even be tempted to believe the contrary; and I should consider a person's showing that he was able to analyze a subject, as a strong presumption that he understood that subject. I conceive beforehand that all men think they have taste, and that all those who do not know how to define it will be of M. de Voltaire's opinion.

The term taste is a metaphor taken from the palate. A good partridge is served up to three men one finds it good; another finds it bad; the third neither finds it good nor bad. The third is a man without taste; the second man's taste is bad; the first man has a good taste. Bring a German grenadier to see the Belvedere Apollo, he will neither find it beautiful nor ugly; this is a man without taste: show this statue to a Dutch Burgo, he will find it two light, he would wish it a little heavier; this is a man of a perfidious taste: show it afterwards to ten Italians, ten Frenchmen, and ten Englishmen, they will all find it beautiful, and yet each of them may have a different taste.

Jean Jaques Rousseau says, "Le gout est le microscope du jugement ;" and in another place he says, "il sert de lunettes à la raison.” In these two expressions the idea is the same, and the idea is false; and the reason why Rousseau mistook is the same that has misled all the men who have written upon taste. They thought it a simple idea, and it is a complex one. The cause of their errour is this: taste, in its literal sense, is a simple idea; in its metaphorical

sense, it is a compounded idea. I explain myself by an example. The piece of pheasant that I eat is addressed to a single sense, to my palate, which decides upon it. To what is the qu'il mour út addressed? To my judgment. Is it fine? I answer, that it is. Have I then taste? No; I have only judgment: but after having passed through my judgment, it has still another address: where? to my feeling. Do I feel then the beauty of this qu'il mourût? Yes; then I have taste; and this taste is a compound idea, and compounded of these two parts, judgment and feeling.

The degrees of judgment are extremely varied in men; the degrees of feeling are not less so; the combinations of these two parts are therefore infinitely diversified; and hence arises that astonishing variety of tastes that we meet in the world. Of those thirty men of good taste who found the Apollo beautiful, I said, perhaps each of them had a different taste; for even supposing the judgments of all equal, it is more than probable that each of them felt differently the beauties of this work; and in that case each of them had a different taste. The three greatest criticks that ever existed were Boileau, Horace, and Longinus. Show a sublime beauty to these criticks; the taste of the three was good; they would all agree, but their taste was not the same; the faculty of judging was equal in all, but their feelings were different, and they would not feel, this beauty

equally; Boileau would feel it as a hundred ; Horace as a hundred; Longinus as a thousand.

If they are I have; for

I am sure that these ideas upon taste are new I am not sure that they are just. not, I have no taste; if they are, I drew them from myself.

ANCIENT ENGLISH POETS.

ROBERT GREEN

WAS born at Norwich, about the middle of the sixteenth century. He was educated at Cambridge, and on leaving that university made the tour of Europe. In this tour he is said to have learned that debauchery which characterized the greater part of his life, and embittered his latter days. After having resided some years in London, he took his degree in arts at Cambridge, and was incorporated at Oxford in the year 1588. He was married to a very amiable woman, by whom he had one son. But this lady he quitted in the year 1586, being of fended at her having given him good advice. He then lived with a prostitute, wrote obscene pamphlets for his support, and fully exemplified by his manners, the doctrines that he taught. Towards the latter end of his life, however, he appears to have repented sincerely. A letter,

which he addressed to his wife, discovers a great degree of contrition. He died in the year 1592 of a surfeit, occasioned by eating pickled herrings and drinking rhenish wine. The pamphlets of Green are numerous, but now very scarce. He is said to have been the first author who wrote for bread.

DOWNE the valley gan he tracke,

Bagge and bottle at his backe,
In a surcoate all of gray,

Such were Palmers on the way ;.
When with scrip and staffe they see
Jesus grave on Calverie;

A hat of straw like a swaine,
Shelter for the sun and raine,
With a scallop shell before :
Sandals on his feete he wore :
Legs were bare, armes vnclad :
Such attire the Palmer had.
His face faire like Titans shine,
Gray and buxome were his eyne,
Whereout dropt pearles of sorrow,
Such sweet teares love doth borrow,
When in outward dewes he plaines
Harts distresse that lovers paines :
Rubie lips, cherrie cheekes,
Such rare mixture Venus seckes,

When to keepe her damsels quiet,
Beautie sets them downe their diet.
Adon was not thought more faire ;
Curled locks of amber hair :

Locks where Love did sit and twine
Nets, to snare the gazers eine :

Such a Palmer ne'er was seene,

'Lesse Love himself had Palmer beene.

Yet for all he was so quaint,

Sorrow did his visage taint.

Midst the riches of his face,
Griefe deciphred high disgrace;
Every step strained a teare,
Suddaine sighes showed his feare;
And yet his feare by his sight,
Ended in a strange delight :
That his passions did approve,

Weedes and sorrow were for Love.

COL. RICHARD LOVELACE,

Son of Sir Richard Lovelace, of Bethersden, in Kent, was born 1618, and educated at the Charter-house, and at Oxford, from whence he attended the Court. The beauty of his person and elegance of his manners made him a great favourite of the ladies. He afterwards retired to his seat in the country, whence he was deputed to carry the Kentish Petition to the House of Commons, for which he was committed to the Gate-house at Westminster. Here he