It puts me in Mind of the famous Roman Lady, who
suppos'd, that Men had, naturally, stinking Breaths, because she
had been us'd to it, in her Husband.
The most obvious Defect in our Poetry, and I think the greatest
it is liable to, is, that we study Form, and neglect Matter. We
are often very flowing, and under a full Sail of Words, while we
leave our Sense fast aground, as too weighty to float on
Frothiness; We run on, upon false Scents, like a Spaniel, that
starts away at Random after a Stone, which is kept back in the
Hand, though It seem'd to fly before him. To speak with Freedom
on this Subject, is a Task of more Danger than Honour; for few
Minds have real Greatness enough to consider a Detection of their
Errors, as a Warning to their Conduct, and an Advantage to their
Fame; But no discerning Judgment will consider it as ill Nature,
in one Writer, to mark the Faults of another. A general Practice
of that Kind wou'd be the highest Service to poetry. No Disease
can be cur'd, till its Nature is examin'd; and the first likely
Step towards correcting our Errors, is resolving to learn
impartially, that we have Errors to be corrected.
I will, therefore, with much Freedom, but no manner of Malice,
remark an Instance or two, from no mean Writers, to prove, that
our Poetry has been degenerating apace into mere Sound, or
Harmony; nor ought This to be consider'd as an invidious Attempt,
since whatever Pains we take, about polishing our Numbers, where
we raise not our Meaning, are as impertinently bestowed, as the
Labour wou'd be, of setting a broken Leg after the Soul has left
the Body.
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