[Illustration: Ad Lalauze, sc]
_He that writes of himself not easily tir'd. Boys may give Men
Lessons. The Author's Preferment at School attended with
Misfortunes. The Danger of Merit among Equals. Of Satyrists
and Backbiters. What effect they have had upon the Author.
Stanzas publish'd by himself against himself._
It often makes me smile to think how contentedly I have set myself down
to write my own Life; nay, and with less Concern for what may be said of
it than I should feel were I to do the same for a deceased Acquaintance.
This you will easily account for when you consider that nothing gives a
Coxcomb more delight than when you suffer him to talk of himself; which
sweet Liberty I here enjoy for a whole Volume together! A Privilege
which neither cou'd be allow'd me, nor wou'd become me to take, in the
Company I am generally admitted to;[28] but here, when I have all the
Talk to myself, and have no body to interrupt or contradict me, sure, to
say whatever I have a mind other People shou'd know of me is a Pleasure
which none but Authors as vain as myself can conceive.----But to my
History.
However little worth notice the Life of a School-boy may be supposed to
contain, yet, as the Passions of Men and Children have much the same
Motives and differ very little in their Effects, unless where the elder
Experience may be able to conceal them: As therefore what arises from
the Boy may possibly be a Lesson to the Man, I shall venture to relate a
Fact or two that happen'd while I was still at School.
In _February, 1684-5_, died King _Charles_ II. who being the only King I
had ever seen, I remember (young as I was) his Death made a strong
Impression upon me, as it drew Tears from the Eyes of Multitudes, who
looked no further into him than I did: But it was, then, a sort of
School-Doctrine to regard our Monarch as a Deity; as in the former Reign
it was to insist he was accountable to this World as well as to that
above him. But what, perhaps, gave King _Charles_ II. this peculiar
Possession of so many Hearts, was his affable and easy manner in
conversing; which is a Quality that goes farther with the greater Part
of Mankind than many higher Virtues, which, in a Prince, might more
immediately regard the publick Prosperity. Even his indolent Amusement
of playing with his Dogs and feeding his Ducks in St. _James's Park_,
(which I have seen him do) made the common People adore him, and
consequently overlook in him what, in a Prince of a different Temper,
they might have been out of humour at.
I cannot help remembring one more Particular in those Times, tho' it be
quite foreign to what will follow. I was carry'd by my Father to the
Chapel in _Whitehall_; where I saw the King and his royal Brother the
then Duke of _York_, with him in the Closet, and present during the
whole Divine Service. Such Dispensation, it seems, for his Interest, had
that unhappy Prince from his real Religion, to assist at another to
which his Heart was so utterly averse.----I now proceed to the Facts I
promis'd to speak of.
King _Charles_ his Death was judg'd by our School-master a proper
Subject to lead the Form I was in into a higher kind of Exercise; he
therefore enjoin'd us severally to make his Funeral Oration: This sort
of Task, so entirely new to us all, the Boys receiv'd with Astonishment
as a Work above their Capacity; and tho' the Master persisted in his
Command, they one and all, except myself, resolved to decline it. But I,
Sir, who was ever giddily forward and thoughtless of Consequences, set
myself roundly to work, and got through it as well as I could. I
remember to this Hour that single Topick of his Affability (which made
me mention it before) was the chief Motive that warm'd me into the
Undertaking; and to shew how very childish a Notion I had of his
Character at that time, I raised his Humanity, and Love of those who
serv'd him, to such Height, that I imputed his Death to the Shock he
receiv'd from the Lord _Arlington's_ being at the point of Death about a
Week before him.[29] This Oration, such as it was, I produc'd the next
Morning: All the other Boys pleaded their Inability, which the Master
taking rather as a mark of their Modesty than their Idleness, only
seem'd to punish by setting me at the Head of the Form: A Preferment
dearly bought! Much happier had I been to have sunk my Performance in
the general Modesty of declining it. A most uncomfortable Life I led
among them for many a Day after! I was so jeer'd, laugh'd at, and hated
as a pragmatical Bastard (School-boys Language) who had betray'd the
whole Form, that scarce any of 'em wou'd keep me company; and tho' it
so far advanc'd me into the Master's Favour that he wou'd often take me
from the School to give me an Airing with him on Horseback, while they
were left to their Lessons; you may be sure such envy'd Happiness did
not encrease their Good-will to me: Notwithstanding which my Stupidity
cou'd take no warning from their Treatment. An Accident of the same
nature happen'd soon after, that might have frighten'd a Boy of a meek
Spirit from attempting any thing above the lowest Capacity. On the 23d
of _April_ following, being the Coronation-Day of the new King, the
School petition'd the Master for leave to play; to which he agreed,
provided any of the Boys would produce an _English_ Ode upon that
Occasion.----The very Word, _Ode_, I know makes you smile already; and
so it does me; not only because it still makes so many poor Devils turn
Wits upon it, but from a more agreeable Motive; from a Reflection of how
little I then thought that, half a Century afterwards, I shou'd be
call'd upon twice a year, by my Post,[30] to make the same kind of
Oblations to an _unexceptionable_ Prince, the serene Happiness of whose
Reign my halting Rhimes are still so unequal to----This, I own, is
Vanity without Disguise; but _Hæc olim meminisse juvat_:[31] The
remembrance of the miserable prospect we had then before us, and have
since escaped by a Revolution, is now a Pleasure which, without that
Remembrance, I could not so heartily have enjoy'd.[32] The Ode I was
speaking of fell to my Lot, which in about half an Hour I produc'd. I
cannot say it was much above the merry Style of _Sing! Sing the Day, and
sing the Song_, in the Farce: Yet bad as it was, it serv'd to get the
School a Play-day, and to make me not a little vain upon it; which last
Effect so disgusted my Play-fellows that they left me out of the Party I
had most a mind to be of in that Day's Recreation. But their Ingratitude
serv'd only to increase my Vanity; for I consider'd them as so many
beaten Tits that had just had the Mortification of seeing my Hack of a
_Pegasus_ come in before them. This low Passion is so rooted in our
Nature that sometimes riper Heads cannot govern it. I have met with much
the same silly sort of Coldness, even from my Contemporaries of the
Theatre, from having the superfluous Capacity of writing myself the
Characters I have acted.
Here, perhaps, I may again seem to be vain; but if all these Facts are
true (as true they are) how can I help it? Why am I oblig'd to conceal
them? The Merit of the best of them is not so extraordinary as to have
warn'd me to be nice upon it; and the Praise due to them is so small a
Fish, it was scarce worth while to throw my Line into the Water for it.
If I confess my Vanity while a Boy, can it be Vanity, when a Man, to
remember it? And if I have a tolerable Feature, will not that as much
belong to my Picture as an Imperfection? In a word, from what I have
mentioned, I wou'd observe only this; That when we are conscious of the
least comparative Merit in ourselves, we shou'd take as much care to
conceal the Value we set upon it, as if it were a real Defect: To be
elated or vain upon it is shewing your Money before People in want; ten
to one but some who may think you to have too much may borrow, or pick
your Pocket before you get home. He who assumes Praise to himself, the
World will think overpays himself. Even the Suspicion of being vain
ought as much to be dreaded as the Guilt itself. _Cæsar_ was of the same
Opinion in regard to his Wife's Chastity. Praise, tho' it may be our
due, is not like a _Bank-Bill_, to be paid upon Demand; to be valuable
it must be voluntary. When we are dun'd for it, we have a Right and
Privilege to refuse it. If Compulsion insists upon it, it can only be
paid as Persecution in Points of Faith is, in a counterfeit Coin: And
who ever believ'd Occasional Conformity to be sincere? _Nero_, the most
vain Coxcomb of a Tyrant that ever breath'd, cou'd not raise an
unfeigned Applause of his Harp by military Execution; even where Praise
is deserv'd, Ill-nature and Self-conceit (Passions that poll a majority
of Mankind) will with less reluctance part with their Mony than their
Approbation. Men of the greatest Merit are forced to stay 'till they
die before the World will fairly make up their Account: Then indeed you
have a Chance for your full Due, because it is less grudg'd when you are
incapable of enjoying it: Then perhaps even Malice shall heap Praises
upon your Memory; tho' not for your sake, but that your surviving
Competitors may suffer by a Comparison.[33] 'Tis from the same Principle
that _Satyr_ shall have a thousand Readers where _Panegyric_ has one.
When I therefore find my Name at length in the Satyrical Works of our
most celebrated living Author, I never look upon those Lines as Malice
meant to me, (for he knows I never provok'd it) but Profit to himself:
One of his Points must be, to have many Readers: He considers that my
Face and Name are more known than those of many thousands of more
consequence in the Kingdom: That therefore, right or wrong, a Lick at
the _Laureat_[34] will always be a sure Bait, _ad captandum vulgus_, to
catch him little Readers: And that to gratify the Unlearned, by now and
then interspersing those merry Sacrifices of an old Acquaintance to
their Taste, is a piece of quite right Poetical Craft.[35]
But as a little bad Poetry is the greatest Crime he lays to my charge, I
am willing to subscribe to his opinion of _it_.[36] That this sort of
Wit is one of the easiest ways too of pleasing the generality of
Readers, is evident from the comfortable subsistence which our weekly
Retailers of Politicks have been known to pick up, merely by making bold
with a Government that had unfortunately neglected to find their Genius
a better Employment.
Hence too arises all that flat Poverty of Censure and Invective that so
often has a Run in our publick Papers upon the Success of a new Author;
when, God knows, there is seldom above one Writer among hundreds in
Being at the same time whose Satyr a Man of common Sense ought to be
mov'd at. When a Master in the Art is angry, then indeed we ought to be
alarm'd! How terrible a Weapon is Satyr in the Hand of a great Genius?
Yet even there, how liable is Prejudice to misuse it? How far, when
general, it may reform our Morals, or what Cruelties it may inflict by
being angrily particular,[37] is perhaps above my reach to determine. I
shall therefore only beg leave to interpose what I feel for others whom
it may personally have fallen upon. When I read those mortifying Lines
of our most eminent Author, in his Character of _Atticus_[38]
(_Atticus_, whose Genius in Verse and whose Morality in Prose has been
so justly admir'd) though I am charm'd with the Poetry, my Imagination
is hurt at the Severity of it; and tho' I allow the Satyrist to have had
personal Provocation, yet, methinks, for that very Reason he ought not
to have troubled the Publick with it: For, as it is observed in the 242d
_Tatler_, "In all Terms of Reproof, when the Sentence appears to arise
from Personal Hatred or Passion, it is not then made the Cause of
Mankind, but a Misunderstanding between two Persons." But if such kind
of Satyr has its incontestable Greatness; if its exemplary Brightness
may not mislead inferior Wits into a barbarous Imitation of its
Severity, then I have only admir'd the Verses, and expos'd myself by
bringing them under so scrupulous a Reflexion: But the Pain which the
Acrimony of those Verses gave me is, in some measure, allay'd in
finding that this inimitable Writer, as he advances in Years, has since
had Candour enough to celebrate the same Person for his visible Merit.
Happy Genius! whose Verse, like the Eye of Beauty, can heal the deepest
Wounds with the least Glance of Favour.
Since I am got so far into this Subject, you must give me leave to go
thro' all I have a mind to say upon it; because I am not sure that in a
more proper Place my Memory may be so full of it. I cannot find,
therefore, from what Reason Satyr is allow'd more Licence than Comedy,
or why either of them (to be admir'd) ought not to be limited by Decency
and Justice. Let _Juvenal_ and _Aristophanes_ have taken what Liberties
they please, if the Learned have nothing more than their Antiquity to
justify their laying about them at that enormous rate, I shall wish they
had a better excuse for them! The Personal Ridicule and Scurrility
thrown upon _Socrates_, which _Plutarch_ too condemns; and the Boldness
of _Juvenal_, in writing real Names over guilty Characters, I cannot
think are to be pleaded in right of our modern Liberties of the same
kind. _Facit indignatio versum_[39] may be a very spirited Expression,
and seems to give a Reader hopes of a lively Entertainment: But I am
afraid Reproof is in unequal Hands when Anger is its Executioner; and
tho' an outrageous Invective may carry some Truth in it, yet it will
never have that natural, easy Credit with us which we give to the
laughing Ironies of a cool Head. The Satyr that can smile _circum
præcordia ludit_, and seldom fails to bring the Reader quite over to his
Side whenever Ridicule and folly are at variance. But when a Person
satyriz'd is us'd with the extreamest Rigour, he may sometimes meet with
Compassion instead of Contempt, and throw back the Odium that was
designed for him, upon the Author. When I would therefore disarm the
Satyrist of this Indignation, I mean little more than that I would take
from him all private or personal Prejudice, and wou'd still leave him as
much general Vice to scourge as he pleases, and that with as much Fire
and Spirit as Art and Nature demand to enliven his Work and keep his
Reader awake.
Against all this it may be objected, That these are Laws which none but
phlegmatick Writers will observe, and only Men of Eminence should give.
I grant it, and therefore only submit them to Writers of better
Judgment. I pretend not to restrain others from chusing what I don't
like; they are welcome (if they please too) to think I offer these Rules
more from an Incapacity to break them than from a moral Humanity. Let it
be so! still, That will not weaken the strength of what I have asserted,
if my Assertion be true. And though I allow that Provocation is not apt
to weigh out its Resentments by Drachms and Scruples, I shall still
think that no publick Revenge can be honourable where it is not limited
by justice; and if Honour is insatiable in its Revenge it loses what it
contends for and sinks itself, if not into Cruelty, at least into
Vain-glory.
This so singular Concern which I have shewn for others may naturally
lead you to ask me what I feel for myself when I am unfavourably treated
by the elaborate Authors of our daily Papers.[40] Shall I be sincere?
and own my frailty? Its usual Effect is to make me vain! For I consider
if I were quite good for nothing these Pidlers in Wit would not be
concern'd to take me to pieces, or (not to be quite so vain) when they
moderately charge me with only Ignorance or Dulness, I see nothing in
That which an honest Man need be asham'd of:[41] There is many a good
Soul who from those sweet Slumbers of the Brain are never awaken'd by
the least harmful Thought; and I am sometimes tempted to think those
Retailers of Wit may be of the same Class; that what they write proceeds
not from Malice, but Industry; and that I ought no more to reproach them
than I would a Lawyer that pleads against me for his Fee; that their
Detraction, like Dung thrown upon a Meadow, tho' it may seem at first to
deform the Prospect, in a little time it will disappear of itself and
leave an involuntary Crop of Praise behind it.
When they confine themselves to a sober Criticism upon what I write; if
their Censure is just, what answer can I make to it? If it is unjust,
why should I suppose that a sensible Reader will not see it, as well as
myself? Or, admit I were able to expose them by a laughing Reply, will
not that Reply beget a Rejoinder? And though they might be Gainers by
having the worst on't in a Paper War, that is no Temptation for me to
come into it. Or (to make both sides less considerable) would not my
bearing Ill-language from a Chimney-sweeper do me less harm than it
would be to box with him, tho' I were sure to beat him? Nor indeed is
the little Reputation I have as an Author worth the trouble of a
Defence. Then, as no Criticism can possibly make me worse than I really
am; so nothing I can say of myself can possibly make me better: When
therefore a determin'd Critick comes arm'd with Wit and Outrage to take
from me that small Pittance I have, I wou'd no more dispute with him
than I wou'd resist a Gentleman of the Road to save a little
Pocket-Money.[42] Men that are in want themselves seldom make a
Conscience of taking it from others. Whoever thinks I have too much is
welcome to what share of it he pleases: Nay, to make him more merciful
(as I partly guess the worst he can say of what I now write) I will
prevent even the Imputation of his doing me Injustice, and honestly say
it myself, viz. That of all the Assurances I was ever guilty of, this of
writing my own Life is the most hardy. I beg his Pardon!----Impudent is
what I should have said! That through every Page there runs a Vein of
Vanity and Impertinence which no _French Ensigns memoires_ ever came up
to; but, as this is a common Error, I presume the Terms of _Doating
Trifler_, _Old Fool_, or _Conceited Coxcomb_ will carry Contempt enough
for an impartial Censor to bestow on me; that my style is unequal, pert,
and frothy, patch'd and party-colour'd like the Coat of an _Harlequin_;
low and pompous, cramm'd with Epithets, strew'd with Scraps of
second-hand _Latin_ from common Quotations; frequently aiming at Wit,
without ever hitting the Mark; a mere Ragoust toss'd up from the offals
of other authors: My Subject below all Pens but my own, which, whenever
I keep to, is flatly daub'd by one eternal Egotism: That I want nothing
but Wit to be as accomplish'd a Coxcomb here as ever I attempted to
expose on the Theatre: Nay, that this very Confession is no more a Sign
of my Modesty than it is a Proof of my Judgment, that, in short, you may
roundly tell me, that----_Cinna_ (or _Cibber_) _vult videri Pauper, et
est Pauper_.
_When humble_ Cinna _cries_, I'm poor and low,
_You may believe him----he is really so_.
Well, Sir Critick! and what of all this? Now I have laid myself at your
Feet, what will you do with me? Expose me? Why, dear Sir, does not every
Man that writes expose himself? Can you make me more ridiculous than
Nature has made me? You cou'd not sure suppose that I would lose the
Pleasure of Writing because you might possibly judge me a Blockhead, or
perhaps might pleasantly tell other People they ought to think me so
too. Will not they judge as well from what _I_ say as what _You_ say? If
then you attack me merely to divert yourself, your Excuse for writing
will be no better than mine. But perhaps you may want Bread: If that be
the Case, even go to Dinner, i' God's name![43]
If our best Authors, when teiz'd by these Triflers, have not been
Masters of this Indifference, I should not wonder if it were disbeliev'd
in me; but when it is consider'd that I have allow'd my never having
been disturb'd into a Reply has proceeded as much from Vanity as from
Philosophy,[44] the Matter then may not seem so incredible: And tho' I
confess the complete Revenge of making them Immortal Dunces in Immortal
Verse might be glorious; yet, if you will call it Insensibility in me
never to have winc'd at them, even that Insensibility has its happiness,
and what could Glory give me more?[45] For my part, I have always had
the comfort to think, whenever they design'd me a Disfavour, it
generally flew back into their own Faces, as it happens to Children when
they squirt at their Play-fellows against the Wind. If a Scribbler
cannot be easy because he fancies I have too good an Opinion of my own
Productions, let him write on and mortify; I owe him not the Charity to
be out of temper myself merely to keep him quiet or give him Joy: Nor,
in reality, can I see why any thing misrepresented, tho' believ'd of me
by Persons to whom I am unknown, ought to give me any more Concern than
what may be thought of me in _Lapland:_ 'Tis with those with whom I am
to _live_ only, where my Character can affect me; and I will venture to
say, he must find out a new way of Writing that will make me pass my
Time _there_ less agreeably.
You see, Sir, how hard it is for a Man that is talking of himself to
know when to give over; but if you are tired, lay me aside till you have
a fresh Appetite; if not, I'll tell you a Story.
In the Year 1730 there were many Authors whose Merit wanted nothing but
Interest to recommend them to the vacant _Laurel_, and who took it ill
to see it at last conferred upon a Comedian; insomuch, that they were
resolved at least to shew specimens of their superior Pretensions, and
accordingly enliven'd the publick Papers with ingenious Epigrams and
satyrical Flirts at the unworthy Successor;[46] These Papers my Friends
with a wicked Smile would often put into my Hands and desire me to read
them fairly in Company: This was a Challenge which I never declin'd,
and, to do my doughty Antagonists Justice, I always read them with
as much impartial Spirit as if I had writ them myself. While I was
thus beset on all sides, there happen'd to step forth a poetical
Knight-Errant to my Assistance, who was hardy enough to publish some
compassionate Stanzas in my Favour. These, you may be sure, the Raillery
of my Friends could do no less than say I had written to myself. To deny
it I knew would but have confirmed their pretended Suspicion: I
therefore told them, since it gave them such Joy to believe them my own,
I would do my best to make the whole Town think so too. As the Oddness
of this Reply was I knew what would not be easily comprehended, I
desired them to have a Days patience, and I would print an Explanation
to it: To conclude, in two Days after I sent this Letter, with some
doggerel Rhimes at the Bottom,
_To the Author of the_ Whitehall Evening-Post.
SIR,
_The Verses to the Laureat in yours of_ Saturday _last have
occasion'd the following Reply, which I hope you'll give a
Place in your next, to shew that we can be quick as well as
smart upon a proper Occasion: And, as I think it the lowest
Mark of a Scoundrel to make bold with any Man's Character in
Print without subscribing the true Name of the Author; I
therefore desire, if the Laureat is concern'd enough to ask
the Question, that you will tell him my Name and where I live;
till then, I beg leave to be known by no other than that of,_
Your Servant,
FRANCIS FAIRPLAY.
Monday, Jan. 11, 1730.
These were the Verses.[47]
I.
_Ah, hah! Sir_ Coll, _is that thy Way,
Thy own dull Praise to write?
And wou'd'st thou stand so sure a Lay?
No, that's too stale a Bite._
II.
_Nature and Art in thee combine,
Thy Talents here excel:
All shining Brass thou dost outshine,
To play the Cheat so well._
III.
_Who sees thee in_ Iago's _Part,
But thinks thee such a Rogue?
And is not glad, with all his Heart,
To hang so sad a Dog?_
IV.
_When_ Bays _thou play'st, Thyself thou art;
For that by Nature fit,
No Blockhead better suits the Part,
Than such a Coxcomb Wit._
V.
_In_ Wronghead _too, thy Brains we see,
Who might do well at Plough;
As fit for Parliament was he,
As for the Laurel, Thou._
VI.
_Bring thy protected Verse from Court,
And try it on the Stage;
There it will make much better Sport,
And set the Town in Rage._
VII.
_There Beaux and Wits and Cits and Smarts,
Where Hissing's not uncivil,
Will shew their Parts to thy Deserts,
And send it to the Devil._
VIII.
_But, ah! in vain 'gainst Thee we write,
In vain thy Verse we maul!
Our sharpest Satyr's thy Delight,
[48]For_----Blood! thou'lt stand it all.
IX.
_Thunder, 'tis said, the Laurel spares;
Nought but thy Brows could blast it:
And yet----O curst, provoking Stars!
Thy Comfort is, thou_ hast _it._
This, Sir, I offer as a Proof that I was seven Years ago[49] the same
cold Candidate for Fame which I would still be thought; you will not
easily suppose I could have much Concern about it, while, to gratify the
merry Pique of my Friends, I was capable of seeming to head the Poetical
Cry then against me, and at the same Time of never letting the Publick
know 'till this Hour that these Verses were written by myself: Nor do I
give them you as an Entertainment, but merely to shew you this
particular Cast of my Temper.
When I have said this, I would not have it thought Affectation in me
when I grant that no Man worthy the Name of an Author is a more faulty
Writer than myself; that I am not Master of my own Language[50] I too
often feel when I am at a loss for Expression: I know too that I have
too bold a Disregard for that Correctness which others set so just a
Value upon: This I ought to be ashamed of, when I find that Persons,
perhaps of colder Imaginations, are allowed to write better than myself.
Whenever I speak of any thing that highly delights me, I find it very
difficult to keep my Words within the Bounds of Common Sense: Even when
I write too, the same Failing will sometimes get the better of me; of
which I cannot give you a stronger Instance than in that wild Expression
I made use of in the first Edition of my Preface to the _Provok'd
Husband_; where, speaking of Mrs. _Oldfield's_ excellent Performance in
the Part of Lady _Townly_, my Words ran thus, _viz. It is not enough to
say, that here she outdid_ her usual _Outdoing_.[51]--A most vile
Jingle, I grant it! You may well ask me, How could I possibly commit
such a Wantonness to Paper? And I owe myself the Shame of confessing I
have no Excuse for it but that, like a Lover in the Fulness of his
Content, by endeavouring to be floridly grateful I talk'd Nonsense. Not
but it makes me smile to remember how many flat Writers have made
themselves brisk upon this single Expression; wherever the Verb,
_Outdo_, could come in, the pleasant Accusative, _Outdoing_, was sure to
follow it. The provident Wags knew that _Decies repetita placeret_:[52]
so delicious a Morsel could not be serv'd up too often! After it had
held them nine times told for a Jest, the Publick has been pester'd with
a tenth Skull thick enough to repeat it. Nay, the very learned in the
Law have at last facetiously laid hold of it! Ten Years after it first
came from me it served to enliven the eloquence of an eloquent Pleader
before a House of Parliament! What Author would not envy me so
frolicksome a Fault that had such publick Honours paid to it?
After this Consciousness of my real Defects, you will easily judge, Sir,
how little I presume that my Poetical Labours may outlive those of my
mortal _Cotemporaries_.[53]
At the same time that I am so humble in my Pretensions to Fame, I would
not be thought to undervalue it; Nature will not suffer us to despise
it, but she may sometimes make us too fond of it. I have known more than
one good Writer very near ridiculous from being in too much Heat about
it. Whoever intrinsically deserves it will always have a proportionable
Right to it. It can neither be resign'd nor taken from you by Violence.
Truth, which is unalterable, must (however his Fame may be contested)
give every Man his Due: What a Poem weighs it will be worth; nor is it
in the Power of Human Eloquence, with Favour or Prejudice, to increase
or diminish its Value. Prejudice, 'tis true, may a while discolour it;
but it will always have its Appeal to the Equity of good Sense, which
will never fail in the End to reverse all false Judgment against it.
Therefore when I see an eminent Author hurt, and impatient at an
impotent Attack upon his Labours, he disturbs my Inclination to admire
him; I grow doubtful of the favourable Judgment I have made of him, and
am quite uneasy to see him so tender in a Point he cannot but know he
ought not himself to be judge of; his Concern indeed at another's
Prejudice or Disapprobation may be natural; but to own it seems to me a
natural Weakness. When a Work is apparently great it will go without
Crutches; all your Art and Anxiety to heighten the Fame of it then
becomes low and little.[54] He that will bear no Censure must be often
robb'd of his due Praise. Fools have as good a Right to be Readers as
Men of Sense have, and why not to give their Judgments too? Methinks it
would be a sort of Tyranny in Wit for an Author to be publickly putting
every Argument to death that appear'd against him; so absolute a Demand
for Approbation puts us upon our Right to dispute it; Praise is as much
the Reader's Property as Wit is the Author's; Applause is not a Tax paid
to him as a Prince, but rather a Benevolence given to him as a Beggar;
and we have naturally more Charity for the dumb Beggar than the sturdy
one. The Merit of a Writer and a fine Woman's Face are never mended by
their talking of them: How amiable is she that seems not to know she is
handsome!
To conclude; all I have said upon this Subject is much better contained
in six Lines of a Reverend Author, which will be an Answer to all
critical Censure for ever.
_Time is the Judge; Time has nor Friend nor Foe;
False Fame must wither, and the True will grow.
Arm'd with this Truth all Criticks I defy;
For, if I fall, by my own Pen I die;
While Snarlers strive with proud but fruitless Pain,
To wound Immortals, or to slay the Slain._[55]