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sentiments which lead to imitation. sides, as this is, in a great degree, an acquired excellence, it is proper that the reader should be prompted to use every means of improving it in himself. With this view, these attainments should appear, in a great measure, to arise rather from well directed cultivation, than from the mere strength of natural parts. The same observations will apply, more or less, to every other kind of mental accomplishment.

There remain only the goods of fortune to be considered. And though these are not to be treated with any undue contempt, yet, certainly, both his dignity and his happiness, ought to be represented as alike independent of them. However well qualified to discharge, with ability, the duties of the highest and most important situations, he should also be able to enjoy himself, and to act with respectability and usefulness, in a more moderate and humble sphere. He ought also to appear supporting with fortitude, and rising superior to, the greatest adversity. It will be proper, therefore, that,

in the course of the work, he should expe rience various vicissitudes of fortune, which may afford an opportunity of practising those virtues that arise naturally out of every situation.

Who is to appear as the relator of the story? the leading character, or the author himself? For the purpose which we have at present in view, I am rather disposed to prefer the former. A more intimate connection is thus formed between him and the reader; the latter imbibes not only a disposition to imitate the actions described, but the very spirit from which they proceed. There seems a danger that the other mode may produce an emulation tinctured with vanity; rather a wish to have the same things told of us, than a disposition to do them. Perhaps, also, there is thus less danger of a perfect character becoming uninteresting. When a person is introduced to tell his own story, we naturally find it agreeable when his actions are deserving of approbation, and painful when it is otherwise.

This mode of narration may be performed,

either by letters, or by an uniform unbroken narrative. Where it is to be short, the latter seems advisable, as more distinct and concise, and keeping the attention fixed upon one object. In a work of great extent, however, the uniformity of such a plan would prove somewhat tiresome; and letters, admitting of greater variety, are rather to be preferred.

Is the object in question to be best attained by poetical, or by prose, fictions? In my opinion, by the latter. Poetry is certainly an elegant and charming amusement. By inspiring a taste for the beauties of nature, by giving dignity to the character, and raising its votary above mean and degrading pleasures, it may even become subservient to important purposes of improvement. But, for influencing the active principles, for guiding our conduct in the ordinary affairs of life, it does not seem so very well fitted. It transports the reader into a higher world, into scenes which cannot, indeed, be viewed without admiration, but which bear little resemblance to those in which he is destined

to act. He will be apt to regard them as things belonging to another world, and with which he has no practical concern. It might be otherwise in the early ages of society, during that warlike and adventurous period, when fables the most extravagant were easily credited, and when the common events of life were susceptible of poetical embellishment. To describe these events now in the same manner would, I suspect, have rather a burlesque than a pleasing effect.

In the case of political and historical fictions, it may be inquired, whether they ought to be altogether imaginary, or founded in part upon real events. The last method may certainly assist that impression of reality, which is so necessary in order to give interest to the narrative. Yet there are circumstances, which may, perhaps, be found to overbalance this advantage. It must prove a severe restraint on the fancy of the writer, who will often find it no easy task to prevent his story from clashing with the history or tradition on which it is founded. The engrafted fiction also tends to give false

impressions in regard to the history. Sometimes even, as will appear in the sequel, it throws over it an obscurity which is never removed. It seems, therefore, to be for the mutual advantage both of truth and fiction, that they should be kept altogether distinct; or, if a foundation must be laid in some real events, that they should be as few, and as remote, as possible, in point of time and place.

Is it proper, that narratives formed with this design should be crowded with surprising and improbable incidents. This has been long assumed by the writers of fiction as an indisputable privilege. Events, that in real life appear altogether incredible, are there quite in the common order of things. To conduct their hero through all the mazes of adventure; to involve him in difficulties apparently inextricable; to keep the reader perpetually on the rack of suspense and anxiety, are, in general, the objects chiefly aimed at by the authors of such performances. The more improbable an incident is, the more unlike common life, the better is it