The Expedition of Humphry Clinker

THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER 105
the works of one another. Yesterday, I went to return an after-
noon’s visit to a gentleman of my acquaintance, at whose house I
found one of the authors of the present age, who has written with
some success—As I had read one or two of his performances, which
gave me pleasure, I was glad of this opportunity to know his person;
but his discourse and deportment destroyed all the impressions
which his writings had made in his favour. He took upon him to
decide dogmatically upon every subject, without deigning to shew
the least cause for his differing from the general opinions of man-
kind, as if it had been our duty to acquiesce in the ipse dixit of this
new Pythagoras. He rejudged the characters of all the principal
authors, who had died within a century of the present time; and,
in this revision, paid no sort of regard to the reputation they had
acquired—Milton was harsh and prosaic; Dryden, languid and
verbose; Butler and Swift, without humour; Congreve, without
wit; and Pope destitute of any sort of poetical merit—As for his
cotemporaries, he could not bear to hear one of them mentioned
with any degree of applause—They were all dunces, pedants,
plagiaries, quacks, and impostors; and you could not name a single
performance, but what was tame, stupid, and insipid. It must be
owned, that this writer had nothing to charge his conscience with,
on the side of flattery; for, I understand, he was never known to
praise one line that was written, even by those with whom he lived
on terms of good-fellowship. This arrogance and presumption,
in depreciating authors, for whose reputation the company may be
interested, is such an insult upon the understanding, as I could
not bear without wincing.
I desired to know his reasons for decrying some works, which
had afforded me uncommon pleasure; and, as demonstration did
not seem to be his talent, I dissented from his opinion with great
freedom. Having been spoiled by the deference and humility of his
hearers, he did not bear contradiction with much temper; and the
dispute might have grown warm, had it not been interrupted by
the entrance of a rival bard, at whose appearance he always quits
the place—They are of different cabals, and have been at open war
these twenty years—If the other was dogmatical, this genius was
declamatory: he did not discourse, but harangue; and his orations
were equally tedious and turgid. He too pronounces ex cathedra
upon the characters of his cotemporaries; and though he scruples
not to deal out praise, even lavishly, to the lowest reptile in Grub-