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OF THE USE OF RICHES.
argument. The vanity of expense in people of wealth and quality. The
abuse of the word taste.—That the first principle and foundation in this, as in every thing else, is good sense.The chief proof of it is to follow nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Instanced in architecture and gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and use of the place, and the beanties not forced into it, but resulting from it.-How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will but be perverted into something burdensome and ridiculous.-A description of the false taste of magnificence; the first grand error of which is to imagine that greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the proportion and harmony, of the whole. And the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the repetition of the same too frequently:-A word or two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in entertainments.—Yet Providence is justified in giving wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind.-[Recurring to what is laid down in the first book, ep. ii. and in the epistle preceding this.]-What are the proper objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expense of great men.-
- And, finally, the great and public works which become a prince.
'Tis strange the miser should his cares employ
Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ;
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ?
You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use; Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules, Fill half the land with imitating fools ; Who random drawings from your sheets shall take; And of one beauty many blunders make; Load some vain church with old theatric state; Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate; Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On some patch'd dog-hole eked with ends of wall, Then clap four slices of pilaster on’t, That, laced with bits of rustic, makes a front; Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door: Conscious they act a true Palladian part, And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you
hinted to your
peer A certain truth, which many buy too dear; Something there is more needful than expense, And something previous e’en to taste-'tis sense; Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven; A light which in yourself you must perceive; Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.
To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot, In all, let Nature never be forgot; But treat the goddess like a modest fair, Nor overdress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty every where be spied, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He gains all points who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.
Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise or fall; Or helps the’ ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale ; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now directs, the intending lines; Paints as you plant, and as you
work designs. Still follow sense, of every art the soul ; Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start e'en from difficulty, strike from chance : Nature sball join you: Time shall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.
Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls, And Nero's terraces desert their walls:
The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, You'll wish
bill or shelter'd seat again. E'en in an ornament its place remark, Nor in an hermitage set Doctor Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete, His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet, The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, And strength of shade contends with strength of A waving glow the bloomy beds display, [light: Blushing in bright diversities of day, With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'erEnjoy them, you! Villario can no more: Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds, at last, he better likes a field.
Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus Or sat delighted in the thickening shade, [stray'd, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! His son's fine taste an opener vista loves, Foe to the dryads of his father's groves; One boundless green or flourish'd carpet views, With all the mournful family of yews; The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.
At Timon's villa let us pass a day; Where all cry out, 'What sums are thrown away!' So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness with Timon dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a
Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other. The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; With here a fountain never to be play'd, And there a summer-house that knows no shade; Here Amphitritè sails through myrtle bowers, There gladiators fight or die in flowers; Unwater'd see the drooping seahorse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But soft_by regular approach—not yetFirst 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 stored ? In books, not authors, curious is my lord ; To all their dated backs he turns you round; These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound! Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good, For all his lordship knows,--but they are wood ! For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look ; These shelves admit not any modern book.