Chapter 15

“The great beauty of Homer’s language, as I take it, consists in that noble simplicity which runs through all his works (and yet his diction, contrary to what one would imagine consistent with simplicity, is at the same time very copious). I don’t know how I have run into this pedantry in a letter, but I find I have said too much, as well as spoken too inconsiderately; what farther thoughts I have upon this subject I shall be glad to communicate to you (for my own improvement) when we meet, which is a happiness I very earnestly desire, as I do likewise some opportunity of proving how much I think myself obliged to your friendship, and how truly I am, sir,

“Your most faithful humble servant,

“A. POPE.”

The criticism upon Pope’s Epitaphs, which was printed in “The Universal Visitor,” is placed here, being too minute and particular to be inserted in the Life.

Every art is best taught by example. Nothing contributes more to the cultivation of propriety than remarks on the works of those who have most excelled. I shall therefore endeavour at this _visit_ to entertain the young students in poetry with an examination of Pope’s Epitaphs.

To define an epitaph is useless; every one knows that it is an inscription on a tomb. An epitaph, therefore, implies no particular character of writing, but may be composed in verse or prose. It is, indeed, commonly panegyrical, because we are seldom distinguished with a stone but by our friends; but it has no rule to restrain or mollify it except this, that it ought not to be longer than common beholders may be expected to have leisure and patience to peruse.

I.

_On_ CHARLES _Earl of_ DORSET, _in the church of Wythyham in Sussex_.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muse’s pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died. The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state; Yet soft in nature, though severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Blest satirist! who touched the means so true, As showed Vice had his hate and pity too. Blest courtier! who could king and country please, Yet sacred kept his friendship and his ease. Blest peer! his great forefathers’ every grace Reflecting, and reflected on his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine, And patriots still, or pests, deck the line.

The first distich of this epitaph contains a kind of information which few would want, that the man for whom the tomb was erected _died_. There are indeed some qualities worthy of the praise ascribed to the dead, but none that were likely to exempt him from the lot of man, or incline us much to wonder that he should die. What is meant by “judge of nature” is not easy to say. Nature is not the object of human judgment; for it is in vain to judge where we cannot alter. If by nature is meant what is commonly called _nature_ by the critics, a just representation of things really existing, and actions really performed, nature cannot be properly opposed to _art_; nature being, in this sense, only the best effect of _art_.

The scourge of pride—

Of this couplet the second line is not what is intended, an illustration of the former. _Pride_ in the _Great_, is indeed well enough connected with knaves in state, though _knaves_ is a word rather too ludicrous and light; but the mention of _sanctified_ pride will not lead the thoughts to _fops in learning_, but rather to some species of tyranny or oppression, something more gloomy and more formidable than foppery.

Yet soft his nature—

This is a high compliment, but was not first bestowed on Dorset by Pope. The next verse is extremely beautiful.

Blest satirist!—

In this distich is another line of which Pope was not the author. I do not mean to blame these imitations with much harshness; in long performances they are scarcely to be avoided, and in shorter they may be indulged, because the train of the composition may naturally involve them, or the scantiness of the subject allow little choice. However, what is borrowed is not to be enjoyed as our own, and it is the business of critical justice to give every bird of the Muses his proper feather.

Blest courtier!—

Whether a courtier can properly be commended for keeping his _ease sacred_, may perhaps be disputable. To please king and country without sacrificing friendship to any change of times was a very uncommon instance of prudence or felicity, and deserved to be kept separate from so poor a commendation as care of his ease. I wish our poets would attend a little more accurately to the use of the word _sacred_, which surely should never be applied in a serious composition, but where some reference may be made to a higher Being, or where some duty is exacted or implied. A man may keep his friendship sacred, because promises of friendship are very awful ties; but methinks he cannot, but in a burlesque sense, be said to keep his ease _sacred_.

Blest peer!—

The blessing ascribed to the _peer_ has no connection with his peerage; they might happen to any other man whose posterity were likely to be regarded.

I know not whether this epitaph be worthy either of the writer or the man entombed.

II.

_On Sir_ WILLIAM TRUMBULL, _one of the principal Secretaries of State to King_ WILLIAM III., _who_, _having resigned his place_, _died in his retirement at Easthamstead_, _in Berkshire_, _1716_.

A pleasing form, a firm, yet cautious mind, Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resigned; Honour unchanged, a principle profest. Fixed to one side, but moderate to the rest; An honest courtier, yet a patriot too, Just to his prince, and to his country true; Filled with the sense of age, the fire of youth, A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth; A generous faith, from superstition free; A love to peace, and hate of tyranny; Such this man was; who new from earth removed At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

In this epitaph, as in many others, there appears at the first view a fault which I think scarcely any beauty can compensate. The name is omitted. The end of an epitaph is to convey some account of the dead; and to what purpose is anything told of him whose name is concealed? An epitaph, and a history of a nameless hero, are equally absurd, since the virtues and qualities so recounted in either are scattered at the mercy of fortune to be appropriated by guess. The name, it is true, may be read upon the stone; but what obligation has it to the poet, whose verses wander over the earth and leave their subject behind them, and who is forced, like an unskilful painter, to make his purpose known by adventitious help? This epitaph is wholly without elevation, and contains nothing striking or particular; but the poet is not to be blamed for the defect of his subject. He said perhaps the best that could be said. There are, however, some defects which were not made necessary by the character in which he was employed. There is no opposition between an _honest courtier_ and a _patriot_; for an _honest_, _courtier_ cannot but be a _patriot_. It was unsuitable to the nicety required in short compositions to close his verse with the word _too_; every rhyme should be a word of emphasis: nor can this rule be safely neglected, except where the length of the poem makes slight inaccuracies excusable, or allows room for beauties sufficient to overpower the effects of petty faults.

At the beginning of the seventh line the word _filled_ is weak and prosaic, having no particular adaptation to any of the words that follow it. The thought in the last line is impertinent, having no connection with the foregoing character, nor with the condition of the man described. Had the epitaph been written on the poor conspirator who died lately in prison, after a confinement of more than forty years, without any crime proved against him, the sentiment had been just and pathetical; but why should Trumbull be congratulated upon his liberty who had never known restraint?

III.

_On the Hon._ SIMON HARCOURT, _only son of the Lord Chancellor_ HARCOURT, _at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt in Oxfordshire_, _1720_.

To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near, Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear; Who ne’er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died. How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, And with a father’s sorrows mix his own!

This epitaph is principally remarkable for the artful introduction of the name, which is inserted with a peculiar felicity, to which chance must concur with genius, which no man can hope to attain twice, and which cannot be copied but with servile imitation. I cannot but wish that, of this inscription, the two last lines had been omitted, as they take away from the energy what they do not add to the sense.

IV.

_On_ JAMES CRAGGS, _Esq._, _in Westminster Abbey_.

JACOBVS CRAGS, REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIAE A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBVS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPVLI AMOR ET DELICIAE: VIXIT TITLIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS HEV PAVCOS, XXXV. OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

Statesman, yet friend to truth; of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear! Who broke no premise, served no private end, Who gained no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approved, Praised, wept, and honoured by the Muse he loved.

The lines on Craggs were not originally intended for an epitaph; and therefore some faults are to be imputed to the violence with which they are torn from the poems that first contained them. We may, however, observe some defects. There is a redundancy of words in the first couplet: it is superfluous to tell of him, who was _sincere_, _true_, and _faithful_, that he was _in honour clear_. There seems to be an opposition intended in the fourth line, which is not very obvious: where is the relation between the two positions, that he _gained no title_ and _lest no friend_?

It may be proper here to remark the absurdity of joining in the same inscription Latin and English or verse and prose. If either language be preferable to the other, let that only be used; for no reason can be given why part of the information should be given in one tongue, and part in another on a tomb, more than in any other place, or any other occasion; and to tell all that can be conveniently told in verse, and then to call in the help of prose, has always the appearance of a very artless expedient, or of an attempt unaccomplished. Such an epitaph resembles the conversation of a foreigner, who tells part of his meaning by words, and conveys part by signs.

V.

_Intended for Mr._ ROWE, _in Westminster Abbey_.

Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred, place by Dryden’s awful dust; Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest! Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest; One grateful women to thy fame supplies What a whole thankless land to his denies.

Of this inscription the chief fault is that it belongs less to Rowe, for whom it was written, than to Dryden, who was buried near him; and indeed gives very little information concerning either.

To wish _peace to thy shade_ is too mythological to be admitted into a Christian temple: the ancient worship has infected almost all our other compositions, and might therefore be contented to spare our epitaphs. Let fiction, at least, cease with life, and let us be serious over the grave.

VI.

_On Mrs._ CORBET, _who died of a Cancer in her Breast_.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense; No conquest she, but o’er herself, desired; No arts essayed, but not to be admired. Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, Convinced that Virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so composed a mind, So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refined, Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried; The saint sustained it, but the woman died.

I have always considered this as the most valuable of all Pope’s epitaphs; the subject of it is a character not discriminated by any shining or eminent peculiarities; yet that which really makes, though not the splendour, the felicity of life, and that which every wise man will choose for his final and lasting companion in the languor of age, in the quiet of privacy, when he departs weary and disgusted from the ostentatious, the volatile, and the vain. Of such a character, which the dull overlook and the gay despise, it was fit that the value should be made known and the dignity established. Domestic virtue, as it is exerted without great occasions, or conspicuous consequences, in an even unnoted tenor, required the genius of Pope to display it in such a manner as might attract regard and enforce reverence. Who can forbear to lament that this amiable woman has no name in the verses? If the particular lines of this inscription be examined, it will appear less faulty than the rest. There is scarce one line taken from commonplaces, unless it be that in which _only Virtue_ is said to be _our own_. I once heard a lady of great beauty and excellence object to the fourth line that it contained an unnatural and incredible panegyric. Of this let the ladies judge.

VII.

_On the Monument of the Hon._ ROBERT DIGBY, _and of his Sister_ MARY, _erected by their Father the Lord_ DIGBY _in the church of Sherborne in Dorsetshire_, 1727

Go! fair example of untainted youth, Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth: Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate, Good without noise, without pretension great Just of thy word, in every thought sincere, Who knew no wish but what the world might hear: Of softest manners, unaffected mind, Lover of peace, and friend of human kind: Go, live! for heaven’s eternal year is thine, Go, and exalt thy mortal to divine. And thou, blest maid! attendant on his doom. Pensive hast followed to the silent tomb, Steered the same course to the same quiet shore, Not parted long, and now to part no more! Go, then, where only bliss sincere is known! Go, where to love and to enjoy are one! Yet take these tears, Mortality’s relief, And, till we share your joys, forgive our grief: These little rites a stone, a verse receive. ’Tis all a father, all a friend can give!

This epitaph contains of the brother only a general indiscriminate character, and of the sister tells nothing but that she died. The difficulty in writing epitaphs is to give a particular and appropriate praise. This, however, is not always to be performed, whatever be the diligence or ability of the writer; for the greater part of mankind _have no character at all_, have little that distinguishes them from others, equally good or bad, and therefore nothing can be said of them which may not be applied with equal propriety to a thousand more. It is indeed no great panegyric that there is enclosed in this tomb one who was born in one year, and died in another; yet many useful and amiable lives have been spent which yet leave little materials for any other memorial. These are however not the proper subjects of poetry; and whenever friendship, or any other motive, obliges a poet to write on such subjects, he must be forgiven if he sometimes wanders in generalities, and utters the same praises over different tombs.

The scantiness of human praises can scarcely be made more apparent than by remarking how often Pope has, in the few epitaphs which he composed, found it necessary to borrow from himself. The fourteen epitaphs which he has written comprise about a hundred and forty lines, in which there are more repetitions than will easily be found in all the rest of his works. In the eight lines which make the character of Digby there is scarce any thought or word which may not be found in the other epitaphs. The ninth line, which is far the strongest and most elegant, is borrowed from Dryden. The conclusion is the same with that on Harcourt, but is here more elegant and better connected.

VIII.

_On Sir_ GODFREY KNELLER, _in Westminster Abbey_, 1723.

Kneller, by Heaven, and not a master, taught, Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures thought; Now for two ages, having snatched from fate Whate’er was beauteous, or whate’er was great, Lies crowned with Princes, honours, Poets, lays, Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise. Living, great Nature feared he might outvie Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.

Of this epitaph the first couplet is good, the second not bad, the third is deformed with a broken metaphor, the word crowned not being applicable to the honours or the lays, and the fourth is not only borrowed from the epitaph on Raphael, but of a very harsh construction.

IX.

_On General_ HENRY WITHERS, _in Westminster Abbey_, 1729.

Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country’s friend, but more of human kind. O born to arms! O worth in youth approved! O soft humanity in age beloved! For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear, And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere Withers, adieu! yet not will thee remove Thy martial spirit, or thy social love! Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage, Still leave some ancient virtues to our age: Nor let us say (those English glories gone) The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

The epitaph on Withers affords another instance of commonplaces, though somewhat diversified by mingled qualities, and the peculiarity of a profession. The second couplet is abrupt, general, and unpleasing; exclamation seldom succeeds in our language; and, I think, it may be observed that the particle O! used at the beginning of a sentence, always offends. The third couplet is more happy; the value expressed for him, by different sorts of men, raises him to esteem; there is yet something of the common cant of superficial satirists, who suppose that the insincerity of a courtier destroys all his sensations, and that he is equally a dissembler to the living and the dead. At the third couplet I should wish the epitaph to close, but that I should be unwilling to lose the two next lines, which yet are dearly bought if they cannot be retained without the four that follow them.

X.

_On Mr._ ELIJAH FENTON, _at Easthamstead in Berkshire_, 1730.

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, Here lies an honest man: A poet, blest beyond the poet’s fate, Whom Heaven kept sacred from the Proud and Great: Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, Content with science in the vale of peace. Calmly he looked on either life, and here Saw nothing to regret or there to fear; From Nature’s temperate feast rose satisfied, Thanked Heaven that he lived, and that he died.

The first couplet of this epitaph is borrowed from Crashaw. The four next lines contain a species of praise peculiar, original, and just. Here, therefore, the inscription should have ended, the latter part containing nothing but what is common to every man who is wise and good. The character of Fenton was so amiable, that I cannot forbear to wish for some poet or biographer to display it more fully for the advantage of posterity. If he did not stand in the first rank of genius, he may claim a place in the second; and, whatever criticism may object to his writings, censure could find very little to blame in his life.

XI.

_On Mr._ GAY, _in Westminster Abbey_, 1732.

Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit, a muse; simplicity, a child: With native humour tempering virtuous rage, Formed to delight at once and lash the age: Above temptation, in a low estate, And uncorrupted, ev’n among the Great: A safe companion and an easy friend, Unbiased through life, lamented in thy end, These are thy honours! not that here thy bust Is mixed with heroes, or with kings thy dust; But that the worthy and the Good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms—Here lies GAY.

As Gay was the favourite of our author this epitaph was probably written with an uncommon degree of attention, yet it is not more successfully executed than the rest, for it will not always happen that the success of a poet is proportionate to his labour. The same observation may be extended to all works of imagination, which are often influenced by causes wholly out of the performer’s power, by hints of which he perceives not the origin, by sudden elevations of mind which he cannot produce in himself, and which sometimes rise when he expects them least. The two parts of the first line are only echoes of each other; _gentle manners_ and _mild affections_, if they mean anything, must mean the same.

That Gay was a _man in wit_ is a very frigid commendation; to have the wit of a man is not much for a poet. The _wit of man_ and the _simplicity of a child_ make a poor and vulgar contrast, and raise no ideas of excellence, either intellectual or moral.

In the next couplet _rage_ is less properly introduced after the mention of _mildness_ and _gentleness_, which are made the constituents of his character; for a man so _mild_ and _gentle_ to _temper_ his _rage_ was not difficult. The next line is inharmonious in its sound, and mean in its conception; the opposition is obvious, and the word _lash_ used absolutely, and without any modification, is gross and improper. To be _above temptation_ in poverty and _free from corruption among the Great_ is indeed such a peculiarity as deserved notice. But to be a _safe companion_ is a praise merely negative, arising not from possession of virtue but the absence of vice, and that one of the most odious.

As little can be added to his character by asserting that he was _lamented in his end_. Every man that dies is, at least by the writer of his epitaph, supposed to be lamented, and therefore this general lamentation does no honour to Gay.

The first eight lines have no grammar; the adjectives are without any substantive, and the epithets without a subject. The thought in the last line, that Gay is buried in the bosoms of the _worthy_ and _good_, who are distinguished only to lengthen the line, is so dark that few understand it, and so harsh, when it is explained, that still fewer approve.

XII.

_Intended for Sir_ ISAAC NEWTON, _in Westminster Abbey_.

ISAACUS NEWTONIUS: Quem Immortalem Testantur, _Tempus_, _Natura_, _Cœlum_: Mortalem hoc marmor fatetur. Nature, and Nature’s laws, lay hid in night: God said, _Let Newton be_! And all was light.

On this epitaph, short as it is, the faults seem not to be very few. Why part should be Latin and part English it is not easy to discover. In the Latin the opposition of _Immortalis_ and _Mortalis_ is a mere sound, or a mere quibble; he is not _immortal_ in any sense contrary to that in which he is _mortal_. In the verses the thought is obvious, and the words _night_ and _light_ are too nearly allied.

XIII.

_On_ EDMUND _Duke of_ BUCKINGHAM, _who died in the 19th Year of his Age_, 1735.