Alexander Pope (1688-11744)

Like Margaret Cavendish, Alexander Pope was a brilliant eccentric.  His creativity is evinced not only in his writings, which cover so many literary genres, but in his approach to the business of publication.  This video lecture will tell you a bit about this innovator and introduce you to his masterful “fake apology,” The Rape of the Lock.

The Rape of the Lock

Pope’s Rape of the Lock blends brilliance with nastiness to produce an ingenious example of the all too common non-apology: “Can’t you take a joke?”  The poem was conceived in response to a quarrel that broke out between two prominent Catholic families when Robert, Baron Petre, snipped a lock of Arabella Fermor’s hair.  Fermor was furious at the liberty, and a mutual friend asked Pope to intervene and restore harmony.  He does so with a mock-epic that makes light of the theft of the lock.

Sampling The Rape of the Lock

Say what strange motive, Goddess! Could compel

A well-bred lord t’assault a gentle belle?

Oh say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,

Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?

And now, unveil’d, the Toilet˚ stands display’d,                                                       dressing-table

Each Silver Vase in mystic Order laid.

First, rob’d in White, the Nymph intent adores

With Head uncover’d, the Cosmetic Pow’rs.

A heav’nly Image in the Glass appears,

To that she bends, to that her Eyes she rears;

Th’ inferior Priestess˚, at her Altar’s side,                                   presumably Belinda’s maid Betty

Trembling, begins the sacred Rites of Pride.[i]

Unnumber’d Treasures ope˚ at once, and here                                                                         open

The various Off’rings of the World appear;

From each she nicely culls with curious Toil,

And decks the Goddess with the glitt’ring Spoil.

This Casket India’s glowing Gems unlocks,

And all Arabia breathes from yonder Box.

The Tortoise here and Elephant unite,

Transform’d to Combs, the speckled and the white.

Here Files of Pins extend their shining Rows,

Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux.

Now awful˚ Beauty puts on all its Arms;                                                                   awe-inspiring

The Fair each moment rises in her Charms,

Repairs her Smiles, awakens ev’ry Grace,

And calls forth all the Wonders of her Face;

Sees by Degrees a purer Blush arise,

And keener Lightnings quicken in her Eyes.

The busy Sylphs surround their darling Care;

These set the Head, and those divide the Hair,

Some fold the Sleeve, while others plait the Gown;

And Betty’s prais’d for Labours not her own.

This Nymph, to the Destruction of Mankind,

Nourish’d two Locks, which graceful hung behind

In equal Curls, and well conspir’d to deck

With shining Ringlets her smooth Iv’ry Neck.

Th’ Adventrous Baron the bright Locks admir’d,

He saw, he wish’d, and to the Prize aspir’d:

Resolv’d to win, he meditates the way,

By Force to ravish, or by Fraud betray;

For when Success a Lover’s Toil attends,

Few ask, if Fraud or Force attain’d his Ends.

For this, e’re Phoebus˚ rose, he had implor’d                                                                       the sun

Propitious Heav’n, and ev’ry Pow’r ador’d,

But chiefly Love—to Love an Altar built,

Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt.

There lay three Garters, half a Pair of Gloves;

And all the Trophies of his former Loves.

With tender Billet-doux he lights the Pyre,

And breathes three am’rous Sighs to raise the Fire.

Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent Eyes

Soon to obtain, and long possess the Prize:

The Pow’rs gave Ear, and granted half his Pray’r,

The rest, the Winds dispers’d in empty Air.

This Day, black Omens threat the brightest Fair

That e’er deserv’d a watchful Spirit’s Care;

Some dire Disaster, or˚ by Force, or Slight,                                                                            either

But what, or where, the Fates have wrapt in Night.

Whether the Nymph shall break Diana’s Law,

Or some frail China Jar receive a Flaw,

Or stain her Honour, or her new Brocade,

Forget her Pray’rs, or miss a Masquerade,

Or lose her Heart, or Necklace, at a Ball;

Or whether Heav’n has doom’d that Shock must fall.

Haste then ye Spirits! to your Charge repair;

The flutt’ring Fan be Zephyretta’s Care;

The Drops˚ to thee, Brillante, we consign;                                  earrings (presumably diamonds)

And Momentilla, let the Watch be thine;

Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav’rite Lock;

Ariel himself shall be the Guard of Shock.

Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought

The close Recesses of the Virgin’s Thought;

As on the Nosegay˚ in her Breast reclin’d,                                                  fragrant small bouquet

He watch’d th’ Ideas rising in her Mind,

Sudden he view’d, in spite of all her Art,

An Earthly Lover lurking at her Heart.

Amaz’d, confus’d, he found his Pow’r expir’d,

Resign’d to Fate, and with a Sigh retir’d.

Unnumber’d Throngs on ev’ry side are seen

Of Bodies chang’d to various Forms by Spleen.

Here living Teapots stand, one Arm held out,

One bent; the Handle this, and that the Spout:

A Pipkin˚ there like Homer’s Tripod walks;                                             a small earthenware pot

Here sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pie talks;

Men prove with Child, as pow’rful Fancy works,

And Maids turn’d Bottles, call aloud for Corks.

From the goddess who presides over this strange netherworld he obtains what he wants:

A wondrous Bag with both her Hands she binds,

Like that where once Ulysses held the Winds;

There she collects the Force of Female Lungs,

Sighs, Sobs, and Passions, and the War of Tongues.

A Vial next she fills with fainting Fears,

Soft Sorrows, melting Griefs, and flowing Tears.