by Radu Dima
Dear Mr Pope,
I'm on to you.
Credit where credit is due,
Google did most of the legwork while I sort of stumbled along like a
lame wallaby, but I'm happy to play Watson and document the case. I
also have to congratulate you here, Mr Pope – keeping this a secret
for so many hundreds of years is no mean feat, and even now it was
mostly luck that I managed to find out; though, having read you for
so long, I'd like to think that it was bound to happen.
Still, you can understand
my confusion when first going through some of your digitized works
and seeing, for example, beneath the title of Ode
for Music, this:
Fweep the founding lyre
indeed. Or something cut out randomly from the Rape
of the Lock:
And these weren't just
isolated occurrences: anywhere I bothered to look there was no s
to see. At first, I was sure I'd stumbled over some old typographic
prank, given new lease on life by the digitizers, but a bit of
further digging made me drop the thought. The edition I had come
across was a Collected Works
from 1748. If these spellings only showed up there, I could chalk
them up to a dotty editor or a myopic typesetter and go on with my
life, but here they were again in 1728's Dunciad,
and in the 1714 Rape of the Lock,
and even in your translations from Homer. In fact, in all of your
poetic works prior to 1748 that I could find online. Curiously, after
1748, the words reverted to their modern spellings. Even curiouser,
none of your contemporaries followed the trend, they all spelt their
words normally both before and after that date.
So what was going on?
Were all your publishers taking a typographic stand? Was it an error
that people liked the look of? I said above that anywhere I looked in
the digitization I could see no s,
but that wasn't exactly true. The titles of the poems made perfectly
confident use of the letter, according to all modern rules of
English, which meant that its omission from the body text was a
conscious decision – most likely on your part.
Which could only mean one
thing.
I say that you, and I am
confident this is the first time it has been said outside the cramped
offices of popist scholars, yes you, Mr Pope, had a lisp. And not
only had one, not only spoke with one, which wouldn't be a big deal
since I can probably find a lisper in any Wal-Mart today, but wrote
with one.
You eschewed one of the
bathic thoundth of the English language – I needed to know why. The
physical presence of a lisp was a reasonable explanation, but an
unsatisfying one, since there must have been plenty other writers
through history who didn't spell their lisps out. What convinced you
to embrace it as a literary device? Laziness? Boredom? Both? I
eventually found my answer by going back further in time, in an
uncharacteristic fit of overzealousness, and digging up the first
edition of Milton's Paradise Lost. Or, as it was actually
called, Paradife Loft. Since, as you well know Mr Pope, Milton too
was a lisper (something recognized even by the Commonwealth's jocular
Council of State –which named him Secretary for Foreign Tongues).
In fact, he was probably the first literary lisper, and Paradife Loft
is unquestionable evidence of this since it was almost entirely
dictated. What this
means for me is that Paradife Loft will have to be re-evaluated under
lisp-light, with even a cursory examination showing that it serves as
a foil to Milton's grandiloquence, and reveals the poem to be, in
fact, a work of powerful satire. For instance:
High
on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone
the wealth of Ormuz and of Ind,
Or
where the gorgeous East with richest hand
Showers
on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan
exalted sat.
now
becomes:
High
on a throne of royal ftate, which far
Outshone
the wealth of Ormuz and of Ind,
Or
where the gorgeouf Eaft with richeft hand
Showerf
on her kingf barbaric pearl and gold,
Fatan
exalted fat.
But even more importantly, it
shows the satirical hoofprints you were stepping in, and it brings
two of the greatest English poets even closer. It even explains your
passion for the Iliad and Odyssey – no wonder you were attracted to
a language no one knew how to pronounce correctly: your lisp felt at
home on Homer's lips. People once knew this about you, Alexander, but
then it was forgotten. How? Why? The how is easy: through the
concerted actions of your scholars and editors after 1747 almost all
traces of your lisp were eliminated. Why? That answer was trickier,
but it has to do with Thomas Vermilion Herring, Archbishop of
Canterbury from 1747 onwards, a fiercely patriotic man and powerfully
anti-catholic, who seems to have fostered an intense dislike of your
speech impediment and your catholic background, but who nevertheless
recognized your talent as a poet. He seems to have commissioned the
change, and your editors rose up to the challenge.
Ever since I found these
things out, I've been noticing middle-aged men in mournful tweed
politely tailing me wherever I go, and throwing me sad glances
whenever I meet their eyes. There's such an inconsolable air about
them that it pains me to undo the work they've been adding to for so
long, but I think their efforts are misguided. I can understand why
they believe you should be shielded from ridicule, and, truth be
told, ridicule following such a revelation would nowadays be likely.
But I think they've forgotten the kind of man you are: back in your
day you would have thought nothing of someone making jokes at your
expense. Hell, you even started, with Swift, a society entirely
devoted to satirical punch-ups (that ended in actual punch-ups): the
Scriblerus Club – no prizes for guessing who came up with that
name. Alexander, the anger of dunces kept you in good spirits, and
today you wouldn't run dry for a moment, as long as you keep turning
all that-ire into satire like you did before. I admit, death is an
inconvenience even for a man of your stature (about four feet on a
good day), still, the ones coming at you for
being dead and white and male should be easy –
the ones picking on your lisp would just be grasping at thraws.
Now I know I've kept my
distance through most of this letter, but we're running out of time
here so let's talk straight. Alex, Al baby, it's ok. Own up like you
did before, the world needs you. Think of the many people ashamed of
their lisps, think of the good it would do to have you and Johnny
Milton on their side. Come back up and climb on a stool and tell
everyone: "Screw the sibilants, some things should simply be
said straight: Yes, sir, I lisp!" Trust me: it would be
glorious.
Until then, Alexander, stay
safe.
Radu Dima
PS : I always had a hunch you
were the only Pope worth lispening to.