Shall only man be taken in the gross?
Grant but as many sorts of mind as moss.
That each from other differs, first confess;
Next, that he varies from himself no less: 20
And Nature’s, Custom’s, Reason’s, Passion’s strife,
And all Opinion’s colours cast on life.
Our depths who fathoms, or our shallows finds,
Quick whirls and shifting eddies of our minds?
On human actions reason tho’ you can, 25
It may be Reason, but it is not Man:
His Principle of action once explore,
That instant ‘t is his Principle no more.
Like following life thro’ creatures you dissect,
You lose it in the moment you detect. 30
Yet more; the diff’rence is as great between
The optics seeing as the objects seen.
All Manners take a tincture from our own,
Or come discolour’d thro’ our Passions shown;
Or Fancy’s beam enlarges, multiplies, 35
Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
Nor will life’s stream for observation stay,
It hurries all too fast to mark their way:
In vain sedate reflections we would make,
When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take. 40
Oft in the Passions’ wide rotation toss’d,
Our spring of action to ourselves is lost:
Tired, not determin’d, to the last we yield,
And what comes then is master of the field.
As the last image of that troubled heap, 45
When Sense subsides, and Fancy sports in sleep
(Tho’ past the recollection of the thought),
Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought:
Something as dim to our internal view
Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do. 50
True, some are open, and to all men known;
Others so very close they ‘re hid from none
(So darkness strikes the sense no less than light):
Thus gracious Chandos is belov’d at sight;
And ev’ry child hates Shylock, tho’ his soul 55
Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.
At half mankind when gen’rous Manly raves,
All know ‘t is virtue, for he thinks them knaves:
When universal homage Umbra pays,
All see ‘t is vice, and itch of vulgar praise. 60
When Flatt’ry glares, all hate it in a Queen,
While one there is who charms us with his spleen.
But these plain Characters we rarely find;
Tho’ strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind:
Or puzzling contraries confound the whole; 65
Or affectations quite reverse the soul.
The dull flat falsehood serves for policy;
And in the cunning truth itself’s a lie:
Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wise:
The fool lies hid in inconsistencies. 70
See the same man, in vigour, in the gout;
Alone, in company, in place, or out;
Early at bus’ness, and at hazard late,
Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate,
Drunk at a Borough, civil at a Ball, 75
Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall!
Catius is ever moral, ever grave,
Thinks who endures a knave is next a knave,
Save just at dinner — then prefers, no doubt,
A rogue with ven’son to a saint without. 80
Who would not praise Patricio’s high desert,
His hand unstain’d, his uncorrupted heart,
His comprehensive head? all int’rests weigh’d,
All Europe saved, yet Britain not betray’d!
He thanks you not, his pride is in Piquet, 85
Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet.
What made (say, Montaigne, or more sage Charron)
Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon?
A perjured prince a leaden saint revere,
A godless regent tremble at a star? 90
The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit,
Faithless thro’ piety, and duped thro’ wit?
Europe a woman, child, or dotard, rule;
And just her wisest monarch made a fool?
Know, God and Nature only are the same: 95
In man the judgment shoots at flying game;
A bird of passage! gone as soon as found;
Now in the moon, perhaps now under ground.
In vain the sage, with retrospective eye,
Would from th’ apparent What conclude the Why, 100
Infer the Motive from the Deed, and show
That what we chanced was what we meant to do.
Behold! if Fortune or a Mistress frowns,
Some plunge in bus’ness, others shave their crowns:
To ease the soul of one oppressive weight, 105
This quits an empire, that embroils a state,
The same adust complexion has impell’d
Charles to the convent, Philip to the field.
Not always Actions show the man: we find
Who does a kindness is not therefore kind; 110
Perhaps Prosperity becalm’d his breast;
Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east:
Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat;
Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great:
Who combats bravely is not therefore brave; 115
He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave:
Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise;
His pride in reas’ning, not in acting, lies.
But grant that Actions best discover man;
Take the most strong, and sort them as you can: 120
The few that glare each character must mark;
You balance not the many in the dark.
What will you do with such as disagree?
Suppress them, or miscall them Policy?
Must then at once (the character to save) 125
The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave?
Alas! in truth the man but changed his mind;
Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not din’d.
Ask why from Britain Cæsar would retreat?
Cæsar himself might whisper he was beat. 130
Why risk the world’s great empire for a punk?
Cæsar himself might whisper he was drunk.
But, sage historians! ‘t is your task to prove
One action, Conduct, one, heroic Love.
‘T is from high life high characters are drawn; 135
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn;
A judge is just, a chancellor juster still;
A gownman learn’d; a bishop what you will;
Wise if a minister; but if a king,
More wise, more learn’d, more just, more ev’rything. 140
Court-virtues bear, like gems, the highest rate,
Born where Heav’n’s influence scarce can penetrate.
In life’s low vale, the soil the virtues like,
They please as beauties, here as wonders strike.
Tho’ the same sun, with all-diffusive rays, 145
Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze,
We prize the stronger effort of his power,
And justly set the gem above the flower.
‘T is education forms the common mind;
Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclin’d. 150
Boastful and rough, your first son is a Squire;
The next a Tradesman, meek, and much a liar;
Tom struts a Soldier, open, bold, and brave;
Will sneaks a Scriv’ner, an exceeding knave.
Is he a Churchman? then he ‘s fond of power: 155
A Quaker? sly: a Presbyterian? sour:
A smart Free-thinker? all thing
s in an hour.
Ask men’s opinions! Scoto now shall tell
How trade increases, and the world goes well:
Strike off his pension by the setting sun, 160
And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.
That gay Free-thinker, a fine talker once,
What turns him now a stupid silent dunce?
Some god or spirit he has lately found,
Or chanced to meet a Minister that frown’d. 165
Judge we by Nature? Habit can efface,
Int’rest o’ercome, or Policy take place:
By Actions? those Uncertainty divides:
By Passions? these Dissimulation hides:
Opinions? they still take a wider range: 170
Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.
Manners with Fortunes, Humours turn with Climes,
Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.
Search then the RULING PASSION: there alone,
The wild are constant, and the cunning known; 175
The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.
This clue once found unravels all the rest,
The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest:
Wharton! the scorn and wonder of our days, 180
Whose Ruling Passion was the lust of praise:
Born with whate’er could win it from the wise,
Women and fools must like him, or he dies:
Tho’ wond’ring Senates hung on all he spoke,
The Club must hail him master of the joke. 185
Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?
He ‘ll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too:
Then turns repentant, and his God adores
With the same spirit that he drinks and whores;
Enough if all around him but admire, 190
And now the Punk applaud, and now the Friar.
Thus with each gift of Nature and of Art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt,
And most contemptible, to shun contempt; 195
His passion still to covet gen’ral praise;
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
A constant bounty which no friend has made;
An angel tongue which no man can persuade!
A fool with more of wit than half mankind, 200
Too rash for thought, for action too refin’d;
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves;
A rebel to the very king he loves —
He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great! 205
Ask you why Wharton broke thro’ ev’ry rule?
‘T was all for fear the Knaves should call him Fool.
Nature well known, no prodigies remain;
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.
Yet in this search the wisest may mistake, 210
If second qualities for first they take.
When Catiline by rapine swell’d his store,
When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore,
In this the Lust, in that the Avarice
Were means, not ends; Ambition was the vice. 215
That very Cæsar, born in Scipio’s days,
Had aim’d, like him, by chastity at praise,
Lucullus, when Frugality could charm,
Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.
In vain th’ observer eyes the builder’s toil, 220
But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.
In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
As fits give vigour just when they destroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand. 225
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest Nature ends as she begins.
Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in bus’ness to the last;
As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out 230
As sober Lanesb’row dancing in the gout.
Behold a rev’rend sire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Shov’d from the wall perhaps, or rudely press’d
By his own son, that passes by unbless’d; 235
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies ev’ry sparrow that he sees.
A salmon’s belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
The doctor call’d, declares all help too late.
‘Mercy!’ cries Helluo, ‘mercy on my soul! 240
Is there no hope? — Alas! — then bring the jowl.’
The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,
Still strives to save the hallow’d taper’s end,
Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
For one puff more, and in that puff expires. 245
‘Odious! in woollen! ‘t would a saint provoke’
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke);
‘No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my life-less face:
One would not, sure, be frightful when one’s dead — 250
And — Betty — give this cheek a little red.’
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined
An humble servant to all humankind,
Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir: —
‘If — where I ‘m going — I could serve you, sir?’ 255
‘I give and I devise (old Euclio said,
And sigh’d) my lands and tenements to Ned.’
‘Your money, sir?’—’My money, sir! what, all?
Why — if I must — (then wept) I give it Paul.’
‘The manor, sir?’—’The manor! hold,’ he cried, 260
‘Not that — I cannot part with that!’ — and died.
And you, brave COBHAM! to the latest breath
Shall feel your Ruling Passion strong in death;
Such in those moments as in all the past,
‘O save my country, Heav’n!’ shall be your last. 265
Epistle II. Of the Characters of Women
To a Lady
ARGUMENT
That the particular Characters of women are not so strongly marked as those of men, seldom so fixed, and still more inconsistent with themselves. Instances of contrarieties given, even from such Characters as are more strongly marked, and seemingly, therefore, most consistent: as, 1. In the affected. 2. In the soft-natured. 3. In the cunning and artful. 4. In the whimsical. 5. In the lewd and vicious. 6. In the witty and refined. 7. In the stupid and simple. The former part having shown that the particular characters of women are more various than those of men, it is nevertheless observed that the general characteristic of the sex, as to the Ruling Passion, is more uniform. This is occasioned partly by their Nature, partly by their Education, and in some degree by Necessity. What are the aims and the fate of this sex: 1. As to Power. 2. As to Pleasure. Advice for their true interest. The picture of an estimable woman, with the best kind of contrarieties.
NOTHING so true as what you once let fall,
‘Most women have no Characters at all:’
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish’d by black, brown, or fair.
How many pictures of one nymph we view, 5
And how unlike each other, all how true!
Arcadia’s countess here, in ermined pride,
Is there, Pastora by a fountain side:
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there a naked Leda with a swan. 10
Let then the fair one beautifully cry,
In Magdalen’s loose hair and lifted eye;
Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
With simp’ring angels, palms, and harps divine;
>
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, 15
If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
Come, then, the colours and the ground prepare;
Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;
Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. 20
Rufa, whose eye quick glancing o’er the park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
As Sappho’s diamonds with her dirty smock,
Or Sappho at her toilet’s greasy task, 25
With Sappho fragrant at an ev’ning Masque:
So morning insects, that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.
How soft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail one’s advocate, the weak one’s friend. 30
To her Calista proved her conduct nice,
And good Simplicius asks of her advice.
Sudden she storms! she raves! you tip the wink:
But spare your censure; Silia does not drink.
All eyes may see from what the change arose; 35
All eyes may see — a Pimple on her nose.
Papillia, wedded to her am’rous spark,
Sighs for the shades—’How charming is a park!’
A park is purchased; but the Fair he sees
All bathed in tears—’Oh, odious, odious trees!’ 40
Ladies, like variegated tulips, show;
‘T is to their changes half their charms we owe:
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy spots the nice admirer take.
‘T was thus Calypso once each heart alarm’d, 45
Awed without virtue, without beauty charm’d;
Her tongue bewitch’d as oddly as her eyes;
Less Wit than Mimic, more a Wit than wise.
Strange graces still, and stranger flights, she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad; 50
Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create,
As when she touch’d the brink of all we hate.
Narcissa’s nature, tolerably mild,
To make a wash would hardly stew a child;
Has ev’n been prov’d to grant a lover’s prayer, 55
And paid a tradesman once to make him stare;
Gave alms at Easter in a Christian trim,
And made a widow happy for a whim.
Why then declare Good-nature is her scorn,
When ‘t is by that alone she can be borne? 60
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to Pleasure, yet a slave to Fame:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres:
Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns, 65
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 35