abilities of Lord Hervey, will be acknowledged by all who have
read his very entertaining memoirs lately published; but moreover,
able and brilliant as it is, it is too disagreeable to repeat. Let me
quote, then, his famous character of Addison, who had given offence
to him, whether with good reason or not it is no part of my present
purpose, nor would it be in my power, to decide. Pope thought
that Addison had treated him slightingly and superciliously, and I
believe took specially amiss the kind of notice he had bestowed
upon the Rape of the Lock. He speaks of him under the name of
Atticus; you will remark the consummate skill with which he first
does justice to his genius, and then detracts from its lustre. It is
also a great proof of the cleverness of the satire, that, sincere as
our respect is both for the genius and character of Addison, it is
impossible to go through this piece of dissection without believing
that it must have touched upon some points of real soreness.
"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 brother 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, teach the rest 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 ev'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd,
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause ;
While wits and templars every 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!"

Then I will take the character of the able, versatile, and unprincipled Duke of Wharton:

"Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise:
Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,
Women and fools must like him, or he dies;
Tho' wondering senates hung on all he spoke,
The club must hail him master of the joke.

(This couplet has been applied to the celebrated Mr. Sheridan, and does not ill suit the author of the speeches on Warren Hastings's trial, and the School for Scandal.)

Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart,
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And most contemptible, to shun contempt;
His passion still, to covet general praise,
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
A constant bounty which no friend has made;
An angel tongue, which no man can persuade;
A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,
Too rash for thought, for action too refin'd;
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves,
A rebel to the very king he loves;

He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.
Ask you why Wharton broke thro' every rule?

'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool."

I have given the characters of two men; fairness demands that at least I should give you one of a woman. I take that of Chloe; most of us will feel that we have known people, to whom some parts of it at least might fit:

"Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot -
Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.
'With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part,
'Say what does Chloe want?' She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,
But never, never reach'd one generous thought.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.

So very reasonable, so unmov'd,

As never yet to love, or to be lov'd.

She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian chest:
And when she sees her friend in deep despair,
Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.
Forbid it heav'n, a favour or a debt

She e'er should cancel! but she may forget.
Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear;
But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.
Of all her Dears she never slander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Chloe is prudent!— Would you too be wise?

Then never break your heart when Chloe dies."

Having thus attempted to do justice to Pope's powers of satire, I must not omit to mention what I consider to be another of his felicities almost of an opposite character, though I have perceived with pleasure since I noted this topic, that I have been anticipated in the same line of remark by the late Mr. Hazlitt; I say with pleasure, because that ingenious person was one of the guides and favourites of a school the most opposed in theory and practice to that of Pope; I allude to the extreme tact, skill, and delicacy with which he conveys a compliment, and frequently embodies in one pregnant line or couplet a complete panegyric of the character he wishes to distinguish. Let me instance this by a few examples. Sometimes the compliment appears merely to be thrown out almost as it were by chance to illustrate his meaning. So of the Duke of Chandos, whom at another time he is supposed to have intended to ridicule under the character of Timon—

"Thus gracious Chandos is belov'd at sight."

Then of Lord Cornbury

"Would ye be blest? despise low joys, low gains,
Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains."

Of General Oglethorpe, the founder of Georgia-
"One driv'n by strong benevolence of soul

Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole."

These have reference to manly virtues; sometimes there is the same oblique reference to female claims;

"Hence Beauty, waking all her tints, supplies,

An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes."

At other times the eulogium is more direct. Take that fine application to Lord Cobham of the effect of man's ruling passion, developing itself in death, which he has been pursuing through a number of instances,—the man of pleasure, the miser, the glutton, the courtier, the coquette, all, for the most part, under circumstances derogatory to the pride of human nature, when he thus sums them up –

"And

you,

brave Cobham, to the latest breath Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death; Such, in these moments, as in all the past,

Oh, save my country, Heav'n!' shall be your last."

How beautiful is the couplet to Dr. Arbuthnot, his physician and friend

"Friend of my life! which did not you prolong,

The world had wanted many an idle song."

How ingenious that to the famous Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, on being desired to write some lines in an album with his pencil

66

Accept a miracle instead of wit,

See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ."

How happy is the allusion to Lord Peterborough, who made a brilliant campaign in Spain within a wonderfully short time. He represents him as assisting to lay out his grounds —

"And he whose lightning pierc'd th' Iberian lines
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines,
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."

He always speaks of Murray, the great Lord Mansfield, with pride and affection. It is true, that one of the worst lines he ever wrote is about him, the second in this couplet

"Grac'd as thou art with all the power of words,
So known, so honour'd, at the House of Lords."

An instance how much delicacy it requires to introduce with effect familiar names and things; sometimes it tells with great force; here it is disastrously prosaic; we almost forgive it, however, when he turns from the Palace of Westminster to the Abbey opposite

"Where Murray, long enough his country's pride,

Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde."

He again alludes to the aptitude for poetical composition which Murray had exhibited, and also to the talent for epigram which he assumes that the great orator Pulteney would have displayed if he had not been engrossed by politics.

"How sweet an Ovid, Murray, was our boast;

How many Martials were in Pulteney lost."

These were for the most part his political friends, but when he mentions Sir Robert Walpole, to whom his friends, more than himself, were virulently opposed, how respectful and tender is the reproach, how adroit and insinuating the praise

"Seen him I have, but in his happier hour,
Of social pleasure, ill exchang'd for power,
Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe."

I might adduce many other instances; I might quote at full length the noble epistle to Lord Oxford, but I will sum up this topic with that striking passage in which, while he enumerates the persons who encouraged and fostered his earlier productions, he presents us with a gallery of illustrious portraits, sometimes conveys by a single word an insight into their whole character, and concludes the distinguished catalogue with the name of that St. John whom he uniformly regarded with feelings little short of idolatry, and which, however misplaced and ill-grounded, have even in themselves something of the poetical attribute

"But why then publish? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh would tell me I could write;
Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,
And Congreve loved, and Swift endured, my lays.

(Observe how the gentle and amiable Congreve "loved,” and the caustic and cynical Swift "endured.")