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!

OF GENIUS

There is a standard of right and wrong in the nature of things, of