Pope has ſeveral ſimiles of the ſame ſtamp. I ſhall tranſcribe one or two from the Eſſay on Man, the graveſt and moſt inſtructive of all his performances. And hence one maſter-paſſion in the breaſt, Like Aaron's ſerpent, ſwallows up the reſt. Epiſt. 2. l. 131. And again, talking of this ſame ruling or maſter paſſion. Nature its mother, Habit is its nurſe; Wit, ſpirit, faculties, but make it worſe; Reaſon itſelf but gives it edge and pow'r; As heav'n's bleſt beam turns vinegar more ſowr. Ibid. l. 145. Lord Bolingbroke, ſpeaking of hiſtorians:

Where their ſincerity as to fact is doubtful, we ſtrike out truth by the confrontation of different accounts; as we ſtrike out ſparks of fire by the colliſion of flints and ſteel.

THE reader muſt not expect to find here a complete liſt of the different tropes and figures that have been carefully noted by ancient critics and grammarians. Tropes and figures have indeed been multiplied with ſo little reſerve, as to make it no eaſy matter to diſtinguiſh them from plain language. A diſcovery almoſt accidental, made me think of giving them a place in this work: I found that the moſt important of them depend on principles formerly explained; and I was glad of an opportunity to ſhow the extenſive influence of theſe principles. Confining myſelf therefore to figures that anſwer this purpoſe, I am luckily freed from much traſh; without dropping, ſo far as I remember, any figure that merits a proper name. And I begin with Proſopopoeia or perſonification, which is juſty intitled to the firſt place.

HORACE, and many writers after him, give inſtructions for chuſing a ſubject adapted to the genius of the author. But rules of criticiſm would be endleſs, did one deſcend to peculiarities in talent or genius. The aim of the preſent work is, to conſider human nature in general, and to explore what is common to the ſpecies. The choice of a ſubject comes not under ſuch a plan: but the manner of execution comes under it; becauſe the manner of execution is ſubjected to general rules Theſe rules reſpect the things expreſſed, as well as the language or expreſſion; which ſuggeſts a diviſion of the preſent chapter into two parts; firſt of thoughts, and next of words. I pretend not to juſtify this diviſion as entirely accurate. In diſcourſing of the thoughts, it is difficult to abſtract altogether from words; and ſtill more difficult, in diſcourſing of the words, to abſtract altogether from thought.

The firſt obſervation is, That the thoughts which embelliſh a narration ought to be chaſte and ſolid. While the mind is intent upon facts, it is little diſpoſed to the operarations of the imagination. Poetical images in a grave hiſtory are intolerable; and yet Strada's Belgic hiſtory is full of poetical images. Theſe being diſcordant with the ſubject, are diſguſtful; and they have a ſtill worſe effect, by giving an air of fiction to a genuine hiſtory. Such flowers ought to be ſcattered with a ſparing hand, even in epic poetry; and at no rate are they proper, till the reader be warmed, and by an enlivened imagination be prepared to reliſh them: in that ſtate of mind, they are extremely agreeable. But while we are ſedate and attentive to an hiſtorical chain of facts, we reject with diſdain every fiction. This Belgic hiſtory is indeed wofully vicious both in matter and form: it is ſtuffed with frigid and unmeaning reflections, as well as with poetical flaſhes, which, even laying aſide the impropriety, are mere tinſel.

VidaPoet. lib. 2. l. 30., following Horace, recommends a modeſt commencement of an epic poem; giving for a reaſon, that the writer ought to huſband his fire. This reaſon has weight; but what is ſaid above ſuggeſts a reaſon ſtill more weighty: Bold thoughts and figures are never reliſhed till the mind be heated and thoroughly engaged, which is not the reader's caſe at the commencement. Shakeſpear, in the firſt part of his hiſtory of Henry VI. begins with a ſentiment too bold for the moſt heated imagination: Bedford. Hung be the heav'ns with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and ſtates, Brandiſh your cryſtal treſſes in the ſky, And with them ſcourge the bad revolting ſtars. That have conſented unto Henry's death! Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne'er loſt a king of ſo much worth. The paſſage with which Strada begins his hiſtory, is too poetical for a ſubject of that kind; and at any rate too high for the beginning of a grave performance. A third reaſon ought to have not leſs influence than either of the former: A man who, upon his firſt appearance, endeavours to exhibit all his talents, is never reliſhed; the firſt periods of a work ought therefore to be ſhort, natural, and ſimple. Cicero, in his oration pro Archia poeta, errs againſt this rule: his reader is out of breath at the very firſt period, which ſeems never to end. Burnet begins the hiſtory of his own times with a period long and intricate.

A third rule or obſervation is, That where the ſubject is intended for entertainment ſolely, not for inſtruction, a thing ought to be deſcribed as it appears, not as it is in reality. In running, for example, the impulſe upon the ground is accurately proportioned to the celerity of motion: in appearance it is otherwiſe; for a perſon in ſwift motion ſeems to ſkim the ground, and ſcarcely to touch it. Virgil, with great taſte, deſcribes quick running according to its appearance; and thereby raiſes an image far more lively, than it could have been by adhering ſcrupulouſly to truth: Hos ſuper advenit Volſca de gente Camilla, Agmen agens equitum et florentes aere catervas, Bellatrix: non illa colo calathiſve Minervae Foemineas aſſueta manus; ſed praelia virgo Dura pati, curſuque pedum praevertere ventos. Illa vel intactae ſegetis per ſumma volaret Gramina: nec teneras curſu laeſiſſet ariſtas: Vel mare per medium, fluctu ſuſpenſa tumenti, Ferret iter; celeres nec tingeret aequore plantas. Aeneid vii. 803. This example is copied by the author of Telemachus:

Les Brutiens ſont legeres à la courſe comme les cerfs, et comme les daims. On croiroit que l'herbe même la plus tendre n'eſt point foulée ſous leurs pieds; à peine laiſſent ils dans le ſable quelques traces de leurs pas.

TRAGEDY differs from the epic more in form than in ſubſtance. The ends propoſed by each are inſtruction and amuſement; and each of them copy human actions as means to bring about theſe ends. They differ in the manner only of copying. Epic poetry deals in narration: Tragedy repreſents its facts as tranſacted in our ſight. In the former, the poet introduces himſelf as an hiſtorian: in the latter he preſents his actors and never himſelfThe dialogue in a dramatic compoſition ſeparates it ſo clearly from other compoſitions, that no writer has thought it neceſſary to ſearch for any other diſtinguiſhing mark. But much uſeleſs labour has been beſtowed, to diſtinguiſh an epic poem by ſome ſuch mark. Boſſu defines this poem to be, "A compoſition in verſe, intended to form the manners by inſtructions diſguiſed under the allegories of an importantaction," which will exclude every epic poem founded upon real facts, and perhaps include ſeveral of Eſop's fables. Voltaire reckons verſe ſo eſſential, as for that ſingle reaſon to exclude the adventures of Telemachus. See his Eſſay upon Epic Poetry. Others, affected with ſubſtance more than with ornament, heſitate not to pronounce that poem to be epic. It is not a little diverting, to ſee ſo many ſhallow critics hunting for what is not to be found. They always take for granted, without the leaſt foundation, that there muſt be ſome preciſe criterion to diſtinguiſh epic poetry from every other ſpecies of writing. Literary compoſitions run into each other, preciſely like colours: in their ſtrong tints they are eaſily diſtinguiſhed; but are ſuſceptible of ſo much variety, and take on ſo many different forms, that we never can ſay where one ſpecies ends and another begins. As to the general taſte, there is little reaſon to doubt, that a work where heroic actions are related in an elevated ſtyle, will, without further requiſite, be deemed an epic poem..

This difference, regarding form only, may be thought ſlight; but the effects it occaſions, are by no means ſo. What we ſee, makes a ſtronger impreſſion than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a ſtory told by another: facts and incidents paſſing upon the ſtage, come under our own obſervation; and are beſide much enlivened by action and geſture, expreſſive of many ſentiments beyond the reach of language

A dramatic compoſition has another property, independent altogether of action. A dialogue makes a deeper impreſſion than a narration: becauſe in the former perſons expreſs their own ſentiments; whereas in the latter ſentiments are related at ſecond hand. For that reaſon, Ariſtotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, That in an epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity to introduce his actors, and to confine the narrative part within the narroweſt boundsPoet. ch. 25. ſect. 6.. Homer underſtood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great meaſure dramatic. Lucan runs to the oppoſite extreme; and is guilty of a ſtill greater fault: the Pharſalia is ſtuffed with cold and languid reflections; the merit of which the author aſſumes to himſelf, and deigns not to ſhare with his perſonages. Nothing can be more impertinent, than a chain of ſuch reflections, which ſuſpend the battle of Pharſalia after the leaders had made their ſpeeches, and the two armies are ready to engageLib. 7. from line 385. to line 460..

Ariſtotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into ſimple and complex. But it is of greater moment, with reſpect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a diſtinction upon the different ends attained by ſuch compoſitions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that hath no tendency beyond moving the paſſions and exhibiting pictures of virtue and vice, may be diſtinguiſhed by the name of pathetic. But where a ſtory is purpoſely contrived to illuſtrate ſome important leſſon of morality, by ſhowing the natural connection betwixt diſorderly paſſions and external misfortunes, ſuch compoſition may be denominated moral The ſame diſtinction is applicable to that ſort of fable which is ſaid to be the invention of Aeſop. A moral, it is true, is by all critics conſidered as eſſential to ſuch a fable. But nothing is more common, than to be led blindly by authority. Of the numerous collections I have ſeen, the fables that clearly inculcate a moral, make a very ſmall part. In many fables, indeed, proper pictures of virtue and vice are exhibited: but the bulk of theſe collections convey no inſtruction, nor afford any amuſement beyond what a child receives in reading an ordinary ſtory.. It indeed conveys moral inſtruction with a perſpicuity that is not exceeded by the moſt accurate reaſoning; and makes a deeper impreſſion than any moral diſcourſe can do. To be ſatisfied of this, we need but reflect, that a man whoſe affections are juſtly balanced, hath a better chance to eſcape misfortunes, than one who is a ſlave to every paſſion. Indeed, nothing is more evident, than the natural connection that vice hath with miſery, and virtue with happineſs; and ſuch connection may be illuſtrated, by ſtating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us aſſume, for example, the following moral truths, That diſcord among the chiefs, renders ineffectual all common meaſures; and that the conſequences of a ſlightly-founded quarrel, foſtered by pride and arrogance, are not leſs fatal than thoſe of the groſſeſt injury. Theſe truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel betwixt Agamemnon and Achilles at the ſiege of Troy. In this view, it ought to be the poet's chief aim, to invent proper circumſtances, preſenting to our view the natural conſequences of ſuch diſcord. Theſe circumſtances muſt ſeem to ariſe in the common courſe of human affairs: no accidental or unaccountable event ought to be indulged; for the neceſſary or probable connection betwixt vice and miſery, is learned from no events but what are governed by the characters and paſſions of the perſons repreſented. A real event of which we ſee no cauſe, may be a leſſon to us; becauſe what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a ſtory that is known to be fictitious.

Many are the good effects of ſuch compoſitions. A pathetic compoſition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting emotions that produce good actions, and avert us from thoſe that are vicious or irregularSee chap. 2. part 1. ſect. 3.. It likewiſe, by its frequent pictures of human woes, humanizes the mind, and fortifies us in bearing our own misfortunes. A moral compoſition muſt obviouſly produce the ſame good effects, becauſe by being moral it doth not ceaſe to be pathetic. It enjoys beſide an excellence peculiar to itſelf: for it not only improves the heart, as above mentioned, but inſtructs the head by the moral it contains. For my part, I cannot imagine any entertainment more ſuited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illuſtrating ſome moral truth; where a number of perſons of different characters are engaged in an important action, ſome retarding, others promoting, the great cataſtrophe; and where there is dignity of ſtyle as well as of matter. A work of this kind, has our ſympathy at command, and can put in motion the whole train of the ſocial affections. We have at the ſame time great mental enjoyment, in perceiving every event and every ſubordinate incident connected with its proper cauſe. Our curioſity is by turns excited and gratified; and our delight is conſummated at the cloſe, upon finding, from the characters and ſituations exhibited at the commencement, that every circumſtance down to the final cataſtrophe is natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of cauſes and effects.

Conſidering an epic and dramatic poem as the ſame in ſubſtance, and having the ſame aim or end, it might be thought that they are equally fitted for the ſame ſubjects. But conſidering their difference as to form, there will be found reaſon to correct that thought, at leaſt in ſome degree. Many ſubjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form; but the ſubjects are ſtill more numerous for which one of the forms is better qualified than the other; and there are ſubjects proper for the one and not for the other. To give ſome ſlight notion of the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, I obſerve, that dialogue is better qualified for expreſſing ſentiments, and narrative for diſplaying facts. Theſe peculiarities tend to confine each within certain limits. Heroiſm, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and the whole tribe of the elevated virtues, figure beſt in action: tender paſſions and the whole tribe of ſympathetic affections, figure beſt in ſentiment. What we feel is the moſt remarkable in the latter: what we perform is the moſt remarkable in the former. It clearly follows, that tender paſſions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetryIn Racine, tender ſentiments prevail; in Corneille, grand and heroic manners. Hence clearly the preference of the former before the latter, as dramatic poets. Corneille would figure better in an heroic poem..

I have no occaſion to ſay more upon the epic, conſidered as peculiarly adapted to certain ſubjects. But as dramatic ſubjects are more complex, I muſt take a narrower view of them; which I do the more willingly, in order to clear a point thrown into great obſcurity by critics.

In the chapter of emotions and paſſionsPart 4., it is occaſionally ſhown, that the ſubject beſt fitted for tragedy is the ſtory of a man who has himſelf been the cauſe of his miſfortune. But this man muſt neither be deeply guilty nor altogether innocent. The misfortune muſt be occaſioned by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. Misfortunes of this kind, call forth the whole force of the ſocial affections, and intereſt the ſpectator in the warmeſt manner. An accidental misfortune, if not extermely ſingular, doth not greatly move our pity. The perſon who ſuffers, being innocent, is freed from the greateſt of all torments, viz. the anguiſh of mind occaſioned by remorſe: Poco é funeſta Laltrui fortuna, Quando non reſta Ragione alcuna Ne di pentirſi, né darroſſir. Metaſtaſio. A criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himſelf, excites little pity, for a different reaſon. His remorſe, it is true, aggravates his diſtreſs, and ſwells the firſt emotions of pity: but then our hatred to the criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge conſiderably. Misfortunes that are not innocent nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorſe to embitter the diſtreſs, which raiſes our pity to a great height; and the ſlight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not ſenſibly from our pity. For this reaſon, the happieſt of all ſubjects for tragedy, if ſuch a one could be invented, would be where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an innocent action, but which by ſome ſingular means he conceives to be criminal. His remorſe aggravates his diſtreſs; and our compaſſion, unreſtrained by indignation, riſes to its higheſt pitch. Pity comes thus to be the ruling paſſion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper repreſentation, may be raiſed to a height ſcarce exceeded by any thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field; for, beſide exerciſing our pity, it raiſes another paſſion, ſelfiſh indeed, but which deſerves to be cheriſhed equally with the ſocial affections. When a misfortune is the natural conſequence of ſome wrong bias in the temper, every ſpectator who is conſcious of ſome ſuch defect in himſelf, takes the alarm, and conſiders that he is liable to the ſame misfortune. This conſideration raiſes in him an emotion of fear or terror; and it is by this emotion, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, that the ſpectators are put upon their guard againſt the diſorders of paſſion.

The commentators upon Ariſtotle and other critics, have been much graveled about the account given of tragedy by this author, "That by means of pity and terror it refines in us all ſorts of paſſion." But no one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any difficulty about Ariſtotle's meaning. Our pity is engaged for the perſons repreſented, and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made to ſtand for all the ſympathetic emotions, becauſe of theſe it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our ſympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exerciſe; and in what manner our other paſſions are refined by terror I have juſt now ſaid. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can juſtly be given to the foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned; and that it was really Ariſtotle's meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers ſeveral propoſitions agreeable to the doctrine as here explained. Theſe, at the ſame time, I the rather chuſe to mention; becauſe, ſo far as authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reaſoning about the proper ſubjects for tragedy. His firſt propoſition is, That it being the province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent perſon falling into adverſity ought never to be the ſubject. This propoſition is a neceſſary conſequence of his doctrine as explained: a ſubject of this nature may indeed excite pity and terror; but the former in an inferior degree, and the latter in no degree for moral inſtruction. The ſecond propoſition is, That we muſt not repreſent a wicked perſon emerging from miſery to good fortune. This excites neither terror nor compaſſion, nor is agreeable in any reſpect. The third is, That the misfortunes of a wicked perſon ought not to be repreſented. Such repreſentation may be agreeable in ſome meaſure upon a principle of juſtice: but it will not move our pity; or any degree of terror, except in thoſe of the ſame vicious diſpoſition with the perſon repreſented. His laſt propoſition is, That the only character fit for repreſentation lies in the middle, neither eminently good nor eminently bad; where the misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of ſome involuntary fault, as our author expreſſes itIf one can be amuſed with a grave diſcourſe which promiſeth much and performs nothing, he may ſee this ſubject treated by Brumoy in his Theatre Grec. Preliminary diſcourſe on the origin of tragedy.. The only objection I find to Ariſtotle's account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bounds, by refuſing admittance to the pathetic kind. For if terror be eſſential to tragedy, no repreſentation deſerves that name, but where the misfortunes exhibited are cauſed by a wrong balance of mind, or ſome diſorder in the internal conſtitution. Such misfortunes always ſuggeſt moral inſtruction; and by ſuch misfortunes only can terror be excited for our improvement.

Thus Ariſtotle's four propoſitions above mentioned, relate ſolely to tragedies of the moral kind. Thoſe of the pathetic kind, are not confined within ſo narrow limits. Subjects fitted for the theatre, are not in ſuch plenty, as to make us reject innocent misfortunes which rouſe our ſympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With reſpect to ſubjects of this kind, it may indeed be a doubtful queſtion, whether the concluſion ought not always to be happy. Where a perſon of integrity is repreſented as ſuffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental, we depart diſcontented, and with ſome obſcure ſenſe of injuſtice; for ſeldom is man ſo ſubmiſſive to the courſe of Providence, as not to revolt againſt the tyranny and vexations of blind chance: he will be inclined to ſay, This ought not to be. I give for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakeſpear, where the fatal cataſtrophe is occaſioned by Friar Laurence's coming to the monument a minute too late. Such a ſtory we think of with regret: we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away diſſatisfied. This is a temper of mind which ought not to be cheriſhed; and for that reaſon, I vote for excluding ſtories of this kind from the theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous perſon ariſing from neceſſary cauſes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumſtances, will, I am apt to think, be conſidered in a different light. Chance affords always a gloomy proſpect, and in every inſtance gives an impreſſion of anarchy and miſrule. A regular chain, on the other hand, of cauſes and effects, directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to ſuggeſt the hand of Providence; to which we ſubmit without reſentment, being conſcious that ſubmiſſion is our dutySee eſſays on the principles of morality, edit. 2. p. 291.. For that reaſon, we are not diſſatisfied with the diſtreſſes of Voltaire's Mariamne, though redoubled on her till the moment of her death, without the leaſt fault or failing on her part. Her misfortunes are owing to a cauſe extremely natural, and not unfrequent, the jealouſy of a barbarous huſband. The fate of Deſdemona in the Moor of Venice, affects us in the ſame manner. We are not ſo eaſily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King Lear: the cauſes of her misfortune, are by no means ſo evident, as to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In ſhort, it appears, that a perfect character ſuffering under misfortunes is qualified for being the ſubject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is it altogether inconſiſtent with a moral tragedy: it may ſucceſsfully be introduced as an under-part, ſuppoſing the chief place to be filled with an imperfect character from which a moral can be drawn. This is the caſe of Deſdemona and Mariamne juſt now mentioned; and it is the caſe of Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, The Orphan, and Venice preſerv'd.

I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doctrine, That fable operates on our paſſions, by repreſenting its events as paſſing in our ſight, and by deluding us into a conviction of realityChap. 2. part 1. ſect. 6.. Hence, in epic and dramatic compoſitions, it is of importance to employ every means that may promote the deluſion, ſuch as the borrowing from hiſtory ſome noted event, with the addition of circumſtances that may anſwer the author's purpoſe. The principal facts are known to be true; and we are diſpoſed to extend our belief to every circumſtance. But in chuſing a ſubject that makes a figure in hiſtory, greater precaution is neceſſary than where the whole is invented. In the firſt place, no circumſtances muſt be added, but ſuch as connect naturally with what are known to be true: hiſtory may be ſupplied, but it muſt not be contradicted. In the next place, a pure fable, entirely new with reſpect to the perſons as well as the incidents, may be ſuppoſed an ancient or a modern ſtory. But if the poet build upon truth, the ſubject he chuſes muſt be diſtant in time, or at leaſt in place; for he ought by all means to avoid the familiarity of perſons and events nearly connected with us. Familiarity ought more eſpecially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation. Modern manners make but a poor figure in ſuch a poemI would not from this obſervation be thought to undervalue modern manners. The roughneſs, plainneſs, and impetuoſity of ancient manners, may ſhow better in an epic poem, without being better fitted for ſociety. But without regard to this circumſtance, it is the familiarity of modern manners that unqualifies them for a lofty ſubject. The dignity of our preſent manners, will be better underſtood in ſuture ages when they have become ancient..

After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of erecting an epic poem upon a recent event in the hiſtory of his own country. But an event of this kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy. It was admitted in Greece, and Shakeſpear has employ'd it ſucceſsfully in ſeveral of his pieces. One advantage it poſſeſſes above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular to raiſe our ſympathy. The ſcene of comedy is generally laid at home: familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly ſenſible of the ridicule of our own manners.

After a proper ſubject is choſen, there appears to me ſome delicacy in dividing it into parts. The concluſion of a book in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for ſo ſlight a purpoſe as to make the parts of equal length. The ſuppoſed pauſe at the end of every book, and the real pauſe at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with ſome pauſe in the action. In this reſpect, a dramatic or epic poem, ought to reſemble a ſentence or period in language, divided into members that are diſtinguiſhed from each other by regular pauſes: or it ought to reſemble a piece of muſic, having a full cloſe at the end, preceded by imperfect cloſes that contribute to the melody. Every act therefore ought to cloſe with ſome incident that makes a pauſe in the action; for otherwiſe there can be no pretext for interrupting the repreſentation. It would be abſurd to break off in the very heat of action: againſt this every one would exclaim. The abſurdity ſtill remains, though the action relents, if it be not actually ſuſpended for ſome time. This rule is alſo applicable to an epic poem; though there a deviation from the rule is leſs remarkable, becauſe it is in the reader's power to hide the abſurdity, by proceeding inſtantly to another book. The firſt book of the Paradiſe Loſt, ends without any regular cloſe, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off abruptly, where Satan, ſeated on his throne, is prepared to make a ſpeech to the convocated hoſt of the fall'n angels; and the ſecond book begins with the ſpeech. Milton ſeems to have copied the Aeneid, of which the two firſt books are divided much in the ſame manner. Neither is there any proper pauſe at the end of the fifth book of the Aeneid. There is no proper pauſe at end of the ſeventh book of Paradiſe Loſt, nor at the end of the eleventh.

Hitherto I have carried on together the epic and dramatic compoſitions. I proceed to handle them ſeparately, and to mention circumſtances peculiar to each, beginning with the epic kind. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a monſtrous abſurdity to introduce upon the ſtage inviſible beings in a viſible ſhape. But it has been much diſputed, whether ſuch beings may not be properly introduced in an epic poem. If we reſt upon the authority of practice, we muſt declare for the affirmative; and BoileauThird part of his art of poetry., among many other critics, is a ſtout champion for this ſort of machinery. But waving authority, which is apt to impoſe upon the judgement, let us draw what light we can from reaſon. I begin with a preliminary remark, That this matter is but indiſtinctly handled by critics. It is laid down above, that ſeveral paſſions incite the mind to animate its objectsChap. 20. ſect. 1.: the moral virtues become ſo many goddeſſes, and even darts and arrows are inſpired with life and action. But then it muſt not be overlooked, that ſuch perſonification, being the work of imagination, is deſcriptive only, and aſſumes not even an appearance of truthIbid.. This is very different from what is termed machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other ſupernatural powers, are introduced as real perſonages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the cataſtrophe; and yet theſe two things are conſtantly jumbled together in the reaſoning. The poetical privilege of animating inſenſible objects for the ſake of deſcription, cannot be controverted, becauſe it is founded on a natural principle. But has the privilege of machinery, if it be a privilege, the ſame good foundation? Far from it: nothing can be more unnatural. Its effects, at the ſame time, are deplorable. Firſt, it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impreſſion of reality which is requiſite to intereſt our affections, and to move our paſſionsSee chap. 2. part 1. ſect. 6.. This of itſelf is ſufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may give to readers of a fantaſtic taſte or irregular imagination. And next, were it poſſible to diſguiſe the fiction, and to delude us into a notion of reality, which I think can hardly be, an inſuperable objection would ſtill remain, which is, that the aim or end of an epic poem can never be accompliſhed in any perfection where machinery is introduced. Virtuous emotions cannot be raiſed ſucceſsfully but by the actions of thoſe who are endued with paſſions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions. And as for moral inſtruction, it is evident, that we can draw none from beings who act not upon the ſame principles with us. A fable in Aeſop's manner is no objection to this reaſoning. His lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under diſguiſe: they act and feel in every reſpect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that ſuppoſition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable; and he was authoriſed to take that liberty by the religion of his country; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpoſe viſibly and bodily in human affairs. I muſt however obſerve, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems. Fictions that tranſgreſs the bounds of nature, ſeldom have a good effect: they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be reliſhed by any perſon of a correct taſte. Let me add, that of whatever uſe ſuch fictions may be to a mean genius, an able writer has much finer materials of Nature's production for elevating his ſubject, and making it intereſting.

Boileau, a ſtrenuous advocate for the Heathen deities, as obſerved, declares againſt angels and devils, though ſupported by the religious creed of his country. One would be apt to imagine, that a critic famed for his good taſte, could have no other meaning than to juſtify the employing Heathen deities for enlivening or elevating the deſcription. But as the Heathen deities make not a better figure in poetical language than angels and devils, Boileau, in pleading for the former, certainly meant, if he had any diſtinct meaning, that theſe may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, he himſelf is guilty of this glaring abſurdity, where it is not ſo pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the taking of Namur, he demands with a moſt ſerious countenance, whether the walls were built by Apollo or Neptune; and in relating the paſſage of the Rhine, anno 1672, he deſcribes the god of that river as fighting with all his might to oppoſe the French monarch. This is confounding fiction with reality at a ſtrange rate. The French writers in general run into this error: wonderful! that they ſhould not be ſenſible how ridiculous it is.

That this is a capital error in the Gieruſalleme liberata, Taſſo's greateſt admirers muſt acknowledge. A ſituation can never be intricate, nor the reader ever in pain about the cataſtrophe, ſo long as there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his eſſay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharſalia, obſerves judiciouſly, "That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the ſolidity of Lucan's ſubject, deprived him of all liberty of poetical fiction." Is it not amazing, that a critic who reaſons ſo juſtly with reſpect to others; can be ſo blind with reſpect to himſelf? Voltaire, not ſatisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from inviſible and ſuperior beings, introduces them into the action. In the ſixth canto of the Henriade, St Louis appears in perſon, and terrifies the ſoldiers; in the ſeventh canto, St Louis ſends the god of Sleep to Henry; and, in the tenth, the demons of Diſcord, Fanaticiſm, War, &c. aſſiſt Aumale in a ſingle combat with Turenne, and are chaſed away by a good angel brandiſhing the ſword of God. To blend ſuch fictitious perſonages in the ſame action with mortals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable in a hiſtory ſo recent as that of Henry IV. This ſingly is ſufficient to make the Henriade a ſhort-liv'd poem, were it otherwiſe poſſeſſed of every beauty. I have tried ſerious reaſoning upon this ſubject; but ridicule, I ſuppoſe, will be found a more ſucceſsful weapon, which Addiſon has applied in an elegant manner: "Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there are ſeveral ingenious perſons who intend to ſhew their talents on ſo happy an occaſion, and being willing, as much as in me lies, to prevent that effuſion of nonſenſe which we have good cauſe to apprehend; I do hereby ſtrictly require every perſon who ſhall write on this ſubject, to remember that he is a Chriſtian, and not to ſacrifice his catechiſm to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him in the firſt place, to make his own poem, without depending upon Phoebus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the muſes by name. I do likewiſe poſitively forbid the ſending of Mercury with any particular meſſage or diſpatch relating to the peace; and ſhall by no means ſuffer Minerva to take upon her the ſhape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do further declare, that I ſhall not allow the deſtinies to have had an hand in the deaths of the ſeveral thouſands who have been ſlain in the late war; being of opinion that all ſuch deaths may be very well accounted for by the Chriſtian ſyſtem of powder and ball. I do therefore ſtrictly forbid the fates to cut the thread of man's life upon any pretence whatſoever, unleſs it be for the ſake of the rhyme. And whereas I have good reaſon to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of buſineſs on his hands in ſeveral poems which we may now ſuppoſe are upon the anvil, I do alſo prohibit his appearance, unleſs it be done in metaphor, ſimile, or any very ſhort alluſion; and that even here he be not permitted to enter, but with great caution and circumſpection. I deſire that the ſame rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my deſign to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exerciſes any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In ſhort, I expect that no Pagan agent ſhall be introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conſcience. Provided always, that nothing herein contained ſhall extend, or be conſtrued to extend, to ſeveral of the female poets in this nation, who ſhall ſtill be left in full poſſeſſion of their gods and goddeſſes, in the ſame manner as if this paper had never been written." Spectator, No 523.

The marvellous is indeed ſo much promoted by machinery, that it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to exceſs. Homer introduces his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has ſtill leſs moderation: an overwatched pilot cannot fall aſleep and drop into the ſea by natural means: the two lovers, Aeneas and Dido, cannot take the ſame bed, without the immediate interpoſition of ſuperior powers. The ridiculous in ſuch fictions, muſt appear even through the thickeſt vail of gravity and ſolemnity.

Angels and devils ſerve equally with the Heathen deities, as materials for figurative language, perhaps better among Chriſtians, becauſe we believe in them, and not in the Heathen deities. But every one is ſenſible, as well as Boileau, that the inviſible powers in our creed make a much worſe figure as actors in a modern poem, than the inviſible powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient poems. The reaſon I take to be what follows. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one ſtep only above mankind, actuated by the ſame paſſions, and directed by the ſame motives; therefore not altogether improper to mix with mankind in an important action. In our creed, ſuperior beings are placed at ſuch a mighty diſtance from us, and are of a nature ſo different, that with no propriety can they appear with us upon the ſame ſtage. Man is a creature ſo much inferior, that he loſes all dignity when ſet in oppoſition.

There ſeems to be no doubt, that an hiſtorical poem admits the embelliſhment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, ſimile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illuſtrated in the allegorical manner. It amuſes the fancy to find abſtract terms, by a ſort of magic, converted into active beings; and it is delightful to trace a general propoſition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings ſhould be confined within their own ſphere; and never be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or advancing the cataſtrophe. This would have a ſtill worſe effect, than the introduction of inviſible powers; and I am ready to aſſign the reaſon. An hiſtorical fable affords entertainment chiefly by making us conceive its perſonages to be really exiſting and acting in our preſence: in an allegory, this agreeable deluſion is denied; for we muſt not imagine an allegorical perſonage to be a real being, but the figure only of ſome virtue or vice; otherwiſe the allegory is loſt. The impreſſion of real exiſtence, eſſential to an epic poem, is inconſiſtent with that figurative exiſtence which is eſſential to an allegory; and therefore no method can be more effectual to deſtroy the impreſſion of reality, than to introduce allegorical beings co-operating with thoſe whom we conceive to be really exiſting. The love-epiſode in the Henriade Canto 9., is inſufferable by the diſcordant mixture of allegory with real life. This epiſode is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida in the Gieruſalemme liberata, which hath no merit to intitle it to be copied. An allegorical object, ſuch as fame in the Aeneid, and the temple of love in the Henriade, may find place in a deſcription: but to introduce Diſcord as a real perſonage, imploring the aſſiſtance of Love as another real perſonage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making theſe figurative beings act beyond their ſphere, and creating a ſtrange jumble of diſcordant materials, viz. truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin and Death in the Paradiſe Loſt, is, I preſume, not generally reliſhed, though it is not entirely of the ſame nature with what I have been condemning. The Paradiſe Loſt is not confined to the hiſtory of our firſt parents; and in a work comprehending the atchievements of ſuperior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is confined to human actions.

What is the true notion of an epiſode? or how is it to be diſtinguiſhed from what is really a part of the principal action? Every incident that promotes or retards the cataſtrophe, muſt be a part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an epiſode; which may be defined, "An incident connected with the principal action, but which contributes not either to advance or retard it." The deſcent of Aeneas into hell doth not advance or retard the cataſtrophe; and therefore is an epiſode. The ſtory of Niſus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The family-ſcene in the ſixth book of the Iliad is of the ſame nature: by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to viſit his wife, the Grecians got liberty to breathe, and even to preſs upon the Trojans. It being thus the nature of an epiſode to break the unity of action, it ought never to be indulged unleſs to refreſh and unbend the mind after the fatigue of a long narration. This purpoſe of an epiſode demands the following properties. It ought to be well connected with the principal action: it ought to be ſhort: and it ought to be lively and intereſting.

Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the firſt I ſhall mention is a double plot; being naturally led to it by what is ſaid immediately above. One of theſe double plots muſt be of the nature of an epiſode in an epic poem; for it would diſtract the ſpectator, inſtead of entertaining him, if he were forc'd to attend, at the ſame time, to two capital plots equally intereſting. An under-plot in a tragedy has ſeldom a good effect; becauſe a paſſionate piece cannot be too ſimple. The ſympathetic emotions once rouſed, cling to their objects, and cannot bear interruption: when a ſubject fills the mind, it leaves no room for any ſeparate concernRacine, in his preface to the tragedy of Berenice, is ſenſible, that ſimplicity is a great beauty in tragedy, but miſtakes the cauſe. "Nothing (ſays he) but veriſimilitude pleaſes in tragedy: but where is the veriſimilitude, that within the compaſs of a day, events ſhould be crowded which commonly are extended through months?" This is miſtaking the accuracy of imitation for the probability or improbability of future events. I explain myſelf. The veriſimilitude required in tragedy, is that the actions correſpond to the manners, and the manners to nature. When this reſemblance is preſerved, the imitation is juſt, becauſe it is a true copy of nature. But I deny that the veriſimilitude of future events, meaning the probability of future events, is any rule in tragedy. A number of extraordinary events, are, it is true, ſeldom crowded within the compaſs of a day: but what ſeldom happens may happen; and when ſuch events fall out, they appear not leſs natural than the moſt ordinary accidents. To make veriſimilitude in the ſenſe of probability a governing rule in tragedy, would annihilate this ſort of writing altogether; for it would exclude all extraordinary events, in which the life of tragedy conſiſts. It is very improbable or unlikely, pitching upon any man at random, that he will ſacrifice his life and fortune for his miſtreſs or for his country: yet when this event happens, ſuppoſing it agreeable to the character, we recognize the veriſimilitude as to nature, whatever want of veriſimilitude or of probability there was a priori that ſuch would be the event.. Variety is more tolerable in comedy, which pretends only to amuſe, without totally occupying the mind. But even here, to make a double plot agreeable, a good deal of art is requiſite. The under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from that which is principal: paſſions may be varied, but diſcordant paſſions are unpleaſant when jumbled together. This is a ſolid objection to tragicomedy. For this reaſon, I blame the Provok'd Huſband: all the ſcenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, agree very ill with the ſharpneſs and ſeverity of the principal ſubject, exhibiting the diſcord betwixt Lord Townly and his lady. The ſame objection touches not the double plot of the Careleſs Huſband: the different ſubjects are ſweetly connected; and have only ſo much variety as to reſemble ſhades of colours harmoniouſly mixed. But this is not all. The under plot ought to be connected with the principal action, ſo as to employ the ſame perſons: the intervals or pauſes of the principal action ought to be filled with the under-plot; and both ought to be concluded together. This is the caſe of the Merry Wives of Windſor.

Violent action ought to be excluded from the ſtage. While the dialogue runs on, a thouſand particulars concur to delude us into an impreſſion of reality; genuine ſentiments, paſſionate language, and perſuaſive geſture. The ſpectator once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loſes ſight of himſelf, and without ſcruple enjoys the ſpectacle as a reality. From this abſent ſtate, he is rouſed by violent action: he wakes as from a pleaſing dream, and gathering his ſenſes about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace delivers the ſame rule; and founds it upon the reaſon given: Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet; Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus; Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. Quodcunque oſtendis mihi ſic, incredulus odi. The French critics, as it appears to me, miſapprehend the reaſon of this rule. Shedding blood upon the ſtage, ſay they, is barbarous and ſhocking to a polite audience. This no doubt is an additional reaſon for excluding bloodſhed from the French ſtage, ſuppoſing the French to be in reality ſo delicate. But this evidently is not the reaſon that weighed with the Greeks: that polite people had no notion of ſuch delicacy; witneſs the murder of Clytemneſtra by her ſon Oreſtes, paſſing behind the ſcene, as repreſented by Sophocles. Her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expoſtulations on his part, loud ſhrieks upon her being ſtabb'd, and then a deep ſilence. I appeal to every perſon of feeling, whether this ſcene be not more horrible, than if the deed had been committed in ſight of the ſpectators upon a ſudden guſt of paſſion. According to the foregoing reaſoning of the French critics, there is nothing to exclude from the ſtage a duel occaſioned by an affair of honour, becauſe in it there is nothing barbarous or ſhocking to a polite audience: yet a ſcene of this nature is excluded from the French ſtage; which ſhows, without more argument, that theſe critics have miſapprehended the rule laid down by Horace. If Corneille, in repreſenting the affair betwixt Horatius and his ſiſter, upon which murder enſues behind the ſcene, had no other view than to remove from the ſpectators a ſcene of horror, he certainly was in a capital miſtake: for murder in cold blood, which in ſome meaſure was the caſe as repreſented, is more horrible even where the concluſive ſtab is not ſeen, than the ſame act performed on the ſtage by violent and unpremeditated paſſion, as ſuddenly repented of as committed. I heartily agree with AddiſonSpectator, No. 44., that no part of this incident ought to have been repreſented, but reſerved for a narrative, with all the alleviating circumſtances poſſible in favour of the hero. This is the only method to avoid the difficulties that unqualify this incident for repreſentation, a deliberate murder on the one hand, and on the other a violent action performed on the ſtage, which muſt rouſe the ſpectator from his dream of reality.

I ſhall finiſh with a few words upon the dialogue; which ought to be ſo conducted as to be a true repreſentation of nature. I talk not here of the ſentiments, nor of the language; for theſe come under different heads. I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every ſingle ſpeech, ſhort or long, ought to ariſe from what is ſaid by the former ſpeaker, and furniſh matter for what comes after, till the end of the ſcene. In this view, the whole ſpeeches, from firſt to laſt, repreſent ſo many links, all connected together in one regular chain. No author, ancient or modern, poſſeſſes the art of dialogue equal to Shakeſpear. Dryden, in this particular, may juſtly be placed as his oppoſite. He frequently introduces three or four perſons ſpeaking upon the ſame ſubject, each throwing out his own ſentiments ſeparately, without regarding what is ſaid by the reſt. I give for an example the firſt ſcene of Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a ſtranger, ſuppoſed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the ſake merely of ſpeaking. Of this notable ſort of dialogue, we have a ſpecimen in the firſt ſcene of the firſt part of the Conqueſt of Granada. In the ſecond part of the ſame tragedy, ſcene ſecond, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their ſeparate obſervations, like ſo many ſoliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob. It puts one in mind of a paſtoral, where two ſhepherds are introduced reciting couplets alternately, each in praiſe of his own miſtreſs, as if they were contending for a prize.

The bandying ſentiments in this manner, beſide an unnatural air, has another bad effect. It ſtays the courſe of the action, becauſe it is not productive of any conſequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often ſuſpended to make way for a play of wit. But of this more particularly in the chapter immediately following.

THE firſt chapter unfolds the pleaſure we have in a chain of connected facts. In hiſtories of the world, of a country, of a people, this pleaſure is but faint; becauſe the connections are ſlight or obſcure. We find more entertainment in biography, where the incidents are connected by their relation to one perſon, who makes a figure and commands our attention. But the greateſt entertainment of the kind, is afforded by the hiſtory of a ſingle event, ſuppoſing it to be intereſting. The hiſtory of one event produceth a more entire connection among the parts, than the hiſtory of one perſon. In the latter, the circumſtances are not otherwiſe connected than by their relation to that perſon: in the former, the circumſtances are connected by the ſtrongeſt of all relations, that of cauſe and effect. Thus, the circumſtances of a ſingle event, having a mutual connection extremely intimate, form a delightful train: we ſurvey with peculiar pleaſure a number of facts that give birth to each other; and we paſs with eaſe and ſatisfaction from the firſt to the laſt.

But this ſubject merits a more particular diſcuſſion. When we conſider the chain of cauſes and effects in the material world, independent of purpoſe, deſign, or thought, we find a train of incidents in ſucceſſion, without beginning, middle, or end. Every thing that happens is both a cauſe and an effect: it is the effect of ſomething that goes before, and the cauſe of one or many things that follow. One incident may affect us more, another leſs; but all of them, great and ſmall, are ſo many links in the univerſal chain. The mind, in viewing theſe incidents, cannot reſt or ſettle ultimately upon any one; but is carried along in the train without any cloſe.

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with the material, the ſcene is varied. Man acts with deliberation, will, and choice; he acts with a view to ſome end, glory, for example, or riches, or conqueſt, the procuring happineſs to individuals, or to his country in general; and he propoſes means and lays ſchemes to attain the end propoſed. Here is recogniſed a capital end or event, connected with ſubordinate events or incidents by the relation of cauſation. In running over a ſeries of ſubordinate events, we cannot reſt upon any one; becauſe they are preſented to us as means only, leading to ſome end. But we reſt with ſatisfaction upon the ultimate event; becauſe there, the purpoſe, the plan, the aim, of the chief perſon or perſons, is completed and brought to a final concluſion. This indicates a beginning, a middle, and an end, of what Ariſtotle calls an entire action Poet. cap 6. See alſo cap. 7.. The ſtory naturally begins with deſcribing thoſe circumſtances which move the diſtinguiſhed perſon to form a plan, in order to compaſs ſome deſired event. The proſecution of that plan, and the obſtructions, carry the reader into the heat of action. The middle is properly where the action is the moſt involved; and the end is where the event is brought about, and the deſign accompliſhed.

A deſign or plan thus happily perfected, after many obſtructions, affords wonderful delight to the reader. And to produce this delight, a principle mentioned aboveChap. 8. mainly contributes; a principle that diſpoſes the mind to complete every work commenced, and in general to carry every thing to its ultimate concluſion.

I have given the foregoing example of a plan laid down and completed, becauſe it affords the cleareſt conception of a beginning, a middle, and an end, in which conſiſts unity of action: and indeed ſtricter unity cannot be imagined than in this caſe. But an action may have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without ſo intimate a relation of parts. The cataſtrophe may be different from what is intended or deſired; which is frequently the caſe in our beſt tragedies. The Aeneid is an inſtance of means employ'd to produce a certain event, and theſe means crowned with ſucceſs. The Iliad is formed upon a different model. It begins with the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon: it goes on to deſcribe the ſeveral effects produced by that cauſe; and ends in a reconciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a middle, and an end: it muſt however be acknowledged, that the Aeneid is more happy in point of connection. The mind hath a propenſity to go forward in the chain of hiſtory: it keeps always in view the expected event; and when the incidents or under-parts are connected together by their relation to the event, the mind runs ſweetly and eaſily along them. This pleaſure we have in the Aeneid. But it is not altogether ſo pleaſant, as in the Iliad, to connect effects by their common cauſe; for ſuch connection forces the mind to a continual retroſpect: looking backward is like walking backward.

But Homer's plan is ſtill more imperfect, for another reaſon, That the events deſcribed are but imperfectly connected with the wrath of Achilles as their cauſe. His wrath did not exert itſelf in action; and the miſfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the effects of his wrath, by depriving them of his aſſiſtance.

If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of human affairs, a double action muſt be a capital defect, by carrying on together two trains of unconnected objects. For the ſake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that contributes to the principal event. But two unconnected events are a great deformity; and it leſſens the deformity but a very little, to engage the ſame actors in both. Arioſto is quite licentious in this particular: he carries on at the ſame time a plurality of unconnected ſtories. His only excuſe is, that his plan is perfectly well adjuſted to his ſubject; for every thing in the Orlando Furioſo is wild and extravagant.

To ſtate facts according to the order of time, is the moſt natural and the moſt ſimple method: a method however not ſo eſſential, in an hiſtorical fable eſpecially, as not to yield to ſome conſpicuous beautiesSee chap. 1.. If a noted ſtory, cold and ſimple in its firſt movements, be made the ſubject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of action, reſerving the preliminaries for a converſation-piece, if it ſhall be thought neceſſary. This method, at the ſame time, being dramatic, hath a peculiar beauty, which narration cannot reachSee chap. 21.. Romance-writers, who give little attention to nature, deviate in this particular, among many, from a juſt ſtandard. They make no difficulty of preſenting to the reader, without the leaſt preparation, unknown perſons engaged in ſome adventure equally unknown. In Caſſandra, two perſonages, who afterward are diſcovered to be the heroes of the ſtory, ſtart up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in a ſingle combatI am ſenſible that a commencement of this ſort is much reliſhed by certain readers diſpoſed to wonder. Their curioſity is raiſed, and they are much tickled in its gratification. But curioſity is at an end with the firſt reading, becauſe the perſonages are no longer unknown; and therefore at the ſecond reading a commencement ſo artificial, loſes all its power even over the vulgar. A writer of genius loves to deal in laſting beauties..

A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each ſcene makes a link. Each ſcene, accordingly, ought to produce ſome incident relative to the cataſtrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or retarding it. If no incident be produced, ſuch a ſcene, which may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged, becauſe it breaks the unity of action. A barren ſcene can never be intitled to a place, becauſe the chain is complete without it. In the Old Bachelor, the 3d ſcene of act 2. and all that follow to the end of that act, are mere converſation-pieces, without any conſequence. The 10th and 11th ſcenes, act 3. Double Dealer, the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th ſcenes, act 1. Love for Love, are of the ſame kind. Neither is The Way of the World entirely guiltleſs of ſuch ſcenes. It will be no juſtification, that they help to diſplay characters. It were better, like Dryden, in his dramatis perſonae, to deſcribe characters beforehand, which would not interrupt the chain of action. But a writer of genius has no occaſion for ſuch artifice: he can diſplay the characters of his perſonages much more to the life in ſentiment and action. How ſucceſsfully is this done by Shakeſpear! in whoſe works there is not to be found a ſingle barren ſcene.

Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an hiſtorical fable, ought to have a mutual connection by their common relation to the grand event or cataſtrophe. And this relation, in which the unity of action conſiſts, is equally eſſential to epic and dramatic compoſitions.

How far the unities of time and of place are eſſential, is a queſtion of greater intricacy. Theſe unities were ſtrictly obſerved in the Grecian and Roman theatres; and they are inculcated by the French and Engliſh critics as eſſential to every dramatic compoſition. In theory, theſe unities are alſo acknowledged by our beſt poets, though their practice is ſeldom correſpondent: they are often forc'd to take liberties, which they pretend not to juſtify, againſt the practice of the Greeks and Romans, and againſt the ſolemn deciſion of their own countrymen. But in the courſe of this inquiry it will be made evident, that the example of the ancients ought, upon this point, to have no weight with us, and that our critics are guilty of a miſtake, in admitting no greater latitude of place and time than was admitted in Greece and Rome.

Suffer me only to premiſe, that the unities of place and time, are not, by the moſt rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In ſuch a compoſition, if it pretend to copy nature, theſe unities would be abſurd; becauſe real events are ſeldom confined within narrow limits either of place or of time. And yet we can follow hiſtory, or an hiſtorical fable, through all its changes, with the greateſt facility. We never once think of meaſuring the real time by what is taken in reading; nor of forming any connection betwixt the place of action and that which we occupy.

I am ſenſible, that the drama differs ſo far from the epic, as to admit different rules. It will be obſerved, "That an hiſtorical fable, which affords entertainment by reading ſolely, is under no limitation of time or of place, more than a genuine hiſtory; but that a dramatic compoſition cannot be accurately repreſented, unleſs it be limited, as its repreſentation is, to one place and to a few hours; and therefore that no fable can be admitted but what has theſe properties, becauſe it would be abſurd to compoſe a piece for repreſentation that cannot be juſtly repreſented." This argument, I acknowledge, has at leaſt a plauſible appearance; and yet one is apt to ſuſpect ſome fallacy, conſidering that no critic, however ſtrict, has ventured to confine the unities of place and of time within ſo narrow boundsBoſſu, after obſerving, with wonderful critical ſagacity, that winter is an improper ſeaſon for an epic poem, and night not leſs improper for tragedy; admits however, that an epic poem may be ſpread through the whole ſummer months, and a tragedy through the whole ſun-ſhine hours of the longeſt ſummer-day. Du poeme epique, l. 3. chap. 12. At this rate an Engliſh tragedy may be longer than a French tragedy; and in Nova Zembla the time of a tragedy and of an epic poem may be the ſame..

A view of the Grecian drama, and a compariſon betwixt it and our own, may perhaps help to relieve us from this dilemma. If they be differently conſtructed, as ſhall by and by be made evident, it is poſſible that the foregoing reaſoning may not be applicable with equal force to both. This is an article, that, with relation to the preſent ſubject, has not, ſo far as I know, been examined by any writer.

All authors agree, that the firſt notion of tragedy in Greece, was derived from the hymns in praiſe of Bacchus, which were ſung in parts by a chorus. Theſpis, to relieve the ſingers, and for the ſake of variety, introduced one actor; who gave a narrative of the ſubject, and ſometimes repreſented one or other perſonage. Eſchylus, introducing a ſecond actor, formed the dialogue; by which the performance became dramatic: and the actors were multiplied when the ſubject repreſented made it neceſſary. But ſtill, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was conſidered as an eſſential part of its conſtitution. In the firſt ſcene, generally, are unfolded the preliminary circumſtances that lead to the grand event. This ſcene is by Ariſtotle termed the prologue. In the ſecond ſcene, where the action properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which, as originally, continues upon the ſtage during the whole performance. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiouſly. Euripides is not altogether ſo correct. In ſome of his pieces it becomes neceſſary to remove the chorus. But this is ſeldom done; and when done, matters are ſo ordered as that their abſence is but momentary. The chorus often mix in the dialogue; and when the dialogue happens to be ſuſpended, the chorus, during the interval, is employ'd in ſinging. Nor does the removal of the chorus, when that unuſual ſtep is riſked, interrupt the repreſentation. They never leave the ſtage of their own accord, but at the command of ſome principal perſonage who conſtantly waits their return.

Thus the Grecian drama is a continued repreſentation without any interruption; a circumſtance that merits attention. A continued repreſentation without a pauſe, affords not opportunity to vary the place of action; and has withal a very ſhort duration. To a repreſentation ſo confined in place and time, the foregoing reaſoning is ſtrictly applicable. A real or feigned action that is brought to a concluſion after conſiderable intervals of time and frequent change of place, cannot accurately be copied in a repreſentation that admits of no latitude in either. Hence it is, that the unities of place and of time, were, or ought to have been, ſtrictly obſerved in the Grecian tragedies. This is made neceſſary by the very conſtitution of their drama; for it is abſurd to compoſe a tragedy that cannot be juſtly repreſented.

Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to eſtabliſh rules founded on the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious blunder. The unities of place and of time, ſo much vaunted, were in Greece, as we ſee, a matter of neceſſity, not of choice. I am now ready to ſhow, that if we ſubmit to theſe fetters, it muſt be from choice not neceſſity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the conſtruction of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or leſs perfect, is a ſeparate queſtion, which ſhall be handled afterward. By dropping the chorus, an opportunity is afforded to ſplit our drama into parts or acts, which in the repreſentation are diſtinguiſhed by intervals of time; and during theſe intervals, the ſtage is totally evacuated and the ſpectacle ſuſpended. This conſtruction qualifies our drama for ſubjects ſpread through a wide ſpace both of time and of place. The time ſuppoſed to paſs during the ſuſpenſion of the repreſentation, is not meaſured by the time of the ſuſpenſion; nor is any connection formed, betwixt the box we ſit in and the place where things are ſuppoſed to be tranſacted in our abſence: and by that means, many ſubjects can be juſtly repreſented in our theatres, for which there was no place in thoſe of ancient Greece. This doctrine may be illuſtrated, by comparing a modern play to a ſet of hiſtorical pictures: let us ſuppoſe them five in number, and the reſemblance will be complete. Each of the pictures reſembles an act in one of our plays. There muſt neceſſarily be the ſtricteſt unity of place and of time in each picture; and the ſame neceſſity requires theſe two unities during each act of a play, becauſe during an act there is no interruption in the ſpectacle. Now, when we view in ſucceſſion a number of ſuch hiſtorical pictures, let it be, for example, the hiſtory of Alexander by Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have paſſed betwixt the ſubjects exhibited in two different pictures, though the interruption is imperceptible in paſſing our eye from the one to the other. We have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place, however great. In this matter, there is truly no difference betwixt five acts of a modern play and five ſuch pictures. Where the repreſentation is ſuſpended, we can with the greateſt facility ſuppoſe any length of time or any change of place. The ſpectator, it is true, may be conſcious, that the real time and place are not the ſame with what are employ'd in the repreſentation, even including the intervals. But this is a work of reflection; and by the ſame reflection he may alſo be conſcious, that Garrick is not King Lear, that the playhouſe is not Dover cliffs, nor the noiſe he hears thunder and lightning. In a word, during an interruption of the repreſentation, it is not more difficult for a ſpectator to imagine himſelf carried from place to place, and from one period of time to another, than at once, when the ſcene firſt opens, to be carried from London to Rome, or from the preſent time two thouſand years back. And indeed, it muſt appear ridiculous, that a critic, who makes no difficulty of ſuppoſing candle-light to be ſun-ſhine, and ſome painted canvaſſes a palace or a priſon, ſhould affect ſo much difficulty in imagining a latitude of place or of time in the ſtory, beyond what is neceſſary in the repreſentation.

There are, I acknowledge, ſome effects of great latitude in time that ought never to be indulged in a compoſition for the theatre. Nothing can be more abſurd, than at the cloſe to exhibit a full grown perſon who appears a child at the beginning. The mind rejects as contrary to all probability, ſuch latitude of time as is requiſite for a change ſo remarkable. The greateſt change from place to place hath not altogether the ſame bad effect. In the bulk of human affairs place is not material; and the mind, when occupied with an intereſting event, is little regardful of minute circumſtances. Theſe may be varied at will, becauſe they ſcarce make any impreſſion.

But though I have thus taken arms to reſcue modern poets from the ſlaviſh fetters of modern critics, I would not be underſtood to juſtify liberty without any reſerve. An unbounded licence with relation to place and time, is faulty for a reaſon that ſeems to have been overlooked: it never fails to break in upon the unity of action. In the ordinary courſe of human affairs, ſingle events, ſuch as are fit to be repreſented on the ſtage, are confined to a narrow ſpot, and generally employ no great extent of time. We accordingly ſeldom find ſtrict unity of action in a dramatic compoſition, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in theſe particulars. I muſt ſay farther, that a compoſition which employs but one place, and requires not a greater length of time than is neceſſary for the repreſentation, is ſo far the more perfect: becauſe the confining an event within ſo narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action; and alſo prevents that labour, however ſlight, which the mind muſt undergo in imagining frequent changes of place and many intervals of time. But ſtill I muſt inſiſt, that the limitation of place and time which was neceſſary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and therefore that though ſuch limitation adds one beauty more to the compoſition, it is at beſt but a refinement, which may juſtly give place to a thouſand beauties more ſubſtantial. And I may add, that it is extremely difficult, I was about to ſay impracticable, to contract within the Grecian limits, any fable ſo fruitful of incidents in number and variety as to give full ſcope to the fluctuation of paſſion.

It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and of time upon the ſame footing with the unity of action, making them all equally eſſential, have not attended to the nature and conſtruction of the modern drama. If they admit an interrupted repreſentation, with which no writer finds fault, it is plainly abſurd to condemn the greateſt advantage it procures us, that of repreſenting many intereſting ſubjects excluded from the Grecian ſtage. If there needs muſt be a reformation, why not reſtore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action? There is certainly no medium: for to admit an interruption without relaxing from the ſtrict unities of place and of time, is in effect to load us with all the inconveniencies of the ancient drama, and at the ſame time to with-hold from us its advantages.

And therefore the only proper queſtion is, whether our model be or be not a real improvement. This indeed may juſtly be called in queſtion; and in order to a fair comparative trial, ſome particulars muſt be premiſed. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to enter into the ſcene of action, however diſtant it be in time or in place. We know that the play is a repreſentation only: and the imagination, with facility, accommodates itſelf to every circumſtance. Our ſituation is very different after we are engaged. It is the perfection of repreſentation to hide itſelf, to impoſe upon the ſpectator, and to produce in him an impreſſion of reality, as if he were ſpectator of a real eventChap. 2. part 1. ſect. 6.. Any interruption annihilates this impreſſion: he is rouſed out of his waking dream, and unhappily reſtored to his ſenſes. So difficult it is to ſupport this impreſſion of reality, that much ſlighter interruptions than the interval betwixt two acts are ſufficient to diſſolve the charm. In the 5th act of the Mourning Bride, the three firſt ſcenes are in a room of ſtate; the fourth in a priſon. This change is operated by ſhifting the ſcene, which is done in a trice. But however quick the tranſition may be, it is impracticable to impoſe upon the ſpectators ſo far as to make them conceive that they are actually carried from the palace to the priſon. They immediately reflect, that the palace and priſon are imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction.

From theſe premiſſes one will be naturally led, at firſt view, to declare againſt the frequent interruptions in the modern drama. It will occur, "That every interruption muſt have the effect to baniſh the dream of reality, and with it to baniſh our concern, which cannot ſubſiſt while we are conſcious that all is a fiction; and therefore that in the modern drama ſufficient time is not afforded for the fluctuation and ſwelling of paſſion, like what is afforded in the Grecian drama, where there is no interruption." This reaſoning, it muſt be owned, has a ſpecious appearance: but we muſt not turn faint-hearted upon the firſt repulſe; let us rally our troops for a ſecond engagement.

Conſidering attentively the ancient drama, we find, that though the repreſentation is never interrupted, the principal action is ſuſpended not leſs frequently than in the modern drama. There are five acts in each; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the action is ſuſpended, as it is at the end of every act, opportunity is taken of the interval to employ the chorus in ſinging. Hence it appears, that the Grecian continuity of repreſentation cannot have the effect to prolong the impreſſion of reality. To baniſh this impreſſion, a ſuſpenſion of the action while the chorus is employ'd in ſinging, is not leſs operative than a total ſuſpenſion both of the repreſentation and action.

But to open a larger view, I am ready to ſhow, that a continued repreſentation, without a ſingle pauſe even in the principal action, ſo far from an advantage, would be really an imperfection; and that a repreſentation with proper pauſes, is better calculated for moving the audience, and making the ſtrongeſt impreſſions. Repreſentation cannot very long ſupport an impreſſion of reality: when the ſpirits are exhauſted by cloſe attention and by the agitation of paſſion, an uneaſineſs enſues, which never fails to baniſh the waking dream. Now ſuppoſing an act to employ as much time as can eaſily be given with ſtrict attention to any incident, a ſuppoſition that cannot be far from the truth; it follows, that the impreſſion of reality would not be prolonged beyond the ſpace of an act, even ſuppoſing a continued repreſentation. Hence it appears, that a continued repreſentation without any pauſe, would be a bad contrivance: it would break the attention by overſtraining it, and produce a total abſence of mind. In this reſpect, the four pauſes have a fine effect. By affording to the audience a ſeaſonable reſpite when the impreſſion of reality is gone, and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue; and conſequently prevent a wandering of thought at the very time poſſibly of the moſt intereſting ſcenes.

In one article indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advantage: its chorus, during an interval, not only preſerves alive the impreſſions made upon the audience, but alſo prepares their hearts finely for new impreſſions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the audience, at the end of every act, are in a manner ſolicited to withdraw their thoughts from what has been paſſing, and to trifle away the time the beſt way they can. Thus in the intervals betwixt the acts, every warm impreſſion is baniſhed; and the ſpectators begin the next act cool and indifferent, as at the commencement of the play. Here is a groſs malady in our theatrical repreſentations; but a malady that luckily is not incurable. To revive the Grecian chorus, would be to revive the Grecian ſlavery of place and time. But I can figure a detached chorus coinciding with a pauſe in the repreſentation, as the ancient chorus did with a pauſe in the principal action. What objection, for example, can there lie againſt muſic betwixt the acts, vocal and inſtrumental, adapted to the ſubject? Such detached chorus, beſide admitting the ſame latitude that we enjoy at preſent as to time and place, would have more than one happy effect: it would recruit the ſpirits; and it would preſerve entire, the tone, if not the tide, of paſſion. The muſic that comes firſt, ought to accord with the tone of the preceding paſſion, and be gradually varied till it accord with the tone of the paſſion that is to ſucceed in the next act. The muſic and the repreſentation would both of them be gainers by their conjunction; which will thus appear. Muſic that accords with the preſent tone of mind, is, upon that account, doubly agreeable; and accordingly, though muſic ſingly hath not power to raiſe any paſſion, it tends greatly to ſupport a paſſion already raiſed. Further, muſic, though it cannot of itſelf raiſe a paſſion, prepares us for the paſſion that follows: by making chearful, tender, melancholy, or animated impreſſions, muſic has power to diſpoſe the heart to various paſſions. Of this power, the firſt ſcene of the Mourning Bride is a ſhining inſtance: without the preparation of ſoft muſic in a melancholy ſtrain, it would be extremely difficult to enter all at once into Almeria's deep diſtreſs. In this manner, muſic and repreſentation ſupport each other delightfully: the impreſſion made upon the audience by the repreſentation, is a fine preparation for the muſic that ſucceeds; and the impreſſion made by the muſic, is a fine preparation for the repreſentation that ſucceeds. It appears to me clear, that, by ſome ſuch contrivance, the modern drama may be improved, ſo as to enjoy the advantage of the ancient chorus without its ſlaviſh limitation of place and time. And as to muſic in particular, I cannot figure any plan that would tend more to its improvement. Compoſers, thoſe for the ſtage at leaſt, would be reduced to the happy neceſſity of ſtudying and imitating nature; inſtead of indulging, according to the preſent faſhion, in wild, fantaſtic, and unnatural conceits. But we muſt return to our ſubject, and finiſh the compariſon betwixt the ancient and the modern drama.

The numberleſs improprieties forc'd upon the Grecian dramatic poets by the conſtitution of their drama, are, of themſelves one ſhould think, a ſufficient reaſon for preferring that of the moderns, even abſtracting from the improvement propoſed. To prepare the reader for this article, it muſt be premiſed, that as in the ancient drama the place of action never varies, a place neceſſarily muſt be choſen to which every perſon may have acceſs without any improbability. This confines the ſcene to ſome open place, generally the court or area before a palace; which excludes from the Grecian theatre tranſactions within doors, though theſe commonly are the moſt important. Such cruel reſtraint is of itſelf ſufficient to cramp the moſt pregnant invention; and accordingly the Grecian writers, in order to preſerve unity of place, are reduced to woful improprieties. In the Hippolytus of EuripidesAct 1. ſc. 6., Phedra, diſtreſſed in mind and body, is carried without any pretext from her palace to the place of action, is there laid upon a couch unable to ſupport herſelf upon her limbs, and made to utter many things improper to be heard by a number of women who form the chorus. What is ſtill worſe, her female attendant uſes the ſtrongeſt intreaties to make her reveal the ſecret cauſe of her anguiſh; which at laſt Phedra, contrary to decency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in preſence of this very chorusAct 2. ſc. 2.. Alceſtes, in Euripides, at the point of death, is brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning and lamenting her untimely fateAct 2. ſc. 1.. In the Trachiniens of SophoclesAct 2., a ſecret is imparted to Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, in preſence of the chorus. In the tragedy of Iphigenia, the meſſenger employ'd to carry Clitemneſtra the news that Iphigenia was ſacrificed, ſtops ſhort at the place of action, and with a loud voice calls the Queen from her palace to hear the news. Again, in the Iphigenia in Tauris, the neceſſary preſence of the chorus forces Euripides into a groſs abſurdity, which is to form a ſecret plot in their hearingAct 4. at the cloſe.; and to diſguiſe the abſurdity, much courtſhip is beſtowed on the chorus, not one woman but a number, to engage them to ſecrecy. In the Medea of Euripides, that princeſs makes no difficulty, in preſence of the chorus, to plot the death of her huſband, of his miſtreſs, and of her father the King of Corinth, all by poiſon. It was neceſſary to bring Medea upon the ſtage, and there is but one place of action, which is always occupied by the chorus. This ſcene cloſes the ſecond act; and in the end of the third, ſhe frankly makes the chorus her confidents in ploting the murder of her own children. Terence, by identity of place, is often forc'd to make a converſation within doors be heard on the open ſtreet: the cries of a woman in labour are there heard diſtinctly.

The Grecian poets are not more happy with reſpect to time than with reſpect to place. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, that prince is baniſhed at the end of the fourth act. In the firſt ſcene of the following act, a meſſenger relates to Theſeus the whole particulars of the death of Hippolytus by the ſea-monſter. This remarkable event muſt have employ'd many hours; and yet in the repreſentation it is confined to the time employ'd by the chorus upon the ſong at the end of the 4th act. The inconſiſtency is ſtill greater in the Iphigenia in Tauris Act 5. ſc. 4.. The ſong could not exhauſt half an hour; and yet the incidents ſuppoſed to have happened in that time, could not naturally be tranſacted in leſs than half a day.

The Grecian artiſts are not leſs frequently obliged to tranſgreſs another rule, derived alſo from a continued repreſentation, which is, that the place of action muſt conſtantly be occupied; for the very leaſt vacuity is an interruption of the repreſentation. Sophocles, with regard to this rule as well as others, is generally correct. But Euripides cannot bear ſuch reſtraint: he often evacuates the ſtage, and leaves it empty for others in ſucceſſion. Iphigenia in Tauris, after pronouncing a ſoliloquy in the firſt ſcene, leaves the place of action, and is ſucceeded by Oreſtes and Pylades. They, after ſome converſation, walk off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied with the chorus. In the Alceſtes, which is of the ſame author, the place of action is void at the end of the third act. It is true, that to cover this irregularity, and to preſerve the repreſentation in motion, Euripides is extremely careful to fill the ſtage without loſs of time. But this is ſtill an interruption, and a link of the chain broken: for during the change of the actors, there muſt always be a ſpace of time, when we cannot juſtly ſay, that the ſtage is occupied by either ſet. It makes indeed a more remarkable interruption, to change the place of action as well as the actors; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian ſtage.

It is hard to ſay upon what model Terence has formed his plays. Having no chorus, there is a ceſſation in the repreſentation at the end of every act. But advantage is not taken of this ceſſation, even to vary the place of action. The ſtreet is always choſen, where every thing paſſing may be ſeen by every perſon: and by this choice, the moſt ſprightly and intereſting parts of the action, which commonly paſs within doors, are excluded; witneſs the laſt act of the Eunuch. He hath ſubmitted to the ſame ſlavery with reſpect to time. In a word, a play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place and time than his plays are. Thus a zealous ſectary follows implicitly ancient forms and ceremonies, without once conſidering whether their introductive cauſe be ſtill ſubſiſting. Plautus, of a bolder genius than Terence, makes good uſe of the liberty afforded by an interrupted repreſentation: he varies the place of action upon all occaſions, when the variation ſuits his purpoſe.

The intelligent reader will by this time underſtand, that I plead for no change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any latitude in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The unities of place and time ought to be ſtrictly obſerved during each act; for during the repreſentation, there is no opportunity for the ſmalleſt deviation from either. Hence it is an eſſential requiſite, that during an act the ſtage be always occupied; for even a momentary vacuity makes an interval. Another rule is not leſs eſſential: it would be a groſs breach of the unity of action, to exhibit upon the ſtage two ſeparate actions at the ſame time; and therefore to preſerve this unity, it is neceſſary that each perſonage introduced during an act, be linked to thoſe in poſſeſſion of the ſtage, ſo as to join all in one action. Theſe things follow from the very conception of an act, which admits not the ſlighteſt interruption. The moment the repreſentation is intermitted, there is an end of that act; and we have no other notion of a new act, but where after a pauſe or interval, the repreſentation is again put in motion. French writers, generally ſpeaking, are extremely correct in this particular: the Engliſh, on the contrary, are ſo irregular as ſcarce to deſerve a criticiſm: actors not only ſucceed each other in the ſame place without connection; but, what is ſtill worſe, they frequently ſucceed each other in different places. This change of place in the ſame act, ought never to be indulged; for, beſide breaking the unity of the act, it has a diſagreeable effect. After an interval, the mind can readily accommodate itſelf to any place that is neceſſary, juſt as readily as at the commencement of the play; but during the repreſentation, the mind rejects change of place. From the foregoing cenſure muſt be excepted the Mourning Bride of Congreve, where regularity concurs with the beauty of ſentiment and of language, to make it one of the moſt complete pieces England has to boaſt of I muſt acknowledge, however, that in point of regularity, this elegant performance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four firſt acts, the unities of place and time are ſtrictly obſerved: but in the laſt act, there is a capital error with reſpect to unity of place. In the three firſt ſcenes of that act, the place of action is a room of ſtate, which is changed to a priſon in the fourth ſcene: the chain of the actors withal is broken; for the perſons introduced in the priſon, are different from thoſe who made their appearance in the room of ſtate. This remarkable interruption of the repreſentation, makes in effect two acts inſtead of one: and therefore, if it be a rule, that a play ought not to conſiſt of more acts than five, this performance is ſo far defective in point of regularity. I may add, that even admitting ſix acts, the irregularity would not be altogether removed, without a longer pauſe in the repreſentation than is allowed in the acting; for it requires more than a momentary interruption, to enable the imagination readily to accommodate itſelf to a new place, or to prorogation of time. In The Way of the World, of the ſame author, unity of place is preſerved during every act, and a ſtricter unity of time during the whole play than is neceſſary.

THE books that have been compoſed upon architecture and upon embelliſhing ground, abound in practical inſtruction neceſſary for a mechanic: but in vain would we rummage them for rational principles to improve our taſte. In a general ſyſtem, it might be thought ſufficient to have unfolded the principles that govern theſe and other fine arts, leaving the application to the reader: but as I would neglect no opportunity of illuſtrating theſe principles, I propoſe to give a ſpecimen of their application to gardening and architecture, being favourite arts, though I profeſs no peculiar ſkill in either.

Gardening was at firſt an uſeful art: in the garden of Alcinoous, deſcribed by Homer, we find nothing done for pleaſure merely. But gardening is now improved into a fine art; and when we talk of a garden without any epithet, a pleaſure garden, by way of eminence, is underſtood. The garden of Alcinoous, in modern language, was but a kitchen-garden. Architecture has run the ſame courſe. It continued many ages an uſeful art merely, before it aſpired to be claſſed with the fine arts. Architecture therefore and gardening muſt be handled in a twofold view, as being uſeful arts as well as fine arts. The reader however will not here expect rules for improving any work of art in point of utility. It is no part of my plan to treat of any uſeful art as ſuch. But there is a beauty in utility; and in diſcourſing of beauty, that of utility ought not to be neglected. This leads us to conſider gardens and buildings in different views: they may be deſtined for uſe ſolely, for beauty ſolely, or for both. Such variety in the deſtination, beſtows upon gardening and architecture a great command of beauties complex not leſs than various, which makes it difficult to form an accurate taſte in theſe arts. And hence that difference and wavering of taſte which is more remarkable here than in any art that has but a ſingle deſtination.

Architecture and gardening cannot otherwiſe entertain the mind, than by raiſing certain agreeable emotions or feelings; and before we deſcend to particulars, theſe arts ſhall be preſented in a general view, by ſhowing what are the emotions or feelings that can be raiſed by them. Poetry, as to its power of raiſing emotions, poſſeſſes juſtly the firſt place among the fine arts; for ſcarce one emotion of human nature is beyond its reach. Painting and ſculpture are more circumſcribed, having the command of no emotions but what are produced by ſight. They are peculiarly ſucceſsful in expreſſing painful paſſions, which are diſplay'd by external ſigns extremely legibleSee chap. 15.. Gardening, beſide the emotions of beauty by means of regularity, order, proportion, colour, and utility, can raiſe emotions of grandeur, of ſweetneſs, of gaiety, melancholy, wildneſs, and even of ſurpriſe or wonder. In architecture, regularity, order, and proportion, and the beauties that reſult from them, are ſtill more conſpicuous than in gardening. But with reſpect to the beauty of colour, architecture is far inferior. Grandeur can be expreſſed in a building, perhaps more ſucceſsfully than in a garden; but as to the other emotions above mentioned, architecture hitherto has not been brought to the perfection of expreſſing them diſtinctly. To balance this defect, architecture can diſplay the beauty of utility in the higheſt perfection.

But gardening poſſeſſes one advantage, which never can be equalled in the other art. A garden may be ſo contrived, as in various ſcenes to raiſe ſucceſſively all its different emotions. But to operate this delicious effect, the garden muſt be extenſive, ſo as to admit a ſlow ſucceſſion: for a ſmall garden, comprehended at one view, ought to be confined to one expreſſionSee chap. 8.: it may be gay, it may be ſweet, it may be gloomy; but an attempt to mix theſe, would create a jumble of emotions not a little unpleaſant. For the ſame reaſon, a building, even the moſt magnificent, is neceſſarily confined to one expreſſion.

Architecture, conſidered as a fine art, inſtead of rivaling gardening in its progreſs toward perfection, ſeems not far advanced beyond its infant-ſtate. To bring it to maturity, two things mainly are wanted. Firſt, A greater variety of parts and ornaments than it ſeems provided with. Gardening here has greatly the advantage: it is provided with ſuch plenty and ſuch variety of materials, that it muſt be the fault of the artiſts, if the ſpectator be not entertained with different ſcenes, and affected with various emotions. But materials in architecture are ſo ſcanty, that artiſts hitherto have not been ſucceſsful in raiſing emotions, other than thoſe of beauty and grandeur. With reſpect to the former, there are indeed plenty of means, regularity, order, ſymmetry, ſimplicity; and with reſpect to the latter, the addition of ſize is ſufficient. But though it be evident, that every building ought to have a certain character or expreſſion ſuitable to its deſtination; yet this is a refinement which artiſts have ſcarce ventured upon. A death's head and bones employ'd in monumental buildings, will indeed produce an emotion of gloom and melancholy: but every ornament of this kind, if theſe can be termed ſo, ought to be rejected, becauſe they are in themſelves diſagreeable. The other thing wanted to bring the art to perfection, is, to aſcertain the preciſe impreſſion made by every ſingle part and ornament, cupolas, ſpires, columns, carvings, ſtatues, vaſes, &c. For in vain will an artiſt attempt rules for employing theſe, either ſingly or in combination, until the different emotions or feelings they produce be diſtinctly explained. Gardening in this particular hath alſo the advantage. The ſeveral emotions raiſed by trees, rivers, caſcades, plains, eminences, and other materials it employs, are underſtood; and the nature of each can be deſcribed with ſome degree of preciſion, which is done occaſionally in the foregoing parts of this work.

In gardening as well as in architecture, ſimplicity ought to be the governing taſte. Profuſe ornament hath no better effect than to confound the eye, and to prevent the object from making an impreſſion as one entire whole. An artiſt deſtitute of genius for capital beauties, is naturally prompted to ſupply the defect by crowding his plan with ſlight embelliſhments. Hence in gardens, triumphal arches, Chineſe houſes, temples, obeliſks, caſcades, fountains, without end; and hence in buildings, pillars, vaſes, ſtatues, and a profuſion of carved work. Thus a woman who has no juſt taſte, is apt to overcharge every part of her dreſs with ornament. Superfluity of decoration hath another bad effect: it gives the object a diminutive look. An iſland in a wide extended lake, makes it appear larger; but an artificial lake, which muſt always be little, appears ſtill leſs by making an iſland in itSee appendix to part 5. chap. 2..

In forming plans for embelliſhing a field, an artiſt void of taſte deals in ſtraight lines, circles, ſquares; becauſe theſe ſhow beſt upon paper. He perceives not, that to humour and adorn nature is the perfection of his art; and that nature, neglecting regularity, reacheth ſuperior beauties by diſtributing her objects in great variety with a bold hand. A large field laid out with ſtrict regularity, is ſtiff and artificial. Nature indeed, in organized bodies comprehended under one view, ſtudies regularity; which, for the ſame reaſon, ought to be ſtudied in architecture: but in large objects, which cannot otherwiſe be ſurveyed than in parts and by ſucceſſion, regularity and uniformity would be uſeleſs properties, becauſe they cannot be diſcovered by the eyeA ſquare field appears not ſuch to the eye when viewed from any part of it; and the centre is the only place where a circular field preſerves in appearance its real figure.. Nature therefore, in her large works, neglects theſe properties; and in copying nature the artiſt ought to neglect them.

Having thus far carried on a compariſon betwixt gardening and architecture, I proceed to rules peculiar to each; and I begin with gardening. The ſimpleſt idea of a garden, is that of a ſpot embelliſhed with a number of natural objects, trees, walks, poliſh'd parterres, flowers, ſtreams, &c. One more complex comprehends ſtatues and buildings, that nature and art may be mutually ornamental. A third approaching nearer perfection, is of objects aſſembled together, in order to produce, not only an emotion of beauty, eſſential to gardens of every kind, but alſo ſome other particular emotion, grandeur, for example, gaiety, or any other of thoſe above mentioned. The moſt perfect idea of a garden is an improvement upon the third, requiring the adjuſtment of the ſeveral parts, in ſuch a manner as to inſpire all the different emotions that can be raiſed by gardening. In this idea of a garden, the arrangement is an important circumſtance; for it has been ſhown, that ſome emotions figure beſt in conjunction, and that others ought always to appear in ſucceſſion and never in conjunction. I have had occaſion to obſerve aboveChap. 8., that when the moſt oppoſite emotions, ſuch as gloomineſs and gaiety, ſtillneſs and activity, follow each other in ſucceſſion, the pleaſure on the whole will be the greateſt; but that oppoſite or diſſimilar emotions ought not to be united, becauſe they produce an unpleaſant mixtureChap. 2. part 4.. For that reaſon, a ruin, affording a ſort of melancholy pleaſure, ought not to be ſeen from a flower-parterre, which is gay and chearful. But to paſs immediately from an exhilerating object to a ruin, has a glorious effect; for each of the emotions is the more ſenſibly felt by being contraſted with the other. Similar emotions, on the other hand, ſuch as gaiety and ſweetneſs, ſtillneſs and gloomineſs, motion and grandeur, ought to be raiſed together; for their effects upon the mind are greatly heightened by their conjunctionSee the place immediately above cited..

Kent's method of embelliſhing a field, is admirable. It is painting a field with beautiful objects, natural and artificial, diſpoſed like colours upon a canvas. It requires indeed more genius to paint in the gardening way. In forming a landſcape upon a canvas, no more is required but to adjuſt the figures to each other: an artiſt who lays out ground in Kent's manner, has an additional taſk, which is to adjuſt his figures to the ſeveral varieties of the field.

One garden muſt be diſtinguiſhed from a plurality; and yet it is not obvious wherein the unity of a garden conſiſts. A notion of unity is indeed ſuggeſted from viewing a garden ſurrounding a palace, with views from each window, and walks leading to every corner. But there may be a garden without a houſe. In this caſe, I muſt pronounce, that what makes it one garden, is the unity of deſign, every ſingle ſpot appearing part of a whole. The gardens of Verſailles, properly expreſſed in the plural number, being no fewer than ſixteen, are indeed all of them connected with the palace, but have ſcarce any mutual connection: they appear not like parts of one whole, but rather like ſmall gardens in contiguity. Were theſe gardens at ſome diſtance from each other, they would have a better effect. Their junction breeds confuſion of ideas, and upon the whole gives leſs pleaſure than would be felt in a ſlower ſucceſſion.

Regularity is required in that part of a garden which joins the dwelling-houſe; for being conſidered as a more immediate acceſſory, it ought to partake the regularity of the principal objectThe influence of this connection ſurpaſſing all bounds, is viſible in many gardens, left in their original form of horizontal plains forc'd with great labour and expence, perpendicular faces of earth ſupported with maſſy ſtone walls, terrace-walks in ſtages one above another, regular ponds and canals without the leaſt motion, and the whole ſurrounded, like a priſon, with high walls excluding every external object. At firſt view it may puzzle one to account for a taſte running croſs to nature in every particular. But nothing happens without a cauſe. Perfect regularity and uniformity are required in a houſe; and this idea is extended to its acceſſory the garden, eſpecially if it be a ſmall ſpot incapable of grandeur or much variety. The houſe is regular, ſo muſt the garden be: the floors of the houſe are horizontal, and the garden muſt have the ſame poſition: in the houſe we are protected from every intruding eye, ſo muſt we be in the garden. This, it muſt be confeſſed, is carrying the notion of reſemblance very far. But where reaſon and taſte are laid aſleep, nothing is more common than to carry reſemblance beyond proper bounds.. But in proportion to the diſtance from the houſe conſidered as the centre, regularity ought leſs and leſs to be ſtudied. In an extenſive plan, it hath a fine effect to lead the mind inſenſibly from regularity to a bold variety giving an impreſſion of grandeur. And grandeur ought to be ſtudied as much as poſſible, even in a more confined plan, by avoiding a multiplicity of ſmall partsSee chap. 4.. Nothing contributes more to grandeur, than a right diſpoſition of trees. Let them be ſcattered extremely thin near the dwelling-houſe, and thickened in proportion to their diſtance: diſtant eminences to be filled with trees, and laid open to view. A ſmall garden, on the other hand, which admits not grandeur, ought to be ſtrictly regular.

Milton, deſcribing the garden of Eden, prefers juſtly the grand taſte to that of regularity. Flowers worthy of paradiſe, which not nice art In beds and curious knots; but Nature boon Pour'd forth profuſe on hill, and dale, and plain; Both where the morning ſun firſt warmly ſmote The open field, and where the unpierc'd ſhade Imbrown'd the noontide-bow'rs. Paradiſe Loſt, b. 4.

In the manner of planting a wood or thicket, much art may be diſplay'd. A common centre of walks, termed a ſtar, from whence are ſeen a number of remarkable objects, appears too artificial to be agreeable. The crowding withal ſo many objects together, leſſens the pleaſure that would be felt in a ſlower ſucceſſion. Abandoning therefore the ſtar, being ſtiff and formal, let us try to ſubſtitute ſome form more natural, that will lay open all the remarkable objects in the neighbourhood. This may be done by openings in the wood at various diſtances, which, in walking, bring ſucceſſively under the eye every object as by accident. Some openings diſplay ſingle objects, ſome a plurality in a line, and ſome a rapid ſucceſſion of them. In this plan, the mind at intervals is rouſed and cheared by agreeable objects; and the ſcene is greatly heightened by the ſurpriſe it occaſions when we ſtumble, as it were, upon objects of which we had no expectation.

As gardening is not an inventive art, but an imitation of nature, or rather nature itſelf ornamented; it follows neceſſarily, that every thing unnatural ought to be rejected with diſdain. Statues of wild beaſts vomiting water, a common ornament in gardens, prevails in thoſe of Verſailles. Is this ornament in a good taſte? A jet d'eau, being purely artificial, may, without diſguſt, be tortured into a thouſand ſhapes: but a repreſentation of what really exiſts in nature, admits not any unnatural circumſtance. Theſe ſtatues therefore in the gardens of Verſailles muſt be condemned: and yet ſo inſenſible has the artiſt been to juſt imitation, as to have diſplay'd his vicious taſte without the leaſt colour or diſguiſe. A lifeleſs ſtatue of an animal pouring out water, may be endured without much diſguſt. But here the lions and wolves are put in violent action: each has ſeized its prey, a deer or a lamb, in act to devour. And yet, inſtead of extended claws and open mouth, the whole, as by a hocus-pocus trick, is converted into a different ſcene: the lion, forgetting his prey, pours out water plentifully; and the deer, forgetting its danger, performs the ſame operation; a repreſentation not leſs abſurd than that in the opera, where Alexander the Great, after mounting the wall of a town beſieged, turns about and entertains his army with a ſong.

In gardening, every lively exhibition of what is beautiful in nature has a fine effect: on the other hand, diſtant and faint imitations are diſpleaſing to every one of taſte. The cutting evergreens in the ſhape of animals, is a very ancient practice; as appears from the epiſtles of Pliny, who ſeems to be a great admirer of this puerile conceit. The propenſity to imitation gave birth to this practice; and has ſupported it wonderfully long, conſidering how faint and inſipid the imitation is. But the vulgar, great and ſmall, devoid of taſte, are entertained with the oddneſs and ſingularity of a reſemblance, however diſtant, betwixt a tree and an animal. An attempt, in the gardens of Verſailles, to imitate a grove of trees by a group of jets d'eau, appears, for the ſame reaſon, not leſs ridiculous.

In laying out a garden, every thing trivial or whimſical ought to be avoided. Is a labyrinth then to be juſtified? It is a mere conceit, like that of compoſing verſes in the ſhape of an axe or an egg. The walks and hedges may be agreeable; but in the form of a labyrinth, they ſerve to no end but to puzzle. A riddle is a conceit not ſo mean; becauſe the ſolution is a proof of ſagacity, which affords no aid in tracing a labyrinth.

The gardens of Verſailles, executed with infinite expence by men at that time in high repute, are a laſting monument of a taſte the moſt vicious and depraved. The faults above mentioned, inſtead of being avoided, are choſen as beauties, and multiplied without end. Nature, it would ſeem, was deemed too vulgar to be imitated in the works of a magnificent monarch; and for that reaſon preference was given to things unnatural, which probably were miſtaken for ſupernatural. I have often amuſed myſelf with a fanciful reſemblance betwixt theſe gardens and the Arabian tales. Each of them is a performance intended for the amuſement of a great king: in the ſixteen gardens of Verſailles there is no unity of deſign, more than in the thouſand and one Arabian tales: and, laſtly, they are equally unnatural; groves of jets d'eau, ſtatues of animals converſing in the manner of Aeſop, water iſſuing out of the mouths of wild beaſts, give an impreſſion of fairy-land and witchcraft, not leſs than diamond-palaces, inviſible rings, ſpells and incantations.

A ſtraight road is the moſt agreeable, becauſe it ſhortens the journey. But in an embelliſhed field, a ſtraight walk has an air of ſtiffneſs and confinement: and at any rate is leſs agreeable than a winding or waving walk; for in ſurveying the beauties of a fine field, we love to roam from place to place at freedom. Winding walks have another advantage: at every ſtep they open new views. In ſhort, the walks in a field intended for entertainment, ought not to have any appearance of a road. My intention is not to make a journey, but to feaſt my eye with the beauties of art and nature. This rule excludes not long ſtraight openings terminating upon diſtant objects. Theſe, beſide variety, never fail to raiſe an emotion of grandeur, by extending in appearance the ſize of the field. An opening without a terminating object, ſoon cloſes upon the eye: but an object, at whatever diſtance, continues the opening; and deludes the ſpectator into a conviction, that the trees which confine the view are continued till they join the object. Straight walks alſo in receſſes do extremely well: they vary the ſcenery, and are favourable to meditation.

An avenue ought not to be directed in a ſtraight line upon a dwelling-houſe: better far an oblique approach in a waving line, with ſingle trees and other ſcattered objects interpoſed. In a direct approach, the firſt appearance continues the ſame to the end: we ſee a houſe at a diſtance, and we ſee it all along in the ſame ſpot without any variety. In an oblique approach, the intervening objects put the houſe ſeemingly in motion: it moves with the paſſenger, and appears to direct its courſe ſo as hoſpitably to intercept him. An oblique approach contributes alſo to variety: the houſe being ſeen ſucceſſively in different directions, takes on at every ſtep a new figure.

A garden on a flat ought to be highly and variouſly ornamented, in order to occupy the mind and prevent its regretting the inſipidity of an uniform plain. Artificial mounts in this view are common: but no perſon has thought of an artificial walk elevated high above the plain. Such a walk is airy, and tends to elevate the mind: it extends and varies the proſpect: and it makes the plain, ſeen from a height, appear more agreeable.

Whether ſhould a ruin be in the Gothic or Grecian form? In the former, I ſay; becauſe it exhibits the triumph of time over ſtrength, a melancholy but not unpleaſant thought. A Grecian ruin ſuggeſts rather the triumph of barbarity over taſte, a gloomy and diſcouraging thought.

Fountains are ſeldom in a good taſte. Statues of animals vomiting water, which prevail every where, ſtand condemned. A ſtatue of a whale ſpouting water upward from its head, would in one ſenſe be natural, as whales of a certain ſpecies have that power. The deſign however would ſcarce be reliſhed, becauſe its ſingularity would give it the appearance of being unnatural. There is another reaſon againſt it, that the figure of a whale is in itſelf not agreeable. In the many fountains in and about Rome, ſtatues of fiſhes are frequently employ'd to ſupport a large baſin of water. This unnatural conceit cannot be otherwiſe explained, than by the connection betwixt water and the fiſh that ſwim in it; which by the way is a proof of the influence that even the ſlighter connections have on the mind. The only good deſign for a fountain I have met with, is what follows. In an artificial rock, rugged and abrupt, there is a cavity out of ſight at the top: the water, convey'd to it by a pipe, pours or trickles down the broken parts of the rock, and is collected into a baſin at the foot: it is ſo contrived, as to make the water fall in ſheets or in rills at pleaſure.

Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work intended ſolely for pleaſure, or, in other words, for giving impreſſions of intrinſic beauty. What comes next in order is the beauty of a garden deſtined for uſe, termed relative beauty See theſe terms defined, chap. 3.; and this branch ſhall be diſpatched in a few words. In gardening, luckily, relative beauty need never ſtand in oppoſition to intrinſic beauty. All the ground that can be requiſite for uſe, makes but a ſmall proportion of an ornamented field; and may be put in any corner without obſtructing the diſpoſition of the capital parts. At the ſame time, a kitchengarden or an orchard is ſuſceptible of intrinſic beauty; and may be ſo artfully diſpoſed among the other parts, as by variety and contraſt to contribute to the beauty of the whole. In this reſpect, architecture is far more intricate, as will be ſeen immediately: for there, it being often requiſite to blend intrinſic and relative beauty in the ſame building, it becomes a difficult taſk to attain both in any perfection.

As gardening is brought to greater perfection in China than in any other known country, an account of the means practiſed by Chineſe artiſts to inſpire all the various emotions of gardening, will be a fine illuſtration of the foregoing doctrine. In general, it is an indiſpenſable law with them, never to deviate from nature: but in order to produce that degree of variety which is pleaſing, every method is uſed that is conſiſtent with nature. Nature is ſtrictly imitated in the banks of their artificial lakes and rivers; which ſometimes are bare and gravelly, ſometimes covered with wood quite to the brink of the water. To flat ſpots adorned with flowers and ſhrubs, are oppoſed others ſteep and rocky. We ſee meadows covered with cattle; rice-grounds that run into the lakes; groves into which enter navigable creeks and rivulets. Theſe generally conduct to ſome intereſting object, a magnificent building, terraces cut in a mountain, a caſcade, a grotto, an artificial rock, and other ſuch inventions. Their artificial rivers are generally ſerpentine; ſometimes narrow, noiſy, and rapid; ſometimes deep, broad, and ſlow: and to make the ſcene ſtill more active, mills and other moving machines are often erected. In the lakes are interſperſed iſlands; ſome barren, ſurrounded with rocks and ſhoals; others inriched with every thing that art and nature can furniſh. Even in their caſcades they avoid regularity, as forcing nature out of its courſe: the waters are ſeen burſting out from among the caverns and windings of the artificial rocks; here an impetuous cataract, there many leſſer falls: and in its paſſage, the water is often impeded by trees and heaps of ſtones, that ſeem brought down by the violence of the current. Straight lines, generally avoided, are ſometimes indulged, in order to take the advantage of any intereſting object at a diſtance, by directing openings upon it.

Senſible of the influence of contraſt, the Chineſe artiſts deal in ſudden tranſitions, and in oppoſing to each other, forms, colours, and ſhades. The eye is conducted, from limited to extenſive views, and from lakes and rivers to plains, hills, and woods: to dark and gloomy colours, are oppoſed the more brilliant: the different maſſes of light and ſhade are diſpoſed in ſuch a manner, as to render the compoſition diſtinct in its parts, and ſtriking on the whole. In plantations, the trees are artfully mixed according to their ſhape and colour; thoſe of ſpreading branches with the pyramidal, and the light with the deep green. They even introduce decay'd trees, ſome erect, and ſome half out of the groundTaſte has ſuggeſted to Kent the ſame artifice. The placing a decay'd tree properly, contributes to contraſt; and alſo produces a ſort of pity, grounded on an imaginary perſonification.. In order to heighten contraſt, much bolder ſtrokes are riſked. They ſometimes introduce rough rocks, dark caverns, trees ill formed and ſeemingly rent by tempeſts, or blaſted by lightning, a building in ruins or half conſumed by fire. But to relieve the mind from the harſhneſs of ſuch objects, they are always ſucceeded by the ſweeteſt and moſt beautiful ſcenes.

The Chineſe ſtudy to give play to the imagination. They hide the termination of their lakes: the view of a caſcade is frequently interrupted by trees, through which are ſeen obſcurely the waters as they fall. The imagination once rouſed, is diſpoſed to magnify every object.

Nothing is more ſtudied in Chineſe gardens than to raiſe wonder or ſurpriſe. In ſcenes calculated for that end, every thing appears like fairy-land; a torrent, for example, convey'd under ground, producing an uncommon ſound that puzzles a ſtranger to gueſs what it may be; and, to increaſe our wonder by multiplying ſuch uncommon ſounds, the rocks and buildings are contrived with cavities and interſtices. Sometimes one is led inſenſibly into dark caverns, terminating unexpectedly in a landſcape inriched with all that nature affords the moſt delicious. At other times, beautiful walks inſenſibly conduct us to a rough uncultivated field, where buſhes briers and ſtones interrupt the paſſage: when we look about for an outlet, ſome rich proſpect unexpectedly opens to view. Another artifice is, to obſcure ſome capital part by trees or other interpoſed objects: our curioſity is raiſed to know what lies beyond; and after a few ſteps, we are greatly ſurpriſed with ſome ſcene totally different from what was expected.

I cloſe theſe curſory obſervations upon gardening, with a remark that muſt touch every reader. Rough uncultivated ground, diſmal to the eye, inſpires peeviſhneſs and diſcontent. May not this be one cauſe of the harſh manners of ſavages? In a field richly ornamented, are collected beautiful objects of various kinds. Such a field diſplays in full luſtre, the goodneſs of the Deity and the ample proviſion he has made for our happineſs; which muſt fill every ſpectator, with gratitude to his Maker and with benevolence to his fellow-creatures. Other fine arts may be perverted to excite irregular, and even vicious, emotions: but gardening, which inſpires the pureſt and moſt refined pleaſures, cannot but promote every good affection. The gaiety and harmony of mind it produceth, muſt naturally incline the ſpectator to communicate his ſatisfaction to others by acts of humanity and kindneſs.

Having finiſhed what occurred on gardening, I proceed to rules and obſervations that more peculiarly concern architecture. Architecture being an uſeful as well as a fine art, buildings and parts of buildings muſt be diſtinguiſhed into three kinds, viz. what are intended for utility ſolely, what for ornament ſolely, and what for both. A building intended for utility ſolely, ſuch as detached offices, ought in every part to correſpond preciſely to that intention. The leaſt deviation from uſe, though contributing to ornament, will be diſagreeable. For every work of uſe being conſidered as a means to an end, its perfection as a means is the capital circumſtance; and every other beauty, in oppoſition, is neglected as improper and impertinent. In things again intended for ornament, ſuch as pillars, obeliſks, triumphal arches, beauty ſolely ought to be regarded. A Heathen temple muſt be conſidered as merely ornamental; for being dedicated to ſome deity, and not intended for habitation, it is ſuſceptible of any figure and any embelliſhment that fancy can ſuggeſt and beauty require. The great difficulty of contrivance, reſpects buildings that are intended for pleaſure as well as for uſe. Theſe ends, employing different and often oppoſite means, are with difficulty reconciled. In palaces, and other buildings ſufficiently extenſive to admit a variety of uſeful contrivance, regularity juſtly takes the lead. But in dwelling-houſes that are too ſmall for variety of contrivance, utility ought to prevail; neglecting regularity ſo far as it ſtands in oppoſition to convenience.

Intrinſic and relative beauty being founded on different principles, muſt be handled ſeparately; and I begin with relative beauty, as of the greater importance.

The proportions of a door, are determined by the uſe to which it is deſtined. The door of a dwelling-houſe, which ought to correſpond to the human ſize, is confined to ſeven or eight feet in height, and three or four in breadth. The proportions proper for the door of a barn or coach-houſe, are widely different. Another conſideration enters. To ſtudy intrinſic beauty in a coach-houſe or barn, intended merely for uſe, is obviouſly improper. But a dwelling-houſe may admit ornaments; and the principal door of a palace demands all the grandeur that is conſiſtent with the foregoing proportions dictated by utility. It ought to be elevated and approached by ſteps; and it may be adorned with pillars ſupporting an architrave, or in any other beautiful manner. The door of a church ought to be wide, in order to afford an eaſy paſſage for a multitude. The wideneſs, at the ſame time, regulates the height, as will appear by and by. The ſize of windows ought to be proportioned to that of the room they ſerve with light; for if the apperture be not ſufficiently large to convey light to every corner, the room is dark and gloomy. Steps of ſtairs ought to be accommodated to the human figure, without regarding any other proportion: theſe ſteps accordingly are the ſame in large and in ſmall buildings, becauſe both are inhabited by men of the ſame ſize.

I proceed to conſider intrinſic beauty blended with that which is relative. A cube in itſelf is more agreeable than a parallelopipedon, which will conſtantly hold in ſmall figures. But a large building in the form a cube, appears lumpiſh and heavy; while the other figure, ſet on its ſmaller baſe, is by its elevation more agreeable: and hence the beauty of a Gothic tower. But let us ſuppoſe this parallelopipedon deſtin'd for a dwelling-houſe, to make way for relative beauty. Here utility prevails over elevation; and a parallelopipedon, inconvenient by its height, is ſet upon its larger baſe. The loftineſs is gone; but that loſs is more than compenſated by additional convenience; and for that reaſon the form of a building ſpread more upon the ground than raiſed in height, is always preferred for a dwelling-houſe, without excepting even the moſt ſumptuous palace.

With reſpect to the diviſions within, utility requires that the rooms be rectangular; for otherwiſe void ſpaces will be left of no uſe. A hexagonal figure leaves no void ſpaces; but then it determines the rooms to be all of one ſize, which is extremely inconvenient. A cube will at firſt be pronounced the moſt agreeable figure; and this may hold in a room of a moderate ſize. But in a very large room, utility requires a different figure. The chief convenience of a great room, is unconfined motion. This directs us to the greateſt length that can be obtained. But a ſquare room of a great ſize is inconvenient, by removing far from the hand, chairs and tables, which, when unemploy'd, muſt be ranged along the ſides of the room. Utility therefore requires a large room to be a parallelogram. This figure, at the ſame time, is the beſt calculated for receiving light; becauſe, to avoid croſs-light, all the windows ought to be in one wall; and if the oppoſite wall be at ſuch diſtance as not to be fully lighted, the room muſt be obſcure. The height of a room exceeding nine or ten feet, has little or no relation to utility; and therefore proportion is the only rule for determining the height when above that number of feet.

As all artiſts who deal in the beautiful are naturally prone to entertain the eye, they have great opportunity to exert their taſte upon palaces and ſumptuous buildings, where, as above obſerved, intrinſic beauty ought to have the aſcendant over that which is relative. But ſuch propenſity is unhappy with reſpect to private dwelling-houſes; becauſe in theſe, relative beauty cannot be diſplay'd in any perfection, without abandoning intrinſic beauty. There is no opportunity for great variety of form in a ſmall houſe; and in an edifice of this kind, internal convenience has not hitherto been happily adjuſted to external regularity. I am apt to believe, that an accurate coincidence here, is beyond the reach of art. And yet architects always ſplit upon this rock; for they never will give over attempting to reconcile theſe two incompatibles. How elſe ſhould it be accounted for, that of the endleſs variety of private dwelling-houſes, there is not one to be found, that is generally agreed upon as a good pattern? The unwearied propenſity to make a houſe regular as well as convenient, forces the architect, in ſome articles, to ſacrifice convenience to regularity, and in others, regularity to convenience. By this means, the houſe, which turns out neither regular nor convenient, never fails to diſpleaſe. The faults are obvious, and the difficulty of doing better is known to the artiſt only

"Houſes are built to live in, and not to look on. Therefore let uſe be preferred before uniformity, except where both may be had." Lo. Verulam, eſſay 45.

Nothing can be more evident, than that the form of a dwelling-houſe ought to be ſuited to the climate; and yet no error is more common, than to copy in Britain the form of Italian houſes; not forgetting even thoſe parts that are purpoſely contrived for air, and for excluding the ſun. I ſhall give one or two inſtances. A colonnade along the front of a building, hath a fine effect in Greece and Italy, by producing coolneſs and obſcurity, agreeable properties in warm and luminous climates. The cold climate of Britain is altogether averſe to this ornament. A colonnade therefore, can never be proper in this country, unleſs when employ'd to communicate with a detached building. Again, a logio opening the houſe to the north, contrived in Italy for gathering cool air, is, if poſſible, ſtill more improper for this climate. Scarce endurable in ſummer, it, in winter, expoſes the houſe to the bitter blaſts of the north, and to every ſhower of ſnow and rain.

Having diſcuſſed what appeared neceſſary to be ſaid upon relative beauty, ſingly conſidered, or in combination with intrinſic beauty, the next ſtep is, to view architecture as one of the fine arts, and to examine thoſe buildings and parts of buildings that are ſolely calculated to pleaſe the eye. In the works of nature, grand and magnificent, variety prevails. The timid hand of art, is guided by rule and compaſs. Hence it is, that in works which imitate nature, the great art is to hide every appearance of art; which is done by avoiding regularity and indulging variety. But in works of art that are original and not imitative, ſuch as architecture, ſtrict regularity and uniformity ought to be ſtudied ſo far as conſiſtent with utility.

In buildings intended to pleaſe the eye, proportion is not leſs eſſential than regularity and uniformity; for we are ſo framed by nature, as to be pleaſed equally with each of theſe. By many writers it is taken for granted, that in all the parts of a building there are certain ſtrict proportions which pleaſe the eye; preciſely as there are certain ſtrict proportions of ſound which pleaſe the ear; and that in both the ſlighteſt deviation is equally diſagreeable. Others again ſeem to reliſh more a compariſon betwixt proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity; and hold that the ſame proportions are agreeable in both. The proportions, for example, of the numbers 16, 24, and 36 are agreeable; and ſo, ſay they, are the proportions of a room, the height of which is 16 feet, the breadth 24, and the length 36. This point, with relation to the preſent ſubject, being of importance, the reader will examine it with attention and impartiality. To refute the notion of a reſemblance betwixt muſical proportions and thoſe of architecture, it might be ſufficient to obſerve in general, that the one is addreſſed to the ear, the other to the eye; and that objects of different ſenſes have no reſemblance, nor indeed any relation to each other. But more particularly, what pleaſes the ear in harmony, is not the proportion of the ſtrings of the inſtrument, but of the ſounds that theſe ſtrings produce. In architecture, on the contrary, it is the proportion of different quantities that pleaſes the eye, without the leaſt relation to ſound. Beſide, were quantity here to be the ſole ground of compariſon, we have no reaſon to preſume, that there is any natural analogy betwixt the proportions that pleaſe in a building and the proportions of ſtrings that produce concordant ſounds. I inſtance in particular an octave, the moſt complete of all concords. An octave is produced by two ſtrings of the ſame tenſion and diameter, and as to length in the proportion of one to two. I do not know, that this proportion will be agreeable in any two parts of a building. I add, that concordant notes are produced by wind inſtruments, which, as to proportion, appear not to have even the ſlighteſt reſemblance to a building.

With reſpect to the other notion inſtituting a compariſon betwixt proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity, I urge, that number and quantity are ſo diſtinct from each other, as to afford no probability of any natural relation betwixt them. Quantity is a real quality of every ſubſtance or body: number is not a real quality, but merely a conception that ariſes upon viewing a plurality of things in ſucceſſion. Becauſe an arithmetical proportion is agreeable in numbers, have we any reaſon to conclude that it muſt alſo be agreeable in quantity? At this rate, a geometrical proportion and many others, ought alſo to be agreeable in both. A certain proportion may coincide in both; and among an endleſs variety of proportions, it would be wonderful, if there never ſhould be a coincidence. One example is given of this coincidence, in the numbers 16, 24, and 36; but to be convinced that it is merely accidental, we need but reflect, that the ſame proportions are not applicable to the external figure of a houſe, and far leſs to a column.

That we are framed by nature to reliſh proportion as well as regularity, is indiſputable: but that agreeable proportion, like concord in ſounds, is confined to certain preciſe meaſures, is not warranted by experience: on the contrary, we learn from experience, that various proportions are equally agreeable, that proportion is never tied down to preciſe meaſures but admits more and leſs, and that we are not ſenſible of diſproportion till the difference betwixt the quantities compared become the moſt ſtriking circumſtance. Columns evidently admit different proportions, equally agreeable. The caſe is the ſame in houſes, rooms, and other parts of a building. And this opens an intereſting reflection. The foregoing difference betwixt concord and proportion, is an additional inſtance of that admirable harmony which ſubſiſts among the ſeveral branches of the human frame. The ear is an accurate judge of ſounds and of their ſmalleſt differences; and that concord in ſounds ſhould be regulated by accurate meaſures, is perfectly well ſuited to this accuracy of perception. The eye is more uncertain about the ſize of a large object, than of one that is ſmall; and in different ſituations the ſame object appears of different ſizes. Delicacy of feeling therefore with reſpect to proportion in quantities, would be an uſeleſs quality. It is much better ordered, that there ſhould be ſuch a latitude with reſpect to agreeable proportions, as to correſpond to the uncertainty of the eye with reſpect to quantity.

But this ſcene is too intereſting to be paſſed over in a curſory view: all its beauties are not yet diſplay'd. I proceed to obſerve, that to make the eye as delicate with reſpect to proportion as the ear is with reſpect to concord, would not only be an uſeleſs quality, but be the ſource of continual pain and uneaſineſs. I need go no farther for a proof than the very room I poſſeſs at preſent: every ſtep I take, varies to me, in appearance, the proportion of the length and breadth. At that rate, I ſhould not be happy but in one preciſe ſpot, where the proportion appears agreeable. Let me further obſerve, that it would be ſingular indeed, to find in the nature of man, any two principles in perpetual oppoſition to each other. This would preciſely be the caſe, if proportion were circumſcribed like concord; for it would exclude all but one of thoſe proportions that utility requires in different buildings, and in different parts of the ſame building.

It is ludicrous to obſerve all writers acknowledging the neceſſity of accurate proportions, and yet differing widely about them. Laying afide reaſoning and philoſophy, one fact univerſally agreed on ought to have undeceived them, that the ſame proportions which pleaſe in a model are not agreeable in a large building. A room 48 feet in length and 24 in breadth and height, is well proportioned; but a room 12 feet wide and high and 24 long, looks like a gallery.

Perrault, in his compariſon of the ancients and modernsp. 94., is the only author who runs to the oppoſite extreme; maintaining, that the different proportions aſſigned to each order of columns are arbitrary, and that the beauty of theſe proportions is entirely the effect of cuſtom. This bewrays ignorance of human nature, which evidently delights in proportion, as well as in regularity, order, and propriety. But without any acquaintance with human nature, a ſingle reflection might have convinced him of his error; that if theſe proportions had not originally been agreeable, they could not have been eſtabliſhed by cuſtom. If a thing be univerſal, it muſt be natural.

To illuſtrate the preſent point, I ſhall add a few examples of the agreeableneſs of different proportions. In a ſumptuous edifice, the capital rooms ought to be large, for otherwiſe they will not be proportioned to the ſize of the building. On the other hand, a very large room in a ſmall houſe, is diſproportioned. But in things thus related, the mind requires not a preciſe or ſingle proportion, rejecting all others; on the contrary, many different proportions are made equally welcome. It is only when a proportion becomes looſe and diſtant, that the agreeableneſs abates, and at laſt vaniſheth. In all buildings accordingly, we find rooms of different proportions equally agreeable, even where the proportion is not influenced by utility. With reſpect to the height of a room, the proportion it ought to bear to the length and breadth, is extremely arbitrary; and it cannot be otherwiſe, conſidering the uncertainty of the eye as to the height of a room, when it exceeds 17 or 18 feet. In columns again, even architects muſt confeſs, that the proportion of height and thickneſs varies betwixt 8 diameters and 10, and that every proportion betwixt theſe two extremes is agreeable. But this is not all. There muſt certainly be a further variation of proportion, depending on the ſize of the column. A row of columns 10 feet high, and a row twice that height, require different proportions. The intercolumniations muſt alſo differ in proportion according to the height of the row.

Proportion of parts is not only itſelf a beauty, but is inſeparably connected with a beauty of the firſt magnitude. Parts that in conjunction appear proportional, never fail ſeparately to produce ſimilar emotions; which exiſting together, are extremely pleaſant, as I have had occaſion to ſhowChap. 2. part 4.. Thus a room of which the parts are all finely adjuſted to each other, ſtrikes us with the beauty of proportion. It produceth at the ſame time a pleaſure far ſuperior. The length, the breadth, the height, the windows, raiſe each of them ſeparately an emotion. Theſe emotions are ſimilar; and though faint when felt ſeparately, they produce in conjunction the emotion of concord or harmony, which is extremely pleaſant. On the other hand, where the length of a room far exceeds the breadth, the mind comparing together parts ſo intimately connected, immediately perceives a diſagreement or diſproportion which diſguſts. But this is not all. Viewing them ſeparately, different emotions are produced, that of grandeur from the great length, and that of meanneſs or littleneſs from the ſmall breadth, which in union are diſagreeable by their diſcordance. Hence it is, that a long gallery, however convenient for exerciſe, is not an agreeable figure of a room. We conſider it, like a ſtable, as deſtined for uſe, and expect not that in any other reſpect it ſhould be agreeable.

Regularity and proportion are eſſential in buildings deſtined chiefly or ſolely to pleaſe the eye, becauſe they are the means to produce intrinſic beauty. But a ſkilful artiſt will not confine his view to regularity and proportion. He will alſo ſtudy propriety, which is perceived when the form and ornaments of a ſtructure are ſuited to the purpoſe for which it is appointed. The ſenſe of propriety dictates the following rule, That every building ought to have an expreſſion correſponding to its deſtination. A palace ought to be ſumptuous and grand; a private dwelling, neat and modeſt; a playhouſe, gay and ſplendid; and a monument, gloomy and melancholy. A Heathen temple has a double deſtination: it is conſidered chiefly as a houſe dedicated to ſome divinity; and in that reſpect it ought to be grand, elevated, and magnificent: it is conſidered alſo as a place of worſhip; and in that reſpect it ought to be ſomewhat dark or gloomy; becauſe dimneſs produces that tone of mind which is ſuited to humility and devotion. A Chriſtian church is not conſidered as a houſe for the Deity, but merely a place of worſhip: it ought therefore to be decent and plain, without much ornament: a ſituation ought to be choſen, humble and retired; becauſe the congregation, during worſhip, ought to be humble and diſengaged from the world. Columns, beſide their chief deſtination of being ſupports, contribute to that peculiar expreſſion which the deſtination of a building requires: columns of different proportions, ſerve to expreſs loftineſs, lightneſs, &c. as well as ſtrength. Situation alſo may contribute to expreſſion: conveniency regulates the ſituation of a private dwelling-houſe; but, as I have had occaſion to obſerveChap. 10., the ſituation of a palace ought to be lofty.

And this leads me to examine, whether the ſituation of a great houſe, where the artiſt is limited in his choice, ought in any meaſure to regulate its form. The connection betwixt a great houſe and the neighbouring grounds, though not extremely intimate, demands however ſome congruity. It would, for inſtance, diſpleaſe us to find an elegant building thrown away upon a wild uncultivated country: congruity requires a poliſhed field for ſuch a building; and beſide the pleaſure of congruity, the ſpectator is ſenſible of the pleaſure of concordance from the ſimilarity of the emotions produced by the two objects. The old Gothic form of building ſeems well ſuited to the rough uncultivated regions where it was invented. The only miſtake was, the tranſferring this form to the fine plains of France and Italy, better fitted for buildings in the Grecian taſte. But by refining upon the Gothic form, every thing in the power of invention has been done, to reconcile it to its new ſituation. The profuſe variety of wild and grand objects about Inverary, demanded a houſe in the Gothic form; and every one muſt approve the taſte of the proprietor, in adjuſting ſo finely, as he has done, the appearance of his houſe to that of the country where it is placed.

The external ſtructure of a great houſe, leads naturally to its internal ſtructure. A large and ſpacious room, receives us commonly upon our entrance. This ſeems to me a bad contrivance in ſeveral reſpects. In the firſt place, when immediately from the open air we ſtep into ſuch a room, its ſize in appearance is diminiſhed by contraſt: it looks little compared with the great canopy the ſky. In the next place, when it recovers its grandeur, as it ſoon doth, it gives a diminutive appearance to the reſt of the houſe: paſſing from it, every apartment looks little. This room therefore may be aptly compared to the ſwoln commencement of an epic poem. Bella per Emathios pluſquam civilia campos. In the third place, by its ſituation it ſerves only for a waiting-room, and a paſſage to the principal apartments. And yet undoubtedly, the room of the greateſt ſize ought to be reſerved for company. A great room, which enlarges the mind and gives a certain elevation to the ſpirits, is deſtined by nature for converſation. Rejecting therefore this form, I take a hint from the climax in writing for another form that appears more ſuitable. My plan is, firſt a handſome portico, proportioned to the ſize and faſhion of the front: this portico leads into a waiting-room of a larger ſize; and this again to the great room, all by a progreſſion from ſmall to great. If the houſe be very large, there may be ſpace for the following ſuit of rooms; firſt, a portico; ſecond, a paſſage within the houſe bounded by rows of columns on each ſide connected by arcades; third, an octagon room, or of any other figure, about the centre of the building; and, laſtly, the great room.

Of all the emotions that can be raiſed by architecture, grandeur is that which has the greateſt influence on the mind. It ought therefore to be the chief ſtudy of the artiſt, to raiſe this emotion in great buildings. But it ſeems unhappy for architecture, that it is neceſſarily governed by certain principles oppoſite to grandeur: the direct effect of regularity and proportion, is to make a building appear leſs than it is in reality. Any invention to reconcile theſe with grandeur, would be a capital improvement in architecture.

Next of ornaments, which contribute greatly to give buildings a peculiar expreſſion. It has been a doubt with me, whether a building can regularly admit any ornament but what is uſeful, or at leaſt appears to be uſeful. But conſidering the double aim of architecture, a fine as well as an uſeful art, there is no good reaſon why ornaments may not be added to pleaſe the eye without any relation to uſe. This liberty is allowed in poetry, painting, and gardening, and why not in architecture conſidered as a fine art? A private dwellinghouſe, it is true, and other edifices where uſe is the chief aim, admit not regularly any ornament but what has the appearance, at leaſt, of uſe: but temples, triumphal arches, and other buildings intended chiefly or ſolely for ſhow, may be highly ornamented.

This ſuggeſts a diviſion of ornaments into three kinds, viz. ornaments that are beautiful without relation to uſe, ſuch as ſtatues in niches, vaſes, baſſo or alto relievo: next, things in themſelves not beautiful, but poſſeſſing the beauty of utility by impoſing on the ſpectator, and appearing to be of uſe, blind windows for example: the third kind is, where the thing is in itſelf beautiful, and alſo takes on the appearance of uſe; the caſe of a pilaſter. With reſpect to the ſecond, it is an egregious blunder, to contrive the ornament ſo as to make it appear uſeleſs. If a blind window therefore be neceſſary for regularity, it ought to be ſo diſguiſed, as not to be diſtinguiſhed from the real windows. If it appear to be a blind window, it is diſguſtful, as a vain attempt to ſupply the want of invention. It ſhows the irregularity in a ſtronger light; by ſignifying that a window ought to be there in point of regularity, but that the architect had not ſkill ſufficient to connect external regularity with internal convenience.

From ornaments in general, we deſcend to a pillar, the chief ornament in great buildings. The deſtination of a pillar is to ſupport, really or in appearance, another part termed the architrave. With reſpect to the form of this ornament, I obſerve, that a circle is a more agreeable figure than a ſquare, a globe than a cube, and a cylinder than a parallelopipedon. This laſt, in the language of architecture, is ſaying, that a column is a more agreeable figure than a pilaſter. For that reaſon, it ought to be preferred, all other circumſtances being equal. Another reaſon concurs, that a column annexed to a wall, which is a plain ſurface, makes a greater variety than a pilaſter. There is an additional reaſon for rejecting pilaſters in the external front of a building, ariſing from a principle unfolded aboveChap. 8., viz. a remarkable tendency in the mind of man, to advance every thing to its perfection as well as to its final iſſue. If I ſee a thing obſcurely in a dim light, and by disjointed parts, my curioſity is rouſed, and prompts me, out of the disjointed parts to compoſe an entire whole. I ſuppoſe it to be, for example, a horſe. My eye-ſight being obedient to this conjecture, I immediately perceive a horſe, almoſt as diſtinctly as in day-light. This principle is applicable to the caſe in hand. The moſt ſuperb front, at a great diſtance, appears a plain ſurface: approaching gradually, we begin to perceive inequalities: theſe inequalities, advancing a few ſteps more, take on the appearance of pillars; but whether round or ſquare, we are uncertain: our curioſity anticipating our progreſs, cannot reſt in ſuſpenſe: we naturally ſuppoſe the moſt complete pillar, or that which is the moſt agreeable to the eye; and we immediately perceive, or ſeem to perceive, a number of columns: if upon a near approach we find pilaſters only, the diſappointment makes theſe pilaſters appear diſagreeable; when abſtracted from that circumſtance, they would only have appeared ſomewhat leſs agreeable. But as this deception cannot happen in the inner front incloſing a court, I ſee no reaſon for excluding pilaſters there, when there is any reaſon for preferring them before columns.

With reſpect now to the parts of a column, a bare uniform cylinder without baſe or capital, appears naked and ſcarce agreeable: it ought therefore to have ſome finiſhing at the top and at the bottom. Hence the three chief parts of a column, the ſhaft, the baſe, and the capital. Nature undoubtedly requires a certain proportion among theſe parts, but not limited within preciſe bounds. I ſuſpect that the proportions in uſe have been influenced in ſome degree by the human figure; the capital being conceived as the head, the baſe as the feet. With reſpect to the baſe indeed, the principle of utility interpoſes to vary it from the human figure: the baſe muſt be ſo proportioned to the whole, as to give the column the appearance of ſtability.

In architecture as well as in gardening, contradictory expreſſions ought to be avoided. Firmneſs and ſolidity are the proper expreſſions of a pedeſtal: carved work, on the contrary, ought to be light and delicate. A pedeſtal therefore, whether of a column or of a ſtatue, ought to be ſparingly ornamented: the ancients never ventured any bolder ornament than the baſſo-relievo.

To ſucceed in allegorical or emblematic ornaments, is no ſlight effort of genius; for it is extremely difficult to diſpoſe them ſo in a building as to produce any good effect. The mixing them with realities, makes a miſerable jumble of truth and fictionSee chap. 20. ſect. 5.. In a baſſo-relievo on Antonin's pillar, rain obtained by the prayers of a Chriſtian legion, is expreſſed by joining to the group of ſoldiers a rainy Jupiter, with water in abundance running from his head and beard. De Piles, fond of the conceit, carefully informs his reader, that he muſt not take this for a real Jupiter, but for a ſymbol which among the Pagans ſignified rain: an emblem ought not to make a part of the group repreſenting real objects or real events, but be detached from it, ſo as even at firſt view to appear an emblem. But this is not all, nor the chief point. Every emblem ought to be rejected that is not clearly expreſſive of its meaning: if it be in any degree obſcure, it never can be reliſhed. The temples of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stow, appear not at firſt view emblematical; and when we are informed that they are ſo, it is not eaſy to gather their meaning. The ſpectator ſees one temple in full repair, another in ruins: but without an explanatory inſcription, he may gueſs, but cannot be certain, that the former being dedicated to Ancient Virtue, the latter to Modern Virtue, are intended a ſatire upon the preſent times. On the other hand, a trite emblem, like a trite ſimile, is diſguſtfulSee chap. 8.. Nor ought an emblem more than a ſimile to be founded on low or familiar objects; for if the objects be not agreeable, as well as their meaning, the emblem upon the whole will not be reliſhed. A room in a dwelling-houſe containing a monument to a deceaſed friend, is dedicated to Melancholy. Its furniture is a clock that ſtrikes every minute to ſignify how ſwiftly time paſſes: upon the monument, weeping figures and other hackney'd ornaments commonly found upon tomb-ſtones, with a ſtuff'd raven in a corner: verſes on death, and other ſerious ſubjects, inſcribed all around. The objects are too familiar, and the artifice too apparent, to produce the intended effect.

The ſtatue of Moſes ſtriking a rock from which water actually iſſues, is alſo in a falſe taſte; for it is mixing reality with repreſentation: Moſes himſelf may bring water out of the rock, but this miracle is too much for his ſtatue. The ſame objection lies againſt a caſcade where we ſee the ſtatue of a water-god pouring out of his urn real water.

It is obſerved above of gardening, that it contributes to rectitude of manners, by inſpiring gaiety and benevolence. I add another obſervation, That both gardening and architecture contribute to the ſame end, by inſpiring neatneſs and elegance. It is obſerved in Scotland, that even a turnpikeroad has ſome influence of this kind upon the low people in the neighbourhood. They acquire a taſte for regularity and neatneſs; which is diſplay'd firſt upon their yards and little incloſures, and next within doors. A taſte for regularity and neatneſs thus gathering ſtrength, comes inſenſibly to be extended to dreſs, and even to behaviour and manners.

"THAT there is no diſputing about taſte", meaning taſte in its moſt extenſive ſenſe, is a ſaying ſo generally received as to have become a proverb. One thing indeed is evident, that if the proverb hold true with reſpect to any one external ſenſe, it muſt hold true with reſpect to all. If the pleaſures of the palate diſdain a comparative trial and reject all criticiſm, the pleaſures of touch, of ſmell, of ſound, and even of ſight, muſt be equally privileged. At this rate, a man is not within the reach of cenſure, even where, inſenſible to beauty, grandeur, or elegance, he prefers the Saracen's head upon a ſign-poſt before the beſt tablature of Raphael, or a rude Gothic tower before the fineſt Grecian building: nor where he prefers the ſmell of a rotten carcaſs before that of the moſt odoriferous flower: nor jarring diſcords before the moſt exquiſite harmony.

But we muſt not ſtop here. If the pleaſures of external ſenſe be exempted from criticiſm, why not every one of our pleaſures, from whatever ſource derived? If taſte in the proper ſenſe of the word cannot be diſputed, there is as little room for diſputing it in its figurative ſenſe. The proverb accordingly comprehends both; and in that large ſenſe may be reſolved into the following general propoſition, That with reſpect to the ſenſitive part of our nature, by which ſome objects are agreeable ſome diſagreeable, there is not ſuch a thing as a good or bad, a right or wrong; that every man's taſte is to himſelf an ultimate ſtandard without appeal; and conſequently that there is no ground of cenſure againſt any one, if ſuch a one there be, who prefers Blackmore before Homer, ſelfiſhneſs before benevolence, or cowardice before magnanimity.

The proverb in the foregoing inſtances, is indeed carried very far. It ſeems difficult, however, to ſap its foundation, or with ſucceſs to attack it from any quarter. For in comparing the various taſtes of individuals, it is not obvious what ſtandard muſt be appealed to. Is not every man equally a judge of what is agreeable or diſagreeable to himſelf? Doth it not ſeem odd, and perhaps abſurd, that a man ought not to be pleaſed when he is, or that he ought to be pleaſed when he is not?

This reaſoning may perplex, but, in contradiction to ſenſe and feeling, will never afford conviction. A man of taſte muſt neceſſarily feel the reaſoning to be falſe, however unqualified to detect the fallacy. At the ſame time, though no man of taſte will ſubſcribe to the proverb as holding true in every caſe, no man will venture to affirm that it holds true in no caſe. Subjects there are undoubtedly, that we may like or diſlike indifferently, without any imputation upon our taſte. Were a philoſopher to make a ſcale for human pleaſures with many diviſions, in order that the value of each pleaſure may be denoted by the place it occupies, he would not think of making diviſions 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 without end, but would rank together many pleaſures ariſing perhaps from different objects, either as being equally valuable, or differing ſo imperceptibly as to make a ſeparation unneceſſary. Nature hath taken this courſe, ſo far as appears to the generality of mankind. There may be ſubdiviſions without end; but we are only ſenſible of the groſſer diviſions, comprehending each of them many pleaſures of various kinds. To theſe the proverb is applicable in the ſtricteſt ſenſe; for with reſpect to pleaſures of the ſame rank, what ground can there be for preferring one before another? If a preference in fact be given by any individual, it cannot be taſte, but cuſtom, imitation, or ſome peculiarity of mind.

Nature in her ſcale of pleaſures, has been ſparing of diviſions: ſhe hath wiſely and benevolently filled every diviſion with many pleaſures; in order that individuals may be contented with their own lot, without envying the happineſs of others: many hands muſt be employ'd to procure us the conveniencies of life; and it is neceſſary that the different branches of buſineſs, whether more or leſs agreeable, be filled with hands. A taſte too nice and delicate, would obſtruct this plan; for it would crowd ſome employments, leaving others, not leſs uſeful, totally neglected. In our preſent condition, happy it is, that the plurality are not delicate in their choice. They fall in readily with the occupations, pleaſures, food, and company, that fortune throws in their way; and if at firſt there be any diſpleaſing circumſtance, cuſtom ſoon makes it eaſy.

The proverb will be admitted ſo far as it regards the particulars now explained. But when apply'd in general to every ſubject of taſte, the difficulties to be encountered are inſuperable. What ſhall we ſay, in particular, as to the difficulty that ariſes from human nature itſelf? Do we not talk of a good and a bad taſte? of a right and a wrong taſte? and upon that ſuppoſition, do we not, with great confidence, cenſure writers, painters, architects, and every one who deals in the fine arts? Are ſuch criticiſms abſurd and void of foundation? Have the foregoing expreſſions, familiar in all languages and among all people, no ſort of meaning? This can hardly be: what is univerſal muſt have a foundation in nature. If we can reach this foundation, the ſtandard of taſte will no longer be a ſecret.

All living creatures are by nature diſtributed into claſſes; the individuals of each, however diverſified by ſlighter differences, having a wonderful uniformity in their capital parts internal and external. Each claſs is diſtinguiſhable from others by an external form; and not leſs diſtinguiſhable by an internal conſtitution, manifeſted by certain powers, feelings, deſires, and actions, peculiar to the individuals of each claſs. Thus each claſs may be conceived to have a common nature, which, in framing the individuals belonging to the claſs, is taken for a model or ſtandard.

Independent altogether of experience, men have a ſenſe or conviction of a common nature or ſtandard, not only in their own ſpecies, but in every ſpecies of animals. And hence it is a matter of wonder, to find any individual deviating from the common nature of the ſpecies, whether in its internal or external conſtruction: a child born with an averſion to its mother's milk, is a matter of wonder, not leſs than if born without a mouth, or with more than oneSee Eſſays on morality and natural religion, part 1. eſſay 2. ch. 1..

With reſpect to this common nature or ſtandard, we are ſo conſtituted as to conceive it to be perfect or right; and conſequently that individuals ought to be made conformable to it. Every remarkable deviation accordingly from the ſtandard, makes an impreſſion upon us of imperfection, irregularity, or diſorder: it is diſagreeable and raiſes in us a painful emotion: monſtrous births, exciting the curioſity of a philoſopher, fail not at the ſame time to excite averſion in a high degree.

Laſtly, we have a conviction, that the common nature of man is invariable not leſs than univerſal: we conceive that it hath no relation to time nor to place; but that it will be the ſame hereafter as at preſent, and as it was in time paſt; the ſame among all nations and in all corners of the earth. Nor are we deceived: giving allowance for the difference of culture and gradual refinement of manners, the fact correſponds to our conviction.

This conviction of a common nature or ſtandard, and of its perfection, is the foundation of morality; and accounts clearly for that remarkable conception we have, of a right and a wrong taſte in morals. It accounts not leſs clearly for the conception we have of a right and a wrong taſte in the fine arts. A perſon who rejects objects generally agreeable, and delights in objects generally diſagreeable, is condemned as a monſter: we diſapprove his taſte as bad or wrong; and we have a clear conception that he deviates from the common ſtandard. If man were ſo framed as not to have any notion of a common ſtandard, the proverb mentioned in the beginning would hold univerſally, not only in the fine arts but in morals: upon that ſuppoſition, the taſte of every man, with reſpect to both, would to himſelf be an ultimate ſtandard. But the conviction of a common ſtandard being made a part of our nature, we intuitively conceive a taſte to be right or good if conformable to the common ſtandard, and wrong or bad if diſconformable.

No particular concerning human nature is more univerſal, than the uneaſineſs a man feels when in matters of importance his opinions are rejected by others. Why ſhould difference in opinion create uneaſineſs, more than difference in ſtature, in countenance, or in dreſs? The ſenſe of a common ſtandard is the only principle that can explain this myſtery. Every man, generally ſpeaking, taking it for granted that his opinions agree with the common ſenſe of mankind, is therefore diſguſted with thoſe of a contrary opinion, not as differing from him, but as differing from the common ſtandard. Hence in all diſputes, we find the parties, each of them equally, appealing conſtantly to the common ſenſe of mankind as the ultimate rule or ſtandard. Were it not for this ſtandard, of which the conviction is univerſal, I'cannot diſcover the ſlighteſt foundation for rancor or animoſity when perſons differ in eſſential points more than in points purely indifferent. With reſpect to the latter, which are not ſuppoſed to be regulated by any ſtandard, individuals are permitted to think for themſelves with impunity. The ſame liberty is not indulged with reſpect to the former: for what reaſon, other than that the ſtandard by which theſe are regulated, ought, as we judge, to produce an uniformity of opinion in all men? In a word, to this ſenſe of a common ſtandard muſt be wholly attributed the pleaſure we take in thoſe who eſpouſe the ſame principles and opinions with ourſelves, as well as the averſion we have at thoſe who differ from us. In matters left indifferent by the ſtandard, we find nothing of the ſame pleaſure or pain. A bookiſh man, unleſs ſway'd by convenience, reliſheth not the contemplative more than the active part of mankind: his friends and companions are choſen indifferently out of either claſs. A painter conſorts with a poet or muſician, as readily as with thoſe of his own art; and one is not the more agreeable to me for loving beef, as I do, nor the leſs agreeable for preferring mutton.

I have ſaid, that my diſguſt is raiſed, not by differing from me, but by differing from what I judge to be the common ſtandard. This point, being of importance, ought to be firmly eſtabliſhed. Men, it is true, are prone to flatter themſelves, by taking it for granted, that their opinions and their taſte are in all reſpects agreeable to the common ſtandard. But there may be exceptions, and experience ſhows there are ſome. There are inſtances without number, of perſons who cling to the groſſer amuſements of gaming, eating, drinking, without having any reliſh for more elegant pleaſures, ſuch, for example, as are afforded by the fine arts. Yet theſe very perſons, talking the ſame language with the reſt of mankind, pronounce in favour of the more elegant pleaſures: they invariably approve thoſe who have a more refined taſte, and are aſhamed of their own as low and ſenſual. It is in vain to think of giving a reaſon for this ſingular impartiality againſt ſelf, other than the authority of the common ſtandard. Every individual of the human ſpecies, the moſt groveling not excepted, hath a natural ſenſe of the dignity of human natureSee chap. 11.. Hence every man is eſteemed and reſpected in proportion to the dignity of his character, ſentiments, and actions. And from the inſtances now given we diſcover, that the ſenſe of the dignity of human nature is ſo vigorous, as even to prevail over ſelf-partiality, and to make us deſpiſe our own taſte compared with the more elevated taſte of others.

In our ſenſe of a common ſtandard and in the pleaſure individuals give us by their conformity to it, a curious final cauſe is diſcovered. An uniformity of taſte and ſentiment in matters of importance, forms an intimate connection among individuals, and is a great bleſſing in the ſocial ſtate. With reſpect to morals in particular, unhappy it would be for mankind did not this uniformity prevail: it is neceſſary that the actions of all men be uniform with reſpect to right and wrong; and in order to uniformity of action, it is neceſſary that all men think the ſame way in theſe particulars: if they differ through any irregular bias, the common ſenſe of mankind is appealed to as the rule; and it is the province of judges, in matters eſpecially of equity, to apply that rule. The ſame uniformity, it is yielded, is not ſo ſtrictly neceſſary in other matters of taſte: men, though connected in general as members of the ſame ſtate, are, by birth, office, or occupation, ſeparated and diſtinguiſhed into different claſſes; and are thereby qualified for different amuſements: variety of taſte, ſo far, is no obſtruction to the general connection. But with reſpect to the more capital pleaſures, ſuch as are beſt enjoy'd in common, uniformity of taſte is neceſſary for two great ends, firſt to connect individuals the more intimately in the ſocial life, and next to advance theſe pleaſures to their higheſt perfection. With reſpect to the firſt, if inſtead of a common taſte, every man had a taſte peculiar to himſelf, leading him to place his happineſs upon things indifferent or perhaps diſagreeable to others, theſe capital pleaſures could not be enjoy'd in common: every man would purſue his own happineſs by flying from others; and inſtead of a natural tendency to union, remarkable in the human ſpecies, union would be our averſion: man would not be a conſiſtent being: his intereſt would lead him to ſociety, and his taſte would draw him from it. The other end will be beſt explained by entering upon particulars. Uniformity of taſte gives opportunity for ſumptuous and elegant buildings, for fine gardens, and extenſive embelliſhments, which pleaſe univerſally. Works of this nature could never have reached any degree of perfection, had every man a taſte peculiar to himſelf: there could not be any ſuitable reward, either of profit or honour, to encourage men of genius to labour in ſuch works. The ſame uniformity of taſte is equally neceſſary to perfect the arts of muſic, ſculpture, and painting; and to ſupport the expence they require after they are brought to perfection. Nature is in every particular conſiſtent with herſelf. We are formed by nature to have a high reliſh for the fine arts, which are a great ſource of happineſs, and extremely friendly to virtue. We are, at the ſame time, formed with an uniformity of taſte, to furniſh proper objects for this high reliſh: if uniformity of taſte did not prevail, the fine arts could never have made any figure.

Thus, upon a ſenſe common to the ſpecies, is erected a ſtandard of taſte, which without heſitation is apply'd to the taſte of every individual. This ſtandard, aſcertaining what actions are right what wrong, what proper what improper, hath enabled moraliſts to eſtabliſh rules for our conduct from which no perſon is allowed to ſwerve. We have the ſame ſtandard for aſcertaining in all the fine arts, what is beautiful or ugly, high or low, proper or improper, proportioned or diſproportioned. And here, as in morals, we juſtly condemn every taſte that ſwerves from what is thus aſcertained by the common ſtandard.

The diſcovery of a rule or ſtandard for trying the taſte of individuals in the fine arts as well as in morals, is a conſiderable advance, but completes not our journey. We have a great way yet to travel. It is made out that there is a ſtandard: but it is not made out, by what means we ſhall prevent miſtaking a falſe ſtandard for that of nature. If from opinion and practice we endeavour to aſcertain the ſtandard of nature, we are betray'd into endleſs perplexities. Viewing this matter hiſtorically, nothing appears more various and more wavering than taſte in the fine arts. If we judge by numbers, the Gothic taſte of architecture will be preferred before that of Greece; and the Chineſe taſte probably before both. It would be endleſs, to recount the various taſtes of gardening that have prevailed in different ages, and ſtill prevail in different countries. Deſpiſing the modeſt colouring of nature, women of faſhion in France daub their cheeks with a red powder. Nay, the unnatural ſwelling in the neck, a diſeaſe peculiar to the inhabitants of the Alps, is reliſhed by that people. But we ought not to be diſcouraged by ſuch untoward inſtances. For do we not find the like contradictions with reſpect to morals? was it not once held lawful, for a man to expoſe his infant children, and, when grown up, to ſell them for ſlaves? was it not held equally lawful, to puniſh children for the crime of their parents? was not the murder of an enemy in cold blood an univerſal practice? what ſtronger inſtance can be given, than the abominable practice of human ſacrifices, not leſs impious than immoral? Such aberrations from the rules of morality, prove only, that men, originally ſavage and brutiſh, acquire not rationality or any delicacy of taſte, till they be long diſciplined in ſociety. To aſcertain the rules of morality, we appeal not to the common ſenſe of ſavages, but of men in their more perfect ſtate: and we make the ſame appeal, in forming the rules that ought to govern the fine arts. In neither can we ſafely rely on a local or tranſitory taſte; but on what is the moſt univerſal and the moſt laſting among polite nations.

In this very manner, a ſtandard for morals has been eſtabliſhed with a good deal of accuracy; and ſo well fitted for practice, that in the hand of able judges it is daily apply'd with general ſatisfaction. The ſtandard of taſte in the fine arts, is not yet brought to ſuch perfection. And there is an obvious reaſon for its ſlower progreſs. The ſenſe of a right and a wrong in action, is conſpicuous in the breaſt of every individual, almoſt without exception. The ſenſe of a right and a wrong in the fine arts, is more faint and wavering: it is by nature a tender plant, requiring much culture to bring it to maturity: in a barren ſoil it cannot live; and in any ſoil, without cultivation, it is weak and ſickly. I talk chiefly with relation to its more refined objects: for ſome objects make ſuch lively impreſſions of beauty, grandeur, and proportion, as without exception to command the general taſte. There appears to me great contrivance, in diſtinguiſhing thus the moral ſenſe from a taſte in the fine arts. The former, as a rule of conduct and as a law we ought to obey, muſt be clear and authoritative. The latter is not intitled to the ſame authority, ſince it contributes to our pleaſure and amuſement only. Were it more ſtrong and lively, it would uſurp upon our duty, and call off the attention from matters of greater moment. Were it more clear and authoritative, it would baniſh all difference of taſte: a refined taſte would not form a character, nor be intitled to eſteem. This would put an end to rivalſhip, and conſequently to all improvement.

But to return to our ſubject. However languid and cloudy the common ſenſe of mankind may be with reſpect to the fine arts, it is yet the only ſtandard in theſe as well as in morals. And when the matter is attentively conſidered, this ſtandard will be ſound leſs imperfect than it appears to be at firſt ſight. In gathering the common ſenſe of mankind upon morals, we may ſafely conſult every individual. But with reſpect to the fine arts, our method muſt be different: a wary choice is neceſſary; for to collect votes indifferently, will certainly miſlead us: thoſe who depend for food on bodily labour, are totally void of taſte; of ſuch a taſte at leaſt as can be of uſe in the fine arts. This conſideration bars the greater part of mankind; and of the remaining part, many have their taſte corrupted to ſuch a degree as to unqualify them altogether for voting. The common ſenſe of mankind muſt then be confined to the few that fall not under theſe exceptions. But as ſuch ſelection ſeems to throw matters again into uncertainty, we muſt be more explicit upon this branch of our ſubject.

Nothing tends more than voluptuouſneſs to corrupt the whole internal frame, and to vitiate our taſte, not only in the fine arts, but even in morals. It never fails, in courſe of time, to extinguiſh all the ſympathetic affections, and to bring on a beaſtly ſelfiſhneſs which leaves nothing of man but the ſhape. About excluding perſons of this ſtamp there will be no diſpute. Let us next bring under trial, the opulent whoſe chief pleaſure is expence. Riches, coveted by moſt men for the ſake of ſuperiority and to command reſpect, are generally beſtow'd upon coſtly furniture, numerous attendants, a princely dwelling, every thing ſuperb and gorgeous, to amaze and humble all beholders. Simplicity, elegance, propriety, and every thing natural, ſweet, or amiable, are deſpiſed or neglected; for theſe are not at the command of riches, and make no figure in the public eye. In a word, nothing is reliſhed, but what ſerves to gratify pride, by an imagined exaltation of the poſſeſſor above thoſe he reckons the vulgar. Such a tenor of life contracts the heart and makes every principle give way to ſelf-intereſt. Benevolence and public ſpirit, with all their refined emotions, are little felt and leſs regarded. And if theſe be excluded, there can be no place for the faint and delicate emotions of the fine arts.

The excluſion of claſſes ſo many and various, reduces within a narrow compaſs thoſe who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts. Many circumſtances are neceſſary to form a judge of this ſort: there muſt be a good natural taſte: this taſte muſt be improved by education, reflection, and experience: it muſt be preſerved alive, by a regular courſe of life, by uſing the goods of fortune with moderation, and by following the dictates of improved nature which gives welcome to every rational pleaſure without deviating into exceſs. This is the tenor of life which of all contributes the moſt to refinement of taſte; and the ſame tenor of life contributes the moſt to happineſs in general.

If there appear much uncertainty in a ſtandard that requires ſo painful and intricate a ſelection, we may poſſibly be reconciled to it by the following conſideration, That, with reſpect to the fine arts, there is leſs difference of taſte than is commonly imagined. Nature hath marked all her works with indelible characters of high or low, plain or elegant, ſtrong or weak. Theſe, if at all perceived, are ſeldom miſapprehended by any taſte; and the ſame marks are equally perceptible in works of art. A defective taſte is incurable; and it hurts none but the poſſeſſor, becauſe it carries no authority to impoſe upon others. I know not if there be ſuch a thing as a taſte naturally bad or wrong; a taſte, for example, that prefers a groveling pleaſure before one that is high and elegant. Groveling pleaſures are never preferred: they are only made welcome by thoſe who know no better. Differences about objects of taſte, it is true, are endleſs: but they generally concern trifles, or poſſibly matters of equal rank where the preference may be given either way with impunity. If, on any occaſion, the diſpute go deeper and perſons differ where they ought not, a depraved taſte will readily be diſcovered on one or other ſide, occaſioned by imitation, cuſtom, or corrupted manners, ſuch as are deſcribed above.

If, after all that is ſaid, the ſtandard of taſte be thought not yet ſufficiently aſcertained, there is ſtill one reſource in which I put great confidence. What I have in view, are the principles that conſtitute the ſenſitive part of our nature. By means of theſe principles, common to all men, a wonderful uniformity is preſerved among the emotions and feelings of different individuals; the ſame object making upon every perſon the ſame impreſſion; the ſame in kind, at leaſt, if not in degree. There have been aberrations, as above obſerved, from theſe principles; but ſoon or late they always prevail, by reſtoring the wanderers to the right track. The uniformity of taſte here accounted for, is the very thing that in other words is termed the common ſenſe of mankind. And this diſcovery leads us to means for aſcertaining the common ſenſe of mankind or the ſtandard of taſte, more unerringly than the ſelection above inſiſted on. Every doubt with relation to this ſtandard, occaſioned by the practice of different nations and different times, may be cleared by applying to the principles that ought to govern the taſte of every individual. In a word, a thorough acquaintance with theſe principles will enable us to form the ſtandard of taſte; and to lay a foundation for this valuable branch of knowledge, is the declared purpoſe of the preſent undertaking.