All For Love | Page 9

I should not have
troubled myself thus far with French poets, but that I find our Chedreux critics wholly
form their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the laws of my own
country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French should prescribe here, till they have
conquered. Our little sonneteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of
poetry. Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only critics. But
till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts
and sciences, without the practice of them, I shall think it reasonable, that the judgment of
an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least
where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And this, I suppose, is
manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than
a gross instinct of what pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then,
by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished
from the multitude, of which other men may think him one. But, if I come closer to those
who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common

fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, I
shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the
rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they
are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every
man, will pretend at the same time to a right of judging. But to press it yet further, there
are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is
the rock on which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must
generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man;
therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to
comedy. Nor is every man, who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must
understand the excellences of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic.
From hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly
abroad. Men of pleasant conversation (at least esteemed so), and endued with a trifling
kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to
distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry--
Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa Fortuna.
And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for
them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and
needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? Not considering that they are not to
expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers
after the third bottle. If a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men,
where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? Would a man who has an ill title to an
estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at
Westminster? We who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a
poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of
poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous?
Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "That no man is satisfied with his own
condition." A poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented,
because the poets will not admit them of their number. Thus the case is hard with writers:
If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to
level them, for daring to please without their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy
the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their
own is to be produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground,
that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty.
Dionysius and Nero had the same longings, but with all their power they could never
bring their business well about. 'Tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of
trumpet;