of
Oxford, and the magnificent Earl of Burlington, to act as his nominal
publishers; and it was through them that copies of the enlarged edition
were at first distributed, the booksellers not being allowed to sell any
in their shops. The King and Queen were each presented with a copy by
the hands of Sir R. Walpole. In this manner, as the report quickly
spread that the poem was the property of rich and powerful noblemen,
there was a natural disinclination on the part of the dunces to take
legal proceedings, and the prestige of the _Dunciad_ being thus fairly
established, the booksellers were allowed to proceed with the sale in
regular course.'[19]

The _Dunciad_ owes its merit to the literary felicities with which its
pages abound. The theme is a mean one. Pope, from his social eminence at
Twickenham, looks with scorn on the authors who write for bread, and
with malignity on the authors whom he regarded as his enemies. There
is, for the most part, little elevation in his method of treatment, and
we can almost fancy that we see a cruel joy in the poet's face as he
impales the victims of his wrath. Some portions of the _Dunciad_ are
tainted with the imagery which, to quote the strong phrase of Mr.
Churton Collins, often makes Swift as offensive as a polecat,[20] and
there is no part of it which can be read with unmixed pleasure, if we
except the noble lines which conclude the satire. Those lines may be
almost said to redeem the faults of the poem, and they prove
incontestably, if such proof be needed, Pope's claim to a place among
the poets.

'In vain, in vain,--the all-composing Hour
Resistless falls; the Muse obeys the Power.
She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold,
Of Night primaeval and of Chaos old!
Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay,
And all its varying rainbows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires,
As one by one at dread Medea's strain,
The sickening stars fade off the etherial plain;
As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest,
Closed one by one to everlasting rest;
Thus at her felt approach and secret might,
Art after Art goes out, and all is Night.
See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled,
Mountains of Casuistry heaped o'er her head!
Philosophy that leaned on Heaven before,
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more;
Physic of Metaphysic begs defence,
And Metaphysi