The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope, vol 2 | Page 6

system of naturalism. And one may accommodate to him
the well-known saying of Lyndhurst about Lord Brougham, "who
would have made a capital Chancellor if he had had only a little law;"
so Pope was very well qualified to have translated Homer, barring his
ignorance of Greek. But every page of his writings proves a wide and
diversified knowledge--a knowledge, too, which he has perfectly under
control--which he can make to go a great way--and by which, with
admirable skill, he can subserve alike his moral and literary purpose.
But the question now arises--What was his purpose? Was it worthy of
his powers? Was it high, holy, and faithfully pursued? No poet, we
venture to say, can be great without a great purpose. "Purpose is the
edge and point of character; it is the stamp and superscription of genius;
it is the direction on the letter of talent. Character without it is blunt and
torpid; talent without it is a letter which, undirected, goes nowhere;
genius without it is bullion, sluggish, splendid, and uncirculating." Now,
Pope's purpose seems, on the whole, dim and uncertain. He is
indifferent to destruction, and careless about conserving. He is neither
an infidel nor a Christian; no Whig, but no very ardent Tory either. He
seems to wish to support morality, but his support is stumbling and
precarious; although, on the other hand, notwithstanding his frequent
coarseness of language and looseness of allusion, he exhibits no desire
to overturn or undermine it. His bursts of moral feeling are very
beautiful (such as that containing the noble lines--
"Vice is undone if she forgets her earth,
And stoops from angels to

the dregs of birth.
But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore:
Let
greatness own her and she's mean no more.
Her birth, her beauty,
crowds and courts confess,
Chaste matrons praise her, and grave
bishops bless.
In golden chains the willing world she draws,
And
hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her
scarlet head,
And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead.")
But they are brief, seem the result of momentary moods rather than the
spray of a strong, steady current; and he soon turns from them to the
expression of his petty chagrins and personal animosities. In satire, he
has not the indomitable pace and deep-mouthed bellow of a Juvenal,
pursuing his object like a bloodhound: he resembles more a half-angry,
half-playful terrier. To obtain a terse and musical expression for his
thought is his artistic purpose, but that of his mind and moral nature is
not so apparent in his poetry. Indeed, we are tempted at times to class
him with his own sylphs in this respect, as well as in the elegance and
swiftness of his genius. They neither belonged to heaven nor hell, but
vibrated between in graceful gyrations. They laughed at, and toyed with,
all things--never rising to dangerous heights, never sinking into
profound abysses--fancying a lock a universe, and a universe only a
larger lock--dancing like evening ephemeræ in the sunbeam, which was
to be their sepulchre, and shutting their tiny eyes to all the solemn
responsibilities, grave uncertainties, and mysterious destinies of human
nature. And so, too often, did their poet.
Pope's special faculties are easily seen, and may be briefly enumerated.
Destitute of the highest imagination, and perhaps of constructive
power--(he has produced many brilliant parts, and many little, but no
large wholes)--he is otherwise prodigally endowed. He has a keen,
strong, clear intellect, which, if it seldom reaches sublimity, never fails
to eliminate sense. He has wit of a polished and vigorous kind--less
easy, indeed, than Addison's, the very curl of whose lip was crucifixion
to his foe. This wit, when exasperated into satire, is very formidable,
for, like Addison's, it does its work with little noise. Pope whispers
poetic perdition--he deals in drops of concentrated bitterness--he stabs
with a poisoned bodkin--he touches his enemies into stone with the
light and playful finger of a fairy--and his more elaborate invectives

glitter all over with the polish of profound malignity. His knowledge of
human nature, particularly of woman's heart, is great, but seems more
the result of impish eavesdropping than of that thorough and genial
insight which sympathy produces. He has listened at the keyhole, not
by any "Open Sesame" entered the chamber. He has rather painted
manners than men. His power of simulating passion is great; but the
passion must, in general, be mingled with unnatural elements ere he
can realise it--the game must be putrid ere he can enjoy its flavour. He
has no humour, at least in his poetry. It is too much of an unconscious
outflow, and partakes too much of the genial and the human nature for
him. His fancy is lively and copious, but its poetical products often
resemble the forced fruits of a