Some by old words to fame have made pretence, Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; 325 Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, } These sparks with awkward vanity display } What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; } 330 And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 335 Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

But most by Numbers judge a Poet's song; And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong: In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; 340 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, } Not mend their minds; as some to Church repair, } Not for the doctrine, but the music there. } These equal syllables alone require, Tho' oft the ear the open vowe's tire; 345 While expletives their feeble aid do join; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes; Where-e'er you find "the cooling western breeze," 350 In the next line, it "whispers through the trees:" If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep," The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep:" Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 355 A needless Alexandrine ends the song That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line, 360 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an Echo to the sense: 365 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 370 The line too labours, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprize, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! 375 While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love, Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 380 And the world's victor stood subdu'd by Sound! The pow'r of Music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is DRYDEN now.

Avoid Extremes; and shun the fault of such, Who still are pleas'd too little or too much. 385 At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little sense; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay Turn thy rapture move; 390 For fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we thro' mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some foreign writers, some our own despise; The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize. 395 Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine, Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 400 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; Tho' each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days. 405 Regard not then if Wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true.

Some ne'er advance a Judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the Town; They reason and conclude by precedent, 410 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of author's names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. Of all this servile herd the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with Quality, 415 A constant Critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me? But let a Lord once own the happy lines, 420 How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!

The Vulgar thus through Imitation err; As oft the Learn'd by being singular; 425 So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng By chance go right, they purposely go wrong; So Schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damn'd for having too much wit. Some praise at morning what they blame at night; 430 But always think the last opinion right. A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd, This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd; While their weak heads like towns unfortify'd, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. 435 Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say; And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow, Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once School-divines this zealous isle o'er-spread; 440 Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read; Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain, Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane. 445 If Faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn, What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn? Oft', leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit; And authors think their reputation safe, 450 Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh. Some valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. 455

Parties in Wit attend on those of State, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus; But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past; 460 For rising merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise: Nay should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would start up from the dead. 465 Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue; But like a shadow, proves the substance true; For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own, When first that sun too pow'rful beams displays, 470 It draws up vapours which obscure its rays; But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way, Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost, who stays, till all commend. 475 Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears, When Patriarch-wits surviv'd a thousand years: Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, 480 And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright Idea of the master's mind, 485 Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, 490 And each bold figure just begins to live, The treach'rous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away!

Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. 495 In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost: Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies. That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this Wit, which must our cares employ? 500 The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; Then most our trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; 505 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, By fools't is hated, and by knaves undone!

If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo, Ah let not Learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, 510 And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well: Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too, Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn some others down; 515 And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools: But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill Author is as bad a Friend. To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 520 Are mortals urg'd thro' sacred lust of praise! Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the Critic let the Man be lost. Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive, divine. 525

But if in noble minds some dregs remain Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain; Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile Obscenity should find, 530 Tho' wit and art conspire to move your mind; But Dulness with Obscenity must prove As shameful sure as Impotence in love. In the fat age of pleasure wealth and ease Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase: 535 When love was all an easy Monarch's care; Seldom at council, never in a war: Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ; Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit: The Fair sate panting at a Courtier's play, 540 And not a Mask went unimprov'd away: The modest fan was lifted up no more, And Virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before. The following licence of a Foreign reign Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; 545 Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation, And taught more pleasant methods of salvation; Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute, Lest God himself should seem too absolute: Pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare, 550 And Vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there! Encourag'd thus, Wit's Titans brav'd the skies, And the press groan'd with licens'd blasphemies. These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage, Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! 555 Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, Will needs mistake an author into vice; All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.

Learn then what MORALS Critics ought to show, 560 For't is but half a Judge's task, to know. 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join; In all you speak, let truth and candour shine: That not alone what to your sense is due All may allow; but seek your friendship too. 565

Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; But you, with pleasure own your errors past, 570 And make each day a Critic on the last.

'T is not enough, your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown propos'd as things forgot. 575 Without Good Breeding, truth is disapprov'd; That only makes superior sense belov'd.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence; For the worst avarice is that of sense. With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, 580 Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.

'T were well might critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens at each word you speak, 585 And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, Like some fierce Tyrant in old tapestry. Fear most to tax an Honourable fool, Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull; Such, without wit, are Poets when they please, 590 As without learning they can take Degrees. Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful Satires, And flattery to fulsome Dedicators, Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 595 'T is best sometimes your censure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vain: Your silence there is better than your spite, For who can rail so long as they can write? Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, 600 And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep. False steps but help them to renew the race, As, after stumbling, Jades will mend their pace. What crowds of these, impenitently bold, In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, 605 Still run on Poets, in a raging vein, Ev'n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain, Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of Impotence.

Such shameless Bards we have; and yet't is true, 610 There are as mad abandon'd Critics too. The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. 615 All books he reads, and all he reads assails. From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him, most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's friend, 620 Nay show'd his faults—but when would Poets mend? No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead: For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread. 625 Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, } It still looks home, and short excursions makes; } But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, } And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside, Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide. 630

But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbiass'd, or by favour, or by spite; Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right; Tho' learn'd, well-bred; and tho' well-bred, sincere, 635 Modestly bold, and humanly severe: Who to a friend his faults can freely show, And gladly praise the merit of a foe? Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd; A knowledge both of books and human kind: 640 Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride; And love to praise, with reason on his side?

Such once were Critics; such the happy few, Athens and Rome in better ages knew. The mighty Stagirite first left the shore, 645 Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore: He steer'd securely, and discover'd far, Led by the light of the Maeonian Star. Poets, a race long unconfin'd, and free, Still fond and proud of savage liberty, 650 Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 't was fit, Who conquer'd Nature, should preside o'er Wit.

Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense, Will, like a friend, familiarly convey 655 The truest notions in the easiest way. He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, Yet judg'd with coolness, tho' he sung with fire; His Precepts teach but what his works inspire. 660 Our Critics take a contrary extreme, They judge with fury, but they write with fle'me: Nor suffers Horace more in wrong Translations By Wits, than Critics in as wrong Quotations.

See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine, 665 And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line! Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease.

In grave Quintilian's copious work, we find The justest rules, and clearest method join'd: 670 Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace, But less to please the eye, than arm the hand, Still fit for use, and ready at command.

Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, 675 And bless their Critic with a Poet's fire. An ardent Judge, who zealous in his trust, With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just; Whose own example strengthens all his laws; And is himself that great Sublime he draws. 680

Thus long succeeding Critics justly reign'd, Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd. Learning and Rome alike in empire grew; And Arts still follow'd where her Eagles flew; From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom, 685 And the same age saw Learning fall, and Rome. With Tyranny, then Superstition join'd, As that the body, this enslav'd the mind; Much was believ'd, but little understood, And to be dull was constru'd to be good; 690 A second deluge Learning thus o'er-run, And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun.

At length Erasmus, that great injur'd name, (The glory of the Priesthood, and the shame!) Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age, 695 And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.

But see! each Muse, in LEO'S golden days, Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays, Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its ruins spread, Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head. 700 Then Sculpture and her sister-arts revive; Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live; With sweeter notes each rising Temple rung; A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung. Immortal Vida: on whose honour'd brow 705 The Poet's bays and Critic's ivy grow: Cremona now shal ever boast thy name, As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd, Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd; 710 Thence Arts o'er all the northern world advance, But Critic-learning flourish'd most in France: The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys; And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd, 715 And kept unconquer'd, and unciviliz'd; Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, We still defy'd the Romans, as of old. Yet some there were, among the sounder few Of those who less presum'd, and better knew, 720 Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, And here restor'd Wit's fundamental laws. Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell, "Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well."

Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good, 725 With manners gen'rous as his noble blood; To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, And ev'ry author's merit, but his own. Such late was Walsh—the Muse's judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame or to commend; 730 To failings mild, but zealous for desert; The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, This praise at least a grateful Muse may give: The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing, 735 Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing, (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, But in low numbers short excursions tries: Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew: 740 Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame; Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter, or offend; Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.



* * * * *



AN ESSAY ON MAN



TO H. ST. JOHN LORD BOLINGBROKE



THE DESIGN

Having proposed to write some pieces on Human Life and Manners, such as (to use my Lord Bacon's expression) come home to Men's Business and Bosoms, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering Man in the abstract, his Nature and his State; since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.

The science of Human Nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points: There are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the Anatomy of the mind as in that of the Body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The disputes are all upon these last, and, I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and have diminished the practice, more than advanced the theory of Morality. If I could flatter myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over terms utterly unintelligible, and in forming a temperate yet not inconsistent, and a short yet not imperfect system of Ethics.

This I might have done in prose, but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for two reasons. The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxims, or precepts so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards: The other may seem odd, but is true, I found I could express them more shortly this way than in prose itself; and nothing is more certain, than that much of the force as well as grace of arguments or instructions, depends on their conciseness. I was unable to treat this part of my subject more in detail, without becoming dry and tedious; or more poetically, without sacrificing perspicuity to ornament, without wandring from the precision, or breaking the chain of reasoning: If any man can unite all these without diminution of any of them, I freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity.

What is now published, is only to be considered as a general Map of MAN, marking out no more than the greater parts, their extent, their limits, and their connection, and leaving the particular to be more fully delineated in the charts which are to follow. Consequently, these Epistles in their progress (if I have health and leisure to make any progress) will be less dry, and more susceptible of poetical ornament. I am here only opening the fountains, and clearing the passage. To deduce the rivers, to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a task more agreeable.

P.



ARGUMENT OF EPISTLE I

Of the Nature and State of Man, with respect to the UNIVERSE.

Of Man in the abstract.

I. v. 17 &c. That we can judge only with regard to our own system, being ignorant of the relations of systems and things.

II. v. 35, &c. That Man is not to be deemed imperfect, but a Being suited to his place and rank in the creation, agreeable to the general Order of things, and conformable to Ends and Relations to him unknown.

III. v. 77, &c. That it is partly upon his ignorance of future events, and partly upon the hope of a future state, that all his happiness in the present depends.

IV. v. 109, &c. The pride of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more Perfections, the cause of Man's error and misery. The impiety of putting himself in the place of God, and judging of the fitness or unfitness, perfection or imperfection, justice or injustice of his dispensations.

V. v. 131, &c. The absurdity of conceiting himself the final cause of the creation, or expecting that perfection in the moral world, which is not in the natural.

VI. v. 173, &c. The unreasonableness of his complaints against Providence, while on the one hand he demands the Perfections of the Angels, and on the other the bodily qualifications of the Brutes; though, to possess any of the sensitive faculties in a higher degree, would render him miserable.

VII. v. 207. That throughout the whole visible world, an universal order and gradation in the sensual and mental faculties is observed, which causes a subordination of creature to creature, and of all creatures to Man. The gradations of sense, instinct, thought, reflection, reason; that Reason alone countervails fill the other faculties.

VIII. v. 233. How much further this order and subordination of living creatures may extend, above and below us; were any part of which broken, not that part only, but the whole connected creation must be destroyed.

IX. v. 250. The extravagance, madness, and pride of such a desire.

X. v. 281, &c. The consequence of all, the absolute submission to the end. due to Providence, both as to our present and future state,



EPISTLE I

Awake, my ST. JOHN! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of Kings. Let us (since Life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man; 5 A mighty maze! but not without a plan; A Wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot; Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield; 10 The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies, And catch the Manners living as they rise; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; 15 But vindicate the ways of God to Man.

I. Say first, of God above, or Man below, What can we reason, but from what we know? Of Man, what see we but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer? 20 Thro' worlds unnumber'd tho' the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He, who thro' vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, 25 What other planets circle other suns, What vary'd Being peoples ev'ry star, May tell why Heav'n has made us as we are. But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, The strong connexions, nice dependencies, 30 Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole?

Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?

II. Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find, 35 Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind? First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less? Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? 40 Or ask of yonder argent fields above, Why JOVE'S satellites are less than JOVE?

Of Systems possible, if 'tis confest That Wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must full or not coherent be, 45 And all that rises, rise in due degree; Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain, There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man: And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong? 50

Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; 55 Yet serves to second too some other use. So Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60

When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains: When the dull Ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now AEgypt's God: Then shall Man's pride and dulness comprehend 65 His actions', passions', being's, use and end; Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity.

Then say not Man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault; Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought: 70 His knowledge measur'd to his state and place; His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest to day is as completely so, 75 As who began a thousand years ago.

III. Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer Being here below? 80 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy Reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, 85 That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n: Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90

Hope humbly then: with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: 95 Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind: 100 His soul, proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n, Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 105 Some happier island in the watry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To Be, contents his natural desire, He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire; 110 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.

IV. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense, Weight thy Opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such, 115 Say, here he gives too little, there too much: Destroy all Creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust; If Man alone engross not Heav'n's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 120 Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.

Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 125 Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods. Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell, Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel: And who but wishes to invert the laws Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause. 130

V. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "'Tis for mine: For me kind Nature wakes her genial Pow'r, Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r; Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew 135 The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies." 140

But errs not Nature from his gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? "No, ('tis reply'd) the first Almighty Cause 145 Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws; Th' exceptions few; some change since all began: And what created perfect?"—Why then Man? If the great end be human Happiness, Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less? 150 As much that end a constant course requires Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of Man's desires; As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, As Men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design, 155 Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? Who knows but he, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms; Pours fierce Ambition in a Caesar's mind, Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 160 From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; Account for moral, as for nat'ral things: Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right is to submit.

Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear, 165 Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind; That never passion discompos'd the mind. But ALL subsists by elemental strife; And Passions are the elements of Life. 170 The gen'ral ORDER, since the whole began, Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.

VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar, And little less than Angel, would be more; Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears 175 To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use all creatures if he call, Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all? Nature to these, without profusion, kind, The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; 180 Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: 185 Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone? Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all?

The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190 No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, 195 T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonize at every pore? Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200 If Nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill? Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 205 Alike in what it gives, and what denies?

VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass: 210 What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the Flood, 215 To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood: The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew? 220 How Instinct varies in the grov'lling swine, Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine! 'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier, For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd; 225 What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide: And Middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230 The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one?

VIII. See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high, progressive life may go! 235 Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of Being! which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No glass can reach; from Infinite to thee, 240 From thee to Nothing.—On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours: Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 245 Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.

And, if each system in gradation roll Alike essential to th' amazing Whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the Whole must fall. 250 Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky; Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world; Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, 255 And Nature tremble to the throne of God. All this dread ORDER break—for whom? for thee? Vile worm!—Oh Madness! Pride! Impiety!

IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 260 What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this gen'ral frame: Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 265 The great directing MIND of ALL ordains.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same; Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; 270 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 275 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart: As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 280

X. Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. Submit.—In this, or any other sphere, 285 Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; 290 All Discord, Harmony not understood; All partial Evil, universal Good: And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.



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EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT

Advertisement to the first publication of this Epistle

This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and Fortune (the Authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court) to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my Person, Morals, and Family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their Names, and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage, and honour, on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out, but by its truth and likeness.

P.



P. shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages! nay't is past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide? They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10 No place is sacred, not the Church is free; Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, 15 A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross? Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20 All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25 And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What Drop or Nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30 A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 35 And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face. I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 40

"Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it, 45 I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace I want a Patron; ask him for a Place." 50 "Pitholeon libell'd me,"—"but here's a letter Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine," "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine."

Bless me! a packet.—"'Tis a stranger sues, 55 A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse." If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage." There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends, The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends, 60 Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools—Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot!" 'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:' "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his Attacks; 65 At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

'Tis sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king) 70 His very Minister who spy'd them first, (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. 75 I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick; 'Tis nothing—P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass, That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass: 80 The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85 Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro', He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer, 95 Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer?

* * * * *

Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit? Still Sappho—A. Hold! for God's sake—you 'll offend, No Names!—be calm!—learn prudence of a friend! 100 I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these—P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent: 105 Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And more abusive, calls himself my friend. 110 This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."

There are, who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short, Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, 115 Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye"— Go on, obliging creatures, make me see All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, "Just so immortal Maro held his head:" 120 And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 125 I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd. The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife, To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130 To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care, And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise; 135 And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head, And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. 140 Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Happier their author, when by these belov'd! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, 145 While pure Description held the place of Sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;— I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 150 Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answer'd,—I was not in debt. If want provok'd, or madness made them print, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Did some more sober Critic come abroad; 155 If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. 160 Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, 165 Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. 170

Were others angry: I excus'd them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 175 This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a Crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; 180 He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 185 It is not Poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest Satire bade translate, And own'd that nine such Poets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And swear, not ADDISON himself was safe. 190

Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 195 Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne. View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 200 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend.

A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, 205 And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Like Cato, give his little Senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise:— 210 Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, 215 On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the Race that write; I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. 220 I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225 With handkerchief and orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; 230 Fed with soft Dedication all day long. Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His Library (where busts of Poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head,) Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 235 Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; 240 To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind. Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye: But still the Great have kindness in reserve, 245 He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill! May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still! So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence, Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, 250 Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Blest be the Great! for those they take away. And those they left me; for they left me Gay; Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, 255 Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life the sole return My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.

Oh let me live my own, and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do:) 260 Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please; Above a Patron, tho' I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend. I was not born for Courts or great affairs; 265 I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs; Can sleep without a Poem in my head; Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? 270 Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? "I found him close with Swift"—'Indeed? no doubt,' (Cries prating Balbus) 'something will come out.' 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 275 'No, such a Genius never can lie still;' And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first Lampoon Sir Will, or Bubo makes. Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my Style? 280

Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear, Or from the soft-eyed Virgin steal a tear! But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, 285 Insults fall'n worth, or Beauty in distress, Who loves a Lie, lame slander helps about, Who writes a Libel, or who copies out: That Fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame: 290 Who can your merit selfishly approve. And show the sense of it without the love; Who has the vanity to call you friend, Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend; Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, 295 And, if he lie not, must at least betray: Who to the Dean, and silver bell can swear, And sees at Canons what was never there; Who reads, but with a lust to misapply, Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lie. 300 A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.

Let Sporus tremble—A. What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of Ass's milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? 305 Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys: 310 So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. Whether in florid impotence he speaks, 315 And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar Toad, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies. 320 His wit all see-saw, between that and this, } Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, } And he himself one vile Antithesis. } Amphibious thing! that acting either part, The trifling head or the corrupted heart, 325 Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board, Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord. Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest, A Cherub's face, a reptile all the rest; Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust; 330 Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

Not Fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool, Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool, Not proud, nor servile;—be one Poet's praise, That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways: 335 That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame, And thought a Lie in verse or prose the same. That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song: That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, 340 He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, The damning critic, half approving wit, The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; 345 The distant threats of vengeance on his head, The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown, Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own; The morals blacken'd when the writings scape, 350 The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape; Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread, A friend in exile, or a father, dead; The whisper, that to greatness still too near, Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOV'REIGN'S ear:— 355 Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past; For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the last! A. But why insult the poor, affront the great? P. A knave's a knave, to me, in ev'ry state: Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, 360 Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer, Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire; If on a Pillory, or near a Throne, He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own. 365 Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was bit; This dreaded Sat'rist Dennis will confess Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, 370 Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for Moore. Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply? Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's lie. To please a Mistress one aspers'd his life; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife. 375 Let Budgel charge low Grubstreet on his quill, And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will; Let the two Curlls of Town and Court, abuse His father, mother, body, soul, and muse. Yet why? that Father held it for a rule, 380 It was a sin to call our neighbour fool: That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore: Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore! Unspotted names, and memorable long! If there be force in Virtue, or in Song. 385

Of gentle blood (part shed in Honour's cause. While yet in Britain Honour had applause) Each parent sprung—A. What fortune, pray?—P. Their own, And better got, than Bestia's from the throne. Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife, 390 Nor marrying Discord in a noble wife, Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walk'd innoxious thro' his age. Nor Courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lie. 395 Un-learn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, No language, but the language of the heart. By Nature honest, by Experience wise, Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercise; His life, tho' long, to sickness past unknown, 400 His death was instant, and without a groan. O grant me, thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I.

O Friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine: 405 Me, let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing Age, With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath, Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death, Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 410 And keep a while one parent from the sky! On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend, Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he serv'd a QUEEN. 415 A. Whether that blessing be deny'd or giv'n, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.



* * * * *



ODE ON SOLITUDE



Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5 Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 10 In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixt; sweet recreation; And Innocence, which most does please 15 With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. 20



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THE DESCENT OF DULLNESS

[From the 'Dunciad', Book IV]

In vain, in vain—the all-composing Hour Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the Pow'r. She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold Of Night primaeval and of Chaos old! Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, 5 And all its varying Rain-bows die away. Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain; 10 As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest, Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest; Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, Art after Art goes out, and all is Night. See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, 15 Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! 20 See Mystery to Mathematics fly! In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. For public Flame, nor private, dares to shine; 25 Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor'd; Light dies before thy uncreating word; Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall, And universal Darkness buries All. 30



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ON MR. GAY

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1732

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child: With native Humour temp'ring virtuous Rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above Temptation, in a low Estate, 5 And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great: A safe Companion, and an easy Friend, Unblam'd thro' Life, lamented in thy End. These are Thy Honours! not that here thy Bust Is mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy dust; 10 But that the Worthy and the Good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms—Here lies GAY.



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NOTES

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

INTRODUCTION

In 1711 Pope, who had just published his 'Essay on Criticism', was looking about for new worlds to conquer. A fortunate chance threw in his way a subject exactly suited to his tastes and powers. He seized upon it, dashed off his first sketch in less than a fortnight, and published it anonymously in a 'Miscellany' issued by Lintot in 1712. But the theme had taken firm root in his mind. Dissatisfied with his first treatment of it, he determined, against the advice of the best critic of the day, to recast the work, and lift it from a mere society 'jeu d'esprit' into an elaborate mock-heroic poem. He did so and won a complete success. Even yet, however, he was not completely satisfied and from time to time he added a touch to his work until he finally produced the finished picture which we know as 'The Rape of the Lock'. As it stands, it is an almost flawless masterpiece, a brilliant picture and light-hearted mockery of the gay society of Queen Anne's day, on the whole the most satisfactory creation of Pope's genius, and, perhaps, the best example of the mock-heroic in any literature.

The occasion which gave rise to 'The Rape of the Lock' has been so often related that it requires only a brief restatement. Among the Catholic families of Queen Anne's day, who formed a little society of their own, Miss Arabella Fermor was a reigning belle. In a youthful frolic which overstepped the bounds of propriety Lord Petre, a young nobleman of her acquaintance, cut off a lock of her hair. The lady was offended, the two families took up the quarrel, a lasting estrangement, possibly even a duel, was threatened. At this juncture a common friend of the two families, a Mr. Caryll, nephew of a well-known Jacobite exile for whom he is sometimes mistaken, suggested to Pope "to write a poem to make a jest of it," and so kill the quarrel with laughter. Pope consented, wrote his first draft of 'The Rape of the Lock', and passed it about in manuscript. Pope says himself that it had its effect in the two families; certainly nothing more is heard of the feud. How Miss Fermor received the poem is a little uncertain. Pope complains in a letter written some months after the poem had appeared in print that "the celebrated lady is offended." According to Johnson she liked the verses well enough to show them to her friends, and a niece of hers said years afterward that Mr. Pope's praise had made her aunt "very troublesome and conceited." It is not improbable that Belinda was both flattered and offended. Delighted with the praise of her beauty she may none the less have felt called upon to play the part of the offended lady when the poem got about and the ribald wits of the day began to read into it double meanings which reflected upon her reputation. To soothe her ruffled feelings Pope dedicated the second edition of the poem to her in a delightful letter in which he thanked her for having permitted the publication of the first edition to forestall an imperfect copy offered to a bookseller, declared that the character of Belinda resembled her in nothing but in beauty, and affirmed that he could never hope that his poem should pass through the world half so uncensured as she had done. It would seem that the modern critics who have undertaken to champion Miss Fermor against what they are pleased to term the revolting behavior of the poet are fighting a needless battle. A pretty girl who would long since have been forgotten sat as an unconscious model to a great poet; he made her the central figure in a brilliant picture and rendered her name immortal. That is the whole story, and when carping critics begin to search the poem for the improprieties of conduct to which they say Pope alluded, one has but to answer in Pope's own words.

If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

Pope's statement in the dedication that he had been forced into publishing the first draft of the poem before his design of enlarging it was half executed is probably to be taken, like many of his statements, with a sufficient grain of salt. Pope had a curious habit of protesting that he was forced into publishing his letters, poems, and other trifles, merely to forestall the appearance of unauthorized editions. It is more likely that it was the undoubted success of 'The Rape of the Lock' in its first form which gave him the idea of working up the sketch into a complete mock-heroic poem.

Examples of such a poem were familiar enough to Pope. Not to go back to the pseudo-Homeric mock epic which relates the battle of the frogs and mice, Vida in Italy and Boileau in France, with both of whom Pope, as the 'Essay on Criticism' shows, was well acquainted, had done work of this kind. Vida's description of the game of chess in his 'Scacchia Ludus' certainly gave him the model for the game of ombre in the third canto of 'The Rape of the Lock'; Boileau's 'Lutrin' probably suggested to him the idea of using the mock-heroic for the purposes of satire.

Now it was a dogma of the critical creed of the day, which Pope devoutly accepted, that every epic must have a well-recognized "machinery." Machinery, as he kindly explained to Miss Fermor, was a "term invented by the critics to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons are made to act in a poem," in short for the whole supernatural element. Such machinery was quite wanting in the first draft of the Rape; it must be supplied if the poem was to be a true epic, even of the comic kind. And the machinery must be of a nature which would lend itself to the light satiric tone of the poem. What was it to be? The employment of what we may call Christian machinery, the angels and devils of Tasso and Milton, was, of course, out of the question. The employment of the classic machinery was almost as impossible. It would have been hard for such an admirer of the classics as Pope to have taken the deities of Olympus otherwise than seriously. And even if he had been able to treat them humorously, the humor would have been a form of burlesque quite at variance with what he had set out to accomplish. For Pope's purpose, springing naturally from the occasion which set him to writing the 'Rape', was not to burlesque what was naturally lofty by exhibiting it in a degraded light, but to show the true littleness of the trivial by treating it in a grandiose and mock-heroic fashion, to make the quarrel over the stolen lock ridiculous by raising it to the plane of the epic contest before the walls of Troy.

In his perplexity a happy thought, little less in fact than an inspiration of genius, came to Pope. He had been reading a book by a clever French abbe treating in a satiric fashion of the doctrines of the so-called Rosicrucians, in particular of their ideas of elemental spirits and the influence of these spirits upon human affairs. Here was the machinery he was looking for made to his hand. There would be no burlesque in introducing the Rosicrucian sylphs and gnomes into a mock-heroic poem, for few people, certainly not the author of the 'Comte de Gabalis', took them seriously. Yet the widespread popularity of this book, to say nothing of the existence of certain Rosicrucian societies, had rendered their names familiar to the society for which Pope wrote. He had but to weave them into the action of his poem, and the brilliant little sketch of society was transformed into a true mock-epic.

The manner in which this interweaving was accomplished is one of the most satisfactory evidences of Pope's artistic genius. He was proud of it himself. "The making the machinery, and what was published before, hit so well together, is," he told Spencer, "I think, one of the greatest proofs of judgment of anything I ever did." And he might well be proud. Macaulay, in a well-known passage, has pointed out how seldom in the history of literature such a recasting of a poem has been successfully accomplished. But Pope's revision of 'The Rape of the Lock' was so successful that the original form was practically done away with. No one reads it now but professed students of the literature of Queen Anne's time. And so artfully has the new matter been woven into the old that if the recasting of 'The Rape of the Lock' were not a commonplace even in school histories of English literature, not one reader in a hundred would suspect that the original sketch had been revised and enlarged to more than twice its length. It would be an interesting task for the student to compare the two forms printed in this edition, to note exactly what has been added, and the reasons for its addition, and to mark how Pope has smoothed the junctures and blended the old and the new. Nothing that he could do would admit him more intimately to the secrets of Pope's mastery of his art.

A word must be said in closing as to the merits of 'The Rape of the Lock' and its position in English literature. In the first place it is an inimitable picture of one phase, at least, of the life of the time, of the gay, witty, heartless society of Queen Anne's day. Slowly recovering from the licentious excesses of the Restoration, society at this time was perhaps unmoral rather than immoral. It was quite without ideals, unless indeed the conventions of "good form" may be dignified by that name. It lacked the brilliant enthusiasm of Elizabethan times as well as the religious earnestness of the Puritans and the devotion to patriotic and social ideals which marked a later age. Nothing, perhaps, is more characteristic of the age than its attitude toward women. It affected indeed a tone of high-flown adoration which thinly veiled a cynical contempt. It styled woman a goddess and really regarded her as little better than a doll. The passion of love had fallen from the high estate it once possessed and become the mere relaxation of the idle moments of a man of fashion.

In the comedies of Congreve, for example, a lover even if honestly in love thinks it as incumbent upon him to make light of his passion before his friends as to exaggerate it in all the forms of affected compliment before his mistress.

In 'The Rape of the Lock' Pope has caught and fixed forever the atmosphere of this age. It is not the mere outward form and circumstance, the manners and customs, the patching, powdering, ogling, gambling, of the day that he has reproduced, though his account of these would alone suffice to secure the poem immortality as a contribution to the history of society. The essential spirit of the age breathes from every line. No great English poem is at once so brilliant and so empty, so artistic, and yet so devoid of the ideals on which all high art rests. It is incorrect, I think, to consider Pope in 'The Rape of the Lock' as the satirist of his age. He was indeed clever enough to perceive its follies, and witty enough to make sport of them, but it is much to be doubted whether he was wise enough at this time to raise his eyes to anything better. In the social satires of Pope's great admirer, Byron, we are at no loss to perceive the ideal of personal liberty which the poet opposes to the conventions he tears to shreds. Is it possible to discover in 'The Rape of the Lock' any substitute for Belinda's fancies and the Baron's freaks? The speech of Clarissa which Pope inserted as an afterthought to point the moral of the poem recommends Belinda to trust to merit rather than to charms. But "merit" is explicitly identified with good humor, a very amiable quality, but hardly of the highest rank among the moral virtues. And the avowed end and purpose of "merit" is merely to preserve what beauty gains, the flattering attentions of the other sex,—surely the lowest ideal ever set before womankind. The truth is, I think, that 'The Rape of the Lock' represents Pope's attitude toward the social life of his time in the period of his brilliant youth. He was at once dazzled, amused, and delighted by the gay world in which he found himself. The apples of pleasure had not yet turned to ashes on his lips, and it is the poet's sympathy with the world he paints which gives to the poem the air, most characteristic of the age itself, of easy, idle, unthinking gayety. We would not have it otherwise. There are sermons and satires in abundance in English literature, but there is only one 'Rape of the Lock'.

The form of the poem is in perfect correspondence with its spirit. There is an immense advance over the 'Essay on Criticism' in ease, polish, and balance of matter and manner. And it is not merely in matters of detail that the supremacy of the latter poem is apparent. 'The Rape of the Lock' is remarkable among all Pope's longer poems as the one complete and perfect whole. It is no mosaic of brilliant epigrams, but an organic creation. It is impossible to detach any one of its witty paragraphs and read it with the same pleasure it arouses when read in its proper connection. Thalestris' call to arms and Clarissa's moral reproof are integral parts of the poem. And as a result, perhaps, of its essential unity 'The Rape of the Lock' bears witness to the presence of a power in Pope that we should hardly have suspected from his other works, the power of dramatic characterization. Elsewhere he has shown himself a master of brilliant portraiture, but Belinda, the Baron, and Thalestris are something more than portraits. They are living people, acting and speaking with admirable consistency. Even the little sketch of Sir Plume is instinct with life.

Finally 'The Rape of the Lock', in its limitations and defects, no less than in its excellencies, represents a whole period of English poetry, the period which reaches with but few exceptions from Dryden to Wordsworth. The creed which dominated poetic composition during this period is discussed in the introduction to the Essay on Criticism, (see p. 103) and is admirably illustrated in that poem itself. Its repression of individuality, its insistence upon the necessity of following in the footsteps of the classic poets, and of checking the outbursts of imagination by the rules of common sense, simply incapacitated the poets of the period from producing works of the highest order. And its insistence upon man as he appeared in the conventional, urban society of the day as the one true theme of poetry, its belief that the end of poetry was to instruct and improve either by positive teaching or by negative satire, still further limited its field. One must remember in attempting an estimate of 'The Rape of the Lock' that it was composed with an undoubting acceptance of this creed and within all these narrowing limitations. And when this is borne in mind, it is hardly too much to say that the poem attains the highest point possible. In its treatment of the supernatural it is as original as a poem could be at that day. The brilliancy of its picture of contemporary society could not be heightened by a single stroke. Its satire is swift and keen, but never ill natured. And the personality of Pope himself shines through every line. Johnson advised authors who wished to attain a perfect style to give their days and nights to a study of Addison. With equal justice one might advise students who wish to catch the spirit of our so-called Augustan age, and to realize at once the limitations and possibilities of its poetry, to devote themselves to the study of 'The Rape of the Lock'.



DEDICATION

'Mrs. Arabella':

the title of Mrs. was still given in Pope's time to unmarried ladies as soon as they were old enough to enter society.

'the Rosicrucian doctrine':

the first mention of the Rosicrucians is in a book published in Germany in 1614, inviting all scholars to join the ranks of a secret society said to have been founded two centuries before by a certain Christian Rosenkreuz who had mastered the hidden wisdom of the East. It seems probable that this book was an elaborate hoax, but it was taken seriously at the time, and the seventeenth century saw the formation of numerous groups of "Brothers of the Rosy Cross." They dabbled in alchemy, spiritualism, and magic, and mingled modern science with superstitions handed down from ancient times. Pope probably knew nothing more of them than what he had read in 'Le Comte de Gabalis'.

This was the work of a French abbe, de Montfaucon Villars (1635-1673), who was well known in his day both as a preacher and a man of letters. It is really a satire upon the fashionable mystical studies, but treats in a tone of pretended seriousness of secret sciences, of elemental spirits, and of their intercourse with men. It was translated into English in 1680 and again in 1714.



CANTO I

Lines '1-2'

Pope opens his mock-epic with the usual epic formula, the statement of the subject. Compare the first lines of the 'Iliad', the 'AEneid', and 'Paradise Lost'. In l. 7 he goes on to call upon the "goddess," i.e. the muse, to relate the cause of the rape. This, too, is an epic formula. Compare 'AEneid', I, 8, and 'Paradise Lost', I, 27-33.

'3 Caryl':

see Introduction, p. 83. In accordance with his wish his name was not printed in the editions of the poem that came out in Pope's lifetime, appearing there only as C——or C——l.

'4 Belinda':

a name used by Pope to denote Miss Fermor, the heroine of 'The Rape of the Lock'.

'12'

This line is almost a translation of a line in the 'AEneid' (I, 11), where Virgil asks if it be possible that such fierce passions (as Juno's) should exist in the minds of gods.

'13 Sol':

a good instance of the fondness which Pope shared with most poets of his time for giving classical names to objects of nature. This trick was supposed to adorn and elevate poetic diction. Try to find other instances of this in 'The Rape of the Lock'.

Why is the sun's ray called "tim'rous"?

'16'

It was an old convention that lovers were so troubled by their passion that they could not sleep. In the 'Prologue to the Canterbury Tales' (ll. 97-98), Chaucer says of the young squire:

So hote he lovede, that by nightertale He sleep namore than dooth a nightingale.

Pope, of course, is laughing at the easy-going lovers of his day who in spite of their troubles sleep very comfortably till noon.

'17'

The lady on awaking rang a little hand-bell that stood on a table by her bed to call her maid. Then as the maid did not appear at once she tapped impatiently on the floor with the heel of her slipper. The watch in the next line was a repeater.

'19'

All the rest of this canto was added in the second edition of the poem. See pp. 84-86. Pope did not notice that he describes Belinda as waking in I. 14 and still asleep and dreaming in ll. 19-116.

'20 guardian Sylph':

compare ll. 67-78.

'23 a Birth-night Beau':

a fine gentleman in his best clothes, such as he would wear at a ball on the occasion of a royal birthday.

'30'

The nurse would have told Belinda the old tales of fairies who danced by moonlight on rings in the greensward, and dropped silver coins into the shoes of tidy little maids. The priest, on the other hand, would have repeated to her the legend of St. Cecilia and her guardian angel who once appeared in bodily form to her husband holding two rose garlands gathered in Paradise, or of St. Dorothea, who sent an angel messenger with a basket of heavenly fruits and flowers to convert the pagan Theophilus.

'42 militia':

used here in the general sense of "soldiery."

'44 the box':

in the theater.

'the ring':

the drive in Hyde Park, where the ladies of society took the air.

'46 a chair':

a sedan chair in which ladies used to be carried about. Why is Belinda told to scorn it?

'50'

What is the meaning of "vehicles" in this line?

'56 Ombre':

the fashionable game of cards in Pope's day. See his account of a game in Canto III and the notes on that passage.

'57-67'

See 'Introduction', p. 85.

'69-70'

Compare 'Paradise Lost', I, 423-431.

'79'

conscious of their face: proud of their beauty.

'81 These':

the gnomes who urge the vain beauties to disdain all offers of love and play the part of prudes.

'85 garters, stars, and coronets':

the garter is the badge of the Knights of the Garter, an order founded by Edward III, to which only noble princes and noblemen of the highest rank were admitted. "Stars" are the jeweled decorations worn by members of other noble orders. "Coronets" are the inferior crowns worn by princes and nobles, not by sovereigns.

'86 "Your Grace"':

the title bestowed in England on a duchess—The idea in this passage, ll. 83-86, is that the gnomes fill the girls' minds with hopes of a splendid marriage and so induce them to "deny love."

'94 impertinence':

purposeless flirtation.

'97-98 Florio ... Damon':

poetic names for fine gentlemen; no special individuals are meant.

'100' Why is a woman's heart called a "toy-shop"?

'101 Sword-knots':

tassels worn at the hilts of swords. In Pope's day every gentleman carried a sword, and these sword-knots were often very gay.

'105 who thy protection claim':

what is the exact meaning of his phrase?

'108 thy ruling Star':

the star that controls thy destinies, a reference to the old belief in astrology.

'115 Shock':

Belinda's pet dog. His name would seem to show that he was a rough-haired terrier.

'118'

Does this line mean that Belinda had never seen a billet-doux before?

'119 Wounds, Charms, and Ardors':

the usual language of a love-letter at this time.

'124 the Cosmetic pow'rs':

the deities that preside over a lady's toilet. Note the playful satire with which Pope describes Belinda's toilet as if it were a religious ceremony. Who is "th' inferior priestess" in l. 127?

'131 nicely':

carefully.

'134 Arabia':

famous for its perfumes.

'145 set the head':

arrange the head-dress.

'147 Betty':

Belinda's maid.



CANTO II

'4 Launch'd':

embarked.

'25 springes':

snares.

'26 the finny prey':

a characteristic instance of Pope's preference or circumlocution to a direct phrase.

'35-36'

A regular formula in classical epics. In Virgil (XI, 794-795) Phoebus grants part of the prayer of Arruns; the other part he scatters to the light winds.

'38 vast French Romances':

these romances were the customary reading of society in Pope's day when there were as yet no English novels. Some of them were of enormous length. Addison found several of them in a typical lady's library, great folio volumes, finely bound in gilt ('Spectator', 37).

'58 All but the Sylph':

so in Homer (1-25), while all the rest of the army is sleeping Agamemnon is disturbed by fear of the doom impending over the Greeks at the hands of Hector.

'60 Waft':

wave, or flutter.

'70 Superior by the head':

so in Homer ('Iliad', III, 225-227) Ajax is described as towering over the other Greeks by head and shoulders.

'73 sylphids':

a feminine form of "sylphs."

'74'

This formal opening of Ariel's address to his followers is a parody of a passage in 'Paradise Lost', V, 600-601.

'75 spheres':

either "worlds" or in a more general sense "regions."

'79'

What are the "wandering orbs," and how do they differ from planets in l. 80?

'97 a wash':

a lotion for the complexion.

'105'

Diana, the virgin huntress, was in a peculiar sense the goddess of chastity.

'106 China jar':

the taste for collecting old china was comparatively new in England at this time. It had been introduced from Holland by Queen Anne's sister, Queen Mary, and was eagerly caught up by fashionable society.

'113 The drops':

the diamond earrings.

'118 the Petticoat':

the huge hoop skirt which had recently become fashionable. Addison, in a humorous paper in the 'Tatler' (No. 116), describes one as about twenty-four yards in circumference.

'128 bodkin':

a large needle.

'133 rivel'd':

an obsolete raiment of "obrivelled."

'133 Ixion':

according to classical mythology Ixion was punished for his sins by being bound forever upon a whirling wheel.

'134 Mill':

the mill in which cakes of chocolate were ground up preparatory to making the beverage.

'138 orb in orb':

in concentric circles.

'139 thrid':

a variant form of "thread."



CANTO III

'3 a structure':

Hampton Court, a palace on the Thames, a few miles above London. It was begun by Wolsey, and much enlarged by William III. Queen Anne visited it occasionally, and cabinet meetings were sometimes held there. Pope insinuates (l. 6) that the statesmen who met in these councils were as interested in the conquest of English ladies as of foreign enemies.

'8'

Tea was still in Queen Anne's day a luxury confined to the rich. It cost, in 1710, from twelve to twenty-eight shillings per pound.

'9 The heroes and the nymphs':

the boating party which started for Hampton Court in Canto II.

'17'

Snuff-taking had just become fashionable at this time. The practice is said to date from 1702, when an English admiral brought back fifty tons of snuff found on board some Spanish ships which he had captured in Vigo Bay.

In the 'Spectator' for August 8, 1711, a mock advertisement is inserted professing to teach "the exercise of the snuff-box according to the most fashionable airs and motions," and in the number for April 4, 1712, Steele protests against "an impertinent custom the fine women have lately fallen into of taking snuff."

'22 dine':

the usual dinner hour in Queen Anne's reign was about 3 P.M. Fashionable people dined at 4, or later. This allowed the fashionable lady who rose at noon time to do a little shopping and perform "the long labours of the toilet."

'26 two ... Knights':

one of these was the baron, see l. 66.

'27 Ombre':

a game of cards invented in Spain. It takes its name from the Spanish phrase originally used by the player who declared trumps: "Yo soy l'hombre," 'i.e.' I am the man. It could be played by three, five, or nine players, but the usual number was three as here. Each of these received nine cards, and one of them named the trump and thus became the "ombre," who played against the two others. If either of the ombre's opponents took more tricks than the ombre, it was "codille" (l. 92). This meant that the opponent took the stake and the ombre had to replace it for the next hand.

A peculiar feature of ombre is the rank, or value, of the cards. The three best cards were called "matadores," a Spanish word meaning "killers." The first of these matadores was "Spadillio," the ace of spades; the third was "Basto," the ace of clubs. The second, "Manillio," varied according to the suit. If a black suit were declared, Maniilio was the two of trumps; if a red suit, Manillio was the seven of trumps. It is worth noting also that the red aces were inferior to the face cards of their suits except when a red suit was trump.