# The Author’s Picture. A fourth Epistle to Mr. Pope.

This poem was written in 1738.
Had my petitions been to those, Who censure verse in stupid prose; But of their wisdom make no work, Except by way of pun or quirk; Then, Sir, of course it had behoved me, Before they damn’d me, or approved me, To let them know, in formal guise, My dress, religion, age, and size: For these are always fertile fields, The least of which sufficient yields To guide a critick in his guess, And make one’s merit more or less. But you judiciously can find The intrinsick value of the mind, Abstracted from exterior parts; And scorn the vulgar critick’s arts: With you the poetry’s the same, Whate’er the poet’s state or name.
Yet, as our modern wits have thought, That all the antients were in fault, Among the gods, and nymphs, and elves, To leave so little of themselves; (Themselves more worthy, ‛tis agreed, Than all the gods that fill’d their creed) Willing to shun th’ exploded error, To time I consecrate this mirror; In which hereafter shall be seen What sort of fellow I have been. You wonder at the word hereafter: But, gentle Sir, hold in you laughter; For not the writer, but receiver, Shall make this labour live forever. A work so blended with your name, Borne on that wing, aspires to fame: And time and rage in vain shall arm Against the virtue of that charm! Here please to note, the Muse shall take (For form and elegancy’s sake) The genteel pronouns him and he; Not, like Montaigne, talk all of me: So, while her Pegasus trots hard on, She craves your patience, and you pardon.
First (with his person to begin) Like young Jess-ides, straight and thin: Near two and twenty years of age, (The prime for pure poetic rage:) Full sixty-six good inches high: Hath a small blemish in one eye; Complexion’d ‛twixt the fair and sad: In speech, a downright country lad.
His drapery waves before your eyes! A scanty coat, of western frize: (Ah! would some friendly taylor turn it; For thro’ each elbow he hath worn it) His hat displays a chasm before: His shoes can’t last a fortnight more.
Tho’ you might think he knows but little, They count him learn’d in Agro-Spittle. Not one that haunts the house he uses, But grows familiar with the Muses; And can such authors’ names rehearse, As wrote in Greek and Roman verse.
The very quill-boys have been told, That Ovid’s soft, and Horace bold; Of Pindar’s fire, Anacreon’s ease, And Virgil’s — ev’ry art to please. He often gives his neighbours rest, By proving Ireland in the West; That Julius reign’d before Vespasian; That Charles of Sweden was no Asian; That Presbyterians may be Christians; That Brunswickers are not Philistines; That ev’n a Turk’s a human creature; And twenty secrets of like nature: For when good friends are in dispute, And neither yields, nor can confute, He still unties the Gordian Knot: They give him thanks, and pay his shot.
Your daily writers, who diffuse Good British puns in foreign news, Some Latin phrase are often gleaning: He, when ‛tis wanted, gives the meaning; The publick benefit enlarging, By writing English on the margin. And then for epitaphs and motto’s, And hard words, such as busto’s, grotto’s, Half his estate poor Landlord Knott owes. For all which labours and endeavours, He lives much honour’d by the weavers; Who give him titles, which they vary, The Bard, the Soph, the Dictionary.
His thoughts and principles religious, Are neither intricate nor tedious: Founded on maxims free and rational; More universal than mere national. In life, not scrupulous, nor vicious; In mind, not brave, nor superstitious; Myst’ries he leaves to men of learning, And future things to Faith’s discerning. Unwarp’d by reverence, or contempt, From priests, and theirs, he lives exempt: For dreading fury, fire, and treason, He trusts them only when they reason: And when from myst’ry they descend, The priest is swallowed in the friend. Yet then, and always, he prefers His own weak reasoning — ev’n to theirs. For state affairs; his humble station Can little influence the nation: But friends, who like him for his rhymes, Will have his judgement of the times; And often interrupt his muse, To make his comment on the news. Hence the true scheme of politicks He seeks, which he resolves to fix: And finds his notions are so bright, He oft’ could set Sir Robert right.
The native temper of his mind To melancholy seems inclined: But brandy, porter, punch, or sherry, Makes him extravagantly merry. When fill’d with one of these, or in it, He’ll mete out verses in a minute; Tell pleasant tales; break jests; and play With wenches, — in no wanton way.
Ill-nature’s what he never knew: He pities all the snarling crew, Who never learn’d, yet dully teach, And rail at what they cannot reach. He frankly owns, your works, when young, Taught him the numbers of our tongue: By them enlighten’d, he refined At first his language, then his mind.
Now turn we to his inventory, Took on the spot, the upper story.
A bedstead that supports a bed With neither tester, post, nor head: One curtain, strung upon a cable: An antient, frameless, fir-tree table: Two wooden chairs, some members lacking: A third, half naked, half in sacking: There is a fourth, but that is lame: A looking-glass, which had a frame: A broken stove, to which belongs A rusty, clawless pair of tongs; Poker, and shovel; but no fender: Flint, matches, steel, and box for tinder; The stick, wherein he puts his candle: A quart stone mug, without a handle: An earthen jourdain, bound with cords; (All these his landlady affords!) A peruke-box, his barber’s loan; A hat-box too, — but that’s his own.
His genuine goods in order follow, That prove him bastard of Apollo. Old books, four hundred forty-four; Whereof in English half a score: The trunk his manuscripts are seen in; (A leather trunk, design’d for linen:) A wooden standish, sixpence price: A pen, that has been mended twice: A quartern vial, fill’d with ink: A paper-case: — that’s all, I think. Conclude we, Sir, in form of reason: (For jesting now were out of season) The youth depicted in this letter, Grown more discreet, and counsell’d better, Here sinks at once in his pretension, And claims no poem, place, nor pension. His reprobation, or adoption, He leaves entirely at your option; Oblidged henceforwards in his muse, If, without praising, you excuse.
A thought thus wantonly persued, From free to bold, from bold to rude, Might raise a blockhead to the lawn; To power, a whelp that knows to fawn; An artful knave to guide our laws; But lifts no dunce to your applause. Then thus we sum up our affairs: That, notwithstanding former airs, The most I seriously would hope, Is, just to read the words, A Pope, Writ, without sneer, or shew of banter, Beneath your friendly Imprimantur.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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