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tially resideth. It is a lucky result rather from the colision 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, 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." All this onsidered, 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 comparing it with one of iron, said to belong to the late king of Sweden!

But whatever personal qualities a hero may have, the examples of Achilles and Æneas 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 judged 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 Eneas, 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 this character? Ill hath he read, who sees 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 ROARED (like a lion) and VINDICATED HIS RIGHT OF FAME. Indeed not without cause, he being there represented as fast asleep; so unbeseeming the eye of empire, which, like that of Providence, should never slumber. "Hah!" said 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." However, the injured hero may comfort himself with this reflection, that though it be sleep, yet it is not the sleep of death, but of immortality. Here he will live 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 so good a grace might be of use to our hero. For this 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.

But now, as nothing in this world, no, not the most sacred or perfect things either of religion or government, can

escape the teeth or tongue of envy, methinks I already hear these carpers objecting to the clear title of our hero.

"It would never," say they, "have been esteemed sufficient to make a hero for the Iliad or Æneid, that Achilles was brave enough to overturn one empire, or Eneas 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') to this dignity of colleague in the empire of Dulness, an achiever of a work that neither old Omar, Attila, nor John of Leyden could entirely compass."

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To all this we have, as we conceive, a sufficient answer from the Roman historian, Fabrum esse suæ quemque fortuna: Every man is the Smith of his own fortune. politic Florentine Nicholas Machiavel goeth still farther, and affirms that a man needs but to believe himself a hero to be one of the best. "Let him," saith he, "but fancy himself capable of the highest things, and he will of course be able to achieve them." Laying this down as a principle, it will certainly and incontestably follow, that if ever hero was such a character, OURS is: for if ever man thought himself such, OURS doth. 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; to Henry IV. of France, for honest policy; to the first BRUTUS, for love of liberty; and to SIR ROBERT WALPOLE, for good government while in power. At another time, to the godlike SOCRATES, for his diversions and amusements; to HORACE, MONTAIGNE, and SIR William TempLE, for an elegant vanity that makes them for ever read and admired; to TWO LORD CHANCELLORS, for law, from whom, when confederate against him at the bar, he carried away the prize of eloquence; and, to say all in a word, to the right reverend the LORD BISHOP OF LONDON himself, in the art of writing pastoral letters.

Nor did his actions fall short of the sublimity of his conceptions. In his early youth he met the revolution at Nottingham face to face, at a time when his betters con

tented themselves with following her. But he shone in courts as well as camps. He was called up when the nation fell in labour of this revolution, and was a gossip at her christening with the bishop and the ladies.

As to his birth, it is true he pretendeth no relation either to heathen god or goddess; but, what is as good, he was descended from a maker of both. 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 nobody's son at all: and what is that but coming into the world a hero?

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 be deemed (we hope) decisive. It cometh from himself, who, to cut this dispute short, hath solemnly protested that he will never change or amend.

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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." 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." 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. Having then so publicly declared himself incorrigible, he is become

dead in law (I mean the law Epopaian), and descendeth to 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, remains 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.

THE DUNCIAD.

TO DR. JONATHAN SWIFT.

BOOK THE FIRST.

ARGUMENT.

The Proposition, the Invocation, and the Inscription. Then the original of the great empire of Dulness, and cause of the continuance thereof. The College of the Goddess in the City, with her private Academy for poets in particular; the governors of it, and the four Cardinal Virtues. Then the poem hastes into the midst of things, presenting her, on the evening of a Lord Mayor's day, revolving the long succession of her sons, and the glories past and to come. She fixes her eye on Bays to be the instrument of that great event which is the subject of the poem. He is described pensive among his books, giving up the cause, and apprehending the period of her empire: after debating whether to betake himself to the Church, or to Gaming, or to Party-writing, he raises an altar of proper books, and (making first his solemn prayer and declaration) purposes thereon to sacrifice all his unsuccessful writings. As the pile is kindled, the Goddess, beholding the flame from her seat, flies and puts it out by casting upon it the poem of Thulé. She forthwith reveals herself to him, transports him to her temple, unfolds her arts, and initiates him into her mysteries; then, announcing the death of Eusden, the Poet Laureate, anoints him, carries him to court, and proclaims him successor.

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