Essays on Taste | Page 7

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