Or, again, in his "Hohenlinden," "Then shook the hills, by thunder riven, We know of nothing in any language more sublime than these stanzas, and the more so from their simplicity. There is no effort to get up sublime scenes, but the happy choice of a few features, and the admirable selection of words, effect what pages of elaborate description would fail to do: but it is sublimity rather in despite of the regular pulse of the rhythm, and the chime at the ends of the lines, than by the assistance of these adjuncts. 3. There is one quality in any piece of art necessary to the production of the effect of either beauty or sublimity, and which, when attained, eminently tends to the production of either effect, namely, truthfulness. By truthfulness, we mean the execution of the work of art being in conformity with the obvious design of it. Every work of art aims at exciting some emotion. If no such design can be discovered in it, then it is without meaning, and can scarcely be regarded as a work of art. Now the execution must be in conformity with the obvious design of the artist, else it can neither be sublime nor beautiful. A musician intends to be elegant and gay, but he produces a piece of mere common-place vulgarity; his piece is destitute of beauty. He wishes to be great and sublime, but he produces mere noise, and rattle, and bustle; his work is instantly rejected. A painter designs to excite the emotion that would be raised by a noble range of buildings; but his perspective is palpably inaccurate, and no other beauty can compensate for deformity. He intends by the situation, and attitude, and countenance, to convey the conception of a man under the excitement of great terror; but the drawing of the figure is inaccurate, and he has made him only gape and stare; his work is utterly destitute of either beauty or sublimity. The design of the architect is usually indicated by the purpose for which the building is intended. And then truthfulness consists not in its being fitted for its intended use, but in its exciting emotions in accordance with its intended use. A building may be admirably adapted for the purpose for which it is intended, and yet, in regard to taste, may be a mere mass of deformity. But if the architect succeed in producing an emotion in accordance with the intent of the building, he has so far succeeded in rendering his work sublime or beautiful. A prison, for example, should convey an impression of strength and security. We remember a prison somewhere in Scotland, in the Corinthian order, with its slender and ornamented columns-it was a piece of deformity. A church should convey the feeling of sobriety, solemnity, and sublimity. To give it the appearance of the strength of a prison, or the lightness of a ball room, is an outrage on taste. A music-room, or other place of amusement, should convey the impression of lightness and elegance. Such a building, with the lancet windows, the massive columns, and vaulted roof of a medieval church, would be a ludicrous object. Scarcely less absurd is an hospital or infirmary with the light and flaunting exterior of a ball-room or a theatre. A poet, by writing in measured lines and stanzas, and in poetical language, obviously intends to heighten the pleasure which his matter expressed in prose would yield by the tasteful choice and harmony of his language; but if he make slips in grammar, or in the rules of composition, or if he introduce vulgar or provincial rhymes, or betray himself introducing sentiments for the sake of rhyme, he belies and frustrates his obvious intention, and his poem is instantly rejected; whereas if he succeed in conveying his sentiments in chaste, elegant, and harmonious language, his poem possesses one beauty, which, with many, will compensate for the want of beauties of a higher order. A poet, it may be, is obviously aiming at the delineation of a certain description of character. This intention he gives you to know by the circumstances in which he places him, and by what he says of him, or represents others as saying of him. If he succeed in making him speak and act in accordance with his character, as indicated or described, he has graced his work with one of the most admired beauties of poetical composition. But if the drawing of his character be unnatural, or inconsistent with itself, or if he make him speak and act inconsistently with his delineation, then his whole aim is converted into a blemish, and brings upon him contempt, the invariable punishment of a detected want of power to effect an obvious intention. While the want of truthfulness is fatal to the attainment of beauty or sublimity, the possession of it often gives beauty to objects in themselves the most homely and destitute of beauty. A farm-yard, with poultry, pigs, horses, cattle, farm-servants; a school of disorderly children; peasants in their most homely dresses and employments, become beautiful when they are represented or described naturally; that is, truthfully. It is this quality that forms one of the chief beauties of Dutch paintings. The celebrated painting of a young bull at the Hague, which is known all over Europe, has little else to commend it but its truthfulness. Cowper's exquisite little vignette of the sparrows peeping from the eaves of the cottage, thievishly resolved,-his picture of a domestic party at tea, with the reading of the newspapers, are beautiful, chiefly from the same quality. We conclude, therefore, that there are qualities in external objects which are the original sources of our appreciations of beauty or sublimity; that there are mental qualities which are felt to be beautiful or sublime from their producing effects, on the contemplation of them, analogous to those which are produced by beautiful and sublime objects in external nature; and that in artificially exciting the feelings of sublimity, artists of every kind must attend to these natural sources of the sublime and beautiful; but that they have a range much beyond the use of natural beauties, material or mental, by the recalling of whatever is fitted to give pleasure, or to fill the mind with conceptions of vastness or of great energy, or to inspire it with awe. CHAPTER IX. THE RECOGNITION OF MENTAL STATES AND OPERATIONS IN THE INFERIOR ANIMALS. WE recognise mental states and operations in the inferior animals on the same principles on which we recognise mental states and operations in our fellow men, but somewhat modified. We see power exercised by them over the members of their bodies, and exerted with design. We see them move their limbs or other members of their bodies, for the purpose, it may be, of removing their whole body from one place to another, of walking, running, flying, swimming; and we can often detect their purpose in these movements, it may be, to seize and eat their food, or to collect materials for their dwelling places, or it may be to lay up a store of food for the future, or it may be in compliance with our invitation, or obedience to our commands. We therefore, infer from these indications of design in their movements, that their movements are not mechanical, like motions of the air or of water, or of trees when shaken with the wind; but that they are the effects of a mind possessing power over the body, and will to exercise it, or to abstain from exercising it, similar to our own power and will. The emotions of the inferior animals. We see that they eat and drink as we do; that, if they be deprived of food or drink, they languish and die as men do. We see them rush towards their food, and seize and devour it; and we ascribe to them hunger and thirst and desire of aliment. We see that many tribes of them, when injured, utter loud cries, and run away from that which injures them; and we infer that such animals feel pain when their bodies are injured, and are afraid of what injures them. We see that some, when they are injured, fly upon and attempt to injure those who have injured them; and we ascribe to such animals anger and revenge, because anger and revenge elicit similar movements in us. Sometimes very complicated emotions may be observed in some of the inferior tribes. Of this we have a pretty example in the story told by Cowper of his little dog. When walking by the side of the river Ouse, he had attempted to reach a water-lily with his cane, but failing in his attempts, he pursued his walk, the dog gambolling before him. It appeared, however, that the considerate animal had "Puzzling set his puppy brains, To comprehend the case." For when on his return he came near the water-lily, the dog of his own accord sprang into the river, cropped the water-lily, and brought it and laid it at his feet. Besides the sagacity exhibited in this act, there was the indication of much delicate and amiable feeling. We remember observing a dog following his master to the foot of a ladder, set up against a high house, and reaching to the parapet. The master began to ascend, and the dog began to bark and to exhibit uneasiness. As the master got higher he began to whine and to howl; when the master was near the top he ran away, |