cannot enter into the minutiæ of domeſtic taſte; lacking judgment, the foundation of all taſte. For the underſtanding, in ſpite of ſenſual cavillers, reſerves to itſelf the privilege of conveying pure joy to the heart.
With what a languid yawn have I ſeen an admirable poem thrown down, that a man of true taſte returns to, again and again with rapture; and, whilſt melody has almoſt ſuſpended reſpiration, a lady has aſked me where I bought my gown. I have ſeen alſo an eye glanced coldly over a moſt exquiſite picture, reſt, ſparkling with pleaſure, on a caricature rudely ſketched; and whilſt ſome terrific feature in nature has ſpread a ſublime ſtillneſs through my ſoul, I have been deſired to obſerve the pretty tricks of a lap-dog, that my perverſe fate forced me to travel with. Is it ſurpriſing that ſuch a taſteleſs being ſhould rather careſs this dog than her children? Or, that ſhe ſhould prefer the rant of flattery to the ſimple accents of ſincerity?
To illuſtrate this remark I muſt be allowed to obſerve, that men of the firſt genius and moſt cultivated minds, have appeared to have the higheſt reliſh for the ſimple beauties of nature; and they muſt have forcibly felt, what they have ſo well deſcribed, the charm, which natural affections, and unſophiſticated feelings ſpread round the human character. It is this power of looking into the heart, and reſponſively vibrating with each emotion, that enables the poet to personify each paſſion, and the painter to ſketch with a pencil of fire.
