THE DILETTANT.

The most oppressive Form of Cant

Is that of your Art-Dilettant:—

Or rather “was.” The Race, I own,

To-day is, happily, unknown.

A Painter, now by Fame forgot,

Had painted —‘ tis no matter what;

Enough that he resolved to try

The Verdict of a critic Eye.

The Friend he sought made no Pretence

To more than candid Common-sense,

Nor held himself from Fault exempt.

He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.

Then, pausing long, showed here and there

That Parts required a nicer Care,—

A closer Thought. The Artist heard,

Expostulated, chafed, demurred.

Just then popped in a passing Beau,

Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;—

One of those Mushroom Growths that spring

From Grand Tours and from Tailoring;—

And dealing much in terms of Art

Picked up at Sale and auction Mart.

Straight to the Masterpiece he ran

With lifted Glass, and thus began,

Mumbling as fast as he could speak:—

“Sublime!— prodigious!— truly Greek!

That‘ Air of Head’ is just divine;

That contour GUIDO, every line;

That Forearm, too, has quite the Gusto

Of the third Manner of ROBUSTO....”

Then, with a Simper and a Cough,

He skipped a little farther off:—

“The middle Distance, too, is placed

Quite in the best Italian Taste;

And Nothing could be more effective

Than the Ordonnance and Perspective....

You've sold it?— No?— Then take my word,

I shall speak of it to MY LORD.

What!— I insist. Do n't stir, I beg.

Adieu!” With that he made a Leg,

Offered on either Side his Box,—

So took his Virtú off to COCK'S.

The Critic, with a Shrug, once more

Turned to the Canvas as before.

“Nay,” — said the Painter — “I allow

The Worst that you can tell me now.

‘ Tis plain my Art must go to School,

To win such Praises — from a FOOL!”