an, and both by his profession and his
early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the
turn of gallantry sent him to travel from Athens to Paris, taught him
to make love, and transformed the Hippolitus of Euripides into
Monsieur Hippolite. I should not have troubled myself thus far with
French poets, but that I find our _Chedreux_[2] critics wholly form
their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the
laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French
should prescribe here, till they have conquered. Our little
sonetteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry.
Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only
critics. But till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise,
one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice
of them, I shall think it reasonable that the judgment of an artificer
in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at
least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And
this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the
crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct, of what
pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then, by
a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and
will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other men may think
him one. But, if I come closer to those who are allowed for witty men,
either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and
affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly
concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for
most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number
of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they are all
indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit,
that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right judgeing.
But to press it yet farther, there are many witty men, but few poets;
neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on
which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature,
must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts
of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by
a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every man
who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the
excellencies of it too, o