No More Learning

Pope begins by complaining of the misfortunes which his
reputation as a successful man of letters has brought upon him. He is a
mark for all the starving scribblers of the town who besiege him for
advice, recommendations, and hard cash. Is it not enough to make a man
write 'Dunciads? ' Arbuthnot warns him against the danger of making foes
(ll. 101- 104), but Pope replies that his flatterers are even more
intolerable than his open enemies. And with a little outburst of
impatience, such as we may well imagine him to have indulged in during
his later years, he cries:

Why did I write? What sin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents' or my own?

and begins with l. 125 his poetical autobiography. He tells of his first
childish efforts, of poetry taken up "to help me thro' this long disease
my life," and then goes on to speak of the noble and famous friends who
had praised his early work and urged him to try his fortune in the open
field of letters. He speaks of his first poems, the 'Pastorals' and
'Windsor Forest', harmless as Hervey's own verses, and tells how even
then critics like Dennis fell foul of him. Rival authors hated him, too,
especially such pilfering bards as Philips. This he could endure, but
the coldness and even jealousy of such a man as Addison--and here
appears the famous portrait of Atticus--was another matter, serious
enough to draw tears from all lovers of mankind.

Passing on (l. 213) to the days of his great success when his 'Homer'
was the talk of the town, he asserts his ignorance of all the arts of
puffery and his independence of mutual admiration societies.
He left
those who wished a patron to the tender mercies of Halifax, who fed fat
on flattery and repaid his flatterers merely with a good word or a seat
at his table. After all, the poet could afford to lose the society of
Bufo's toadies while such a friend as Gay was left him (l. 254).

After an eloquent expression of his wish for independence (ll. 261-270),
he goes on to speak of the babbling friends who insist that he is always
meditating some new satire, and persist in recognizing some wretched
poetaster's lampoon as his. And so by a natural transition Pope comes to
speak of his own satiric poems and their aims. He says, and rightly,
that he has never attacked virtue or innocence. He reserves his lash for
those who trample on their neighbors and insult "fallen worth," for cold
or treacherous friends, liars, and babbling blockheads. Let Sporus
(Hervey) tremble (l. 303). Arbuthnot interposes herewith an ejaculation
of contemptuous pity; is it really worth the poet's while to castigate
such a slight thing as Hervey, that "mere white curd"? But Pope has
suffered too much from Hervey's insolence to stay his hand, and he now
proceeds to lay on the lash with equal fury and precision, drawing blood
at every stroke, until we seem to see the wretched fop writhing and
shrieking beneath the whip. And then with a magnificent transition he
goes on (ll. 332-337) to draw a portrait of himself. Here, he says in
effect, is the real man that Sporus has so maligned. The portrait is
idealized, of course; one could hardly expect a poet speaking in his own
defense in reply to venomous attacks to dissect his own character with
the stern impartiality of the critics of the succeeding century, but it
is in all essentials a portrait at once impressive and true.