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them,-precisely in the same way as our other general notions, such, for example, as those expressed by the words, flower, bird, quadruped, when once formed in the mind, are afterwards readily suggested by any new object that seems referable to the species or genus.

But, finally, it is not enough, however, when we gaze on a Beautiful object, that certain conceptions of former delight should be suggested; for these rise equally, on innumerable occasions, in our trains of thought, with little liveliness of present joy. The distinguishing liveliness of the emotion of Beauty, as it lies before us, if it depend upon association, seems to be absolutely inexplicable; but for a process which, when the images of a train are connected, not with some former conception only, but with a real object of perception, invests with illusive present existence the whole kindred images of the harmonizing group, of which a part, and an important part, is truly recognized as existing. The countenance on which we gaze, recalls to us some complex feeling of Beauty that was previously formed; but, while it recalls it, it exists permanently before us; and embodying, as it were, this complex visionary delight in the object of our continued perception, we give a reality, that is in the object only, to the shadowy whole, of which the perception of the object and the associate feelings of suggestion are harmonizing parts; and the images of tenderness and joy, which, as mere conceptions, unembodied in any real object, might have passed through the mind, in its trains of reverie, with little pleasure, thus fixed, as it were, and living before us in the external loveliness, affect us with a delight that is more

than mere imagination, because the object of it seems to be as truly existing without as any other permanent object of our senses,- —a delight that may have resulted from many former pleasures, but is itself one concentrated joy.

What is truly most important to the emotion of Beauty, is this very part of the process, which theorists have yet neglected. It is not the mere suggestion of certain conceptions, general or particular; for these often form part of our trains of thought, without any very lively feeling as their consequence. It is the fixing and embodying of them in a real object before us, that gives to the whole one general impression of reality. The delight of which we think, when images of the past arise, is very different from the delight which seems to be embodied in objects, and to meet our very gaze-as the terror of the superstitious, when they think of a spectre in twilight, is very different from that which they feel when their terror is incorporated in some standing form that gleams instinctively on their eyes. But, for a process of this kind, it is not possible to conjecture how the effect of Beauty, as seen, should be so very different from the effect produced by a long meditation on all those noble and gracious characters of virtue and intelligence, the mere expression, that is to say, the mere suggestion, of which is stated to be all which constitutes it.

From this inquiry it appears that Beauty is not any thing that exists in objects independently of the mind which perceives them, and permanent, therefore, as the object in which it is falsely supposed to exist. It is an emotion of the mind, varying, therefore, like all our other emotions, with the varying tendencies of

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the mind, in different circumstances. We have not to inquire into the nature of any fixed essence which can be called the Beautiful, but into the nature of transient feelings, excited by objects which may agree in no respect, but as they excite emotions in some degree similar. What we term the emotion of Beauty is not one feeling of our mind, but many feelings that have a certain similarity; as greenness, redness, blueness, are all designated by the general name colour. There is not one Beauty more than there is one colour or one form. But there are various beauties that is to say, various pleasing emotions, that have a certain resemblance, in consequence of which we class them together. The Beautiful exists no more in objects, than species or genera exist in individuals.

ANTIQUITY.

THERE is something peculiarly "interesting in antiquity, independent of the interest that particular antiquities may derive from their own beauty, or even from historical association. It is Nature's factor, and represents the opposite poles of mutability and eternity.

A Roman encampment, though it be now but a green mound, and was formerly the seat of mutiny, and, in fact, little better than a den of thieves, is more poetical than a modern barrack, though tenanted by brave Britons, the veterans of Egypt, or the medalists of Waterloo. What more prosaic than a halfpenny of the last coinage? You can in no ways put a sentiment into it, unless you give it to a child to buy sugarplums, or to a beggar, in defiance of the vagrant laws and the mendicity society. But let the grim visages and execrated names of Caligula or Nero be deciphered through the verdant veil of venerable verdigris, and the As-Denarius or Teruncius, (the classic simile for worthlessness,) becomes precious as Queen Anne's farthings, or the crooked sixpence that heretofore served for lovers' tokens. The spirit of ages invests them like a glory-cloud.

Time is a mighty leveller; yea, oftentimes makes that most precious which originally was vilest. A manuscript of Bavius, preserved from the cinders of

Herculaneum, or a copy of Zoilus, traced beneath the legend of some Grecian` monk, would be prized by collectors far above Virgil or Aristotle. Numismatologists are far more indefatigable in pursuit of Othos than of Trajans or Antonines.

What are the Pyramids? Huge piles of brick or stone, with square bases and triangular sides, reared by slaves for tyrants to moulder in,-standing evidences of heartless pride and heart-withering debasement, ponderous burdens heaped on mother earth to defraud her of her due.

Such were they when they were new. It would have gone against one's conscience to have visited them. But it is quite otherwise now. They no longer belong to Cheops or Sesostris, Pharaohs or Ptolemies, Mamelukes or Turks, but to the imagination of mankind. It were worth a pilgrimage to see them, could seeing add any thing to their power. But they are so simple both in form and association, so easily, so clearly presentable to the mind's eye, that it is doubtful whether much would be gained by viewing them with the bodily organs, beyond the satisfaction of saying and thinking that one had seen them. It were nothing to measure their bases, or take their altitude, somewhat tedious to pore over the Hieroglyphics, not very much, except for a savant, to rummage the interior. But to conceive them, or, after all, it would be better to see them, standing on the same earth which has entombed so many thousand generations, pointing to the self-same sky which heard the cry of the oppressed when they were building; to sink, as in a dream, " through the dark backward and abysm of time;" to fancy them as bearing,

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