inly 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.]

"The Dunciad" is blemished by the offensive images of the games; but the
poetry appears to me admirable; and, though the fourth book has
obscurities, I prefer it to the three others: it has descriptions not
surpassed by any poet that ever existed, and which surely a writer
merely ingenious will never equal. The lines on Italy, on Venice, on
Convents, have all the grace for which I contend as distinct from
poetry, though united with the most beautiful; and the "Rape of the
Lock," besides the originality of great part of the invention, is a
standard of graceful writing.

In general, I believe that what I call grace, is denominated elegance;
but by grace I mean something higher. I will explain myself by
instances--Apollo is graceful, Mercury is elegant. Petrarch, perhaps,
owed his whole merit to the harmony of his numbers and the graces of his
style. They conceal his poverty of meaning and want of variety. His
complaints, too, may have added an interest, which, had his passion been
successful, and had expressed itself with equal sameness, would have
made the number of his sonnets insupportable. Melancholy in poetry, I am
inclined to think, contributes to grace, when it is not disgraced by
pitiful lamentations, such as Ovid's and Cicero's in their banishments.
We respect melancholy, because it imparts a similar affection, pity. A
gay writer, who should only express satisfaction without variety, would
soon be nauseous.

Madame de Sevigne shines both in grief and gaiety. There is too much of
sorrow for her daughter's absence; yet it is always expressed by new
terms, by new images, and often by wit, who