foundation of truth; but that exquisite sensibility which leads to the too nice perception of blemishes is apt to carry him away from the contemplation of the beauties of the author, and gives him a degree of uneasiness which is not always compensated by the pleasure he receives.

Very different from this turn of mind is that of Robert Morley, Esq. He is a man of very considerable abilities. His father (possessed of a considerable fortune) sent him, when a boy, to an English academy. He contracted, from the example of his teachers, an attachment to ancient learning; and he was led to think that he felt and relished the classics, and understood the merits of their composition. From these circumstances, he began to fancy himself a man of fine taste, qualified to decide with authority upon every subject of polite literature. But, in reality, Mr. Morley possesses as little taste as any one I ever knew of his talents and learning. Endowed, by nature, with great strength of mind, and ignorant of the feebleness and weakness of human character, he is a stranger to all those finer delicacies of feeling and perception which constitute the man of genuine taste. But, this notwithstanding, from the persuasion that he is a person of fine taste, he reads and talks, with fancied rapture, of a poem, or a poetical description. All his remarks, however, discover that he knows nothing of what he talks about; and almost every opinion which he gives differs from the most approved upon the subject. Catched by that spirit which Homer's heroes are possessed of, he agrees with the greatest part of the world in thinking that author the first of all poets; but Virgil he considers as a poet of very little merit. To him he prefers Lucan; but thinks there are some passages in Statius superior to either. He says Ovid gives a better picture of love than Tibullus; and he prefers

Quintus Curtius, as an historian, to Livy. The modern writers, particularly the French, he generally speaks of with contempt. Amongst the English, he likes the style of the Rambler better than that of Mr. Addison's Spectator; and he prefers Gordon and Macpherson to Hume and Robertson. I have sometimes heard him repeat an hundred lines at a stretch from one of the most bombast of our English poets, and have seen him in apparent rapture at the high-sounding words, and swell of the lines, though I am pretty certain that he could not have a distinct picture or idea of any one thing the poet meant. Though he has no ear, I have heard him talk with enthusiasm in praise of music, and lecture, with an air of superiority, upon the different qualities of the greatest masters in the art.

Thus, while Mr. Fleetwood is often a prey to disappointment, and rendered uneasy by excessive refinement and sensibility, Mr. Morley, without any taste at all, receives gratification unmixed and unalloyed.

The character of Morley is not more different from Fleetwood's than that of Tom Dacres is from both. Tom is a young man of six-and-twenty, and being owner of an estate of about five hundred pounds a year, he resides constantly in the country. He is not a man of parts; nor is he possessed of the least degree of taste; but Tom lives easy, contented, and happy. He is one of the greatest talkers I ever knew; he rambles, with great volubility, from subject to subject; but he never says any thing that is worth being heard. He is every where the same; and he runs on with the like undistinguishing ease, whether in company with men in high or in low rank, with the knowing or the ignorant. The morning, if the weather be good, he employs in traversing the fields, dressed in a short coat, and an old slouched

hat with a tarnished gold binding. He is expert at all exercises; and he passes much of his time in shooting, playing at cricket, or at ninepins. If the weather be rainy, he moves from the farm-yard to the stable, or from the stable to the farm-yard. He walks from one end of the parlour to the other, humming a tune, or whistling to himself; sometimes he plays on the fiddle, or takes a hit at back-gammon. Tom's sisters, who are very accomplished girls, now and then put into his hands any new book with which they are pleased; but he always returns it, says he does not see the use of reading, that the book may be good, is well pleased that they like it, but that it is not a thing of his sort. Even in the presence of ladies he often indulges in jokes coarse and indecent, which could not be heard without a blush from any other person; but from Tom, for his way is known, they are heard without offence. Tom is pleased with himself, and with every thing around him, and wishes for nothing that he is not possessed of. He says he is much happier than your wiser and graver gentlemen. Tom will never be respected or admired; but he is disliked by none, and made welcome wherever he goes.

In reflecting upon these characters, I have sometimes been almost tempted to think, that taste is an acquisition to be avoided. I have been apt to make this conclusion, when I considered the many undescribable uneasinesses to which Mr. Fleetwood is exposed, and the many unalloyed enjoyments of Morley and Dacres; the one without taste, but believing himself possessed of it; the other without taste, and without thinking that he has any. But I have always been withdrawn from every such reflection, by the contemplation of the character of my much-valued friend Mr. Sidney.

Mr. Sidney is a man of the best understanding

and of the most correct and elegant taste; but he is not more remarkable for those qualities than for that uncommon goodness and benevolence which presides in all he says or does. To this it is owing that his refined taste has never been attended with any other consequence than to add to his own happiness, and to that of every person with whom he has any connexion. Mr. Sidney never unbosoms the secrets of his heart, except to a very few particular friends; but he is polite and complaisant to all. It is not, however, that politeness which arises from a desire to comply with the rules of the world; it is politeness dictated by the heart, and which, therefore, sits always easy upon him. At peace with his own mind, he is pleased with every one about him; and he receives the most sensible gratification from the thought that the little attentions which he bestows upon others contribute to their happiness. No person ever knew better how to estimate the different pleasures of life; but none ever entered with more ease into the enjoyments of others, though not suited to his own taste. This flows from the natural benevolence of his heart; and I know he has received more delight from taking a share in the pleasures of others than in cultivating his own. In reading, no man has a nicer discernment of the faults of an author; but he always contrives to overlook them; and says that he hardly ever read any book from which he did not receive some pleasure or instruction.

Mr. Sidney has, in the course of his life, met with disappointments and misfortunes, though few of them are known except to his most particular friends. While the impression of those misfortunes was strongest on his mind, his outward conduct in the world remained invariably the same; and those few friends whom he honoured by making partners of

his sorrows know that one great source of his consolation was the consciousness that, under the pressure of calamity, his behaviour remained unaltered, and that he was able to go through the duties of life with becoming dignity and ease. Instead of being peevish and discontented with the world, the disappointments he has met with have only taught him to become more detached from those enjoyments of life which are beyond his power, and have made him value more highly those which he possesses. Mr. Sidney has, for a long time past, been engaged in business of a very difficult and laborious nature; but he conducts it with equal ease and spirit. Far from the elegance and sensibility of his mind unfitting him for the management of those transactions which require great firmness and perseverance, I believe it is his good taste and elegant refinement of mind which enable him to support that load of business; because he knows that, when it is finished, he has pleasure in store. He is married to a very amiable and beautiful woman, by whom he has four fine children. He says that, when he thinks it is for them, all toil is easy, and all labour light.

The intimate knowledge I have of Mr. Sidney has taught me, that refinement and delicacy of mind, when kept within proper bounds, contribute to happiness; and that their natural effect, instead of producing uneasiness and chagrin, is to add to the enjoyments of life. In comparing the two characters of Fleetwood and Sidney, which Nature seems to have cast in the same mould, I have been struck with the fatal consequences to Fleetwood of indulging his spleen at those little rubs in life, which a juster sense of human imperfection would make him consider equally unavoidable, and to be regarded with the same indifference, as a rainy day, a dusty road, or any the like trifling inconvenience. There is nothing