The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove,
Have hush'd their downy wings in dead repose;
The hov'ring rack of clouds forget to move :-

So smiled the day when the first morn arose!"

Now, there is not a single image introduced into this very beautiful sonnet, which is not of itself beautiful; the soothing calm of the breeze, the noise of the rill, the song of the linnet, the hovering rack of clouds, and the airy drove of rooks floating by, are all objects that would be beautiful in nature, and of course are so in poetry. The notion that the whole appearance of the world is more calm and composed on the Sabbath, and that its sanctity is felt in the whole creation, is unusually beautiful and poetical. There is a pleasure in imitation, this is exactly a picture of what a beautiful placid morning is, and we are delighted to see it so well represented.

There is also a certain degree of pleasure from the measure of the poetry,- from the recurrence of certain cadences at certain intervals; this makes the distinction between the language of prose and poetry. Now, in which of these two passages are the sounds most agreeably arranged:- "The master saw the madness rising, took notice of his glowing cheeks and his ardent eyes, and, while he defied heaven and earth, changed his own hand, and checked the pride of Alexander. He chose a mournful song, in order to infuse into him soft pity; he sung of Darius, a very great and good man," and so on.

"The master saw the madness rise;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he Heaven and Earth defied,
Changed his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse

Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius great and good,

By too severe a fate,

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,

And welt'ring in his blood;

Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed:
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of Chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole;
And tears began to flow."

Now, the ideas are precisely the same in the two arrangements of sounds; but I think no one can doubt of the superior pleasure of that order of sounds, in which there appears to be arrangement and design.

Part of the pleasure proceeds also from the rhymes. Children will go on for ten minutes together, repeating a rhyme, merely delighted with the sameness of the sound: so will mad people. I have seen labourers and common people in the country, quite delighted with the accidental discovery of a rhyme; it has appeared to have very much the same effect upon them as wit. I mention these things very cursorily, because they are connected with my subject of the beautiful, though they are facts of great curiosity, and which may lead to very interesting speculations, which I have no doubt they will do, in the very able hands in which they are at present placed by the managers of this Institution.

To these causes may be added a strong admiration of the skill of the poet, whether exemplified in his selection of words, or his choice of the most striking objects and incidents in description. These, I apprehend to be the causes which excite the feeling of the beautiful in poetry, where the subject itself is beautiful. But what is the reason that poetry is called beautiful, where the subject is quite the reverse? There might be a very beautiful description of the flat, dreary fens of Holland, which are themselves as far from being beautiful as any natural scenery can be. Now, here is a passage out of Thomson, in which there is not a single image naturally beautiful, and yet the whole passage certainly must be so called:

"When o'er this world, by equinoctial rains
Flooded immense, looks out the joyless sun,
And draws the copious stream; from swampy fens,
Where putrefaction into life ferments,

And breathes destructive myriads; or from woods,
Impenetrable shades, recesses foul,

In vapours rank and blue corruption wrapt,
Whose gloomy horrors yet no desperate foot
Has ever dared to pierce — then, wasteful, forth
Walks the dire power of pestilent disease.

-

A thousand hideous fiends her course attend,
Sick nature blasting, and to heartless woe,
And feeble desolation, casting down
The towering hopes and all the pride of man.
Such as, of late, at Cartagena quench'd
The British fire. You, gallant Vernon, saw
The miserable scene; you, pitying, saw
To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm;
Saw the deep racking pang, the ghastly form,
The lip pale quivering, and the beamless eye
No more with ardour bright; you heard the groans
Of agonising ships, from shore to shore;
Heard, nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves,
The frequent corse - while on each other fix'd,
In sad presage, the blank assistants seem'd

Silent, to ask, whom fate would next demand."*

The question is, why is such an extraordinary assemblage of unbeautiful images beautiful? In the first place, the mention or description of putrefaction, stagnation of air, and consequent plague, is of course not so disgusting or horrible as the reality: the obstacles to the feeling of the beautiful are immensely overcome, in comparison to that degree of force which they would possess if these things were seen and felt instead of read. Then there is a certain pleasure of security in reading the description of danger, or of comfort in reading the description of disgust. I think we should all be conscious of the feeling of security, in reading Thomson's celebrated description of a snow-storm, and of the father perishing while his children are looking out for him and demanding their sire. Add to all this, the same causes of the beautiful which exist in beautiful subjects, the metre, the cadence, choice of lan

guage, and admiration of skill, and their united force will explain the reason why poetry is beautiful, when the subject, in nature, would be much otherwise; though, I suppose, (all other things being equal,) the more beautiful the subject, the more beautiful the poem.

This also is to be said, that some passions, though painful when very strong, are agreeable when weaker. It would be horrible to be staying at a house on a snowy night, where there was every reason to believe that the husband would perish on his road home over a bleak common; and nothing could be more dreadful than to see the agony of the mother and the children. But poetical snow is so much less dangerous than real snow, and poetical wives and children always excite our compassion so much less than wives and children devoid of all rhyme and metre, and composed of prosaic flesh and blood, that the degree of compassion excited is rather pleasing than painful.

The beautiful in painting seems to be quite referable to the same causes, the pleasures of imitation, the reflex pleasure of natural beauty, the pleasure of skill; and where the subject itself is not beautiful, there, reflected horror is less intense than real or original horror, and a certain pleasure is enjoyed from the consciousness that we are exempt from the evil we behold.

Throughout the whole of my lectures on the beautiful, in my explanation of the beauty of exterior objects, I have thought it sufficient to trace their connection with feelings of the mind, which have received that appellation. It therefore becomes necessary I should state what those feelings are. To class feelings with the same precision with which it is possible to arrange earths, and stone, and minerals, is a degree of order in these matters, which the most ardent metaphysician, unassisted by lunacy, will of course never attempt to attain. The similarity of feelings is not a truth which it is possible to prove; it must be left to every man's

inward reflection to determine, and to his candour to confess and, after all, opinions upon such subjects must always fall far short of that clearness of conviction, which is easily obtained upon physical subjects.

The emotions of the mind may be divided into painful and pleasing, and the pleasing into calm emotions and tumultuous emotions; and the beautiful, I believe, comprehends almost every calm emotion of pleasure. I am using old and well-established phrases, when I speak of calm and tumultuous emotions, and (which is rather a bold thing to say in the language adopted for the phenomena of mind) I really believe they have some meaning. The names have evidently been derived from the outward bodily signs of the two kinds of emotion; and. no one can doubt, but that what passes in the mind on such occasions, is just as different, as what appears in the face and actions, which are the indications of the mind. The joy of a washerwoman who has just got the 20,000l. prize in the lottery, and the joy of a sensible, worthy man, who has just succeeded in rescuing a family from distress, are both feelings of pleasure; but while the one is dancing in frantic rapture round her tubs, the signs by which the other indicates his satisfaction are characteristic of nothing but tranquillity and peace.

If, then, the beautiful in feeling includes every calm emotion of pleasure, it must, of course, comprehend content, health leading to serenity of body and mind; not when it breaks out into violence of action (the absence of restraint). It must include innocence, affection, and even esteem, as well as benevolence: it also includes ingenuity mingled with utility, or the surprising adaptation of means to useful ends; and a long catalogue of feelings, which are pleasing as well as calm. These seem to be the characteristics which have governed men in their usage of this term. No feeling which excites pain can be beautiful. There is nothing beautiful in envy, hatred, or malice, in cruelty and oppression; but