taste, and entertain us with the agreeable characters, the dignified
conversation, the poignant repartee, in short, the genteel comedy of the
polite world?"

Have a little patience, gentle, delicate, sublime critic; you, I doubt
not, are one of those consummate connoisseurs, who, in their
purifications, let humour evaporate, while they endeavour to preserve
decorum, and polish wit, until the edge of it is quite worn off. Or,
perhaps, of that class, who, in the sapience of taste, are disgusted with
those very flavours in the productions of their own country which have
yielded infinite delectation to their faculties, when imported from
another clime; and d--n an author in despite of all precedent and
prescription;--who extol the writings of Petronius Arbiter, read with
rapture the amorous sallies of Ovid's pen, and chuckle over the story of
Lucian's ass; yet, if a modern author presumes to relate the progress of
a simple intrigue, are shocked at the indecency and immorality of the
scene;--who delight in following Guzman d'Alfarache, through all the
mazes of squalid beggary; who with pleasure accompany Don Quixote and his
squire, in the lowest paths of fortune; who are diverted with the
adventures of Scarron's ragged troop of strollers, and highly entertained
with the servile situations of Gil Blas; yet, when a character in humble
life occasionally occurs in a performance of our own growth, exclaim,
with an air of disgust, "Was ever anything so mean! sure, this writer
must have been very conversant with the lowest scenes of life";--who,
when Swift or Pope represents a coxcomb in the act of swearing, scruple
not to laugh at the ridiculous execrations; but, in a less reputed
author, condemn the use of such profane expletives;--who eagerly explore
the jakes of Rabelais, for amusement, and even extract humour from the
dean's description of a lady's dressing-room; yet in a production of
these days, unstamped with such venerable names, will stop their noses,