to me the first moment I waked this morning. Yet, you will see, it was not so absolutely inspiration, but that I had in my head not only the verses of Adrian, but the fine fragment Sappho, &c." Here we must take "&c." to be Pope's alias for Thomas Flatman' Alexander Pope was born in May, 1688, only child of a London linendraper, who retired from business after the boy's birth, and lived at Binfield, on the borders of Windsor Forest, and about nine miles from Windsor. Pope's father and mother were Roman Catholics. He was a child of delicate health and precocious genius, taught at home by a priest who lived with the family, and for a short time at two small Roman Catholic schools-one at Twyford, the other in London. He came home from the second of these schools a boy of twelve or thirteen, in forwardness another Cowley, with already a developed skill in verse. These lines, the earliest we have of his, are said to have been written when he was a boy of twelve :-

verse.

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Pope worked at home in his own way, teaching himself, and his father encouraged him in writing He imitated in verse ancient and modern poets, learning the mechanism of his art from his predecessors; as the young poet, not less than the young blacksmith, must. His "Pastorals," written in 1704, at the age of sixteen, were published in May, 1709, at the age of twenty-one, in Tonson's Miscellany." In the same volume was his version. from Homer, of the "Episode of Sarpedon ;" and his "January and May," which modernised a tale of Chaucer's, in imitation of Dryden, who, at the close of his life, published modernised tales from Chaucer in his "Fables." In 1711, at the age of twentythree, Pope published his "Essay on Criticism. writing about the writing about writing, as the taste of the time impelled. Weaknesses of expres

1 See page 341.

sion in the first edition of this poem were afterwards expunged, but at its weakest it surpassed Boileau, from whom Pope had the chief impulse to that form of thought. In 1712, when Pope's age was twenty-four, appeared his "Rape of the Lock" in its first form, in two cantos, without any "machinery" of sylphs. It was then published in Lintot's "Miscellany," which also contained translations of his from Statius and Ovid. In its second form-as we now have itexpanded into five cantos, the "Rape of the Lock appeared in 1714 as a separate publication. "Essay on Criticism" and the "Rape of the Lock" will be illustrated in the volume set apart for larger works. These and the other pieces named, with the Messiah," contributed in 1712 to No. 378 of the Spectator, "Windsor Forest," published early in 1713, and another poem, derived from Chaucer, "The Temple of Fame," form the main part of Pope's work in the first of the three periods of his literary

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ALEXANDER POPE.

From the Portrait engraved by Vertue.

The

life, that which falls within Queen Anne's reign, The second period corresponds pretty closely with the reign of George I., in which Pope made money by his translations of Homer, and found it less profitable to edit Shakespeare. In the reign of George II., until Pope's death in 1744, we have the third period of his poetry, with riper character and deeper thought, that accords not only with growth of his own mind, but also with the advancing movement of thought in the eighteenth century. To that we shall come presently, when a little more has been shown of the verse literature of Queen Anne's reign, to which we may now join that of the reign of George I., from 1714 to 1727.

Jonathan Swift, over twenty years old when Pope was born, and in later life one of Pope's best friends, wrote vigorous verse, although his fame rests on his

prose: we reserve, therefore, the fuller illustration of his genius. One short poem of his, written in Queen Anne's reign, "Baucis and Philemon," may serve to illustrate not only his skill, but the power that could take a friend's weak counsel gracefully in what was no more to him than pleasant trifling. Swift's "Baucis and Philemon," as it has come down to us, is good; but his biographer, John Forster,' having found a copy of the poem as Swift wrote it, shows how much better it was before he assented to his friend Addison's suggestions for its improvement. Addison's suggestions, in accordance with that weaker tone of criticism in his time from which, as we have seen, he could not wholly free himself, aimed generally at the French polishing of his friend's work. Good as the following poem is, it is worth any one's while to turn to the published volume of John Forster's "Life of Swift," where he may see, now first recovered for us, the unaltered work. the lines of this, said Swift, with a touch of pride in his critical friend, "Mr. Addison made me blot out fourscore, add fourscore, and alter fourscore." As Forster wrote, "In the poem printed as it was altered for Addison, the story is very succinctly told, with completeness as of an epigram;

Of

as

originally written, the narrative is not so terse or close, but has more detail and a greater wealth of humour." This is the poem as Swift, after dealing with it in accordance with his friend's advice, let it go forth to the world:

1 Died 1876. It is not Swift only who has lost in John Forster his best friend. The wise, warm-hearted writer, the true scholar rich in human sympathies, the firmest and the tenderest of friends, speaks to us henceforth only in the labours of his noble life.

Baucis and Philemon. The original tale here playfully modernised is in the Eighth Book of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," where Jove and Mercury are the originals of the two brother hermits. Finding hospitality only in the thatched cottage of the poor old couple, Baucis and Philemon, the gods, after their entertainment, took the old couple to the top of a hill, whence they saw the houses and lands of their uncharitable neighbours all swallowed in a lake. Only their little home remained, which expanded to a temple. In this they served as the priests of Jove, until they were changed into companion trees, hung ever with fresh garlands by their worshippers.

3 From Forster's "Life of Swift," in which the original draught is now first given, I quote its opening for comparison of Swift's free,

To a small cottage came at last

Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Called in the neighbourhood Philemon, Who kindly did these saints invite

In his poor hut to pass the night.

And then the hospitable sire

Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire,

While he from out the chimney took

A flitch of bacon off the hook,

And freely from the fattest side

Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepped aside to fetch 'em drink,
Filled a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found
'Twas still replenished to the top,
As if they ne'er had touched a drop!
The good old couple were amazed
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frightened to the heart,
And just began to cry, "What art?"
Then softly turned aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't,
Told 'em their calling and their errant :
"Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours;
But for that pack of churlish boors,

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The heavy wall rose slowly after.

The chimney widened and grew higher,

Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,

And there stood fastened to a joist;

But with the upside down, to show

Its inclination for below;
In vain, for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course;
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost, by disuse, the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;

And what exalts the wonder more,

But slackened by some secret power,

racy humour, as it came fresh from his mind, with the result of Addison's advice about it:

"It happened on a winter's night,

As authors of the legend write,

Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Came to a village hard by Rixham,
Ragged, and not a groat betwixt 'em.
It rained as hard as it could pour,
Yet they were forced to walk an hour
From house to house, wet to the skin
Before one soul would let 'em in.

They called at every door-'Good people!
My comrade's blind, and I'm a creeple!
Here we lie starving in the street,
"Twould grieve a body's heart to see 't.
No Christian would turn out a beast
In such a dreadful night at least!
Give us but straw, and let us lie
In yonder barn to keep us dry!'
Thus, in the strollers' usual cant

They begged relief, which none would grant.
No creature valued what they said.

One family was gone to bed:
The master bawled out, half asleep,

You fellows, what a noise you keep!

So many beggars pass this way
We can't be quiet, night nor day;
We cannot serve you every one:
Pray take your answer, and be gone!'
One swore he'd send 'em to the stocks:
A third could not forbear his mocks,
But bawled as loud as he could roar,
'You're on the wrong side of the door!'
One surly clown looked out and said,
'I'll fling a brickbat on your head!
You shan't come here, nor get a sous!
You look like folks would rob a house.
Can't you go work, or serve the king?
You blind and lame? 'Tis no such thing!
That's but a counterfeit sore leg!
For shame! Two sturdy rascals beg!
If I come down, I'll spoil your trick,
And cure you both with a good stick!'”

Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney near allied,
Had never left each other's side;
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone,
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl
Like a huge snail along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view
And with small change a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row
Hung high and made a glitt'ring show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.
The ballads pasted on the wall.
Of Joan of France and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seemed to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter;
And high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber, many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews,
Which still their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paused awhile, Returned 'em thanks in homely style,

Then said, "My house has grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at ease,
Make me the parson, if you please."

He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;
But being old, continued just
As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues;
He smoked his pipe and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamped in the preface and the text;
At christ'nings could well act his part,
And had the service all by heart;

Against Dissenters would repine,

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Wished women might have children fast

And thought whose sow had farrowed last;

Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted;
So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.

Dr. Thomas Parnell, an Irish divine, who, in 1705, at the age of six-and-twenty, became Archdeacon of Clogher, died in 1717 at the age of thirty-eight. He numbered the best wits and poets of Queen Anne's reign among his friends, and after his death Pope collected and published his poems, dedicating them in 1721 to Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, who had been his friend. "Such were the notes," said Pope in this dedication

Such were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung,
Till death untimely stop'd his tuneful tongue,
O just beheld, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd'
With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd!
Blest in each science, blest in ev'ry strain!
Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear-in vain!

2 Gesta Romanorum was the name of a medieval collection of Latin tales, moralised for the use of preachers, each tale having a religious "Application" fitted to it. Here, for example, is one of its short stories, with the application in the usual form :- "Saint Augustine tells that by an ancient custom emperors, after death, were laid on a funeral pile and burnt, and their ashes placed in an urn. But it happened that one of them died whose heart the fire could not touch. This caused astonishment, and all the wise men were summoned to council. The question was put to them, and they said, 'This emperor died intoxicated, and because of a latent poison his heart cannot burn.' When this was understood, they drew the heart from the fire and covered it with theriac [see Note 11, page 21), and at once the poison was expelled. The heart, being put back into the flames, was immediately reduced to ashes. Application: My beloved, men are thus in a spiritual sense. The heart is poisoned, and then the fire of the Holy Ghost will not touch it. The theriac is Repentance, which removes all sins."

Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow; But if a stone the gentle sea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies in thick disorder run.

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books or swains report it right (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fixed the scallop in his hat before; Then with the sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern sun had warmed the day, A Youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. Then near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cried; And "Hail, my son," the reverend sire replied; Words follow'd words, from question answer flowed, And talk of various kind deceived the road; Till each with other pleased, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart: Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; Nature in silence bid the world repose: When near the road a stately palace rose. There by the moon thro' ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome

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Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home, 50
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,

Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liv'ried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate.
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.

He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart.
And much he wished, but durst not ask to part:
Murm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That generous actions meet a base reward.

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds, A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat. 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved around; Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; The nimble lightning mixed with showers began, And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunder ran. Here long they knock, but call or knock in vain, Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. At length some pity warmed the master's breast, ('Twas then his threshold first received a guest) Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair. One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, And Nature's fervour thro' their limbs recalls: Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, (Each hardly granted) served them both to dine; And when the tempest first appeared to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace.

With still remark the pondering hermit viewed In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; And why should such (within himself he cried) Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside: But what new marks of wonder soon took place, In every settling feature of his face, When from his vest the young companion bore That cup the generous landlord owned before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly, The sun emerging opes an azure sky;

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A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: The weather courts them from the poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighb'ring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall, Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then pleased and thankful, from the porch they go, And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe; His cup was vanished; for in secret guise The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. 70

As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disordered stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear, So seemed the sire when far upon the road The shining spoil his wily partner showed.

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