conclusion of the
peace of Ryswick, he went to Paris, where he became acquainted with
Monsieur Boileau, who invited him to his country house, entertained him
very elegantly, and spoke much to him of the English poetry, but all by
way of enquiry; for he affected to be as ignorant of the English Muse,
as if our nation had been as barbarous as the Laplanders.

A gentleman, a friend of Mr. Maynwaring, visiting him some time after,
upon the death of Mr. Dryden 'Boileau, said that he was wonderfully
pleased to see by the public papers, that the English nation had paid so
extraordinary honours to one of their poets, burying him at the public
charge;' and then asked the gentleman who that poet was, with as much
indifference as if he had never heard Dryden's name; which he could no
more be unacquainted with, than our country was with his; for he often
frequented lord Montague's house, when he was embassador in France, and
being also an intimate friend of Monsieur De la Fontaine, who had spent
some time in England, it was therefore impossible he could be ignorant
of the fame of Dryden; but it is peculiar to that nation to hold all
others in contempt. The French would as fain monopolize wit, as the
wealth and power of Europe; but thanks to the arms and genius of
Britain, they have attempted both the one and the other without success.

Boileau's pretending not to know Dryden, to use the words of Milton,
'argued himself unknown.' But perhaps a reason may be assigned, why the
wits of France affected a contempt for Mr. Dryden, which is this. That
poet, in many of his Prefaces and Dedications, has unanswerably shewn,
that the French writers are really deficient in point of genius;' that
the correctness for which they are remarkable, and that even pace which
they maintain in all their dramatic compositions, is a proof that they
are not capable of sublime conceptions; that they never rise to any
degree of elevation, and are in truth uninspired by the muses:--Judgment
they may have to plan and conduct their designs; but few French poets
have ever found the way of writing to the heart. Have they attained the
sublime height of Shakespear, the tenderness of Otway, or the pomp of
Rowe? and yet these are names which a French versifier will pretend,
with an air of contempt, never to have heard of.

The truth is, our poets have lately done the French too much honour, by
translating their pieces, and bringing them on the stage; as if our own
s