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thor had stopt short in the middle of his theorem to prove it, or had thrown the proof into a note; would not the proposition have lost much of its beauty? The understanding would be distressed, either by taking that for granted which had not been proved, or by having the train of reasoning broken in upon by extraneous proof.

Most persons would speak of geometry as more 'beautiful' than any algebraical calculus. Yet they lead, perhaps, exactly to the same conclusion, and the algebraical calculus by an infinitely speedier process. The geometrician walks, the algebraist flies in a travelling carriage and six. But then the understanding is assisted by the senses in geometry, and moreover, sees the meaning of every step that is taken. The walker sees his road before him, and turns to the right or left, or goes strait forward as he judges necessary; the man in the travelling carriage knows he shall be taken right, draws up his blinds, falls asleep, and finds himself after a time at the end of his journey, hardly knowing how he got there.

We ought just to notice that, from that curiosity providentially implanted in our natures, we have a pleasure in arriving at any truth, and that pleasure is the greater as the truth is more extensive: and, moreover, if the truth lie very remote, there is a pride and a pleasure in overcoming the difficulties in the way to it. And this last frequently adds greatly to the beauty of a proposition. For instance; if a body be compelled to move in an elliptical orbit by a force situated in one of the focuses of the ellipse, we can prove that the intensity of this force must vary inversely as the square of the distance from it; we can prove this in a series of steps, each one as well-grounded, and all as well-connected, as those in the theorem of Euclid above given: moreover, the truth is of the utmost importance, and of an application as extensive as the planetary system; and further, the method used in coming at it, (viz. that of limiting ratios,) is so subtle as to be highly gratifying to the pride of human intellect. Reasoning is always carried on by means of intermediate ideas in reasoning by the method of prime and ultimate ratios, that intermediate idea is a non-etity: upon all these three grounds we pronounce the proposition 'beautiful.'

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We would not be understood to mean by these examples, that the beauty which addresses itself to the understanding is limited to mathematical reasoning. Moral reasoning, though it certainly does not admit of the same precision, is, however, in its degree very pleasing to the mind. We know of no specimen of moral reasoning, of which the steps follow one another more connectedly, more mathematically, where the understanding finds itself more at ease, or takes in the subject

more readily at one general view, than the second book of Paley's Moral Philosophy. There is, indeed, an incurable defect in the principle, as addressed to fallible creatures: but this is nothing to the beauty of the argument.

We have been thus long, (thus tedious, we are afraid,) upon this subject, not because of its connection with essays on the pleasures of the imagination, but to shew how utterly unconnected they are, and to do away in some measure the perplexity which arises from using the same word for things essentially different.

The beauty of external objects, then, and the beauty of a theorem, we consider as perfectly distinct, and the latter as having no place in an inquiry into the sources of the pleasures of taste. But there is still another kind of beauty-that which addresses itself to the moral feelings. To a good man the exercise of the tender affections, 'comprehending all the different modifications of love, from the transient good-will which we feel for a common stranger, to the fondness with which the mother watches over her child in distress, or which unites the hearts of absent lovers,' is most delightful. The husband of an amiable woman, the father of an affectionate family, the man who can look up with confidence to the friend of his father and the guardian of his youth, he who retains in after-life the dear companions of his boyish days, or who, illustriously lost' to the world, is surrounded in his native village by happy tenants and retainers, these are, perhaps, among the most enviable of mortal men. Our feelings are thus providentially regulated, and there is an end of the matter. Accordingly from the sympathy of our nature, the sight of such objects,-of a happy family, of fast friends, of a kind master and grateful servants, -is called beautiful: not indeed because it affects us at all in a similar way with the beauties of nature, still less with the beauties of regular and accurate demonstration, (at least, we can discover no such similarity in our own feelings) but simply because it confers a pleasure, a calm pleasure.

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Beauty, then, (in the common loose sense of the word,) addresses itself to the senses, the understanding, or the moral feelings. Poetical beauty speaks to the imagination, or rather, perhaps, to the senses and the moral feelings through the medium of the imagination. There is much ambiguity in the common use of the expression, pleasures of imagination.' The pleasures of sight and of hearing are no more pleasures of imagination than those of taste and smell: the delight experienced at the rich glow and glorious colours of an evening sky, or the music of the spring, is as merely sensual as an alderman's at a turtle-feast, or a carman's at a quid of tobacco.

In the same manner the pleasures of imagination are not to be confounded with those received immediately by our moral sensibilities.

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The pleasures of the imagination are those received from the contemplation of objects, which are not immediately before us, but which we have the power of conjuring up to ourselves. For every thing in nature that, when present, is delightful to the senses, we can, when absent, recal vividly to our minds, and receive from the image, perhaps, a greater pleasure than from the original. We say a greater pleasure, for, besides that there seems to be something pleasurable in the exercise of the faculty, we can, by a proper selection and combination of really existing things, create to ourselves more agreeable scenes than any, perhaps, that are to be found in nature. 'When we look at a landscape, we C can fancy a thousand additional embellishments. Mountains loftier and more picturesque; rivers more copious, more limpid, and more beautifully winding; smoother and wider ' lawns; vallies more richly diversified; caverns and rocks more gloomy and more stupendous; ruins more majestic; buildings more magnificent; oceans more varied with islands, more splendid with shipping, or more agitated by storm, than any we have ever seen, it is easy for human imagi'nation to conceive.'* The same way be said of that class of beautiful objects which are perceived by the moral feelings. It is easy to see,' says our author in another place, how the imagination may conceive a race of mortals far more amiable and respectable than the best and most accomplished of human creatures.' In fact, the reader has only to call to mind a few of the heroes and heroines of poetry and romance, and compare them with the plain homely beings of this working-day world' to acknowledge the truth of the remark.

We must not leave the subject of beauty without just observing how superior the pleasures of the moral feelings are to those of the senses;-how much of the beauty of the human countenance is the beauty of expression; how insipid the best features are, if not lighted up by the soul; and, on the contrary, how pleasing good temper and good sense will sometimes render even the plainest face;-how much of the pleasure received from the prospect of a lovely scene arises from a sympathy with the imaginary beings with which we never fail to people it, and from recollections somehow associated with it; and how gladly we turn from the description of mere external nature to that of human actions and human feelings,

*Beattie, on Poetry and Music, Part I. Chap. 3.

from the hesperian fruit' and oriental pearl' and 'mazy rills running nectar,' to the

Godlike erect.

Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

Thus the philosophical poet,

- Beauty dwells,

There most conspicuous, ev'n in outward shape,
Where dawns the high expression of a mind.'

And again,

Is ought so fair

In all the dewy landscapes of the spring,
In the bright eye of Hesper or the morn,
In nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair
As virtuous friendship; as the candid blush
Of him who strives with fortune to be just?
The graceful tear that streams for other's woes?
Or the mild majesty of private life,

Where peace, &c.'

• Mind, mind alone, bear witness, earth and heaven!)
The living fountains in itself contains

Of beauteous and sublime '

Our author has now gone through the sublime, the pathetic, and the beautiful: there is still, however, a large class of the objects of imagination, and of literary compositions, left unnoticed. The last essay is devoted to the ludicrous. The essayist adopts the theory of Dr. Hutcheson, who maintains, in his Reflections on Laughter, that the ludicrous consists in the contrast of dignity and meanness, whether the dignity and meanness reside both in the same object, or in different objects which are nearly related to each other.' Against this theory, our readers know, Dr. Beattie and others have contended, as not sufficiently comprehensive,' maintaining, that the 'ludicrous results from incongruity in general, or from some unsuitableness, or want of relation in certain respects, among objects which are related in other respects. Laughter,' says Beattie, arises from the view of two or more inconsistent, < unsuitable, or incongruous parts or circumstances, considered as united in one complex object or assemblage, or as acquiring a sort of mutual relation from the peculiar manner in which the mind takes notice of them.' Almost the whole of the essay before us is taken up with considering the cases which Dr. Beattie has stated in opposition to Dr. Hutcheson.

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We are certainly of opinion that Dr. Beattie made his case good; that is, that he produced many things confessedly ludicrous in which the incongruity was not of dignity with meanness. As, however, we doubt of the truth of Dr. B.'s

own theory, (for we do not by any means think that laughter always arises from the view of two or more inconsistent, unsuitable, or incongruous parts or circumstances,') we shall not spend any time upon this dispute, but shall just take occasion to state what occurs to ourselves upon the 'ludi

crous.'

The ludicrous in composition may, perhaps, be safely divided into wit and humour. Humour is the imitation of the ridiculous in human character. As we have moral feelings, by which we love or admire what is amiable or great in human character, and by which we detest the more gigantic vices, so we have feelings of ridicule also for the lesser vices, for petty meannesses, and all infringements of what the French call the petites morales. This appears to have been Aristotle's view of the matter.

We are aware of an objection to this: it looks like making ridicule the test of truth. But our feelings were given us at our birth; they are applied as habit and education dictate. The stream was supplied by nature, the channel is cut by custom. All our feelings are perverted. Admiration is no more the test of truth than ridicule. We as frequently admire great and splendid vices, as we laugh at what is worthy or amiable. These feelings might be given us for useful purposes, and yet degraded as in their present state, as often do harm as good. Humour addresses itself to our perceptions of the ridiculous,--and accordingly we shall find it engaged in pourtraying, and exaggerating these said little blemishes and foibles. Let us turn to Moliere,-an author who has, perhaps, taken a wider range here than any other. What do we find ourselves laughing at while reading Moliere? At the meannesses of avarice, at the absurdities of pedantry and affectation, and vanity, at coxcombs and clowns and hypochondriacs. If Harpagon had been represented as oppressing the poor, or as turning away from misery without relieving it, we should have detested him, not laughed at him. But when we see him puffing out the candle ends, lest he should be ruined, stooping in a violent fit of passion to pick up a pin, fumbling about the hauts-de-chausses of a footman he is turning off, lest he should carry away any thing with him,-his avarice is then ridiculous only. What is it that we laugh at in the "Bourgeois Gentilhomme?" Ignorance and vanity;-an ignorance, which education has made us consider as ludicrous, and a vanity that is naturally ridiculous. I am quite in a passion,' says he to his master of philosophy, with my father and mo❝ther, for not having had me instructed in the sciences, when I was young.' You are quite in the right,' says the other, ' nam sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago.-You