« EelmineJätka »
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, nofingle man is born with a right of controuling the opinions of all the reft; fo on the other, the world has no title to demand, that the whole care and time of any particular perfon fhould be facrificed 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 past upon Poems. A Critic fuppofes he has done his part, if he proves a writer to have failed in an expreffion, or erred in any particular point: and can it then be wondered at, if the Poets in general feem refolved not to own themselves in any error? For as long as one fide will make no allowances, the other will be brought to no acknowledgments a.
I am afraid this extreme zeal on both fides is illplaced; Poetry and Criticism being by no means the universal concern of the world, but only the affair of
a In the former editions it was thus - For as long as one fide defpifes a well-meant endeavour, the other will not be fatisfied with a moderate approbation. But the Author altered it, as these words were rather a confequence from the conclufion he would draw, than the conclufion itself, which he has now inferted,
idle men who write in their closets, and of idle men who read there.
Yet fure upon the whole, a bad Author deserves better ufage 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 fuch a Critic's is to put them out of humour; a design he could never go upon without both that and an ill temper.
I think a good deal may be faid to extenuate the fault of bad Poets. What we call a Genius, is hard to be diftinguished by a man himself, from a ftrong inclination: and if his genius be ever fo 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 fin in itfelf) 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 caufe to quarrel with them but for their obftinacy in perfifting to write; and this too may admit of alleviating circumftances. Their particular friends may be either ignorant, or infincere; and the rest of the world in general is too well-bred to shock them with a truth, which generally their Bookfellers are the firt that inform them of. This happens not till they have fpent too much of their time, to apply to any profeffion which might better fit their talents; and till fuch ta lents as they have are fo far difcredited as to be but of fmall fervice 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 feason, when we have leaft judgment to direct us.
On the other hand, a good Poet no fooner communicates his works with the fame defire of information, but it is imagined he isa 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 fense (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 fmall danger of becoming a Coxcomb if he has, he will confequently have fo much diffidence as not to reap any great fatisfa&ion from his praife; fince, if it be given to his face, it can fcarce be diftinguished from flattery, and if in his abfence, it is hard to be certain of it. Were he fure to be commended by the best and most knowing, he is as fure of being envied by the worst and most ignorant, which are the majority; for it is with a fine Genius, as with a fine fashion, all thofe are difpleafed at it who are not able to follow it: and it is to be feared that esteem will seldom do any man fo much good, as ill-will does him harm. Then there is a third clafs of people who make the largest part of mankind, thofe of ordinary or indifferent capacities; and thefe (to a man) will hate, or fufpect him: a hundred honeft Gentle men 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 muft give up all the reasonable aims of life for it. There are indeed fome advantages. accruing from a Genius to Poetry, and they are all Lcan think of: the agreeable power of self
amufement when a man is idle or alone; the privilege of being admitted into the best company; and the freedom of faying as many carelefs things as other people, without being fo feverely remarked upon.
I believe, if any one, early in his life, fhould contemplate the dangerous fate of authors, he would scarce be of their number on any confideration. The life of a Wit is a warfare upon earth; and the present fpirit of the learned world is fuch, that to attempt to serve it (any way) one must have the conftancy of a martyr, and a refolution to fuffer for its fake. I could wish people would believe, what I am pretty certain they will not, that I have been much lefs concerned about Fame than I durft declare till this occafion, when methinks I should find more credit than I could heretofore, fince my writings have had their fate already, and it is too late to think of prepoffeffing the reader in their favour. I would plead it as fome merit in me, that the world has never been prepared for thefe Trifles by Prefaces, biaffed by recommendations, dazzled with the names of great Patrons, wheedled with fine reasons and pretences, or troubled with excufes. I confefs it was want of confideration that made me an author; I writ because it amufed 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 cre dit 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 laft. But I have reafon to think they can have no reputation which will continue long, or which deferves to do fo: for they have always fallen fhort not only of what I read of others, but even of my own ideas of Poetry.