I am inclined to think that both the writers of books, and the readers
of them, are generally not a little unreasonable in their expectations.
The first seem to fancy that the world must approve whatever they
produce, and the latter to imagine that authors are obliged to please
them at any rate. Methinks, as on the one hand, no single man is born
with a right of controlling the opinions of all the rest; so on the
other, the world has no title to demand, that the whole care and time of
any particular person should be sacrificed to its entertainment.
Therefore I cannot but believe that writers and readers are under equal
obligations for as much fame, or pleasure, as each affords the other.
Every one acknowledges, it would be a wild notion to expect perfection
in any work of man: and yet one would think the contrary was taken for
granted, by the judgment commonly passed upon poems. A critic supposes
he has done his part if he proves a writer to have failed in an
expression, or erred in any particular point: and can it then be
wondered at if the poets in general seem resolved not to own themselves
in any error? For as long as one side will make no allowances, the other
will be brought to no acknowledgments.[1]
I am afraid this extreme zeal on both sides is ill-placed; poetry and
criticism being by no means the universal concern of the world, but only
the affair of idle men who write in their closets, and of idle men who
read there. Yet sure, upon the whole, a bad author deserves better usage
than a bad critic: for a writer's endeavour, for the most part, is to
please his readers, and he fails merely through the misfortune of an ill
judgment; but such a critic's is to put them out of humour; a design he
could never go upon without both that and an ill temper.[2]
I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad poets.
What we call a genius, is hard to be distinguished by a man himself,
from a strong inclination: and if his genius be ever so great, he cannot
at first discover it any other way than by giving way to that prevalent
propensity which renders him the more liable to be mistaken. The only
method he has is to make the experiment by writing, and appealing to the
judgment of others. Now if he happens to write ill, which is certainly
no sin in itself, he is immediately made an object of ridicule. I wish
we had the humanity to reflect that even the worst authors might, in
their endeavour to please us, deserve something at our hands. We have no
cause to quarrel with them but for their obstinacy in persisting to
write; and this too may admit of alleviating circumstances. Their
particular friends may be either ignorant or insincere; and the rest of
the world in general is too well-bred to shock them with a truth, which
generally their booksellers are the first that inform them of. This
happens not till they have spent too much of their time to apply to any
profession which might better fit their talents; and till such talents
as they have are so far discredited as to be but of small service to
them. For, what is the hardest case imaginable, the reputation of a man
generally depends upon the first steps he makes in the world; and people
will establish their opinion of us, from what we do at that season when
we have least judgment to direct us.
On the other hand, a good poet no sooner communicates his works with the
same desire of information, but it is imagined he is a vain young
creature given up to the ambition of fame, when perhaps the poor man is
all the while trembling with the fear of being ridiculous. If he is made
to hope he may please the world, he falls under very unlucky
circumstances: for, from the moment he prints, he must expect to hear no
more truth than if he were a prince or a beauty. If he has not very good
sense (and indeed there are twenty men of wit for one man of sense) his
living thus in a course of flattery may put him in no small danger of
becoming a coxcomb: if he has, he will consequently have so much
diffidence as not to reap any great satisfaction from his praise: since,
if it be given to his face, it can scarce be distinguished from
flattery, and if in his absence, it is hard to be certain of it. Were he
sure to be commended by the best and most knowing, he is as sure of
being envied by the worst and most ignorant, which are the majority;[3]
for it is with a fine genius as with a fine fashion, all those are
displeased at it who are not able to follow it: and it is to be feared
that esteem will seldom do any man so much good, as ill-will does him
harm. Then there is a third class of people, who make the largest part
of mankind,--those of ordinary or indifferent capacities--; and these,
to a man, will hate or suspect him: a hundred honest gentlemen will
dread him as a wit, and a hundred innocent women as a satirist. In a
word, whatever be his fate in poetry, it is ten to one but he must give
up all the reasonable aims of life for it. There are indeed some
advantages accruing from a genius to poetry, and they are all I can
think of,--the agreeable power of self-amusement when a man is idle or
alone; the privilege of being admitted into the best company; and the
freedom of saying as many careless things as other people, without being
so severely remarked upon.[4]
[5]I believe if any one, early in his life, should contemplate the
dangerous fate of authors, he would scarce be of their number on any
consideration. The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth; and the
present spirit of the learned world is such, that to attempt to serve it
any way one must have the constancy of a martyr, and a resolution to
suffer for its sake. 'I could wish people would believe, what I am
pretty certain they will not, that I have been much less concerned about
fame than I durst declare till this occasion, when methinks I should
find more credit than I could heretofore: since my writings have had
their fate already, and it is too late to think of prepossessing the
reader in their favour. I would plead it as some merit in me, that the
world has never been prepared for these trifles by prefaces,[6] biassed
by recommendations, dazzled with the names of great patrons,[7] wheedled
with fine reasons and pretences, or troubled with excuses.'[8] I confess
it was want of consideration that made me an author; I writ because it
amused me; I corrected because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to
write; and I published because I was told I might please such as it was
a credit to please. To what degree I have done this, I am really
ignorant. I had too much fondness for my productions to judge of them at
first, and too much judgment to be pleased with them at last. But I have
reason to think they can have no reputation which will continue long, or
which deserves to do so:[9] for they have always fallen short not only
of what I read of others, but even of my own ideas of poetry.
If any one should imagine I am not in earnest, I desire him to reflect,
that the ancients, to say the least of them, had as much genius as we;
and that to take more pains, and employ more time, cannot fail to
produce more complete pieces. They constantly applied themselves not
only to that art, but to that single branch of an art, to which their
talent was most powerfully bent; and it was the business of their lives
to correct and finish their works for posterity.[10] If we can pretend
to have used the same industry, let us expect the same immortality:
though, if we took the same care, we should still lie under a further
misfortune: they writ in languages that became universal and
everlasting, while ours are extremely limited both in extent and in
duration. A mighty foundation for our pride! when the utmost we can
hope,[11] is but to be read in one island, and to be thrown aside at the
end of one age.
All that is left us is to recommend our productions by the imitation of
the ancients;[12] and it will be found true, that in every age, the
highest character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who
have been most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very
good sense, must have been common sense in all times; and what we call
learning, is but the knowledge of the sense of our predecessors.
Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own, because they
resemble the ancients, may as well say our faces are not our own,
because they are like our fathers: and, indeed, it is very unreasonable
that people should expect us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us
so.[13]
I fairly confess that I have served myself all I could by reading; that
I made use of the judgment of authors dead and living; that I omitted no
means in my power to be informed of my errors, both by my friends and
enemies:[14] but the true reason these pieces are not more correct, is
owing to the consideration how short a time they, and I, have to
live.[15] One may be ashamed to consume half one's days in bringing
sense and rhyme together: and what critic can be so unreasonable, as not
to leave a man time enough for any more serious employment, or more
agreeable amusement?
The only plea I shall use for the favour of the public, is, that I have
as great a respect for it as most authors have for themselves; and that
I have sacrificed much of my own self-love for its sake, in preventing
not only many mean things from seeing the light, but many which I
thought tolerable. 'I would not be like those authors, who forgive
themselves some particular lines for the sake of a whole poem, and _vice
versa_ a whole poem for the sake of some particular lines.'[16] I
believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer as the
power of rejecting his own thoughts; and it must be this, if any thing,
that can give me a chance to be one. For what I have published I can
only hope to be pardoned; but for what I have burned I deserve to be
praised. On this account the world is under some obligation to me, and
owes me the justice in return to look upon no verses as mine that are
not inserted in this collection.[17] And perhaps nothing could make it
worth my while to own what are really so, but to avoid the imputation of
so many dull and immoral things, as partly by malice, and partly by
ignorance, have been ascribed to me. I must further acquit myself of the
presumption of having lent my name to recommend any Miscellanies,[18]
or works of other men;[19] a thing I never thought becoming a person who
has hardly credit enough to answer for his own.
In this office of collecting my pieces, I am altogether uncertain
whether to look upon myself as a man building a monument,[20] or burying
the dead. If time shall make it the former, may these poems, as long as
they last, remain as a testimony, that their author never made his
talents subservient to the mean and unworthy ends of party or
self-interest; the gratification of public prejudices or private
passions; the flattery of the undeserving, or the insult of the
unfortunate. If I have written well, let it be considered that it is
what no man can do without good sense, a quality that not only renders
one capable of being a good writer, but a good man. And if I have made
any acquisition in the opinion of any one under the notion of the
former, let it be continued to me under no other title than that of the
latter.[21]
But if this publication be only a more solemn funeral of my remains, I
desire it may be known that I die in charity, and in my senses, without
any murmurs against the justice of this age, or any mad appeals to
posterity. I declare I shall think the world in the right, and quietly
submit to every truth which time shall discover to the prejudice of
these writings; not so much as wishing so irrational a thing as that
every body should be deceived merely for my credit. However, I desire it
may then be considered, that there are very few things in this
collection which were not written under the age of five-and-twenty, so
that my youth may be made, as it never fails to be in executions, a case
of compassion; that I was never so concerned about my works as to
vindicate them in print, believing if any thing was good it would defend
itself, and what was bad could never be defended; that I used no
artifice to raise or continue a reputation, depreciated no dead author I
was obliged to, bribed no living one with unjust praise, insulted no
adversary with ill language,[22] or, when I could not attack a rival's
works, encouraged reports against his morals. To conclude, if this
volume perish, let it serve as a warning to the critics not to take too
much pains for the future to destroy such things as will die of
themselves; and a _memento mori_ to some of my vain contemporaries the
poets, to teach them that when real merit is wanting, it avails nothing
to have been encouraged by the great, commended by the eminent, and
favoured by the public in general.[23]
_Nov. 10, 1716._