we say to a man who mounted his chamber hobby, or fought with his own shadow, for his amusement only? How much more absurd and weak would he appear, who swallowed poison because it was sweet! How differently did Horace think of study from our modern readers! Quid verum atque decens, curo et rogo, et omnis in hoc sum: Condo, et compono, quæ mox depromere possim. "Truth and decency are my whole care and inquiry. In this study I am entirely occupied; these I am always laying up, and so disposing, that I can at any time draw forth my stores for my immediate use." The whole epistle, indeed, from which I have paraphrased this passage, is a comment upon it, and affords many useful lessons of philosophy. When we are employed in reading a great and good author, we ought to consider ourselves searching after treasures, which, if well and regularly laid up in the mind, will be of use to us on sundry occasions in our lives. If a man, for instance, should be overloaded with prosperity or adversity (both of which cases are liable to happen to us,) who is there so very wise, or so very foolish, that if he was a master of Seneca and Plutarch, could not find great matter of comfort and utility from their doctrines? I mention these rather than Plato and Aristotle, as the works of the latter are not, I think, yet completely made English; and, consequently, are less within the reach of most of my countrymen. But, perhaps, it may be asked, will Seneca or Plutarch make us laugh? perhaps not; but if you are not a fool, my worthy friend, which I can hardly with civility suspect, they will both (the latter especially,) please you more than if they did. For my own part, I declare, I have not read even Lucian himself with more delight than I have Plutarch; but surely it is astonishing that such scribblers as Tom Brown, Tom D'Urfey, and the wits of our age, should find readers, while the writings of so excellent, so entertaining, so voluminous an author as Plutarch remain in the world, and, as I apprehend, are very little known. The truth I am afraid is, that real taste is a quality with which human nature is very slenderly gifted. It is indeed so very rare, and so little known, that scarce two authors have agreed in their notions of it; and those who have endeayoured to explain it to others seem to have succeeded only in showing us that they knew it not themselves. If I might be allowed to give my own sentiments, I should derive it from a nice harmony between the imagination and the judgment; and hence perhaps it is, that so few have ever possessed this talent in any eminent degree. Neither of these will alone bestow it; nothing is indeed more common than to see men of very bright imaginations, and of very accurate learning (which can hardly be acquired without judgment) who are entirely devoid of taste; and Longinus, who of all men seems most exquisitely to have possessed it, will puzzle his reader very much if he should attempt to decide whether imagination or judgment shine the brighter in that inimitable critic. But as for the bulk of mankind, they are clearly void of any degree of taste. It is a quality in which they advance very little beyond the state of infancy. The first thing a child is fond of in a book is a picture; the second is a story; and the third a jest. Here then is the true Pons Asinorum, which very few readers ever get over. From what I have said it may perhaps be thought to appear, that true taste is the real gift of nature only; and if so, some may ask to what purpose have I endeavoured to show men that they are without a blessing, which it is impossible for them to obtain. Now, though it is certain that to the highest consummation of taste, as well as of every other excellence, nature must lend much assistance; yet great is the power of art almost of itself, or at. least with only slender aids from nature; and to say the truth, there are very few who have not in their minds some small seeds of taste. "All men," says Cicero, "have a sort of tacit sense of what is right or wrong in arts or sciences, even without the help of art." This surely it is in the power of art very greatly to improve. That most men therefore proceed no farther than as I have above declared is owing either to the want of any, or (which is perhaps yet worse) to an improper education. I shall, probably, therefore, in a future paper endeavour to lay down some rules by which all may acquire, at least, some degree of taste. In the meanwhile I shall, according to the method observed in inoculation, recommend to the readers, as a preparative for their receiving my instructions, a total abstinence from all bad books. I do therefore most earnestly entreat all my young readers, that they would cautiously avoid the perusal of any modern book till it hath first had the sanction of some wise and learned man; and the same caution I propose to all fathers, mothers, and guardians. "Evil communications corrupt good manners," is a quotation of St. Paul from Menander. Evil books corrupt at once both our manners and our taste. FIELDING. THE FALL OF TERNI. TERNI is the native town of Tacitus, and the theatre of an extraordinary wonder of nature. The cascades of Tivoli are beautiful; the fall of Terni is great and majestic. There, Tacitus would probably have been a poet; here, he could be no other than an historian; and his style could not but be simply nervous, and rugged like these rocks. Here I had an opportunity of making many reflections on the influence which the objects that first surround a writer exercise on the choice of the subjects to which he for ever after devotes his pen: these would probably lead me to interesting speculations, not to the waterfall of Terni; only to digressions which I will spare the reader. No sooner had I alighted from the carriage, than I ordered post-horses, for the distance of that noble fall from the town is a good German mile (upwards of four miles and a half English). You may either ride thither on horseback, or in a two-wheeled cabriolet: in which it is indeed possible for two persons to sit, if they are upon good terms with each other; for they are squeezed so close, and tumbled so frequently one against the other, that two persons, inimically disposed, are obliged either to be reconciled, or to fight. We first passed through a fine wood of olives, animated by industrious peasants, who were just then (about the middle of January) engaged in gathering the fruit. At the end of this wood we reached the village of Papinia, above which towers a steep and lofty mountain; and observed the road winding round the summit, appearing at a distance like a narrow footpath. The postilion, however, encouraged us, assuring us that he every day passed that road with his light cabriolet. We found, indeed, that the steep precipice is provided only here and there with low walls; but a stranger can have no conception of the safety with which these horses proceed along such roads. We met a great number of peasants on horseback, who trotted on the extreme verge, so that there was not the breadth of a straw between them and an abyss of perhaps three hundred fathoms, and were as merry and unconcerned as if they were taking a ride in a park. They might with convenience have kept the middle of the road, but did not give themselves the trouble to look either at that or their horses, and the animals seemed to prefer the dangerous path. Such is the power of custom! Courage is nothing more than an acquaintance with danger. At length you reach the summit of the steep mountain, and arrive at a small plain, where, five years ago, a bloodless battle was fought between the French and the Neapolitans. The number of the former was eight hundred, that of the latter four thousand, and yet they ran away, as they did everywhere else, regardless of the venerable shade of Tacitus. The neighbouring inhabitants are of opinion that it must have been the effect of treachery, because the Neapolitan general had shortly before had an interview with the commanding officer of the French; but I believe that nature alone is to blame for having denied the frequently Herculean bodies of the Neapolitans the smallest spark of |