kind for a moment engages him, namely, the defire of giving Lady Macbeth a reason for not returning into the King's apartment. The man who tells "I am

you,

exceedingly angry, or exceedingly in love, and therefore I act in fuch or fuch a manner," does not in these words speak the language either of love or of anger, but of his defire 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 geftures, exprefs either love or anger.

An objection of the following kind may alfo be advanced: "The excellence of dramatic writing confifts in its imitating with truth and propriety the manners and paffions of mankind: If, therefore, a dramatic

dramatic writer, capable of defcribing and of narrating with elegance and propriety, is nevertheless incapable of expreffing the language and fentiments of paffion, he fails in the fole end and purpose of his art, and of confequence can afford no pleasure. Contrary to this, many tragedies are seen and read with uncommon applause, and excite even the livelieft feelings; but which, if they were tried by the abovementioned ftandard, would be reckoned defective." To remove this objection, it may be observed, that those sympathetic emotions that intereft us in the happiness and mifery of others, and yield us the highest pleasure at theatrical entertainments, are, by the wife and beneficial inftitutions of nature, exceedingly apt to be excited: So apt, that if any concomitant circumftances, though of a different kind, whether melancholy or joyful, draw the mind from its usual state of in- difference, and dispose it to a state of ex

treme fenfibility; the flightest incident or expreffion will call forth our sympathy. Now, in dramatic performances, there are many things to put the mind into a fufceptible and tender mood, and chiefly, elegance of expreffion, harmony of compo fition, and delightful imagery. Thefe working upon the mind, and being all con→ cerned to imprefs us with the notion of certain events or circumftances very interefting to perfons of certain qualities and difpofitions, our imaginations are immediately ftimulated and in action; we figure to ourselves the characters which the poet intends to exhibit; we take part in their interefts, and enter into their paffions as warmly as if they were naturally expreffed. Thus it appears, that it is often with beings of our own formation that we lament or rejoice, imagining them to be the workmanfhip of another. And indeed this delufion will ever prevail with people of warm imaginations, if what the poet in

vents

vents be tolerable, or not worse than infipid. We may also observe, that we are much more fubject to delufions of this kind when dramatic performances are exhibited on the stage, and have their effect fupported by the fcenery, by the dreffes 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 difcernment, and of underftandings fufficiently polifhed, often differ widely from one another, and, at times, widely from themfelves, in their opinions concerning works of tafte. The imagination is a faculty of a nature fo verfatile and fo 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 embellifh the dulleft performance with the most brilliant ornaments; it will im

pose them on you as genuine, and fo entice you to bestow applaufe. At other times, it will be niggardly, even of the affiftance that is neceffary. Hence, too, the reason why critics of active imaginations are generally difpofed to favour. Read a performance, even of flight and fuperficial merit, to a perfon of a lively. fancy, and he will probably applaud. Some ideas ftrike him: They gather 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 pleafed him vanifhes: He is afhamed of the delight it yielded him, and of the praises he fo freely beftowed. It follows alfo, on the fame principle, that men of lively imaginations receive more exquifite pleasure from works of fancy, than those whofe inventive faculties are not fo vigorous. Upon the whole, it is manifeft,

that