the world, but, at what he meets with, he must
either be insensible, or grieve, or be angry, or smile. Some passion (if
we are not impassive) must be moved; for the general conduct of mankind is
by no means a thing indifferent to a reasonable and virtuous man. Now to
smile at it, and turn it into ridicule, I think most eligible; as it hurts
ourselves least, and gives vice and folly the greatest offence: and that
for this reason; because what men aim at by them, is, generally, public
opinion and esteem; which truth is the subject of the following satire;
and joins them together, as several brandies from the same root: a unity
of design, which has not, I think, in a set of satires, been attempted
before.

Laughing at the misconduct of the world, will, in a great measure, ease us
of any more disagreeable passion about it. One passion is more effectually
driven out by another, than by reason; whatever some may teach: for to
reason we owe our passions: had we not reason, we should not be offended
at what we find amiss: and the cause seems not to be the natural cure of
any effect.

Moreover, laughing satire bids the fairest for success: the world is too
proud to be fond of a serious tutor; and when an author is in a passion,
the laugh, generally, as in conversation, turns against him. This kind of
satire only has any delicacy in it. Of this delicacy Horace is the best
master: he appears in good humour while he censures; and therefore his
censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment, not
from passion. Juvenal is ever in a passion; he has little valuable but his
eloquence and morality: the last of which I have had in my eye: but rather
for emulation, than imitation, through my whole work.

But though I comparatively condemn Juvenal, in part of the sixth satire
(where the occasion most required it), I endeavoured to touch on his
manner; but was forced to quit it soon, as disagreeable to the writer, and
reader too. Boileau has joined both the Roman satirists with great
success; but has too much of Juvenal in his very serious satire on woman,
which should have been the gayest of all. An excellent critic of our own
commends Boileau's closeness, or, as he calls it, pressness, particularly;
whereas, it appears to me, that repetition is his fault, if any fault
should be imputed to him.

There are some prose satirists of the greatest delicacy and wit; the last
of which can never, or should never, succeed withou