historian though he was of Frederick the Great and the French Revolution, revenged himself for the trouble it gave him by loading it with all vile epithets.  If it had been a cock or a cook he could not have called it harder names.  It was century spendthrift, fraudulent, bankrupt, a swindler century, which did but one true action, ‘namely, to blow its brains out in that grand universal suicide named French Revolution.’

The leaders of the neo-Catholic movement very properly shuddered at a century which whitewashed its churches and thought even monthly communions affected.  The ardent Liberal could not but despise a century which did without the franchise, and, despite the most

splendid materials, had no Financial Reform Almanack.  The sentimental Tory found little to please him in the House of Hanover and Whig domination.  The lovers of poetry, with Shelley in their ears and Wordsworth at their hearts, made merry with the trim muses of Queen Anne, with their sham pastorals, their dilapidated classicism, and still more with their town-bred descriptions of the country, with its purling brooks and nodding groves, and, hanging over all, the moon—not Shelley’s ‘orbed maiden,’ but ‘the refulgent lamp of night.’  And so, on all hands, the poor century was weighed in a hundred different balances and found wanting.  It lacked inspiration, unction, and generally all those things for which it was thought certain the twentieth century would commend us.  But we do not talk like that now.  The waters of the sullen Lethe, rolling doom, are sounding too loudly in our own ears.  We would die at peace with all centuries.  Mr. Frederic Harrison writes a formal Defence of the Eighteenth Century, Mr. Matthew Arnold reprints half a dozen of Dr. Johnson’s Lives of the Poets.  Mr. Leslie Stephen composes a history of thought during this objurgated period, and also edits, in sumptuously

inconvenient volumes, the works of its two great novelists, Richardson and Fielding; and, finally, there now trembles on the very verge of completion a splendid and long-laboured edition of the poems and letters of the great poet of the eighteenth century, the abstract and brief chronicle of his time, a man who had some of its virtues and most of its vices, one whom it is easy to hate, but still easier to quote—Alexander Pope.

Twenty years ago the chances were that a lecturer on Pope began by asking the, perhaps not impertinent, question, ‘Was he a poet?’  And the method had its merits, for the question once asked, it was easy for the lecturer, like an incendiary who has just fired a haystack, to steal away amidst the cracklings of a familiar controversy.  It was not unfitting that so quarrelsome a man as Pope should have been the occasion of so much quarrelsomeness in others.  For long the battle waged as fiercely over Pope’s poetry as erst it did in his own Homer over the body of the slain Patroclus.  Stout men took part in it, notably Lord Byron, whose letters to Mr. Bowles on the subject, though composed in his lordship’s most ruffianly vein, still make good reading—of a sort.  But

the battle is over, at all events for the present.  It is not now our humour to inquire too curiously about first causes or primal elements.  As we are not prepared with a definition of poetry, we feel how impossible it would be for us to deny the rank of a poet to one whose lines not infrequently scan and almost always rhyme.  For my part, I should as soon think of asking whether a centipede has legs or a wasp a sting as whether the author of the Rape of the Lock and the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot was or was not a poet.

Pope’s life has been described as a succession of petty secrets and third-rate problems, but there seems to be no doubt that it began on May 21st, 1688, in Lombard Street, in the city of London.  But this event over, mystery steps in with the question, What was his father?  The occupation of the elder Pope occasioned nearly as fierce a controversy as the poetical legitimacy of the younger.  Malice has even hinted that old Pope was a hatter.  The poet, of course, knew, but wouldn’t tell, being always more ready, as Johnson observes, to say what his father was not than what he was.  He denied the hatter, and said his father was of the family of the Earls of Downe; but on this

statement being communicated to a relative of the poet, the brutal fellow, who was probably without a tincture of polite learning, said he heard of the relationship for the first time!  ‘Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure,’ sang one of Pope’s too numerous enemies in the easy numbers he had taught his age.  It is, however, now taken as settled that the elder Pope, like Izaak Walton and John Gilpin, and many other good fellows, was a linen-draper.  He made money, and one would like to know how he did it in the troublesome times he lived in; but his books have all perished.  He was a Roman Catholic, as also was the poet’s mother, who was her husband’s second wife, and came out of Yorkshire.  It used to be confidently asserted that the elder Pope, on retiring from business, which he did early in the poet’s childhood, put his fortune in a box and spent it as he needed it,—a course of conduct the real merits of which are likely to be hid from a lineal descendant.  Old Pope, however, did nothing of the kind, but invested money in the French funds, his conscience not allowing him to do so in the English, and he also lent sums on bond to fellow-Catholics, one of whom used to remit him his half-year’s interest calculated at

the rate of £4 per cent. per annum, whereas by the terms of the bond he was to pay £4¼ per cent. per annum.  On another occasion the same borrower deducted from the interest accrued due a pound he said he had lent the youthful poet.  These things annoyed the old gentleman, as they would most old gentlemen of my acquaintance.  The poet was the only child of his mother, and a queerly constituted mortal he was.  Dr. Johnson has recorded the long list of his infirmities with an almost chilling bluntness; but, alas! so malformed was Pope’s character, so tortuous and twisted were his ways, so elaborately artificial and detestably petty many of his devices, that it is not malice, but charity, that bids us remember that, during his whole maturity, he could neither dress nor undress himself, go to bed or get up without help, and that on rising he had to be invested with a stiff canvas bodice and tightly laced, and have put on him a fur doublet and numerous stockings to keep off the cold and fill out his shrunken form.  If ever there was a man whose life was one long provocation, that man was the author of the Dunciad.  Pope had no means of self-defence save his wit.  Dr. Johnson was a queer fellow enough, having inherited, as he

tells us, a vile melancholy from his father, and he certainly was no Adonis to look at, but those who laughed at him were careful to do so behind his gigantic back.  When a rapacious bookseller insulted him he knocked him down.  When the caricaturist Foote threatened to take him off upon the stage, the most Christian of lexicographers caused it to be intimated to him that if he did the author of Rasselas would thrash him in the public street, and the buffoon desisted.  ‘Did not Foote,’ asked Boswell, ‘think of exhibiting you, sir?’ and our great moralist replied, ‘Sir, fear restrained him; he knew I would have broken his bones.’