Essays on Taste | Page 6

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