human labour, the influence of variety is limited by two circumstances, viz. by the costliness, and the permanence of the materials upon which that labour is employed. Wherever the materials of any object, whether of use or of luxury, are costly; wherever the original price of such subjects is great, the influence of the love of variety is diminished: the objects have a great intrinsic value, independent of their particular form or fashion, and as the destruction of the form is in most cases the destruction of the subject itself, the same form is adhered to with little variation. In dress, for instance, in which the variation of fashion is more observable than in most other subjects, it is those parts of dress which are least costly, of which the forms are most frequently changed: in proportion as the original value increases, the disposition to variety diminishes; and in some objects, which are extremely costly, as in the case of jewels, there is no change of fashion whatever, except in circumstances different from the value of the objects them selves, as in their setting or disposition. Of all the fine arts, however, architecture is by far the most costly. The wealth of individuals is frequently dissipated by it: and even the revenue of nations, is equal only to very slow and very infrequent productions of this kind. The value, therefore, of such objects, is in a great measure independent of their forms; the invention of men is little excited to give an additional value to subjects, which in themselves are so valuable; and the art itself, after it has arrived at a certain necessary degree of perfection, remains in a great measure stationary, both from the infrequency of cases in which invention can be employed, and from the little demand there is for the exercise of that invention. The nature of the Grecian orders very plainly in dicates, that they were originally executed in wood, and that they were settled before the Greeks had begun to make use of stone iu their buildings. From the period that stone was employed, and that of course public buildings became more costly, little farther progress seems to have been made in the art. The costliness of the subject, in this as in every other case, gave a kind of permanent value to the form by which it was distinguished. If, besides the costliness of the subject, it is also permanent or durable, this character is still farther increased. Those productions, of which the materials are perishable, and must often be renewed, are from their nature subjected to the influence of variety. Chairs and tables, for instance, and the other common articles of furniture, cannot well last above a few years, and very often not so long. In such articles accordingly, there is room for the invention of the artist to display itself, and as the subject itself is of no very great value, and may derive a considerable one from its form, a strong motive is given to the exercise of this invention. But buildings may last, and are intended to last for centuries. The life of man is very inadequate to the duration of such productions: and the present period of the world, though old with respect to those arts, which are employed upon perishable subjects, is yet young in relation to an art, which is employed upon so durable materials as those of architecture. Instead of a few years, therefore, centuries must probably pass before such productions demand to be renewed; and long before that period is elapsed, the sacredness of antiquity is acquired by the subject itself, and a new motive given for the preservation of similar forms. In every country, accordingly, the same effect has taken place: and the same causes which have thus served to produce among us, for so many years, an uniformity of taste with regard to the style of Grecian architecture, have produced also among the nations of the east, for a much longer course of time, a similar uniformity of taste with regard to their ornamental style of architecture; and have perpetuated among them the same forms, which were in use among their forefathers, before the Grecian orders were invented." Vol. ii. pp.162—167. The length to which these reason. ings and extracts have extended, and our farther designs of a somewhat collateral nature upon the reader, admonish us here to state the final conclusions to which the author comes in the 6th section of his last chapter. "The preceding illustrations" (he says) "seem to afford evidence for the following conclusions." 1. "That all the qualities of matter are, from nature, from experience, or from accident, the sign of some quality capable of producing emotion or the exercise of some moral affection; and, 2dly, that when these associations are dissolved, or in other words, when the material qualities cease to be significant of the associated qualities, they cease also to produce the emotions of beauty or sublimity."-Such, therefore, is the theory of the author. Before entering upon some ob- literary topics, we could have wishservations, which perhaps, when it ed to see him now and then kindle is remembered who the author is, with a more sacred flame. Even his he should have saved us the trouble reviewer, in the critique to which of making; we deem it necessary to we have already referred, though not observe, that the present work, as of a fraternity who make any loud an essay on taste, is defective in profession of religion, is sometimes two material points. The author surprised into devout allusions, which has taught us, and taught us ably constitute a part of the charm of his and truly, that the emotions of beau- oratory. Indeed, much of the ty and sublimity are to be ascribed, scenery employed in the display of not to the mere perception of ma- this subject, is calculated to sublime terial qualities, but of other quali- and spiritualize the mind; and we ties of which these are the natural wonder, that, when the car mounts, or accidental signs. But should he the prophet should not ascend with not have taught us, distinctly, and it. But we should do injustice to at length, what these other qualities Mr. Alison, if we left our readers are? No classification, generaliza- persuaded that he had not in any detion, qr enumeration of them is at gree connected his system with retempted. They may be any thing, ligion. There is a splendid, though it would seem, but qualities of matter. somewhat objectionable, and in part -The other question left untouched mysterious, passage with which the by the author is, whether there be work concludes, and which, though any standard of taste, any such long, yet, in justice to Mr. Alison, thing as good or bad taste. He in- we shall extract. deed, in his preface, acknowledges certain deficiencies in his present literary contributions, and expresses his readiness to make them good, if the public should call for thein. But if he thought it fit to publish at all upon taste; and if he can, when the public calls for it, find leisure to publish still more upon this subject; then we are disposed to question the propriety of his publishing at all, without entering upon topics so material to the rounding of his system. Any attempt to fill up the chasms in Mr. Alison's work would be great presumption; and, especially when we are trembling at the huge demand we have already made upon the time of our readers, would be impossible. We will therefore enter upon ground where we tread with more security, and which is more appropriate to our feelings and to our office, viz. to examine the bearing of this subject upon religion. We have already suggested, that from Mr. Alison, as "one who ministers and serves the altar," we had, perhaps, a right to expect some such consecration of his subject. In his enthusiasm upon many secular or sion which the appearances of the material "There is yet, however, a greater expresworld are fitted to convey, and a more important influence which, in the design of nature, they are destined to produce upon us; their influence I mean in leading us di rectly to religious sentiment. Had organic enjoyment been the only object of our formation, it would have been sufficient to establish senses for the reception of these enjoyments. But if the promises of our nature are greater; if it is destined to a nobler conclusion; if it is enabled to look to the Aurelation to him; then nature, in all its thor of being himself, and to feel its proud aspects around us, ought only to be felt as signs of his providence, and as conducting us by the universal language of these signs, to the throne of the Deity. "How much this is the case with every pure and innocent mind, I flatter myself few of my readers will require any illustra tion. Wherever, in fact, the eye of man opens upon any sublime or any beautiful scene of nature, the first impression is to ble? Quere, proud? Ought it not to be hum + Is this true in point of fact? That this impression is made on the religious mind we admit; but we do not believe that the finest prospect in the world would have the consider it as designed, as the effect or workmanship of the Author of nature, and as significant of his power, his wisdom, or his goodness: and perhaps it is chiefly for this fine issue, that the heart of man is thus finely touched, that devotion may spring from delight; that the imagination, in the midst of its highest enjoyment, may be led to terminate in the only object in which it finally can repose; and that all the noblest convictions, and confidences of religion, may be acquired in the simple school of nature, and amid the scenes which perpetually surround us*. Wherever we observe, accordingly, the workings of the human mind, whether in its rudest or its most improved appearances, we every where see this union of devotional sentiment with sensibility to the expressions of natural scenery. It calls forth the hymn of the infant bard, as well as the anthem of the poet of classic times. It prompts the nursery tale of superstition, as well as the demonstration of the school of philosophy. There is no æra so barbarous in which man has existed, in which the traces are not to be seen of the alliance which he has felt between earth and heaven, or of the conviction he has acquired of the mind that created nature, by the signs which it exhibits; and amid the wildest, as amid the most genial scenes of an uncultivated world, the rude altar of the savage every where marks the emotions that swelled in his bosom when he erected it to the awful or the beneficent deities whose imaginary presence it records. In ages of civilization and refinement, this union of devotional sentiment with sensibility to the beauties of natural scenery, forms one of the most characteristic marks of human improvement, and may be traced in every art which professes to give delight to the imagination. The fune real urn, and the inscription to the dead, present themselves every where as the most interesting incidents in the scenes of ornamented nature. In the landscape of the painter, the columns of the temple, or the spire of the church, rise amid the ceaseless luxuriance of vegetable life, and by their contrast, give the mighty moral to the scene, which we love, even while we dread it; the powers of music have reached only their highest perfection when they have been devoted to the services of religion; and the description of the genuine poet has seldom concluded without some hymn to the Author of the universe, or some warm appeal to the devotional sensibility of mankind. "Even the thoughtless and the dissipated yield unconsciously to this beneficent instinct; and, in the pursuit of pleasure, return without knowing it, to the first and the noblest sentiments of their nature. They leave the society of cities, and all the artificial pleasures, which they feel have occupied, without satiating their imagination. They hasten into those solitary and those uncultivated scenes, where they seem, to breathe a purer air, and to experience some more profound delight. They leave behind them all the arts, and all the labours of man, to meet nature in her primeval magnificence and beauty. Amid the slumber of their usual thoughts, they love to feel themselves awakened to those deep and majestic emotions which give a new and a nobler expansion to their hearts, and amid the tumult and astonishment of their imagination, Præsentiorem conspicere DEUM Clivosque præruptos, sonantes Inter aquas, nemorumque noctem *. "It is on this account that it is of so much consequence in the education of the young, to encourage their instinctive taste for the beauty and sublimity of nature t. While it opens to the years of infancy or youth a source of pure, and of permanent enjoyment, it has consequences on the character and happiness of future life, which they are unable to foresee. It is to provide them amid all the agitations and trials of society, with one gentle and unreproaching friend, whose voice is ever in alliance with goodness Mr. Alison has clearly formed too lofty conceptions of the state of mind which belongs to the crowd who run annually from the town to the country, and from the country to town, or who fill the room at an oratorio. We apprehena that his imputations would surprise many of them. + Has not Mr. Alison completely inverted the right order of things? Ought he not to have urged the formation of religious senti ment in the young, that they might thence acquire a higher taste for beauty and sublimity, rather than to have taught them, as he has done, that the cultivation of taste will lead to religion, a position which we believe to have little or no foundation in fact? and virtue, and which, when once understood, is able both to sooth misfortune and to reclaim from folly. It is to identify them with the happiness of that nature to which they belong; to give them an interest in every species of being which surrounds them; and amid the hours of curiosity and delight, to awaken those latent feelings of benevolence and of sympathy, from which all the moral or intellectual greatness of man finally arises. It is to lay the foundation of an early and of a manly piety; amid the magnificent system of material signs in which they reside, to give them the mighty key which can interpret them; and to make them look upon the universe which they inhabit, not as the abode only of human cares, or human joys, but as the temple of the living God, in which praise is due, and where service is to be performed." Vol. ii. pp. 441–447. Mr. Alison has here instructed us, in very soaring language, how the cultivation of taste is calculated to promote the exercise of religious sentiment. We should be glad to borrow a pen from the same wing, while we endeavour to establish a far less dubious, and therefore more important, doctrine, which is, the necessity of religion to the highest enjoyments of taste. Whether we re gard the works of nature or of art, it will be found that it is the associations which connect them with religion, that supply them with their highest characters of sublimity and beauty. If, for instance, we cast our eye over some vast expanse of country, how does it rejoice To view the slender spire And massy tower from deep embowering Oft rising in the vale, or on the side It at once unsecularizes the soul, and carries it with hasty wing from earth to heaven. If, in like manner, we are viewing some sunny vale, where the lake seems to sleep, where every field is whitened by flocks, and every cottage pours forth its brown sons and daughters of exercise, what fresh beauties kindle in the scene, when we regard all these features of peace as the expression of Divine mercy, of the gracious prodigality of a heavenly Father? When, again, we lift our eyes to the rocky regions of the north, and see nature as it were in her elemental shape, mountain piled on mountain, rocks which seem like the skeleton of the world waiting to be clothed, interminable wastes, where the Creator appears almost to have forgotten to be gracious; what a new sublimity pervades the scene when dication of Divine wrath, as the sowe regard this desolation as the inlemn relics of a deluge in which Jehovah broke up the fountains of the deep, and let loose his angry waters upon a guilty world? In like manner, when we contemplate the which they are hung, with what heavens and see the lamps with fresh sublimity are they clothed Being who suspended them there; when we consider them as the parts of a machine stretching through all space, but following the controul gard each star as the sun of a syof his mighty hand; when we restem, and each system perhaps peopled with immortal souls, who are to feel the terrors of his wrath, or God hath prepared for them that to wear the crown of glory which love him? when we refer them to the Infinite Nor does religion minister less to of art. When the artists of antiquithe enjoyments of taste in the works ty meant to give perpetuity to their labours, to chissel the statues which should command the admiration of all times and places, they did not choose the mere heroes of their country, but the gods. It was a Hercules or Apollo which levied the tribute of idolatrous homage through all the regions of heathenism. Ignorant of religion, they borrowed the aid of superstition; and even with its false glare threw a glory round their statues which ensured the admiration of the world. manner, when the painters and In like sculptors of Italy sprung up as it were from the graves in which the artists of antiquity slept, and sat down to project new schemes for the pacific conquest of the world; they did not roam for subjects in the regions of heathenism, of romance, or even of modern history, but sought them in the pages of Scripture. Thence, as from a mine, they dug the ore and cast the coin which was to circulate in all ages and countries. Thence, as from a quarry, they hewed their stones and wrought them into the enduring pillars of their own reputation. Consecrated by their close affinity to religion, these works seem to catch a portion of its perpetuity; and the Virgins of Raphael, the Infants of Correggio, and the Ecce-Homos of Carlo Dolce and Guido, levy their contributions of applause upon the people of many nations and successive ages. If we turn from painting to music, and it is asked "where is it that the richest repasts have been provided for this modification of taste?" We answer, "where music has been allied to religion." It is Handel who is the musician of all times and countries. It is Handel who is called "immortal," from the immortality of the subjects to which he has tuned his lyre. It is Handel who has almost caught a portion of the inspiration of his themes, and has sung the songs of angels in strains scarcely unworthy of them. It is Handel whom the connoisseurs in this fascinating art, forgetting the exclusive worship of Jehovah inculcated by his own harmonious lessons, have assembled to commemorate, in strains which belong alone to the Author of the language he harmonized. Let us turn next to poetry, and we shall find how immense its debts are to religion, or to those superstitions which were the shadow of it. How are the Iliad and Odyssey ennobled by their mythological machinery; by the scales of fate, the frown of Jove, the interpositions of Minerva! How does Virgil endeavour to throw around his scenery the fictitious splendour of the popular superstition in the storm of Neptune, and the descent to Tarta-. rus! And why does Milton, inferior perhaps in the embodying of his ideas, and in the accomplishment of his vast designs, to these his elder brethren of Greece and Rome, yet take the first place in the procession of bards? It is because he borrowed a lustre from celestial truth, which superstition did not supply. It is because he copied the heaven and hell which the ardent, though erring, imagination of Homer and Virgil fancied. It is because, spurning at the interest which the developement of human passions and the history of human crimes communicates, he climbed to heaven for the theme of some sublimer song. And finally, whence is it that Cowper, though unpopular in many of his topics, though careless in the structure of his verse, though somewhat overcharged in his satire, though some times dark, low, prosaic, is yet the delight of thousands who stand condemned by his verse? It is not merely his true English spirit, his ardent love of liberty, his bold and idiomatical language, his strong vein of sense, his variety of imagery, his love of nature; but it is what has been called, by a somewhat reluctant panegyrist, the "magic of his morals." It is because, if we may so say, he writes in the spirit of one whose lips had been touched by a coal from the altar of his God. It is because he never fails to introduce the Creator into the scenes of his own universe. It is because he sets the imagination roaming far beyond the bounds of space and time. It is because he draws so largely upon the fountains of Scripture, and so continually addresses man in the language of God. But the length to which these observations have extended, warns us to dwell no longer upon this copious to pic, than to ask, if religion be thus essential to the highest enjoyments of taste, shall any pretenders to taste be found among the impugners of religion? Is not this throwing away the lamp which would light them to their chosen treasures? Is it not |