No More Learning

Both as a man and as a poet Pope is sadly in need of a defender to-day.
And a defense is by no means impossible. The depreciation of Pope's
poetry springs, in the main, from an attempt to measure it by other
standards than those which he and his age recognized. The attacks upon
his character are due, in large measure, to a misunderstanding of the
spirit of the times in which he lived and to a forgetfulness of the
special circumstances of his own life. Tried in a fair court by
impartial judges Pope as a poet would be awarded a place, if not among
the noblest singers, at least high among poets of the second order. And
the flaws of character which even his warmest apologist must admit would
on the one hand be explained, if not excused, by circumstances, and on
the other more than counterbalanced by the existence of noble qualities
to which his assailants seem to have been quite blind.

Alexander Pope was born in London on May 21, 1688. His father was a
Roman Catholic linen draper, who had married a second time. Pope was the
only child of this marriage, and seems to have been a delicate,
sweet-tempered, precocious, and, perhaps, a rather spoiled child.

Pope's religion and his chronic ill-health are two facts of the highest
importance to be taken into consideration in any study of his life or
judgment of his character. The high hopes of the Catholics for a
restoration of their religion had been totally destroyed by the
Revolution of 1688. During all Pope's lifetime they were a sect at once
feared, hated, and oppressed by the severest laws. They were excluded
from the schools and universities, they were burdened with double taxes,
and forbidden to acquire real estate. All public careers were closed to
them, and their property and even their persons were in times of
excitement at the mercy of informers. In the last year of Pope's life a
proclamation was issued forbidding Catholics to come within ten miles of
London, and Pope himself, in spite of his influential friends, thought
it wise to comply with this edict.
A fierce outburst of persecution
often evokes in the persecuted some of the noblest qualities of human
nature; but a long-continued and crushing tyranny that extends to all
the details of daily life is only too likely to have the most
unfortunate results on those who are subjected to it. And as a matter of
fact we find that the well-to-do Catholics of Pope's day lived in an
atmosphere of disaffection, political intrigue, and evasion of the law,
most unfavorable for the development of that frank, courageous, and
patriotic spirit for the lack of which Pope himself has so often been
made the object of reproach.

In a well-known passage of the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot', Pope has spoken
of his life as one long disease. He was in fact a humpbacked dwarf, not
over four feet six inches in height, with long, spider-like legs and
arms. He was subject to violent headaches, and his face was lined and
contracted with the marks of suffering. In youth he so completely ruined
his health by perpetual studies that his life was despaired of, and only
the most careful treatment saved him from an early death. Toward the
close of his life he became so weak that he could neither dress nor
undress without assistance. He had to be laced up in stiff stays in
order to sit erect, and wore a fur doublet and three pairs of stockings
to protect himself against the cold. With these physical defects he had
the extreme sensitiveness of mind that usually accompanies chronic ill
health, and this sensitiveness was outraged incessantly by the brutal
customs of the age. Pope's enemies made as free with his person as with
his poetry, and there is little doubt that he felt the former attacks
the more bitterly of the two. Dennis, his first critic, called him "a
short squab gentleman, the very bow of the God of love; his outward form
is downright monkey. " A rival poet whom he had offended hung up a rod in
a coffee house where men of letters resorted, and threatened to whip
Pope like a naughty child if he showed his face there. It is said,
though perhaps not on the best authority, that when Pope once forgot
himself so far as to make love to Lady Mary Wortley Montague, the lady's
answer was "a fit of immoderate laughter. " In an appendix to the
'Dunciad' Pope collected some of the epithets with which his enemies had
pelted him, "an ape," "an ass," "a frog," "a coward," "a fool," "a
little abject thing. " He affected, indeed, to despise his assailants,
but there is only too good evidence that their poisoned arrows rankled
in his heart. Richardson, the painter, found him one day reading the
latest abusive pamphlet.