Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit 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?14

12

Each man's secret standard in his mind, (That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness) This, who can gratify? for who can guess?

Exquisite discernment, as exquisitely expressed. This is the whole secret of arrogance, and (in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred) of ordinary sullenness and exaction. The standard is invisible, and no arbiter is allowed.

13 The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown.

This was Ambrose Philips, a man of genius, whose half-jesting, half-serious poems in short verses were of a delicacy not sufficiently appreciated; and whose mistake in pastoral writing was, at all events, not so bad as Pope's, who never forgave the superiority awarded to him in that direction by Steele and others. What is meant by the pastorals being "pilfered," I forget; if that they were imitated from Spenser and others, Pope's may be said to have been all pilfered from classical commonplaces. The accusation of the half-crown is, of course, not true; and if it were, would be no

disgrace but to the accuser and the bookseller. Suppose Philips had described Pope as the man

Who turns a page of Greek for eighteen-pence!

The tales here alluded to were the delightful Persian Tales, translated from the French of Petit de la Croix. They are of genuine Eastern origin, and worthy brothers of the enchanting Arabian Nights.

14 Who would not weep, if Atticus were he.- It is well known and obvious that this character of Atticus was meant for Addison. A doubt has existed whether Pope was right in supposing Addison to have been jealous; and perhaps he was not: but the coldness, reserve, and management, in the disposition of the lord of Button's Coffee-house, not unnaturally gave rise to the suspicion and the exquisite expression of the language in which it is conveyed has all the eloquence of belief.

CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend,

And see what comfort it affords our end.

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung, 15
The floor of plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,

Great Villiers lies-alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Or just as gay at council, in a ring

Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter, left of all his store!

No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.

15 In the worst inn's worst room, &c.—It is a pity that Pope wrote this character of Buckingham after Dryden's; for, though celebrated and worth repeating, it is very inferior, and, in the details, of very questionable truth. In fact, the superlative way of talking throughout it (the "worst inn's worst room," the introduction of the "George and Garter," &c.) is in a manifest spirit of exaggeration, and defeats the writer's object. A gentleman of the Fairfax connexion, who was a retainer of the Duke's, and wrote a memoir of him, says that he died in his own house.

CHARACTER OF THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.

But what are these to great Atossa's mind? 16
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
Who with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth;
Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools,
Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules:

No thought advances, but her eddy brain,
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full sixty years the world has been her trade;
The wisest fool much time has ever made:
From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No passion gratify'd, except her rage:
So much the fury still outran the wit,

The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell,
But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her every turn with violence pursued,
Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude :
To that each passion turns, or soon, or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate.
Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse!
But an inferior not dependant? worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and she 'll hate you while you live :
But die, and she 'll adore you-then the bust
And temple rise-then fall again to dust.
Last night her lord was all that's good and great;
A knave this morning, and his will a cheat.
Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,
By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of friends,
By wealth of followers! without one distress
Sick of herself, through very selfishness!
Atossa, curs'd with every granted prayer;
Childless with all her children, wants an heir.
To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store,
Or wanders, heaven-directed, to the poor.

16 Great Atossa's mind.—The Duchess of Marlborough, widow of the great Duke,-famous for her ambition and arbitrary temper, and the ascendency which she lost over Queen Anne.

CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF CHANDOS,

AND DESCRIPTION OF HIS VILLA.

At Timon's villa let us pass a day ;17

Where all cry out, "What sums are thrown away!"
So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air,
Soft and agreeable come never there.

Greatness with Timon dwells, in such a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this, his building is a town,

His pond an ocean, his parterre a down :
Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
A puny insect, shivering at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole a labour'd quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind
Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call;
side you look, behold the wall!

On every

No pleasing intricacies intervene,

No artful wildness to perplex the scene;

Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,

And half the platform just reflects the other.

The suffering eye inverted nature sees,

Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;

With here a fountain never to be play'd;

And there a summer-house that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers,
There gladiators fight or die in flowers;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
My lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: