Part 9

All that is left us is to recommend our productions by the imitation of the ancients; and it will be found true, that in every age, the highest character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who have been most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very good sense, must have been common sense in all times; and what we call learning, is but the knowledge of the sense of our predecessors. Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own, because they resemble the ancients, may as well say our faces are not our own, because they are like our fathers: and, indeed, it is very unreasonable that people should expect us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us so.

I fairly confess that I have served myself all I could by reading; that I made use of the judgment of authors dead and living; that I omitted no means in my power to be informed of my errors, both by my friends and enemies: but the true reason these pieces are not more correct, is owing to the consideration how short a time they, and I, have to live. One may be ashamed to consume half one's days in bringing sense and rhyme together: and what critic can be so unreasonable, as not to leave a man time enough for any more serious employment, or more agreeable amusement?

The only plea I shall use for the favour of the public, is, that I have as great a respect for it as most authors have for themselves; and that I have sacrificed much of my own self-love for its sake, in preventing not only many mean things from seeing the light, but many which I thought tolerable. 'I would not be like those authors, who forgive themselves some particular lines for the sake of a whole poem, and vice versâ a whole poem for the sake of some particular lines.' I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer as the power of rejecting his own thoughts; and it must be this, if any thing, that can give me a chance to be one. For what I have published I can only hope to be pardoned; but for what I have burned I deserve to be praised. On this account the world is under some obligation to me, and owes me the justice in return to look upon no verses as mine that are not inserted in this collection. And perhaps nothing could make it worth my while to own what are really so, but to avoid the imputation of so many dull and immoral things, as partly by malice, and partly by ignorance, have been ascribed to me. I must further acquit myself of the presumption of having lent my name to recommend any Miscellanies, or works of other men; a thing I never thought becoming a person who has hardly credit enough to answer for his own.

In this office of collecting my pieces, I am altogether uncertain whether to look upon myself as a man building a monument, or burying the dead. If time shall make it the former, may these poems, as long as they last, remain as a testimony, that their author never made his talents subservient to the mean and unworthy ends of party or self-interest; the gratification of public prejudices or private passions; the flattery of the undeserving, or the insult of the unfortunate. If I have written well, let it be considered that it is what no man can do without good sense, a quality that not only renders one capable of being a good writer, but a good man. And if I have made any acquisition in the opinion of any one under the notion of the former, let it be continued to me under no other title than that of the latter.

But if this publication be only a more solemn funeral of my remains, I desire it may be known that I die in charity, and in my senses, without any murmurs against the justice of this age, or any mad appeals to posterity. I declare I shall think the world in the right, and quietly submit to every truth which time shall discover to the prejudice of these writings; not so much as wishing so irrational a thing as that every body should be deceived merely for my credit. However, I desire it may then be considered, that there are very few things in this collection which were not written under the age of five-and-twenty, so that my youth may be made, as it never fails to be in executions, a case of compassion; that I was never so concerned about my works as to vindicate them in print, believing if any thing was good it would defend itself, and what was bad could never be defended; that I used no artifice to raise or continue a reputation, depreciated no dead author I was obliged to, bribed no living one with unjust praise, insulted no adversary with ill language, or, when I could not attack a rival's works, encouraged reports against his morals. To conclude, if this volume perish, let it serve as a warning to the critics not to take too much pains for the future to destroy such things as will die of themselves; and a memento mori to some of my vain contemporaries the poets, to teach them that when real merit is wanting, it avails nothing to have been encouraged by the great, commended by the eminent, and favoured by the public in general.

Nov. 10, 1716.

FOOTNOTES:

Spence relates that Pope said to Mr. Saville: "If I was to begin the world again, and knew just what I do now, I would never write a verse." In the passage from his manuscript preface, he intimates that he would have amused himself by writing poetry, but would have forborne to publish what he wrote. Either he was not honest in the opinion, or he was self-deceived. He valued his fame above all things, and left no means untried to protect and promote it.]

The assertion of Pope is in the face of the facts. All the greatest names in modern literature have a marked originality, and those authors who have imitated the ancients, except in subordinate circumstances, have usually produced tame and lifeless compositions, which were speedily forgotten.]

Warton alludes to the Dunciad, but to have "insulted adversaries with ill language" was only one out of several particulars, in which Pope's subsequent career belied the protestations in his preface.]

PREFACE TO POPE'S WORKS.

VOL. II. 4TO, 1735.

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.

All I had to say of my writings is contained in my preface to the first of these volumes, printed for J. Tonson, and B. Lintot in quarto and folio in the year 1717; and all I have to say of myself will be found in my last Epistle. I have nothing to add, but that this volume, and the above-mentioned contain whatsoever I have written, and designed for the press, except my translation of the Iliad (with my preface and notes), of twelve books of the Odyssey, with the postscript (not the notes), the preface to Shakespeare, and a few Spectators and Guardians. Whatever besides I have written, or joined in writing with Dr. Swift, Dr. Arbuthnot, or Mr. Gay (the only persons with whom I ever wrote in conjunction) are to be found in the four volumes of Miscellanies by us published. I think them too inconsiderable to be separated and reprinted here; nevertheless, that none of my faults may be imputed to another, I must own that of the prose part, the Thoughts on Various Subjects at the end of the second volume, were wholly mine; and of the verses, the Happy Life of a Country Parson, the Alley in imitation of Spenser, the characters of Macer, Artimesia, and Phryne, the Verses to Mrs. M[artha] B[lount] on her Birth-day, and a few epigrams. It will be but justice to me to believe that nothing more is mine, notwithstanding all that has been published in my name, or added to my miscellanies since 1717, by any bookseller whatsoever.

A. POPE. Jan. 1, 1734-{5}.

FOOTNOTES:

RECOMMENDATORY POEMS.

JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

ON MR. POPE AND HIS POEMS.

With age decayed, with courts and bus'ness tired, Caring for nothing but what ease required; Too dully serious for the muses' sport, And from the critics safe arrived in port; I little thought of launching forth again, 5 Amidst advent'rous rovers of the pen: And after so much undeserved success, Thus hazarding at last to make it less. Encomiums suit not this censorious time, Itself a subject for satiric rhyme; 10 Ignorance honoured, wit and worth defamed, Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blamed! But to this genius, joined with so much art, Such various learning mixed in ev'ry part, Poets are bound a loud applause to pay; 15 Apollo bids it, and they must obey. And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing As the great Iliad, scarce could make me sing, Except I justly could at once commend A good companion, and as firm a friend, 20 One moral, or a mere well-natured deed Can all desert in sciences exceed. 'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways, But a much greater to give merit praise.

ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.

TO MR. POPE.

The muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed To be the chief, is public, though not proud. Widely extensive is the poet's aim, And in each verse he draws a bill on fame. For none have writ (whatever they pretend) 5 Singly to raise a patron, or a friend; But whatsoe'er the theme or object be, Some commendations to themselves foresee. Then let us find, in your foregoing page, The celebrating poems of the age; 10 Nor by injurious scruples think it fit To hide their judgments who applaud your wit. But let their pens to yours the heralds prove, Who strive for you as Greece for Homer strove; Whilst he who best your poetry asserts, 15 Asserts his own, by sympathy of parts. Me panegyric verse does not inspire, Who never well can praise what I admire; Nor in those lofty trials dare appear, But gently drop this counsel in your ear. 20 Go on, to gain applauses by desert, Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart; Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage, Elate the young, and gravely warm the sage; Allure with tender verse the female race, 25 And give their darling passion courtly grace; Describe the Forest still in rural strains, With vernal sweets fresh breathing from the plains. Your tales be easy, natural, and gay, Nor all the poet in that part display; 30 Nor let the critic there his skill unfold, For Boccace thus, and Chaucer tales have told. Soothe, as you only can, each diff'ring taste, And for the future charm as in the past. Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand 35 Before your numbers eminently stand; In you no vanity could thence be shown, Unless, since short in beauty of your own, Some envious scribbler might in spite declare, That for comparison you placed them there. 40 But envy could not against you succeed, } 'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; } Censure or praise must from ourselves proceed. }

MR. WYCHERLEY.

TO MR. POPE, ON HIS PASTORALS.

In these more dull, as more censorious days, When few dare give, and fewer merit praise, A muse sincere, that never flatt'ry knew, Pays what to friendship and desert is due. Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found 5 Art strength'ning nature, sense improved by sound. Unlike those wits whose numbers glide along So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song: Laboriously enervate they appear, And write not to the head, but to the ear: 10 Our minds unmoved and unconcerned they lull, And are at best most musically dull: So purling streams with even murmurs creep, And hush the heavy hearers into sleep. As smoothest speech is most deceitful found, } 15 The smoothest numbers oft are empty sound, } And leave our lab'ring fancy quite aground. } But wit and judgment join at once in you, Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too: Your strains are regularly bold, and please } 20 With unforced care, and unaffected ease, } With proper thoughts, and lively images: } Such as by nature to the ancients shown, Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own: For great men's fashions to be followed are, 25 Although disgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear. Some in a polished style write pastoral, Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall; Like some fair shepherdess, the sylvan muse, Decked in those flow'rs her native fields produce, 30 With modest charms would in plain neatness please, } But seems a dowdy in the courtly dress, } Whose awkward finery allures us less. } But the true measure of the shepherd's wit Should, like his garb, be for the country fit: 35 Yet must his pure and unaffected thought More nicely than the common swain's be wrought. So, with becoming art, the players dress In silks the shepherd and the shepherdess; Yet still unchanged the form and mode remain, 40 Shaped like the homely russet of the swain. Your rural muse appears to justify The long lost graces of simplicity: So rural beauties captivate our sense With virgin charms, and native excellence. 45 Yet long her modesty those charms concealed, 'Till by men's envy to the world revealed; For wits industrious to their trouble seem, And needs will envy what they must esteem. Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate, 50 Which would, if Virgil lived, on Virgil wait; Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight; Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight; So larks, which first from lowly fields arise, Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies. 55

FR. KNAPP.

TO MR. POPE, ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST.