er thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more."

In what words, we should like to know, did this guardian genius invite
his pupil to join in a plan such as the Editor of the Satirist would
hardly dare to propose to the Editor of the Age?

We do not accuse Pope of bringing an accusation which he knew to be
false. We have not the smallest doubt that he believed it to be true;
and the evidence on which he believed it he found in his own bad heart.
His own life was one long series of tricks, as mean and as malicious as
that of which he suspected Addison and Tickell. He was all stiletto and
masque. To injure, to insult, and to save himself from the consequences
of injury and insult by lying and equivocating, was the habit of his
life. He published a lampoon on the Duke of Chandos; he was taxed with
it; and he lied and equivocated. He published a lampoon on Aaron Hill;
he was taxed with it; and he lied and equivocated. He published a still
fouler lampoon on Lady Mary Wortley Montagu; he was taxed with it; and
he lied with more than usual effrontery and vehemence. He puffed himself
and abused his enemies under feigned names. He robbed himself of his own
letters, and then raised the hue and cry after them. Besides his frauds
of malignity, of fear, of interest, and of vanity, there were frauds
which he seems to have committed from love of frauds alone. He had a
habit of stratagem, a pleasure in outwitting all who came near him.
Whatever his object might be, the indirect road to it was that which he
preferred. For Bolingbroke, Pope undoubtedly felt as much love and
veneration as it was in his nature to feel for any human being. Yet Pope
was scarcely dead when it was discovered that, from no motive except
the mere love of artifice, he had been guilty of an act of gross perfidy
to Bolingbroke.

Nothing was more natural than that such a man as this should attribute
to others that which he felt within himself. A plain, probable, coherent
explanation is frankly given to him. He is certain that it is all a
romance. A line of conduct scrupulously fair, and even friendly, is
pursued towards him. He is convinced that it is merely a cover for a
vile intrigue by which he is to be disgraced and ruined. It is vain to
ask him for proofs. He has none, and wants none, except those which he
carries in his own bosom.