decent regard to this, we may perceive the rise of probable time.a

Now it is evident that the above probabilities, if they belong to the fable, cannot but affect us, because they are both of them requisites which heighten the resemblance, and because resemblance is so universally an essential to imitation.

If this doctrine want confirming, we may prove it by the contrary; I mean, by a supposition of such time and such place as are both of them improbable.

For example, as to time, we may suppose a play, where lady Desmond, in the first act, shall dance at the court of Richard the Third, and be alive, in the last act, during the reign of James the First.b

As to place, we may suppose a tragedy, where Motesuma shall appear at Mexico, in the first act; shall be carried to Madrid, in the third; and be brought back again, in the fifth, to die at Mexico.

с

It is true, indeed, did such plays exist, and were their other dramatic requisites good, these improbabilities might be endured, and the plays be still admired. Fine manners and sentiment, we have already said, may support a wretched fable, as a beautiful face may make us forget a bad figure. But no authority for that reason can justify absurdities, or make them not to be so, by being fortunately associated.

Nor is it enough to say, that by this apparent austerity many a good play would have been spoilt. The answer is obvious: choose another and a fitter subject. Subjects are infinite. Consult the inexhaustible treasures of history; or, if these fail, the more inexhaustible fund of invention. Nay, more; if you are distressed, bring history and invention together, and let the richness of the last embellish the poverty of the former. Poets, though bound by the laws of common sense, are not bound to the rigours of historical fact.

It must be confessed, it is a flattering doctrine to tell a young beginner, that he has nothing more to do, than to trust his own genius, and to contemn all rules as the tyranny of pedants.

a What this implies, we are told in the following passage: "Ori μáλioта TEIрâта. υπο μίαν περιόδον ἡλίου εἶναι, ἢ μικρὸν aλλárтew: "Tragedy aims, as far as possible, to come within a single revolution of the sun, (that is, a natural day,) or but a little to exceed.” Arist. Poet. c. 5. p. 229. edit. Sylb.

b Aristotle, speaking upon the indefinite duration of the epopee, which is sometimes extended to years, adds, Kairo Tо TрWтоν Suoíws év Taîs Tрaywolais Toûтo Tolovv: "at first they did the same in tragedies;" that is, their duration, like that of the epopee, was alike undefined, till a better

taste made them more correct. Aristot. Poet. c. 5. p. 229. edit. Sylb.

See p. 447, in the note.

d Aristotle, speaking about introducing any thing irrational into the drama, adds, Ὥστε τὸ λέγειν, ὅτι ἀνῄρητο ἂν ὁ Μῦθος, γελοῖον ἐξ ἀρχῆς γὰρ οὐ δεῖ συνίστασθαι TOLOUTOUS: "That to say (by this restriction) the fable would have been destroyed, is ridiculous; for they ought not, from the very beginning, to form fables upon such a plan." Arist. Poet. c. 24. p. 253. edit. Sylb.

e

Sup. p. 447.

The painful toils of accuracy by this expedient are eluded, for geniuses (like Milton's harpsf) are supposed to be ever tuned.

But the misfortune is, that genius is something rare, nor can he, who possesses it, even then, by neglecting rules, produce what is accurate. Those, on the contrary, who, though they want genius, think rules worthy their attention, if they cannot become good authors, may still make tolerable critics; may be able to shew the difference between the creeping and the simple; the pert and the pleasing; the turgid and the sublime; in short, to sharpen, like the whetstone, that genius in others, which nature in her frugality has not given to themselves.

Indeed, I have never known, during a life of many years, and some small attention paid to letters and literary men, that genius in any art had been ever cramped by rules. On the contrary, I have seen great geniuses miserably err by transgressing them, and, like vigorous travellers who lose their way, only wander the wider on account of their own strength.

And yet it is somewhat singular in literary compositions, and perhaps more so in poetry than elsewhere, that many things have been done in the best and purest taste, long before rules were established, and systematized in form. This we are certain was true with respect to Homer, Sophocles, Euripides, and other Greeks. In modern times it appears as true of our admired Shakspeare; for who can believe that Shakspeare studied rules, or was ever versed in critical systems?

A specious objection then occurs. "If these great writers were so excellent before rules were established, or, at least, were known to them, what had they to direct their genius, when rules (to them at least) did not exist?"

To this question it is hoped the answer will not be deemed too hardy, should we assert, that there never was a time when rules did not exist; that they always made a part of that immutable truth, the natural object of every penetrating genius; and that, if at that early Greek period, systems of rules were not established, those great and sublime authors were a rule to themselves. They may be said indeed to have excelled, not by art, but by nature; yet by a nature which gave birth to the perfection of art.

The case is nearly the same with respect to our Shakspeare. There is hardly any thing we applaud, among his innumerable beauties, which will not be found strictly conformable to the rules of sound and ancient criticism.

That this is true with respect to his characters and his sentiment, is evident hence, that, in explaining these rules, we have so often recurred to him for illustrations.g

Par. Lost, iii. 365, 366.

* See before, of these Inquiries, p. 403. 415. 418. 430. 433, 434. 439. 442.

Besides quotations already alleged, we subjoin the following as to character.

When Falstaff and his suite are so ignominiously routed, and the scuffle is by Falstaff so humourously exaggerated; what can be more natural than such a narrative to such a character, distinguished for his humour, and withal for his want of veracity and courage?h

The sagacity of common poets might not perhaps have suggested so good a narrative, but it certainly would have suggested something of the kind, and it is in this view the essence of dramatic character, which is, when we conjecture what any one will do or say, from what he has done or said already.

If we pass from characters (that is to say, manners) to sentiment, we have already given instances, and yet we shall still give another.

When Rosencrantz and Guilderstern wait upon Hamlet, he offers them a recorder, or pipe, and desires them to play; they reply, they cannot :-he repeats his request; they answer, they have never learned:-he assures them nothing was so easy; they still decline. It is then he tells them, with disdain, "There is much music in this little organ, and yet you cannot make it speak; Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?' This I call an elegant sample of sentiment, taken under its comprehensive sense. But we stop not here; we consider it as a complete instance of Socratic reasoning, though it is probable the author knew nothing, how Socrates used to argue.

m

To explain: Xenophon makes Socrates reason as follows with an ambitious youth, by name Euthydemus.

"It is strange, (says he,) that those who desire to play upon the harp, or upon the flute, or to ride the managed horse, should not think themselves worth notice, without having practised under the best masters: while there are those who aspire to the governing of a state, and can think themselves completely qualified, though it be without preparation or labour.""

Aristotle's illustration is similar in his reasoning against men chosen by lot for magistrates. "It is (says he) as if wrestlers were to be appointed by lot, and not those that are able to wrestle: or, as if from among sailors we were to choose a pilot by lot, and that the man so elected were to navigate, and not the man who knew the business."

Nothing can be more ingenious than this mode of reasoning. The premises are obvious and undeniable; the conclusion cogent, and yet unexpected. It is a species of that argumentation, called in dialectic éπaywyn, or "induction." ἐπαγωγὴ,

Aristotle, in his Rhetoric, (as above quoted,) calls such reasonings тà ZwκρаTIKà, "the Socratics;" in the beginning of his Poetics he calls them the Zwxpaтikoì Xóyou, the "Socratic discourses;" and Horace, in his Art of Poetry, calls them the "Socraticæ chartæ."P

If truth be always the same, no wonder geniuses should coincide, and that, too, in philosophy as well as in criticism.

We venture to add, returning to rules, that if there be any things in Shakspeare objectionable, (and who is hardy enough to deny it?) the very objections, as well as the beauties, are to be tried by the same rules; as the same plummet alike shews, both what is out of the perpendicular, and in it; the same ruler alike proves, both what is crooked and what is straight.

We cannot admit that geniuses, though prior to systems, were prior also to rules, because rules from the beginning existed in their own minds, and were a part of that immutable truth, which is eternal and every where. Aristotle, we know, did not form Homer, Sophocles, and Euripides; it was Homer, Sophocles, and Euripides, that formed Aristotle.

And this, surely, should teach us to pay attention to rules, inasmuch as they and genius are so reciprocally connected, that it is genius which discovers rules, and then rules which govern genius.

It is by this amicable concurrence, and by this alone, that every work of art justly merits admiration, and is rendered as highly perfect, as by human power it can be made.'

But we have now (if such language may be allowed) travelled over a vast and mighty plain; or, (as Virgil better expresses it,) Immensum spatio confecimus æquor.

It is not however improbable, that some intrepid spirit may demand again, What avail these subtleties? Without so much trouble, I can be full enough pleased. I know what I like. We answer, And so does the carrion-crow, that feeds upon a carcase. The difficulty lies not in knowing what we like; but in knowing how to like, and what is worth liking. Until these

P See a most admirable instance of this induction, quoted by Cicero from the Socratic Æschines. Cic. de Invent. lib. i. s. 51.

The author thinks it superfluous to panegyrize truth; yet in favour of sound and rational rules, (which must be founded in truth, or they are good for nothing,) he ventures to quote the Stagirite himself: ̓Αληθῆ ἀληθεῖ οὐκ ἐνδέχεται ἐναντίαν εἶναι οὔτε δόξαν, οὔτ ̓ ἀντίφασιν : “ It is not pos sible for a true opinion, or a true contradictory proposition, to be contrary to another true one." Aristot. de Interpret. c. 19. p. 78. edit. Sylb.

This may be thus illustrated: If it be

ends are obtained, we may admire Durfey before Milton; a smoking boor of Hemskirk, before an apostle of Raphael.

Now as to the knowing how to like, and then what is worth liking; the first of these, being the object of critical disquisition, has been attempted to be shewn through the course of these inquiries.

As to the second, what is worth our liking, this is best known by studying the best authors, beginning from the Greeks, then passing to the Latins; nor on any account excluding those who have excelled among the moderns.

And here, if, while we peruse some author of high rank, we perceive we do not instantly relish him, let us not be disheartened; let us even feign a relish, till we find a relish come. A morsel perhaps pleases us; let us cherish it: another morsel strikes us ; let us cherish this also. Let us thus proceed, and steadily persevere, till we find we can relish, not morsels, but wholes; and feel, that what began in fiction, terminates in reality. The film being in this manner removed, we shall discover beauties which we never imagined; and contemn for puerilities, what we once foolishly admired.

One thing, however, in this process is indispensably required: we are on no account to expect that fine things should descend to us; our taste, if possible, must be made ascend to them.

This is the labour, this the work; there is pleasure in the success, and praise even in the attempt.

This speculation applies not to literature only: it applies to music, to painting, and, as they are all congenial, to all the liberal arts. We should in each of them endeavour to investigate what is best, and there, (if I may so express myself,) there to fix our abode.

By only seeking and perusing what is truly excellent, and by contemplating always this, and this alone, the mind insensibly becomes accustomed to it, and finds that in this alone it can acquiesce with content. It happens, indeed, here, as in a subject far more important, I mean in a moral and a virtuous conduct. If we choose the best life, use will make it pleasant.*

And thus having gone through the sketch we promised, (for our concise manner cannot be called any thing more,) we here finish the second part of these Inquiries, and, according to our original plan, proceed to the third part, the taste and literature of the middle

age.

· Ἑλοῦ βίον ἄριστον, ἡδὺν δὲ αὐτὸν ἡ συνήθεια ποιήσει. Plut. Mor. P. 602. ed. Wolfii.