upon his enemies, but he still took his daily walk alone, and, though so feeble, would allow no one to go with him. "I had rather die at once," said he, "than live in fear of those rascals." Indeed, he felt a keen delight in seeing how deeply his "scorn-winged arrows" had pierced the hearts of the "dunces," exclaiming:

"I know I'm proud-I must be proud to see

Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me."

It is curious to trace this word "dunce" to its source, the great teacher of the Franciscan order, Duns Scotus, whom his followers called the "subtle doctor." But those who did not accept his theology would say to his disciples: "Oh, you are a Dunsman," or, more briefly, "You are a Duns," and, as his teaching and theories lost ground, the word became in time a synonyme for stupidity. In his "Essay on Man," Pope attempts to vindicate Providence, and to show the necessity of evil in the world, and that our finite capacities fail to see the wisdom of God's perfect plan. In short:

"All nature is but art, unknown to thee;

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood;

All partial evil, universal good;

And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, whatever is, is right."

His own idea of this poem is well expressed in these lines:

"Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise;

Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,
"But vindicate the ways of God to man."

Pope has been accused of being a fatalist, but he positively asserts man's free agency and responsibility: and though he did not look at life and life's realities from

the noblest stand-point, he certainly intended to write in favor of morality and Christianity. The "Essay" is full of beautiful lines, but I will only make one extract:

"All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;

That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame,

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;

As full as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns;
To Him no high, no low, no great, no small;

He fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all."

His style is pointed, precise, polished.

Unlike his

model, Dryden, he wrote with great care, and elaborated and pruned with untiring hand. He knew

"The last and greatest art, the art to blot."

Yet, with all his care, some of his lines are rather silly when criticised separately. For instance:

"Why has not man a microscopic eye?

For this plain reason-man is not a fly."

Sydney Smith, the witty English divine, has given us a parody of this:

"Why has not man a collar and a log?

For this plain reason-man is not a dog."

1 served up with sauce in dish? reason-man is not a fish."

Swift and Pope. ere good friends, and always corresponded. Both were morbid and misanthropic. Swift despised mankind, but liked individuals. Pope tolerated

the masses, but hated particular men and women. Their letters are sad to read, because there they showed their jealousies, and prejudices, and hates. "As good friends exchange jam, or turkeys, or oysters, these potentates occasionally sent each other little pots of gall, or preparations of poison, as friendly gifts."

Pope, when he first met Addison, was his warm admirer and humble servant. It was he who wrote the prologue for "Cato," and he even went so far as to lampoon Addison's enemies, in a coarse way, which offended rather than pleased his patron. There were other reasons why they could not be friends. Addison did like to have all the attentions and all the praise, and was naturally jealous of the rising genius. Then, too, Tickell, his bosom friend, published a translation of "The Iliad " at the same time with Pope, which was thought by some to be more scholarly and exact, as Pope had never studied at a university. Pope accused Addison of helping Tickell in his work, which was not true; but of course there could be no friendship in the future. Pope was too indignant to be silent, and the verses which he sent to Addison are known to all:

"And 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 caused 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 reserved to blame as to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading even fools, by flatteries besieged,
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged;

Like Cato, gives his little senate laws,
And sits 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?"

There is venom in this description, and just enough truth to make the libel more effective. How much better and happier a man he might have been if he had carried out in his life the beautiful sentiment found in his "Universal Prayer:

You observe the difference between the authors last

described and Shakespeare? He wrote for all men, all

countries, and all time. Swift, Addison, Pope, wrote for their own time alone, to suit the artificial state of society; and you will find little true pathos, humanity, or humor. Pope was witty, ingenious, acute, sparkling, sarcastic; but he was not a natural poet, and never forgot himself. Through all his life he delighted in artifice, and hardly drank tea without a stratagem. But his misfortune leads us to overlook many faults. He died at Twickenham, on the 30th of May, 1744, after a life of incessant ill-health and incessant industry, adorned with a greater share of fame and honor than often falls to the lot of poets.