The six chief lives from Johnson's "Lives of the poets", with Macaulay's "Life of Johnson"

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THE SIX CHIEF ElVES

FROM

JOHNSON'S "LIVES OF THE POETS.'

, Sa,w,oic,\

THE

SIX CHIEF LIVES

KUO.M

JOHNSON'S "LIVES OF THE POETS/"

WTIH

MACAULAY'S "LIFE OF JOHNSON."

EDITED, WITH A PREFACE,

BV

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

T^I A C M I L L A N AND CO.
1878.

^ J ^

J73

LONDON :
K. CLAV, SONS, AND lAYI.OK.
nUEAD STRKET HILL.

I"

CONTENTS.

PAGE

PREFACK vii

LiFK OK JOHNSOX " (. . . . I

MlI.TON 45

iJRVnKX 12

SWIFI'. 235

Ai>i)ls(>N 273

^'•^'P^; 327

(iRAV , •. . 455

PREFACE.

Da mini, Dominc, scire quod sciendum est — '• Grant that the \ ,
knowledge I get may be 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 wliich 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 PKIilACK.

reading, of writing, and of calculating so far as the operations
of common life reciuire. 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 consent. 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 arc 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 veiy 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.
Wide 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 ga/'n, 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 series
of works to serve as what the French, taking an expression
from the builder's business, call points de reph-e, — 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 reph-e. In the introductory sketch we are
amongst generalities, in the group of illustrative works we
are amongst details ; generaUties and details have, both of
them, their perils for the learner. It is evident that, for
purposes of education, the most important parts by for in
our scheme are what we call the points de repere. 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 points de re/>crc
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 past, whenever I have had occasion to use John-
son's Lives of the Poets, the thought has struck me how
admirable a point de rephr, 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 accjuaintance 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 ; 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

TREFACE. xi

attention. But in his 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 i72J> 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," and follow it in the lives of men
of letters of the first class. And the writer of their Hves '
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 ot
letters of the first class, and the greatest power 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 those 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,
xj -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 /^/V/^ de repcre, 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, sav, of Paradise Lost, in connexion with

PREFACE. xiii

the Life 'of Milton ; Absalom and Achitophel, 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 Coverley Papers • with Pope's, the Imitations
of the Satires and Epistles of Horace. 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 ! From Johnson's biographies the student
will get a sense of what the real m^n_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 too ambitious. 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 Hfe 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'

s

xiv I'KKFACE.

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 ineflicacious 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 tlie eighteenth century.
It is much to secure their reading, under the stimulus of
Johnson's interesting recital and forcijjle judgments, famous
specimens of the authors whose lives are before them. Do
lot let us insist on also reviewing in detail and supplementing,
fohnson's work for them, on telling them what they ought
•eally and definitely to think about the six authors and about
he exact place of each in English 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 povyer
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 /rise 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 natural 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 rUEFACE.

the stimulus of the lives, to acquaint themselves uith some
leading and representative work of each autlior. In the
six lives they would at least have secured, I think, a most
valuable point dc rcptrc in tlic 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 I
which on the whole, is ours at the present day, from a type
antiquated, peculiar, and which is ours no longer. The
neriod begins with a prose like this of Milton: "They who
o states and governors of the commonwealth direct their
speech, high court of parliament ! or wanting such access
in a pri.ate 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 i
and of its salutariness. Boswell gave him a book to read,
written in 1702 by the English chajilain of a regiment

PREFACE. ■ xvii

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
diffused. No man now writes so ill as Martin's account of
the Hebrides is written. A man could not write so ill 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
I 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 life 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 furnished the nations of Europe 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 powerful 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 in the seventeenth century ; France first, afterwards
England.

-^ The Restoration marks the real moment of birth of our
modern English prose. Men of lucid and direct mental
habit there were, such as Chillingworth, in whom before the

b

xviii TREFACE.

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 English " 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 tlie pleasures of the
theatre afford him. Plays were therefore only criminal when
they were acted by academics." We should now-a-days not
say peez'ish here, nor iiixuriance, nor academics. Yet the
style is ours by its organism, 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
hea\-y," 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

ix 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 unlike the French, Ave 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,
■^lilton, in whom our great poetic _age_expired, was _the_ last
of the Jmmortals, Of the five poets whose lives follow his
in our present volume, three, Dryden, Addison, and Swift,
are eminent prose-A\Titers 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.
I 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

FREFACE. 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 ^\Tite 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 modern prose, and began to create it, our writers 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
and that of his court were but too favourable. But the

xxn PREFACE.

influence of the French writers was at that moment on the
whole fortunate, and seconded what was a vital and necessary
effort in our 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. Tliis may have been of no
great service to English poetry, althougli 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

TREFACE. xxiu

a special task committed to them, the establishment of English
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
must be thankful for the thing done, if it is valuable, and we
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 practice.
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 tlie
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 tliey 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 rRF.FACE.

Let us always bear in mind, therefore, that the century
so well represented by Dryden, Addison, Pope, and Swift,
and of which tlie 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
English 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 and Gray, his over-
praise of artificial poets like 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 w-as the. man of an age of prose.
Furthermore, Johnson was a strong force of conservatism and
concentration, 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
j)ower 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 inoriturus
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 st)4e 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 Encyclopgedia Britannica,
the Messrs. Black, it has been most kindly and generously
accorded. I cannot sufficiendy 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 tlie 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 sym-
pathy. He was a zealous churchman, and, though he had
qualified himself for municipal ofiice 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 believe 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
of one eye ; and he saw but very imperfectly with the other.
But the force of his mind overcame every impediment. Indo-
lent as he was, he acquired knowledge w^ith such ease and
rapidity, 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 inteiesting, 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 lil)rary 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
quite unknown to the best scholars in the sixth form at Eton.
He was peculiarly attracted by the works of the great restorers
of learning. Once, while searching for some apples, he found
a huge folio volume of Petrarch's works. 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 decHned : 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 'V'^/^
College, Oxford. When the young scholar presented himself
to the rulers of that society, they were amazed not more by
his ungainly figure and 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. j

At Oxford, Johnson resided during about three years. He '
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 charitable 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
with 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
disciphne 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 exacdy 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 family could do
nothing for him. His debts to Oxford tradesmen were small
indeed, yet larger than he could pay. In the autumn of 1731,
he was under the necessity of quitting the 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 hfe, during the thirty years which followed, w-as one
hard struggle with poverty. The misery of that struggle
needed no aggravation, but was aggravated by the sufferings ot
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 suffi-
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. S

suddenly ejaculating a clause of the Lord's Prayer, He would
conceive an unintelligible aversion 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 iniluence 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 two-and-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—

distinguished parts, learning, and knowledge of the world, did
himself honour by patronising the young 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 Hfe 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 i)rinted 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 j\Irs. 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,
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

17S4] 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"* ''T'
pupils. But eighteen months passed away, and only three
pupils came to his academy. Indeed, his appearance was so ^ ,.ji.
strange, and his temper so violent, that his schoolroom must ..-f-^''*--
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 w^as 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 pen 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 applied for employment, measured with 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

17S4] 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 a-la-mode beef-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 eno;igh 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./-'- 7 x ' • ; '/ '•■''/-^- •"■''--■ /""•- ''•
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 publish an account of the
proceedings of either House without some disguise. Cave,

lo SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709—

however, ventured to entertain his readers with what he called
Reports of the Debates of the Senate of Lilliput. France was
Pilefuscu : 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 H. 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

/(,io-f6t/3). X liii ^

1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. " n

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 license
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
V 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 liand, 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 commcJn, 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 wlien 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

17S4] 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. James'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 outcast. 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 goal.

Soon after his death, while the public curiosity was strongly
excited about his extraordinary character, and his not less

14 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 tlie Latin element of our
language. But the little work, with all its faults, was a master-
piece. No finer specimen of literary biography existed in 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 elociuence.

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
AN'arburton 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 die 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 lordshii)
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 pubhcation of this poem, his tragedy,

l6 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709—

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 had so
many early recollections in common, and sympathized witli
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

17S4] SAMUEL JOIIxNSOX. 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 nights, and by the sale of the
copyriglit 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 indiff"er-
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 Prince Frederick, 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.

c

i8 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 flying 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 Fhtch, 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 almost 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 httle 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 Avonderful 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 PojDe, 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

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.

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 read with 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
language ; and thus he was absolutely at the mercy of Junius
and Skinner.

The Dictionary, though it raised Johnson's fame, added
nothing to his pecuniary means. The fifteen hundred guineas
which the booksellers had 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 langunge 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's 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 little 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 they 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

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 centurj' — 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 Egj-pt. 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 httle right to blame
the poet who made Hector quote Aristotle, and represented
Julio 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
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 Tor)', and could have no objection to Johnson's Toryism.
Bute wished to be thought a patron of men of letters ; and
Johnson Avas 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 printer'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 tliat 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 loft 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 story 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, in the hope of receiving a
communication from the perturbed spirit. 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. | K
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 emendatioiT,
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

VV»u««>. St»iL<«4r ^I^AM^M T "^ "^ ^ %

/ijf^„«,^

4-

26 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709-

liis knowledge of our literature was extensive, is indisputable.
But, unfortunately, he had altogether neglected that very part
of our literature with which it is especially desirable that an
editor of Shakspeare should be conversant. It is dangerous to
assert a negative. Yet litde 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 yEschylus 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-eight
hours, if he had worked as he worked on the life of Savage and
on Rassclas.

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 atio?t. All wasf
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 litde 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, w\as 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

1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 29

^lississippi, and under the Southern Cross, and are likely to be
l/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 clinging 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

i 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, daring 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. Bosw^ell 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
interesting biographical work in the world.

Soon after the club began to exist, Johnson formed a con-
nection 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 villa
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 feviak friendship.

1784] SAMUEL JOHNSON. 3»

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
narrow and gloomy courts on the north of Fleet Street. In
the garrets was his library, a large and miscellaneous collection
of books, faUing 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
reproaches, 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. DesmouHns, 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 slight 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. Desmouhns,
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 cr^ertaining ; the speculations, whether sound or unsound,
are alwayc 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-
lightened 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 their 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. "WTien 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 : —

Maximo, si tu vis, cupio contendere tecum.

But Johnson took no notice of the challenge. 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
public estimation is fixed, not by what is ^vritten 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 wTangle
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 done, 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 sucl) 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 distasteful 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
v.hich 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 life 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 difierence 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 Cowley,
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 offences 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 perhaps 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 ; 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 hbrary 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

40 SAMUEL JOHNSON. [1709—

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
liappiness of sixteen years of his Hfe had married an Italian
fiddler ; that all London was cr)ing 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
laugliter and hisses of her countr}'men and countrywomen to a
land where she was unknown, hastened across INIount 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
sufterings during months of sickness 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
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 aUve. 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 gentleman, 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.

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 skill 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 common literature, as his son addresses
him in one of his most elaborate Latin poems. He married

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 bom 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 skilled 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 earlincss 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

1674] MILTON. 47

difficult to form an estimate : many have excelled Milton
in their first essays, who never rose to works like Paradise
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 numerous 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 Englishman 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 seems plain, from his own verses
to Diodati, that he had incurred "Rustication ;" a temporary
dismission into the country, with perhaps the loss of a term :

48 MILTON. [1608—

Me tenet urbs reflua quam Thamesis alluit unda,

Meque nee invitum patria dulcis habet.
Jam nee arundiferiim mihi cura revisere Camum,

Nee dudum 7>ctifi me hwis angit amor. —
Nee duri libet usque minas perferre magistri,

Caeteraque ingenio non subeunda meo.
Si sit hoc cvilium patrias adiisse penates,

Et vacuum curis otia grata sequi,
Non ego \t\. profiigi nomen sortemve recuse,

La;tus 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. What 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 N\Titings. 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, //'// 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 the act for
superstitious uses should be applied to such academics all over the
land, where languages and arts may be taught together ; so tJiat
youth fnay be at once brought up to a competency of learning and

1674] MILTON. 49

an hottest trade, by tvhich nieajis such of them as had the gift,
being enabled to support themselves {without tithes) by the latter,
?nay, 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, Imffoons
atid 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 expressions are, I find, applied to the subscription of
the Articles ; but it seems more probable that they relate to
canonical 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

50 MILTON. [iCoS—

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 latt% so it give advantage to be more Jit.

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 wTite 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
Vatum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis.

His next production was Lycidas, an elegy, written in 1657,
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 viso sciolto ; " thoughts close, and looks loose."

In 1638 he left England, and went first to Paris; where, by
the favour of Lord Scudamore, he had the opportunity of
visiting Grotius, then residing at the French court as am-
bassador from Christina of Sweden. From Paris he hasted
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 hfe, 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 Francini
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 Barberini ; 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 : neither 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, qnam supra se.

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 Manso, 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 Englisli
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 hasten 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 liberty 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

1674] MILTON. 53

obtruding nor shunning controversy. He had perhaps given
some offence by visiting GaHleo, then a prisorfer 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 MIITON. [1608—

boarding-school. This is the period of his Hfe from which all
his biographers «eem 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 fret^uent 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

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 able 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 speculadons 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.

Orri rot ev fXEyapoiari kukovt dyaQovTE rervK-ai.

Of institutions 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

S5 MILTON. [i6oS—

doubting. One part of his method deserves 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 day 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 Church ; being willing to help the Puritans,
who were, he says, inferior to the Prelates in learjwig.

Hall, bishop of Norwich, had published an Humble Remon-
strance, in defence of Episcopacy; to which, in 1641, six
ministers, of whose names the first letters made the celebrated
word Smectymnuus, gave their answer. Of this answer a
Confutation was attempted by the learned Usher ; and to the
Confutation Milton published a Reply, intituled, Of Prelatical
I'Lpiscopacy, and whether it may be deduced from the
Apostolical Times, by virtue of those testimonies which
are alledged to that purpose in some late treatises, one
whereof goes under the name of James, Lord Bishop of
Armagh.

I have transcribed this title, to shew, by his contemptuous
mention of Usher, that he had now adopted the puritanical
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 with 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 his
country. "This," says he, "is not to be obtained but by
devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit that can enrich with
all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his Seraphim

i674] 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
ever kecking 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

58 MILTON. [looS—

hand, some squire of the body to his prelate, one who serves
not at the altar only but at the court-cupboard, he will bestow
on us a pretty model of himself; and sets me out half a dozen
ptisical niottos, 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 well-sized periods, he
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 with
some contempt. The family of the lady were Cavaliers.

1674] MILTON. ' 59

In a man whose opinion of his own merit was Uke 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-
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 Servmg man turned Solicitor.
Howel in his letters mentions the new doctrine with contempt ;
ai)d 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
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. [i6oS-

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) ^ 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-
milliner, 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 he not mnek 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 MII.TOX. [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 to compose the viinds 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 \veakness 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
BasiHke, 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] MITTON, 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 industry, 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 quahfications ; and, as his expe-
dition in writing was wonderful, in 1649 published Defensio
Regis.

To this Milton was required to write a sufficient answer;
which he performed (165 1) in such a manner, that Hobbes
declared himself unable to decide whose language was best, or
whose arguments were worst. In my opinion, Milton's periods
are smoother, neater, and more pointed ; but he delights him
self with teizing his adversary as much as with confuting 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 ahcnt, nvnuim gallinaceus. But
his supreme pleasure is to tax his adversary, so renowned for
criticism, with vitious Latin. He opens his book with teUing
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 Nemesis is always on the
watch, it is memorable that he has enforced the charge of a
solecism by an expression in itself grossly solecistical, when,
for one of those supposed blunders, he says, as Ker, and I
think some one before him, has rtm2ix\tdi, propino te grai7wia-
tistis tuis vapulandum. From vapulo, which has a passive
sense, vapidajidus 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 sufticiently 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 Rcstauration. 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 af^ns cum dira & focdior omni
Crimine Persona est .''

1 674] MILTON. 65

As Salmasius reproached Milton with losing his eyes in the
quarrel, Milton delighted himself with the beHef 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
no friend to regicides, thought themselves at liberty to treat
him as if they had known what they only suspected.

Next year appeared Regii Sanguinis Clamor ad Ccelum. 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 gre'at 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
, superes, ad te summa nostrarum rerum rediit, in te solo con-
sistit, insuperabili tua; virtuti cedimus cuncti, nemine vel
oblocjuente, nisi qui asquales insqualis ipse honores sibi
qua^rit, aut digniori concessos invidet, aut non intelligit nihil
esse in societate hominum magis vel Deo gratum, vel rationi
consentaneum, esse in civitate nihil aequius, nihil utilius, quam
potiri rerum dignissimum. Eum te agnoscunt omnes, Crom-
uelle, ea tu civis maximus et gloriosissimus,^ dux publici
consilii, exercituum fortissimorum imperator, pater patrias
gessisti. Sic tu spontanea bonorum omnium et animitus
missa voce salutaris."

^ It may be doubted whether ^c^Ioriosisshniis be here used with Milton's
boasted ])urity. Kcs gloriosa is an illustrious thing ; but vir gloriosus is
commonly a braggart, as in miles gloriosus.

1674] MILTON. 67

Cffisar, when he assumed the perpetual dictatorship, had not
more 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 publick
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
idem est ? " He then remembers that Morus is Latin for a
Mulberry-tree, and hints at the known transformation :

— Poma alba ferebat
Quce post nigra tulit Morus.

With this piece ended his controversies ; and he from this
fime gave himself up to his private studies and his civil
employment.

As secretary to the Protector he is supposed to have written
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 collation. 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 chusifig, 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 another destiny.

It appears, by some sketches of poetical projects left in
manuscript, and to be seen in a library at Cambridge, that he

1 6741

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 tragedy, beginning
with the first ten lines of Satan's address to the Sun. These
Mysteries consist of allegorical persons ; such as Justice,
Mercy, Faith. Of the tragedy or mystery of Paradise Lost
there are two plans :

The Persons.

The

Persons.

Michael.

Moses.

Chorus of Angels.
Heavenly Love.
Lucifer.

Eve'^^' \ ^''^^^ ^'^^ Serpent.

Divine Justice, Wisdom,

Heavenly Love.
The Evening Star, Hesperus.
Chorus of Angels.
Lucifer.

Conscience.

Adam.

Death.

Eve.

Labour, \

Conscience.

Sickness, 1

Labour, \

Discontent, v Mutes.

Sickness,

Ignorance, \
with others ; J

Discontent,
Ignorance,

) Mutes.

Faith.

Fear,

Hope.
Charity.

Death ;
Faith.

Hope.
Charity.

PARADISE LOST.

the persons.

Moses, TrpoXoyi^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, 1

Islercy, > 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 rebellion and fall.

ACT IV.

Adam, ) , „

Eve, \ ^^"e"-

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, 1

Hope, > 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.

1 674] MILTON. 71

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, tracing 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 ofl'ence. 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

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.

I Invention is almost the only hterary 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 necessarily previous 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 litde productions. He sent
to the press (165S) 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.

Oliver 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
very 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, paid to this great man by his biographers : every 1
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. __J

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 iC) 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 Dalrymple'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 Uavenant. In the
war between the King and Parliament, 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

1674] MILTON. 75

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 ioterest 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 knov^n, 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
ofiicer 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 Elizabeth Minshul, of a gentleman's
family in Chesliire, 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 prmciples
his choice was made cannot now be known; but marriage
afforded not much of his happiness. The first wife left him

76 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
honesdy 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 publishing, 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 7uitli an English mouth is as ill a hearing as
La'iu 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

1674] 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 countriesr 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 Bun hill 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 adorn 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 chusing, 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 hi a grey coat of coarse cloth, in 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
7c>ith rusty green ; pale but not cadaverous, with chalkstones in
his hands. He said, that if it zoere iwt for the gout, his blindness
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 ortjiography 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, redeunt in cart/iina 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 months, or for one. It 7nay go on faster o^-
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

So MILTON. [1608—

hopes ; possunt quia posse I'identur. "WTien 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 j 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
wi/Ivigly 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 artifices 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 Avish 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 impetus or oestrum, 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 his 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
have employed any casual visitor in disburtheninghis 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

G

82 MILTON, [1608-

copious mind, seems to have been gratuitously 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 tinpre-
meditated verse. Versification, free, like his, from the distresses
of rhyme, must, by a work so long, be made prompt and
habitual ; and, Avhen 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, Avas 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 compassed round. Tliis
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 einl 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

i674] 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 reviler
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
])erused 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 after 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

G 2

84 MILTON. [i6oS—

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 rcil 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 fead
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.

1

1(^74] 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 afibrd. Only three thousand were sold in
eleven years ; for it forced its way without assistance ; its
admirers did not dare to publish 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 him
calm and confident, litde disappointed, not at all dejected,
relying cm 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 diflicult 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 penise, 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 fother 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 ability to
find some better expedient.

Three years after his Paradise Lost (1667), he 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 believe,
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.

1674] 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. [i6oS—

be added a kind of humble dignity, which did not disdain the
meanest services to literature. The epic poet, the controverti.st,
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 Logics 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 piivate worship; for though they plead
conscience, we have 110 warranty 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 Fops'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.

1674] MILTON. 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 ; to which, being too iev: to make a volume, he added
some academical exercises, which perhaps he perused with
pleasure, as they recalled to his memory the days of youth ;
but for which nothing but veneration for his name could now
procure a reader.

When 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 buried next his father in the chancel
of St. Giles at Cripplegate. His funeral 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 tJie 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 Aliltono secundus, was exhibited to Dr.
vSprat, 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 pubhck
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 beautiful, so as to have been called the Lady of his
college. 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

gb MILTOX. [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 delighted 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 fiir 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 earlier 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
do it.

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

1

t674] MILTON. 91

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, hut sharp rebuke; 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 unguestionably 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 :
Shakspeare he may easily be supposed to like, with every other

92 MILTON. [i6oS-

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 character 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, inagis
habuit quod fugeret qiiain quod sequcrdur. 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 by 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 influence 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 diis 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

1 674] 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 goi'ernment teas the most frugal;
for the trappings of a monarchy 7vould set t4p an ordinary
cotnmonwealth. 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-
t^ dence ; in petulance impatient of controul, 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 estabhsh, 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, he 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.

To this 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 knosvn. Elizabeth married Thomas Foster,

1674] 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 delicate, 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 procmed 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 English. Of
the Italian 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 , MILTOX. [1608—

of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction, and the
harmony of the numbers, than by any power of invention, or
vigour of sentiment. They are not all of eiiual value ; the
elegies excell the odes ; and some of the exercises on
Gunpowder Treason might have been spared.

The E^nglish poems, though they make no promises of
Paradise Lost, have this evidence of genius, that they have
a cast original and unborrowed. But their peculiarity 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 reHques
shew how excellence is required ; 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. \Vliat beauty there is, we
must therefore seek in the sentiments and images. It is not
to be considered as the effusion 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 scad fauns wit/i

1674] MILTON. 97

cloven heel. Where there js 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 is nothing new. Its form is that of a
pastoral, 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 milk-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.

The 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 lighted 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 pleasures
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 he
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 very plainly be discovered the dawn or

H 2

looj 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 supernatural 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, w'hich 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
Lady to all the sadness and danger of solitude. Tliis 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 and jollity ; but, what may

1674] MILTON. 101

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 fand Comus is the most
animated and affecting scene of the drama, and wants nothing
but a brisker reciprocation 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, the 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

r

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 maybe 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. History 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 ; morality must
teach him the exact bounds, and different shades, of vice and
virtue ; from policy, and the practice of life, he has to learn
the discriminations of character, and the tendency of the
passions, either single or combined ; and physiology 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

1674] MILTON. 103

it is essential and intrinsickA His purpose was the most useful
and the most arduous ; to vindicate the ways of God to man ; to
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,
and those that were to follow it : he has interwoven the whole
system of theology with such propriety, that every part
appears 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
of his agents are the highest and noblest of human beings,
the original parents of mankind ; 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 slight occasions. The rest were lower
powers ;

I04 MILTON. [1608—

— of which the least could wicM
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, of easy condescension and free communication ; 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,
tlirough 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.

1674] MILTON. 105

malignity 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.

But 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 transgression. 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 marvelloiis, 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,

lo6 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 Geo? airo [jrjxarfic, by which
is meant the occasional interposition of supernatural power,
anotlier 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.

Oi eJ>isodes, 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
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 pleasiu^e, that cannot
be unpoetical with 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 onlya/^^///, yet calls
it himself hcroick song. D)yden, 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 estabUshed 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 opposed 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,

loS 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 peculiar
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.
Bat 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 ; and 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
^ Algarotti terms it gigantesca sublimith Milloniana.

1674] 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 notice 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 afllirm 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 amiable. 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 supposed in vain. Ariosto's
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. [i6oS-

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, Tor faults and
defects every work of man must have^-ht 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. in

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
alkJwed 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 him must all bewail our offences ;
we have restless and insidious enemies in the fallen ansfels,
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
been taught to our infancy ; they have mingled with our soh-
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. [i6oS—

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 sources 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
modern 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.

j But original deficience cannot be supplied. The want of

\^ / human interest is always felt. Paradise Lost is one of the

^ I books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to

,,^^ I take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is. Its

V perusal is a duty rather than a })leasure. A\'e read Milton for

i674] MILTON. 113

instruction, retire harassed 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 immateriality 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 drop 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 Pandaemonium, being incorporeal
spirits, are at large, though without nutnber, in a limited space ;
yet in the battle, when they were overwhelmed by mountains,
their armour hurt them, crushed in upon their substance, notv
grown gross by sinning. This likewise happened to the un-
corrupted angels, who were overthrown the sooner for their arms,
for unarfned 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,

(

114 MILTON. [1608-

when he rides on a sun-beam, is material ; Satan is material
\vhen 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 believe, 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 mole 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 so long ? — ~

Milton, being well versed in the Italian poets, appears to

I 2

"^

i

ii6 MILTON. [1608—

have borrowed often from them ; and, as every man catches
something from his companions, his desire of imitating
Ariostoi 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 Avant 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
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
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. [i6oS—

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
y^ of English Poetry might be learned.

After his diction, something must be said of his versification.

e measure, he says, is the English heroick verse icithout 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 rh)'me ; 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 no 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-
tion 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
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. iig

SO much boasted by the lovers of blank verse, changes the
measures of an EngUsh 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 poetry will
not often please; 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 continuance. 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 I
cannot wish his work to be other than it is ; yet, like other
heroes, he is to be 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 praise of genius 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 which 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 borrowers 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.

1631 — 1701.

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 born 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 reported 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 hfe 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
inclined 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 1650 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 \vith great ambition of
such conceits as, notwithstanding the reformation begun by
Waller and Denham, the example of Cowley 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 public candidate for fame, by publishing Heroic
Stanzas on the late Lord Protector; which, compared with

ijoi] 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
panegyrists 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

/tharles the Second.

b 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 im'ades the ear,
And in that silence we a tempest fear ;

for which he was persecuted with perpetual ridicule, perhaps
with more than was deserved. Stletice 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 the 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 dramatick 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 Rival Ladies, 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 wuth 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. 12$

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 ; 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 Mirabilis, /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 1
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
rnjrj)oem with noble thoughts, so much more to express those "\^
thoughts'with elocution."

126 DRYDEX. [1631 —

■^ It is written in quatrains, or heroick stanzas of four lines ; a
measure which he had learned from the Gondibert of Davenant,
and which he then thought the most majestick that the
English language affords. Of this stanza he mentions the
encumbrances, encreased as they were by the exactness which
the age required. It was, throughout his life, very much his
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 rhyme ; and Howard, in
the preface to a collection of plays, had censured his opinion.
Dryden vindicated^ himself in his Dialogue on Dramatick
Poetry ; Howard, in his Preface to the Duke of Lerma, ani-
madverted on the Vindication ; and Drj^den, 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 Avas
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 tlieatre,
.vere naturally rivals.

He was now so much distinguished, that in 1668 he suc-
ceeded Sir AVilliam Davenant as poet-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.

I70I] DRYDEN. 127

The same year he published his Essay on Dramatick^PoetrY,
an elegant and instrucave dialogue ; in which we are 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 Love, 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 Martin 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 of Morocco,
a tragedy written in rhyme by Elkanah Settle; 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. V

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 felicity 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 with the most
rumbling piece of nonsense spoken yet,

I70I] DRYDEN. 129

To flattering lightning our feign'd smiles conform,
Which back'd with thunder do but gild a storm.

Conform a smile to lightning, make a smile imitate liglitning, and
flattering lightning : lightning sure is a threatening thing. And
this lightning must gild a storm. Now if I must conform my
smiles to lightning, then my smiles must gild a storm too : to
gild with smiles is a new invention of gilding. And gild a
storm by being backed with thunder. Thunder is part of the
storm ; so one part of the storm must help to gild another
part, and help by backing ; as if a man would gild a thing the
better for being backed, or having a load upon his back. So
tljiit here is gilding by co7iforming, smiling, lightning, backing,
and thundering. The whole is as if I should say thus : I will
make my counterfeit smiles look like a flattering stone-horse,
which, being backed with a trooper, does but gild the battle.
I am mistaken if nonsense is not here pretty thick sown. Sure
the poet writ these two lines aboard some smack in a storm,
and, being sea-sick, spewed up a good lump of clotted non-
sense at once."

Here is perhaps a sufficient specimen ; but _asjhe pamphlet,
though Dryden's, has never been thought worthy of republica-
tion, and is not easily to be found, it may gratify curiosity to
quote it more largely.

" \Vhene'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 ;
breath can never 'scape him ; and here he brings in a breath
that must be infectious with pronouncing a sentence ; and this
sentence is not to be pronounced till tlie condemned party
bleeds ; that is, she must be executed first, and sentenced after
and the pronouncing of this sentence will be infectious ; that is,
others will catch the disease of that sentence, and this infect-
ing of others will torment a man's self. The whole is thus :

K

130 DRYDEN. [1631 —

when she bleeds, thou ncedest 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 lover'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 softcn'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,
stodged full of 7neteors, 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,

1701] DRYDEN. ' 131

never any one that pretended to write sense, had the impu-
dence before to put such 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 enlarged —

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 like falling stars, or else they
shall skip like two Jacks with lanthorns, or Will with a wisp,
and Madge with a candle.

" A7id in their airy taalk steal into their cruel fathers' 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 souls, 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 dai-k characters of sieges, ruins,
murders, blood, and wars, in their orbs : Track the characters
to their forms 1 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 stuff, 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-sinj^crs' 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 fili'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 laugiiing 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 little 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 Mock Astrologer, 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 works 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 ;
Jonson only 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 tlie
instructions of morality were not so wholly the business of a

I 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 dvilness 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 Conquest of 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
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 majeslick madness : such as,
if it is sometimes despised, is often reverenced, and in which
the ridiculous is mingled witli 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

I70I] DRYDEN, 135

should more fully treat of the virtues and faults of the English
poets, who have written in the dramatick, epick, or lyrick 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 Martin 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.
Clifford's remarks, by the favour 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."

r36 DRYDEN. [1631—

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 after 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 sphere for a country : the sphere of Morocco, as if
Morocco were the globe of earth and water ; but a globe is no
sphere neither, by his leave, &c. So sphere must not be sense,
unless it relate 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 tliosc that fight below.
Thence, hero-like, witli torches by my side,
(Far be the omen tho') my Love I'll guide.
No, like his better fortune I'll appear, \

With open arms, loose vail and flowing hair, >
Just flying forward from my rowling sphere. )

I70I] 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 ElkaiiaKs similes are the most unlike things to
what they are cotnpared in the worlds 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 streamers 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.

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 phenix 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 z. phenix 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, mcthinks, 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 i/s, 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 two, worth the obser\'ation : 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.

I70I] DRYDEN. 139

The people like a headlong torrent go,
And every dam they break or overflow.
But, unoppos'd, they either lose their force,
■Or wind in volumes to their former course.

"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
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 fanc}', 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 thous;ht in his Annus Mirabilis :

■"o'

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,
Hiding amongst thick reeds his aged head.
And when the Spaniards their assault begin,
At once beat those without and those within.

140 DRYDEN. [1631 —

" This Almanzor 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
Almanzor :

Who, like a tempest that outrides the wind.
Made a just battle, ere the bodies join'd.

" Pray what does this honourable person mean by a tempest
that outrides the 7vind? 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.

Marriage Alamode 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 Assignation, 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 j 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 be 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 70 1] 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 and Cressida, is a play altered from Shakspeare ; but
so altered that even in Langbaine's opinion, the 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 Fryar is a tragi-comedy, eminent for the happy
coincidence and coalition of the two plots. 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 favourite 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 pressure of ponderous events, and the fatigue of toilsome
passions. " Whoever," says he, "cannot perform both parts,
is but half a writer for the stage. '^

The Duke of Guise, a tragedy written in conjunction with
Lee, as Oedipus 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 from the conflict, by transferring the
greater part of the blame or merit 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 happened, says Dryden,
to claim the promise just upon the finishitig of a poem, when I
would have been glad of a little respite. — Two thirds of it
belonged to him ; and to me only the first sce?ie of the play, the
whole fourth act, and the first half or somewhat tnore 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 Albania 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 rliyme, 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 ;

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,

Aureng Zebe is a tragedy founded on the actions of a great
prince then reigning, but over nations not likely 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 terms 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 Woxld-w^ll-iost, a tragedy founded upon
the story of Antony and 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 DRYDEN. [1631 —

it has one fault^qual to many, though rather moral than
critical, that by^mitting the romantick omnipotence of Love,
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 fooHsh.

t Of this play the prologue and the epilogue, though wTitten
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 muc/i exposed
the keepiiig part of the town.

Oedipus is a tragedy formed by Dryden and Lee, in
conjunction, from the works of Sophocles, Seneca, and
Corneille. Dryden planned the scenes, and composed the
first and third acts.

Don Sebastian is commonly esteemed eitlier the first or
second of his dramatick performances. It 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 which 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.

70I] DRYDEN, 145

This play was first acted in 1690, after Dryden had for some
years discontinued dramatick poetry.

Amphitryon 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.

Cleomenes is 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 yoicng beatity, 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 Arthur is another opera. It was the last work that
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 had landed was
told in the theatre, upon which the company departed, and
Arthur was exhibited no more.

His last drama was Love Triumphant, a tragi-comedy. In
his dedication to the Earl of Salisbury he mentions the lowness
of fortune to ivhich 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 tlieatre, 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
ol 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
able to distribute copiously as occasions arose. By these
dissertations the publick judgement must have been much
improved ; 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.

I70I] DRYDEN. 147

Though he declares, that in his own opinion his genius
was not dramatick, he had great confidence in his own
fertiUty; 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 1671 by the name of
Bayes^TTT 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 adjust the minute events of literary 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 from books
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

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
Davenant, 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. Davenant'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 blooded 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 boot, 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 publick that its approbation had been to that
time misplaced. Settle was a while in high reputation : his
P^m press 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

1701] 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 toivn. 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 undertakings.

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 :

i

150 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 infeiTed 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 Epistles of Ovid being translated by the poets
of the time, among wliich one w-as 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 difficulty 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 Hold

I70I] DRYDEN. 151

Shaftesbury's incitement, set the Duke of Monmouth at its
head. i^^-^

Of this poem, in which personal satire was applied to the
support or"publick principles, and in which therefore every
mind was interested, 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
both forgotten ; one called Azaria and Hushai ; the other
Absalom Senior. Of these hostile compositions, Dryden appa-
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
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 rebellion, severely chastised by Dr>'den
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 Jefferies, 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, wiih little 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,

I70I] 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
retire for quiet to an infallible church. If men of argument
and study can find such difficulties, or such motives, as may
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. 1 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 diff'erent 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

154 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 Stiilingfleet.

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

lyoi] DRYDEN. I5S

author of the worst poem become likewise the translator of
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 English
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, ^indeed, 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 Religion : and the
third The Reasons of Mr. Hains the player's Conversion and
Re-conversion. The first was printed in 16S8, 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 vierry 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 cotv hides upon his shield as would Jiave
furnished half the king's army with shoe-leather.

Being asked whether he has seen the Hind and Panther,
Crites answers : Seen it ! Mr. Bayes, why I can stir no 7vhere
but it pursues me ; it haunts me worse than a pewter-buttoned
Serjeant does a decayed cit. Sometimes I meet it in a bandbox,
when my laundress brings home my linen ; sometimes, whether I
will or HO, it lights my pipe at a cofee-house ; sometimes it
surprises fne in a trunkmaker's shop ; and sometimes it refreshes
my memory for me on the backside of a Chancery-lane parcel.
For your comfott too, Mr. Bayes, I have not only seen it, as you

I70I] DRYDEN. " 157

may perceive, hit 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 mstards.

The whole animation of these compositions arises from a
profusion of ludicrous and affected comparisons. To secure
one'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 punishment 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 i?iterdicted 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 77iended the matter hi your last choice. It was but reason
that your Muse, which appeared first in a Tyratifs quarrel,
should employ her last efforts to justifiy 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
complain that he was deposed; but seemed very angry that
Shadwell succeeded him, and has therefore celebrated the \/
intruder's inauguration in a poem exquisitely satirical, called \'

158 DRYDEN. [1631 —

Mac Flecknoe ; of which_the..I)unciad,-as Pop.e.._liimself de-
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 always 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, sixth, 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 design which he had once formed
to write an epick poem on the actions either of Arthur or the

1 701] 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, afiford 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
3'et 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 machi?ies too ponderous
for him to manage.

i6o DRYDEN. [1631-

In 1694, he began the most laborious and difficult of all his
^Vorks, the translation of Virgil ; from which he borrowed two
months, that he might J;urn Fresnoy's Art of Painting into
English prose. The ^fgiJace, 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 Milbourne, 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 Fables, 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 otuSt.
\j, Cecilia's day, which, as appeared by a letter communicated
to Dr. Birch, he spent a fortnight 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 first Iliad 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, 1701, 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 Avould 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 ]\Ir. 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 thousand 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
their own expence) readily came out of the coaches, and
attended Lord Jefferies up to the lady's bedside, who was then

M

1 62 DRYDEN. [1631—

sick ; he repeated the purport of what he had before said ;
but she absohitely 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 Jefleries 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 Uryden
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 Elizabeth 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 Halifax 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 iiever 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 like 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.

He married the Lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the
Earl of Berkshire, with circumstances, according to the satire
imputed to Lord Somers, not very honourable to either party ;
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
Drj'den'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
they must have been taught some religion before their father's
change.

Of 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 admiration of his 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 misrcpresenta*

I70I] DRYDEN. 165

tions : he was very modest, and very easily to be discounte-
nanced in his approaches 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 than he was communicative |
of it; but then his communication was by no means pedantick/j
or imposed upon the conversation, but just such, and went so I
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 own 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.

l66 : 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 Uttle 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 tipon 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 pleasure, or
the flatterers of vanity. Dryden has never been charged with
any personal agency 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-

7

\

l68 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 Eleanor 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 arc observed to diffuse perfumes from year to year,
W'ithout 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
variatioiT^nd when he had scattered on the hero of the day
the gomen 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 ^e /las friu
thanks to pay /lis 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 l-^
shewing that he was affected by their censures, and gives
hasting 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- V
descended indeed to a controversy with Settle, in which he
perhaps may be considered rather as assaulting than repelling ;
and since Settle is sunk into oblivion, his libel remains injurious
only to himself.

Among answers 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 Collier, 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 expressiofis of
mine that can be truly accused of obscenity, imfuorality, or pro-
faneness, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let htm trhwiph ;
if he be my friend, he will be glad of my repentance. 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.

Blackmore he represents as made his enemy by the poem
of Absalom and Achitophel, which he thinks a little hard upo?i
his fanatick patrons ; and charges him with borrowing 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 oj
it to traduce ine in a libel.

The Ubel 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 m 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 I 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 abie
to force himself upon vie for an adversary ; I contemn hitn too
much to enter into competition with hitn.

As for the rest of those who have written against me, they arc

I70I] DRYDEN 171

such scoundrels that they describe not the least notice to he token of
them. Blachnore and Milbourne at-e OJily distinguished frofu the
crowd by being remembej-ed 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 (^to^%\z\i% \}(\q 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,
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.

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 plays the profit was not great, and 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 25th 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
Drj'den, Esq., his executors, administrators, or assigns, at the
beginning of the second impression of the said ten thousand
verses.

I70I] DRYDEN. 173

" In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal,
this 20th day of March, 169!.

"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 pounds fifteen shillings, in pursuance
of an agreement for ten 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 three
hundred pounds, at the beginning of the second impression of
the foresaid ten thousand verses ;

"I say, received by me

"John Drvden.
" Witness Charles Drj'den."

Two hundred and fifty guineas, at i/. is. 6d. is 268/. 15^-.

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 Avatch
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 youtli 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 I 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 economy of government 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 slight 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

1 701] DRYDEN. 175

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.

The utmost malice of the stars is past. —
Now frequent trines the happier lights among,
And high-rais'djove, from his dark prison freed,
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
English criticism, as the writer who first taught us to determine
upon principled 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.

1,76 ^ DRYDEN. [1631—

Two Arts of English Poetry were written in the days of
EHzabeth 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 {q.sn, 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
I popular is no longer learning ; it has the appearance of some-
thing which we have bestowed upon ourselves, 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 wliat were the wants of his contem-
poraries, and what were his means of supplying them.
That which is easy at one time was difficult 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

ryoi] DRYDEN. 177

so artfully variegated with successive representations of oppo-
site probabilities, 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- T "^l
ration. The praise lavished by Longinus, on the attestation of
the heroes of Marathon, by Demosthenes, fades away before
it. In a iew lines is exhibited a character, so extensive in its
comprehension, and so curious in its limitations, that nothing
can be added, diminished, 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 j not a dull
collecfIoii~br 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 recta sapere ; " that
// 7vas more eligible to go wro7ig 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 ; 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

N

,yv ' f: ■ in

178 DRVDKN. [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 diligence 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
'j . of labour, notwithstanding the rnultiplicity of Tiis producttons,
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.

\^'Tn 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

i his occasional and particular positions were sometimes in-

I 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

admodum laudando, nimirum quod non modo vere epicum sit,

sed Iliada etiam atque ^Eneada ?equet, imo superet. Sod

novimus eodem tempore viri illius maximi non semper accura-

tissimas esse censuras, nee ad severissimam critices normam

exactas : illo judice id plerumque optimum est, quod nunc

pra^ manibus habet, & in quo nunc occupatur."

He is therefore by no means constant to himself. His
defence and desertion of dramalick rhyme is generally known.
Spencc, 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 ; but he forgets that when his author attempted the

<~-J

1 701] 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 ; 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

Ouas superimposito moles geminata colosso.

Statius perhaps heats himself, as he proceeds, to exaggera-
tions somewhat hyperbolical ; but undoubtedly Virgil would
have been too hasty, if he had condemned him to straw for
one sounding line. Dryden wanted an instance, and the fir^it
that occurred was imprest into the service.

What he wishes to say, he says at hazard ; he cited Gor-
buduc, which he had never seen ; gives a false account of
Chapman's versification ; and discovers, in the preface to his
Fables, that he translated the first book of the Iliad, without
knowing what was in the second.

It will be difficult to prove that Dryden ever made any
great advances in literature. As having distinguished himself
at Westminster under the tuition of Busby, who advanced his
scholars to a height of knoAvledge very rarely attained in
grammar-schools, he resided afterAvards at Cambridge, it is

^ Preface to Ovid's Metamorphoses.

N 2

i8o DRVDEN. [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.

vyT 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 penur}^ of ideas. His
''\vorks abound with knowledge, and sparkle with illustrations.
There is scarcely any science or faculty that does not supply
liim with occasional images and lucky similitudes ; every page
discovers a mind very widely acquainted both with 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 Dr3-den'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 :
I/He drain'd from all, and all they knew.
His apprehension quick, his judgement true :
^ That the most learn'd with shame confess
^'Tlis 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.
jf Criticism, either didactick or defensive, occupies almost all
fhis prose, except those pages which he has devoted to his
patrons ; but myie 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 ; eveiy word seems
to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place.

.7

/I.

182 DRYDEN. [1631-

Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, animated, 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 tne play of
images and the spriteliness of expjession. Though all is easy,
nothing is feeble ; though all "seems careless, there is nothing
harsh ; and though, since his earlier works, more than a
centur)' 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,
nrydcn 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 oj^ 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
disprojiortion of parts and features, cannot be ridiculed by an
overcharged resemblance.

From his prose, however, Dryden derives only his accidental

.incK^econdary praise ; the veneration with which his name is

pronouXced by ever^ cultivator of English,litcrature, is paid to

1 him as he>e6nedLiTO langiia^ga^ijnprove^ the sentiments, and

\ tuned the numbers of ftTgTisli Poetry.

After about half a century of forced thoughts, and rugged

metre, some advances towards nature and harmony had been

already made by Waller and Denham ; 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 but 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

1 701] DRYDEN,

/

regularity, and the introduction of propriety in word duv*
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 delicacy 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 before the time of Dryden no poetical
diction, no system of words at once refined from the grossness
ot _domestick use, and' free from the harshness of terms
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 versification, as it was called, may be considered as owing
its establishment to Dryden 3 from whose time it is apparent
that English poetry 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 ; Feltliam, 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 close 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.

^I

1701] DRYDEN. 1S5

The reasonableness of these rules seems sufficient for their
vindication ; and 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 had 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 occasional.

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
arbitrary, 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 occasional 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 attended ; 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 death of Cromwell was the first publick event which
called forth Dryden's poetical powers. His heroick stanzas

170I] DRYDEN. 187

have beauties and defects ; the thoughts are vigorous, and
though not ahvays 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 Gondibert 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 coicnsello7\
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 weights along.
Not in their bulk, but in their order strong.
Thus pencils can by one slight touch restore
Smiles to that changed face that wept before.
With ease such fond chimjeras we pursue,
As fancy frames for fancy to subdue :
But, when ourselves to action wc betake,
It shuns the mint like gold that chymists make :

1 88 DRYDEN. [1631 —

How hard was then his task, at once to be

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-ripcn'd fruit of wise delay.

He, like a patient angler, ere he strook.

Would let them play a-whilc upon the hook.

Our healthful food the stomach labours thus.

At first embracing what it straight doth crush.

Wise leaches 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 A/(;-a who the sacred altar strows?
To all the sea-gods Charles an offering owes ;
A bull to thee, Portunus, shall be slain ;
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 :

1701] DRYDEN. 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 wears
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 Caesar 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 iviSS. 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 open prospect nothing 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.
All 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 peculiaily formed :

lyoi] DRYDEN. 191

Let envy then those crimes within you see,
From which the happy never must be free ;
Envy that does with misery reside,
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 climb.
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 ]MirabilisL 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
predecessors, 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.

JH^

:-!'

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

r"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
taium, &c.

Of the king collecting his navy, he says.

It seems as every ship their sovereign knows,
His awful summons they so soon obey ;

So hear the scaly herds when Proteus 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 tiic

two latter in burlesque. Who would expect the lines that

immediately follow, which are indeed perhaps indecently

ly' 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 :

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.

1701] DRYDEN. 193

Like hunted castors, conscious of their store,

Their way-laid wealth to Norway's coast they bring :

Then first the North'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 preciously by shatter'd porcelain fall,
And some by aromatic splinters die.

And though by tempests of the prize bereft,
In heaven's inclemency some ease we find ;

Our foes we vanquish'd by our valour left,
And only yielded to the seas and wind.

In this manner is the sublime too often rriingled with 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.

o

^

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 leaders fame :

In fiery dreams the Dutch they still destroy,
And, slumbering, smile at the imagin'd flame.

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 poetrj', that all appropriated terms of
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 mallei 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.

I70I] DRYDEN. 195

Some iht o^a/r (/ ropes with dawby marliug blind,
Or sear-cloth masts with strong tarpawlitts^ coats :

To tr\- 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 litrie emotion in 7
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 ;

O 2

/

196 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 All 7vas the night's is taken from Seneca,
who remarks on Virgil's line,

Ovinia noctis erant placida coniposta qtiiete,

that he might have concluded better,

Omnia noctis 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 sabbath 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, 7ny 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

I70I] 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
parlit>«Ur criticism is superfluous. If it be considered as a
poem political and controversial, it will be found to comprise
all the excellences -of which the" subject is susceptible ;
acrimony of censure, elegance of praise, artful delineation of
characters, variety and vigour of sentiment, happy turns of
language, and pleasing harmony of numbers ; and all ■^4;hese
raised to such a height as can scarcely be found in any other--
EngUsh composition. (^ v

It is not, however, without faults ; some lines are inelegant ^,^^r-<sL
or improper, and too many are irreligiously licentious. The
original structure of the poem was defective ; allegories drawn
to great length will always break ; Charles could not run
continually parallel with David.

The subjecV'had likewise another inconvenience : it admitted
little imagery or description, and a long poem of mere senti-
ments easily becomes tedious ; though all the parts are forcible,
''aWtTvery 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

r

198 , DRYDEN. [1631—

and catastrophe were not in the poet's power ; there is therefore
an unpleasing disproportion between the beginning and the
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 with Absalom
and Achitophel, but upon a narrower plan, 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
propensions 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, throwTi from that pretence, )
The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence, >

And malice reconcil'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.

The frauds he learnt in his fanatic years,

Made him uneasy in his lawful gears ;

At least as little honest as he cou'd :

And, like white witches, 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 and obvious 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 try'd,

And every noble remedy apply'd ;
With emulation each essay'd
His utmost skill ; nay more they prafd :

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
Knock'd at the gates of heaven, 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 elogiack 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. Fcrvet imviensusque 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 :

P'rom 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 miisick untunwg 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 hurry'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 ;
Moments were precious in so short a stay.
The haste of heaven to have her was so great,
That some were single acts, though each compleat
And every act stood ready to repeat.

at;|-

This piece, however, is not without its faults ; there is so
much likeness in the initial comparison, that there is no
illustration. 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 the_loss the news became.

}

K..^;

202 DRYDEN. [1631—

This is little better than 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 th^'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 the same kind, or not far distant from it, is the Hind and
Panther, the longest of all Dry den'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

I70I] 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 y
consists the value of their performance, which, whatever ^
reputation it might obtain by the help of temporary passions, 0 • ^
seems to readers almost a century distant, not very forcible or p^
animated. •-'

Pope, whose judgement was perhaps a little bribed by the , —
subject, used to mention this poem as the most correct specimen |
of Dryden'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, ji j-
since he has broken his lines in the initial paragraph. , ^ o^V^

/

y^r^

A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchang'd, py Ap«^
Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd ; 1/

Without unspotted, innocent within, O'

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 offence by ruggedness.

To the first part it was his intention, he says, /^ give the

204 DRYDEN, [1631—

majestick turn of heroicJz 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. J

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 slimy-born, and sun-begotten tribe ;

Who, far from steeples and their 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 ; "i

So drossy, so divisible are they, >

As would but serve pure bodies for allay : )

.Such souls as shards produce, such beetle 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, and to their forest lairc,

I70I] DRYDEN. 205

She made a mannerly excuse to stay,

Profifering the Hind to wait her half the way :

That, since the sky was clear, an hour of talk

Might help her to beguile the tedious walk.

"With much good-will 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'd.

Her forehead cloudy and her count'nance chang'd,

She thought this hour th' occasion would present

To learn her secret cause of discontent.

Which well she hop'd, might be with ease redress'd,

Considering her a well-bred civil 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 toi |
diction more familiar and more suitable to dispute and con^-y
versation ; the difference is not, however, very easily perceived ; *
the first has familiar, and the two others have sonorous, lines.
The origmal 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 exte'nt of knowledge, and an abundant multi- ^.^.
plicity of images ; the controversy is embellished with pointed \ I
sentences, diversified by illustrations, and enlivened by salliesy
of invective. Some of the facts to which allusions 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, it^ negligences in the subordinate
parts. The original impropriety, and the subsequent un-
popularity of the subject, added to the ridiculousness of its
first elements, has sunk it into neglect ; but it may be usefully

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 exorbitant adulation, and that insensi-
bility of the precipice on which the 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 poetr}',

I70I] DRYDEN. 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 had
shewn how well he was qualified by his version of the Pollio,
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 f
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
sentiment 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
must, at all hazards, follow his original, and express thoughts
which perhaps he would not have chosen. When to this
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 translatioji v
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

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 literarj' 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. " JJ7iai makes a plenteous harvest^ when to turn,
The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn — It's unlucky, they
say, to stumble at the threshold, but what has z. 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 Heathen 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 %vhen to plough had been Virgil "s
meaning, and intelligible to every body ; and tvhen 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 cui'a 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 J sing to thee. — But where did experientia

ever signify birth and genius? or what ground was there

for such a fgure 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.

I

I70I] DRYDEN. 209

What best fits cattle, what with sheep agrees,
And several arts improving frugal bees,
I sing, Mcecenas.

Which four lines, tho' faulty enough, are yet much more to
the purpose than Mr. D's six."

Ver. 22. " From fields and mountains to my song repair. For
patriwn llnqucns nemus, saltusque Lycai — Very well explained !"

Ver. 23, 24. '■'■Inventor Pallas, of the fattenifig oil. Thou
founder of the plough, and ploughman's toil I Written as
if these had been Pallas' s invention. The ploughman's toil's,
impertinent."

Ver. 25. " — The shroud-like cypress — y^hy 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? Or
did not Mr. D. think of that kind of cypress us'd often for
scarves and hatbands at funerals formerly, or for 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 ? Did the gods
or goddesses add more months, or days, or hours to it ? Or
how can arva iueri — signify to wear rural honours ? Is this
to translate, or abuse an author ? The next couplet are borrow'd
from Ogylby, I suppose, because less to the piapose 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 powerful of blessings,
which thou strew'st around. A ridiculous Latinism, and an
impertinent addition; indeed the whole periodic but one piece
of absurdity and fionsense, as those who lay it with the original
must find."*

Ver. 42, 43. " A7id Neptune shall resign the fasces of the sea.
Was he co7isul or dictator there ? And watry virgins for thy bed
shall strive. Both absurd interpolations."

210 DRYDEN. [1631—

Ver. 47, 48. " JVkcre 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 la^vs. No, he
would not then have gotten out of his 7uay so fast."

Ver. 56. " The Proserpine affects her silent seat — What made
her then so angry with Ascalaphi/s, for preventing her return ?
She was now mus'd to Patience under the determinations of
Fate, rather than fond of her residence."

Ver. 61, 2, 3. ^^ Pity the poet's, and the plougJwian's cares,
Interest thy greatness in our mean aj^airs. And use thyself betimes
to hear our prayers. Which is such a wretched perversion of
Virgil's noble thought as Vicars would have blush'd at ; but Mr.
Og}^lby makes us some amends, by his better lines :

" O wheresoc'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 pra\ers.

*' This is sense, and to the purpose : the other, poor-mistahen
stuff:'

Such were the strictures of Milbourne, 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 lind
faults, thought they could avoid them ; and Dr. Brady at-
tempted in blank verse a translation of the Eneid, which, when
dragged into the world, did not live long enougli 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 slight
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'cf^rTftng which the Italians call

p 2

212 DRYDEN. [1631—

refaccimcnto, 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 suffered 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 story. Theodore
and Honoria, though it contains not much moral, yet afforded
opportunities 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
K ^for St. Cecilia's Day, perhaps the last effort of his poetry, has
f\S] 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 Killigrew, 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 labour ; 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 itiortal to the skies, had
only a metaphorical power ; that of Cecilia, which drew an ^^^
avgel dozvfi, had a real effect : the crown therefore could not a-<
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 '^rong reason than auick sensibility. Upon all
occasions that were presented,\ he studied rather than felt,
and produced sentiments not sl^ch 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
in the tumults and agitations of life. \

What he says of love may coiTtnBiite 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

f

/

214 DRVDEN. [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
■\'ery 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 theijeart.

The favourite exercise of his mind was ratiocination ; and,
that argument might not be too soon at an end, 4^ flighted
to talk of liberty and necessity, destiny and contingence ;
/these he discusses in the language of the school with so much
profundity, that the terms which he uses are not always under-
stood, ^t 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

^ad always objections and solutions at command; verbaqiie

provisatn rem — give him matter for his verse, and he finds

without difficulty verse for his matter.

\\\ Comedy, for which he professes himself not naturally
(jualificd, the mirth which he excites will perhaps not be found

1 701] 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.
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,

And see the ocean leaning on the sky ;
From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know,

And on the lunar world securely pry.

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, "|
Ere the base laws of servitude began, >

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 forest of their darts he strove.
And stood like Capancus defying Jove ;
With his broad sword the boldest beating down,
While Fate grew pale lest he should win the town,
And turned the iron leaves of his dark book
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 ; j

If burnt, and scatterd in the air, the winds I

That strew my dust diffuse my royalty, J
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 too 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 full in sight,
And that assurance holds him firm and right ;
True, 'tis a narrow way that leads to bliss, ")

But right before 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.
Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew ?

r7oi] 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.

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 ivhen I wrote the/fi.
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 spoo^ning 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. When 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 firmamental waters dipp'd above.
Of this a broad extinguisher he makes.

And Jioods the flames that to their quarry strove.

When he describes the Last Day, and the decisive tribunal, be
intermingles this image :

2iS DRVDEN. [1631—

When rattling bones together fly,
From the four quarters of the sky.

It 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 tum'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
o\ erbalance the bad. What he had once written, he dismissed

1701] DRYDEN. 219

from his thoughts ; and, I beUeve, there is no example to be
found of any correction or improvement made by him after
pubh'cation. 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 Drj-den taught to join ")
The varying verse, the full-resounding line, >

The long majestick march, and energy divine. J

Some improvements had been already made in English
numbers ; but the full force of our language was not yet felt ;
the verse that Avas smooth was 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 j
vary the pauses, and adjust the accents ; to diversify the 1
cadence, and yet preserve the smoothness of his metre. 1

Of Triplets and Alexandrines, 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.

The Alexandrine was, I believe, first used by Spenser, for
the sake of closing his stanza with a fuller sound. We had
a longer measure of fourteen syllables, 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 ccesura, 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 and 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
more 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 that
constancy to which science aspires. And though the variety
which they produce may very justly be desired, yet to make
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 :

Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fill'd with ideas of fair Italy.

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 wliich the modern French
poets never violate, but which Dryden sometimes neglected :

And with paternal thunder vindicates his throne.

222 DRYDEN. [1631 —

Of Drydcn's works it was said by Pope, that he could select
from them better specimens of cilery 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-

' 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 poetry embellished by Dryden,
latcritiam invenit, fnarmoream 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 phtigh, and when to match your elms and vitiesj

What care \\\\\\ flocks and what with herds agrees,

And all the management of frugal hccs^

I sing, Maecenas ! 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 ///;';/ cold streams with spritely juice refresht.

\c fawns the present numens of the field,

Wood nymphs .xnd fawns, your kind assistance yield.

Your gifts I sing I and thou, at whose fear'd stroke

From rending earth the fiery courser broke,

Great Xeptune, O assist my artful song !

And thou to wliom the woods and groves belong.

Whose snowy heifers on her flow'ry plains

In mighty herds the Cccan Isle maintains !

Pan, happy shepherd, if thy cares divine,

E'er to improve tny Micnahcs incline ;

Leave thy Lyco'an 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 bear !

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 great hand shall bear "i
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,
Tetliys 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 Erigonc,
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, ^t 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 tlie only springs on which our tragedies move, and that
Shakspeare may be more excused, Rapin 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 decency 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. 225

" 5. The words which express those thoughts.

" In the last of these, Homer excels Virgil ; Virgil all other
ancient poets ; and Shakspeare all modern 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 pity are only 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
ihe end of tragedy, reformation of manners ; but the last
improperly, only as it begets pity 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 him the
greatest part of what he contends for, which consists in this,
that the fivdog, 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 fundavicntum : for a fable, never so movingly contrived

Q

225 DRYDEN. [1631-

to Uiose ends of liis, pity and terror, will operate nothing on
our afifections, except the characters, manners, thoughts, and
words are suitable.

" So tliat it remains for Mr. Rymor 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.

" P'or 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 so 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 Aristot'e
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 criminal, and the ancient tragedy
always represents its chief person such, as it is for an innocent
man ; and the suffering of innocence and 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, (Sec. ; 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

22S 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
jjoesy 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, Sec. 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
visil)ly so little ,; or whether what they did was not very easy
to do.

I70I] DRYDEN. 229

•' Then make a judgement on what the Enghsh 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 Ph^dra, cited by
Mr, Rymer ; and in that how short they were of Fletcher !

"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 ot
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 tlie 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
voite will carry it, Mr. Ryiner'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 people, 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, such 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 Rollo 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 DRVDEN. [1631 —

wlioUy 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 ; 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.
{Superscribed)

Al Illustrissimo Sig'^

Carlo Dryden Camariere

d'Honore A. S. S.

In Roma.
Franca per Mantoua.

" Sept. 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 2 6ih,
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

I

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,
tliough he had prepared the book for it ; for in every figure of
Eneas he has caused him to be drawn like King William, 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 'J'he 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 knov/, is the patroness I
of musick. This is troublesome, and no way beneficial ; but I
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 suff'er 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 DKYDEN. [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 Drvden."

SWIFT.

1667 — 1744.

An account of Dr. Swift has been already collected, with
great diligence and acuteness, by Dr. Hawkesvvorth, 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
^ 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 cither 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
memor)' 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 suft'icient kindness the nephew of his
fathers 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 Moor-park, 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
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, whicli 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 William, at
whose house he continued his studies, and is known to have
read among other books, Cyprian and Irenseus. 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 whicli his first degree
was conferred left him no great fondness for the University of
DubUn, 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 Masters 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 life- 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

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 Dryden.

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

luended the Court ; but soon found his solicitations hopeless.

He was then invited by the Earl of Berkeley to accompany

1 into Ireland, as his private secretary ; but after having done

: business till their arrival at Dublin, he then found that one

sh had persuaded the Earl that a Clergyman was not a

)per secretary, and had obtained the office for himself In

nan like Swift, such circumvention and inconstancy must

/e excited violent indignation.

But he had yet more to suffer. Lord Berkeley had the
posal of the deanery of Derry, and Swift expected to obtain
but by the secretary's influence, supposed to have been
:ured by a bribe, it was bestowed on somebody else ; and
ift was dismissed with the livings of Laracor and Rathbeggin
the diocese of Meath, which together did not equal half
; 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 WiUiam 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 verv 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] SWIFT. 241

The digressions relating to Wotton and Bentley 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 Modems
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
disowned.

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
Bickerstaff; the Argument against abolishing Christianity; and
the Defence of the Sacramental Test.

The Sentiments of a Church-of-England Man is v/ritten
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

R

2.p 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 Angill 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 ])rofound
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, tliey 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 Bickerstafif, 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 Bickerstaft"; 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 Clerg)'. With this purpose he had recourse

1

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 har?nkss tool of others^ hate, and whom
he represents as afterwards suing for pardon.

Harley'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 his 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
10 the Earl of Oxford ; written williout much knowledge of

244 SWII'T. [1667-

the general nature of language, and witliout 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 witli
little effect. He that knows not whither to go, is in no haste
to move. Harley, who was perhaps not ^uick 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 (17 12) the Conduct of the Allies, ten days before
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.

Whatez'er 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 surveys this wonder-working pamphlet
with cool perusal, 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
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.

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 diligent; 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 he must necessarily offend more than he
gratifies, because the preference given to one affords all the
rest a reason for complaint. W/ieu I give mvay a place, said
Lewis XIV. / 7nake 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 single 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 is saucy only because he is servile.
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 (17 13) 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 him installed in an English cathedral.

^4^ 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, nuilia 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
befel him was interesting, and no accounts could be too minute.
Whether these diurnal trifles were properly exposed 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
of Commons. Swift was now so far alienated from Steele as
to think him no longer entitled to decency, 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 imptmity, 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 ; and such was the increase of his
reputation, that the Scottish Nation applied again that he would
be theii- 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.

But, by the disunion of his great friends, his 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 implacability of triumphant
Whiggism, and shelter himself in unenvied obscurity.

The accounts of his reception in Ireland, given by Lord
Orrery and Dr. Delany, are so different, that the credit of the
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 frecjuented 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 first 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 plate, 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

252 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 poi)ular.

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 Cadenus 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, meti 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 pubUcation 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 the owner) to the house of a cheerful, generous,
good-natured friend of the Dean's, whom she also much loved
and honoured. There my informer often saw her ; and, I have

1744] SWIFT.

'Dj

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 Duchess of Munster, obtained a
patent, empowering him to coin one 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 ^^^th 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 telling 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.

•744] SWIFT. 255

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 necessar)'. 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 gratitude to the
Drapier.

The benefit was indeed great ; he had rescued Ireland from
a ver}"- oppressive and predatory invasion ; and the popularity
which he had gained he was diligent 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
liolingbroke to pass the winter with him in France ; but this
call of calamity hastened him to Ireland, where perhaps his
]iresence contributed to restore her to imperfect and tottering
health.

He was now so much at ease, that (1727) he returned to
England; where he collected three volumes of Miscellanies
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 higli 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 must be the
history of the Houyhnhnms.

While Swift was enjoying the reputation ot his 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 shufiles 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. Masham had performed in former times ; but
his flatteries were, 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 tivo 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 // 7uas 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 exccntrick 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 IMarriage, 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 human 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 time
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 him 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 ? 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

26o -SWIFT. [1667—

made no provision of patience or pity. He ordered his
debtors to be sued. A severe creditor has no popular
character; what then was likely to be said of him who
employs the catchpoll under the appearance of charity?
The clamour against 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
vive 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
Avere 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
lie 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, \Ahen
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
hoi)es 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, // 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
struggle.

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
^•igorous advances, and to claim those rights which they have
at last established. 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 Uttle 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 jather trickles than flows. His delight was in sinr
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
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 court 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 perhaps 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 He neglected, it makes no
provision ; it instructs, but does not persuade.~V-

By his poUtical 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 oeconomy ; 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 qualified, 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 g7-accful 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
cowixovQxsies, he cojiid only preach pamphlets. This censure of
himself, if judgement be made from those sermons which have
been published, was unreasonably severe.

1744] SWIFT. 265

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 impiet}^. Dr. Delany, with
all his zeal for his honour, has justly condemned this part of
his character.

frhe 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, conwiitted 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.

Pin 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 found them. — With all this
talk of his covelousness 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 pocket with coins of different
value.

Whatever he did, he seemed willing to do in a manner
peculiar to himself, without sufficiently 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 others 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 wc 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 sec you than any of them. — ' Ay, any one

^ Spencc.

1744] SWIFT. 267

that did not know so well as I do, might believe you. But
since you 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 iive : 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."

fifn 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. J To give him advice was, in the style of his
friend Delany, fo 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 aj)pears 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 tflTihking, 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 Arbuthnot and Gay, had engrossed all the
understanding and virtue of mankind, that their uiierits filled
the world; 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. J

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, i 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 ceconomy, 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 tlie 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 mc 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 rhymes 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
welfmaintained 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 Wihshire, and appearing weak
and unUkely 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.

T

274 ADDISON. [1672—

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 wliole 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 founder's benefaction,
there is no account preserved of his admission. At the school
of the Chartreux, to which he was removed cither 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 ahvay.s
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

^ Spc.icc.

1719] A1~)DIS0N. 275

an evil hour borrowed a hundred pounds <ti his 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 lie was entered into Queen'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 elsev/here 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 confined himself to
the imitation of any ancient author, but has formed his style
from the general language, such as a diligent perusal of the
productions of different ages happened to supply.

His Latin compositions seem to hav-e had nuicli of liis
fondness ; for he collected a second volume of the MuscC
Anglicanse, 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, Avho from that time conceived, says Tickell,
an opinion of f/ie 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 eftect 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 and Cranes ; The
^ He took the degree of I\I.A. Feb. 14, 1693.

T 2

276 ADDISON. [1672—

Barometer ; and A Bowling-green. Wlien the matter is low or
scanty, a dead language, in which nothing is mean because
nothing is familiar, aftords great conveniences ; and by the
sonorous magnificence of Roman syllables, the writer con-
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 Georgick upon Bees ; after which, says Dryden,
my latter swarm is hardly ivort/i 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 Mary, in the
Musse Anglicanre. 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.

1 7 19] 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 enemy to tlie 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 the best Latin pecin siiue the y£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
enabled to travel. He staid a year at Blois,^ probably to learn
the French language 3 and then proceeded in his journey to
Italy, which he surveyed with the eyes 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
four Acts of Cato. Such at least is the relation of Tickell.
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 travelling
Squire, because his pension was not remitted.^

^ Spence. _

*7S 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 the 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 tim*e 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 1702), 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 cultivated gives reason to believe that
little time was lost.

Jiut he remained not long neglected or useless. The victory
at lilenheim (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 ix)et. 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 tiiis 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 thj Treasurer should apply to him in his own

1 719] ADDISON. ^^^H^ 279

person. Godolphin sent the message by Mr^ioyre, afterwards
Lord Carleton; and Addison having undertaken the work,
communicated it to the Treasurer, while it was yet advanced
no further than the simile of 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 ItaHan 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 particular
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 ^^^^H 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 implies no approbation of his crimes ; nor has the
subordinate officer any obligation 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 stippose 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 literature, 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 con-
cluded without his concurrence. This is doubdess 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
any 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 published 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 it s authors ; but
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 familiar
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
regulate 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 tliey 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
elegantiarian, 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
eitlier 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

The^e ^lercuries 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.

It has been suggested that the Royal Society was instituted
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 cooler 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 sexes 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 Theophrastus;
a book which Addison has recommended, and which he was
suspected to have revised, if he did not write it. Of those
portraits, which maybe supposed to be sometimes embellished,
and sometimes aggravated, the originals are now partly known,
and partly forgotten.

But to say that they united the plans of two or three
eminent writers, is to give them but a small part of their due
praise ; they superadded literature and criticism, and some-

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 ;
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, para 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 solitary grandeur naturally generates.

The variable weather of the mind, the Hying 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 LuiJcd

1719] AF/DISON. 28s

interest, is opposed Sir Andrew Freeport;, a new man, 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 litde, 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 not 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
little 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 for 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 cant of literary modesty, that, whatever spirit
his friend had shewn in the composition, he doubted whether

2S6 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 who 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 toiiui by con-
tradicting in the Spectator the established 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 nmst
guess.

Addison was, I bdieve, 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 zcorth 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 litde to hazard

1719] ADDISON. 2S7

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 Distrest Mother; and
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 ; (^/// as he had desi^tied
that compliment elsewhere, hefotind himself obliged, says Tickell,
by his duty on the one hand, and his ho7ioiir 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 wall 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.
•mer'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

^ S'^ence.

1 719] ADDISON. 289

could be found, for the sake of comparing their version of the
soUloquy 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 Guardian, 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

u

290 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 deviations from propriety ; 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 ^villing to claim it.
Tickell omitted 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 indifferent 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 ncnv down among the dead men. He might well rejoice

1/19] 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 Examiners ; 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 little use ; having
recourse to sketches and hints, the product of his former

1 Numb. 556, 557, 5sS, 559, 561, 562, 565, 567, 56S, 559, 571, 574,
575. 579, 5S0, 5S2, sSj, 584, 5^5, 59o, 592, S9S, 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 11.

" — — — — — Jacobai.
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

1 719] 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 «iade use of a lute, when they should have called
for a trumpet.

This year {17 16)' 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
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 Ufe 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 httle 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. 2 S pence.

294 ADDISON. [1672—

the Government. In 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 account of declining
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 Religion, 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.

^ S pence. ^ Spence.

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 (171S-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 Peerage Bill, 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 tlie 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 next, 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 aflirm 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.
Vou may remember how confidently I asserted that 'little Dicky,' in the

1 7 19] 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 Belhwi plusquam civile, as Lucan expresses il.
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
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 Holborn ; 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 written. You will, I think, agree
with me that this is decisive. I am a little vain of my sagacity, which I
really think would have dubbed me a vir clarissimus, if it had been shewn
on a point of Greek or Latin learning ; but I am still more pleased that
the vindication of Addison from 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.)

2c,S 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 ivhich the fire is
not extinguished, and coming to the time of which it will be
proper rather to say nothing that is false, thaji 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

C/irisfiafi 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." Chesterfield 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, tliat, with respect to intellectual wealth, " he
could draw bills for a thousand pounds, though he had not a
guinea in his pocket."

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.

I

1719] 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.

Wliat 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,^ 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,^ 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
Mandeville, 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 Mandeville.

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 thpught 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. TJiere are, says Steele, in his
writings many oblique strokes upon some of the wittiest men of the
age. His delight was more to excite merriment than detesta-
tion, and he detects follies rather than crimes.

If any judgement 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 that 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 tlian 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. Part 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] ADDISON. 305

great writer has lately styled him a7i indifferent poet, afid a
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 very 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 iri 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 ! —

What is this but to say that he who could compliment Crom-
well had been the proper poet for King William ? Addison
however never printed the piece.

The Letter from Italy has been always praised, but has nevei
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—

ornament, than any other of his poems. There is however
one broken metaphor, of which notice may properly be
taken :

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 1 because she longs to laiineh ? an act which was
never hindered by a bridle : and whither will she launeh ? into
a nobler strain. 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 then enquire 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 blinded 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 ;

MarlbVough'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 vvell-sun!:^ woes shall soothe my ghost ;
He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

Martial exploits may ht painted ; perhaps 7uoes xw^iy he 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
Pindar had been described as writing with the copiousness and
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, having celebrated the beauty of

X 1

,oS ADDISON. [1672—

Marlborough's person, tells us that Achilles thus was formed
ivitli every grace, here is no simile, but a mere exemplification.
A simile may be compared 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.

IMarlborough is so like the angel in the poem, that the action
of both is almost the same, and performed by both in the same
maijner. Marlborough leaches the batik to rage ; the angel
directs the storm : Marlborough is unmoved in 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.
If 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 tlie 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 tilings 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
pozver 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 sufferijig ;
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 declaa-ed
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.

3IO ADDISON. [1672—

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 mortals, 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 >vrites
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. That 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 Caesar, 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 tlie world in its true form ? The
stage may sometimes gratify our wishes ; but, if it be truly the
mirror pf 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 tlie 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
v.-hom 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 Englisli, 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,
confined 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 any 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 call'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, Coesar would never take you ;
no, Coesar 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 hall, 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.

"Scmpronius, 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 Avere a triple league between them, and a
mutual agreement that each should give place 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 hke 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 monstei-s, 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.

" Syplt. 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 Scmpronius 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" Ca;sar's camp.

" Sci/ip. 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 :

" Svph. 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-da}^, 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
Sempronius, it seems, is of another opinion. He extols to the
skies the invention of old Syphax :

" Semp)'. 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

3i8 ADDISON. [1672 —

true, implicitly he has said enough in the rules which lie 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 ; 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 lodgfd, I've track'd her to her covert.

"Now I would fain know why this deer is said to be lodgeti,
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
matters in the street. However, to pleasure Sempronius, let
us suppose, for once, that the deer is lodged :

" The deer is lodg'd, Fve 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 lett !
He must be murdered, and a passage cut
Through those his guards.

"Pray, what are those his guards 1 I thought at present,
that Juba's guards had been Sempronius's tools, and had been
dangling 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
triumpli away to Cato. Now I would fain know, if any
part of Mr. Bay€s'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 mon 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 Avere most certain
to run away from it. Upon Lucia and Marcia's coming in,
Lucia appears in all the symptoms of an hystetial gentle-
woman :

" Liic. 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 mufilcd up within the garment.

" Now how a man could fight, and fall with his face mufiled
up in his garment, is, I think, a little hard to conceive !
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 Juba 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 Serapronius. 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 1 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 solus, in a sullen posture,
a drawn sword on the table by him ; in his hand Plato's
treatise on the Lnmortality of the Soul, translated lately by

Y

322 ADDISON. ~ [1672—

Dcrnard Lintot : I desire the reader to consider, whether such
a person as this would pass with them wlio 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 ui)on
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. Tliere is, as Dryden expresses
it, perhaps too much horseplay in his raillery ; but if his jests'are
coarse, his arguments are strong. Yet as we love better to be
pleased than to be taught, Cato is 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 mention is neces-
sary ; they have little that can employ or require a critick.
I'he parallel of the Princes and Gods, in his verses to Kneller,
is often happy, but is too well known to be quoted.

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 ofjour 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 whicli
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 aff'orded them. That he always wrote as he would think it
necessary to write now, cannot be affirmed ; his instructions
were such as the cliaracter 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 being just,
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 Wagstafif, 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 imbecilitj', 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

1719] 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 diff'used
as to give the grace of novelty to domestick scenes and daily
occurrences. He never outsteps the inodesty 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, sometianes 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, millc decenter habct.

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.

i68S— 1744.

Alexander Pope was born in London, May 22, 1688, of
parents whose rank or station was never ascertained : we
are informed tliat 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, aiwi the other of dying, in
the service of Charles the First ; the third was made a general
officer in Spain, from whom the sister inherited what 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 linen-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 POPE. [i68S—

perhaps ended with his childhood. His voice, when he was
young, was so pleasing, that he was called in fondness the
little Nightingale.

Being not sent early to school, he was taught to read by
an aunt ; and Avhen he was seven or eight years old, became
a lover of books. He first learned to write by imitating
printed books ; a species of penmanship in which he retained
great excellence through his whole life, though his ordinary
hand was not elegant.

When he was about eight, he was placed in Hampshire
under Taverner, a Romish priest, who, by a method very
rarely practised, taught him the Greek and Latin rudiments
together. He was now first regularly iriitiated in poetry by
the perusal of Ogylby's Homer, and Saijdys'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
nvuch of its present beauty to his translations. Sandys very
rarely attempted original composition.

From the care of Taverner, under Avhom his proficiency was
considerable, he was removed to a school at Twyford near
\Vinchester, 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"^ Iliad, with some
verses of his own intermixed, which he persuaded his school-
fellows to act, with the addition of his master's gardener, who
personated Ajax.

At the two last schools he used to represent himself as
having lost part of what Taverner had taught him, and on
his master at Twyford he had already exercised his poetry
in a lampoon. Yet under those masters he translated more
than a fourth part of the Metamorphoses. If he kept the
same proportion in his other exercises, it cannot be thought
that his loss was great.

He tells of himself, in his poems, that he lisfd in nuvibcrs ;

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 blast of popish
prosperity, quitted his trade, and retired to Binfield in
Windsor Fores'",, 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 TuUy's Offices. How
Mr. Deane could spend, with a boy who had translated so
much of Ovid, some months over a small part of I'ully'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 English poets he soon distinguished
the versification of Dryden, which he considered as the model

L

330 VOTE. [16SS-

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 i, 1701, some days before Pope was
twelve ; so early must he therefore have felt tlic 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 liim, 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 likewise the Epistle of Sappho to Phaon from Ovid,
to complete the version, which was before imperfect ; and
wrote some other small pieces, which he afterwards printed.

He sometimes imitated the English poets, and professed
to have written at fourteen his poem upon Silence, after
Rochester's Nothing. He had now formed his versification,
and in the smoothness of his numbers surpassed 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] POrE. 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 I
himself the greatest genius that ever was. Self-confidence i»-J /
the first requisite to great undertakings ; he, indeed, who 1 /
forms his opinion of himself in solitude, without knowing I /
the powers of other men, is very liable to errour ; but it was I
the felicity of Pope to rate himself at his real value. »'

Most of his puerile productions 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 Tally
on Old Age ; and that, besides his books of poetry and criticism, ->
he read Temple's Essays and Locke on Human Understanding. \
His reading, though his favourite authors are not known,
appears to have been sufficiently extensive and multifarious ;
for his early pieces 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 rOPE. [i6S8—

his whole Hfe, ambitious of splendid acquaintance, and lie
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.

Cowley, Milton, and Pope, are distinguished among the
English Poets by the early exertion of their powers : but the
works of Cowley alone were published in his childhood, and
therefore of him only can it be certain that his puerile per-
formances received no improvement from his maturer studies.

At this time began his acquaintance with Wycherlcy, 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 suflfered nothing irom
them.

But the fondness of Wycherley was too violent to last. His
esteem of Pope was such, that he submitted some poems to his
revision ; and when Pope, perhaps proud of such confidence,
was sufficiently bold in his criticisms, and liberal in his 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] rorE. 333

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

Another of his early correspondents was Mr. Cromwell, of
whom I have learned nothing particular but that he used to
ride a-hunting in a tye-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 seems to have regulated his studies. Walsh advised him to
correctness, which, as he told him, the English poets had
hitherto neglected, and which therefore was left to him as a
basis of fame ; and, being delighted with rural poems, 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 coffee-house on the north side of Russell-street
in Covent-garden, where the wits of that time used to assemble,
and where Dryden had, when he lived, been accustomed to
preside.

During this period of his life he was indefatigably diligent,
and insatiably curious ; wanting health for violent, and money
for expensive pleasures, and having 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 mind

334 POPE. [i6S8—

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
among poets and criticks, were at last printed (1709) in
Tonson's Miscellany, in a volume which began with the
Pastorals of Philips, and ended with those of Pope.

♦— The same year was written the Essay on Criticism ; a work
which displays such extent of comprehension, such nicety
of distinction, such acquaintance with mankind, and such

j knowledge both of ancient and modern learning, as are not
often attained by the maturest age and longest experience.
I-ft was published about two years afterwards, and being praised
by Addison in the Spectator with sufficient liberality, met with
so much favour as enraged Dennis, "who," he says, -'found
himself attacked, without any manner of provocation on his
side, and attacked in his person, instead of his writings, by one
who was wholly a stranger to him, at a time when all the world
knew he was persecuted by fortune ; and not only saw that this
was attempted in a clandestine manner, with the utmost 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] POrE. 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
razv.

" First, because he discovers a sufficiency beyond his little
ability, and hath rashly undertaken a task infinitely above his
force. Secondly, while this little author struts, and affects the
dictatorian air, he plainly 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
liath, 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 as much again to manage it :
For wit and judgement ever are at strife —

it is apparent that 7C'i'(_has two rneanin^s^^and that what is
wanted, though called 7C'if, 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 [(6SS-

damnably." This was the man who would reform a nation
sinking into barbarity.

In another place Pope himself allowed that Dennis had
detected one of those blunders which are called bulls. The
first edition had this line :

What is this wit —

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

"How," says the critick, "can wit be scorn' d \i\\zxt it is not?
Is not this a figure frequently employed in Hibernian land ?
The person that wants this wit may indeed be scorned, but
the scorn 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 little young gentleman whom
Mr. Walsh used to take into his company, as a double foil to
his person and capacity.— Enquire between Sunninghill and
Oakingham for a young, short, squab gentleman, the very bow
of the God of Love, and tell me whether he be a proper
author to make personal reflections?— He may extol the
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] rOrE. 337

from human understanding." Thus began 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 i
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 paragraplis may change .T7
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. // is possible, says
Hooker, that by long circumduction, from any onctruth all truth
may be inferred. Of all homogeneous truths at least, of all truths
respecting the same general end, in vi^hatever series they may
be produced, a concatenation 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 rOPE. [i68S—

equally specious may be found or made. Aristotle is praised
for naming Fortitude first of the cardinal virtues, as that
without which no other virtue can steadily be practised ; but
he might, with equal propriety, have placed Prudence and
Justice before it, since without Prudence Fortitude is mad ;
without Justice, it is mischievous.

As the end of method is perspicuity, that series is sufficiently
regular that avoids obscurity ; and where there is no obscurity
it will not be difficult to discover method.

In the Spectator was published the Messiah, which he first
submitted to the perusal of Steele, and corrected in compliance
with his criticisms.

It is reasonable to infer, from his Letters, that the verses on
the Unfortunate Lady were written about the time when his
Essay was published. The Lady's name and adventures I
have sought with fruitless enquiry.

I can therefore tell no more than I have learned from
Mr. Ruffhead, who writes ^\^th 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 aii equal match ; and such he
proposed to her, but found it rejected in favour of a young
gentleman of inferior condition.

Having discovered the correspondence between the two
lovers, and finding the young lady determined to abide by
her own choice, he supposed that separation .might do what
can rarely be done by arguments, and sent her into a foreign
country, where she was obliged to converse only with those
from whom her 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 with still greater vigilance ; till of this restraint
she grew so impatient, that she bribed a woman-servant to
procure her a sword, which she directed to her heart.

1744] . POPE. 339

From this account, given with evident intention to raise
the Lady's character, it docs 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 tk false Giiardia7i ; 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 tTiernost delightful of all his
compositions, occasioned by a frolick of gallantry, rather too
familiar, in which Lord Petre cut off a lock of Mrs. Arabella
Fermor's hair. This, whether stealth or violence, was so
much resented, that the commerce of the two families, before
very friendly, was interrupted. Mr. Caryl, a gentleman who,
being secretary to King James's Queen, had followed his Mistress
into France, and who being the author of Sir Solomon Single,
a comedy, and some translations, was entitled to the notice
of a Wit, solicited Pope to endeavour a reconciliation by a
ludicrous poem, which might bring both the parties to a better
temper. In compliance with Caryl's request, though his name
was for a long time marked only by the first and last letter,
C— •!, a poem of two cantos was written (1711), as is said, in
a fortnight, and sent to the offended Lady, who liked it well
enough to 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 rorE. [i68S—

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 merwn sal.
Pope, however, saw that it was capable of improvement ; and,
having luckily contrived to borrow his machinery from the
Rosicrucians, imparted the scheme with which his head was
teeming to Addison, who told him that his work, as it stood,
was a delicious little thing, and gave him no encouragement to
retouch it.

This has been too hastily considered as an instance of
Addison's jealousy ; for as he could not guess the conduct
of the new design, or the possibilities of pleasure comprised
in a fiction of which there had been no examples, he might
very reasonably and kindly persuade the author to acquiesce
in his own prosperity, and forbear an attempt which he
considered as an unnecessary hazard.

Addison's counsel was happily rejected. Pope foresaw the
luture efflorescence of imagery then budding in his mind, and
resolved to spare no art, or industry of cultivation. The soft
luxuriance of his fancy was already shooting, and all the gay
varieties of diction were ready at his hand to colour and
embellish it.

His attempt was justified by its success. The Rape of the
Lock stands forward, in the classes of literature, as the most
exquisite example of ludicrous poetry. Berkeley congratulated
him upon the dispLiy 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.

Me 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 i^s not likely that any felicity, like
the discovery of a new race of preternatural agents, should
happen twice to the same man.

Of this poem the author was, I think, allowed to enjoy
the praise for a long time without disturbance. Many years
afterwards Dennis published some remarks upon it, with very
little force, and with no effect ; for the opinion of the publick
was already settled, and it was no longer at the mercy of
criticism.

About this time he published the Temple of Fame, which,
as he tells Steele in their correspondence, he had written two
years before ; that is, when he was only twenty-two years old,
an early time of life for so much learning and so much
observation as that work exhibits.

On this poem Dennis afterwards published some remarks,
of which the most reasonable is, that some of the lines
represent motion as exhibited by sculpture.

Of the Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, I do not know the
date. His first inclination to attempt a composition of that
tender kind arose, as Mr. Savage told me, from his perusal
of Prior's Nut-brown Maid. How much he has surpassed
Prior's work it is not necessary to mention, when perhaps it
may be said with justice, that he has excelled every 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. [i6S8—

which part was, as he relates, written at sixteen, about the
same time as his Pastorals, and the latter part was added
afterwards : where the addition begins we are not told. The
lines relating to the Peace confess their own date. It is
dedicated to Lord Lansdowne, who was then high in reputation
and influence among the Tories ; and it is said, that the 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 introduced
it by a Prologue ; and, when Dennis published his Remarks,
undertook not indeed to vindicate but to revenge his friend,
by a Narrative of the Frenzy of John Dennis.

There is reason to believe that Addison gave no 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 officiousness.

This year was printed in the Guardian the ironical comparison
between the Pastorals of Philips and Pope ; a composition of
artifice, criticism, and literature, to which nothing equal will
easily be found. The superiority of Pope is so ingeniously

J

1744] rOPE. 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 offended. Addison immediately
saw the writer's design ; and, as it seems, had malice enough
to conceal his discovery, and to permit a publication which,
by making his friend Philips ridiculous, made him for ever an
enemy to Pope.

It appears that about this time Pope had a strong inclination
to unite the art of Painting with that of Poetry, and put himself
under the tuition of Jervas. He was near-sighted, and 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 Betterton, supposed to be drawn by him,
was in the possession of Lord Mansfield : if this was taken from
the life, he must have begun to paint earlier ; for Betterton was
now dead. Pope's ambition of this new art produced some
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 pubUshed, 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 what he
had, it might be liberal, could not be large ; his religion hindered
him from the occupation of any civil employment, and he com-
plained that he wanted even money to buy books.'

^ Spence.

344 POPE. [i6SS—

He therefore resolved to try how far the f;i\our of the pubhck
extended, by sohciting a subscription to a version of the Iliad,
with large notes.

To print by subscription was, for some time, a practice
peculiar to the English. The first considerable work for which
this expedient was employed is said to have been Dryden's
Virgil ; and it had been tried again with great success when the
Tatlers were collected into volumes.

J There was reason to believe that Pope's attempt would be
I 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 \vith both parties, and never disturbed the publick
with his political opinions ; and it might be naturally expected,
as each faction then boasted its literary zeal, that the great men,
who on other occasions practised all the violence of opposition,
would emulate each other in their encouragement of a poet who
had delighted all, and by whom none had been offended.

With those hopes, he offered an English Iliad to subscribers,
in six volumes in quarto, for six guineas ; a sum, according to
the value of money at that time,, by no means inconsiderable,
and greater than I believe to have been ever asked before.
His proposal, however, was very favourably received, and the
patrons of literature were busy to recommend his undertaking,
and promote his interest. Lord Oxford, indeed, lamented that
such a genius should be wasted upon a work not original ; but
proposed no means by which he might live without it : Addison
recommended caution and moderation, and advised him not
to be content with the praise of half the nation when he might
be universally favoured.

The greatness of the design, the popularity of the author, and
the attention of the literary world, naturally raised such 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. 343

expcnce, 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 POPE. [i6SS-

with difficulties, which retarded and oppressed him, he was
for a time timorous and uneasy ; had his nights disturbed by
dreams of long journeys through unknown ways, and wished,
as he said, that sotnebody would hang him^

This misery, however, was not of long continuance 3 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 wants money will
rather be thought angry than poor, and he that wishes to save
his money conceals his avarice by his malice. Addison had
hinted his suspicion that Pope was too much a Tory ; and
some of the Tories suspected his principles because he had
contributed to the Guardian, which was carried on by Steele.

To those who censured his politicks were added enemies yet
more dangerous, who called in question his knowledge of Greek,
and his qualifications for a translator of Homer. To these he
made no publick opposition ; but in one of his Letters escapes
from them as well as he can. At an age like his — for he was
not more than twenty-five — with an irregular education, and a
course of life of which much seems to have passed in 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

^ Spence.

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 he could easily obtain his author's sense with sufficient
certainty; and among the readers of Homer the number
is very small of those who find much in the Greek more
than in the Latin, except the musick of the numbers.

If more help was wanting, he had the poetical translation
of Eobanus Hessus, an unwearied writer of Latin verses ; he
had the French Homers of La Valterie and Dacier, and the
English of Chapman, Hobbes, and Ogylby. With Chapman,
whose work, though now totally neglected, seems to have been
popular almost to the end of the last century, he had very
frequent consultations, and perhaps never translated any
passage till he had read his version, which indeed he has
been sometimes suspected of using instead of the original.

Notes were Hkewise to be provided; for the six volumes
would have been very Httle 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. Eustatliius was therefore necessarily
consulted. To read Eustathius, of whose work there was
then no Latin version, I suspect Pope, if he had been
willing, not to have been able; some other was therefore

V

348 POPE. [i6SS—

to be found, who had leisure as well as abilities, and he
was doubtless most readily employed who would do much
work for little money.

The history of the notes has never been traced. Broome,
in his preface to his poems, declares himself the commentator
/;/ part upon the Iliad; and it appears from Fenton's Letter,
preserved in the Museum, that Broome was at first engaged
in consulting Eustathius ; but that after a time, whatever was
the reason, he desisted : another man of Cambridge was then
employed, who soon grew weary of the work ; and a third,
that w'as recommended by Thirlby, is now discovered to have
Jjeen 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 perfor7tiance is very cotninendable, and have
sent word for him to fiiiish the I'jth book, and to send it with
his demands for his trouble. I have here enclosed the specimen;
if the rest come before the return, I will keep them till I receive
your order.

Broome then offered his service a second time, which was
probably accepted, as they had afterwards a closer 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 diligence, with such help as kindness or money
could procure him, in somewhat more than five years he
completed his version of the Iliad, with the notes. He began
it in 17 1 2, his twenty-fifth year, and concluded it in 171S, 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.

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 runs against Time, has an antagonist not
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 ; and 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 relieved from
those pecuniary distresses with which, notwithstanding his
popularity, he had hitherto struggled. Lord Oxford had often
lamented his disqualification for public employment, but never
proposed a pension. While the translation of Homer was in
its progress, Mr. Craggs, then secretary of state, offered to
procure him a pension, which, at least during his ministry,
might be enjoyed with secrecy. This was not accepted by Pope,
who told him, however, that, if he should be pressed with want
of money, he would send to him for occasional supplies.
Craggs was not long in power, and was never solicited for

OJ^

POPE. [i6SS-

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 Pcleus' son, the direful spring
Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing ;
That wrath which hurj'd to Pluto's gloomy reign
The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain.

1744] rOPE.

The stem Pelides' rai:^c, O Goddess, sing,
wrath
Of all the woes of Greece the fatal spring,

Grecian
That strew'd with ivai-7-iors 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 Victors chain ;
Suppliant the venerable Father stands,
Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands,
Uy these he begs, and, lowly bending down,
Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown.

For Chryses sought by presents to regain

costly gifts to gain
His captive daughter from the Victor's chain ;
SupplianL the venerable Father stands,
Apollo's awful ensigns grac'd his hands.

JD'

352 POPE. [1688—

By these he begs,, and lowly bending down
The golden sceptre and the laurel crown,
Presents the sceptre
For these as ensigns of his God he bare,
The God that sends his golden shafts afar ;
The low on earth, the venerable man,
Suppliant before the brother kings began.

He sued to all, but chief imploHd for grace
The brother kings of Atreus' royal race ;
Ve 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 )our native shore.

To all he sued, but chief implor'd for grace
The brother kings of Atreus royal race.
"i'e sons of Atreus, may your vows be crown'd,
Kings and warriors

Your labours, by the Gods be all your labours crown'' d ;
So may the Gods your arms 'd'ith conquest bless.
And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground ;

Ti7l laid

And croivn 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 Chryscis to these arms again ;
If mercy fail, yet let my present mo\e,
And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove.

But, oh ; relieve a hapless parent's pain.
And give my daughter to these arms again ;
Receive viy 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 rcply'd. •

He said, the Greeks their joint assent declare,
The father said, the f^enrous Greeks 7-elent,
T' accept the ransom, and release the fair :
Rrocre 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. Drvden.]

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 second 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 ;
Tlv 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 co/ninands 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. [i6S8—

Now, Virijin Goddesses, imniorlal Nine !
That round Ulymjius' heavenly summit shine,
AVlio sec througli 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 tli' unnumber'd train,
A thousand mouths, a thousand tongues were vain.

Book V. V. I.

But Pallas now Tydides' soul inspires,
Fills with her force, and warms with all her fires :
Above the (keeks his dcatliless fame to raise.
And crown her hero with distinguished praise,
High on his helm celestial lightnings play,
His beamy shield emits a living ray ;
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams sufjplies,
Like the red star that tires th' autumnal skies.

Eut 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 ■tvan-lor's fame to raise,

his deathless
And crown her hero with innnorlal praise :

distinguishd
Bright from his beamy crest the lightnings play,
High on helm

From his broad buckler flash'd the living ray,
Iligli on his helm celestial lightnings play,
Ills beamy shield emits a liviu'^ ray.
The Goddess with her breath the llame supplies,
Bright as the star whose fires in Autumn rise ;
Her breath divine thick streaming flame sujiplies.
Bright as the star that fires the autumnal skies :
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams sup]ilies.
Like the red ;-tar that fnes th' autumnal skies.

When first he rcar$ 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 flou-'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 giids old Ocean with a blaze of light.

I

1744] POPE.

Bright as the star that fires th' autumnal skies,
Fresh froni the deep, and gilds the seas and skies.
Sueh glories Pallas on her chief bestow'd,
Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flow'd,
Such from his arms the fierce eftulgence flow'd.
Onward she drives him /irad!oitg to engage,

furious
Where the icar l>Lvih, and where the fercest rage,
fight burns, thickest

The sons of Daies first the combat sought,
A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault ;
In Vulcan's fane the fiither's days were led.
The sons to toils of glorious battle bred.

There liv'd a Trojan — Dares was his name,
The priest of Vulcan, rich, yet void of blame ;
The sons of Dares first the combat sought,
A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault.

Conclusion of Book VIII. v. 687.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,

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

When not a breath disturbs the deep serene.

And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ;

Around her throne the vivid planets roll.

And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole ;

O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed.

And tip with silver every mountain's head ;

Then shine the vales — the rocks in prospect rise,

A flood of glory bursts from all the skies ;

The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,

Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,

And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays ;

The long reflexion of the distant fires

Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires :

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild.

And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field ;

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 morn.

As when in stillness of the silent night.
As when the moon in all her lustre bright,
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night.
O'er heaven's clear azure sheas her «77w-'light ;
pure spreads sacred

A A ::

355

356. 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 tlironc the vivid planets roll.
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowmg pole :
Clear gleams of light o'er the dark trees are seen,

o'er tlie dark trees a yellow sheds,
O'er the dark trees a yellower green they shed,

gleam
verdure
And tip with silver all the vioitntain heads

forest
And ti]') with silver every mountain's head.
The vallies open, and the forests rise.
The va'cs 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 liglit.
The conscious s^vains rejoicing at the sight

shepherds gazing with delight
Eye the blue vault, and bless the vivid light.

glorious
useful
So many flames before the na^y blaze,

proud I lion
And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays,
AVide o'er the fields to Troy extend the gleams.
And tip the distant spires with fainter beams ;
The long reflexions of the distant fires
Gild the high walls, and tremble on the spires,
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires ;
A thousand fires at distant stations bright.
Gild the dark prospect, and dispel the night.

Of these specimens every man who has cultivated poetry, or
wlio 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 17 15. 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. Halifax, who, by having been first a poet,
and then a patron of poetry, had acc^uired the right of being a
judge, was willing 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
three first books of my translation of the Iliad, that Lord 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 Lord. Halifax's with Dr. Garth, in his
chariot; and, as we were going along, was saying to the Doctor,
that my Lord had laid me under a 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. 'AH 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

1 S pence.

JD

58 POPE. [16S8—

to those passages removed ; read them to liim exactly as they
were at first: and his Lordsliip was extremely pleased with
them, and cried out, Ar, no7ii they arc perfectly right : tiothing
can be better."

It is seldom that the great or the wise suspect that they are
despised or cheated. Halifax, thinking this a lucky opportunity
of securing immortality, made some advances of favour and
some overtures of advantage to Pope, which he seems to have
received with sullen coldness. All our knowledge of this
transaction is derived from a single Letter (Dec. 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
3'our will nor your memory, when it is to do good ; and if I
ever become troublesome or solicitous, it must not be out of
expectation, but out of gratitude. Your Lordship may cause
me to live agreeably in the town, or contentedly in the country,
which is really all the difference I set between an easy fortune
and a small one. It is indeed a high strain of generosity in
you to think of making me easy all my life, only because I have
been so happy as to divert you some few hours ; but, if I may
have leave to add it is because you think me no enemy to
my native countrj-, 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 likeh-

174+] rOPF. 359

that Halifax had any personal benevolence to I'ope ; 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 slate 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, notJiing hut
humour has reached, and loho has 7io personal hiotvledge.

Pope doubtless approached Addison, when the reputation of
their wit first brought them together, with the respect due to a man
wlv-'se 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 oflences, heighten his

36o ■ POrE. [ I ess-

disgust, and stimulate his resentment. Of such adherents
Addison doubtless had many, and Pope was now too high to
be without them.

From the emission and reception of the Proposals for the
Iliad, the kindness of Addison seems to have abated. Jervas
the painter once pleased himself (Aug. 20, 1714) with imagining
that he had 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 /// what regards himself, and seems to be no very Just one
in regard to me, so I 7nust own to you I expect nothing but
civility frojn him. In the same Letter he mentions Philips,
as having been busy to kindle animosity between them ; but,
in a Letter to Addison, he expresses some consciousness of
behaviour inattentively deficient in respect.

Of Swift's industry in promoting the subscription there
remains the testimony of Kennet, no friend to either him or
Pope.

"Nov. 2, 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 best Poet in England was Afr. 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 officious, 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
which his early works had received from his own remarks and
those of Steele, said, that he, being now engaged in public
business, had no longer any care for his poetical reputation ;
nor had any other desire, with regard to Pope, than that his
should not, by too much arrogance, alienate the publick.

To this Pope is said to have replied with great keenness and
severity, upbraiding Addison with perpetual dependance, and
with the abuse of those qualifications which he had obtained at
the publick cost, and charging him with mean endeavours to
obstruct the progress of rising merit. The contest rose so high,
that they parted at last without any interchange of civility.

The first volume of Homer was (17 15) 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 tozvn, that is, the mob, on my side ; but it is not imcommoii
for the S7naller party to supply by industry what it wants in
numbers. — / appeal to the people as my rightful judges, and,
while they are not iticlined to condemn mc, 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 tlie 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-
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 grossl}'. Lord Warwick himself told me one day,
that it was in vain for me to endeavour to be well with Mr.
Addison ; that his jealous temper would never admit of a setUed
friendship between us : and, to convince me of what he had
said, assured me, that Addison had encouraged Gildon to
]iublish 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

' S pence.

1744] I'OPE. 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 {17 15) being, by the subscription, enabled to live
more by choice, having persuaded his father to sell their estate
at Binfield, he purchased, I think only for his life, that house at
Twickenham to which his residence afterwards procured so much
celebration, and removed thither with his father and mother.

Here he planted the vines and the quincunx which his verses
mention ; and being under the necessity of making a 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,
w^ho 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 wath malicious wonder ; hke
hrm 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. [16SS—

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 enoughj
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. I

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 Tonson thouglit
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, first, 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
lielp 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 cri ticks ; and hoped to persuade the
world that he miscarried in this undertaking only by having
a mind too great for such minute employment.

Pope in his edition undoubtedly did many things wrong, and
left many things undone ; but let him not be defrauded of his
due praise. He was the first that knew, at least the first that
told, by what helps the text might be improved. If he 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 uponi'

366 rOPE. [i6S8—

his works, which, though often mentioned, had been Httle
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 tiuo 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 Atterbluy's
domestick life and private employment, that it might appear
how little time he had left for plots. Pope had but i^w words
to utter, and in those few he made several blunders.

His Letters to Atterbury express the utmost esteem, tender-
ness, and gratitude : perha/^s, says he, // 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 overliberally rewarded. 'J'lie

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 Lintot's 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 iiot very
powerful. His criticism, however, was commonly just ; what
he thought, he thought riglitly ; and his remarks were recom-
mended by his coolness and candour. In him Pope had the
first experience of a critick without malevolence who thouf'ht
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

36S rOPE. [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 Burnet's importance in his own Histor}',
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, received some attestation ; fori

1744] rorE. 369

the same year the Letters written l)y him to Mr. Cromwell,
in his youth, were sold by Mrs. Thomas to Curll, who printed
them.

In these Miscellanies was first published the Art of Sinking
in Poetry, which, by such a train of consequences as usually
]")asses 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 Atterbur}''s
advice in practice ; and shewed his satirical powers by publish-
ing the Dunciad, one of his greatest and most elaborate per-
formances, in which he endeavoured to sink into contempt all — \/
the writers by w-hom 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 w'as 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. Ralph, who, un- I
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.

j The prevalence of this poem was gradual and slow : the
plan, if not wholly new, was little understood by common
readers. Many of the allusions required illustration ; the
names were often expressed only by the initial and final
letters, and, if they had been printed at length, were such as
few had known or recollected. The subject itself had nothing
generally interesting, for whom did it concern to know that
one or another scribbler was a dunce? If therefore it had
been possible for those who were attacked to conceal their
pain and their resentment, the Dunciad might have made its
'^ way very slowly in the world.

This, however, was not to be expected : every man is of
importance to himself, and therefore, in his own opinion, to

B E

I

370 POPE. [16S8—

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 sympatliises with the sorrows of
vanity.

The history of the Dunciad is very minutely related by
Pope himself, in a Dedication which he wrote to Lord
Middlesex in the name of Savage.

" I will relate the war of the Dunces (for so it has been
commonly called), which began in the year 1727, and ended
in 1730,

"When Dr. Swift and Mr. Pope thought it proper, for
reasons specified in the Preface to their Miscellanies, to
publish such little pieces of theirs as had casually got abroad,
there was added to them the Treatise of the Bathos, or the
Art of Sinking in Poetry. It happened that in one chapter
of this piece the several species of bad poets were ranged
in classes, to which were prefixed almost all the letters of
the alphabet (the greatest part of them at random) ; but
such was the number of poets eminent in that art, that
some one or other took every letter to himself: all fell into
so violent a fury, that, for half a year or more, the common
newspapers (in most of which they had some property, as
being hired writers) were filled with the most abusive 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 tlic 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 maHce 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 _J
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 vended, 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 w^s,'jio 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 efiigy, 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

o/-

roPE. [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.

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 afifected to despise. He is proud that his book
was presented to the King and Queen by the right honourable
Sir Robert Walpole ; he is proud that they had read it before ;
he is proud that the edition was taken off by the nobility and
persons of the first distinction.

The edition of which he speaks was, I believe, that which
by telling in the text the names and in the notes the characters
of those whom he had 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] rOPE. 37

0/ J

the enmity which had for a time been appeased by mutual
civihties ; and pubhshed 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
Dr. Swift : of the notes, part was written by Dr. Arbuthnot,
and an apologetical Letter was prefixed, signed by Cleland,
but supposed to have been wi-itten by Pope.

After this general war upon dulness, he seems to have
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. [i68S-

and treacher)' of Pope, wlio was said to have been indebted
to the patronage of Chandos for a present of a thousand pounds,
and who gained the opportunity of insulting him by the
kindness of his invitation.

The receipt of the thousand pounds Pope publickly denied ;
but from the reproach which the attack on a character so
amiable brought upon him, he tried all means of escaping.
The name of Cleland was again employed in an apology,
by which no man was satisfied ; and he was at last reduced
to shelter his temerity behind dissimulation, and endeavour
to make that disbelieved which he never had confidence
openly to deny. He MTote 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 a-iticks can
intimidate him, nay almost persiiade him to write no more,
which is a complimerit this age deseri'cs. 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
raiss 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. '\\'hen 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 tlian 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
death, for she had lasted to the age of ninety-three ; but she
did not die unlamented. The filial piety of Pope was in
the highest degree amiable and exemplary ; his parents had
the happiness of living till he was at the summit of poetical
reputation, till he was at ease in his fortune, and without a
rival in his fame, and found no diminution of his respect
or tenderness. Whatever was his pride, to them he was
obedient; and whatever was his irritability, to them he
was gentle. Life has, among its soothing and quiet comforts,
few things better to give than such a son.

One of the passages of Pope's life, which seems to deserve
some enquiry, was a publication of Letters between him and
many of his friends, which falling into the hands of Curll, a
rapacious bookseller of no good fame, were by him printed and
sold. This volume containing some Letters from noblemen.
Pope incited a prosecution against him in the House of Lords
for breach of privilege, and attended himself to stimulate the
resentment of his friends. Curll appeared at the bar, and,
knowing himself in no great danger, spoke of Pope with very
little reverence. He has, said Curll, a knack at versifying, but
in prose I think myself a match for him. When the orders 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 rOPE. [i68S—

That Curll gave a true account of the transaction, it is
reasonable to beheve, because no falsehood was ever detected ;
and when some )ears afterwards I mentioned it to Lintot, the
son 'of Bernard, he declared his opinion to be, that Pope knew
better than any body else how Curll obtained the copies,
because another parcel was at tlie 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 doubdess 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 litde 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. Howel, indeed, about a century ago, published his
Letters, which are commended by Morhoff, and which alone of
his hundred volumes continue his memory. Loveday's Letters
were printed only once ; those of Herbert and Suckling are
hardly known. Mrs. 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 English rival, living
or dead.

378 POPE. [I ess-

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
indeed not easy to distinguish affectation from habit ; he that
has once studiously formed a style, rarely writes afterwards
with complete ease. Pope may be said to write always with
his reputation in his head ; Swift perhaps like a man who
remembered 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. I4,'^i725) 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
detennined, 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-born poet, and hinting that Pope was never
so much in danger from any former rival.

To those authors whom he had personally offended, and to
those whose opinion the world considered as decisive, and
whom he suspected of envy or malevolence, he sent his essay
as a present before publication, that they might defeat their
own enmity by praises, which they could not afterwards decently
retract.

With these precautions, in 1733 was published the first part
of the Essay on Man. There had been for some time a report
that Pope was busy upon a System of Morality ; but this design
was not discovered in the new poem, which had a form and a
title with which its readers were unacquainted. Its reception
was not uniform ; some thought it a very imperfect piece, ^
though not without good lines. While the author was unknown,
some, as will always happen, favoured him as an adventurer,
and some censured him as an intruder ; but all thought him
above neglect ; the sale increased, and editions were multiplied.

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, btct 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 poetr)".

The second and third^Episdes 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 ackno\\"ledged, 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 regularl}-
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; pliilosophy 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.

Its reputution soon invited a translator. It was first turned

1744] TOTE. 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.

v-'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 1
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 yerj^ favourable to morals, or to
liberty.

About this time Warburton began to make his appearance
in the first ranks of learnmg. 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,
the reasoner, 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

3S2 POPE. [i6S8—

J

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 divn mduant ;
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 Concanen, " Dryden
// observe borrows for want of leisitre, and Pope for watit of
j genius : IMilton out of pride, and Addison out of modesty."
And when Theobald pubhshed 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 oifence, and therefore it may be supposed that his
union with Pope was censured as hypocritical inconstancy;
but surely to think differently, at difterent times, of poetical
merit, may be easily allowed. Such opinions are often ad-
mitted, and dismissed, without nice examination, AV'ho is
there that has not found reason for changing Ixis 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 tlaan I did before, and so will every
man else. '^ 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 nright be the seeming
or real import of the principles which he had received from
Bolingbroke,%e had not intentionally attacked religion ; and

384 roPE. [16S8—

BoHngbroke, 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 BoHngbroke concealed from Pope his
real opinions. He once discovered them to Mr, Hooke,
who related them again to Pope, and was told by him that
he must have mistaken the meaning of what he heard ; and
BoHngbroke, when Pope's uneasiness incited him to desire
an explanation, declared that Hooke had misunderstood him.

BoHngbroke 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 he died, he left him the property of his
works ; a legacy which 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 a 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 BoHngbroke was his friend, Walpole was
not his enemy ; buTtreated him with so much consideration

1744] POPE. 385

as, at his request, to solicit and obtain from the French
Minister an abbey for Mr. Southcot, whom he considered
himself as obliged to reward, by this exertion of his interest,
for the benefit which he had received from his attendance
in a Ions' illness.

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 offered
had never been refused.

Beside the general system of morality supposed to be \
contained in the Essay on Man, it v,'as 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 "oirwhich 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 have diffused
all those blessings from fi'e 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 G

J 386 POPE. [16SS—

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 perplaxed 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 modifications 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 afifection 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 riding 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 born, 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 Avhich 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 drazcn 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

-}■■

3SS 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
the Dutchess of Marlborough under the name of Atossa ; and
her character was inserted with no great honour to the writer's
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 Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, which seems to be derived in
its first design from Boileau's Address d. so?i Esprit^ was

1744] POrE. 3S9

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 ?

Then,

Who would not laugh if Addison were he ?

Who would not grieve if such a man there be .''
Who would not laugh if Addison were he ?

At last it is,

Who but must laugh if such a man there be ^
Who would not weep if Atticus were he ?

He was at this time at open war with Lord Hei-vey, who had
distinguished himself as a steady adherent to the Mmistry ;
and, being offended with a contemptuous answer to one of his
pamphlets, had summoned Pulteney to a duel. Whether he
or Pope made the first attack, perhaps cannot now be easily

390 rOPE. [i6SS—

known : he had written an invective against Pope, whom he
calls, Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obsaire ; 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 ^in 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
I Opposition ; a follower of the Prince of Wales, who dined at
his house, and the friend of many who obstructed 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 humble Allen.

In the second Dialogue he took some liberty 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 the
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 w^as not likely 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 bu-sy^

The Memoirs of Scriblerug; 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 Warburton
laments its miscarriage, as an event very disastrous to polite
letters.

If the whole may be estimated by this specimen, which
seems to be the production of Arbuthnot, with a few touches
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
in it particular imitations of the History of Mr, Ouftle.

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 anymore 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 I{ssay 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, exemplified by Pictures, Characters, and Examples."

This work in its full extent, being now afflicted with an
asthma, and finding the powers of life gradually declining,
he had no longer courage to undertake; but, from the materials
which he had provided, he added, at AVarburton'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, / ?iaier have
offended him.

It might have been expected that Pope should have been,
in some degree, mollified by this submissive gentleness ; but
no such 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 Avhich 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
aff"ected to insult the great.

The severity of this satire left Gibber no longer any patience.
He had confidence enough in his own powers to believe that
he could disturb the quiet of his adversary, and doubtless did
not want insigators, who, without any care about the victory,

394 POPE. [i6SS—

desired to amuse themselves by looking on the contest. He
therefore gave the town 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 Hours after Marriage
had been driven off the stage, by the offence which the mummy
and crocodile gave the audience, while the exploded scene was
yet 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
tlie same provocation."

He shews his opinion to be, that Pope was one of the
authors of 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 liim. 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 new edition of the
Dunciad, 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 P^(^^
provoked him. He was able to hurt none but himself; byX^
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 from his cage calls
cuckold at a venture.

396 POPE. [i6SS—

Cibber, according to his engagement, repaid the Dunciad
witli 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
diversio7i. 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
race upon 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,
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
he places them.

He lingered through the next year ; but perceived himself,
as he expresses it, going dozen 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

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 enemies^ 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? 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. Their 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
of 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 j and one day, in the presence of Dodsley, asked what

^ S pence.

398 rorE. [I6S8—

arm it was that came out from the wall. He said that his
greatest inconvenience was inability to thmk.

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, / Jia'er in my life kntiv
a man that had so tender a hea^-t for his particular friends,
or more general friendship for mankind. At another time he
said, / ha7>e 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 not die like his father and mother, and whether a
priest should not be called, he answered, / do not think it
essential, but it 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
fiither and mother, where a monument has been erected to
him by his commentator, the Bishop of Gloucester.

He left the care of his papers to his executors, first to
Tord 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 pohtical 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,
arid 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

400 POPE. [I ess-

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 Bolingbroke 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, tliat 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 boddice made of
stiff canvas, being scarce able to hold himself erect till they
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 every

D D

402 POPE. [i6S8—

thing should give way to his ease or humour, as a child, whose
parents will not hear her cry, has an unresisted dominion in
the nursery.

Cest que P enfant toujoiirs est Jiovune,
C'est que Phomnie est toiijours 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 his 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. "\\'herever 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 oj^press 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 Cannae 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 drank 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
turnips. His unjustifiable impression of the Patriot King, as
it can be imputed to no particular motive, must have proceeded
from his general habit of secrecy and cunning ; he caught an
opportunity of a sly trick and pleased himself with 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 railleiy, nor
sentences of observation ; nothing cither pointed or solid,

D D 2

404 POPE, [i6SS—

either wise or merry. One apophthegm only stands upon
record. When an objection raised against his inscription
for Shakspeare was defended by the authority of Patrick, he
repUed — horresco refcnns — that he would allow the publisher
of a Dictionary to know the meaning of a single laord, 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 tlian the
footmen were willing to carry. The table was indeed in-
fested by Lady Mary Wortley, who w'as 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 w^as 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 which 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, I leave you to your zvine. Yet he tells his
friends that he has a heart for all, a house for all^ and,
whatci^er they may think, a fortune for all.

1744] POrE. 4'L_

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. In his Letters, and in his Poems, his garden
and his grotto, his quincunx 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 Mint,
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 pleasuregf 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 oblained 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 little to relax his dignity when
he wrote a distich for his Highness' 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 complcat, had his friend's virtue
been equal to his wit. Why he was chosen for so great

^406 rorE. [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
fipm 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 conternpt 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

y

L_

40S 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 Jiim with paper, lest he should lose a
Jliought.

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
litde attention to poetry, he nursed in his mind a foolish
disesteem of Kings, and proclaims that he naier 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 ; 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 thinks 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 jnany dispersions, two or three of us, says he, may still be
brought together, not to plot, but to divert ourselves, a?id the world
too, if it pleases ; and they can live together, and sheiu 7vhat
friends wits may be, i?i spite of all the fools in the world. All
this while it was likely that the clerks did not know his hand ;
he certainly /fiad 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 aud retiremejit had thrown hi?n 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 Avith 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

410 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 povert)', of success
and disappointment, with negligent indifference, he certainly
ddcs 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
fbrtune did not suffer his charity to be splendid and conspic-
uous ; but he assisted Dodsley with a hundred pounds, that he
raight 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 adlierence to one whom he had
known much longer, and whom he naturally loved with greater

1744] POPE. 411

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
belief, 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 reli2:ion 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
m.ade them orthodox.

A man of such exalted superiority, and so Jittle modera-
tion, would naturally have all ~?us^elinquencies 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. [Hje 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. [i6S8—

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 Dobs on, 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 histor}', 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.

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
for\vard, 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] rOPE. 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 diUgence ; 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 mediocrit}
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 weaned to impatience ;
he never passed a fault unamended by indifference, 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 daviji. retrenching
exuberances and correcting inaccuracies, /^lie method of ^u'
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, j

414 POPE. [i6SS—

With such faculties, and such dispositions, he excelled every
other ^v^iter in 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
he 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 have 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. 417

He professed to have learned his poetry from Dryden, whomy
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 understanding and nicety of discernment were
not allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope.
The rectitude of Dryden' s mind was sufficiently shewn 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
pecuniary interest, he had no further solicitude.

Pope was not content to satisfy ; he desired 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 Thirty-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

414 rOPE. [i6S8-

.wice over; I gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some
time afterwards to me for the press, with almost every line
writtenjtwice over a second time."

His declaration, that his care for his works ceased at their
publication, Avas 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 b£_found that he altered
without adding clcamgss. 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 scholastick, 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
1 knew more of man in his general nature, and Pope in his
L Jnral 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. Dr)'den 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] ^OVE. 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
determination.

The Works of Pope are now to be distinctly examined, not
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

£ £

4i8 POPE. [i6S8—

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 employment 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 m 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 obtairied
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] rOPE. 419

parts of Windsor Forest which deserve least praise are those
which were added to enUven the stiUuess 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 PoUio 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 illaudable singularity of treating suicide with
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, malice, or envy of an uncle, but never

E E 2

420 rOPE. [i6S8—

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 tlie essential constituent of metrical
compositions, the stated recurrence of settled numbers. It
may be alleged, that Pindar is said by Horace to have written
immcris 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 felloiv, 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 perhaps 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 ^y

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
placedTTim 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 shevvT) 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

7422 POPE. [i6S8—

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 tJie 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
tlie 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] I'OPE. 423 ^

his fancy ; but our language having Httle 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,

Fhes 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
sowid and time, and produced this memorable triplet :

y^H POPE. [1688—

Waller was smooth ; but Dryden taught to join "i
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 sxoiftncss 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 Avhat
sources the power of pleasing is derived.

Dr. Warburton, 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 turned 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, ^ew things are made
familiar, and familiar things are made new. .' A race of aerial
people, 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
productjons of human witj^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 curiosafelicitas, a fruitful soil, and

1744] rOPE. 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 Iliad; 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.

428 ^-.^mT pope. <^ [i6SS—

. The chief liclp of Pope in tliis arduous undertaking was

'(drawn from^th^ versions of Dryden. Virgil had borrowed

' . much of his imagery from Homer, and palft of the debt was

now paid by his translator. Pope searched the pages of

Dryden for happy combinations of heroic diaioiv; but it

I wiir not be denied that he added much to what ne found.

He cultivated our language with so much diligence and art,

[that he has left in his Homer a treasure of poetical elegafices

[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 Homerical ; that it exhibits no resemblai>ce
of the original and charactenstick manner of the Father of-
Poetry, as it wants his awfal simplicity, his artless grandeur,
his unaffected majesty. This cannot be totally denied ; but
it must be remembered that ncccssifas quod cogit defeiidit ; 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] rOPE. 429

There is a time when nations emerging from barbarity, and
faUing into regular subordination, gain leisure to grow wise,
and 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 of his sublimity.

The copious notes with which the version is accompanied J
and by which it is recommended to many readers, though they
were undoubtedly written to swell the volumes, ought not to
pass without praise : commentaries which attract the reader by
the pleasure of perusal have not often appeared.; the notes
of others are read to clear difticulties, those of Pope to vary
entertainment.

43° rOPE. [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 trilier. 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 obser\'ed : 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 Dryden's
Mac Flecknoe ; but the plan is so enlarged and diversified as
justly 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.

In this design there was petulance-^"d_maljgiiLty. enough-p
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-P
bad writers were to pass without reprehension, what should
restrain them? wipiine diem consumpserit ingcns Telephiis ; and
upon bad writers only will censure have much effect. The

1744] rOPE. 431

satire which brought Theobald and Moore into contempt
dropped impotent from Bentley, like 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 refines the publick taste is a publick benefactor.

The beauties of this poem are well known ; its chiet .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, oftensive 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 whether 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 sojnewhere and place, and wrong place,

i

432 POPE. [i6SS—

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; 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
7oe 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 eloguenceT 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 P^ssay, 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
advrtntages 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
liappiness is always in our power.

1744] rOPE. 433

Siprely a man of no very comprehensive search may venture
to s^y that he has heard all this before ; but it was never till
now recommended by sjiclxa 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, morehardness 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 witli
more, if not with deeper thought, and exhibit many passages
exquisitely beautiful. The Gem and the Flower will not easil\-
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.
AVarburton 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, tlic

F F

434 POPE. [1688—

most valuable passage is perhaps the Elogy 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
l>art 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 Tmifntinnc; nf2Jj2I^££--^''^-J^lJ233:t; heo.n 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 Imentiau, by
whicli new trains of events are formed, and new scenes of

1744] POPE.

imagery displayed, as in the Rape of the Lock ; and by which
extrinsic and adventitious embelHshments and illustrations are
connected with a known subject, as in the Essay on Criticism.
He had Itnaginatio/i, 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 Ethick Epistles. He
had Judgeri^ntjjvihich. 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 meanin<r ;
Muskk, says Dryden, is inarticulate poetry ; among the excel-
lences oTTqpe^THereibfej^niust^be mentioned the melody of
his nietre. By perusing the w^orks of Dryden, he discovered
the most perfect fabrick oF English verse, and habituated
himselFto^tHat only which he found the best j. in consequence
of which restramt 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 superfluons 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

436 rOPE. [i6SS—

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-
cessfuUy, except once in th.aJR.ape of ihe 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 ;
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 OAvn ear to be most gratified was this :

Lo, where Mceotis sleeps, and hardly flows
The freezinjr 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 hap;;,
combination of words, or a i)hrase 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
unlikely. 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] rOPE. 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 define r, 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 favour 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. [i6SS—

by Chapman and Hobbes ; who arc (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 tlie 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, whicli 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 Livention 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] ■ rOrE. 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 Avith 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 7'isif, 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, implies

L '

440 roPE. [1688—

no particular character of writing, but may be composed in
verse or prose. It is indeed commonly panegyrical j because
we are seldom distinguisliod 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.

I.

On Charles Earl of Dorset, in the Church of Wylhyhani

in Sussex.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muse's pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, dy'd.
The scourge of pride, though sanctify'd or great,
Of sops 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.

L. 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.J AV'hat is meant hYJudge of nature
is nj^easy to say. Nature is not the object of human judge-
ment ; for it is vain to judge where we cannot alter. \i 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 opposjd

I

1744] rOPE. 441

to art; nature being, in this sense, only the best effect
of art.

The scour i^c' 0/ pride — •

Of this couplet, the second line is not, Avhat 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 light ; but the mention of sa/ictijied
pride will not lead the thoughts to foJ>s 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 compliment, 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 ! —

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 roPE [I ess-

should never be applied in a serious composition, but where
some reference may be made to a higher Being, or Avhere
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
liis 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 tlie
writer or of the man entombed.

II.

On Sir Wii.T,iA:\r Trumbai,, one of the principal Secretaries of
State to King William III., 7vho, having resigned 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 unchang'd, a principle profest,
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 superstition free ;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny ;
Such this man was ; who now, from earth rcmov'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] rOPE. 4-t3

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, antl
who is forced, like an unskilful painter, to make his purpo.se
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
comiier and a patriot ; for an honest eourtier cannot but be
a pat7-iot.

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, exxept 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 word ///^^/ is weak
and prosaic, having no particular adaptation to any of tlie
words that follow it.

The thought in the last line is impertinent, having no
connection with the foregoing character, nor with the condition
of the man described. Had the epitaph been written on
the poor conspirator^ 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 rOPE. [i68S—

III.

On the Hon. Simon Harcourt, only 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 Hes the friend most lov'd, the son most dear :
Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship miglit divide,
(Jr gave his father grief but when he dy'd.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak I
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 epitapli is princii)ally 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 whicli 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 SANCTIORIliVS

PRIXCll'IS PARITER AC POPUH AMOR ET

DELICIAE :

VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR,

ANNOS HEV PAVCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

1744] T'OPE. 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 j(ain'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 tlie
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, tnie, and faithful,
that he was in hovoiir clear.

There seems to be an opposition intended in the fourth
line, which is not very obvious : w-here is the relation between
the two positions, that \\c gained no title and lost no friend ?

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.

V.

Intended for Mr. RowK.
/// Westminster Abbey.

Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn wc trust,
And sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust :
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.

44(5 POPE. [i6S8—

Peace to thy gentle sliade, 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, Peace to thy shade, is too mythological to be
admitted into a christian temple : the ancient worship has
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.

Oti Mrs. Corbet,
who died of a Cancer in he) Breast.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense :
No conquest she, but o'er herself dcsir'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 unaffected, 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 suitain'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-

,744] I'^l'^- '^-^7

tatious, the volatile, and the vain. Of such a character, wliich
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
will appear less faulty than the rest. There is scarce one
line taken from common places, unless it be that in which
only Virtue is said to be our mvn. 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
IMakv, erected by their Father the Lord Digby, in the Church
if 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,
Steefd 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 POrE. [i68S—

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
always 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 wlio was born 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
arc however not the proper subjects of poetry ; and whenever
friendship, or any other motive, obliges a poet to write on
SHclj_ 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 eiglit 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.

1744] POPE.

VIII.

449

On Sir Godfrey Kneller.
In Weshninster- 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,
T.ies 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 lays,
and the fourth is not only borrowed from the epitaph on
Raphael, but of very harsh construction.

IX.

On General Henry Withers.
In West minster- Abbey, 1729.

Here, Withers, rest ! thou bravest, gentlest mind,
Thy country's friend, but more of human kind,
O ! born to arms ! 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 soniewhat diversified, by mingled qualities, and
tnc peculiarity of a profession.

o o

45° rOPE. [i68S—

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 beginning
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 Easihampsted in Berkshire^ lyso-

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 liv'd, and that he dy'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

1/44] rOPE. ^-i

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

O/i Mr. Gay.
/// lVest?ninstcr- Abbey, 1732.

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 ;
gentle maimers 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 7vii 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

452 POPE. [i68S -

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
amojig the Great, is indeed such a peculiarity as deserved
notice. 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 litde 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 Newion.
In Westminster-Abbe)'.

ISAACUS Newtonius:

Quem Immortalem

Tcstantur, Tcmpus, Ncitura, Cccliim :

Mortalem

Hoc marmor fatctur.

Nature, and Nature's laws, lay hid in night,
Clod said, Let Newton be! And all was light.

1744] rOPE. 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. Jn the Latin, the opposition of Immortalis and
Jlfortalis, is a mere sound, or a mere quibble ; he is not
immortal in any sense contrary to that in which he is inoi-tal.

In the verses the thought is obvious, and the words night
and light are too nearly allied.

xin.

On Edmund Duke <y Buckingham, ^mho died in the ic)fh 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 lov'd.
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 reflection 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- rurr.. Lioss— 1744

jocular upon one of the few things that make wise men serious,
he confounds the Uving 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 ^\Tetchedness 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 ha;res

Sive litEredc benignior comes, seu

Opporlunius incidens Viator ;

Nam scire haud potuit futura, scd nee

Tanti erat vacuum sibi cadaver

Ut utnam cuperet parare vivens,

Vivens ista tamen sibi paravit.

Qua; inscribi voluit suo sepulchro

Olim siquod haberetis sepulchrum.

Surely Ariosto did not venture to expect tliat his trifle would
have ever had such an illustrious imitator.

G R A Y.

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; 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

456 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.

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

I77I] GRAY. 457

it were reasonable to wish that he had prosecuted his design ;
for though there is at present some embarrassment in his phrase,
and some harshness in his 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 whose 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 \\TOte (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 Elegy 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 impresssion 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 noises, and, as is
said, by pranks yet more offensive and contemptuous. This
insolence, having endured it a while, he represented to the

458 GRAY. [1716—

governors of the society, among whom perhaps he had no
friends ; and, finding his complaint little regarded, removed
himself to Pembroke-hall.

In 1757 he published The Progress of Poetry and The 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.

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-
covered, very little affected by two odes on Oblivion and
Obscurity, in which his Lyrick performances were ridiculed
with much contempt and much ingenuity.

When the Professor of Modern History at 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 77 1] GRAY. - 459

degree of Doctor of Laws, which, having omitted to take it
at Cambridge, he thought it decent to refuse.

What he 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 w-ishes, that to travel, and to tell his
travels, had been more of his employment ; but it is by
studying at home that we must obtain the ability of travelHng
with intelligence and improvement.

His travels and his studies were now near their end. The
gout, of which he had sustained many weak attacks, fell upon
his stomach, and, yielding to no. medicines, produced strong
convulsions, which (July 30, 1771) terminated in death.

His character I am 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 natural and civil ; had read all
the original historians of England, France, and Italy ; and was
a great antiquarian. Criticism, metaphysics, morals, politics,
made 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. (jray was, to others, at least innocently
employed ; to himself, certainly beneficially. His time passed
agreeably ; he was every day making 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 luish 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 please. 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 believe 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 anymore reasons? An interval
of above forty years has pretty well destroyed tlie 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 Avas very willing to help the
necessitous.

As a writer he had this peculiarity, that he did not write his
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 somediing 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 of giving to adjectives, derived from substantives, the
termination of participles ; such as the cultured plain, the dasied
bank ; but I was sorry to see, in the lines of a scholar like
Gray, \\\q honied Spring. The morality is natural, but too stale;
the conclusion is pretty.

The poem 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 3 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 had been gold,
the cat would not have gone into the water ; and, if she liad,
would hot 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 Dr^-den hotiey redolent of Spring,
an expression that reaches the utmost limits of our language.
Gray drove it a Utile more beyond common apprehension, by
making gales to be redolent of Joy and youth.

Gf 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

I

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
spreadi?ig 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 down the steep amain,
'so as that rocks and nodding groves 7-ebellow to the roar ? 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 Alar'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. Ma ny-t7v inkling
was formerly censured as not analogical ; we may say ma7iy-
spotted, but scarcely many -spotting. 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
presence 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 Meatider, and hallo2ved 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. Wliat 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 tivo 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 thouglit, 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 iktle
difficulty, for he that forsakes the probable may always nnd
the marvellous. And it has little use; we are affected only
as we believe ; we are improved only as we find somutliing

1 771] 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 tlie inventor. It
is in the power of any man to rush abruptly upon his subject,
that has read the ballad of Johnny Armstrong,

Is there ever a man in all Scotland —

The initial resemblances, or alliterations, ruin, I'lithless,
helm or hauberk, are below the grandeur of a poem tliat
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 Cadivallo hush'd the stoj'viy main, and that
Modrcd made huge Plinlinimon bow his cloud-top 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 he 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,
by a fiction outrageous and incongruous. They are then
called upon to Weave the -liiarp, and weave the woof, perhaps
with no great propriety ; for it is by crossing the zvoof with
the warp that men weave the web or piece ; and the first line

f3 dearly bought by the admission of its wretched correspon-
Tt, Give ample room and verge enough. He has, however
no other line as bad.

The third stanza of the second ternary is commended, I
think, beyond its merit. The personification is indistinct.

H H

466 GRAY. [1716— 1771

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 toivers 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
aj^pearance 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 a'cn these bones, are to me
original : I have never seen the notions in any other plai
yet he that reads them here, persuades himself that he
always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it had be
vain to blame, and useless to praise him.

L'OT

^

4

July 1878.

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MATHEMATICS. 15

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in -boxes, is. each. Standard VI. in Two Parts, in boxes,
IS, each.

A and B papers, of nearly the same difficulty, are given so as to
prevent copying, and the Colours of the A and B papers differ in
each Standard, and from those of every other Standard, so that a
master or mistress can see at a glance whether the children have the
proper papers.

MATHEMATICS. 17

SNOWBAI.I. — THE ELEMENTS OF PLANE AND
SPHERICAL TRIGONOMETRY ; with the Construction
and Use of Tables of Logarithms. By J. C. Snowball, M.A.
Eleventh Edition. Crown 8vo. 7^. dd.

SYIiIjABUS of plane geometry (corresponding to
Euclid, Books I. — VI.). Prepared by the Association for the
Improvement of Geometrical Teaching. Third Edition. Crown
8vo. IS.

TAIT and STEELE—^ TREATISE ON DYNAMICS OF
A PARTICLE. With numerous Examples. By Professor
Tait and Mr. Steele. Fourth Edition, revised. Crown 8vo.

I2J.

•V-B^^A.^ — ELEMENTARY MENSURATION FOR
SCHOOLS. With numerous Examples. By Septimus
Tebay, B.A., Head Master of Queen Elizabeth's Grammar
School, Rivington, Extra fcap. Svo. y. 6d.

TODHUNTER— Works by I. TODHUNTER, M.A., F.R.S., of
St. John's College, Cambridge.

"Mr. Todhunter is chiefly known to students of Mathematics as the
author of a series of admirable mathematical text-books, which posses*
the rare qualities of being clear in style and absolutely free from mistakes,
typographical or other."— Saturday Review.

THE ELEMENTS OF EUCLID. For the Use of Colleges
and Schools. New Edition. iSmo. 3^. 6d.

MENSURATION FOR BEGINNERS. With numerous
Examples. New Edition. i8mo. 2s. dd.

ALGEBRA FOR BEGINNERS. With numerous Examples.
New Edition. i8mo. 2.s, 6d.

KEY TO ALGEBRA FOR BEGINNERS. Crown 8yo.
6^. 61.

TRIGONOMETRY FOR BEGINNERS. With numerous
Examples. New Edition, i8mo. 2s. 6d.

KEY TO TRIGONOMETRY FOR BEGINNERS.
Crown 8yo. 8,;. 6d.

b

1 8 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

TODHUNTER Continued —

MECHANICS FOR BEGINNERS. With numerous
Examples. New Edition. i8mo. 4?. dd.

AIGEBRA. For the Use of Colleges and Schools. Seventh
Edition. Crown 8vo. ^s. 6d.

KEY TO AIGEBRA FOR THE USE OF COLLEGES
AND SCHOOLS. Crown 8vo. loj. 6d.

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON THE THEORY
OF EQUATIONS. Third Edition, revised. Crown 8vo.
7^. ^d.

PLANE TRIGONOMETRY. For Schools and Colleges.
Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5^.'

KEY TO PLANE TRIGONOMETRY. Crown 8vo,
\os. 6d.

A TREATISE ON SPHERICAL TRIGONOMETRY.
Third Edition, enlarged. Crown 8vo. 4J. 6d.

PLANE CO-ORDINATE GEOMETRY, as applied to the
Straight Line and the Conic Sections. With numerous
Examples. Fifth Edition, revised and enlarged. Crown 8vo.
"js. 6d.

A TREATISE ON THE DIFFERENTIAL CALCULUS.
With numerous Examples. Seventh Edition. Crou-n 8vo.
los. 6d.

A TREATISE ON THE INTEGRAL CALCULUS AND
ITS APPLICA TION'S. With numerous Examples. Fourth
Edition, revised and enlarged. Cro%\'n Svo. los. 6d.

EXAMPLES OF ANALYTICAL GEOMETRY OF
THREE DIMENSIONS. Third Edition, revised. Crown
Svo. 4j.

A TREATISE ON ANALYTICAL STATICS. With
numerous Examples. Fourth Edition, revised and enlarged.
Crown Svo. \os. 6d.

MATHEMATICS. 19

TODHUNTER Continued —

A HISTORY OF THE MATHEMATICAL THEORY
OF PROBABILITY, from the time of Pascal to that of
Laplace. 8vo. iSj.

RESEARCHES LV THE CALCULUS OF VARIA-
TIONS, principally on the Theory of Discontinuous Solutions :
an Essay to which the Adams Prize was awarded in the
University of Cambridge in 1871. Svo. 6s.

A HISTORY OF THE MATHEMATICAL THEORIES
OF ATTRACTION, AND THE FIGURE OF THE
EARTH, from the time of Newton to that of Laplace. 2 vols.
Svo. 24J.

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON LAPLACE'S,
LAME'S, AND BESSEL'S FUNCTIONS. Crown Svo.
\os. 6d.

WILSON (J. m.)— ELEMENTARY GEOMETRY. Eoolcs
I. II. III. Containing the Subjects of Euclid's first Four
Books. Following the Syllabus of the Geometrical Association.
By J. M. Wilson, M.A., late Fellow of St. John's College
Cambridge, and Mathematical Master of Rugby School. New
Edition. Extra fcap. Svo. y. 6d.

SOLID GEOMETRY AND CONIC SECTIONS. "With
Appendices on Transversals and Harmonic Division. For the
Use of Schools. By J. M. Wilson, M.A. Third Edition,
Extra fcap. Svo. 3^. 6d.

WILSON (W. P.) -^ TREATISE ON DYNAMICS. By
W. P. Wilson, M.A., Fellow of St. John's College, Cam-
bridge, and Professor of Mathematics in Queen's College,
Belfast. Svo. <)s. 6d.

WOLSTENHOLME— /i BOOK OF MATHEMATICAL

PROBLEMS, on Subjects included in the Cambridge Course.
By Joseph Wolstenholme, Fellow of Christ's College,
sometime Fellow of St. John's College, and lately Lecturer in
Mathematics at Christ's College. Crown Svo. Sj. dd.

"Judicious, symmetrical, and well arranged."— Guardian.

h 2

20 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

SCIENCE.

ELEMENTARY CLASS BOOKS.

ASTRONOMY, by the Astronomer Royal.

POPULAR ASTRONOMY. With Illustrations. By Sir
G, B. AiRV, K.C.B., Astronomer Royal. New Edition.
i8mo. 4^. 6</.

Six lectures, intended " to explain to intelligent persons the
principles on which the instruments of an Observatory are con-
structed, and the principles on which the observations made
with these instruments are treated for deduction of the distances
and weights of the bodies of the Solar System."

ASTRONOMY.

ELEMENTARY LESSONS IN ASTRONOMY. With
Coloured Diagram of the Spectra of the Sun, Stars, and
NebulcTe, and numerous Illustrations. By J. Norman LocKYER,
F.R.S. New Edition. i8mo. z^s. dd.

"Full, clear, sound, and worthy of attention, not only as a popular
exposition, but as a scientific ' Index.' " — Athen-sum.

QUESTIONS ON LOCKYER'S ELEMENTARY LES-
SONS IN ASTRONOMY. For the Use of Schools. By
John Forbes-Robertson. i8mo. cloth limp. \s. 6(/.

PHYSIOLOGY.

LESSONS IN ELEMENTARY PHYSIOLOGY. With
numerous Illustrations. ByT. II. Huxley, F.R.S., Professor
of Natural History in the Royal School of Mines. New
Edition. iSmo. 4^. dd.

" Pure gold throughout."— Guardian.

" Unquesiionably the clearest and most complete elementary treatise
on this subject that we possess in any language." — Westminster Review.

SCIENCE. 21

ELEMENTARY CLASS BOOKS Continued—

QUESTIONS ON HUXLEY'S PHYSIOLOGY FOR
SCHOOLS. By T. Alcock, M.D, i8mo. \s. 6d.

BOTANY.

LESSONS IN ELEMENTARY BOTANY. By D,
Oliver, F.R.S., F.L.S., Professor of Botany in University
College, London. With nearly Two Hundred Illustrations.
New Edition. i8mo. 4^. (>d.

CHEMISTRY

LESSONS IN ELEMENTARY CHEMISTRY, IN-
ORGANIC AND ORGANIC. By Henry E. Roscoe,
F.R.S., Professor of Chemistry in Owens College, Manchester.
With numerous Illustrations and Chromo-Litho of the Solar
Spectrum, and of the Alkalies and Alkaline Earths. New
Edition. i8mo. 4^. 6d.

" As a standard general text-book it deserves to take a leading place."—

Spectator.

" We unhesitatingly pronounce it the best of all our elementary treatises

on Chemistry,"— Medical Times.

A SERIES OF CHEMICAL PROBLEMS, prepared with
Special Reference to the above, by T. E. Thorpe, Ph.D.,
Professor of Chemistry in the Yorkshire College of Science,
Leeds. Adapted for the preparation of Students for the
Government, Science, and Society of Arts Examinations. With
a Preface by Professor Roscoe. Fifth Edition, with Key,
l8mo. 2 J.

POLITICAL ECONOMY.

POLITICAL ECONOMY FOR BEGINNERS. By

MiLLicENT G. Fawcett. New Edition. i8mo. 2s. 6d.

" Clear, compact, and comprehensive." — Daily News.
"The relations of capital and labour have never been more simply or
more clearly expounded."— Contemporary Review.

LOGIC.

ELEMENTARY LESSONS IN LOGIC; Deductive and

Inductive, with copious Questions and Examples, and a

Vocabulary of Logical Terms. By W. Stanley Jevons, M. A.

Professor of Logic in University College, London. New

Edition. i8mo. y. 6d,

" Nothing can be better for a school-book." — Guardian.

"A m.-inual alike simple, interesting, and scientific."— Athen.bum.

22 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

ELEMENTARY CLASS-BOOKS Continued—
PHYSICS.

LESSONS IN ELEMENTARY PHYSICS. By Balfour
Stewart, F.R.S., Professor of Natural Philosophy in Owens
College, Manchester. With numerous Illustrations and Chromo-
litho of the Spectra of the Sun, Stars, and Nebulae. New
Edition. l8mo. 4f. (>d.

"The beau-ideal of a scientific text-book, clear, accurate, and thorough."
Educational Times.

PRACTICAL CHEMISTRY.

THE OWENS COLLEGE JUNIOR COURSE OF
PRACTICAL CHEMISTRY. By Francis Jones, Chemical
Master in the Grammar School, Manchester. With Preface by
Professor RoscoE, and Illustrations. New Edition. i8mo.
2s. 6d.

ANATOMY.

LESSONS IN ELEMENTARY ANATOMY. By St.

George Miv'art, F.R.S., Lecturer in Comparative Anatomy

at St. Mary's Hospital. With upwards of 400 Illustrations.

iSmo. 6s. 6d.

" It inay be questioned whether any other work on anatomy contains ia
like compass so pioportionately great a mass of information. " — Lancet.

"The work is excellent, and should be in the hands of every student of
human anatomy." — Medical Times.

STEAM.

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE. By John Perry,
Bachelor of Engineering, Whitworth Scholar, 6ic., late Lecturer
in Physics at Clifton College. With numerous Woodcuts and
Numerical Examples and Exercises, i8mo. 4s. 6d.

" The young engineer and those seeking for a comprehensive knowledge
of the use, power, and economy of steam, could not have a more useful
work, as it is very intelligible, well arranged, and practical throughout." —
Ironmunger.

PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY.

ELEMENTARY LESSONS IN PHYSICAL GEO-
GRAPHY. By A. Geikie, F.R.S., Murchison Professor
of Geology, &c., Edinburgh. With numerous Illustrations.
iSmo. 41. 6d.

QUESTIONS ON THE SAME. \s. 6d.

I

SCIENCE. 23

ELEMENTARY CLASS-BOOKS Continued—

NATURAL PHILOSOPHY.

NATURAL PHILOSOPHY FOR BEGINNERS. By
I. ToDHUNTER, M.A., F.R.S. Part I. The Properties of
Solid and Fluid Bodies. i8mo. 3^. 6 J.
Part II. Sound, Light, and Heat. iSmo. 3^. 6ci.

MANUALS FOR STUDENTS.

FLOWER (W. Vi..)— AN INTRODUCTION TO. THE OSTE-
OLOGY OF THE MAMMALIA. Being the substance of
the Course of Lectures delivered at the Royal College ol
Surgeons of England in 1S70. By W. H. Flower, F.R.S.,
F.R.C.S., Hunterian Professor of Comparative Anatomy and
Physiology. With numerous Illustrations. Second Edition
enlarged. Crown Svo. loj. 6a',

FOSTER and -BAJ^TOXJ-R— THE ELEMENTS OF EMBRYO-
LOGY. By Michael Foster, M.D., F.R.S., and F. M.
Balfour, M.A. Part I. crown Svo. Ts. 6d.

FOSTER and LANGLEY— yi COURSE OF ELEMENTARY
PRACTICAL PHYSIOLOGY. By Michael Foster,
M.D., F.R.S., and J. N. Langley, B.A. Third Edition,
Crown Svo. 6s.

HOOKER (-Dr.)— THE STUDENT'S FLORA OF THE
BRITISH ISLANDS. By Sir J. D. Hooker, K.C.S.I.,
C.B., P.R.S., M.D., D.C.L. Second Edition, revised. Globe
Svo. los. 6d.

" Cannot fail to perfectly fulfil the purpose for which it is intended." —
Land and Water.

" Certainly the fullest and most accurate manual of the kind that has
yet appeared." — Pall Mall Gazette.

HUXLEY and MARTIN— ^i COURSE OF PRACTICAL
INSTRUCTION IN ELEMENTARY BIOLOGY. By
Professor Huxley, F.R.S., assisted by H. N. Martin, M.B.,
D.Sc. New Edition, revised. Crown Svo. 6s.

"It is impossible for an intelligent youth, with this book in his hand,
placing himself before any one of the organisms described, and carefully
following the directions given, to fail to verify each poiiit_to which his
attention is directed." — Athen^sum.

24 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

VLXi-XAinn— PHYSIOGRAPHY. An Introduction to the Study
of Nature. By Professor Huxley, F.R.S. With numerous
Illustrations, and Coloured Plates. New Edition. Crown
8vo. 7j. dd.

0\,YVES.{-9ToUB%or)— FIRST BOOK OF INDIAN BOTANY.
By Daniel Oliver, F.R.S. , F.L.S., Keeper of the Herba-
rium and Library of the Royal Gardens, Kew, and Professor
of Botany in University College, London. With numerous
Illustrations. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6j. bd.

" It contains a well-digested summary of all essential knowledge
pertaining to Indian botany, wrought out in accordance with the best
principles of scientific arrangement." — Allen's Indian Mail.

PARKER and BETTANY— TY/^ MORPHOLOGY OF
THE SKULL. By Professor Parker and G. T. Bettany.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo. los. bd.

Other volumes of these Manuals will follow.

NATURE SERIES.

THE SPECTROSCOPE AND ITS APPLICATIONS. By
J. Norman Lockyer, F.R.S. With Coloured Plate and
numerous Illustrations. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 3^. dd.

THE ORIGIN AND METAMORPHOSES OF INSECTS.
By Sir John Lubbock, M.P., F.R.S., D.C.L. W'ith nume-
rous Illustrations, Second Edition. Crown 8vo. y. 6d.
" We can most cordially reccommend it to young naturalists." — Athe-

NiEUM.

THE TRANSIT OF VENUS. By G. Forbes, M.A., Pro-
fessor of Natural Philosophy in the Andersonian University,
Glasgow. Illustrated. Crown Svo. 3.f. 6d.

THE COMMON FROG. By St. George Mivart, F.R.S.,
Lecturer in Comparative Anatomy at St. Mary's Plospital.
W^ith numerous Illustrations. Cro^vn Svo. 3.?. 6d.

POLARISATION OF LIGHT. By W. Spottiswoode, F.R.S.
With many Illustrations. Second Edition. Crown 8vo.
35. 6d.

ON BRITISH WILD FLOWERS CONSIDERED IN RE-
LATION TO INSECTS. By Sir John Lubbock, M.P.,
F.R.S. With numerous Illustrations. Second Edition. Crown
Svo. 4;. (>d.

SCIENCE. 25

NATURE SERIES Continued—

THE SCIENCE OF WEIGHING AND MEASURING, AND

THE STANDARDS OF MEASURE AND WEIGHT.

By H. W. Chisholm, Warden of the Standards. With

numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo. ^s. 6d.

HOW TO DRAW A STRAIGHT LINE : a Lecture on Link-
ages. By A. B, Kempe. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. is. 6d.

LIGHT: a Series of Simple, entertaining, and Inexpensive Expe-
riments in the Phenomena of Light, for the Use of Students of
every age. By A. M. Mayer and C. Barnard. Crown Svo,
with numerous Illustrations. 2s. 6d.

Other volumes to follow.

BALL (R. S., A.Vl.)^EXFERIMENTAL MECHANICS. A
Course of Lectures delivered at the Royal College of Science
for Ireland. By R. S. Ball, A.M., Professor of Applied
Mathematics and Mechanics in the Royal College of Science
for Ireland. Royal Svo. i6s.

BliANTOVlT}— THE RUDIMENTS OF PHYSICAL GEO-
GRAPHY FOR THE USE OF INDIAN SCHOOLS;
with a Glossary of Technical Ternis employed. By H. F.
Blanford, F.R.S. New Edition, with Illustrations. Globe
Svo. 2s. 6d.

FLEISCHER—^ SYSTEM OF VOLUMETRIC ANALY-
SIS. Translated, with Notes and Additions, from the second
German Edition, by M. M. Pattison Muir, F.R.S.E. With
Illustrations. Crown Svo. 7^. 6i/.

FOSTER—^ TEXT BOOK OF PHYSLOLOGY. By Michael
Foster, M.D., F.R.S. With Illustrations. New Edition,
enlarged, with additional Illustrations and Plates. Svo. 2is.

GORDON— ^A^ ELEMENTARY BOOK ON HEAT. By
J. E. H. Gordon, B.A., Gonville and Caius College, Cam-
bridge. Crown Svo. 2.s.

VIX&.ZA.— STUDIES IN COM PARA TIVE ANA TOMY. No.
I. — The Skull of the Crocodile : a Manual for Students. By
L. C. Miall, Professor of Biology in the Yorkshire College and
Curator of the Leeds Museum. Svo, 2s. 6d.

26 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

N-EWCOtn-B—POFULAR ASTRONOMY. By S. Newcomb,
LL.D., Professor U.S. Naval Observatory. With 112 Illus-
trations and 5 Maps of the Stars. 8vo. iZs.

" It is unlike anything else of its kind, and will be of more use in circulating
a knowledge of astronomy than nine-tenths of the books which have appeared
on the subject of late years." — Saturday Keviev..

REULEAUX — 77/£: KINEMATICS OF MACHINERY.
Outlines of a Theory of Machines. By Professor F. Reuleaux.
Translated and Edited by Professor A. B. KENNEDY, C.E.
With 450 Illustrations. Medium Svo. 2.1s.

ROSCOEand SCHORLEMMER— Ci^Z.V/.S'Ti'?^, A Complet
Treatise on. By Professor H. E. RoscoE, F.R.S., and Pro-
fessor C. Schorlemmer, F.R.S. Vol. I. — The Non-Metallic
Elements. With numerous Illustrations, and Portrait of Dalton.
Medium Svo. 21s. {Vol. I I. in the press .

S-af^Uti— AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON HEAT, IN
RELATION TO STEAM AND THE STEAM-ENGINE.
By G, Shann, M.A. With Illustrations. Crown Svo. d^s. dd.

yf/VilGVn— METALS AND THEIR CHIEF INDUSTRIAL
APPLICATIONS. By C. Alder Wright, D.Sc., &c.
Lecturer on Chemistry in St. Mar}''s Hospital Medical School.
Extra fcap. Svo. 3.?. 6cl.

SCIENCE PRIMERS FOR ELEMENTARY

SCHOOLS.

Under the joint Editorship of Professors Huxley, Roscoe, and
Balfour Stewart.

"Tliese Primers are extremely simple and attractive, and thoroughly
answer their purpose of just leading the young beginner up to the thresh-
old of the long avenues in the Palace of Nature which these titles suggest."
— Gl'akdian.

"They are wonderfully clear and lucid in their instruction, simple in
style, and admirable in plan." — Educational Ti.mbs.

CHEMISTRY — By II. E. RoscoE, F.R.S. , Professor of
Chemistry in Owens College, Manchester. With numerous
Illustrations. iSmo. is. New Edition. With Questions.

"A very model of perspicacity and accuracy." — Chemist and Dri;g-

GIST.

SCIENCE. 27

SCIENCE PRIMERS Coniimted—

PHYSICS — By Balfour Stewart, F.R.S., Professor of Natural
Philosophy in Owens College, Manchester. With numerous
Illustrations. i8mo. \s. New Edition. With Questions.

PHYSICAIi GEOGRAPHY — By ARCHIBALD Geikie, F.R.S.,
Murchison Professor of Geology and Mineralogy at Edin-
burgh. With numerous Illustrations. New Edition, with
Questions. i8mo. u.

" Everyone of his lessons is marked by simplicity, clearness, and
correctness." — Athen.«um.

GEOLOGY — By Professor Geikie, F.R.S. With numerous

Illustrations. New Edition. i8mo. cloth. \s.

" It is hardly possible for the dullest child to misunderstand the meaning
of a classification of stones after Professor Geikie's explanation." — School
Board Chronicle.

PHYSIOLOGY — By MiCHAEL FOSTER, M.D., F.R.S. With

numerous Illustrations. New Edition. i8mo. is.

' ' The book seems to us to leave nothing to be desired as an elementary
text-book." — Academy.

ASTRONOMY -^ By J. NoRMAN LOCKYER, F.R.S. With

numerous Illustrations. New Edition. i8mo. is.

"This is altogether one of the most likely attempts we have ever seen to
bring astronomy down to the capacity of the young child." — School
Board Chronicle.

BOTANY— By Sir J. D. HooKER, K.C.S.I., C.B., President

of the Royal Society. With numerous Illustrations. New

Edition. i8mo. is.

"To teachers the Primer will be of inestimable value, and not only
because of the simplicity of the language and the clearness with which the
subject matter is treated, but also on account of its coming from the highest
authority, and so furnishing positive information as to the most suitable
mehods of teaching the science of botany." — Nature.

LOGIC — By Professor Stanley Jevons, F.R.S. New Edition.

1 8 mo. Is.

" It appears to us admirably adapted to serve both as an introducti'>n
to scientific reasoning, and as a guide to sound judgment and reasoning
in the ordinary affairs of life." — Academy,

POLITICAL ECONOMY— By Professor Stanley Jevons,

F.R.S. iSmo. IS.

" Unquestionably in every respect an admirable primer." — School
Board Chronicle.

In preparation : — ■

INTRODUCTORY. By Professor Huxley. Slc. &c.

28 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

SCIENCE LECTURES AT SOUTH
KENSINGTON.

VOL. I. Containing Lectures by Capt. Arney, Prof. Stokes,
Prof. Kennedy, F, G. Bramwele, Prof. G. Forbes, H. C.
SoRBV, J. T. BoTTOMLEY, S. IL ViNEs, and Prof. Carey
Foster. Crown 8vo. 6j.

VOL. IL In the Press.

Also, separately. 6^. each.

SOUND AND MUSIC. By Dr. W. H. Stone.

PHOTOGRAPHY. By Captain Abney, R.E.

KINEMA TIC MODELS. By Professor Kennedy, C.E.

OUTLINES OF FIELD GEOLOGY. By Professor
Geikie, F.R.S.

ABSORPTION OF LIGHT, AND FLUORESCENCE.
By Professor Stokes, F.R.S.

TECHNICAL CHEMISTRY. By Professor Roscoe,
F.R.S.

THE STEAM ENGINE. By F. J. Bramwell, C.E.,
F.R.S.

ELECTROMETERS. By J. Bottomley, F.R.S.E.

MANCHESTER SCIENCE LECTURES
FOR THE PEOPLE.

Eighth Series, 1876-7. Crown 8vo. Illustrated, dd. each.

WIIA T THE EAR Til IS COMPOSED OF. By Professor
Roscoe, F.R.S.

THE SUCCESSION OF LIFE ON THE EARTH. By
Professor Williamson, F.R.S.

WHY THE EAR THS CHEMISTR Y IS AS IT IS. By
J. N. LOCKYER, F.R.S.

Also complete in One Volume. Crown 8vo. cloth. 2J.

MISCELLANEOUS. 29

MISCELLANEOUS.

ABBOTT—^ SHAKESPEARIAN GRAMMAR. An Attempt

to illustrate some of the Differences between Elizabethan and

Modern English. By the Rev, E. A. Abbott, D.D., Head

Master of the City of London School. New Edition. Extra

fcap. 8vo. 6j.

" Valuable not only as an aid to the critical study of Shakespeare, but
85 tending to familiarise the reader with Elizabethan English in general."
— Athenaeum.

ANDERSON — Z/iV^^^ PERSPECTIVE, AND MODEL
DRA WING. A School and Art Class Manual, with Questions
and Exercises for Examination, and Examples of Examination
Papers. By Laurence Anderson. With Illustrations.
Royal 8vo. 2s.

BARKER— i7y?6T LESSONS IN THE PRINCIPLES OP
COOKING. By Lady Barker. New Edition. i8mo. ij-.

" An unpretending but invaluable little work .... The plan is admi-
rable in its completeness and simplicity ; it is hardly possible that anyone
who can read at all can fail to understand the practical lessons on bread
and beef, fish and vegetables." — Spectator.

^-EViVl-EViS—EIRST LESSONS ON HEALTH. By J. Ber-
NERS. Seventh Edition. iSmo. \s.

BREYMANN — Works by HERMANN Breymann, Ph.D., Pro-
fessor of Philology in the University of Munich.

A TRENCH GRAMMAR BASED ON PHILOLOGICAL

PRINCIPLES. Second Edition. Extra fcap. Svo. 4f. 6d.

"A good, sound, valuable philological grammar." — School Board
Chronicle.

FIRST FRENCH EXERCISE BOOK. Extra fcap. Svo.
SECOND FRENCH EXERCISE BOOK. Extra fcap. Svo.

25. 6(/.

ceLl.TiE.^-WOO-D— HANDBOOK OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

By the Rev. Henry Calderwood, LL.D., Professor of

Moral Philosophy, University of Edinburgh. Fourth Edition.

Crown Svo. 6s.

"A compact and useful work .... will be an assistance to many
students outside the author's own University."— Guardian.

30 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

DELAMOTTE— ^ BEGINNER'S DRAWING BOOK. By
r. \\. Delamotte, F.S.A. Progressively arranged. New
Edition improved. Crow^n 8vo. 3^. 6a'.

"A concise, simple, and thoroughly practical work."— Guardian.

Now publishing, crown 8vo., 2s. bd. each.

ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. Edited by JOHN MORI.EY.
These short books are addressed to the general public, with a
view both to stirring and satisfying an interest in literature and
its great topics in the minds of those who have to run as they
read. An immense class is growing up, and must every year
increase, whose education \vill have made them alive to the
importance of the masters of our literature, and capable of
intelligent curiosity as to their performances. The series is
intended to give the means of nourishing this curiosity to an
extent that shall be copious enough to be profitable for know-
ledge and life, and yet be brief enough to serve those whose
leisure is scanty.

The following are arranged for : —

SPENSER .
HUME .
BUN VAN .
JOHNSON .
GOLDSMITH
DICKENS .
MILTON .
WORDS WOR 711
SWIFT .
BURNS.
SCOTT .
SHELLEY
GIBBON
BYRON
DEFOE

The Dean of St. Paul's.

Professor Huxley.

J. A. Froude.

Leslie Stephen. [Ready.

William Black. [In ike Press.

T. Hughes, Q.C.

Mark Pattison.

GoLDwiN Smith.

John Mori.ey.

Principal Shairp.

R. H. HuTTON. [Ready.

J. A. Symonds.

J. C. MoRisoN. [Ready.

Professor Nichol.

W. MiNTO.

Others will follow.

MISCELLANEOUS. 31

TA-WC-Enrr— TALES IN- POLITICAL ECONOMY. By
MiLLicENT Garrett Fawcett. Globe 8vo. 3^.

" The idea is a good one, and it is quite wonderful what a mass of
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TT^-RQ-^a—SCHOOL INSPECTION. By D. R. Fearon,
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GLADSTONE— i'/'^ZZ/yVG^ REFORM FROM AN EDU-
CATIONAL POINT OF VIEW. By J. II. Gladstone,
E.R.S., Member for the School Board for London. New
Edition. Crown 8vo. is. 6d.

GOl^HSNITH— THE TRA VELLER, or a Prospect of Society ;
and THE DESERTED VILLAGE. By Oliver Gold-
smith. With Notes Philological and Explanatory, by J, W.
Hales, M.A. Crown 8vo. dd.

UAI.BS— LONGER ENGLISH POEMS, with Notes, Philo-
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of English. Chiefly for Use in Schools. Edited by J. W.
Hales, M.A , Professor of English Literature at King's
College, London, &c. &c. Fifth Edition. Extra fcap, 8vo.
4s. 6d.

" The notes are ver>' full and good, and the book, edited by one of our
most cultivated English scholars, is probably the best volume of selections
ever made for the use of English schools." — Professor Morley's First
Sketch of English Literature.

HOLE— ^ GENEALOGICAL STEMMA OF THE KINGS
OF ENGLAND AND FRANCE. By the Rev. C. Hole.
On Sheet. \s.

a^E.VYL^Ota— SHAKESPEARE'S ''TEMPEST.'' With Glos-
sarial and Explanatory Notes. By the Rev. J. M. Jephson.
Second Edition. i8mo. \s.

32 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE,

LITERATURE PRIMERS— Edited by JoHN RiCHARD GREE^,
Author of " A Short History of the English People."

ENGLISH GRAMMAR. By the Rev. R. Morris, LL.D.,
President of the Philological Society. New Edition. i8mo.
cloth, is.

" A work quite precious in its way .... An excellent English Gram-
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THE CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF LYRICAL
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ENGLISH LITERATURE. By the Rev. Stopford

Brooke, M.A. New Edition. i8mo. \s.

"Unquestionably the best short sketch of English literature that has
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IHILOLOGY. By J. Peile, M.A. iSmo. is.

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GREEK LITERATURE. By Professor Jebb, M.A. iSmo. is.

SHAKSPERE. By Professor Dowden. i8mo. is.

ENGLISH GRAMMAR EXERCISES. By R.Morris,
LL.D., and H. C. Bowen, M.A. i8mo. is.

HOMER. By the Right lion. W. E. GLADSTONE, M.P.
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In preparation : —

LA TIN LITER A TURE.

BIBLE PRIMER. By the Rev. Stopford Brooke.

CHAUCER. By F. J. Furnivall, M.A.

SaACMIIiIiAN'S PROGRESSIVE FRENCH COURSE— By

G. Eugene-Fasnacht, Senior Master of Modern Languages
Harpur Foundation Modern School, Bedford.

I. — First year, containing Easy Lessons on the Regidar Ac-
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11. — Second Year, containing Conversational Lessons on Sys-
ematic Accidence and Elemcntaiy Syntax. With Philological
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MISCELLANEOUS. 33

IKCACJVIIZ.I.Ar7'S PROGRESSIVE GERMAN COURSE— l!y

G. EtJGEKK FASNACUT.

Part L — First Year. liasy Lessons and Rules on tlic J\egular
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Part IL — Second Year. Conversational Lessons in Systematic
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tions and Etymological Yocabulary. Extra fcap. Svo. 2s.

MARTIN — T//E POET'S HOUR: Poetry selected and
arranged for Children. Ey Frances Martin. Third
Edition. i8mo. 2s. 6d.

SPRING-TIME WITH THE POETS: Poetry selected by
Frances M.\rtin. Second Edition. i8mo. 3^. 6d.

MASSON (GUST AVE)— .-^ COMPEA'DIOUS DICTIONARY
OF THE FRENCH LANGUAGE (French-English and
English-French). Followed by a List of the Principal Di-
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and Librarian, Harrow School. Fourth Edition. Crown Svo.
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"A book which any suident, whatever may be the degree of his .id-
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MORRIS— Works by the Rev. R. Morris, LL.D., Lecturer
on English Language and lyiterature in King's College
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HISTORICAL OUTLINES OF ENGLISH ACCIDENCE,
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"It marks an era in the study of the English tongue." — Satukday
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" A genuine and sound book.''— Athen^u.m.

ELEMENTARY LESSONS IN HISTORICAL
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PRIMER OF ENGLISH GRAMMAR, iSmo. is.

c

34 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

OLIPHANT— 7Wi5' OLD AND MIDDLE ENGLISH. A
New Edition of THE SOURCES OF STANDARD
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VAI.G1RKMT,— THE CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF

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PYLODET— iX"^ rr GUIDE TO GERMAN CONVERSA-
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use ; Familiar Thrases and Dialogues ; a Sketch of German
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A SYNOPSIS OF GERMAN GRAMMAR. From the
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READING BOOKS— Adapted to the English and Scotch Codes.
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PRIMER. i8mo. (48 pp.) 2 J.
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IIL ,, IIL iSmo. (160 pp.) 6d.

IV. ,, IV. i8mo. (176 pp.) S,d.

V. ,, V. iSmo. (380 pp.) is.

yi- ,, VI, CrowTi 8vo. (430 pp.) 2J.

Book VI. is fitted for higher Classes, and as an Introduction to
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them a good literar>- taste, and at arousing a desire of further reading.'
1 his IS done by t.tking care to select the extracts from true English classics
going up m Standard VT. course to Chaucer, Hooker, and Bacon as well
as Wordsworth, Macaulay, and I'roude. . . . This is quite on the right
track, and indicates justly the ideal which we ought to set before us "—
Guardian.

SHAKESPEARE—^ SHAKESPEARE MANUAL. By F. G.

Fleay, M.A., Head Master of Skipton Grammar School.

Second Edition. Extra fcap. Svo. 4?. 6d.

"A valuable contribution to the study of Shakespeare."— Saturday

KEVIEW.

MISCELLANEOUS. 35

SHAKESPEARE continued—

AN ATTEMPT TO DETERMINE THE CHRONO-
LOGJCAL ORDER OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS.
By the Rev. H. Paine Stokes, B.A. Extra fcap. 8vo.
4J. 6d.

SJX.IlA.T—SHA/vESPEARrS PLUTARCH. Being a Selection
from the Lives in North's Plutarch which illustrate Shake-
speare's Plays. Edited, with Introductions, Notes, Index of
Names, and Glossarial Index, by the Rev. W. W. Skeat,
M.A. Crown Svo. 6j.

SONNENSCHEIN and MEIKLEJOHN — THE ENGLISir
METHOD OF TEACTIING TO READ. By A. SON-
NENSCHEIN and J. M. D. Meiklejohn, M.A. Fcap. Svo.

COMPRISING :

TLTE NURSERY BOOK, containing all the Two-Letter
Words in the Language. \d. (Also in Large Type on
Sheets for School Walls. 5^-. )

THE FIRST COURSE, consisting of Short Vowels with
Single Consonants. 6d.

THE SECOND COURSE, with Combinations and Bridges,
consisting of Short Vowels with Double Consonants. 6d.

THE THIRD AND FOURTH COURSES, consisting of

Long Vowels, and all the Double Vowels in the Language.

6d.

" These are admirable books, because they are constructed on a prin-
ciple, and that the simplest principle on which it is possible to learn to read
English. "—Spectator.

TAN NE R— i^/^^ T PRINCIPLES OF A GRIC UI PURE. By

II. Taxner, F.C.S., Professor of Agricultural Science,

University College, Aberj'stwith, &c. i8mo. is.

" We cordially recommend it to all students and teachers of this most
important science." — Schoolmastek.

TA.-s:-UO-R—lVORDS AND PLACES ; or, Etymological Illus-
trations of History, Ethnology, and Geography. By the Rev
Is.\AC Taylor, M.A. Third and cheaper Edition, revised
and compressed. With Maps. Globe Svo. 6j.

TAYLOR—^ PRIMER OF PIANOFORTE PLA YING. By
Franklin Taylor. Edited by Geqrge Grove. iSmo. \s.

"There are many hints of almost priceless worth not only to pupils but
to teachers." — Mor.ni.ng Post.

C 2

36 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

TEQ-E.T:T>lLEXT.yt. — HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT AND

COOKER v. With an Appendix of Recipes used by the

Teachers of the National School of Cookery. By W. B.

Tegetmeier. Compiled at the request of the School Board

for London. i8mo, is.

" Admirably adapted to the use for wliich it was designed." —

AtHICN/EUM

" A seasonable and thoroughly practicnl manu.al." — Pali. Mali
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THRING — Works by Edward Turing, M.A., Head Master of

Uijpingham.

THE ELEMENTS OF GRAMMAR TAUGHl IN

ENGLISH. With Questions. Fourth Edition. iSmo. 2j.

THE CHILD'S GRAMMAR. Being the Substance of
"The Elements of Grammar taught in English," adapted for
the Use of Junior Classes. A New Edition. iSmo. is.
SCHOOL SONGS. A Collection of Songs for Schools.
With the Music arranged for four Voices. Edited by the
Rev. E. Turing and H. Riccius. Folio, ys. 6d.

TRENCH (ARCHBISHOP)— Works by R. C. TRENCH, U.D.,
Archbishop of Dublin.

HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF ENGLISH POETR V. Selected
and Arranged, with Notes. Second Edition. Extra fcap. Svo.
5s. 6d.

ON THE STUDY OF WORDS. Lectures addressed
(originally) to the Pupils at the Diocesan Training School,
Winchester. Seventeenth Edition, revised. Fcap. Svo. ^s.
ENGLISH, PAST AND PRESENT Tcntli Edition,
revised and improved. Fcap. Svo. 5^.

A SELECT GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH WORDS, used
formerly in Senses Different from their Present. Fourth
Edition, enlarged. Fcap. Svo. 4^'. 6(/.

VAUGHAN (C. M.)-rr(9y^/)3' FROM THE POETS. By
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WHITNEY — Works by WiLLiAM D. WiiiTNEY, Professor of
Sanskrit and Instructor in Modem Languages in Yale College ;
first President of the American Philological Association, and
hon. member of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and
Ireland ; and Correspondent of the Berlin Academy of Sciences.

HISTORY. 37

"WHITNEY Continued—

A COMPENDIOUS GERMAN GRAMMAR. Crown
8vo. 4r. (>d.

A GERMAN READER IN PROSE AND VERSE, with
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WHITNEY AND EDGREN— -^ COMPENDIOUS GERMAN
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respondences and Brief Etymologies. By Professor W. D.
Whitney, assisted by A. H. Kdgren. Crown Svo. 7^-. dd.

THE GERMAN-ENGLISH, separately, 5^.

YONGE (CHARLOTTE m.)—THE ABRIDGED BOOK OF
GOLDEN DEEDS. A Reading Book for Schools and
general readers. By the Author of "The Heir of Red-
clyffe." iSmo. cloth, is.

HISTORY.

FREEMAN (EDWARD K.)— OLD-ENGLISH HISTORY.

By Edward A. Freeman, D.C.L., LL.D., late Fellow of

Trinity College, Oxford. With Five Coloured Maps. New

Edition. Extra fcap. Svo. half-bound, ds.

"The book indeed is full of instruction and interest to sludenis of all
ages, and he must be a well-informed n:an indeed who will not rise from
its perusal with clearer and more accurate ideas of a too much neglected
portion of English History." — SrECTATOR.

GREEN.— ^ SHORT HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH
PEOPLE. By John Richard Green. With Coloured
Maps, Genealogical Tables, and Chronological Annals.
Crown Svo. 8j. dd. Fifty-fifth Thousand.

"Stands alone as the one general history of the country, for the sake
of which all others, if young and old are wise, will be speedily and surely
set aside." — Academy.

HISTORICAIi COURSE FOR SCHOOLS — Edited by
Edward A. Freeman, D.C.I-., late Fellow of Trinity
College, Oxford.

I. GENERAL SKETCH OF EUROPEAN HISTORY.
By Edward A. Freeman, D.C.L. New Edition, revised
and enlarged, with Chronological Table, Maps, and Index.
iSmo. cloth. ■T^s. 6d.

38 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

HISTORICAI. COURSE FOR SCHOOLS, Continued—

"It supplies the great want of a good foundation for historical teaching.
The scheme is an excellent one, anJ this instalment has been executed in
a way that promises much for the volumes that are yet to appear." —
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II. HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By Edith Thompson.
New Edition, revised and enlarged, with Maps. i8mo. 2s. 6d.

" Freedom from prejudice, simplicity of style, and accuracy of statement^
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and likely to be generally serviceable in schools." — Pall Mai.l Gazette.

" Upon the whole, thu manual is the best sketch of English history for
the use of young people we have yet met with." — ATHENyEU.M.

III. HISTORY 01 SCOTLAND. By Margaret
Macarthur. New Edition. i8mo. 2s.

" An excellent summary', unimpeachable as to facts, and putting them
in the clearest and most impartial light attainable." — Giardian.

" Miss Macarthur has performed her task with admirable care, clear-
ness, and fulness, and we have now for the first time a really good School
History of Scotland." — Educational Ti.mes.

IV. HISTORY OF ITALY. By the Rev. W. Hunt, M.A.
i8mo. 3 J.

"It possesses the same solid merit as its predecessors .... the same
scrupulous care about fidelity in details. . . . It is distinguished, too, by
information on art, architecture, and social politics, in which the writer
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Ti.mes.

V. HISTORY OF GERMANY. By J. Sime, M.A.
i8mo. 3t.

"A remarkably clear and impressive history of Germany. Its great
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fully kept, not only subordinate and subservient, but most skilfully woven
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Standard.

VI. HISTORY OF AMERICA. By John A. Doyle.

"With Maps. iSmo. 4?. dd.

" Mr. Doyle has performed his task with admirable care, fulness, and
clearness, and for the first lime we have for schools an accurate and inter-
esting history of America, from the earliest to the present time." —
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ELTROPEAN COLONIES. By E. J. Payne, M. A. With

Maps. iSmo. 4^. 6d.

"We have seldom met with an historian capable of forming a more
comprehensive, far-seeing, and unprejudiced estimate of events and
peoples, and we can commend this little work as one certain to prove of
the highest interest to all thoughtful readers." — Ti.viES.

The following is in preparation : —

FRANCE. By Charlotte M. Yonge.

HISTORY. 39

HISTORY PRIMERS— Edited by JOHN RiCHARD Green.
Author of "A Short History of the English People."

ROME. By:the Rev. M, Creighton, M.A., Fellow and
Tutor of Merton College, Oxford. With Eleven Maps. New
Edition. i8mo. \s.

"The author has been curiously successful in telling in an intelli-
gent way the story of Rome from first to last." — School Board
Chronicle.

GREECE. By C. A. Fyffe, M.A., Fellow and late Tutor
of University College, Oxford. With Five Maps. New
Edition. i8mo. \s.

"We give our unqualified praise to this little manual." — School-
master.

EUROPEAN' HISTORY. By E. A. Freeman, D.C.T>.,
LL.D. With Maps. New Edition. i8mo. \s.

"A marvel of clearness." — Academy.

" The work is always clear, and forms a luminous key to European
history." — School Board Chronicle.

" There are few writers but himself who could have compressed so much
infor.Tiation in so little space." — Educational Times.

GREEK ANTIQUITIES. By the Rev. J. P. Mahaffy,
M.A. Illustrated. i8mo. is.

" All that is necessary for the scholar to know is told so compactly yet
so fully, and in a style so interesting, that it is impossible for even the
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other school books." — Schoolmaster.

CLASSICAL] GEOGRAPHY. By H. F. Tozek, M.A.
i8mo. \s.

"Another valuable aid to the study of the ancient world. ... It
contains an enormous quantity of information packed into a small space,
and at the same time communicated in a very readable shape." — JoiiM
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GEOGRAPHY. By George Grove, D.C.L. With Maps.

i8mo. \s.

"A model of what such a work should be .... we know of no short
treatise better suited to infuse life and spirit into the dull lists of proper
names of which our ordinary class-books so often almost exclusively
consist. " — Times.

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. By Professor Wilkins. Illus-
trated. i8mo. I J.

"A little book that throws a blaze of light on Roman History, and
is, moreover, intensely interesting." — Schcol Beard Chrotiic/c.

40 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

HISTORY PRIMERS Continued—
In preparation : —

ENGLAND. By J. R. Green, M.A.
FRANCE. By Charlotte M. Yonge.

MICHEIiET— .'^ SUMMARY OF MODERN HISTORY.
Translated from the French of M. Miciiklet, and continued
to the Present Time, by M. C. M. Simpson. Globe 8vo.
4^. 6d.

We areglad to see one of the ablest and most useful summaries of
Europenii hisiorj- put into the h.inds of English readers. The transla-
tion is excellent." — STAND;\Kn.

OTTt.—SCAN'DnyAVIAN- HISTORY. By E. C. Otte.
With Maps. Globe 8vo. 6s.

"A readable, well-arranged, complete, and accurate volume." — Lits-
R.\RV Review.

VAXS-Ul.— PICTURES OF OLD ENGLAND. By Dr. R.
Pauli. Translated ^vith the sanction of the Author by
E. C. Otte. Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

YONGE (CHARLOTTE HH.)—A PARALLEL HISTORY OF
FRANCE A AD ENGLAND : consisting of Outlines and
Dates. By Charlotte M. Yonge, Author of " The Heir
of Redclyffe," "Cameos of English History," &c., &c.
Oblong 4to. 3^. 6J.

"We can iir.agine few more really advantageous courses of historical
study for a young mind than going carefully and ste.idily through Miss
Yonge's excellent little book." — Educational Time.s.

CAMEOS FROM ENGLISH HIS 7 OR Y. — ¥ROU
ROLLO TO EDWARD II. By the Author of "The Heir
of RedclyfiTe." Extra fcap. Svo. Third Edition, enlarged, ^s.

' ' Instead of dry details, we have living pictures, faithful, vivid, and
striking." — Nonconformist.

A SECOND SERIES OF CAMEOS FROM ENGLISH
HISTORY— THY. WARS IN FRANCE. Third Edition.
Extra fcap. Svo. ^s.

"Though mainly intended for young readers, they will, if we mistake
not, be found very .ncccptablc to those of more mature years, and the life
and reality imparted to the dry bones of history cannot fail to be at-
tTaclive to readers of every age." — John Buli..

DIVINITY. 41

YONGE,- CHARLOTTE M.. Continued —

A THIRD SERIES OF CAMEOS FROM ENGLISH
HISTORY— THE \YARS OF THE ROSES. Extra fcap.
8vo. Ss.
A FOURTH SERIES. lln the press.

EUROPEAN HISTORY. Narrated in a Series of
Historical Selections from the Best Authorities. Edited and
arranged by E. M. Sewell and C. M. YoNGE. First Series,
1003 — 1 154. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6j. Second
Series, 1088 — 1228. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. ds.

" We know of scarcely anything which is so likely to raise to a higher
level the average standard of English education." — Guardian.

DIVINITY.

"■^* For other Works by these Authors, see Theological

Catalogue,

ABBOTT (REV. E. A.)— BIBLE LESSONS. By the Rev.
E. A. Abbott, D.D., Head Master of the City of London
School. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 4s. dd.

" Wise, suggestive, and really profound initiation into religious thought.
— Guardian.

" I think nohody could read them without being both the better for
them himself, and being also able to see how this difficult duty of im-
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David's at Adergwillv.

ARNOLD— ,4 BIBLE-READING FOR SCHOOLS—THE
GREAT PROPHECY OF ISRAEL'S RESTORATION
(Isaiah, Chapters xl. — Ixvi.). Arranged and Edited for Young
Learners. By MATTHEW Arnold, D.C.L., formerly
Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, and Fellow
of Oriel. Fourth Edition. i8mo. cloth, is.

" There can be no doubt that it will be found excellently calculated to
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with other establisliments which do not avail themselves of it." — Timks.

ISAIAH XL.—LXVI. With the Shorter Prophecies allied
to it. AiTanged and Edited, with Notes, by Matthew
Arnold. Crown 8vo. 5^.

42 MACMILLAN'S EDUCATIONAL CATALOGUE.

GOLDEN TREASURY PSALTER — Students' P'dition. Being
an Edition of "The Psalms Chronologically Arranged, by
Four Friends," with briefer Notes. l8mo. 35. 6</.

HARDWICK — Works by Archdeacon Hardwick.

A HISTORY OF THE CHRISTIAN- CHURCH.
Middle Age. From Gregory the Great to the Excommuni-
cation of Luther. Edited by William Stubbs, I^LA., Regius
Professor of Modem History in the University of Oxford.
With Four Maps constructed for this work by A. Keith John-
ston. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.

"As a manual for the student of ecclesiastical history in the Middle
Ages, we know no English work wliich can be compared to Mr. Hard-
wick's book." — Guardian.

A HISTORY OF THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH DURING
I HE REFORM A TION. Fourth Edition. Edited by Pro-
fessor Stubbs. Crown 8vo. \os. dd.

MACLEAR— Works by the Rev. G. F. Maclear, D.D., Head
Master of King's College School.

A CLASS-BOOK OF OLD TESTAMENT HISTORY.
New Edition, with Four Maps. i8mo. 45. bd.

"A careful and elaborate though brief compendium of all that modem
research has done for the illustration of the Old Testament. _ We know
of no work which contains so nuich important information in so small
a compass." — British Quakte.ri.v Review.

A CLASS-BOOK OF NEW TESTAMENT HISTORY,

including the Connection of the Old and New Testament.

With Four Maps. New Edition. i8mo. Ss. 6d.

" A singularly clear and orderly arr.ingement of the Sacred Story. His
work is solidly and completely done." — Athen^L'M.

A SHILLING BOOK OF OLD TESTAMENT
HISTORY, for National and Elementary Schools. With
Map. iSmo. cloth. New Edition.

A SHILLING BOOK OF NEW TESTAMENT
HISTORY, for National and Elementary Schools. With
Map. i8mo. doth. New Edition.

These works have been carefullyabridged from the author's
larger manuals.

DIVINITY. 43

MACIiEAR Continued —

CLASS-BOOK OF THE CATECHISM OF THE
CHURCH OF ENGLAND. New Edition. i8mo. cloth.
\s. 6d.

"It is indeed the work of a scholar and divine, and as such, though
extremely simple, it is also extremely instructive. There are few clergy-
men who would not find it useful in preparing candidates for Confirmation ;
and there are not a few who would find it useful to themselves as well." —
Literary Churchman.

A FH'tST CLASS-BOOK OF THE CATECHISM OF
THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND, with Scripture Proofs,
for Junior Classes and Schools. i8mo. (yd. New Edition.

A MANUAL OF INSTRUCTION FOR CONFIRMA-
TION AND FIRST COMMUNION. WITH PR A YERS
■ AND DEVOTIONS. 32mo. cloth extra, red edges. 2s.

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30, 1371.

V

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UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

PR Johnson, Samuel
553 The six chief lives from

J73 Johnson's "Lives of the

1878 poets"

^^1