domestic life, or the agriculturist
in a treatise on turnips, alike aimed at the polysyllabic force, and the
cadenced period. Such was the condition of English style for more than
twenty years.

Some argue in favour of a natural style, and reiterate the opinion of many
great critics that proper ideas will be accompanied by proper words;
but though supported by the first authorities, they are not perhaps
sufficiently precise in their definition. Writers may think justly, and
yet write without any effect; while a splendid style may cover a vacuity
of thought. Does not this evident fact prove that style and thinking have
not that inseparable connexion which many great writers have pronounced?
Milton imagined that beautiful thoughts produce beautiful expression. He
says,

Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers.

Writing is justly called an art; and Rousseau says, it is not an art
easily acquired. Thinking may be the foundation of style, but it is
not the superstructure; it is the marble of the edifice, but not its
architecture. The art of presenting our thoughts to another, is often
a process of considerable time and labour; and the delicate task of
correction, in the development of ideas, is reserved only for writers of
fine taste. There are several modes of presenting an idea; vulgar readers
are only susceptible of the strong and palpable stroke: but there are many
shades of sentiment, which to seize on and to paint is the pride and the
labour of a skilful writer. A beautiful simplicity itself is a species of
refinement, and no writer more solicitously corrected his works than Hume,
who excels in this mode of composition. The philosopher highly approves of
Addison's definition of fine writing, who says, that it consists of
sentiments which are natural, without being obvious. This is a definition
of thought rather than of composition. Shenstone has hit the truth; for
fine writing he defines to be generally the effect of spontaneous thoughts
and a laboured style. Addison was not insensible to these charms, and he
felt the seductive art of Cicero when he said, that "there is as much
difference in apprehending a thought clothed in Cicero's language and that
of a common author, as in seeing an object by the light of a taper, or by
the light of the sun."

Mannerists in style, however great their powers, rather excite the
admiration than the affection of a man of taste; because their habitual
art