mounted on an elephant, through the shouts of the populace, where the ceremony ended.

The historian tells us farther, "That at his introduction to Leo, he not only poured forth verses innumerable, like a torrent, but also sung them with open mouth. Nor was he only once introduced, or on stated days, (like our Laureates,) but made a companion to his master, and entertained as one of the instruments of his most elegant pleasures. When the prince was at table, the poet had his place at the window. When the prince had half eaten his meat, he gave with his own hands the rest to the poet. When the poet drank, it was out of the prince's own flagon, insomuch" (says the historian) "that through so great good eating and drinking he contracted a most terrible gout." Sorry I am to relate what follows, but that I cannot leave my reader's curiosity unsatisfied in the catastrophe of this extraordinary man. To use my author's words, which are remarkable, mortuo Leone, profligatisque poetis, &c. When Leo died, and poets were no more, (for I would not understand profligatis literally, as if poets then were profligate,) this unhappy Laureate was forthwith reduced to return to his country, where, oppressed with old age and want, he miserably perished in a common hospital.

We see from this sad conclusion (which may be of example to the poets of our time) that it were happier to meet with no encouragement at all, to remain at the plough, or other lawful occupation, than to be elevated above their condition, and taken out of the common means of life, without a surer support than the temporary, or, at best, mortal favours of the great. It was doubtless for this consideration that, when the Royal Bounty was lately extended to a rural genius, care was taken to settle it upon him for life. And it hath been the practice of our Princes never to remove from the station of Poet-Laureate any man who hath once been chosen, though never so much greater geniuses might arise in his time—a noble instance how much the charity of our monarchs hath exceeded their love of fame.

To come now to the intent of this paper. We have here

the whole ancient ceremonial of the Laureate. In the first place, the crown is to be mixed with vine-leaves, as the vine is the plant of Bacchus, and full as essential to the honour as the butt of sack to the salary.

Secondly, the brassica must be made use of as a qualifier of the former. It seems the cabbage was anciently accounted a remedy for drunkenness; a power the French now ascribe to the onion, and style a soup made of it, soupe d'ivrogne. I would recommend a large mixture of the brassica, if Mr Dennis be chosen ; but if Mr Tibbald, it is not so necessary, unless the cabbage be supposed to signify the same thing with respect to poets as to tailors-viz., stealing. I should judge it not amiss to add another plant to this garland, to wit, ivy: not only as it anciently belonged to poets in general, but as it is emblematical of the three virtues of a courtpoet in particular-it is creeping, dirty, and dangling.

In the next place, a canticle must be composed and sung in laud and praise of the new poet. If Mr CIBBER be laureated, it is my opinion no man can write this but himself: and no man, I am sure, can sing it so affectingly. But what this canticle should be, either in his or the other candidate's case, I shall not pretend to determine.

Thirdly, there ought to be a public show, or entry of the poet; to settle the order or procession of which, Mr Anstis and Mr DENNIS ought to have a conference. I apprehend here two difficulties: one, of procuring an elephant; the other, of teaching the poet to ride him; therefore I should imagine the next animal in size or dignity would do best—either a mule or a large ass; particularly if that noble one could be had whose portraiture makes so great an ornament of the Dunciad, and which (unless I am misinformed) is yet in the park of a nobleman near this city :-Unless Mr CIBBER be the man, who may, with great propriety and beauty, ride on a dragon, if he goes by land; or, if he choose the water, upon one of his own swans from Cæsar in Egypt.

We have spoken sufficiently of the ceremony; let us now speak of the qualifications and privileges of the Laureate. First, we see he must be able to make verses extempore,

K

and to pour forth innumerable, if required: in this I doubt Mr TIBBALD. Secondly, he ought to sing, and intrepidly, patulo ore: here, I confess the excellency of Mr CIBBER. Thirdly, he ought to carry a lyre about with him: if a large one be thought too cumbersome, a small one may be contrived to hang about the neck, like an order, and be very much a grace to the person. Fourthly, he ought to have a good stomach, to eat and drink whatever his betters think fit; and therefore it is in this high office as in many others, no puny constitution can discharge it. I do not think CIBBER or TIBBALD here so happy; but rather a stanch, vigorous, seasoned, and dry old gentleman, whom I have in my eye.

I could also wish at this juncture such a person as is truly jealous of the honour and dignity of poetry; no joker or trifler, but a bard in good earnest; nay, not amiss if a critic, and the better if a little obstinate. For when we consider what great privileges have been lost from this office, (as we see from the forecited authentic record of Jovius,)—namely, those of feeding from the prince's table, drinking out of his own flagon, becoming even his domestic and companion,-it requires a man warm and resolute to be able to claim and obtain the restoring of these high honours. I have cause to fear the most of the candidates would be liable, either through the influence of ministers, or for rewards or favours, to give up the glorious rights of the Laureate yet I am not without hopes there is one, from whom a serious and steady assertion of these privileges may be expected; and if there be such a one, I must do him the justice to say it is Mr DENNIS, the worthy president of our society.

WHEREAS, upon occasion of certain pieces relating to the gentlemen of the Dunciad, some have been willing to sug

gest, as if they looked upon them as an abuse, we can do no less than own it is our opinion, that to call these gentlemen bad authors is no sort of abuse, but a great truth. We cannot alter this opinion without some reason; but we promise to do it in respect to every person who thinks it an injury to be represented as no wit, or poet, provided he procures a certificate of his being really such, from any three of his companions in the Dunciad, or from Mr Dennis singly, who is esteemed equal to any three of the number.

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1709.

I.

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dangerous is the offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare,
True taste as seldom is the critics' share;
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimmering light;

The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn right
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill-colouring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,

And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools

In search of wit these lose their common sense,

And then turn critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or a eunuch's spite,