The
latter is a masterpiece of pure invective; no allowances are made, no
lights relieve the darkness of the shadows, the portrait is frankly
inhuman.
latter is a masterpiece of pure invective; no allowances are made, no
lights relieve the darkness of the shadows, the portrait is frankly
inhuman.
Alexander Pope
Pope
might in the heat of argument convince himself that he was humble and
slow to wrath, but he has never succeeded in convincing his readers.
With l. 382 Pope turns to the defense of his family, which, as we have
seen, his enemies had abused as base and obscure. He draws a noble
picture of his dead father, "by nature honest, by experience wise"
simple, modest, and temperate, and passes to the description of himself
watching over the last years of his old mother, his sole care to
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye
And keep a while one parent from the sky.
If the length of days which Heaven has promised those who honor father
and mother fall to his lot, may Heaven preserve him such a friend as
Arbuthnot to bless those days. And Arbuthnot closes the dialogue with a
word which is meant, I think, to sum up the whole discussion and to
pronounce the verdict that Pope's life had been good and honorable.
Whether that blessing [1] be deny'd or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.
It seems hardly necessary to point out the merits of so patent a
masterpiece as the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot'. In order to enjoy it to the
full, indeed, one must know something of the life of the author, of the
circumstances under which it was written, and, in general, of the social
and political life of the time. But even without this special knowledge
no reader can fail to appreciate the marvelous ease, fluency, and
poignancy of this admirable satire. There is nothing like it in our
language except Pope's other satires, and of all his satires it is, by
common consent, easily the first. It surpasses the satiric poetry of
Dryden in pungency and depth of feeling as easily as it does that of
Byron in polish and artistic restraint. Its range of tone is remarkable.
At times it reads like glorified conversation, as in the opening lines;
at times it flames and quivers with emotion, as in the assault on
Hervey, or in the defense of his parents. Even in the limited field of
satiric portraiture there is a wide difference between the manner in
which Pope has drawn the portrait of Atticus and that of Sporus.
The
latter is a masterpiece of pure invective; no allowances are made, no
lights relieve the darkness of the shadows, the portrait is frankly
inhuman. It is the product of an unrestrained outburst of bitter
passion. The portrait of Atticus, on the other hand, was, as we know,
the work of years. It is the product not of an outburst of fury, but of
a slowly growing and intense dislike, which, while recognizing the
merits of its object, fastened with peculiar power upon his faults and
weaknesses. The studious restraint which controls the satirist's hand
makes it only the more effective. We know well enough that the portrait
is not a fair one, but we are forced to remind ourselves of this at
every step to avoid the spell which Pope's apparent impartiality casts
over our judgments. The whole passage reads not so much like the heated
plea of an advocate as the measured summing-up of a judge, and the last
couplet falls on our ears with the inevitability of a final sentence.
But the peculiar merit of the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot' consists neither in
the ease and polish of its style, nor in the vigor and effectiveness of
its satire, but in the insight it gives us into the heart and mind of
the poet himself. It presents an ideal picture of Pope, the man and the
author, of his life, his friendships, his love of his parents, his
literary relationships and aims. And it is quite futile to object, as
some critics have done, that this picture is not exactly in accordance
with the known facts of Pope's life. No great man can be tried and
judged on the mere record of his acts. We must know the circumstances
that shaped these, and the motives that inspired them. A man's ideals,
if genuinely held and honestly followed, are perhaps even more valuable
contributions to our final estimate of the man himself than all he did
or left undone.
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
And in the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot' we recognize in Pope ideals of
independence, of devotion to his art, of simple living, of loyal
friendship, and of filial piety which shine in splendid contrast with
the gross, servile, and cynically immoral tone of the age and society in
which he lived.
[Footnote 1: i.
might in the heat of argument convince himself that he was humble and
slow to wrath, but he has never succeeded in convincing his readers.
With l. 382 Pope turns to the defense of his family, which, as we have
seen, his enemies had abused as base and obscure. He draws a noble
picture of his dead father, "by nature honest, by experience wise"
simple, modest, and temperate, and passes to the description of himself
watching over the last years of his old mother, his sole care to
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye
And keep a while one parent from the sky.
If the length of days which Heaven has promised those who honor father
and mother fall to his lot, may Heaven preserve him such a friend as
Arbuthnot to bless those days. And Arbuthnot closes the dialogue with a
word which is meant, I think, to sum up the whole discussion and to
pronounce the verdict that Pope's life had been good and honorable.
Whether that blessing [1] be deny'd or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.
It seems hardly necessary to point out the merits of so patent a
masterpiece as the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot'. In order to enjoy it to the
full, indeed, one must know something of the life of the author, of the
circumstances under which it was written, and, in general, of the social
and political life of the time. But even without this special knowledge
no reader can fail to appreciate the marvelous ease, fluency, and
poignancy of this admirable satire. There is nothing like it in our
language except Pope's other satires, and of all his satires it is, by
common consent, easily the first. It surpasses the satiric poetry of
Dryden in pungency and depth of feeling as easily as it does that of
Byron in polish and artistic restraint. Its range of tone is remarkable.
At times it reads like glorified conversation, as in the opening lines;
at times it flames and quivers with emotion, as in the assault on
Hervey, or in the defense of his parents. Even in the limited field of
satiric portraiture there is a wide difference between the manner in
which Pope has drawn the portrait of Atticus and that of Sporus.
The
latter is a masterpiece of pure invective; no allowances are made, no
lights relieve the darkness of the shadows, the portrait is frankly
inhuman. It is the product of an unrestrained outburst of bitter
passion. The portrait of Atticus, on the other hand, was, as we know,
the work of years. It is the product not of an outburst of fury, but of
a slowly growing and intense dislike, which, while recognizing the
merits of its object, fastened with peculiar power upon his faults and
weaknesses. The studious restraint which controls the satirist's hand
makes it only the more effective. We know well enough that the portrait
is not a fair one, but we are forced to remind ourselves of this at
every step to avoid the spell which Pope's apparent impartiality casts
over our judgments. The whole passage reads not so much like the heated
plea of an advocate as the measured summing-up of a judge, and the last
couplet falls on our ears with the inevitability of a final sentence.
But the peculiar merit of the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot' consists neither in
the ease and polish of its style, nor in the vigor and effectiveness of
its satire, but in the insight it gives us into the heart and mind of
the poet himself. It presents an ideal picture of Pope, the man and the
author, of his life, his friendships, his love of his parents, his
literary relationships and aims. And it is quite futile to object, as
some critics have done, that this picture is not exactly in accordance
with the known facts of Pope's life. No great man can be tried and
judged on the mere record of his acts. We must know the circumstances
that shaped these, and the motives that inspired them. A man's ideals,
if genuinely held and honestly followed, are perhaps even more valuable
contributions to our final estimate of the man himself than all he did
or left undone.
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
And in the 'Epistle to Arbuthnot' we recognize in Pope ideals of
independence, of devotion to his art, of simple living, of loyal
friendship, and of filial piety which shine in splendid contrast with
the gross, servile, and cynically immoral tone of the age and society in
which he lived.
[Footnote 1: i.
