But soft-by regular approach-not yet

First thro' the length of yon hot terrace sweat,

And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.

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His study with what authors is it stor'd?

In books, not authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round,
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound.
Lo some are vellum, and the rest as good,
For all his Lordship knows, but they are wood.
For Lock or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chappel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of pray'r:
Light quirks of musick, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven.
On painted cielings you devoutly stare,

Where sprawl the saints of Verrio, or Laguerre,
On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest, the cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :
The rich buffet well-coloured serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb,
A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear,
Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there.
Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweetwine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate ;

Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,

Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,

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140

145

150

155

160

165

Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle?

'Tis use alone that sanctifies expence,

And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.

His father's acres who enjoys in peace,

Or makes his neighbours glad, if he encrease;

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Whose chearful tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests, not for pr'de or show,
But future buildings, future navies grow;
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.
You to proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair,
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till kings call forth th' idea's of your mind,
Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd,
Bid harbors open, publick ways extend,
Bid temples, worthier of the god, ascend,
Bid the broad arch the dang'rous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers thro' the land:
These honours, peace to happy Britain brings,
These are imperial works, and worthy kings,

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19

195

200

From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose;
One equal course how Guilt and Greatness ran,
And all that raised the Hero sunk the Man.
Now Europe's Laurels on his brows behold,
But stained with blood, or ill-exchanged for gold:
What wonder triumphs never turned his brain,
Filled with mean fear to lose, mean joy to gain.
Hence see him modest, free from pride or show;
Some Vices were too high, but none too low.
Go then, indulge thy age in Wealth and Ease,
Stretched on the spoils of plundered palaces :
Alas! what wealth, which no one act of fame
E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame!
Alas! what ease, those furies of thy life,
Ambition, Av'rice, and the imperious Wife,
The trophied Arches, storied Halls invade,
And haunt their1 slumbers in the pompous shade.
No joy, no pleasure from successes past,
Timid, and therefore treacherous, to the last.
Hear him, in accents of a pining ghost,
Sigh, with his captive, for his offspring lost."
Behold him loaded with unreverenced years,
Bathed in unmeaning, unrepentant tears,
Dead, by regardless Vet'rans borne on high,
Dry pomps, and obsequies without a sigh.
Who now his fame or fortune shall prolong?
In vain his consort bribes for venal song.3

1 He forgot to correct "their" to "his" in this line.

2 Marshal Tallard, who was himself taken prisoner, and whose son was killed at the battle of Blenheim. Addison alludes to the death of the latter in The Campaign :-"Unfortunate Tallard! oh, who can name

The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame,
That with mixed tumult in thy bosom swelled,
When first thou saw'st thy bravest troops repelled,

Thine only son pierced with a deadly wound,

Choked in his blood, and gasping on the ground?
Thyself in bondage by the victor kept,

The chief, the father and the captive wept."

Marlborough's only son, the Marquis of Blandford, died on the 20th of February, 1703.

3 See Introductory Notes to Second Moral Essay, p. 87.

No son, nor grandson, shall the line sustain,
The husband toils, the Adulterer sweats in vain:
In vain a nation's zeal, a senate's cares.

1

"Madness and Lust " (said God) "be you his heirs ;
O'er his vast heaps, in drunkenness of pride,
Go wallow, Harpies, and your prey divide !"
Alas! not dazzled with his noontide ray,
Compute the morn and evening of his day:
The whole amount of that enormous Fame

A Tale! that blends the Glory with the Shame!

35

40

1 Alluding to the character of Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, satirised in the Second Moral Essay as Philomede.

APPENDIX III.

LETTERS FROM POPE TO JACOB TONSON RESPECTING THE MAN OF ROSS.1

Extract from a letter dated Twickenham, 14th Nov., 1731.

"You live not far from Ross. I desire you to get me an exact information of the Man of Ross. What was his Xtian and surname, what year he dyed, and about what age? And to transcribe his epitaph if he had one, and any particulars you can procure about him. I intend to make him an example in a Poem of mine."

DEAR SIR,

TWICKENHAM, June 7, 1732.

Before I received yr last I intended to write to you my thanks for ye great Diligence (or let me give it a higher title) Zeal you have shown in giving me so many particulars of the Man of Ross. They are more than sufficient for my honest purpose of setting up his fame as an example to greater and wealthier men how they ought to use their Fortunes. You know few of these particulars can be made to shine in verse, but I have selected the most affecting, and added two or three which I learned from other hands. A small exaggeration you must allow me as a Poet, yet I was determined the ground work at least should be truth, which made me so scrupulous in my enquiries, and sure, considering that the world is bad enough to be always extenuating and lessening what Virtue is among us, it is but reasonable to pay it sometimes a little over measure to balance that injustice, especially when it is done for example and encouragement to others. If any man shall ever happen to endeavour to emulate the Man of Ross, 'twill be no manner of harm if I make him think he was something more charitable and more Beneficent than really he was, for so much more good it wld put the imitator upon doing, and further I am satisfyed in my conscience (from ye strokes in 2 or 3 accounts I have of his character) that it was in his will and in his heart to have done every good a Poet can imagine.

My motive in singling out this man was twofold. First to distinguish Real and solid worth from showish or plausible expense, and virtue from vanity; and secondly to humble the pride of greater men, by an opposition of one so obscure and so distant from all ye sphere of public glory-this proud town. To send you any of the particular verses will be much to the prejudice of the whole, which if it has any Beauty derives it from the manner in which it is Placed as y contrasTE (as ye Painters call it) in which it stands with ye pompous figures of famous or rich or high born men.

I was not sorry he had no monument, and will put that circumstance into a note, perhaps into the body of the Poem itself (unless you entreat the contrary in yr own favour by y' zeal to erect one). I would however in this case spare

1 The originals of these letters, with others, are now in the possession of W. R. Baker, Esq., Bayfordbury, Herts.

VOL. III.-POETRY.

M M