HIS POETIC METHODS

BUT young Mr. Pope does not think much of the pastorals, save as stepping-stones; they paved his way to a large acquaintance with the London wits; and it would seem that at one time he thought of living at the dreadful pace of these gentlemen-in bottles and midnight routs; perhaps he tried it for a while; but his feeble frame could stand no such neck-breaking gallop. He can, however, put more of wearisome elaboration and pains-taking skill to his rhymes than any of the verse-makers of his time. He has by nature a mincing step of his own-different as possible from the long, easy lope of Dryden—and that step he perfects by unwearied practice, and word-mongering, until it comes to the wondrous ten-syllabled movement, which for polish, and rhythmic trictrac is unmatchable.

The Essay on Criticism, Windsor Forest, and the Rape of the Lock, all belonged to those early years at Binfield, and I give a test of each; first, from the Essay:—

"Where 'er you find 'the cooling Western breeze,'

In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees :'

If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,'

The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 'sleep ;'

Then, at the last and only couplet fraught

With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,

A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along."

Next this bustling bit, from Windsor Forest:

"See, from the brake the whirring pheasant

springs

And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.

Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breast that flames with
gold."

And again, this, from the Rape of the Lock:

"Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edged weapon from her shining case; So ladies in romance assist their knight, Present the spear, and arm him for the fight,

He takes the gift with reverence, and extends
The little engine on his fingers' ends;

This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair,
A thousand wings, by turns, throw back the
hair;

And thrice they twitched the diamond in her

ear,

Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near."

And yet again-this worthier excerpt from the same dainty poem:

"Fair nymphs, and well-drest youths around her shone

But every eye was fixed on her alone.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those;
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends."

Ten pages of extracts would not show better his amazing attention to details-his quick eye -his gifts in word-craft, and his musical exploitation of his themes. I know that this poet works in harness, and has not the free movement of one who gallops under a loose reign;

the couplets fetter him; may be they cramp him; but there is a blithe, strong resonance of true metal, in the clinking chains that bind him. No, I do not think that Pope is to be laughed out of court, in our day, or in any day, because he labored at form and polish, or because he loved so much the tingle of a rhyme; I think there was something else that tingled in a good deal that he wrote and will continue to tingle so long as Wit is known by its own

name.

The good word spoken for him in the Spectator-the great printed authority in literary matters-brought him into more intimate association with the Literary Guild of that paper; he wrote for the Spectator on several occasions. An early contribution is that of 1712 (November 10th), where he calls attention to the famous verses which the Emperor Adrian spoke on his death-bed; he says:

"I was in company the other day with five or six men of learning, who agreed that they showed a gayety unworthy that prince in those circumstances ;" and he quotes the lines:

Animula vagula, blandula
Hospes Comes que Corporis
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, etc.

"But," he says, "methinks it was by no means a gay, but a very serious soliloquy to his soul at the point of his departure."

And out of this comment and thought of Pope's, contributed casually (if Pope ever did anything casually) to the Spectator, came by and by from the poet's anvil, that immortal hymn we all know,

"Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame;
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!"

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

I CITED two significant fragments from the Rape of the Lock, a poem belonging to Pope's early period, and which is reckoned by most poets and critics,1 as well as biographers, his masterpiece, and a beautiful work of the highest literary art. I recognize the superior authority, but cannot share the exalted admiration; at least, it does not beget such loving approval as brings one back again and again

'Lowell, Professor Minto, De Quincey, Hazlitt, Covington, etc. De Quincey says, "It is the most exquisite monument of playful fancy that universal literature offers."