LETTER II.

To the SAME.

It gave me no small Pleasure to find, by your Answer to my last Letter, that you now allow BEAUTY to be the Daughter of TRUTH; and I in my turn will make a Concession to you, by confessing that BEAUTY herself may have acquired Charms, but then they are altogether such as are consistent with her divine Extraction. What you observe is very true, that the human Form (the most glorious Object, as you are pleased to call it, in the Creation) let it be made with the most accurate Symmetry and Proportion, may receive additional Charms from Education, and steal more subtily upon the Soul of the Beholder from some adventitious Circumstances of easy Attitudes or Motion, and an undefineable Sweetness of Countenance, which an habitual Commerce with the more refined Part of Mankind superadds to the Work of Nature. This the ancient Grecian Artists would have represented mythologically in Painting by the GRACES crowning VENUS. We find how much LELY has availed himself in his shadowy Creations of transcribing from Life this adventitious Charm into all his Portraits. I mean, when he stole upon his animated Canvas, as POPE poetically expresses it,

"The sleepy Eye that spoke the melting Soul."

You will ask me, perhaps, how I can prove any Alliance in this particular Circumstance of a single Feature to Truth; Or rather triumphantly push the Argument farther, and say, Is not this additional Charm, as you call it, inconsistent with the Divine Original of Beauty, since it deadens the fiery Lustre of that penetrating Organ? I chuse to draw my Answer from the Schools of the antient ETHOGRAPHI, who by their enchanting Art so happily conveyed, thro' the Sight, the Lessons of Moral Philosophy. These Sages would have told you, that our Souls are attuned to one another, like the Strings of musical Instruments, and that the Chord of one being struck, the Unison of another, tho' untouched, will vibrate to it. The Passions therefore of the human Heart, expressed either in the living Countenance, or the mimetic Strokes of Art, will affect the Soul of the Beholder with a similar and responsive Disposition. What wonder then is it that Beauty, borrowing thus the Look of softening Love, whose Power can lull the most watchful of the Senses, should cast that sweet Nepenthe upon our Hearts, and enchant our corresponding Thoughts to rest in the Embraces of Desire? Sure then I am, that you will always allow Love to be the Source and End of our Being, and consequently consistent with Truth. It is the Superaddition of such Charms to Proportion, which is called Taste in Musick, Painting, Poetry, Sculpture, Gardening and Architecture. By which is generally meant that happy Assemblage which excites in our Minds, by Analogy, some pleasurable Image. Thus, for Instance, even the Ruins of an old Castle properly disposed, or the Simplicity of a rough hewn Hermitage in a Rock, enliven a Prospect, by recalling the Moral Images of Valor and Wisdom; and I believe no Man will contend, that Valor exerted in the Defence of one's Country, or Wisdom contemplating in Retirement for the Welfare of Mankind, are not truly amiable Images, belonging to the Divine Family of Truth. I think I have now reconciled our two favorite Opinions, by proving that these additional Charms, if they must be called so, have their Origin in Nature as much as Proportion itself.—I am very glad the Prints I sent afforded you so much Pleasure, not only as I wish every thing which comes from me may be favorably received by you, but as they are likewise a Confirmation of my Arguments; for the Man who drew them is no very great Artist, but being a faithful Disciple of Nature, having delineated every Object in a Camera Obscura, he has not failed of gaining the uncontested Applause, which the Followers of that unerring Mistress will ever receive from Mankind. My EUDOCIA calls me to administer with her Comfort to a little fatherless Family in the District of our Hamlet, therefore must conclude myself,

Your sincere Friend, &c.

LETTER

TASTE:

AN

EPISTLE

TO A

YOUNG CRITIC.

Range from Tower-hill all London to the Fleet, Thence round the Temple, t'utmost Grosvenor-street: Take in your route both Gray's and Lincoln's Inn; Miss not, be sure, my Lords and Gentlemen; You'll hardly raise, as I with[A] Petty guess, } 5 Above twelve thousand men of taste; unless } In desperate times a Connoisseur may pass. }

"A Connoisseur! What's that?" 'Tis hard to say: But you must oft amidst the fair and gay Have seen a wou'd-be rake, a fluttering fool, 10 Who swears he loves the sex with all his soul. Alas, vain youth! dost thou admire sweet Jones? Thou be gallant without or blood or bones! You'd split to hear th' insipid coxcomb cry Ah charming Nanny! 'tis too much! I die!— 15 Die and be d—n'd, says one; but let me tell ye I'll pay the loss if ever rapture kill ye.

[Footnote A: Sir William Petty, author of the Political Arithmetic.]

'Tis easy learnt the art to talk by rote: At Nando's 'twill but cost you half a groat; The Redford school at three-pence is not dear, Sir; At White's—the stars instruct you for a tester. 21 But he, whom nature never meant to share One spark of taste, will never catch it there:— Nor no where else; howe'er the booby beau Grows great with Pope, and Horace, and Boileau.

Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong, Be it in music, painting, or in song. But this, as well as other faculties, Improves with age and ripens by degrees. I know, my dear; 'tis needless to deny 't, 30 You like Voiture, you think him wondrous bright; But seven years hence, your relish more matur'd, What now delights will hardly be endur'd. The boy may live to taste Racine's fine charms, Whom Lee's bald orb or Rowe's dry rapture warms: But he, enfranchis'd from his tutor's care, 36 Who places Butler near Cervantes' chair; Or with Erasmus can admit to vie Brown of Squab-hall of merry memory; Will die a Goth: and nod at [A]Woden's feast, 40 Th' eternal winter long, on [B]Gregory's breast.

Long may he swill, this patriarch of the dull, The drowsy Mum—But touc not Maro's skull! His holy barbarous dotage sought to doom, Good heaven! th' immortal classics to the tomb!— Those sacred lights shall bid new genius rise 45 When all Rome's saints have rotted from the skies. Be these your guides, if at the ivy crown You aim; each country's classics, and your own. But chiefly with the ancients pass your prime, 50 And drink Castalia at the fountain's brim. The man to genuine Burgundy bred up, Soon starts the dam of Methuen in his cup.

[Footnote A: Alluding to the Gothic heaven, Woden's hall; where the happy are for ever employed in drinking beer, mum, and other comfortable liquors out of the skulls of those whom they had slain in battle.]

[Footnote B: Pope Gregory the VIth, distinguished by the name of St. Gregory; whose pious zeal, in the cause of barbarous ignorance and priestly tyranny, exerted itself in demolishing, to the utmost of his power, all the remains of heathen genius.]

Those sovereign masters of the Muses skill Are the true patterns of good writing still, 55 Their ore was rich and seven times purg'd of lead; Their art seem'd nature, 'twas so finely hid. Tho' born with all the powers of writing well, What pains it cost they did not blush to tell. Their ease (my Lords!) ne'er lowng'd for want of fire, Nor did their rage thro' affectation tire. 61 Free from all tawdry and imposing glare They trusted to their native grace of air. Rapt'rous and wild the trembling soul they seize, } Or sly coy beauties steal it by degrees; } 65 The more you view them still the more they please. }

Yet there are thousands of scholastic merit Who worm their sense out but ne'er taste their spirit. Witness each pedant under Bentley bred; Each commentator that e'er commented. 70 (You scarce can seize a spot of classic ground, With leagues of Dutch morass so floated round.) Witness—but, Sir, I hold a cautious pen, Lest I should wrong some honourable men. They grow enthusiasts too—'Tis true! 'tis pity! 75 But 'tis not every lunatic that's witty. Some have run Maro—and some Milton—mad, Ashley once turn'd a solid barber's head: Hear all that's said or printed if you can, Ashley has turn'd more solid heads than one. 80

Let such admire each great or specious name; For right or wrong the joy to them's the same. "Right!" Yes a thousand times.—Each fool has heard That Homer was a wonder of a bard. Despise them civilly with all my heart— 85 But to convince them is a desperate part, Why should you teize one for what secret cause One doats on Horace, or on Hudibras? 'Tis cruel, Sir, 'tis needless, to endeavour To teach a sot of Taste he knows no flavour, 90 To disunite I neither wish nor hope A stubborn blockhead from his fav'rite fop. Yes—fop I say, were Maro's self before 'em: For Maro's self grows dull as they pore o'er him.

But hear their raptures o'er some specious rhime Dub'd by the musk'd and greasy mob sublime. 96 For spleen's dear sake hear how a coxcomb prates As clam'rous o'er his joys as fifty cats; "Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To soften rocks, and oaks"—and all the rest: 100 "I've heard"—Bless these long ears!—"Heav'ns what a strain! Good God! What thunders burst in this Campaign! Hark Waller warbles! Ah! how sweetly killing! Then that inimitable Splendid Shilling! Rowe breathes all Shakespear here!—That ode of Prior 105 Is Spencer quite! egad his very fire!— As like"—Yes faith! as gum-flowers to the rose, Or as to Claret flat Minorca's dose; As like as (if I am not grosly wrong) Erle Robert's Mice to aught e'er Chaucer sung. 110

Read boldly, and unprejudic'd peruse Each fav'rite modern, ev'n each ancient muse. With all the comic salt and tragic rage The great stupendous genius of our stage, Boast of our island, pride of human-kind, 115 Had faults to which the boxes are not blind. His frailties are to ev'ry gossip known: Yet Milton's pedantries not shock the town. Ne'er be the dupe of Names, however high; For some outlive good parts, some misapply. 120 Each elegant Spectator you admire; But must you therefore swear by Cato's fire? Masques for the court, and oft a clumsey jest, Disgrac'd the muse that wrought the Alchemist. "But to the ancients."—Faith! I am not clear, 125 For all the smooth round type of Elzevir, That every work which lasts in prose or song, Two thousand years, deserves to last so long. For not to mention some eternal blades Known only now in th' academic shades, 130 (Those sacred groves where raptur'd spirits stray, And in word-hunting waste the live-long day) Ancients whom none but curious critics scan, Do, read[A] Messala's praises if you can. Ah! who but feels the sweet contagious smart 135 While soft Tibullus pours his tender heart? With him the Loves and Muses melt in tears; But not a word of some hexameters. "You grow so squeamish and so dev'lish dry, You'll call Lucretius vapid next." Not I. 140 Some find him tedious, others think him lame: But if he lags his subject is to blame. Rough weary roads thro' barren wilds he tried, Yet still he marches with true Roman pride: Sometimes a meteor, gorgeous, rapid, bright, 145 He streams athwart the philosophic night. Find you in Horace no insipid Odes?— He dar'd to tell us Homer sometimes nods; And but for such a aide's hardy skill Homer might slumber unsuspected still. 150

[Footnote A: A poem of Tibullus's in hexameter verse; as yawning and insipid as his elegies are tender and natural.]

Tasteless, implicit, indolent and tame, At second-hand we chiefly praise or blame. Hence 'tis, for else one knows not why nor how, Some authors flourish for a year or two: For many some, more wond'rous still to tell; 155 Farquhar yet lingers on the brink of hell. Of solid merit others pine unknown; } At first, tho'[A] Carlos swimmingly went down, } Poor Belvidera fail'd to melt the town. } Sunk in dead night the giant Milton lay 160 'Till Sommer's hand produc'd him to the day. But, thanks to heav'n and Addison's good grace Now ev'ry fop is charm'd with Chevy Chace.

[Footnote A: Don Carlos, a tragedy of Otway's, now long and justly forgotten, went off with great applause; while his Orphan, a somewhat better performance, and what is yet more strange, his Venice Preserved, according to the theatrical anecdotes of those times, met with a very cold reception.]

Specious and sage, the sovereign of the flock Led to the downs, or from the wave-worn rock 165 Reluctant hurl'd, the tame implicit train Or crop the downs, or headlong seek the main. As blindly we our solemn leaders follow, And good, and bad, and execrable swallow.

Pray, on the first throng'd evening of a play 170 That wears the[A] facies hippocratica, Strong lines of death, signs dire of reprobation; Have you not seen the angel of salvation Appear sublime; with wise and solemn rap To teach the doubtful rabble where to clap?— 175 The rabble knows not where our dramas shine; But where the cane goes pat—by G— that's fine!

[Footnote A: The appearance of the face in the last stage of a consumption, as it is described by Hippocrates.]

Judge for yourself; nor wait with timid phlegm Till some illustrious pedant hum or hem. 179 The lords who starv'd old Ben were learn'dly fond Of Chaucer, whom with bungling toil they conn'd, Their sons, whose ears bold Milton could not seize, } Would laugh o'er Ben like mad, and snuff and sneeze, } And swear, and seem as tickled as you please. } Their spawn, the pride of this sublimer age, 185 Feel to the toes and horns grave Milton's rage. Tho' liv'd he now he might appeal with scorn To Lords, Knights, 'Squires and Doctors, yet unborn; Or justly mad to Moloch's burning fane Devote the choicest children of his brain. 190 Judge for yourself; and as you find report. Of wit as freely as of beef or port. Zounds! shall a pert or bluff important wight, Whose brain is fanciless, whose blood is white; A mumbling ape of taste; prescribe us laws 195 To try the poets, for no better cause Than that he boasts per ann. ten thousand clear, Yelps in the House, or barely sits a Peer? For shame! for shame! the liberal British soul To stoop to any stale dictator's rule! 200

I may be wrong, and often am no doubt, But right or wrong with friends with foes 'twill out. Thus 'tis perhaps my fault if I complain Of trite invention and a flimsy vein, Tame characters, uninteresting, jejune, 205 And passions drily copied from [A]Le Brun. For I would rather never judge than wrong That friend of all men, generous Fenelon. But in the name of goodness, must I be 210 The dupe of charms I never yet could see? And then to flatter where there's no reward— Better be any patron-hunting bard, Who half our Lords with filthy praise besmears, And sing an Anthem to ALL MINISTERS: Taste th' Attic salt in ev'ry Peer's poor rebus, 215 And crown each Gothic idol for a Phoebus.

[Footnote A: First painter to Lewis XIV. who, to speak in fashionable French English, called himself LEWIS THE GREAT. Our sovereign lords the passions, Love, Rage, Despair, &c. were graciously pleased to sit to him in their turns for their portraits: which he was generous enough to communicate to the public; to the great improvement, no doubt, of history-painting. It was he who they say poison'd Le Sueur; who, without half his advantages in many other respects, was so unreasonable and provoking as to display a genius with which his own could stand no comparison. It was he and his Gothic disciples, who, with sly scratches, defac'd the most masterly of this Le Sueur's performances, as often as their barbarous envy could snugly reach them. Yet after all these atchievements he died in his bed! A catastrophe which could not have happened to him in a country like this, where the fine arts are as zealously and judiciously patronised as they are well understood.]

Alas! so far from free, so far from brave, We dare not shew the little Taste we have. With us you'll see ev'n vanity controul The most refin'd sensations of the soul. 220 Sad Otway's scenes, great Shakespear's we defy: "Lord, Madam! 'tis so unpolite to cry!— For shame, my dear! d'ye credit all this stuff?— I vow—well, this is innocent enough?" At Athens long ago, the Ladies—(married) 225 Dreamt not they misbehav'd tho' they miscarried, When a wild poet with licentious rage Turn'd fifty furies loose upon the stage.

They were so tender and so easy mov'd, Heav'ns! how the Grecian ladies must have lov'd! For all the fine sensations still have dwelt, 231 Perhaps, where one was exquisitely felt. Thus he who heavenly Maro truly feels Stands fix'd on Raphael, and at Handel thrills. The grosser senses too, the taste, the smell, } 235 Are likely truest where the fine prevail: } Who doubts that Horace must have cater'd well? } Friend, I'm a shrewd observer, and will guess What books you doat on from your fav'rite mess, Brown and L'Estrange will surely charm whome'er The frothy pertness strikes of weak small-beer. Who steeps the calf's fat loin in greasy sauce Will hardly loathe the praise that bastes an ass. Who riots on Scotcht Collops scorns not any Insipid, fulsome, trashy miscellany; 245 And who devours whate'er the cook can dish up, Will for a classic consecrate each[A] bishop.

[Footnote A: See Felton's Classics.]

But I am sick of pen and ink; and you Will find this letter long enough. Adieu!