Among all the Refiners of our Tongue, 'tis the vulgar Notion, that Sir Roger L'Estrange was most eminent. True it is, Doctor Felton owns he was good for nothing but Banter and Railing; for that is what we in England generally mean by Raillery. Tho' Smith and Johnson in the Rehearsal are not the most lively Characters; yet their Dialogue with Bayes is what the French call Raillery. We in England do mean very often the Dialogue of Billinsgate, where it is common enough to hear one Fish-Woman cry to another, No more of your Raillery, which is there the worst Sort of Railling; and for that and Banter the Doctor assures us L'Estrange was most proper. The same say I, and that he understood no more of true Eloquence than he did of Greek, out of which the Booksellers hired him to translate Josephus, and he did it from the French Translation. The Philosopher Seneca's Works he pretended to translate from the Latin, and I wish Mr. Trap would translate the following Phrases in his Seneca's Morals back into that Tongue again, One good Turn is the shoeing Horn to another. He does me Good in spite of my Teeth. After a Matter of eight Years; and this into Greek for Esop's Fables, The Moon was in a heavy Twitter: Yet I'm satisfied these fine Sayings are some of those that gained him the Reputation of being a polite Writer of English: I have heard that about the Moon very much commended, which shews that we are not sufficiently sensible how mean Words debase a Thought. There's nothing, says Boileau, which debases a Discourse more than mean Words. A mean Thought exprest in noble Terms, is generally better than the most noble Thoughts exprest in mean Terms. I know no greater Instance of the ill Effect of mean Terms, than what we find in two Verses of Mr. Montague's Epistle to the Lord Dorset on King William's Victory at the Boyne. 'Tis in the greatest Heat of that glorious Action, and in the Middle of the Sublime, which is not wanting in that Poem.
Stop, stop, brave Prince! What does your Muse, Sir, faint!
Proceed, pursue his Conquest. Faith I can't.
Mr. Philips's Poems, the splendid Shilling and Cyder, are full of Instances where mean Thoughts are raised by noble Expressions, and they are wonderfully pleasing; as in Cyder; this of the Pear-Tree.
What tho' the Pear Tree rival not the Worth
Of Ariconian Products, yet her Freight
Is not contemn'd, and her wide branching Arms
Best screen thy Mansion from the fervent Dog,
Adverse to Life. The wintry Hurricanes
In vain employ their Roar; her Trunk unmov'd,
Breaks the strong Onset, and controuls their Rage;
Chiefly the Bosbury, whose large Increase,
Annual in sumptuous Banquets, claims Applause.
Thrice acceptable Bevrage! could but Art
Subdue the floating Lee, Pomona's self
Would dread thy Praise, and shun the dubious Strife.
Be it thy Choice, when Summer Heats annoy,
To sit beneath her leavy Canopy,
Quaffing rich Liquids, Oh! how sweet t'enjoy
At once her Fruits, and hospitable Shade.
I have never met with any Author who so happily imitated the manner and stile of Milton as Philips has done, and there seems to be hardly any other Difference than that of the Subjects they wrote of.
What I have quoted out of L'Estrange is nothing to the Delicacy of a modern Writer of Plays, who without Wit, Language, Learning, or Manners, wrote three or four Farces, which took as much as Pradon's in France; but the English have not recollected themselves so soon as the French did; for Pradon out-liv'd the Vogue he was in, and became a greater Jest than ever he had made. What think ye of our Poet's Delicacy and Wit, who in a gallant Letter to his Mistress, tells her, He's gall'd with riding, Love is forging Darts in his Belly; he's a Dog in a Doublet, &c. There's a deal of graver Nonsense with it, but it being mostly Blasphemy, I dare not repeat it. This Author had his Portion of temporary Fame. Ogilvy had his Day, and Dryden says:
Fame, like a little Mistress of the Town,
Is gain'd with Ease; but then she's lost as soon.
However, as long as the Credit lasts, these temporary Authors bear the Port of the greatest Genius, are clapt and star'd at, as those Merchants who are driving in their Coaches to Bankrupcy, have generally the best Equipage. What are become of the Marots, the Ronsards, the Scuderies of our neighbour Nation, yet these Writers were infinitely superiour to what most of our taking Authors have been. Could any Body have thought that Sir Richard Baker's Chronicle would ever have past from the Justice's Hall Window to the Butler's Cellar, or that Cowley's Mistress would have lost all her Charms in thirty Years Time, and become a Cast-Off for City Prentices and Lawyers Clerks, to say nothing of Orinda, Flatman, &c. Yet these Writers were Originals which raises their Merit much above all Sorts of Translators, and it ought to be a Lesson to all Poets and Historians, whether first Hand or second Hand, to pay the World for their Applause with Modesty, which is the surest Way to keep it in a good Humour; Since 'tis Posterity only, says Boileau, which sets a Value upon all Writings, you must not, as admirable as you take a modern Author to be, presently put him upon a Level with those Writers who have been admired for so many Ages, because one cannot be sure his Works will pass with Glory to the next. Indeed without going far for Examples, How many Authors have we seen admired in our Age, whose Glory is vanished in a very few Years. How were Balzac's Works admired thirty Tears ago? So much that Cardinal Richelieu at the same Time that he was meditating the universal Monarchy for the Crown of France, wrote in Vindication of them. The Bishop of Rochester did the same for Cowley; but neither the Cardinal nor the Bishop could defend them from the Fate of all Temporary Authors. Neither Cowley nor Balzac are now any more mentioned in France or England. And the main Reason why they lost their Credit was for want of duly considering what their particular Talents were adapted to; for that they had both very great Talents is universally acknowledged, Mons. de Balzac a passe toute sa vie a ecrire des lettres, dont il n'a jamais pu attraper le veritable Charectere. Balzac spent all his Time in writing Letters, but could never hit the true Character. Cowley applied himself to Poetry, and never enough knew the Power and Harmony of Numbers. He had a great deal too much Wit to charm his Mistress with his Passion. Very few of us are let into this Secret. We cannot believe that a Poet can have too much Wit, and indeed the Offence given that Way is not very common. The last Duke of Bucks rightly instructs us: