[] ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.

CHAP. XIX. COMPARISONS.

COMPARISONS, as obſerved a⯑bove^*, ſerve two different pur⯑poſes: When addreſſed to the un⯑derſtanding, their purpoſe is to inſtruct; when to the heart, their purpoſe is to give pleaſure. With reſpect to the latter, a compariſon may be employ'd to produce various pleaſures by different means. Firſt, by ſuggeſting ſome unuſual [4] reſemblance or contraſt: ſecond, by ſet⯑ting an object in the ſtrongeſt light: third, by aſſociating an object with others that are agreeable: fourth, by elevating an object: and, fifth, by depreſſing it. And that compariſons may produce various pleaſures by theſe different means, appears from what is ſaid in the chapter above cited; and will be made ſtill more evident by examples, which ſhall be given after premiſing ſome general obſervations.

An object of one ſenſe cannot be compa⯑red to an object of another; for ſuch ob⯑jects are totally ſeparated from each other, and have no circumſtance in common to admit either reſemblance or contraſt. Ob⯑jects of hearing may be compared, as alſo of taſte, and of touch. But the chief fund of compariſon are objects of ſight; becauſe, in writing or ſpeaking, things can only be compared in idea, and the ideas of viſible objects are by far more lively than thoſe of any other ſenſe.

It has no good effect to compare things by way of ſimile that are of the ſame kind, nor to contraſt things of different kinds. [5] The reaſon is given in the chapter cited a⯑bove; and the reaſon ſhall be illuſtrated by examples. The firſt is a reſemblance in⯑ſtituted betwixt two objects ſo nearly rela⯑ted as to make little or no impreſſion.

Another from Milton labours under the ſame defect. Speaking of the fallen angels ſearching for mines of gold:

The next ſhall be of things contraſted that are of different kinds.

This compariſon has ſcarce any force. A man and a lion are of different ſpecies; and there is no ſuch reſemblance betwixt them in general, as to produce any ſtrong effect by contraſting particular attributes or cir⯑cumſtances.

A third general obſervation is, That ab⯑ſtract terms can never be the ſubject of com⯑pariſon, otherwiſe than by being perſonified. [7] Shakeſpear compares adverſity to a toad, and ſlander to the bite of a crocodile; but in ſuch compariſons theſe abſtract terms muſt be imagined ſenſible beings.

I now proceed to illuſtrate by particular inſtances the different means by which compariſon can afford pleaſure; and, in the order above eſtabliſhed, I ſhall begin with thoſe inſtances that are agreeable by ſuggeſting ſome unuſual reſemblance or contraſt:

The laſt exertion of courage compared to the blaze of a lamp before extinguiſhing, Taſſo Gieruſalem, canto 19. ſt. 22.

None of the foregoing ſimiles, as it ap⯑pears to me, have the effect to add any luſtre to the principal ſubject; and there⯑fore the pleaſure they afford, muſt ariſe from ſuggeſting reſemblances that are not obvious: I mean the chief pleaſure; for undoubtedly a beautiful ſubject introduced to form the ſimile affords a ſeparate plea⯑ſure, which is felt in the ſimiles mentioned, particularly in that cited from Milton.

The next effect of a compariſon in the [10] order mentioned, is to place an object in a ſtrong point of view; which I think is done ſenſibly in the following ſimiles.

[11] The imitation of this beautiful ſimile by A⯑rioſto, canto 1. ſt. 42. falls ſhort of the ori⯑ginal. It is alſo in part imitated by Pope^*.

The ſight obtained of the city of Jeruſalem by the Chriſtian army, compared to that of land diſcovered after a long voyage, Taſſo's Gieruſalem, canto 3. ſt. 4. The fury of Ri⯑naldo ſubſiding when not oppoſed, to that of wind or water when it has a free paſſage, canto 20. ſt. 58.

[15] As words convey but a faint and obſcure notion of great numbers, a poet, to give a high notion of the object he deſcribes with regard to number, does well to compare it to what is familiar and commonly known. Thus Homer^* compares the Grecian army in point of number to a ſwarm of bees. In another paſſage^† he compares it to that profuſion of leaves and flowers which appear in the ſpring, or of inſects in a ſummer's evening. And Milton,

Such compariſons have, by ſome wri⯑ters^‡, been condemned for the lowneſs of [16] the images introduced: but ſurely without reaſon; for, with regard to numbers, they put the principal ſubject in a ſtrong light.

The foregoing compariſons operate by reſemblance; others have the ſame effect by contraſt:

Milton has a peculiar talent in embelliſh⯑ing the principal ſubject by aſſociating it with others that are agreeable, which is [17] the third end of a compariſon. Similes of this kind have, beſide, a ſeparate effect: they diverſify the narration by new images that are not ſtrictly neceſſary to the compariſon: they are ſhort epiſodes, which, without diſtracting us from the principal ſubject, af⯑ford great delight by their beauty and va⯑riety:

With regard to ſimiles of this kind, it will readily occur to the reader, that when the re⯑ſembling ſubject or circumſtance is once pro⯑perly introduced in a ſimile, the mind paſſes eaſily to the new objects, and is tranſitorily amuſed with them, without feeling any diſ⯑guſt at the ſlight interruption. Thus, in fine weather, the momentary excurſions of [20] a traveller for agreeable proſpects or ſump⯑tuous buildings, chear his mind, relieve him from the langour of uniformity, and without much lengthening his journey in reality, ſhorten it greatly in appearance.

Next of compariſons that aggrandize or elevate. Theſe make ſtronger impreſſions than any other ſort; the reaſon of which may be gathered from the chapter of grandeur and ſublimity, and, without rea⯑ſoning, will be evident from the following inſtances.

I beg peculiar attention to the following ſi⯑mile, for a reaſon that ſhall be mentioned.

The image of a falling rock is certainly not elevating^*. Yet undoubtedly the forego⯑ing image fires and ſwells the mind. It is grand therefore, if not ſublime. And that there is a real, though delicate diſtinction, betwixt theſe two feelings, will be illuſtra⯑ted from the following ſimile.

[23] A compariſon by contraſt may contribute to grandeur or elevation, not leſs than by reſemblance; of which the following com⯑pariſon of Lucan is a remarkable inſtance. ‘Victrix cauſa diis placuit, ſed victa Catoni.’ Conſidering that the Heathen deities poſ⯑ſeſſed a rank but one degree above that of mankind, I think it ſcarce poſſible, by a ſingle expreſſion, to elevate or dignify more one of the human ſpecies, than is done by this compariſon. I am ſenſi⯑ble, at the ſame time, that ſuch a compa⯑riſon among Chriſtians, who entertain juſter notions of the Deity, would juſtly be rec⯑koned extravagant and abſurd.

The laſt article mentioned, is that of leſſening or depreſſing a hated or diſagree⯑able object; which is effectually done by reſembling it to any thing that is low or de⯑ſpicable. Thus Milton, in his deſcription of the rout of the rebel-angels, happily expreſſes their terror and diſmay in the following ſimile.

In the ſame view, Homer, I think, may be defended, in comparing the ſhouts of the Trojans in battle, to the noiſe of cranes^*, and to the bleating of a flock of ſheep^†: and it is no objection, that theſe are low i⯑mages; for by oppoſing the noiſy march of the Trojans to the ſilent and manly march of the Greeks, he certainly intended to leſſen the former. Addiſon^‡, imagining the figure that men make in the ſight of a ſuperior being, takes opportunity to mor⯑tify [25] their pride by comparing them to a ſwarm of piſmires.

A compariſon that has none of the good effects mentioned in this diſcourſe, but is built upon common and trifling circumſtan⯑ces, makes a mighty ſilly figure: ‘"Non ſum neſcius, grandia conſilia a multis plerumque cauſis, ceu magna navigia a plurimis remis, impelli^*."’

By this time I imagine the different pur⯑poſes of compariſon, and the various im⯑preſſions it makes on the mind, are ſuffi⯑ciently illuſtrated by proper examples. This was an eaſy work. It is more difficult to lay down rules about the propriety or impro⯑priety of compariſons; in what circumſtances they may be introduced, and in what circum⯑ſtances they are out of place. It is evident, that a compariſon is not proper upon every occaſion; a man in his cool and ſedate moments, is not diſpoſed to poetical flights, nor to ſacrifice truth and reality to the delu⯑ſive operations of the imagination; far leſs is he ſo diſpoſed, when oppreſſed with cares, or intereſted in ſome important tranſaction [26] that occupies him totally. The region of compariſon and of all figurative expreſſion, lies betwixt theſe two extremes. It is ob⯑ſervable, that a man, when elevated or ani⯑mated by any paſſion, is diſpoſed to elevate or animate all his objects: he avoids familiar names, exalts objects by circumlocution and metaphor, and gives even life and voluntary action to inanimate beings. In this warmth of mind, the higheſt poetical flights are in⯑dulged, and the boldeſt ſimiles and meta⯑phors reliſhed^*. But without ſoaring ſo high, the mind is frequently in a tone to reliſh chaſte and moderate ornament; ſuch as compariſons that ſet the principal object in a ſtrong point of view, or that embelliſh and diverſify the narration. In general, when by any animating paſſion, whether pleaſant or painful, an impulſe is given to the imagination; we are in that condition wonderfully diſpoſed to every ſort of figu⯑rative expreſſion, and in particular to com⯑pariſons. [27] This in a great meaſure is evident from the compariſons already mentioned; and ſhall be further illuſtrated by other ex⯑amples. Love, for example, in its infancy, rouſing the imagination, prompts the heart to diſplay itſelf in figurative language, and in ſimiles:

Again,

[28] The dread of a misfortune, however immi⯑nent, involving always ſome doubt and un⯑certainty, agitates the mind, and excites the imagination:

But it will be a better illuſtration of the preſent head, to give examples where com⯑pariſons are improperly introduced. I have had already occaſion to obſerve, that ſimiles are not the language of a man in his ordinary ſtate of mind, going about the common affairs of life. For that reaſon, the follow⯑ing ſpeech of a gardiner to his ſervants, is extremely improper.

The fertility of Shakeſpear's vein betrays him frequently into this error. There is the ſame impropriety in another ſimile of his:

Rooted grief, deep anguiſh, terror, remorſe, deſpair, and all the ſevere diſpiriting paſſions, are declared enemies, perhaps not to figura⯑tive language in general, but undoubtedly to the pomp and ſolemnity of compariſon. [30] Upon this account the ſimile pronounced by young Rutland under terror of death from an inveterate enemy, and praying mercy, is unnatural:

Nothing appears more out of place, or more aukwardly introduced, than the fol⯑lowing ſimile.

Nor doth the ſimile which cloſes the firſt act of the ſame tragedy, make its appearance with a much better grace; the ſituation there repreſented, being too diſpiriting for a ſimile. A ſimile is improper for one who dreads the diſcovery of a ſecret machina⯑tion.

A man ſpent and diſpirited after loſing a battle, is not diſpoſed to heighten or illu⯑ſtrate his diſcourſe by ſimiles:

Far leſs is a man diſpoſed to ſimiles who is not only defeated in a pitch'd battle, but lies at the point of death mortally wounded.

Queen Katharine, deſerted by the King and in the deepeſt affliction upon her divorce, could not be diſpoſed to any ſallies of ima⯑gination: and for that reaſon, the fol⯑lowing [33] ſimile, however beautiful in the mouth of a ſpectator, is ſcarce proper in her own.

Similes thus unſeaſonably introduced, are finely ridiculed in the Rehearſal:

A compariſon is not always faultleſs, even where it is properly introduced. I have endeavoured above to give a general view of the different ends to which a compariſon may contribute. A compariſon, like other human productions, may fall ſhort of its end; and of this defect inſtances are not [34] rare even among good writers. To com⯑plete the preſent ſubject, it will be neceſſa⯑ry to make ſome obſervations upon ſuch faulty compariſons. I begin with obſerving, that nothing can be more erroneous than to inſtitute a compariſon too faint: a diſtant reſemblance or contraſt, fatigues the mind with its obſcurity inſtead of amuſing it, and tends not to fulfil any one end of a com⯑pariſon. The following ſimiles ſeem to la⯑bour under this defect:

The latter of the two ſimiles is good. The former, becauſe of the faintneſs of the re⯑ſemblance, produces no good effect, and crowds the narration with an uſeleſs image.

The next error I ſhall mention is a capi⯑tal one. In an epic poem, or in any ele⯑vated ſubject, a writer ought to avoid rai⯑ſing a ſimile upon a low image, which ne⯑ver fails to bring down the principal ſubject. In general, it is a rule, that a grand object ought never to be reſembled to one that is diminutive, however delicate the reſem⯑blance may be. It is the peculiar character [37] of a grand object to fix the attention, and ſwell the mind: in this ſtate, it is diſagree⯑able to contract the mind to a minute ob⯑ject, however elegant. The reſembling an object to one that is greater, has, on the contrary, a good effect, by raiſing or ſwell⯑ing the mind. One paſſes with ſatisfaction from a ſmall to a great object; but cannot be drawn down, without reluctance, from great to ſmall. Hence the following ſimi⯑les are faulty.

To deſcribe bees gathering honey as reſem⯑bling the builders of Carthage, would have a much better effect.

The following ſimile has not any one beauty to recommend it. The ſubject is Amata the wife of King Latinus.

This ſimile ſeems to border upon the bur⯑leſque.

An error oppoſite to the former, is the introducing a reſembling image, ſo elevated [40] or great as to bear no proportion to the principal ſubject. The remarkable diſpari⯑ty betwixt them, being the moſt ſtriking circumſtance, ſeizes the mind, and never fails to depreſs the principal ſubject by con⯑traſt, inſtead of raiſing it by reſemblance: and if the diſparity be exceeding great, the ſimile takes on an air of burleſque; nothing being more ridiculous than to force an ob⯑ject out of its proper rank in nature, by e⯑qualling it with one greatly ſuperior or greatly inferior. This will be evident from the following compariſons.

Such a ſimile upon the ſimpleſt of all ac⯑tions, that of opening a lock, is pure bur⯑leſque.

[42] A writer of delicacy will avoid draw⯑ing his compariſons from any image that is nauſeous, ugly, or remarkably diſagreeable: for however ſtrong the reſemblance may be, more will be loſt than gained by ſuch compariſon. Therefore I cannot help con⯑demning, though with ſome reluctance, the following ſimile, or rather metaphor.

The ſtrongeſt objection that can lie a⯑gainſt a compariſon, is, that it conſiſts in words only, not in ſenſe. Such falſe coin, or baſtard wit, does extremely well in bur⯑leſque; but is far below the dignity of the epic, or of any ſerious compoſition:

There is evidently no reſemblance betwixt an iſicle and a woman, chaſte or unchaſte. But chaſtity is cold in a metaphorical ſenſe, and an iſicle is cold in a proper ſenſe; and this verbal reſemblance, in the hurry and glow of compoſing, has been thought a ſufficient foundation for the ſimile. Such phantom ſimiles are mere witticiſms, which ought to have no quarter, except where purpoſely introduced to provoke laughter. Lucian, in his diſſertation upon hiſtory, talking of a certain author, makes the following compariſon, which is verbal merely.

[44] Virgil has not eſcaped this puerility:

Nor Taſſo, in his Aminta:

Nor Boileau, the chaſteſt of all writers; and that even in his art of poetry:

Here there is no manner of reſemblance but in the word drown; for there is no real reſemblance betwixt being drown'd at ſea, and dying of grief at land. But perhaps this ſort of tinſel wit, may have a propriety in it, when uſed to expreſs an affected, not a real, paſſion, which was the Queen's caſe.

[46] Pope has ſeveral ſimiles of the ſame ſtamp. I ſhall tranſcribe one or two from the Eſſay on Man, the graveſt and moſt in⯑ſtructive of all his performances.

And again, talking of this ſame ruling or maſter paſſion.

Lord Bolingbroke, ſpeaking of hiſtorians:

Let us vary the phraſe a very little, and there will not remain a ſhadow of reſem⯑blance. Thus, for example:

Racine makes Pyrrhus ſay to Andromaque,

And Oreſtes, in the ſame ſtrain: ‘Que les Scythes ſont moins cruels qu'Hermione.’

Similes of this kind put one in mind of a ludicrous French ſong:

Again,

[48] A vulgar Iriſh ballad begins thus:

Where the ſubject is burleſque or ludi⯑crous, ſuch ſimiles are far from being im⯑proper. Horace ſays pleaſantly,

And Shakeſpear, ‘In breaking oaths he's ſtronger than Hercules.’

And this leads me to obſerve, that be⯑ſide the foregoing compariſons, which are all ſerious, there is a ſpecies, the end and purpoſe of which is to excite gaiety or mirth. Take the following examples.

Falſtaff, ſpeaking to his page:

Deſcription of Hudibras's horſe:

CHAP. XX. FIGURES.

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 gram⯑marians. 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 al⯑moſt 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 exten⯑ſive influence of theſe principles. Con⯑fining myſelf therefore to figures that an⯑ſwer this purpoſe, I am luckily freed from much traſh; without dropping, ſo far as I remember, any figure that merits a proper [54] name. And I begin with Proſopopoeia or perſonification, which is juſty intitled to the firſt place.

CHAP. XXI. Narration and Deſcription.

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 end⯑leſs, did one deſcend to peculiarities in ta⯑lent or genius. The aim of the preſent work is, to conſider human nature in gene⯑ral, and to explore what is common to the ſpecies. The choice of a ſubject comes not under ſuch a plan: but the manner of exe⯑cution 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 di⯑viſion as entirely accurate. In diſcourſing [170] of the thoughts, it is difficult to abſtract al⯑together from words; and ſtill more diffi⯑cult, in diſcourſing of the words, to abſ⯑tract 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 opera⯑rations of the imagination. Poetical ima⯑ges 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 a⯑greeable. But while we are ſedate and at⯑tentive 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 [171] frigid and unmeaning reflections, as well as with poetical flaſhes, which, even laying aſide the impropriety, are mere tinſel.

Vida^*, 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 commence⯑ment. Shakeſpear, in the firſt part of his hiſtory of Henry VI. begins with a ſenti⯑ment too bold for the moſt heated imagi⯑nation:

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 be⯑ginning 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 entertain⯑ment 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 pro⯑portioned to the celerity of motion: in ap⯑pearance [173] 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:

This example is copied by the author of Telemachus:

[174] Again,

Fourthly, In narration as well as in de⯑ſcription, facts and objects ought to be painted ſo accurately as to form in the mind of the reader diſtinct and lively images. Every uſeleſs circumſtance ought indeed to be ſuppreſſed, becauſe every ſuch circum⯑ſtance loads the narration; but if a circum⯑ſtance be neceſſary, however ſlight, it can⯑not be deſcribed too minutely. The force of language conſiſts in raiſing complete ima⯑ges^*; which cannot be done till the read⯑er, forgetting himſelf, be tranſported as by magic into the very place and time of the important action, and be converted, as it were, into a real ſpectator, beholding every thing that paſſes. In this view, the narra⯑tive in an epic poem ought to rival a picture [175] in the livelineſs and accuracy of its repre⯑ſentations: no circumſtance muſt be omit⯑ted that tends to make a complete image; becauſe an imperfect image, as well as any other imperfect conception, is cold and un⯑interreſting. I ſhall illuſtrate this rule by ſeveral examples, giving the firſt place to a beautiful paſſage from Virgil.

The poplar, plowman, and unfledged, though not eſſential in the deſcription, are circumſtances that tend to make a com⯑plete image, and upon that account are an embelliſhment.

Again,

[176] Horace, addreſſing to Fortune:

Shakeſpear ſays^*, ‘"You may as well go about to turn the ſun to ice by fanning in his face with a peacock's father."’ The peacock's feather, not to mention the beau⯑ty of the object, completes the image. An accurate image cannot be formed of this fanciful operation, without conceiving a particular feather; and the mind is at ſome loſs, when this is not ſpecified in the de⯑ſcription. [177] Again, ‘"The rogues ſlighted me into the river with as little remorſe, as they would have drown'd a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' th' litter^*."’

In the following paſſage, the action, with all its material circumſtances, is repreſented ſo much to the life, that it could not be better conceived by a real ſpectator; and it is this manner of deſcription which contri⯑butes greatly to the ſublimity of the paſſage.

A paſſage I am to cite from Shakeſpear, falls not much ſhort of that now mentioned in particularity of deſcription:

The Henriade of Voltaire errs greatly a⯑gainſt the foregoing rule: every thing is touched in a ſummary way, without ever deſcending to the circumſtances of an event. This manner is good in a general hiſtory, [179] the purpoſe of which is to record important tranſactions: but in a fable, which hath a very different aim, it is cold and unintereſt⯑ing; becauſe it is impracticable to form diſtinct images of perſons or things repre⯑ſented in a manner ſo ſuperficial.

It is obſerved above, that every uſeleſs circumſtance ought to be ſuppreſſed. To deal in ſuch circumſtances, is a fault, on the one hand, not leſs to be avoided, than the conciſeneſs for which Voltaire is blamed, on the other. In the Aeneid ^*, Barce, the nurſe of Sichaeus, whom we never hear of before or after, is introduced for a purpoſe not more important than to call Anna to her ſiſter Dido. And that it might not be thought unjuſt in Dido, even in this trivial incident, to prefer her huſband's nurſe be⯑fore her own, the poet takes care to in⯑form his reader, that Dido's nurſe was dead. To this I muſt oppoſe a beautiful paſſage in the ſame book, where, after Di⯑do's laſt ſpeech, the poet, ſuppoſing her [180] dead, haſtens to deſcribe the lamentation of her attendants:

As an appendix to the foregoing rule, I add the following obſervation, That to raiſe a ſudden and ſtrong impreſſion, ſome ſingle circumſtance happily ſelected, has more power than the moſt laboured deſcription. Macbeth, mentioning to his lady ſome voices he heard while he was murdering the King, ſays,

Deſcribing Prince Henry:

The ſame author, ſpeaking ludicrouſly of an army debilitated with diſeaſes, ſays,

To draw a character is the maſter-ſtroke of deſcription. In this Tacitus excels: his figures are natural, diſtinct, and com⯑plete; not a feature wanting or miſplaced. Shakeſpear however exceeds Tacitus in the ſprightlineſs of his figures: ſome characte⯑riſtical circumſtance is generally invented or laid hold of, which paints more to the life than many words. The following inſtan⯑ces will explain my meaning, and at the ſame time prove my obſervation to be juſt.

Again,

In the following paſſage a character is com⯑pleted by a ſingle ſtroke.

Deſcribing a jealous huſband:

Congreve has an inimitable ſtroke of this kind in his comedy of Love for Love:

Falſtaff ſpeaking of Ancient Piſtol,

Some writers, through heat of imagina⯑tion, fall into contradictions; ſome are guilty of downright inconſiſtencies; and ſome even rave like madmen. Againſt ſuch ca⯑pital errors one cannot be warned to better purpoſe than by collecting inſtances. The firſt ſhall be of a contradiction, the moſt ve⯑nial of all. Virgil ſpeaking of Neptune:

[186] Again,

The following examples are of downright inconſiſtencies.

The laſt article is of raving like one mad. Cleopatra ſpeaking to the aſpick:

Reaſons that are common and known to every perſon, ought to be taken for granted: to expreſs them is childiſh and interrupts the narration. Quintus Curtius, relating the bat⯑tle of Iſſus:

Having diſcuſſed what obſervations oc⯑curred upon the thoughts or things expreſ⯑ſed, I proceed to what more peculiarly con⯑cern the language or verbal dreſs. The lan⯑guage proper for expreſſing paſſion is the ſubject of a former chapter. Several obſer⯑vations there made, are applicable to the preſent ſubject; particularly, That words are [188] intimately connected with the ideas they re⯑preſent, and that the repreſentation cannot be perfect unleſs the emotions raiſed by the ſound and the ſenſe be concordant. It is not ſufficient, that the ſenſe be clearly expreſ⯑ſed: the words muſt correſpond to the ſub⯑ject in every particular. An elevated ſub⯑ject requires an elevated ſtyle: what is fa⯑miliar, ought to be familiarly expreſſed: a ſubject that is ſerious and important, ought to be cloathed in plain nervous language: a deſcription, on the other hand, addreſſed to the imagination, is ſuſceptible of the high⯑eſt ornaments that ſounding words, meta⯑phor, and figurative expreſſion, can be⯑ſtow upon it.

I ſhall give a few examples of the fore⯑going doctrine. A poet of any genius will not readily dreſs a high ſubject in low words; and yet blemiſhes of this kind are found e⯑ven in ſome claſſical works. Horace ob⯑ſerving that men, perfectly ſatisfied with themſelves, are ſeldom ſo with their condi⯑tion, introduces Jupiter indulging to each his own choice:

Jupiter in wrath puffing up both cheeks, is a ludicrous expreſſion, far from ſuitable to the gravity of the ſubject: every one muſt feel the diſcordance. The following cou⯑plet, ſinking far below the ſubject, is not leſs ludicrous.

On the other hand, to raiſe the expreſ⯑ſion above the tone of the ſubject, is a fault than which none is more common. Take the following inſtances.

In the funeral orations of the Biſhop of Meaux, the following paſſages are raiſed far above the tone of the ſubject.

Monteſquieu, in a didactic work, L'eſprit des Loix, gives too great indulgence to imagina⯑tion: the tone of his language ſwells fre⯑quently above his ſubject. I give an ex⯑ample:

The following paſſage, intended, one would imagine, as a receipt to boil water, is alto⯑gether [192] burleſque by the laboured elevation of the diction.

In a paſſage near the beginning of the 4th book of Telamachus, one feels a ſudden bound upward without preparation, which accords not with the ſubject:

This obviouſly is copied from a ſimilar paſ⯑ſage in the Aeneid, which ought not to have been copied, becauſe it lies open to the ſame cenſure: but the force of autho⯑rity is great.

Take another example where the words riſe above the ſubject:

The language of Homer is ſuited to his ſubject, not leſs accurately than the actions and ſentiments of his heroes are to their characters. Virgil, in this particular, falls ſhort of perfection: his language is ſtately throughout; and though he deſcends at times to the ſimpleſt branches of cookery, roaſting and boiling for example, yet he ne⯑ver relaxes a moment from the high tone^*. In adjuſting his language to his ſubject, no writer equals Swift. I can recollect but one exception, which at the ſame time is far [195] from being groſs. The journal of a mo⯑dern lady, is compoſed in a ſtyle where ſprightlineſs is blended with familiarity, perfectly ſuited to the ſubject. In one paſ⯑ſage, however, the poet aſſumes a higher tone, which correſponds neither to the ſub⯑ject nor to the tone of language employ'd in the reſt of that piece. The paſſage I have in view begins l. 116. ‘"But let me now a while ſurvey," &c.’ and ends at l. 135.

It is proper to be obſerved upon this head, that writers of inferior rank are continually upon the ſtretch to enliven and enforce their ſubject by exaggeration and ſuperlatives. This unluckily has an effect oppoſite to what is intended: the reader, diſguſted with language that ſwells above the ſubject, is led by contraſt to think more meanly of the ſubject than it may poſſibly deſerve. A man of prudence, beſide, will be not leſs careful to huſband his ſtrength in writing than in walking: a writer too liberal of ſu⯑perlatives, exhauſts his whole ſtock upon ordinary incidents, and reſerves no ſhare to [196] expreſs, with greater energy, matters of importance^*.

The power that language poſſeſſes to i⯑mitate thought, goes farther than to the ca⯑pital circumſtances above mentioned: it reacheth even the ſlighter modifications. Slow action, for example, is imitated by words pronounced ſlow; labour or toil, by words harſh or rough in their ſound. But this ſubject has been already handled^†.

In dialogue-writing, the condition of the ſpeaker is chiefly to be regarded in framing the expreſſion. The centinel in Hamlet, interrogated about the ghoſt, whether his watch had been quiet? anſwers with great [197] propriety for a man in his ſtation, ‘"Not a mouſe ſtirring^*."’

I proceed to a ſecond remark, not leſs important than the former. No perſon of reflection but muſt be ſenſible, that an inci⯑dent makes a ſtronger impreſſion on an eye-witneſs, than when heard at ſecond hand. Writers of genius, ſenſible that the eye is the beſt avenue to the heart, repre⯑ſent every thing as paſſing in our ſight; and from readers or hearers, transform us, as it were, into ſpectators. A ſkilful writer conceals himſelf, and preſents his perſon⯑ages. In a word, every thing becomes dra⯑matic as much as poſſible. Plutarch, de gloria Athenienſium, obſerves, that Thucy⯑dides makes his reader a ſpectator, and in⯑ſpires him with the ſame paſſions as if he were an eye-witneſs. I am intitled to [198] make the ſame obſervation upon our coun⯑tryman Swift. From this happy talent a⯑riſes that energy of ſtyle which is peculiar to him: he cannot always avoid narration; but the pencil is his choice, by which he beſtows life and colouring upon his objects. Pope is richer in ornament, but poſſeſſes not in the ſame degree the talent of draw⯑ing from the life. A tranſlation of the ſixth ſatire of Horace, begun by the former and finiſhed by the latter, affords the faireſt opportunity for a compariſon. Pope ob⯑viouſly imitates the pictureſque manner of his friend: yet every one of taſte muſt be ſenſible, that the imitation, though fine, falls ſhort of the original. In other inſtan⯑ces, where Pope writes in his own ſtyle, the difference of manner is ſtill more con⯑ſpicuous.

Abſtract or general terms have no good effect in any compoſition for amuſement; becauſe it is only of particular objects that images can be formed^*. Shakeſpear's ſtyle in that reſpect is excellent. Every article [199] in his deſcriptions is particular, as in nature; and if accidentally a vague expreſſion ſlip in, the blemiſh is extremely diſcernible by the bluntneſs of its impreſſion. Take the fol⯑lowing example. Falſtaff, excuſing him⯑ſelf for running away at a robbery, ſays,

The particular words I object to are, in⯑ſtinct is a great matter, which make but a poor figure, compared with the livelineſs [200] of the reſt of the ſpeech. It was one of Homer's advantages, that he wrote before general terms were multiplied: the ſuperior genius of Shakeſpear diſplays itſelf in avoid⯑ing them after they were multiplied. Ad⯑diſon deſcribes the family of Sir Roger de Coverley in the following words.

The deſcription of the groom is leſs lively than of the others; plainly becauſe the ex⯑preſſion, being vague and general, tends not to form any image. ‘"Dives opum variarum^*,"’ is an expreſſion ſtill more vague; and ſo are the following.

In the fine arts, it is a rule, to put the capital objects in the ſtrongeſt point of view; and even to preſent them oftener than once, where it can be done. In hi⯑ſtory-painting, the principal figure is placed in the front, and in the beſt light: an e⯑queſtrian ſtatue is placed in a centre of ſtreets, that it may be ſeen from many pla⯑ces at once. In no compoſition is there a greater opportunity for this rule than in writing:

The repetitions in Homer, which are fre⯑quent, have been the occaſion of much cri⯑ticiſm. Suppoſe we were at a loſs about the reaſon, might not taſte be ſufficient to juſtify them? At the ſame time, one muſt be devoid of underſtanding not to be ſen⯑ſible, that they make the narration drama⯑tic; and give an air of truth, by making things appear as paſſing in our ſight.

A conciſe comprehenſive ſtyle is a great ornament in narration; and a ſuperfluity of unneceſſary words, not leſs than of circum⯑ſtances, a great nuiſance. A judicious ſe⯑lection of the ſtriking circumſtances, cloath⯑ed in a nervous ſtyle, is delightful. In this ſtyle, Tacitus excels all writers, ancient and modern. Inſtances are numberleſs: take the following ſpecimen.

[205] If a conciſe or nervous ſtyle be a beauty, tautology muſt be a blemiſh. And yet writers, fettered by verſe, are not ſufficient⯑ly careful to avoid this ſlovenly practice: they may be pitied, but they cannot be juſtified. Take for a ſpecimen the follow⯑ing inſtances, from the beſt poet, for verſi⯑fication at leaſt, that England has to boaſt of:

Redundant epithets, ſuch as humid, in the laſt citation, are by Quintilian diſallowed to orators, but indulged to poets^*; becauſe his favourite poets, in a few inſtances, are reduced to ſuch epithets for the ſake of verſification. For inſtance, Prata canis albicant pruinis, of Horace, and liquidos fontes, of Virgil.

As an apology for ſuch careleſs expreſ⯑ſions, it may well ſuffice, that Pope, in [207] ſubmitting to be a tranſlator, acts below his genius. In a tranſlation, it is hard to re⯑quire the ſame ſpirit or accuracy, that is chearfully beſtowed on an original work. And to ſupport the reputation of this au⯑thor, I ſhall give ſome inſtances from Vir⯑gil and Horace, more faulty by redundancy than any of thoſe above mentioned:

Here I can luckily apply Horace's rule a⯑gainſt himſelf:

I cloſe this chapter with a curious in⯑quiry. An object, however ugly to the ſight, is far from being ſo when repre⯑ſented by colours or by words. What is the cauſe of this difference? The cauſe with reſpect to painting is obvious. A good picture, whatever the ſubject be, is agree⯑able, becauſe of the pleaſure we take in imi⯑tation: the agreeableneſs of imitation over⯑balances the diſagreeableneſs of the ſubject; and the picture upon the whole is agree⯑able. It requires a greater compaſs to ex⯑plain the cauſe with reſpect to the deſcription of an ugly object. To connect individuals in the ſocial ſtate, no one particular contri⯑butes more than language, by the power it [209] poſſeſſes of an expeditious communication of thought and a lively repreſentation of tranſactions. But nature hath not been ſa⯑tisfied to recommend language by its utility merely: it is made ſuſceptible of many beauties that have no relation to utility, which are directly felt without the inter⯑vention of any reflection^*. And this un⯑folds the myſtery; for the pleaſure of lan⯑guage is ſo great, as in a lively deſcription to overbalance the diſagreeableneſs of the image raiſed by it^†. This however is no encouragement to deal in diſagreeable ſub⯑jects; for the pleaſure is out of ſight greater where the ſubject and the deſcription are both of them agreeable.

The following deſcription is upon the whole agreeable, though the ſubject de⯑ſcribed is in itſelf diſmal.

An unmanly depreſſion of ſpirits in time of danger is not an agreeable ſight; and yet a fine deſcription or repreſentation of it will be reliſhed:

Objects that ſtrike terror in a ſpectator, have in poetry and painting a fine effect. The picture, by raiſing a ſlight emotion of terror, agitates the mind; and in that con⯑dition every beauty makes a deep impreſſion. May not contraſt heighten the pleaſure, by oppoſing our preſent ſecurity to the danger we would be in by encountering the ob⯑ject repreſented?

Objects of horror muſt be excepted from the foregoing theory; for no deſcription, how⯑ever maſterly, is ſufficient to overbalance the diſguſt raiſed even by the idea of ſuch an ob⯑ject. Every thing horrible ought therefore to be avoided in a deſcription. Nor is this a ſevere law: the poet will avoid ſuch ſcenes for his own ſake, as well as for that of his reader; and to vary his deſcriptions, nature affords plenty of objects that diſguſt [214] us in ſome degree without raiſing horror. I am obliged therefore to condemn the pic⯑ture of ſin in the ſecond book of Paradiſe Loſt, though drawn with a maſterly hand. The original would be a horrible ſpectacle; and the horror is not much ſoftened in the copy.

Iago's character in the tragedy of Othello, is ſo monſtrous and ſatanical, as not to be ſuf⯑ferable in a repreſentation: not even Shake⯑ſpear's maſterly hand can make the picture agreeable.

Though the objects introduced in the fol⯑lowing ſcenes, are not altogether ſo horrible as Sin is in Milton's picture; yet with every perſon of taſte, diſguſt will be the prevail⯑ing emotion.

CHAP. XXII. Epic and Dramatic Compoſitions.

TRAGEDY differs from the epic more in form than in ſubſtance. The ends propoſed by each are inſtruc⯑tion and amuſement; and each of them co⯑py human actions as means to bring about theſe ends. They differ in the manner on⯑ly of copying. Epic poetry deals in narra⯑tion: Tragedy repreſents its facts as tranſ⯑acted in our ſight. In the former, the poet introduces himſelf as an hiſtorian: in the latter he preſents his actors and never him⯑ſelf^*.

[219] 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 inci⯑dents 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

[220] A dramatic compoſition has another pro⯑perty, independent altogether of action. A dialogue makes a deeper impreſſion than a narration: becauſe in the former perſons ex⯑preſs 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 e⯑pic poem the author ought to take every opportunity to introduce his actors, and to confine the narrative part within the narrow⯑eſt bounds^*. Homer underſtood perfect⯑ly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great meaſure dramatic. Lucan runs to the oppoſite ex⯑treme; and is guilty of a ſtill greater fault: the Pharſalia is ſtuffed with cold and lan⯑guid reflections; the merit of which the au⯑thor aſſumes to himſelf, and deigns not to ſhare with his perſonages. Nothing can be more impertinent, than a chain of ſuch re⯑flections, which ſuſpend the battle of Phar⯑ſalia after the leaders had made their ſpeech⯑es, [221] and the two armies are ready to en⯑gage^*.

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 be⯑yond moving the paſſions and exhibiting pictures of virtue and vice, may be diſtin⯑guiſhed by the name of pathetic. But where a ſtory is purpoſely contrived to illu⯑ſtrate ſome important leſſon of morality, by ſhowing the natural connection betwixt diſ⯑orderly paſſions and external misfortunes, ſuch compoſition may be denominated mo⯑ral ^†. It indeed conveys moral inſtruc⯑tion [222] with a perſpicuity that is not exceeded by the moſt accurate reaſoning; and makes a deeper impreſſion than any moral diſ⯑courſe can do. To be ſatisfied of this, we need but reflect, that a man whoſe affec⯑tions are juſtly balanced, hath a better chance to eſcape misfortunes, than one who is a ſlave to every paſſion. Indeed, no⯑thing is more evident, than the natural connection that vice hath with miſery, and virtue with happineſs; and ſuch connec⯑tion may be illuſtrated, by ſtating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us aſ⯑ſume, for example, the following moral truths, That diſcord among the chiefs, ren⯑ders 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 quar⯑rel betwixt Agamemnon and Achilles at the ſiege of Troy. In this view, it ought to be the poet's chief aim, to invent proper cir⯑cumſtances, [223] preſenting to our view the na⯑tural conſequences of ſuch diſcord. Theſe circumſtances muſt ſeem to ariſe in the com⯑mon courſe of human affairs: no acciden⯑tal or unaccountable event ought to be in⯑dulged; for the neceſſary or probable con⯑nection 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 com⯑poſitions. A pathetic compoſition, whe⯑ther 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 irregular^*. It likewiſe, by its frequent pictures of human woes, hu⯑manizes the mind, and fortifies us in bear⯑ing our own misfortunes. A moral com⯑poſition muſt obviouſly produce the ſame good effects, becauſe by being moral it doth [224] not ceaſe to be pathetic. It enjoys beſide an excellence peculiar to itſelf: for it not only improves the heart, as above mention⯑ed, 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 per⯑ſons 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 mo⯑tion the whole train of the ſocial affections. We have at the ſame time great mental en⯑joyment, in perceiving every event and e⯑very ſubordinate incident connected with its proper cauſe. Our curioſity is by turns ex⯑cited and gratified; and our delight is con⯑ſummated 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 regu⯑lar chain of cauſes and effects.

[225] 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 ob⯑ſerve, that dialogue is better qualified for expreſſing ſentiments, and narrative for diſ⯑playing facts. Theſe peculiarities tend to confine each within certain limits. He⯑roiſm, 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 [226] former. It clearly follows, that tender paſſions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry^*.

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 wil⯑lingly, in order to clear a point thrown into great obſcurity by critics.

In the chapter of emotions and paſſions^†, 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 miſ⯑fortune. But this man muſt neither be deeply guilty nor altogether innocent. The misfortune muſt be occaſioned by a fault in⯑cident to human nature, and therefore ve⯑nial. Misfortunes of this kind, call forth the whole force of the ſocial affections, and [227] intereſt the ſpectator in the warmeſt man⯑ner. An accidental misfortune, if not ex⯑termely ſingular, doth not greatly move our pity. The perſon who ſuffers, being inno⯑cent, is freed from the greateſt of all tor⯑ments, viz. the anguiſh of mind occaſioned by remorſe:

A criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himſelf, excites little pity, for a different reaſon. His re⯑morſe, it is true, aggravates his diſtreſs, and ſwells the firſt emotions of pity: but then our hatred to the criminal blending with pi⯑ty, blunts its edge conſiderably. Misfor⯑tunes that are not innocent nor highly cri⯑minal, partake the advantages of each ex⯑treme: 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 ſen⯑ſibly [228] 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 di⯑ſtreſs; and our compaſſion, unreſtrained by indignation, riſes to its higheſt pitch. Pity comes thus to be the ruling paſſion of a pa⯑thetic tragedy; and by proper repreſenta⯑tion, may be raiſed to a height ſcarce ex⯑ceeded 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 af⯑fections. When a misfortune is the natu⯑ral conſequence of ſome wrong bias in the temper, every ſpectator who is conſcious of ſome ſuch defect in himſelf, takes the a⯑larm, 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 [229] ſpectators are put upon their guard againſt the diſorders of paſſion.

The commentators upon Ariſtotle and o⯑ther critics, have been much graveled a⯑bout 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 im⯑proved by daily exerciſe; and in what man⯑ner 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 agree⯑able to the doctrine as here explained. Theſe, at the ſame time, I the rather chuſe [230] to mention; becauſe, ſo far as authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reaſon⯑ing about the proper ſubjects for tragedy. His firſt propoſition is, That it being the province of tragedy to excite pity and ter⯑ror, an innocent perſon falling into adverſi⯑ty 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 de⯑gree, and the latter in no degree for moral inſtruction. The ſecond propoſition is, That we muſt not repreſent a wicked per⯑ſon 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 ter⯑ror, except in thoſe of the ſame vicious diſpo⯑ſition with the perſon repreſented. His laſt propoſition is, That the only character fit for [231] repreſentation lies in the middle, neither e⯑minently good nor eminently bad; where the misfortune is not the effect of delibe⯑rate vice, but of ſome involuntary fault, as our author expreſſes it^*. The only objec⯑tion I find to Ariſtotle's account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bounds, by refuſing admittance to the pa⯑thetic 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 in⯑ſtruction; 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 [232] misfortunes which rouſe our ſympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With re⯑ſpect to ſubjects of this kind, it may indeed be a doubtful queſtion, whether the con⯑cluſion 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 misfor⯑tunes of a virtuous perſon ariſing from ne⯑ceſſary cauſes, or from a chain of unavoid⯑able circumſtances, will, I am apt to think, [233] be conſidered in a different light. Chance affords always a gloomy proſpect, and in every inſtance gives an impreſſion of anar⯑chy 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 con⯑ſcious that ſubmiſſion is our duty^*. 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 unfre⯑quent, the jealouſy of a barbarous huſband. The fate of Deſdemona in the Moor of Ve⯑nice, 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 charac⯑ter ſuffering under misfortunes is qualified [234] for being the ſubject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is it altogether inconſiſtent with a moral trage⯑dy: 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 paſſ⯑ing in our ſight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality^*. 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 au⯑thor's purpoſe. The principal facts are known to be true; and we are diſpoſed to extend our belief to every circumſtance. [235] 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 ſup⯑plied, 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 poem^*.

[236] 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 per⯑haps 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 parti⯑cular to raiſe our ſympathy. The ſcene of comedy is generally laid at home: famili⯑arity 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 re⯑ſpect, [237] 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 imper⯑fect 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 in⯑terrupting 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 ab⯑ſurdity, 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 be⯑gins [238] 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 ſe⯑venth 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 enter⯑tainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a monſtrous ab⯑ſurdity 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 Boileau^*, among many other critics, is a ſtout champion for this ſort of machinery. But waving authority, which is apt to im⯑poſe [239] 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 objects^*: the moral virtues become ſo many goddeſſes, and even darts and arrows are inſpired with life and action. But then it muſt not be overlook⯑ed, that ſuch perſonification, being the work of imagination, is deſcriptive only, and aſſumes not even an appearance of truth^†. 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 cataſtro⯑phe; and yet theſe two things are con⯑ſtantly jumbled together in the reaſoning. The poetical privilege of animating inſen⯑ſible objects for the ſake of deſcription, can⯑not be controverted, becauſe it is founded on a natural principle. But has the privi⯑lege of machinery, if it be a privilege, the [240] ſame good foundation? Far from it: no⯑thing 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 paſſions^*. This of itſelf is ſuffi⯑cient to explode machinery, whatever en⯑tertainment it may give to readers of a fan⯑taſtic 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 inſuper⯑able 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 in⯑ſtruction, it is evident, that we can draw none from beings who act not upon the ſame principles with us. A fable in Aeſop's [241] 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 ob⯑ſerve, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems. Fictions that tranſgreſs the bounds of nature, ſeldom have a good ef⯑fect: 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 eleva⯑ting his ſubject, and making it intereſting.

Boileau, a ſtrenuous advocate for the Heathen deities, as obſerved, declares a⯑gainſt angels and devils, though ſupported by the religious creed of his country. One would be apt to imagine, that a critic fa⯑med [242] for his good taſte, could have no other meaning than to juſtify the employing Hea⯑then deities for enlivening or elevating the deſcription. But as the Heathen deities make not a better figure in poetical lan⯑guage 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 abſurdi⯑ty, where it is not ſo pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the taking of Na⯑mur, 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 de⯑ſcribes the god of that river as fighting with all his might to oppoſe the French mo⯑narch. This is confounding fiction with reality at a ſtrange rate. The French wri⯑ters in general run into this error: wonder⯑ful! that they ſhould not be ſenſible how ridiculous it is.

That this is a capital error in the Gieru⯑ſalleme liberata, Taſſo's greateſt admirers muſt acknowledge. A ſituation can never [243] be intricate, nor the reader ever in pain a⯑bout the cataſtrophe, ſo long as there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his eſſay upon epic poe⯑try, talking of the Pharſalia, obſerves judi⯑ciouſly, ‘"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, de⯑prived him of all liberty of poetical fic⯑tion."’ 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 ſupe⯑rior beings, introduces them into the ac⯑tion. 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, Fanati⯑ciſm, War, &c. aſſiſt Aumale in a ſingle combat with Turenne, and are chaſed a⯑way by a good angel brandiſhing the ſword of God. To blend ſuch fictitious perſon⯑ages in the ſame action with mortals, [244] makes a bad figure at any rate; and is in⯑tolerable 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 o⯑therwiſe 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 ap⯑plied in an elegant manner: ‘"Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all ap⯑pearance, 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 re⯑quire every perſon who ſhall write on this ſubject, to remember that he is a Chriſtian, and not to ſacrifice his cate⯑chiſm 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 call⯑ing out for aid upon any of the mu⯑ſes by name. I do likewiſe poſitively [245] 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 [246] whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it be⯑ing 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 in⯑troduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conſcience. Provided always, that no⯑thing 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, N^o 523.’

The marvellous is indeed ſo much pro⯑moted by machinery, that it is not won⯑derful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of readers. If indul⯑ged at all, it is generally indulged to ex⯑ceſs. Homer introduces his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has ſtill leſs moderation: an over⯑watched pilot cannot fall aſleep and drop into the ſea by natural means: the two [247] lovers, Aeneas and Dido, cannot take the ſame bed, without the immediate interpo⯑ſition 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 inviſi⯑ble powers in the Heathen creed did in an⯑cient poems. The reaſon I take to be what follows. The Heathen deities, in the opi⯑nion 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 ac⯑tion. 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 in⯑ferior, [248] 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 gene⯑ral 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-o⯑perate in retarding or advancing the cataſtro⯑phe. 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 alle⯑gorical perſonage to be a real being, but the figure only of ſome virtue or vice; other⯑wiſe the allegory is loſt. The impreſſion [249] of real exiſtence, eſſential to an epic poem, is inconſiſtent with that figurative exiſtence which is eſſential to an allegory; and there⯑fore 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 Hen⯑riade ^*, 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 Hen⯑riade, 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 be⯑ings 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 pre⯑ſume, [250] 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 con⯑fined 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 cata⯑ſtrophe, muſt be a part of the principal ac⯑tion. This clears the nature of an epiſode; which may be defined, ‘"An incident con⯑nected 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 cata⯑ſtrophe; 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 [251] 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 narra⯑tion. 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 entertain⯑ing him, if he were forc'd to attend, at the ſame time, to two capital plots equally in⯑tereſting. An under-plot in a tragedy has ſeldom a good effect; becauſe a paſſionate piece cannot be too ſimple. The ſympa⯑thetic emotions once rouſed, cling to their objects, and cannot bear interruption: [252] when a ſubject fills the mind, it leaves no room for any ſeparate concern^*. Variety is more tolerable in comedy, which pretends only to amuſe, without totally occupying [253] the mind. But even here, to make a dou⯑ble plot agreeable, a good deal of art is re⯑quiſite. The under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from that which is prin⯑cipal: paſſions may be varied, but diſcor⯑dant paſſions are unpleaſant when jumbled together. This is a ſolid objection to tragi⯑comedy. 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 con⯑nected 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.

[254] 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 per⯑ſuaſive geſture. The ſpectator once enga⯑ged, 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 ga⯑thering his ſenſes about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace delivers the ſame rule; and founds it upon the reaſon given:

The French critics, as it appears to me, miſapprehend the reaſon of this rule. Shed⯑ding blood upon the ſtage, ſay they, is barbarous and ſhocking to a polite au⯑dience. This no doubt is an additional reaſon for excluding bloodſhed from the [255] 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 Cly⯑temneſtra by her ſon Oreſtes, paſſing be⯑hind the ſcene, as repreſented by Sopho⯑cles. 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 per⯑ſon 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 argu⯑ment, that theſe critics have miſapprehend⯑ed the rule laid down by Horace. If Cor⯑neille, in repreſenting the affair betwixt Horatius and his ſiſter, upon which murder [256] 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 perform⯑ed on the ſtage by violent and unpremedita⯑ted paſſion, as ſuddenly repented of as com⯑mitted. I heartily agree with Addiſon^*, that no part of this incident ought to have been repreſented, but reſerved for a narra⯑tive, 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 [257] 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. Dry⯑den, in this particular, may juſtly be pla⯑ced as his oppoſite. He frequently intro⯑duces three or four perſons ſpeaking upon the ſame ſubject, each throwing out his own ſentiments ſeparately, without regard⯑ing what is ſaid by the reſt. I give for an ex⯑ample the firſt ſcene of Aurenzebe. Some⯑times he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a ſtranger, ſuppoſed igno⯑rant 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 Gra⯑nada. In the ſecond part of the ſame tragedy, [258] ſcene ſecond, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their ſeparate obſervations, like ſo many ſoliloquies, upon the fluctua⯑ting 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 ef⯑fect. It ſtays the courſe of the action, be⯑cauſe 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.

CHAP. XXIII. The three Unities.

THE firſt chapter unfolds the plea⯑ſure we have in a chain of connect⯑ed 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 con⯑nected by their relation to one perſon, who makes a figure and commands our atten⯑tion. But the greateſt entertainment of the kind, is afforded by the hiſtory of a ſingle e⯑vent, ſuppoſing it to be intereſting. The hiſtory of one event produceth a more en⯑tire 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 [260] 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 af⯑fect 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 ulti⯑mately upon any one; but is carried along in the train without any cloſe.

[261] But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with the mate⯑rial, 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 happi⯑neſs 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, con⯑nected with ſubordinate events or incidents by the relation of cauſation. In running o⯑ver 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 ulti⯑mate event; becauſe there, the purpoſe, the plan, the aim, of the chief perſon or perſons, is completed and brought to a final conclu⯑ſion. This indicates a beginning, a middle, and an end, of what Ariſtotle calls an entire action ^*. The ſtory naturally begins with deſcribing thoſe circumſtances which move the diſtinguiſhed perſon to form a plan, in [262] order to compaſs ſome deſired event. The proſecution of that plan, and the obſtruc⯑tions, carry the reader into the heat of ac⯑tion. 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 above^* mainly contributes; a principle that diſpoſes the mind to complete every work commen⯑ced, 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 begin⯑ning, a middle, and an end, in which con⯑ſiſts unity of action: and indeed ſtricter u⯑nity cannot be imagined than in this caſe. But an action may have unity, or a begin⯑ning, middle, and end, without ſo inti⯑mate a relation of parts. The cataſtrophe [263] 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 e⯑vent, and theſe means crowned with ſuc⯑ceſs. 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 begin⯑ning, 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 inci⯑dents 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 conti⯑nual retroſpect: looking backward is like walking backward.

[264] But Homer's plan is ſtill more imperfect, for another reaſon, That the events deſcri⯑bed are but imperfectly connected with the wrath of Achilles as their cauſe. His wrath did not exert itſelf in action; and the miſ⯑fortunes of his countrymen were but nega⯑tively the effects of his wrath, by depri⯑ving 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 ob⯑jects. For the ſake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that contributes to the prin⯑cipal event. But two unconnected events are a great deformity; and it leſſens the de⯑formity but a very little, to engage the ſame actors in both. Arioſto is quite li⯑centious 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 [265] ſimple method: a method however not ſo eſſential, in an hiſtorical fable eſpecially, as not to yield to ſome conſpicuous beauties^*. 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 reach^†. Ro⯑mance-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 he⯑roes of the ſtory, ſtart up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and en⯑gage in a ſingle combat^‡.

[266] 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 u⯑nity 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 fol⯑low to the end of that act, are mere con⯑verſation-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 [267] Dryden, in his dramatis perſonae, to de⯑ſcribe characters beforehand, which would not interrupt the chain of action. But a writer of genius has no occaſion for ſuch ar⯑tifice: he can diſplay the characters of his perſonages much more to the life in ſenti⯑ment 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 rela⯑tion to the grand event or cataſtrophe. And this relation, in which the unity of action conſiſts, is equally eſſential to epic and dra⯑matic 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 cri⯑tics as eſſential to every dramatic compoſi⯑tion. In theory, theſe unities are alſo ac⯑knowledged by our beſt poets, though their practice is ſeldom correſpondent: they are often forc'd to take liberties, which they [268] 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 uni⯑ties 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; be⯑cauſe 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. [269] 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 compoſi⯑tion cannot be accurately repreſented, un⯑leſs 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 re⯑preſented."’ This argument, I acknow⯑ledge, 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 bounds^*.

[270] A view of the Grecian drama, and a compariſon betwixt it and our own, may perhaps help to relieve us from this dilem⯑ma. If they be differently conſtructed, as ſhall by and by be made evident, it is poſ⯑ſible 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 va⯑riety, introduced one actor; who gave a narrative of the ſubject, and ſometimes re⯑preſented one or other perſonage. Eſchy⯑lus, introducing a ſecond actor, formed the dialogue; by which the performance became dramatic: and the actors were multiplied when the ſubject repreſented made it ne⯑ceſſary. 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 pre⯑liminary [271] 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 cho⯑rus is introduced, which, as originally, con⯑tinues upon the ſtage during the whole performance. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiouſly. Euripides is not altoge⯑ther 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, du⯑ring 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 con⯑tinued repreſentation without a pauſe, af⯑fords [272] not opportunity to vary the place of action; and has withal a very ſhort dura⯑tion. To a repreſentation ſo confined in place and time, the foregoing reaſoning is ſtrictly applicable. A real or feigned ac⯑tion that is brought to a concluſion after conſiderable intervals of time and frequent change of place, cannot accurately be co⯑pied in a repreſentation that admits of no latitude in either. Hence it is, that the u⯑nities 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 conſtruc⯑tion [273] 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 in⯑tervals, 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 ſup⯑poſed 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 compa⯑ring a modern play to a ſet of hiſtorical pic⯑tures: let us ſuppoſe them five in number, and the reſemblance will be complete. Each of the pictures reſembles an act in one [274] 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 pic⯑tures, let it be, for example, the hiſtory of Alexander by Le Brun, we have no diffi⯑culty to conceive, that months or years have paſſed betwixt the ſubjects exhibited in two different pictures, though the interrup⯑tion 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 ſpecta⯑tor, 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 reflec⯑tion [275] 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 inter⯑ruption 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 pre⯑ſent 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 repreſenta⯑tion.

There are, I acknowledge, ſome ef⯑fects 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 proba⯑bility, [276] ſuch latitude of time as is requiſite for a change ſo remarkable. The greateſt change from place to place hath not altoge⯑ther 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 circum⯑ſtances. Theſe may be varied at will, be⯑cauſe 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 under⯑ſtood 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 e⯑vents, 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 [277] place, and requires not a greater length of time than is neceſſary for the repreſenta⯑tion, 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 fre⯑quent changes of place and many intervals of time. But ſtill I muſt inſiſt, that the li⯑mitation of place and time which was ne⯑ceſſary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and therefore that though ſuch limita⯑tion adds one beauty more to the compoſi⯑tion, it is at beſt but a refinement, which may juſtly give place to a thouſand beau⯑ties more ſubſtantial. And I may add, that it is extremely difficult, I was about to ſay impracticable, to contract within the Gre⯑cian 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, ma⯑king them all equally eſſential, have not at⯑tended to the nature and conſtruction of the [278] modern drama. If they admit an interrupt⯑ed 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 ex⯑cluded from the Grecian ſtage. If there needs muſt be a reformation, why not re⯑ſtore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action? There is certainly no medium: for to admit an interruption with⯑out 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 ac⯑tion, however diſtant it be in time or in place. We know that the play is a repre⯑ſentation only: and the imagination, with facility, accommodates itſelf to every cir⯑cumſtance. Our ſituation is very different [279] 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 ſpec⯑tator of a real event^*. Any interruption annihilates this impreſſion: he is rouſed out of his waking dream, and unhappily reſto⯑red 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 con⯑ceive that they are actually carried from the palace to the priſon. They immediately re⯑flect, that the palace and priſon are imagi⯑nary, and that the whole is a fiction.

From theſe premiſſes one will be natu⯑rally led, at firſt view, to declare againſt [280] the frequent interruptions in the modern drama. It will occur, ‘"That every inter⯑ruption muſt have the effect to baniſh the dream of reality, and with it to ba⯑niſh our concern, which cannot ſubſiſt while we are conſcious that all is a fic⯑tion; 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 dra⯑ma, 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 engage⯑ment.

Conſidering attentively the ancient dra⯑ma, we find, that though the repreſenta⯑tion is never interrupted, the principal ac⯑tion 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 ſuſpend⯑ed, as it is at the end of every act, oppor⯑tunity is taken of the interval to employ the chorus in ſinging. Hence it appears, that [281] the Grecian continuity of repreſentation cannot have the effect to prolong the im⯑preſſion of reality. To baniſh this impreſ⯑ſion, a ſuſpenſion of the action while the chorus is employ'd in ſinging, is not leſs o⯑perative 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, with⯑out a ſingle pauſe even in the principal ac⯑tion, ſo far from an advantage, would be really an imperfection; and that a repreſen⯑tation with proper pauſes, is better calcu⯑lated 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 paſ⯑ſion, an uneaſineſs enſues, which never fails to baniſh the waking dream. Now ſuppo⯑ſing 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 im⯑preſſion of reality would not be prolonged beyond the ſpace of an act, even ſuppoſing [282] a continued repreſentation. Hence it ap⯑pears, that a continued repreſentation with⯑out any pauſe, would be a bad contrivance: it would break the attention by overſtrain⯑ing it, and produce a total abſence of mind. In this reſpect, the four pauſes have a fine effect. By affording to the audience a ſea⯑ſonable reſpite when the impreſſion of rea⯑lity is gone, and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue; and conſequently prevent a wan⯑dering 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, du⯑ring an interval, not only preſerves alive the impreſſions made upon the audience, but alſo prepares their hearts finely for new im⯑preſſions. In our theatres, on the contra⯑ry, 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 in⯑different, [283] as at the commencement of the play. Here is a groſs malady in our thea⯑trical 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 ac⯑tion. What objection, for example, can there lie againſt muſic betwixt the acts, vo⯑cal and inſtrumental, adapted to the ſub⯑ject? Such detached chorus, beſide admit⯑ting the ſame latitude that we enjoy at preſent as to time and place, would have more than one happy effect: it would re⯑cruit the ſpirits; and it would preſerve en⯑tire, 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 repreſen⯑tation would both of them be gainers by their conjunction; which will thus appear. Muſic that accords with the preſent tone [284] of mind, is, upon that account, doubly a⯑greeable; 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 impreſ⯑ſions, muſic has power to diſpoſe the heart to various paſſions. Of this power, the firſt ſcene of the Mourning Bride is a ſhi⯑ning 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 man⯑ner, 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 ſuc⯑ceeds. 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 li⯑mitation of place and time. And as to [285] muſic in particular, I cannot figure any plan that would tend more to its improve⯑ment. Compoſers, thoſe for the ſtage at leaſt, would be reduced to the happy ne⯑ceſſity of ſtudying and imitating nature; inſtead of indulging, according to the pre⯑ſent faſhion, in wild, fantaſtic, and unna⯑tural 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 them⯑ſelves 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 [286] important. Such cruel reſtraint is of itſelf ſufficient to cramp the moſt pregnant inven⯑tion; and accordingly the Grecian writers, in order to preſerve unity of place, are re⯑duced to woful improprieties. In the Hippolytus of Euripides^*, Phedra, di⯑ſtreſſed in mind and body, is carried with⯑out any pretext from her palace to the place of action, is there laid upon a couch un⯑able 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 at⯑tendant 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 chorus^†. Alceſtes, in Euripides, at the point of death, is brought from the palace to the place of ac⯑tion, groaning and lamenting her untimely fate^‡. In the Trachiniens of Sophocles^‖, a ſecret is imparted to Dejanira, the wife [287] of Hercules, in preſence of the chorus. In the tragedy of Iphigenia, the meſſenger em⯑ploy'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 hearing^*; 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 cho⯑rus, 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 [288] 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 hap⯑py with reſpect to time than with re⯑ſpect to place. In the Hippolytus of Euri⯑pides, 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 ma⯑ny 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 ^*. The ſong could not exhauſt half an hour; and yet the in⯑cidents ſuppoſed to have happened in that time, could not naturally be tranſacted in leſs than half a day.

The Grecian artiſts are not leſs frequent⯑ly obliged to tranſgreſs another rule, derived [289] 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 Iphi⯑genia re-enters, accompanied with the cho⯑rus. 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 co⯑ver this irregularity, and to preſerve the re⯑preſentation in motion, Euripides is ex⯑tremely 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 inter⯑ruption, [290] to change the place of action as well as the actors; but that was not practi⯑cable upon the Grecian ſtage.

It is hard to ſay upon what model Te⯑rence has formed his plays. Having no chorus, there is a ceſſation in the repreſen⯑tation at the end of every act. But advan⯑tage is not taken of this ceſſation, even to vary the place of action. The ſtreet is al⯑ways 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 in⯑troductive cauſe be ſtill ſubſiſting. Plau⯑tus, 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.

[291] 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 repreſenta⯑tion, there is no opportunity for the ſmalleſt deviation from either. Hence it is an eſ⯑ſential requiſite, that during an act the ſtage be always occupied; for even a mo⯑mentary vacuity makes an interval. An⯑other rule is not leſs eſſential: it would be a groſs breach of the unity of action, to ex⯑hibit upon the ſtage two ſeparate actions at the ſame time; and therefore to preſerve this unity, it is neceſſary that each perſon⯑age 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 [292] is again put in motion. French writers, generally ſpeaking, are extremely correct in this particular: the Engliſh, on the con⯑trary, are ſo irregular as ſcarce to deſerve a criticiſm: actors not only ſucceed each o⯑ther 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 ne⯑ver 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 com⯑mencement of the play; but during the re⯑preſentation, the mind rejects change of place. From the foregoing cenſure muſt be excepted the Mourning Bride of Con⯑greve, 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, how⯑ever, that in point of regularity, this ele⯑gant performance is not altogether unex⯑ceptionable. In the four firſt acts, the u⯑nities of place and time are ſtrictly obſerved: [293] 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 in⯑troduced in the priſon, are different from thoſe who made their appearance in the room of ſtate. This remarkable interrup⯑tion of the repreſentation, makes in effect two acts inſtead of one: and therefore, if it be a rule, that a play ought not to con⯑ſiſt 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 re⯑preſentation than is allowed in the acting; for it requires more than a momentary in⯑terruption, to enable the imagination rea⯑dily 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.

CHAP. XXIV. Gardening and Architecture.

THE books that have been compoſed upon architecture and upon embel⯑liſhing ground, abound in practi⯑cal 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 ſuf⯑ficient 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 ſpeci⯑men 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 Ho⯑mer, we find nothing done for pleaſure [295] merely. But gardening is now improved into a fine art; and when we talk of a gar⯑den 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 ma⯑ny ages an uſeful art merely, before it aſpi⯑red to be claſſed with the fine arts. Archi⯑tecture therefore and gardening muſt be handled in a twofold view, as being uſeful arts as well as fine arts. The reader how⯑ever will not here expect rules for impro⯑ving 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 uti⯑lity; and in diſcourſing of beauty, that of u⯑tility ought not to be neglected. This leads us to conſider gardens and buildings in differ⯑ent 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 com⯑mand of beauties complex not leſs than va⯑rious, which makes it difficult to form an accurate taſte in theſe arts. And hence [296] 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 o⯑therwiſe 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 be⯑yond 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 diſ⯑play'd by external ſigns extremely legible^*. Gardening, beſide the emotions of beauty by means of regularity, order, proportion, colour, and utility, can raiſe emotions of grandeur, of ſweetneſs, of gaiety, melan⯑choly, wildneſs, and even of ſurpriſe or [297] wonder. In architecture, regularity, or⯑der, 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 men⯑tioned, architecture hitherto has not been brought to the perfection of expreſſing them diſtinctly. To balance this defect, archi⯑tecture 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 dif⯑ferent emotions. But to operate this deli⯑cious 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 expreſſion^*: it may be gay, it may be ſweet, it may be gloomy; but an attempt to mix theſe, would create [298] 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 ma⯑turity, 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 pro⯑vided 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 va⯑rious emotions. But materials in architec⯑ture 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, ſymme⯑try, ſimplicity; and with reſpect to the lat⯑ter, the addition of ſize is ſufficient. But though it be evident, that every building ought to have a certain character or expreſ⯑ſion [299] ſuitable to its deſtination; yet this is a refinement which artiſts have ſcarce ventu⯑red upon. A death's head and bones em⯑ploy'd in monumental buildings, will in⯑deed produce an emotion of gloom and me⯑lancholy: but every ornament of this kind, if theſe can be termed ſo, ought to be re⯑jected, becauſe they are in themſelves diſa⯑greeable. The other thing wanted to bring the art to perfection, is, to aſcertain the pre⯑ciſe 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, un⯑til the different emotions or feelings they produce be diſtinctly explained. Garden⯑ing in this particular hath alſo the advan⯑tage. The ſeveral emotions raiſed by trees, rivers, caſcades, plains, eminences, and o⯑ther 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.

[300] 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 gar⯑dens, triumphal arches, Chineſe houſes, temples, obeliſks, caſcades, fountains, with⯑out 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 deco⯑ration 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 it^*.

In forming plans for embelliſhing a field, an artiſt void of taſte deals in ſtraight lines, [301] circles, ſquares; becauſe theſe ſhow beſt upon paper. He perceives not, that to hu⯑mour and adorn nature is the perfection of his art; and that nature, neglecting regula⯑rity, reacheth ſuperior beauties by diſtribu⯑ting her objects in great variety with a bold hand. A large field laid out with ſtrict re⯑gularity, is ſtiff and artificial. Nature in⯑deed, 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 uniformi⯑ty would be uſeleſs properties, becauſe they cannot be diſcovered by the eye^*. Na⯑ture 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 pro⯑ceed to rules peculiar to each; and I begin [302] 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 approach⯑ing nearer perfection, is of objects aſſem⯑bled 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 im⯑provement upon the third, requiring the adjuſtment of the ſeveral parts, in ſuch a manner as to inſpire all the different emo⯑tions 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 con⯑junction. I have had occaſion to obſerve above^*, that when the moſt oppoſite emo⯑tions, [303] ſuch as gloomineſs and gaiety, ſtill⯑neſs and activity, follow each other in ſuc⯑ceſſion, 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 mixture^*. For that reaſon, a ruin, affording a ſort of me⯑lancholy pleaſure, ought not to be ſeen from a flower-parterre, which is gay and chear⯑ful. But to paſs immediately from an exhilerating object to a ruin, has a glo⯑rious 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 gran⯑deur, ought to be raiſed together; for their effects upon the mind are greatly heightened by their conjunction^†.

Kent's method of embelliſhing a field, is admirable. It is painting a field with beautiful objects, natural and artificial, diſ⯑poſed like colours upon a canvas. It re⯑quires indeed more genius to paint in the [304] gardening way. In forming a landſcape up⯑on a canvas, no more is required but to ad⯑juſt 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 where⯑in 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 pro⯑nounce, that what makes it one garden, is the unity of deſign, every ſingle ſpot ap⯑pearing 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 pa⯑lace, but have ſcarce any mutual connec⯑tion: 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 con⯑fuſion [305] 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 object^*. But in proportion to the diſtance from the houſe conſidered as [306] 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 im⯑preſſion of grandeur. And grandeur ought to be ſtudied as much as poſſible, even in a more confined plan, by avoiding a multipli⯑city of ſmall parts^*. Nothing contributes more to grandeur, than a right diſpoſition of trees. Let them be ſcattered extremely thin near the dwelling-houſe, and thicken⯑ed in proportion to their diſtance: diſtant eminences to be filled with trees, and laid open to view. A ſmall garden, on the o⯑ther hand, which admits not grandeur, ought to be ſtrictly regular.

Milton, deſcribing the garden of Eden, prefers juſtly the grand taſte to that of re⯑gularity.

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 remark⯑able objects, appears too artificial to be a⯑greeable. The crowding withal ſo many objects together, leſſens the pleaſure that would be felt in a ſlower ſucceſſion. A⯑bandoning 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 neighbour⯑hood. 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 o⯑penings diſplay ſingle objects, ſome a plu⯑rality in a line, and ſome a rapid ſucceſſion of them. In this plan, the mind at in⯑tervals is rouſed and cheared by agreeable objects; and the ſcene is greatly heightened by the ſurpriſe it occaſions when we ſtumble, [308] 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 it⯑ſelf ornamented; it follows neceſſarily, that every thing unnatural ought to be rejected with diſdain. Statues of wild beaſts vomi⯑ting water, a common ornament in gardens, prevails in thoſe of Verſailles. Is this or⯑nament in a good taſte? A jet d'eau, being purely artificial, may, without diſguſt, be tortured into a thouſand ſhapes: but a re⯑preſentation 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 imita⯑tion, as to have diſplay'd his vicious taſte without the leaſt colour or diſguiſe. A life⯑leſs 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 con⯑verted [309] into a different ſcene: the lion, forgetting his prey, pours out water plenti⯑fully; and the deer, forgetting its danger, performs the ſame operation; a repreſenta⯑tion 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 ef⯑fect: 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 prac⯑tice; 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, conſider⯑ing 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 di⯑ſtant, betwixt a tree and an animal. An at⯑tempt, in the gardens of Verſailles, to imi⯑tate [310] a grove of trees by a group of jets d'eau, appears, for the ſame reaſon, not leſs ridi⯑culous.

In laying out a garden, every thing tri⯑vial 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 con⯑ceit 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 a⯑voided, are choſen as beauties, and multi⯑plied 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 a⯑muſed [311] myſelf with a fanciful reſemblance betwixt theſe gardens and the Arabian tales. Each of them is a performance in⯑tended for the amuſement of a great king: in the ſixteen gardens of Verſailles there is no unity of deſign, more than in the thou⯑ſand 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 wa⯑ving walk; for in ſurveying the beauties of a fine field, we love to roam from place to place at freedom. Winding walks have an⯑other 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 inten⯑tion [312] is not to make a journey, but to feaſt my eye with the beauties of art and nature. This rule excludes not long ſtraight o⯑penings terminating upon diſtant objects. Theſe, beſide variety, never fail to raiſe an emotion of grandeur, by extending in ap⯑pearance 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 medita⯑tion.

An avenue ought not to be directed in a ſtraight line upon a dwelling-houſe: bet⯑ter 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 [313] in motion: it moves with the paſſenger, and appears to direct its courſe ſo as hoſpi⯑tably to intercept him. An oblique ap⯑proach contributes alſo to variety: the houſe being ſeen ſucceſſively in different direc⯑tions, 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 inſi⯑pidity of an uniform plain. Artificial mounts in this view are common: but no perſon has thought of an artificial walk ele⯑vated 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, ap⯑pear 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 gloo⯑my and diſcouraging thought.

Fountains are ſeldom in a good taſte. Statues of animals vomiting water, which [314] prevail every where, ſtand condemned. A ſtatue of a whale ſpouting water upward from its head, would in one ſenſe be natu⯑ral, 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 un⯑natural. There is another reaſon againſt it, that the figure of a whale is in itſelf not a⯑greeable. 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 foun⯑tain 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 wa⯑ter, 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.

[315] Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work intended ſolely for pleaſure, or, in o⯑ther words, for giving impreſſions of intrin⯑ſic beauty. What comes next in order is the beauty of a garden deſtined for uſe, termed relative beauty ^*; and this branch ſhall be diſpatched in a few words. In gar⯑dening, 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 orna⯑mented field; and may be put in any corner without obſtructing the diſpoſition of the capital parts. At the ſame time, a kitchen⯑garden or an orchard is ſuſceptible of intrin⯑ſic 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 at⯑tain both in any perfection.

[316] As gardening is brought to greater per⯑fection 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 illu⯑ſtration of the foregoing doctrine. In gene⯑ral, 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 ar⯑tificial rivers are generally ſerpentine; ſome⯑times narrow, noiſy, and rapid; ſometimes [317] deep, broad, and ſlow: and to make the ſcene ſtill more active, mills and other mo⯑ving 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 na⯑ture 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 ſome⯑times indulged, in order to take the advan⯑tage 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, co⯑lours, 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 [318] the more brilliant: the different maſſes of light and ſhade are diſpoſed in ſuch a man⯑ner, as to render the compoſition diſtinct in its parts, and ſtriking on the whole. In plantations, the trees are artfully mixed ac⯑cording 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 ground^*. 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 i⯑magination. They hide the termination of their lakes: the view of a caſcade is fre⯑quently [319] 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 gar⯑dens than to raiſe wonder or ſurpriſe. In ſcenes calculated for that end, every thing appears like fairy-land; a torrent, for ex⯑ample, 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 contri⯑ved with cavities and interſtices. Sometimes one is led inſenſibly into dark caverns, termi⯑nating unexpectedly in a landſcape inriched with all that nature affords the moſt deli⯑cious. At other times, beautiful walks in⯑ſenſibly conduct us to a rough uncultivated field, where buſhes briers and ſtones in⯑terrupt the paſſage: when we look about for an outlet, ſome rich proſpect unexpect⯑edly 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 [320] ſteps, we are greatly ſurpriſed with ſome ſcene totally different from what was ex⯑pected.

I cloſe theſe curſory obſervations up⯑on gardening, with a remark that muſt touch every reader. Rough uncultivated ground, diſmal to the eye, inſpires peeviſh⯑neſs 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 e⯑ven 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 ſatisfac⯑tion to others by acts of humanity and kindneſs.

[321] Having finiſhed what occurred on gar⯑dening, 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 or⯑nament ſolely, and what for both. A build⯑ing intended for utility ſolely, ſuch as de⯑tached offices, ought in every part to corre⯑ſpond 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 ca⯑pital circumſtance; and every other beauty, in oppoſition, is neglected as improper and impertinent. In things again intended for ornament, ſuch as pillars, obeliſks, tri⯑umphal arches, beauty ſolely ought to be regarded. A Heathen temple muſt be con⯑ſidered 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 ſug⯑geſt and beauty require. The great diffi⯑culty [322] 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 reconci⯑led. In palaces, and other buildings ſuffi⯑ciently 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 found⯑ed on different principles, muſt be handled ſeparately; and I begin with relative beauty, as of the greater importance.

The proportions of a door, are determi⯑ned 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 pro⯑per for the door of a barn or coach-houſe, are widely different. Another conſidera⯑tion enters. To ſtudy intrinſic beauty in a coach-houſe or barn, intended merely for uſe, is obviouſly improper. But a dwell⯑ing-houſe [323] may admit ornaments; and the principal door of a palace demands all the grandeur that is conſiſtent with the fore⯑going 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 con⯑vey light to every corner, the room is dark and gloomy. Steps of ſtairs ought to be ac⯑commodated 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 parallelo⯑pipedon, which will conſtantly hold in ſmall [324] 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 ſpa⯑ces; but then it determines the rooms to be all of one ſize, which is extremely incon⯑venient. A cube will at firſt be pronoun⯑ced the moſt agreeable figure; and this may hold in a room of a moderate ſize. [325] 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 calcu⯑lated 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 pro⯑portion 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 [326] is relative. But ſuch propenſity is unhappy with reſpect to private dwelling-houſes; be⯑cauſe in theſe, relative beauty cannot be diſ⯑play'd in any perfection, without abandon⯑ing intrinſic beauty. There is no opportu⯑nity for great variety of form in a ſmall houſe; and in an edifice of this kind, inter⯑nal convenience has not hitherto been hap⯑pily 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 re⯑concile theſe two incompatibles. How elſe ſhould it be accounted for, that of the end⯑leſs variety of private dwelling-houſes, there is not one to be found, that is generally a⯑greed upon as a good pattern? The un⯑wearied 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 con⯑venience. By this means, the houſe, which turns out neither regular nor convenient, never fails to diſpleaſe. The faults are ob⯑vious, [327] and the difficulty of doing better is known to the artiſt only^*.

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. A⯑gain, a logio opening the houſe to the north, contrived in Italy for gathering cool air, is, if poſſible, ſtill more improper for this cli⯑mate. Scarce endurable in ſummer, it, in [328] winter, expoſes the houſe to the bitter blaſts of the north, and to every ſhower of ſnow and rain.

Having diſcuſſed what appeared neceſſa⯑ry 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 ori⯑ginal 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 regulari⯑ty 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 [329] 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 propor⯑tion in numbers and proportion in quantity; and hold that the ſame proportions are a⯑greeable in both. The proportions, for ex⯑ample, of the numbers 16, 24, and 36 are agreeable; and ſo, ſay they, are the pro⯑portions of a room, the height of which is 16 feet, the breadth 24, and the length 36. This point, with relation to the preſent ſub⯑ject, being of importance, the reader will examine it with attention and impartiality. To refute the notion of a reſemblance be⯑twixt muſical proportions and thoſe of ar⯑chitecture, 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 [330] 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 quan⯑tity here to be the ſole ground of compari⯑ſon, 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 concor⯑dant ſounds. I inſtance in particular an oc⯑tave, 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 in⯑ſtruments, which, as to proportion, appear not to have even the ſlighteſt reſemblance to a building.

With reſpect to the other notion inſtitu⯑ting 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. Quan⯑tity [331] is a real quality of every ſubſtance or body: number is not a real quality, but merely a conception that ariſes upon view⯑ing a plurality of things in ſucceſſion. Be⯑cauſe 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 ex⯑ample is given of this coincidence, in the numbers 16, 24, and 36; but to be con⯑vinced 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 indiſpu⯑table: but that agreeable proportion, like concord in ſounds, is confined to certain preciſe meaſures, is not warranted by expe⯑rience: on the contrary, we learn from experience, that various proportions are e⯑qually [332] 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 agree⯑able. The caſe is the ſame in houſes, rooms, and other parts of a building. And this opens an intereſting reflection. The fore⯑going difference betwixt concord and pro⯑portion, is an additional inſtance of that ad⯑mirable 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 ac⯑curacy of perception. The eye is more un⯑certain about the ſize of a large object, than of one that is ſmall; and in different ſitua⯑tions the ſame object appears of different ſi⯑zes. Delicacy of feeling therefore with re⯑ſpect to proportion in quantities, would be an uſeleſs quality. It is much better order⯑ed, that there ſhould be ſuch a latitude with [333] reſpect to agreeable proportions, as to cor⯑reſpond 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 re⯑ſpect 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 pre⯑ſent: 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 fur⯑ther obſerve, that it would be ſingular in⯑deed, 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.

[334] It is ludicrous to obſerve all writers ac⯑knowledging the neceſſity of accurate pro⯑portions, and yet differing widely about them. Laying afide reaſoning and philoſo⯑phy, 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 moderns^*, 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 en⯑tirely the effect of cuſtom. This bewrays ignorance of human nature, which evident⯑ly delights in proportion, as well as in regu⯑larity, order, and propriety. But without any acquaintance with human nature, a ſingle reflection might have convinced him [335] 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 dif⯑ferent proportions. In a ſumptuous edifice, the capital rooms ought to be large, for o⯑therwiſe they will not be proportioned to the ſize of the building. On the other hand, a very large room in a ſmall houſe, is diſ⯑proportioned. But in things thus related, the mind requires not a preciſe or ſingle pro⯑portion, rejecting all others; on the contra⯑ry, many different proportions are made e⯑qually welcome. It is only when a propor⯑tion becomes looſe and diſtant, that the a⯑greeableneſs 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 [336] room, when it exceeds 17 or 18 feet. In columns again, even architects muſt con⯑feſs, that the proportion of height and thick⯑neſs varies betwixt 8 diameters and 10, and that every proportion betwixt theſe two ex⯑tremes 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 differ⯑ent 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 plea⯑ſant, as I have had occaſion to ſhow^*. Thus a room of which the parts are all fine⯑ly adjuſted to each other, ſtrikes us with the beauty of proportion. It produceth at the ſame time a pleaſure far ſuperior. The [337] length, the breadth, the height, the win⯑dows, raiſe each of them ſeparately an emo⯑tion. Theſe emotions are ſimilar; and though faint when felt ſeparately, they pro⯑duce 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 con⯑nected, immediately perceives a diſagree⯑ment 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 exer⯑ciſe, 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 pro⯑duce intrinſic beauty. But a ſkilful artiſt [338] will not confine his view to regularity and proportion. He will alſo ſtudy propriety, which is perceived when the form and or⯑naments of a ſtructure are ſuited to the pur⯑poſe 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 pri⯑vate dwelling, neat and modeſt; a play⯑houſe, gay and ſplendid; and a monument, gloomy and melancholy. A Heathen tem⯑ple has a double deſtination: it is conſidered chiefly as a houſe dedicated to ſome divini⯑ty; 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 ſi⯑tuation ought to be choſen, humble and retired; becauſe the congregation, during [339] worſhip, ought to be humble and diſenga⯑ged from the world. Columns, beſide their chief deſtination of being ſupports, contribute to that peculiar expreſſion which the deſtination of a building requires: co⯑lumns of different proportions, ſerve to ex⯑preſs loftineſs, lightneſs, &c. as well as ſtrength. Situation alſo may contribute to expreſſion: conveniency regulates the ſitu⯑ation of a private dwelling-houſe; but, as I have had occaſion to obſerve^*, 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 con⯑nection betwixt a great houſe and the neigh⯑bouring grounds, though not extremely in⯑timate, 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 be⯑ſide the pleaſure of congruity, the ſpectator [340] is ſenſible of the pleaſure of concordance from the ſimilarity of the emotions produ⯑ced by the two objects. The old Gothic form of building ſeems well ſuited to the rough uncultivated regions where it was in⯑vented. The only miſtake was, the tranſ⯑ferring 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, de⯑manded a houſe in the Gothic form; and every one muſt approve the taſte of the pro⯑prietor, 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 com⯑monly 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 [341] looks little compared with the great canopy the ſky. In the next place, when it reco⯑vers 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 paſ⯑ſage to the principal apartments. And yet undoubtedly, the room of the great⯑eſt ſize ought to be reſerved for com⯑pany. A great room, which enlarges the mind and gives a certain elevation to the ſpirits, is deſtined by nature for converſa⯑tion. Rejecting therefore this form, I take a hint from the climax in writing for ano⯑ther form that appears more ſuitable. My plan is, firſt a handſome portico, propor⯑tioned 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 [342] 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 co⯑lumns on each ſide connected by arcades; third, an octagon room, or of any other fi⯑gure, 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 build⯑ings. But it ſeems unhappy for architecture, that it is neceſſarily governed by certain prin⯑ciples oppoſite to grandeur: the direct ef⯑fect of regularity and proportion, is to make a building appear leſs than it is in rea⯑lity. 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 expreſ⯑ſion. It has been a doubt with me, whe⯑ther a building can regularly admit any or⯑nament [343] 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 or⯑naments may not be added to pleaſe the eye without any relation to uſe. This li⯑berty is allowed in poetry, painting, and gardening, and why not in architecture con⯑ſidered as a fine art? A private dwelling⯑houſe, 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 orna⯑mented.

This ſuggeſts a diviſion of ornaments in⯑to 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 impo⯑ſing 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 [344] of uſe; the caſe of a pilaſter. With re⯑ſpect to the ſecond, it is an egregious blun⯑der, to contrive the ornament ſo as to make it appear uſeleſs. If a blind window there⯑fore 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 at⯑tempt 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 ar⯑chitect had not ſkill ſufficient to connect external regularity with internal conve⯑nience.

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 cylin⯑der than a parallelopipedon. This laſt, in the language of architecture, is ſaying, that a column is a more agreeable figure than a [345] pilaſter. For that reaſon, it ought to be preferred, all other circumſtances being e⯑qual. Another reaſon concurs, that a co⯑lumn annexed to a wall, which is a plain ſurface, makes a greater variety than a pi⯑laſter. There is an additional reaſon for re⯑jecting pilaſters in the external front of a building, ariſing from a principle unfolded above^*, 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 imme⯑diately perceive a horſe, almoſt as diſtinctly as in day-light. This principle is applica⯑ble to the caſe in hand. The moſt ſuperb front, at a great diſtance, appears a plain ſurface: approaching gradually, we be⯑gin to perceive inequalities: theſe inequa⯑lities, advancing a few ſteps more, take [346] 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 imme⯑diately perceive, or ſeem to perceive, a number of columns: if upon a near ap⯑proach we find pilaſters only, the diſap⯑pointment makes theſe pilaſters appear diſa⯑greeable; when abſtracted from that cir⯑cumſtance, they would only have appeared ſomewhat leſs agreeable. But as this de⯑ception cannot happen in the inner front incloſing a court, I ſee no reaſon for exclu⯑ding pilaſters there, when there is any rea⯑ſon for preferring them before columns.

With reſpect now to the parts of a co⯑lumn, a bare uniform cylinder without baſe or capital, appears naked and ſcarce agree⯑able: it ought therefore to have ſome fi⯑niſhing 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 a⯑mong theſe parts, but not limited within [347] preciſe bounds. I ſuſpect that the propor⯑tions in uſe have been influenced in ſome degree by the human figure; the capital be⯑ing 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 avoid⯑ed. Firmneſs and ſolidity are the proper expreſſions of a pedeſtal: carved work, on the contrary, ought to be light and deli⯑cate. 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 mi⯑ſerable jumble of truth and fiction^*. In a [348] baſſo-relievo on Antonin's pillar, rain ob⯑tained by the prayers of a Chriſtian legion, is expreſſed by joining to the group of ſol⯑diers a rainy Jupiter, with water in abun⯑dance running from his head and beard. De Piles, fond of the conceit, carefully in⯑forms 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 e⯑vents, 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 re⯑liſhed. 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 inſcrip⯑tion, he may gueſs, but cannot be certain, that the former being dedicated to Ancient [349] Virtue, the latter to Modern Virtue, are in⯑tended a ſatire upon the preſent times. On the other hand, a trite emblem, like a trite ſimile, is diſguſtful^*. 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 re⯑liſhed. A room in a dwelling-houſe con⯑taining a monument to a deceaſed friend, is dedicated to Melancholy. Its furniture is a clock that ſtrikes every minute to ſig⯑nify how ſwiftly time paſſes: upon the mo⯑nument, weeping figures and other hack⯑ney'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 appa⯑rent, 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 re⯑preſentation: Moſes himſelf may bring [350] water out of the rock, but this miracle is too much for his ſtatue. The ſame objec⯑tion 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 in⯑ſpiring gaiety and benevolence. I add an⯑other obſervation, That both gardening and architecture contribute to the ſame end, by inſpiring neatneſs and elegance. It is obſerved in Scotland, that even a turnpike⯑road has ſome influence of this kind upon the low people in the neighbourhood. They acquire a taſte for regularity and neat⯑neſs; 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.

CHAP. XXV. Standard of Taſte.

‘"THAT there is no diſputing about taſte",’ meaning taſte in its moſt extenſive ſenſe, is a ſaying ſo ge⯑nerally received as to have become a proverb. One thing indeed is evident, that if the pro⯑verb hold true with reſpect to any one ex⯑ternal 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 privile⯑ged. 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 Go⯑thic tower before the fineſt Grecian build⯑ing: nor where he prefers the ſmell of a [352] rotten carcaſs before that of the moſt odori⯑ferous flower: nor jarring diſcords before the moſt exquiſite harmony.

But we muſt not ſtop here. If the plea⯑ſures of external ſenſe be exempted from criticiſm, why not every one of our plea⯑ſures, from whatever ſource derived? If taſte in the proper ſenſe of the word cannot be diſputed, there is as little room for diſ⯑puting it in its figurative ſenſe. The pro⯑verb accordingly comprehends both; and in that large ſenſe may be reſolved into the following general propoſition, That with re⯑ſpect to the ſenſitive part of our nature, by which ſome objects are agreeable ſome diſ⯑agreeable, 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 with⯑out appeal; and conſequently that there is no ground of cenſure againſt any one, if ſuch a one there be, who prefers Black⯑more before Homer, ſelfiſhneſs before be⯑nevolence, or cowardice before magnanimi⯑ty.

The proverb in the foregoing inſtances, is indeed carried very far. It ſeems difficult, [353] however, to ſap its foundation, or with ſuc⯑ceſs to attack it from any quarter. For in comparing the various taſtes of individuals, it is not obvious what ſtandard muſt be ap⯑pealed to. Is not every man equally a judge of what is agreeable or diſagreeable to himſelf? Doth it not ſeem odd, and per⯑haps 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 con⯑tradiction to ſenſe and feeling, will never afford conviction. A man of taſte muſt ne⯑ceſſarily feel the reaſoning to be falſe, how⯑ever unqualified to detect the fallacy. At the ſame time, though no man of taſte will ſubſcribe to the proverb as holding true in e⯑very caſe, no man will venture to affirm that it holds true in no caſe. Subjects there are undoubtedly, that we may like or diſ⯑like indifferently, without any imputation upon our taſte. Were a philoſopher to make a ſcale for human pleaſures with ma⯑ny diviſions, in order that the value of each pleaſure may be denoted by the place it oc⯑cupies, he would not think of making di⯑viſions [352] [...] [353] [...] [354] without end, but would rank toge⯑ther many pleaſures ariſing perhaps from dif⯑ferent objects, either as being equally va⯑luable, 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, comprehend⯑ing 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 ano⯑ther? If a preference in fact be given by any individual, it cannot be taſte, but cu⯑ſtom, 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 en⯑vying the happineſs of others: many hands muſt be employ'd to procure us the conve⯑niencies of life; and it is neceſſary that the [355] 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 employ⯑ments, leaving others, not leſs uſeful, to⯑tally neglected. In our preſent condition, happy it is, that the plurality are not deli⯑cate 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 cir⯑cumſtance, 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 parti⯑cular, 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 lan⯑guages [356] 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 ſtand⯑ard of taſte will no longer be a ſecret.

All living creatures are by nature diſtri⯑buted into claſſes; the individuals of each, however diverſified by ſlighter differences, having a wonderful uniformity in their ca⯑pital parts internal and external. Each claſs is diſtinguiſhable from others by an exter⯑nal form; and not leſs diſtinguiſhable by an internal conſtitution, manifeſted by cer⯑tain 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 com⯑mon 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 inter⯑nal [357] or external conſtruction: a child born with an averſion to its mother's milk, is a matter of wonder, not leſs than if born with⯑out a mouth, or with more than one^*.

With reſpect to this common nature or ſtandard, we are ſo conſtituted as to con⯑ceive it to be perfect or right; and conſe⯑quently that individuals ought to be made conformable to it. Every remarkable de⯑viation accordingly from the ſtandard, makes an impreſſion upon us of imperfection, irre⯑gularity, or diſorder: it is diſagreeable and raiſes in us a painful emotion: monſtrous births, exciting the curioſity of a philoſo⯑pher, fail not at the ſame time to excite a⯑verſion 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 pre⯑ſent, and as it was in time paſt; the ſame among all nations and in all corners of the [358] earth. Nor are we deceived: giving al⯑lowance 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 foun⯑dation of morality; and accounts clearly for that remarkable conception we have, of a right and a wrong taſte in morals. It ac⯑counts not leſs clearly for the conception we have of a right and a wrong taſte in the fine arts. A perſon who rejects objects gene⯑rally agreeable, and delights in objects ge⯑nerally diſagreeable, is condemned as a mon⯑ſter: we diſapprove his taſte as bad or wrong; and we have a clear conception that he deviates from the common ſtand⯑ard. If man were ſo framed as not to have any notion of a common ſtandard, the pro⯑verb 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 con⯑formable [359] 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 o⯑pinions 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 ex⯑plain this myſtery. Every man, generally ſpeaking, taking it for granted that his opi⯑nions agree with the common ſenſe of man⯑kind, 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 ul⯑timate rule or ſtandard. Were it not for this ſtandard, of which the conviction is u⯑niverſal, I'cannot diſcover the ſlighteſt foun⯑dation for rancor or animoſity when perſons differ in eſſential points more than in points purely indifferent. With reſpect to the lat⯑ter, which are not ſuppoſed to be regulated [360] 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 unifor⯑mity 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 aver⯑ſion 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 contempla⯑tive more than the active part of mankind: his friends and companions are choſen in⯑differently 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 [361] 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 ta⯑king it for granted, that their opinions and their taſte are in all reſpects agreeable to the common ſtandard. But there may be ex⯑ceptions, and experience ſhows there are ſome. There are inſtances without num⯑ber, of perſons who cling to the groſſer a⯑muſements 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 nature^*. [362] Hence every man is eſteemed and reſpected in proportion to the dignity of his character, ſentiments, and actions. And from the in⯑ſtances now given we diſcover, that the ſenſe of the dignity of human nature is ſo vigorous, as even to prevail over ſelf-par⯑tiality, 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 diſ⯑covered. An uniformity of taſte and ſenti⯑ment 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 unifor⯑mity prevail: it is neceſſary that the ac⯑tions of all men be uniform with reſpect to right and wrong; and in order to uniformi⯑ty 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, [363] 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, ſepa⯑rated and diſtinguiſhed into different claſſes; and are thereby qualified for different a⯑muſements: 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, uni⯑formity of taſte is neceſſary for two great ends, firſt to connect individuals the more intimately in the ſocial life, and next to ad⯑vance theſe pleaſures to their higheſt per⯑fection. 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 per⯑haps diſagreeable to others, theſe capital pleaſures could not be enjoy'd in common: every man would purſue his own happi⯑neſs by flying from others; and inſtead of a natural tendency to union, remarkable in the human ſpecies, union would be our [364] averſion: man would not be a conſiſtent being: his intereſt would lead him to ſo⯑ciety, 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 ex⯑tenſive embelliſhments, which pleaſe uni⯑verſally. 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 ge⯑nius 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 [365] 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, aſcertain⯑ing 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 com⯑mon 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 ad⯑vance, 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 na⯑ture. If from opinion and practice we en⯑deavour to aſcertain the ſtandard of nature, [366] we are betray'd into endleſs perplexities. Viewing this matter hiſtorically, nothing ap⯑pears more various and more wavering than taſte in the fine arts. If we judge by num⯑bers, 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 inſtan⯑ces. For do we not find the like contradic⯑tions 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 e⯑qually lawful, to puniſh children for the crime of their parents? was not the mur⯑der of an enemy in cold blood an univerſal practice? what ſtronger inſtance can be gi⯑ven, [367] than the abominable practice of hu⯑man ſacrifices, not leſs impious than immo⯑ral? 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 ap⯑peal, 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 mo⯑rals 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 ap⯑ply'd with general ſatisfaction. The ſtand⯑ard 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 [368] 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 rela⯑tion to its more refined objects: for ſome objects make ſuch lively impreſſions of beau⯑ty, 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 a⯑muſement 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 authori⯑tative, 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 conſe⯑quently to all improvement.

[369] 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 differ⯑ent: a wary choice is neceſſary; for to collect votes indifferently, will certainly miſ⯑lead 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 great⯑er 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 up⯑on this branch of our ſubject.

[370] 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 af⯑fections, 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 un⯑der 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. Sim⯑plicity, elegance, propriety, and every thing natural, ſweet, or amiable, are deſpiſed or neglected; for theſe are not at the com⯑mand of riches, and make no figure in the public eye. In a word, nothing is reliſhed, but what ſerves to gratify pride, by an ima⯑gined 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. Benevo⯑lence [371] 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 va⯑rious, reduces within a narrow compaſs thoſe who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts. Many circumſtances are neceſ⯑ſary to form a judge of this ſort: there muſt be a good natural taſte: this taſte muſt be improved by education, reflection, and ex⯑perience: 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 re⯑finement of taſte; and the ſame tenor of life contributes the moſt to happineſs in ge⯑neral.

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, [372] with reſpect to the fine arts, there is leſs difference of taſte than is commonly imagi⯑ned. 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 miſapprehend⯑ed by any taſte; and the ſame marks are e⯑qually perceptible in works of art. A defec⯑tive 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 ne⯑ver 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 poſ⯑ſibly matters of equal rank where the pre⯑ference may be given either way with impu⯑nity. If, on any occaſion, the diſpute go deeper and perſons differ where they ought not, a depraved taſte will readily be diſco⯑vered on one or other ſide, occaſioned by [373] 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 aſcer⯑tained, 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 won⯑derful uniformity is preſerved among the emotions and feelings of different indivi⯑duals; 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 al⯑ways 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 un⯑erringly than the ſelection above inſiſted on. Every doubt with relation to this ſtandard, occaſioned by the practice of different nations [374] and different times, may be cleared by ap⯑plying 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.