times been deemed superior. This subject deserves attention: how it happens that the descriptions of the poet, and the imitations of the painter, seem to communicate more delight than the things they describe or imitate.

In estimating the respective merits of nature and of art, it will readily be admitted, that the preference, in every single object, is due to the former. Take the simplest blossom that blows, observe its tints or its structure, and you will own them unrivalled. What pencil, how animated scever, can equal the glories of the sky at sun-set? or can the representations of moonlight, even by Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, be more exquisitely finished than the real scenery of a moonlight night?

If the poet and painter are capable of yielding superior pleasure in their exhibitions to what we receive from the works of their great original, it is in the manner of grouping their objects, and by their skill in arrangement. In particular, they give uncommon delight by attending not merely to unity of design, but to unity, if I may be allowed the expression, in the feelings they would excite. In the works of Nature, unless she has been ornamented and reformed by the taste of an ingenious improver, intentions of this sort are very seldom apparent. Objects that are gay, melancholy, solemn, tranquil, impetuous, and fantastic, are thrown together, without any regard to the influences of arrangement, or to the consistency of their effects on the mind. The elegant artist, on the contrary, though his works be adorned with unbounded variety, suggests only those objects that excite similar or kindred emotions, and excludes every thing of an opposite, or even of a different tendency. If the scene he describes be solemn, no lively nor fantastic image can have admission: but if, in a sprightly mood, he displays scenes of festivity,

VOL. I.

M

every pensive and gloomy thought is debarred. Thus the figures he delineates have one undivided direction; they make one great and entire impression.

To illustrate this remark, let us observe the conduct of Milton in his two celebrated poems, Allegro and Il Penseroso.

In the Allegro, meaning to excite a cheerful mood, he suggests a variety of objects; for variety, by giving considerable exercise to the mind, and by not suffering it to rest long on the same appearance, occasions brisk and exhilarating emotions. Accordingly, the poet shows us at one glance, and, as it were, with a single dash of his pen,

Russet lawns, and fallows grey,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim, with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks and rivers wide.

The objects themselves are cheerful; for, besides having brooks, meadows, and flowers, we have the whistling ploughman, the singing milk-maid, the mower whetting his scythe, and the shepherd piping beneath a shade. These images, so numerous, so various, and so cheerful, are animated by lively contrasts: we have the mountains opposed to the meadow's, Shallow brooks and rivers wide.' Add to this, that the charms of the landscape are lightened by the bloom of a smiling season; and that the light poured upon the whole is the delightful radiance of a summer *morning:

6

Right against the eastern gate,

Where the great sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames of amber light,

The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight.

Every image is lively; every thing different is with

held: all the emotions the poet excites are of one character and complexion.

Let us now observe the conduct of his Il Penseroso. This poem is, in every respect, an exact counterpart to the former: and the intention of the poet being to promote a serious and solemn mood, he removes every thing lively; Hence, vain deluding joys!' He quits society; he chooses silence, and opportunities for deep reflection; Some still removed place will fit.' The objects he presents are few. In the quotation beginning with Russet lawns,' there are eight leading images: in the following, of equal length, there is only one.

To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'n's wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

The sounds that can be, in any respect, agreeable to him, must correspond with his present humour: not the song of the milk-maid, but that of the nightingale; not the whistling ploughman, but the sound of the curfew. His images succeed one another slowly, without any rapid or abrupt transitions, without any enlivening contrasts; and he will have no other light for his landscape than that of the moon: or, if he cannot enjoy the scene without doors, he will have no other light within than that of dying embers, or of a solitary lamp at midnight. The times and the place he chooses for his retreat are perfectly suited to his employment; for he is engaged in deep meditation, and in considering

What worlds, or what vast regions hold

Th' immortal mind.

Every image is solemn; every thing different is with

held: here, as before, all the emotions the poet excites are of one character and complexion. It is owing, in a great measure, to this attention in the writer, to preserve unity and consistency of sentiment, that, notwithstanding considerable imperfections in the language and versification, Allegro and Il Penseroso have so many admirers.

The skill of the poet and painter in forming their works so as to excite kindred and united emotions deserves the greater attention, that persons of true taste are not so much affected, even in contemplating the beauties of nature, with the mere perception of external objects, as with the general influences of their union and correspondence. It is not that particular tree, or that cavern, or that cascade, which affords them all their enjoyment; they derive their chief pleasure from the united effect of the tree, the cavern, and the cascade. A person of sensibility will be less able, perhaps, than another, to give an exact account of the different parts of an exquisite landscape, of its length, width, and the number of objects it contains. Yet the general effect possesses him altogether, and produces in his mind very uncommon sensations. The impulse, however, is tender, and cannot be described. Indeed, it is the power of producing these sensations that gives the stamp of genuine excellence, in particular, to the works of the poet. Verses may be polished, and may glow with excellent imagery; but unless, like the poems of Parnel, or the lesser poems of Milton, they please by their enchanting influence on the heart, and by exciting feelings that are consistent, or of a similar tendency, they are never truly delightful. Horace, I think, expresses this sentiment, when he says, in the words of my motto,

Non satis est pulchra esse poëmata; dulcia sunto;

and an attention to this circumstance is so important, that, along with some other exertions, it enables the poet and painter, at least, to rival the works of

nature.

No. 25. TUESDAY, APRIL 20, 1779.

SIR,

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MIRROR.

SOME time ago I troubled you with a letter, giving an account of a particular sort of grievance felt by the families of men of small fortunes, from their acquaintance with those of great ones. I am emboldened, by the favourable reception of my first letter, to write you a second upon the same subject.

upon

You will remember, sir, my account of a visit which my daughters paid to a great lady in our neighbourhood, and of the effects which that visit had them. I was beginning to hope that time, and the sobriety of manners which home exhibited, would restore them to their former situation, when, unfortunately, a circumstance happened, still more fatal to me than their expedition to This, sir, was

the honour of a visit from the great lady in return. I was just returning from the superintendence of my ploughs in a field I have lately enclosed, when I was met, on the green before my door, by a gentle