But after all, it is less as a poet than as a critic, “the lawgiver of the French Parnassus,” that the world has always known Boileau, Before him the art of criticism had hardly existed.  Authors had received indiscriminate praise or blame, usually founded upon interested motives or personal bias; but there had been little comparison with an acknowledged standard.  This “slashing reviewer in verse,” as Saintsbury calls him, was a severe pedagogue, but his public did learn their lesson.  He made mistakes, was neither broad-minded nor profound in attainments, was occasionally unjust; but he showed readers why they should praise or blame; taught them appreciation of his greater friends Moliere and Racine; and pointed out to authors what their purpose should be.  With a greater creative power seeking self-expression, he might have accomplished less in literary reform.

     ADVICE TO AUTHORS

     From ‘The Art of Poetry’

     There is a kind of writer pleased with sound,
     Whose fustian head with clouds is compassed round—­
     No reason can disperse them with its light;
     Learn then to think, ere you pretend to write
     As your idea’s clear, or else obscure,
     The expression follows, perfect or impure;
     What we conceive with ease we can express;
     Words to the notions flow with readiness.

     Observe the language well in all you write,
     And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight. 
     The smoothest verse and the exactest sense
     Displease if uncouth language give offense;
     A barbarous phrase no reader can approve;
     Nor bombast, noise, or affectation love. 
     In short, without pure language, what you write
     Can never yield us profit or delight.

     Take time for thinking; never work in haste;
     And value not yourself for writing fast;
     A rapid poem, with such fury writ,
     Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit. 
     More pleased we are to see a river lead
     His gentle streams along a flowery mead,
     Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar,
     With foamy waters, on a muddy shore. 
     Gently make haste, of labor not afraid;
     A hundred times consider what you’ve said;
     Polish, repolish, every color lay,
     And sometimes add, but oftener take away.

     ’Tis not enough, when swarming faults are writ,
     That here and there are scattered sparks of wit;
     Each object must be fixed in the true place,
     And differing parts have corresponding grace;
     Till, by a curious art disposed, we find
     One perfect whole of all the pieces joined. 
     Keep to your subject close in all you say,
     Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray.