Whether that
blessing
[1] be deny'd or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.
Alexander Pope
And then with a magnificent transition he
goes on (ll. 332-337) to draw a portrait of himself. Here, he says in
effect, is the real man that Sporus has so maligned. The portrait is
idealized, of course; one could hardly expect a poet speaking in his own
defense in reply to venomous attacks to dissect his own character with
the stern impartiality of the critics of the succeeding century, but it
is in all essentials a portrait at once impressive and true.
Arbuthnot again interrupts (l. 358) to ask why he spares neither the
poor nor the great in his satire, and Pope replies that he hates knaves
in every rank of life. Yet by nature, he insists, he is of an easy
temper, more readily deceived than angered, and in a long catalogue of
instances he illustrates his own patience and good nature (ll. 366-385).
It must be frankly confessed that these lines do not ring true. 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.
goes on (ll. 332-337) to draw a portrait of himself. Here, he says in
effect, is the real man that Sporus has so maligned. The portrait is
idealized, of course; one could hardly expect a poet speaking in his own
defense in reply to venomous attacks to dissect his own character with
the stern impartiality of the critics of the succeeding century, but it
is in all essentials a portrait at once impressive and true.
Arbuthnot again interrupts (l. 358) to ask why he spares neither the
poor nor the great in his satire, and Pope replies that he hates knaves
in every rank of life. Yet by nature, he insists, he is of an easy
temper, more readily deceived than angered, and in a long catalogue of
instances he illustrates his own patience and good nature (ll. 366-385).
It must be frankly confessed that these lines do not ring true. 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.
