ears that the greatest sublimity is to be
derived from religious ideas.'

Mr. Dennis then observes, that one of the principal reasons, that has
made the modern poetry so contemptible, is that by divesting itself of
religion, it is fallen from its dignity, and its original nature and
excellence; and from the greatest production in the mind of man, it is
dwindled to an extravagant, and vain amusement. When subjects are in
themselves great, the ideas of the writer must likewise be great; and
nothing is in its nature so dignified as religion. This he illustrates
by many examples from Milton, who when he raises his voice to heaven,
and speaks the language of the divinity, then does he reach the true
sublime; but when he descends to the more trifling consideration of
human things, his wing is necessarily depressed, and his strains are
less transporting. We shall now take a view of Mr. Dennis, in that
part of his life and writings, in which he makes a less considerable
figure, by exposing himself to the resentment of one so much his
superior; and who, after a long provocation, at last, let loose his
rage against him, in a manner that no time can obliterate. Mr. Dennis
we have already observed, waged a perpetual war with successful
writers, except those few who were his friends; but never engaged with
so much fury, and less justice, against the writings of any poet, as
those of Mr. Pope.

Some time after the death of Dryden, when Pope's reputation began to
grow, his friends who were sanguine in his interest, were imprudent
enough to make comparisons, and really assert, that Pope was the
greatest poet of the two: Dennis, who had made court to Dryden, and
was respected by him, heard this with indignation, and immediately
exerted all the criticism and force of which he was master, to reduce
the character of Pope. In this attempt he neither has succeeded, nor
did he pursue it like a gentleman.

In his reflexions on Pope's Essay on Criticism, he uses the following
unmannerly epithets. 'A young squab, short gentleman, whose outward
form tho' it should be that of a downright monkey, would not differ
so much from human shape, as his unthinking, immaterial part does
from human understanding.--He is as stupid and as venomous as an
hunch-backed toad.--A book through which folly and ignorance, those
brethren so lame, and impotent, do ridiculously look very big, and
very dull, and strut, and hobble cheek by jowl, with their arms on
kimb