The princess is clothed in Irish silk; pray give our service to the weavers.  We are strangely surprised to hear that the bells in Ireland ring without your money.  I hope you do not write the thing that is not.  We are afraid that B——­ hath been guilty of that crime, that you (like a houyhnhnm) have treated him as a yahoo, and discarded him your service.  I fear you do not understand these modish terms, which every creature now understands but yourself.

You tell us your wine is bad, and that the clergy do not frequent your house, which we look upon to be tautology.  The best advice we can give you is, to make them a present of your wine, and come away to better.

You fancy we envy you, but you are mistaken; we envy those you are with, for we cannot envy the man we love.  Adieu.

ALEXANDER POPE

1688-1744

TO WILLIAM WYCHERLEY

Dryden and his critics

Binfield in Windsor Forest, 26 Dec. 1704.

It was certainly a great satisfaction to me to see and converse with a man, whom in his writings I had so long known with pleasure; but it was a high addition to it, to hear you, at our very first meeting, doing justice to your dead friend Mr. Dryden.  I was not so happy as to know him:  Virgilium tantum vidi.  Had I been born early enough I must have known and loved him:  for I have been assured, not only by yourself, but by Mr. Congreve and Sir William Trumbul, that his personal qualities were as amiable as his poetical, notwithstanding the many libellous misrepresentations of them, against which the former of these gentlemen has told me he will one day vindicate him.  I suppose those injuries were begun by the violence of party, but it is no doubt they were continued by envy at his success and fame.  And those scribblers who attacked him in his latter times, were only like gnats in a summer’s evening, which are never very troublesome but in the finest and most glorious season; for his fire, like the sun’s, shined clearest towards its setting.

You must not therefore imagine, that when you told me my own performances were above those critics, I was so vain as to believe it; and yet I may not be so humble as to think myself quite below their notice.  For critics, as they are birds of prey, have ever a natural inclination to carrion:  and though such poor writers as I are but beggars, no beggar is so poor but he can keep a cur, and no author is so beggarly but he can keep a critic.  I am far from thinking the attacks of such people any honour or dishonour even to me, much less to Mr. Dryden.  I agree with you that whatever lesser wits have arisen since his death are but like stars appearing when the sun is set, that twinkle only in his absence, and with the rays they have borrowed from him.  Our wit (as you call it) is but reflection or imitation, therefore scarce to be called ours.  True wit, I believe, may be defined a justness of thought, and a facility of expression....  However, this is far from a complete definition; pray help me to a better, as I doubt not you can.