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, and 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 endeavoured to explain it to others seem to
have succeeded only in shewing us that they know 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.
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