Two men of letters were walking at a little distance. “Will you not own (said one of them) that, two centuries ago, our learning was in its infancy; and hardly showed to what degree it might arrive. In the last century, it took root and rose so high that nothing was seen above it. The greatest masters among the Greeks and Latins were taken for patterns: they were equalled, if not surpassed.

“Success inspires confidence; and too much confidence breeds neglect. To have the eye always on the Antients grew distasteful. They have had their merit (said the Babylonians) and we have ours: who can say we do not equal them? They therefore set up for themselves: and the taste, not the more general and of all the nations, but the taste peculiar to them characterized their works. See almost all our poems, our histories, our speeches, our books, all is after the Babylonian mode; much of art, little of nature; a vast superficies, no depth; all is florid, light, lively, sparkling; all is pretty, nothing is fine. Methinks I foresee the judgment of posterity: they will consider the works of the seventeenth century as the greatest efforts of the nation towards the excellent; and the works of the eighteenth, as pictures wherein the Babylonians have taken pleasure to paint themselves.

“If our writers are capable to go back and resume their great patterns, it is known what they can do; they are sure to please all the world, and for ever: but, if they continue to stand on their own bottom, their works will be only trinkets of fancy, on which the present taste stamps a value, and which another taste will soon bury in oblivion.”