The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, contrived to procure to himself a more general and a higher reputation than perhaps any English Poet ever attained during his lifetime, are known to the judicious.  And as well known is it to them, that the undue exertion of those arts is the cause why Pope has for some time held a rank in literature, to which, if he had not been seduced by an over-love of immediate popularity, and had confided more in his native genius, he never could have descended.  He bewitched the nation by his melody, and dazzled it by his polished style and was himself blinded by his own success.  Having wandered from humanity in his Eclogues with boyish inexperience, the praise, which these compositions obtained, tempted him into a belief that Nature was not to be trusted, at least in pastoral Poetry.  To prove this by example, he put his friend Gay upon writing those Eclogues which their author intended to be burlesque.  The instigator of the work, and his admirers, could perceive in them nothing but what was ridiculous.  Nevertheless, though these Poems contain some detestable passages, the effect, as Dr Johnson well observes, ’of reality and truth became conspicuous even when the intention was to show them grovelling and degraded.’  The Pastorals, ludicrous to such as prided themselves upon their refinement, in spite of those disgusting passages, ’became popular, and were read with delight, as just representations of rural manners and occupations.’

Something less than sixty years after the publication of the Paradise Lost appeared Thomson’s Winter, which was speedily followed by his other Seasons.  It is a work of inspiration, much of it is written from himself, and nobly from himself.  How was it received?  ’It was no sooner read,’ says one of his contemporary biographers, ’than universally admired those only excepted who had not been used to feel, or to look for anything in poetry, beyond a point of satirical or epigrammatic wit, a smart antithesis richly trimmed with rime, or the softness of an elegiac complaint.  To such his manly classical spirit could not readily commend itself, till, after a more attentive perusal, they had got the better of their prejudices, and either acquired or affected a truer taste.  A few others stood aloof, merely because they had long before fixed the articles of their poetical creed, and resigned themselves to an absolute despair of ever seeing anything new and original.  These were somewhat mortified to find their notions disturbed by the appearance of a poet, who seemed to owe nothing but to nature and his own genius.  But, in a short time, the applause became unanimous, every one wondering how so many pictures, and pictures so familiar, should have moved them but faintly to what they felt in his descriptions.  His digressions too, the overflowings of a tender benevolent heart, charmed the reader no less, leaving him in doubt, whether he should more admire the Poet or love the Man.’