Why an author surpasses himself it is natural to inquire. I have
heard from Mr. Draper, an eminent bookseller, an account received by
him from Ambrose Philips, "That Blackmore, as he proceeded in this
poem, laid his manuscript from time to time before a club of wits
with whom he associated, and that every man contributed, as he
could, either improvement or correction; so that," said Philips,
"there are perhaps nowhere in the book thirty lines together that
now stand as they were originally written."

The relation of Philips, I suppose, was true; but when all
reasonable, all credible allowance is made for this friendly
revision, the author will still retain an ample dividend of praise;
for to him must always be assigned the plan of the work, the
distribution of its parts, the choice of topics, the train of
argument, and, what is yet more, the general predominance of
philosophical judgment and poetical spirit. Correction seldom
effects more than the suppression of faults: a happy line, or a
single elegance, may perhaps be added; but of a large work, the
general character must always remain. The original constitution can
be very little helped by local remedies; inherent and radical
dulness will never be much invigorated by intrinsic animation. This
poem, if he had written nothing else, would have transmitted him to
posterity among the first favourites of the English muse; but to
make verses was his transcendent pleasure, and, as he was not
deterred by censure, he was not satiated with praise. He deviated,
however, sometimes into other tracks of literature, and condescended
to entertain his readers with plain prose. When the Spectator
stopped, he considered the polite world as destitute of
entertainment, and in concert with Mr. Hughes, who wrote every third