e poet and
satirist. "Ben Bullock and I," said he, "were confident against the
world in arms--did you never see his ode to me beginning with 'Fair
blooming youth'? We were sworn brothers, admired and praised, and quoted
each other, sir. We denounced war against all the world, actors,
authors, and critics; and having drawn the sword, threw away the
scabbard--we pushed through thick and thin, hacked and hewed helter
skelter, and became as formidable to the writers of the age as the
Boeotian band of Thebes. My friend Bullock, indeed, was once rolled in
the kennel; but soon

He vig'rous rose, and from th' effluvia strong
Imbib'd new life, and scour'd and stunk along.

"Here is a satire, which I wrote in an alehouse when I was drunk--I can
prove it by the evidence of the landlord and his wife; I fancy you'll own
I have some right to say with my friend Horace,

Qui me commorit, (melius non tangere clamo,)
Flebit, et insignis tota cantabitur urbe."

The knight, having perused the papers, declared his opinion that the
verses were tolerably good; but at the same time observed that the author
had reviled as ignorant dunces several persons who had writ with
reputation, and were generally allowed to have genius; a circumstance
that would detract more from his candour than could be allowed to his
capacity.

"D--n their genius!" cried the satirist, "a pack of impertinent rascals!
I tell you, sir, Ben Bullock and I had determined to crush all that were
not of our own party. Besides, I said before, this piece was written in
drink."--"Was you drunk too when it was printed and published?"--"Yes,
the printer shall make affidavit that I was never otherwise than drunk or
maudlin, till my enemies, on pretence that my brain was turned, conveyed
me to this infernal mansion"--

"They seem to have been your best friends," said the knight, "and have
put the most tender interpretation on your conduct; for, waiving the plea
of insanity, your character must stand as that of a man who hath some
small share of genius, without an atom of integrity. Of all those whom
Pope lashed in his Dunciad, there was not one who did not richly deserve
the imputation of dulness, and every one of them had provoked the
satirist by a personal attack. In this respect the English poet was much
more honest than his French pattern Boileau, who stigmatised several men
of acknowledged genius; such as Quinault, Perrault, and the celebrated
Lu