well as I do myself; but you express me better than I 
 could express myself. Pray accept the sincerest acknowledge- 
 ments. I cannot but wish these Letters were put together in 
 one Book, and intend (with your leave) to procure a translation 
 of part, at least, of all of them into French ; but I shall not 
 proceed a step without your consent and opinion, &c." 
 
 By this fond and eager acceptance of an exculpatory 
 comment. Pope testified that, whatever might be the seeming 
 or real import of the principles which he had received firom 
 Bolingbroke, he had not intentionally attacked religion ; and 
 
384 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Bolingbroke, if he meant to make him without his own consent 
 an instrument of mischief, found him now engaged with his 
 eyes open on the side of truth. 
 
 It is known that Bolingbroke concealed from Pope his 
 real opinions. He once discovered them to Mr. Hooke, 
 who related fhem again to Pope, and was told by him that 
 he must have mistaken the meaning of what he heard ; and 
 Bolingbroke, when Pope's uneasiness incited him to desire 
 an explanation, declared that Hooke had misunderstood him. 
 
 Bolingbroke hated Warburton, who had drawn his pupil 
 from him ; and a little before Pope's death they had a 
 dispute, from which they parted with mutual aversion. 
 
 From this time Pope lived in the closest intimacy with his 
 commentator, and amply rewarded his kindness and his zeal ; 
 for he introduced him to Mr. Murray, by whose interest he 
 became preacher at Lincoln's Inn, and to Mr. Allen, who 
 gave him his niece and his estate, and by consequence a 
 bishoprick. When /nej died, he left him the property of his 
 works ; a legacy whim may be reasonably estimated at four 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 Pope's fondness for the Essay on Man appeared by his 
 desire of its propagation. Dobson, who had gained reputa- 
 tion by his version of Prior's Solomon, was employed by 
 him to translate it into Latin verse, and was for that purpose 
 some time at Twickenham ; but he left his work, whatever 
 was the reason, unfinished; and, by Benson's invitation, 
 undertook the longer task of Paradise Lost. Pope then 
 desired his friend to find 9, scholar who should turn his 
 Essay into Latin prose; but no such performance has ever 
 appeared. 
 
 Pope lived at this time among the great, with that reception 
 and respect to which his works entitled him, and which 
 he had not impaired by any private misconduct or factious 
 partiality. Though Bolingbroke was his friend, Walpole was 
 not his enemy ; but treated him with so much consideration 
 
1744] POPE. i^ 385 
 
 I*- . 
 as, at his request, to solicit and obtain from the French 
 
 Mitiister an abbey for Mr. . Southco t, whom he considered -p 't, 
 
 himself as obliged to reWard, by this exertion of his interest, /^"" ^ 
 
 for the benefit which he had received from his attendance 
 
 in a long illness, ay) it ^-' -\ 
 
 It was said, that, when the Court was at Richmond, Queen 
 Caroline had declared her intention to visit him. This may 
 have been only a careless effusion, thought on no more : the 
 report of such notice, however, was soon in many mouths ; 
 and, if I do not forget or misapprehend Savage's account, 
 Pope, pretending to decline what was not yet offered, left 
 his house for a time, not, I suppose, for any other reason 
 than lest he should be thought to stay at home in expectation 
 of an honour which would not be conferred. He was there- 
 fore angry at Swift, who represents him as refusing the visits of 
 a Queen, because he knew that what had never been oiTered 
 had never been refused. 
 
 Beside the general system of morality supposed to be 
 contained in the Essay on Man, it was his intention to write 
 distinct poems upon the different duties or conditions of life ; 
 one of which is the Epistle to Lord Bathurst (1733) on the- 
 Use of Riches, a piece on which he declared great labour to 
 have been bestowed.' 
 
 Into this poem some incidents are historically thrown, and 
 some known characters are introduced, with others of which 
 it is difficult to say how far they are real or fictitious; but 
 the praise of Kyrl, the Man of Ross, deserves particular 
 examination, who, after a long and pompous enumeration of 
 his publick works and private charities, is said to halve diffused 
 all those blessings from five hundred a year. Wonders are 
 willingly told, and willingly heard. The truth is, that Kyrl 
 was a man of known integrity, . and active benevolence, by 
 whose solicitation the wealthy were persuaded to pay con- 
 tributions to his charitable schemes ; this influence he obtained 
 
 ' Spence. 
 
 C C 
 
386 POPE. [i6SS— 
 
 by an example of liberality exerted to the utmost extent of 
 his power, and was thus enabled to give more than he had. 
 This account Mr. Victor received from the minister of the 
 place, and I have preserved it, that the praise of a good man 
 being made more credible, may be more solid. Narrations 
 of romantick and impracticable virtue will be read with 
 wonder, but that which is unattainable is recommended in 
 vain ; that good may be endeavoured, it must be shewn to 
 be possible. 
 
 This is the only piece in which the author has given a 
 hint of his religion, by ridiculing the ceremony of burning 
 the pope, and by mentioning with some indignation the 
 inscription on the Monument. 
 
 When this poem was first published, the dialogue, having 
 no letters of direction, was perplexed and obscure. Pope 
 seems to have written with no very distinct idea ; for he calls 
 that an Epistle to Bathurst, in which Bathurst is introduced 
 as speaking. 
 
 He afterwards (1734) inscribed to Lord Cobham his Cha- 
 racters of Men, written with close attention to the operations 
 of the mind and modiiications of life. In this poem he has 
 endeavoured to establish and exemplify his favourite theory 
 of the Ruling Passion, by which he means an original direction 
 of desire to some particular object, an innate affection which 
 gives all action a determinate and invariable tendency, and 
 operates upon the whole system of life, either openly, or more 
 secretly by the intervention of some accidental or subordinate 
 propension. 
 
 Of any passion, thus innate and irresistible, the existence 
 may reasonably be doubted. Human characters are by no 
 means constant ; men change by change of place, of fortune, 
 of acquaintance ; he who is at one time a lover of pleasure, 
 is at another a lover of money. Those indeed who attain 
 any excellence, commonly spend life in one pursuit; for 
 excellence is not often gained upon easier terms. But to the 
 
1744] POPE. 387 
 
 particular species of excellence men are directed, not by an 
 ascendant planet or predominating humour, but by the first 
 book which they read, some early conversation which they 
 heard, or some accident which excited ardour and emulation. 
 
 It must be at least allowed that this ruling Passion, antecedent 
 to reason and observation, must have an object independent on 
 human' contrivance ; for there can be no natural desire of 
 artificial good. No man therefore can be bom, in the strict 
 acceptation, a lover of money; for he may be born where 
 money does not exist ; nor can he be born, in a moral sense, a 
 lover of his country ; for society, politically regulated, is a 
 state contradistinguished from a state of nature ; and any 
 attention to that coalition of interests which makes the 
 happiness of a country, is possible only to those whom enquiry 
 and reflection have enabled to comprehend it. 
 
 This doctrine is in itself pernicious as well as false : its 
 tendency is to produce the belief of a kind of moral pre- 
 destination, or overruling principle which cannot be resisted; 
 he that admits it, is prepared to comply with every desire that 
 caprice or opportunity shall excite, and to flatter himself that 
 he submits only to the lawful dominion of Nature, in obeying 
 the resistless authority of his ruling Passion. 
 
 Pope has formed his theory with so little skill, that, in the 
 examples by which he illustrates and confirms it, he has con- 
 founded passions, appetites, and habits. 
 
 To the Characters of Men he added soon after, in an Epistle 
 supposed to have been addressed to Martha Blount, but which 
 the last edition has taken from her, the Characters of Women. 
 This poem, which was laboured with great diligence, and in the 
 author's opinion with great success, was neglected at its first 
 publication, as the commentator supposes, because the publick 
 was informed by an advertisement, that it contained no 
 character drawn from the Life ; an assertion which Pope 
 propably did not expect or wish to have been believed, and 
 which he soon gave his readers sufficient reason to distrust, by 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 POPE, [i6S8— 
 
 telling them in a note, that the work Was imperfect, because 
 part of his subject was Vice too high to be yet exposed. 
 The time however soon came, in which it was safe to display 
 
 ^o^otvthe Dutc hegs of Mar lfaprough under the name of Atossa ; and 
 
 '' her character was inserted with no great honour to the writer's 
 
 Jt gratitude. 
 
 ■" He published from time to time (between 1730 and 1740) 
 
 Imitations of different poems of Horace, generally with his 
 name, and once as was suspected without it. What he was 
 upon moral principles ashamed to own, he ought to have 
 suppressed. Of these pieces it is useless to settle the dates, as 
 they had seldom much relation to the times, and perhaps had 
 been long in his hands. 
 
 This mode of imitation, in which the ancients are fami- 
 liarised, by adapting their sentiments to modern topicks, by 
 making Horace say of Shakspeare what he originally said of 
 Ennius, and accommodating his satires on , Pantolabus and 
 Nomentanus to the flatterers and prodigals of our own time, 
 was first practised in the reign of Charles the Second by Oldham 
 and Rochester, at least I remember no instances more ancient. 
 It is a kind of middle composition between translation and 
 original design, which pleases when the thoughts are unex- 
 pectedly applicable, and the parallels lucky. It seems to have 
 been Pope's favourite amusement ; for he has carried it further 
 than any former poet. 
 
 He published likewise a revival, in smoother numbers, of 
 Dr. Donne's Satires, which was recommended to him by the 
 Duke of Shrewsbury and the Earl of Oxford. They made no 
 great impression on the publick. Pope seems to have known 
 their imbecility, and therefore suppressed them while he was 
 yet contending to rise in reputation, but ventured them when 
 he thought their deficiencies more likely to be imputed to 
 Donne than to himself. 
 
 The Episde to Dr. Arbuthnot, which seems to be derived in 
 its first design from Boileau's Address i son Esprit, was 
 
1744] POPE. 389 
 
 published in January 1735, about a month before the death of 
 him to whom it is inscribed. It is to be regretted that either 
 honour or pleasure should have been missed by Arbuthnot ; a 
 man estimable for his learning, amiable for his life, and 
 venerable for his piety. ' 
 
 Arbuthnot was a man of great comprehension, skilful in his 
 profession, versed in the sciences, acquainted with ancient ! 
 literature, and able to animate his mass of knowledge by a 
 bright and active imagination ; a scholar with great brilliancy 
 of wit ; a wit, who in the crowd of life, retained and discovered 
 a noble ardour of religious zeal. 
 
 ■■ In this poem Pope seems to reckon with the publick. He 
 vindicates himself from censures ; and with dignity, rather 
 than arrogance, enforces his own claims to kindness and 
 respect. 
 
 Into this poem are interwoven several paragraphs which had 
 been before printed as a fragment, and among them the 
 satirical lines upon Addison, of which the [last couplet has 
 been twice corrected. It was at first, 
 
 Who would not smile if such a man there be ? 
 Who would not laugh if Addison were he ? 
 
 Then, 
 
 Who would not grieve if such a man there be ? 
 Who would not laugh if Addison were he ? 
 
 At last it is, , I r '*^ 
 
 l-^/l 
 
 Who but must laugh if such a man there be ? 1 ^ ' 
 
 , Who would not weep if Atticus were he ? ^ •' ,■■, J .'^'' ' ' 
 
 ' He. was at this time at open war with Lord Hervey, who had 
 distinguished himself as a steady adherent to the Ministry; 
 ,and, being offended with a contemptuous answer to one of his 
 pamphlets, had summoned P ulteii gy to a duel. Whether he 
 or Pope made the first attack/ perhaps cannot now be easily 
 
 a.L 
 
390 POPE. [1688— 
 
 known : he had written an invective against Pope, whom he 
 calls, Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure ; and hints 
 that his father was a hatter. To this Pope wrote a reply in 
 verse and prose : the verses are in this poem ; and the prose, 
 though it was never sent, is printed among his Letters, but to a 
 cool reader of the present time exhibits nothing but tedious 
 malignity. 
 
 His last Satires, of the general kind, were two Dialogues, 
 named from the year jin which they were published. Seventeen 
 Hundred and Thirty-eight. In these poems many are praised 
 and many are reproached. Pope was then entangled in the 
 Opposition ; a follower of the Prince_of_Wales, who dined at 
 his house, and the friend of many who obstrjicted and censured 
 the conduct of the Ministers. His political partiality was 
 too plainly shewn ; he forgot the prudence with which he 
 passed', in his earlier years, uninjured and unoffending through 
 much more violent conflicts of faction. 
 
 In the first Dialogue, having an opportunity of praising 
 Allen of Bath, he asked his leave to mention him as a man 
 not illustrious by any merit of his ancestors, and called him 
 in his verses low-born Allen. Men are seldom satisfied with 
 praise introduced or followed by any mention of defect. 
 Allen seems not to have taken any pleasure in his epithet 
 which was afterwards softened into httmble Allen. 
 
 In the second Dialogue he took some hberty with one of 
 the Foxes, among others \ which Fox, in a reply to Lyttelton, 
 took an opportunity of repaying, by reproaching him with the 
 friendship of a lampooner, who scattered his ink without fear 
 or decency, and against whom he hoped the resentment of the 
 Legislature would quickly be discharged. 
 
 About this time Paul Whitehead, a small poet, was sum- 
 moned before the Lords for a poem called Manners, together 
 with Dodsley his publisher. Whitehead, who hung loose upon 
 society, sculked and escaped; but Dodsley' s shop and family 
 made his appearance necessary. He was, however, soon 
 
1744] POPE. 391 
 
 dismissed ; and the whole process was probably intended 
 rather to intimidate Pope than to punish Whitehead. 
 
 Pope never afterwards attempted to join the patriot with tlie 
 poet, nor drew his pen upon statesmen. That he -desisted 
 from his attempts of reformation is imputed, by his com- 
 mentator, to his despair of prevailing over the corruption 
 of the time. He was not Ijkely to have been ever of opinion 
 that the dread of his satire would countervail the love of 
 power or of money ; he pleased himself with being important 
 and formidable, and gratified sometimes his pride, and some- 
 times his resentment ; till at last he began to think he should 
 be more safe, if he were less busy. 
 
 The Memoirs of Scriblerus, published about this time, ^ 
 extend only to the first book of a work, projected in concert 
 by Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, who used to meet in the time 
 of Queen Anne, and denominated themselves the Scriblerus 
 Club. Their purpose was to censure the abuses of learning 
 by a fictitious Life of an Infatuated Scholar. They were 
 dispersed ; the design was never completed ; and Waiburton 
 laments its miscarriage, as am event very disastrous to polite 
 letters. 
 
 If the whole may be estimated by this specimen, which 
 seems to be the production_of_^Arfeithjipt, with a few touches "t 
 perhaps by Pope, the want of more will not be much lamented ; 
 for the follies which the writer ridicules are so little practised, 
 that they are not known ; nor can the satire be understood 
 but by the learned : he raises phantoms of absurdity, and then 
 drives them away. He cures diseases that were never felt. 
 
 For this reason this joint production of three great writers 
 has never obtained any notice from mankind; it has been 
 little read, or when read has been forgotten, as no man could 
 be wiser, better, or merrier, by remembering it. 
 
 The design cannot boast of much originality ; for, besides 
 its general resemblance to Don Quixote, there will be found 
 init particular imitations of the History of Mr. Ouflle. "^ 
 
 = { ■/- .^^. >-- 
 
392 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Swift carried so much of it into Ireland as supplied him 
 with hints for his Travels ; and with those the world might have 
 been contented, though the rest had been suppressed. 
 
 Pope had sought for images and sentiments in a region not 
 known to have been explored by many other of the English 
 writers ;',he had consulted the modern writers of Latin poetry, 
 a class of authors whom .Boileau endeavoured to bring into 
 contempt, and who are too generally neglected. Pope, how- 
 ever, was not ashamed of their acquaintance, nor ungrateful 
 for the advantages which he might have derived from it. A 
 small selection from the Italians who wrote in Latin had been 
 published at London, about the latter end of the last century, 
 by a man who concealed his name, but whom his Preface 
 shews to have been well qualified for his undertaking. This 
 collection Pope amplified by more than half, and (1740) 
 published it in two volumes, but injuriously omitted his 
 predecessor's preface. To these books, which had- nothing 
 but the mere text, no regard was paid,, the authors were still 
 neglected, and the editor was neither praised nor censured. 
 
 He did not sink into idleness; he had planned a work, which 
 he considered as subsequent to his Essay on Man, of which he 
 has given this account to Dr. Swift ;• 
 
 "March 25, 1736. 
 
 " If ever I write any more Epistles in verse, one of them 
 shall be addressed to you. I have long concerted it, and 
 begun it ; but I would make what bears your name as finished 
 as my last work ought to be, that is to say, more finished than 
 any of the rest. The subject is large, and will divide into four 
 Epistles, which naturally follow the Essay on Man^viz. i. Of 
 the Extent and Limits of Human Reason and Science. 2. A 
 View of the^ Useful and therefore attainable, and of the Un- 
 useful and therefore unattainable Arts. 3. Of the Nature, 
 Ends, Application, and Use of different Capacities. 4. Of the 
 Use of Learning, of the Science, of the World, and of Wit. 
 
1744] POPE. 393 
 
 It will conclude with a satire against the Misapplication of all 
 these, exempliSed by Pictures, Characters, and Examples." 
 
 This work in its full extent, being now afflicted with an 
 asthma, and findmg the powers of life gradually declining, 
 he had no longer courage to undertake; but, from the materials 
 which he had provided, he added, at Warburton's request, 
 another book to the Dunciad, of which the design is to 
 ridicule such studies as are either hopeless or useless, as 
 either pursue what is unattainable, or what, if it be attained, 
 is of no use. 
 
 When this book was printed (1742) the laurel had been for 
 some time upon the head of Gibber ; a man whom it cannot 
 be supposed that Pope could regard with much kindness or 
 esteem, though in one of the Imitations of Horace he has 
 liberally enough praised the Careless Husband. In the 
 Dunciad, among other worthless scribblers, he had mentioned 
 Gibber; who, in his Apology, complains of the great poet's 
 unkindness as more injurious, because, says he, I never have 
 offended him. 
 
 It might have been expected that Pope should have been, 
 in some degree, mollified by this submissive gentleness ; but 
 no mich consequence appeared. Though he condescended 
 to commend Gibber once, he mentioned him afterwards con- 
 temptuously in fone of his Satires, and again in his Epistle to 
 Arbuthnot; and in the fourth book of the Dunciad attacked 
 him with acrimony, to which the provocation is not easily 
 discoverable. Perhaps he imagined that, in ridiculing the 
 Laureat, he satirised those by whom the laurel had been 
 given, and gratified that ambitious petulance with which he 
 affected to insult the great. 
 
 The severity of this satire left Gibber no longer any patience. 
 He had confidence enough in his own powers to beheve that 
 he could disturb the quiet of his adversary, and doubtless did 
 not want insigators, who, without any care about the victory, 
 
L 
 
 -" ^</ 
 
 394 POPE. [1688— 
 
 desired to amuse themselves by looking on the contest. He 
 therefore gave the tovm a pamphlet, in which he declares his 
 resolution from that time never to bear another blow without 
 returning it, and to tire out his adversary by perseverance, if 
 he cannot conquer him by strength. 
 
 The incessant and unappeasable malignity of Pope he imputes 
 to a very distant cause. After the Three_Ho urs after^ arriage 
 had been driven off the stage, by the offence which the mummy 
 .and crocodile gave the audience, while the exploded scene was 
 ' " ^et fresh in memory, it happened that Gibber played Bayes in 
 ' ^ the Rehearsal ; and, as it had been usual to enliven the part by. 
 the mention of any recent theatrical transactions, he said, that 
 he once thought to have introduced his lovers disguised in a 
 Mummy and a Crocodile. "This," says he, "was received 
 with loud claps, which indicated contempt of the play." 
 Pope, who was behind the scenes, meeting him as he left the 
 stage, attacked him, as he says, with all the virulence of a wit 
 out of his senses ; to which he replied, "that he would take no 
 other notice of what was said by so particular a man than to 
 declare, that, as often as he played that part, he would repeat 
 the same provocation." 
 
 He shews his opinion , to be, that Pope was one of the 
 ,^^ a^thorsof^the play which he so zealously defended ; and adds 
 an idle story of Pope's behaviour at a tavern. 
 
 The pamphlet was written with little power of thought or 
 language, and, if [suffered to remain without notice, would have 
 been very soon forgotten. Pope had now been enough ac- 
 quainted with human life to know, if his passion had not been 
 too powerful for his understanding, that, from a contention like 
 his with Gibber, the world seeks nothing but diversion, which 
 is given at the expense of the higher character. When Gibber 
 lampooned Pope, curiosity was excited ; what Pope would say 
 of Gibber nobody enquired, but in hope that Pope's asperity 
 might betray his pain and lessen his dignity. 
 
 He should therefore have suffered the pamphlet to flutter 
 
1744]. POPE. 395 
 
 and die, without confessing that it stung him. The dishonour 
 of being shewn as Gibber's antagonist could never be com- 
 pensated by the victory. Gibber had nothing to lose ; when 
 Pope had exhausted all his malignity upon him, he would rise 
 in the esteem both of his friends and his enemies. Silence 
 only could have made him despicable ; the blow which did not 
 appear to be felt would have been struck in vain. 
 
 But Pope's irascibility prevailed, and he resolved to tell the 
 whole English world that he was at war with Gibber ; and to 
 shew that he thought him no common adversary, he prepared 
 , no common vengeance ; he published a ne w edit ion of the 
 Duncjad, in which he degraded Theobald from his painful 
 pre-eminence, and enthroned Gibber in his stead. Unhappily 
 the two heroes were of opposite characters, and Pope was 
 unwilling to lose what he had already written ; he has therefore 
 depraved his poem by giving to Gibber the old books, the cold 
 pedantry and sluggish pertinacity of Theobald. 
 
 Pope was ignorant enough of his own interest to make another 
 change, and introduced Osborne contending for the prize 
 among the booksellers. Osborne was a man intirely destitute 
 of shame, without sense of any disgrace but that of poverty. 
 He told me, when he was doing that which raised Pope's 
 resentment, that he should be put into the Dunciad ; but he 
 had the fate of Gassandra ; I gave no credit to his prediction, 
 till in time I saw it accomplished. The shafts of satire were 
 directed equally in vain against Gibber and Osborne ; being re- 
 pelled by the impenetrable impudence of the one, and deadened 
 by the impassive dulness of the other. Pope confessed his 
 own pain by his anger ; but he gave no pain to those who had 
 provoked him. He was able to hurt none but himself; by 
 transferring the same ridicule from one to another, he destroyed 
 its efficacy ; for, by shewing that what he had said of one he 
 was ready to say of another, he reduced himself to the 
 insignificance of his own magpye, who firom his cage calls 
 cuckold at a venture. 
 
396 POPE. [i6S8— 
 
 Gibber, according to his engagement, repaid the Dunciad 
 with another pamphlet, which, Pope said, would be as good as a 
 dose of hartshorn to him ; but his tongue and his heart were at 
 variance. I have heard Mr. Richardson relate, that he attended 
 his father the painter on a visit, when one of Gibber's pamphlets 
 came into the hands of Pope, who said. These things are my 
 diversion. They sat by him while he perused it, and saw his 
 features writhen with anguish ; and young Richardson said to 
 his father, when they returned, that he hoped to be preserved 
 from such diversion as had been that day the lot of Pope. 
 
 From this time, finding his diseases more oppressive, and his 
 vital powers gradually declining, he no longer strained his 
 faculties with any original composition, nor proposed any 
 other employment for his remaining life than the revisal and 
 correction of his former works ; in which he received advice 
 and assistance from Warburton, whom he appears to have 
 trusted and honoured in the highest degree. 
 
 He laid aside his Epick Poem, perhaps without much loss to 
 
 mankind ; for his hero was Brutus the Trojan, who, according 
 
 to a ridiculous fiction, established a colony in Britain. The 
 
 subject therefore was of the fabulous age ; the actors were a 
 
 "raceupon^whom imagination had been exhausted, and attention 
 
 wearied, and to whom the mind will not easily be recalled, 
 
 when it is invited in blank verse, which Pope had adopted with 
 
 great imprudence, and I think, without due consideration of 
 
 , the nature of our language. The sketch is, at least in part, 
 
 f/^ ^ ' preserved by Ruffhead ; by which it appears, that Pope was 
 
 /^ - thoughtless enough to model the names of his heroes with 
 
 ! ^' • terminations not consistent with the time or country in which 
 
 ''" 'l' ' be places them. 
 
 " '■• He lingered through the next year ; but perceived himself, 
 
 J c_, as he expresses it, going down the hill. He had for at least five 
 
 years been afflicted with an asthma, and other disorders, which 
 
 ''' his physicians were unable to relieve. Towards the end of his 
 
 ' " life he consulted Dr. Thomson, a man who had, by large 
 
 \-'S\b 
 
 t? 
 
 \ 
 
 > 
 \i-i 
 
1744] POPE. 397 
 
 promises, and free censures of the common practice of physick, 
 forced himself up into sudden reputation. Thomson declared 
 his distemper to be a dropsy, and evacuated part of the water 
 by tincture of jalap; but confessed that his belly did not 
 subside. Thomson had many enemieSj and Pope was per- 
 suaded to dismiss him. 
 
 While he was yet capable of amusement and conversation, 
 as he was one day sitting in the air with Lord Bolingbroke and 
 Lord Marchmont, he saw his favourite Martha Blount at the 
 bottom of the terrace, and asked Lord Bolingbroke to go and 
 hand her up. Bolingbroke, not liking his errand, crossed his 
 legs, and sat still ; but Lord Marchmont, who was younger and 
 less captious, waited on the Lady ; who, when he came to her, 
 asked, What, is he not dead yet i She is said to have neglected 
 him, with shameful unkindness, in the latter time of his decay ; 
 yet, of the little which he had to leave, she had a very great 
 part. Tlieir acquaintance began early ; the life of each was 
 pictured on the other's mind ; their conversation therefore was 
 endearing, for when they met, there was an immediate coalition 
 o f congeniaL notions. Perhaps he considered her unwillingness 
 to approach the chamber of sickness as female weakness, or 
 human frailty ; perhaps he was conscious to himself of peevish- 
 ness' and impatience, or, though he was offended by her 
 inattention, might yet consider her merit as overbalancing her 
 fault ; and, if he had suffered his heart to be alienated from 
 her, he could have found nothing that might fill her place ; he 
 could have only shrunk within himself; it was too late to 
 transfer his confidence or fondness. 
 
 In May 1744, his death was approaching;' on the sixth, he 
 was all day delirious, which he mentioned four days afterwards 
 as a sufficient humiliation of the vanity of man ; he afterwards 
 complained of seeing things as through a curtain, and in false 
 colours; and one day, in the presence of Dodsley, asked what 
 
 1 Spence. |;-ir,iiv\, f l^-i ^ 
 
398 POPE. [I ess- 
 
 arm it was that came out from the wall. He said that his 
 greatest inconvenience was inability to think. 
 
 Bolingbroke sometimes wept over him in this state ot 
 helpless decay; and being told by Spence, that Pope, at 
 the intermission of his deliriousness, was always saying some- 
 thing kind either of' his present or absent friends, and that 
 his humanity seemed to have survived his understanding, 
 answered, // has so. And added, / 7iever in my life knew 
 a man that had so tender a heart for his particular friends, 
 or more general friendship for mankind. At another time he 
 said, / have known Pope these thirty years, and value myself 
 more in his friendship than — -his grief then suppressed his 
 voice. 
 
 Pope expressed undoubted confidence of a future state. 
 Being asked by his friend Mr. Hooke, a papist, whether he 
 would nor die like his father and mother, and whether a 
 priest should' not be called, he answered, / do not think it 
 essential, but 1.1 will be very right; and I thank you for putting 
 me in mind of it. 
 
 In the morning, after the priest had given him the last 
 sacraments, he said, " There is nothing that is meritorious 
 but virtue and friendship, and indeed friendship itself is only 
 a part of virtue." 
 
 He died in the evening of the thirtieth day of May, 1744, 
 so placidly, that the attendants did not discern the exact time 
 of his expiration. He was buried at Twickenham, near his 
 father and mother, where a monument has been erected to 
 \r\ ' him by his commentator, the Bis hop of Glouc ester. 
 t^: He left the care of his papers to his executors, first to 
 Lord Bolingbroke, and if he should not be living to the 
 Earl of Marchmont, undoubtedly expecting them to be proud 
 of the trust, and eager to extend his fame. But let no man 
 dream of influence beyond his life. After a decent time 
 Dodsley the bookseller went to solicit preference as the 
 publisher, and was told that the parcel had not been yet 
 
1744] POPE. 399 
 
 inspected ; and whatever was the reason, the world has 
 been disappointed of what was reserved for the next age. 
 
 He lost, indeed, the favour of Bolingbroke by a kind 
 of posthumous offence. The political pamphlet called The 
 Patriot King had been put into his hands that he might 
 procure the impression of a very few copies, to be distributed 
 according to the author's direction among his friends, and 
 Pope assured him that no more had been printed than were 
 allowed ; but, soon after his death, the printer brought and 
 resigned a complete edition of fifteen hundred copies, which 
 Pope had ordered him to print, and to retain in secret. He 
 kept, as was observed, his engagement to Pope better than 
 Pope had kept it to his friend ; and nothing was known of 
 the transaction, till, upon the death of his employer, he 
 thought himself obliged to deliver the books to the right 
 owner, who, with great indignation, made a fire in his yard, 
 and delivered the whole impression to the flames. 
 
 Hitherto nothing had been done which was not naturally 
 dictated by resentment of violated faith ; resentment more 
 acrimonious, as the violator had been more loved or more 
 trusted. But here the anger might have stopped ; the injury 
 was private, and there was little danger from the example. 
 
 Bolingbroke, however, was not yet satisfied ; his thirst of 
 vengeance excited him to blast the memory of the man over 
 whom he had wept in his last struggles; and he employed 
 Mallet, another friend of Pope, to tell the tale to the 
 publick, with all its aggravations. Warburton, whose heart 
 was warm with his legacy, and tender by the recent separation, 
 thought it proper for him to interpose; and undertook, not 
 indeed to vindicate the action, for breach of trust has always 
 something criminal, but to extenuate it by an apology. Having 
 advanced what cannot be denied, that moral obliquity is made 
 more or less excusable by the motives that produce it, he 
 enquires what evil purpose could have induced Pope to break 
 his promise. He could not delight his vanity by usurping the 
 
40O POPE. [1688- 
 
 work, which, though not sold in shops, had been shewn to 
 a number more than sufficient to preserve the author's claim ; 
 he could not gratify his avarice ; for he could not sell his 
 plunder till Bohngbroke was dead ; and even then, if the 
 copy was left to another, his fraud would be defeated, and 
 if left to himself, would be useless. 
 
 Warburton therefore supposes, with great appearance of 
 reason, that the irregularity of his conduct proceeded wholly 
 from his zeal for Bolingbroke, who might perhaps have 
 destroyed the pamphlet, which Pope thought it his duty 
 to preserve, even without its author's approbation. To this 
 apology an answer was written in a Letter to the most 
 Impudent Man living. 
 
 He brought some reproach upon his own memory by the 
 petulant and contemptuous mention made in his will of 
 Mr. Allen, and an affected repayment of his benefactions. 
 Mrs. Blount, as the known friend and favourite of Pope, 
 had been invited to the house of Allen, where she comported 
 herself with such indecent arrogance, that she parted from 
 Mrs. Allen in a state of irreconcilable dislike, and the door 
 was for ever barred against her. This exclusion she resented 
 with so much bitterness as to refuse any legacy from Pope, 
 unless he left the world with a disavowal of obligation to 
 Allen. Having been long under her dominion, now tottering 
 in the decline of life, and unable to resist the violence of her 
 temper, or, perhaps with the prejudice of a lover, persuaded 
 that she had suffered improper treatment, he complied with 
 her demand, and polluted his will with female resentment. 
 Allen accepted the legacy, which he gave to the Hospital 
 at Bath ; observing that Pope was always a bad accomptant, 
 and that if to 150/. he had put a cypher more, he had come 
 nearer to the truth. 
 
 The person of Pope is well known not to have been 
 formed by, the nicest model. He has, in his account of the 
 
1744] POPE. 401 
 
 Little Club, compared himself to a spider, and by another is 
 described as protuberant behind and before. He is said to 
 have been beautiful in his infancy ; but he was of a constitution 
 originally feeble and weak ; and as bodies of a tender frame 
 are easily distorted, his deformity was probably in part the 
 effect of his application. His stature was so low, that, to 
 bring him to a level with common tables, it was necessary 
 to raise his seat. But his face was not displeasing, and his 
 eyes were animated and vivid. 
 
 By natural deformity, or accidental distortion, his vital 
 functions were so much disordered, that his life was a long 
 disease. His most frequent assailant was the headache, which 
 he used to relieve by inhaling the steam of coffee, which he 
 very frequently required. 
 
 Most of what can be told concerning his petty peculiarities 
 was communicated by a female domestick of the Earl of Oxford, 
 who knew him perhaps after the middle of life. He was then 
 so weak as to stand in perpetual need of female attendance ; 
 extremely sensible of cold, so that he wore a kind of fur 
 doublet, under a shirt of very coarse warm linen with fine 
 sleeves. When he rose, he was invested in boddicg made of 
 stiff canvas, being scarce able to hold himself erect till th^ 
 were laced, and he then put on a flannel waistcoat. One side 
 was contracted. His legs were so slender, that he enlarged 
 their bulk with three pairs of stockings, which were drawn on 
 and off by the maid ; for he was not able to dress or undress 
 himself, and neither went to bed nor rose without help. His 
 weakness made it very difficult for him to be clean. 
 
 His hair had fallen almost all away ; and he used to dine 
 sometimes with Lord Oxford, privately, in a velvet cap. 
 His dress of ceremony was black with a tye-wig, and a, little 
 sword. 
 
 The indulgence and accommodation which his sickness 
 required had taught him all the unpleasing and unsocial 
 qualities of a valetudinary man. He expected that eveiy 
 
 D D 
 
402 POPE. [1688— 
 
 thing should give way to his ease or humour, as a child, whose 
 parents will not hear her cry, has an unresisted donainion in 
 the nursery. 
 
 Cest que P enfant toAjours est homme, 
 C'est que I'homme est toAjours enfant. 
 
 When he wanted to sleep he nodded in company ; and once 
 slumbered at his own table while the Prince of Wales was 
 talking of poetry. 
 
 The reputation which hjs friendship gave, procured him 
 many invitations ; but he was a very troublesome inmate. He 
 brought no servant, and had so many wants, that a numerous 
 attendance was scarcely able to supply them. Wherever he, 
 was, he left no room for another, because he exacted the 
 attention, and employed the activity of the whole family. 
 His errands were so frequent and frivolous, that the footmen 
 in time avoided and neglected him ; and the Earl of Oxford 
 discharged some of the servants for their resolute refusal of 
 his messages. The maids, when they had neglected their 
 business, alleged that they had been employed by Mr. Pope. 
 One of his constant demands was of coffee in the night, and 
 to the woman that waited on him in his chamber he was 
 very burthensome ; but he was careful to recompense her want 
 of sleep ; and Lord Oxford's servant declared, that in a house 
 where her business was to answer his call, she would not ask 
 for wages. 
 
 He had another fault, easily incident to those who, suffering 
 much pain, think themselves entitled to whatever pleasures they 
 can snatch. He was too indulgent to his appetite ; he loved 
 meat highly seasoned and of strong taste ; and, at the intervals 
 of the table, amused himself with biscuits and dry conserves. 
 If he sat down to a variety of dishes, he would oppress his 
 stomach with repletion, and though he seemed angry when a 
 dram was offered him, did not forbear to drink it. His friends, 
 who knew the avenues to his heart, pampered him with 
 
1744] POPE. 403 
 
 presents of luxury, which he did not suffer to stand neglected. 
 The death of great men is not always proportioned to the 
 lustre of their lives. Hannibal, says Juvenal, did not perish 
 by a javelin or a sword ; the slaughters of Cannse were -^ 
 revenged by a ring. The death of Pope was imputed by some 
 of his friends to a silver saucepan, in which it was his delight 
 to heat potted lampreys. 
 
 That he loved too well to eat, is certain ; but that his 
 sensuality shortened his life will not be hastily concluded, 
 when it is remembered that a conformation so irregular lasted 
 six and fifty years, notwithstanding such pertinacious diligence 
 of study and meditation. 
 
 In all his intercourse with mankind, he had great delight 
 in artifice, and endeavoured to attain all his purposes by in- 
 direct and unsuspected methods. He hardly dratik tea without 
 a stratagem. If, at the house of his friends, he wanted any 
 accommodation, he was' not willing to ask for it in plain terms, 
 but would mention it remotely as something convenient ; though 
 when it was procured, he soon made it appear for whose sake 
 it had been recommended. Thus he teazed Lord Orrery 
 till he obtained a screen. He practised his arts on such 
 small occasions, that Lady Bolingbroke used to say, in a 
 French phrase, that he played the politician about cabbages and ^-v 
 turnips. His unjustifiable impression of the JPatagJ^King, as ^ 
 it can be imputed to no particiHar mbti^ must have proceeded 
 from his general habit of secrecy and cunning ; he caught an 
 opportunity of a sly trick and pleased himself witS the, thought 
 of outwitting Bolingbroke. ""^^,. 
 
 In familiar or convivial conversation, it does not appear 
 that he excelled. He may be said to have resembled Dryden, 
 as being not one that was distinguished by vivacity in company. 
 It is remarkable, that, so near his time, so much should be 
 known of what he has written, and so little of what he has 
 said : traditional memory retains no sallies of raillery, nor 
 sentences of observation; nothing either pointed or solid, 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 POPE. [1688— 
 
 either wise or merry. One apophthegm only stands upon 
 record. When an objection raised a,gainst his inscription 
 for Shakspeare was defended by the authority of Patrick, he 
 replied — horr esco r eferens — that he would allow the publisher 
 of a Dictionary to know the meaning of a single woi'd, but not 
 of two words put together. 
 
 He was fretful, and easily displeased, and allowed himself 
 to be capriciously resentful. He would sometimes leave 
 Lord Oxford silently, no one could tell why, and was to 
 be courted back by more letters and messages than the 
 footmen were willing to carry. The table was indeed in- 
 fested by Lady Mary Wortley, who was the friend of Lady 
 Oxford, and who, knowing his peevishness, could by no 
 intreaties be restrained from contradicting him, till their 
 disputes were sharpened to such asperity, that one or the 
 other quitted the house. 
 
 He sometimes condescended to be jocular with servants 
 or inferiors; but by no merriment, either of others or his 
 own, was he ever seen excited to laughter. 
 
 Of his domestick character, frugality was a part eminently 
 remarkable. Having determined not to be dependent, he 
 determined not to be in want, and therefore wisely and 
 magnanimously rejected all temptations to expence unsuit- 
 able to his fortune. This general care must be universally 
 approved ; but it sometimes appeared in petty artifices of 
 parsimony, such as the practice of writing his compositions 
 on the back of letters, as may be seen in the remaining copy 
 of the Iliad, by whifh perhaps in five years five shillings 
 were saved; or in a niggardly reception of his friends, and 
 scantiness of entertainment, as, when he had two guests in 
 his house, he would set at supper a single pint upon the table ; 
 and, having himself taken two small glasses would retire, and 
 say, Gentlemen, T leave you to your wine. Yet he tells his 
 friends that he has a heart for all, a house for all, and, 
 whatever they may think, a fortune for all. 
 
1744] POPE. 405 
 
 He sometimes, however, made a splendid dinner, and is 
 said to have wanted no part of the skill or elegance which 
 such performances require. That this magnificence should 
 be often displayed, that obstinate prudence with which he 
 conducted his affairs would not permit; for his revenue, 
 certain and casual, amounted only to about eight hundred 
 pounds a year, of which however he declares himself able to 
 assign one hundred to charity. 
 
 Of this fortune, which as it arose from publick approbation 
 was very honourably obtained, his imagination seems to have 
 been too full : it would be hard to find a man, so well entitled 
 to notice by his wit, that ever delighted so much in talking 
 of his money, [n his Letters, and in his Poems, his garden 
 and his grotto, his quincun x and his vines, or some hints 
 of his opulence, are always to be found. The great topick 
 of his ridicule is poverty ; the crimes with which he reproaches 
 his antagonists are their debts, their habitation in the Mjnt, 
 and their want of a dinner. He seems to be of an opinion 
 not very uncommon in the world, that to want money is to 
 want every thing. 
 
 Next to the pleasure of contemplating his possessions, seems 
 to be that of enumerating the men of high rank with whom 
 he was acquainted, and whose notice he loudly proclaims 
 not to have been obtained by any practices of meanness or 
 servility ; a boast which was never denied to be true, and to 
 which very few poets have ever aspired. Pope never set genius 
 to sale ; he never flattered those whom he did not love, or 
 praised those whom he did not esteem. Savage however 
 remarked, that he began a httle to relax his dignity when 
 he wrote a distich for Ats Highnes^s dog. 
 
 His admiration of the Great seems to have increased in 
 the advance of life. He passed over peers and statesmen 
 to inscribe his Iliad to Congreve, with a magnanimity of 
 which the praise had been compleat, had his friend's virtue 
 been equal to his wit. Why he was chosen for so great 
 
4o6 POPE. [i68S— 
 
 an honour, it is not now possible to know; there is no, trace 
 in literary history of any particular intimacy between them. 
 The name, of Congreve appears in the Letters among those 
 of his other friends, but without any observable distinction 
 or consequence. 
 
 To his latter works, however, he took care to annex names 
 dignified with titles, but was not very happy in his choice ; 
 for, except Lord Bathurst, none of his noble friends were 
 such as that a good ' man would wish to have his intimacy 
 with them known to posterity : he can derive little honour 
 from the notice of Cobham, Burlington, or Bolingbroke. 
 
 Of his social qualities, if an estimate be made from his 
 Letters, an opinion too favourable cannot easily be formed; 
 they exhibit a perpetual and unclouded effulgence of general 
 benevolence, and particular fondness. There is nothing but 
 liberality, gratitude, constancy, and tenderness. It has been 
 so long said as to be commonly believed, that the true 
 characters of men may be found in their Letters, and that 
 he who writes to his friend lays his heart open before him. 
 But the truth is, that such were simple friendships of the 
 Golden Age, and are now the friendships only of children. 
 Very few can boast of hearts which they dare lay open to 
 themselves, and of which, by whatever accident exposed, they 
 do not shun a distinct and continued view; and, certainly, 
 what we hide from ourselves we do not shew to our friends. 
 There is, indeed, no transaction which offers stronger tempta- 
 tions to fallacy and sophistication than epistolary intercourse. 
 In the eagerness of conversation the first emotions of the mind 
 often burst out, before they are considered ; in the tumult ot 
 business, interest and passion have their genuine effect ; but 
 a friendly Letter is a calm and deliberate performance, in the 
 cool of leisure, in the stillness of solitude, and surely no man 
 sits down to depreciate by design his own character. 
 
 Friendship has no tendency to secure veracity ; for by whom 
 can a man so much wish to be thought better than he is, as 
 
1744] POPE. 407 
 
 by him whose kindness he desires to gain or keep ? Even in 
 writing to the world there is less constraint ; the author is not 
 confronted with his reader, and takes his chance of approbation 
 among the different dispositions of mankind ; but a Letter is 
 addressed to a single mind, of which the prejudices and par- 
 tialities are known ; and must therefore please, if not by 
 favouring them, by forbearing to oppose them. 
 
 To charge those favourable representations, which men give 
 of their own minds, with the guilt of hypocritical falsehood, 
 would shew more severity than knowledge. The writer com- 
 monly believes himself. Almost every man's thoughts, while 
 they are general, are right ; and most hearts are pure, while 
 temptation is away. It is easy to awaken generous sentiments 
 in privacy ; to despise death when there is no danger ; to glow 
 with benevolence when there is nothing to be given. While 
 such ideas are formed they are felt, and self-love does not 
 suspect the gleam of virtue to be the meteor of fancy. 
 
 If the Letters of Pope are considered merely as compositions, 
 they seem to be premeditated and artificial. It is one thing to 
 write because there is something which the mind wishes to dis- 
 charge, and another, to solicit the imagination because ceremony 
 or vanity requires something to be written. Pope confesses his 
 early Letters to be vitiated with affectation and ambition: to 
 know whether he disentangled himself from these perverters 
 of epistolary integrity, his book and his life must be set in 
 comparison. 
 
 One of his favourite topicks is contempt of his own poetry. 
 For this, if it had been real, he would deserve no commenda- 
 tion, and in this he was certainly not sincere; for his high 
 value of himself was sufficiently observed, and of what could 
 he be proud but of his poetry ? He writes, he says, when 
 he has just nothing else to do; yet Swift complains that he was 
 never at leisure for conversation, because he had always some 
 poetical scheme in his head. It was punctually required that his 
 writing-box should be set upon his bed before he rose ;' and 
 
4o8 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Lord Oxford's domestick related, that, in the dreadful winter 
 of Forty, she] was called from her bed by him four times in 
 one night, to supply him with paper, lest he should lose a 
 thought. 
 
 He pretends insensibility to censure and criticism, though 
 it was observed by all who knew him that every pamphlet 
 disturbed his quiet, and that his extreme irritability laid him 
 open to perpetual vexation; but he wished to despise his 
 criticks, and therefore hoped that he did not despise them. 
 
 As he happened to live in two reigns when the Court paid 
 little attention to poetry, he nursed in his mind a foolish 
 disesteem of Kings, and proclaims that he never sees Courts. 
 Yet a little regard shewn him by the Prince of Wales melted 
 his obduracy ; and he had not much to say when he was asked 
 by his, Royal Highness, how he could love a Prince while he 
 disliked Kings ? 
 
 He very frequently professes contempt of the world, and 
 represents himself as looking on mankind, sometimes with gay 
 indifference, as on emmets of a hillock, below his serious 
 attention ; and sometimes with gloomy indignation, as on 
 monsters more worthy of hatred than of pity. These were 
 dispositions apparently counterfeited. How could he despise 
 those whom he lived by pleasing, and on whose approbation 
 his esteem of himself was superstructed ? Why should he 
 hate those to whose favour he owed his honour and his ease ? 
 Of things that terminate in human life, the world is the proper 
 judge ; to despise its sentence, if it were possible, is not just ; 
 and if it were just, is not possible. Pope was far enough from 
 this unreasonable temper j he was sufficiently a fool to Fame, 
 and his fault was that he pretended to neglect it. His levity 
 and his sullenness were only in his Letters ; he passed through 
 common life, sometimes vexed, and sometimes pleased, with 
 the natural emotions of common men. 
 
 His scorn of the Great is repeated too often to be real ; no 
 man th inks much of that which he despises ; and as falsehood 
 
1744] POPE. 409 
 
 is always in danger of inconsistency, he makes it his boast at 
 another time that he lives among them. 
 
 It is evident that his own importance dwells often in his 
 mind. He is afraid of writing, lest the clerks of the Post-office 
 should know his secrets ; he has many enemies ; he considers 
 himself as surrounded by universal jealousy ; after many deaths, 
 and many dispersions, two or three of us, says he, may still be 
 brought together, not to plot, but to divert ourselves, and the world 
 too, if it pleases ; and they can live together, and shew what 
 friends wits may be, in spite of all the fools in the world. All 
 this while it was likely that the clerks did not know his hand ; 
 he certainly had no more enemies than a publick character 
 like his inevitably excites, and with what degree of friendship 
 the wits might live, very few were so much fools as ever to 
 enquire. 
 
 Some part of this pretended discontent he learned from 
 Swift, and expresses it, I think, most frequently in his corre- 
 spondence with him. Swift's resentment was unreasonable, 
 but it was sincere ; Pope's was the mere mimickry of his friend, 
 a fictitious part which he began to play before it became him. 
 When he was only twenty-five years old, he related that a glut 
 of study and retirement had thrown him on the world, and that 
 there was danger lest a glut of the world should throw him back 
 upon study and retirement. To this Swift answered with great 
 propriety, that Pope had not yet either acted or suffered enough 
 in the world to have become weary of it. And, indeed, it 
 must be some very powerful reason that can drive back to 
 solitude him who has once enjoyed the pleasures of society. 
 
 In the Letters both of Swift and Pope there appears such 
 narrowness of mind, as makes them insensible of any excellence 
 that has not some affinity with their own, and confines their 
 esteem and approbation to so small a number, that whoever 
 should form his opinion of the age from their representation, 
 would suppose them to have lived amidst ignorance and bar- 
 barity, unable to find among their contemporaries either virtue 
 
4IO POPE. [less- 
 
 or intelligence, and persecuted by those that could not under- 
 stand them. 
 
 When Pope murmurs at the world, when he professes con- 
 tempt of fame, when he speaks of riches and poverty, of success 
 and disappointment, with negligent indifference, he certainly 
 does not express his habitual and settled sentiments, but either 
 wilfully disguises his own character, or, what is more likely, 
 invests himself with temporary qualities, and sallies out in the 
 colours of the present moment. His hopes and fears, his joys 
 and sorrows, acted strongly upon his mind ; and if he differed 
 from others, it was not by carelessness ; he was irritable and 
 resentful ; his malignity to Philips, whom he had first made 
 ridiculous, and then hated for being angry,' continued too long. 
 Of his vain desire to make Bentley contemptible, I never heard 
 any adequate reason. He was sometimes wanton in his attacks ; 
 and, before Chandos, Lady Wortley, and Hill, was mean in his 
 retreat. 
 
 The virtues which seem to have had most of his affection 
 were liberality and fidelity of friendship, in which it does not 
 appear that he was other than he describes himself His 
 fortune did not suffer his charity to be splendid and conspic- 
 uous ; but he assisted Dodsley with a hundred pounds, that he 
 might open a shop ; and of the subscription of forty pounds a 
 year that he raised for Savage, twenty were paid by himself. 
 He was accused of loving money, but his love was eagerness to 
 gain, not solicitude to keep it. 
 
 In the duties of friendship he was zealous and constant : his 
 early maturity of mind commonly united him with men older 
 than himself, and therefore, without attaining any considerable 
 length of life, he saw many companions of his youth sink into 
 the grave ; but it does not appear that he lost a single friend 
 by coldness or by injury ; those who loved him once, con- 
 tinued their kindness. His ungrateful mention of Allen in his 
 will was the effect of his adherence to one whom he had 
 known much longer, and whom he naturally loved with greater 
 
1744] POPE. 4" 
 
 fondness. His violation of the trust reposed in him by 
 Bolingbroke could have no motive inconsistent with the 
 warmest affection ; he either thought the action so near to 
 indifferent that he forgot it, or so laudable that he expected 
 his friend to approve it. 
 
 It was reported, with such confidence as almost to enforce 
 behef, that in the papers intrusted to his executors was found 
 a defamatory Life of Swift, which he had prepared as an instru- 
 ment of vengeance to be used, if any provocation should be 
 ever given. About this I enquired of the Earl of Marchmont, 
 who assured me that no such piece was among his remains. 
 
 The religion in which he lived and died was that of the 
 Church of Rome, to which in his correspondence with Racine 
 he professes himself a sincere adherent. That he was not 
 scrupulously pious in some part of his life, is known by 
 many idle and indecent applications of sentences taken from 
 the Scriptures ; a mode of merriment which a good man 
 dreads for its profaneness, and a witty man disdains for its 
 easiness and vulgarity. But to whatever levities he has been 
 betrayed, it does not appear that his principles were ever 
 corrupted, or that he ever lost his belief of Revelation. The 
 positions which he transmitted from Bolingbroke he seems not 
 to have understood, and was pleased with an interpretation that 
 made them orthodox. 
 
 A man of such exalted superiority, and so little modera- 
 tion, would naturally have all his delinquencies observed and 
 aggravated ; those who could not deny that he was excellent, 
 would rejoice to find that he was not perfect. 
 
 Perhaps it may be imputed to the unwillingness with which 
 the same man is allowed to possess many advantages, that his 
 learning has been depreciated. He certainly was in his early 
 life a man of great literary curiosity ; and when he wrote his 
 Essay on Criticism had, for his age, a very wide acquaintance 
 with books. When he entered into the living world, it seems 
 to have happened to him as to many others, that he was less 
 
412 POPE. [1688— 
 
 attentive to dead masters; he studied in the academy of 
 Paracelsus, and made the universe his favourite volume. He 
 gathered his notions fresh from reality, not from the copies of 
 authors, but the originals of Nature. Yet there is no reason 
 to believe that literature ever lost his esteem ; he always pro- 
 fessed to love reading ; and Dobson, who spent some time at 
 his house translating his Essay on Man, when I asked him what 
 learning he found him to possess, answered, More than I expected. 
 His frequent references to history, his allusions to various kinds 
 of knowledge, and his images selected from art and nature, with 
 his observations on the operations of the mind and the modes 
 of life, shew an intelligence perpetually on the wing, excursive, 
 vigorous, and diligent, eager to pursue knowledge, and attentive 
 to retain it. 
 
 From this curiosity arose the desire of travelling, to which he 
 alludes in his verses to Jervas, and which, though he never found 
 an opportunity to gratify it, did not leave him till his life declined. 
 
 Of his intellectual character, the constituent and fundamental 
 principle was Good Sense, a prompt and intuitive perception 
 of consonance and propriety. He saw immediately, of his own 
 conceptions, what was to be chosen, and what to be rejected ; 
 and, in the works of others, what was to be shunned, and what 
 was to be copied. ^t ^ i i/'^rJi- ' 
 
 But good sense alone is a sedate and quiescent quality, which 
 manages its possessions well, but does not increase them ; it 
 collects few materials for its own operations, and preserves 
 safety, but never gains supremacy. Pope had likewise genius ; 
 a mind active, ambitious, and adventurous, always investigat- 
 ing, always aspiring ; in its wildest searches still longing to go 
 forward, in its highest flights still wishing to be higher ; always 
 imagining something greater than it knows, always endeavour- 
 ing more than it can do. 
 
 To assist these powers, he is said to have had great strength 
 and exactness of memory. That which he had heard or read 
 was not easily lost ; and he had before him not only what his 
 
1744] POPE. 413 
 
 own meditation suggested, but what he had found in other 
 writers, that might be accommodated to his present purpose. 
 
 These benefits of nature he improved by incessant' and 
 unwearied diligence ; he had recourse to every source of 
 intelligence, and lost no opportunity of information ; he 
 consulted the living as well as the dead; he read his com- 
 positions to his friends, and was never content with mediocrity 
 when excellence could be attained. He considered poetry as 
 the business of his life, and however he might seem to lament 
 his occupation, he followed it with constancy ; to make verses 
 was his first labour, and to mend them was his last. 
 
 From his attention to poetry he was never diverted. If 
 conversation offered anything that could be improved, he 
 committed it to paper ; if a thought, or perhaps an expression 
 more happy than was common, rose to his mind, he was 
 careful to write it ; an independent distich was preserved 
 for an opportunity of insertion, and some little fragments 
 have been found containing lines, or parts of lines, to be 
 wrought upon at some other time. 
 
 He was one of those few whose labour is their pleasure ; he 
 was never elevated to negligence, nor wearied to impatience ; 
 he never passed a fault unamended by indifierence, nor 
 quitted it by despair. He laboured his works first to gain 
 reputation, and afterwards to keep it. 
 
 Of composition there are different methods. Some employ 
 at once memory and invention, and, with little intermediate 
 use of the pen, form and polish large masses by continued 
 meditation, and write their productions only when, in their 
 own opinion, they have completed them. It is related of 
 Virgil, that his custom was to pour out a great number of 
 verses in the morning, and pass the day in retrenching 
 exuberances and correcting inaccuracies. The method of 
 Pope, as may be collected from his translation, was to write 
 his first thoughts in his first words, and gradually to amplify, 
 decorate, rectify, and refine them. 
 
414 POPE. [1688— 
 
 With such faculties, and such dispositions, he excelled every 
 other writer \n poetical prudence ; he wrote in such a manner as 
 might expose him to few hazards. He used almost always the 
 same fabrick of verse ; and, indeed, by those few essays which 
 lie made of any other, he did not enlarge his reputation. Of 
 this uniformity the certain consequence was readiness and 
 dexterity. By perpetual practice, language had in his mind 
 a systematical arrangement ; having always the same use for 
 words, he had words so selected and combined as to be ready 
 at his call. This increase of facility he confessed himself to 
 to have perceived in the progress of his translation. 
 
 But what was yet of more importance, his effusions were 
 always voluntary, and his subjects chosen by himself. His 
 independence secured him from drudging at a task, and 
 labouring upon a barren topick : he never exchanged praise 
 for money, nor opened a shop of condolence or congratulation. 
 His poems, therefore, were scarce ever temporary. He suffered 
 coronations and royal marriages to pass without a song, and 
 derived no opportunities from recent events, nor any popularity 
 from the accidental disposition of his readers. He was never 
 reduced to the necessity of soliciting the sun to shine upon a 
 birthday, of calling the Graces and Virtues to a wedding, or 
 of saying what multitudes Jiave said before him. When he 
 could produce nothing new, he was at liberty to be silent. 
 
 His publications were for the same reason never hasty. 
 He is said to have sent nothing to the press till it had lain 
 two years under his inspection : it is at least certain, that 
 he ventured nothing without nice examination. He suffered 
 the tumult of imagination to subside, and the novelties of 
 invention to grow familiar. He knew that the mind is always 
 enamoured of its own productions, and did not trust his first 
 fondness. He consulted his friends, and listened with great 
 willingness to criticism ; and, what was of more importance, 
 he consulted himself, and let nothing pass against his own 
 judgement. 
 
1744] POPE. 415 
 
 He professed to have learned his poetry from Dryden, whom, 
 whenever an opportunity was presented, he praised through 
 his whole life with unvaried liberality; and perhaps his 
 character may receive some illustration, if he be compared 
 with his master. 
 
 Integrity of imderstanding and nicety of discernment were 
 not allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. 
 The rectitude of Dryden' s mind was sufficiently shei\Ti by 
 the dismission of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection 
 of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers. But Dryden never 
 desired to apply all the judgement that he had. He wrote, 
 and professed to write, merely for the people; and when 
 he pleased others, he contented himself. He spent no time 
 in struggles to rouse latent powers ; he never attempted 
 to make that better which was already good, nor often to 
 mend what he must have known to be faulty. He wrote, 
 as he tells us, with very little consideration ; when occasion 
 or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present 
 moment happened to supply, and, when once it had passed 
 the press, ejected it from his mind; for when he had no 
 pecimiary interest, he had no further solicitude. 
 
 Pope was not content to satisfy ; he desfred to excel, and 
 therefore always endeavoured to do his best : he did not court 
 the candour, but dared the judgement of his reader, and, 
 expecting no indulgence from others, he shewed none to 
 himself He examined lines and words with minute and 
 punctilious observation, and retouched every part with in- 
 defatigable diligence, till he had left nothing to be forgiven. 
 
 For this reason he kept his pieces very long in his hands, 
 while he considered and reconsidered them. The only yoems 
 which can be supposed to have been written with such regard 
 to the times as might hasten their publication, were the two 
 satires of Tliirty-eight ; of which Dodsley told me, that they 
 were brought to him by the author, that they might be fairly 
 copied. "Almost every line," he said, "was then written 
 
4i6 POPE. [1688— 
 
 twice over ; I gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some 
 time afterwards to me for the press, with almost every line 
 written^twice over a second time." 
 
 His declaration, that his care for his works ceased at their 
 pubhcation, was not strictly true. His parental attention never 
 abandoned them ; what he found amiss in the first edition, he 
 silently corrected in those that followed. He appears to have 
 revised the Iliad, and freed it from some of its imperfections ; 
 and the Essay on Criticism received many improvements after 
 its first appearance. It will seldom be found that he altered 
 without adding clearness, elegance, or vigour. Pope had 
 perhaps the judgement of Dryden ; but Dryden certainly 
 wanted the diligence of Pope. 
 
 In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to 
 Dryden, whose education was more s cholas tick, and who 
 before he became an author had been allowed more time 
 for study, with better means of information. His mind has 
 a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations 
 from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden 
 knew .more of man in his general nature, and Pope in his 
 local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by 
 comprehensive speculation, and those of Pope by minute 
 attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, 
 and more certainty in that of Pope. 
 
 Poetry was not the sole praise of either ; for both excelled 
 likewise in prose ; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his 
 predecessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied, 
 that of Pope is cautious and uniform ; Dryden obeys the 
 motions of his own mind. Pope constrains his mind 
 to his own rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes 
 vehement and rapid ; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and 
 gentle. Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into in- 
 equalities, and diversified by the varied exuberance of abun- 
 dant vegetation; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, 
 and levelled by the roller. 
 
1744] POPE. 417 
 
 ■ Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet ; that quality 
 without which judgement is cold and knowledge is inert ; that 
 energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates ; the 
 superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. 
 It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigour Pope had 
 only a little because Dryden had more ; for every other writer 
 since Milton must give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden 
 it must be said, that if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not 
 better poems. Dryden's performances were always hasty, either 
 excited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestick 
 necessity ; he composed without consideration, and published 
 without correction. What his mind could supply at call, 
 or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all 
 that he gave. The , dilatory caution of Pope enabled him 
 to condense his sentiments, to multiply his images, and 
 to accumulate all that study might produce, or chance might 
 supply. If the flights of Dryden therefore are higher. Pope 
 continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire the blaze 
 is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. 
 Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls 
 below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and 
 Pope with perpetual delight. 
 
 This parallel will, I hope, when it is well considered, be 
 found just ; and if the reader should suspect me, as I suspect 
 myself, of some partial fondness for the memory of Dryden, 
 let him not too hastily condemn me; for meditation and 
 enquiry may, perhaps, shew him the reasonableness of my 
 ideterminatiqn. 
 
 The Works of Pope are now to be distinctly examined, ntrt 
 so much with attention to slight faults or petty beauties, as to 
 the general character and effect of each performance. 
 
 It seems natural for a young poet to initiate himself by 
 Pastorals, which, not professing to imitate real life, require 
 no experience, and, exhibiting only the simple operations of 
 
 E E 
 
4i8 POPE. [1688— 
 
 unmingled passions, admit no subtle reasoning or deep enquiry. 
 Pope's Pastorals are not however composed but with close 
 thought; they have reference to the times of the day, the 
 seasons of the year, and the periods of human life. The last, 
 that which turns the attention upon age and death, was the 
 author's favourite. To tell of disappointment and misery, to 
 thicken the darkness of futurity, and perplex the labyrinth of 
 uncertainty, has been always a delicious emplo)rment of the 
 poets. His preference was probably just. I wish, however, 
 that his fondness had not overlooked a line in which the 
 Zephyrs are made to lament in silence. 
 
 To charge these Pastorals with want of invention, is to 
 require what never was intended. The imitations are so 
 ambitiously frequent, that the writer evidently means rather to 
 shew his literature than his wit. It is surely sufficient for an 
 author of sixteen not only to be able to copy the poems 
 of antiquity with judicious selection, but to have obtained 
 sufficient power of language, and skill in metre, to exhibit a 
 series of versification, which had in English poetry no prece- 
 dent, nor has since had an imitation. 
 
 The design of Windsor Forest is evidently derived from 
 Cooper's Hill, with some attention to Waller's poem on The 
 Park ; but Pope cannot be denied to excel his masters in 
 variety and elegance, and the art of interchanging description, 
 narrative, and morality. The- objection made by Dennis is the 
 want of plan, of a regular subordination of parts terminating in 
 the principal and original design. There is this want in most 
 descriptive poems, because as the scenes, which they must 
 exhibit successively, are all subsisting at the same time, the 
 order in which they are shewn must by necessity be arbitrary, 
 and more is not to be expected from the last part than from 
 the first. The attention, therefore, which cannot be detained 
 by suspense, must be excited by diversity, such as his poem 
 offers to its reader. 
 
 But the desire of diversity may be too much indulged ; the 
 
1744] POPE. 419 
 
 parts of Windsor Forest which deserve least praise are those 
 which were added to enHven the stilhiess of the scene, the 
 appearance of Father Thames, and the transformation of 
 Lodona. Addison had in his Campaign derided the Rivers 
 that rise from their oozy beds to tell stories of heroes, and it is 
 therefore strange that Pope should adopt a fiction not only- 
 unnatural but lately censured; The story of Lodona is told 
 with sweetness ; but a new metamorphosis is a ready and 
 puerile expedient ; nothing is easier than to tell how a flower 
 was once a blooming virgin, or a rock an obdurate tyrant. 
 
 The Temple of Fame has, as Steele warmly declared, a 
 thousand beauties. Every part is splendid; there is great 
 luxuriance of ornaments ; the original vision of Chaucer was 
 never denied to be much improved; the allegory is very 
 skilfully continued, the imagery is properly selected, and 
 learnedly displayed : yet, with all this comprehension of ex- 
 cellence, as its scene is laid in remote ages, and its sentiments, 
 if the concluding paragraph be excepted, have little relation 
 to general manners or common life, it never obtained much 
 notice, but is turned silently over, and seldom quoted or 
 mentioned with either praise or blame. 
 
 That the Messiah excels the Pollio is no great praise, if it be 
 considered from what original the improvements are derived. 
 
 The Verses on the Unfortunate Lady have drawn much 
 attention by the illauciable singularity of treating suicide vidth 
 respect ; and they must be allowed to be written in some parts 
 with vigorous animation, and in others with gentle tenderness ; 
 nor has Pope produced any poem in which the sense pre- 
 dominates more over the diction. But the tale is not skilfully 
 told ; it is not easy to discover the character of either the 
 Lady or her Guardian. History relates that she was about to 
 disparage herself by a marriage with an inferior; Pope praises 
 her for the dignity of ambition, and yet condemns the uncle to 
 detestation for his pride ; the ambitious love of a niece may be 
 opposed by the interest, mahce, or envy of an uncle, but never 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 POPE. [1688— 
 
 by his pride. On such an occasion a poet may be allowed to 
 be obscure, but inconsistency never can be right. 
 
 The Ode for St. Cecilia's Day was undertaken at the desire 
 of Steele : in this the author is generally confessed to have 
 miscarried, yet he has miscarried only as compared with 
 Dryden; for he has far outgone other competitors. Dryden's 
 plan is better chosen ; history will always take stronger hold of 
 the attention than fable : the passions excited by Dryden are 
 the pleasures and pains of real life, the scene of Pope is laid 
 in imaginary existence ; Pope is read with calm acquiescence, 
 Dryden with turbulent delight ; Pope hangs upon the ear, and 
 Dryden finds the passes of the mind. 
 
 Both the odes want the essential constituent of metrical 
 compositions, the stated recurrence of settled numbers. It 
 may be alleged, that Pindar is said by Horace to have written 
 numeris lege solutis : but as no such lax performances have been 
 transmitted to us, the meaning of that expression cannot be 
 fixed ; and perhaps the like return might properly be made to 
 a modern Pindarist, as Mr. Cobb received from Bentley, who, 
 when he found his criticisms upon a Greek Exercise, which 
 Cobb had presented, refuted one after another by Pindar's 
 authority, cried out at last, Pindar was a bold fellow, but thou 
 art an impudent one. 
 
 If Pope's ode be particularly inspected, it will be found that 
 the first stanza consists of sounds well chosen indeed, but only 
 sounds. 
 
 The second consists of hyperbolical common-places, easily 
 to be found, and perha,ps without much difficulty to be as well 
 expressed. 
 
 In the third, however, there are numbers, images, harmony, 
 and vigour, not unworthy the antagonist of Dryden. Had all 
 been like this — but every part cannot be the best. 
 
 The next stanzas place and detain us in the dark and dismal 
 regions of mythology, where neither hope nor fear, neither joy 
 nor sorrow can be found : the poet however faithfully attends 
 
1744] POPE. 421 
 
 us ; we have all that can be performed by elegance of diction, 
 or sweetness of versification ; but what can form avail without 
 better matter ? 
 
 The last stanza recurs again to common-places. The con- 
 clusion is too evidently modelled by that of Dryden ; and it may 
 be remarked that both end with the same fault, the comparison 
 of each is literal on one side, and metaphorical on the other. 
 
 Poets do not always express their own thoughts ; Pope, with 
 all this labour, in the praise of Musick, was ignorant of its 
 principles, and insensible of its effects. 
 
 One of his greatest though of his earliest works is the Essay 
 on Criticism,, which, if he had written nothing else, would have 
 placed him among the first criticks and the first poets, as it ex- 
 hibits every mode of excellence that can embellish or dignify 
 didactick composition, selection of matter, novelty of arrange* 
 ment, justness of precept, splendour of illustration, and propriety 
 of digression. I know not whether it be pleasing to consider 
 that he produced this piece at twenty, and never afterwards ex- 
 celled it ; he that delights himself with observing that such 
 powers may be so soon attained, cannot but grieve to think 
 that life was ever after at a stand. 
 
 To mention the particular beauties of the Essay would be 
 unprofitably tedious ; but I cannot forbear to observe, that the 
 comparison of a student's progress in the sciences with the 
 journey of a traveller in the Alps, is perhaps the best that 
 English poetry can shew. A simile, to be perfect, must both 
 illustrate and ennoble the subject ; must shew it to the under- 
 standing in a clearer view, and display it to the fancy with 
 greater dignity ; but either of these qualities may be sufficient 
 to recommend it. In didactick poetry, of which the great 
 purpose is instruction, a simile may be praised which illustrates, 
 though it does not ennoble ; in heroicks, that may be 
 admitted which ennobles, though it does not illustrate. That 
 it may be complete, it is required to exhibit, independently 
 , of its references, a pleasing image ; for a simile is said to be 
 
422 POPE. [1688— 
 
 a short episode. To this antiquity was so attentive, that cir- 
 cumstances were sometimes added, which, having no parallels, 
 served only to fill the imagination, and produced what Perrault 
 ludicrously called comparisons with a long tail. In their similes 
 the greatest writers have sometimes failed; the ship-race, 
 compared with the chariot-race, is neither illustrated nor 
 aggrandised ; land and water make all the difference : when 
 Apollo, running after Daphne, is likened to a greyhound 
 chasing a hare, there is nothing gained ; the ideas of pursuit 
 and flight are too plain to be made plainer, and a god and the 
 daughter of a god are not represented much to their advantage 
 by a hare and dog. The simile of the Alps has no useless 
 parts, yet affords a striking picture by itself; it makes the fore- 
 going position better understood, and enables it to take faster 
 hold on the attention ; it assists the apprehension, and elevates 
 the fancy. 
 
 Let me likewise dwell a little on the celebrated paragraph, in 
 which it is directed that the sound should seem an echo to the 
 sense; a precept which Pope is allowed to have observed 
 beyond any other English poet. 
 
 This notion of representative metre, and the desire of dis- 
 covering frequent adaptations of the sound to the sense, have 
 produced, in my opinion, many wild conceits and imaginary 
 beauties. All that can furnish this representation are the sounds 
 of the words considered singly, and the time in which they are 
 pronounced. Every language has some words framed to exhibit 
 the noises which they express, as thump, rattle, growl, hiss. 
 These however are but few, and the poet cannot make them 
 more, nor can they be of any use but when sound is to be 
 mentioned. The time of pronunciation was in the dactylick 
 measures of the learned languages capable of considerable 
 variety; but that variety could be accommodated only to 
 motion or duration, and different degrees of motion were 
 perhaps expressed by verses rapid or slow, without much 
 attention of the writer, when the image had full possession of 
 
1744] POPE. 423 
 
 his fancy ; but our language having little flexibility, our verses 
 can differ very little in their cadence. The fancied resem- 
 blances, I fear, arise sometimes merely from the ambiguity of 
 words ; there is supposed to be some relation between a soft 
 line and a soft couch, or between hard syllables and hard 
 fortune. 
 
 Motion, however, may be in some sort exemplified ; and yet 
 it may be suspected that even in such resemblances the mind 
 often governs the ear, and the sounds are estimated by their 
 meaning. One of the most successful attempts has been to 
 describe the labour of Sisyphus : 
 
 With many a weary step, and many a groan. 
 Up a high hill he heaves a huge round stone ; 
 The huge round stone, resulting with a bound. 
 Thunders impetuous down, and smoaks along the ground. 
 
 Who does not perceive the stone to move slowly upward, 
 and roll violently back ? But set the same numbers to another 
 sense : 
 
 While many a merry tale, and many a song, 
 Cheai-'d the rough road, we wish'd the rough road long. 
 The rough road then, returning in a round, 
 Mock'd our impatient steps, for all was fairy ground. 
 
 We have now surely lost much of the delay, and much of the 
 rapidity. 
 
 But to shew how little the greatest master of numbers 
 can fix the principles of representative harmony, it will be 
 sufficient to remark that the poet, who tells us, that 
 
 When Ajax strives — the words move slow. 
 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
 
 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main ; 
 
 when he had enjoyed for about thirty years the praise of 
 Camilla's lightness of foot, tried another experiment upon 
 sound and time, and produced this memorable triplet : 
 
424 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Waller was smooth ; but Dryden taught to join ') 
 The varying verse, the full resounding line, > 
 
 The long majestick march, and energy divine. ) 
 
 Here are the swiftness of the rapid race, and the march of 
 slow-paced majesty, exhibited by the same poet in the same 
 sequence of syllables, except that the exact prosodist will find 
 the line of swiftness by one time longer than that of 
 tardiness. 
 
 Beauties of this kind are commonly fancied; and when 
 real, are technical and nugatory, not to be rejected, and not 
 to be solicited. 
 
 To the praises which have been accumulated on the Rape 
 of the Lock by readers of every class, from the critick to the 
 waiting-maid, it is difficult to make any addition. Of that 
 which is universally allowed to be the most attractive of all 
 ludicrous compositions, let it rather be now enquired from what 
 sources the power of pleasing is derived. 
 
 Dr. WaAurton, who excelled in critical perspicacity, has 
 remarked that the preternatural agents are very happily 
 adapted to the purposes of the poem. The heathen deities 
 can no longer gain attention : we should have ttimed away 
 from a contest between Venus and Diana. The employment 
 of allegorical persons always excites conviction of its own 
 absurdity ; they may produce effects, but cannot conduct 
 actions ; when the phantom is put in motion, it dissolves ; 
 thus Discord may raise a mutiny, but Discord cannot conduct 
 a march, nor besiege a town. Pope brought into view a 
 new race of Beings, with powers and passions proportionate to 
 their operation. The sylphs and gnomes act at the toilet and 
 the tea-table, what more terrifick and more powerful phantoms 
 perform on the stormy ocean, or the field of battle, they give 
 their proper help, and do their proper mischief. 
 
 Pope is said, by an objector, not to have been the inventer 
 of this petty nation; a charge which might with more justice 
 have been brought against the author of the Iliad, who 
 
1744] POPE. 425 
 
 doubtless adopted the religious system of his country; for 
 what is there but the names of his agents which Pope has not 
 invented? Has he not assigned them characters and opera- 
 tions never heard of before? Has he not, at least, given them 
 their first poetical existence? If this is not sufficient to 
 denominate his work original, nothing original ever can be 
 written. 
 
 In this work are exhibited, in a very high degree, the two 
 most engaging powers of an author. New things are made 
 familiar, and familiar things are made new. A race of aerial 
 peopje, never heard of before, is presented to us in a manner 
 so clear and easy, that the reader seeks for no further informa- 
 tion, but immediately mingles with his new acquaintance, 
 adopts their interests, and attends their pursuits, loves a sylph, 
 and detests a gnome. 
 
 That familiar things are made new, every paragraph will 
 prove. The subject of the poem is an event below the com- 
 mon incidents of common life ; nothing real is introduced 
 that is not seen so often as to be no longer regarded, yet the 
 whole detail of a female-day is here brought before us invested 
 with so much art of decoration, that, though nothing is 
 disguised, every thing is striking, and we feel all the appetite 
 of curiosity for that from which we have a thousand times 
 turned fastidiously away. 
 
 ' The purpose of the Poet is, as he tells us, to laugh at the 
 little unguarded follies of the female sex. ' It is therefore without 
 justice that Dennis charges the Rape of the Lock with the 
 want of a moral, and for that reason sets it below the Lutrin, 
 which exposes the pride and discord of the clergy. Perhaps 
 neither Pope nor Boileau has made the world much better than 
 he found it ; but if they had both succeeded, it were easy to 
 tell who would have deserved most from publick gratitude. 
 The freaks, and humours, and spleen, and vanity of women, 
 as they embroil families in discord, and fill houses with 
 disquiet, do more to obstruct the happiness of life in a year 
 
426 POPE. [1688— 
 
 than the ambition of the clergy in many centuries. It has 
 been well observed, that the misery of man proceeds not from 
 any single crush of overwhelming evil, but from small vexations 
 continually repeated. 
 
 It is remarked by Dennis likewise, that the machinery is 
 superfluous ; that, by all the bustle of preternatural operation, 
 the main event is neither hastened nor retarded. To this 
 charge an efficacious answer is not easily made. The sylphs 
 cannot be said to help or to oppose, and it must be allowed 
 to imply some want of art, that their power has not been 
 sufficiently intermingled with the action. Other parts may 
 likewise be charged with want of connection; the game at 
 ombre might be spared ; but if the Lady had lost her hair while 
 she was intent upon her cards, it might have been inferred that 
 those who are too fond of play will be in danger of neglecting 
 more important interests. Those perhaps are faults ; but what 
 are such faults to so much excellence ! 
 
 The Epistle of Eloise to Abelard is one of the most happy 
 productions of human wit : the subject is so judiciously chosen, 
 that it would be difficult, in turning over the annals of the 
 world, to find another which so many circumstances concur to 
 recommend. We regularly interest ourselves most in the 
 fortune of those who most deserve our notice. Abelard 
 and Eloise were conspicuous in their days for eminence of 
 merit. The heart naturally loves truth. The adventures and 
 misfortunes of this illustrious pair are known from undisputed 
 history. Their fate does not leave the mind in hopeless 
 dejection ; for they both found quiet and consolation in 
 retirement and piety. So new and so affecting is their story, 
 that it supersedes invention, and imagination ranges at full 
 liberty without straggling into scenes of fable. 
 
 The story, thus skilfully adopted, has been diligently im- 
 proved. Pope has left nothing behind him, which seems more 
 the effect of studious perseverance and laborious revisal. Here 
 is particularly observable the curiosa felicitas, a fruitful soil, and 
 
1744] POPE. 427 
 
 careful cultivation. Here is no crudeness of sense, nor asperity 
 of language. 
 
 The sources from which sentiments, which have so much 
 vigour and efficacy, have been drawn, are shewn to be the 
 mystick writers by the learned author of the Essay on the Life 
 and Writings of Pope ; a book which teaches how the brow 
 of Criticism may be smoothed, and how she may be enabled, 
 with all her severity, to attract and to delight. 
 
 The train of my disquisition has now conducted me to that 
 poetical wonder, the translation of the IHad; a performance 
 which no age or nation can pretend to equal. To the Greeks 
 translation was almost unknown; it was totally unknown to 
 the inhabitants of Greece. They had no recourse to the 
 Barbarians for poetical beauties, but sought for every thing 
 in Homer, where, indeed, there is but little which they might 
 not find. 
 
 The Italians have been very diligent translators ; but I can 
 hear of no version, unless perhaps Anguillara's Ovid may be 
 excepted, which is read with eagerness. The Iliad of Salvini 
 every reader may discover to be punctiliously exact ; but it 
 seems to be the work of a linguist skilfully pedantick, and his 
 countrymen, the proper judges of its power to please, reject it 
 with disgust. 
 
 Their predecessors the Romans have left some specimens of 
 translation behind them, and that employment must have had 
 some credit in which Tully and Germanicus engaged ; but 
 unless we suppose, what is perhaps true, that the plays of 
 Terence were versions of Menander, nothing translated seems 
 ever to have risen to high reputation. The French, in the 
 meridian hour of their learning, were very laudably industrious 
 to enrich their own language with the wisdom of the ancients ; 
 but found themselves reduced, by whatever necessity, to turn 
 the Greek and Roman poetry into prose. Whoever could read 
 an author, could translate him. From such rivals little can be 
 feared. 
 
 L 
 
428 POPE. ■ [1688— 
 
 The chief help of Pope in this arduous undertaking was 
 drawn from the versions of Dryden. Virgil had borrowed 
 much of his imagery from Homer, and part of the debt was 
 now paid by his translator. Pope searched the pages of 
 Dryden for happy combinations of heroic diction ; but it 
 will not be denied that he added much to what he found. 
 He cultivated our language with so much diligence and art, 
 that he has left in his Homer a treasure of poetical elegances 
 to posterity. His version may be said to have tuned the 
 English tongue; for since its appearance no writer, however 
 deficient in other powers, has wanted melody. Such a series 
 of lines so elaborately corrected, and so sweetly modulated, 
 took possession of the publick ear ; the vulgar was enamoured 
 of the poem, and the learned wondered at the translation. 
 
 But in the most general applause discordant voices will 
 always be heard. It has been objected by some, who wish to 
 be numbered among the sons of learning, that Pope's version 
 of Homer is not Hom^rical ; that it exhibits no resemblance 
 of the original and characteristick manner of the Father of 
 Poetry, as it wants his awful simplicity, his artless grandeur, 
 his unaffected majesty. This cannot be totally denied; but 
 it must be remembered that necessitas quod cogit defendit ; that 
 may be lawfully done which cannot be forborne. Time and 
 place will always enforce regard. In estimating this translation, 
 consideration must be had of the nature of our language, the 
 form of our metre, and, above all, of the change which two 
 thousand years have made in the modes of life and the habits 
 of thought. Virgil wrote in a language of the same general 
 fabrick with that of Homer, in verses of the same measure, 
 and in. an age nearer to Homer's time by eighteen hundred 
 years ; yet he found, even then, the state of the world so 
 much altered, and the demand for elegance so much increased, 
 that mere nature would be endured no longer ; and perhaps, 
 in the multitude of borrowed passages, very few can be shewn 
 which he has not embellished. 
 
1744] POPE. 429 
 
 There is a time when nations emerging from barbarity, and 
 falling into regular subordination, gain leisure to grow wise, 
 atid feel the shame of ignorance and the craving pain of 
 unsatisfied curiosity. To this hunger of the mind plain sense 
 is grateful ; that which fills the void removes uneasiness, and 
 to be free from pain for a while is pleasure ; but repletion 
 generates fastidiousness : a saturated intellect soon becomes 
 luxurious, and knowledge finds no willing reception till it is 
 recommended by artificial diction. Thus it will be found, in 
 the progress of learning, that in all nations the first writers 
 are simple, and that every age improves in elegance. One 
 refinement always makes way for another, and what was 
 expedient to Virgil was necessary to Pope. 
 
 I suppose many readers of the English Iliad, when they 
 have been touched with some unexpected beauty of the lighter 
 kind, have tried to enjoy it in the original, where, alas ! it 
 was not to be found. Homer doubtless owes to his translator 
 many Ovidian graces not exactly suitable to his character ; but 
 to have added can be no great crime, if nothing be taken 
 away. Elegance is surely to be desired, if it be not gained 
 at the expence of dignity. A hero would wish to be loved, 
 as well as to be reverenced. 
 
 To a thousand cavils one answer is sufficient ; the purpose 
 of a writer is to be read, and the criticism which would destroy 
 the power of pleasing must be blown aside. Pope wrote for 
 his own age and his own nation : he knew that it was necessary 
 to colour the images and point the sentiments of his author ; he 
 therefore made him_graceful, but lost him some ot his sublimity. 
 
 The copious notes with which the versioji is accompanied, 
 and by which it is recommended to many.jeaders, though they 
 were undoubtedly written to swell the^tolumes, ought not to 
 pass without praise : commentaries which attrafct-the reader by 
 the pleasure of perusal have not often appeared ; the notes 
 of others are read to clear difficulties, those of Pope to vary 
 entertainment. 
 
430 POPE. [i6S8— 
 
 It has however been objected, with sufficient reason, that 
 there is in the commentary too much of unseasonable levity 
 and affected gaiety ; that too many appeals are made to the 
 Ladies, and the ease which is so carefully preserved is some- 
 times the ease of a trifler. Every art has its terms, and every 
 kind of instruction its proper style ; the gravity of common 
 criticks may be tedious, but is less despicable than childish 
 merriment. 
 
 Of the Odyssey nothing remains to be observed : the same 
 general praise may be given to both translations, and a 
 particular examination of either would require a large volume. 
 The notes were written by Broome, who endeavoured not 
 unsuccessfully to imitate his master. 
 
 Of the Dunciad the hint is confessedly taken from Dijden's 
 
 Mac Flecknoe ; but the plan is so enlarged and diversified as 
 
 justiy~to claim the praise of an original, and affords perhaps 
 
 the best specimen that has yet appeared of personal satire 
 
 • ludicrously pompous. 
 
 That the design was moral, whatever the author might tell 
 either his readers or himself, I am not convinced. The first 
 motive was the desire of revenging the contempt with which 
 Theobald had treated his Shakspeare, and regaining the honour 
 , which he had lost by crushing his opponent. Theobald was not 
 of bulk enough to fill a poem, and therefore it was necessary to 
 find other enemies with other names, at whose expence he might 
 divert the publick. 
 
 Tn this design there was petulance and malignity enough ; 
 but I cannot think it very, criminal. An author places himself 
 uncalled before the tribunal of Criticism, and solicits fame at 
 the hazard of disgrace, Dulness or deformity are not culpable 
 in themselves, but may be very justly reproached when they 
 pretend to the honour of wit or the influence of beauty. I 
 bad writers were to pass without reprehension, what should 
 restrain them ? impune diem consumpserit ingens Telephus ; and 
 upon bad writers only will censure have much effect. The 
 
1744] .POPE. 431 
 
 satire which brought Theobald, and Moore into contempt 
 dropped impotent from Bentley, Hke the javelin of Priam. 
 
 All truth is valuable, and satirical criticism may be considered 
 as useful when it rectifies error and improves judgement ; he 
 that reiines the publick taste is a publick benefactor. 
 
 The beauties of this poem are well known ; its chief fault is 
 the grossness of its images. Pope and Swift had an unnatural 
 delight in ideas physically impure, such as every other tongue 
 utters with unwillingness, and of which every ear shrinks from 
 the mention. 
 
 But even this fault, offensive as it is, may be forgiven for the 
 excellence of other passages ; such as the formation and 
 dissolution of Moore, the account of the Traveller, the mis- 
 fortune of the Florist, and the crouded thoughts and stately 
 numbers which dignify the concluding paragraph. 
 
 The alterations which have been made in the Dunciad, not 
 always for the better, require that it should be published, as in 
 the last collection, with all its variations. 
 
 The Essay on Man was a work of great labour and long 
 consideration, but certainly not the happiest of Pope's per- 
 formances. The subject is perhaps not very proper for poetry, 
 and the poet was not sufficiently master of his subject; 
 metaphysical morality was to him a new study, he was proud 
 of his acquisitions, and, supposing himself master of great 
 secrets, was in haste to teach what he had not learned. Thus 
 he tells us, in the first Epistle, that from the nature of the 
 Supreme Being may be deduced an order of beings such as 
 mankind, because Infinite Excellence can do only what is best. 
 He finds out that these beings must be somewhere, and that all 
 the question is tdhether man be in a wrong place. Surely if, 
 according to the poet's Leibnithian reasoning, we may infer 
 that man ought to be, only because he is, we may allow that 
 his place is the right place, because he has it. Supreme 
 Wisdom is not less infallible in disposing than in creating. 
 But what is meant by somewhere and place, and wrong place, 
 
432 POPE.* [1688— 
 
 it had been vain to ask Pope, who probably had never asked 
 himself. 
 
 Having exalted himself into the chair of wisdom, he tells us 
 much that every man knows, and much that he does not know 
 himself J that we see but little, and that the order of the 
 universe is beyond our comprehension, an opinion not very 
 uncommon ; and that there is a chain of subordinate beings 
 from infinite to nothing, of which himself and his readers are 
 equally ignorant. But he gives us one comfort, which, without 
 his help, he supposes unattainable, in the position that though 
 •we are fools, yet God is wise. 
 
 This Essay affords an egregious instance of the predominance 
 of genius, the dazzling splendour of imagery, and the seductive 
 powers of eloquence. Never were penury of knowledge and 
 vulgarity of sentiment so happily disguised. The reader feels 
 his mind full, though he learns nothing ; and when he meets 
 it in its new array, no longer knows the talk of his mother and 
 his nurse. When these wonder-working sounds sink into sense, 
 and the doctrine of the Essay, disrobed of its ornaments, is 
 left to the powers of its naked excellence, what shall we 
 discover ? That we are, in comparison with our Creator, very 
 weak and ignorant ; that we do not uphold the chain of 
 existence, and that we could not make one another with more 
 skill than we are made. We may learn yet more ; that the arts 
 of human life were copied ' from the instinctive operations of 
 other animals ; that if the world be made for man, it may be 
 said that man was made for geese. To these profound 
 principles of natural knowledge are added some moral in- 
 structions equally new ; that self-interest, well understood, will 
 produce social concord ; that men are mutual gainers by mutual 
 benefits ; that evil is sometimes balanced by good ; that human 
 advantages are unstable and fallacious, of uncertain duration 
 and doubtful effect ; that our true honour is, not to have a great 
 part, but to act it well : that virtue only is our own ; and that 
 happiness is always in our power. 
 
1744] POPE. i 433 
 
 Surely a man of no very comprehensive search may venture 
 to say that he has heard all this before ; but it was never till 
 now recommended by such a blaze of embellishment, or such 
 sweetness of melody. The vigorous contraction of some 
 thoughts, the luxuriant amplification of others, the incidental 
 illustrations, and sometimes the dignity, sometimes the softness 
 of the verses, enchain philosophy, suspend criticism, and 
 oppress judgement by overpowering pleasure. 
 
 This is true of many paragraphs ; yet if I had undertaken 
 to exemplify Pope's felicity of composition before a rigid 
 critick, I should not select the Essay on Man ; for it contains 
 more lines unsuccessfully laboured, more hardness of diction, 
 more thoughts imperfectly expressed, more levity without 
 elegance, and more heaviness without strength, than will easily 
 be found in all his other works. 
 
 The Characters of Men and Women are the product of 
 diligent speculation upon human life ; much labour has been 
 bestowed upon them, and Pope very seldom laboured in vain. 
 That his excellence may be properly estimated, I recommend 
 a comparison of his Characters of Women with Boileau's 
 Satire ; it will then be seen with how much more perspicacity 
 female nature is investigated, and female excellence selected; 
 and he surely is no mean writer to whom Boileau shall be found 
 inferior. The Characters of Men, however, are written with 
 more, if not with deeper thought, and exhibit many passages 
 exquisitely beautiful. The Gem and the Flower will not easily 
 be equalled. In the women's part are some defects; the 
 character of Attossa is not so neatly finished as that of Clodio ; 
 and some of the female characters may be found perhaps more 
 frequently among men ; what is said of Philomede was true of 
 Prior. 
 
 In the Epistles to Lord Bathurst and Lord Burlington, Dr. 
 Warburton has endeavoured to find a train of thought which 
 was never in the writer's head, and, to support his hypothesis, 
 has printed that first which was published last. In one, the 
 
 F F 
 
434 
 
 POPE. [1688— 
 
 most valuable passage is perhaps the 'Ejflgy on Good Sense, 
 and the other the End of the Duke of Buckingham. 
 
 The Epistle to Arbuthnot, now arbitrarily called the Prologue 
 to the Satires, is a performance consisting, as it seems, of many- 
 fragments wrought into one design, which by this union of 
 scattered beauties contains more striking paragraphs than could 
 probably have been brought together into an occasional work. 
 As there is no stronger motive to exertion than self-defence, no 
 part has more elegance, spirit, or dignity, than the poet's vindi- 
 cation of his own character. The meanest passage is the 
 satire upon Sporus. 
 
 Of the two poems which derived their names from the year, 
 and which are called the Epilogue to the Satires, it was very 
 justly remarked by Savage, that the second was in the whole 
 more strongly conceived, and more equally supported, but that 
 it had no single passages equal to the contention in the first for 
 the dignity of Vice, and the celebration of the triumph of 
 Corruption. 
 
 The Imitations of Horace seem to have been written as 
 relaxations of his genius. This employment became his 
 favourite by its facility ; the plan was ready to his hand, and 
 nothing was required but to accommodate as he could the 
 sentiments of an old author to recent facts or familiar images ; 
 but what is easy is seldom excellent ; such imitations cannot 
 give pleasure to common readers ; the man of learning may be 
 sometimes surprised and delighted by an unexpected parallel ; 
 but the comparison requires knowledge of the original, which 
 will likewise often detect strained applications. Between 
 Roman images and English manners there will be an irre- 
 concileable dissimilitude, and the work will be generally un- 
 couth and party-coloured; neither original nor translated, 
 neither ancient nor modern. 
 
 Pope had, in proportions very nicely adjusted to each other, 
 all the qualities that constitute genius. He had Invention, by 
 which new trains of events are formed, and new scenes of 
 
1744] POPE. 43S 
 
 imagery displayed, as in the Rape of the Lock ; and by which 
 extrinsic and adventitious embellishments and illustrations are 
 connected with a known subject, as in the Essay on Criticism. 
 He had Imaginatioji, which strongly impresses on the writer's 
 mind, and enables him to convey to the reader the various 
 forms of nature, incidents of life, and energies of passion, as 
 in his Eloisa, Windsor Forest, and the E thick Epistles. He 
 had Judgement, which selects from life or nature what the 
 present purpose requires, and, by separating the essence of 
 things from its concomitants, often makes the representation 
 more powerful than the reality : and he had colours of language 
 always before him, ready to decorate his matter with every 
 grace of elegant expression, as when he accommodates his 
 diction to the wonderful multiplicity of Homer's sentiments 
 and descriptions. 
 
 Poetical expression includes sound as well as meaning; 
 Mustek, says Dryden, is inarticulate poetry ; among the excel- 
 lences of Pope, therefore, must be mentioned the rnelody of 
 his metre. By perusing the works of Dryden, he discovered 
 the most perfect fabrick of English verse, and habituated 
 himself to that only which he found the best ; in consequence 
 of which restraint his poetry has been censured as too uni- 
 formly musical, and as glutting the ear with unvaried sweetness. 
 I suspect this objection to be the cant of those who judge by 
 principles rather than perception : and who would even them- 
 selves have less pleasure in his works if he had tried to relieve 
 attention by studied discords, or affected to break his lines 
 and vary his pauses. 
 
 But though he was thus careful of his versification, he did 
 not oppress his powers with superfluous rigour. He seems 
 to have thought with Boileau, that the practice of writing 
 might be refined till the difficulty should overbalance the 
 advantage. The construction of his language is not always 
 strictly grammatical ; with those rhymes which prescription 
 had conjoined he contented himself, without regard to Swift's 
 
 F F 2 
 
1(36 POPE. [1688— 
 
 remonstrances, though there was no striking consonance ; nor 
 was he very careful to vary his terminations, or to refuse 
 admission at a small distance to the same rhymes. 
 
 To Swift's edict for the exclusion of Alexandrines and 
 Triplets he paid little regard; he admitted them, but, in the 
 opinion of Fenton, too rarely; he uses them more liberally 
 in his translation than his poems. 
 
 He has a few double rhymes ; and always, I think, unsuc- 
 cessfully, except once in the Rape of the Lock. 
 
 Expletives he very early ejected from his verses ; but he 
 now and then admits an epithet rather commodious than 
 important. Each of the six first lines of the Iliad might 
 lose two syllables with very little diminution of the meaning i 
 and sometimes, after all his art and labour, one verse 
 seems to be made for the sake of another. In his latter 
 productions the diction is sometimes vitiated by French 
 idioms, with which Bolingbroke had perhaps infected him. 
 
 I have been told that the couplet by which he declared 
 his own ear to be most gratified was this : 
 
 Lo, where Moeotis sleeps, and hardly flows 
 The freezing Tanais through a waste of snows. 
 
 But the reason of this preference I cannot discover. 
 
 It is remarked by Watts, that there is scarcely a happy 
 combination of words, or a phrase poetically elegant in the 
 English language, which Pope has not inserted into his version 
 of Homer. How he obtained possession of so many beauties 
 of speech it were desirable to know. That he gleaned from 
 authors, obscure as well as eminent, what he thought brilliant 
 or useful, and preserved it all in a regular collection, is not 
 imlikely. When, in his last years. Hall's Satires were shewn 
 him, he wished that he had seen them sooner. 
 
 New sentiments and new images others may produce ; but 
 to attempt any further improvement of versification will be 
 dangerous. Art and diligence have now done their best, and 
 
1744] POPE. 437 
 
 what shall be added will be the effort -of tedious toil and 
 needless curiosity. 
 
 After all this, it is surely superfluous to answer the question 
 that has once been asked, Whether Pope was a poet ; otherwise 
 than by asking in return, If Pope be not a poet, where is 
 poetry to be found ? To circumscribe poetry by a definition 
 will only shew the narrowness of the definer, though a definition 
 which shall exclude Pope will not easily be made. Let us 
 look round upon the present time, and back upon the past; 
 let us enquire to whom the voice of mankind has decreed the 
 wreath of poetry ; let their productions be examined, and their 
 claims stated, and the pretensions of Pope will be no more 
 disputed. Had he given the world only his version, the name 
 of poet must have been allowed him : if the writer of the 
 Iliad were to class his successors, he would assign a very 
 high place to his translator, without requiring any other 
 evidence of Genius. 
 
 The following Letter, of which the original is in the hands 
 of Lord Hardwicke, was communicated to me by the kindness 
 of Mr. Jodrell. 
 
 " To Mr. Bridges, at the Bishop of London's, at Fulham. 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 " The favoui: of your Letter, with your Remarks, can never 
 be enough acknowledged ; and the speed, with which you 
 discharged so troublesome a task, doubles the obligation. 
 
 " I must own, you have pleased me very much by the 
 commendations so ill bestowed upon me ; but, I assure you, 
 much more by the frankness of your censure, which I ought 
 to take the more kindly of the two, as it is more advantageous 
 to a scribbler to be improved in his judgement than to be 
 soothed in his vanity. The. greater part of those deviations 
 from the Greek, which you have observed, I was led into 
 
438 POPE. [i688— 
 
 by Chapman and Hobbes; who are (it seems) as much 
 celebrated for their knowledge of the original, as they are 
 decryed for the badness of their translations. Chapman 
 pretends to have restored the genuine sense of the author, 
 from the mistakes of all former explainers, in several hundred 
 places: and the Cambridge editors of the large Homer, in 
 Greek and Latin, attributed so much to Hobbes, that they 
 confess they have corrected the old Latin interpretation very 
 often by his version. For my part, I generally took the 
 author's meaning to be as you have explained it; yet their 
 authority, joined to the knowledge of my own imperfectness 
 in the language, over-ruled me. However, Sir, you may be 
 confident I think you in the right, because you happen to be 
 of my opinion (for men (let them say what they will) never 
 approve any other's sense, but as it squares with their own). 
 But you have made me much more proud of, and positive in 
 my judgement, since it is strengthened by yours. I think 
 your criticisms, which regard the expression, very just, and 
 shall make my profit of them : to give you some proof 
 that I am in earnest, I will alter three verses on your bare 
 objection, though I have Mr. Dryden's example for each 
 of them. And this, I hope, you will account no small piece 
 of obedience from one who values the authority of one 
 true poet above that of twenty criticks or commentators. 
 But though I speak thus of commentators, I will continue 
 to read carefully all I can procure, to make up, that way, 
 for my own want of critical understanding in the original 
 beauties of Homer. Though the greatest of them are certainly 
 those of the Invention and Design, which are not at all 
 confined to the language : for the distinguishing excellences 
 of Homer are (by the consent of the best criticks of all 
 nations) first in the manners, (which include all the speeches, 
 as being no other than the representations of each person's 
 manners by his words :) and then in that rapture and fire, 
 which carries you away with him, with that wonderful force, 
 that no man who has a true poetical spirit is master of himself, 
 
1744] POPE. 439 
 
 while he reads him, Homer makes you interested and con- 
 cerned before you are aware, all at once ; whereas Virgil does 
 it by soft degrees. This, I believe, is what a translator of 
 Homer ought principally to imitate; and it is very hard for 
 any translator to come up to it, because the chief reason why 
 all translations fall short of their originals is, that the very 
 constraint they are obliged to renders them heavy and 
 dispirited. 
 
 "The great beauty of Homer's language, as I take it, 
 consists in that noble simplicity which runs through all his 
 works ; (and yet his diction, contrary to what one would 
 imagine consistent with simplicity, is at the same time very 
 copious.) I don't know how I have run into this pedantry 
 in a Letter, but I find I have said too much, as well as 
 spoken too inconsiderately; what farther thoughts I have 
 upon this subject, I shall be glad to communicate to you (for 
 my own improvement) when we meet ; which is a happiness 
 I very earnestly desire, as I do likewise some opportunity of 
 proving how much I think myself obliged to your friendship, 
 and how truly I am. Sir, 
 
 "Your most faithful, humble servant, 
 
 "A. Pope." 
 
 The Criticism upon Pope's Epitaphs, which was printed in 
 The Visitor, is placed here, being too minute and particular 
 to be inserted in the Life. 
 
 Every Art is best taught by example. Nothing contributes 
 more to the cultivation of propriety than remarks on the 
 works of those who have most excelled. I shall therefore 
 endeavour, at this visit, to entertain the young students in 
 poetry, with an examination of Pope's Epitaphs. 
 
 To define an epitaph is useless ; every one knows that 
 it is an inscription on a tomb. An epitaph, therefore, impHes 
 
440 POPE. [1688- 
 
 no particular character of writing, but may be composed in 
 verse or prose. It is indeed commonly panegyrical ; because 
 we are seldom distinguished with a stone but by our friends ; 
 but it has no rule to restrain or mollify it, except this, that it 
 ought not to be longer than common beholders may be 
 expected to have leisure and patience to peruse. 
 
 On Charles Earl of Dorset, in the Church of Wythyham 
 in Sussex. 
 
 Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muse's pride, 
 Patron of arts, and judge of nature. Ay' A.. 
 The scourge of pride, though sanctify'd or great, 
 Of <ops in learning, and of knaves in state ; 
 ' Yet soft in nature, though severe his lay, 
 His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. 
 Blest satyrist ! who touch'd the mean so true. 
 As show'd. Vice had his hate and pity too. 
 Blest courtier ! who could king and country please, 
 Yet sacred kept his friendship, and his ease. 
 Blest peer ! his great forefather's every grace 
 Reflecting, and reflected on his race ; 
 Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine. 
 And patriots still, or poets, deck the line. 
 
 The first distich of this epitaph contains a kind of informa- 
 tion which few would want, that the man, for whom the tomb 
 was erected, died. There are indeed some qualities worthy of 
 praise ascribed to the dead, but none that were likely to 
 exempt him from the lot of man, or incline us much to 
 wonder that he should die. What is meant hy judge of nature 
 is not easy to say. Nature is not the object of human judge- 
 ment ; for it is vain to judge where we cannot alter. If by 
 nature is meant what is commonly called nature by the 
 criticks, a just representation of things really existing, and 
 actions really performed, nature cannot be properly opposed 
 
1744] POPE. 441 
 
 to art ; nature being, in this sense, only the best effect 
 of art. 
 
 The scourge of pride — ■ 
 
 Of this couplet, the second line is not, what is intended, an 
 illustration of the former. Pride, in the Great, is indeed well 
 enough connected with knaves in state, though knaves is a word 
 rather too ludicrous and hght ; but the mention of sanctified 
 pride will not lead the thoughts to fops in learning, but rather 
 to some species of tyranny or oppression, something more 
 gloomy and more formidable than foppery. 
 
 Yet soft his nature — 
 
 This is a high complirnent, but was not first bestowed on 
 Dorset by Pope. The next verse is extremely beautiful. 
 
 Blest satyrist ! — 
 
 In this distich is another line of which Pope was not the 
 author. I do not mean to blame these imitations with much 
 harshness ; in long performances they are scarcely to be 
 avoided, and in shorter they may be indulged, because the 
 train of the composition may naturally involve them, or 
 the scantiness of the subject allow little choice. However, 
 what is borrowed is not to be enjoyed as our own, and it 
 is the business of critical justice to give every bird of the 
 Muses his proper feather. 
 
 Blest courtier J — 
 
 Whether a courtier can properly be commended for keeping 
 his ease sacred may perhaps be disputable. To please king 
 and country, without sacrificing friendship to any change of 
 times, was a very uncommon instance of prudence or felicity, 
 and deserved to be kept separate from so poor a commenda- 
 tion as care of his ease. I wish our poets would attend a little 
 more accurately to the use of the word sacred, which surely 
 
442 POPE [1688— 
 
 should never be applied in a serious composition, but where 
 some reference may be made to a higher Being, or where 
 some duty is exacted or implied. A man may keep his 
 friendship sacred, because promises of friendship are very 
 awful ties : but methinks he cannot, but in a burlesque sense, 
 be said to keep his ease sacred. 
 
 Blest peer I 
 
 The blessing ascribed to the peer has no connection with 
 his peerage : they might happen to any other man whose 
 ancestors were remembered, or whose posterity were likely 
 to be regarded. 
 
 I know not whether this epitaph be worthy either of the 
 writer or of the man entombed. 
 
 II. 
 
 On Sir William Trumbal, one of the principal Secretaries of 
 State to King William III., who, having resisted his place, 
 died in his retirement at Easthamsted in Berkshire, 17 16. 
 
 A pleasing form, a firm, yet cautious mind, 
 Sincere, though prudent ; constant, yet resign'd ; 
 Honour unchanged, a principle proiest, 
 Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest : 
 An honest courtier, yet a patriot too. 
 Just to his prince, and to his country too. 
 Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth, 
 A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth ; 
 A generous faith, from superstitioii free ; 
 A love to peace, and hate of tyranny ; 
 Such this man was ; who now, from earth remov'd, 
 At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd. 
 
 In this epitaph, as in many others, there appears, at the 
 first view, a fault which I think scarcely any beauty can 
 compensate. The name is omitted. The end of an epitaph 
 is to convey some account of the dead ; and to what purpose 
 
1744] POPE. 413 
 
 is any thing told of him whose name is concealed? An 
 epitaph, and a history, of a nameless hero, are equally absurd, 
 since the virtues and qualities so recounted in either are 
 scattered at the mercy of fortune to be appropriated by 
 guess. The name, it is true, may be read upon the stone ; 
 but what obligation has it to the poet, whose verses wander 
 over the earth, and leave their subject behind them, and 
 who is forced, like an unskilful painter, to make his purpose 
 known by adventitious help ? 
 
 This epitaph is wholly without elevation, and contains 
 nothing striking or particular; but the poet, is not to be 
 blamed for the defects of his subject. He said perhaps the 
 best that could be said. There are, however, some defects 
 which were not made necessary by the character in which 
 he was employed. There is no opposition between an honest 
 courtier and a patriot ; for an honest courtier cannot but be 
 a patriot. 
 
 It was unsuitable to the nicety required in short com- 
 positions, to close his verse with the word too ; every rhyme 
 should be a word of emphasis, nor can this rule be safely 
 neglected, except where the length of the poem makes 
 ~ slight inaccuracies excusable, or allows room for beauties 
 sufficient to overpower the eftects of petty faults. 
 
 At the beginning of the seventh line the -^oxA filled is weak 
 and prosaic, having no particular adaptation to any of the 
 words that follow it. 
 
 The thought in the last line is irngertinent, having no 
 connection with the foregoing character, nor with the condition 
 of the man described. Had the epitaph been written on 
 the poor conspirator 1 who died lately in prison, after a 
 confinement of more than forty years, without any crime 
 proved against him, the sentiment had been just and pa- 
 thetical ; but why should Trumbal be congratulated upon his 
 liberty, who had never known restraint ? 
 ' Bernadi. 
 
444 
 
 POPE. [1688- 
 
 III. 
 
 On the Hon. Simon Harcourt, oiily son of the Lord Chancellor 
 Harcourt, at the Church of Stanton- Harcourt in Oxford- 
 shire, 1720. 
 
 To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near. 
 Here lies.the friend most lov'd, the son most dear : 
 Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide. 
 Or gave his father grief but when he dy'd. 
 
 How vain is reason, eloquence how weak ! 
 If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. 
 Oh, let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone, 
 And with a father's sorrows mix his own ! 
 
 This epitaph is principally remarkable for the artful in- 
 troduction of the name, which is inserted with a peculiar 
 felicity, to which chance must concur with genius, which no 
 man can hope to attain twice, and which cannot be copied 
 but with servile imitation. 
 
 I cannot but wish that, of this inscription, the two last lines 
 had been omitted, as they take away from the energy what they 
 do not add to the sense. 
 
 IV. 
 
 On James Craggs, Esq.; 
 in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Jacobus Craggs, 
 
 REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIAE A SECRETIS 
 
 ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBVS 
 
 PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET 
 
 DELICIAE : 
 
 VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR, 
 
 ANNOS HEV PAVCOS, XXXV. 
 
 OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX. 
 
1744] POPE. 445 
 
 Statesman, yet friend to truth ! of soul sincere, 
 In action faithful, and in honour clear ! 
 Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, 
 Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend ; 
 Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, 
 Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the Muse he lov'd. 
 
 The lines on Craggs were not originally intended for an 
 epitaph ; and therefore some faults are to be imputed, to the 
 violence with which they are torn from the poem that first 
 contained them. We may, however, observe some defects. 
 There is a redundancy of words in the first couplet: it is 
 superfluous to tell of him, who was sincere, t7-ue, and faithful, 
 that he was in honour clear. 
 
 There seems to be an opposition intended in the fourth 
 line, which is not very obvious : where is the relation between 
 the two positions, that he gained no title and lost no friend 1 
 
 It may be proper here to remark the absurdity of joining, 
 in the same inscription, Latin and English, or verse and prose. 
 If either language be preferable to the other, let that only be 
 used ; for no reason can be given why part of the information 
 should be given in one tongue, and part in another, on a tomb, 
 more than in any other place, on any other occasion ; and to 
 tell all that can be conveniently told in verse, and then to call 
 in the help of prose, has always the appearance of a very 
 artless expedient, or of an attempt unaccomplished. Such an 
 epitaph resembles the conversation of a foreigner, who tells 
 part of his meaning by words, and conveys part by signs. 
 
 Intended for Mr. RowE. 
 In Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, 
 And sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust ; 
 Beneath a rude and nameless stone he hes, 
 To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. 
 
446 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest ! 
 Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest ! 
 One grateful woman to thy fame supplies 
 What a whole thankless land to his denies. 
 
 Of this inscription the chief fault is, that it belongs less to 
 Rowe, for whom it was written, than to Dryden, who was buried 
 near him ; and indeed gives very little information concerning 
 either. 
 
 To wish, I'eace to thy shade, is too mythological to fee 
 admitted into a christian temple : the ancient worship -^s 
 infected almost all our other compositions, and might there-- 
 fore be contented to spare our epitaphs. Let fiction, at least, 
 cease with life, and let us be serious over the grave. 
 
 VI. 
 
 On Mrs. Corbet, 
 who died of a Cancer in her Breast. 
 
 Here rests a woman, good without pretence, 
 Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense : 
 No conquest she, but o'er herself desir'd ; 
 No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd. 
 Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, 
 Convinc'd that Virtue only is our own. 
 So imafifected, so compos'd a mind, 
 So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin'd, 
 Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd, 
 The saint sustain'd, but the woman dy'd. 
 
 I have always considered this as the most valuable of all 
 Pope's epitaphs ; the subject of it is a character not dis- 
 criminated by any shining or eminent peculiarities ; yet that 
 which really makes, though not the splendor, the felicity of 
 life, and that which every wise man will choose for his final 
 and lasting companion in the languor of age, in the quiet of 
 privacy, when he departs weary and disgusted from the osten- 
 
1744] POPE. 447 
 
 tatious, the volatile, and the vain. Of such a character, which 
 the dull overlook, and the gay despise, it was fit that the value 
 should be made known, and the dignity established. Domestick 
 virtue, as it is exerted without great occasions, or conspicuous 
 consequences, in an even unnoted tenor, required the genius 
 of Pope to display it in such a manner as might attract regard, 
 and enforce reverence. Who can forbear to lament that this 
 amiable woman has no name in the verses ? 
 
 If the particular lines of this inscription be examined, it 
 wS appear less faulty than the rest. There is scarce one 
 lire taken from common places, unless it be that in which 
 only Virtue is said to be our own. I once heard a Lady of 
 great beauty and excellence object to the fourth line, that it 
 contained an unnatural and incredible panegyrick. Of this 
 let the Ladies judge. 
 
 VIL 
 
 On the Monument of the Hon. Robert Digby, and of his Sister 
 Mary, erected by their Father the Lord Digby, in the Church 
 of Sherborne in Dorsetshire, 1727, 
 
 Go ! fair example of untainted youth. 
 Of modest wisdom, and pacifick truth : 
 Compos'd in sufferings, and in joy sedate. 
 Good without noise, without pretension great. 
 Just of thy word, in every thought sincere. 
 Who knew no wish but what the world might hear : 
 Of softest manners, unaffected mind. 
 Lover of peace, and friend of human kind : 
 Go, live ! for Heaven's eternal year is thine. 
 Go, and exalt thy mortal to divine. 
 
 And thou, blest maid ! attendant on his doom, 
 Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb, 
 Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore. 
 Not parted long, and now to part no more ! 
 Go, then, where only bliss sincere is known ! 
 Go, where to love and to enjoy are one ! 
 
448 POPE. [1688— 
 
 Yet take these tears, Mortality's relief, 
 And till we share your joys, forgive our grief : 
 These little rites, a stone, a verse receive, 
 'Tis all a father, all a friend can give ! 
 
 This epitaph contains of the brother only a general indis- 
 criminate character, and of the sister tells nothing but that 
 she died. The difficulty in writing epitaphs is to give a 
 particular and appropriate praise. This, however, is not 
 a:lways to be performed, whatever be the diligence or ability 
 of the writer ; for the greater part of mankind have no character 
 at all, have little that distinguishes them from others equally 
 good or bad, and therefore nothing can be said of them 
 which may not be applied with equal propriety to a thousand 
 more. It is indeed no great panegyrick, that there is inclosed 
 in this tomb one who was bom in one year, and died in 
 another ; yet many useful and amiable lives have been spent, 
 which yet leave little materials for any other memorial. These 
 are however not the proper subjects of poetry ; and whenever 
 friendship, or any other motive, obliges a poet to write on 
 such subjects, he must be forgiven if he sometimes wanders 
 in generalities, and utters the same praises over different 
 tombs. 
 
 The scantiness of human praises can scarcely be made 
 more apparent than by remarking how often Pope has, in 
 the few epitaphs which he composed, found it necessary to 
 borrow from himself. The fourteen epitaphs which he has 
 written comprise about an hundred and forty lines, in which 
 there are more repetitions than will easily be found in all 
 the rest of his works. In the eight lines which make the 
 character of Digby there is scarce any thought, or word, 
 which may not be found in the other epitaphs. 
 
 The ninth line, which is far the strongest and most elegant, 
 is borrowed from Dryden. The conclusion is the same 
 with that on Harcourt, but is here more elegant and better 
 connected. 
 
'744] fOPE. 449 
 
 viir. 
 
 On Sir Godfrey Kneller. 
 In Westminster-Abbey, 1723. 
 
 Kneller, by heaven, and not a master taught. 
 Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought ; 
 Now for two ages, having snatch'd from fate 
 Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great. 
 Lies crown'd with Princes honours, Poets lays, 
 Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise. 
 
 Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie 
 Her works ; and dying, fears herself may die. 
 
 Of this epitaph the first couplet is good, the second not 
 bad, the third is deformed with a broken metaphor, the 
 word crowned not being applicable to the honours or the iays, 
 and the fourth is not only borrowed from the epitaph on 
 Raphael, but of very harsh construction. 
 
 IX. 
 
 On General Henry Withers. 
 In Westminster-Abbey, 1729. 
 
 Here, Withers, rest ! thou bravest, gentlest mind, 
 Thy country's friend, but more of human kind, 
 O ! born to arras ! O ! worth in youth approv'd ! 
 O ! soft humanity in age belov'd ! 
 For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear. 
 And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere. 
 
 Withers, adieu ! yet not with thee remove 
 Thy martial spirit, or thy social love ! 
 Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage, 
 Still leave some ancient virtues to our age : 
 Nor let us say (those English glories gone) 
 The last true Briton lies beneath this stone. 
 
 The epitaph on Withers affords another instance of common 
 places, though somewhat diversified, by mingled qualities, and 
 tae peculiarity of a profession. 
 
450 POPE. [1688— 
 
 The second couplet is abrupt, general, and unpleasing ; 
 exclamation seldom succeeds in our language; and, I think, 
 it may be observed that the particle O ! used at the beginnmg 
 of a sentence, always offends. 
 
 The third couplet is more happy; the value expressed 
 for him, by different sorts of men, raises him to esteem; 
 there is yet something of the common cant of superficial 
 satirists, who suppose that the insincerity of a courtier 
 destroys all his sensations, and that he is equally a dissembler 
 to the living and the dead. 
 
 'At the third couplet I should wish the epitaph to close, 
 but that I should be unwilling to lose the two next lines, 
 which yet are dearly bought if they cannot be retained 
 without the four that follow them. 
 
 X. 
 
 On Mr. Elijah Fenton. 
 At Easthampstedin Berkshire, 1730. 
 
 This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, 
 May truly say, Here lies an honest man : 
 A poet, blest beyond the poet's fate. 
 Whom Heaven kept sacred from the Proud and Great : 
 Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease. 
 Content with science in the vale of peace. 
 Calmly he look'd on either life ; and here 
 Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear ; 
 From Nature's temperate feast rose satisfy'd, 
 Thank'd heaven that he had liVd, and that he d/d. 
 
 The first couplet of this epitaph is borrowed from Crashaw. 
 The four next lines contain a species of praise peculiar, 
 original, and just. Here, therefore, the inscription should have 
 ended, the latter part containing nothing but what is common 
 to every man who is wise and good. The character of Fenton 
 was so amiable, that I cannot forbear to wish for some poet 
 or biographer to display it more fully for the advantage of 
 posterity. If he did not stand in the first rank of genius, he 
 
1744] POPE. 451 
 
 may claim a place in the second ; and, whatever criticism may 
 object to his writings, censure could find very little to blame in 
 his life. 
 
 XL 
 
 On Mr. Gay. 
 In Westminster- Abbey, xlTjZ. 
 
 Of manners gentle, of affections mild ; 
 In wit, a man ; simplicity, a child : 
 With native humour tempering virtuous rage, 
 Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: 
 Above temptation, in a low estate, 
 And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great : 
 A safe companion, and an easy friend, 
 Unblam'd through life, lamented in thy end. 
 These are thy honours ! not that here thy bust 
 Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust ; 
 But that the Worthy and the Good shall say. 
 Striking their pensive bosoms — Here lies Gay. 
 
 As Gay was the favourite of our author, this epitaph was 
 probably written with an uncommon degree of attention ; yet 
 it is not more successfully executed than the rest, for it will not 
 always happen that the success of a poet is proportionate to his 
 labour. The same observation may be extended to all works 
 of imagination, which are often influenced by causes wholly out 
 of the performer's power, by hints of which he perceives not 
 the origin, by sudden elevations of mind which he cannot 
 produce in himself, and which sometimes rise when he expects 
 them least. 
 
 The two parts of the first line are only echoes of each other ; 
 ge7itle manners and mild affections, if they mean any thing must 
 mean the same. 
 
 That Gay was a man in wit is a very frigid commendation ; 
 to have the wit of a man is not much for a poet. The wit of 
 man, and the simplicity of a child, make a poor and vulgar 
 contrast, and raise no ideas of excellence, either intellectual or 
 moral. 
 
 G G 2 
 
 1 
 
452 POPE. [1688- 
 
 In the next couplet rage is less properly introduced after the 
 mention of mildness and gentleness, which are made the con- 
 stituents of his character ; for a man so mild and gentle to 
 temper his rage, was not difficult. 
 
 The next line is unharmonious in its sound, and mean in its 
 conception ; the opposition is obvious, and the word lash used 
 absolutely, and without any modification, is gross and improper. 
 
 To be above temptation in poverty, and free from corruption 
 among the Great, is indeed such a peculiarity as deserved 
 nbtice. But to be a safe companion is praise merely negative, 
 arising not from the possession of virtue, but the absence of 
 vice, and that one of the most odious. 
 
 As little can be added to his character, by asserting that he 
 was lamented in his end. Every man that dies is, at least by 
 the writer of his epitaph, supposed to be lamented, and there- 
 fore this general lamentation does no honour to Gay. 
 
 The first eight lines have no grammar; the adjectives are 
 without any substantive, and the epithets without a subject 
 
 The thought in the last line, that Gay is buried in the 
 bosoms of the -worthy and the good, who are distinguished only 
 to lengthen the line, is so dark that few understand it ; and so 
 harsh, when it is explained, that Still fewer approve. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Intended for Sir Isaac Newton. 
 I71 Westminster- Abbey. 
 
 ISAACUS NeWTONIUS : 
 
 Quem Immortalem 
 
 Testantur, Tempus, Natura, Cwlum : 
 
 Mortalem 
 
 Hoc marmor fatetur. 
 
 Nature, and Nature'slaws, lay hid in night, 
 God said, Het Newton be ! And all was light. 
 
1744] POPE. 453 
 
 Of this epitaph, short as it is, the faults seem not to be very 
 few. Why part should be Latin and part English, it is not easy 
 to discover. In the Latin, the opposition of Immortalis and 
 Mortalis, is a mere sound, or a mere quibble ; he is not 
 immortal in any sense contrary to that in which he is mortal. 
 
 In the verses the thought is obvious, and the words night 
 and light are too nearly allied. 
 
 XIIL 
 
 Oil Edmund Duke ^ Buckingh'am, who died in the \t)th Year 
 of his Age, 1735. 
 
 If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd. 
 And every opening virtue blooming round. 
 Could save a parent's justest pride from fate. 
 Or add one, patriot to a sinking state ; 
 This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear. 
 Or sadly told-,, how many hopes lie here ! 
 The living virtue'now had shone approv'd, 
 The senate heard him,~and-his country loVd. 
 Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame 
 Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham : 
 In whom a race, for courage fam'd and art. 
 Ends in the milder merit of the heart ; 
 And chiefs or sages long to Britain given, 
 Pays the last tribute of a saint to heaven. ' 
 
 This epitaph Mr. Warburton prefers to the rest, but I know 
 not for what reason. To crown with r^ection is surely a mode 
 of speech approaching to nonsense. Opening virtues blooming 
 round, is something like tautology ; the six following lines are 
 poor and prosaick. Art is in another couplet used for arts, 
 that a rhyme may be had to heart. The six last lines are the 
 best, but not excellent. 
 
 The rest of his sepulchral performances hardly deserve the 
 notice of criticism. The contemptible Dialogue between He 
 and She should have been suppressed for the author's sake. 
 
 In his last epitaph on himself, in which he attempts to be 
 
454 POPE. [1688— 1744 
 
 jocular upon one of the few things that make wise men serious, 
 he confounds the living man with the dead : 
 
 Under this stone, or under this sill, 
 Or under this turf, &c. 
 
 When a man is once buried, the question, under what he is 
 buried, is easily decided. He forgot that though he wrote the 
 epitaph in a state of uncertainty, yet it could not be laid over 
 him till his grave was made. Such is the folly of wit when it is 
 ill employed. 
 
 The world has but little new ; even this wretchedness seems 
 to have been borrowed from the following tuneless lines : 
 
 Ludovici Areosti humantur ossa 
 
 Sub hoc marmore, vel sub hac humo, seu 
 
 Sub quicquid voluit benignus hseres 
 
 Sive hKrede benignior comes, seu 
 
 Opportunius incidens Viator ; 
 
 Nam scire haud potuit futura, sed nee 
 
 Tanti erat vacuum sibi cadaver 
 
 Ut utnam cuperet parare vivens, 
 
 Vivens ista tamen sibi paravit. 
 
 QuEe inscribi voluit suo sepulchro 
 
 Olim siquod haberetis sepulchrum. 
 
 Surely Ariosto did not venture to expect that his trifle would 
 have ever had such an illustrious imitator. 
 
/ 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 1716 — 1771. 
 
 Thomas Gray, the son of Mr. Philip Gray, a scrivener of 
 London, was born in Cornhill, November 26, 17 16. His 
 grammatical education he received at Eton under the care of 
 Mr. Antrobus, his mother's brother, then assistant to Dr. 
 George J and when he left school, in 1734, entered a pensioner 
 at Peterhouse in Cambridge. 
 
 The transition from the school to the college is, to most 
 young scholars, the time from which they date their years of 
 manhood, liberty, and happiness ; but Gray seems to have been 
 very little delighted with academical gratifications ; he liked at 
 Cambridge neither the mode of life nor the fashion of study, 
 and lived sullenly on to the time when his attendance on 
 lectures was no longer required. As he intended to profess 
 the Common Law, he took no degree. 
 
 When he had been at Cambridge about five years, Mr. 
 Horace Walpole, whose friendship he had gained at Eton, 
 invited him to travel with him as his companion. They 
 wandered through France into Italy; and Gray's Letters 
 contain a very pleasing account of many parts of their journey. 
 But unequal friendships are easily dissolved : at Florence they 
 quarrelled, and parted; and Mr. Walpole is now content to 
 
4S6 GRAY. [1716— 
 
 have it told that it was by his fault. If we look however with- 
 out prejudice on the world, we shall find that men, whose 
 consciousness of their own merit sets them above the com- 
 pliances of servility, are apt enough in their association with 
 superiors to watch their own dignity with troublesome and 
 punctilious jealousy, and in the fervour of independence to exact 
 that attention which they refuse to pay. Part they did, what- 
 ever was the quarrel, and the rest of their travels was doubtless 
 more unpleasant to them both. Gray continued his journey 
 in a manner suitable to his own little fortune, with only an 
 occasional servant. 
 
 He returned to England in September, 1741, and in about 
 two months afterwards buried his father ; who had, by an in- 
 judicious waste of money upon a new house, so much lessened 
 his fortune, that Gray thought himself too poor to study the law. 
 , He therefore retired to Cambridge, where he soon after became 
 Bachelor of Civil Law ; and where, without liking the place or 
 its inhabitants, or professing to like them, he passed, except a 
 short residence at London, the rest of his life. 
 
 About this time he was deprived of Mr. West, the son of a 
 chancellor of Ireland, a friend on whom he appears to have set 
 a high value, and who deserved his esteem by the powers which 
 he shews in his Letters, and in the Ode to May, which Mr. 
 ! Mason has preserved, as well as by the sincerity with which 
 when Gray sent him part of Agrippina, a tragedy that he had 
 just begun, he gave an opinion which probably intercepted the 
 progress of the work, and which the judgement of every reader 
 will confirm. It was certainly no loss to the English stage that 
 Agrippina was never finished, 
 r In this year (1742) Gray seems first to have applied himself 
 \ seriously to poetry ; for in this year were produced the Ode to 
 \ Spring, his Prospect of Eton, and his Ode to Adversity. He 
 * began likewise a Latin poem, de Principiis cogitandi. 
 
 It may be collected from the narrative of Mr. Mason, that 
 his first ambition was to have excelled in Latin poetry : perhaps 
 
1771] GRAY. 457 
 
 it were reasonable to wish that he had prosecuted his design ; 
 for though there is atwesent some embarrassment in his phrase, 
 and some harshness innis Lyrick numbers, his copiousness of 
 language is such as very few possess ; and his lines, even when 
 imperfect, discover a writer whom practice would quickly have 
 made skilful. 
 
 He now lived on at Peterhouse, very little solicitous what 
 others did or thought, and cultivated his mind and enlarged 
 his views without any other purpose than of improving and 
 amusing himself; when _Mr. Mason, being elected fellow of 
 Pembroke-hall, brought him a companion who was afterwards 
 to be his editor, and'wnose fondness and fidelity has kindled in 
 him. a zeal of admiration, which cannot be reasonably expected 
 from the neutrality of a stranger and the coldness of a critick. 
 
 In this retirement he wrote (1747) an ode on the Death of 
 Mr. Walpole's Cat ; and the year afterwards attempted a poem 
 of more importance, on Government and Education, of which 
 the fragments which remain have many excellent lines. 
 
 His next production (1750) was his far-famed Begy in the 
 Church-yard, which, finding its way into a Magazine, first, I 
 believe, made him known to the publick. 
 
 An invitation from Lady Cobham about this time gave 
 occasion to an odd composition called a Long Story, which 
 adds little to Gray's character. 
 
 Several of his pieces were published (1753), with designs, by 
 Mr. Bentley ; and, that they might in some form or other 
 make a book, only one side of each leaf was printed. I 
 believe the poems and the plates recommended eacn other 
 so well, that the whole impiresssion was soon bought. This 
 year he lost his mother. 
 
 Some time afterwards (1756) some young men of the college, 
 whose chambers were near his, diverted themselves with dis- 
 turbing him by frequent and troublesome noiseSj and, as is 
 said, by pranks yet more offensive and contemptuous. This 
 insolence, having endured it a while, he represented to the 
 
45S GRAY. [1716— 
 
 governors of the society, among whom perhaps he had no 
 friends; and, finding his complaint little regarded, removed 
 himself to PgnibrQte-hall. 
 
 In 1757 he published The Prog ress. of Poetry and Th e Bard , 
 two compositions at which the readers of poetry were at first 
 content to gaze in mute amazement. Some that tried them 
 confessed their inability to understand them, though Warburton 
 said that they were understood as well as the works of Milton 
 and Shakspeare, which it is the fashion to admire. Garrick 
 wrote a few lines in their praise. Some hardy champions 
 undertook to rescue them from neglect, and in a short time 
 many were content to be shewn beauties which they could 
 not see. 
 1 Gray's reputation was now so high, that, after the death of 
 Gibber, he had the honour of refusing the laurel, which was 
 then bestowed on Mr. Whitehead. 
 
 His curiosity, not long after, drew him away from Cambridge 
 
 to a lodging near the Museum, where he resided near three 
 
 years, reading and transcribing ; and, so far as can be dis- 
 
 j Ky covered, very little affected by two odes on Oblivion and 
 
 I; .Obscurity, in which his Lyrick performances were ridiculed 
 
 with much contempt and much ingenuity, 
 
 When the Professor of Modern History a,t Cambridge died, 
 he was, as he says, cockered and spirited up, till he asked it of 
 Lord Bute, who sent him a civil refusal \ and the place was 
 given to Mr. Brocket, the tutor of Sir James Lowther. 
 
 His constitution was weak, and believing that his health was 
 promoted by exercise and change of place, he undertook 
 (1765) a journey into Scotland, of which his account, so far 
 as it extends, is very curious and elegant ; for as his compre- 
 hension was ample, his curiosity extended to all the works of 
 art, all the appearances of nature, and all the monuments of 
 past events. He naturally contracted a friendship with Dr. 
 Beattie, whom he found a poet, a philosopher, and a good 
 man. The Mareschal College at- Aberdeen offered him the 
 
1 771] GRAY. 459 
 
 degree of Doctor of Laws, which, having omitted to take it 
 at Cambridge, he thought it decent to refuse. 
 
 What lie had formally solicited in vain was at last given 
 him without solicitation. The Professorship of History became 
 again vacant, and he received (1768) an offer of it from the 
 Duke of Grafton. He accepted, and retained it to his death ; 
 always designing lectures, but never reading them ; uneasy at 
 his neglect of duty, and appeasing his uneasiness with designs 
 of reformation, and with a resolution which he believed him- 
 self to have made of resigning the office, if he found himself 
 unable to discharge it. 
 
 Ill health made another Journey necessary, and he visited 
 (1769) Westmoreland and Cumberland. He that reads his 
 epistolary narration wishes, that to travel, and to tell his 
 travels, ha(i been more of his employment ; but it is by 
 studying at home that we must obtain the ability of travelling 
 with intelligence and improvement. 
 
 His travels and his studies were now near their end. The 
 gout, of which he had sustained many weal$; attacks, fell upon 
 his stomach, and, yielding to no medicines, produced strong 
 convulsions, which (July 30, 1771) terminated in death. 
 
 His character I anj willing to adopt, as Mr. Mason has 
 done, from a Letter written to my friend Mr. Boswell, by the 
 Rev. Mr. Temple, rector of St. Gluvias in Cornwall ; and am 
 as willing as his warmest well-wisher to believe it true. 
 
 " Perhaps he was the most learned man in Europe. He 
 was equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of 
 science, and that not superficially but thoroughly. He knew 
 every branch of history, both ng,tural and civil ; had read all 
 th e original historia ns of England, France, and Italy ; and was 
 a great antiquarian. Criticism, metaphysics, morals, politics, 
 njade a principal part of his study ; voyages and travels of all 
 sorts were his favourite amusements ; and he had a fine taste 
 in painting, prints, architecture, and gardening. With such 
 
46o GRAY. [1716— 
 
 a fund of knowledge, his conversation must have been equally 
 instructing and entertaining ; but he was also a good man, a 
 man of virtue and humanity. There is no character without 
 some speck, some imperfection ; and I think the greatest defect 
 in his was an affectation in delicacy, or rather effeminacy, and 
 a visible fastidiousness, or contempt and disdain of his inferiors 
 in science. He also had, in some degree, that weakness which 
 disgusted Voltaire so much in Mr. Congreve : though he 
 seemed to value others chiefly according to the progress they 
 had made in knowledge, yet he could not bear to be considered 
 himself merely as a man of letters ; and though without birth, 
 or fortune, or station, his desire was to be looked upon as a 
 private independent gentleman, who read for his amusement. 
 Perhaps it may be said, What signifies so much knowledge, 
 when it produced so little ? Is it worth taking so much pains 
 to leave no memorial but a few poems ? But let it be con- 
 sidered that Mr. Gray wasj to others, at^gasLJnnocently 
 employed ; to himself, certainl^_beiieficially. His time passed 
 agreeably; he was every daymaking some new acquisition in 
 science ; his mind was enlarged, his heart softened, his virtue 
 strengthened ; the world and mankind were shewn to him 
 without a mask ; and he was taught to consider every thing as 
 trifling and unworthy of the attention of a wise man, except 
 the pursuit of knowledge and practice of virtue, in that state 
 wherein God hath placed us." 
 
 To this character Mr. Mason has added a more particular 
 account of Gray's skill in zoology. He has remarked, that 
 Gray's effeminacy was affected most before those whom he did 
 not wish to please; and that he is unjustly charged with making 
 knowledge his sole reason of preference, as he paid his esteem 
 to none whom he did not likewise believe to be good. 
 
 What has occurred to me, from the slight^inspection of his 
 Letters in which my undertaking has engaged me, is that his 
 mind had a large grasp ; that his curiosity was unlimited, and 
 his judgement cultivated ; that he was a man likely to love 
 
I77I] GRAY. 461 
 
 much where he loved at all, but that he was fastidious and ^ 
 hard , to p lease. His contempt however is often employed, 
 where I hope it will be approved, upon scepticism and infidelity. 
 His short account of Shaftesbury I will insert. 
 
 " You say you cannot conceive how Lord Shaftesbury came 
 to be a philosopher in vogue ; I will tell you : 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 beUeve any thing at all, provided they are 
 under no obligation to believe it; fifthly, they love to take a 
 new road, even when that road leads no where ; sixthly, he was 
 reckoned a fine writer, and seems 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. 
 A dead lord ranks with commoners ; vanity is no longer in- 
 terested in the matter; for a new road is become an old one." 
 
 Mr. Mason has added, from his own knowledge, that 
 though Gray was poor, he was not eager of money ; and that, 
 out of the little that he had, he was very willing to help the 
 necessitous. 
 
 As a writer he had this peculiarity, that he did not write his "V 
 pieces first rudely, and then correct them, but laboured every / 
 line as it arose in the train of composition; and he had a ' 
 notion not very peculiar, that he could not write but at certain > 
 times, or at happy moments ; a fantastick foppery, to which my 
 kindness for a man of learning and of virtue wishes him to 
 have been superior. 
 
 Gray's Poetry is now to be considered : and I hope not to be 
 looked on as an enemy to his name, if I confess that I contem- 
 plate it with less pleasure than his life. 
 
 His Ode on Spring has something poetical, both . in the 
 language and the thought ; but the language is too luxuriant, 
 and the thoughts have nothing new. There has of late arisen 
 
462 GRAY. [1716— 
 
 a practice_ofjiving t o adjec rives, derived from substantives, the 
 termination_fiLpaxticiples ; sucTi as the cultured plain, the dasied 
 bank ; but I was sorry to see, in the lines of a scholar like 
 Gray, the honied Spring. The morality is natural, but too stale ; 
 the conclusion is pretty. 
 
 The poern on the Cat was doubtless by its author considered 
 as a trifle, but it is not a happy trifle. In the first stanza, the 
 azure flowers that blow, shew resolutely a rhyme is sometimes 
 made when it cannot easily be found. Selima, the Cat, is 
 called a nymph, with some violence both to language and 
 sense ; but there is good use made of it when it is done ; for 
 of the two lines, 
 
 What female heart can gold despise ? 
 What cat's averse to fish ? 
 
 the first relates merely to the nymph and the second only to 
 the cat. The sixth stanza contains a melancholy truth, that a 
 favourite has no friend ; but the last ends in a pointed sentence 
 of no relation to the purpose; if what glistered \aA been gold, 
 the cat would not have gone into the water ; and, if she had, 
 would not less have been drowned. 
 
 The Prospect of Eton College suggests nothing to Gray 
 which every beholder does not equally think and feel. His sup- 
 plication to father Thames, to tell him who drives the hoop or 
 tosses the ball, is useless and puerile. Father Thames has no 
 better means of knowing than himself His epithet buxom 
 health is not elegant ; he seems not to understand the word. 
 Gray thought his language more poetical as it was more remote 
 from common use : finding in Dryden ho7iey redolent of Spring, 
 an expression that reaches the utmost limits of our language. 
 Gray drove it a little more beyond common apprehension, by 
 making gales, to be redolent of joy and youth. 
 
 Of the Ode on Adversity, the hint was at first taken from 
 O Diva, gratum quce regis Antium; but Gray has excelled his 
 original by the variety of his sentiments, and by their moral 
 
I77I] GRAY. 463 
 
 application. Of this piece, at once poetical and rational, I will 
 not by slight objections violate the dignity. 
 
 My process has now brought me to the wonderful Wonder of 
 Wonders, the two Sister Odes ; by which, though either vulgar 
 ignorance or common sense at first universally rejected them, 
 many have been since persuaded to think themselves delighted. 
 I am one of those that are willing to be pleased, and therefore 
 would gladly find the meaning of the first stanza of the Pro- 
 gress of Poetry. 
 
 Gray seems in his rapture to confound the images of 
 spreading sound and running water. A stream of musick may 
 be allowed ; but where does Musick, however smooth and strong^ 
 after having visited the verdant vales, rowl dozun the steef amain, 
 so as that rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar 2 If this 
 be said of Musick, it is nonsense ; if it be said of Water, it is 
 nothing to the purpose. 
 
 The second stanza, exhibiting Mar's car and Jove's eagle, is 
 unworthy of further notice. Criticism disdains to -chase a school- 
 boy to his common places. 
 
 To the third it may likewise be objected, that it is drawn 
 from Mythology, though such as may be more easily assimilated 
 to real life. Idalia's velvet-green has something of cant. An 
 epithet or metaphor drawn from Nature enobles Art ; an 
 epithet or metaphor drawn from Art degrades Nature. Gray 
 is too fond of words arbitrarily compounded. Many-twinkling 
 was formerly censured as not analogical; we may say many- 
 spotted, but scarcely many-spotthig. This stanza, however, has 
 something pleasing. 
 
 Of the second ternary of stanzas, the first endeavours to tell 
 something, and would have told it, had it not been crossed by 
 Hyperion : the second describes well enough the universal 
 prevalence of Poetry ; but I am afraid that the conclusion will 
 not rise from the premises. The caverns of the North and the 
 plains of Chili are not the residences of Glory and generous 
 Shame. But that Poetry and Virtue go always together is an 
 
464 GRAY. [1716- 
 
 opinion so pleasing, that I can forgive him who resolves to think 
 it true. 
 
 The third stanza sounds big with Delphi, and Egean, and 
 Ilissus, and Meander, and hallowed fountain and solemn sound ; 
 but in all Gray's odes there is a kind of cumbrous splendor which 
 we wish away. His position is at last false; in the time of Dante 
 and Petrarch, from whom he derives our first school of Poetry, 
 Italy was over-run by tyrant power and coward vice ; nor was our 
 state much better when we first borrowed the Italian arts. 
 
 Of the third ternary, the first gives a mythological birth of 
 Shakspeare. What is said of that mighty genius is true ; but 
 it is not said happily ; the real effects of this poetical power are 
 put out of sight by the pomp of machinery. Where truth is 
 sufficient to fill the mind, fiction is worse than useless ; the 
 counterfeit debases the genuine. 
 
 His account of Milton's blindness, if we suppose it caused 
 by study in the formation of his poem, a supposition surely 
 allowable, is poetically true, and happily imagined. But the 
 car of Dryden, with his two coursers, has nothing in it peculiar ; 
 it is a car in which any other rider may be placed. 
 
 The Bard appears, at the first view, to be, as Algarotti and 
 others have remarked, an imitation of the prophecy of Nereus. 
 Algarotti thinks it superior to its original ; and, if preference 
 depends only on the imagery and animation of the two poems, 
 his judgement is right. There is in The Bard more force, 
 more thought, and more variety. But to copy is less than to 
 invent, and the copy has been unhappily produced at a wrong 
 time. The fiction of Horace was to the Romans credible ; 
 but its revival disgusts us with apparent and unconquerable 
 falsehood. Incredulus odi. 
 
 To select a singular event, and swell it to a giant's bulk by 
 fabulous appendages of spectres and predictions, has Httle 
 difficulty, for he that forsakes the probable may always find 
 the marvellous. And it has little use ; we are affected only 
 as we believe ; we are improved only as we find something 
 
I77I] GRAY. 465 
 
 to be imitated or declined. I do not see that The Bard 
 promotes any truth, moral or political. 
 
 His stanzas are too long, especially his epodes ; the ode is 
 finished before the ear has learned its measures, and con^ 
 sequently before it can receive pleasure from their consonance 
 and recurrence. 
 
 Of the first stanza the abrupt beginning has been celebrated; 
 but technical beauties can give praise only to the inventor. It 
 is in the power of any man to rush abruptly upon his subject, 
 that has read the ballad of Johnny Armstrong, 
 
 /s there ever a man in all Scotland — 
 
 The initial resemblances, or alliterations, ruin, ruthless, 
 helm or hauberk, are below the grandeur of a poem that 
 endeavours at sublimity. 
 
 In the second stanza the Bard is well described ; but in the 
 third we have the puerilities of obsolete mythology. When 
 we are told that Cadwallo hush'd the stormy main, and that 
 Modred made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-to f d head, atten- 
 tion recoils from the repetition of a tale that, even when it was 
 first heard, was heard with scorn. 
 
 The weaving of the winding sheet \it borrowed, as he owns, 
 from the northern Bards ; but their texture, however, was very 
 properly the work of female powers, as the art of spinning 
 the thread of life in another mythology. Theft is always 
 dangerous ; Gray has made weavers of his slaughtered bards, N 
 by a fiction outrageous and incongruous. They are then ' 
 called upon to Weave the warp, and weave the woof, perhaps 
 with no great propriety ; for it is by crossing the woof with 
 the warp that men weave the web or piece ; and the first line , 
 was dearly bought by the admission of its wretched correspon- I 
 dent, Give ample room and verge enough. He has, however \ 
 no other line as bad. y 
 
 The third stanza of the second ternary is commended, I 
 think, beyond its merit. The personification is indistinct. 
 
466 GRAY. [1716—17.71 
 
 Thirst and Hunger are not alike ; and their features, to 
 make the imagery perfect, should have been discriminated. 
 We are told, in the same stanza, how towers are fed. But 
 I will no longer look for particular faults ; yet let it be observed 
 that the ode might have been concluded with an action of 
 better example ; but suicide is always to be had, without 
 expence of thought. 
 
 These odes are marked by glittering accumulations of 
 ungraceful ornaments ; they strike, rather than please ; the 
 images are magnified by affectation ; the language is laboured 
 into harshness. The mind of the writer seems to work with 
 unnatural violence. Double, double, toil and trouble. He has 
 a kind' of strutting dignity, and is tall by walking on tiptoe. 
 His art and his struggle are too visible, and there is too little 
 appearance of ease and nature. 
 
 To say that he has no beauties, would be unjust : a man like 
 him, of great learning, and great industry, could not but 
 produce something valuable. When he pleases least, it can 
 only be said that a good design was ill directed. 
 
 His translations of Northern and Welsh Poetry deserve 
 praise ; the imagery is preserved, perhaps often improved ; 
 but the language is unlike the language of other poets. 
 
 In the character of his Elegy I rejoice to concur with the 
 common reader ; for by the common sense of readers un- 
 corrupted with literary prejudices, after all the refinements 
 of subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must be finally 
 decided all claim to poetical honours. The Churchyard 
 abounds with images which find a mirrour in every mind, 
 and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. 
 The four stanzas beginning Yet even these bones, are to me 
 original; I have never seen the notions in any other place; 
 yet he that reads them- here, persuades himself that he has 
 always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it had been 
 vain to blame, and useless to praise him. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 K. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, 
 
 BREAD STREET HILL.