To waste their talents on a booby's face,
And toil to give unmeaning features grace.

F. What! your old style? I feared your breath of praise

Would quickly be exhausted. Yet why raise
Your voice against the useful powers that save

From Time's fell grasp the good, the wise, the brave;

That aid the' historic and poetic page

To hand down virtue to a future age?

A. With you I praise the pencil that bids rise Heroes of other days before our eyes, Perpetuates the features of the brave, And all the worth that decorates its age. Oft have I blessed the pencil that can steal From absence half its bitterness, reveal The form of one beloved, and bless our eyes With friends that wander under other skies; Still must I join the verse that ridicules The flatterers of those presumptuous fools Who give their numbskulls, dressed by art divine, And highly varnished, in rich frames to shine. Lawrence, or Hoppner, or Sir William, knows What he who paints a portrait undergoes;

How e'en their skill may fail to satisfy
The cravings of self-love and vanity:

They know how oft the withered cheek demands
The bloom of youthful roses from their hands;
How oft the dead dim eye demands the ray
Of fires extinct, alas! for many a day;
And he who carries dullness in his face
Expects expression, liveliness, and grace.
He who does suit and service with his art,
To these, at best, but acts a servile part,
The nurse of folly yet less guilty far
Than those convenient tools (if such there are,
As rugged Barry seems to hint) who lend
Their rooms for meetings with a private friend. *

F. Mere surliness in Barry, spleen in you....
Nay, if this rude invective you pursue,
Music, that heavenly art, whose pleasing sway
At once the cruel and the mild obey;
Music, that sternest, fiercest souls has tamed,
Music itself will hardly pass unblamed.

A. You think me of my censures too profuse ;.... 'Tis not the art itself, but its abuse

a I do not recollect with certainty, but think that this offensive insinuation was made in the reply to Winkelmann.

That I condemn. Is there no food for rage
In the perverting spirit of the age,

When the great masters of the moving lyre,
Whose powers sublimest feelings might inspire,
Charm the rapt sense no more; for Handel's song,
All various, lofty, plaintive, sweet, or strong,
Of power to give to softest sadness birth,
Or lift the soul above the scenes of earth;
For the rich sweetness of Corelli's strain,
For Purcel's magic, lo, a quavering train,
Who place all music in the dextrous skill
Of high bravura, neat shake, or smooth trill; *
These swarm in all our concerts, fill the stage,
And gain loud plaudits from a stupid age.

F. What! you condemn the wretches in a mass?

A. No....with some others, I'll let Vinci pass; Her execution, taste, tone, magic look,

a I deny not that the preternatural screams of an Italian singer may occasion surprise and momentary amusement; but those screams are not music; they are admired, not for their propriety or pathos, but, like rope-dancing and the eating of fire, because they are uncommon and difficult. The end of all genuine music is to introduce into the human mind certain affections, or susceptibilities of affection.

BEATTIE ON POETRY AND MUSIC, p. 1. c. vi. s. 1.

Would charm us even in the songs of Hook,
But for those fools, who, other fools to please,
Play tricks, like rope-dancers, upon the keys,
For these I have no mercy; yet they throng
E'en on our tragic stages, and ere long

It will not much surprise me if Othello
Smothers his wife to a sweet ritornello,

While she, all underneath the sheets, shall sing ye
A tear-compelling aria by Mazzinghi.

F. The care of managers forbids that dread.

A. I know not that....so long on folly fed, The town might like it, and, as usual, say, "Well, that Othello is a pretty play." Too well the manager his interest knows To talk of folly when the house o'erflows. Whate'er the public taste, 'tis his to please, And now, the way once found, 'tis done with ease. Brinsley saw well the temper of the age, Saw how for noise and show prevailed a rage, Marked with keen eye the temper of the town, And found that nonsense only would go down; Then, though in realms of wit he shone alone, And saw the walks of humour all his own, He decked his crown with sprigs of German bays, And e'en from Anna Plumptre borrowed praise.

Now, Shakspeare's scenes to deck, the dance and

song,

Pageants, and shows, and the procession's throng,
Must be combined. All Hamlet's charms are lost
In the superior beauties of the ghost;

And half the actors, scorning the plain door,
Must rise on traps and engines through the floor.
E'en Lear touches not by his distresses
Unless that dear Miss Rein performs the dresses.
Yet let proud Drury's managers beware,

For rivals rise the public praise to share;
Let them take special heed, or they may fall
Before the strong attractions of Vauxhall;
For Blue-beard's gardens shine not half so bright
As Ranelagh, or Vauxhall's gala night.
Lewis himself, with his infernal hosts,

Must yield to Astley's most transcendant ghosts..
Hide, Kemble, hide thy face, and blush to see
Vauxhall in elephants excel e'en thee,
Out-gild thy pageants with a single car,

And gain a victory without a war.

F. This will not save your book....howe'er debased,

Howe'er depraved and sunk the public taste, Still some there are, the favoured sons of song, Who shine conspicuous o'er the vulgar throng;