Essay on Man

EPISTLE III.

TO ALLEN LORD BATHURST.

AR­GU­MENT.

OF THE USE OF RICH­ES.

That it is known to few, most falling in­to one of the ex­tremes, Avarice or Pro­fu­sion, v.1, etc. The point dis­cussed, whether the in­ven­tion of mon­ey has been more com­modi­ous or per­ni­cious to Mankind, v.21 to 77. That Rich­es, ei­ther to the Avari­cious or the Prodi­gal, can­not af­ford Hap­pi­ness, scarce­ly Nec­es­saries, v.89-160. That Avarice is an ab­so­lute Fren­zy, with­out an end or pur­pose, v.113, etc., 152. Con­jec­tures about the mo­tives of Avari­cious men, v.121 to 153. That the con­duct of men, with re­spect to Rich­es, can on­ly be ac­count­ed for by the Or­der of Prov­idence, which works the gen­er­al good out of ex­tremes, and brings all to its great End by per­pet­ual Rev­olu­tions, v.161 to 178. How a Miser acts up­on Prin­ci­ples which ap­pear to him rea­son­able, v.179. How a Prodi­gal does the same, v.199. The due Medi­um and true use of Rich­es, v.219. The Man of Ross, v.250. The fate of the Pro­fuse and the Cov­etous, in two ex­am­ples; both mis­er­able in Life and in Death, v.300, etc. The Sto­ry of Sir Bal­aam, v.339 to the end.

P. Who shall de­cide, when doc­tors dis­agree, And sound­est ca­su­ists doubt, like you and me? You hold the word, from Jove to Mo­mus giv­en, That man was made the stand­ing jest of Heav­en; And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, For some to heap, and some to throw away. But I, who think more high­ly of our kind, (And sure­ly, Heav­en and I are of a mind) Opine, that Na­ture, as in du­ty bound, Deep hid the shin­ing mis­chief un­der ground: But when by man’s au­da­cious labour won, Flamed forth this ri­val to its sire, the sun, Then care­ful Heav­en sup­plied two sorts of men, To squan­der these, and those to hide again. Like doc­tors thus, when much dis­pute has past, We find our tenets just the same at last. Both fair­ly own­ing Rich­es, in ef­fect, No grace of Heav­en or to­ken of th’ elect; Giv­en to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil, To Ward, to Wa­ters, Chartres, and the dev­il. B. What Na­ture wants, com­modi­ous gold be­stows, ‘Tis thus we eat the bread an­oth­er sows. P. But how un­equal it be­stows, ob­serve; ‘Tis thus we ri­ot, while, who sow it, starve: What Na­ture wants (a phrase I much dis­trust) Ex­tends to lux­ury, ex­tends to lust: Use­ful, I grant, it serves what life re­quires, But, dread­ful too, the dark as­sas­sin hires. B. Trade it may help, so­ci­ety ex­tend. P. But lures the pi­rate, and cor­rupts the friend. B. It rais­es armies in a na­tion’s aid. P. But bribes a sen­ate, and the land’s be­trayed. In vain may heroes fight, and pa­tri­ots rave; If se­cret gold sap on from knave to knave. Once, we con­fess, be­neath the pa­tri­ot’s cloak, From the cracked bag the drop­ping guinea spoke, And jin­gling down the back-​stairs, told the crew, “Old Cato is as great a rogue as you.” Blest pa­per-​cred­it! last and best sup­ply! That lends cor­rup­tion lighter wings to fly! Gold imped by thee can com­pass hard­est things, Can pock­et states, can fetch or car­ry kings; A sin­gle leaf shall waft an army o’er, Or ship off sen­ates to a dis­tant shore; A leaf, like Sibyl’s, scat­ter to and fro Our fates and for­tunes, as the winds shall blow: Preg­nant with thou­sands flits the scrap un­seen, And silent sells a king, or buys a queen. Oh! that such bulky bribes as all might see, Still, as of old, en­cum­bered vil­lainy! Could France or Rome di­vert our brave de­signs, With all their brandies or with all their wines? What could they more than knights and squires con­found, Or wa­ter all the Quo­rum ten miles round? A states­man’s slum­bers how this speech would spoil! “Sir, Spain has sent a thou­sand jars of oil; Huge bales of British cloth block­ade the door; A hun­dred ox­en at your lev­ee roar.” Poor Avarice one tor­ment more would find; Nor could Pro­fu­sion squan­der all in kind. Astride his cheese Sir Mor­gan might we meet; And World­ly cry­ing coals from street to street, Whom with a wig so wild, and mien so mazed, Pity mis­takes for some poor trades­man crazed. Had Colepep­per’s whole wealth been hops and hogs, Could he him­self have sent it to the dogs? His Grace will game: to White’s a bull be led, With spurn­ing heels and with a butting head. To White’s be car­ried, as to an­cient games, Fair cours­ers, vas­es, and al­lur­ing dames. Shall then Ux­orio, if the stakes he sweep, Bear home six w****s, and make his la­dy weep? Or soft Ado­nis, so per­fumed and fine, Drive to St. James’s a whole herd of swine? Oh, filthy cheek on all in­dus­tri­ous skill, To spoil the na­tion’s last great trade, Quadrille! Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall, What say you? B. Say? Why, take it, gold and all. P. What Rich­es give us let us then in­quire: Meat, fire, and clothes. B. What more? P. Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too lit­tle? would you more than live? Alas! ’tis more than Turn­er finds they give. Alas! ’tis more than (all his vi­sions past) Un­hap­py Whar­ton, wak­ing, found at last! What can they give? to dy­ing Hop­kins, heirs; To Chartres, vigour; Japhet, nose and ears? Can they in gems bid pal­lid Hip­pia glow, In Ful­via’s buck­le ease the throbs be­low; Or heal, old Nars­es, thy ob­scener ail, With all th’ em­broid’ry plas­tered at thy tail? They might (were Harpax not too wise to spend) Give Harpax’ self the bless­ing of a friend; Or find some doc­tor that would save the life Of wretched Shy­lock, spite of Shy­lock’s wife: But thou­sands die, with­out or this or that, Die, and en­dow a col­lege, or a cat. To some, in­deed, Heav­en grants the hap­pi­er fate, T’ en­rich a bas­tard, or a son they hate. Per­haps you think the poor might have their part? Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his heart: The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule, That “ev­ery man in want is knave or fool:” “God can­not love,” says Blunt, with tear­less eyes, “The wretch He starves”–and pi­ous­ly de­nies: But the good bish­op, with a meek­er air, Ad­mits, and leaves them–Prov­idence’s care. Yet, to be just to these poor men of pelf, Each does but hate his neigh­bour as him­self: Damned to the mines, an equal fate be­tides The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides. B. Who suf­fer thus, mere char­ity should own, Must act on mo­tives pow­er­ful, though un­known. P. Some war, some plague, or famine they fore­see, Some rev­ela­tion hid from you and me. Why Shy­lock wants a meal, the cause is found– He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound. What made di­rec­tors cheat in South-​Sea year? To live on veni­son when it sold so dear. Ask you why Phryne the whole auc­tion buys? Phryne fore­sees a gen­er­al ex­cise. Why she and Sap­pho raise that mon­strous sum? Alas! they fear a man will cost a plum. Wise Pe­ter sees the world’s re­spect for gold, And there­fore hopes this na­tion may be sold: Glo­ri­ous am­bi­tion! Pe­ter, swell thy store, And be what Rome’s great Did­ius was be­fore. The crown of Poland, ve­nal twice an age, To just three mil­lions stint­ed mod­est Gage. But no­bler scenes Maria’s dreams un­fold, Hered­itary realms, and worlds of gold. Con­ge­nial souls! whose life one av’rice joins, And one fate buries in th’ As­turi­an mines. Much in­jured Blunt! why bears he Britain’s hate? A wiz­ard told him in these words our fate: “At length cor­rup­tion, like a gen’ral flood (So long by watch­ful Min­is­ters with­stood), Shall del­uge all; and av’rice, creep­ing on, Spread like a low-​born mist, and blot the sun; States­man and pa­tri­ot ply alike the stocks, Peer­ess and but­ler share alike the box, And judges job, and bish­ops bite the town, And mighty dukes pack cards for half-​a-​crown. See Britain sunk in Lu­cre’s sor­did charms, And France re­venged of Anne’s and Ed­ward’s arms!” ‘Twas no Court-​badge, great Scriv’ner! fired thy brain, Nor lord­ly lux­ury, nor City gain: No, ’twas thy righ­teous end, ashamed to see Sen­ates de­gen’rate, pa­tri­ots dis­agree, And, nobly wish­ing par­ty-​rage to cease, To buy both sides, and give thy coun­try peace. “All this is mad­ness,” cries a sober sage: But who, my friend, has rea­son in his rage? “The rul­ing pas­sion, be it what it will, The rul­ing pas­sion con­quers rea­son still.” Less mad the wildest whim­sey we can frame, Than even that pas­sion, if it has no aim; For though such mo­tives fol­ly you may call, The fol­ly’s greater to have none at all. Hear then the truth: “‘Tis Heav­en each pas­sion sends, And dif­fer­ent men di­rects to dif­fer­ent ends. Ex­tremes in na­ture equal good pro­duce, Ex­tremes in man con­cur to gen’ral use.” Ask we what makes one keep, and one be­stow? That POW­ER who bids the ocean ebb and flow, Bids seed-​time, har­vest, equal course main­tain, Through rec­on­ciled ex­tremes of drought and rain, Builds life on death, on change du­ra­tion founds, And gives th’ eter­nal wheels to know their rounds. Rich­es, like in­sects, when con­cealed they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their sea­son fly. Who sees pale Mam­mon pine amidst his store, Sees but a back­ward stew­ard for the poor; This year a reser­voir, to keep and spare; The next, a foun­tain, spout­ing through his heir, In lav­ish streams to quench a coun­try’s thirst, And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst. Old Cot­ta shamed his for­tune and his birth, Yet was not Cot­ta void of wit or worth: What though (the use of bar­barous spits for­got) His kitchen vied in cool­ness with his grot? His court with net­tles, moats with cress­es stored, With soups un­bought and sal­ads blessed his board? If Cot­ta lived on pulse, it was no more Than Brah­mins, saints, and sages did be­fore; To cram the rich was prodi­gal ex­pense, And who would take the poor from Prov­idence? Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old hall, Si­lence with­out, and fasts with­in the wall; No raftered roofs with dance and ta­bor sound, No noon­tide bell in­vites the coun­try round; Ten­ants with sighs the smoke­less tow­ers sur­vey, And turn th’ un­will­ing steeds an­oth­er way; Be­night­ed wan­der­ers, the for­est o’er, Curse the saved can­dle and un­open­ing door; While the gaunt mas­tiff growl­ing at the gate, Af­frights the beg­gar whom he longs to eat. Not so his son; he marked this over­sight, And then mis­took re­verse of wrong for right. (For what to shun will no great knowl­edge need; But what to fol­low is a task in­deed.) Yet sure, of qual­ities de­serv­ing praise, More go to ru­in for­tunes, than to raise. What slaugh­tered hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the ca­pa­cious squire, and deep di­vine! Yet no mean mo­tive this pro­fu­sion draws; His ox­en per­ish in his coun­try’s cause; ‘Tis George and Lib­er­ty that crowns the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods re­cede around the naked seat; The syl­vans groan–no mat­ter–for the fleet; Next goes his wool–to clothe our valiant bands; Last, for his coun­try’s love, he sells his lands. To town he comes, com­pletes the na­tion’s hope, And heads the bold train-​bands, and burns a Pope. And shall not Britain now re­ward his toils, Britain, that pays her pa­tri­ots with her spoils? In vain at Court the bankrupt pleads his cause, His thank­less coun­try leaves him to her laws. The sense to val­ue rich­es, with the art T’ en­joy them, and the virtue to im­part, Not mean­ly, nor am­bi­tious­ly pur­sued, Not sunk by sloth, nor raised by servi­tude; To bal­ance for­tune by a just ex­pense, Join with econ­omy, mag­nif­icence; With splen­dour, char­ity; with plen­ty, health; O teach us, Bathurst! yet un­spoiled by wealth! That se­cret rare, be­tween the ex­tremes to move Of mad good-​na­ture, and of mean self-​love. B. To worth or want well weighed, be boun­ty giv­en, And ease, or em­ulate, the care of Heav­en (Whose mea­sure full o’er­flows on hu­man race); Mend For­tune’s fault, and jus­ti­fy her grace. Wealth in the gross is death, but life dif­fused; As poi­son heals, in just pro­por­tion used: In heaps, like am­ber­grise, a stink it lies, But well dis­persed, is in­cense to the skies. P. Who starves by no­bles, or with no­bles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats. Is there a lord who knows a cheer­ful noon With­out a fid­dler, flat­ter­er, or buf­foon? Whose ta­ble, wit or mod­est mer­it share, Un­el­bowed by a gamester, pimp, or play’r? Who copies yours or Ox­ford’s bet­ter part, To ease the op­pressed, and raise the sink­ing heart? Where’er he shines, O For­tune, gild the scene, And an­gels guard him in the gold­en mean! There, En­glish boun­ty yet awhile may stand, And Hon­our linger ere it leaves the land. But all our prais­es why should lords en­gross? Rise, hon­est Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: Pleased Va­ga echoes through her wind­ing bounds, And rapid Sev­ern hoarse ap­plause re­sounds. Who hung with woods you moun­tain’s sul­try brow? From the dry rock who bade the wa­ters flow? Not to the skies in use­less columns tost, Or in proud falls mag­nif­icent­ly lost, But clear and art­less, pour­ing through the plain Health to the sick, and so­lace to the swain. Whose cause­way parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary trav­eller re­pose? Who taught that heav­en-​di­rect­ed spire to rise? “The Man of Ross,” each lisp­ing babe replies. Be­hold the mar­ket-​place with poor o’er­spread! The Man of Ross di­vides the week­ly bread; He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smil­ing at the gate; Him por­tioned maids, ap­pren­ticed or­phans blest, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick? the Man of Ross re­lieves, Pre­scribes, at­tends, the medicine makes, and gives. Is there a vari­ance? en­ter but his door, Baulked are the courts, and con­test is no more. De­spair­ing quacks with curs­es fled the place, And vile at­tor­neys, now a use­less race. B. Thrice hap­py man! en­abled to pur­sue What all so wish, but want the pow­er to do! Oh say, what sums that gen­er­ous hand sup­ply? What mines, to swell that bound­less char­ity? P. Of debts, and tax­es, wife and chil­dren clear, This man pos­sest–five hun­dred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush! proud courts, with­draw your blaze! Ye lit­tle stars, hide your di­min­ished rays! B. And what? no mon­ument, in­scrip­tion, stone? His race, his form, his name al­most un­known? P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will nev­er mark the mar­ble with his name; Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the his­to­ry; Enough, that virtue filled the space be­tween; Proved, by the ends of be­ing, to have been. When Hop­kins dies, a thou­sand lights at­tend The wretch, who liv­ing saved a can­dle’s end: Shoul­der­ing God’s al­tar a vile im­age stands, Be­lies his fea­tures, nay, ex­tends his hands; That live­long wig, which Gor­gon’s self might own, Eter­nal buck­le takes in Par­ian stone. Be­hold what bless­ings wealth to life can lend! And see what com­fort it af­fords our end. In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half-​hung, The floors of plas­ter, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-​bed, but re­paired with straw, With tape-​tied cur­tains, nev­er meant to draw, The George and Garter dan­gling from that bed Where tawdry yel­low strove with dirty red, Great Vil­liers lies–alas! how changed from him, That life of plea­sure, and that soul of whim!– Gal­lant and gay, in Clive­den’s proud al­cove, The bow­er of wan­ton Shrews­bury and love; Or just as gay, at coun­cil, in a ring Of mim­ic’d states­men and their mer­ry king. No wit to flat­ter left of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he val­ued more. There, vic­tor of his health, of for­tune, friends, And fame, this lord of use­less thou­sands ends. His grace’s fate sage Cut­ler could fore­see, And well (he thought) ad­vised him, “Live like me.” As well his grace replied, “Like you, Sir John? That I can do, when all I have is gone.” Re­solve me, Rea­son, which of these is worse, Want with a full, or with an emp­ty purse? Thy life more wretched, Cut­ler, was con­fessed, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more blessed? Cut­ler saw ten­ants break, and hous­es fall, For very want; he could not build a wall. His on­ly daugh­ter in a stranger’s pow­er, For very want; he could not pay a dow­er. A few grey hairs his rev­erend tem­ples crowned, ‘Twas very want that sold them for two pound. What even de­nied a cor­dial at his end, Ban­ished the doc­tor, and ex­pelled the friend? What but a want, which you per­haps think mad, Yet num­bers feel the want of what he had! Cut­ler and Bru­tus, dy­ing, both ex­claim, “Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name!” Say, for such worth are oth­er worlds pre­pared? Or are they both in this their own re­ward? A knot­ty point! to which we now pro­ceed. But you are tired–I’ll tell a tale. B. Agreed. P. 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. One sol­id dish his week-​day meal af­fords, An added pud­ding solem­nised the Lord’s; Con­stant at church, and Change; his gains were sure, His giv­ings rare, save far­things to the poor. The dev­il was piqued such saintship to be­hold, And longed to tempt him like good Job of old: But Sa­tan now is wis­er than of yore, And tempts by mak­ing rich, not mak­ing poor. Roused by the prince of Air, the whirl­winds sweep The surge, and plunge his fa­ther in the deep; Then full against his Cor­nish lands they roar, And two rich ship­wrecks bless the lucky shore. Sir Bal­aam now, he lives like oth­er folks, He takes his chirp­ing pint, and cracks his jokes; “Live like your­self,” was soon my la­dy’s word; And lo! two pud­dings smoked up­on the board. Asleep and naked as an In­di­an lay, An hon­est fac­tor stole a gem away: He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the di­amond, and the rogue was bit. Some scru­ple rose, but thus he eased his thought, “I’ll now give six­pence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church, I’ll now go twice– And am so clear, too, of all oth­er vice.” The Tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and sub­scrip­tions pour on ev­ery side, ‘Till all the de­mon makes his full de­scent In one abun­dant show­er of cent. per cent., Sinks deep with­in him, and pos­sess­es whole, Then dubs di­rec­tor, and se­cures his soul. Be­hold Sir Bal­aam, now a man of spir­it, As­cribes his get­tings to his parts and mer­it; What late he called a bless­ing, now was wit, And God’s good Prov­idence, a lucky hit. Things change their ti­tles, as our man­ners turn; His count­ing-​house em­ployed the Sun­day morn; Sel­dom at church (’twas such a busy life), But du­ly sent his fam­ily and wife. There (so the dev­il or­dained) one Christ­mas tide My good old la­dy catched a cold and died. A nymph of qual­ity ad­mires our knight; He mar­ries, bows at court, and grows po­lite: Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) The well bred c*ck**ds in St. James’s air; First, for his son a gay com­mis­sion buys, Who drinks and fights, and in a du­el dies; His daugh­ter flaunts a vis­count’s tawdry wife; She bears a coro­net and —- for life. In Britain’s sen­ate he a seat ob­tains, And one more pen­sion­er St. Stephen gains. My la­dy falls to play; so bad her chance, He must re­pair it; takes a bribe from France; The House im­peach him; Con­ings­by ha­rangues; The Court for­sake him, and Sir Bal­aam hangs; Wife, son, and daugh­ter, Sa­tan! are thine 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.