One of the most affecting and tender compositions of Mr. Pope, is, his Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady, built on a true story. We are informed in the Life of Pope, for which Curl obtained a patent, that this young lady was a particular favourite of the poet, though it is not ascertained whether he himself was the person from whom she was removed. This young lady was of very high birth, possessed an opulent fortune, and under the tutorage of an uncle, who gave her an education suitable to her titles and pretensions. She was esteemed a match for the greatest peer in the realm, but, in her early years, she suffered her heart to be engaged by a young gentleman, and in consequence of this attachment, rejected offers made to her by persons of quality, seconded by the sollicitations of her uncle. Her guardian being surprized at this behaviour, set spies upon her, to find out the real cause of her indifference. Her correspondence with her lover was soon discovered, and, when urged upon that topic, she had too much truth and honour to deny it. The uncle finding, that she would make no efforts to disengage her affection, after a little time forced her abroad, where she was received with a ceremony due to her quality, but restricted from the conversation of every one, but the spies of this severe guardian, so that it was impossible for her lover even to have a letter delivered to her hands. She languished in this place a considerable time, bore an infinite deal of sickness, and was overwhelmed with the profoundest sorrow. Nature being wearied out with continual distress, and being driven at last to despair, the unfortunate lady, as Mr. Pope justly calls her, put an end to her own life, having bribed a maid servant to procure her a sword. She was found upon the ground weltering in her blood. The severity of the laws of the place, where this fair unfortunate perished, denied her Christian burial, and she was interred without solemnity, or even any attendants to perform the last offices of the dead, except some young people of the neighbourhood, who saw her put into common ground, and strewed the grave with flowers.

The poet in the elegy takes occasion to mingle with the tears of sorrow, just reproaches upon her cruel uncle, who drove her to this violation.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou base betrayer of a brother's blood! See on those ruby lips the trembling breath, Those cheeks now fading at the blast of death: Lifeless the breast, which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.

The conclusion of this elegy is irresistably affecting.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, Which once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame, How lov'd, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

No poem of our author's more deservedly obtained him reputation, than his Essay on Criticism. Mr. Addison, in his Spectator, No. 253, has celebrated it with such profuse terms of admiration, that it is really astonishing, to find the same man endeavouring afterwards to diminish that fame he had contributed to raise so high.

The art of criticism (says he) which was published some months ago, is a master-piece in its kind. The observations follow one another, like those in Horace's Art of Poetry, without that methodical regularity, which would have been requisite in a prose writer. They are some of them uncommon, but such as the reader must assent to, when he sees them explained with that elegance and perspicuity in which they are delivered. As for those which are the most known, and the most received, they are placed in so beautiful a light, and illustrated with such apt allusions, that they have in them all the graces of novelty, and make the reader, who was before acquainted with them, still more convinced of their truth and solidity. And here give me leave to mention, what Monsieur Boileau has so well enlarged upon, in the preface to his works; that wit and fine writing do not consist so much in advancing things that are new, as in giving things that are known an agreeable turn. It is impossible for us, who live in the latter ages of the world, to make observations in criticism, morality, or any art and science, which have not been touched upon by others. We have little else left us, but to represent the common sense of mankind in more strong, more beautiful, or more uncommon lights. If a reader examines Horace's Art of Poetry, he will find but few precepts in it, which he may not meet with in Aristotle, and which were not commonly known by all the poets of the Augustan age. His way of expressing, and applying them, not his invention of them, is what we are chiefly to admire.—

"Longinus, in his Reflexions, has given us the same kind of sublime, which he observes in the several passages which occasioned them. I cannot but take notice, that our English author has, after the same manner, exemplified several of his precepts, in the very precepts themselves." He then produces some instances of a particular kind of beauty in the numbers, and concludes with saying, that "we have three poems in our tongue of the same nature, and each a master-piece in its kind: The Essay on Translated Verse, the Essay on the Art of Poetry, and the Essay on Criticism." [Transcriber's note: Opening quotes missing in original.]

In the Lives of Addison and Tickell, we have thrown out some general hints concerning the quarrel which subsisted between our poet and the former of these gentlemen; here it will not be improper to give a more particular account of it.

The author of Mist's Journal positively asserts, 'that Mr. Addison raised Pope from obscurity, obtained him the acquaintance and friendship of the whole body of our nobility, and transferred his powerful influence with those great men to this rising bard, who frequently levied by that means, unusual contributions on the public.[Transcriber's note: 'pubic' in original.] No sooner was his body lifeless, but this author reviving his resentment, libelled the memory of his departed friend, and what was still more heinous, made the scandal public.'

When this charge of ingratitude and dishonour was published against Mr. Pope, to acquit himself of it, he called upon any nobleman, whose friendship, or any one gentleman, whose subscription Mr. Addison had procured to our author, to stand forth, and declare it, that truth might appear. But the whole libel was proved a malicious story, by many persons of distinction, who, several years before Mr. Addison's decease, approved those verses denominated a libel, but which were, 'tis said, a friendly rebuke, sent privately in our author's own hand, to Mr. Addison himself, and never made public, 'till by Curl in his Miscellanies, 12mo. 1727. The lines indeed are elegantly satirical, and, in the opinion of many unprejudiced judges, who had opportunities of knowing the character of Mr. Addison, are no ill representation of him. Speaking of the poetical triflers of the times, who had declared against him, he makes a sudden transition to Addison.

Peace to all such! But were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, Blest with each talent, and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease; Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no rival near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts, that caus'd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, others teach to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame or to commend, A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading even fools; by flatt'rers besieg'd; And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd. Like Cato give his little senate laws, [Transcriber's note: 'litttle' in original] And sit attentive to his own applause; While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be! Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

Some readers may think these lines severe, but the treatment he received from Mr. Addison, was more than sufficient to justify them, which will appear when we particularize an interview between these two poetical antagonists, procured by the warm sollicitations of Sir Richard Steele, who was present at it, as well as Mr. Gay.

Mr. Jervas being one day in company with Mr. Addison, the conversation turned upon Mr. Pope, for whom Addison, at that time, expressed the highest regard, and assured Mr. Jervas, that he would make use not only of his interest, but of his art likewise, to do Mr. Pope service; he then said, he did not mean his art of poetry, but his art at court, and protested, notwithstanding many insinuations were spread, that it shall not be his fault, if there was not the best understanding and intelligence between them. He observed, that Dr. Swift might have carried him too far among the enemy, during the animosity, but now all was safe, and Mr. Pope, in his opinion, was escaped. When Mr. Jervas communicated this conversation to Mr. Pope, he made this reply: 'The friendly office you endeavour to do between Mr. Addison and me deserves acknowledgments on my part. You thoroughly know my regard to his character, and my readiness to testify it by all ways in my power; you also thoroughly knew the meanness of that proceeding of Mr. Phillips, to make a man I so highly value suspect my disposition towards him. But as, after all, Mr. Addison must be judge in what regards himself, and as he has seemed not to be a very just one to me, so I must own to you, I expect nothing but civility from him, how much soever I wish for his friendship; and as for any offers of real kindness or service which it is in his power to do me, I should be ashamed to receive them from a man, who has no better opinion of my morals, than to think me a party man, nor of my temper, than to believe me capable of maligning, or envying another's reputation as a poet. In a word, Mr. Addison is sure of my respect at all times, and of my real friendship, whenever he shall think fit to know me for what I am.'

Some years after this conversation, at the desire of Sir Richard Steele, they met. At first, a very cold civility, and nothing else appeared on either side, for Mr. Addison had a natural reserve and gloom at the beginning of an evening, which, by conversation and a glass, brightened into an easy chearfulness. Sir Richard Steele, who was a most social benevolent man, begged of him to fulfill his promise, in dropping all animosity against Mr. Pope. Mr. Pope then desired to be made sensible how he had offended; and observed, that the translation of Homer, if that was the great crime, was undertaken at the request, and almost at the command of Sir Richard Steele. He entreated Mr. Addison to speak candidly and freely, though it might be with ever so much severity, rather than by keeping up forms of complaisance, conceal any of his faults. This Mr. Pope spoke in such a manner as plainly indicated he thought Mr. Addison the aggressor, and expected him to condescend, and own himself the cause of the breach between them. But he was disappointed; for Mr. Addison, without appearing to be angry, was quite overcome with it. He began with declaring, that he always had wished him well, had often endeavoured to be his friend, and in that light advised him, if his nature was capable of it, to divert himself of part of his vanity, which was too great for his merit; that he had not arrived yet to that pitch of excellence he might imagine, or think his most partial readers imagined; that when he and Sir Richard Steele corrected his verses, they had a different air; reminding Mr. Pope of the amendment (by Sir Richard) of a line, in the poem called The MESSIAH.

He wipes the tears for ever from our eyes.

Which is taken from the prophet Isaiah,

The Lord God will wipe all tears from off all faces.

From every face he wipes off ev'ry tear.

And it stands so altered in the newer editions of Mr. Pope's works. He proceeded to lay before him all the mistakes and inaccuracies hinted at by the writers, who had attacked Mr. Pope, and added many things, which he himself objected to. Speaking of his translation in general, he said, that he was not to be blamed for endeavouring to get so large a sum of money, but that it was an ill-executed thing, and not equal to Tickell, which had all the spirit of Homer. Mr. Addison concluded, in a low hollow voice of feigned temper, that he was not sollicitous about his own fame as a poet; that he had quitted the muses to enter into the business of the public, and that all he spoke was through friendship to Mr. Pope, whom he advised to have a less exalted sense of his own merit.

Mr. Pope could not well bear such repeated reproaches, but boldly told Mr. Addison, that he appealed from his judgment to the public, and that he had long known him too well to expect any friendship from him; upbraided him with being a pensioner from his youth, sacrificing the very learning purchased by the public money, to a mean thirst of power; that he was sent abroad to encourage literature, in place of which he had always endeavoured to suppress merit. At last, the contest grew so warm, that they parted without any ceremony, and Mr. Pope upon this wrote the foregoing verses, which are esteemed too true a picture of Mr. Addison.

In this account, and, indeed, in all other accounts, which have been given concerning this quarrel, it does not appear that Mr. Pope was the aggressor. If Mr. Addison entertained suspicions of Mr. Pope's being carried too far among the enemy, the danger was certainly Mr. Pope's, and not Mr. Addison's. It was his misfortune, and not his crime. If Mr. Addison should think himself capable of becoming a rival to Mr. Pope, and, in consequence of this opinion, publish a translation of part of Homer; at the same time with Mr. Pope's, and if the public should decide in favour of the latter by reading his translation, and neglecting the other, can any fault be imputed to Mr. Pope? could he be blamed for exerting all his abilities in so arduous a province? and was it his fault that Mr. Addison (for the first book of Homer was undoubtedly his) could not translate to please the public? Besides, was it not somewhat presumptuous to insinuate to Mr. Pope, that his verses bore another face when he corrected them, while, at the same time, the translation of Homer, which he had never seen in manuscript, bore away the palm from that very translation, he himself asserted was done in the true spirit of Homer? In matters of genius the public judgment seldom errs, and in this case posterity has confirmed the sentence of that age, which gave the preference to Mr. Pope; for his translation is in the hands of all readers of taste, while the other is seldom regarded but as a soil to Pope's.

It would appear as if Mr. Addison were himself so immersed in party business, as to contrast his benevolence to the limits of a faction: Which was infinitely beneath the views of a philosopher, and the rules which that excellent writer himself established. If this was the failing of Mr. Addison, it was not the error of Pope, for he kept the strictest correspondence with some persons, whose affections to the Whig-interest were suspected, yet was his name never called in question. While he was in favour with the duke of Buckingham, the lords Bolingbroke, Oxford, and Harcourt, Dr. Swift, and Mr. Prior, he did not drop his correspondence with the lord Hallifax, Mr. Craggs, and most of those who were at the head of the Whig interest. A professed Jacobite one day remonstrated to Mr. Pope, that the people of his party took it ill that he should write with Mr. Steele upon ever so indifferent a subject; at which he could not help smiling, and observed, that he hated narrowness of soul in any party; and that if he renounced his reason in religious matters, he should hardly do it on any other, and that he could pray not only for opposite parties, but even for opposite religions. Mr. Pope considered himself as a citizen of the world, and was therefore obliged to pray for the prosperity of mankind in general. As a son of Britain he wished those councils might be suffered by providence to prevail, which were most for the interest of his native country: But as politics was not his study, he could not always determine, at least, with any degree of certainty, whose councils were best; and had charity enough to believe, that contending parties might mean well. As taste and science are confined to no country, so ought they not to be excluded from any party, and Mr. Pope had an unexceptionable right to live upon terms of the strictest friendship with every man of parts, to which party soever he might belong. Mr. Pope's uprightness in his conduct towards contending politicians, is demonstrated by his living independent of either faction. He accepted no place, and had too high a spirit to become a pensioner.

Many effects however were made to proselyte him from the Popish faith, which all proved ineffectual. His friends conceived hopes from the moderation which he on all occasions expressed, that he was really a Protestant in his heart, and that upon the death of his mother, he would not scruple to declare his sentiments, notwithstanding the reproaches he might incur from the Popish party, and the public observation it would draw upon him. The bishop of Rochester strongly advised him to read the controverted points between the Protestant and the Catholic church, to suffer his unprejudiced reason to determine for him, and he made no doubt, but a separation from the Romish communion would soon ensue. To this Mr. Pope very candidly answered, 'Whether the change would be to my spiritual advantage, God only knows: This I know, that I mean as well in the religion I now profess, as ever I can do in any other. Can a man who thinks so, justify a change, even if he thought both equally good? To such an one, the part of joining with any one body of Christians might perhaps be easy, but I think it would not be so to renounce the other.

'Your lordship has formerly advised me to read the best controversies between the churches. Shall I tell you a secret? I did so at 14 years old (for I loved reading, and my father had no other books) there was a collection of all that had been written on both sides, in the reign of King James II. I warmed my head with them, and the consequence was, I found myself a Papist, or a Protestant by turns, according to the last book I read. I am afraid most seekers are in the same case, and when they stop, they are not so properly converted, as outwitted. You see how little glory you would gain by my conversion: and after all, I verily believe, your lordship and I are both of the same religion, if we were thoroughly understood by one another, and that all honest and reasonable Christians would be so, if they did but talk enough together every day, and had nothing to do together but to serve God, and live in peace with their neighbours.

"As to the temporal side of the question, I can have no dispute with you; it is certain, all the beneficial circumstances of life, and all the shining ones, lie on the part you would invite me to. But if I could bring myself to fancy, what I think you do but fancy, that I have any talents for active life, I want health for it; and besides it is a real truth. I have, if possible, less inclination, than ability. Contemplative life is not only my scene, but is my habit too. I begun my life where most people end theirs, with all that the world calls ambition. I don't know why it is called so, for, to me, it always seemed to be stooping, or climbing. I'll tell you my politic and religious sentiments in a few words. In my politics, I think no farther, than how to preserve my peace of life, in any government under which I live; nor in my religion, than to preserve the peace of my conscience, in any church with which I communicate. I hope all churches, and all governments are so far of God, as they are rightly understood, and rightly administered; and where they are, or may be wrong, I leave it to God alone to mend, or reform them, which, whenever he does, it must be by greater instruments than I am. I am not a Papist, for I renounce the temporal invasions of the papal power, and detest their arrogated authority over Princes and States. I am a Catholic in the strictest sense of the word. If I was born under an absolute Prince, I would be a quiet subject; but, I thank God, I was not. I have a due sense of the excellence of the British constitution. In a word, the things I have always wished to see, are not a Roman Catholic, or a French Catholic, or a Spanish Catholic, but a True Catholic; and not a King of Whigs, or [Transcriber's note: repeated 'or' removed] a King of Tories, but a King of England."

These are the peaceful maxims upon which we find Mr. Pope conducted his life, and if they cannot in some respects be justified, yet it must be owned, that his religion and his politics were well enough adapted for a poet, which entitled him to a kind of universal patronage, and to make every good man his friend.

Dean Swift sometimes wrote to Mr. Pope on the topic of changing his religion, and once humorously offered him twenty pounds for that purpose. Mr. Pope's answer to this, lord Orrery has obliged the world by preserving in the life of Swift. It is a perfect master-piece of wit and pleasantry.

We have already taken notice, that Mr. Pope was called upon by the public voice to translate the Iliad, which he performed with so much applause, and at the same time, with so much profit to himself, that he was envied by many writers, whose vanity perhaps induced them to believe themselves equal to so great a design. A combination of inferior wits were employed to write The Popiad, in which his translation is characterized, as unjust to the original, without beauty of language, or variety of numbers. Instead of the justness of the original, they say there is absurdity and extravagance. Instead of the beautiful language of the original, there is solecism and barbarous English. A candid reader may easily discern from this furious introduction, that the critics were actuated rather by malice than truth, and that they must judge with their eyes shut, who can see no beauty of language, no harmony of numbers in this translation.

But the most formidable critic against Mr. Pope in this great undertaking, was the celebrated Madam Dacier, whom Mr. Pope treated with less ceremony in his Notes on the Iliad, than, in the opinion of some people, was due to her sex. This learned lady was not without a sense of the injury, and took an opportunity of discovering her resentment.

"Upon finishing (says she) the second edition of my translation of Homer, a particular friend sent me a translation of part of Mr. Pope's preface to his Version of the Iliad. As I do not understand English, I cannot form any judgment of his performance, though I have heard much of it. I am indeed willing to believe, that the praises it has met with are not unmerited, because whatever work is approved by the English nation, cannot be bad; but yet I hope I may be permitted to judge of that part of the preface, which has been transmitted to me, and I here take the liberty of giving my sentiments concerning it. I must freely acknowledge that Mr. Pope's invention is very lively, though he seems to have been guilty of the same fault into which he owns we are often precipitated by our invention, when we depend too much upon the strength of it; as magnanimity (says he) may run up to confusion and extravagance, so may great invention to redundancy and wildness.

"This has been the very case of Mr. Pope himself; nothing is more overstrained, or more false than the images in which his fancy has represented Homer; sometimes he tells us, that the Iliad is a wild paradise, where, if we cannot see all the beauties, as in an ordered garden, it is only because the number of them is infinitely greater. Sometimes he compares him to a copious nursery, which contains the seeds and first productions of every kind; and, lastly, he represents him under the notion of a mighty tree, which rises from the most vigorous seed, is improved with industry, flourishes and produces the finest fruit, but bears too many branches, which might be lopped into form, to give it a more regular appearance.

"What! is Homer's poem then, according to Mr. Pope, a confused heap of beauties, without order or symmetry, and a plot whereon nothing but seeds, nor nothing perfect or formed is to be found; and a production loaded with many unprofitable things which ought to be retrenched, and which choak and disfigure those which deserve to be preserved? Mr. Pope will pardon me if I here oppose those comparisons, which to me appear very false, and entirely contrary to what the greatest of ancient, and modern critics ever thought.

"The Iliad is so far from being a wild paradise, that it is the most regular garden, and laid out with more symmetry than any ever was. Every thing herein is not only in the place it ought to have been, but every thing is fitted for the place it hath. He presents you at first with that which ought to be first seen; he places in the middle what ought to be in the middle, and what would be improperly placed at the beginning or end, and he removes what ought to be at a greater distance, to create the more agreeable surprize; and, to use a comparison drawn from painting, he places that in the greatest light which cannot be too visible, and sinks in the obscurity of the shade, what does not require a full view; so that it may be said, that Homer is the Painter who best knew how to employ the shades and lights. The second comparison is equally unjust; how could Mr. Pope say, 'that one can only discover seeds, and the first productions of every kind in the Iliad?' every beauty is there to such an amazing perfection, that the following ages could add nothing to those of any kind; and the ancients have always proposed Homer, as the most perfect model in every kind of poetry.

"The third comparison is composed of the errors of the two former; Homer had certainly an incomparable fertility of invention, but his fertility is always checked by that just sense, which made him reject every superfluous thing which his vast imagination could offer, and to retain only what was necessary and useful. Judgment guided the hand of this admirable gardener, and was the pruning hook he employed to lop off every useless branch."

Thus far Madam Dacier differs in her opinion from Mr. Pope concerning Homer; but these remarks which we have just quoted, partake not at all of the nature of criticism; they are meer assertion. Pope had declared Homer to abound with irregular beauties. Dacier has contradicted him, and asserted, that all his beauties are regular, but no reason is assigned by either of these mighty geniuses in support of their opinions, and the reader is left in the dark, as to the real truth. If he is to be guided by the authority of a name only, no doubt the argument will preponderate in favour of our countryman. The French lady then proceeds to answer some observations, which Mr. Pope made upon her Remarks on the Iliad, which she performs with a warmth that generally attends writers of her sex. Mr. Pope, however, paid more regard to this fair antagonist, than any other critic upon his works. He confessed that he had received great helps from her, and only thought she had (through a prodigious, and almost superstitious, fondness for Homer) endeavoured to make him appear without any fault, or weakness, and stamp a perfection on his works, which is no where to be found. He wrote her a very obliging letter, in which he confessed himself exceedingly sorry that he ever should have displeased so excellent a wit, and she, on the other hand, with a goodness and frankness peculiar to her, protested to forgive it, so that there remained no animosities between those two great admirers and translators of Homer.

Mr. Pope, by his successful translation of the Iliad, as we have before remarked, drew upon him the envy and raillery of a whole tribe of writers. Though he did not esteem any particular man amongst his enemies of consequence enough to provoke an answer, yet when they were considered collectively, they offered excellent materials for a general satire. This satire he planned and executed with so extraordinary a mastery, that it is by far the most compleat poem of our author's; it discovers more invention, and a higher effort of genius, than any other production of his. The hint was taken from Mr. Dryden's Mac Flecknoe, but as it is more general, so it is more pleasing. The Dunciad is so universally read, that we reckon it superfluous to give any further account of it here; and it would be an unpleasing task to trace all the provocations and resentments, which were mutually discovered upon this occasion. Mr. Pope was of opinion, that next to praising good writers, there was a merit in exposing bad ones, though it does not hold infallibly true, that each person stigmatized as a dunce, was genuinely so. Something must be allowed to personal resentment; Mr. Pope was a man of keen passions; he felt an injury strongly, retained a long remembrance of it, and could very pungently repay it. Some of the gentlemen, however, who had been more severely lashed than the rest, meditated a revenge, which redounds but little to their honour. They either intended to chastize him corporally, or gave it out that they had really done so, in order to bring shame upon Mr. Pope, which, if true, could only bring shame upon themselves.

While Mr. Pope enjoyed any leisure from severer applications to study, his friends were continually solliciting him to turn his thoughts towards something that might be of lasting use to the world, and engage no more in a war with dunces who were now effectually humbled. Our great dramatic poet Shakespear had pass'd through several hands, some of whom were very reasonably judged not to have understood any part of him tolerably, much less were capable to correct or revise him.

The friends of Mr. Pope therefore strongly importuned him, to undertake the whole of Shakespear's plays, and, if possible, by comparing all the different copies now to be procured, restore him to his ancient purity. To which our poet made this modest reply, that not having attempted any thing in the Drama, it might in him be deemed too much presumption. To which he was answered, that this did not require great knowledge of the foundation and disposition of the drama, as that must stand as it was, and Shakespear [Transcriber's note: 'Skakespear' in original] himself had not always paid strict regard to the rules of it; but this was to clear the scenes from the rubbish with which ignorant editors had filled them.

His proper business in this work was to render the text so clear as to be generally understood, to free it from obscurities, and sometimes gross absurdities, which now seem to appear in it, and to explain doubtful and difficult passages of which there are great numbers. This however was an arduous province, and how Mr. Pope has acquitted himself in it has been differently determined: It is certain he never valued himself upon that performance, nor was it a task in the least adapted to his genius; for it seldom happens that a man of lively parts can undergo the servile drudgery of collecting passages, in which more industry and labour are necessary than persons of quick penetration generally have to bestow.

It has been the opinion of some critics, that Mr. Pope's talents were not adapted for the drama, otherwise we cannot well account for his neglecting the most gainful way of writing which poetry affords, especially as his reputation was so high, that without much ceremony or mortification, he might have had any piece of his brought upon the stage. Mr. Pope was attentive to his own interest, and if he had not either been conscious of his inability in that province, or too timid to wish the popular approbation, he would certainly have attempted the drama. Neither was he esteemed a very competent judge of what plays were proper or improper for representation. He wrote several letters to the manager of Drury-Lane Theatre, in favour of Thomson's Agamemnon, which notwithstanding his approbation, Thomson's friends were obliged to mutulate and shorten; and after all it proved a heavy play.—Though it was generally allowed to have been one of the best acted plays that had appeared for some years.

He was certainly concerned in the Comedy, which was published in Mr. Gay's name, called Three Hours after Marriage, as well as Dr. Arbuthnot. This illustrious triumvirate, though men of the most various parts, and extensive understanding, yet were not able it seems to please the people, tho' the principal parts were supported by the best actors in that way on the stage. Dr. Arbuthnot and Mr. Pope were no doubt solicitous to conceal their concern in it; but by a letter which Gay wrote to Pope, published in Ayre's Memoirs, it appears evident (if Ayre's authority may be depended on) that they, both assisted in the composition.

DEAR POPE,

'Too late I see, and confess myself mistaken in relation to the Comedy; yet I do not think, had I followed your advice, and only introduced the mummy, that the absence of the crocodile had saved it. I can't help laughing myself (though the vulgar do not consider it was designed to look ridiculous) to think how the poor monster and mummy were dashed at their reception, and when the cry was loudest, I thought that if the thing had been written by another, I should have deemed the town in some measure mistaken; and as to your apprehension that this may do us future injury, do not think of it; the Dr. has a more valuable name than can be hurt by any thing of this nature; and your's is doubly safe. I will, if any shame there be, take it all to myself, and indeed I ought, the motion being first mine, and never heartily approved by you.'

Of all our poet's writings none were read with more general approbation than his Ethic Epistles, or multiplied into more editions. Mr. Pope who was a perfect oeconomist, secured to himself the profits arising from his own works; he was never subjected to necessity, and therefore was not to be imposed upon by the art or fraud of publishers.

But now approaches the period in which as he himself expressed it, he stood in need of the generous tear he paid,

Posts themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays.

Mr. Pope who had been always subjected to a variety of bodily infirmities, finding his strength give way, began to think that his days, which had been prolonged past his expectation, were drawing towards a conclusion. However, he visited the Hot-Wells at Bristol, where for some time there were small hopes of his recovery; but making too free with purges he grew worse, and seemed desirous to draw nearer home. A dropsy in the breast at last put a period to his life, at the age of 56, on the 30th of May 1744, at his house at Twickenham, where he was interred in the same grave with his father and mother.

Mr. Pope's behaviour in his last illness has been variously represented to the world: Some have affirmed that it was timid and peevish; that having been fixed in no particular system of faith, his mind was wavering, and his temper broken and disturb'd. Others have asserted that he was all chearfulness and resignation to the divine will: Which of these opinions is true we cannot now determine; but if the former, it must be regretted, that he, who had taught philosophy to others, should himself be destitute of its assistance in the most critical moments of his life.

The bulk of his fortune he bequeath'd to Mrs. Blount, with whom he lived in the strictest friendship, and for whom he is said to have entertained the warmest affection. His works, which are in the hands of every person of true taste, and will last as long as our language will be understood, render unnecessary all further remarks on his writings. He was equally admired for the dignity and sublimity of his moral and philosophical works, the vivacity of his satirical, the clearness and propriety of his didactic, the richness and variety of his descriptive, and the elegance of all, added to an harmony of versification and correctness of sentiment and language, unknown to our former poets, and of which he has set an example which will be an example or a reproach to his successors. His prose-stile is as perfect in its kind as his poetic, and has all the beauties proper for it, joined to an uncommon force and perspicuity.

Under the profession of the Roman-Catholic religion, to which he adhered to the last, he maintained all the moderation and charity becoming the most thorough and confident Protestant. His conversation was natural, easy and agreeable, without any affectation of displaying his wit, or obtruding his own judgment, even upon subjects of which he was so eminently a master.

The moral character of our author, as it did not escape the lash of his calumniators in his life; so have there been attempts since his death to diminish his reputation. Lord Bolingbroke, whom Mr. Pope esteemed to almost an enthusiastic degree of admiration, was the first to make this attack. Not many years ago, the public were entertained with this controversy immediately upon the publication of his lordship's Letters on the Spirit of Patriotism, and the Idea of a Patriot King. Different opinions have been offered, some to extenuate the fault of Mr. Pope, for printing and mutilating these letters, without his lordship's knowledge; others to blame him for it as the highest breach of friendship, and the greatest mark of dishonour. It would exceed our proposed bounds to enter into the merits of this controversy; the reader, no doubt, will find it amply discussed in that account of the life of this great author, which Mr. Warburton has promised the public.

This great man is allowed to have been one of the first rank amongst the poets of our nation, and to acknowledge the superiority of none but Shakespear, Milton, and Dryden. With the two former, it is unnatural to compare him, as their province in writing is so very different. Pope has never attempted the drama, nor published an Epic Poem, in which these two distinguished genius's have so wonderfully succeeded. Though Pope's genius was great, it was yet of so different a cast from Shakespear's, and Milton's, that no comparison can be justly formed. But if this may be said of the former two, it will by no means hold with respect to the later, for between him and Dryden, there is a great similarity of writing, and a very striking coincidence of genius. It will not perhaps be unpleasing to our readers, if we pursue this comparison, and endeavour to discover to whom the superiority is justly to be attributed, and to which of them poetry owes the highest obligations.

When Dryden came into the world, he found poetry in a very imperfect state; its numbers were unpolished; its cadences rough, and there was nothing of harmony or mellifluence to give it a graceful of flow. In this harsh, unmusical situation, Dryden found it (for the refinements of Waller were but puerile and unsubstantial) he polished the rough diamond, he taught it to shine, and connected beauty, elegance, and strength, in all his poetical compositions. Though Dryden thus polished our English numbers, and thus harmonized versification, it cannot be said, that he carried his art to perfection. Much was yet left undone; his lines with all their smoothness were often rambling, and expletives were frequently introduced to compleat his measures. It was apparent therefore that an additional harmony might still be given to our numbers, and that cadences were yet capable of a more musical modulation. To effect this purpose Mr. Pope arose, who with an ear elegantly delicate, and the advantage of the finest genius, so harmonized the English numbers, as to make them compleatly musical. His numbers are likewise so minutely correct, that it would be difficult to conceive how any of his lines can be altered to to advantage. He has created a kind of mechanical versification; every line is alike; and though they are sweetly musical, they want diversity, for he has not studied so great a variety of pauses, and where the accents may be laid gracefully. The structure of his verse is the best, and a line of his is more musical than any other line can be made, by placing the accents elsewhere; but we are not quite certain, whether the ear is not apt to be soon cloy'd with this uniformity of elegance, this sameness of harmony. It must be acknowledged however, that he has much improved upon Dryden in the article of versification, and in that part of poetry is greatly his superior. But though this must be acknowledged, perhaps it will not necessarily follow that his genius was therefore superior.

The grand characteristic of a poet is his invention, the surest distinction of a great genius. In Mr. Pope, nothing is so truly original as his Rape of the Lock, nor discovers so much invention. In this kind of mock-heroic, he is without a rival in our language, for Dryden has written nothing of the kind. His other work which discovers invention, fine designing, and admirable execution, is his Dunciad; which, tho' built on Dryden's Mac Flecknoe, is yet so much superior, that in satiric writing, the Palm must justly be yielded to him. In Mr. Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel, there are indeed the most poignant strokes of satire, and characters drawn with the most masterly touches; but this poem with all its excellencies is much inferior to the Dunciad, though Dryden had advantages which Mr. Pope had not; for Dryden's characters are men of great eminence and figure in the state, while Pope has to expose men of obscure birth and unimportant lives only distinguished from the herd of mankind, by a glimmering of genius, which rendered the greatest part of them more emphatically contemptible. Pope's was the hardest task, and he has executed it with the greatest success. As Mr. Dryden must undoubtedly have yielded to Pope in satyric writing, it is incumbent on the partizans of Dryden to name another species of composition, in which the former excells so as to throw the ballance again upon the side of Dryden. This species is the Lyric, in which the warmest votaries of Pope must certainly acknowledge, that he is much inferior; as an irrefutable proof of this we need only compare Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, with Mr. Pope's; in which the disparity is so apparent, that we know not if the most finished of Pope's compositions has discovered such a variety and command of numbers.

It hath been generally acknowledged, that the Lyric is a more excellent kind of writing than the Satiric; and consequently he who excells in the most excellent species, must undoubtedly be esteemed the greatest poet. —Mr. Pope has very happily succeeded in many of his occasional pieces, such as Eloisa to Abelard, his Elegy on an unfortunate young Lady, and a variety of other performances deservedly celebrated. To these may be opposed Mr. Dryden's Fables, which though written in a very advanced age, are yet the most perfect of his works. In these Fables there is perhaps a greater variety than in Pope's occasional pieces: Many of them indeed are translations, but such as are original shew a great extent of invention, and a large compass of genius.

There are not in Pope's works such poignant discoveries of wit, or such a general knowledge of the humours and characters of men, as in the Prologues and Epilogues of Dryden, which are the best records of the whims and capricious oddities of the times in which they are written.

When these two great genius's are considered in the light of translators, it will indeed be difficult to determine into whose scale the ballance should be thrown: That Mr. Pope had a more arduous province in doing justice to Homer, than Dryden with regard to Virgil is certainly true; as Homer is a more various and diffuse poet than Virgil; and it is likewise true, that Pope has even exceeded Dryden in the execution, and none will deny, that Pope's Homer's Iliad, is a finer poem than Dryden's Aeneis of Virgil: Making a proper allowance for the disproportion of the original authors. But then a candid critic should reflect, that as Dryden was prior in the great attempt of rendering Virgil into English, so did he perform the task under many disadvantages, which Pope, by a happier situation in life, was enabled to avoid; and could not but improve upon Dryden's errors, though the authors translated were not the same: And it is much to be doubted, if Dryden were to translate the Aeneid now, with that attention which the correctness of the present age would force upon him, whether the preference would be due to Pope's Homer.

But supposing it to be yielded (as it certainly must) that the latter bard was the greatest translator; we are now to throw into Mr. Dryden's scale all his dramatic works; which though not the most excellent of his writings, yet as nothing of Mr. Pope's can be opposed to them, they have an undoubted right to turn the ballance greatly in favour of Mr. Dryden.—When the two poets are considered as critics, the comparison will very imperfectly hold. Dryden's Dedications and Prefaces, besides that they are more numerous, and are the best models for courtly panegyric, shew that he understood poetry as an art, beyond any man that ever lived. And he explained this art so well, that he taught his antagonists to turn the tables against himself; for he so illuminated the mind by his clear and perspicuous reasoning, that dullness itself became capable of discerning; and when at any time his performances fell short of his own ideas of excellence; his enemies tried him by rules of his own establishing; and though they owed to him the ability of judging, they seldom had candour enough to spare him.

Perhaps it may be true that Pope's works are read with more appetite, as there is a greater evenness and correctness in them; but in perusing the works of Dryden the mind will take a wider range, and be more fraught with poetical ideas: We admire Dryden as the greater genius, and Pope as the most pleasing versifier.

ERRATA in the foregoing life, viz.

P. 237. l. 27. for with all that the world calls ambition, read with a disgust of all, &c. And l. 29. for 'stooping or climbing' read, rather stooping than climbing.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] See a Note in Warburton's Edition of Pope's Works.

* * * * *

AARON HILL, Esq;[1]

Was the son of George Hill, esq; of Malmsbury-Abbey in Wiltshire; a gentleman possessed of an estate of about 2000 l. a year, which was entailed upon him, and the eldest son, and to his heirs for many descents. But the unhappy misconduct of Mr. George Hill, and the weakness of the trustees, entangled it in such a manner as hitherto has rendered it of no advantage to his family; for, without any legal title so to do, he sold it all, at different times, for sums greatly beneath the value of it, and left his children to their mother's care, and her mother's (Mrs. Ann Gregory) who took great pains with her grandson's education. At nine years old she put him to school to Mr. Rayner at Barnstable in Devonshire, from whence, he went to Westminster school; where soon (under the care of Dr. Knipe) his genius shewed itself in a distinguished light, and often made him some amends for his hard fortune, which denied him such supplies of pocket-money as his spirit wished, by enabling him to perform the tasks of many who had not his capacity.

Mr. Aaron Hill, was born in Beaufort-Buildings in the Strand, on February 10, 1684-5. At fourteen years of age he left Westminster school; and, shortly after, hearing his grandmother make mention of a relation much esteemed (lord Paget, then ambassador at Constantinople) he formed a resolution of paying him a visit there, being likewise very desirous to see that empire.

His grandmother being a woman of uncommon understanding, and great good-nature, would not oppose him in it; and accordingly he soon embark'd on board a ship, then going there, March 2, 1700, as appears by a Journal which he kept during his voyage, and in his travels (though at so weak an age) wherein he gave the most accurate account of every particular, in a manner much above his years.

When he arrived, lord Paget received him with as much surprize, as pleasure, wondering that so young a person as he was (but then in his fifteenth year) should chuse to run the hazard of such a voyage to visit a relation, whom he knew but by character. The ambassador immediately provided for him a very learned ecclesiastic in his own house, and, under his tuition, sent him to travel, being desirous to improve, as far as possible, the education of a person he found worthy of it. With this tutor he had the opportunity of seeing Egypt, Palestine, and a great part of the Eastern country.

With lord Paget he returned home, about the year 1703, through great part of Europe; in which tour he saw most of the courts.

He was in great esteem with that nobleman; insomuch, that in all probability he had been still more distinguished by him at his death, than in his life time, had not the envious fears and malice of a certain female, who was in high authority and favour with that lord, prevented and supplanted his kind disposition towards him: My lord took great pleasure in instructing him himself, wrote him whole books in different languages, on which his student placed the greatest value; which was no sooner taken notice of by jealous observation, than they were stolen from his apartment, and suffered to be some days missing, to the great displeasure of my lord, but still much greater affliction of his pupil, whose grief for losing a treasure he so highly valued, was more than doubled, by perceiving that from some false insinuation that had been made, it was believed he had himself wilfully lost them: But young Mr. Hill was soon entirely cleared on this head.

A few years after, he was desired both on account of his sobriety and understanding, to accompany Sir William Wentworth, a worthy baronet of Yorkshire, who was then going to make the tour of Europe; with whom he travelled two or three years, and brought him home improved, to the satisfaction of that gentleman's relations.

'Twas in those different travels he collected matter for the history he wrote of Turkey, and published in 1709; a work he afterwards often repented having printed; and (though his own) would criticise upon it with much severity. (But, as he used to say, he was a very boy when he began and ended it; therefore great allowance may be made on that account); and in a letter which has since been printed in his works, wrote to his greatly valued friend, the worthy author of Clarissa, he acknowledges his consciousness of such defects: where speaking of obscurity, he says,

'Obscurity, indeed (if they had penetration to mean that) is burying sense alive, and some of my rash, early, too affected, puerile scriblings must, and should, have pleaded guilty to so just an accusation.'

The fire of youth, with an imagination lively as his was, seldom, if ever, go hand in hand with solid judgment. Mr. Hill did not give himself indeed time for correction, having wrote it so very expeditiously, as hardly would be credited. But (as Dr. Sprat, then bishop of Rochester, used to observe) there is certainly visible in that book, the seeds of a great writer.—He seldom in his riper years was guilty of the fault of non-correction; for he revis'd, too strictly rather, every piece he purposed for the public eye (exclusive of an author's natural fondness); and it has been believed by many, who have read some of his pieces in the first copy, that had they never been by a revisal deepened [Transcriber's note: 'deepned' in original] into greater strength, they would have pleased still more, at least more generally.

About the year 1709 he published his first poem, called Camillus; in vindication, and honour of the earl of Peterborough, who had been general in Spain. After that nobleman had seen it, he was desirous to know who was the author of it; which having found by enquiry, he complimented him by making him his secretary, in the room of Mr. Furly, who was gone abroad with another nobleman: And Mr. Hill was always held in high esteem with that great peer; with whom, however, he did not continue long; for in the year 1710 he married the only daughter of Edmund Morris, Esq; of Stratford, in Essex; with whom he had a very handsome fortune: By her he had nine children, four of whom (a son, and three daughters) are still living.

In 1709 he was made master of the Theatre in Drury-Lane; and then, at the desire of Mr. Barton Booth, wrote his first Tragedy, (Elfrid, or the Fair Inconstant) which from his first beginning of it he compleated in a little more than a week.—The following year, 1710, he was master of the Opera House in the Hay-Market; and then wrote an Opera called Rinaldo, which met with great success: It was the first which that admirable genius Mr. Handel compos'd, after he came to England; (this he dedicated to Queen Anne).—His genius was adapted greatly to the business of the stage; and while he held the management, he conducted both Theatres, intirely to the satisfaction of the public.—But in a few months he relinquished it, from some misunderstanding with the then lord chamberlain; and though he was soon after sollicited to take that charge again upon him (by a person the highest in command) he still declined it.

From that time he bent his thoughts on studies far more solid and desirable to him; to views of public benefit: For his mind was ardently devoted to the pursuit of general improvement. But, as one genius seldom is adapted to both theory and practice; so in the execution of a variety of undertakings, the most advantageous in themselves, by some mismanagement of those concerned with him, he fail'd of the success his labours merited.

As in particular, in an affair he set on foot about the year 1715, and was the sole discoverer of, for which he had a patent; the making of an Oil, as sweet as that from Olives, from the Beech-Nuts: But this being an undertaking of a great extent, he was obliged to work conjointly with other men's assistance, and materials; whence arose disputes among them, which terminated in the overthrowing the advantage then arising from it; which otherwise might have been great and lasting.

This, has occasioned that affair to be misunderstood by many; it therefore may not be thought improper, here, to set it in a juster light; and this cannot more exactly be given, than from his own words, called, A fair state of the Account, published in the year 1716.

'An impartial state of the case, between the patentee, annuitants, and sharers, in the Beech-Oil-Company.'—Some part of which is here recited.

'The disappointments of the Beech-Oil-Company this year have made abundance of sharers peevish; the natural effect of peevishness is clamour, and clamour like a tide will work itself a passage, where it has no right of flowing; some gentlemen, misled by false conceptions both of the affair and its direction, have driven their discontent through a mistaken chanel, and inclined abundance who are strangers to the truth, to accuse the patentee of faults, he is not only absolutely free from, but by which he is, of all concern'd, the greatest sufferer.

'But, he is not angry with the angry; he considers they must take things as they hear them represented; he governs all his actions by this general maxim; never to be moved at a reproach, unless it be a just one.

'In October 1713 the patentee procured a grant for fourteen years, to him and his assigns, for the Beech-Oil invention.

'Anno 1714, he made and published proposals, for taking a subscription of 20,000 l. upon the following conditions;

'That every subscriber should receive, by half yearly payments, at Lady-Day and Michaelmas, during the continuance of the patent from Lady-Day 1715, inclusive, an annuity amounting to fifty-pound per cent, for any sum subscribed, excepting a deduction for the payment of the directors.

'That nine directors should be chosen on midsummer-day, who should receive complaints upon non-payments of annuities; and in such case, upon refusal, any five of the nine directors had power to meet and chuse a governor from among themselves, enrolling that choice in chancery, together with the reasons for it.

'That after such choice and enrollment, the patentee should stand absolutely excluded, the business be carried on, and all the right of the grant be vested (not as a mortgage, but as a sale without redemption) in the governor so chosen, for the joint advantage of the annuitants, in proportion to their several interests.

'As a security for making good the articles, the patentee did, by indenture enrolled in chancery, assign and make over his patent to trustees, in the indenture named, for the uses above-mentioned.

'In the mean time the first half yearly payments to the annuitants, amounting to 3750 l. became due, and the company not being yet compleated, the patentee himself discharged it, and has never reckon'd that sum to the account between him and the company; which he might have done by virtue of the articles on which he gave admission to the sharers.

'For the better explanation of this scheme it will be necessary to observe, that while the shares were selling, he grew apprehensive that the season would be past, before the fifty pounds per share they were to furnish by the articles could be contributed: He therefore gave up voluntarily, and for the general good, 20,000 l. of his own 25,000 guineas purchase money, as a loan to the company till the expiration of the patent, after which it was again to be made good to him, or his assigns; and this money so lent by the patentee, is all the stock that ever has been hitherto employed by the company.

'But instead of making good the above-mentioned conditional covenant, the board proceeded to unnecessary warmth, and found themselves involved still more and more in animosities, and those irregularities which naturally follow groundless controversy. He would therefore take upon himself the hazard and the power of the whole affair, accountable however to the board, as to the money part; and yet would bind himself to pay for three years to come, a profit of forty shillings per annum upon every share, and then deliver back the business to the general care, above the reach of future disappointments.

'What reasons the gentlemen might have to refuse so inviting an offer is best known to themselves; but they absolutely rejected that part of it, which was to fix the sole power of management in the patentee. Upon which, and many other provocations afterward, becoming more and more dissatisfied, he thought fit to demand repayment of five hundred pounds, which he had lent the company; as he had several other sums before; and not receiving it, but, on the contrary, being denied so much as an acknowledgment that it was due, withdrew himself intirely from the board, and left them to their measures.

'Thus at the same time have I offered my defence, and my opinion: By the first I am sure I shall be acquitted from all imputations; and confirmed in the good thoughts of the concerned on either side, who will know for the future what attention they should give to idle reflections, and the falsehood of rumour; and from the last, I have hopes that a plan may be drawn, which will settle at once all disputed pretensions, and restore that fair prospect, which the open advantage of last year's success (indifferent as it was) has demonstrated to be a view that was no way chimerical.—

'They know how to judge of malicious insinuations to my prejudice, by this one most scandalous example, which has been given by the endeavours of some to persuade the out-sharers that I have made an extravagant profit from the losses of the adventurers. Whereas on the contrary, out of Twenty-five Thousand Guineas, which was the whole I should have received by the sale of the shares, I have given up Twenty Thousand Pounds to the use of the company, and to the annuities afterward; and three thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds more I paid to the annuitants, at Lady-Day 1715, on the company's account; and have never demanded it again, in consideration of their disappointments the first year.

'So that it plainly appears, that out of twenty-five thousand guineas, I have given away in two articles only, twenty-three thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds for the public advantage. And I can easily prove, that the little remainder has been short of making good the charges I have been at for their service; by which means I am not one farthing a gainer by the company, notwithstanding the clamour and malice of some unthinking adventurers: And for the truth of all this, I appeal to their own Office-Books, and defy the most angry among them to deny any article of it. See then what a grateful and generous encouragement may be expected by men, who would dedicate their labours to the profit of others.

November the 30th. 1716. A. HILL.'

This, and much more, too tedious to insert, serves to demonstrate that it was a great misfortune, for a mind so fertile of invention and improvement, to be embarrassed by a narrow power of fortune; too weak alone to execute such undertakings.

About the same year he wrote another Tragedy, intitled [Transcriber's note: 'intiled' in original] the Fatal Vision[2], or the Fall of Siam (which was acted the same year, in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields) to which he gave this Motto out of Horace.

I not for vulgar admiration write; To be well read, not much, is my delight.

And to his death he would declare in favour of that choice.—That year, he likewise published the two first books of an Epic Poem, called Gideon (founded on a Hebrew Story) which like its author, and all other authors, had its enemies; but many more admirers.

But his poetic pieces were not frequent in their appearance. They were the product of some leisure hours, when he relaxed his thoughts from drier study; as he took great delight in diving into every useful science, viz. criticism, history, geography, physic, commerce in general, agriculture, war, and law; but in particular natural philosophy, wherein he has made many and valuable discoveries.

Concerning poetry, he says, in his preface to King Henry the Vth, where he laments the want of taste for Tragedy,

'But in all events I will be easy, who have no better reason to wish well to poetry, than my love for a mistress I shall never be married to: For, whenever I grow ambitious, I shall wish to build higher; and owe my memory to some occasion of more importance than my writings.'

He had acquired so deep an insight in law, that he has from his arguments and demonstrations obliged some of the greatest council (formally) under their hands, to retract their own first-given opinions.

He wrote part of a Tract of War; another upon Agriculture; but they are left unfinished, with several other pieces.

In his younger days he bought a grant of Sir Robert Montgomery (who had purchas'd it of the lords proprietors of Carolina) with whom, &c. be had been concern'd, in a design of settling a new plantation in the South of Carolina, of a vast tract of land; on which he then designed to pursue the same intention.—But being not master of a fortune equal to that scheme, it never proved of any service to him, though many years since, it has been cultivated largely[3].

His person was (in youth) extremely fair, and handsome; his eyes were a dark blue, both bright and penetrating; brown hair and visage oval; which was enlivened with a smile, the most agreeable in conversation; where his address was affably engageing; to which was joined a dignity, which rendered him at once respected and admired, by those (of either sex) who were acquainted with him—He was tall, genteelly made, and not thin.—His voice was sweet, his conversation elegant; and capable of entertaining upon various subjects.—His disposition was benevolent, beyond the power of the fortune he was blessed with; the calamities of those he knew (and valued as deserving) affected him more than his own: He had fortitude of mind sufficient to support with calmness great misfortune; and from his birth it may be truly said he was obliged to meet it.

Of himself, he says in his epistle dedicatory to one of his poems,

'I am so devoted a lover of a private and unbusy life, that I cannot recollect a time wherein I wish'd an increase to the little influence I cultivate in the dignified world, unless when I have felt the deficience of my own power, to reward some merit that has charm'd me:'—

His temper, though by nature warm (when injuries were done him) was as nobly forgiving; mindful of that great lesson in religion, of returning good for evil; and he fulfilled it often to the prejudice of his own circumstances. He was a tender husband, friend, and father; one of the best masters to his servants, detesting the too common inhumanity, that treats them almost as if they were not fellow-creatures.

His manner of life was temperate in all respects (which might have promis'd greater length of years) late hours excepted which his indefatigable love of study drew him into; night being not liable to interruptions like the day.

About the year 1718 he wrote a poem called the Northern-Star, upon the actions of the Czar Peter the Great; and several years after he was complimented with a gold medal from the empress Catherine (according to the Czar's desire before his death) and was to have wrote his life, from papers which were to be sent him of the Czar's: But the death of the Czarina, quickly after, prevented it.—In an advertisement to the reader, in the fifth edition of that poem, published in 1739, the author says of it.

'Though the design was profess'd panegyric, I may with modesty venture to say it was not a very politic, perhaps, but an honest example of praise without flattery.—In the verse, I am afraid there was much to be blamed, as too low; but, I am sure there was none of that fault in the purpose: The poem having never been hinted, either before or after the publication, to any person (native or foreigner) who could be supposed to have interest in, or concern for, its subject.

'In effect, it had for six years or more been forgot by myself—and my country,—when upon the death of the prince it referred to, I was surprized by the condescension of a compliment from the empress his relict, and immediate successor; and thereby first became sensible that the poem had, by means of some foreign translation, reach'd the eye and regard of that emphatically great monarch, in justice to whom it was written.'

Soon after he finished six books more of Gideon; which made eight, of the twelve he purpos'd writing; but did not live to finish it.

In 1723 he brought his Tragedy called King Henry the Vth, upon the stage in Drury-Lane; which is (as he declares in the preface) a new fabric, yet built on Shakespear's foundation.

In 1724, for the advantage of an unhappy gentleman (an old officer in the army) he wrote a paper in the manner of the Spectators, in conjunction with Mr. William Bond, &c. intitled the Plain Dealer; which were some time after published in two volumes octavo. And many of his former writings were appropriated to such humane uses; both those to which he has prefixed his name, and several others which he wrote and gave away intirely. But, though the many imagined authors are not living, their names, and those performances will be omitted here; yet, in mere justice to the character of Mr. Hill, we mention this particular.

In 1728, he made a journey into the North of Scotland, where he had been about two years before, having contracted with the York-Buildings Company, concerning many woods of great extent in that kingdom, for timber for the uses of the navy; and many and various were the assertions upon this occasion: Some thought, and thence reported, that there was not a stick in Scotland could be capable of answering that purpose; but he demonstrated the contrary: For, though there was not a great number large enough for masts to ships of the greatest burthen; yet there were millions, fit for all smaller vessels; and planks and banks, proper for every sort of building.—One ship was built entirely of it; and a report was made, that never any better timber was brought from any part of the world: But he found many difficulties in this undertaking; yet had sagacity to overcome them all (as far as his own management extended) for when the trees were by his order chain'd together into floats, the ignorant Highlanders refus'd to venture themselves on them down the river Spey; till he first went himself, to make them sensible there was no danger.—In which passage however, he found a great obstacle in the rocks, by which that river seemed impassible; but on these he ordered fires to be made, when by the lowness of the river they were most expos'd; and then had quantities of water thrown upon them: Which method being repeated with the help of proper tools, they were broke in pieces and thrown down, which made the passage easy for the floats.

This affair was carried on to a very good account, till those concern'd thought proper to call off the men and horses from the woods of Abernethy, in order to employ them in their lead mines in the same country; from which they hoped to make greater advantage.

The magistrates of Inverness paid him the compliment of making him a present of the freedom of that place (at an elegant entertainment made by them on that occasion) a favour likewise offered him at Aberdeen, &c.

After a stay of several months in the Highlands, during which time he visited the duke and duchess of Gordon, who distinguished him with great civilities, he went to York, and other places in that country; where his wife then was, with some relations, for the recovery of her health; but his staying longer there (on that account) than he intended, had like to have proved of unhappy consequence; by giving room for some, who imagined (as they wished) that he would not return, to be guilty of a breach of trust that aimed at the destruction of great part of what he then was worth; but they were disappointed.

In that retirement in the North, he wrote a poem intitled, The Progress of Wit, a Caveat for the use of an eminent Writer. It was composed of the genteelest praise, and keenest allegorical satire; and it gave no small uneasiness to Mr. Pope: Who had indeed drawn it upon himself, by being the aggressor in his Dunciad.—This afterwards occasioned a private paper-war between those writers, in which 'tis generally thought that Mr. Hill had greatly the advantage of Mr. Pope. For the particulars, the reader is referred to a shilling pamphlet lately published by Owen, containing Letters between Mr. Pope and Mr. Hill, &c.

The progress of wit begins with the eight following lines, wherein the SNEAKINGLY APPROVES affected Mr. Pope extreamly.

Tuneful Alexis on the Thames' fair side, The Ladies play-thing, and the Muses pride, With merit popular, with wit polite, Easy tho' vain, and elegant tho' light: Desiring, and deserving other's praise, Poorly accepts a fame he ne'er repays: Unborn to cherish, SNEAKINGLY APPROVES, And wants the soul to spread the worth he loves.

During their controversy, Mr. Pope seemed to express his repentance, by denying the offence he had given; thus, in one of his letters, he says,

'That the letters A.H. were apply'd to you in the papers I did not know (for I seldom read them) I heard it only from Mr. Savage[4], as from yourself, and sent my assurances to the contrary: But I don't see how the annotator on the D. could have rectified that mistake publicly, without particularizing your name in a book where I thought it too good to be inserted, &c.[5].'

And in another place he says,

'I should imagine the Dunciad meant you a real compliment, and so it has been thought by many who have ask'd to whom that passage made that oblique panegyric. As to the notes, I am weary of telling a great truth, which is, that I am not author of them, &c.'

Which paragraph was answer'd by the following in Mr. Hill's reply.

'As to your oblique panegyric, I am not under so blind an attachment to the goddess I was devoted to in the Dunciad, but that I know it was a commendation; though a dirtier one than I wished for; who am neither fond of some of the company in which I was listed—the noble reward, for which I was to become a diver;—the allegorical muddiness in which I was to try my skill;—nor the institutor of the games you were so kind to allow me a share in, &c.'—A genteel severe reprimand.

Much about the same time he wrote another poem, called Advice to the Poets; in praise of worthy poetry, and in censure of the misapplication of poetry in general. The following lines here quoted, are the motto of it, taken from the poem.

Shame on your jingling, ye soft sons of rhyme, Tuneful consumers of your reader's time! Fancy's light dwarfs! whose feather-footed strains, Dance in wild windings, thro' a waste of brains: Your's is the guilt of all, who judging wrong, Mistake tun'd nonsense for the poet's song.

He likewise in this piece, reproves the above named celebrated author, for descending below his genius; and in speaking of the inspiration of the Muse, he says,

I feel her now.—Th'invader fires my breast: And my soul swells, to suit the heav'nly guest. Hear her, O Pope!—She sounds th'inspir'd decree, Thou great Arch-Angel of wit's heav'n! for thee! Let vulgar genii, sour'd by sharp disdain, Piqu'd and malignant, words low war maintain, While every meaner art exerts her aim, O'er rival arts, to list her question'd fame; Let half-soul'd poets still on poets fall, And teach the willing world to scorn them all. But, let no Muse, pre-eminent as thine, Of voice melodious, and of force divine, Stung by wits, wasps, all rights of rank forego, And turn, and snarl, and bite, at every foe. No—like thy own Ulysses, make no stay Shun monsters—and pursue thy streamy way.

In 1731 he brought his Tragedy of Athelwold upon the stage in Drury-Lane; which, as he says in his preface to it, was written on the same subject as his Elfrid or the Fair Inconstant, which he there calls, 'An unprun'd wilderness of fancy, with here and there a flower among the leaves; but without any fruit of judgment.'—

He likewise mentions it as a folly, having began and finished Elfrid in a week; and both the difference of time and judgment are visible in favour of the last of those performances.

That year he met the greatest shock that affliction ever gave him; in the loss of one of the most worthy of wives, to whom he had been married above twenty years.

The following epitaph he wrote, and purpos'd for a monument which he designed to erect over her grave.

Enough, cold stone! suffice her long-lov'd name; Words are too weak to pay her virtues claim. Temples, and tombs, and tongues, shall waste away, And power's vain pomp, in mould'ring dust decay. But e'er mankind a wife more perfect see, Eternity, O Time! shall bury thee.

He was a man susceptible of love, in its sublimest sense; as may be seen in that poetical description of that passion, which he has given in his poem called the Picture of Love; wrote many years ago (from whence the following two lines are taken)

No wild desire can this proud bliss bestow, Souls must be match'd in heav'n, tho' mix'd below.

About the year 1735 he was concern'd with another gentleman in writing a paper called the Prompter; all those mark'd with a B. were his.—This was meant greatly for the service of the stage; and many of them have been regarded in the highest manner.—But, as there was not only instruction, but reproof, the bitter, with the sweet, by some could not be relish'd.

In 1736 having translated from the French of Monsieur de Voltaire, the Tragedy of Zara, he gave it to be acted for the benefit of Mr. William Bond; and it was represented first, at the Long-Room in Villars-Street, York-Buildings; where that poor gentleman performed the part of Lusignan (the old expiring king) a character he was at that time too well suited to; being, and looking, almost dead, as in reality he was before the run of it was over.—Soon after this play was brought upon the stage in Drury-Lane, by Mr. Fleetwood, at the earnest sollicitation of Mr. Theophilus Cibber; the part of Zara was played by Mrs. Cibber, and was her first attempt in Tragedy; of the performers therein he makes very handsome mention in the preface. This play he dedicated to his royal highness the Prince of Wales.

The same year was acted, at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, another Tragedy of his translating from the same French author, called Alzira, which was likewise dedicated to the Prince.—His dedications generally wore a different face from those of other writers; he there most warmly recommends Monsieur de Voltaire, as worthy of his royal highness's partiality; disclaiming for himself all expectations of his notice. But he was, notwithstanding, particularly honoured with his approbation.

These plays, if not a litteral translation, have been thought much better, for their having past his hands; as generously was acknowledged by Monsieur de Voltaire himself.

In 1737 he published a poem called, The Tears of the Muses; composed of general satire: in the address to the reader he says (speaking of satire)

'There is, indeed, something so like cruelty in the face of that species of poetry, that it can only be reconciled to humanity, by the general benevolence of its purpose; attacking particulars for the public advantage.'

The following year he wrote (in prose) a book called, An Enquiry into the Merit of Assassination, with a View to the Character of Caesar; and his Designs on the Roman Republic.

About this time, he in a manner left the world, (though living near so populous a part of it as London) and settled at Plaistow in Essex; where he entirely devoted himself to his study, family, and garden; and the accomplishment of many profitable views; particularly one, in which for years he had laboured through experiments in vain; and when he brought it to perfection, did not live to reap the benefit of it: The discovery of the art of making pot-ash like the Russian, which cost this nation, yearly, an immense sum of money.

In the year 1743 he published The Fanciad, an Heroic Poem; inscribed to his grace the duke of Marlborough: Who as no name was then prefixed to it, perhaps, knew not the author by whom he was distinguished in it.

Soon after he wrote another, intitled the Impartial; which he inscribed, in the same manner, to the lord Carteret (now earl of Granville). In the beginning of it are the following lines,

Burn, sooty slander, burn thy blotted scroll; Greatness is greatness, spite of faction's soul.

Deep let my soul detest th'adhesive pride, That changing sentiment, unchanges side.

It would be tedious to enumerate the variety of smaller pieces he at different times was author of.

His notions of the deity were boundlessly extensive; and the few lines here quoted from his Poem upon faith, published in 1746, must give the best idea of his sentiments upon that most elevated of all subjects.

What then must be believ'd?—Believe God kind, To fear were to offend him. Fill thy heart With his felt laws; and act the good he loves. Rev'rence his power. Judge him but by his works: Know him but in his mercies. Rev'rence too The most mistaken schemes that mean his praise. Rev'rence his priests.—for ev'ry priest is his,— Who finds him in his conscience.—

This year he published his Art of Acting, a Poem, deriving Rules from a new Principle, for touching the Passions in a natural Manner, &c. Which was dedicated to the Earl of Chesterfield.

Having for many years been in a manner forgetful of the eight Books he had finished of his Epic Poem called Gideon,—in 1749 he re-perused that work, and published three of the Books; to which he gave the name of Gideon, or the Patriot.—They were inscribed to the late lord Bolingbroke; to whom he accounts as follows, for the alterations he had made since the first publication of two Books.

Erring, where thousands err'd, in youth's hot smart, Propulsive prejudice had warp'd his heart: Bold, and too loud he sigh'd, for high distress, Fond of the fall'n, nor form'd to serve success; Partial to woes, had weigh'd their cause too light, Wept o'er misfortune,—and mis-nam'd it right: Anguish, attracting, turn'd attachment wrong, And pity's note mis-tun'd his devious song.

'Tis much lamented by many who are admirers of that species of poetry, that the author did not finish it.

The same year (after a length of different applications, for several seasons, at both Theatres without success) his Tragedy, called Merope, was brought upon the stage in Drury-Lane by Mr. Garrick; to whom, as well as to another gentleman he likewise highly both admired and esteemed, he was greatly obliged; and his own words (here borrowed) will shew how just a sense he had of these obligations.—They begin the preface to the play.

'If there can be a pride that ranks with virtues, it is that we feel from friendships with the worthy. Mr. Mallet, therefore, must forgive me, that I boast the honour he has done my Merope—I have so long been a retreater from the world, that one of the best spirits in it told me lately, I had made myself an alien there. I must confess, I owe so many obligations to its ornaments of most distinguished genius, that I must have looked upon it as a great unhappiness to have made choice of solitude, could I have judged society in general, by a respect so due to these adorners of it.'

And in relation to this Tragedy he says, after very justly censuring Monsieur de Voltaire, for representing in the preface to his Merope the English as incapable of Tragedy,

'To such provoking stimulations I have owed inducement to retouch, for Mr. Voltaire's use, the characters in his high boasted Merope; and I have done it on a plan as near his own as I could bring it with a safe conscience; that is to say, without distaste to English audiences.

This he likewise dedicated to lord Bolingbroke; and was the last he ever wrote.—There is a melancholy thread of fatal prophecy in the beginning of it; of his own approaching dissolution.

Cover'd in fortune's shade, I rest reclin'd; My griefs all silent; and my joys resign'd. With patient eye life's evening gloom survey: Nor shake th'out-hast'ning sands; nor bid 'em stay— Yet, while from life my setting prospects fly, Fain wou'd my mind's weak offspring shun to die. Fain wou'd their hope some light through time explore; The name's kind pasport—When the man's no more.

From about the time he was solliciting the bringing on this play, an illness seized him; from the tormenting pains of which he had scarce an hour's intermission; and after making trial of all he thought could be of service to him in medicine; he was desirous to try his native air of London (as that of Plaistow was too moist a one) but he was then past all recovery, and wasted almost to a skeleton, from some internal cause, that had produced a general decay (and was believed to have been an inflamation in the kidneys; which his intense attachment to his studies might probably lay the foundation of.—When in town, he had the comfort of being honoured with the visits of the most worthy and esteemed among his friends; but he was not permitted many weeks to taste that blessing. [Transcriber's note: closing brackets missing in original.]

The same humane and generous Mr. Mallet, who had before aided his Merope, about this time was making interest for its being played again, for the advantage of its author:—His royal highness the prince of Wales; had the great goodness to command it; and Mr. Hill just lived to express his grateful acknowledgments (to those about him) upon hearing of it:—But on the day before it was to be represented he died, in the very minute of the earthquake, February the eighth, 1749, which he seemed sensible of, though then deprived of utterance. Had he lived two days longer, he had been sixty-five years old.—He endur'd a twelve-month's torment of the body with a calmness that confess'd a superiority of soul! He was interred in the same grave with her the most dear to him when living, in the great cloister of Westminster-Abbey; near the lord Godolphin's tomb.

It may be truly said of Mr. Hill, he was a great and general writer; and had he been possest of the estate he was intitled to, his liberality had been no less extensive than his genius. But often do we see misfortune's clouds obscure the brightest sunshine.

Besides his works which here have been enumerated, there are several other; particularly two poems, intitled the Creation, and the Judgment-Day; which were published many years ago.—Another in blank verse he published in the time of his retreat into Essex; it was called, Cleon to Lycidas, a Time Piece; the date not marked by the printer.

Some years before his death, he talked of making a collection of his works for publication; but postponed it for the finishing some pieces, which he did not live to effect.

Since his death, four volumes of them have been published by subscription, for his family. He left one Tragedy, never yet acted; which was wrote originally about 1737, and intitled Caesar; but since, he has named it the Roman Revenge:—But as the author was avowedly a great admirer of Caesar's character, not in the light he is generally understood (that of a tyrant) but in one much more favourable, he was advised by several of the first distinction, both in rank and judgment, to make such alterations in it as should adapt it more to the general opinion; and upon that advice he in a manner new wrote the play: But as most first opinions are not easily eradicated, it has been never able to make a public trial of the success; which many of the greatest understanding have pronounced it highly worthy of.—The late lord Bolingbroke (in a letter wrote to the author) has called it one of the noblest drama's, that our language, or any age can boast.

These few little speeches are taken from the part of Caesar.

'Tis the great mind's expected pain, Calphurnia, To labour for the thankless.—He who seeks Reward in ruling, makes ambition guilt; And living for himself disclaims mankind.

And thus speaking to Mark Anthony;

If man were placed above the reach of insult, To pardon were no virtue.—Think, warm Anthony, What mercy is—'Tis, daring to be wrong'd, Yet unprovok'd by pride, persist, in pity.

This again to Calphurnia.

No matter.—Virtue triumphs by neglect: Vice, while it darkens, lends but foil to brightness: And juster times, removing slander's veil, Wrong'd merit after death is help'd to live.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This was sent us by an unknown hand.

[2] This play he made a present of to the patentee, and had several fine scenes painted for it, at his own expence: He indeed gave all his pieces to the stage; never taking any benefit, or gratuity from the managers, as an author—'till his last piece, Merope, was brought on the stage; when (unhappy gentleman) he was under the necessity of receiving his profits of the third nights; which 'till then, his generosity, and spirit, had ever declined.

[3] Under the name of Georgia.

[4] Savage was of great use to Mr. Pope, in helping him to little stories, and idle tales, of many persons whose names, lives, and writings, had been long since forgot, had not Mr. Pope mentioned them in his Dunciad:—This office was too mean for any one but inconsistent Savage: Who, with a great deal of absurd pride, could submit to servile offices; and for the vanity of being thought Mr. Pope's intimate, made no scruple of frequently sacrificing a regard to sincerity or truth. He had certainly, at one time, considerable influence over that great poet; but an assuming arrogance at last tired out Mr. Pope's patience.

[5] A lame come-off.

* * * * *

Mr. LEWIS THEOBALD.

This gentleman was born at Sittingburn in Kent, of which place his father, Mr. Peter Theobald, was an eminent attorney. His grammatical learning he received chiefly under the revd. Mr. Ellis, at Isleworth in Middlesex, and afterwards applied himself to the study and practice of the law: but finding that study too tedious and irksome for his genius, he quitted it for the profession of poetry. He engaged in a paper called the Censor, published in Mill's Weekly Journal; and by delivering his opinion with two little reserve, concerning some eminent wits, he exposed himself to their lashes, and resentment. Upon the publication of Pope's Homer, he praised it in the most extravagant terms of admiration; but afterwards thought proper to retract his opinion, for reasons we cannot guess, and abused the very performance he had before hyperbollically praised.

Mr. Pope at first made Mr. Theobald the hero of his Dunciad, but afterwards, for reasons best known to himself, he thought proper to disrobe him of that dignity, and bestow it upon another: with what propriety we shall not take upon us to determine, but refer the reader to Mr. Cibber's two letters to Mr. Pope. He was made hero of the poem, the annotator informs us, because no better was to be had. In the first book of the Dunciad, Mr. Theobald, or Tibbald, as he is there called, is thus stigmatised,

—Dullness her image full exprest, But chief in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast; Sees Gods with Daemons in strange league engage, And Earth, and heav'n, and hell her battles wage; She eyed the bard, where supperless he sate, And pin'd unconscious of his rising fate; Studious he sate, with all his books around, Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! Plung'd for his sense, but found no bottom there; Then writ, and flounder'd on, in meer despair. He roll'd his eyes, that witness'd huge dismay, Where yet unpawn'd much learned lumber lay.

He describes Mr. Theobald as making the following address to Dulness.

—For thee Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek, And crucify poor Shakespear once a-week. For thee I dim these eyes, and stuff this head, With all such reading as was never read; For thee, supplying in the worst of days, Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays; For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it, And write about it, goddess, and about it; So spins the silk-worm small its slender store, And labours till it clouds itself all o'er.

In the year 1726 Mr. Theobald published a piece in octavo, called Shakespear Restored: Of this it is said, he was so vain as to aver, in one of Mist's Journals, June the 8th, 'That to expose any errors in it was impracticable;' and in another, April the 27th, 'That whatever care might for the future be taken, either by Mr. Pope, or any other assistants, he would give above five-hundred emendations, that would escape them all.'

During two whole years, while Mr. Pope was preparing his edition, he published advertisements, requesting assistance, and promising satisfaction to any who would contribute to its greater perfection. But this restorer, who was at that time solliciting favours of him, by letters, did wholly conceal that he had any such design till after its publication; which he owned in the Daily Journal of November 26, 1728: and then an outcry was made, that Mr. Pope had joined with the bookseller to raise an extravagant subscription; in which he had no share, of which he had no knowledge, and against which he had publickly advertised in his own proposals for Homer.

Mr. Theobald was not only thus obnoxious to the resentment of Pope, but we find him waging war with Mr. Dennis, who treated him with more roughness, though with less satire. Mr. Theobald in the Censor, Vol. II. No. XXXIII. calls Mr. Dennis by the name of Furius. 'The modern Furius (says he) is to be looked upon as more the object of pity, than that which he daily provokes, laughter, and contempt. Did we really know how much this poor man suffers by being contradicted, or which is the same thing in effect, by hearing another praised; we should in compassion sometimes attend to him with a silent nod, and let him go away with the triumphs of his ill-nature. Poor Furius, where any of his cotemporaries are spoken well of, quitting the ground of the present dispute, steps back a thousand years, to call in the succour of the antients. His very panegyric is spiteful, and he uses it for the same reason as some ladies do their commendations of a dead beauty, who never would have had their good word; but that a living one happened to be mentioned in their company. His applause is not the tribute of his heart, but the sacrifice of his revenge.'

Mr. Dennis in resentment of this representation made of him, in his remarks on Pope's Homer, page 9. 10. thus mentions him. 'There is a notorious idiot, one HIGHT WHACHUM, who from an Under-spur-leather to the law, is become an Under strapper to the play-house, who has lately burlesqued the Metamorphoses of Ovid, by a vile translation, &c. This fellow is concerned in an impertinent paper called the Censor.' Such was the language of Mr. Dennis, when enflamed by contradiction.

In the year 1729 Mr. Theobald introduced upon the stage a Tragedy called the Double Falsehood; the greatest part of which he asserted was Shakespear's. Mr. Pope insinuated to the town, that it was all, or certainly the greatest part written, not by Shakespear, but Theobald himself, and quotes this line,

None but thyself can be thy parallel.

Which he calls a marvellous line of Theobald, 'unless (says he) the play called the Double Falsehood be (as he would have it thought) Shakespear's; but whether this line is his or not, he proves Shakespear to have written as bad.' The arguments which Mr. Theobald uses to prove the play to be Shakespear's are indeed far from satisfactory;—First, that the MS. was above sixty years old;—Secondly, that once Mr. Betterton had it, or he hath heard so;—Thirdly, that some body told him the author gave it to a bastard daughter of his;—But fourthly, and above all, that he has a great mind that every thing that is good in our tongue should be Shakespear's.

This Double Falsehood was vindicated by Mr. Theobald, who was attacked again in the art of sinking in poetry. Here Mr. Theobald endeavours to prove false criticisms, want of understanding Shakespear's manner, and perverse cavelling in Mr. Pope: He justifies himself and the great dramatic poet, and essays to prove the Tragedy in question to be in reality Shakespear's, and not unworthy of him. We cannot set this controversy in a clearer light, than by transcribing a letter subjoined to the Double Falsehood.

Dear Sir,

You desire to know, why in the general attack which Mr. Pope has lately made against writers living and dead, he has so often had a fling of satire at me. I should be very willing to plead guilty to his indictment, and think as meanly of myself as he can possibly do, were his quarrel altogether upon a fair, or unbiassed nature. But he is angry at the man; and as Juvenal says—

Facit indignatio versum.

He has been pleased to reflect on me in a few quotations from a play, which I had lately the good fortune to usher into the world; I am there concerned in reputation to enter upon my defence. There are three passages in his Art of Sinking in Poetry, which he endeavours to bring into disgrace from the Double Falsehood.

One of these passages alledged by our critical examiner is of that stamp, which is certain to include me in the class of profound writers. The place so offensive for its cloudiness, is,

—The obscureness of her birth Cannot eclipse the lustre of her eyes, Which make her all one light.

I must own, I think, there needs no great Oedipus to solve the difficulty of this passage. Nothing has ever been more common, than for lovers to compare their mistresses eyes to suns and stars. And what does Henriquez say more here than this, 'That though his mistress be obscure by her birth; yet her eyes are so refulgent, they set her above that disadvantage, and make her all over brightness.' I remember another rapture in Shakespear, upon a painter's drawing a fine lady's picture, where the thought seems to me every whit as magnified and dark at the first glance,

—But her eyes— How could he see to do them! having done one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfinished.—

This passage is taken from the Merchant of Venice, which will appear the more beautiful, the more it is considered.

Another passage which Mr. Pope is pleased to be merry with, is in a speech of Violante's;

Wax! render up thy trust.—

This, in his English is open the letter; and he facetiously mingles it with some pompous instances, most I believe of his own framing; which in plain terms signify no more than, See, whose there; snuff the candle; uncork the bottle; chip the bread; to shew how ridiculous actions of no consequence are, when too much exalted in the diction. This he brings under a figure, which he calls the Buskin, or Stately. But we'll examine circumstances fairly, and then we shall see which is most ridiculous; the phrase, or our sagacious censurer.

Violante is newly debauched by Henriquez, on his solemn promise of marrying her: She thinks he is returning to his father's court, as he told her, for a short time; and expects no letter from him. His servant who brings the letter, contradicts his master's going for court; and tells her he is gone some two months progress another way, upon a change of purpose. She who knew what concessions she had made to him, declares herself by starts, under the greatest agonies; and immediately upon the servant leaving her, expresses an equal impatience, and fear of the contents of this unexpected letter.