when we see a man bearing testimony to the merit of his rival, that is beautiful; when real injuries are rapidly forgiven, that is beautiful. When any human being, who has power and influence to defend his oppressions, is as just and considerate to the feelings of others, as if he were poor and defenceless, that is eminently beautiful, and gives to every human being who beholds it, the purest emotion of joy. I have said a great deal about prospect and landscape; I will mention an action or two, which appear to me to convey as distinct a feeling of the beautiful, as any landscape whatever. A London merchant, who, I believe, is still alive, while he was staying in the country with a friend, happened to mention that he intended, the next year, to buy a ticket in the lottery; his friend desired he would buy one for him at the same time, which of course was very willingly agreed to. The conversation dropped, the ticket never arrived, and the whole affair was entirely forgotten, when the country gentleman received information that the ticket purchased for him by his friend, had come up a prize of 20,000l. Upon his arrival in London, he inquired of his friend where he had put the ticket, and why he had not informed him that it was purchased. "I bought them both the same day, mine and your ticket, and I flung them both into a drawer of my bureau, and I never thought of them afterwards." how do you distinguish one ticket from the other? and why am I the holder of the fortunate ticket, more than you?" "Why, at the time I put them into the drawer, I put a little mark in ink upon the ticket which I resolved should be yours; and upon re-opening the drawer, I found that the one so marked was the fortunate ticket." Now this action appears to me perfectly beautiful; it is le beau ideal in morals, and gives that calm, yet deep, emotion of pleasure, which every one so easily receives from the beauty of the exterior world.

"But

There is a very pretty story which I shall read to you,

P

and which, to my mind, is a complete instance of the beautiful in morals.

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"At the siege of Namur by the Allies, there were in "the ranks of the company commanded by Captain "Pinsent, in Colonel Frederick Hamilton's regiment, one Unnion, a corporal, and one Valentine, a private "sentinel. There happened between those two men a dispute about a matter of love, which, upon some aggravations, grew to an irreconcilable hatred. Unnion, "being the officer of Valentine, took all opportunities "even to strike his rival, and profess his spite and revenge which moved him to it; the sentinel bore it "without resistance, but frequently said he would die to "be revenged of that tyrant. They had spent whole "months thus, one injuring, the other complaining; "when, in the midst of this rage towards each other, they were commanded upon the attack of the castle, "where the corporal received a shot in the thigh and "fell. The French pressing on, and he expecting to be

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trampled to death, called out to his enemy, 'Ah! Va"lentine, can you leave me here?' Valentine imme"diately ran back, and, in the midst of a thick fire of "the French, took the corporal upon his back, and brought him through all that danger as far as the "Abbey of Salsine, where a cannon ball took off his "head: his body fell under his enemy whom he was carrying off. Unnion immediately forgot his wound, rose up, tearing his hair, and then threw himself "the bleeding carcase, crying, 'Ah, Valentine! was it "for me, who have so barbarously used thee, that thou "hast died! I will not live after thee.' He was not by

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upon

any means to be forced from the body, but was re"moved with it bleeding in his arms, and attended with "tears by all their comrades who knew their enmity. "When he was brought to a tent, his wounds were "drest by force; but the next day, still calling upon

"Valentine, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died "in the pangs of remorse and despair.

"It may be a question among men of noble sentiment, "whether of these unfortunate persons had the greater "soul he that was so generous as to venture his life. "for his enemy, or he who could not survive the man "who died in laying upon him such an obligation ?"*

These are the beautiful feelings which lie hidden in every man's heart, which alone make life worth having, and prevent us from looking upon the world as a den of wild beasts, thirsting for each other's blood.

There are some feelings that are always beautiful, such as content and benevolence; there are others that appear to be beautiful, exactly according to the degree in which they are felt, or to the other feelings with which they are mingled. We compassionate a man who has broken both his legs, but the feeling is accompanied with too much pain, and is far too tumultuous, to be called beautiful.

I should compassionate two young people who were just married, and who, after their marriage, had experienced a loss of fortune that reduced them to embarrassments; but this feeling of compassion, being much less violent and tumultuous, approaches much nearer to the beautiful. All description in poetry, or imitation in painting, of any degree of compassion, would be so much less powerful than the real observation of it in nature, that it might convey the feeling of the beautiful. The real compassion we should have felt for Lady Randolph deploring the loss of her son, if there had been a real Lady Randolph, would have been a feeling much too violent for the beautiful; but, lowered and diminished by the imperfect deception of imitation, or the refrigerating medium of description, it is brought to the standard which renders it compatible with that

feeling. It appears also, that those feelings which are the reverse of beautiful, may, in poetry and in painting, be rendered compatible with it, by being softened and lowered from that intense effect they produce in real nature, by being joined with harmonious sounds, conveyed in metrical language, by exciting admiration of skill, and gratifying that pleasure which results from accurate imitation.

I consider mere imitation, rather as an auxiliary to the feeling of the beautiful, than as sufficient to produce it of itself. Mere imitation is agreeable, but I question if it ever excites, alone, the feeling of the beautiful. Could the most accurate drawing of a rat, or a weasel, ever be beautiful?—or, if it be contended that these are animals which excite disgusting associations, could the accurate drawing of a block of Portland stone, or of mahogany, ever be beautiful? If mere imitation can excite the feeling of beauty, these subjects, well imitated, ought to come up to that character, which I hardly think they ever could.

Thus, then, I have, with some pains to myself (and I am afraid with much more to my audience), gone through this subject of the beautiful; a subject certainly of great difficulty, and on which probable opinion must be expected, rather than certain conviction. To silence opposition on such a subject, is of course impossible: every man, in discussing it, must fling himself upon the candour of his audience, and, instead of defying their objections, request them to assist him in overcoming them.

One method of trying the justice of what I have said respecting the beautiful, will be, to see what is meant by the opposite expression of ugliness. An ugly face is a face which is not smooth, nor of a clear transparent colour; which expresses unpleasant passions, and where the magnitudes, proportions, and figures, are very uncustomary. An ugly lan lscape is one devoid of variety, of beautiful colour; and which excites feelings of dreari

ness, coldness, and disease, rather than of warmth, health, and enjoyment. An ugly animal is one, in the conformation of which, the custom of nature is violated, or which excites the associations of sloth, gluttony, inutility, and malice, rather than the opposite of all these qualities. If pigs did not make such excellent hams, they would be the most detestable of all animals on the face of the earth; and, accordingly, all nations that don't eat them, hate them: they are only restored to favour upon condition of being drest for dinner.

Ugly buildings, are buildings in which the figures are not regular, nor the divisions convenient, nor the proportions such as are associated with durability, or elegance, or any pleasant impression. In ugly music, if I may use the expression, the sound is not in itself pleasing, and it conveys no pleasing association. In short, we shall always find, that in using this word, which is the exact contrary to beauty, we shall always be influenced by the absence of those causes, from which I, and many others before me, have stated the feeling of the beautiful to proceed. The sum, then, of what I have said on these subjects is, that there is a mere beauty of matter,—or rather I should say a feeling of the mind, occasioned by certain qualities of matter, to which we have given the name of the beautiful; and other feelings of the mind, not occasioned by the intervention of any thing material, which are found to resemble the first class, and have received the same name. How it comes about that large masses of green or blue light should produce any effects similar to those which are produced by benevolence, that there should be such an analogy between content and smoothness, between any material and moral beauty, I cannot take upon me to determine; but that consent among mankind so to consider them, evinced by the language of many countries, is an evidence that there is some real foundation in nature for the resemblance. The emotion produced by both. is

any