ld
probably have done so had his mind been sound. Seeing, however, a volume
already printed, he might naturally suppose that, in spite of the
anonymous assurance, it was already too late to stop the publication. At
any rate, he at once sent it to his publisher, Faulkner, and desired him
to bring it out at once. Swift was in that most melancholy state in
which a man's friends perceive him to be incompetent to manage his
affairs, and are yet not able to use actual restraint. Mrs. Whiteway,
the sensible and affectionate cousin who took care of him at this time,
did her best to protest against the publication, but in vain. Swift
insisted. So far Pope's device was successful. The printed letters had
been placed in the hands of his bookseller by Swift himself, and
publication was apparently secured. But Pope had still the same problem
as in the previous case. Though he had talked of erecting a monument to
Swift and himself, he was anxious that the monument should apparently be
erected by some one else. His vanity could only be satisfied by the
appearance that the publication was forced upon him. He had, therefore,
to dissociate himself from the publication by some protest at once
emphatic and ineffectual; and, consequently, to explain the means by
which the letters had been surreptitiously obtained.

The first aim was unexpectedly difficult. Faulkner turned out to be an
honest bookseller. Instead of sharing Curll's rapacity, he consented, at
Mrs. Whiteway's request, to wait until Pope had an opportunity of
expressing his wishes. Pope, if he consented, could no longer complain;
if he dissented, Faulkner would suppress the letters. In this dilemma,
Pope first wrote to Faulkner to refuse permission, and at the same time
took care that his letter should be delayed for a month. He hoped that
Faulkner would lose patience, and publish. But Faulkner, with provoking
civility, stopped the press as soon as he heard of Pope's objection.
Pope hereupon discovered that the letters were certain to be published,
as they were already printed, and doubtless by some mysterious
"confederacy of people" in London. All he could wish was to revise them
before appearance. Meanwhile he begged Lord Orrery to inspect the book,
and say what he thought of it. "Guess in what a situation I must be,"
exclaimed this sincere and modest person, "not to be able to see what
all the world is to read as mine!" Orrery was quite as provoking as
Faulkner. He got the bo