at once with the delicacy of the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. The most complete assemblage of beautiful objects, which can be found, is presented by a rich natural landscape, where there is a sufficient variety of objects; fields in verdure, scattered trees and flowers, running water, and animals grazing. If to these be added some of the productions of art, suitable to such a scene; as, a bridge with arches over a river, smoke rising from cottages in the midst of trees, and a distant view of a fine building, seen by the rising sun; we then enjoy in the highest perfection that gay, cheerful, and placid sensation, which characterizes beauty.

The beauty of the human countenance is more complex than any we have yet examined. It comprehends the beauty of colour, arising from the delicate shades of the complexion; and the beauty of figure, arising from the lines, which constitute different features of the face. But the principal beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious expression, which it conveys, of the qualities of the mind; of good sense, of good humour; of candour, benevolence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositions. It may be observed, that there are certain qualities of the mind, which, whether expressed in the countenance, or by words, or by actions, always raise in us a feeling similar to that of beauty. There are two great classes of moral qualities; one is of the high and the great virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and

is founded on dangers and sufferings; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, and contempt of death. These produce in the spectator an emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The other class is chiefly of the social virtues ; and such,as are of a softer and gentler kind; as, compassion, mildness, and generosity. These excite in the beholder à sensation of pleasure, so nearly allied to that excited by beautiful external objects, that, though of a more exalted nature, it may with propriety be classed under the same head.

Beauty of writing in its more definite sense characterizes a particular manner; signifying a certain grace and amenity in the turn either of style or sentiment, by which some authors are particularly distinguished. In this sense it denotes a manner neither remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly sparkling; but such, as excites in the reader an emotion of the placid kind, resembling that, which is raised by contemplation of beautiful objects in nature; which peither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it to excess but spreads over the imagination a pleasing serenity. Addison is a writer of this character, and one of the most proper examples of it. Fenelon, the author of Telemachus, is another example. Virgil, also, though very capable of rising occasionally into the sublime, yet generally is distinguished by the character of beau ty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful, than Demosthenes, whose genius led him wholly toward vehemence and strength.

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So much it is necessary to have said upon subject of beauty; since next to sublimity it is the most copious source of the pleasures of taste. But objects delight the imagination not only by appearing under the forms of sublime or beautiful; they likewise derive their power of giving it pleasure from several other principles.

Novelty, for example, has been mentioned by Addison, and by every writer on this subject. An object, which has no other merit, than that of being new, by this quality alone raises in the mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence that passion of curiosity, which prevails so generally in mankind. Objects and ideas which have been long familiar, make too faint an impression, to give an agreeable exercise to our faculties. New and strange objects rouse the inind from its dormant state, by giving it a sudden and pleasing impulse. Hence, in a great measure, the entertainment, we receive from fiction and romance. emotion, raised by novelty, is of a more lively and awakening nature, than that produced by beauty; but much shorter in its duration. For, if the object have in itself no charms to hold our attention, the gloss, spread over it by novelty, soon wears off.

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Imitation is another source of pleasure to taste. This gives rise to what Addison terms the secondary pleasures of imagination, which form a very extensive class. For all imitation affords some pleasure to the mind; not only the imitation of beautiful or sublime objects, by

recalling the original ideas of beauty or grandeur, which such objects, themselves exhited; but even objects, which have neither beauty,nor grandeur; nay, some, which are terrible or deformed, give us pleasure, in a secondary or represented view.

The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste. There is no delightful sensation, we receive either from beauty or sublimity, which is not capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the charm of poetical numbers; and even of the concealed and looser measures of prose. Wit, humor, and ridicule, open [ikewise a variety of pleasures to taste, altogether different from any, that have yet been considered.

At present it is not necessary to pursue any farther the subject of the pleasures of taste; we have opened some of the general principles; it is time now to apply them to our chief subject. If it be asked, to what class of those pleasures of taste, which have been enumerated, that pleasure is to be referred, which we receive from poetry, eloquence, or fine writing? The answer is, not to any one, but to them all. This peculiar advantage writing and discourse possess; they encompass a large and fruitful field on all sides, and have power to exhibit in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, but almost the whole of those, which give pleasure to taste and imagination; whether that pleasure arise from sublimity, from beauty in its various forms, from design and art, from moral sentiment, from novelty, from harmony,

from wit, humour, or ridicule. To whichsoever of these a person's taste is directed, from some writer or other he has it always in his power to receive the gratification of it.

It has been usual among critical writers to treat of discourse, as the chief of all the imitative arts. They compare it with painting and with sculpture, and in many respects prefer it justly before them. But we must distinguish between imitation and description. Words have no natural resemblance of the ideas or objects which they signify; but a statue or picture has a natural likeness of the original.

As far, however, as a poet or historian introduces into this work persons really speaking, and by words, which he puts into their mouths, represents the conversation, which they might be supposed to hold; so far his art may be called imitative; and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But in narrative or descriptive works it cannot with propriety be so called. Who, for example would call Virgil's description of a tempest in the first Eneid an imitation of a storm? If we heard of the imitation of a battle, we might naturally think of some mock fight, or representation of a battle on the stage; but should never imagine it meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Illiad. It must be allowed at the same time, that imitation and description agree in their principal effect, that of recalling by external signs the ideas of things, which we do not see. But, though in this they coincide, yet it should be remembered, that the terms themselves are