and is indeed no colour at all, but the absence of colour, and no better than darkness. It is, therefore, only as distinguished from black that any colour can be seen; and hence scarlet, as we saw before, disappears in the distance before perfect black; white, on the contrary, is the pleasantest of all colours, and is indeed, like the light of the sun, a combination of every colour in equal proportions. "Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun." That shades so dull and degraded, however, that we have not thought it worth while to honour them with names, should come to be objects of praise and admiration, is indeed remarkable; the strangeness, however, is explained when we learn that this artificial esteem is generated by artificial association. A plain man," says Alison, "would scarcely believe that the colour of a glass bottle, of a dead leaf, of clay, &c., could ever be beautiful; yet within these few years, not only these, but some much more unpleasant colours that might be mentioned have been fashionable and admired."1 This was written about a century ago, and in the passage it will be noticed that a bad colour is properly alluded to as 'unpleasant;' for by whatever artificial associations we may be led to praise one colour above another in certain objects, the organic sensations must ever be constant whether coming from a lady's shawl or from clay. It cannot be too often reiterated that colour per se, irrespective of figure, shape, or motion, can never be an object of admiration, any more than can odours or flavours. The emotion is best experienced when the sensations are absent. We could not enjoy "L'Allégro" or "Il Penseroso" when walking in the country and witnessing the scenes which they describe as much as when sitting in our study or our parlour, perhaps in darkness and solitude. We could not enjoy Shelley's "Ode to a Skylark" aright while listening to the bird itself and watching it hovering in the sky. I verily believe such poems were composed in

1 On Taste, essay ii. c. 3.

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bed on a sleepless night, or while sitting solitary, or walking lonely, and far removed from the original impressions of sense, if poets would only confess it. Not only, therefore, are the sensations in a recognition of the beautiful subordinate in every case to the emotion of admiration, but, having once affected the senses, their presence becomes an obstacle and a hindrance to the emotion.

Lastly, the emotion may be clearly distinguished from the sensation, in that it can in some cases be induced where the sensation has never existed. Men born blind, for example, may, by hearing certain colours eulogised continually, come at length to regard with admiration objects which they are told possess those colours. In such cases the sensation of colour was never seen, felt, or experienced in any way, and yet its mention is the signal for the emotion of admiration, which, though it may be fainter and more indefinite than that induced by sight, is nevertheless the same in kind with all admiration, which is nothing more than a species of love.

Summing up the foregoing remarks, we find that an object of sight first of all causes several simple sensations in us-colour, shape, and motion, to wit; secondly, that each of these sensations are species of vibrations in the retina; thirdly, that each of them may be pleasant or unpleasant in themselves; fourthly, that in no case can any of these sensations be themselves beautiful or ugly; that neither individually nor collectively can they as sensations be admirable or disgusting, and therefore that they form neither the objective nor the subjective element of beauty proper; that they are mere corporeal feelings, animal affections, and being carefully sifted and discriminated from the emotions which follow them, may be dismissed from our further consideration. And we find, lastly, that the emotion of admiration is capable of being called into existence by the presence of an object of beauty, in other words, by sensations which are not, and

should not be termed, beautiful. To the solution of this problem the remainder of the present chapter shall be devoted.

The second great class of feelings, that called the emotions, does not differ from the class called sensations in degree; it differs in kind, the two classes being, in fact, radically diverse and intrinsically inconsistent. How, then, can an object, as a whole, be capable of producing an effect altogether different in kind from that which any of its parts are fitted severally to cause? What is the relation of an emotion to a sensation? Can any number of sensations constitute an emotion? Can like produce unlike? How is it that on looking on a primrose and receiving from the flower nothing but sensible impressions, I nevertheless admire it as beautiful? The answer to these questions must be found in the fact that the emotion is entirely due to the link which connects the two feelings -the sensation and the emotion; in other words, to an operation of the intellect. The intellect it is which takes hold of the sensations and so manipulates and disposes them that their ultimate combination produces in the mind that particular feeling called admiration. An activity of the intellectual faculties is therefore necessary to every appreciation of beauty, to every emotion of admiration; and as it is with one emotion so it is with all. They are all due to an operation of the intellect, by which we are led to estimate the value of our sensations. Every propitious estimate of the intellect is followed by an agreeable emotion of greater or less intensity, and every unfavourable estimate by the contrary. Bearing these facts in mind, then, we shall find little difficulty in accounting for the admiration which is consequent on the recognition of beauty.

If the emotion of admiration enters into the composition of every recognition of the beautiful, it follows that whenever that emotion is impeded, destroyed, or obscured, the appearance of beauty is impeded, destroyed, or obscured

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also. This coincidence, in fact, frequently occurs, for the mind may be so occupied by another emotion that that of admiration is altogether smothered. I may be in a garden of the choicest flowers, the most delicate plants, and the rarest shrubs, and yet, if I am full of anger at the conduct of a friend with whom I have just quarrelled, I cannot admire either the flowers, the plants, or the shrubs: I have no room in my mind for such an emotion; all the lesser and more delicate emotions are swallowed up by the larger, stronger, and more absorbing one of anger. That feeling consumes everything else; it burns in the mind like a fire, and while it lasts, admiration must remain below zero. Let the experiment be tried, and if any one asks me if such a flower is not very beautiful, I reply, “It may be very beautiful, but I do not care about it; I am too angry to admire it; I cannot think about such things, and I do not care whether they are beautiful or not." In other words, I do not deny that the object is beautiful; I believe that it appears beautiful to others, that it has appeared beautiful to me, and may appear so again; but being unable to contemplate it now, I am not conscious of any admiration for it. This coincidence is

incontrovertible and but common sense. The stronger emotion always overwhelms the weaker, and admiration is a weak emotion while anger is a strong one; for "to be wroth with one we love doth work like madness in the brain."

By and by, when I become cool, when anger has subsided, and the still small voice of reason is heard, I shall be open to the softer affections of the soul, and shall admire that sweet little lily of the valley and appreciate its perfect, pure, and tranquil aspect, and contrast it with my own recent consuming vexation. But who could walk through a museum, an exhibition, or a bazaar, filled with fear at some approaching calamity, with sorrow for some new misfortune, or with remorse for some late transgression gnawing at the vitals of his mind, and at the same time

admire the beauty of the objects around him? The same remark applies to great delight or joy; for admiration of beauty is a delicate emotion and cannot hold its own against those which are capable of much greater intensity. When delighted at some piece of good luck or overjoyed at some brilliant success, we are as little at leisure to admire ferns, and buds, and butterflies, as when torn with hatred or despair: we have greater matters to think about, and therefore we have stronger emotions to experience. When enraptured by the preaching of an eloquent divine, we do not care to linger on the tracery of the pulpit or the foliage of the capitals; those things fade away in our estimation; they dwindle, sink, and disappear, until we are altogether oblivious of their existence; we become unwilling to be reminded of their presence, for they confuse and interrupt us; we have something better to think about, we have greater matters in our mind; at some other time, when the service is over, when our intellect is disengaged, when nothing absorbs our thoughts, we shall come and admire the sculpturing and moulding, but we cannot do so now. From this it follows that to experience admiration for beauty, the understanding must be unshackled and at leisure.

This middle factor, the connecting link between the sensations and the emotions-viz., the exercise of the intellect-calls for a passing notice. The appreciation. of beauty, according to the foregoing propositions, requires intelligence, and if upon examination it be found that some sentient creatures do not exhibit that appreciation, we may conclude that they want the requisite amount of intelligence, or are possessed of a lower order of mind than those who do exhibit such an appreciation; and, further, if we find that some persons exhibit that appreciation in a lower or less perfect manner than others, we may conclude that their intellect has been viciously or imperfectly developed. And is not this the case? Brutes undoubtedly exercise their understanding and interpret