Chapter 2

T' Exalt the Soul, or make the Heart sincere, To arm our Lives with honesty severe, To shake the wretch beyond the reach of Law, Deter the young, and touch the bold with awe, To raise the fal'n, to hear the sufferer's cries, And sanctify the virtues of the wise, Old Satire rose from Probity of mind, The noblest Ethicks to reform mankind.

As _Cynthia's_ Orb excels the gems of night: So _Epic Satire_ shines distinctly bright. Here Genius lives, and strength in every part, And lights and shades, and fancy fix'd by art. A second beauty in its nature lies, It gives not _Things_, but _Beings_ to our eyes, _Life_, _Substance_, _Spirit_ animate the whole; _Fiction_ and _Fable_ are the Sense and Soul. The _common Dulness_ of mankind, array'd In pomp, here lives and breathes, a _wond'rous Maid_: The Poet decks her with each unknown Grace, Clears her dull brain, and brightens her dark face: See! Father _Chaos_ o'er his First-born nods, And Mother _Night_, in Majesty of Gods! See _Querno's Throne_, by hands Pontific rise, And a _Fool's Pandæmonium_ strike our Eyes! Ev'n what on C----l the Publick bounteous pours, Is sublimated here to _Golden show'rs_.

A _Dunciad_ or a _Lutrin_ is compleat, And _one_ in action; ludicrously great. Each wheel rolls round in due degrees of force; E'en _Episodes_ are _needful_, or _of course_: _Of course_, when things are virtually begun E'er the first ends, the Father and the Son: Or else so _needful_, and exactly grac'd, That nothing is _ill-suited_, or _ill-plac'd_.

True Epic's a vast World, and this a small; One has its _proper_ beauties, and one _all_. Like _Cynthia_, one in _thirty days_ appears, Like _Saturn_ one, rolls round in _thirty years_. _There_ opens a wide Tract, a length of Floods, A height of Mountains, and a waste of Woods: _Here_ but one Spot; nor Leaf, nor Green depart From Rules, e'en Nature seems the Child of Art. As _Unities_ in Epick works appear, So must they shine in full distinction here. Ev'n the warm _Iliad_ moves with slower pow'rs: That forty days demands, This forty hours.

Each other Satire humbler arts has known, Content with meaner Beauties, tho' its own: Enough for that, if rugged in its course The Verse but rolls with Vehemence and Force; Or nicely pointed in th' _Horatian_ way Wounds keen, like _Syrens_ mischievously gay. Here, All has _Wit_, yet must that Wit be _strong_, Beyond the Turns of _Epigram_, or _Song_. The _Thought_ must rise exactly from the vice, _Sudden_, yet _finish'd_, _clear_, and yet _concise_. _One Harmony_ must _first_ with _last_ unite; As all true Paintings have their _Place_ and _Light_. _Transitions_ must be _quick_, and yet _design'd_, Not made to fill, but just retain the mind: And _Similies_, like meteors of the night, Just give one flash of momentary Light.

As thinking makes the Soul, low things exprest In high-rais'd terms, define a _Dunciad_ best. _Books and the Man_ demands as much, or more, Than _He_ who _wander'd to the Latian Shore_: For here (eternal Grief to _Duns_'s soul, And _B_----'s thin Ghost!) the _Part_ contains the _Whole_: Since in Mock-Epic none succeeds, but he Who tastes the Whole of Epic Poesy.

The _Moral_ must be clear and understood; But finer still, if negatively good: Blaspheming _Capaneus_ obliquely shows T' adore those Gods _Æneas_ fears and knows. A _Fool's_ the _Heroe_; but the _Poet's_ end Is, to be _candid_, _modest_, and a _Friend_.

Let _Classic Learning_ sanctify each Part, Not only show your Reading, but your Art.

The charms of _Parody_, like those of Wit, If well _contrasted_, never fail to hit; One half in light, and one in darkness drest, (For contraries oppos'd still shine the best.) When a cold Page half breaks the Writer's heart, By this it warms, and brightens into Art. When Rhet'ric glitters with too pompous pride, By this, like _Circe_, 'tis un-deify'd. So _Berecynthia_, while her off-spring vye In homage to the Mother of the sky, (Deck'd in rich robes, of trees, and plants, and flow'rs, And crown'd illustrious with an hundred tow'rs) O'er all _Parnassus_ casts her eyes at once, And sees an hundred Sons--_and each a Dunce_.

The _Language_ next: from hence new pleasure springs; For _Styles_ are dignify'd, as well as _Things_. Tho' Sense subsists, distinct from phrase or sound, Yet _Gravity_ conveys a surer wound. The chymic secret which your pains wou'd find, Breaks out, unsought for, in _Cervantes'_ mind; And _Quixot_'s wildness, like that King's of old, Turns all he touches, into _Pomp_ and _Gold_. Yet in this Pomp discretion must be had; Tho' _grave_, not _stiff_; tho' _whimsical_, not _mad_: In Works like these if _Fustian_ might appear, Mock-Epics, _Blackmore_, would not cost thee dear.

We grant, that _Butler_ ravishes the Heart, As _Shakespear_ soar'd beyond the reach of Art; (For Nature form'd those Poets without Rules, To fill the world with _imitating Fools_.) What _Burlesque_ could, was by that Genius done; Yet faults it has, impossible to shun: Th' unchanging strain for want of grandeur cloys, And gives too oft the horse-laugh mirth of Boys: The short-legg'd verse, and double-gingling Sound, So quick surprize us, that our heads run round: Yet in this Work peculiar Life presides, And _Wit_, for all the world to glean besides.

Here pause, my Muse, too daring and too young! Nor rashly aim at Precepts yet unsung. Can Man the Master of the _Dunciad_ teach? And these new Bays what other hopes to reach? 'Twere better judg'd, to study and explain Each ancient Grace he copies not in vain; To trace thee, Satire, to thy utmost Spring, Thy Form, thy Changes, and thy Authors sing.

All Nations with this Liberty dispense, And bid us shock the Man that shocks Good Sense. Great _Homer_ first the Mimic Sketch design'd What grasp'd not _Homer's_ comprehensive mind? By him who _Virtue_ prais'd, was _Folly_ curst, And who _Achilles_ sung, drew _Dunce the First_.[26]

Next him _Simonides_, with lighter Air, In Beasts, and Apes, and Vermin, paints the _Fair_: The good _Scriblerus_ in like forms displays The reptile Rhimesters of these later days.

More fierce, _Archilochus_! thy vengeful flame; Fools read and _dy'd_: for Blockheads then had _Shame_.

The Comic-Satirist[27] attack'd his Age, And found low Arts, and Pride, among the Sage: See learned _Athens_ stand attentive by, And _Stoicks_ learn their Foibles from the Eye.

_Latium's fifth Homer_[28] held the _Greeks_ in view; Solid, tho' rough, yet incorrect as new. _Lucilius_, warm'd with more than mortal flame Rose next[29], and held a torch to ev'ry shame. See stern _Menippus_, cynical, unclean; And _Grecian Cento_'s, mannerly obscene. Add the last efforts of _Pacuvius'_ rage, And the chaste decency of _Varro_'s page.[30]

See _Horace_ next, in each reflection nice, Learn'd, but not vain, the Foe of Fools nor Vice. Each page instructs, each Sentiment prevails, All shines alike, he rallies, but ne'er rails: With courtly ease conceals a Master's art, And least-expected steals upon the heart. Yet _Cassius_[31] felt the fury of his rage, (_Cassius_, the _We----d_ of a former age) And sad _Alpinus_, ignorantly read, Who murder'd _Memnon_, tho' for ages dead.

Then _Persius_ came: whose line tho' roughly wrought, His Sense o'erpaid the stricture of his thought. Here in clear light the _Stoic_-doctrine shines, Truth all subdues, or Patience all resigns. A Mind supreme![32] impartial, yet severe: Pure in each Act, in each Recess sincere! Yet _rich ill_ Poets urg'd the _Stoic_'s Frown, And bade him strike at _Dulness_ and a _Crown_[33].

The Vice and Luxury _Petronius_ drew, In _Nero_ meet: th' imperial point of view: The Roman _Wilmot_, that could Vice chastize, Pleas'd the mad King he serv'd, to satirize.

The next[34] in Satire felt a nobler rage, What honest Heart could bear _Domitian_'s age? See his strong Sense, and Numbers masculine! His Soul is kindled, and he kindles mine: Scornful of Vice, and fearless of Offence, He flows a Torrent of impetuous Sense.

Lo! Savage Tyrants Who blasphem'd their God Turn Suppliants now, and gaze at _Julian_'s Rod.[35]

_Lucian_, severe, but in a gay disguise, Attacks old Faith, or sports in learned Lyes;[36] Sets Heroes and Philosophers at odds; And scourges Mortals, and dethrones the Gods.

Then all was Night--But _Satire_ rose once more Where _Medici_ and _Leo_ Arts restore. _Tassonè_ shone fantastic, but sublime: And He, who form'd the _Macaronique_-Rhime:

Then _Westward_ too by slow degrees confest, Where boundless _Rabelais_ made the World his Jest; _Marot_ had Nature, _Regnier_ Force and Flame, But swallow'd all in _Boileau_'s matchless Fame! Extensive Soul! who rang'd all learning o'er, Present and past--and yet found room for more. Full of new Sense, exact in every Page, Unbounded, and yet sober in thy Rage. Strange Fate! _Thy solid_ Sterling _of two lines,_ _Drawn to our_ Tinsel, _thro' whole Pages shines!_[37]

In _Albion_ then, with equal lustre bright, Great _Dryden_ rose, and steer'd by Nature's light. Two glimmering Orbs he just observ'd from far, The Ocean wide, and dubious either Star, _Donne_ teem'd with Wit, but all was maim'd and bruis'd, The periods endless, and the sense confus'd: _Oldham_ rush'd on, impetuous, and sublime, But lame in Language, Harmony, and Rhyme; These (with new graces) vig'rous nature join'd In one, and center'd 'em in _Dryden_'s mind. How full thy verse? Thy meaning how severe? How dark thy theme? yet made exactly clear. Not mortal is thy accent, nor thy rage, Yet mercy softens, or contracts each Page. Dread Bard! instruct us to revere thy rules, And hate like thee, all Rebels, and all Fools.

His Spirit ceas'd not (in strict truth) to be; For dying _Dryden_ breath'd, O _Garth!_ on thee, Bade thee to keep alive his genuine Rage, Half-sunk in want, oppression and old age; Then, when thy pious hands repos'd his head,[38] When vain young Lords and ev'n the Flamen fled. For well thou knew'st his merit and his art, His upright mind, clear head, and friendly heart. Ev'n _Pope_ himself (who sees no Virtue bleed But bears th' affliction) envies thee the deed.

O _Pope_! Instructor of my studious days, Who fix'd my steps in virtue's early ways: On whom our labours, and our hopes depend, Thou more than Patron, and ev'n more than Friend! Above all Flattery, all Thirst of Gain, And Mortal but in Sickness, and in Pain! Thou taught'st old Satire nobler fruits to bear, And check'd her Licence with a moral Care: Thou gav'st the Thought new beauties not its own, And touch'd the Verse with Graces yet unknown. Each lawless branch thy level eye survey'd. And still corrected Nature as she stray'd: Warm'd _Boileau_'s Sense with _Britain_'s genuine Fire, And added Softness to _Tassonè_'s Lyre.

Yet mark the hideous nonsense of the age, And thou thy self the subject of its rage. So in old times, round godlike _Scæva_ ran _Rome_'s dastard Sons, a _Million_, and a _Man_.

Th' exalted merits of the Wise and Good Are seen, far off, and rarely understood. The world's a father to a Dunce unknown, And much he thrives, for Dulness! he's thy own. No hackney brethren e'er condemn him _twice_; He fears no enemies, but dust and mice.

If _Pope_ but writes, the Devil _Legion_ raves, And meagre Critics mutter in their caves: (Such Critics of necessity consume All Wit, as Hangmen ravish'd Maids at _Rome_.) Names he a Scribler? all the world's in arms, _Augusta_, _Granta_, _Rhedecyna_ swarms: The guilty reader fancies what he fears, And every _Midas_ trembles for his ears.

See all such malice, obloquy, and spite Expire e're morn, the mushroom of a night! Transient as vapours glimm'ring thro' the glades, Half-form'd and idle, as the dreams of maids, Vain as the sick man's vow, or young man's sigh, Third-nights of Bards, or _H_----'s sophistry.

These ever hate the Poet's sacred line: These hate whate'er is glorious, or divine. From one Eternal Fountain _Beauty_ springs, The Energy of _Wit_, and _Truth of Things_, That Source is GOD: From _him_ they downwards tend, Flow round--yet in their native center end. Hence Rules, and Truth, and Order, Dunces strike; Of Arts, and Virtues, enemies alike.

Some urge, that Poets of supreme renown Judge ill to scourge the Refuse of the Town. How'ere their Casuists hope to turn the scale, These men must smart, or scandal will prevail. By these, the weaker Sex still suffer most: And such are prais'd who rose at Honour's cost: The Learn'd they wound, the Virtuous, and the Fair, No fault they cancel, no reproach they spare: The random Shaft, impetuous in the dark, Sings on unseen, and quivers in the mark. 'Tis Justice, and not Anger, makes us write, Such sons of darkness must be drag'd to light: Long-suff'ring nature must not always hold; In virtue's cause 'tis gen'rous to be bold. To scourge the bad, th' unwary to reclaim, And make light flash upon the face of shame.

Others have urg'd (but weigh it, and you'll find 'Tis light as feathers blown before the wind) That Poverty, the Curse of Providence, Attones for a dull Writer's want of Sense: Alas! his Dulness 'twas that made him poor; Not _vice versa_: We infer no more. Of Vice and Folly Poverty's the curse, Heav'n may be rigid, but the Man was worse, By good made bad, by favours more disgrac'd, So dire th' effects of ignorance misplac'd! Of idle Youth, unwatch'd by Parents eyes! Of Zeal for pence, and Dedication Lies! Of conscience model'd by a Great man's looks! And arguings in religion--from No books!

No light the darkness of that mind invades, Where _Chaos_ rules, enshrin'd in genuine Shades; Where, in the Dungeon of the Soul inclos'd, True Dulness nods, reclining and repos'd. Sense, Grace, or Harmony, ne'er enter there, Nor human Faith, nor Piety sincere; A mid-night of the Spirits, Soul, and Head, (Suspended all) as Thought it self lay dead. Yet oft a mimic gleam of transient light Breaks thro' this gloom, and then they think they write; From Streets to Streets th' unnumber'd Pamphlets fly, Then tremble _Warner_, _Brown_, and _Billingsly_.[39]

O thou most gentle Deity appear, Thou who still hear'st, and yet art prone to hear: Whose eye ne'er closes, and whose brains ne'er rest, (Thy own dear Dulness bawling at thy breast) Attend, O _Patience_, on thy arm reclin'd, And see Wit's endless enemies behind!

And ye, _Our Muses_, with a _hundred tongues_, And Thou, O _Henley!_ blest with _brazen lungs_; Fanatic _Withers!_ fam'd for rhimes and sighs, And _Jacob Behmen!_ most obscurely wise; From darkness palpable, on dusky wings Ascend! and shroud him who your Off-spring sings.

The first with _Egypt_'s darkness in his head Thinks Wit the devil, and curses books unread. For twice ten winters has he blunder'd on, Thro' heavy comments, yet ne'er lost nor won: Much may be done in twenty winters more, And let him then learn _English_ at threescore. No sacred _Maro_ glitters on his shelf, He wants the mighty _Stagyrite_ himself. See vast _Coimbria_'s comments[40] pil'd on high, In heaps _Soncinas_,[41] _Sotus_, _Sanchez_ lie: For idle hours, _Sa_'s[42] idler casuistry.

Yet worse is he, who in one language read, Has one eternal jingling in his head, At night, at morn, in bed, and on the stairs ... Talks flights to grooms, and makes lewd songs at pray'rs His Pride, a Pun: a Guinea his Reward, His Critick _G-ld-n_, _Jemmy M-re_ his Bard.

What artful Hand the Wretch's Form can hit, Begot by _Satan_ on a _M----ly_'s Wit: In Parties furious at the great Man's nod, And hating none for nothing, but his God: Foe to the Learn'd, the Virtuous, and the Sage, A Pimp in Youth, an Atheist in old Age: Now plung'd in Bawdry and substantial Lyes, Now dab'ling in ungodly Theories; But so, as Swallows skim the pleasing flood, Grows giddy, but ne'er drinks to do him good: Alike resolv'd to flatter, or to cheat, Nay worship Onions, if they cry, _come eat_: A foe to Faith, in Revelation blind, And impious much, as Dunces are by kind.

Next see the Master-piece of Flatt'ry rise, Th' anointed Son of Dulness and of Lies: Whose softest Whisper fills a Patron's Ear, Who smiles unpleas'd, and mourns without a tear.[43] Persuasive, tho' a woful Blockhead he: Truth dies before his shadowy Sophistry. For well he knows[44] the Vices of the Town, The Schemes of State, and Int'rest of the Gown; Immoral Afternoons, indecent Nights, Enflaming Wines, and second Appetites.

But most the Theatres with dulness groan, Embrio's half-form'd, a Progeny unknown: Fine things for nothing, transports out of season, Effects un-caus'd, and murders without reason. Here Worlds run round, and Years are taught to stay, Each Scene an Elegy, each Act a Play.[45] Can the same Pow'r such various Passions move? Rejoice, or weep, 'tis ev'ry thing for _Love_. The self-same Cause produces Heav'n and Hell: Things contrary as Buckets in a Well; One up, one down, one empty, and one full: Half high, half low, half witty, and half dull. So on the borders of an ancient Wood, Or where some Poplar trembles o'er the Flood, _Arachnè_ travels on her filmy thread, Now high, now low, or on her feet or head.

Yet these love Verse, as Croaking comforts Frogs,[46] And Mire and Ordure are the Heav'n of Hogs. As well might Nothing bind Immensity, Or passive Matter Immaterials see, As these shou'd write by reason, rhime, and rule, Or we turn Wit, whom nature doom'd a Fool. If _Dryden_ err'd, 'twas human frailty once, But blund'ring is the Essence of a Dunce.

Some write for Glory, but the Phantom fades; Some write as Party, or as Spleen invades; A third, because his Father was well read, And Murd'rer-like, calls Blushes from the dead. Yet all for Morals and for Arts contend---- They want'em both, who never prais'd a Friend. More ill, than dull; For pure stupidity Was ne'er a crime in honest _Banks_, or me.

See next a Croud in damasks, silks, and crapes, Equivocal in dress, half-belles, half-trapes: A length of night-gown rich _Phantasia_ trails, _Olinda_ wears one shift, and pares no nails: Some in _C----l_'s Cabinet each act display, When nature in a transport dies away: Some more refin'd transcribe their Opera-loves On Iv'ry Tablets, or in clean white Gloves: Some of Platonic, some of carnal Taste, Hoop'd, or un-hoop'd, ungarter'd, or unlac'd. Thus thick in Air the wing'd Creation play, When vernal _Phoebus_ rouls the Light away, A motley race, half Insects and half Fowls, Loose-tail'd and dirty, May-flies, Bats, and Owls.

Gods, that this native nonsense was our worst! With Crimes more deep, O _Albion!_ art thou curst. No Judgment open Prophanation fears, For who dreads God, that can preserve his Ears? Oh save me Providence, from Vice refin'd, That worst of ills, a _Speculative Mind_![47] Not that I blame divine Philosophy, (Yet much we risque, for Pride and Learning lye.) Heav'n's paths are found by Nature more than Art, The Schoolman's Head misleads the Layman's Heart.

What unrepented Deeds has _Albion_ done? Yet spare us Heav'n! return, and spare thy own. Religion vanishes to _Types_, and _Shade_, By Wits, by fools, by her own Sons betray'd! Sure 'twas enough to give the Dev'l his due, Must such Men mingle with the _Priesthood_ too? So stood _Onias_ at th' Almighty's Throne, Profanely cinctur'd in a Harlot's Zone.

Some _Rome_, and some the _Reformation_ blame; 'Tis hard to say from whence such License came; From fierce Enthusiasts, or Socinians sad? _C----ns_ the soft, or _Bourignon_ the mad? From wayward Nature, or lewd Poet's Rhimes? From praying, canting, or king-killing times? From all the dregs which _Gallia_ cou'd pour forth, (Those Sons of Schism) landed in the _North_?-- From whence it came, they and the D----l best know, Yet thus much, _Pope_, each Atheist is thy Foe.

O Decency, forgive these friendly Rhimes, For raking in the dunghill of their crimes. To name each Monster wou'd make Printing dear, Or tire _Ned Ward_, who writes six Books a-year. Such vicious Nonsense, Impudence, and Spite, Wou'd make a Hermit, or a Father write. Tho' _Julian_ rul'd the World, and held no more Than deist _Gildon_ taught, or _Toland_ swore, Good _Greg'ry_[48] prov'd him execrably bad, And scourg'd his Soul, with drunken Reason mad. Much longer, _Pope_ restrain'd his awful hand, Wept o'er poor _Niniveh_, and her dull band, 'Till Fools like Weeds rose up, and choak'd the Land. Long, long he slumber'd e'er th' avenging hour; For dubious Mercy half o'er-rul'd his pow'r: 'Till the wing'd bolt, red-hissing from above Pierc'd Millions thro'----For such the Wrath of _Jove_. _Hell_, _Chaos_, _Darkness_, tremble at the sound, And prostrate Fools bestrow the vast Profound: No _Charon_ wafts 'em from the farther Shore, Silent they sleep, alas! to rise no more.

Oh POPE, and Sacred _Criticism!_ forgive A Youth, who dares approach your Shrine, and live! Far has he wander'd in an unknown Night, No Guide to lead him, but his own dim Light. For him more fit, in vulgar Paths to tread, To shew th' Unlearned what they never read, Youth to improve, or rising Genius tend, To Science much, to Virtue more, a Friend.

Footnotes:

[26] Margites.

[27] Aristophanes.

[28] Ennius.

[29] ----clarumq; facem præferre pudori, _Juv. S._ 1.

[30] _See_ Varro_'s Character in_ Cicero_'s Academics._

[31] _Epode_ 6.

[32] _Alludes to this Couplet in his second Satire_,

Compositum jus fasq; animi, sanctiq; recessus, Mentis, & incoctum generoso pectus honesto.

[33] _See his first Satire of_ Nero_'s Verses,_ &c.

[34] Juvenal.

[35] _The_ Cæsars _of the Emperor_ Julian.

[36] Lucian_'s True History._

[37] Roscommon, _Revers'd._

[38] _Dr_. Garth _took care of Mr._ Dryden_'s Funeral, which some Noblemen, who undertook it, had neglected._

[39] Three Booksellers.

[40] Coimbria_'s comments._ Colleg. Conimbricense, _a Society in_ Spain, _which publish'd tedious explanations of_ Aristotle.

[41] Soncinas, _a Schoolman._

[42] Sa (Eman. de) _See_ Paschal_'s Mystery of Jesuitism._

[43] Pompeius, tenui jugulos aperire susurro. Juv. S. 4. Flet, si lacrymas aspexit amici, Nec dolet. S. 3.

[44] ------Noverat ille Luxuriam Imperii veteris, noctesq; Neronis Jam medias, aliamq; famem. Juv. S. 4.

[45] Et chaque Acte en fa pièce & una pièce entière. _Boil._

[46]_'When a poor Genius has labour'd much, he judges well not to expect the Encomiums of the Publick: for these are not his due. Yet for fear his drudgery shou'd have no recompense, God (of his goodness) has given him a personal Satisfaction. To envy him in this wou'd be injustice beyond barbarity itself: Thus the same Deity (who is equally just in all points) has given Frogs the comfort of Croaking, &c.'_

Le Pere Gerasse Sommes Theol. L. 2.

[47] Plato _calls this an Ignorance of a dark and dangerous Nature, under appearance of the greatest Wisdom._

[48] Gregory Nazianz: _a Father at the beginning of the Fourth Century. He writ two most bitter Satires (or Invectives) against the Emperor_ Julian.

A DISCOURSE OF SATIRES

_Arraigning Persons by Name_. By Monsieur BOILEAU.