be found to hold, very generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful as in a waving direction; and motion upwards is also, generally, more agreeable than motion downwards. The easy curling motion of flame and smoke, is an object singularly agreeable. Mr. Hogarth observes, very ingeniously, that all the common and necessary motions for the business of life, are performed by men in straight or plain lines; but that all the graceful and ornamental movements are made in waving lines—an observation worthy of the attention of those who study the grace of gesture and

action.

Though color, figure, and motion, are separate principles of beauty; yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, and render the beauty both greater and more complex. Thus, in flowers, trees, and animals, we are entertained, at once, with the delicacy of the color, with the gracefulness of the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects that can any where 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 joined some of the productions of art, which suit such a scene; as a bridge with arches over a river, smoke rising from cottages in the midst of trees, and the 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 that we have yet considered. It includes the beauty of color, arising from the delicate shades of the complexion; and the beauty of figure, arising from the lines which form the different features of the face. But the chief beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious expression, which it conveys, of the qualities of the mind; of good sense, or good humor; of sprightliness, candor, benevo

What has Mr. Hogarth very ingeniously observed; and of this observation what is remarked? When color, figure, and motion, all meet in the same object, what is their effect? Thus, in flowers, trees, and animals, with what are we entertained at the same time? By what is the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects that can any where be found, presented; and how may its beauty be rendered perfect? Of the beauty of the human countenance what is remarked; and what does it include ? But upon what does its chief beauty depend?

lence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositions. How it comes to pass that a certain conformation of features, is connected in our idea with certain moral qualities, belongs not to us now to inquire; but the fact is certain, that what gives the human countenance its most distinguishing beauty, is what is called its expression; or an image, which it is conceived to show of internal moral dispositions.

It may also 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 grave virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and turn upon dangers and sufferings; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, and contempt of death. These excite, 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, friendship, and generosity. These excite, in the beholder, a sensation of pleasure, so nearly allied to that excited by beautiful external objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may, without impropriety, be classed under the same head.

Having mentioned so many different species of beauty, it now only remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to writing or discourse. In its proper and appropriate sense, beauty of writing characterizes a particular manner, and signifies a certain grace and amenity in the turn either of style or sentiment, for which some authors have been peculiarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a manner neither remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly sparkling; but such as raises in the reader an emotion of the gentle, placid kind, similar to that which is raised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in nature; which neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of this character; and is one of the most proper examples that

What belongs not to us now to inquire; but what is certain? Of certain qualities of the mind, what may also be observed? What are the two great classes of moral qualities; and what emotion do they respectively excite? Having mentioned so many species of beauty, what only remains to be noticed? In its proper and appropriate sense, what does beauty of writing signify; and in this sense what manner does it denote? Who are writers of this character; and what is remarked of them?

can be given of it. Fenelon, the author of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be given as another example. Virgil, too, though very capable of rising on occasions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished by the character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than Demosthenes, whose genius led him wholly towards vehemence and strength.

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

Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, and by every other writer on this subject. An object which has no merit to recommend it, except its being uncommon or new, by means of this quality alone, produces in the mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence, that passion of curiosity which prevails so generally among 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 mind from its dormant state, by giving it a sudden and pleasing impulse. Hence, in a great measure, the entertainment afforded us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by novelty is of a more lively and pungent nature, than that produced by beauty; but much shorter in its continuance. For, if the object has in itself no charms to hold our attention, the shining gloss thrown upon it by novelty soon wears off.

Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasure to taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the secondary pleasures of imagination; which form, doubtless, a very extensive class. For all imitation conveys some pleasure to the mind; not only the imitation of beautiful or

Why is it necessary to have said thus much upon beauty; but what follows? What has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, as affording pleasure to the imagination? An object of what sort will produce an agreeable emotion in the mind; and hence what passion prevails? Of objects and ideas that have been long familiar, what is remarked; what effect do new and strange objects produce; and hence what follows? Of the emotion raised by novelty, what is observed; and why? Besides novelty, what is another source of pleasure to taste This gives rise to what; and why

do they form a very extensive class.

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

The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste. There is no agreeable sensation we receive either from beauty or sublimity, but what is capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the

charm of poetical numbers, and even the more concealed and looser measure of prose. Wit, humor, and ridicule, likewise open a variety of pleasures to taste, quite distinct from any that has yet been considered.

At present it is not necessary to pursue the subject of the pleasures of taste any farther. We have opened some of the general principles; it is time now to apply them to our chief subject. If the question 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 singular advantage writing and discourse possess, that they encompass so large and fruitful a 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 moral sentiments, from novelty, from harmony, or from wit, humor, and ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent of the person's taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in his power to receive the gratifi

cation 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 to them. But it must be observed, that

How does it appear that the pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste; and hence what follows? Of wit, humor, and ridicule, what is remarked? As we have now opened some of the principles of the pleasures of taste, what is it time to do? If the question be asked to what class of those pleasures of taste which we have been enumerating is to be referred, the pleasure which we receive from poetry, &c., what answer is to be given? What singular advantage do writing and discourse possess? How has it been usual among critical writers to treat of discourse; and to what do they compare it? But what must be observed, and how is this illustrated?

imitation and description differ considerably in their nature from each other. Words have no natural resemblance to the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify; 'but a statue or a picture has a natural likeness to the original. Hence, to describe a thing is to tell what it is; but to imitate it, is to show what it is.

As far, however, as the poet introduces into his work persons really speaking, and by the words which he puts into their mouths, represents the conversation which they might be supposed to hold; so far his art may more accurately be called imitative; and this is the case in all dramatic compositions. But in narrative or descriptive works, it can, with no propriety, be called so. Who, for instance, would call Virgil's description of a tempest, in the first niad, an imitation of a storm! Should we hear of the imitation of a battle, we would naturally think of some mock fight, or representation of a battle on the stage, but would never apprehend that it meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Iliad. It must be admitted, at the same time, that imitation and description agree in their principal effect, of recalling, by external signs, the ideas of things which we do not see. But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be forgotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous--that they impart different means for effecting the same end; and, of course, make different impressions on the mind.

Hence, what is the difference between describing a thing, and telling what it is? How far may the poet's art be said to be imitative; and in what compositions is this the case? How is the remark illustrated, that it is not so in descriptive works; but what must, at the same time, be admitted? But though in this they coincide, yet what should not be forgotten?