objects of our knowledge, and they give joy or grief, according as they are pleasing or painful to the existence of those who possess them. We cannot help being filled with inward horror when we see persons with troublesome excrescences, broken limbs, or of a cadaverous colour: on the contrary, a placid temperature of the blood is shewn by an agreeable colour of the complexion; and the organs, which without having any thing superfluous, possess every thing requisite for the complete execution of their offices, are characterized by the consonant turn of the features. Beauty changes according to the va rious climates in which nature has placed us. There is a beauty which shines in the Farnesian Hercules, as well as in the Venus of Medicis: it is even conspicuous in the stern brow of Michel Angelo's Moses: so that for every age and every sex, there is a particular species of ornament assigned to every thing decided beautiful. Something than beauty dearer should they look, No climates are productive of regular beauties. There the notion of what is beautiful is not placed in what is really so, but in what has the least deformity. The imaginary beauties supply us with an amusement still more pleasing than those of outward figure; and unless we are touched with envy or hatred, we cannot without delight behold a lively penetration in another, which at once distinguishes truth from falsehood; and we are delighted with a pleasing whim which amuses us with interesting representations. A dignified air strikes us more than the beauty of the body, because it is a transparent veil through which the mind may be perceived. This dignity consists in the proper method of gesture, attitude, and motion, and the true expression of our thoughts, and in adjusting all of them to the end designed. If the performance of our plan is not too much toiled, but appears to be done in an easy natural manner, this makes the whole far more pleasing. The charms of a lively genius, however dazzling they may appear, are completely darkened by those of the soul. The most refined judgment, and the most sprightly sallies of wit have nothing to be compared with the brilliancy of those charms which are so eminent in a noble disinterested soul. Our theatres will always echo with applause in favour of the greatness of the high priest, who had the fear of God alone; and mankind in general will commend the benevolence of Titus, who regretted the loss of all that time which he had not employed in making his fellowcreatures happy. These genuine charms of the soul sometimes inspire us with affection for the dead. How is it that Plutarch, in his comparisons, has a greater ascendancy over us than more celebrated historians, so as to lead us to read him repeatedly, and still fancy it the first time? It is because he there gives a kind of history of exalted sentiments. There have been men, and those distinguished too for their understanding of the human heart, who seem to have thought that the gratification we take in the beauty of the soul, is only a private joy arising from self-love, when we see such qualities in another as are favourable to our own peculiar advantages. But in answer, I venture to assert, that a traitor appears |