not eyes to discover. Many of our sons of Momus, who dignify themselves by the name of critics, are the genuine descendants of these two illustrious ancestors. They are often led into those numerous absurdities, in which they daily instruct the people, by not considering, that, 1st. There is sometimes a greater judgment shown in deviating from the rules of art than in adhering to them; and, 2dly, That there is more beauty in the works of a great genius who is ignorant of all the rules of art, than in the works of a little genius who not only knows but scrupulously observes them.

First, We may often take notice of men who are perfectly acquainted with all the rules of good-writing, and notwithstanding choose to depart from them on extraordinary occasions. I could give instances out of all the tragic writers of antiquity who have shown their judgment in this particular, and purposely receded from an established rule of the drama, when it has made way for a much higher beauty than the observation of such a rule would have been. Those who have surveyed the noblest pieces of architecture and statuary, both ancient and modern, know very well that there are frequent deviations from art in the works of the greater masters, which have produced a much nobler effect than a more accurate and exact way of proceeding could have done. This often arises from what the Italians call the gusto grande in these arts, which is what we call the sublime in writing.

In the next place, our critics do not seem sensible that there is more beauty in the works of a great genius who is ignorant of the rules of art, than in those of a little genius who knows and observes them. It is of these men of genius that Terence speaks, in opposition to the little artificial cavillers of his time :

Quorum amulari exoptat negligentiam

Potius quam istorum obscuram diligentiam.

'Whose negligence he would rather imitate, tha men's obscure diligence.'

A critic may have the same consolation in success of his play, as Dr. South tells us a phy has at the death of a patient, that he was kill cundum artem. Our inimitable Shakespeare stumbling-block to the whole tribe of these rigi tics. Who would not rather read one of his where there is not a single rule of the stage obs than any production of a modern critic, where is not any one of them violated! Shakespeare w deed born with all the seeds of poetry, and m compared to the stone in Pyrrhus's ring, whic Pliny tells us, had the figure of Apollo and the Muses in the veins of it, produced by the spor ous hand of nature without any help from art.

Thus wander travellers in woods by night,

By the moon's doubtful and malignant light. DRYı

My dreaming correspondent, Mr. Shadow,

sent me a second letter, with several curious obse

mproving. An extract of his letter will not, ne, be disagreeable to my readers.

I

NCE we have so little time to spare, that none of be lost, I see no reason why we should neglect mine those imaginary scenes we are presented n sleep, only because they have a less reality in than our waking meditations. A traveller bring his judgment in question, who should se the directions of his map for want of real in it, because here stands adot instead of a town, ypher instead of a city; and it must be a long journey to travel through two or three inches. y in dreams gives us much such another land- of life as that does of countries; and though pearances may seem strangely jumbled together, ay often observe such traces and footsteps of nohoughts, as, if carefully persued, might lead us ■ proper path of action. There is so much rapand ecstacy in our fancied bliss, and something smal and shocking in our fancied misery, that gh the inactivity of the body has given occafor calling sleep the image of death, the briskof the fancy affords us a strong intimation of ething within us that can never die.

I have wondered that Alexander the Great, who e into the world sufficiently dreamed of by his pats, and had himself a tolerable knack at dream,should often say, that sleep was one thing which de him sensible he was mortal. I who have not such ds of action in the day-time to divert my attention m this matter, plainly perceive, that in those ope

be mind while the body is at rest there is

vine part in our composition which will last for Neither do I much doubt but, had wé a true a of the wonders the hero last mentioned perfor his sleep, his conquering this little globe would ly be worth mentioning. I may affirm, withou ty, that when I compare several actions in Q Curtius with some others in my own noctuary pear the greater hero of the two."

I shall close this subject with observing, that we are awake we are at liberty to fix our thoug what we please, but in sleep we have not the mand of them. The ideas which strike the arises in us without our choice, either fro occurrences of the day past, the temper we lie in, or it may be the direction of some superior

It is certain the imagination may be so diffe affected in sleep, that our actions of the day be either rewarded or punished with a little happiness or misery. St. Austin was of of that if in paradise there was the same vicissitu sleeping and waking as in the present worl dreams of its inhabitants would be very happy.

And so far at present are our dreams in our that they are generally conformable to our w thoughts; so that it is not impossible to conve selves to a concert of music, the conversation tant friends, or any other entertainment whic been before lodged in the mind.

My readers, by applying these hints, will fin necessity of making a good day of it, if they tily wish themselves a good night.

I have often considered Marcia's prayer, and us's account of Cato in this light.

Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul

With easy dreams; remember all his virtues,
And shew mankind that goodness is your care.

Ime. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man! O Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father ; Some power invisible supports his soul, And bears it up in all its wonted greatness. A kind refreshing sleep is fallen upon him I saw him stretch'd at ease, his fancy lost In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch He smil'd, and cry'd, Cæsar, thou canst not hurt me.'

Mr. Shadow acquaints me in a postscript, that he no manner of title to the vision which succeeded first letter; but adds, that as the gentleman who ote it dreams very sensibly, he shall be glad to et him, some night or other, under the great elme, by which Virgil has given us a fine metaphoriimage of sleep, in order to turn over a few of the ves together, and oblige the public with an account he dreams that lie under them.