fear? If so, it bears hard against the foregoing remark. But let us reflect attentively. Fear is not the present passion in the mind of Macbeth: a transient desire of another kind for a moment engages him, namely, the desire of giving Lady Macbeth a reason for not returning into the king's apartment. The man who tells you, "I am exceedingly angry, or exceedingly in love, and therefore I act in such or such a manner," does not in these words speak the language either of love or of anger, but of his desire of giving you a reason, or of his making an apology for his behaviour. You believe him because you trust in his veracity, and because you see corresponding evidence in his deportment; not that the words, " I am angry, or I am in love," independent of tones of voice, looks, or gestures, express either love or anger.

It may also be objected, that "the excellence of dramatic writing consists in its imitating with truth and propriety the manners and passions of mankind. If, therefore, a dramatic writer, capable of describing and of narrating with elegance and propriety,

is nevertheless incapable of expressing the language and sentiments of passion, he fails in the sole end and purpose of his art, and of consequence can afford no pleasure. Contrary to this, many tragedies are seen and read with uncommon applause, and excite even the liveliest feelings, which, if tried by the above-mentioned standard, would be reckoned defective." To remove this objection, it may be observed, that those sympathetic emotions that interest us in the happiness and misery of others, and yield us the highest pleasure at theatrical entertainments, are, by the wise and beneficial institutions of nature, exceedingly apt to be excited; so apt, that if any concomitant circumstances, though of a different kind, whether melancholy or joyful, draw the mind from its usual state of indifference, and dispose it to a state of extreme sensibility, the slightest incident or expression will call forth our sympathy. Now, in dramatic performances, many things concur to throw the mind into a susceptible and tender mood, and chiefly, elegance of expression, harmony of composition, and delightful

imagery. These working upon the mind, and being all united to impress us with the notion of certain events or circumstances very interesting to persons of certain qualities and dispositions, our imaginations are immediately stimulated and in action; we figure to ourselves the characters which the poet intends to exhibit; we take part in their interests, and enter into their passions as warmly as if they were naturally expressed. Thus it appears, that it is often with beings of our own formation that we lament or rejoice, imagining them to be the workmanship of another. And indeed this delusion will ever prevail with people of warm imaginations, if what the poet invents be tolerable, or not worse than insipid. We may also observe, that we are much more subject to delusions of this kind, when dramatic performances are exhibited on the stage, and have their effect supported by the scenery, by the dresses of the players, and by their action.

If this remark, that our own imaginations contribute highly to the pleasure we receive from works of invention, be well founded,

it will explain the reason why men of accurate discernment, and of understandings sufficiently polished, often differ widely from one another, and, at times, widely from themselves, in their opinions concerning works of taste. The imagination is a faculty of a nature so versatile and so variable, that at one time it is animated and fruitful of images; at other times, it is cold, barren, and languishing. At a fruitful moment, it will embellish the dullest performance with the most brilliant ornaments; it will impose them on you as genuine, and so entice you to bestow applause. At other times, it will be niggardly, even of the assistance that is necessary. Hence, too, the reason why critics of active imaginations are generally disposed to favour. Read a performance, even of slight and superficial merit, to a person of lively fancy, and he will probably applaud. Some circumstances strike him: they assemble a group of images in his own mind; they please him, and he perceives not, in the ardour of the operation, that the picture is his own, and not that of the writer. He examines it coolly: the phantom

that pleased him vanishes: he is ashamed of the delight it yielded him, and of the praises he so freely bestowed. It follows also, on the same principle, that men of lively imaginations receive more exquisite pleasure from works of fancy, than those whose inventive faculties are not so vigorous. Upon the whole, it is manifest, that a great portion of the delight we receive from poetry and fine writing, depends no less on the state of our own minds, than on the intrinsic excellence of the performance. It is also obvious, that, though the description of a passion or affection may give us pleasure, whether it be described by the agent or the spectator, yet, to those who would apply the inventions of the poet to the uses of philosophical investigation, it is far from being of equal utility with a passion exactly imitated. The talent of imitation is very different from that of description, and far superior *.

No writer has hitherto appeared who

The author of the Elements of Criticism is, if I mistake not, the first writer who has taken any notice of this important distinction between the imitation and description of passion.