of the false, or unmodified sublime, are, harsh and unjust proceedings in deterring from encroachment, and in punishing it; for murder and every kind of violence rank under this head: the fatal consequences of that tedium by which people refuse credit to good government and good conduct, wanting in an irritation of activity which alone interests superficial minds; and such are, aided by a love of

When this heroics only deigns to praise,

Sharp satire that, and that Pindaric lays?
One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg;
The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.

How hard to hit the palate of such guests!

Whatever single line of reading may best teach the critic to judge of some works, he cannot in general better prepare himself by any, than by the greatest productions of human genius, the works of the finest writers of Greece and Italy, and of England, during the last century or two. That respectable poet and Italian teacher, Signor Polidori, is doing a public service, by a plan, patronized in a manner worthy of the undertaking, to facilitate the acquaintance of our youth of both sexes with a language which may be well preferred, at the present moment to those less elegant ones which abound with all the modern notions of morality. But there are other recommendations of it. It is the boast of some languages that they have good works written in them; but it is the boast of others, that they have the best.

novelty, and a false notion of fitness, unconstitu→ tional and violent exertions for the extension of political liberty, and the circulation of dangerous opinions: a passion for war, and a seditious or a tyrannical spirit; an interestedness destitute of equity and moderation, which is troublesome and ruinous to our neighbours: a boisterous forwardness of behaviour, which deducts from the enjoyments of society, or obtains by easy importunity the reward withheld from modest merit: lastly, the false sublime, either in dramatic or lyric poetry; the unnatural situations, and almost burlesque pomp, of tragedy; and the turgid numbers which endeavour to panegyrize the subject of the ode.

BEAUTY.

This quality, as it produces the grateful effect diametrically opposite to that of sublimity, has been virtually in a great measure described by what I have observed on that head. It is properly instanced in charity, mildness, liberality, affability, and lowliness of mind; and also in such indulgences as are forbidden us only by superstitious austerity. Wealth, considered not as giving power to the owner, in which case it is allied to the sublime, but

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as exciting hopes of largesses in others, produces the effect of beauty. So likewise does poverty, with the smallness of its means, the thoughts of pleasures, nay, comforts withheld, and the diminutive scale of every thing that surrounds it, together with the particular duties, and the train of ideas concerning them, it summons into the mind. Both of them have a right to justice; but perhaps there fortunately never was a time when the latter had so many advantages. Beauty is of a false, unmodified kind, in unenlightened generosity; a pernicious spirit of interested acquiescence, which almost tempts us to honour pride; an unprincipled indifference to the consequences of luxurious passions, however we see them in our neighbours violating almost every law, human and divine, and wantonly impairing the standard of virtue in the community; the meaner arts used by demagogues to acquire popularity, and the crimes and evils produced in society by an habitual indulgence in luxurious vice. The affectation of refined sensibility, and dangerous softness of sentiment, that pervade many modern novels too, are in the bad extreme; especially when they abound with hints and allusions that awaken the passions, and turn the thoughts on

vice. False beauty too is instanced by dulness, as false sublimity, a more animated quality, is by folly; the occasional deference paid to which for destroying silence and sameness in societies, proves the respect enforced by the sublime.

FITNESS.

That this quality is distinct from beauty, I shall, after Burke's example, endeavour to shew;* for his arguments have been contested. One in particular I will mention. He asserts that "the snout of a swine," though in all respects fit, has nothing in it beautiful. Now to judge whether he reasons justly, in giving this opinion, we should consider whether he expresses his idea of the word beautitiful; and if he arrives at a conclusion respecting beauty, agreeable to his definition of it, nothing can be advanced against his logic. He observes of beauty, "it is a name I shall apply to all such qualities in things as induce in us a sense of affection and tenderness, or some other passion the most nearly resembling these.” But has any man of feeling perceived a swine's snout to produce this effect in in him? Fitness has not necessarily any force. If

* Particularly in Note III. Appendix.

in passing through a wood, during a ramble, we cut a stick to walk with, it is perfectly suited to the purpose we design it for; and yet we do not contemplate it as an object producing pleasure. But we may conclude too, not only that Burke's reasoning on, but his definition of beauty was good. It will be fair to expect that any man of taste should consider the characters which mark respectively the mathematician's and poet's thoughts, as essentially different; and that therefore beauty cannot, any more than sublimity, be the same as fitness.*

As then fitness may be allied to mediocrity, virtue the chief instance of fitness well understood, and which will be complete in any one, if he combine faith and works, being openly active in exertions

* Though, however, in the following observations, I proceed to shew virtue perfectly distinct from taste and beauty, the dull panegyrists of mere utility will not find them rejected, as unnecessary, in the consideration of it. Unless capable of estimating their due weight, not so much, I mean, in the fine arts, as in the various pursuits men of all orders are engaged in, he can never be an au thority, as a moralist, from want of sympathy. The inflexibility of his feelings never permitting them to come into contact with many parts of nature, they must continue still unperceived by him.