The Dunciad: Preface, letters and Notes

The Dunciad. IN FOUR BOOKS.     A LETTER TO THE PUBLISHER,     OCCASIONED BY THE FIRST CORRECT EDITION OF THE DUNCIAD.     It is with pleasure I hear that you have procured a correct copy of 'The     Dunciad,' which the many surreptitious ones have rendered so necessary;     and it is yet with more, that I am informed it will be attended with a     commentary; a work so requisite, that I cannot think the author himself     would have omitted it, had he approved of the first appearance of this     poem.     Such notes as have occurred to me I herewith send you: you will oblige     me by inserting them amongst those which are, or will be, transmitted to     you by others; since not only the author's friends but even strangers     appear engaged by humanity, to take some care of an orphan of so much     genius and spirit, which its parent seems to have abandoned from the     very beginning, and suffered to step into the world naked, unguarded,     and unattended.     It was upon reading some of the abusive papers lately published, that my     great regard to a person, whose friendship I esteem as one of the chief     honours of my life, and a much greater respect to truth, than to him or     any man living, engaged me in inquiries, of which the enclosed notes are     the fruit.     I perceived that most of these authors had been (doubtless very wisely)     the first aggressors. They had tried till they were weary, what was to     be got by railing at each other; nobody was either concerned or     surprised, if this or that scribbler was proved a dunce. But every one     was curious to read what could be said to prove Mr Pope one, and was     ready to pay something for such a discovery; a stratagem which, would     they fairly own it, might not only reconcile them to me, but screen them     from the resentment of their lawful superiors, whom they daily abuse,     only (as I charitably hope) to get that by them, which they cannot get     from them.     I found this was not all. Ill success in that had transported them to     personal abuse, either of himself, or (what I think he could less     forgive) of his friends. They had called men of virtue and honour bad     men, long before he had either leisure or inclination to call them bad     writers; and some had been such old offenders, that he had quite     forgotten their persons as well as their slanders, till they were     pleased to revive them.     Now what had Mr Pope done before to incense them? He had published those     works which are in the hands of everybody, in which not the least     mention is made of any of them. And what has he done since? He has     laughed, and written 'The Dunciad.' What has that said of them? A very     serious truth, which the public had said before, that they were dull;     and what it had no sooner said, but they themselves were at great pains     to procure, or even purchase, room in the prints to testify under their     hands to the truth of it.     I should still have been silent, if either I had seen any inclination in     my friend to be serious with such accusers, or if they had only meddled     with his writings; since whoever publishes, puts himself on his trial by     his country. But when his moral character was attacked, and in a manner     from which neither truth nor virtue can secure the most innocent; in a     manner which, though it annihilates the credit of the accusation with     the just and impartial, yet aggravates very much the guilt of the     accusers; I mean by authors without names; then I thought, since the     danger was common to all, the concern ought to be so; and that it was an     act of justice to detect the authors, not only on this account, but as     many of them are the same who, for several years past, have made free     with the greatest names in Church and State, exposed to the world the     private misfortunes of families, abused all, even to women, and whose     prostituted papers (for one or other party, in the unhappy divisions of     their country) have insulted the fallen, the friendless, the exiled, and     the dead.     Besides this, which I take to be a public concern, I have already     confessed I had a private one. I am one of that number who have long     loved and esteemed Mr Pope; and had often declared it was not his     capacity or writings (which we ever thought the least valuable part of     his character), but the honest, open, and beneficent man, that we most     esteemed, and loved in him. Now if what these people say were believed,     I must appear to all my friends either a fool, or a knave; either     imposed on myself, or imposing on them; so that I am as much interested     in the confutation of these calumnies as he is himself.     I am no author, and consequently not to be suspected either of jealousy     or resentment against any of the men, of whom scarce one is known to me     by sight; and as for their writings, I have sought them (on this one     occasion) in vain, in the closets and libraries of all my acquaintance.     I had still been in the dark if a gentleman had not procured me (I     suppose from some of themselves, for they are generally much more     dangerous friends than enemies) the passages I send you. I solemnly     protest I have added nothing to the malice or absurdity of them; which     it behoves me to declare, since the vouchers themselves will be so soon     and so irrecoverably lost. You may in some measure prevent it, by     preserving at least their titles, and discovering (as far as you can     depend on the truth of your information) the names of the concealed     authors.     The first objection I have heard made to the poem is, that the persons     are too obscure for satire. The persons themselves, rather than allow     the objection, would forgive the satire; and if one could be tempted to     afford it a serious answer, were not all assassinates, popular     insurrections, the insolence of the rabble without doors, and of     domestics within, most wrongfully chastised, if the meanness of     offenders indemnified them from punishment? On the contrary, obscurity     renders them more dangerous, as less thought of: law can pronounce     judgment only on open facts; morality alone can pass censure on     intentions of mischief; so that for secret calumny, or the arrow flying     in the dark, there is no public punishment left, but what a good writer     inflicts.     The next objection is, that these sort of authors are poor. That might     be pleaded as an excuse at the Old Bailey for lesser crimes than     defamation (for 'tis the case of almost all who are tried there), but     sure it can be none: for who will pretend that the robbing another of     his reputation supplies the want of it in himself? I question not but     such authors are poor, and heartily wish the objection were removed by     any honest livelihood. But poverty is here the accident, not the     subject: he who describes malice and villany to be pale and meagre,     expresses not the least anger against paleness or leanness, but against     malice and villany. The apothecary in Romeo and Juliet is poor; but is     he therefore justified in vending poison? Not but poverty itself becomes     a just subject of satire, when it is the consequence of vice,     prodigality, or neglect of one's lawful calling; for then it increases     the public burden, fills the streets and highways with robbers, and the     garrets with clippers, coiners, and weekly journalists.     But admitting that two or three of these offend less in their morals     than in their writings, must poverty make nonsense sacred? If so, the     fame of bad authors would be much better consulted than that of all the     good ones in the world; and not one of a hundred had ever been called by     his right name.     They mistake the whole matter: it is not charity to encourage them in     the way they follow, but to get them out of it; for men are not bunglers     because they are poor, but they are poor because they are bunglers.     Is it not pleasant enough to hear our authors crying out on the one     hand, as if their persons and characters were too sacred for satire; and     the public objecting on the other, that they are too mean even for     ridicule? But whether bread or fame be their end, it must be allowed,     our author, by and in this poem, has mercifully given them a little of     both.     There are two or three who, by their rank and fortune, have no benefit     from the former objections, supposing them good; and these I was sorry     to see in such company. But if, without any provocation, two or three     gentlemen will fall upon one, in an affair wherein his interest and     reputation are equally embarked, they cannot, certainly, after they have     been content to print themselves his enemies, complain of being put into     the number of them.     Others, I am told, pretend to have been once his friends. Surely they     are their enemies who say so, since nothing can be more odious than to     treat a friend as they have done. But of this I cannot persuade myself,     when I consider the constant and eternal aversion of all bad writers to     a good one.     Such as claim a merit from being his admirers, I would gladly ask, if it     lays him under a personal obligation? At that rate, he would be the most     obliged humble servant in the world. I dare swear for these in     particular, he never desired them to be his admirers, nor promised in     return to be theirs: that had truly been a sign he was of their     acquaintance; but would not the malicious world have suspected such an     approbation of some motive worse than ignorance in the author of the     Essay on Criticism? Be it as it will, the reasons of their admiration     and of his contempt are equally subsisting, for his works and theirs are     the very same that they were.     One, therefore, of their assertions I believe may be true--'That he has     a contempt for their writings.' And there is another, which would     probably be sooner allowed by himself than by any good judge beside--     'That his own have found too much success with the public.' But as it     cannot consist with his modesty to claim this as justice, it lies not on     him, but entirely on the public, to defend its own judgment.     There remains what in my opinion might seem a better plea for these     people than any they have made use of. If obscurity or poverty were to     exempt a man from satire, much more should folly or dulness, which are     still more involuntary; nay, as much so as personal deformity. But even     this will not help them: deformity becomes an object of ridicule when a     man sets up for being handsome; and so must dulness when he sets up for     a wit. They are not ridiculed because ridicule in itself is, or ought to     be, a pleasure, but because it is just to undeceive and vindicate the     honest and unpretending part of mankind from imposition, because     particular interest ought to yield to general, and a great number who     are not naturally fools ought never to be made so, in complaisance to a     few who are. Accordingly we find that in all ages, all vain pretenders,     were they ever so poor or ever so dull, have been constantly the topics     of the most candid satirists, from the Codrus of Juvenal to the Damon of     Boileau.     Having mentioned Boileau, the greatest poet and most judicious critic of     his age and country, admirable for his talents, and yet perhaps more     admirable for his judgment in the proper application of them, I cannot     help remarking the resemblance betwixt him and our author, in qualities,     fame, and fortune, in the distinctions shown them by their superiors, in     the general esteem of their equals, and in their extended reputation     amongst foreigners; in the latter of which ours has met with the better     fate, as he has had for his translators persons of the most eminent rank     and abilities in their respective nations. But the resemblance holds in     nothing more than in their being equally abused by the ignorant     pretenders to poetry of their times, of which not the least memory will     remain but in their own writings, and in the notes made upon them. What     Boileau has done in almost all his poems, our author has only in this: I     dare answer for him he will do it in no more; and on this principle, of     attacking few but who had slandered him, he could not have done it at     all, had he been confined from censuring obscure and worthless persons,     for scarce any other were his enemies. However, as the parity is so     remarkable, I hope it will continue to the last; and if ever he shall     give us an edition of this poem himself, I may see some of them treated     as gently, on their repentance or better merit, as Perrault and Quinault     were at last by Boileau.     In one point I must be allowed to think the character of our English     poet the more amiable. He has not been a follower of fortune or success;     he has lived with the great without flattery--been a friend to men in     power, without pensions, from whom, as he asked, so he received no     favour but what was done him in his friends. As his satires were the     more just for being delayed, so were his panegyrics; bestowed only on     such persons as he had familiarly known, only for such virtues as he had     long observed in them, and only at such times as others cease to praise,     if not begin to calumniate them--I mean, when out of power or out of     fashion. A satire, therefore, on writers so notorious for the contrary     practice, became no man so well as himself; as none, it is plain, was so     little in their friendships, or so much in that of those whom they had     most abused--namely, the greatest and best of all parties. Let me add a     further reason, that, though engaged in their friendships, he never     espoused their animosities; and can almost singly challenge this honour,     not to have written a line of any man, which, through guilt, through     shame, or through fear, through variety of fortune, or change of     interests, he was ever unwilling to own.     I shall conclude with remarking, what a pleasure it must be to every     reader of humanity to see all along, that our author in his very     laughter is not indulging his own ill-nature, but only punishing that of     others. As to his poem, those alone are capable of doing it justice,     who, to use the words of a great writer, know how hard it is (with     regard both to his subject and his manner) vetustis dare novitatem,     obsoletis nitorem, obscuris lucem, fastiditis gratiam.--I am     Your most humble servant,     WILLIAM CLELAND.[133]     ST JAMES'S, Dec. 22, 1728.     MARTINUS SCRIBLERUS HIS PROLEGOMENA AND ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE DUNCIAD:     WITH THE HYPERCRITICS OF ARISTARCHUS.     DENNIS, REMARKS ON PR. ARTHUR.     I cannot but think it the most reasonable thing in the world to     distinguish good writers, by discouraging the bad. Nor is it an     ill-natured thing, in relation even to the very persons upon whom the     reflections are made. It is true, it may deprive them, a little the     sooner, of a short profit and a transitory reputation; but then it may     have a good effect, and oblige them (before it be too late) to decline     that for which they are so very unfit, and to have recourse to something     in which they may be more successful.     CHARACTER OF MR P., 1716.     The persons whom Boileau has attacked in his writings have been for the     most part authors, and most of those authors, poets: and the censures he     hath passed upon them have been confirmed by all Europe.     GILDON, PREF. TO HIS NEW REHEARSAL.     It is the common cry of the poetasters of the town, and their fautors,     that it is an ill-natured thing to expose the pretenders to wit and     poetry. The judges and magistrates may, with full as good reason, be     reproached with ill-nature for putting the laws in execution against a     thief or impostor. The same will hold in the republic of letters, if the     critics and judges will let every ignorant pretender to scribbling pass     on the world.     THEOBALD, LETTER TO MIST, JUNE 22, 1728.     Attacks may be levelled either against failures in genius, or against     the pretensions of writing without one.     CONCANEN, DED. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE DUNCIAD.     A satire upon dulness is a thing that has been used and allowed in all     ages.     Out of thine own mouth will I judge thee, wicked scribbler.     TESTIMONIES OF AUTHORS     CONCERNING OUR POET AND HIS WORKS.     M. SCRIBLERUS LECTORI S.     Before we present thee with our exercitations on this most delectable     poem (drawn from the many volumes of our Adversaria on modern authors)     we shall here, according to the laudable usage of editors, collect the     various judgments of the learned concerning our Poet: various indeed,     not only of different authors, but of the same author at different     seasons. Nor shall we gather only the testimonies of such eminent wits     as would of course descend to posterity, and consequently be read     without our collection; but we shall likewise, with incredible labour,     seek out for divers others, which, but for this our diligence, could     never, at the distance of a few months, appear to the eye of the most     curious. Hereby thou may'st not only receive the delectation of variety,     but also arrive at a more certain judgment, by a grave and circumspect     comparison of the witnesses with each other, or of each with himself.     Hence also, thou wilt be enabled to draw reflections, not only of a     critical, but a moral nature, by being let into many particulars of the     person as well as genius, and of the fortune as well as merit, of our     author: in which, if I relate some things of little concern peradventure     to thee, and some of as little even to him, I entreat thee to consider     how minutely all true critics and commentators are wont to insist upon     such, and how material they seem to themselves, if to none other.     Forgive me, gentle reader, if (following learned example) I ever and     anon become tedious: allow me to take the same pains to find whether my     author were good or bad, well or ill-natured, modest or arrogant; as     another, whether his author was fair or brown, short or tall, or whether     he wore a coat or a cassock.     We purposed to begin with his life, parentage, and education: but as to     these, even his cotemporaries do exceedingly differ. One saith,[134] he     was educated at home; another,[135] that he was bred at St Omer's by     Jesuits; a third,[136] not at St Omer's, but at Oxford; a fourth,[137]     that he had no University education at all. Those who allow him to be     bred at home differ as much concerning his tutor: one saith,[138] he was     kept by his father on purpose; a second,[139] that he was an itinerant     priest; a third,[140] that he was a parson; one[141] calleth him a     secular clergyman of the Church of Rome; another,[142] a monk. As little     do they agree about his father, whom one[143] supposeth, like the father     of Hesiod, a tradesman or merchant; another,[144] a husbandman;     another,[145] a hatter, &c. Nor has an author been wanting to give our     Poet such a father as Apuleius hath to Plato, Jamblichus to Pythagoras,     and divers to Homer, namely, a demon: For thus Mr Gildon[146]: 'Certain     it is, that his original is not from Adam, but the Devil; and that he     wanteth nothing but horns and tail to be the exact resemblance of his     infernal Father.' Finding, therefore, such contrariety of opinions, and     (whatever be ours of this sort of generation) not being fond to enter     into controversy, we shall defer writing the life of our Poet, till     authors can determine among themselves what parents or education he had,     or whether he had any education or parents at all.     Proceed we to what is more certain, his Works, though not less uncertain     the judgments concerning them; beginning with his Essay on Criticism, of     which hear first the most ancient of critics--     MR JOHN DENNIS.     'His precepts are false or trivial, or both; his thoughts are crude and     abortive, his expressions absurd, his numbers harsh and unmusical, his     rhymes trivial and common:--instead of majesty, we have something that     is very mean; instead of gravity, something that is very boyish; and     instead of perspicuity and lucid order, we have but too often obscurity     and confusion.' And in another place: 'What rare numbers are here! Would     not one swear that this youngster had espoused some antiquated Muse, who     had sued out a divorce from some superannuated sinner, upon account of     impotence, and who, being poxed by her former spouse, has got the gout     in her decrepid age, which makes her hobble so damnably.'[147]     No less peremptory is the censure of our hypercritical historian,     MR OLDMIXON.     'I dare not say anything of the Essay on Criticism in verse; but if any     more curious reader has discovered in it something new which is not in     Dryden's prefaces, dedications, and his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, not to     mention the French critics, I should be very glad to have the benefit of     the discovery.'[148]     He is followed (as in fame, so in judgment) by the modest and     simple-minded     MR LEONARD WELSTED,     who, out of great respect to our poet not naming him, doth yet glance at     his essay, together with the Duke of Buckingham's, and the criticisms of     Dryden, and of Horace, which he more openly taxeth: 'As to the numerous     treatises, essays, arts, &c., both in verse and prose, that have been     written by the moderns on this ground-work, they do but hackney the same     thoughts over again, making them still more trite. Most of their pieces     are nothing but a pert, insipid heap of common-place. Horace has even,     in his Art of Poetry, thrown out several things which plainly shew he     thought an Art of Poetry was of no use, even while he was writing     one.'[149]     To all which great authorities, we can only oppose that of     MR ADDISON.     'The Art of Criticism (saith he), which was published some months since,     is a master-piece in its kind. The observations follow one another, like     those in Horace's Art of Poetry, without that methodical regularity     which would have been requisite in a prose writer. They are some of them     uncommon, but such as the reader must assent to, when he sees them     explained with that ease and perspicuity in which they are delivered. As     for those which are the most known and the most received, they are     placed in so beautiful a light, and illustrated with such apt allusions,     that they have in them all the graces of novelty, and make the reader,     who was before acquainted with them, still more convinced of their truth     and solidity. And here give me leave to mention what Monsieur Boileau     has so well enlarged upon in the preface to his works--that wit and fine     writing doth not consist so much in advancing things that are new, as in     giving things that are known an agreeable turn. It is impossible for us,     who live in the latter ages of the world, to make observations in     criticism, morality, or any art or science, which have not been touched     upon by others; we have little else left us but to represent the common     sense of mankind in more strong, more beautiful, or more uncommon     lights. If a reader examines Horace's Art of Poetry, he will find but     few precepts in it which he may not meet with in Aristotle, and which     were not commonly known by all the poets of the Augustan age. His way of     expressing and applying them, not his invention of them, is what we are     chiefly to admire.'     'Longinus, in his Reflections, has given us the same kind of sublime     which he observes in the several passages that occasioned them: I cannot     but take notice that our English author has, after the same manner,     exemplified several of the precepts in the very precepts themselves.' He     then produces some instances of a particular beauty in the numbers, and     concludes with saying, 'that there are three poems in our tongue of the     same nature, and each a master-piece in its kind--the Essay on     Translated Verse, the Essay on the Art of Poetry, and the Essay on     Criticism.'[150]     Of WINDSOR FOREST, positive is the judgment of the affirmative     MR JOHN DENNIS,     'That it is a wretched rhapsody, impudently writ in emulation of the     Cooper's Hill of Sir John Denham.[151] The author of it is obscure, is     ambiguous, is affected, is temerarious, is barbarous.'[152]     But the author of the Dispensary,     DR GARTH,     in the preface to his poem of Claremont, differs from this opinion:     'Those who have seen these two excellent poems of Cooper's Hill and     Windsor Forest--the one written by Sir John Denham, the other by Mr     Pope--will shew a great deal of candour if they approve of this.'     Of the Epistle of ELOISA, we are told by the obscure writer of a poem     called Sawney, 'That because Prior's Henry and Emma charmed the finest     tastes, our author writ his Eloise in opposition to it, but forgot     innocence and virtue: if you take away her tender thoughts and her     fierce desires, all the rest is of no value.' In which, methinks, his     judgment resembleth that of a French tailor on a villa and gardens by     the Thames: 'All this is very fine, but take away the river and it is     good for nothing.'     But very contrary hereunto was the opinion of     MR PRIOR     himself, saying in his Alma--     'O Abelard! ill-fated youth,     Thy tale will justify this truth.     But well I weet thy cruel wrong     Adorns a nobler poet's song:     Dan Pope, for thy misfortune grieved,     With kind concern and skill has weaved     A silken web; and ne'er shall fade     Its colours: gently has he laid     The mantle o'er thy sad distress,     And Venus shall the texture bless,'[153] &c.     Come we now to his translation of the ILIAD, celebrated by numerous     pens, yet shall it suffice to mention the indefatigable     SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE, KT.,     who (though otherwise a severe censurer of our author) yet styleth this     a 'laudable translation.'[154] That ready writer,     MR OLDMIXON,     in his forementioned essay, frequently commends the same. And the     painful     MR LEWIS THEOBALD     thus extols it: 'The spirit of Homer breathes all through this     translation.--I am in doubt whether I should most admire the justness to     the original, or the force and beauty of the language, or the sounding     variety of the numbers: but when I find all these meet, it puts me in     mind of what the poet says of one of his heroes, that he alone raised     and flung with ease a weighty stone, that two common men could not lift     from the ground; just so, one single person has performed in this     translation what I once despaired to have seen done by the force of     several masterly hands.'[155] Indeed, the same gentleman appears to have     changed his sentiment in his Essay on the Art of Sinking in Reputation     (printed in Mist's Journal, March 30, 1728,) where he says thus:--'In     order to sink in reputation, let him take into his head to descend into     Homer (let the world wonder, as it will, how the devil he got there),     and pretend to do him into English, so his version denote his neglect of     the manner how.' Strange variation! We are told in     MIST'S JOURNAL, JUNE 8,     'That this translation of the Iliad was not in all respects conformable     to the fine taste of his friend, Mr Addison; insomuch that he employed a     younger Muse in an undertaking of this kind, which he supervised     himself.' Whether Mr Addison did find it conformable to his taste or     not, best appears from his own testimony the year following its     publication, in these words:     MR ADDISON, FREEHOLDER, NO. 40.     'When I consider myself as a British freeholder, I am in a particular     manner pleased with the labours of those who have improved our language     with the translations of old Greek and Latin authors.--We have already     most of their historians in our own tongue, and what is more for the     honour of our language, it has been taught to express with elegance the     greatest of their poets in each nation. The illiterate among our own     countrymen may learn to judge from Dryden's Virgil of the most perfect     epic performance. And those parts of Homer which have been published     already by Mr Pope, give us reason to think that the Iliad will appear     in English with as little disadvantage to that immortal poem.'     As to the rest, there is a slight mistake, for this younger Muse was an     elder: nor was the gentleman (who is a friend of our author) employed by     Mr Addison to translate it after him, since he saith himself that he did     it before.[156] Contrariwise that Mr Addison engaged our author in this     work appeareth by declaration thereof in the preface to the Iliad,     printed some time before his death, and by his own letters of October     26, and November 2, 1713, where he declares it his opinion that no other     person was equal to it.     Next comes his Shakspeare on the stage: 'Let him (quoth one, whom I take     to be     MR THEOBALD, MIST'S JOURNAL, JUNE 8, 1728,)     publish such an author as he has least studied, and forget to discharge     even the dull duty of an editor. In this project let him lend the     bookseller his name (for a competent sum of money) to promote the credit     of an exorbitant subscription.' Gentle reader, be pleased to cast thine     eye on the proposal below quoted, and on what follows (some months after     the former assertion) in the same journalist of June 8. 'The bookseller     proposed the book by subscription, and raised some thousands of pounds     for the same: I believe the gentleman did not share in the profits of     this extravagant subscription.     'After the Iliad, he undertook (saith     MIST'S JOURNAL, JUNE 8, 1728,)     the sequel of that work, the Odyssey; and having secured the success by     a numerous subscription, he employed some underlings to perform what,     according to his proposals, should come from his own hands.' To which     heavy charge we can in truth oppose nothing but the words of     MR POPE'S PROPOSAL FOR THE ODYSSEY, (PRINTED BY J. WATTS, JAN. 10,     1724.)     'I take this occasion to declare that the subscription for Shakspeare     belongs wholly to Mr Tonson: And that the benefit of this proposal is     not solely for my own use, but for that of two of my friends, who have     assisted me in this work.' But these very gentlemen are extolled above     our poet himself in another of Mist's Journals, March 30, 1728, saying,     'That he would not advise Mr Pope to try the experiment again of getting     a great part of a book done by assistants, lest those extraneous parts     should unhappily ascend to the sublime, and retard the declension of the     whole.' Behold! these underlings are become good writers!     If any say, that before the said proposals were printed, the     subscription was begun without declaration of such assistance, verily     those who set it on foot, or (as their term is) secured it, to wit, the     Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Harcourt, were he living, would     testify, and the Right Honourable the Lord Bathurst, now living, doth     testify the same is a falsehood.     Sorry I am, that persons professing to be learned, or of whatever rank     of authors, should either falsely tax, or be falsely taxed. Yet let us,     who are only reporters, be impartial in our citations, and proceed.     MIST'S JOURNAL, JUNE 8, 1728.     'Mr Addison raised this author from obscurity, obtained him the     acquaintance and friendship of the whole body of our nobility, and     transferred his powerful interests with those great men to this rising     bard, who frequently levied by that means unusual contributions on the     public.' Which surely cannot be, if, as the author of The Dunciad     Dissected reporteth, 'Mr Wycherley had before introduced him into a     familiar acquaintance with the greatest peers and brightest wits then     living.'     'No sooner (saith the same journalist) was his body lifeless, but this     author, reviving his resentment, libelled the memory of his departed     friend; and, what was still more heinous, made the scandal public.'     Grievous the accusation! unknown the accuser! the person accused no     witness in his own cause; the person, in whose regard accused, dead! But     if there be living any one nobleman whose friendship, yea, any one     gentleman whose subscription Mr Addison procured to our author, let him     stand forth that truth may appear! Amicus Plato, amicus Socrates, sed     magis amica veritas. In verity, the whole story of the libel is a lie.     Witness those persons of integrity, who, several years before Mr     Addison's decease, did see and approve of the said verses, in nowise a     libel but a friendly rebuke sent privately in our author's own hand to     Mr Addison himself, and never made public, till after their own journals     and Curll had printed the same. One name alone, which I am here     authorised to declare, will sufficiently evince this truth, that of the     Eight Honourable the Earl of Burlington.     Next is he taxed with a crime (in the opinion of some authors, I doubt,     more heinous than any in morality) to wit, plagiarism, from the     inventive and quaint-conceited     JAMES MOORE SMITH, GENT.     'Upon reading the third volume of Pope's Miscellanies, I found five     lines which I thought excellent; and happening to praise them, a     gentleman produced a modern comedy (the Rival Modes) published last     year, where were the same verses to a tittle. These gentlemen are     undoubtedly the first plagiaries that pretend to make a reputation by     stealing from a man's works in his own life-time, and out of a public     print.'[157] Let us join to this what is written by the author of the     Rival Modes, the said Mr James Moore Smith, in a letter to our author     himself, who had informed him, a month before that play was acted, Jan.     27, 1726-7, that 'these verses, which he had before given him leave to     insert in it, would be known for his, some copies being got abroad. He     desires, nevertheless, that since the lines had been read in his comedy     to several, Mr P. would not deprive it of them,' &c. Surely if we add     the testimonies of the Lord Bolingbroke, of the lady to whom the said     verses were originally addressed, of Hugh Bethel, Esq., and others, who     knew them as our author's, long before the said gentleman composed his     play, it is hoped the ingenuous that affect not error will rectify their     opinion by the suffrage of so honourable personages.     And yet followeth another charge, insinuating no less than his enmity     both to Church and State, which could come from no other informer than     the said     MR JAMES MOORE SMITH.     'The Memoirs of a Parish Clerk was a very dull and unjust abuse of a     person who wrote in defence of our religion and constitution, and who     has been dead many years.'[158] This seemeth also most untrue, it being     known to divers that these memoirs were written at the seat of the Lord     Harcourt in Oxfordshire, before that excellent person (Bishop Burnet's)     death, and many years before the appearance of that history of which     they are pretended to be an abuse. Most true it is that Mr Moore had     such a design, and was himself the man who pressed Dr Arbuthnot and Mr     Pope to assist him therein; and that he borrowed those memoirs of our     author, when that history came forth, with intent to turn them to such     abuse. But being able to obtain from our author but one single hint, and     either changing his mind, or having more mind than ability, he contented     himself to keep the said memoirs, and read them as his own to all his     acquaintance. A noble person there is, into whose company Mr Pope once     chanced to introduce him, who well remembereth the conversation of Mr     Moore to have turned upon the 'contempt he had for the work of that     reverend prelate, and how full he was of a design he declared himself to     have of exposing it.' This noble person is the Earl of Peterborough.     Here in truth should we crave pardon of all the foresaid right     honourable and worthy personages, for having mentioned them in the same     page with such weekly riff-raff railers and rhymers, but that we had     their ever-honoured commands for the same; and that they are introduced     not as witnesses in the controversy, but as witnesses that cannot be     controverted; not to dispute, but to decide.     Certain it is, that dividing our writers into two classes, of such who     were acquaintance, and of such who were strangers to our author; the     former are those who speak well, and the other those who speak evil of     him. Of the first class, the most noble     JOHN DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM     sums up his character in these lines:     'And yet so wondrous, so sublime a thing,     As the great Iliad, scarce could make me sing,     Unless I justly could at once commend     A good companion, and as firm a friend;     One moral, or a mere well-natured deed,     Can all desert in sciences exceed.'[159]     So also is he deciphered by the honourable     SIMON HARCOURT.     'Say, wondrous youth, what column wilt thou choose,     What laurell'd arch, for thy triumphant Muse?     Though each great ancient court thee to his shrine,     Though every laurel through the dome be thine.     Go to the good and just, an awful train!     Thy soul's delight.'[160]     Recorded in like manner for his virtuous disposition and gentle bearing,     by the ingenious     MR WALTER HART,     in this apostrophe:     'Oh! ever worthy, ever crown'd with praise!     Bless'd in thy life, and bless'd in all thy lays.     Add, that the Sisters every thought refine,     And even thy life be faultless as thy line.     Yet Envy still with fiercer rage pursues,     Obscures the virtue, and defames the Muse.     A soul like thine, in pain, in grief, resign'd,     Views with just scorn the malice of mankind.'[161]     The witty and moral satirist,     DR EDWARD YOUNG,     wishing some check to the corruption and evil manners of the times,     calleth out upon our poet to undertake a task so worthy of his virtue:     'Why slumbers Pope, who leads the Muses' train,     Nor hears that Virtue, which he loves, complain?'[162]     MR MALLET,     in his epistle on Verbal Criticism:     'Whose life, severely scann'd, transcends his lays;     For wit supreme is but his second praise.'     MR HAMMOND,     that delicate and correct imitator of Tibullus, in his Love Elegies,     Elegy xiv.:     'Now, fired by Pope and Virtue, leave the age,     In low pursuit of self-undoing wrong,     And trace the author through his moral page,     Whose blameless life still answers to his song.'     MR THOMSON,     in his elegant and philosophical poem of the Seasons:     'Although not sweeter his own Homer sings,     Yet is his life the more endearing song.'     To the same tune also singeth that learned clerk of Suffolk,     MR WILLIAM BROOME.     'Thus, nobly rising in fair Virtue's cause,     From thy own life transcribe the unerring laws.'[163]     And to close all, hear the reverend Dean of St Patrick's:     'A soul with every virtue fraught,     By patriots, priests, and poets taught.     Whose filial piety excels     Whatever Grecian story tells.     A genius for each business fit,     Whose meanest talent is his wit,' &c.     Let us now recreate thee by turning to the other side, and showing his     character drawn by those with whom he never conversed, and whose     countenances he could not know, though turned against him: first again,     commencing with the high-voiced and never-enough quoted     MR JOHN DENNIS,     who, in his 'Reflections on the Essay on Criticism,' thus describeth     him, 'A little affected hypocrite, who has nothing in his mouth but     candour, truth, friendship, good-nature, humanity, and magnanimity. He     is so great a lover of falsehood, that, whenever he has a mind to     calumniate his cotemporaries, he brands them with some defect which is     just contrary to some good quality for which all their friends and their     acquaintance commend them. He seems to have a particular pique to people     of quality, and authors of that rank. He must derive his religion from     St Omer's.' But in the character of Mr P. and his writings (printed by     S. Popping, 1716), he saith, 'Though he is a professor of the worst     religion, yet he laughs at it;' but that 'nevertheless he is a virulent     Papist; and yet a pillar for the Church of England.'     Of both which opinions     MR LEWIS THEOBALD     seems also to be; declaring, in Mist's Journal of June 22, 1718--'That,     if he is not shrewdly abused, he made it his practice to cackle to both     parties in their own sentiments.' But, as to his pique against people of     quality, the same journalist doth not agree, but saith (May 8, 1728)--     'He had, by some means or other, the acquaintance and friendship of the     whole body of our nobility.'     However contradictory this may appear, Mr Dennis and Gildon, in the     character last cited, make it all plain, by assuring us, 'That he is a     creature that reconciles all contradictions; he is a beast, and a man; a     Whig, and a Tory; a writer (at one and the same time) of Guardians and     Examiners;[164] an assertor of liberty, and of the dispensing power of     kings; a Jesuitical professor of truth, a base and a foul pretender to     candour.' So that, upon the whole account, we must conclude him either     to have been a great hypocrite, or a very honest man; a terrible imposer     upon both parties, or very moderate to either.     Be it as to the judicious reader shall seem good. Sure it is, he is     little favoured of certain authors, whose wrath is perilous: for one     declares he ought to have a price set on his head, and to be hunted down     as a wild beast.[165] Another protests that he does not know what may     happen; advises him to insure his person; says he has bitter enemies,     and expressly declares it will be well if he escapes with his life.[166]     One desires he would cut his own throat, or hang himself.[167]     But Pasquin seemed rather inclined it should be done by the Government,     representing him engaged in grievous designs with a lord of Parliament,     then under prosecution.[168] Mr Dennis himself hath written to a     minister, that he is one of the most dangerous persons in this     kingdom;[169] and assureth the public, that he is an open and mortal     enemy to his country; a monster, that will, one day, shew as daring a     soul as a mad Indian, who runs a-muck to kill the first Christian he     meets.[170] Another gives information of treason discovered in his     poem.[171] Mr Curll boldly supplies an imperfect verse with kings and     princesses.[172] And one Matthew Concanen, yet more impudent, publishes     at length the two most sacred names in this nation, as members of the     Dunciad.[173]     This is prodigious! yet it is almost as strange, that in the midst of     these invectives his greatest enemies have (I know not how) borne     testimony to some merit in him.     MR THEOBALD,     in censuring his Shakspeare, declares, 'He has so great an esteem for Mr     Pope, and so high an opinion of his genius and excellencies, that,     notwithstanding he professes a veneration almost rising to idolatry for     the writings of this inimitable poet, he would be very both even to do     him justice, at the expense of that other gentleman's character.'[174]     MR CHARLES GILDON,     after having violently attacked him in many pieces, at last came to wish     from his heart, 'That Mr Pope would be prevailed upon to give us Ovid's     Epistles by his hand, for it is certain we see the original of Sappho to     Pliaon with much more life and likeness in his version, than in that of     Sir Car Scrope. And this,' he adds, 'is the more to be wished, because     in the English tongue we have scarce anything truly and naturally     written upon love.'[175] He also, in taxing Sir Richard Blackmore for     his heterodox opinions of Homer, challengeth him to answer what Mr Pope     hath said in his preface to that poet.     MR OLDMIXON     calls him a great master of our tongue; declares 'the purity and     perfection of the English language to be found in his Homer; and, saying     there are more good verses in Dryden's Virgil than in any other work,     excepts this of our author only.'[176]     THE AUTHOR OF A LETTER TO MR CIBBER     says, 'Pope was so good a versifier [once], that, his predecessor, Mr     Dryden, and his cotemporary, Mr Prior, excepted, the harmony of his     numbers is equal to anybody's. And that he had all the merit that a man     can have that way.'[177] And     MR THOMAS COOKE,     after much blemishing our author's Homer, crieth out--     'But in his other works what beauties shine,     While sweetest music dwells in every line!     These he admired--on these he stamp'd his praise,     And bade them live to brighten future days.'[178]     So also one who takes the name of     H. STANHOPE,     the maker of certain verses to Duncan Campbell,[179] in that poem, which     is wholly a satire on Mr Pope, confesseth--     ''Tis true, if finest notes alone could show     (Tuned justly high, or regularly low)     That we should fame to these mere vocals give,     Pope more than we can offer should receive:     For when some gliding river is his theme,     His lines run smoother than the smoothest stream,' &c.     MIST'S JOURNAL, JUNE 8, 1728.     Although he says, 'The smooth numbers of the Dunciad are all that     recommend it, nor has it any other merit,' yet that same paper hath     these words: 'The author is allowed to be a perfect master of an easy     and elegant versification. In all his works we find the most happy turns     and natural similes, wonderfully short and thick sown.'     The Essay on the Dunciad also owns (p. 25) it is very full of beautiful     images. But the panegyric which crowns all that can be said on this poem     is bestowed by our laureate,     MR COLLEY CIBBER,     who 'grants it to be a better poem of its kind than ever was writ:' but     adds, 'it was a victory over a parcel of poor wretches, whom it was     almost cowardice to conquer.--A man might as well triumph for having     killed so many silly flies that offended him. Could he have let them     alone, by this time, poor souls! they had all been buried in     oblivion.'[180] Here we see our excellent laureate allows the justice of     the satire on every man in it but himself, as the great Mr Dennis did     before him.     The said     MR DENNIS AND MR GILDON,     in the most furious of all their works (the forecited Character, p. 5),     do in concert confess, 'That some men of good understanding value him     for his rhymes.' And (p. 17), 'That he has got, like Mr Bayes in the     Rehearsal (that is, like Mr Dryden), a notable knack at rhyming, and     writing smooth verse.'     Of his Essay on Man, numerous were the praises bestowed by his avowed     enemies, in the imagination that the same was not written by him, as it     was printed anonymously.     Thus sang of it even     BEZALEEL MORRIS.     'Auspicious bard! while all admire thy strain,     All but the selfish, ignorant, and vain;     I, whom no bribe to servile flattery drew,     Must pay the tribute to thy merit due:     Thy Muse, sublime, significant, and clear,     Alike informs the soul, and charms the ear,' &c.     And     MR LEONARD WELSTED     thus wrote[181] to the unknown author, on the first publication of the     said Essay:--'I must own, after the reception which the vilest and most     immoral ribaldry hath lately met with, I was surprised to see what I had     long despaired--a performance deserving the name of a poet. Such, sir,     is your work. It is, indeed, above all commendation, and ought to have     been published in an age and country more worthy of it. If my testimony     be of weight anywhere, you are sure to have it in the amplest manner,'     &c.     Thus we see every one of his works hath been extolled by one or other of     his most inveterate enemies; and to the success of them all, they do     unanimously give testimony. But it is sufficient, instar omnium, to     behold the great critic, Mr Dennis, sorely lamenting it, even from the     Essay on Criticism to this day of the Dunciad! 'A most notorious     instance,' quoth he, 'of the depravity of genius and taste, the     approbation this essay meets with.'[182] 'I can safely affirm, that I     never attacked any of these writings, unless they had success infinitely     beyond their merit. This, though an empty, has been a popular scribbler.     The epidemic madness of the times has given him reputation.'[183] 'If,     after the cruel treatment so many extraordinary men (Spencer, Lord     Bacon, Ben. Jonson, Milton, Butler, Otway, and others) have received     from this country, for these last hundred years, I should shift the     scene, and show all that penury changed at once to riot and profuseness,     and more squandered away upon one object than would have satisfied the     greater part of those extraordinary men, the reader to whom this one     creature should be unknown would fancy him a prodigy of art and nature,     would believe that all the great qualities of these persons were centred     in him alone. But if I should venture to assure him that the people of     England had made such a choice, the reader would either believe me a     malicious enemy and slanderer, or that the reign of the last (Queen     Anne's) ministry was designed by fate to encourage fools.'[184]     But it happens that this our poet never had any place, pension, or     gratuity, in any shape, from the said glorious queen, or any of her     ministers. All he owed, in the whole course of his life, to any court,     was a subscription, for his Homer, of 200 from King George I., and 100     from the Prince and Princess.     However, lest we imagine our author's success was constant and     universal, they acquaint us of certain works in a less degree of repute,     whereof, although owned by others, yet do they assure us he is the     writer. Of this sort Mr Dennis[185] ascribes to him two farces, whose     names he does not tell, but assures us that there is not one jest in     them; and an imitation of Horace, whose title he does not mention, but     assures us it is much more execrable than all his works.[186] The Daily     Journal, May 11, 1728, assures us 'He is below Tom D'Urfey in the drama,     because (as that writer thinks) the Marriage-Hater Matched, and the     Boarding School, are better than the What-d'-ye-call-it,' which is not     Mr P.'s, but Mr Gay's. Mr Gildon assures us, in his New Rehearsal, p.     48, 'That he was writing a play of the Lady Jane Grey;' but it     afterwards proved to be Mr Howe's. We are assured by another, 'He wrote     a pamphlet called Dr Andrew Tripe,'[187] which proved to be one Dr     Wagstaff's. Mr Theobald assures us in Mist of the 27th April, 'That the     Treatise of the Pro-found is very dull, and that Mr Pope is the author     of it.' The writer of Gulliveriana is of another opinion, and says, 'The     whole, or greatest part, of the merit of this treatise must and can only     be ascribed to Gulliver.'[188] (Here, gentle reader! cannot I but smile     at the strange blindness and positiveness of men, knowing the said     treatise to appertain to none other but to me, Martinus Scriblerus.) We     are assured, in Mist of June 8, 'That his own plays and farces would     better have adorned the Dunciad than those of Mr Theobald, for he had     neither genius for tragedy nor comedy;' which, whether true or not, is     not easy to judge, inasmuch as he hath attempted neither--unless we will     take it for granted, with Mr Cibber, that his being once very angry at     hearing a friend's play abused was an infallible proof the play was his     own, the said Mr Cibber thinking it impossible for a man to be much     concerned for any but himself: 'Now let any man judge,' saith he, 'by     this concern, who was the true mother of the child?'[189]     But from all that hath been said, the discerning reader will collect,     that it little availed our author to have any candour, since, when he     declared he did not write for others, it was not credited; as little to     have any modesty, since, when he declined writing in any way himself,     the presumption of others was imputed to him. If he singly enterprised     one great work, he was taxed of boldness and madness to a prodigy;[190]     if he took assistants in another, it was complained of, and represented     as a great injury to the public.[191] The loftiest heroics, the lowest     ballads, treatises against the State or Church, satires on lords and     ladies, raillery on wits and authors, squabbles with booksellers, or     even full and true accounts of monsters, poisons, and murders; of any     hereof was there nothing so good, nothing so bad, which hath not at one     or other season been to him ascribed. If it bore no author's name, then     lay he concealed; if it did, he fathered it upon that author to be yet     better concealed: if it resembled any of his styles, then was it     evident; if it did not, then disguised he it on set purpose. Yea, even     direct oppositions in religion, principles, and politics, have equally     been supposed in him inherent. Surely a most rare and singular     character! Of which, let the reader make what he can.     Doubtless most commentators would hence take occasion to turn all to     their author's advantage; and, from the testimony of his very enemies,     would affirm that his capacity was boundless, as well as his     imagination; that he was a perfect master of all styles, and all     arguments; and that there was in those times no other writer, in any     kind, of any degree of excellence, save he himself. But as this is not     our own sentiment, we shall determine on nothing, but leave thee, gentle     reader, to steer thy judgment equally between various opinions, and to     choose whether thou wilt incline to the testimonies of authors avowed,     or of authors concealed--of those who knew him, or of those who knew him     not.     P.          *             *             *             *             *     MARTINUS SCRIBLERUS OF THE POEM.     This poem, as it celebrateth the most grave and ancient of things,     Chaos, Night, and Dulness; so is it of the most grave and ancient kind.     Homer (saith Aristotle) was the first who gave the form, and (saith     Horace) who adapted the measure, to heroic poesy. But even before this,     may be rationally presumed from what the ancients have left written, was     a piece by Homer, composed of like nature and matter with this of our     poet. For of epic sort it appeareth to have been, yet of matter surely     not unpleasant, witness what is reported of it by the learned Archbishop     Eustathius, in Odyss. x., and accordingly Aristotle, in his Poetic,     chap, iv., does further set forth, that as the Iliad and Odyssey gave     example to tragedy, so did this poem to comedy its first idea.     From these authors also it should seem that the hero or chief personage     of it was no less obscure, and his understanding and sentiments no less     quaint and strange (if indeed not more so), than any of the actors of     our poem. Margites was the name of this personage, whom antiquity     recordeth to have been Dunce the first; and surely, from what we hear of     him, not unworthy to be the root of so spreading a tree and so numerous     a posterity. The poem therefore celebrating him was properly and     absolutely a Dunciad; which, though now unhappily lost, yet is its     nature sufficiently known by the infallible tokens aforesaid. And thus     it doth appear that the first Dunciad was the first epic poem, written     by Homer himself, and anterior even to the Iliad or Odyssey.     Now, forasmuch as our poet had translated those two famous works of     Homer which are yet left, he did conceive it in some sort his duty to     imitate that also which was lost; and was therefore induced to bestow on     it the same form which Homer's is reported to have had, namely, that of     epic poem; with a title also framed after the ancient Greek manner, to     wit, that of Dunciad.     Wonderful it is that so few of the moderns have been stimulated to     attempt some Dunciad! since, in the opinion of the multitude, it might     cost less pain and oil than an imitation of the greater epic. But     possible it is also, that, on due reflection, the maker might find it     easier to paint a Charlemagne, a Brute, or a Godfrey, with just pomp and     dignity heroic, than a Margites, a Codrus, or a Flecknoe.     We shall next declare the occasion and the cause which moved our poet to     this particular work. He lived in those days, when (after Providence had     permitted the invention of printing as a scourge for the sins of the     learned) paper also became so cheap, and printers so numerous, that a     deluge of authors covered the land; whereby not only the peace of the     honest unwriting subject was daily molested, but unmerciful demands were     made of his applause, yea of his money, by such as would neither earn     the one nor deserve the other. At the same time, the licence of the     press was such, that it grew dangerous to refuse them either: for they     would forthwith publish slanders unpunished, the authors being     anonymous, and skulking under the wings of publishers, a set of men who     never scrupled to vend either calumny or blasphemy, as long as the town     would call for it.     Now our author,[192] living in those times, did conceive it an endeavour     well worthy an honest satirist to dissuade the dull and punish the     wicked, the only way that was left. In that public-spirited view he laid     the plan of this poem, as the greatest service he was capable (without     much hurt, or being slain) to render his dear country. First, taking     things from their original, he considereth the causes creative of such     authors--namely, dulness and poverty; the one born with them, the other     contracted by neglect of their proper talents, through self-conceit of     greater abilities. This truth he wrappeth in an allegory[193] (as the     construction of epic poesy requireth), and feigns that one of these     goddesses had taken up her abode with the other, and that they jointly     inspired all such writers and such works. He proceedeth to show the     qualities they bestow on these authors,[194] and the effects they     produce;[195] then the materials, or stock, with which they furnish     them;[196] and (above all) that self-opinion[197] which causeth it to     seem to themselves vastly greater than it is, and is the prime motive of     their setting up in this sad and sorry merchandise. The great power of     these goddesses acting in alliance (whereof as the one is the mother of     industry, so is the other of plodding) was to be exemplified in some one     great and remarkable action:[198] and none could be more so than that     which our poet hath chosen, viz., the restoration of the reign of Chaos     and Night, by the ministry of Dulness their daughter, in the removal of     her imperial seat from the city to the polite world; as the action of     the neid is the restoration of the empire of Troy, by the removal of     the race from thence to Latium. But as Homer singing only the wrath of     Achilles, yet includes in his poem the whole history of the Trojan war;     in like manner our author hath drawn into this single action the whole     history of Dulness and her children.     A person must next be fixed upon to support this action. This phantom in     the poet's mind must have a name:[199] He finds it to be ----; and he     becomes, of course, the hero of the poem.     The fable being thus, according to the best example, one and entire, as     contained in the proposition, the machinery is a continued chain of     allegories, setting forth the whole power, ministry, and empire of     Dulness, extended through her subordinate instruments, in all her     various operations.     This is branched into episodes, each of which hath its moral apart,     though all conducive to the main end. The crowd assembled in the second     book demonstrates the design to be more extensive than to bad poets     only, and that we may expect other episodes of the patrons, encouragers,     or paymasters of such authors, as occasion shall bring them forth. And     the third book, if well considered, seemeth to embrace the whole world.     Each of the games relateth to some or other vile class of writers: the     first concerneth the Plagiary, to whom he giveth the name of More; the     second the libellous Novelist, whom he styleth Eliza; the third, the     flattering Dedicator; the fourth, the bawling Critic, or noisy Poet; the     fifth, the dark and dirty Party-writer; and so of the rest; assigning to     each some proper name or other, such as he could find.     As for the characters, the public hath already acknowledged how justly     they are drawn: the manners are so depicted, and the sentiments so     peculiar to those to whom applied, that surely to transfer them to any     other or wiser personages would be exceeding difficult: and certain it     is, that every person concerned, being consulted apart, hath readily     owned the resemblance of every portrait, his own excepted. So Mr Cibber     calls them 'a parcel of poor wretches, so many silly flies;' but adds,     'our author's wit is remarkably more bare and barren whenever it would     fall foul on Cibber, than upon any other person whatever.'[200]     The descriptions are singular, the comparisons very quaint, the     narration various, yet of one colour. The purity and chastity of diction     is so preserved, that in the places most suspicious, not the words but     only the images have been censured, and yet are those images no other     than have been sanctified by ancient and classical authority (though, as     was the manner of those good times, not so curiously wrapped up), yea,     and commented upon by the most grave doctors and approved critics.     As it beareth the name of Epic, it is thereby subjected to such severe     indispensable rules as are laid on all neoterics--a strict imitation of     the ancients; insomuch that any deviation, accompanied with whatever     poetic beauties, hath always been censured by the sound critic. How     exact that imitation hath been in this piece, appeareth not only by its     general structure, but by particular allusions infinite, many whereof     have escaped both the commentator and poet himself; yea, divers by his     exceeding diligence are so altered and interwoven with the rest, that     several have already been, and more will be, by the ignorant abused, as     altogether and originally his own.     In a word, the whole poem proveth itself to be the work of our author     when his faculties were in full vigour and perfection, at that exact     time when years have ripened the judgment without diminishing the     imagination; which by good critics is held to be punctually at forty.     For at that season it was that Virgil finished his Georgics; and Sir     Richard Blackmore at the like age composing his Arthurs, declared the     same to be the very acm and pitch of life for epic poesy--though     since he hath altered it to sixty, the year in which he published his     Alfred.[201] True it is, that the talents for criticism--namely,     smartness, quick censure, vivacity of remark, certainty of asseveration,     indeed all but acerbity--seem rather the gifts of youth than of riper     age. But it is far otherwise in poetry; witness the works of Mr Rymer     and Mr Dennis, who, beginning with criticism, became afterwards such     poets as no age hath paralleled. With good reason, therefore, did our     author choose to write his essay on that subject at twenty, and reserve     for his maturer years this great and wonderful work of the Dunciad.     P.     RICARDUS ARISTARCHUS OF THE HERO OF THE POEM.     Of the nature of Dunciad in general, whence derived, and on what     authority founded, as well as of the art and conduct of this our poem in     particular, the learned and laborious Scriblerus hath, according to his     manner, and with tolerable share of judgment, dissertated. But when he     cometh to speak of the person of the hero fitted for such poem, in truth     he miserably halts and hallucinates. For, misled by one Monsieur Bossu,     a Gallic critic, he prateth of I cannot tell what phantom of a hero,     only raised up to support the fable. A putrid conceit! As if Homer and     Virgil, like modern undertakers, who first build their house, and then     seek out for a tenant, had contrived the story of a war and a wandering,     before they once thought either of Achilles or neas. We shall therefore     set our good brother and the world also right in this particular, by     assuring them, that, in the greater epic, the prime intention of the     Muse is to exalt heroic virtue, in order to propagate the love of it     among the children of men; and, consequently, that the poet's first     thought must needs be turned upon a real subject meet for laud and     celebration; not one whom he is to make, but one whom he may find, truly     illustrious. This is the primum mobile of his poetic world, whence     everything is to receive life and motion. For this subject being found,     he is immediately ordained, or rather acknowledged, a hero, and put upon     such action as befitteth the dignity of his character.     But the Muse ceaseth not here her eagle-flight. For sometimes, satiated     with the contemplation of these suns of glory, she turneth downward on     her wing, and darts with Jove's lightning on the goose and serpent kind.     For we may apply to the Muse, in her various moods, what an ancient     master of wisdom affirmeth of the gods in general: 'Si Dii non     irascuntur impiis et injustis, nec pios utique justosque diligunt. In     rebusenim diversis, aut in utramque partem moveri necesse est, aut in     neutram. Itaque qui bonos diligit, et malos odit; et qui malos non odit,     nec bonos diligit. Quia et diligere bonos ex odio malorum venit; et     malos odisse ex bonorum caritate descendit.' Which, in our vernacular     idiom, may be thus interpreted: 'If the gods be not provoked at evil     men, neither are they delighted with the good and just. For contrary     objects must either excite contrary affections, or no affections at all.     So that he who loveth good men must at the same time hate the bad; and     he who hateth not bad men cannot love the good; because to love good men     proceedeth from an aversion to evil, and to hate evil men from a     tenderness to the good.' From this delicacy of the Muse arose the little     epic, (more lively and choleric than her elder sister, whose bulk and     complexion incline her to the phlegmatic), and for this some notorious     vehicle of vice and folly was sought out, to make thereof an example. An     early instance of which (nor could it escape the accurate Scriblerus)     the father of epic poem himself affordeth us. From him the practice     descended to the Greek dramatic poets, his offspring, who, in the     composition of their tetralogy, or set of four pieces, were wont to make     the last a satiric tragedy. Happily one of these ancient Dunciads (as we     may well term it) is come down unto us amongst the tragedies of the poet     Euripides. And what doth the reader suppose may be the subject thereof?     Why, in truth, and it is worthy observation, the unequal contention of     an old, dull, debauched buffoon Cyclops, with the heaven-directed     favourite of Minerva; who, after having quietly borne all the monster's     obscene and impious ribaldry, endeth the farce in punishing him with the     mark of an indelible brand in his forehead. May we not then be excused,     if for the future we consider the epics of Homer, Virgil, and Milton,     together with this our poem, as a complete tetralogy, in which the last     worthily holdeth the place or station of the satiric piece?     Proceed we therefore in our subject. It hath been long, and, alas for     pity! still remaineth a question, whether the hero of the greater epic     should be an honest man? or, as the French critics express it, un     honnte homme:[202] but it never admitted of any doubt, but that the     hero of the little epic should be just the contrary. Hence, to the     advantage of our Dunciad, we may observe how much juster the moral of     that poem must needs be, where so important a question is previously     decided.     But then it is not every knave, nor (let me add) every fool, that is a     fit subject for a Dunciad. There must still exist some analogy, if not     resemblance of qualities, between the heroes of the two poems, and this     in order to admit what neoteric critics call the parody, one of the     liveliest graces of the little epic. Thus, it being agreed that the     constituent qualities of the greater epic hero are wisdom, bravery, and     love, from whence springeth heroic virtue; it followeth that those of     the lesser epic hero should be vanity, impudence, and debauchery, from     which happy assemblage resulteth heroic dulness, the never-dying subject     of this our poem.     This being confessed, come we now to particulars. It is the character of     true wisdom to seek its chief support and confidence within itself, and     to place that support in the resources which proceed from a conscious     rectitude of will. And are the advantages of vanity, when arising to the     heroic standard, at all short of this self-complacence? Nay, are they     not, in the opinion of the enamoured owner, far beyond it? 'Let the     world (will such an one say) impute to me what folly or weakness they     please; but till wisdom can give me something that will make me more     heartily happy, I am content to be gazed at.'[203] This, we see, is     vanity according to the heroic gauge or measure; not that low and     ignoble species which pretendeth to virtues we have not, but the     laudable ambition of being gazed at for glorying in those vices which     everybody knows we have. 'The world may ask (says he) why I make my     follies public? Why not? I have passed my time very pleasantly with     them.'[204] In short, there is no sort of vanity such a hero would     scruple, but that which might go near to degrade him from his high     station in this our Dunciad--namely, 'Whether it would not be vanity in     him to take shame to himself for not being a wise man?'[205]     Bravery, the second attribute of the true hero, is courage manifesting     itself in every limb; while its correspondent virtue in the mock hero is     that same courage all collected into the face. And as power when drawn     together must needs have more force and spirit than when dispersed, we     generally find this kind of courage in so high and heroic a degree, that     it insults not only men, but gods. Mezentius is, without doubt, the     bravest character in all the neis. But how? His bravery, we know, was a     high courage of blasphemy. And can we say less of this brave man's, who,     having told us that he placed 'his summum bonum in those follies,     which he was not content barely to possess, but would likewise glory     in,' adds, 'If I am misguided, 'tis nature's fault, and I follow     her.'[206] Nor can we be mistaken in making this happy quality a species     of courage, when we consider those illustrious marks of it which made     his face 'more known (as he justly boasteth) than most in the kingdom,'     and his language to consist of what we must allow to be the most daring     figure of speech, that which is taken from the name of God.     Gentle love, the next ingredient in the true hero's composition, is a     mere bird of passage, or (as Shakspeare calls it) summer-teeming lust,     and evaporates in the heat of youth; doubtless, by that refinement, it     suffers in passing through those certain strainers which our poet     somewhere speaketh of. But when it is let alone to work upon the lees,     it acquireth strength by old age, and becometh a lasting ornament to the     little epic. It is true, indeed, there is one objection to its fitness     for such a use: for not only the ignorant may think it common, but it is     admitted to be so, even by him who best knoweth its value. 'Don't you     think,' argueth he, 'to say only a man has his whore,[207] ought to go     for little or nothing? Because defendit numerus; take the first ten     thousand men you meet, and I believe you would be no loser if you betted     ten to one that every single sinner of them, one with another, had been     guilty of the same frailty.'[208] But here he seemeth not to have done     justice to himself: the man is sure enough a hero who hath his lady at     fourscore. How doth his modesty herein lessen the merit of a whole     well-spent life: not taking to himself the commendation (which Horace     accounted the greatest in a theatrical character) of continuing to the     very dregs the same he was from the beginning,     ... 'Servetur ad imum     Qualis ab incepto processerat' ...     But here, in justice both to the poet and the hero, let us further     remark, that the calling her his whore implieth she was his own, and not     his neighbour's. Truly a commendable continence! and such as Scipio     himself must have applauded. For how much self-denial was exerted not to     covet his neighbour's whore? and what disorders must the coveting her     have occasioned in that society where (according to this political     calculator) nine in ten of all ages have their concubines!     We have now, as briefly as we could devise, gone through the three     constituent qualities of either hero. But it is not in any, or in all of     these, that heroism properly or essentially resideth. It is a lucky     result rather from the collision of these lively qualities against one     another. Thus, as from wisdom, bravery, and love, ariseth magnanimity,     the object of admiration, which is the aim of the greater epic; so from     vanity, impudence, and debauchery, springeth buffoonery, the source of     ridicule, that 'laughing ornament,' as he well termeth it,[209] of the     little epic.     He is not ashamed (God forbid he ever should be ashamed!) of this     character, who deemeth that not reason, but risibility, distinguisheth     the human species from the brutal. 'As nature,' saith this profound     philosopher, 'distinguished our species from the mute creation by our     risibility, her design must have been by that faculty as evidently to     raise our happiness, as by our os sublime (our erected faces) to lift     the dignity of our form above them.'[210] All this considered, how     complete a hero must he be, as well as how happy a man, whose risibility     lieth not barely in his muscles, as in the common sort, but (as himself     informeth us) in his very spirits! and whose os sublime is not simply     an erect face, but a brazen head, as should seem by his preferring it to     one of iron, said to belong to the late king of Sweden![211]     But whatever personal qualities a hero may have, the examples of     Achilles and Aeneas show us, that all those are of small avail without     the constant assistance of the gods--for the subversion and erection of     empires have never been adjudged the work of man. How greatly soever,     then, we may esteem of his high talents, we can hardly conceive his     personal prowess alone sufficient to restore the decayed empire of     Dulness. So weighty an achievement must require the particular favour     and protection of the great--who, being the natural patrons and     supporters of letters, as the ancient gods were of Troy, must first be     drawn off and engaged in another interest, before the total subversion     of them can be accomplished. To surmount, therefore, this last and     greatest difficulty, we have, in this excellent man, a professed     favourite and intimado of the great. And look, of what force ancient     piety was to draw the gods into the party of Aeneas, that, and much     stronger, is modern incense, to engage the great in the party of     Dulness.     Thus have we essayed to portray or shadow out this noble imp of fame.     But now the impatient reader will be apt to say, if so many and various     graces go to the making up a hero, what mortal shall suffice to bear his     character? Ill hath he read who seeth not, in every trace of this     picture, that individual, all-accomplished person, in whom these rare     virtues and lucky circumstances have agreed to meet and concentre with     the strongest lustre and fullest harmony.     The good Scriblerus indeed--nay, the world itself--might be imposed on,     in the late spurious editions, by I can't tell what sham hero or     phantom; but it was not so easy to impose on him whom this egregious     error most of all concerned. For no sooner had the fourth book laid open     the high and swelling scene, but he recognised his own heroic acts; and     when he came to the words--     'Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines,'     (though laureate imply no more than one crowned with laurel, as     befitteth any associate or consort in empire), he loudly resented this     indignity to violated majesty--indeed, not without cause, he being there     represented as fast asleep; so misbeseeming the eye of empire, which,     like that of Providence, should never doze nor slumber. 'Hah!' saith he,     'fast asleep, it seems! that's a little too strong. Pert and dull at     least you might have allowed me, but as seldom asleep as any fool.'[212]     However, the injured hero may comfort himself with this reflection, that     though it be a sleep, yet it is not the sleep of death, but of     immortality. Here he will live[213] at least, though not awake; and in     no worse condition than many an enchanted warrior before him. The famous     Durandarte, for instance, was, like him, cast into a long slumber by     Merlin, the British bard and necromancer; and his example, for     submitting to it with a good grace, might be of use to our hero. For     that disastrous knight being sorely pressed or driven to make his answer     by several persons of quality, only replied with a sigh--'Patience, and     shuffle the cards.'[214]     But now, as nothing in this world, no, not the most sacred or perfect     things either of religion or government, can escape the sting of envy,     methinks I already hear these carpers objecting to the clearness of our     hero's title.     It would never (say they) have been esteemed sufficient to make an hero     for the Iliad or Aeneis, that Achilles was brave enough to overturn one     empire, or Aeneas pious enough to raise another, had they not been     goddess-born, and princes bred. What, then, did this author mean by     erecting a player instead of one of his patrons (a person 'never a hero     even on the stage,'[215]) to this dignity of colleague in the empire of     Dulness, and achiever of a work that neither old Omar, Attila, nor John     of Leyden could entirely bring to pass?     To all this we have, as we conceive, a sufficient answer from the Roman     historian, Fabrum esse suae quemque fortunae: That every man is the     smith of his own fortune. The politic Florentine, Nicholas Machiavel,     goeth still further, and affirmeth that a man needeth but to believe     himself a hero to be one of the worthiest. 'Let him (saith he) but fancy     himself capable of the highest things, and he will of course be able to     achieve them.' From this principle it follows, that nothing can exceed     our hero's prowess; as nothing ever equalled the greatness of his     conceptions. Hear how he constantly paragons himself; at one time to     Alexander the Great and Charles XII of Sweden, for the excess and     delicacy of his ambition;[216] to Henry IV of France for honest     policy;[217] to the first Brutus, for love of liberty;[218] and to Sir     Robert Walpole, for good government while in power.[219] At another     time, to the godlike Socrates, for his diversions and amusements;[220]     to Horace, Montaigne, and Sir William Temple for an elegant vanity that     maketh them for ever read and admired;[221] to two Lord Chancellors, for     law, from whom, when confederate against him at the bar, he carried away     the prize of eloquence;[222] and, to say all in a word, to the right     reverend the Lord Bishop of London himself, in the art of writing     pastoral letters.[223]     Nor did his actions fall short of the sublimity of his conceit. In his     early youth he met the Revolution[224] face to face in Nottingham, at a     time when his betters contented themselves with following her. It was     here he got acquainted with old Battle-array, of whom he hath made so     honourable mention in one of his immortal odes. But he shone in courts     as well as camps. He was called up when the nation fell in labour of     this Revolution;[225] and was a gossip at her christening, with the     bishop and the ladies.[226]     As to his birth, it is true he pretended no relation either to heathen     god or goddess; but, what is as good, he was descended from a maker of     both.[227] And that he did not pass himself on the world for a hero as     well by birth as education was his own fault: for his lineage he     bringeth into his life as an anecdote, and is sensible he had it in his     power to be thought he was nobody's son at all:[228] And what is that     but coming into the world a hero?     But be it (the punctilious laws of epic poesy so requiring) that a hero     of more than mortal birth must needs be had, even for this we have a     remedy. We can easily derive our hero's pedigree from a goddess of no     small power and authority amongst men, and legitimate and install him     after the right classical and authentic fashion: for like as the ancient     sages found a son of Mars in a mighty warrior, a son of Neptune in a     skilful seaman, a son of Phoebus in a harmonious poet, so have we here,     if need be, a son of Fortune in an artful gamester. And who fitter than     the offspring of Chance to assist in restoring the empire of Night and     Chaos?     There is, in truth, another objection, of greater weight, namely, 'That     this hero still existeth, and hath not yet finished his earthly course.     For if Solon said well, that no man could be called happy till his     death, surely much less can any one, till then, be pronounced a hero,     this species of men being far more subject than others to the caprices     of fortune and humour.' But to this also we have an answer, that will     (we hope) be deemed decisive. It cometh from himself, who, to cut this     matter short, hath solemnly protested that he will never change or     amend.     With regard to his vanity, he declareth that nothing shall ever part     them. 'Nature (saith he) hath amply supplied me in vanity--a pleasure     which neither the pertness of wit nor the gravity of wisdom will ever     persuade me to part with.'[229] Our poet had charitably endeavoured to     administer a cure to it: but he telleth us plainly, 'My superiors     perhaps may be mended by him; but for my part I own myself incorrigible.     I look upon my follies as the best part of my fortune.'[230] And with     good reason: we see to what they have brought him!     Secondly, as to buffoonery, 'Is it (saith he) a time of day for me to     leave off these fooleries, and set up a new character? I can no more put     off my follies than my skin; I have often tried, but they stick too     close to me; nor am I sure my friends are displeased with them, for in     this light I afford them frequent matter of mirth, &c., &c.'[231] Having     then so publicly declared himself incorrigible, he is become dead in law     (I mean the law Epopoeian), and devolveth upon the poet as his property,     who may take him and deal with him as if he had been dead as long as an     old Egyptian hero; that is to say, embowel and embalm him for posterity.     Nothing therefore (we conceive) remaineth to hinder his own prophecy of     himself from taking immediate effect. A rare felicity! and what few     prophets have had the satisfaction to see alive! Nor can we conclude     better than with that extraordinary one of his, which is conceived in     these oraculous words, 'My dulness will find somebody to do it     right.'[232]     'Tandem Phoebus adest, morsusque inferre parantem     Congelat, et patulos, ut erant, indurat hiatus.'[233]     BY AUTHORITY.     By virtue of the Authority in Us vested by the Act for subjecting poets     to the power of a licenser, we have revised this piece; where finding     the style and appellation of King to have been given to a certain     pretender, pseudo-poet, or phantom, of the name of Tibbald; and     apprehending the same may be deemed in some sort a reflection on     Majesty, or at least an insult on that Legal Authority which has     bestowed on another person the crown of poesy: We have ordered the said     pretender, pseudo-poet, or phantom, utterly to vanish and evaporate out     of this work: And do declare the said Throne of Poesy from henceforth to     be abdicated and vacant, unless duly and lawfully supplied by the     Laureate himself. And it is hereby enacted, that no other person do     presume to fill the same.