Essays on Taste | Page 7

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