TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.
THE following is a conversation in its kind somewhat uncommon, and for this reason I have remembered it more minutely than I could imagine. Should the same peculiarity prove a reason to amuse your lordship, I shall think myself well rewarded in the labour of reciting. If not, you are candid enough to accept of the intention, and to think there is some merit even in the sincerity of my endeavours. To make no longer preface, the fact was as follows.
A friend, from a distant country, having by chance made me a visit, we were tempted, by the serenity of a cheerful morning in the spring, to walk from Salisbury to see lord Pembroke's at Wilton. The beauties of gardening, architecture, painting, and sculpture belonging to that seat, were the subject of great entertainment to my friend: nor was I, for my own part, less delighted than he was, to find that our walk had so well answered his expectations. We had given a large scope to our curiosity, when we left the seat, and leisurely began our return towards home.
And here, my lord, in passing over a few pleasant fields, commenced the conversation which I am to tell you, and which fell at first, as was natural, on the many curious works, which had afforded us both so elegant an amusement. This led us insensibly to discoursing upon art, for we both agreed, that whatever we had been admiring of fair and beautiful, could all be referred to no other cause. And here, I well remember, I called upon my friend to give me his opinion upon the meaning of the word "art" a word it was (I told him) in the mouth of every one; but that nevertheless, as to its precise and definite idea, this might still be a secret; that so it was, in fact, with a thousand words beside, all no less common, and equally familiar; and yet all of them equally vague and undetermined.-To this he answered, that as to the precise and definite idea of art, it was a question of some difficulty, and not so soon to be