The
Dunciad
Books and the Man I sing, the first who brings
The Smithfield Muses to the ears of Kings;
Say great Patricians! (since yourselves inspire
These wond’rous works; so Jove and fate require)
Say from what cause, in vain decry' d and curst, 5
Still † Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first?
† Dryd
In eldest time, e'er mortals writ or read,
E'er Pallas issued from the Thund'rer's head,
Dulness o'er all possess'd her antient right,
Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night: 10
Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave,
Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave,
Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,
She rul'd, in native Anarchy, the mind.
Still her old empire to confirm, she tries, 15
For born a Goddess, Dulness never dies.
Where wave the tatter'd ensigns of Rag-Fair,
A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;
Keen, hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recess,
Emblem of Music caus'd by Emptiness: 20
Here in one bed two shiv'ring sisters lye,
The cave of Poverty and Poetry.
This, the Great Mother dearer held than all
The clubs of Quidnuncs, or her own Guild-hall:
Here stood her Opium, here she nurs'd her Owls, 25
And destin'd here th' imperial seat of fools.
Hence springs each weekly muse, the living boast
Of Curl's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post,
Hence hymning Tyburn’s elegaic lay,
Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia's day, 30
Sepulchral lyes our holy walls to grace,
And New-year-Odes, and all the Grubstreet race.
'Twas here in clouded majesty she shone;
Four guardian Virtues, round, support her Throne;
Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears 35
Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears:
Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake
Who hunger, and who thirst, for scribling sake:
Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching jayl;
Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale; 40
Where in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,
And solid pudding against empty praise.
Here she beholds the Chaos dark and deep,
Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,
'Till genial Jacob, or a warm third-day 45
Calls forth each mass, a poem or a play.
How Hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie,
How new-born Nonsense first is taught to cry;
Maggots half-form'd, in rhyme exactly meet,
And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. 50
Here one poor Word a hundred clenches makes,
And ductile dulness new meanders takes;
'There motley Images her fancy strike,
Figures ill-pair'd, and Similes unlike.
She sees a mob of Metaphors advance, 55
Pleas'd with the madness of the mazy dance:
How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;
How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race;
How Time himself stands still at her command,
Realms shift their place, and Ocean turns to land. 60
Here gay Description Ægypt glads with showers,
Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers;
Glitt'ring with ice here hoary hills are seen,
Fast by, fair vallies of eternal green,
On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, 65
And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
All these and more, the cloud-compelling Queen
Beholds thro' fogs, that magnify the scene;
She, tinsel’d o'er in robes of varying hues,
With self-applause her wild creation views, 70
Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,
And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.
'Twas on the day, when †Thorold, rich and grave,
Like ‡Cimon triumphed, both on land and wave:
(Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces, 75
Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces)
Now Night descending, the proud scene was o'er,
Yet liv'd, in Settle’s numbers, one day more.
Now May'rs and Shrieves in pleasing slumbers lay,
And eat in dreams the custard of the day: 80
But pensive Poets painful vigils keep;
Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.
Much to her mind the solemn feast recalls,
What City-Swans once sung within the walls,
Much she revolves their arts, their antient praise, 85
And sure succession down from *Heywood's days.
She saw with joy the line immortal run,
Each sire imprest and glaring in his son;
So watchful Bruin forms with plastic care
Each growing lump, and brings it to a Bear. 90
She saw in Norton all his father shine,
And Eusden eke out Blackmore's endless line;
She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's poor page,
And furious Dunton foam in Whatley's rage.
† Sir Geo. Tho —
‡ Cimon the famous Athenian general, who obtained a victory by sea, and another by land, on the same day, over the Persians and Barbarians.
* John Heywood, whose Interludes were printed in Hen. VIIIth’s time.
In each she marks her image full exprest, 95
But chief, in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast,
Sees Gods with Dæmons in strange league ingage,
And †earth, and heav'n, and hell her battels wage!
† This, I presume, alludes to the extravagancies of the Farces of this author. See book III. vers. 170, &c.
She ey'd the Bard, where supperless he sate,
And pin'd, unconscious of his rising fate; 100
Studious he sate, with all his books around,
Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound!
Plung'd for his sense, but found no bottom there;
Then writ, and flounder'd on, in mere despair.
He roll'd his eyes that witness'd huge dismay, 105
Where yet unpawn'd, much learned lumber lay,
Volumes, whose size the space exactly fill'd;
Or which fond authors were so good to gild;
Or where, by Sculpture made for ever known,
The page admires new beauties, not its own. 110
Here swells the shelf with Ogleby the great,
There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines compleat,
Here all his suff'ring brotherhood retire,
And 'scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire;
A Gothic Vatican! of Greece and Rome 115
Well-purg’d, and worthy Wesley, Watts, and Blome.
But high above, more solid Learning shone,
The Classicks of an Age that heard of none;
There Caxton slept, with Wynkin at his side,
One clasped in wood, and one in strong cow-hide: 120
There sav'd by spice, like mummies, many a year,
Old Bodies of Philosophy appear:
De Lyra there a dreadful front extends,
And there, the groaning Shelves Philemon bends.
Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, 125
Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pyes,
Inspir'd he seizes: These an altar raise:
An hecatomb of pure, unsully'd lays
That altar crowns: A folio Common-place
Founds the whole pyle, of all his works the base: 130
Quarto's octavo’s, shape the less'ning pyre,
And last, a †little Ajax tips the spire.
† In duodecimo, translated from Sophocles
Then he. Great Tamer of all human art!
First in my care, and nearest at my heart!
Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, 135
With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end!
O thou! of business the directing soul,
To human heads like byass to the bowl,
Which as more pond'rous makes their aim more true,
Obliquely wadling to the mark in view. 140
O ever gracious to perplex’d mankind!
Who spread a healing mist before the mind,
And, lest we err by wit's wild, dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night.
Ah! still o'er Britain stretch that peaceful wand, 145
Which lulls th' Helvetian and Batavian land,
Where 'gainst thy throne if rebel Science rise,
She does but show her coward face and dies:
There, thy good scholiasts with unweary'd pains
Make Horace flat, and humble Maro's strains; 150
Here studious I unlucky Moderns save,
Nor sleeps one error in its father's grave,
Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek,
And crucify poor Shakespear once a week.
For thee I dim these eyes,and stuff this head, 155
With all such reading as was never read;
For thee supplying, in the worst davs,
Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays;
For thee explain a thing ’till all men doubt it,
And write about it, Goddess, and about it; 160
So spins the silkworm small its slender store,
And labours, 'till it clouds itself all o'er.
Not that my pen to criticks was confin'd,
My verse gave ampler lessons to mankind;
So written precepts may successless prove, 165
But sad examples never fail to move.
As forc'd from wind-guns, lead itself can fly,
And pond'rous slugs cut swiftly thro' the sky;
As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe,
The wheels above urg'd by the load below; 170
Me, Emptiness and Dulness could inspire,
And were my Elasticity, and Fire.
Had heav'n decreed such works a longer date,
Heav'n had decreed to spare the Grubstreet-state.
But see great *Settle to the dust descend, 175
And all thy cause and empire at an end!
Cou'd Troy be sav'd by any single hand,
His gray-goose-weapon must have made her stand.
But what can I! my Flaccus cast aside,
Take up th' Attorney's (once my better) guide? 180
Or rob the Roman geese of all their glories,
And save the state by cackling to the Tories?
Yes, to my country I my pen consign,
Yes, from this moment, mighty Mist! Am thine,
And rival, Curtius! of thy fame and zeal, 185
O'er head end ears plunge for the publick weal.
Adieu my children! better thus expire
Un-stall'd, unsold, thus glorious mount in fire
Fair without spot; than greas’d by grocer's hands,
Or shipped with Ward to ape and monkey lands, 190
Or wafting ginger, round the streets to go,
And visit alehouse where ye first did grow.
* This was the last year of Elkanah Settle’s life. He was poet to the city of London, whose business was to compose yearly panegyricks on the lord Mayor, and verses for the Pageants; but since the abolition of that part of the shows, the employment ceas’d, so that Settle had no successor to that place.
With that, he lifted thrice the sparkling brand,
And thrice he dropt it from his quiv'ring hand;
Then lights the structure, with averted eyes; 195
The rowling smokes involve the sacrifice.
The opening clouds disclose each work by turns,
Now flames old *Memnon, now Rodrigo burns,
In one quick flash see Proserpine expire,
And last, his own cold Æschylus took fire. 200
Then gush'd the tears, as from the Trojan's eyes
When the last blaze sent IIion to the skies.
* Plays and Farces of T—d
Rowz'd by the light, old Dulness heav'd the head,
Then snatched a sheet of Thule from her Bed,
Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre; 205
Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire.
Her amplest presence fills up all the place;
A veil of fogs dilates her awful face,
Great in her charms! as when on Shrieves and Mayr's
She looks, and breathes herself into their airs. 210
She bids him wait her to the sacred Dome;
Well-pleas'd he enter'd, and confess'd his home:
So spirits, ending their terrestrial race,
Ascend, and recognize their native place:
Raptur'd, he gazes round the dear retreat, 215
And †in sweet numbers celebrates the feat.
† He writ a poem, called The Cave of Poverty, in 1715
Here to her Chosen all her works she shows;
Prose swelled to verse, Verse loit’ring into prose:
How random Thoughts now meaning chance to find,
Now leave all memory of sense behind; 220
How Prologues into Prefaces decay,
And those to Notes are fritter’d quite away.
How Index-learning turns no student pale,
Yet holds the eel of science by the Tail:
How, with less reading than makes felons 'scape, 225
Less human genius than God gives an ape,
Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece,
A past, vamp'd, future, old, reviv'd, new piece,
’Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Congreve, and Corneille,
Can make a Cibber, Johnson, or Ozell. 230
The Goddess then o'er his anointed head,
With mystic words, the sacred Opium shed;
And lo! her Bird (a monster of a fowl!
Something betwixt a Heidegger and Owl)
Perch’d on his crown. All hail! and hail again, 235
My son! the promis'd land expects thy reign.
Know Settle, cloy'd with custard and with praise,
Is gather’d to the Dull of antient days,
Safe, where no criticks damn, no duns molest,
Where Gildon, Banks, and high-born Howard rest! 240
I see a King! who leads my chosen sons
To lands, that flow with clenches and with puns:
Till each fam'd Theatre my empire own,
Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne.
I see! I see! — Then rapt, she spoke no more. 245
God save King Tibbald! Grubstreet alleys roar.
So when Jove's block descended from on high,
(As sings thy great fore-father, Ogilby,)
Hoarse thunder to its bottom shook the bog,
And the loud nation croaked, God save King Log! 250
End of the first book