before us. The case, however, is remarkably different when we have nothing before us but objects that are merely connected with ideas of sorrow or enjoyment, and capable, in consequence, of suggesting these emotions. Here there is, in the first place, no necessity or certainty that the emotion will be suggested at all; and, in the second place, no definite or particular image or tablature in which it is to be embodied. All that we have, is a general and vague impression of a particular class of emotions, and an undefined sort of consciousness of the capability of the objects before us to suggest trains of ideas well fitted to give them scope. The objects themselves, however, do very rarely prescribe the precise nature of these ideas: and, while an immense multitude of loose analogies and kindred recollections roll dimly over the mind, we are left to form them into such groups and combinations as we ourselves may select; and are tempted every moment to change the form of our cloudy creation, and to wander from one set of images and impressions to another. Even when we look upon a single form of beauty-upon an ancient statue for example, or a Gothic turretwe are apt to experience this fluctuation of the imagination,-this unsteadiness and perpetual shifting in the particular objects of emotion, and to feel that there is nothing that is peculiarly appropriate to the form before us; and that the fancy wavers among an indistinct crowd of equal competitors. This, however, is still more remarkably the case when the beauty that enchants us is of a more compound and complicated nature, and consists, as in the case of a fine landscape, of a great variety of parts and features, each of which may possess a peculiar character or shade of expression.

Take, for example, the scenery so beautifully, and yet imperfectly, described by Mr. Scott, on the borders of Loch-Katrine. The images which it is calculated to suggest will agree, perhaps, in being ideas of seclusionof a life set free from the restraints of the world, and hidden from its observation of sympathy with the simple joys and animating toils of its natives --and of awe and veneration for the Power which has left the traces of its might on the cliffs and mountains: but the particular train of images, by the help of which those general impressions may be moulded into distinct objects of emotion, is evidently altogether loose and undetermined, and must depend upon the taste, dispositions, and information of every different beholder. Thus, Fitz-James, with a due attention to his joyous and social character, is made to fill up the outline by planting an ideal castle, filled with hunters and fair ladies, on the steep,-and an abbey of jolly ecclesiastics on the meadow,-and by rousing the mounting echoes with the huntinghorn and the matin bell and chant: while Rousseau, in describing kindred scene, displays in a manner much more characteristic the romantic tenderness of his fancy, when he says, that it seemed like an asylum which Nature had spared for two faithful lovers, escaped alone from the ruin and desolation of the universe. To a mind familiar with the imagery of Celtic poetry, the same scene, it is obvious, might have presented a vision of white-armed virgin archers, and grey-haired bards, and warriors arming to redress the wrongs of damsels:-while, to a wilder or more gloomy fancy, it might have disclosed a picture of moonlight fairies and goblins;-or dens of ambushed banditti,or the onset of revengeful clans, and the triumphs of patriarchal chieftains. There is no limit, indeed, to the varieties of human interest that may be suggested to a powerful imagination by a scene so striking and so various; and we only multiply those coarse and unseemly sketches, in order to show how exclusively it is human interest, or at least

feeling and sentiment of some sort, that is the ultimate object of all those emotions which it is the characteristic of beauty to excite. Even where the object is simple and ordinary, the emotion of beauty which it excites is generally quite vague and indeterminate. Few common objects, for example, are more beautiful than a column of smoke rising slowly above trees, in a calm sky-so common is it, indeed, that it very often gives us no emotion at all; but if it once strikes us as beautiful, we may be certain that we have associated with it many ideas of human interest and feeling-many abortive little sketches of groups and persons connected with such an appearance. Mr. Wordsworth, we think (for we quote from memory), has noticed and exemplified the pliability of this very image in a very striking manner. The smoke comes to his eye, he says,

"With some uncertain notice, as may seem,
Of houseless wanderers in the summer wood;
Or of some hermit's cell, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone."

Cowper, we think, makes the same appearance significant of the encampment of gipsies, and all their picturesque establishment; and it is easy to see, that, to a creative fancy, it might suggest an infinite number of similar conceptions.

We have been betrayed into this long, and we fear tedious, detail, in order to show that the emotions which are suggested to us by the appearance of beauty, have seldom any fixed or determinate objects, as all emotions that are raised directly, and not by such suggestions, must necessarily have; and that the objects which the imagination is stimulated to conceive, are apt to shift and fluctuate before us-in many cases extending into a long train or series of connected impressions, and in others presenting only dim and broken outlines, that fleet away in irregular succession. This peculiarity, we are inclined to think, joined to those that have been already noticed, is fully sufficient to account for the difference that is felt to exist between the emotions of beauty, and the more simple and original emotions into which we hold that the former may be resolved. The suggestions of beauty seem, in this respect, to bear the same analogy to the direct impression of our affections that the expression of instrumental music does to that of poetry, or language in general. The most beautiful and expressive air that ever was invented, when played without words, communicates only a vague and indeterminate emotion to the mind; at the same time that it stimulates it to fill up the blank in the imagination with some scene or story corresponding to its general character. We may be able, for instance, to say with certainty that a particular air is pathetic and plaintive; but what particular sort of sorrow it expresses is left for every hearer to imagine. To some, accordingly, it will impart a vision of mothers wailing over their dead children; and to others, of divided lovers, complaining of perfidy or fortune. To one, it will speak of the desolation of captive warriors; to another, of the moanings of secluded penitence: and this very vagueness and uncertainty, joined with the excitement of the imagination which it produces, give a compass and extent to its power of expression, that familiarly distinguish it, though founded on the very same feelings, from the fixed, and limited, and precise expression of poetry. The case seems to be the same with visible beauty. The qualities in which it consists are but another set of characters for communicating those emotions that are more clearly, but not always so forcibly, expressed by the pen of the poet. They

constitute a sort of hieroglyphics, or picture-writings, that express the emotion by means of the relations and analogies of things, and not by any contrivance of direct or conventional reference. They require, therefore, to be eked out by the fancy and the knowledge of the reader; and rather rouse the imagination to a discovery, than enlighten it by a revelation. Those characters and pictures, at the same time, are just as little the ultimate objects of emotion as the letters and syllables of the poet. They are mere signs and instruments in both cases; and produce their effects on the mind, not by any relation which they themselves have to our feelings, but by suggesting to us, more or less directly, those emotions with which they have been associated.

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 narrow limits to which we are confined. It may be observed, however, that we have spoken only of those sorts of beauty that 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 connexion. It is necessary, therefore, to observe, that though every thing that excites any feeling worthy to be called an emotion 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 those qualities, though scarcely rising to the height of emotion, are obviously in a certain degree pleasing or interesting; and, when several of them happen 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 the beauty of versification, both which, we think, are obviously of this description.

There are few things about which men of virtu are more apt to rave than the merits of the Grecian architecture; and most of those who affect an un

common 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, has shown, we think, in the clearest manner, that it arises entirely from the combination of the following associations:-1st, The association of utility, convenience, or fitness for the purposes of the building; 2d, Of security and stability, with a view to the nature of the materials; 3d, Of the skill and power requisite to mould such materials into forms so commodious; 4th, Of magnificence, and splendour, and expense; 5th, Of antiquity; and, 6thly, Of Roman and Grecian greatness. His observations are summed up in the following short

sentence.

"The proportions,” he observes, “ of these orders, it is to be remembered, are distinet subjects of beauty, from the ornaments with which they are embellished, from the 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." II. 156, 157.

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 in place 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, an uniformity of taste with regard to the style of Grecian architecture, bave 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." II. 166, 167.

With regard again, to versification, we do not know whether there be anywhere a more ingenious or philosophical speculation, than that short one, in which Mr. Alison has attempted to show, that it must have been first adopted, in ages antecedent to the use of writing, merely for the purposeof distinguishing elaborate composition from casual discourse, and pointing out to particular attention whatever was thought to deserve it, either by the

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importance of the matter, or the felicity of the expression. The substance of this speculation, which affords by far the best solution we have met with, of the singular fact of the priority of metrical to prose composition, will be found in the following passage.

"The use of language is acquired so early in life, and is practised upon common occasions with so little study or thought, that it appears to a rude people, as it does to the common people of every country, rather as an inherent power of our nature than as an acquisition of labour or study; and, upon such occasions, is considered as no more expressive of design or skill than the notes of birds or the cries of animals. When therefore men first began to think of composition, and to expect admiration from their skill in it, they would very naturally endeavour to make it as expressive as they could of this skill, by distinguishing it as much as possible from common language. There was no way so obvious for this, as by the production of some kind of regularity or uniformity; by the production either of regularity in the succession of these sounds, or of uniformity or resemblance in the sounds themselves. Such qualities in composition would immediately suggest the belief of skill and design, and would of consequence excite all that admiration which, in the commencement of every art, such qualities so strongly and so justly raise. The same cause, therefore, which induced the sculptor to give to his performances that form which was most strongly expressive of his skill, would induce the poet to employ that regularity or uniformity of sounds which was most immediately expressive also of his skill, and which was most likely to excite the admiration of his people. Rhyme or measure then (according to the nature of the language and the superior difficulty of either) would naturally come to be the constituent mark of poetry, or of that species of composition which was destined to affect or to please. It would be the simplest resource which the poet could fall upon, to distinguish his productions from common language; and it would accordingly please, just in proportion to the perfection of its regularity, or to the degree in which it was expressive of his labour and skill. The greater and more important characteristics of the art, a rude people must necessarily be unacquainted with; and what would naturally constitute the distinction to them between poetry and common language, would be the appearance of uniformity or regularity in the one, and the want of them in the other.

As thus the first instances of composition would be distinguished by some species of uniformity, every kind of composition would gradually borrow, or come to be distinguished by, the same character. If it was necessary for the poet to study rhyme or measure, to distinguish his verses from common language, it would be equally necessary for the lawgiver to study the same in the composition of his laws, and the sage in the composition of his aphorisms. Without this character, they had no distinction from usual or familiar expression; they had no mark by which they might be known to be the fruit of thought or reflection, instead of the immediate effusion of fancy. Before the invention of writing, the only expedient by which it seems possible that composition could be distinguished from common language, must have been some species of uniformity or regularity, which might immediately convey the belief of art or design, and thus separate it from that vulgar language which appeared to imply neither. It is hence that, in every country, proverbs, or the ancient maxims of wisdom, are distinguished by alliteration, or measure, or some other artifice of a like nature; that in many countries the earliest laws have been written in verse; and, in general, that the artificial composition which is now appropriated to poetry alone, and distinguished by the name of Poetical Composition, was naturally the prevailing character of composition, and applied to every subject which was the fruit of labour or meditation; as the mark, and indeed the only mark that then could be given, of the employment of this labour and meditation.

"The invention of writing occasioned a very great revolution in composition. What was written, was of itself expressive of design. Prose, therefore, when written, was equally expressive of design with verse or rhyme; and the restraints which these imposed led men naturally to forsake that artificial composition, which now no longer had the value it bore before this invention. The discovery of writing seems, therefore, naturally to have led to composition in prose. II. 80-84.

”

But though this appears to us to be a perfectly just and satisfactory explanation of the origin of metrical composition, we cannot exactly agree with Mr. Alison in thinking, that the beauty of versification is to be referred altogether to our associations with those standard works which were produced in an early age under this form. Many things that were first introduced for humble and vulgar purposes, have been afterwards turned to purposes of ornament and delight; and it is no doubt true, as Mr. Knight has remarked, that it would very early occur to those who wished their compositions to be remembered, not only as elaborate, but beautiful, to choose such combinations of regular sound as could be most smoothly and distinctly articulated; and to dispose their emphatic words in the places where the force of the voice would naturally be thrown. It is to this observance, to sympathy with the skill and success of the poet,-and to the