"The Man of Ross," a Welsh philanthropist, need the verse,—form in another sense; without it they would be insignificant. But Pope's poetry, where it has the character of true poetry, is always the utterance of a strong passion—the passion of hate. And herein he differs from many other satirists, but above all from the greatest of all British satirists, his friend Swift, in that his hatred was not for principles but for persons; not for man or men, but this or that individual. Literary and social jealousy is the strongest of all his feelings. All the more wonderful is it that the friendship between him and Swift should have lasted out life in both, though tried by so severe a test as collaboration and partnership. But the credit of this belongs, I think, not to Pope.
