BEAUTY, That property in objects by which they are recommended to the power or faculty of taste—the reverse of ugliness —the primary or more general object of love or admiration.

These, we confess, are rather explanations of the word than definitions of the thing it signifies; and can be of no value, even as explanations of the word, except only to those who understand, without explanation, all the other words they contain. For, if the curious inquirer should proceed to ask, “And what is the faculty or power of taste?” we do not see what other answer we could give, than that it was that of which beauty was the object, or by which we were enabled to discover and to relish what was beautiful. It is material, however, to observe, that if it could be made out, as some have alleged, that our perception of beauty was a simple sensation, like our perception of colour; and that taste was an original and distinct sense, like that of seeing or hearing; this would be truly the only definition that could be given, either of the sense or of its object; and all that we could do in investigating the nature of the latter, would be to digest and enumerate the circumstances under which it was found to present itself to its appropriate organ. All that we can say of colour, if we consider it very strictly, ls > that it is that property in objects by which they are recommended to the faculty of sight; and the facu ty of sight can scarcely be defined in any other way than as that by which we are enabled to discover the existence of colour. When we attempt to proceed farther, and say that green is the colour of grass, and red of roses or blood, it is plain that we do not in any respect explain the nature of those colours, but only give instances of their occurrence; and that one who had never seen them could earn nothing whatever from these pretended definitions. Complex ideas, on the other hand, and compound emotions, may be always defined, and explained to a certain extent, by enumerating the parts of which they are made up, or resolving them into the elements of which they are composed; and we may thus acquire not only a substantial knowledge of their nature, but a practical power in their regulation or production.

It becomes of importance, therefore, in the very outset of this inquiry, to consider whether our sense of beauty be really a simple sensation, like some of those we have enumerated, or a compound or derivative feeling, the sources or elements of which maybe investigated and ascertained. If it be the former, we have then only to refer it to the peculiar sense or faculty of which it is the object, and to determine, by repeated observation, under what circumstances it occurs; but, if it be the latter, we have to proceed, by a joint process of observation and reflection, to ascertain what are the primary feelings to which it may be referred, and by what peculiar modification of them it is produced and distinguished. We are not quite prepared as yet to exhaust the whole of this important discussion, to which we shall be obliged to return in the sequel of our inquiry; but it is necessary, in order to explain and to set forth, in their natural order, the difficulties with which the subject is surrounded, to state here, in a very few words, one or two of the most obvious, and, as we think, decisive objections against the notion of beauty being a simple sensation, or the object of a separate and peculiar faculty.

The first, and perhaps the most considerable, is the want of agreement as to the presence and existence of beauty in particular objects, among men whose organization is perfect, and who are plainly possessed of the faculty, whatever it may be, by which beauty is discerned. Now, [7:4:482]no such thing happens, we imagine, or can be conceived to happen, in the case of any other simple sensation, or the exercise of any other distinct faculty. Where one man sees light, all men who have eyes see light also. All men allow grass to be green, and sugar to be sweet, and ice to be cold; and the unavoidable inference from any apparent disagreement in such matters necessarily is, that the party is insane, or entirely destitute of the sense or organ concerned in the perception. With regard to beauty, however, it is obvious at first sight that the case is quite different. One man sees it perpetually, where to another it is quite invisible, or even where its reverse seems to be conspicuous. Nor is this owing to the insensibility of either of the parties; for the same contrariety exists where both are keenly alive to the influences of the beauty they respectively discern. A Chinese or African lover would probably see nothing at all attractive in a belle of London or Paris; and, undoubtedly, an elegans formarum spectator from either of these cities would discover nothing but deformity in the Venus of the Hottentots. A little distance in time produces the same effects as distance in place: the gardens, the furniture, the dress, which appeared beautiful in the eyes of our grandfathers, are odious and ridiculous in ours. Nay, the difference of rank, education, or employments, gives rise to the same diversity of sensation. The little shopkeeper sees a beauty in his roadside box, and in the staring tile roof, wooden lions, and clipped boxwood, which strike horror into the soul of the student of the picturesque; whilst he is transported in surveying the fragments of ancient sculpture, which are nothing but ugly masses of mouldering stone in the judgment of the admirer of neatness. It is needless, however, to multiply instances, since the fact admits of no contradiction. But how can we believe that beauty is the object of a peculiar sense or faculty, when persons undoubtedly possessed of the faculty, and even in an eminent degree, can discover nothing of it in objects where it is distinctly felt and perceived by others with the same use of the faculty? This one consideration, we confess, appears to us conclusive against the supposition of beauty being a real property of objects, addressing itself to the power of taste as a separate sense or faculty, and seems to point irresistibly to the conclusion, that our sense of it is the result of other more elementary feelings, into which it may be analyzed or resolved.

A second objection, however, if possible of still greater force, is suggested by considering the prodigious and almost infinite variety of things to which this property of beauty is ascribed, and the impossibility of imagining any one inherent quality which can belong to them all, and yet at the same time possess so much unity as to be the peculiar object of a separate sense or faculty. All simple qualities that are perceived in any one object are immediately recognised to be the same when they are again perceived in another; and the objects in which they are thus perceived are at once felt so far to resemble each other, and to partake of the same nature. Thus snow is seen to be white, and chalk is seen to be white; but this is no sooner seen than the two substances, however unlike in other respects, are felt at once to have this quality in common, and to resemble each other in all that relates to the quality of colour and the sense of seeing. Now, is this felt, or could it even be intelligibly asserted, with regard to the quality of beauty? Take even a limited and specific sort of beauty,—for instance the beauty of form. The form of a fine tree is beautiful,—and the form of a fine woman,—and the form of a column, and a vase, and a chandelier. Yet how can it be said that the form of a woman has any thing in common with that of a tree or a temple? or to which of the senses by which forms are distinguished, does it appear they have any resemblance or affinity?

The matter, however, becomes still more inextricable when we recollect that beauty does not belong merely to forms or colours, but to sounds, and perhaps to the objects of other senses; nay, that in all languages and in all nations, it is not supposed to reside exclusively in material objects, but to belong also to sentiments and ideas, and intellectual and moral existences. Not only is a tree beautiful, as well as a palace or a waterfall; but a poem is beautiful, and a theorem in mathematics, and a contrivance in mechanics. But if things intellectual and totally segregated from matter may thus possess beauty, how can it possibly be a quality of material objects? Or what sense or faculty can that be, whose proper office it is to intimate to us the existence of some property which is common to a flower and a demonstration, a valley and an eloquent discourse?

The only answer which occurs to this is plainly enough a bad one; but the statement of it, and of its inefficiency, will serve better, perhaps, than any thing else to develope the actual difficulties of the subject, and the true state of the question with regard to them. It may be said, then, in answer to the questions we have suggested above, that all these objects, however various and dissimilar, agree at least in being agreeable; and that this agreeableness, which is the only quality they possess in common, may probably be the beauty which is ascribed to them all. Now, to those who are accustomed to such discussions, it would be quite enough to reply, that though the agreeableness of such objects depends plainly enough upon their beauty, it by no means follows, but quite the contrary, that their beauty depends upon their agreeableness; the latter being the more comprehensive or generic term, under which beauty must rank as one of the species. Its nature, therefore, is no more explained, nor is less absurdity substantially committed, by saying that things are beautiful because they are agreeable, than if we were to give the same explanation of the sweetness of sugar; for no one, we suppose, will dispute, that though it be very true that sugar is agreeable because it is sweet, it would be manifestly preposterous to say that it was sweet because it was agreeable. For the benefit, however, of those who wish or require to be more regularly initiated in these mysteries, we beg leave to add a few observations.

In the first place, then, it seems evident that agreeableness in general cannot be the same with beauty, because there are very many things in the highest degree agreeable that can in no sense be called beautiful. Moderate heat, and savoury food, and rest, and exercise, are agreeable to the body; but none of these can be called beautiful: and, among objects of a higher class, the love and esteem of others, and fame, and a good conscience, and health, and riches, and wisdom, are all eminently agreeable; but not at all beautiful, according to any intelligible use of the word. It is plainly quite absurd, therefore, to say that beauty consists in agreeableness, without specifying in consequence of what it is agreeable; or to hold that any thing whatever is taught as to its nature, by merely classing it among our pleasurable emotions.

In the second place, however, we may remark, that among all the objects that are agreeable, whether they are also beautiful or not, scarcely any two are agreeable on account of the same qualities, or even suggest their agreeableness to the same faculty or organ. Most certainly there is no resemblance or affinity whatever between the qualities which make a peach agreeable to the palate, and a beautiful statue to the eye; which soothe us in an easy chair by the fire, or delight us in a philosophical discovery.
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The truth is, that agreeableness is not properly a quality of any object whatsoever, but the effect or result of certain qualities, the nature of which we can generally define pretty exactly, or of which we know at least with certainty that they manifest themselves respectively to some one particular sense or faculty, and to no other; and consequently it would be just as obviously ridiculous to suppose a faculty or organ, whose office it was to perceive agreeableness, as to suppose that agreeableness was a distinct quality that could thus be perceived.

The class of agreeable objects, thanks to the bounty of Providence, is exceedingly large. Certain things are agreeable to the palate, and others to the smell and to the touch. Some, again, are agreeable to our faculty of imagination, to our understanding, or to our moral feelings; and none of all these we call beautiful. But there are others which we do call beautiful; and those we say are agreeable to our faculty of taste: yet when we come to ask what is the faculty of taste, and what are the qualities which recommend them to that faculty, we find ourselves just where we were at the beginning of the discussion, and embarrassed with all the difficulties arising from the prodigious diversity of objects which seem to possess these qualities.

We know pretty well what is the faculty of seeing or hearing; or, at least, we know that what is agreeable to one of those faculties, has no effect whatever on the other. We know that bright colours afford no delight to the ear, nor sweet tones to the eye; and are therefore perfectly assured that the qualities which make the visible objects agreeable, cannot be the same with those which give pleasure to the ear. But it is by the eye and by the ear that all material beauty is perceived; and yet the beauty which discloses itself to these two separate senses, and plainly depends upon qualities which have no sort of affinity, is supposed to be one distinct quality, and to be perceived by a peculiar sense or faculty I The perplexity becomes still greater when we think of the beauty of poems or theorems, and endeavour to imagine what qualities they can possess in common with the agreeable modifications of light or of sound.

It is in these considerations undoubtedly that the difficulty of the subject consists. The faculty of taste, plainly, is not a faculty, like any of the external senses, the range of whose objects is limited and precise, as well as the qualities by which they are gratified or offended; and beauty, accordingly, is discovered in an infinite variety of objects, among which it seems at first sight impossible to discover any other bond of connection. Yet boundless as their diversity may appear, it is plain that they must resemble each other in something, and in something more definite and definable than in merely being agreeable; since they are all classed together, in every tongue and nation, under the common appellation of beautiful, and are felt indeed to produce emotions in the mind that have some sort of kindred or affinity. The words beauty and beautiful, in short, must mean something, and are universally felt to mean something, much more definite than agreeableness or gratification in general; and while it is confessedly by no means easy to describe or define what that something is, the force and clearness of our perception of it is demonstrated by the readiness with which we determine, in any particular instance, whether the object of a given pleasurable emotion is or is not properly described as beauty.

What we have already said, we confess, appears to us conclusive against the idea of this beauty being any fixed ° r inherent property of the objects to which it is ascribed, or itself the object of any separate and independent faculty; and we will no longer conceal from the reader what we take to be the true solution of the difficulty. In our opinion, then, our sense of beauty depends entirely on our previous experience of simpler pleasures or emotions, and consists in the suggestion of agreeable or interesting sensations with which we had formerly been familiar by the direct and intelligible agency of our common sensibilities; and that vast variety of objects, to which we give the common name of beautiful, become entitled to that appellation, merely because they all possess the power of recalling or reflecting those sensations of which they have been the accompaniments, or with which they have been associated in our imagination by any other more casual bond of connection. According to this view of the matter, therefore, beauty is not an inherent property or quality of objects at all, but the result of the accidental relations in which they may stand to our experience of pleasures or emotions,—and does not depend upon any particular configuration of parts, proportions, or colours, in external things, nor upon the unity, coherence, or simplicity of intellectual creations, but merely upon the associations which, in the case of every individual, may enable these inherent, and otherwise indifferent qualities, to suggest or recall to the mind emotions of a pleasurable or interesting description. It follows, therefore, that no object is beautiful in itself, or could appear so, antecedently to our experience of direct pleasures or emotions; and that, as an infinite variety of objects may thus reflect interesting ideas, so all of them may acquire the title of beautiful, although utterly diverse and disparate in their nature, and possessing nothing in common but this accidental power of reminding us of other emotions.

This theory, which we believe is now very generally adopted, though under many needless qualifications, shall be further developed and illustrated in the sequel. But at present we shall only remark, that it serves at least to solve the great problem involved in the discussion, by rendering it easily conceivable how objects which have no inherent resemblance, nor indeed any one quality in common, should yet be united in one common relation, and consequently acquire one common epithet,—just as all the things that belonged to a beloved individual may serve to remind us of him, and thus to awake a kindred class of emotions, though just as unlike each other as any of the objects that are classed under the general name of beautiful. His poetry, for instance, or his slippers,—his acts of bounty, or his saddle-horse,—may lead to the same chain of interesting remembrances, and thus agree in possessing a power of excitement, for the sources of which we should look in vain through all the variety of their physical or metaphysical qualities.

By the help of the same consideration, we get rid of all the mystery of a peculiar sense or faculty, imagined for the express purpose of perceiving beauty; and discover that the power of taste is nothing more than the habit of tracing those associations, by which almost all objects may be connected with interesting emotions. It is easy to understand, that the recollection of any scene of delight or emotion must produce a certain agreeable sensation, and that the objects which introduce these recollections should not appear altogether indifferent to us: nor is it, perhaps, very difficult to imagine, that recollections thus strikingly suggested by some real and present existence should present themselves under a different aspect, and move the mind somewhat differently from those which arise spontaneously in the ordinary course of our reflections, and do not thus grow out of a direct and peculiar impression.

The whole of this doctrine, however, we shall endeavour by and by to establish upon more direct evidence; but having now explained, in a general way, both the [7:4:484] difficulties of the subject, and our suggestion as to their true solution, it is proper that we should take a short review of the more considerable theories that have been proposed for the elucidation of this curious question; which is one of the most delicate, as well as the most popular, in the science of metaphysics,—was one of the earliest which exercised the speculative ingenuity of philosophers,—and has at last, we think, been more successfully treated than any other of a similar description.

In most of these speculations we shall find rather imperfect truth than fundamental error,—or, at all events, such errors only as arise naturally from that peculiar difficulty which we have already endeavoured to explain, as consisting in the prodigious multitude and diversity of the objects in which the common quality of beauty was to be accounted for. Those who nave not been sufficiently aware of the difficulty have generally dogmatized from a small number of instances, and have rather given examples of the occurrence of beauty in some few classes of objects, than afforded any light as to that upon which it essentially depended in all; whilst those who felt its full force have very often found no other resource than to represent beauty as consisting in properties so extremely vague and general (such, for example, as the power of exciting ideas of relation), as almost to elude our comprehension, and, at the same time, of so abstract and metaphysical a description, as not to be very intelligibly stated as the radicals of a strong, familiar, and pleasurable emotion. This last observation leads us to make one other remark upon the general character of these theories; and this is, that some of them seem necessarily to imply the existence of a peculiar sense or faculty for the perception of beauty, as they resolve it into properties that are not in any way interesting or agreeable to any of our known faculties. Such are all those which make it consist in proportion,— or in variety, combined with regularity,—or in waving lines,—or in unity,—or in the perception of relations,— without explaining, or attempting to explain, how any of these things should affect us with any delight or emotion. Others, again, do not require the supposition of any such separate faculty; because in them the sense of beauty is considered as arising from other more simple and familiar emotions, which are in themselves and beyond all dispute agreeable. Such are those which teach that beauty depends on the perception of utility, or of design, or of fitness, or in tracing associations between its objects and the common joys or emotions of our nature. Which of these two classes of speculation (to one or other of which, we believe, all theories of beauty may be reduced) is the most philosophical in itself, we imagine can admit of no question; and we hope, in the sequel, to leave it as little doubtful, which is to be considered as most consistent with the fact. In the meantime, we must give a short account of some of the theories themselves.

The most ancient of which it seems necessary to take any notice, is that which may be traced in the Dialogues of Plato,—though we are very far from pretending that it is possible to give any intelligible or consistent account of its tenor. It should never be forgotten, however, that it is to this subtile and ingenious spirit that we owe the suggestion that it is Mind alone that is beautiful; and that, in perceiving beauty, it only contemplates the shadow of its own affections ;—a doctrine which, however mystically unfolded in his writings, or however combined with extravagant or absurd speculations, unquestionably carries in it the germ of all the truth that has since been revealed on the subject. By far the largest dissertation, however, that this great philosopher has left upon the nature of beauty, is to be found in the dialogue entitled The Greater Hippias, which is entirely devoted to that inquiry.

We do not learn a great deal of the author’s own opinion indeed, from this performance; for it is one of the dia- ' logues which have been termed anatrβptic or confuting, in which nothing is concluded in the affirmative, but a series of sophistical suggestions or hypotheses are successively exposed. The plan of it is to lead on Hippias, a shallow and confident sophist, to make a variety of dogmatical assertions as to the nature of beauty, and then to make him retract and abandon them upon the statement of some obvious objections. Socrates and he agree at first in the notable proposition, “that beauty is that by which all beautiful things are beautiful and then, after a great number of suggestions, by far too childish and absurd to be worthy of any notice, such as, that the beautiful may peradventure be gold, or a fine woman, or a handsome mare, they at last get to some suppositions, which show that almost all the theories that have since been propounded on this interesting subject, had occurred thus early to the active and original mind of this keen and curious inquirer. Thus Socrates first suggests that beauty may consist in the fitness or suitableness of any object to the place it occupies; and afterwards more generally and directly, that it may consist in utility; a notion which is ultimately rejected, however, upon the subtile consideration that the useful is that which produces good, and that the producer and the product being necessarily different, it would follow, upon that supposition, that beauty could not be good, nor good beautiful. Finally, he suggests, that beauty may be the mere organic delight of the eye or the ear,—to which, after stating very slightly the objection, that it would be impossible to account upon this ground for the beauty of poetry or eloquence, he proceeds to rear up a more refined and elaborate refutation, upon such grounds as these: If beauty be the proper name of that which is naturally agreeable to the sight and hearing, it is plain that the objects to which it is ascribed must possess some common and distinguishable property besides that of being agreeable, in consequence of which they are separated and set apart from objects that are agreeable to our other senses and faculties, and, at the same time, classed together under the common appellation of beautiful. Now we are not only quite unable to discover what this property is, but it is manifest that objects which make themselves known to the ear can have no property as such in common with objects that make themselves known to the eye; it being impossible that an object which is beautiful by its colour, can be beautiful from the same quality with another which is beautiful by its sound. From all which it is inferred, that, as beauty is admitted to be something real, it cannot be merely what is agreeable to the organs of sight or hearing.

There is no practical wisdom, we admit, in those finedrawn speculations; nor any of that spirit of patient observation by which alone any sound view of such objects can ever be attained. There are also many marks of that singular incapacity to distinguish between what is absolutely puerile and silly, and what is plausible, at least, and ingenious, which may be reckoned among the characteristics of “the divine philosopher,” and in some degree of all the philosophers of antiquity: but they show clearly enough the subtile and abstract character of Greek speculation, and prove at how eärly a period, and to how great an extent, the inherent difficulties of the subject were felt, and produced their appropriate effects.

There are some hints on these subjects in the works of Xenophon, and some scattered observations in those of Cicero, who was.the first, we believe, to observe that the sense of beauty is peculiar to man; but nothing else, we believe, in classical antiquity which requires to be analyzed or explained. It appears that St Augustin composed a [7:4:485]large treatise on beauty, and it is to be lamented that the speculations of that acute and ardent genius on such a subject have been lost. We discover, from incidental notices in other parts of his writings, that he conceived the beauty of all objects to depend on their unity, or on the perception of the principle or design which fixed the relations of their various parts, and presented them to the intellect or imagination as one harmonious whole. It would not be fair to deal very strictly with a theory with which we are so imperfectly acquainted: but it may be observed, that, while the author is so far in the right as to make beauty consist in a relation to mind, and not in an y physical quality, he has taken far too narrow and circumscribed a view of the matter, and one which seems almost exclusively applicable to works of human art; it being plain enough, we think, that a beautiful landscape, ora beautiful horse, has no more unity, and no more traces of design, than one which is not beautiful.

We do not pretend to know what the schoolmen taught upon this subject during the dark ages, but the discussion does not seem to have been resumed for long after the revival of letters. The followers of Leibnitz were pleased to maintain that beauty consisted in perfection; but what constituted perfection they did not attempt to define. M. Crouzas wrote a long essay to show that beauty depended on these five elements, variety, unity, regularity, order, and proportion; and the Père André, a still longer one to prove, that, admitting these to be the true foundations of beauty, it was still most important to consider, that the beauty which results from them is either essential, or natural, or artificial, and that it may be greater or less, according as the characteristics of each of these classes are combined or set in opposition.

Among ourselves we are not aware of any considerable publication on the subject till the appearance of Lord Shaftesbury’s Characteristics, in which a sort of rapturous Platonic doctrine is delivered as to the existence of a primitive and supreme good and beauty, and of a certain internal sense, by which both beauty and moral merit were distinguished. Addison published several ingenious papers in The Spectator on the pleasures of the imagination, and was the first, we believe, who referred them to the specific sources of beauty, sublimity, and novelty. He did not enter much, however, into the metaphysical discussion of the nature of beauty itself; and the first philosophical treatise of note that appeared on the subject may be said to have been the Inquiry of Dr Hutcheson, first published, we believe, in 1725.

In this work the notion of a peculiar internal sense, by which we are made sensible of the existence of beauty, is very boldly promulgated, and maintained by many ingenious arguments. Yet nothing, we conceive, can be more extravagant than such a proposition; and nothing but the radical faults of the other parts of the hypothesis could possibly have driven the learned author to its adoption. Even after the existence of this sixth sense was assumed, be felt that it was still necessary that he should explain what were the qualities by which it was gratified, and these, he was pleased to allege, were nothing but the combinations of variety with uniformity; all objects, as he has himself expressed it, which are equally uniform being beautiful in proportion to their variety, and all objects equally various being beautiful in proportion to their uni-ormity. Now, not to insist upon the obvious and radical objection that this is not true in fact, as to flowers, landscapes, or indeed of any thing but architecture, if it be rue of that, it could not fail to strike the ingenious au- lur that these qualities of uniformity and variety were n °t °‘ themselves agreeable to any of our known senses 0r aculties, except when considered as symbols of utility or design, and therefore could not intelligibly account for the very lively emotions which we often experience from the perception of beauty, where the notion of design or utility was not at all suggested. He was constrained, therefore, either to abandon this view of the nature of beauty altogether, or to imagine a new sense or faculty, whose characteristic and description it should be to receive delight from the combinations of uniformity and variety, without any consideration of their being significant of things agreeable to our faculties; and this being accomplished by the mere force of the assumption and the definition, there was no room for further dispute or difficulty in the matter.

Some of Hutcheson’s followers, such as Gerard and others, who were a little startled at the notion of a separate faculty, and yet wished to retain the doctrine of beauty depending on variety and uniformity, endeavoured, ’ accordingly, to show that these qualities were naturally' agreeable to the mind, and were recommended by considerations arising from its most familiar properties. Uniformity or simplicity, it is said, renders our conception of objects easy, and saves the mind from all fatigue and distraction in the consideration of them; whilst variety, if circumscribed and limited by an ultimate uniformity, gives it a pleasing exercise and excitement, and keeps its energies in a state of pleasurable activity. Now this appears to us to be mere trifling. The varied and lively emotions which we receive from the perception of beauty obviously have no sort of resemblance to the pleasure of moderate intellectual exertion; nor can any thing be conceived more utterly dissimilar than the gratification we have in gazing on the form of a lovely woman, and the satisfaction we receive from working an easy problem in arithmetic or geometry. If a triangle is more beautiful than a regular polygon, as those authors maintain, merely because its figure is more easily comprehended, the number four should be more beautiful than the number three hundred and twenty-seven, and the form of a gibbet far more agreeable than that of a branching oak. The radical error, in short, consists in fixing upon properties that are not interesting in themselves, and can never be conceived, therefore, to excite any emotion, as the fountainspring of all our emotions of beauty; and it is an absurdity that must infallibly lead to others,—whether these take the shape of a violent attempt to disguise the truly indifferent nature of the properties so selected, or of the bolder expedient of creating a peculiar faculty, whose office it is to find them interesting.

The next remarkable theory was that proposed by Edmund Burke, in his Treatise of the Sublime and Beautiful, But of this, in spite of the great name of the author, we cannot persuade ourselves that it is necessary to say much. His explanation is founded upon a species of materialism, —not much to have been expected from the general character of his genius, or the strain of his other speculations,—for it resolves entirely into this, that all objects appear beautiful which have the power of producing a peculiar relaxation of our nerves and fibres, and thus inducing a certain degree of bodily langour and sinking. Of all the suppositions that have been at any time hazarded to explain the phenomena of beauty, this, we think, is the most unfortunate, and the most weakly supported. There is no philosophy in the doctrine; and the fundamental assumption is in every way contradicted by the most familiar experience. There is no relaxation of the fibres in the perception of beauty, and there is no pleasure in the relaxation of the fibres. If there were, it would follow that a warm bath would be by far the most beautiful thing in the world, and that the brilliant lights and bracing airs of a fine autumn morning would be the very reverse [7:4:486]of beautiful. Accordingly, though the treatise alluded to will always be valuable on account of the many fine and just remarks it contains, we are not aware that there is any accurate inquirer into the subject (with the exception, perhaps, of Mr Price, in whose hands, however, the doctrine assumes a new character), by whom the fundamental principle of the theory has not been explicitly abandoned.

A yet more extravagant doctrine was soon afterwards inculcated, and in a tone of great authority, in a long article from the brilliant pen of Diderot, in the French Encyclopedic, and one which exemplifies, in a very striking manner, the nature of the difficulties with which the discussion is embarrassed. This ingenious person, perceiving at once that the beauty which we ascribe to a particular class of objects could not be referred to any peculiar and inherent quality in the objects themselves, but depended upon their power of exciting certain sentiments in our minds,—and being, at the same time, at a loss to discover what common power could belong to so vast a variety of objects as pass under the general appellation of beautiful, or by what tie all the various emotions which are excited by the perception of beauty could be united,— was at last driven, by his sense of the necessity of keeping his definition sufficiently wide and comprehensive, to hazard the strange assertion, that all objects were beautiful which excite in us the idea of relation; that our sense of beauty consisted in tracing out the relations which the object possessing it might have to other objects; and that its beauty was in proportion to the number and clearness of the relations thus suggested and perceived. It is scarcely necessary, we presume, to expose by any arguments the manifest fallacy, or rather the palpable absurdity, of such a theory as this. In the first place, we conceive it to be obvious, that all objects whatever have an infinite, and consequently an equal number of relations, and are equally likely to suggest them to those to whom they are presented: at all events, it is certain that ugly and disagreeable objects have just as many relations as those that are agreeable, and ought, therefore, to be just as beautiful, if the sense of beauty consists in the perception of relations. In the next place, it seems to be sufficiently certain, from the experience and common feelings of all men, that the perception of relations among objects is not in itself accompanied by any pleasure whatever, and in particular has no conceivable resemblance to the emotion we receive from the perception of beauty. When we perceive one ugly old woman sitting exactly opposite to two other ugly old women, and observe at the same moment that the first is as big as the other two taken together, we humbly conceive that this clear perception of the relations in which these three graces stand to each other cannot well be mistaken for a sense of beauty, and that it does not in the least abate or interfere with our sense of their ugliness. Finally, we may observe, that the sense of beauty results instantaneously from the perception of the object; whereas the discovery of its relations to other objects must necessarily be a work of time and reflection, in the course of which the beauty of the object, so far from being created or brought into notice, must, in fact, be lost sight of and forgotten.

Another more plausible and ingenious theory was suggested by the Père Buffier, and afterwards adopted and I illustrated with great talent in the Discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds. According to this doctrine, beauty consists, as Aristotle held virtue to do, in mediocrity, or conformity to that which was most usual. Thus a beautiful nose, to make use of Dr Smith’s very apt illustration of this doctrine, is one that is neither very long nor very short, very straight nor very much bent, but of an ordinary form and proportion compared with all the extremes. It is the form, in short, which nature seems to have aimed at in all cases, though she has more frequently deviated from it than hit it; but deviating from it in all directions, all her deviations come nearer to it than they ever do to each other. Thus the most beautiful in every species of creatures bears the greatest resemblance to the whole species, while monsters are so denominated because they bear the least; and thus the beautiful, though in one sense the rarest, as the exact medium is but seldom hit, is invariably the most common, because it is the central point from which all the deviations are the least remote. This view of the matter is adopted by Sir Joshua in its full extent, and is even carried so rar by this great artist, that he does not scruple to conclude, “That if we were more used to deformity than beauty, deformity would then lose the idea that is now annexed to it, and take that of beauty ;—just as we approve and admire fashions in dress, for no other reason than that we are used to them.”

Now, not to dwell upon the very startling conclusion to which these principles must lead, viz. that things are beautiful in proportion as they are ordinary, and that it is merely their familiarity which constitutes their beauty, we would observe, in the first place, that the whole theory seems to have been suggested by a consideration of animal forms, or perhaps of the human figure exclusively. In these forms, it is quite true that great and monstrous deviations from the usual proportions are extremely disagreeable. But this, we have no doubt, arises entirely from some idea of pain or disaster attached to their existence, or from their obvious unfitness for the functions they have to perform. In vegetable forms, accordingly, these irregularities excite no such disgust; it being, in fact, the great object of culture, in almost all the more beautiful kinds, to produce what may be called monstrosities. And, in mineral substances, where the idea of suffering is still more completely excluded, it is notorious that, so far from the more ordinary configurations being thought the most beautiful, this epithet is scarcely ever employed but to denote some rare and unusual combination of veins, colours, or dimensions. As to landscapes, again, and almost all the works of art, without exception, the theory is plainly altogether incapable of application. In what sense, for example, can it be said that the beauty of natural scenery consists in mediocrity; or that these landscapes are the most beautiful that are the most common? or what meaning can we attach to the proposition, that the most beautiful building, or picture, or poem, is that which bears the nearest resemblance to all the individuals of its class, and is, upon the whole, the most ordinary and common?

To a doctrine which is liable to these obvious and radical objections, it is not perhaps necessary to make any other; but we must remark further, first, That it necessarily supposes that our sense of beauty is, in all cases, preceded by such a large comparison between various individuals of the same species, as may enable us to ascertain that average or mean form in which beauty is suppos· ed to consist, and, consequently, that we could never discover any object to be beautiful antecedently to such a comparison; and, secondly, That, even if we were to allow that this theory afforded some explanation of the superior beauty of any one object compared with others of the same class, it plainly furnishes no explanation whatever o the superior beauty of one class of objects compared wit another. We-may believe, if we please, that one peacoc is handsomer than another because it approaches more nearly to the average or mean form of peacocks in general; but this reason will avail us nothing whatever in e χ '
[7:4:487]

plaining why any peacock is handsomer than any pelican or penguin. We may say, without manifest absurdity, that the most beautiful pig is that which has least of the extreme qualities that sometimes occur in the tribe; but it would be palpably absurd to give this reason, or any thing like it, for the superior beauty of the tribe of antelopes or spaniels. .

The notion, in short, seems to have been hastily adopted by the ingenious persons who have maintained it, partly upon the narrow ground of the disgust produced by monsters in the animal creation, which has been already sufficiently explained,—and partly in consequence of the fallacy which lurks in the vague and general proposition of those things being beautiful which are neither too big nor too little, too massive nor too slender, &c.; from which it was concluded that beauty must consist in mediocrity:— not considering that the particle too merely denotes those degrees which are exclusive of beauty, without in any way fixing what those degrees are. For the plain meaning of these phrases is, that the rejected objects are too massive or too slender to be beautiful; and, therefore, to say that an object is beautiful which is neither too big nor too little, &c. is really saying nothing more than that beautiful objects are such as are not in any degree ugly or disagreeable. The illustration as to the effects of use or custom in the article of dress is singularly inaccurate and delusive; the fact being, that we never admire the dress which we are most accustomed to see,—which is that of the common people,—but the dress of the few who are distinguished by rank or opulence; and that we require no more custom or habit to make us admire this dress, whatever it may be, than is necessary to associate it in our thoughts with the wealth and dignity of those who wear it.

We need say nothing in this place of the opinions expressed on the subject of beauty by Dr Gerard, Dr Blair, and a whole herd of rhetoricians, because none of them pretend to have any new or original notions with regard to it, and, in general, have been at no pains to reconcile or render consistent the various accounts of the matter which they have contented themselves with assembling and laying before their readers altogether, as affording among them the best explanation that could be offered of the question. Thus they do not scruple to say, that the sense of beauty is sometimes produced by the mere organic affection of the senses of sight or hearing; at other times by a perception of a kind of regular variety; and in other instances by the association of interesting conceptions;—thus abandoning altogether any attempt to answer the radical question, how the feeling of beauty should be excited by such opposite causes,—and confounding together, without any attempt at discrimination, those theories which imply the existence of a separate sense or faculty, and those which resolve our sense of beauty into other more simple or familiar emotions.

More recently, however, we have had three publications on the subject, of a far higher character,—we mean Mr Alison’s Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste, Mr Payne Knight’s Analytical Inquiry into the same objects, and Mr Dugald Stewart’s Dissertations on the Beautiful, and on Taste, in his volume of Philosophical Essays. All these works possess an infinite deal of merit, and have among them disclosed almost all the truth that is to be known on the subject; though, as it seems to us, with some little admixture of error, from which it will not, however, be difficult to separate it.

Mr Alison maintains, that all beauty, or at least that all the beauty of material objects, depends on the associations that may have connected them with the ordinary attections or emotions of our nature; and in this, which ls * 31e fundamental point of his theory, we conceive him to be no less clearly right, than he is convincing and judicious in the copious and beautiful illustration by which he has sought to establish its truth. When he proceeds, however, to assert that our sense of beauty consists not merely in the suggestion of ideas of emotion, but in the contemplation of a connected series of such ideas, and indicates a state of mind in which the faculties, half active and half passive, are given up to a sort of reverie or musing, in which they may wander, though among kindred impressions, far enough from the immediate object of perception, we will confess that he not only seems to us to advance a very questionable proposition, but very essentially to endanger the evidence, as well as the consistency, of his general doctrine. We are far from denying, that, in minds of sensibility and of reflecting habits, the contemplation of beautiful objects will be apt, especially in moments of leisure, and when the mind is vacant, to give rise to such trains of thought, and to such protracted meditations; but we cannot possibly admit that their existence is necessary to the perception of beauty, or that it is in this state of mind exclusively that the sense of beauty exists. The perception of beauty, on the contrary, we hold to be, in most cases, quite instantaneous, and altogether as immediate as the perception of the external qualities of the object to which it is ascribed. Indeed, it seems only necessary to recollect, that it is to a present material object that we actually ascribe and refer this beauty, and that the only thing to be explained is, how this object comes to appear beautiful. In the long train of interesting meditations, however, to which Mr Alison refers,—in the delightful reveries in which he would make the sense of beauty consist,—it is obvious that we must soon lose sight of the external object which gave the first impulse to our thoughts; and though we may afteruiards reflect upon it, with increased interest and gratitude, as the parent of so many charming images, it is impossible, we conceive, that the perception of its beauty can ever depend upon a long series of various and shifting emotions.

It likewise occurs to us to observe, that if every thing were beautiful which was the occasion of a train of ideas of emotion, it is not easy to see why objects that are called ugly should not be entitled to that appellation. If they are sufficiently ugly not to be viewed with indifference, they too will give rise to ideas of emotion; and those ideas are just as likely to run into trains and series as those of a more agreeable description. Nay, as contrast itself is one of the principles of association, it is not at all unlikely that, in the train of impressive ideas which the sight of ugly objects may excite, a transition may be ultimately made to such as are connected with pleasure; and, therefore, if the perception of the beauty of the object which first suggested them depended upon its having produced a series of ideas of emotion, or even of agreeable emotions, there seems to be no good reason for doubting that ugly objects may thus be as beautiful as any other, and that beauty and ugliness may be one and the same thing. Such is the danger, as it appears to us, of deserting the object itself, or going beyond its immediate effect and impression, in order to discover the sources of its beauty. Our view of the matter is safer, we think, and far more simple. We conceive the object to be associated, either in our past experience, or by some universal analogy, with pleasures or emotions that upon the whole are pleasant; and that these associated pleasures are instantaneously suggested, as soon as the object is presented, and by the first glimpse of its physical properties, with which, indeed, they are con-substantiated and confounded in our sensations.

The work of Mr Knight is more lively, various, and dis-: cursive, than Mr Alison’s, but not so systematic or conclusive[7:4:488]. It is the cleverer book of the two, but not the most philosophical discussion of the subject. He agrees with Mr Alison in holding the most important, and, indeed, the only considerable part of beauty, to depend upon association; and has illustrated this opinion with a great variety of just and original observation. But he maintains, and maintains stoutly, that there is a beauty independent of association—prior to it, and more original and fundamental—the primitive and natural beauty of colours and sounds. Now this we look upon to be a heresy, and a heresy inconsistent with the very first principles of catholic philosophy. We shall not stop at present to give our reasons for this opinion, which we shall illustrate at large before we bring this article to a close; but we beg leave merely to suggest at present, that if our sense of beauty be confessedly in most cases the mere image or reflection of pleasures or emotions that have been associated with objects in themselves indifferent, it cannot fail to appear strange that it should also on some few occasions be a mere organic or sensual gratification of the particular organs. Language, it is believed, affords no other example of so whimsical a combination of different objects under one appellation, or of the confounding of a direct physical sensation with the suggestion of a social or sympathetic moral feeling. We would observe also, that while Mr Knight stickles so violently for this alloy of the senses in the constitution of beauty, he admits unequivocally, that sublimity is, in every instance and in all cases, the effect of association alone. Yet sublimity and beauty, in any just or large sense, and with a view to the philosophy of either, are manifestly one and the same; nor is it conceivable to us, that, if sublimity be always the result of an association with ideas of power or danger, beauty can possibly be, in any case, the result of a mere pleasurable impulse on the nerves of the eye or the ear. We shall return, however, to this discussion hereafter. Of Mr Knight we have only further to observe, that we think he is not less heretical in maintaining that we have no pleasure in sympathizing with distress or suffering, but only with mental energy; and that, in contemplating the sublime, we are moved only with a sense of power and grandeur, and never with any feeling of terror or awe. These errors, however, are less intimately connected with the subject of our present discussion.

With Mr Stewart we have less occasion for quarrel; chiefly, perhaps, because he has made fewer positive assertions, and entered less into the matter of controversy. His Essay on the Beautiful is rather philological than metaphysical. The object of it is to show by what gradual and successive extensions of meaning the word, though at first appropriated to denote the pleasing effect of colours alone, might naturally come to signify all the other pleasing things to which it is now applied. In this investigation he makes many admirable remarks, and touches, with the hand of a master, upon many of the disputable parts of the question; but he evades the particular point at issue between us and Mr Knight, by stating that it is quite immaterial to his purpose whether the beauty of colours be supposed to depend on their organic effect on the eye, or on some association between them and other agreeable emotions; it being enough for his purpose that this was probably the first sort of beauty that was observed, and that to which the name was at first exclusively applied. It is evident to us, however, that he leans to the opinion of Mr Knight, as to this beauty being truly sensual or organic. In observing, too, that beauty is not now the name of any one thing or quality, but of very many different qualities, and that it is applied to them all merely because they are often united in the same objects, or perceived at the same time and by the same organs, it appears to us that he carries his philology a little too far, and disregards other principles of reasoning of far higher authority. T o give the name of beauty, for example, to every thing that interests or pleases us through the channel of sight, i∏. eluding in this category the mere impulse of light that is pleasant to the organ, and the presentment of objects whose whole charm consists in awakening the memory of social emotions, seems to us to be confounding things together that must always be separate in our feelings, and giving a far greater importance to the mere identity of the organ of perception than is warranted either by the ordinary language or ordinary experience of men. Upon the same principle, we should give this name of beautiful, and no other, to all acts of kindness or magnanimity, and, indeed, to every interesting occurrence which took place in our sight, or came to our knowledge by means of the eye: nay, as the ear is also allowed to be a channel for impressions of beauty, the same name should be given to any interesting or pleasant thing that we hear; and good news read to us from the gazette should be denominated beautiful, justas much as a fine composition of music. These things, however, are never called beautiful, and are felt, indeed, to afford a gratification of quite a different nature. It is no doubt true, as Mr Stewart has observed, that beauty is not one thing, but many, and does not produce one uniform emotion, but an infinite variety of emotions. But this, we conceive, is not merely because many pleasant things maybe intimated to us by the same sense, but because the things that are called beautiful may be associated with an infinite variety of agreeable emotions, of the specific character of which their beauty will consequently partake. Nor does it follow, from the fact of this great variety, that there can be no other principle of union among these agreeable emotions than that of a name, extended to them all upon the very slight ground of their coming through the same organ; since, upon our theory, and indeed upon Mr Stewart’s, in a vast majority of instances, there is the remarkable 'circumstance of their being all suggested by association with some present sensation, and all modified and compounded to our feelings by an actual and direct perception.

It is unnecessary, however, to pursue these criticisms, or, indeed, this hasty review of the speculation of other writers, any further. The few observations we have already made will enable the intelligent reader both to understand in a general way what has been already done on the subject, and in some degree prepare him to appreciate the merits of that theory, substantially the same with Mr Alison’s, which we shall now proceed to illustrate somewhat more in detail.

The basis of it is, that the beauty which we impute to outward objects is nothing more than the reflection of our own inward emotions, and is made up entirely of certain little portions of love, pity, and affection, which have been connected with these objects, and still adhere as it were to them, and move us anew whenever they are presented to our observation. Before proceeding to bring any proof of the truth of this proposition, there are two things which it may be proper to explain a little more distinctly; first, ^[1. A considerable part of the sequel of this article has already appeared in a critique (by the same author) upon Mr Alison’s Essay, m the Aeeŵw for May 1811. ] What are the primary affections, by t ' ιe suggestion of which we think the sense of beauty is pro[7:4:489]duced? and, secondly, What is the nature of the connection by which we suppose that the objects we call beautiful are enabled to suggest these affections?

With regard to the first of these points, it fortunately is not necessary either to enter into any tedious details, 'or to have recourse to any nice distinctions. All sensations that are not absolutely indifferent, and are, at the same time, either agreeable when experienced by ourselves, or attractive when contemplated in others, may form the foundation of the emotions of sublimity or beauty. The love of sensation seems to be the ruling appetite of human nature; and many sensations, in which the painful seems to bear no little share, are consequently sought for with avidity, and recollected with interest, even in our own persons. In the persons of others, emotions still more painful are contemplated with eagerness and delight; and therefore we must not be surprised to find, that many of the pleasing sensations of beauty or sublimity resolve themselves ultimately into recollections of feelings that may appear to have a very opposite character. The sum of the whole is, that every feeling which it is agreeable to experience, to recall, or to witness, may become the source of beauty in external objects, when it is so connected with them as that their appearance reminds us of that feeling. Now, in real life, and from daily experience and observation, we know that it is agreeable, in the first place, to recollect our own pleasurable sensations, or to be enabled to form a lively conception of the pleasures of other men, or even of sentient beings of any description. We know, likewise, from the same sure authority, that there is a certain delight in the remembrance of our past, or the conception of our future emotions, even though attended with great pain, provided they be not forced too rudely on the mind, and be softened by the accompaniment of any milder feeling. And, finally, we know, in the same manner, that the spectacle or conception of the emotions of others, even when in a high degree painful, is extremely interesting and attractive, and draws us away, not only from the consideration of indifferent objects, but even from the pursuit of light or frivolous enjoyments. All these are plain and familiar facts, of the existence of which, however they may be explained, no one can entertain the slightest doubt, and into which, therefore, we shall have made no inconsiderable progress, if we can resolve the more mysterious fact, of the emotions we receive from the contemplation of sublimity or beauty.

Our proposition then is, that these emotions are not original emotions, nor produced directly by any qualities in the objects which excite them; but are reflections or images of the more radical and familiar emotions to which we have already alluded, and are occasioned, not by any inherent virtue in the objects before us, but by the accidents, if we may so express ourselves, by which these may have been enabled to suggest or recall to us our own past sensations or sympathies. We might almost venture, indeed, to lay it down as an axiom, that, except in the plain and palpable case of bodily pain or pleasure, we can never be interested in any thing but the fortunes of sentient beings; and that every thing partaking of the nature of mental emotion must have for its object the feelings, past, present, or possible, of something capable of sensation, ∏dependently, therefore, of all evidence, and without the θlp of any explanation, we should have been apt to cone ude that the emotions of beauty and sublimity must 1 . ave for their objects the sufferings or enjoyments of sen-lent beings; and to reject as intrinsically absurd and 1 ∏credible the supposition, that material objects, which 0 viously do neither hurt nor delight the body, should yet eχ cite, by their mere physical qualities, the very powerful emotions which are sometimes excited by the spectacle of beauty.

Of the feelings, by their connection with which external objects become beautiful, we do not think it necessary to speak more minutely; and therefore it only remains, under this preliminary view of the subject, to explain the nature of that connection by which we conceive this effect to be produced. Here, also, there is but little need for minuteness, or fulness of enumeration. Almost every tie by which two objects can be bound together in the imagination, in such a manner as that the presentment of the one shall recall the memory of the other, or, in other words, almost every possible relation which can subsist between such objects, may serve to connect the things we call sublime or beautiful, with feelings that are interesting or delightful. It may be useful, however, to class these bonds of association between mind and matter in a rude and general way.

It appears to us, then, that objects are sublime or beautiful, first, When they are the natural signs and perpetual concomitants of pleasurable sensations, or, at any rate, of some lively feeling or emotion in ourselves or in some other sentient beings; or, secondly, When they are the arbitrary or accidental concomitants of such feelings; or, thirdly, When they bear some analogy or fanciful resemblance to things with which these emotions are necessarily connected. In endeavouring to illustrate the nature of these several relations, we shall be led to lay before our readers some proofs that appear to us satisfactory of the truth of the general theory.

The most obvious and the strongest association that can be established between inward feelings and external objects is, where the object is necessarily and universally connected with the feeling by the law of nature, so that it is always presented to the senses when the feeling is impressed upon the mind,—as the sight or the sound of laughter, with the feeling of gaiety,—of weeping, with distress,—of the sound of thunder, with ideas of danger and power. Let us dwell for a moment on the last instance. —Nothing, perhaps, in the whole range, is more strikingly and universally sublime than the sound we have just mentioned; yet it seems obvious that the sense of sublimity is produced, not by any quality that is perceived by the ear, but altogether by the impression of power and of danger that is necessarily made upon the mind whenever that sound is heard. That it is not produced by any peculiarity in the sound itself, is certain, from the mistakes that are frequently made with regard to it. The noise of a cart rattling over the stones is often mistaken for thunder; and as long as the mistake lasts, this very vulgar and insignificant noise is actually felt to be prodigiously sublime. It is so felt, however, it is perfectly plain, merely because it is then associated with ideas of prodigious power and undefined danger; and the sublimity is destroyed the moment the association is dissolved, though the sound itself, and its effect on the organ, continue exactly the same. This, therefore, is an instance in which sublimity is distinctly proved to consist, not in any physical quality of the object to which it is ascribed, but in its necessary connection with that vast and uncontrolled Power which is the natural object of awe and veneration.

We may now take an example a little less plain and elementary. The most beautiful object in nature, perhaps, is the countenance of a young and beautiful woman ;— and we are apt at first to imagine, that, independently of all associations, the forms and colours which it displays are in themselves lovely and engaging, and would appear charming to all beholders, with whatever other qualities or impressions they might happen to be connected. A very little reflection, however, will probably be sufficient [7:4:490]to convince us of the fallacy of this impression, and to satisfy us, that what we admire is not a combination of forms and colours, which could never excite any mental emotion, but a collection of signs and tokens of certain mental feelings and affections, which are universally recognised as the proper objects of love and sympathy. Laying aside the emotions arising from difference of sex, and supposing female beauty to be contemplated by the pure and unenvying eye of a female, it seems quite obvious that, amongst its ingredients, we should trace the signs of two different sets of qualities, that are neither of them the object of sight, but of a higher faculty ;—in the first place, of youth and health; and, in the second place, of innocence, gaiety, sensibility, intelligence, delicacy or vivacity. Now, without enlarging upon the natural effect of these suggestions, we shall just suppose that the appearances, which must be admitted at all events to be actually significant of the qualities we have enumerated, had been by the law of nature attached to the very opposite qualities; —that the smooth forehead, the firm cheek, and the full lip, which are now so distinctly expressive to us of the gay and vigorous periods of youth,—and the clear and blooming complexion, which indicates health and activity,—had been in fact the forms and colours by which old age and sickness were characterized; and that, instead of being found united to those sources and seasons of enjoyment, they had been the badges by which nature pointed out that state of suffering and decay which is now signified to us by the livid and emaciated face of sickness, or the wrinkled front, the quivering lip, and hollow cheek of age: if this were the familiar law of our nature, can it be doubted that we should look upon these appearances, not with rapture, but with aversion,—and consider it as abso-Iutely ludicrous or disgusting to speak of the beauty of what was interpreted by every one as the lamented sign of pain and decrepitude? Mr Knight himself, though a firm believer in the intrinsic beauty of colours, is so much of this opinion, that he thinks it entirely owing to those associations that we prefer the tame smoothness and comparatively poor colours of a youthful face, to the richly fretted and variegated countenance of a pimpled drunkard.

Such, we conceive, would be the inevitable effect of dissolving the subsisting connection between the animating ideas of hope and enjoyment, and those visible appearances which are now significant of these emotions, and derive their whole beauty from this signification. But the effect would be still stronger if we could suppose the moral expression of these appearances to be reversed in the same manner. If the smile which now enchants us as the expression of innocence and affection, were the sign attached by nature to guilt and malignity,—if the blush which expresses delicacy, and the glance that speaks intelligence, vivacity, and softness, had always been found united with brutal passion or idiot moodiness,—is it not certain that the whole of their beauty would be extinguished, and that our emotions from the sight of them would be exactly the reverse of what they now are?

That the beauty of a living and sentient creature should depend, in a great degree, upon the qualities peculiar to such a creature, rather than upon the mere physical attributes which it may possess in common with the inert matter around it, cannot indeed appear a very improbable supposition to any one. But it may be more difficult for some persons to understand how the beauty of mere dead matter should be derived from the feelings and sympathies of sentient beings. It is absolutely necessary, therefore, that we should give an instance or two of this derivation.

It is easy enough to understand how the sight of a picture or statue should affect us nearly in the same way as the sight of the original; nor is it much more difficult to conceive, how the sight of a cottage should give us something of the same feeling as the sight of a peasant’s family, and the aspect of a town raise many of the same ideas as the appearance of a multitude of persons. We may begin, therefore, with an example a little more complicated. Take, for instance, the case of a common English landscape—green meadows, with fat cattle—canals or navigable rivers—well-fenced, well-cultivated fields neat, clean, scattered cottages—humble antique church, with church-yard elms, and crossing hedge-rows—all seen under bright skies, and in good weather: there is much beauty, as every one will acknowledge, in such a scene. But in what does the beauty consist? Not certainly in the mere mixture of colours and forms; for colours more pleasing, and lines more graceful (according to any theory of grace that may be preferred), might be spread upon a board, or a painter’s pallet, without engaging the eye to a second glance, or raising the least emotion in the mind; but in the picture of human happiness that is presented to our imaginations and affections,—in the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, and cheerful and peaceful enjoyment,—and of that secure and successful industry that insures its continuance,—and of the piety by which it is exalted,—and of the simplicity by which it is contrasted with the guilt and the fever of a city life,—in the images of health and temperance and plenty which it exhibits to every eye,—and in the glimpses which it affords to warmer imaginations, of those primitive or fabulous times, when man was uncorrupted by luxury and ambition, and of those humble retreats in which we still delight to imagine that love and philosophy may find an unpolluted asylum. At all events, however, it is human feeling that excites our sympathy, and forms the object of our emotions. It is man, and man alone, that we see in the beauties of the earth which he inhabits ;—or, if a more sensitive and extended sympathy connect us with the lower families of animated nature, and make us rejoice with the lambs that bleat on the uplands, or the cattle that ruminate in the valley, or even with the living plants that drink the bright sun and the balmy air beside them, it is still the idea of enjoyment—of feelings that animate the existence of sentient beings—that calls forth all our emotions, and is the parent of all the beauty with which we proceed to invest the inanimate creation around us.

Instead of this quiet and tame English landscape, let us now take a Welsh or a Highland scene, and see whether its beauties will admit of being explained on the same principle. Here we shall have lofty mountains, and rocky and lonely recesses,—tufted woods hung over precipices,—· lakes intersected with castled promontories,—ample solitudes of unploughed and untrodden valleys,—nameless and gigantic ruins,—and mountain echoes repeating the scream of the eagle and the roar of the cataract. This, too, is beautiful; and, to those who can interpret the language it speaks, far more beautiful than the prosperous, scene with which we have contrasted it. Yet, lonely as it ιs,.ιt is to the recollection of man and of human feelings that its beauty also is owing. The mere forms and colours that compose its visible appearance, are no more capable of exciting any emotion in the mind, than the forms and colours of a Turkey carpet. It is sympathy with the present or the past, or the imaginary inhabitants of such a region, that alone gives it either interest or beauty; and the delight of those who behold it will always be found to be in exact proportion to the force of their imaginations, and the warmth of their social affections. The leading impressions here are -those of romantic seclusion and prime'a simplicity; lovers sequestered in these blissful solitude “from towns and toils remote and rustic poets and phi' losophers communing with nature, at a distance from the [7:4:491]low pursuits and selfish malignity of ordinary mortals ;— ' then there is the sublime impression of the Mighty Power which piled the massive cliffs upon one another, and rent the mountains asunder, and scattered their giant fragments at their base,—and all the images connected with the monuments of ancient magnificence and extinguished hostility the feuds, and the combats, and the triumphs of its wild and primitive inhabitants, contrasted with the stillness and desolation of the scenes where they lie interred, —and the romantic ideas attached to their ancient traditions and the peculiarities of their present life,—their wild and enthusiastic poetry,—their gloomy superstitions, —their attachment to their chiefs,—the dangers, and the hardships, and enjoyments of their lonely huntings and fishings,—their pastoral shielings on the mountains in summer,—and the tales and the sports that amuse the little groups that are frozen into their vast and trackless valleys in the winter. Add to all this the traces of vast and obscure antiquity that are impressed on the language and the habits of the people, and on the cliffs, and caves, and gulfy torrents of the land,—and the solemn and touching reflection perpetually recurring, of the weakness and insignificance of perishable man, whose generations thus pass away into oblivion with all their toils and ambition, while nature holds on her unvarying course, and pours out her streams, and renews her forests, with undecaying activity, regardless of the fate of her proud and perishable sovereign.

We have said enough, we believe, to let our readers understand what we mean by external objects being the natural signs or concomitants of human sympathies or emotions. Yet we cannot refrain from adding one other illustration, and asking on what other principle we can account for the beauty of spring? Winter has shades as deep, and colours as brilliant, and the great forms of nature are substantially the same through all the revolutions of the year. We shall seek in vain, therefore, in the accidents of mere organic matter, for the sources of that “vernal delight and joy” which subject all finer spirits to an annual intoxication, and strike home the sense of beauty even to hearts that seem proof against it under all other aspects. And it is not among the dead, but among the living, that this beauty originates. It is the renovation of life and of joy to all animated beings that constitutes this great jubilee of nature,—the young of animals bursting into existence,—the simple and universal pleasures which are diffused by the mere temperature of the air and the profusion of sustenance,—the pairing of birds,—the cheerful resumption of rustic toils,—the great alleviation of all the miseries of poverty and sickness,—our sympathy with the young life, and the promise and the hazards of the vegetable creation,—the solemn yet cheering impression of the constancy of nature to her great periods of renovation,— and the hopes that dart spontaneously forward into the new c>rcle of exertions and enjoyments that is opened up by her hand and her example. Such are some of the conceptions that are forced upon us by the appearances of returning spring, and that seem to account for the emotions of delight with which these appearances are hailed by every mind endowed with any degree of sensibility, somewhat better than the brightness of the colours, or the a greeableness of the smells, that are then presented to our senses.

They are kindred conceptions that constitute all the beauty of childhood. The forms and colours that are pe-Sp 1 1 a f to t hat age are not necessarily or absolutely beau- ∏ul in themselves; for, in a grown person, the same forms and colours would be either ludicrous or disgusting. It is their indestructible connection with the engaging ideas innocence,—of careless gaiety,—of unsuspecting con fidence, made still more tender and attractive by the recollection of helplessness, and blameless and happy ignorance,—of the anxious affection that watches over all their ways,—and of the hopes and fears that seek to pierce futurity, for those who have neither fears nor cares nor anxieties for themselves.

These few illustrations will probably be sufficient to give our readers a general conception of the character and the grounds of that theory of beauty which, we think, affords the only true or consistent account of its nature. They are all examples, it will be observed, of the first and most important connection which we think may be established between external objects and the sentiments or emotions of the mind, or cases, in which the visible phenomena are the natural and universal accompaniments of the emotion, and are consequently capable of reviving that emotion, in some degree, in the breast of every beholder.

If the tenor of those illustrations has been such as to make any impression in favour of the general theory, we conceive that it must be very greatly confirmed by the slightest consideration of the second class of cases, or those in which the external object is not the natural and necessary, but only the occasional or accidental, concomitant of the emotion which it recalls. In the former instances some conception of beauty seems to be inseparable from the appearance of the objects; and being impressed, in some degree, upon all persons to whom they are presented, there is evidently room for insinuating that it is an independent and intrinsic quality of their nature, and does not arise from association with any thing else. In the instances, however, to which we are now to allude, this perception of beauty is not universal, but entirely dependent upon the opportunities which each individual has had to associate ideas of emotion with the object to which it is ascribed; the same thing appearing beautiful to those who have been exposed to the influence of such associations, and indifferent to those who have not. Such instances, therefore, really afford an experimentum crucis as to the truth of the theory in question; nor is it easy to conceive any more complete evidence, both that there is no such thing as absolute or intrinsic beauty, and that it depends altogether on those associations with which it is thus found to come and to disappear.

The accidental or arbitrary relations that may thus be established between natural sympathies or emotions, and external objects, may be either such as occur to whole classes of men, or are confined to particular individuals. Among the former, those that apply to different nations or races of men, are the most important and remarkable; and constitute the basis of those peculiarities by which national tastes are distinguished. Take, again, for example, the instance of female beauty, and think what different and inconsistent standards would be fixed for it in the different regions of the world; in Africa, in Asia, and in Europe; in Tartary and in Greece; in Lapland, Patagonia, and Circassia. If there were any thing absolutely or intrinsically beautiful in any of the forms thus distinguished, it is inconceivable that men should differ so outrageously in their conceptions of it. If beauty were a real and independent quality, it seems impossible that it should be distinctly and clearly felt by one set of persons, where another set, altogether as sensitive, could see nothing but its opposite; and if it were actually and inseparably attached to certain forms, colours, or proportions, it must appear utterly inexplicable that it should be felt and perceived in the most opposite forms and proportions in objects of the same description. On the other hand, if all beauty consist in reminding us of certain natural sympathies and objects of emotion, with which they have been habitually connected, it is easy to perceive how [7:4:492]the most different forms should be felt to be equally beautiful. If female beauty, for instance, consist in the visible signs and expressions of youth and health, and of gentleness, vivacity, and kindness; then it will necessarily happen, that the forms, and colours, and proportions which nature may have connected with these qualities, in the different climates or regions of the world, will all appear equally beautiful to those who have been accustomed to recognise them as the signs of such qualities; while they will be respectively indifferent to those who have not learned to interpret them in this sense, and displeasing to those whom experience has led to consider them as the signs of opposite qualities. The case is the same, though perhaps to a smaller degree, as to the peculiarity of national taste in other particulars. The style of dress and architecture in every nation, if not adopted from mere want of skill, or penury of materials, always appears beautiful to the natives, and somewhat monstrous and absurd to foreigners; and the general character and aspect of their landscape, in like manner, if not associated with substantial evils and inconveniences, always appears more beautiful and enchanting than the scenery of any other region. The fact is still more striking, perhaps, in the case of music; in the effects of those national airs, with which even the most uncultivated imaginations have connected so many interesting recollections; and in the delight with which all persons of sensibility catch the strains of their native melodies in strange or in distant lands. It is owing chiefly to the same sort of arbitrary and national association, that white is thought a gay colour in Europe, where it is used at weddings,—and a dismal colour in China, where it is used for mourning; that we think yew-trees gloomy, because they are planted in churchyards,—and large masses of powdered horse hair majestic, because we see them on the heads of judges and bishops.

Next to those curious instances of arbitrary or limited associations that are exemplified in the diversities of national taste, are those that are produced by the differences of instruction or education. Ifexternal objects were sublime or beautiful in themselves, it is plain that they would appear equally so to those who were acquainted with their origin, and to those to whom it was unknown. Yet it is not easy, perhaps, to calculate the degree to which our notions of beauty and sublimity are now influenced over all Europe by the study of classical literature; or the number of impressions of this sort which the well-educated consequently receive, from objects that are utterly indifferent to uninstructed persons of the same natural sensibility. Upon this subject we gladly avail ourselves of the beautiful expressions of Mr Alison.

“The delight which most men of education receive from the consideration of antiquity, and the beauty that they discover in every object which is connected with ancient times, is in a great measure to be ascribed to the same cause. The antiquarian, in his cabinet, surrounded by the relics of former ages, seems to himself to be removed to periods that are long since past, and indulges in the imagination of living in a world which, by a very natural kind of prejudice, we are always willing to believe was both wiser and better than the present. All that is venerable or laudable in the history of these times presents itself to his memory. The gallantry, the heroism, the patriotism of antiquity, rise again before his view, softened by the obscurity in which they are involved, and rendered more seducing to the imagination by that obscurity itself, which, while it mingles a sentiment, of regret amid his pursuits, serves at the same time to stimulate his fancy to fill up, by its own creation, those long intervals of time of which history has preserved no record. The relics he contemplates seem to approach him still nearer to the ages of his regard. The dress, the surni-ture, the arms of the times, are so many assistances to his imagination, in guiding or directing its exercise; and, offering him a thousand sources of imagery, provide him with an almost inexhaustible field in which his memory and liis fancy may expatiate. There are few men who have not felt somewhat, at least, of the delight of such an employment. There is no man in the least acquainted with the history of antiquity, who does not love to let his imagination loose on the prospect of its remains, and to whom they are not in some measure sacred, from the innumerable images which they bring. Even the peasant, whose knowledge of former times extends but to a few generations, has yet in his village some monument of the deeds or virtues of his forefathers, and cherishes with a fond veneration the memoriaì of those good old times to which his imagination returns with delight, and of which he loves to recount the simple tales that tradition has brought him.

“And what is it that constitutes that emotion of sublime delight which every man of common sensibility feels upon the first prospect of Rome? It is not the scene of destruction which is before him. It is not the Tiber, diminished in his imagination to a paltry stream, flowing amid the ruins of that magnificence which it once adorned. It is not the triumph of superstition over the wreck of human greatness, and its monuments erected upon the very spot where the first honours of humanity have been gained. It is ancient Rome which fills his imagination. It is the country of Caesar, and Cicero, and Virgil, which is before him. It is the mistress of the world which he sees, and who seems to him to rise again from her tomb, to give laws to the universe. All that the labours of his youth or the studies of his maturer age have acquired with regard to the history of this great people, opens at once before his imagination, and presents him with a field of high and solemn imagery, which can never be exhausted. Take from him these associations—conceal from him that it is Rome that he sees, and how different would be his emotion !”

The influences of the same studies may be traced, indeed, through almost all our impressions of beauty; and especially in the feelings which ŵe receive from the contemplation of rural scenery, where the images and recollections which have been-associated with such objects, in the enchanting strains of the poets, are perpetually recalled by their appearance, and give an interest and a beauty to the prospect, of which the uninstructed cannot have the slightest perception. Upon this subject, also, Mr Alison has expressed himself with his usual warmth and elegance. After observing that, in childhood, the beauties of nature have scarcely any existence for those who have as yet but little general sympathy with mankind, he proceeds to state that they are usually first recommended to notice by the poets, to whom we are introduced in the course of education; and who, in a manner, create them for us, by the associations which they enable us to form with their visible appearance.

“How different from this period become the sentiments with which the scenery of nature is contemplated by those who have any imagination! The beautiful forms of ancient mythology with which the fancy of poets peopled every element, are now ready to appear to their minds upon the prospect of every scene. The descriptions of ancient authors, so long admired, and so deserving of admiration, occur to them at every moment, and, with them,-all those enthusiastic ideas of ancient genius and glory which the study of so many years of youth so naturally r leads them to form. Or, if the study of modern poetry has succeeded to that of the ancient, a thousan
[7:4:493]

other beautiful associations are acquired, which, instead of destroying, serve easily to unite with the former, and to afford a new source of delight. The awful forms of Gothic superstition, the wild and romantic imagery which the turbulence of the middle ages, the crusades, and the institution of chivalry, have spread over every country of Europe, arise to the imagination in every scene; accompanied with all those pleasing recollections of prowess, and adventure, and courteous manners, which distinguished those memorable times. With such images in their minds, it is not common nature that appears to surround them. It is nature embellished and made sacred by the memory of Theocritus and Virgil, and Milton and Tasso; their genius appears still to linger among the scenes which inspired it, and to irradiate every object where it dwells; and the creation of their fancy seems the fit inhabitants of that nature which their descriptions have clothed with beauty.”

It is needless, for the purpose of mere illustration, to pursue this subject of arbitrary or accidental association through all the divisions of which it is susceptible; and, indeed, the task would be endless, since there is scarcely any class in society which could not be shown to have peculiar associations of interest and emotion with objects which are not so connected in the minds of any other class. The young and the old—the rich and the poor—the artist and the man of science—the inhabitant of the city and the inhabitant of the country—the man of business and the man of pleasure—the domestic and the dissipated— nay, even the followers of almost every different study or profession,—have perceptions of beauty, because they have associations with external objects, that are peculiar to themselves, and have no existence for any other persons. But, though the detail of such instances could not fail to show, in the clearest and most convincing manner, how directly the notion of beauty is derived from some more radical and familiar emotion, and how many and various are the channels by which such emotions are transmitted, enough, perhaps, has been already said to put our readers in possession of the principles and general bearings of an argument which we must not think of exhausting.

Before entirely leaving this branch of the subject, however, let us pause for a moment on the familiar but very striking and decisive instance of our varying and contradictory judgments as to the beauty of the successive fashions of dress that have existed within our own remembrance. All persons who still continue to find amusement m society, and are not old enough to enjoy only the recollections of their youth, think the prevailing fashions becoming and graceful, and the fashions of twenty or twenty-five years old intolerably ugly and ridiculous. The younger they are, and the more they mix in society, this impression is the stronger; and the fact is worth noticing, because there is really no one thing as to which persons judging merely from their feelings, and therefore less likely to. be misled by any systems or theories, are so very positive and decided, as that established fashions are beautiful in themselves; and that exploded fashions are intrinsically and beyond all question preposterous and ugly. We have never yet met a young lady or gentleman, who spoke from their hearts, and without reserve, who had the cast doubt on the subject, or could conceive how any person could be so stupid, as not to see the intrinsic elegance θι the reigning mode, or not to be struck with the ludi-cious awkwardness of the habits in which their mothers? ere disguised. Yet there can be no doubt, that if these ιn gemous critics had been born with the same natural sensibility to beauty, but twenty years earlier, they would ave joined in admiring what they now laugh at, as cer- aι niy as those who succeed them twenty years hereafter will laugh at them. It is plain, then, and we think scarcely disputed out of the circles to which we have alluded, that there is, in the general case, no intrinsic beauty or deformity in any of those fashions; and that the forms, and colours, and materials, that are, we may say, universally and very strongly felt to be beautiful while they are in fashion, are sure to lose all their beauty as soon as the fashion has passed away. Now the forms, and colours, and combinations, remain exactly as they were; and, therefore, it seems perfectly obvious that the source of their successive beauty and ugliness must be sought in something extrinsic, and can only be found in the associations which once recommended and ultimately degraded them in our estimation. While they were in fashion, they were the forms and colours which distinguished the rich and the noble,—the eminent, the envied, the observed in society. They were the forms and the colours in which all that was beautiful, and admired, and exalted, were habitually arrayed. They were associated, therefore, with ideas of opulence, and elegance, and gaiety, and all that is· captivating and bewitching in manners, fortune, and situation,—and derived the whole of their beauty from those associations. By and by, however, they were deserted by the beautiful, the rich, and the elegant, and descended to the vulgar and dependent, or were only seen in combination with the antiquated airs of faded beauties or obsolete beaux. They thus came to be associated with ideas of vulgarity and derision, and with the images of old and decayed persons, whom it is difficult for their juniors to believe ever to have been young or attractive ;—and the associations being thus reversed, in which all their beauty consisted, the beauty itself naturally disappears.

The operation of the same causes is distinctly visible in all the other apparent irregularities of our judgments as to this description of beauty. Old people have in general but little toleration for the obsolete fashions of their later or middle years, but will generally stickle for the intrinsic elegance of those which were prevalent in the bright days of their early youth,—as being still associated in their recollections with the beauty with which they were first enchanted, and the gay spirits with which they were then inspired. In the same way, while we laugh at the fashions of which fine ladies and gentlemen were proud in the days of our childhood, because they are now associated only with images of decrepitude and decay, we look with some feelings of veneration on the habits of more remote generations, the individuals of which are only known to us as historical persons; and with unmingled respect and admiration on those still more ancient habiliments which remind us either of the heroism of the feudal chivalry, or the virtue and nobleness of classical antiquity. The iron mail of the Gothic knight, or the clumsy shield and naked arms of the Roman warrior, strike us as majestic and graceful, merely because they are associated with nothing but tales of romantic daring or patriotic prowess; while the full-bottomed periwigs that were added to the soldier’s equipment in the days of Louis XIV. and King William, and no doubt had a noble effect in the eyes of that generation, now appear to us equally ridiculous and unbecoming, merely because such appendages are no longer to be seen but upon the heads of sober and sedentary lawyers, or in the pictures of antiquated esquires.

We cannot afford, however, to enlarge any further upon these considerations, and are inclined indeed to think,’ that what has been already said on the subject of associa- j tions, which, though not universal, are common to whole classes of persons, will make it unnecessary to enlarge on those that are peculiar to each individual. It is almost [7:4:494]enough, indeed, to transcribe the following short passage from Mr Alison.

“There is no man who has not some interesting associations with particular scenes, or airs, or books, and who does not feel their beauty or sublimity enhanced to him by such connections. The view of the house where one was born, of the school where one was educated, and where the gay years of infancy were passed, is indifferent to no man. They recall so many images of past happiness and past affections, they are connected with so many strong or valued emotions, and lead altogether to so long a train of feelings and recollections, that there is hardly any scene which one ever beholds with so much rapture. There are songs, also, that we have heard in our infancy, which, when brought to our remembrance in after years, raise emotions for which we cannot well account; and which, though perhaps very indifferent in themselves, still continue, from this association, and from the variety of conceptions which they kindle in our minds, to be our favourites through life. The scenes which have been distinguished by the residence of any person whose memory we admire produce a similar effect. AIovemur enim, nescio quo pacto, locis ipsis, in quibus eorum, quos diligimus aut admiramur, adsunt vestigia. The scenes themselves may be little beautiful; but the delight with which we recollect the traces of their lives blends itself insensibly with the emotions which the scenery excites; and the admiration which these recollections afford seems to give a kind of sanctity to the place where they dwelt, and converts every thing into beauty which appears to have been connected with them.”

There are similar impressions,—as to the sort of scenery to which we have long been accustomed,—as to the style of personal beauty by which we were first enchanted,—and even as to the dialect, or the form of versification, which we first began to admire,—that bestow a secret and adventitious charm upon all these objects, and enable us to discover in them a beauty which is invisible, because it is non-existent to every other eye.

In all the cases we have hitherto considered, the external object is supposed to have acquired its beauty by being actually connected with the causes of our natural emotions, either as a sign of their existence, or as being locally present to their ordinary occasions. There is a relation, however, of another kind, to which it is necessary to attend, both to elucidate the general grounds of the theory, and to explain several appearances that might otherwise expose it to objections. This is the relation which external objects may bear to our internal feelings, and the power they may consequently acquire of suggesting them, in consequence of a sort of resemblance or analogy which they seem to have to their natural and appropriate objects. The language of poetry is founded in a great degree upon this analogy; and all language, indeed, is full of it, and attests, by its structure, both the extent to which it is spontaneously pursued, and the effects that are produced by its suggestion. We take a familiar instance from the elegant writer to whom we have already referred.

“What, for instance, is the impression we feel from the scenery of spring? The soft and gentle green with which the earth is spread, the feeble texture of the plants and flowers, and the remains of winter yet lingering among the woods and hills,—all conspire to infuse into our minds somewhat of that fearful tenderness with which infancy is usually beheld. With such a sentiment, how innumerable are the ideas which present themselves to our imagination !—ideas, it is apparent, by no means confined to the scene before our eyes, or to the possible desolation which may yet await its infant beauty, but which almost involuntarily extend themselves to analogies with the life of man, and bring before us all those images of hope or fear which, according to our peculiar situations, have the dominion of our hearts. The beauty of autumn is accompanied with a similar exercise of thought: the leaves begin then to drop from the trees; the flowers and shrubs with which the fields were adorned in the summer months decay; the woods and groves are silent; the sun himself seems gradually to withdraw his light, or to become enfeebled in his power. Who is there who at this season does not feel his mind impressed with a sentiment of melancholy? or who is able to resist that current of thought which, from such appearances of decay, so naturally leads him to the solemn imagination of that inevitable fate which is to bring on alike the decay of life, of empire, and of nature itself?” ⅛--

A thousand such analogies, indeed, are suggested to us by the most familiar aspects of nature. The morning and the evening present the same ready picture of youth and of closing life as the various vicissitudes of the year. The withering of flowers images out to us the languor of beauty or the sickness of childhood. The loud roar of troubled waters seems to bear some resemblance to the voice of lamentation or violence; and the softer murmur of brighter streams, to be expressive of cheerfulness and innocence. The purity and transparency of water or of air, indeed, is itself felt to be expressive of mental purity and gaiety; and their darkness or turbulence, of mental gloom and dejection. The genial warmth of autumn suggests to us the feeling of mild benevolence ;—the sunny gleams and fitful showers of early spring remind us of the waywardness of infancy ;—flowers waving on their slender stems impress us with the notion of flexibility and lightness of temper. All fine and delicate forms are typical of delicacy and gentleness of character; and almost all forms bounded by waving or flowing lines suggest ideas of ease, pliability, and elegance. Rapid and impetuous motion seems to be emblematical of violence and passion ;—slow and steady motion, of deliberation, dignity, and resolution ;—fluttering motion, of inconstancy or terror ;—and waving motion, according as it is slow or swift, of sadness or playfulness. A lofty tower or a massive building gives us the idea of firmness and elevation of character ;—a rock battered by the waves, of fortitude in adversity. Stillness and calmness in the water or the air seem to shadow out tenderness, indolence, and placidity ;—moonlight we call pensive and gentle ;—and the unclouded sun gives us an impression of exulting vigour, and domineering ambition and glory.

It is not difficult, with the assistance which language affords us, to trace the origin of all these and a thousand other associations. In many instances, the qualities which thus suggest mental emotions do actually resemble their constant concomitants in human nature, as is obviously the case with the forms and motions which are sublime or beautiful; and, in some, their effects and relations bear so obvious an analogy to those of human conduct or feeling, as to force itself upon the notice of the most careless beholder. But, whatever may have been their original, the very structure of language attests the vast extent to which they have been carried, and the nature of the suggestions to which they are indebted for their interest or beauty. If we speak familiarly of the sparkling of wit, and the darkness of melancholy, can it be at all difficult to conceive that bright light may be agreeable, because it reminds us of gaiety, and darkness oppressive, because it is felt to be emblematical of sorrow? It is very remarkable, indeed, that, whilst almost all the words by which the affections of the mind are expressed seem to have been borrowed originally from the qualities of matter, the [7:4:495]epithets by which we learn afterwards to distinguish such material objects as are felt to be sublime or beautiful, are all of them epithets that had been previously appropriated to express some quality or emotion of mind. Colours are said to be gay or grave—motions to be lively, or deliberate, or capricious—forms to be delicate or modest— sounds to be animated or mournful—prospects to be cheerful or melancholy—rocks to be bold—waters to be tranquil and a thousand other phrases of the same import; all indicating most unequivocally the sources from which our interest in matter is derived, and proving that it is necessary in all cases to confer mind and feeling upon it, before it can be conceived as either sublime or beautiful. The great charm, indeed, and the great secret of poetical diction, consists in thus lending life and emotion to all the objects it embraces; and the enchanting beauty which we sometimes recognise in descriptions of very ordinary phenomena, will be found to arise from the force of imagination, by which the poet has connected with human emotions a variety of objects, to which common minds could not discover their relation. What the poet does for his readers, however, by his original similes and metaphors iħ these higher cases, even the dullest of these readers do in some degree every day for themselves; and the beauty which is perceived, when natural objects are unexpectedly vivified by the glowing fancy of the former, is precisely of the same kind that is felt when the closeness of the analogy enables them to force human feelings upon the recollection of all mankind. As the poet sees more of beauty in nature than ordinary mortals, just because he perceives more of these analogies and relations to social emotion, in which all beauty consists; so, other men see more or less of this beauty, exactly as they happen to possess that fancy, or those habits, which enable them readily to trace out these relations.

From all these sources of evidence, then, we think it is pretty well made out, that the beauty or sublimity of external objects is nothing but the reflection of emotions excited by the feelings or condition of sentient beings, and is produced altogether by certain little portions, as it were, of love, joy, pity, veneration, or terror, that adhere to those objects which are present on occasion of such emotions. Nor, after what we have already said, does it seem to be necessary to reply to more than one of the objections to which we are aware that this theory is liable.

If beauty be nothing more than a reflection of love, pity, or veneration, how comes it, it may be asked, to be distinguished from these sentiments? They are never confounded with each other either in our feelings or our language. Why, then, should they all be confounded under the common name of beauty? and why should beauty, in all cases, affect us in a way so different from the love or compassion of which it is said to be merely the reflection?

Now, to these questions we are somewhat tempted to answer, after the manner of Scotchmen, by asking, in our turn, whether it be really true that beauty always affects us in one and the same manner, and always in a different manner from the simple and elementary affections which it is its office to recall to us? In very many cases it appears to us that the sensations which we receive from objects that are felt to be beautiful, and that in the highest degree, do not differ at all from the direct movements of tenderness or pity towards sentient beings. If the epithet °f beauty be correctly (as it is universally) applied to many of the most admired and enchanting passages in poetry, which consist entirely in the expression of affect- ln g sentiments, the question would be speedily decided; an d it is a fact, at all events, too remarkable to be omitted, (mt some of the most powerful and delightful emotions at are uniformly classed under this name, arise altogether from the direct influence of these pathetic emotions, without the intervention of any material imagery. We do not wish, however, to dwell upon an argument which certainly is not applicable to all parts of the question; and, admitting that, on many occasions, the feelings which we experience from beauty are sensibly different from the primary emotions in which we think they originate, we shall endeavour, in a very few words, to give an explanation of this difference, which seems to be perfectly consistent with the theory we have undertaken to illustrate.

In the first place, it should make some difference on the primary affections to which we have alluded, that, in the cases alluded to, they are reflected from material objects, and not directly excited by their natural causes. The light of the moon has a very different complexion from that of the sun, though it is in substance the sun’s light; and glimpses of interesting, or even of familiar objects, caught unexpectedly from a mirror placed at a distance from these objects, will affect us, like sudden allusions in poetry, very differently from the natural perception of those objects in their ordinary relations. In the next place, the emotion, when suggested in the shape of beauty, comes upon us, for the most part, disencumbered of all those accompaniments which frequently give it a peculiar and less satisfactory character, when it arises from direct intercourse with its living objects. The compassion, for example, that is suggested by beauty of a gentle and winning description, is not attended with any of that disgust and uneasiness which frequently accompany the spectacle of real distress, nor with that importunate suggestion of the duty of relieving it from which it is almost inseparable. Nor does the temporary delight which we receive from beauty of a gay and animating character, call upon us for any such expenditure of spirits, or active demonstrations of sympathy, as are sometimes demanded by the turbulence of real joy. In the third place, the emotion of beauty being partly founded upon illusion, is far more transitory in its own nature, and is both more apt to fluctuate and vary in its character, and more capable of being dismissed at pleasure, than any of the primary affections, whose shadow and representative it is. In the fourth place, the perception of beauty implies a certain exercise of the imagination that is not required in the case of direct emotion, and is sufficient of itself both to give a new character to every emotion that is suggested by the intervention of such an exercise, and to account for our classing all the various emotions that are so suggested under the same denomination of beauty. When we are injured we feel indignation,—when we are wounded we feel pain,—when we see suffering we feel compassion,—and when we witness any splendid act of heroism or generosity we feel admiration, without any effort of the imagination, or the intervention of any picture or vision in the mind. But when we feel indignation, or pity, or admiration, in consequence of seeing some piece of inanimate matter that merely suggests or recalls to us the ordinary causes or proper objects of these emotions, it is evident that our fancy is kindled by a sudden flash of recollection; and that the effect is produced by means of a certain poetical creation that is instantly conjured up in the mind. It is this active and heated state of the imagination, and this divided and busy occupation of the mind, that constitute the great peculiarity of the emotions we experience from the perception of beauty.

Finally, and this is perhaps the most important consideration of the whole, it should be recollected, that, along with the shadow or suggestion of associated emotions, there is always present a real and direct perception, which not only gives a force and liveliness to all the images which it suggests, but seems to impart to them some share of its [7:4:496]own reality. That there is an illusion of this kind in the case, is sufficiently demonstrated by the fact, that we invariably ascribe the interest which we think has been proved to arise wholly from these associations, to the object itself, as one of its actual and inherent qualities, and consider its beauty as no less a property belonging to it than any of its physical attributes. The associated interest, therefore, is beyond all doubt confounded with the present perception of the object itself; and a livelier and more instant impression is accordingly made upon the mind, than if the interesting conceptions had been merely excited in the memory by the usual operation of reflection or voluntary meditation. Something analogous to this is familiarly known to occur in other cases. When we merely think of an absent friend, our emotions are incomparably less lively than when the recollection of him is suddenly suggested by the unexpected sight of his picture, of the house where he dwelt, or the spot on which we last parted from him; and all these objects seem for the moment to wear the colours of our own associated affections. When Captain Cook’s companions found, in the remotest corner of the habitable globe, a broken spoon with the word London stamped upon it, and burst into tears at the sight, they proved how differently we are moved by emotions thus connected with the real presence of an actual perception, and by the mere recollection of the objects on which those emotions depend. Every one of them had probably thought of London every day since he left it, and many of them might have been talking of it with tranquillity but a little before this more effectual appeal was made to their sensibility.

If we add to all this, that there is necessarily something of vagueness and variableness in the emotions most generally excited by the perception of beauty, and that the mind wanders with the eye over the different objects which may supply these emotions with a degree of unsteadiness and half voluntary half involuntary fluctuation, we may come to understand how the effect not only should be essentially different from that of the simple presentment of anyone interesting conception, but should acquire a peculiarity which entitles it to a different denomination. Most of the associations of which we have been last speaking, as being founded on the analogies or fanciful resemblances that are felt to exist between physical objects and qualities and the interesting affections of mind, are intrinsically of this vague and wavering descriptidn; and when we look at a fine landscape, or any other scene of complicated beauty, a great variety of such images are suddenly presented to the fancy, and as suddenly succeeded by others, as the eye ranges over the different features of which it is composed, and feeds upon the charms which it discloses. Now, the direct perception in all such cases not only perpetually accompanies the associated emotions, but is inextricably confounded with them in our feelings, and is even recognised upon reflection as the cause, not merely of their unusual strength, but of the several peculiarities by which we have shown that they are distinguished. It is not wonderful, therefore, either that emotions so circumstanced should not be classed along with similar affections, under circumstances extremely different, or that the perception of present existence, thus mixed up, and indissolubly confounded with interesting conceptions, should between them produce a sensation of so distinct a nature as naturally to be distinguished by a peculiar name, or that the beauty which results from this combination should, in ordinary language, be ascribed to the objects themselves, the presence and perception of which is a necessary condition of its existence.

What we have now said is enough, we believe, to give an attentive reader that general conception of the theory before us, which is all that we can hope to give in the limits to which this article is confined. It may be observed, however, that we have spoken only of those sorts of beauty which we think capable of being resolved into some passion, or emotion, or pretty lively sentiment of our nature; and though these are undoubtedly the highest and most decided kinds of beauty, it is certain that there are many things called beautiful which cannot claim so lofty a connection.

It is necessary, therefore, to observe, that, though every thing that excites any feeling worthy to be called an ewo- tion by its beauty or sublimity, will be found to be related to the natural objects of human passions or affections, there are many things which are pleasing or agreeable enough to be called beautiful in consequence of their relation merely to human convenience and comfort,— many others that please by suggesting ideas of human skill and ingenuity,—and many that obtain the name of beautiful by being associated with human fortune, vanity, or splendour. After what has been already said, it will not be necessary either to exemplify or explain these subordinate phenomena. It is enough merely to suggest that they all please upon the same great principle of sympathy with human feelings, and are explained by the simple and indisputable fact, that we are pleased with the direct contemplation of human comfort, ingenuity, and fortune. All these, indeed, obviously resolve themselves into the great object of sympathy—human enjoyment. Convenience and comfort is but another name for a lower but very indispensable ingredient of that emotion. Skill and ingenuity readily present themselves as means by which enjoyment may be promoted; and high fortune, and opulence, and splendour, pass, at least at a distance, for its certain causes and attendants. The beauty of fitness and adaptation of parts, even in the works of nature, is derived from the same fountain, partly by means of its obvious analogy to works of human skill, and partly by suggestions of that creative power and wisdom to which human destiny is subjected. The feelings, therefore, associated with all these qualities, though scarcely rising to the height of emotion, are obviously in a certain degree pleasing or interesting; and, when several of them happer to be united in one object, may accumulate to a very great degree of beauty. It is needless, we think, to pursue these general propositions through all the details to which they so obviously lead. We shall confine ourselves, therefore, to a very few remarks upon the beauty of architecture,—and chiefly as an illustration of our general position.

There are few things about which men of virtù are more apt to rave, than the merits of the Grecian architecture; and most of those who affect an uncommon purity and delicacy of taste talk of the intrinsic beauty of its proportions as a thing not to be disputed, except by barbarian ignorance and stupidity. Mr Alison, we think, was the first who gave a full and convincing refutation of this mysterious dogma; and, while he admits, in the most ample terms, the beauty of the objects in question, he has shown, we think, in the clearest manner, that it arises entirely from the combination of the following associations :—M The association of utility, convenience, or fitness for the purposes of the building; 2<ŵ/, Of security and stability, with a view to the nature of the materials; 3rfZy, Of the skill and power requisite to mould such materials into forms so commodious; 4tZ*Zy, Of magnificence, and splendour, and expense; bthly, Of antiquity; and, , othly i Of Roman and Grecian greatness. His observations are summed up in the following short sentence. . .

“The proportions,” he observes, “of these orders, it ιs to be remembered, are distinct subjects of beauty, fr° m the ornaments with which they are embellished, from the [7:4:497]magnificence with which they are executed, from the purposes of elegance they are intended to serve, or the scenes of grandeur they are destined to adorn. It is in such scenes, however, and with such additions, that we are accustomed to observe them; and, while we feel the effect of all these accidental associations, we are seldom willing to examine what are the causes of the complex emotion we feel, and readily attribute to the nature of the architecture itself the whole pleasure which we enjoy. But, besides these, there are other associations we have with these forms, that still more powerfully serve to command our admiration; for they are the Grecian orders,—they derive their origin from those times, and were the ornament of those countries, which are most hallowed in our imaginations; and it is difficult for us to see them, even in their modern copies, without feeling them operate upon our minds as relics of those polished nations where they first arose, and of that greater people by whom they were afterwards borrowed.”

This analysis is to us perfectly satisfactory. But, indeed, we cannot conceive any more complete refutation of the notion of an intrinsic and inherent beauty in the proportions of the Grecian architecture, than the fact of the admitted beauty of such very opposite proportions in the Gothic. Opposite as they are, however, the great elements of beauty are the same in this style as in the other,—the impressions of religious awe and of chivalrous recollections, coming here instead of the classical associations which constitute so great a share of the interest of the former. It is well observed by Mr Alison, that the great durability and costliness of the productions of this art have had the effect, in almost all regions of the world, of rendering their fashion permanent, after it had once attained such a degree of perfection as to fulfil its substantial purposes.

“Buildings,” he observes, “may last, and are intended to last, for centuries. The life of man is very inadequate to the duration of such productions; and the present period of the world, though old with respect to those arts which are employed upon perishable subjects, is yet young in relation to an art which is employed upon so durable materials as those of architecture. Instead of a few years, therefore, centuries must probably pass before such productions demand to be renewed; and, long before that period is elapsed, the sacredness of antiquity is acquired by the subject itself, and a new motive given for the preservation of similar forms. In every country, accordingly, the same effect has taken place; and the same causes which have thus served to produce among us, for so many years, a uniformity of taste with regard to the style of Grecian architecture, have produced also among the nations of the East, for a much longer course of time, a similar uniformity of taste with regard to their ornamental style of architecture; and have perpetuated among them the same forms which were in use among their forefathers before the Grecian orders were invented.”

It is not necessary, we think, to carry these illustrations any farther, as the theory they are intended to explain is now, we believe, universally adopted, though with some limitations, which we see no reason to retain. Those suggested by Mr Alison, we have already endeavoured to dispose of in the few remarks we have made upon his publication; and it only remains to say a word or two more upon Mr Knight’s doctrine as to the primitive and Independent beauty of colours, upon which we have already hazarded some remarks.

.. Agreeing as he does with Mr Alison, and all modern inquirers, that the whole beauty of objects consists, in the ar greater number of instances, in the associations to v ' nc h we have alluded, he still maintains that some few visible objects affect us with a sense of beauty in consequence of the pleasurable impression they make upon the sense, and that our perception of beauty is, in these instances, a mere organic sensation. Now we have already stated that it would be something quite unexampled in the history either of mind or of language, if certain physical and bodily sensations should thus be confounded with moral and social feelings with which they had no connection, and pass familiarly under one and the same name. Beauty consists confessedly, in almost all cases, in the suggestion of moral or social emotions, mixed up and modified by a present sensation or perception; and it is this suggestion, and this identification with a present object, that constitutes its essence, and gives a common character to the whole class of feelings it produces, sufficient to justify their being designated by a common appellation. If the word beauty, in short, must mean something, and if this be very clearly what it means in all remarkable instances, it is difficult to conceive that it should occasionally mean something quite different, and denote a mere sensual or physical gratification, unaccompanied by the suggestion of any moral emotion whatever. According to Mr Knight, however, and, indeed, to most other writers, this is the case with regard to the beauty of colours, which depends altogether, they say, upon the delight which the eye naturally takes in their contemplation; this delight being just as primitive and sensual as that which the palate receives from the contact of agreeable flavours.

It must be admitted, we think, in the first place, that such an allegation is in itself extremely improbable, andĮ contrary to all analogy, and all experience of the struc- 1 ture of language, or of the laws of thought. It is further 1 to be considered, too, that if the pleasures of the senses are ever to be considered as beautiful, those pleasures which are the most lively and important would be the most likely to usurp this denomination, and to take rank with the higher gratifications that result from the perception of beauty. Now, it admits of no dispute, that the mere organic pleasures of the cye are far inferior to those of the palate, the touch, and indeed almost all the other senses,—none of which, however, are in any case confounded with the sense of beauty. In the next place, it should follow, that if what affords organic pleasure to the eye be properly called beautiful, what offends or gives pain to it should be called ugly. Now, excessive or dazzling light is offensive to the eye, but, considered by itself, it is never called ugly, but only painful or disagreeable. The moderate excitement of light, on the other hand, or the soothing of certain bright but temperate colours, when considered in this primary aspect, is scarcely called beautiful, but only agreeable or refreshing. So far as the direct injury or comfort of the organ, in short, is concerned, the language which we use refers merely to physical or bodily sensation, and is not confounded with that which relates to mental emotion; and we really see no ground for supposing that there is any exception to this rule.

It is very remarkable, indeed, that the sense whose organic gratification is here supposed to constitute the feeling of beauty, should be one, in the first place, whose direct organic gratifications are of very little force or intensity; and, in the next place, one whose office it is, almost exclusively, to make us acquainted with the existence and properties of those external objects which are naturally interesting to our inward feelings and affections. This peculiarity makes it extremely probable, that ideas of emotion should be associated with the perceptions of this sense, but extremely improbable that its naked and unassociated sensations should in any case be classed with [7:4:498]such emotions. If the name of beauty were given to what directly gratifies any sense, such as that of tasting or smelling, which does not make us acquainted with the nature or relations of outward objects, there could be less room for such an explanation. But when it is the business of a particular sense or organ to introduce to our knowledge those objects which are naturally connected with ideas of emotion, it is easy to understand how its perceptions should be associated with these emotions, and an interest and importance thus extended to them, that belong to the intimations of no other bodily organ. But, on those very accounts, we should be prepared to suspect, that all the interest they possess is derived from this association; and to distrust the accuracy of any observations that may lead us to conclude that its mere organic impulses ever produced any thing akin to these associated emotions, or entitled to pass under their name. This caution will appear still more reasonable, when it is considered that all the other qualities of visible objects, except only their colours, are now admitted to be perfectly indifferent in themselves, and to possess no other beauty than they may derive from their associations with our ordinary affections. There are ηο forms, for example, even in Mr Knight’s opinion, that have any intrinsic beauty, or any power of pleasing or affecting us, except through their associations, or affinities to mental affections, either as expressive of fitness and utility, or as types and symbols of certain moral or intellectual qualities, in which the sources of our interest are obvious. Yet the form of an object is as conspicuous an ingredient of its beauty as its colour, and a property, too, which seems at first view to be as intrinsically and independently pleasing. Why, then, should we persist in holding that colours, or combinations of colours, please from being naturally agreeable to the organ of sight, when it is admitted that other visible qualities, which seem to possess the same power of pleasing, are found, upon examination, to owe it entirely to the principle of association?

The only reason that can be assigned, or that actually exists, for this distinction, is, that it has been supposed more difficult to account for the beauty of colours, upon the principles which have accounted for other beauties, or to specify the particular associations by virtue of which they could acquire this quality. Now it appears to us that there is no such difficulty; and that there is no reason whatever for holding that one colour, or combination of colours, is more pleasing than another, except upon the same grounds of association which, recommend particular forms, motions, or proportions. It appears to us, that the organic pleasures of the eye are extremely few and insignificant. It is hurt, no doubt, by an excessive glare of light; and it is in some degree gratified, perhaps, by a moderate degree of it. But it is only by the quantity or intensity of the light, we think, that it is so affected. The colour of it, we take it, is, in all cases, absolutely indifferent. But it is the colour only that is called beautiful or otherwise; and these qualities, we think, it very plainly derives from the common fountain of association.

In the first place, we would ask, whether there is any colour that is beautiful in all situations? and, in the next place, whether there is any colour that is not beautiful in some situation? With regard to the first, take the colours that are most commonly referred to as being intrinsically beautiful—bright and soft green—clear blue—bright pink, or vermilion. The first is unquestionably beautiful in vernal woods and summer meadows,—and, we humbly conceive, is beautiful because it is the natural sign and concomitant of those scenes and seasons of enjoyment. Blue, again, is beautiful in the vernal sky,—and, as we believe, for the sake of the pleasures of which such skies are pro lific; and pink is beautiful on the cheeks of a young woman or the leaves of a rose, for reasons too obvious to be stated. We have associations enough, therefore, to recommend all these colours, in the situations in which they are beautiful; but, strong as these associations are, they are unable to make them universally beautiful,—or beautiful indeed, in any other situations. Green would not be beautiful in the sky, nor blue on the cheek, nor vermilion on the grass. It may be said, indeed, that, though they are always recognised as beautiful in themselves, their obvious unfitness in such situations counteracts the effect of their beauty, and makes an opposite impression, as of something monstrous and unnatural; and that,accordingly, they are all beautiful in indifferent situations, where there is no such antagonist principle—in furniture, dress, and ornaments. Now the fact, in the first place, is not so;—- these bright colours being but seldom and sparingly admitted in ornaments or works of art; and no man, for example, choosing to have a blue house, or a green ceiling, or a pink coat. But, in the second place, if the facts were admitted, we think it obvious that the general beauty of these colours would be sufficiently accounted for by the very interesting and powerful associations under which all of them are so frequently presented by the hand of nature. The interest we take in female beauty,—in vernal delights,—in unclouded skies,—is far too lively and too constantly recurring, not to stamp a kindred interest upon the colours that are naturally associated with such objects, and to make us regard with some affection and delight those hues that remind us of them, although we should only meet them upon a fan or a dressing-box, the lining of a curtain or the back of a screen. Finally, we beg leave to observe, that all bright and clear colours are naturally typical of cheerfulness and purity of mind, and are hailed as emblems of moral qualities, to which no one can be indifferent

With regard to ugly colours, again, we really are not aware of any to which that epithet can safely be applied. Dull and dingy r hues are usually mentioned as in themselves the least pleasing; yet these are the prevailing tints in many beautiful landscapes and many admired pictures. They are also the most common colours that are chosen for dress, for building, for furniture, where the consideration of beauty is the only motive for the choice. In fact, the shaded parts of all coloured objects pass into tints of this description; nor can we at present recollect any one colour which we could specify as in itself disagreeable, without running counter to the feelings and the practice of the great mass of mankind. If the fact, however, were otherwise, and if certain muddy and dull colours were universally allowed to be disagreeable, we should think there could be no difficulty in referring these, too, to natural associations. Darkness, and all that approaches it, is naturally associated with ideas of melancholy, of helplessness, and danger; and the gloomy hues that remind us of it, or seem to draw upon it, must share in the same associations. Lurid skies, too, it should be observed, and turbid waters, and unfruitful swamps, and dreary morasses, are the natural and most common wearers of these dismal liveries. It is from these∙thatwe first become acquainted with them; and it is needless, therefore, to say that such objects are necessarily associated with ideas of discomfort, and sadness, and danger; and that the colours that remind us of them can scarcely fad to recall some of the same disagreeable sensations.

Enough, however, and more than enough, has been said about the supposed primitive and independent beauty o separate colours. It is chiefly upon the intrinsic beaut) of their mixture or combinations that Mr Knight and his adherents have insisted; and it is no doubt quite true, that, among painters and connoisseurs, we hear a g rer [7:4:499]deal about the harmony and composition of tints, and the charms and difficulties of a judicious colouring. In all this, however, we cannot help suspecting that there is no little pedantry and no little jargon; and that these phrases, when used without reference to the practical difficulties of the art, which must go for nothing in the present question, really mean little more than the true and natural appearance of coloured objects, seen through the same tinted or partially obscure medium that commonly constitutes the atmosphere. In nature, we know of no discordant or offensive colouring, except what may be referred to some accident or disaster that spoils the moral or sentimental expression of the scene, and disturbs the associations upon which all its beauty, whether of forms or of hues, seems to us very plainly dependent. We are perfectly aware, that ingenious persons have been disposed to dogmatize and to speculate very confidently upon these subjects; and have had the benefit of seeing various learned treatises upon the natural gamut of colours, and the inherent congruity of those that are called complementary, with reference to the prismatic spectrum. But we confess we have no faith in any of those fancies; and believe, that, if all these colours were fairly arranged on a plain board, according to the most rigid rules of this supposed harmony, nobody but the author of the theory would perceive the smallest beauty in the exhibition, or be the least offended by reversing their collocation.

We do not mean, however, to dispute that the laws of colouring, insisted on by learned artists, will produce a more pleasing effect upon trained judges of the art, than a neglect of these laws; because we have little doubt that these combinations of colour are recommended by certain associations, which render them generally pleasing to persons so trained and educated ;—all that we maintain is, that there are no combinations that are originally and universally pleasing or displeasing to the eye, independent of such associations; and it seems to us an irresistible proof of this, that these laws of harmonious colouring are perpetually and deliberately violated by great multitudes of persons, who not only have the perfect use of their sight, but are actually bestowing great pains and expense in providing for its gratification, in the very act of this violation. The Dutch trader, who paints over the outside of his country-house with as many bright colours as are to be found in his tulip-bed, and garnishes his green shutters with blue facings, and his purple roof with lilac ridges, not only sees as well as the studied colourist, who shudders at the exhibition, but actually receives as much pleasure, and as strong an impression of beauty, from the finished lusthaus, as the artist does from one of his best pictures. It is impossible, then, that these combinations of colours can be naturally or intrinsically offensive to the organ of sight; and their beauty or ugliness must depend upon the associations which different individuals may have happened to form with regard to them. We contend, however, for nothing more; and are quite willing to allow that the associations which recommend his staring tawdrmess to the buigomaster, are such as could not easily have been formed in the mind of a diligent and extensive observer of nature, and that they would probably be reversed by habits of reflection and study. But the same dung, it i s obvious, may be said of the notions of beauty of any other description that prevail among the rude, the inexperienced, and uninstructed; though, in all other instances, we take it for granted that the beauty which is PJ r cewed depends altogether upon association, and in no degree on its power of giving a pleasurable impulse to oe organ to which it addresses itself. If any consider-t θ number of persons, with the perfect use of sight, ac-ually take pleasure in certain combinations of colours, that is complete proof that such combinations are not naturally offensive to the organ of sight, and that the pleasure of such persons, exactly like that of those who disagree with them, is derived, not from the sense, but from associations with its perceptions.

With regard, again, to the effect of broken masses of light and shadow, it is proper, in the first place, to remember, that by the eye we see colour only; and that lights and shadows, as far as the mere organ is concerned, mean nothing but variations of tint. It is very true, no doubt, that we soon learn to refer many of those variations to light and shade, and that they thus become signs to us of depth, and distance, and relief. But is not this of itself sufficient to refute the idea of their affording any primitive or organic pleasure? In so far as they are mere variations of tints, they may be imitated by unmeaning daubs of paint on a pallet ;—in so far as they are signs, it is to the mind that they address themselves, and not to the organ. They are signs, too, it should be recollected, and the only signs we have, by which we can receive any correct knowledge of the existence and condition of all external objects at a distance from us, whether interesting or not interesting. Without the assistance of variety of tint, and of lights and shadows, we could never distinguish one object from another, except by the touch. These appearances, therefore, are the perpetual vehicles of almost all our interesting perceptions; and are consequently associated with all the emotions we receive from visible objects. It is pleasant to see many things in one prospect, because some of them are probably agreeable; and it is pleasant to know the relations of those things, because the qualities or associations, by means of which they interest us, depend generally upon that knowledge. The mixture of colours and shades, however, is necessary to this enjoyment, and consequently is a sign of it, and a source of associated interest or beauty.

Mr Knight, however, goes much farther than this; and maintains, that the beauty which is so distinctly felt in many pictures of objects in themselves disagreeable, is to be ascribed entirely to the effect of the brilliant and harmonious tints, and the masses of light and shadow, that may be employed in the representation. The filthy and tattered rags of a beggar, he observes, and the putrefying contents of a dunghill, may form beautiful objects in a picture; because, considered as mere objects of sight, they may often present beautiful effects of colouring and shadow; and these are preserved or heightened in the imitation, disjoined from all their offensive accompaniments. Now, if the tints and shades were the exclusive sources of our gratification, and if this gratification was diminished, instead of being heightened, by the suggestion which, however transiently, must still intrude itself, that they appeared in an imitation of disgusting objects, it must certainly follow, that the pleasure and the beauty would be much enhanced if there was no imitation of any thing whatever, and if the canvass merely presented the tints and shades, unaccompanied with the representation, of any particular object. It is perfectly obvious, however, that it would be absurd to call such a collection of coloured spots a beautiful picture; and that a man would be laughed at who should hang up such a piece of stained canvass among the works of the great artists. Again, if it were really possible for any one but a student of art to confine the attention to the mere colouring and shadowing of any picture, there is nothing so disgusting but what might form the subject of a beautiful imitation. A piece of putrid veal, or a cancerous ulcer, or the rags that are taken from it, may display the most brilliant tints and the finest distribution of light and shadow. Does Mr Knight, however, seriously think that either of these experiments would [7:4:500]succeed? Or are there, in reality, no other qualities in the pictures in question, to which their beauty can be ascribed, but the organic effect of their colours? We humbly conceive that there are, and that far less ingenuity than his might have been able to detect them.

There is, in the first place, the pleasing association of the skill and power of the artist,—a skill and power which, we know, maybe employed to produce unmingled delight, whatever may be the character of the particular effort before us. But, in the second place, we do humbly conceive that there are many interesting associations connected with the subjects which have been represented as purely disgusting. The aspect of human wretchedness and decay is not, at all events, an indifferent spectacle; and, if presented to us without actual offence to our senses, or any call on our active beneficence, may excite a sympathetic emotion, which is known to be far from undelightful. Many an attractive poem has been written on the miseries of beggars; and why should painting be supposed more fastidious? Besides,.it will be observed that the beggars of the painter are generally among the most interesting of that interesting order ;—either young and lovely children, whose health, and gaiety, and sweet expression, form an affecting contrast with their squalid garments, and the neglect and misery to which they seem to be destined,—or old and venerable persons, mingling something of the dignity and reverence of age with the broken spirit of their condition, and seeming to reproach mankind for exposing heads so old and white to the pelting of the pitiless storm. While such pictures suggest images so pathetic, it looks almost like a wilful perversity to ascribe their beauty entirely to the mixture of colours which they display, and to the forgetfulness of these images. Even for the dunghill we think it is possible to say something, though we confess we have never happened to see any picture of which that useful compound formed the peculiar subject. There is the display of the painter’s art and power here also; and the dunghill is not only useful, but is associated with many pleasing images of rustic toil and occupation, and of the simplicity, and comfort, and innocence of agricultural life. We do not know that a dunghill is at all a disagreeable object to look at, even in plain reality, provided it be so far off as not to annoy us with its odour, or to soil us with its effusions. In a picture, however, we are safe from any of these disasters; and considering that it is usually combined, in such delineations, with other more pleasing and touching remembrancers of humble happiness and contentment, we really do not see that it was at all necessary to impute any mysterious or intrinsic beauty to its complexion, in order to account for the satisfaction with which we can then bear to behold it.

Having said so much with a view to reduce to its just value, as an ingredient of beauty, the mere organical delight which the eye is supposed to derive from colours, we really have not patience to apply the same considerations to the alleged beauty of sounds that are supposed to be insignificant. Beautiful sounds in general, we think, are beautiful from association only,—from their resembling the natural tones of various passions and affections, or from their being originally and most frequently presented to us in scenes or on occasions of natural interest or emotion. With regard, again, to successive or co-existent sounds, we do not, of course, mean to dispute that there are such things as melody and harmony, and that most men are offended or gratified by the violation or observance of those laws upon which they depend. This, however, it should be observed, is a faculty quite unique, and unlike any thing else in our constitution; by no means universal, as the sense of beauty is, even in cultivated societies, and apparently withheld from whole communities of quick-cared savages and barbarians. Whether the kind of gratification which results from the mere musical arrangement of sounds would be referred to a sense of beauty, or would pass under that name, if it could be presented entirely detached from any associated emotions, appears to us to be exceedingly doubtful. Even with the benefit of these combinations, we do not find that every arrangement which merely preserves inviolate the rules of composition is considered beautiful; and we do not think that it would be consonant, either to the common feeling or common language of mankind, to bestow this epithet upon pieces that had no other merit. At all events, and whatever may be thought of the proper name of this singular gratification of a musical ear, it seems to be quite certain that all that rises to the dignity of an emotion in the pleasure we receive from sounds, is as clearly the gift of association as in the case of visible beauty,—of association with ..the passionate tones and modulations of the human voice,—with the scenes to which the interesting sounds are native,—with the poetry to which they have been married,—or even with the skill and genius of the artist by whom they have been arranged.

Hitherto we have spoken of the beauty of external objects only. But the whole difficulty of the theory consists in its application to them. If that be once adjusted, the beauty of immaterial objects can occasion no perplexity. Poems, and other compositions in words, are beautiful in proportion as they are conversant with beautiful objects, or as they suggest to us, in a more direct way, the moral and social emotions on which the beauty of all objects depends. Theorems and demonstrations are beautiful, according as they excite in us emotions of admiration for the genius and intellectual power of their inventors, and images of the magnificent and beneficial ends to which such discoveries may be applied; and mechanical contrivances are beautiful when they remind us of similar talents and ingenuity, and at the same time impress us with a more direct sense of their vast utility to mankind, and of the great additional conveniences with which life is consequently adorned. In all cases, therefore, there is the suggestion of some interesting conception or emotion associated with a present perception, in which it is apparently confounded and embodied; and this, according to the whole of the preceding deduction, is the distinguishing characteristic of beauty.

Having now explained, as fully as we think necessary,! the grounds of that opinion as to the nature of beauty 1 which appears to be most conformable to the truth, we have only to add a word or two as to the necessary consequences of its adoption upon several other controversies of a kindred description.

In the first place, then, we conceive that it establishes the substantial identity of the sublime, the beautiful, and the picturesque, and consequently puts an end to all controversy that is not purely verbal as to the difference of those several qualities. Every material object that interests without actually hurting or gratifying our bodily feelings, must do so, according to this theory, in one and the same manner, that is, by suggesting or recalling some emotion or affection of ourselves or some other sentient being, and presenting, to our imagination at least, some natural object of love, pity, admiration, or awe. The interest of material objects, therefore, is always the sarneì and arises in every case, not from any physical qualities they may possess, but from their association with some idea of emotion. But, though material objects have but one means of exciting emotion, the emotions they do excite are infinite. They are mirrors that may reflect al shades and all colours, and, in point of fact, do seldom [7:4:501]reflect the same hues twice. No two interesting objects, perhaps, whether known by the name of beautiful, sublime, or picturesque, ever produced exactly the same emotion in the beholder; and no one object, it is most probable, ever moved any two persons to the very same conceptions. As they may be associated with all the feelings and affections of which the human mind is susceptible, so they may suggest those feelings in all their variety, and, in fact, do daily excite all sorts of emotions, running through every gradation, from extreme gaiety and elevation, to the borders of horror and disgust.

Now, it is certainly true, that all the variety of emotions raised in this way, on the single basis of association, may be classed in a rude way under the denominations of sublime, beautiful, and picturesque, according as they partake of awe, tenderness, or admiration; and we have no other objection to this nomenclature except its extreme imperfection, and the delusions to which we know that it has given occasion. If objects that interest by their association with ideas of power, and danger, and terror, are to be distinguished by the peculiar name of sublime, why should there not be a separate name also for objects that interest by associations of mirth and gaiety,—another for those that please by suggestions of softness and melancholy,—another for such as are connected with impressions of comfort and tranquillity,—and another for those that are related to pity, and admiration, and love, and regret, and all the other distinct emotions and affections of our nature? These are not in reality less distinguishable from each other than from the emotions of awe and veneration that confer the title of sublime on their representatives; and while all the former are confounded under the comprehensive appellation of beauty, this partial attempt at distinction is only apt to mislead us into an erroneous opinion of our accuracy, and to make us believe both that there is a greater conformity among the things that pass under the same name, and a greater difference between those that pass under different names, than is really the case. We have seen already that the radical error of almost all preceding inquirers, has lain in supposing that every thing that passed under the name of beautiful must have some real and inherent quality in common with every thing else that obtained that name. And it is scarcely necessary for us to observe, that it has been almost ’ as general an opinion, that sublimity was not only something radically different from beauty, but actually opposite to it; whereas the factis, that it is far more nearly related to some sorts of beauty than many sorts of beauty are to each other; and that both are founded exactly upon the same principle of suggesting some past or possible emotion of some sentient being.

Upon this important point we are happy to find our opinions confirmed by the authority of Mr Stewart, who, in his Essay on the Beautiful, already referred to, has observed, not only that there appears to him to be no inconsistency or impropriety in such expressions as the Sublime Beauties of nature, or of the sacred Seriptures; but has added, in express terms, that, “to oppose the beautiful to the sublime, or to the picturesque, strikes him as something analogous to a contrast between the beautiful and the comic, the beautiful and the tragie, the beautiful and the pathetic, or the beautiful and the romantic.”

The only other advantage which we shall specify as hkely to result from the general adoption of the theory we have been endeavouring to illustrate, is, that it seems calculated to put an end to all these perplexing and vexatious questions about the standard of taste, which have given occasion to so much impertinent and so much elaborate discussion. If things are not beautiful in themselves, but only as they serve to suggest interesting conceptions to the mind, then every thing which does in point of faet suggest such a conception to any individual, is beautiful to that individual; and it is not only quite true that there is no room for disputing about tastes, but that all tastes are equally just and correct, in as far as each individual speaks only of his own emotions. When a man calls a thing beautiful, however, he may indeed mean to make two very different assertions ;—he may mean that it gives him pleasure, by suggesting to him some interesting emotion; and, in this sense, there can be no doubt that, if he merely speak truth, the thing is beautiful, and that it pleases him precisely in the same way that all other things please those to whom they appear beautiful. But if he mean further to say that the thing possesses some quality which should make it appear beautiful to every other person, and that it is owing to some prejudice or defect in them if it appear otherwise, then he is as unreasonable and absurd as he would think those who should attempt to convince him that he felt no emotion of beauty.

All tastes, then, are equally just and true, in as far as concerns the individual whose taste is in question; and what a man feels distinctly to be beautiful, is beautiful to him, whatever other people may think of it. All this follows clearly from the theory now in question: but it does not follow from it that all tastes are equally good or desirable, or that there is any difficulty in describing that which is really the best, and the most to be envied. The only use of the faculty of taste is to afford an innocent delight, and to aid the cultivation of a finer morality; and that man certainly will have the most delight from this faculty who has the most numerous and the most powerful perceptions of beauty. But if beauty consist in the reflection of our affections and sympathies, it is plain that he will always see the most beauty whose affections are warmest and most exercised, whose imagination is the most powerful, and who has most accustomed himself to attend to the objects by which he is surrounded. In as far as mere feeling and enjoyment are concerned, therefore, it seems evident that the best taste must be that which belongs to the best affections, the most active fancy, and the most attentive habits of observation. It will follow pretty exactly, too, that all men’s perceptions of beauty will be nearly in proportion to the degree of their sensibility and soeial sympathies; and that those who have no affections towards sentient beings, will be just as insensible to beauty in external objects, as he who cannot hear the sound of his friend’s voice must be deaf to its echo.

In so far as the sense of beauty is regarded as a mere source of enjoyment, this seems to be the only distinction that deserves to be attended to; and the only cultivation that taste should ever receive, with a view to the gratification of the individual, should be through the indirect channel of cultivating the affections and powers of observation. If we aspire, however, to be creators as well as observers of beauty, and place any part of our happiness in ministering to the gratification of others—as artists, or poets, or authors of any sort—then, indeed, a new distinction of tastes, and a far more laborious system of cultivation, will be necessary. A man who pursues only his own delight will be as much charmed with objects that suggest powerful emotions in consequence of personal and accidental associations, as with those that introduce similar emotions by means of associations that are universal and indestructible. To him, all objects of the former class are really as beautiful as those of the latter—and, for his own gratification, thecreation of that sort of beauty is just as important an occupation; but if he conceive the ambition of creating beauties for the admiration [7:4:502]of others, he must be cautious to employ only such objects as are the natural signs, or the inseparable concomitants of emotions, of which the greater part of mankind are susceptible; and his taste will then deserve to be called bad and false, if he obtrude upon the public, as beautiful, objects that are not likely to be associated in common minds with any interesting impressions.

For a man himself, then, there is no taste that is either bad or false; and the only difference worthy of being attended to, is that between a great deal and a very little. Some who have cold affections, sluggish imaginations, and no habits of observation, can with difficulty discern beauty in any thing; while others, who are full of kindness and sensibility, and who have been accustomed to attend to all the objects around them, feel it almost in every thing. It is no matter what other people may think of the objects of their admiration; nor ought it to be any concern of theirs that the public would be astonished or offended if they were called upon to join in that admiration. As long as no such call is made, this anticipated discrepancy of feeling need give them no uneasiness; and the suspicion of it should produce no contempt in any other person. It is a strange aberration indeed of vanity that makes us despise persons for being happy, for having sources of enjoyment in which we cannot share; and yet this is the true account of the ridicule which is so generally poured upon individuals who seek only to enjoy their peculiar tastes unmolested; for, if there be any truth in the theory we have been expounding, no taste is bad for any other reason than because it is peculiar, as the objects in which it delights must actually serve to suggest to the individual those common emotions and universal affections upon which the sense of beauty is everywhere founded. The misfortune is, however, that we are apt to consider all persons who make known their peculiar relishes, and especially all who create any objects for their gratification as in some measure dictating to the public, and setting up an idol for general adoration; and hence this intolerant interference with almost all peculiar perceptions of beauty, and the unsparing derision that pursues all deviations from acknowledged standards. This intolerance, we admit, is often provoked by something of a spirit of proselytism and arrogance, in those who mistake their own casual associations for natural or universal relations; and the consequence is, that mortified vanity dries up the fountain of their peculiar enjoyment, and disenchants, by a new association of general contempt or ridicule, the scenes that had been consecrated by some innocent but accidental emotion.

As all men must have some peculiar associations, all men must have-some peculiar notions of beauty, and, of course, to a certain extent, a taste that the public would be entitled to consider as false or vitiated. For those who make no demands on public admiration, however, it is hard to be obliged to sacrifice this source of enjoyment; and, even for those who labour for applause, the wisest course, perhaps, if it were only practicable, would be to have two tastes,—one to enjoy, and one to work by; one founded upon universal associations, according to which they finished those performances for which they challenged universal praise; and another guided by all casual and individual associations, through which they looked fondly upon nature, and upon the objects of their secret admiration. (p. p.)