Presently, however, the letters began to turn upon an obviously
dangerous topic. Pope was only seventeen when it occurred to his friend
to turn him to account as a literary assistant. The lad had already
shown considerable powers of versification, and was soon employing them
in the revision of some of the numerous compositions which amused
Wycherley's leisure. It would have required, one might have thought,
less than Wycherley's experience to foresee the natural end of such an
alliance. Pope, in fact, set to work with great vigour in his favourite
occupation of correcting. He hacked and hewed right and left; omitted,
compressed, rearranged, and occasionally inserted additions of his own
devising. Wycherley's memory had been enfeebled by illness, and now
played him strange tricks. He was in the habit of reading himself to
sleep with Montaigne, Rochefoucauld, and Racine. Next morning he would,
with entire unconsciousness, write down as his own the thoughts of his
author, or repeat almost word for word some previous composition of his
own. To remove such repetitions thoroughly would require a very free
application of the knife, and Pope would not be slow to discover that he
was wasting talents fit for original work in botching and tinkering a
mass of rubbish.
Any man of ripe years would have predicted the obvious consequences;
and, according to the ordinary story, those consequences followed. Pope
became more plain-speaking, and at last almost insulting in his
language.
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