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startling contrasts. The babe begins to enter into the efforts to entertain and amuse its senses with a variety of sounds and objects. The mind is once again unconsciously affected by the reflection of one of those mysterious attributes of Deity to which its own nature is as mysteriously responsive. Another standard of Beauty arises upon it, which closes the wondrous procession,- for what can go beyond this last exhibition of love and power united in the effect of creative communicated Life? The style founded on this standard of Beauty is appropriately called in the following pages the "Vivid or Sprightly; "—it pleases by succession, brilliancy and contrast, and is suggestive of repeated acts, whether of beneficent causation, or of spontaneous fertility. It will appear on attentive examination, that no beautiful object, or, according to our definition of beauty, no object of sense causing direct pleasure to the mind, exists or can be conceived of, which does not fall under one or other of these standards of Beauty.

We are susceptible, however, of another kind of pleasure from the works of God, and one proceeding from a totally distinct source, and belonging to a different part of our nature.

The mind is capable of deriving a certain pleasure from the appreciation of relations among different parts of the same object or among different objects. These relations are in fact adaptations of means to

ends, and are an exhibition of wisdom and intelligence in the Divine Being - perfections, which from their very nature can be apprehended by the human mind only in their results. The sense of power, love, and creative energy may be conveyed to the mind under symbols, and become the objects of simple perception; but wisdom can be perceived only in wise action, and can never become apparent without an act of reflection. Hence when the material qualities of an object convey the perception of certain properties of mind, we may call the beauty which pleases us "Direct beauty; " when, on the contrary, we perceive by comparing the purpose with the plan of an object that the one is adapted to the other and our pleasure is derived from the correspondence of an act of our own mind with an act of the Supreme mind-the beauty may be called "Indirect or Reflex." Thus the beauty which man perceives in the organic works of God is of this kind — it is not addressed in the first place to his emotions, but to his understanding.

The same object may exhibit both classes of beauty. Thus the organic or indirect beauty of a rose is quite distinct from its direct beauty: it possesses both; but the pleasure of the " Beautiful" is felt at once in the sweetly smelling odours, the tenderly shaded colouring, the soft texture and graceful contour, while the mind derives a kind of secon

dary or indirect satisfaction from the symmetrical arrangement of the leaves, the proportion of the upper foliage to the lower, and the correspondence of one side of the plant to the other - and yet again may open by increase of knowledge to a sense of hidden relations and adaptations in the physical conditions of the plant, which will greatly deepen and enhance the pleasure that belongs to the apprehension of design. In reference to this source of pleasure from nature, an acute observer has remarked"As to our trees, I have not skill enough to describe the mystery and enchantment which modern sciences, whether of light, or chemistry, or of vital growth, have filled them with for me. Their leaves, as they rustle, seem to murmur of the halftold secrets of all creation."


The power of an object to call up agreeable ideas in the mind which beholds it, is that which constitutes it a beautiful object. It can do this only by virtue of certain laws of the human mind, which determine what ideas shall be called up in connection with any particular impression on the senses. What are these laws? Why is one set or class of ideas and correspondent emotions called up, rather than another? How was the association originally formed,

and on what does it depend? If the associations which lie at the root of the sense of Beauty are all arbitrary and accidental, depending upon time, place, and circumstance for their character, then can we find nothing in any facts which belong to the perceptions of Beauty, whereon to found a permanent and universal language; then could it not be truly said, even of the heavenly bodies, that "there is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard.” But it is sufficiently obvious that some objects have a power inherent in themselves to excite one class of emotions, but are powerless to produce any other. The granite rock of ages, the volcanic mountain, the storm-lashed sea, may justly be termed inherently sublime; because they necessarily and in their very nature call up ideas of awe, and every individual who has ever existed, or whoever shall exist, will pronounce alike concerning them. There are, however, associations which depend on a totally different set of laws. A well-known anecdote will illustrate this distinction. The philosopher of Geneva, during his earliest and his happiest years, was one day walking with a beloved friend. It was summer; the evening was calm and delightful. The sun was just setting behind the noble tower of the church, its broad beams spread their attempered fires in one vast sheet over the clear expanse of the lake, and the painted skiffs that glanced over the transparent water

were tipped with vivid light. The two sat on a soft mossy bank, and enjoyed the lovely prospect. At their feet was a bright tuft of speedwell. Rousseau's friend pointed out to him the little pretty flower, the Veronica Chamædrys, as bearing the same expression of cheerfulness and innocency as the scene before them. No more was said. Thirty years elapsed. Care-worn, persecuted, and disappointed; known to fame, but not to peace, Rousseau again revisited Geneva. It happened that he one evening passed by the very same spot. The scene was just the same. The sun shone as brightly as before, the birds sang as cheerfully, and rose as merrily on the soft summer air, and the glittering boats skimmed the still surface of the lake as rapidly. But the house where he had spent so many happy hours was levelled to the ground. His kind friend had long slept in the grave. The generation of villagers who had partaken the bounty of the same beneficent hand, were passed away, and none remained to point out the green sod where that benefactor lay. He walked on pensively. The same bank, tufted with. the same knot of bright-eyed speedwell, caught his eye. He turned away, and wept bitterly.

The inherent association was thus exchanged for a casual one, in the mind of the philosopher. Particular circumstances in his own life were recalled by the scene, with a vividness which for the time

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