The Dunciad Read Online

243. octavo edit.

Argument to Book the First

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.

The Dunciad to Dr. Jonathan Swift

Book the First1

The Mighty Mother, and her Son who brings2

The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings,3

I sing. Say you, her instruments the Great!

Call'd to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;4

You by whose care, in vain decry'd and curst,

Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first;

Say how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep,

And pour'd her Spirit o'er the land and deep.

In eldest time, e'er mortals writ or read,

E'er Pallas issu'd from the Thund'rer's head,

Dulness o'er all possess'd her ancient right,

Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night:5

Fate in their dotage this fair Ideot gave,

Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave,

Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,6

She rul'd, in native Anarchy, the mind.7

Still her old Empire to restore she tries,8

For, born a Goddess, Dulness never dies.

O Thou! whatever title please thine ear,

Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver!

Whether thou chuse Cervantes' serious air,

Or laugh and shake in Rab'lais' easy chair,

Or praise the Court, or magnify Mankind,9

Or thy griev'd Country's copper chains unbind;

From thy Bœotia tho' her Pow'r retires,

Mourn not, my SWIFT, at ought our Realm acquires,

Here pleas'd behold her mighty wings out-spread

To hatch a new Saturnian age of Lead.10

Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne,

And laughs to think Monroe would take her down,

Where o'er the gates, by his fam'd father's hand11

Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand;

One Cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye,12

The Cave of Poverty and Poetry.13

Keen, hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recess,

Emblem of Music caus'd by Emptiness.

Hence Bards, like Proteus long in vain ty'd down,14

Escape in Monsters, and amaze the town.

Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast

Of Curl's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post:15

Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines,16

Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc'ries, Magazines:17

Sepulchral Lyes, our holy walls to grace,18

And New-year Odes, and all the Grub-street race.19

In clouded Majesty here Dulness shone;20

Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne:

Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears

Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears:21

Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake

Who hunger, and who thirst for scribling sake:22

Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching jayl:

Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale,

Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,

And solid pudding against empty praise.

Here she beholds the Chaos dark and deep,23

Where nameless Somethings in their causes sleep,

'Till genial Jacob, or a warm Third day,

Call 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.

Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes,24

And ductile dulness new meanders takes;25

There motley Images her fancy strike,

Figures ill pair'd, and Similies unlike.

She sees a Mob of Metaphors advance,

Pleas'd with the madness of the mazy dance:

How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;

How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race;26

How Time himself stands still at her command,

Realms shift their place, and Ocean turns to land.

Here gay Description Ægypt glads with show'rs,27

Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flow'rs;

Glitt'ring with ice here hoary hills are seen,

There painted vallies of eternal green,

In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,

And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

All these, and more, the cloud-compelling Queen28

Beholds thro' fogs, that magnify the scene.

She, tinsel'd o'er in robes of varying hues,

With self-applause her wild creation views;

Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,

And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.

'Twas on the day, when * * rich and grave,29

Like Cimon, triumph'd both on land and wave:

(Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces,

Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces)30

Now Night descending, the proud scene was o'er,

But liv'd, in Settle's numbers, one day more.31

Now May'rs and Shrieves all hush'd and satiate lay,

Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day;

While pensive Poets painful vigils keep,

Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.

Much to the mindful Queen the feast recalls

What City Swans once sung within the walls;

Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise,

And sure succession down from Heywood's days.32

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.

She saw old Pryn in restless Daniel shine,33

And Eusden eke out Blackmore's endless line;34

She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's poor page,

And all the mighty Mad in Dennis rage.35

In each she marks her Image full exprest,

But chief in BAYS'S monster-breeding breast;

Bays, form'd by nature Stage and Town to bless,36

And act, and be, a Coxcomb with success.

Dulness with transport eyes the lively Dunce,

Remembring she herself was Pertness once.

Now (shame to Fortune!) an ill Run at Play37

Blank'd his bold visage, and a thin Third day:

Swearing and supperless the Hero sate,38

Blasphem'd his Gods, the Dice, and damn'd his Fate.

Then gnaw'd his pen, then dash'd it on the ground,

Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound!

Plung'd for his sense, but found no bottom there,

Yet wrote and flounder'd on, in mere despair.

Round him much Embryo, much Abortion lay,

Much future Ode, and abdicated Play;

Nonsense precipitate, like running Lead,

That slip'd thro' Cracks and Zig-zags of the Head;

All that on Folly Frenzy could beget,

Fruits of dull Heat, and Sooterkins of Wit.

Next, o'er his Books his eyes began to roll,

In pleasing memory of all he stole,

How here he sipp'd, how there he plunder'd snug

And suck'd all o'er, like an industrious Bug.

Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes, and here39

The Frippery of crucify'd Moliere;40

There hapless Shakespear, yet of Tibbald sore,41

Wish'd he had blotted for himself before.42

The rest on Out-side merit but presume,43

Or serve (like other Fools) to fill a room;

Such with their shelves as due proportion hold,

Or their fond Parents drest in red and gold;

Or where the pictures for the page attone,

And Quarles is sav'd by Beauties not his own.

Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great;44

There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines complete:45

Here all his suff'ring brotherhood retire,

And 'scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire:

A Gothic Library! of Greece and Rome

Well purg'd, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome.46

But, high above, more solid Learning shone,47

The Classics of an Age that heard of none;

There Caxton slept, with Wynkyn at his side,48

One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide;

There, sav'd by spice, like Mummies, many a year,

Dry Bodies of Divinity appear:

De Lyra there a dreadful front extends,49

And here the groaning shelves Philemon bends.50

Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,

Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies,

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 pile, of all his works the base:

Quartos, octavos, shape the less'ning pyre;

A twisted Birth-day Ode completes the spire.

Then he: Great Tamer of all human art!

First in my care, and ever at my heart;

Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend,

With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end;51

E'er since Sir Fopling's Periwig was Praise,52

To the last honours of the Butt and Bays:

O thou! of Bus'ness the directing soul!

To this our head like byass to the bowl,

Which, as more pond'rous, made its aim more true,

Obliquely wadling to the mark in view:

O! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind,

Still spread a healing mist before the mind;

And lest we err by Wit's wild dancing light,

Secure us kindly in our native night.

Or, if to Wit a coxcomb make pretence,

Guard the sure barrier between that and Sense;53

Or quite unravel all the reas'ning thread,

And hang some curious cobweb in its stead!

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:

Me Emptiness, and Dulness could inspire,

And were my Elasticity, and Fire.

Some Dæmon stole my pen (forgive th'offence)

And once betray'd me into common sense:

Else all my Prose and Verse were much the same;

This, prose on stilts, that, poetry fall'n lame.

Did on the stage my Fops appear confin'd?

My Life gave ampler lessons to mankind.

Did the dead Letter unsuccessful prove?

The brisk Example never fail'd to move.

Yet sure had Heav'n decreed to save the State,54

Heav'n had decreed these works a longer date.

Could Troy be sav'd by any single hand,55

This grey-goose weapon must have made her stand.

What can I now? my Fletcher cast aside,56

Take up the Bible, once my better guide?57

Or tread the path by vent'rous Heroes trod,

This Box my Thunder, this right hand my God?58

Or chair'd at White's amidst the Doctors sit,59

Teach Oaths to Gamesters, and to Nobles Wit?

Or bidst thou rather Party to embrace?

(A friend to Party thou, and all her race;

'Tis the same rope at different ends they twist;

To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist.)60

Shall I, like Curtius, desp'rate in my zeal,

O'er head and ears plunge for the Commonweal?

Or rob Rome's ancient geese of all their glories,61

And cackling save the Monarchy of Tories?62

Hold – to the Minister I more incline;

To serve his cause, O Queen! is serving thine.

And see! thy very Gazetteers give o'er,63

Ev'n Ralph repents, and Henly writes no more.

What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remain

Cibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain.64

This brazen Brightness, to the 'Squire so dear;

This polish'd Hardness, that reflects the Peer;

This arch Absurd, that wit and fool delights;

This Mess, toss'd up of Hockley-hole and White's;

Where Dukes and Butchers join to wreathe my crown,

At once the Bear and Fiddle of the town.

O born in sin, and forth in folly brought!65

Works damn'd, or to be damn'd! (your father's fault)

Go, purify'd by flames ascend the sky,

My better and more christian progeny!66

Unstain'd, untouch'd, and yet in maiden sheets;67

While all your smutty sisters walk the streets.

Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland,68

Sent with a Pass, and vagrant thro' the land;

Not sail, with Ward, to Ape-and-monkey climes,69

Where vile Mundungus trucks for viler rhymes;

Not sulphur-tipt, emblaze an Ale-house fire;

Not wrap up Oranges, to pelt your sire!

O! pass more innocent, in infant state,

To the mild Limbo of our Father Tate:70

Or peaceably forgot, at once be blest

In Shadwell's bosom with eternal Rest!

Soon to that mass of Nonsense to return,71

Where things destroy'd are swept to things unborn.

With that, a Tear (portentous sign of Grace!)72

Stole from the Master of the sev'nfold Face:

And thrice he lifted high the Birth-day brand,

And thrice he dropt it from his quiv'ring hand;

Then lights the structure, with averted eyes:

The rowling smokes involve the sacrifice.

The op'ning clouds disclose each work by turns,

Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns;73

Great Cæsar roars, and hisses in the fires;

King John in silence modestly expires:

No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims,74

Moliere's old stubble in a moment flames.

Tears gush'd again, as from pale Priam's eyes

When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies.75

Rowz'd by the light, old Dulness heav'd the head;

Then snatch'd a sheet of Thulè from her bed,76

Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre;

Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire.

Her ample presence fills up all the place;

A veil of fogs dilates her awful face:

Great in her charms! as when on Shrieves and May'rs77

She looks, and breathes herself into their airs.

She bids him wait her to her sacred Dome:78

Well pleas'd he enter'd, and confess'd his home.

So Spirits ending their terrestrial race,

Ascend, and recognize their Native Place.

This the Great Mother dearer held than all79

The clubs of Quidnuncs, or her own Guild-hall:

Here stood her Opium, here she nurs'd her Owls,

And here she plann'd th' Imperial seat of Fools.

Here to her Chosen all her works she shews;

Prose swell'd to verse, verse loit'ring into prose:

How random thoughts now meaning chance to find,

Now leave all memory of sense behind:

How Prologues into Prefaces decay,

And these 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,

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, Shakespear, and Corneille,

Can make a Cibber, Tibbald, or Ozell.80

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 Heideggre and owl,)81

Perch'd on his crown, »All hail! and hail again,

My son! the promis'd land expects thy reign.

Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise;

He sleeps among the dull of ancient days;

Safe, where no Critics damn, no duns molest,

Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon rest,82

And high-born Howard, more majestic sire,83

With Fool of Quality compleats the quire.

Thou Cibber! thou, his Laurel shalt support,

Folly, my son, has still a Friend at Court.

Lift up your Gates, ye Princes, see him come!

Sound, sound ye Viols, be the Cat-call dumb!

Bring, bring the madding Bay, the drunken Vine;

The creeping, dirty, courtly Ivy join.

And thou! his Aid de camp, lead on my sons,

Light-arm'd with Points, Antitheses, and Puns.

Let Bawdry, Bilingsgate, my daughters dear,

Support his front, and Oaths bring up the rear:

And under his, and under Archer's wing,84

Gaming and Grub-street skulk behind the King.

O! when shall rise a Monarch all our own,85

And I, a Nursing-mother, rock the throne,

'Twixt Prince and People close the Curtain draw,

Shade him from Light, and cover him from Law;

Fatten the Courtier, starve the learned band,

And suckle Armies, and dry-nurse the land:

'Till Senates nod to Lullabies divine,

And all be sleep, as at an Ode of thine.«

She ceas'd. Then swells the Chapel-royal throat:86

God save king Cibber! mounts in ev'ry note.

Familiar White's, God save king Colley! cries;

God save king Colley! Drury-lane replies:

To Needham's quick the voice triumphal rode,

But pious Needham dropt the name of God;87

Back to the Devil the last echoes roll,88

And Coll! each Butcher roars at Hockley-hole.

So when Jove's block descended from on high

(As sings thy great forefather Ogilby)89

Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog,

And the hoarse nation croak'd, God save King Log!

The End of the First Book.

Notes

1 The DUNCIAD, sic MS. It may well be disputed whether this be a right reading: Ought it not rather to be spelled Dunceiad, as the Etymology evidently demands? Dunce with an e, therefore Dunceiad with an e. That accurate and punctual Man of Letters, the Restorer of Shakespeare, constantly observes the preservation of this very Letter e, in spelling the Name of his beloved Author, and not like his common careless Editors, with the omission of one, nay sometimes of two ee's which is utterly unpardonable. »Nor is the neglect of a Single Letter so trivial as to some it may appear; the alteration whereof in a learned language is an Atchievement that brings honour to the Critic who advances it; and Dr. Bentley will be remembered to posterity for his performances of this sort, as long as the world shall have any esteem for the remains of Menander and Philemon.«

THEOBALD.

This is surely a slip in the learned author of the foregoing note; there having been since produced by an accurate Antiquary, an Autograph of Shakspeare himself, whereby it appears that he spelled his own name without the first e. And upon this authority it was, that those most Critical Curators of his Monument in Westminster Abby erased the former wrong reading, and restored the true spelling on a new piece of old Ægyptian Granite. Nor for this only do they deserve our thanks, but for exhibiting on the same Monument the first Specimen of an Edition of an author in Marble; where (as may be seen on comparing the Tomb with the Book) in the space of five lines, two Words and a whole Verse are changed, and it is to be hoped will there stand, and outlast whatever hath been hitherto done in Paper; as for the future, our Learned Sister University (the other Eye of England) is taking care to perpetuate a Total new Shakespear, at the Clarendon press.

BENTL.

It is to be noted, that this great Critic also has omitted one circumstance; which is, that the Inscription with the Name of Shakspeare was intended to be placed on the Marble Scroll to which he points with his hand; instead of which it is now placed behind his back, and that Specimen of an Edition is put on the Scroll, which indeed Shakspeare hath great reason to point at.

ANON.

Though I have as just a value for the letter E, as any Grammarian living, and the same affection for the Name of this Poem as any Critic for that of his Author; yet cannot it induce me to agree with those who would add yet another e to it, and call it the Dunceiade; which being a French and foreign termination, is no way proper to a word entirely English, and vernacular. One e therefore in this case is right, and two e's wrong. Yet upon the whole I shall follow the Manuscript, and print it without any e at all; moved thereto by Authority (at all times, with Critics, equal, if not superior to Reason.) In which method of proceeding, I can never enough praise my good friend, the exact Mr. Tho. Hearne; who if any word occur, which to him and all mankind is evidently wrong, yet keeps he it in the Text with due reverence, and only remarks in the Margin sic MS. In like manner we shall not amend this error in the Title itself, but only note it obiter, to evince to the learned that it was not our fault, nor any effect of our ignorance or inattention.

SCRIBLERUS.

This Poem was written in the year 1726. In the next year an imperfect Edition was published at Dublin, and reprinted at London in twelves; another at Dublin, and another at London in octavo; and three others in twelves the same year. But there was no perfect Edition before that of London in quarto; which was attended with Notes. SCHOL. VET.

It was expressly confessed in the Preface to the first edition, that this Poem was not published by the Author himself. It was printed originally in a foreign Country. And what foreign Country? Why, one notorious for blunders; where finding blanks only instead of proper names, these blunderers filled them up at their pleasure.

The very Hero of the Poem hath been mistaken to this hour; so that we are obliged to open our Notes with a discovery who he really was.