Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series

by Alexander Pope

  Pos. Patience, Sir. Perhaps the lady may be married.

  Town. Tis infamous, Mr. Fossile, to keep her in your house; yet though you turn her out of doors, use her with some humanity; I will take care of the child.

  Clink. I can find no Denoüement of all this conversation. Where is the crime, I pray, of writing a tragedy? I sent it to Drury-Lane house to be acted; and here it is return’d by the wrong goùt of the actors.

  Pos. This incident has somewhat embarrassed us. But what mean you here, madam, by this expression? Your offspring.

  Clink. My tragedy, the offspring of my brain. One of his majesty’s justices of the peace, and not understand the use of the metaphor!

  Pos. Doctor, you have used much artifice, and many demurrers; but the child must lie at your door at last. Friend, speak plain what thou knowest of this matter.

  Foss. Let me relate my story. This morning, I married this lady, and brought her from her lodgings, at Mrs. Chambers’s, in King-street, Covent-Garden.

  Sail. Mrs. Chambers! To that place I was directed, where liv’d the maid that put the bantling out to be nurs’d by my wife for her lady; and who she was, ‘tis none of our business to enquire.

  Pos. Dost thou know the name of this maid?

  Sail. Let me consider —— Lutestring.

  Foss. Sarsnet, thou mean’st.

  Sail. Sarsnet, that’s right.

  Town. I’ll turn her out of my house this moment, Filthy creature!

  Pos. The evidence is plain. You have cohabitation with the mother, doctor, currat lex. And you must keep the child.

  Foss. Your decree is unjust, Sir, and I’ll seek my remedy at law. As I never was espoused, I never had carnal knowledge of any woman; and my wife, Mrs. Susanna Townley, is a pure virgin at this hour for me.

  Pos. Susanna Townley! Susannah Townley! Look how runs the warrant you drew up this morning.

  [Clerk gives him a paper.

  Madam, a word in private with you. [whispers her] Doctor, my Lord Chief Justice has some business with this lady.

  Foss. My Lord Chief Justice business with my wife!

  Pos. To be plain with you, doctor Fossile, you have for these three hours entertain’d another man’s wife. Her husband, lieutenant Bengal, is just returned from the Indies, and this morning took out a warrant from me for an elopement; it will be more for your credit to part with her privately, than to suffer her publickly to be carried off by a tipstaff.

  Foss. Surprizing have been the events of this day; but this, the strangest of all, settles my future repose. Let her go — I have not dishonoured the bed of lieutenant Bengal — Hark ye friend! Do you follow her with that badge of her infamy.

  Pos. By your favour, doctor, I never reverse my judgment. The child is yours: for it cannot belong to a man who has been three years absent in the East-Indies. Leave the child.

  Sail. I find you are out of humour, master. So I’ll call to-morrow for his clearings.

  [Sailor lays down the child, and exit with Possum, Clerk, and Townley.]

  Clink. Uncle, by this day’s adventure, every one has got something. Lieutenant Bengal has got his wife again; you a fine child; and I a plot for a comedy; and I’ll this moment set about it.

  [Exit Clinket.

  Foss. What must be, must be. [takes up the child.] Fossile, thou didst want posterity: Here behold thou hast it. A wife thou didst not want; thou hast none. But thou art caressing a child that is not thy own. What then? a thousand, and a thousand husbands are doing the same thing this very instant; and the knowledge of truth is desirable, and makes thy case the better, What signifies whether a man beget his child or not? How rediculous is the act itself, said the great emperor Antoninus! I now look upon myself as a Roman citizen; it is better that the father should adopt the child, than that the wife should adopt the father.

  [Exit Fossile.

  EPILOGUE.

  Spoke by Mrs. Oldfield.

  The ancient Epilogue, as criticks write,

  Was, Clap your hands, excuse us, and good-night.

  The modern always was a kind essay

  To reconcile the audience to the play:

  More polish’d, we of late have learn’d to fly

  At parties, treaties, nations, ministry.

  Our author more genteelly leaves these brawls

  To coffee-houses, and to coblers stalls.

  His very monsters are of sweet condition,

  None but the Crocodile’s a politician;

  He reaps the blessings of his double nature,

  And, Trimmer like, can live on land or water:

  Yet this same monster should be kindly treated,

  He lik’d a lady’s flesh —— but not to eat it.

  As for my other spark, my favourite Mummy,

  His feats were such, smart youths! as might become ye;

  Dead as he seem’d, he had sure signs of life;

  His hieroglyphicks pleas’d the doctor’s wife.

  Whom can our well-bred poetess displease?

  She writ like quality —— with wond’rous ease:

  All her offence was harmless want of wit;

  Is that a crime? —— ye powers, preserve the pit.

  My doctor too, to give the devil his due,

  When every creature did his spouse pursue,

  (Men sound in living, bury’d flesh, dry’d fish,)

  Was e’en as civil as a wife could wish.

  Yet he was somewhat saucy with his viol;

  What! put young maids to that unnat’ral trial!

  So hard a test! why, if you needs will make it,

  Faith, let us marry first, —— and then we’ll take it.

  Who could be angry, though like Fossile teaz’d?

  Consider, in three hours, the man was eas’d.

  How many of you are for life beguil’d,

  And keep as well the mother, as the child!

  None but a Tar could be so tender-hearted,

  To claim a wife that had been three years parted;

  Would you do this, my friends? — believe me, never!

  When modishly you part —— you part for ever.

  Join then your voices, be the play excus’d

  For once, though no one living is abus’d;

  To that bright circle that commands our duties,

  To you superior eighteen-penny beauties,

  To the lac’d hat and cockard of the pit, }

  To all, in one word, we our cause submit,

  Who think good breeding is a-kin to wit.

  The Biographies

  The money made from the translation of Homer allowed Pope to move to a villa at Twickenham in 1719, where he created his now famous Grotto and gardens. The poet decorated the Grotto with alabaster, marbles, and ores such as mundic and crystals. This watercolour, produced soon after the poet’s death, shows the house and Grotto.

  Another view of the house

  View of the Grotto, 1786

  The ‘Alexander Pope Hotel’ which now stands by the site of the Grotto

  ALEXANDER POPE by Leslie Stephen

  CONTENTS

  PREFATORY NOTE.

  CHAPTER I. EARLY YEARS.

  CHAPTER II. FIRST PERIOD OF POPE’S LITERARY CAREER.

  CHAPTER III. POPE’S HOMER.

  CHAPTER IV. POPE AT TWICKENHAM.

  CHAPTER V. THE WAR WITH THE DUNCES.

  CHAPTER VI. CORRESPONDENCE.

  CHAPTER VII. THE ESSAY ON MAN.

  CHAPTER VIII. EPISTLES AND SATIRES.

  CHAPTER IX. THE END.

  PREFATORY NOTE.

  The life and writings of Pope have been discussed in a literature more voluminous than that which exists in the case of almost any other English man of letters. No biographer, however, has produced a definitive or exhaustive work. It seems therefore desirable to indicate the main authorities upon which such a biographer would have to rely, and which have been consulted for the purpose of the following necessarily brief and imperfect sketch.

  The first
life of Pope was a catchpenny book, by William Ayre, published in 1745, and remarkable chiefly as giving the first version of some demonstrably erroneous statements, unfortunately adopted by later writers. In 1751, Warburton, as Pope’s literary executor, published the authoritative edition of the poet’s works, with notes containing some biographical matter. In 1769 appeared a life by Owen Ruffhead, who wrote under Warburton’s inspiration. This is a dull and meagre performance, and much of it is devoted to an attack — partly written by Warburton himself — upon the criticisms advanced in the first volume of Joseph Warton’s Essay on Pope. Warton’s first volume was published in 1756; and it seems that the dread of Warburton’s wrath counted for something in the delay of the second volume, which did not appear till 1782. The Essay contains a good many anecdotes of interest. Warton’s edition of Pope — the notes in which are chiefly drawn from the Essay — was published in 1797. The Life by Johnson appeared in 1781; it is admirable in many ways; but Johnson had taken the least possible trouble in ascertaining facts. Both Warton and Johnson had before them the manuscript collections of Joseph Spence, who had known Pope personally during the last twenty years of his life, and wanted nothing but literary ability to have become an efficient Boswell. Spence’s anecdotes, which were not published till 1820, give the best obtainable information upon many points, especially in regard to Pope’s childhood. This ends the list of biographers who were in any sense contemporary with Pope. Their statements must be checked and supplemented by the poet’s own letters, and innumerable references to him in the literature of the time. In 1806 appeared the edition of Pope by Bowles, with a life prefixed. Bowles expressed an unfavourable opinion of many points in Pope’s character, and some remarks by Campbell, in his specimens of English poets, led to a controversy (1819-1826) in which Bowles defended his views against Campbell, Byron, Roscoe, and others, and which incidentally cleared up some disputed questions. Roscoe, the author of the Life of Leo X., published his edition of Pope in 1824. A life is contained in the first volume, but it is a feeble performance; and the notes, many of them directed against Bowles, are of little value. A more complete biography was published by R. Carruthers (with an edition of the works), in 1854. The second, and much improved, edition appeared in 1857, and is still the most convenient life of Pope, though Mr. Carruthers was not fully acquainted with the last results of some recent investigations, which have thrown a new light upon the poet’s career.

  The writer who took the lead in these inquiries was the late Mr. Dilke. Mr. Dilke published the results of his investigations (which were partly guided by the discovery of a previously unpublished correspondence between Pope and his friend Caryll), in the Athenæum and Notes and Queries, at various intervals, from 1854 to 1860. His contributions to the subject have been collated in the first volume of the Papers of a Critic, edited by his grandson, the present Sir Charles W. Dilke, in 1875. Meanwhile Mr. Croker had been making an extensive collection of materials for an exhaustive edition of Pope’s works, in which he was to be assisted by Mr. Peter Cunningham. After Croker’s death these materials were submitted by Mr. Murray to Mr. Whitwell Elwin, whose own researches have greatly extended our knowledge, and who had also the advantage of Mr. Dilke’s advice. Mr. Elwin began, in 1871, the publication of the long-promised edition. It was to have occupied ten volumes — five of poems and five of correspondence, the latter of which was to include a very large proportion of previously unpublished matter. Unfortunately for all students of English literature, only two volumes of poetry and three of correspondence have appeared. The notes and prefaces, however, contain a vast amount of information, which clears up many previously disputed points in the poet’s career; and it is to be hoped that the materials collected for the remaining volumes will not be ultimately lost. It is easy to dispute some of Mr. Elwin’s critical opinions, but it would be impossible to speak too highly of the value of his investigations of facts. Without a study of his work, no adequate knowledge of Pope is attainable.

  The ideal biographer of Pope, if he ever appears, must be endowed with the qualities of an acute critic and a patient antiquarian; and it would take years of labour to work out all the minute problems connected with the subject. All that I can profess to have done is to have given a short summary of the obvious facts, and of the main conclusions established by the evidence given at length in the writings of Mr. Dilke and Mr. Elwin. I have added such criticisms as seemed desirable in a work of this kind, and I must beg pardon by anticipation if I have fallen into inaccuracies in relating a story so full of pitfalls for the unwary.

  L. S.

  CHAPTER I. EARLY YEARS.

  The father of Alexander Pope was a London merchant, a devout Catholic, and not improbably a convert to Catholicism. His mother was one of seventeen children of William Turner, of York; one of her sisters was the wife of Cooper, the well-known portrait-painter. Mrs. Cooper was the poet’s godmother; she died when he was five years old, leaving to her sister, Mrs. Pope, a “grinding-stone and muller,” and their mother’s “picture in limning;” and to her nephew, the little Alexander, all her “books, pictures, and medals set in gold or otherwise.”

  In after-life the poet made some progress in acquiring the art of painting; and the bequest suggests the possibility that the precocious child had already given some indications of artistic taste. Affectionate eyes were certainly on the watch for any symptoms of developing talent. Pope was born on May 21st, 1688 — the annus mirabilis which introduced a new political era in England, and was fatal to the hopes of ardent Catholics. About the same time, partly, perhaps, in consequence of the catastrophe, Pope’s father retired from business, and settled at Binfield — a village two miles from Wokingham and nine from Windsor. It is near Bracknell, one of Shelley’s brief perching places, and in such a region as poets might love, if poetic praises of rustic seclusion are to be taken seriously. To the east were the “forests and green retreats” of Windsor, and the wild heaths of Bagshot, Chobham and Aldershot stretched for miles to the South. Some twelve miles off in that direction, one may remark, lay Moor Park, where the sturdy pedestrian, Swift, was living with Sir W. Temple during great part of Pope’s childhood; but it does not appear that his walks ever took him to Pope’s neighbourhood, nor did he see, till some years later, the lad with whom he was to form one of the most famous of literary friendships. The little household was presumably a very quiet one, and remained fixed at Binfield for twenty-seven years, till the son had grown to manhood and celebrity. From the earliest period he seems to have been a domestic idol. He was not an only child, for he had a half-sister by his father’s side, who must have been considerably older than himself, as her mother died nine years before the poet’s birth. But he was the only child of his mother, and his parents concentrated upon him an affection which he returned with touching ardour and persistence. They were both forty-six in the year of his birth. He inherited headaches from his mother, and a crooked figure from his father. A nurse who shared their care, lived with him for many years, and was buried by him, with an affectionate epitaph, in 1725. The family tradition represents him as a sweet-tempered child, and says that he was called the “little nightingale,” from the beauty of his voice. As the sickly, solitary, and precocious infant of elderly parents, we may guess that he was not a little spoilt, if only in the technical sense.

  The religion of the family made their seclusion from the world the more rigid, and by consequence must have strengthened their mutual adhesiveness. Catholics were then harassed by a legislation which would be condemned by any modern standard as intolerably tyrannical. Whatever apology may be urged for the legislators on the score of contemporary prejudices or special circumstances, their best excuse is that their laws were rather intended to satisfy constituents, and to supply a potential means of defence, than to be carried into actual execution. It does not appear that the Popes had to fear any active molestation in the quiet observance of their religious duties. Yet a Catholic was not only a member of a hated minority, regar
ded by the rest of his countrymen as representing the evil principle in politics and religion, but was rigorously excluded from a public career, and from every position of honour or authority. In times of excitement the severer laws might be put in force. The public exercise of the Catholic religion was forbidden, and to be a Catholic was to be predisposed to the various Jacobite intrigues which still had many chances in their favour. When the pretender was expected in 1744, a proclamation, to which Pope thought it decent to pay obedience, forbade the appearance of Catholics within ten miles of London; and in 1730 we find him making interest on behalf of a nephew, who had been prevented from becoming an attorney because the judges were rigidly enforcing the oaths of supremacy and allegiance.

  Catholics had to pay double taxes and were prohibited from acquiring real property. The elder Pope, according to a certainly inaccurate story, had a conscientious objection to investing his money in the funds of a Protestant government, and, therefore, having converted his capital into coin, put it in a strong-box, and took it out as he wanted it. The old merchant was not quite so helpless, for we know that he had investments in the French rentes, besides other sources of income; but the story probably reflects the fact that his religious disqualifications hampered even his financial position.

  Pope’s character was affected in many ways by the fact of his belonging to a sect thus harassed and restrained. Persecution, like bodily infirmity, has an ambiguous influence. If it sometimes generates in its victims a heroic hatred of oppression, it sometimes predisposes them to the use of the weapons of intrigue and falsehood, by which the weak evade the tyranny of the strong. If under that discipline Pope learnt to love toleration, he was not untouched by the more demoralizing influences of a life passed in an atmosphere of incessant plotting and evasion. A more direct consequence was his exclusion from the ordinary schools. The spirit of the rickety lad might have been broken by the rough training of Eton or Westminster in those days; as, on the other hand, he might have profited by acquiring a livelier perception of the meaning of that virtue of fair-play, the appreciation of which is held to be a set-off against the brutalizing influences of our system of public education. As it was, Pope was condemned to a desultory education. He picked up some rudiments of learning from the family priest; he was sent to a school at Twyford, where he is said to have got into trouble for writing a lampoon upon his master; he went for a short time to another in London, where he gave a more creditable if less characteristic proof of his poetical precocity. Like other lads of genius, he put together a kind of play — a combination, it seems, of the speeches in Ogilby’s Iliad — and got it acted by his schoolfellows. These brief snatches of schooling, however, counted for little. Pope settled at home at the early age of twelve, and plunged into the delights of miscellaneous reading with the ardour of precocious talent. He read so eagerly that his feeble constitution threatened to break down, and when about seventeen, he despaired of recovery, and wrote a farewell to his friends. One of them, an Abbé Southcote, applied for advice to the celebrated Dr. Radcliffe, who judiciously prescribed idleness and exercise. Pope soon recovered, and, it is pleasant to add, showed his gratitude long afterwards by obtaining for Southcote, through Sir Robert Walpole, a desirable piece of French preferment. Self-guided studies have their advantages, as Pope himself observed, but they do not lead a youth through the dry places of literature, or stimulate him to severe intellectual training. Pope seems to have made some hasty raids into philosophy and theology; he dipped into Locke, and found him “insipid;” he went through a collection of the controversial literature of the reign of James II., which seems to have constituted the paternal library, and was alternately Protestant and Catholic, according to the last book which he had read. But it was upon poetry and pure literature that he flung himself with a genuine appetite. He learnt languages to get at the story, unless a translation offered an easier path, and followed wherever fancy led “like a boy gathering flowers in the fields and woods.”