end the vehemence of
criticism, and proceed with caution and timidity, before we pass
sentence upon times and writers, whose good taste has been universally
applauded. This obvious consideration has disposed them to pause; they
have endeavoured to discover the original of taste, and have found that
there is not only a stable and immutable beauty, as there is a common
understanding in all times and places, which is never obsolete; but
there is another kind of beauty, such as we are now treating, which
depends upon times and places, and is, therefore, changeable. Such is
the imperfection of every thing below, that one mode of beauty is never
found without a mixture of the other, and from these two, blended
together, results what is called the taste of an age. I am now speaking
of an age sprightly and polite, an age which leaves works for a long
time behind it, an age which is imitated or criticised, when revolutions
have thrown it out of sight.

Upon this incontestable principle, which supposes a beauty, universal
and absolute, and a beauty, likewise, relative and particular, which are
mingled through one work in very different proportions, it is easy to
give an account of the contrary judgments passed on Aristophanes. If we
consider him only with respect to the beauties, which, though they do
not please us, delighted the Athenians, we shall condemn him at once,
though even this sort of beauty may, sometimes, have its original in
universal beauty carried to extravagance. Instead of commending him for
being able to give merriment to the most refined nation of those days,
we shall proceed to place that people, with all their atticism, in the
rank of savages, whom we take upon us to degrade, because they have no
other qualifications but innocence, and plain understanding. But have
not we, likewise, amidst our more polished manners, beauties merely
fashionable, which make part of our writings as of the writings of
former times; beauties of which our self-love now makes us fond, but
which, perhaps, will disgust our grandsons? Let us be more equitable;
let us leave this relative beauty to its real value, more or less, in
every age: or, if we must pass judgment upon it, let us say that these
touches in Aristophanes, Menander, and Moliere, were well struck off in
their own time; but that, comparing them with true beauty, that part of
Aristophanes was a colouring too strong, that of Menander was too weak,
and that of Moliere was a