We are now come to the greatest name on our list the highest among the poets, the highest among the English wits and humorists with whom we have to rank him. If the author of "The Dunciad" be not a humorist, if the poet of "The Rape of the Lock" be not a wit, who deserves to be called so? Besides that brilliant genius and immense fame, for both of which we should respect him, men of letters should admire him as being the greatest literary artist that England has seen. He polished, he refined, he thought; he took thoughts from other works to adorn and complete his own; borrowing an idea or a cadence from another poet as he would a figure or a simile from a flower, or a river, stream, or any object which struck him in his walk, or contemplation of Nature. He began to imitate at an early age; * and

*"Waller, Spenser, and Dryden were Mr. Pope's great favorites, in the order they are named, in his first reading, till he was about twelve years old."POPE. Spence's Anecdotes.

"Mr. Pope's father (who was an hon est merchant, and dealt in Hollands, wholesale) was no poet, but he used to set him to make English verses when very young. He was pretty difficult in being pleased; and used often to send him pack to new turn them. 'These are not good rhimes; for that was my husband's word for verses."-POPE'S MOTHER. Spence.

"I wrote things, I'm ashamed to say how soon. Part of an Epic Poem when about welve. The scene of it lay at Rhodes and some of the neighboring islands; and the poem opened under water with a description of the Court of Neptune."POPE. Ibid.

"His perpetual application (after he set to study of himself) reduced him in four years' time to so bad a state of health, that, after trying physicians for a good while in vain, he resolved to give way to

taught himself to write by copying printed books. Then he passed into the hands of the priests, and from his first clerical master, who came to him when he was eight years old, he went to a school at Twyford, and another school at Hyde Park, at which places he unlearned all that he had got from his first instructor. At twelve years old, he went with his father into Windsor Forest, and there learned for a few months under a fourth priest. "And this was all the teaching I ever had," he said, "and God knows it extended a very little way.'

When he had done with his priests he took to reading by himself, for which he had a very great eagerness and enthusiasm, especially for poetry. He learned versification from Dryden, he said. In his youthful poem of "Alcander," he imitated every poet, Cowley, Milton, Spenser, Statius, Homer, Virgil. In a few years he had dipped into a great number of the English, French, Italian, Latin, and Greek poets. "This I did," he says, "without any design, except to amuse myself; and got the languages by hunting after the stories in the several poets I read, rather than read the books to get the languages. I followed everywhere as my fancy led me, and was like a boy gathering flowers in the fields and woods, just as they fell in his way. These five or six years I looked upon as the happiest in my life." Is not here a beautiful holiday picture? The

his distemper; and sat down calmly in a full expectation of death in a short time. Under this thought, he wrote letters to take a last farewell of some of his more particular friends, and, among the rest, one to the Abbé Southcote. The Abbé was

extremely concerned, both for his very ill state of health and the resolution he said he had taken. He thought there might yet be hope, and went immediately to Dr. Radcliffe, with whom he was well acquainted, told him Mr. Pope's case, got full directions from him, and carried them down to Pope in Windsor Forest. The chief thing the Doctor ordered him was to apply less, and to ride every day. The following his advice soon restored him to his health." - POPE. Spence.

tinuation (where the verses are to the full as pretty as in the first piece, however), there is a peculiar, hinted, pathetic sweetness and melody. It charms and melts you. It's indefina

"How can they say that Nature

Has nothing made in vain;
Why, then, beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain ?
No eyes the rocks discover

That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep

"All melancholy lying,

Thus wailed she for her dear;
Repaid each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear;
When o'er the white wave stooping,
. His floating corpse she spied;
Then like a lily drooping,

She bowed her head, and die." -A Ballad from the "What d'ye call

it?"

"What can be prettier than Gay's ballad, or, rather, Swift's, Arbuthnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What d'ye call it ?Twas when the seas were roaring'? I have been well informed that they all contributed."- Cowper to Unwin, 1783.

*"Dr. Swift had been observing once to Mr. Gay, what an odd pretty sort of thing a Newgate Pastoral might make. Gay was inclined to try at such a thing for some time, but afterwards thought it would be better to write a comedy on the same plan. This was what gave rise to "The Beggar's Opera.' He began on it, and when he first mentioned it to Swift, the Doctor did not much like the project. As he carried it on, he showed what he wrote to both of us; and we now and then gave a correction, or a word or two of advice; but it was wholly of his own writing. When it was done, neither of us thought it would succeed. We showed it to Congreve, who, after reading it over, said, 'It would either take greatly, or be damned confoundedly.' We were all, at the first night of it, in great uncertainty of the event, till we were very much encouraged by overhearing the Duke of Argyle, who sat in the next box to us, say, It will do-it must do!-I see it in the eyes of them!' This was a good while before the first act was over, and so gave us ease soon; for the Duke [besides his own good taste] has a more particular research than any one now living in discovering the taste of the public. He was quite right in this as usual; the good nature of the audience appeared stronger and stronger

of John Gay's and Oliver Goldsmith's best verse, as fragrance is of a violet, or freshness of a rose.

Let me read a piece from one of his letters, which is so famous that most people here are no doubt familiar with it, but so delightful that it is always pleasant to hear:

I have just passed part of this summer at an old romantic seat of my Lord Harcourt's which he lent me. It overlooks a common hayfield, where, under the shade of a haycock, sat two lovers- as constant as ever were found in romance- beneath a spreading bush. The name of the one (let it sound as it will) was John Hewet; of the other Sarah Drew. John was a well-set man, about five and twenty; Sarah a brave woman of eighteen. John had for several months borne the labor of the day in the same field with Sarah; when she milked, it was his morning and evening charge to bring the cows to her pails. Their love was the talk, but not for all they aimed at was the blameless the scandal, of the whole neighborhood, possession of each other in marriage. It tained her parents' consent, and it was was but this very morning that he had obbut till the next week that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps this very day, in the intervals of their work, they were talking of their wedding-clothes; and John was now matching several kinds of poppies and field-flowers, to make her a present of knots for the day. While they were thus employed (it was on the last of July), a terrible storm of thunder and lightning arose, that drove the laborers to Sarah, frightened and out of breath, sunk what shelter the trees or hedges afforded. on a haycock; and John (who never separated from her) sat by her side, having raked two or three heaps together to secure her. Immediately there was heard asunder. The laborers, ali solicitous for so loud a crash, as if heaven had burst each other's safety, called to one another: ing no answer, stepped to the place where they lay: they first saw a little smoke, and after, this faithful pair-John with other held over her face, as if to screen one arm about his Sarah's neck, and the her from the lightning. They were struck dead, and already grown stiff and cold in this tender posture. There was no mark Sarah's eyebrow was a little singed, and or discoloring on their bodies-only that were buried the next day in one grave." a small spot between her breasts. They

those that were nearest our lovers, hear

plause." POPE. Spence's Anecdotes.

forest and the fairy story-book the boy spelling Ariosto or Virgil under the trees, battling with the Cid for the love of Chimène, or dreaming of Armida's garden-peace and sunshine round about- the kindest love and tenderness waiting for him at his quiet home yonder- and Genius throbbing in his young heart, and whispering to him, You shall be great; you shall be famous; you too shall love and sing; you will sing her so nobly that some kind heart shall forget you are weak and ill formed. Every poet had a love. Fate must give one to you too," and day by day he walks the forest, very likely looking out for that charmer. "" They were the happiest days of his life," he says, when he was only dreaming of his fame when he had gained that mistress she was no consoler.

That charmer made her appearance, it would seem, about the year 1705, when Pope was

seventeen.

Letters of his are extant, addressed to a certain Lady M- whom the youth courted, and to whom he expressed his ardor in language, to say no worse of it, that is entirely pert, odious, and affected. He imitated love-compositions as he had been imitating love-poems just before—it was a sham mistress he courted, and a sham passion, expressed as became it. These unlucky letters found their way into print years afterwards, and were sold to the congenial Mr. Curll. If any of my hearers, as I hope they may, should take a fancy to look at Pope's correspondence, let them pass over that first part of it; over, perhaps, almost all Pope's letters to women; in which there is a tone of not pleasant gallantry, and, amidst a profusion of compliments and politenesses, a something which makes one distrust the little pert, prurient bard. There is very little indeed to say about his loves, and that little not edifying. He wrote flames and raptures and elaborate verse and prose for Lady Mary Wortley Montagu; but that passion probably came to a

climax in an impertinence, and was extinguished by a box on the ear, or some such rebuff, and he began on a sudden to hate her with a fervor much more genuine than that of his love had been. It was a feeble, puny grimace of love, and paltering with passion. After Mr. Pope had sent off one of his fine compositions to Lady Mary, he made a second draft from the rough copy, and favored some other friend with it. He was so charmed with the letter of Gay's that I have just quoted, that he had copied that and amended it, and sent it to Lady Mary as his own. A gentleman who writes letters à deux fins, and after having poured out his heart to the beloved, serves up the same dish rechauffe to a friend, is not very much in earnest about his loves, how. ever much he may be in his piques and vanities when his impertinence gets its due.

But, save that unlucky part of “The Pope Correspondence,' I do not know, in the range of our literature, volumes more delightful.* You live *"MR. POPE TO THE REV. MR. BROOM. PULHAM, NORFOLK.

"I INTENDED to write to you on this Mr. melancholy subject, the death of Fenton, before yours came, but staid to have informed myself and you of the circumstances of it. All I hear is, that he felt a gradual decay, though so early in life, and was declining for five or six months. It was not, as I apprehended, the gout in his stomach, but, I believe, rather a complication first of gross hu discharging themselves, as he used no mors, as he was naturally corpulent, not sort of exercise. No man better bore the approaches of his dissolution (as I am told), or with less ostentation yielded up his being. The great modesty which you know was natural to him, and the great contempt he had for all sorts of vanity and parade, never appeared more than in his last moments: he had a conright, in feeling himself honest, true, and scious satisfaction (no doubt) in acting unpretending to more than his own. So he died as he lived, with that secret, yet

sufficient contentment.

dare say they can be but few; for this "As to any papers left behind him, I reason, he never wrote out of vanity, or

in them in the finest company in the world. A little stately, perhaps; a thought much of the applause of men. I know an instance when he did his utmost to conceal his own merit that way; and if we join to this his natural love of ease, I fancy we must expect little of this sort: at least, I have heard of none, except some few further remarks on Waller (which his cautious integrity made him leave an order to be given to Mr. Tonson), and perhaps, though it is many years since I saw it, a translation of the first book of 'Oppian.' He had begun a tragedy of Dion,' but made small progress in it.

"As to his other affairs, he died poor, but honest, leaving no debts or legacies, except of a few pounds to Mr. Trumbull and my lady, in token of respect, gratefulness, and mutual esteem.

"I'shall with pleasure take upon me to draw this amiable, quiet, deserving, unpretending, Christian, unphilosophical character in his epitaph. There truth may be spoken in a few words; as for flourish and oratory and poetry, I leave them to younger and more lively writers, such as love writing for writing's sake, and would rather show their own fine parts than report the valuable ones of any other man. So the elegy I renounce.

"I condole with you from my heart on the loss of so worthy a man, and a friend to us both. . . .

"Adieu; let us love his memory and profit by his example. Am very sincerely, dear sir,

Your affectionate and real servant."

"TO THE EARL OF BURLINGTON. "August, 1714.

"MY LORD,

"IF your mare could speak, she would give you an account of what extraordinary company she had on the road, which, since she cannot do, I will.

"It was the enterprising Mr. Lintot, the redoubtable rival of Mr. Tonson, who, mounted on a stone-horse, overtook me in Windsor Forest. He said he heard I designed for Oxford, the seat of the Muses, and would, as my bookseller, by all means accompany me thither.

"I asked him where he got his horse? He answered he got it of his publisher; 'for that rogue, my printer,' said he, disappointed me. I hoped to put him in good humor by a treat at the tavern of a brown fricassée of rabbits, which cost ten shillings, with two quarts of wine, besides my conversation. I thought myself cocksure of his horse, which he readily promised me, but said that Mr. Tonson had just such another design of going to Cambridge, expecting there the copy of a new

little apprêté and conscious that they are speaking to whole generations

kind of Horace from Dr. —; and if Mr. Tonson went, he was pre-engaged to attend him, being to have the printing of the said copy. So, in short, I borrowed this stone-horse of my publisher, which he had of Mr. Oldmixon for a debt. He lent me, too, the pretty boy you see after me. He was a smutty dog yesterday, and cost me more than two hours to wash the ink off his face; but the devil is a fair-conditioned devil, and very forward in his catechism. If you have any more bags he shall carry them.'

"I thought Mr. Lintot's civility not to be neglected, so gave the boy a small bag containing three shirts and an Elzevir Virgil, and, mounting in an instant, proceeded on the road, with my man before, my courteous stationer beside, and the aforesaid devil behind.

"Mr. Lintot began in this manner: 'Now, damn them! What if they should put it into the newspaper how you and I went together to Oxford? What would I care? If I should go down into Sussex they would say I was gone to the Speaker; but what of that? If my son were but big enough to go on with the business, by G-d, I would keep as good company as old Jacob.'

"Hereupon, I inquired of his son. The lad,' says he, has fine parts, but is somewhat sickly, much as you are. I spare for nothing in his education at Westminster. Pray, don't you think Westminster to be the best school in England? Most of the late Ministry came out of it; so did many of this Ministry. I hope the boy will make his fortune.'

"Don't you design to let him pass a year at Oxford?' To what purpose?'

said he. The Universities do but make pedants, and I intend to breed him a man of business.'

"As Mr. Lintot was talking I observed he sat uneasy on his saddle, for which I expressed some solicitude. 'Nothing,' says he. 'I can bear it well enough; but, since we have the day before us, methinks it would be very pleasant for you to rest a while under the woods.' When we were alighted, See, here, what a mighty pretty Horace I have in my pocket? What, if you amused yourself in turning an ode till we mount again? Lord! if you pleased, what a clever miscellany might you make at leisure hours? Perhaps I may,' said I, if we ride on: the motion is an aid to my fancy; a round trot very much awakens my spirits; then jog on apace, and I'll think as hard as I can."

"Silence ensued for a full hour; after which Mr. Lintot lugged the reins, stopped short, and broke out, Well, sir, how far have you gone?' I answered, seven miles.