Alexander Pope was a cantankerous little (4 ft., 6 in.) poet who took a special delight in puncturing bores, dullards and windbags, with his sharpened, precisely aimed verses. Periodically, during the 200 years since his lifetime, the reading public has rediscovered Pope. To mark the bicentennial of his death, a new five-volume set of his works has been projected (Twickenham Edition of the Poems of Alexander Pope--Methuen & Co., Ltd., London). Some of Pope's packed and pointed lines seem apt as ever in the autumn of 1945.

FROM "AN ESSAY ON MAN"

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is Man.

Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great:

With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little or too much; Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

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