_That nothing is Poetry but what is wrote in Rhyme._
This may truly be called a vulgar Error, because it is a Mistake of which
none but the Vulgar are guilty of. Though there is a Kind of harmonious
Jingle in Rhyme, which makes the Composition have an agreeable Sound, yet
it is looked upon by all Judges to be the lowest Kind of Poetry. And though
Pope, and other great Writers, have succeeded to Admiration in the
Improvement of it, yet it is in Reality nothing but the barbarous Remains
of the wild Taste of our Ancestors; not to mention how it cramps the Genius
of a Writer, after he has hit upon a favourite Thought, to be forced to
look out for a Rhyme, which must, in Spite of every Thing that can be said
in Favour of it, be exceeding laborious.
And notwithstanding Poets endeavour to hide this Labour and Pains they have
been at, and affect to have set down their first Thoughts, yet, as Horace
observes, the foul Copy of a good Writer will always have a great Number of
Blots and Alterations in it: This is true of all Poetical Composition; but
a Poem which is wrote in Rhyme, must, according to the Nature of the Thing,
be more laboured than one that is not. And even Prior himself, whose Works
are allowed to be all Ease and Elegance, is said to have taken more Pains
with his Composition, than any other Writer of Eminence. That very Ease and
Elegance, which we perceive in the best Poets, is the Result of great Pains
and Study, and is no other than a judicious Choice of Words and Phrases,
till they have found some that will suit. And however a Poetical Author may
boast of writing his first Thoughts, we cannot possibly have any Testimony
of it but his own.
Besides, when we have done all, Verses wrote in Rhyme are nothing near so
musical as those which are without it. Where shall we find Verses, among
even the best of our English Poets who wrote in Rhyme, which are equal in
Smoothness and Harmony to these two Lines in Theocritus?
[Greek: Adion, ô poiman, to teon melos, ê to kataches]
[Greek: Tên apo tas petras kataleixetai hupsothen hudôr.]
_Id. 1._
Or these of Ovid, which, though they are far from being the most smooth in
the Book, are however more harmonious than any we can produce now.
_Sic ubi Fata vocant udis abjectis in Herbis,_
_Ad vada Mæandri, concinit albus Olor._
Though the first of these Verses makes a Whistling like the Reeds in a
River, the last runs so glib, that it is ready to slip from under one
before one would have it.
We acknowledge that the Latin Language is a great Help to the Running of a
Verse, and if the Reader insists upon that to be the only pre-eminence
which Latin Verses have over English, he is very welcome to think as he
likes best. Moreover, if he is so fond of Rhyme, we can inform him of a
Book which is wrote, in Latin Rhyme, and is very much at his Service: The
Title of the Book is Drunken Barnaby; which, as it is wrote in a dead
Language, will most likely remain an everlasting Burlesque upon the
Barbarity of Rhyme.
But we may venture to go a little farther. It is not necessary for a Work
to be wrote in Verse at all to entitle it to the Name of Poetry. Any Work
of a fictitious Nature, and which is calculated meerly for Entertainment,
has as just a Claim to be stiled Poetical Composition, as one that is wrote
in the strictest and most confined Metre; Poetry taking its Name from the
Matter of which it is composed, and not from the Length or Sound of its
Words; and we may observe, that such Poetry as consists of those Numbers
which are least confined in their Metre, is generally the most spirited and
sublime. We have an Instance of this in the Writings of Pindar, a Poet of
whose Abilities, Horace gives an Account in his Ode,
_Pindarum quisquis_, &c.
And indeed we have no Occasion to go any farther for Examples of excellent
Poetry wrote in Prose, than some of the Plays in our own Language; Ben
Johnson, Congreve, and many more who wrote in Prose, are nevertheless
ranked among the Poets.
Reader, when thou seest any Thing in this Book which thou didst know
before, it is hoped thou wilt be so candid as to consider, that although
thou art sensible of the Errors of other People, yet they themselves may
not be sensible of them: Yes, even thou, O! profound Philosopher! mayest
have some mistaken Notions of thy own; for what mortal Man can pretend to
such Knowledge as never to be mistaken? And we ourselves, while we are
endeavouring to rectify the Errors of others in this Book, are as likely to
be mistaken as any Body.
However, there is one Reason why a Work of this Nature is likely to give
some Entertainment; it treats of such Variety of Subjects, that there is
Matter for Argumentation in every Page. And it may be observed too perhaps,
that it treats of more Subjects than the Author himself seems too
understand; which we do very readily acknowledge: And if a Professor in any
of the different Branches which are here treated of, who is better versed
in the Nature of the Subject than the Author, thinks proper to rectify any
Mistake which may be here made, and does it in a liberal Way, we shall not
take it amiss, but perhaps may endeavour to answer him, if we should still
differ from him in our Opinion.
On the other Hand, we shall be under no great Apprehensions from the
Criticisms of such Readers who have not good Nature enough to be
entertained with the Matter of a Book, and only read for the Pleasure of
Pointing out the Faults in Public; of which Sort we are very sorry to say
that we know too many. These are such Kind of Geniusses as read more out of
Parade than with a Design to be entertained; and _may_ read.[2]----They
seldom acquire any Knowledge, having generally bad Memories and confused
Heads, devouring every Thing, but digesting Nothing. I tell thee, a Man of
true Parts, and sound Memory, will acquire more by reading one Hour, than
such Whippersnappers as these are able to attain to by lumbering over a
Folio.
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