I have no doubt that Pope so far
exemplified his own doctrine that he truly felt whilst he was writing.
His feelings make him eloquent, but they do not enable him to "snatch a
grace beyond the reach of art," to blind us for a moment to the presence
of the consummate workman, judiciously blending his colours, heightening
his effects, and skilfully managing his transitions or consciously
introducing an abrupt outburst of a new mood. The smoothness of the
verses imposes monotony even upon the varying passions which are
supposed to struggle in Eloisa's breast. It is not merely our knowledge
that Pope is speaking dramatically which prevents us from receiving the
same kind of impressions as we receive from poetry--such, for example,
as some of Cowper's minor pieces--into which we know that a man is
really putting his whole heart. The comparison would not be fair, for in
such cases we are moved by knowledge of external facts as well as by the
poetic power. But it is simply that Pope always resembles an orator
whose gestures are studied, and who thinks while he is speaking of the
fall of his robes and the attitude of his hands. He is throughout
academical; and though knowing with admirable nicety how grief should be
represented, and what have been the expedients of his best predecessors,
he misses the one essential touch of spontaneous impulse.
One other blemish is perhaps more fatal to the popularity of the Eloisa.
There is a taint of something unwholesome and effeminate.
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