THE MONTHLY REVIEW, For JANUARY, 1782. Letters on feueral Subjects. By the Rev. Martin Sherlock, A. M. Chaplain to the Earl of Biol. 12mo. 2 Vols. 5 s. fewed. Nichols. 1781. HIS Writer, whom we have fo frequently introduced to the notice of our Readers, begins the Preface to his prefent publication with a compliment on the sweetness and placability of his own temper; and then proceeds to complain, in a fort of mixed ftrain of gaiety and ferioufnefs, of the ill-nature of thofe critics, who have had the prefumption to find fault with him, because their feelings of his very fuperior excellencies were not fo lively and ardent as his own. But, notwithstanding all this glowing felf-complacency, Mr. Sherlock, we find, is a modeft man!" And who tells us fo?"-Why, Mr. Sherlock himfelf! I am perfuaded (fays he) that my mother was in a good humour when I was made.' Now all the wit of this paffage (for the Author defigned it to be a witty one) will escape the Reader, unless, admonished by our good counfel, he turns his eyes on the oppofite page, where this reverend Gentleman, having a great Lady's perfon in admiration-the Apostle James would tell him, becaufe of advantage-and having complimented her Ladyship's bright eyes and rich fhape, appeals, with all the fang froid in the world, to his noble patronefs to bear teftimony to his modefty. You know me, Madam, to be a modest man? And in truth our Author feems to confider himself as privileged to take very uncommon methods to fhew his modefty. But perhaps he will avail himself of Mr. Pope's plea for great wits:" and may think himself at liberty to "ftart from vulgar rules." Colley Cibber thought the fame; but he used this privilege with more addrefs. VOL. LXVI. B As As the Author hath drawn the curtain, and introduced his mother in the scene, and that top in a very critical part of the play, we cannot do perfect office to his modefty, without remarking, that this arrangement was more for his fake than for ber's; for all the proof of his mother's good-humour' is founded on the fweet and ealy temper of her fon. I am perfuaded my mother was in a good humour when I was made, for it is very hard to put me out of temper.' Excellent logician! If this argument were drawn out at full length, logic would be in a better mad, and cut a better figure, than when the dafh'd thro' thin and thick With German Crouzaz, and Dutch Burgerfdyck. The fon however hath, in one respect, the advantage of the mother, for she was in a good humour when nothing else could be expected and he-now, this is the argumentum à fortioriwhen fo many untoward circumstances concurred to put him out of temper;-particularly, the feverity with which he had been treated by the critics.' Mercy on me!' he exclaims, very pathetically, how they have maul'd me!' Lamentable indeed!-But who those ruthless critics are, that have treated our Author with fuch indignant' rage, and in fofavage a mode,' we know not; nor are we concerned to enquire. Whoever they were, we think them most prepofterously employed. Mr. Sherlock might well tax their indignation' with injustice. It Iwas not his due. 'Who'd crush'-No-we will not put down the next word. We will not, for the fake of the jeft, forfeit our candour, and belie our convictions. Though Mr. Sherlock's wings are of the "pretty, fluttering" kind, yet they will fometimes take a bold and adventurous flight. We have followed them with pleafure: and though, in their airy rounds, they have often offended us with a falfe and fleeting dazzle; yet many of their beauties are fubftantial, and all their flights are not at random. To point out the defects, miftakes, and puerilities, to be found in these two volumes, would carry us beyond the limits of our Review; and fo it would, to point out the beauties and excellencies. We think the latter to be indeed much more perfpicuous, and alfo more numerous than the former; but the Author, too frequently depending on a kind of inftinctive tafte, decides with an equal want of judgment and modefty, on points which required attention, and by no means warranted affurance. Mr. Sherlock writes in hafte-writes like a gentleman at eafe, and reminds us of what Perfius fays of the Roman nobles, andquicquid denique leatis Scribetur in citreis. Mr. Sherlock abounds too much in fuperlatives, when he graifes; and pronounces fentence on what he diflikes with an oracular oracular concifenefs. The greatest effort of genius that perhaps was ever made was forming the plan of Clariffa Harlowe.' Mrs Sheridan, author of Nourjahad, Sidney Biddulph, one of the first female geniuses that ever wrote.' Ariosto is juftly to be reckoned among the first geniufes that Nature hath produced.' Shakespeare is the greatest genius that ever existed.' • Voltaire is the first bel efprit that ever lived.' Who do you think, Reader, were the three greatest wits of this country? I believe you will anfwer, Swift, Congreve, and Mr. Sheridan.' There are different degrees of good tafte. To poffefs the higheft (as Lord Bristol does), one muft unite an unerring judgment to exquifite fenfibility.' The country which has produced the fineft wits, after France, is Ireland.'-FIELDING, however, was an Englishman, and we are fatisfied. Mr. Sherlock's pofitions are fometimes founded on facts which have no existence but in idle tradition. The following is an inftance that hath been pointed out to us: Genius is often feen in works of very little compass: Vidit, et erubuit lympha pudica Deum, was a line of genius that announced Dryden, and Busby felt it.' Now, unfortunately for our Author, this line, in which he defcries with great fagacity the dawn of Dryden's genius, was really the production of Crafhaw, and may be found in his works, which were published before Dryden's genius was announced to Bufby. Now, who was Crafhaw? Let Mr. Sherlock read his Poems, and inform us, honeftly, if his notion' be right, viz. That every perfon who has ftrength of imagination fufficient to produce any thing new, be that production ever fo fmall (as for example, this line), is a perfon of genius.' Is this notion right when applied to Crafhaw; or would it only be right when applied to Dryden? The latter was a lucky name to ftrengthen the argument; but it was not the true one. With regard to the line itself, we by no means think it deferving of the applaufe that hath been bestowed on it. Mr. Sherlock may, if he pleafes, charge us with dulnefs, and call our taste in queftion; but ftill, in oppofition to him and the other admirers of this line, we think it but, at best, quaint and fanciful: it is not elegant: it is not natural. It is highly ftrained. The metaphors are mixed, and no precife image is presented by it. If Mr. Sherlock had retained the original word nympha, one part of our objection would have been removed. As he hath exhibited it, and as it hath been traditionally handed down from school-boy to fchool-boy, he fhould have favoured the general readers of his Letters with the common tranflation, that they might have feen where the point of genius turned. We will fupply this defect. "The modelt water, aw'd by Pow'r divine. We wish to check Mr. Sherlock's confidence. He is too flippant; too dogmatical. And we equally wish to encourage his excellencies; for he hath excellencies, and thofe too of the higher kind. His fentiments are often very ftriking and beautiful; and his language concife and elegant. Tulit punctumand that too with an addrefs and felicity peculiar to himself. As a fpecimen of his abilities, as a fprightly, ingenious, and fenfible Writer, we fhall prefent our Readers with a few extracts from each volume, affuring them at the fame time, that, in fpite of our remarks, they will find themfelves well recompenfed by purchafing the whole. Though our Author hath Voltair'd it in almost every letter, and feems to affect the ftyle and manner of the French wits, yet his partiality to the first of them hath not so far obfcured his judgment as to make him blind to his faults. This will appear from the following letters: You think Voltaire the first bel efprit that ever lived. So do I. You think he had genius. There I am forry we differ. If he had, it was fo little, I could never difcover it; and I looked for it often. But I can find genius in almost every page of Shakspeare. Though I have little learning, I fcarce ever difcover a beauty in Voltaire, without being able to tell where the mother-idea of it is to be found. The works of Voltaire which fhould beft fhew his genius, if he had any, are Canaide, and a poem which I dare not name. His imagination here was without reftraint; and what has it produced? Ridiculous extravagancies and abfurdities that difguft. Thefe, however, are the two productions that do moft honour to his talents; particularly the laft. There are as happy paffages in it for delicacy of wit and brilliancy of style as ever was read; but the number of horrors with which it abounds makes it fhocking to men of decency, and difgufting to all readers of tafte. As to the invention of this poem, every one knows that it belongs entirely to Chapelain and Ariofto; as the ground work of Candide is borrowed from Swift. So that his admirers may give to these performances every other merit they pleafe, but as to genius, it is out of the queftion.-1 am Voltaire's friend and enemy. He is a very voluminous and a very unequal author. There is a great deal of good, and a great deal of bad in him. His writings fometimes breathe a fpirit of humanity, and a love of tolerance, which muft endear him to every reader. His ftyle is charming; always rapid, eafy, brilliant. Diction in writing is like colouring in a picture; it is the first thing that ftrikes, and with most perfons the only thing. Splendid language and bright colours will dazzle ninety-nine people in an hundred, captivate their eye and their fancy, and impofe upon their understanding. This has been the grand magic by which this fe d ucng ducing writer has fafcinated almoft all claffes of readers. No man ever wrote with greater elegance, delicacy, or grace. So polfhed, fo agreeable, fo full of the tone of the best company, he must please every person who loves mankind, who admires wit, and who knows how to appreciate the charms of fine writing. Turn the medal, and what an unhappy reverfe! Audacious preacher of infidelity, malignant calumniator of the moft virtuous characters, odious encourager of every fpecies of vice, he facrificed all human and divine ideas to his favourite passions ; and prostituted talents, formed to adorn humanity, to a miferable love of money and of fame. A proftitute he was, and of the moft defpicable clafs. Born to independence, and poffeffed of affluence early in life, he could not plead the folicitations of neceffity; and the innumerable pallages of invective, licentioufnefs, and impiety, which abound in his works, make him fall an unpitied vidim of his own innate bafenefs and depravity. Here let it not be imagined I declaim against a philofopher, enlightened and humane. I declaim against him because he was not humane. Was that man the lover of his race, who deprived the afflicted of their moft healing balm, and the aged of their greateft confolation? Let the aged and afflicted answer the queftion -Where lies the chief alleviation of their fufferings? Is it not in religion? Was that man then the friend of mankind, who endeavoured to rob fo large a portion of it of their strongest hope, and of their moft pleafing enjoyments? Was that man the friend of mankind, who brought the Chevalier de la Barre to be broke alive upon the wheel; and who fowed unhappiness through the world as far as he propagated immorality? His Tragedies, you'll fay, are moral and inftructive. And why are they? Because to fill them with noble sentiments and found morality was the most likely method to infure their fuccefs. Individuals love their own private vices. Bodies of men ever love and countenance virtue. A romance or poem is written for an individual in the dark. A tragedy is addreffed to a collective body in the face of day. He knew all this; and, defirous only to pleafe every palate, he ferved up virtue to the virtuous, and vice to the debauched; and gave to both the highest feasoning a luxuriant fancy could compote. If you will permit me to follow this metaphor, and return to his talents, I will fay, Voltaire was a great literary cook. Give him good meats, no man knew better how to dress them. But they must be given him, for he was not rich enough to provide them himself, Don't you think his works resemble Corinthian brass? He took the gold of Shakspeare, Virgil, Corneille, Racine, Ariofto, and Pope; and the filver of La Fare, Chaulieu, Fontenelle, and Hamilton, and melted them together in the crucible of his brain. B 3 The |