did on the File, to the detriment of their Teeth. So that Criticism,
which was formerly the Art of judging well, is now become the pure
Effect of Spleen, Passion and Self-conceit. Nothing is perfect in every
Part. He that expects to see any thing so, must have patience till_
Dooms-day. _The Worship we pay to our own Opinion, generally leads its
to the Contempt of another's. This blind Idolatry of_ Self _is the
Mother of Errour; and this begets a secret Vanity in our_ Modern
Censurers, _who, when they please to_ think a Meaning _for an Author,
would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour to their
inlighten'd Sagacity. When, perhaps, the Failings they expose are a
plain Evidence of their own Blindness._

For to display our Candour and our Sence,
Is to discover some deep _Excellence_.
The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free;
They raise the _Mole hill, who want Eyes to see_.

_Excrescences are easily perceiv'd by an ordinary Eye; but it requires
the Penetration of a_ Lynceus _to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the
secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal'd from a Vulgar
Apprehension._

_I remember somewhere an Observation of St._ Evremont _(an Author whom
you us'd to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who
would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be.
The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things,
according to_ Juvenal; _and according to_ Scripture, _the Marks of a_
Fool. _These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be
witty, but at another's Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of
Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own._