The Weekly Sage hopes to regularly bring brief profiles of key contributors to thought and faith before a Christian audience for historical education and awareness of valuable resources.

Alexander Pope

–          “Go, wiser thou! And in thy scale of sense,

Weigh thy opinion against providence;

Call imperfection what thou fancy’st such,

Say, here he gives too little, there too much:

Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,

Yet cry, If man’s unhappy, God’s unjust;

If man alone ingross not Heav’n’s high care,

Alone made perfect here, immortal there:

Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,

Re-judge his justice, be the God of God.

In pride, in reasn’ning pride, our error lies;

All quit their sphere and rush into the skies.

Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,

Men would be angels, angels would be gods.

Aspiring to be gods if angels fell,

Aspiring to be angels men rebel:

And who but wishes to invert the laws

Of order, sins against th’ eternal cause.”[1]

–          “   O Muse! Relate (for you can tell alone,

Wits have short Memories, and Dunces none)

Relate, who first, who last resign’d to rest;

Whose Heads she partly, whose completely blest;

What Charms could Faction, what Ambition lull,

The Venal quiet, and intrance the Dull;

‘Till drown’d was Sense, and Shame, and Right, and Wrong –

O sing, and hush the Nations with thy Song!

In vain, in vain, – the all-composing Hour

Resistless falls: The Muse obeys the Pow’r.

She comes! She comes! The sable Throne behold

Of Night Primeval, and of Chaos old!….

See skulking Truth to her old Cavern fled,

Mountains of Casuistry heap’d o’er her head!

Philosophy, that lean’d on Heav’n before,

Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.

Physic of Metaphysic begs defence,

And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense!

See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

In vain! They gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.

Religion blushing veils her sacred fires,

And unawares Morality expires.

Nor public Flame, nor private, dares to shine;

Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine!

Lo! Thy dread Empire, Chaos! Is restor’d;

Light dies before thy uncreating word:

Thy hand, great Anarch! Lets the curtain fall;

And Universal Darkness buries All.”[2]

Alexander Pope (1688-1744) was a leading English poet, satirist, and literary critic in the 18^th century. A broad scholar, Pope spent a significant portion of his life’s work on translations of the great works the Illiad and the Odyssey, as well as an edition of Shakespeare’s works. However, he is more well-known for his civic engagement through a proliferation of poetry, often addressed directly to particular individuals, touching on moral, social, and cultural concepts of deep importance.

Pope was born in London to a wealthy merchant family but faced significant limitations from his family’s Catholic religion. The Test Acts of 1673 prevented Catholics from attending a university, among other measures, forcing Pope to pursue education at illegal schools for Catholics. His family later moved away from London due to legal and social pressure, leaving young Alexander to pursue self-education through an intense consumption of classical poets. As a result, Pope was well-prepared to enter on a career as a man of letters.

In 17^th and 18^th century England, there was a strong culture of social criticism and influential writing embodied by men such as Jonathan Swift, Samuel Johnson, and John Milton. Pope quickly rose to prominence in these circles and gained a platform for public influence through the skill and satisfaction his writing demonstrated and brought. His topics included wealth, the nature of man, and the dullness Pope saw dominating the writing of his day.

To address these topics, Pope employed a satirical and critical tone, not hesitating to call out particular writers or opponents whose talents he found lacking, or whose ideas opposed his own. Pope’s masterwork, The Dunciad, embraces this approach, calling out as dunces a vast proliferation of current English scholars and men of letters.

Nevertheless, this style was the form, and not the substance, of Pope’s contribution as a sage. To Pope, mediocrity was a threat to the virtue, order, and morality that ought to characterize society. Unskilled moderns who made an impact on the people of their day drew attention away from the legends of the ancient world, Horace, Juvenal, Lucretius, Ovid, Sappho, and more, who shaped Pope’s own education. Thus, criticism was necessary for excellence in literature, which drew society on towards the heights of political, legal, cultural, and social strength embodied in the ancient republics Britain would do well to emulate.

Pope’s writing therefore combines a pleasing satirical flavor with a deep and meaningful collection of ideas rooted directly in Christian religion and the Great Western tradition. The poems, while difficult to understand in some sections due to their references to current affairs, will greatly delight anyone educated in history and the classics, even today. Even without this understanding, the quick wit and pleasing rhyming couplets will bring relaxing enjoyment to anyone.

Pope’s significant contributions as a writer and a scholar, particularly as an advocate of the Christian view of society, is worth studying and emulating. Even more, his perseverance through trials in his life is admirable. A form of tuberculosis known as Pott’s disease afflicted Pope throughout his life, leaving him with a severely deformed spine and permanent hunchback. Nevertheless, neither this nor the religious persecution he faced silenced his voice praising God’s blessed order in the world with the talents he had received, and Alexander Pope is an exemplary model for all Christians and Christian scholars in this respect.

–          “Where London’s column, pointing at the skies

Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies;

There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;

Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

His word would pass for more than he was worth….

Constant at Church, and Change; his gains were sure,

His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The Devil was piq’d such saintship to behold,

And long’d to tempt him like good Job of old:

But Satan now is wiser than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor….

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,

Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit,

What late he call’d a Blessing, now was Wit,

And God’s good Providence, a lucky Hit.

Things change their titles, as our manners turn:

His Counting-house emply’d the Sunday-morn:

Seldom at Church (‘twas such a busy life)

But duly sent his family and wife.

There (so the Dev’l ordain’d) one Christmas-tide

My good old Lady catch’d a cold, and dy’d…

The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs:

Wife, son, and daughter, Satan are thy own,

His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:

The Devil and the King divide the prize,

And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.”[3]

–          “Remember, man, the universal cause

Acts not by partial, but by gen’ral laws;

And makes what happiness we justly call

Subsist not in the good of one, but all.

There’s not a blessing individuals find,

But some way leans and hearkens to the kind:

No bandit fierce, no tyrant mad with pride,

No cavern’d hermit, rests self-satisfy’d:

Who must to shun or hate mankind pretend.

Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend:

Abstract what others feel, what others think,

All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink:

Each has his share; and who would more obtain,

Shall find the pleasure pays not half the pain.

Order is heav;n;s first law; and this confest,

Some are, and must be, greater than the rest,

More rich, more wise; but who infers from hence

That such are happier, shocks all common sense.

Heav’n to mankind impartial we confess,

If all are equal in their happiness:

But mutual wants this happiness increase;

All nature’s diff’rence keeps all nature’s peace.

Condition, circumstance is not the thing;

Bliss is the same in subject or in king,

In who obtains defence, or who defend,

In him who is, or him who finds a friend:

Heav’n breathes thro’ ev’ry member of the whole

One common blessing, as one common soul.

But fortune’s gifts if each alike possest,

And each were equal, must not all contest?

If then to all men happiness was meant,

God in externals could not place content.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,

And these be happy call’d, unhappy those;

But heav’n;s just balance equal will appear,

While those are plac’d in hope, and these in fear:

Not present good or ill, the joy or curse,

But future views of better, or of worse.

Oh sons of earth! Attempt ye still to rise,

By mountains pil’d on mountains, to the skies?

Heav’n still with laughter the vain toil surveys,

And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.”[4]

Pondering a question on politics, culture, the Christian life, or really any topic? Submit it to mailbag.bereans@gmail.com! Your question may feature in Matt’s Marvelous Monday Mailbag.

[1] Alexander Pope, Essay on Man, ed. by Mark Pattison, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1932), 31.

[2] Alexander Pope, The Dunciad, ed. by James Sutherland, (London: Methuen & Co. Ltd., 1953), 405-408.

[3] Alexander Pope, Epistle to Bathurst, ed. by Earl R. Wasserman, (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1960), 8-9.

[4] Alexander Pope, Essay on Man, ed. by Mark Pattison, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1932), 59-61.