hich, though in reality always the same, is so
dependant on custom, as to change its appearance with time, and with
place; but the art of a comick writer is, to lay hold of that species of
the ridiculous which will catch the spectators of the present hour,
without regard to futurity. But, though comedy has attained its end, and
diverted the pit, for which it was written; if it goes down to
posterity, it is a new world, where it is no longer known; it becomes
there quite a foreigner, because there are no longer the same originals,
nor the same species of the ridiculous, nor the same spectators, but a
set of merciless readers, who complain that they are tired with it,
though it once filled Athens, Rome, or Paris, with merriment. This
position is general, and comprises all poets and all ages. To say all,
at once, comedy is the slave of its subject, and of the reigning taste;
tragedy is not subject to the same degree of slavery, because the ends
of the two species of poetry are different. For this reason, if we
suppose that in all ages there are criticks, who measure every thing by
the same rule, it will follow, that if the comedy of Aristophanes be
become obsolete, that of Menander, likewise, after having delighted
Athens, and revived again at Rome, at last suffered by the force of
time. The muse of Moliere has almost made both of them forgotten, and
would still be walking the stage, if the desire of novelty did not in
time make us weary of that which we have too frequently admired.

Those, who have endeavoured to render their judgment independent upon
manners and customs, and of such men there have been always some, have
not judged so severely either of times, or of writers; they have
discovered that a certain resemblance runs through all polished ages,
which are alike in essential things, and differ only in external
manners, which, if we except religion, are things of indifference; that,
wherever there is genius, politeness, liberty, or plenty, there prevails
an exact and delicate taste, which, however hard to be expressed, is
felt by those that were born to feel it; that Athens, the inventress of
all the arts, the mother first of the Roman, and then of general taste,
did not consist of stupid savages; that the Athenian and Augustan ages
having always been considered as times that enjoyed a particular
privilege of excellence, though we may distinguish the good authors from
the bad, as in our own days, yet we ought to susp