art-an art which in itself is genius-which gives vitality to every line of Pope. As well might the ardent mountaineer despise the varied beauties of wood and pasture, of rural homestead, or well-kept flower-garden, or the artist who loves the sea turn his back with contempt upon lake and river. It is a mere truism to say that Pope is not one of the greatest of our poets. There are heights to which he could not soar, and depths he was unable to fathom. He was not "of imagination all compact," he was not even "Fancy's child" in the sense in which Milton applied that epithet to Shakespeare. Beside the two great names we have mentioned, his name sounds comparatively small; but in the extensive region of poetry there is as much room for a Pope as for a Wordsworth, and the lover of literature will find in his pages a wonderful fascination, a charm that is unique, and that compels him to turn to them again and again, not indeed for solace, not perhaps for wisdom, but for what, according to Lord Bacon, is one of the ends, although a subordinate end, of poetry, "delectation."

Mr. Connington, whose premature death all lovers of literature must deplore, said, with perfect truth, that to form an independent judgment on all the discussions to which Pope's biography has given rise would require a special study, not of months, but

of years, and he remarked, with equal justice, that "there is probably no English author whose life can be compared with Pope's, as a succession of petty secrets and third-rate problems." All this is undeniable. The late Mr. Dilke, and Mr. Elwin following in his wake, have managed, by indomitable energy and patience, to solve some of these problems. Others remain, upon which opinion is divided, and it may be doubted whether the labour bestowed upon them would not be thrown away. At all events, it is ungrateful labour, and it seems hard, after receiving so much pleasure from the poet, to subject the man to our critical scalpel, and to lay bare whatever we can find in him that was foolish or ignoble. The task may be necessary, and on this point something will be said hereafter; but it is unquestionably painful. Putting aside these problems, however, it may be remarked that we know more about Pope than about any of his contemporaries, and we cannot understand Mrs. Oliphant's meaning in likening Pope's history to a "barren tale, filled from beginning to end with shadows instead of realities."* From the day when the precocious boy "lisped in numbers," until the day when the famous poet was laid to rest with the parents whom he loved, Pope's career lies

* Historical Sketches of the Reign of George II., vol. i. p. 302. W. Blackwood and Sons.

open before us. He lived all his life through in a glass house, and from the anecdotes of Spence, from the poet's letters, disingenuous as they too often are, from the voluminous correspondence of his contemporaries, and from the quarrels which served to keep men of letters alive in the eighteenth century, we can gather up almost all that is worth knowing about him.

There can be no doubt Pope's biography still remains to be written. Ayre's memoir abounds with crude inventions. Owen Ruffhead compiled his work from original manuscripts, and has preserved a few portant biographical facts; but of the 552 pages which form the volume we are within bounds in saying that 400 are wholly useless, being devoted to extracts from the poetry, declamatory criticism, and remarks on Warton's essay. Let no one read the book who will not be content to find a few grains of wheat amidst a bushel of chaff. Of Dr. Johnson's Life, which is in some respects a masterly production, the main interest is critical rather than biographical. The Rev. Mr. Bowles, "a pretty poet" and an amiable man, but garrulous, undignified, and dyspeptic, has injured Pope by misrepresentations and perverse suspicions, and has lowered his own reputation by a fruitless controversy. There

is perhaps some worth in Roscoe's memoir, though none in his criticism, and the dulness of the book is intolerable. A biography that nobody can read might as well not have been written. Mr. Ward's compact memoir, prefixed to the "Globe" edition of the poet's works, has been carefully and judiciously compiled. The writer has a sound knowledge of his subject, and his critical sagacity is rarely at fault. By far the most readable life of Pope which we possess at present is that of Mr. Carruthers. For general readers it leaves little to be desired, but students of Pope will probably agree with us that it is scarcely on a scale commensurate with the subject, and that, to quote the modest language of the writer, it "can be considered only as a contribution towards the history of Pope and his times." What Mr. Elwin's promised biography may prove we can of course only conjecture. For more than twenty years he has been collecting materials for his magnum opus, the works and biography of Pope. Probably no one living has so minute and exhaustive a knowledge of the subject, but it is to be feared, if we may judge from the five volumes of the Works already published, that the long labour has wearied, even disgusted him, and that, notwithstanding his fine taste, consummate ability, and entire command of his

materials, he will be unable to judge of Pope with the generosity and sympathy which are as essential in literature as in life. As far as we have followed Mr. Elwin at present, he is the severest of Pope's critics. Not a blemish escapes his eye. He notes every grammatical inaccuracy, every unmetrical line, every unsound opinion, every borrowed thought, and so persistent is his opposition that we can but marvel he should have devoted the study of years to a poet whose character he despises, and for whose finest poetry he shows, at best, a carefully-measured approbation.

Pope cannot be said to have started favourably in the race of life. He was deformed and he was sickly; but, thanks to the tender assiduities of his mother and his nurse, the feeble boy was reared in safety, and began soon to give proof that what Nature had denied in one direction she had bestowed

lavishly in another. The little "nightingale," as

he was called-for his voice was as sweet in childhood as his eyes were remarkable for beauty in after years-was a poet almost from the cradle, and it is interesting to read of the young genius, then considerably under twelve, paying a visit to Will's Coffee-house in order to see, if but for a moment, his poetical predecessor, John Dryden.