Cowley, I think, would have had grace (for his mind was graceful) if he had had any ear, or if his task had not been vitiated by the pursuit of wit; which, when it does not offer itself naturally, degenerates into tinsel or pertness.  Pertness is the mistaken affection of grace, as pedantry produces erroneous dignity; the familiarity of the one, and the clumsiness of the other, distort or prevent grace.  Nature, that furnishes samples of all qualities, and on the scale of gradation exhibits all possible shades, affords us types that are more apposite than words.  The eagle is sublime, the lion majestic, the swan graceful, the monkey pert, the bear ridiculously awkward.  I mention these as more expressive and comprehensive than I could make definitions of my meaning; but I will apply the swan only, under whose wings I will shelter an apology for Racine, whose pieces give me an idea of that bird.  The colouring of the swan is pure; his attitudes are graceful; he never displeases you when sailing on his proper element.  His feet may be ugly, his notes hissing, not musical, his walk not natural; he can soar, but it is with difficulty;—­still, the impression the swan leaves is that of grace.  So does Racine.

Boileau may be compared to the dog, whose sagacity is remarkable, as well as its fawning on its master, and its snarling at those it dislikes.  If Boileau was too austere to admit the pliability of grace, he compensates by good sense and propriety.  He is like (for I will drop animals) an upright magistrate, whom you respect, but whose justice and severity leave an awe that discourages familiarity.  His copies of the ancients may be too servile:  but, if a good translator deserves praise, Boileau deserves more.  He certainly does not fall below his originals; and, considering at what period he wrote, has greater merit still.  By his imitations he held out to his countrymen models of taste, and banished totally the bad taste of his predecessors.  For his “Lutrin,"[1] replete with excellent poetry, wit, humour, and satire, he certainly was not obliged to the ancients.  Excepting Horace, how little idea had either Greeks or Romans of wit and humour!  Aristophanes and Lucian, compared with moderns, were, the one a blackguard, and the other a buffoon.  In my eyes, the “Lutrin,” the “Dispensary,” and the “Rape of the Lock,” are standards of grace and elegance, not to be paralleled by antiquity; and eternal reproaches to Voltaire, whose indelicacy in the “Pucelle” degraded him as much, when compared with the three authors I have named, as his “Henriade” leaves Virgil, and even Lucan, whom he more resembles, by far his superiors.

[Footnote 1:  The “Lutrin” is a critical poem in six cantos.  Lutrin means a desk; and Hallam, who does not seem to rate it very highly, regards the plan of it as borrowed from Tassoni’s “Secchia rapita,” Secchia meaning a pitcher.]