But soft-by regular approach—not yet
First through 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.
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 Sueil has bound.
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good
For all his lordship knows, but they are wood!
For Locke or Milton 't is in vain to look ;
These shelves admit not any modern book.
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of prayer :
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven.
On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or 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, 't is 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 sweet-wine, 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
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill.
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed;
Health to himself, and to his infants bread
The labourer bears. What his hard heart denies,
His charitable vanity supplies.
Another age shall see the golden ear
Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre,
Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
17 At Timon's villa let us pass a day.-The character of Timon (though Pope denied the application) was universally thought, and still is, to have been intended for that of James Brydges, First Duke of Chandos, whose princely buildings at Canons, and equally princely style of living,—with his chapel, his choir, and Handel for his composer,-rendered the satire applicable to him alone. The prophecy at the conclusion was singularly borne out by the event; and the pedestrian who now visits Edgeware seldom suspects that he is on ground so famous. People in the neighbourhood are still said to talk of the "Grand Duke." His locks and hinges were of silver and gold.
Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild,
To make a wash would hardly stew a child;18
Has e'en been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer,
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 'tis by that alone she can be borne ?
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,
And atheism and religion take their turns;
A very Heathen in the carnal part,
Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart.
18 Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild,
To make a wash would hardly stew a child.
This is very ludicrous and outrageous. Can this Narcissa have been intended for Mrs. Oldfield the actress, who is understood, with great probability, to have been the Narcissa spoken of in a passage extracted further on? If so, she does not appear to have deserved the character, at least not the worst part of it. The widow, whom she is described as making happy "for a whim," bore the most affectionate testimony to her generous qualities; and she gave a pension to Savage. See her "Life," by Maynwaring; which, though a catchpenny pub
lication, easily shows what we are to believe in it,
"Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot. 19",
Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.
"With every pleasing, every prudent part,
Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;
But never, never reach'd one generous thought.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour-
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
So very reasonable, so unmov'd,
As never yet to love or to be lov'd.
She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian chest ;
And when she sees her friend in deep despair,
Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair.
Forbid it, heaven! a favour or a debt
She e'er should cancel-but she may forget.
Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear;
But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear.
Of all her dears she never slandered one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Chloe is prudent-would you too be wise?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.
19 Yet Chloe, sure, was formed without a spot.—Chloe is thought to have been Lady Suffolk, the supposed
mistress of George the Second. She had offended Pope by not doing something for Swift, which, according to the Dean and his friends, she had led him to believe she would. But Swift was full of fancies; and Lady Suffolk, by the consent of all that were in habits of intimacy with her, was a most amiable as well as even-tempered woman.
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.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest nature ends as she begins.
Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last;
As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out,
As sober Lanesb'row dancing in the gout.
Behold a reverend 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;
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies every 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!
Is there no help?-alas!-then bring the jowl."
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