remarkable. Those impressions only I have pointed out, which, being fleet and volatile, stand in need of a certain principle, to become general and lasting. I have omitted observations respecting general taste, as they would carry us into researches of a nature too abstruse for the present occasion.
But how shall we account for the opposite forms in which this subject presents itself? In one view so much certainty, so much doubt in the other. By what means shall we reconcile the consonant sentiments of nations with the diversity of their taste; the unaltered admiration with the varied judgments of ages; the uniform effects recorded, with the opinions maintained in conversation respecting the invincible authority of fashion? What shall we say to the carpings of critics, to the condemnation of the unfeeling, to the remarks of the ignorant, to the exaggeration of enthusiasts, and to the cold precision of philosophers?
Perhaps, concluding at first sight that these contrarieties are irreconcileable, we shall regard taste and literature either with that careless indifference, that wavering uncertainty so easily adopted by the unthinking, or by that systematic scepticism which philosophers find it so difficult to avoid. Most of the disputes upon this subject, I am however willing to hope, might be prevented, and some degree of certainty obtained, if, by investigating the causes of variance, those which constantly operate were distinguished from those derived from ignorance, prejudice, and folly; if, by fixing the meaning of words and ideas, we could trace opinions to their source.
A sense
